Shadow of the Past

by Judith Cutler

  ‘When I have been able to question William properly – I find the shortened version of his name, which you people seem able to accept, quite beyond me. To my mind, there is an ambiguity about his accusation. There may well be more than one “cove” at the hall. I need the exact name.’

  ‘Surely—!’

  ‘Oh, I doubt not that Sir Marcus is at the bottom of all this. He has a great deal to lose, after all. But I would not put it past him to employ someone else to do his dirty work. And still Mr Knightley assures me that Miss Southey has not presented herself at his office.’

  ‘It must be, must it not, that Mr Chamberlain and “the cove at the Hall” are one and the same?’ I asked, humbly aware, as always, of Hansard’s opinion of my logic.

  ‘I see no reason to doubt it. We have Mr Knightley’s view that the man who left his office was fit to kill. For some reason he may have been irritated by William—’

  ‘Willum may have been following him. Jem declares that he did not ask him to do so, and, Jem being the most honest man I know, I believe him. But Willum does not lack intelligence or initiative. If Jem was busy, and he saw something that needed investigation, I am sure he would act without reference to Jem. And thus he may have undertaken an errand far too dangerous for a small boy.’

  ‘Or, if this Chamberlain were in a furious rage, he might simply have been the nearest thing at hand to kick.’

  ‘Indeed. Hence all our secrecy; hence the need to remove Willum to Shropshire as soon as possible. At that point I shall invite back the man who has taken over my parish duties, and accompany them,’ I added.

  ‘Do not the villagers perceive it as strange that you are here, while the boy you used to employ is dying elsewhere?’

  ‘You know villagers, Mr Vernon. They see no further than their own parish boundary, and care less. Were it Farmer Lowood’s son, they might consider my place to be at his side. But Willum was a “damned furriner” in their eyes, who took a job in my stables that could have gone to one of the lads from their own workhouse and saved them money. They are not bad men and women, pray believe me, but they have not yet fully grasped the parable of the Good Samaritan.’

  He looked me straight in the eye. ‘Yours must be a very lonely existence.’

  ‘That is true for many of my colleagues. In their parishioners’ eyes they are sad misfits, neither gentlefolk keeping themselves rightly to themselves nor men with whom you may enjoy a taproom gossip. Indeed, many are in receipt of such pittances that all they can do is rent a room with a decent family. This while our bishops amass personal fortunes and live like princes.’ Unconsciously I had risen to my feet, and strode about the room, slamming my fist into my palm as I thought of the injustices I had seen. But such behaviour was unseemly. I refilled our glasses and sat down again. ‘As for myself, Mr Vernon, I am blessed many times over. I enjoy the friendship of Lady Chase, the Hansards, and Jem, currently my groom. How many men can say they have as many as four true friends?’

  He nodded, but each movement of the head signified doubt. ‘But – forgive me if I allude to a subject you must find painful – surely if you sought reconciliation with your family you too could live like a prince. And you would enjoy the company of your social equals, not merely a country doctor whose wife was once a servant and – indeed, Tobias, your groom.’

  ‘I might consort with idle gamblers, drunkards, lechers – none of whom has ever understood the concept of selflessness and loving their neighbours as themselves. Forgive me my plain speaking, Mr Vernon, but you must understand that to become a clergyman was my choice. No! It was the Almighty’s choice for me. All I had to do was acquiesce. There have been some dark moments since I accepted my calling, but believe me, that have been more than compensated for by the joy I encounter daily as I serve my Master.’

  He took a deep draught. ‘You sound like a damned Methodist to me. But you are a good man, and keep a good cellar, so maybe I shall forgive you.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Why I should ever be surprised by Mrs Hansard’s talents or ingenuity defeats me. She was a lady whom only one man could ever come close to deserving, and that, of course, was Edmund.

  The good doctor had left his patient for a few hours, to warn his staff at Langley Park to prepare for their mistress’s return and to consult with Toone, whose opinion he valued more than I could ever do, on how his young patient might best be conveyed to Shropshire. Now, since Mrs Hansard had expressly forbidden him to journey back after dark, despite Simon’s stolid presence, the four of us – for Mr Vernon seemed reluctant to quit the rectory until our problems had been resolved – were sitting late over one of Mrs Trent’s excellent repasts. I fancy that Dr Hansard had also been forbidden to do anything to interfere in Simon’s courtship of their cook, even if that meant the master of the house eating his mutton elsewhere.

  Not that mutton had figured in Mrs Trent’s extensive menu, far from it. But four happy men were considering a fine Stilton and some excellent port Hansard had procured in Warwick.

  ‘How soon do you think I may question William?’ Vernon demanded, cracking a walnut between his fingers.

  ‘Very soon. But I would prefer it if you could travel over to Warwick to do it.’

  ‘You still fear for his life if he were to return here?’

  ‘I do indeed.’

  ‘Would Sir Marcus attempt any violence in a village where he is known?’ Toone demanded.

  Edmund smiled enigmatically – and, I must confess, irritatingly. He took another sip of port before he replied. ‘Did I say that I feared Sir Marcus?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Let me tell you what my dearest wife has been doing.’ He looked around the table; no one objected. ‘Now that Willum is over the very worst of his ordeal, and beginning to recover, she is the one who mainly occupies him. At first he could be beguiled only by fairy stories and legends, of which she has an immense fund. Then she found that they might play simple games, such as a child in the nursery might enjoy. You might expect a great boy of ten to find them pitifully easy, far beneath his dignity, but you will collect that Willum has never had such a childhood as we. His mother might have inculcated him with a certain amount of low cunning, but I fear she had neither time nor aptitude for rhyming games or geographical jigsaws.’

  ‘In that case, might not Mrs Hansard try to teach him his letters and numbers? Were he able to read, he might occupy himself some of the time,’ Vernon said. ‘Furthermore, a hitherto active lad the height of whose ambition has formerly been to be a tiger will need to find other means of making a living.’

  ‘He might be naturally quick-witted, but the concussion has rendered him slow to learn certain skills. We do not wish to inflame his brain, after all. But he is able to recognise some and remember their sounds, on a good day at least.’ He took another sip of port.

  I sensed he enjoyed prolonging his tale – certainly none of us had the temerity to interrupt.

  ‘Progress in all areas is slow and fitful, but he has shown, now his poor bruised and broken hands have healed, some dexterity with a pencil. But, ever in pain, his powers of concentration are weak. And when he fails at what he knows to be a simple task, he become fretful and we become anxious. At times like this, there is one story that never fails to quiet him. It is a real one, one featuring himself. It is one Jem has to tell him, however. Yes, Jem still spends a great deal of time in the sickroom – it is our great fortune that the rightful ostler has recovered from the influenza! While he is on duty, Mrs Hansard rests or walks – often in my company,’ he added with a charming smile. He continued, ‘It is my earnest wish, as you can imagine, that Mrs Hansard should not sacrifice her health for that of another, however dear. Jem tells him of the handbill that had brought his search for Bess to such a satisfactory conclusion, always stressing Willum’s heroic role in the venture. He especially enjoys hearing how he had had to control Bess’s desire for finery, the search for which could have taken an hour, and how he bough
t his own respectable outfit in a matter of minutes.’

  Four men could quite understand that, and Vernon proposed a toast to male attire.

  ‘One day,’ Hansard said, resuming his narrative, ‘hearing laughter from the sickroom, although she was supposed to be resting herself, Mrs Hansard could not resist seeing the cause of such a welcome sound. Willum’s eyes rounded as she went in, and he looked at her with new respect. “You really looked at ’Enry’s corpse and drew them pictures from the dead?” Willum demanded. “I did indeed,” she said. “And they were so like that people could tell it was ’Enry?” It was clear he thought this miraculous. Nothing would do but that she should use the pencil and paper originally bought to teach him to draw Jem. And then she drew Willum himself – though you may imagine that Maria drew the old chirpy Willum, not the thin young invalid she saw before her. Then it was you, Tobias, and then me. Maria has arranged the sketches about his bed so he may look at them and know himself always surrounded by friends. Even you, Vernon, and Toone here feature – it is known that you are going to bring the villain to book. Which reminds me, Vernon – it was kind in you to send that huge basket of fruit to him—’

  ‘What are succession houses for, if not to supply sustenance to one’s friends? Besides, I like the boy’s spirit.’

  ‘How are we to bring anyone to book if we do not know who it is?’ Toone demanded.

  ‘Because my wife is going to sketch a face, which you, Vernon, will show him.’

  ‘Two faces, if you please.’

  ‘Two?’ I demanded. ‘When it is clear that Sir Marcus is the villain?’

  ‘If you show him but one portrait,’ Vernon said, as if to an imbecile, ‘he will have to identify his assailant as Sir Marcus. It is therefore necessary to produce an alternative.’

  ‘Sir Marcus’s pimply sons?’

  ‘Away, thank goodness, at school,’ Hansard said. ‘What about that cold fish, Furnival? Though at the sight of his Friday face poor Willum may have an instant relapse.’

  ‘Meanwhile, I will pen another letter to this man Chamberlain. This time,’ Vernon reflected, ‘perhaps I should say that after all Knightley is prepared to convey the information designed for Miss Southey to him. But this time we will have someone – I have a handy-man suited to the task – on hand to apprehend him.’

  ‘What if he refuses to betray this Miss Southey or whatever her name is?’ Toone demanded. ‘Will your man be able to persuade him?’

  I had a sudden unpleasant memory of Toone’s methods of persuasion. Perhaps he had been inspired by the Spanish Inquisition. I hoped he would not volunteer for this duty.

  Vernon gave a curt nod. ‘I hope so. We must do whatever we can to ensure that Justice will be done.’

  There was an unwontedly sober silence. I could see Hansard’s hackles rising. To prevent what might become an unseemly altercation, I raised an unwise glass. ‘To Justice.’

  Alas, this last bumper saw Toone sink slowly under the table. It was clear that Hansard would have been happy to leave him there, but instead we hauled him out to Hansard’s gig, in the hopes that Simon would be at leisure from his courtship to help remove him at their journey’s end. ‘And if not, he may sleep it off in the stables,’ Hansard declared.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I did not know who had provided the funds to procure a private upstairs parlour at the Hansards’ disposal as long as Willum remained at the Rose and Crown. Perhaps it was Lady Chase, ever ready to dip into her purse, or the deep pockets of Mr Vernon. It might even have been the Hansards. The room, whoever its donor, had provided a welcome haven for those seeking a few hours’ respite from the taxing care of the little invalid, and now, filled with all his well-wishers, from Toone to Jem, it was the scene for his first venture from the confines of his bedchamber. He had demanded a crutch, and sternly eschewed any offer to carry him. Hansard and I stationed ourselves at either side, but he waved even us away.

  ‘I seen lots of lads worser than me in London. You know, run over by carriages, or trod on by a horse, or even burnt in a chimney. If they can do it, buggered if I can’t do it too.’ Pale as wax and stick thin he might be, but Willum had more pluck than I could imagine.

  All the same, it was clear that even the few yards between the rooms had taxed him, and he did not argue when he was invited on to the sofa next to the fire.

  ‘Now, Willum, we know how brave you have been throughout. We want you to do one more brave thing: to identify your assailant.’

  Vernon meant well, but Willum writhed under the combination of patronage and vocabulary. He said nothing, however; none of us did.

  Mrs Hansard had placed two sketches face down on a table. She had labelled on A, the other B.

  Willum’s eyes lit up. ‘Them’s your A and your B,’ he declared.

  ‘Excellent. Now, my dear, pray turn the pictures so that Willum may see them,’ Hansard asked.

  She obeyed. ‘Willum, do you see there the man who hit you and hurt you?’

  ‘’Course I do. You aren’t half a dab hand at this, Mrs Hansard.’ He pointed with a skinny finger. ‘There he is. There’s the cove what done it.’

  Before we could register the full import of what he was saying, there was a commotion in the hall below, and raised voices demanded the Law.

  Toone was out of the room first, hotly pursued by Vernon, who, after all, was the Law’s highest representative in the area. The rest of us followed with more dignity, leaving Jem in Maria’s care.

  From the top of the stairs it was hard to see who was at the centre of the mêlée. But Toone was already fighting his way through, assisted by Vernon’s suddenly stentorian tones: ‘Make way. Make way, in the name of the Law!’ Hansard, Jem and I halted halfway down the stairs – from there we had a better viewpoint, we reasoned, than if we joined the mob.

  ‘Over here, your honour.’ This was the parish constable, whose acquaintance I had briefly made when Willum had first been assaulted. ‘Me and your man have apprehended your miscreant.’

  As Vernon pushed his way through, the press of men eased. Forelocks were tugged, hats removed. Someone pulled the hat from the man they had apprehended, since he was in no position to do it for himself.

  ‘That’s him.’ A shrill voice rang out from the landing above us. ‘That’s him. That’s the cove what beat me and broke my leg. I told you. It’s the cove from the Hall. Mr Furnival!’

  It is hard to convey the strength of the outcry. At the heart was Furnival himself, protesting his innocence, while the sight of the valiant crippled lad moved several to tears. Others would verily have strung Furnival from the nearest tree, were their threats to be believed. But our burly landlord, used to restoring calm in his patrons, demanded – and obtained – silence. With considerable presence of mind he suggested that those would had accompanied the constable might find themselves good ale in the snug; the constable and those accusing Furnival might find adequate space in his public parlour, which he would close to everyone else. Willy nilly he surged up the stairs. Used to hefting barrels, he gathered up Willum with ease, carrying him downstairs as if he were no more than a feather weight. Maria darted back for pillows and rugs, and then followed in his impressive wake.

  Willum was soon ensconced on a settle, the rest of us disposing ourselves about the room. Furnival tried to outstare us, one by one, but even his eyes dropped at the sight of the lad’s empty breeches leg.

  ‘You done this, Mister, and pay you shall!’ cried his diminutive accuser.

  ‘Willum,’ Vernon said quietly, but with such authority that the lad was silenced, perhaps allowing himself a smile of satisfaction that he had persuaded such a grand gentleman to use his preferred name. ‘Mr Furnival, you will surely be charged formally with this offence. Let me say that it will be in your interests to confess if you are guilty. But other things interest me too. Did you cause the death of Henry Monger?’

  There was no response.

  ‘Are you Lady Chase’s steward? Surely
you can answer yes or no to that.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And how long have you been in her employ?’

  ‘About six years.’

  ‘And you have been a true and faithful servant?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And have advertised regularly for information regarding the missing Lord Chase?’

  ‘The missing heir. Hugo. Lord Chase was still alive.’

  ‘So now he would be the missing Lord Chase.’

  There was no doubting an alert response, quickly suppressed. But he did not give himself away by any exclamation or question.

  ‘Very well. And did you have any responses to your advertisements? Come, we know you had at least one. A man was found in a stream running through the grounds of the Hall itself, with a newspaper about his person carrying this advertisement.’

  ‘That man who died?’ Furnival’s tone implied it was of little moment.

  ‘The man who was killed. Think back to the inquest,’ Vernon continued. ‘Hard though it is to believe, someone pressed Monger’s face into the mud until he expired. We have evidence to show that he was making his way to the Hall with proof of Lord Chase’s existence and that someone would have found the news inconvenient.’

  There was no response.

  ‘I put it to you that only you knew of his coming, and that you, therefore, are his killer.’

  There was no reply. The constable moved as if to take him away. I had seen the inside of Warwick Gaol and I did not envy him his future lodgings.

  ‘No. Wait a while. I have further questions. Three young ladies, two of them very silly, one more sensible, discovered Monger’s body. The only one who could have given proper evidence at the inquest disappeared, apparently without trace. Could you explain?’

  In face of Furnival’s continued silence, Hansard spoke. ‘There is a witness who would testify that Miss Southey was driven from the Hall by a man of importance. We know that that man was not Sir Marcus. That man was you, Furnival, was it not? And it is logical to deduce that you had a hand in that havey-cavey business over Miss Southey’s trunk, which so conveniently disappeared.’