Shadow of the Past

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Mr Yeomans, you tell me that you would have no compunction in…?’ The rest of the sentence hung accusingly in mid-air.

  ‘In dealing a bit of the home-brewed? None at all,’ Jem said firmly. ‘I wish to harm no one, Mr Frane. But if anyone has to defend himself, I would rather it were me than Tobias.’ He bit back whatever he had meant to say next – presumably an allusion to the physical strength required by our respective lives. After a moment’s hesitation, he asked, as if prompted by our dear Dr Hansard, ‘Would you put the same question to a Bow Street Runner?’

  At last Frane shook his head, but rose from his seat to take a turn about the room, finally stopping to look out at a lifeless garden. His view was obscured by the thin but penetrating drizzle trickling in grey rivulets down the dirty window.

  ‘We have the authority of the coroner investigating the suspicious death of an unnamed man to place these handbills in prominent places,’ I said, flourishing a handful.

  He gave a cold glance, raising a disdainful eyebrow. ‘A reward? That should bring them like flies to a midden.’

  ‘That is what we hope. As you can see, there are spaces left for me to fill in – to whom information should be brought and where. The Reverend James Yeomans’ name will fill the former. In the absence of a midden, can you suggest a place where James may pass his time a few hours each day – a respectable hostelry?’

  Seating himself once more, Frane gave a bark of laughter. ‘A respectable hostelry? Did you never hear the term oxymoron, Tobias? Here there are dark alleys, low taverns – nay, even the front steps of sordid dwellings – where drink is taken.’

  ‘Is there none less vile than others?’ I pursued. ‘Or would you prefer his informants to call here?’

  He blenched, visibly. ‘Good God, no. It is one thing to exhort the pitiful few who occasionally come to church to mend their ways, quite another to bring them to the doorstep of one’s own house.’

  I dared not catch Jem’s eye. ‘Should we suggest they come to the church itself, then? To the porch? Where can I purchase a few apples and nuts, to persuade children to spread the word?’ Lest he suspect I intended him to pay for them, I produced a couple of guineas.

  ‘Our maid will do that,’ he said curtly, trying not to eye them.

  What proportion of his stipend that little pile of gold would represent? Clearly his distinguished uncle was making little or no contribution to the household’s finances. Yet even as I planned my letter to my mother, I worried about Frane: would he make a good pastor in any parish, if he loathed his congregation here so much?

  At this point we were bidden to nuncheon. I must not criticise the poor food, since it was presumably all – more – than they could afford. But I shrank from using the cutlery and china, which still bore traces of previous meals. How I refrained from wiping the rim of my glass I do not know.

  When had I become so pernickety? When I took refreshment with my parishioners it was not as if I did not share the peck of dirt they said they ate in a lifetime. Was country dirt somehow better than city dirt?

  Or was it the lack of effort I felt? In my parish there was not a single person, in no matter how mean a dwelling, who would not wipe a mug before filling it, even a chair before offering it – or even the windowsill, in hovels where there were no chairs.

  ‘If Mr Yeomans is to use St Stephen’s as his base, as it were, where will he spend the rest of the day?’ Frane asked.

  ‘I shall slip from boozing-ken to boozing-ken – see, I have the cant already,’ he said. ‘Taverns and alehouses, Mrs Frane,’ he added with an apologetic bow.

  ‘Drinking, no doubt. Now I see another reason for your exchange,’ James said with a thin smile. ‘You never could hold your ale, could you, Tobias?’

  It was easier to agree than argue that it was he who constantly dipped too deep, and if it made him feel happier about the deception, so be it.

  At last I bade them all farewell, promising to send a daily messenger for Jem’s reports. In response to my blessing, he clasped my hand and said earnestly, ‘Remember that I am not the only one asking inconvenient questions, young Toby.’

  Impulsively and – given the chaotic state of the roads – foolishly, I hired a curricle to drive myself to Hanstown. It was what Vernon would have done, and it also spared me another journey in a hack, enclosed with nothing but the odour of mothballs.

  As Jem had predicted, all my garments had been carefully preserved, perhaps on the instructions of my father, who had never truly believed that I would keep to my chosen path. He had probably expected me to return to them much more quickly, and indeed more permanently. At one time I had needed my valet to ease me into the beautifully cut coat. Now after my period of rural abstinence, I could slip it on with little difficulty – a fact I must never admit to either Mrs Tilbury or of course Mrs Trent, lest they see it as their mission to feed me up. My boots were still miracles of mirror-like polish. They fitted so well I resolved to take them back to Warwickshire with me, though I doubted if they would retain their gleam without Cumberbatch’s arcane mix of blacking and champagne.

  Hans Crescent was the natural habitat of people my father would have dismissed as cits and lawyers, respectable enough but not the sort of place one of the ton would expect to visit. Indeed, although they had not long been built, the rows of brick houses were already looking out at elbows. One stood out: Mr Chamberlain’s house, its paint gleaming bravely in the wintry sun.

  Leaving the curricle to the care of the diminutive tiger whose services I had also hired, I ran up the steps and addressed myself to a gleaming knocker. The door was opened by a pleasant-faced woman, who wore a clean lace cap over her sandy hair. Her apron was equally clean.

  ‘Might I speak to Mr Chamberlain?’ I asked, Eton accent a little to the fore, but tempered by what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

  ‘Mr Chamberlain?’ Her face froze. ‘You are mistaken. No Mr Chamberlain lives here.’

  I stepped forward, stopping her shutting the door in my face by putting my foot between the door and its frame. ‘But a Mr Chamberlain used to?’ I pitched my voice halfway between a stern statement and a question.

  She flushed, the colour ill-becoming to one of her almost white complexion. What do you know of Mr Chamberlain?’

  ‘I found some property of his and wished to return it.’

  ‘But – But I—’ She took her hand from the door and clasped its fellow. The knuckles gleamed with white against the red of the compressed flesh.

  I doffed my hat. ‘I represent Mr Vernon, the South Warwickshire coroner. Perhaps we could talk in more discreet circumstances?’

  ‘My husband is not at home – it would not be appropriate…’ She turned at the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor behind her.

  The child – she must have been about six or seven – tugged at the woman’s skirt. ‘Mama. Mama!’

  I was surprised at the relationship. The little girl was almost as dark as a gypsy, her black hair and flashing eyes so very different from the woman’s ginger and hazel.

  I smiled, temporarily abandoning the haughty and peremptory mien of a coroner’s representative for the avuncular geniality of a village clergyman. Indeed, I did what I usually did when encountering a child that age: I dropped to my haunches, so that our eyes were more or less level. ‘And who might you be, young lady?’

  ‘My name is Emma Harriet Larwood.’ She dropped a polite curtsy. ‘And who are you, sir?’

  Her mother seemed torn between wishing to hear my answer and wanting the child out of the way.

  ‘I am Tobias Hampton,’ I said, having decided to adopt the name of one of my brother’s more obscure estates. I put out my hand to shake hers.

  But this her mother would not tolerate. ‘I can only suggest, Mr Hampton, that you return at a more convenient time. My husband is likely to be here between four and five.’

  ‘But it is not your husband I wish to see. I merely wish to enquire about Mr Chamberlain.’
<
br />   ‘Nonetheless, it is to my husband that you must address yourself. Good day to you, sir.’

  * * *

  To the tiger’s amazement and delight, I dismissed him with a large tip and a request to drive the curricle back to its stable. I meanwhile slipped to the back of the row of houses, in time to see a thin lad possibly ten years old emerge from the Larwoods’ scullery door. As discreetly as I could – oh, for the skills of one such as Matthew – I tailed him through a variety of streets heading ever towards the dome to St Paul’s. In other words he was making for the City, where, no doubt, Mr Larwood would be found.

  Although he never once looked back, the boy seemed to sense that someone was in pursuit. He sped up, dodging down alleys and slipping into doorways. After a mile, perhaps a little more, I had to admit that he had given me the slip.

  So, lost and uncomfortably hot in my fine feathers, I had only one thing to do – to ask why my visit to Hans Crescent was so important as to warrant a messenger to Mr Larwood’s place of employment. And so much effort to make sure that I did not know what it might be.

  Retracing my steps, discovering, of course that my elegant boots were not as comfortable as I expected, I found a tavern and pondered my next move over a glass of surprisingly good ale. The landlord was keen to press refreshment upon me and, reflecting that I could do nothing until Mr Larwood’s promised return at four, I accepted some excellent spiced beef.

  It was exactly four when I presented myself again in Hans Crescent. This time my assault on the knocker went unheeded. Where the shutters were not up, the blinds were drawn. The house as not only empty, it was deserted.

  There was not even a servant to admit me when I slipped round to the back door. I stood staring at it in disbelief.

  Dusk was deepening swiftly. I was in an unfashionable and ill-lit part of London. I had been thoroughly gulled. My misery was complete, I thought, when rain began to fall on my fine feathers. I would to turn round trudge my weary and embarrassed way back to Berkeley Square.

  But it was not. There was someone else in the yard. Someone emerging from an outhouse. I bethought me of Cribb, and tried to recall all his precepts as I heard the swift footstep. I braced myself, lashed out hard. But as Jem had feared, I tried to fight fair. After a bruising blow to the head, I felt nothing.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was hard to persuade poor Mrs Tilbury not to summon Sir Henry Halford himself to attend my injuries, but I was constant in my assertion that little apart from my pride was truly damaged. Eventually she withdrew, muttering something I did not quite catch. Meanwhile Wilfred did not put in an appearance, which – even in my befuddled state – I found strange.

  Feeling lamentably sorry for myself, in due course I contrived to shed my fine plumage. My coat, unlike my hat, which appeared to have been jumped on, was largely undamaged, and I was sure that Wilfred or Tilly would contrive to remove the odd spots of blood. My shirt collar was another matter altogether; the cuffs were also badly stained. At least the shirt itself was reasonably intact. But not even a needlewoman as skilled as Mrs Trent would be able to restore the torn knees of my breeches.

  As for myself, lump on the back of the neck apart, I was really no worse a schoolboy who had taken a bad tumble and had scuffed and bruised more skin than was comfortable. The only source of real pain was in fact my feet, and I set about easing off the confounded boots. I believe I groaned. In some irritation I rang for Wilfred, only then recalling that the Reverend Tobias Campion would have had to manage himself, not withstanding a little discomfort. But rung I had, and I might as well ask for some brandy.

  There was an immediate tap on my door. Had the lad been lingering outside waiting for my summons? What a fearsome master I must have seemed. But even as I bade him enter and turned to apologise, a familiar voice declared, ‘No need to announce me, lad.’

  Wearing but one boot, I sprang to my feet. ‘My dear Edmund: can it really be you? What brings you here?’

  ‘Curiosity. I ever desired to see your family’s town house.’ His bland smile was a replaced by a frown. ‘And it seems I came at the right moment.’ He knelt to yank off the second boot. ‘That Wilfred of yours has seen to the jarvey – who did his best to bamboozle me into paying far more than my shot until Wilfred told him he was doing it too brown and to, er, cut his slum. He’s just brought up my baggage and is even now unpacking. I will ask him to leave everything where it is and to bring hot water and towels here. Then I will see what I can do to make you presentable.’ He slipped from the room, returning on the instant. ‘Bend your head, if you please.’ He looked at but did not yet touch the back of my neck. ‘Hmm. What was stolen?’

  ‘Very little. They left me my money. But they took my watch – not the one my grandfather gave me – and my fob—’

  ‘Fob, Tobias? I thought you eschewed such fripperies.’

  ‘I thought I should truly play the role of a man of fashion,’ I said, ‘in case I needed to browbeat Mr Chamberlain. As it was, I so thoroughly misjudged the situation that I have let his whole family slip through my fingers. They have flit the coop, as Matthew would say.’

  ‘How did you manage to annoy them enough to have you set upon?’ There was a tap at the door. As Wilfred entered, Edmund smiled. ‘Thank you. Just put everything there on the washstand, if you please. Now, in my valise you will find some lavender water. Would you be kind enough to bring it?’ The astonished young man withdrew, and Edmund applied himself to washing his hands. Only then did he fall to prodding and poking my injuries.

  He was so engrossed that he did not notice Wilfred’s return.

  He coughed politely. ‘The lavender water, sir. And I have taken the liberty of bringing some bandages.’

  ‘Good man. Now, I think you should lay out his lordship’s clerical garb for this evening, do not you? And then we will ring for you.’

  ‘Very good, sir. My Lord.’ Wilfred did as he was bid and left obsequiously.

  ‘How strange to hear that mode of address,’ I said, as if speaking would take my mind off the contusions he was intent on cleaning. ‘The Reverend Campion – how infinitely more mellifluous are those words. I never want to be a lord again,’ I added. ‘I cannot, will not, return to my old life, Edmund. Almost these injuries could be God’s judgement upon me for my folly and vanity.’

  ‘In that case, given the character of some of the clergymen I know, I must expect to see a great deal of broken heads and torn clothes,’ he said, washing his hands afresh. ‘You are not a thing of beauty, Toby, but you will pass. If you pull down your cuffs a little no one will detect anything amiss – except you, of course. Do you need any drops for the pain? No? Good man. I can see we must ask Cribb to engage in a couple of bouts with you, to remind you of what you should have done.’

  ‘Hard to do anything if someone creeps up behind and cudgels one!’ I bleated, wishing I had asked for just a little of the laudanum of which he so disapproved.

  He snorted in amusement or disgust, I knew not which.

  ‘But where is Mrs Hansard?’ I asked belatedly. ‘Did she not accompany you?’

  He said, with a bravery that sounded more like bravado. ‘She says she can spare me for a few days – but a few days only. This is the first time we have been apart since our wedding, Tobias…’ He coughed, and continued, ‘She insists that there are enquiries to be made in the village – of Mrs Powell, for instance – which she can do quite safely. And, since she has promised me never to go unaccompanied, on this occasion I let her have her own way.’

  Privately I wondered if Mrs Hansard was unhappy at the prospect of assuming the role of one accustomed to life this side of the baize door. If only she could know that Jem seemed to be achieving it with no problems. ‘She will take no risks?’ I pressed.

  Hansard struck one fist on to the palm of the other. ‘Damn it, Toby, do you not think I worry about her safety every moment of the day? We all feared – Lady Chase included – that it would look quite singular if we all deca
mped at once. Toone will look after her – as long as he is not as drunk as a wheelbarrow.’ He took a turn about the room. At last he turned. ‘Where do we two bachelors dine tonight?’

  I had forgotten that he must be both weary and hungry after his journey. It was time to be host again.

  I managed a smile. ‘Did Wilfred show you to your room, Edmund?’

  ‘To the best guest chamber.’

  ‘Then I am afraid he must remove you to another – to the second-best guest chamber.’

  ‘Second?’ he demanded, an ironical gleam in his eye.

  ‘The best is awaiting the return of the Reverend James Yeomans, Edmund,’ I responded with an answering gleam in mine. I added seriously. ‘And for nothing on earth would I slight him by demoting him—’

  ‘Can you even think of it? I anticipate, of course, a battle royal when he returns and begs to sleep in a coal scuttle rather than a decent room. What is his news?’

  ‘There is none yet. He spends the night in Southwark, where I suspect a coal scuttle would indeed be more comfortable than the chamber he occupies. Tomorrow I send a messenger to enquire – though now I have scared off the Larwoods, there is no reason for me not to go in person. With you as my escort, no doubt,’ I added with a mocking bow.

  ‘We may have other things to occupy us. I think we should lay this information before the Runners. They most certainly have the authority to run these Larwoods to earth, and moreover they have men enough to do it. I suppose it is just possible that the attack on you is entirely unrelated to the Larwoods, but on the other hand someone hit you about the head and trod on your hands, and did it on their premises. Enquiries might as well start with them.’

  ‘But what if Jem needs help too? How ironic that it was he who went to Southwark because he thought it too dangerous for me, and it is I who – in a quite respectable yard – suffer this.’ I touched the back of my head.