by Caro Peacock
Mrs Martley was a good walker and strode out happily, her green skirt swishing around her sensible boots, shopping basket swinging.
‘I can show you Rancie,’ I said.
She looked doubtful.
‘I haven’t had much to do with horses.’
‘She’s a lady, I promise you; much more so than I am.’
But when we walked through the gateway into the yard, the door to Rancie’s box was hooked open, with only the cat Lucy washing herself on the straw inside.
‘Legge’s out with a lady and gentleman,’ one of the grooms said, recognising me. ‘Should be back soon, if you’d like to wait.’
Mrs Martley had never been inside a fashionable stableyard before and was fascinated by the gigs and phaetons coming and going, and the ladies in their black satin riding habits, ‘just like the Queen’s’.
Then, ‘Oh, look at that one just coming in. Isn’t she lovely?’
I knew before I turned round what I’d see, so had a chance to steel myself. The sweetest, prettiest, etc woman in London riding Rancie with easy grace, a handsome young gentleman on the chestnut hunter at her side, Amos Legge behind them on the roan cob in his hat with the cockade, the perfect groom.
‘That’s Rancie,’ I said.
‘What! You ride a lovely horse like that?’
‘I not only ride her, I own her.’
I said it through gritted teeth. It was true for a few more weeks, at any rate.
‘But how …?’
She looked from me to the group that had now drawn up in the middle of the yard, then back again.
‘My father sent her to me. She was his last present before he was killed.’
I’m not sure if she heard or believed me. Her eyes were on Miss Sweetest, being helped down from the saddle by both Amos Legge and the handsome young gentlemen, her eyes sparkling from the excitement of the ride. She stroked Rancie’s neck and watched as Amos led her away. I turned aside so that she shouldn’t recognise me. Amos gave me a nod and wished me good afternoon as he and Rancie went past. I followed them to the loosebox.
‘The man with her, is he the fiancé who wants to buy Rancie?’
Amos nodded, bending to undo the girth buckles.
‘I should talk to him. Have you told him about her feed, how she must have sliced carrot with her oats and not too much barley?’
‘All in good time.’
‘And Lucy? He knows the cat must go with her and be well treated? They’ll both be miserable otherwise. If he doesn’t promise that, I’m not selling her after all.’
‘Don’t you go fretting yourself.’
Amos balanced the saddle on the half-door and started unbuckling the bridle.
‘I think I should talk to him, all the same. Would you mind asking him to come over, on his own.’
I could face him, just, but not the woman whose hand would soon be the one resting by right on Rancie’s neck, as mine was now. I thought I’d give half of the guineas I got for her straight into Daniel’s hand. He’d need them. If Jenny were hanged, I didn’t think he’d stay in London. A good musician can find work anywhere. He might use the money go to Paris or perhaps Vienna, where his family came from originally. As for Amos, I supposed he’d soon be travelling home to Hereford at last. He’d been on his way there ever since I met him.
‘Who’s old Morris and what’s this about stealing the Stanhope?’ I said, watching as he slipped the bit gently from Rancie’s mouth and she nuzzled him in the ribs.
‘That’s the man who had it took back off him, that day in St James’s.’
It started to make some sense. I remembered that Morris was one of the names on the advertising bill when Hardcastle’s phaeton was repossessed. Amos took Rancie’s rug from the hay manger and flipped it over her back, deft as a matador with a cloak. I fastened the buckles and waited for the story.
‘Day after it was took back, Hardcastle went round to Morris’s yard, pleading with them to let him have it back just for the one day. Said he had to drive somewhere. Well, Morris wasn’t falling for that one. Some hard words were said and Hardcastle went away. Morris thought he’d heard the last of it. He’s had a few gentlemen come to look at it, thinking of buying it, only he’s asking too much. Seventy guineas is over the odds for a secondhand phaeton, and red’s not to everybody’s taste. That’s why it’s still on his hands, look.’
‘And Hardcastle?’
‘Well, it might not be Hardcastle – though old Morris swears blind it is – but the fact is while Morris has had it locked up in his coach house somebody’s tried twice to break in.’
‘Couldn’t it be just ordinary burglars?’
‘Pretty daft ones, if it was. What’s the point of breaking into a coach house? You’ve always got an apprentice or a boy sleeping overhead, and you couldn’t drag even a gig out over the cobbles without waking them up. Then if you wanted to move it any distance you’d have to bring a horse along with you. Does that sound like ordinary burglars?’
‘But even Hardcastle wouldn’t be stupid enough to try that.’
The look Amos gave me said my wits were usually sharper than this.
‘Oh, I see. It’s not the phaeton itself he wants, it’s something hidden in the phaeton.’
Amos nodded. My mind went back to Columbine’s dressing room and the slits in the couch and her muff.
‘In the upholstery,’ I said. ‘That’s the only place you could hide something in a phaeton. Do you think he’s got her jewellery tucked away in there?’
‘Not impossible. What I was thinking of was his marriage lines.’
That might make sense too. He might want to find the marriage certificate for one of two reasons – either to prove his right to Columbine’s property or to stop anybody else finding it and spreading the news around before he was ready. Still, I preferred the jewellery theory.
‘Do you think Morris would let me have a look at the phaeton?’ I said.
‘You could always pretend to be interested in buying it, but I don’t suppose he’d let you go poking round the upholstery and spoiling it.’
‘No. I’ll have to think of something else. Shall we ride tomorrow as usual?’
‘I’ll be there.’
Amos picked up the saddle and bridle and opened the door for me. I walked out into the sunlit yard and saw Mrs Martley cautiously feeding a piece of carrot to a grey Shetland pony, surrounded by a group of children and their nursemaid.
‘Look, isn’t this one sweet?’
True to its breed, it tried to bite her on the bottom the moment she turned away. I shoved its nose aside just in time. Miss Sweetest and her fiancé had gone by then. I pretended to myself that I was sorry to have lost the chance to talk to him about Lucy, but knew I was grateful for the reprieve. Then I thought of a reprieve that wasn’t going to happen and shivered. Mrs Martley said, ‘Yes, there is a cold breeze, isn’t there,’ and we walked briskly back to our own side of the park. And with every step I was wondering how to get under the red leather upholstery of the phaeton.
The idea came to me in the early hours of the morning. I explained it to Amos when we’d reined in after our first canter.
‘We’d need Morris’s help. He’d have to let it be known that the springs need attention and the phaeton will be going to the workshop under us for a couple of days. We want him to move it at the busiest time of day, so word would get to Hardcastle.’
‘Morris isn’t what you’d call an obliging sort of a man.’
‘We’d be helping him catch Hardcastle red-handed.’
‘Even so.’
‘How much do you think he’d want?’
Amos thought about it.
‘Five pounds might do it.’
It was a lot of money, and I had to keep what was left of my small store for moving to new lodgings.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I said. ‘Will you sound him out?’
He said he’d do his best and would let me know on Saturday. Though I was burn
ing with impatience to put my idea into practice, I had to be content with that.
On Friday I kept my usual appointment with the Talbots. They were my favourite clients and paid me for the whole morning to teach piano, singing and guitar to all of them, from mother down through seven children to three-year-old toddler. The father was a Yorkshire businessman who’d made a fortune inventing new machines for spinning and weaving wool. The family had decided to try the experiment of living in London and bought a big new house in Belgrave Square. Since they knew few people in society, spoke with Yorkshire accents and always said exactly what they thought, their chances of finding a welcome in the fashionable world seemed small. At first they were snubbed whenever they ventured out, but the snubs had no effect on them. In the end, their good nature, generosity and the excellent dinners they gave opened doors to them, but they remained as unaffected as ever.
Much as I liked them, I wasn’t looking forward to a morning of teaching so it was just as well the household wasn’t concentrating on music. Two big wicker hampers had been carried into the drawing room and Mrs Talbot was unpacking them, straw spread over their Turkey carpets, children, cook and most of the maids in attendance. She was on her knees by one of the hampers when I was shown in and the face she raised to me was as happy as a child’s at Christmas.
‘Oh, is that the time already? Please excuse us, Miss Lane, only the hampers have arrived from Shawdale.’
Shawdale was the family estate in Yorkshire. Like many families in town, the Talbots had produce sent to them regularly, but typically they did it on a generous scale. I kneeled down beside her and helped as she lifted treasure after treasure from the hamper, unswathing them from snow-white napkins: pork pies ornamented with pastry cut-outs of leaves and roses, and glazed so brightly they reflected the light; rich fruitcakes with their tops cracking to show insides packed with raisins and cherries; almond tarts and spiced biscuits. A few of the tarts and biscuits were broken in spite of the care in packing. The children looked pleadingly at their mother and at a nod from her swooped on them like hungry birds. Four huge hams wrapped in muslin took up the corners of the hamper. Cook took charge and passed them to the maids. As they carried them off to the kitchen, I could see their noses twitching with pleasure at the smell and hoped there’d be some good off-cuts for them.
Mrs Talbot turned her attention to the second hamper. They must have been good at storing fruit up in Shawdale because even at this time of year there were still apples, wrinkled but sweet smelling, and a few pears. A deep bed of straw cradled jars of jam and chutney.
‘Oh, excellent – Mrs Percy has remembered the pickled walnuts. Miss Lane, you must take a jar of her marmalade home. I promise you, there’s nothing like it in London.’
One of the children came over to look, biscuit crumbs round her mouth. She whispered in her mother’s ear.
‘What’s that, darling? The parkin? She’ll surely have remembered the parkin.’
Mrs Talbot plunged into the hamper again and came up with a ginger-smelling cube, swathed in brown paper.
‘There we are, three of them. Run to the kitchen and bring three of the big blue plates and a knife. We don’t want to get our hands sticky.’ She turned to me. ‘I always think it isn’t a parkin unless it’s sticky, don’t you?’
I had to confess I didn’t even know what a parkin was. A Yorkshire speciality, apparently, a kind of ginger cake. When the plates and knife were brought we had to cut into one of the parkins straight away to remedy my ignorance. It was nice enough, I thought, but not so special as to deserve the look of bliss on Mrs Talbot’s face when she bit into her slice. Perhaps she felt embarrassed by it, because when she’d finished eating she remarked how you always liked best things you ate as children. I agreed.
‘I remember a tart of myrtilles I ate with my father and brother on a snowy day in spring when we were crossing a pass over the Alps,’ I said. ‘My mouth waters now even to think of it.’
We talked about food for a while, then she rang the bell to have the empty hampers carried out and we settled down to some singing; rounds and folk tunes mostly, because the children were too full of sweet things to settle to scales. In spite of that, she insisted on paying me and when I left I carried with me a jar of marmalade and a generous hunk of parkin. As usual, the morning with the Talbots had raised my spirits. I didn’t realise until some time later what else it had done for me.
On Saturday, Amos told me the result of his talk with Morris the coach builder.
‘He says he’ll do it Monday morning for two days. I got him down to four pounds, but he won’t go no lower.’
After our ride I went straight into the workshop of Mr Grindley the coach repairer to open negotiations. He was surprised that I was simply asking him to keep the phaeton under his roof for two days without doing anything to it, but business was slack and he had space for it. I thanked him with the jar of marmalade and went upstairs to see how I could raise four pounds by Monday. With the fee from the Talbots, I had one pound, seven shillings and fourpence in cash. I burrowed in my trunk and found at the bottom of it, wrapped in an old stocking, a silver belt buckle that had been a birthday present from one of my aunts in an expansive mood. More burrowing turned up a pair of kid gloves, unworn because they were too small for me, and a blue silk shawl in good condition. I liked it and wished I’d remembered it before when there was time to wear it, but it would have to go.
I hurried to the second-hand clothing shop where I’d bought my riding habit and got twelve shillings for the shawl and gloves. The pawn shop next door offered two pounds for the silver buckle. I bargained them up to two guineas, which brought my total to four pounds, one shilling and four pence. In spite of that, I left the shop feeling as depressed as one usually does after such visits. I promised myself a treat of a cup of tea and a slice of parkin when I got home, remembering the look of pleasure on Mrs Talbot’s face when she tasted it. Then a thought came to me and I stopped dead, causing a man walking behind me to dodge and curse women who didn’t know where they were going. But in that moment I knew exactly where I was going. I turned round and walked towards Soho, where a lot of French people live. I’d made few inquiries for Marie there in the past, but without conviction since I thought she was south of the river.
The area around Soho Square was busy with customers shopping for their Saturday-night meals. More French than English was being spoken and a smell of good coffee filled the air so that you could easily have thought yourself in a back street of Paris rather than the middle of London. I joined the queue at the baker’s, trying to stop my stomach rumbling at the trays of crusty bread coming from the ovens and the rows of pastries in the windows, as nicely laid out as a flower garden. When it came to my turn at the counter I parted with three pennies in exchange for a large country loaf. The baker remembered me from previous inquiries for Marie and shook his head before I’d even asked the question. No sign of her.
I tried another question instead.
‘Do you know where there’s a good French bakery south of the river?’
‘In Calais, mademoiselle.’
He smiled and shook his head as I explained I meant the Thames, not the Channel. We were speaking French and the assistant who was taking loaves out of the oven with a long wooden paddle turned and muttered something I didn’t catch.
‘He says there’s one near St Thomas’s Hospital,’ the baker told me. ‘He has a cousin used to work there.’
With an impatient queue forming behind me I got further directions. As far as I could remember, it must be quite close to the pawn shop where Maria had pawned the earring. I walked quickly home with the loaf warm under my arm, tearing off a crust to nibble when I was sure nobody was observing such unladylike manners.
‘I don’t know why you wasted money on that,’ Mrs Martley grumbled. ‘We’ve got enough here to get through to Monday.’
‘It’s French.’
‘French bread doesn’t keep.’
�
��That’s because it doesn’t get the chance,’ I said, tearing off the other crust.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The phaeton arrived in Abel Yard soon after two o’clock on Monday afternoon. I was downstairs talking to the coach repairer and the first warning we had of its arrival was a clattering of hooves and shouting from Mount Street. It turned into Adam’s Mews at a lopsided gait, with one of the two bays drawing it trying to canter while the other stood on its hind legs like a circus horse. A gang of twenty or so street boys came running after it, trying to get as close to the fun as possible while keeping clear of flying hooves. The rearing horse eventually came down to earth, its front hooves striking sparks from the cobbles. With one cantering and the other trotting they turned into our yard, with no more than a hand’s width to spare between the nearside wheel-hub and the wall. The driver didn’t shift his position by a fraction and the grin never left his face.
‘Amos Legge, I didn’t know you were going to deliver it yourself,’ I said as they pulled up.
He jumped to the ground and ran his hand down the forelegs of the horse that had reared, checking for damage. He found none and straightened up, blue eyes sparkling.
‘Guvnor’s bought two young ’uns. Look well enough together, but never gone in double harness before.’
‘So you took them straight up Piccadilly for a training run?’
‘Does no harm to get them accustomed. No great mishtiff done, apart from either or both of them on their hind legs every crossroads and a few places in between. No call for the other drivers to be cursing us the way they did.’
I imagined a furious log-jam of carriages from Mayfair to Whitehall. Amos never did things by halves. By now everybody living and breathing in West London would know that the red-upholstered phaeton, formerly the property of Rt. Hon. Rodney Hardcastle, had transferred to Abel Yard.
The carriage repairer and his apprentice had come out of the workshop at the first sound of hooves and were examining the phaeton with appreciative eyes. They helped Amos unharness the horses and manoeuvre the phaeton into the space left vacant for it in the workshop.