The Duke's Agent

by Rebecca Jenkins

  With a dramatic flourish the lawyer displayed a piece of brownish wrapping paper, perhaps a foot square. The sketch on it was unfinished but unmistakable. Black-Eyed Sal smiled mischievously out at the chamber. Mr Raistrick cocked his head to contemplate the drawing.

  ‘Your work, sir? Accomplished – and detailed. Are we to believe you did not know the subject of it?’

  The agent met the lawyer’s eyes, his posture relaxed. ‘If you would care to produce that personal notebook of mine which you took into your possession yesterday, Justice Raistrick,’ Jarrett leant forward to point out the edge of a leather notebook peeping from under the clothes piled on the table, ‘you will see that it is my habit to sketch any figures of interest I come across. This Sally Grundy made a striking subject. I laid eyes on her twice, and drew her from memory. As I have sketched many in this town. Anyone may see if they will but examine the book.’

  The Reverend Prattman asked to be handed the notebook. Several members of the vestry craned to look over his shoulder as he flicked through its pages. One of the vestrymen gave a snort of surprise and pointed something out to his neighbour with a barely suppressed smile. Jarrett hoped the gods would be kind and prevent the book opening at a particularly successful caricature of the reverend parson depicted as a well-meaning bull in a china shop.

  The parson deciphered a phrase or two and coughed. He put the book down hurriedly, a pained expression on his face. ‘And how did Mr Raistrick come by this personal notebook of yours, Mr Jarrett?’

  Jarrett answered the parson evenly, his eyes still fixed on the lawyer who stood facing him. ‘He searched my person and took it from my coat, Mr Prattman. Mr Raistrick carried off several of my possessions. He was not the only one. It was quite a day for it. Thieves carried off several items while the magistrate pursued his investigations.’

  Mr Prattman was shocked. ‘Can this be true, Mr Raistrick?’

  ‘A crowd had gathered,’ replied Raistrick dismissively. ‘Crowds attract thieves and pickpockets. The only officers I had with me were the constable and Mr Bedlington, the parish overseer. I was not prepared for a disturbance. Constable,’ he demanded, turning his mesmerising gaze on Thaddaeus Bone, ‘did you recognise any of the malefactors?’

  Constable Thaddaeus stepped forward blushing. Conscious of his boldness, he spoke out a little overloud. ‘Indeed I did, Mr Justice, your honours. And saw what they took, too,’ he added, daring to throw an accusing look at the lawyer.

  Mr Raistrick sneered back. ‘Then why did you not do your duty, Constable? What if Mr Jarrett wished to prosecute?’

  Jasper Bedlington intervened in support of the flustered constable.

  ‘As the Justice says, I was also present, Reverend your honour. There was but little either Constable Bone or I could do at the time. I am sure I speak for many here when I say all honourable men would wish to support the constable in pursuing the villains. It was a shocking sight, if I may be so bold, your honours.’

  Raistrick lost interest in this diversion. He picked up the muddy garments lying on the table.

  ‘As you say, Mr Jarrett, some clothes of yours came to my attention – a coat, a pair of breeches and some long boots.’ As he named each garment he held it up for the crowd to see. ‘These are yours, are they not? And what is the condition of these items, would you say?’

  ‘I would say that they are soiled with mud, sir.’

  ‘They are soiled with river mud, are they not, Mr Jarrett? I believe it was you yourself, Mr Jarrett,’ the voice continued silkily, ‘who pointed out to me that Wednesday night was a terrible stormy night. Most of us were glad to be in our beds on such a wild wet night. And yet you, sir, you were not in your bed – you were out in the rain, down by the river – were you not?’

  The chamber was hushed. The ordinary, every-day sounds that are made by a hundred human beings confined in one space stilled as every person present bent their attention to the confrontation being played out before them. The Duke’s agent was at a disadvantage. He was seated before the imposing figure of his interrogator, his posture stiff. His voice was haughty as he answered.

  ‘Mr Raistrick, I repeat: I did not know the victim. I have no connection with this affair and yet my possessions have been ransacked, my privacy violated and I have been forced to spend a damp and uncomfortable night in your gaol. I see no reason to answer your questions until you can produce a solitary witness who can in all honesty swear that he has seen me exchange even a single word with this poor unfortunate girl.’

  Mr Raistrick swept a mocking bow. ‘Very well, sir.’ He spun dramatically to the crowd, making the skirts of his riding coat fan out around him. ‘Bring a chair for Mrs Hannah Grundy!’ he ordered.

  Hannah Grundy was handed forward, cossetted by murmurs of sympathy from the audience. The cook was in a bad way. Plucked from the familiar surroundings of her kitchen, her bearing was robbed of its authority. Yet despite her confusion grief endowed the solid figure with a certain dignity.

  ‘Mrs Grundy, you are Sally Grundy’s aunt?’

  The grey woman nodded. ‘My only family, since my man died.’ The voice was dull as if her personality had been drained by the blow that had fallen on her.

  Raistrick’s features formed a mask of condolence. He performed a solemn half-bow, his eyes never leaving the blank face. Mrs Grundy blinked. The lawyer’s voice was mellifluous, faintly caressing. ‘Tell us of the last time you saw your niece, Mrs Grundy.’

  ‘It were at the house – Longacres. I am cook-housekeeper there. My Sal did the laundry. She came Monday as usual. She left an hour before supper. And that’s the last time.’ Mrs Grundy took a deep gulp of air and stopped.

  ‘Do know what Sal was to do the rest of the week?’

  Mrs Grundy answered slowly, as if remembering with care or half in a dream. ‘She was to have two days at a big house near Gainford – Lady Yarbrook’s, I believe it was. My Sal said she was to be back Wednesday night …’ Mrs Grundy broke off, her breath wheezing in her chest. Her habitual lack of colour had sunk to a dishwater grey and her blue eyes looked lost. The pressed pack of human souls watching her vibrated in sympathy with her emotion.

  Mrs Bedlington hurried to the cook’s side. She appealed to the parson. ‘Reverend Prattman, sir, ’tis plain Mrs Grundy’s not well. Cannot others be asked questions in her place?’

  ‘Indeed, Mrs Bedlington, I am sure there is no need to trouble Mrs Grundy further,’ agreed the parson, observing the woman’s odd colour with concern. ‘Might she be taken to your inn? Have you some cordial, perhaps?’

  Two helpers joined Mrs Bedlington to assist Mrs Grundy from the room. As they raised the bulky figure her eyes turned to the left of the door. She flung out an arm towards a tall, handsome young man who stood near the back of the chamber. He returned her stare transfixed.

  ‘Him. He was the one she were fretting over.’ The old woman spoke her accusation distinctly. Silent tears were running down the grey cheeks. ‘He was the one who did her wrong – Will Roberts.’

  ‘Now, now, Hannah, don’t you be getting yourself in a state,’ clucked Mrs Bedlington, concerned at the woman’s ragged breathing. ‘You’re not right. You know your chest is bad.’

  Mrs Grundy collapsed against her. The onlookers, electrified by this drama, muttered to one other as the bulky figure was carried from the chamber.

  Mr Raistrick’s face registered annoyance. The sallow-skinned clerk leant to whisper into his master’s ear. ‘Very well,’ the lawyer responded impatiently. ‘Call this Prudence Miller.’

  Prudence Miller approached the bench swinging her skirts with a confident step. She arranged herself so that she might answer the lawyer three-quarters in profile, over one provocative shoulder. Mr Raistrick weighed Miss Miller up in a long speculative glance, trailing warm eyes over her buxom flesh. When he addressed her an elusive animal quality flickered under his formal manner. It had no distinct expression, but it was almost as if musk perfumed the air between them. The lawyer
leant a little towards his witness as he asked his questions. Miss Miller blossomed under this treatment. In no time at all the girl was relating how there had been a rumour for more than a week that Sal had a gentleman friend. Maggie herself would say that Sal had been in the habit of slipping off to see him. Sal’s work round about gave her plenty of opportunity to roam.

  It was plain for anyone with eyes to see that there had been a rivalry between Miss Miller and the dead girl. The very way she spoke Sal’s name was coloured with it. Prudence soon came to the encounter in the churchyard before the Sunday service. She had been there with friends, she told the lawyer (implying that she, Prudence, had many more friends than Sal). Sal herself had told them she had a gentleman friend.

  ‘And then he walked by.’ Prudence bobbed her head towards the seated agent.

  ‘And Sal looked straight at him, and they exchanged this look.’ Miss Miller tossed her head at Mr Raistrick, as if to say both she and the lawyer appreciated what kind of look she meant ‘I knew then it was him – he was her gentleman friend.’ Her triumphant conclusion drew a gratifying gasp from the crowd.

  Quietly Jarrett turned to address the bench. ‘Justice Prattman, sir, may I be permitted to ask this witness a question?’

  ‘No!’ Raistrick cut in abruptly. Recognising belatedly that he had given his fellow Justice offence, he checked himself. ‘Justice Prattman,’ he said, leaning over to speak in the parson’s ear, ‘as men experienced in the law you and I well know that only a magistrate may question witnesses.’

  Emboldened by the security of speaking from among his fellow vestrymen, Captain Adams stood up. ‘Mr Raistrick,’ he demanded, ‘are you accusing the Duke’s agent of involvement in this death?’

  Raistrick weighed the untimely question. The dice fell on the side of discretion.

  ‘I – ’ He restarted more diplomatically, ‘We are here to investigate Sally Grundy’s death,’ he began. His subsequent dramatic pause, however, was overlong and allowed the Captain to riposte.

  ‘We are here to seek justice, Mr Raistrick, are we not?’ The Captain appealed to the vestrymen. ‘Why should Mr Jarrett not ask a question if he has the mind? I am sure that both the honourable Justices and the gentlemen of the vestry have sense enough to form their own opinion of what is said,’ he concluded, with more cunning than might have been expected from a bluff soldier.

  The vestry appeared to find this argument reasonable; several of the worthy burghers nodding in agreement. The Captain stared at the parson, fixedly ignoring the lawyer. Mr Prattman hung on to his gaze.

  ‘Mr Jarrett, sir, you may ask your question,’ he said in a rush. Raistrick began to speak but thought better of it. With a slightly petulant gesture he conceded defeat.

  Jarrett fixed his eyes on Prudence Miller’s face and spoke courteously. ‘Miss Miller, did you hear Sally Grundy say anything that claimed I was her “gentleman friend”?’

  ‘Didn’t have to,’ the girl answered pertly. ‘I saw what I saw.’

  ‘What were the words Miss Grundy spoke to you?’

  ‘I canna remember every word – Sal said about how she had a fine gentleman friend, one as fine as you. And she looked straight at you and smiled, knowing like. And you tipped your hat!’ Prudence gave a brisk nod to the audience as she scored her point.

  Jarrett smiled at her in a charming way. ‘And did I return the smile?’

  ‘You did! Just like that!’ Prudence exclaimed, eagerly.

  ‘Precisely,’ agreed Jarrett. He turned to address the chamber. ‘When a pretty wench smiles at me I confess I am liable to smile back – and even to tip my hat,’ he confided. Several in the crowd smiled with him. ‘But that, gentlemen, is all. I did not know the girl – she merely chose to smile at me.’

  ‘That’s not all,’ cried Prudence, seeing she was losing ground. ‘Betsy – she that’s scullery maid at Longacres – she heard Mrs Grundy scold Sal for messing with gentlemen. She’ll tell you! Who would it be if it weren’t you?’

  ‘Then why not ask her,’ cried someone.

  A slight, half-starved looking girl of thirteen or so, with straggling hair, was pitched forward out of the crowd. Betsy crept into the arena of attention crabwise, her pinched features half-terrified, half-excited.

  ‘Come forward, Betsy,’ said the Reverend Prattman, assuming his most fatherly, clerical air. ‘Be a good girl and speak the truth and no harm shall come to you.’

  ‘Speak up, Betsy,’ prompted Prudence. ‘Tell them what Harry told you – of that time at the toll gate.’

  After some coaxing it transpired that Betsy was sweet on Harry, Miss Lonsdale’s groom. Her Harry, it seemed, had told her of an incident the previous Monday evening, after Sal had finished her work at Longacres.

  ‘Harry said that Miss Henrietta met him,’ Betsy pointed to Jarrett, ‘at the toll gate and Sal, she walked by and Miss Henrietta was proper put out because of the way the gentleman looked after Sal as she went by.’

  This information was received with a few titters from the back of the crowd. The Reverend Prattman was not amused. He scolded Betsy for gossiping about her betters with other servants. ‘Everyone knows Miss Lonsdale’s reputation is above reproach,’ he told her severely. ‘You should not repeat such idle gossip.’

  This direction was not to Raistrick’s liking. ‘Perhaps so,’ he said, ‘but Betsy may know something else to the purpose.’ He bent his charm on the girl. ‘Betsy, can you describe this gentleman friend of Sal’s?’

  ‘No,’ came the disappointing reply. But then Betsy suddenly blurted out: ‘But he is a fair-haired man like him,’ again Betsy pointed to Jarrett, ‘for Ned the Carter told Harry that he saw Sal with her gentleman friend in Gainford just this Tuesday. He got a good look at him, too.’

  ‘And is this carter here?’ demanded Raistrick, searching the chamber with hawkish eyes.

  ‘Ned Turner, do you mean?’ Jasper Bedlington asked Betsy. ‘Well, he never saw Mr Jarrett in Gainford last Tuesday,’ he scoffed. ‘Ned’s out Staindrop way today, your honour,’ the innkeeper added, ‘but he’s due to call at my inn five o’clock or thereabouts.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Light reflected from a patch of limpid sky warmed his cheek and a sweet breath of air blew in through the open casement above him. The magistrates had suspended the investigation to await the arrival of the mysterious carter and Jarrett found himself once more at the Queen’s Head. He uncurled himself from the short window seat of Jasper Bedlington’s parlour. He was alone. Spectators had crowded into the Queen’s Head from the council chamber to while away the wait with drink. His shadow, Nat Broom, had sat in a corner eyeing him resentfully for a full ten minutes before giving in to his thirst and sidling off with a defiant, ‘Never think of moving, for I’ll be watching the passage, be sure of that.’

  He was glad to be free of the company; it was tedious to be constantly stared at. He was restless. Justice Raistrick clearly had high hopes of this new witness. Where the devil was Tiplady? For a moment all Jarrett’s pent-up frustration vented itself towards his absent valet. It was Tiplady’s fault that he had arrived in such an unorthodox fashion. If he had only appeared in Woolbridge with a gentleman’s servant he might have been treated as a gentleman now. Mr Tiplady was a Character, a family retainer of the old school. He had been part of the Duke’s household since Jarrett was eleven. As boys, he and Charles had shared his services as manservant; then as they grew older Tiplady had made Master Raif his sole charge. When, at the age of twenty, Raif had enlisted, they had parted company.

  Enlisted. Such a prosaic word for that desperate action he had taken ten years ago. His thoughts drifted back to that time. He had joined the 68th because that regiment was on the point of sailing for the West Indies, a tour of duty that had meant death for most of them. And not a glorious end but a shivering, retching, convulsing death by fever. Tiplady was part of his first life; the one that had seemed to cease that year he turned twenty and met the private shame that banished hi
m. But then, in truth, no part of a man’s life concludes but with death. Raif Jarrett survived the West Indies and returned with the remains of the 68th to barracks in England. In that couple of years Tiplady had resumed his role again whenever Jarrett visited the Duke, as if Ravensworth were still his home. Tiplady was not the kind of servant one took into the field, so he left him behind when he had transferred to the 16th and shipped out for Cadiz. He had engaged a native servant for his service in Spain and Portugal, a cheerful, careless cove who shared his discomforts with little complaint. Joaquin had elected to wait for him in Lisbon rather than travel to England, so during the last few months’ convalescence Tiplady had slipped into his old role. Jarrett found the resumption of their relationship uneasy. Tiplady refused to recognise that things had changed; that Jarrett was no longer the Master Raif of the old days.