The Duke's Agent

by Rebecca Jenkins

  ‘So she don’t and he does,’ completed Charles. ‘Yes, that sounds like the fabulous Lady Yarbrook.’

  ‘And that is the full budget of my intelligence, I fear.’ Miss Lonsdale threw an apologetic look towards Jarrett. ‘I am not much use as a spy, sir. I only recall that Mrs Bedford was most specific that Lady Yarbrook enjoyed amateur theatricals and had taken her enthusiasm so far that she had adopted a whole company of players into her household. Do you think there could perhaps be a connection, Mr Jarrett?’

  ‘I certainly think it is worth pursuing, Miss Lonsdale.’

  ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to go call on this lady, Mr Jarrett, and make enquiries among her play-actors,’ intervened the Colonel, eager to reclaim the initiative due to his rank. ‘You’ll need to be discreet, though. People of distinction don’t like to be associated with a common murder.’

  Fortunately, Jarrett was relieved of the need to find a response to such advice by the entrance of a servant.

  ‘A rider has just come with a message for his lordship, my lady.’

  Charles broke open the seal and scanned the note perfunctorily. A faintly cynical look passed over his clear-cut features. He crossed the room to bow gracefully over his hostess’s brittle fingers.

  ‘Forgive me, Lady Catherine; I am called away and must take my leave. Raif, I shall have to forgo the pleasure of your company tonight. Lady Catherine, may I beg the use of your writing desk to write a short note?’

  His hostess inclined her torso with a stately air, her eyes vibrant with curiosity.

  Charles sat down at the neat walnut desk and, pulling out a sheet of pressed paper, began to write. He spoke in a low voice to Jarrett. ‘As I expected, it is from Father. I shall go entertain him with this tale. He’ll be summoning you next, Raif – you know how he likes to hear of your adventures. I regret I shall not be able to introduce you to Lady Yarbrook in person, but take this letter of introduction. She is a sociable body, addicted to conversation and new company, and I am sure she will receive you.’ He pretended to lean back a moment in contemplation of his friend’s athletic figure. ‘I fancy you will do well enough on your own. Take my advice, go in riding dress – she has a fondness for a well-turned leg in top-boots.’

  Having secured a promise of a place in the Colonel’s carriage to convey him back to town, Jarrett walked Charles to his curricle. The groom handed over the reins and swung up behind his master. Charles waved as the horses set off.

  ‘Remember! You are to make your peace with Tiplady and I look forward to our reunion in a day or so – I shall bring the drawings I made for Thorpe!’ he shouted. With that parting shot he swept out of sight.

  *

  When Jarrett returned to the Queen’s Head Mr and Mrs Bedlington were nowhere to be seen. He slipped up the stairs and quietly opened the door to his chamber. The first thing he noticed was his silver shaving kit laid out on a fine laundered cloth on the chest of drawers, then, leaning against the wall by the window, his easel and cherished paint box. Amid a freshly created sense of comfort a familiar figure sat by the fire. A pair of spectacles on his nose and an array of coloured silks laid out across his knee, Tiplady was calmly setting stitches in a tambour frame. Unlike Lady Catherine, Tiplady had a preference for coloured work. He was a skilled embroiderer. The housekeeper at Ravensworth much admired the set of chair-seats he had worked for her and gave them pride of place in her parlour. The valet looked up.

  ‘Oh, Mr Jarrett. I did not expect you so soon.’ Folding up his materials and setting them neatly in a wooden box, he rose to face his master.

  Tiplady was of small stature yet possessed a head that was cast for a greater man. He had craggy features topped by thick grey hair, swept off his brow in a natural wave. His noble nose overhung a slightly petulant mouth, while his majestic eyebrows sheltered pale eyes that were a touch timid. The endowment of such a head on so short a body gave Tiplady a tendency to a haughty look as he always took care to stretch up to his full height and had a habit of surveying the world down his masterful nose even when looking up to taller men.

  For a moment master and servant gazed at one another. Tiplady’s mouth compressed into a thin line. Master Raif looked run-ragged. It had not taken Tiplady long to draw the account of his master’s late adventures from the well of Mrs Bedlington’s indignation. Tiplady was intensely loyal to the family he served. His self-respect was intimately bound up with the respect due his master. He was simmering with indignation at the inhabitants of Woolbridge for their late treatment of Mr Jarrett. The very thought of his gentleman being thrown – however briefly – into a common lock-up revolted his passionate attachment to the proper order of things. The fact that this outrage had taken place while he, Tiplady, was away from his post compounded his shame at the misunderstanding that had taken place in York. The upshot was that he was very nearly not on speaking terms with his Mr Jarrett.

  ‘You’ve been getting into scrapes, I hear,’ he said, looking two inches to the right of his master’s face.

  Jarrett gave him an endearing smile.

  ‘What do you expect, Tip – my man wasn’t with me.’ He crossed the room and stretched out an arm. ‘Forgiven and forgotten?’

  Tiplady wrung the proffered hand with tears in his eyes.

  ‘Oh, Master Raif, I have been in such distress. My stomach has been paining me fit to die. I’ve not eaten more than a morsel of bread and a sup of tea since Wednesday.’

  Jarrett put on a compassionate face and braced himself for the hours of words to come.

  As the evening wore on Tiplady talked himself into a calmer frame of mind. He still listed the various mental and physical tortures consequent on his master’s inconsiderate behaviour, but the narrative lost its desperate edge, composing itself into a routine account recorded for payment in due time. Jarrett reflected ruefully that he was back in service. He ate the supper that Tiplady had brought to his room with good grace. (Tiplady was not having his gentleman eating in some common parlour.) He was speculating how much longer he would have to endure before he could decently dismiss his valet without causing fresh offence, when there was a knock on the door. Pushing back the table that caged him in his deep winged chair, Jarrett started up. Tiplady set him back in his place with a look and a waggish wave of a finger. With irritating stateliness the valet advanced and opened the door a crack. He held a murmured conversation with someone without. Jarrett leant his head back and deliberately unclenched his teeth. This was his penance. He must take it like a man.

  Tiplady closed the door softly. An object caught his eye and he turned to straighten something on a side table.

  ‘Well?’ prompted Jarrett.

  ‘The innkeeper’s boy, Master Raif,’ the valet responded calmly.

  ‘And what did he want?’

  ‘Some tale about a rough-looking man at the kitchen door asking to see His Grace’s agent!’ Mr Tiplady scoffed. ‘I told him to be off. Foolish scrap! To think of troubling you with such impudence. And after dark too. I’ve a notion to give the innkeeper a piece of my mind. Fancy allowing beggars to trouble gentlemen guests at his inn!’

  The valet gave a start. Master Raif was halfway out of the door.

  ‘Mr Jarrett! Sir!’

  ‘Thank Mrs Bedlington for my fine dinner, Tip,’ his departing master called back from the stairs. ‘Can’t say when I shall return, so don’t wait up.’

  *

  Jarrett caught up with Jack, the innkeeper’s son, on the gallery steps leading to the yard. He was a bright-eyed boy with a serious face.

  ‘Master Jack! You have a message for me?’

  ‘Your man said not to trouble you. Said I was foolish. I did try, Mr Jarrett, but he wouldn’t let me.’ Jack was flushed with indignation. He had formed an admiration for his parents’ favourite guest. To a twelve-year-old boy, being a suspect in a murder case adds a certain dash to a man’s character, but Jack had privately decided that Mr Tiplady was a poisonous old goose. The Duke’s agent patted
the lad’s shoulder consolingly.

  ‘Never mind, Jack. I’m afraid Mr Tiplady is rather stuck in his ways; you and I just have to put up with them.’ Jack exchanged a wise look of sympathy with his hero. ‘I thank you for your trouble,’ Jarrett continued. ‘Now: what was the message?’

  ‘One of the maids told me, sir. A man was asking after you at the kitchen door.’

  ‘A man? It was not a Mr Duffin?’

  Jack was cross. He and Mr Duffin were particular friends; he would have been a much better messenger than a silly maid. ‘I did ask her.’ His round face was creased with irritation. ‘But the foolish piece didn’t know, Mr Jarrett. She only helps out sometimes and I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Was there any message?’ Jarrett asked.

  ‘That this man had information for you and you were to meet him by Johanson’s tomb in the churchyard.’

  ‘Johanson’s tomb? Do you know which one that is?’

  ‘It’s the great big one with carvings on it – on the rise at the back of the church, by the door where the choirmen go in.’ Jack found this all very thrilling. He eyed Mr Jarrett with attentive respect. Mr Jarrett looked out across the yard to the shadowy street. It was a dark night. The moon was hidden behind clouds and the wind was up, tossing the trees in the darkness of the churchyard beyond. He sent the boy to fetch a lamp and descended the stairs, searching the yard with thoughtful eyes. He spotted a short piece of lead pipe leaning against a wall. He crossed over and picked it up, balancing it in his hand. It had a good weight and was not too unwieldy. He turned to the lad who hurried towards him bearing a lighted lantern.

  ‘Jack, I need you to be my watchman.’ He took the lantern from him, speaking decisively. ‘Stay here, on this side of the street, and listen out. If you hear any shouts from the churchyard, or if I am not back by the time the church clock strikes the next half hour, you fetch me some help. Will you do that for me?’

  Jack drew himself up to his full height, his bright eyes wide. ‘You can count on me, Mr Jarrett; I’ll not let you down.’

  ‘Good lad. And if help is needed, you fetch your father – do you understand? I don’t want you following me.’

  Jack nodded. He was a sensible lad, and besides, he was afraid of the dark. He swallowed hard as he watched Mr Jarrett cross the street and melt into the shadows around the wicket gate.

  *

  Moving softly on the grass, the lantern cloaked under his coat and the lead pipe held ready by his side, Jarrett worked carefully around the deserted church. As he came round the back of the building he spotted a large coffin tomb from the last century. Its elaborate carvings of trumpets, skeletons and cherubs were barely discernible at that distance but as he crept closer the moving shadows transformed the carved cherubs into unsettled spirits, half-formed creatures protruding from the stone, striving to break free into the dark. There was a distinct sense of movement to his right. Jarrett searched the shadows half-hoping to see a familiar yellow shape emerge. But there was no sign of the poacher’s dog. With a jolt he realised where he was. It was standing on the other side of this same tomb that Sunday that he had first laid eyes on Black-Eyed Sal.

  An aggressive figure sprang up on the far side of the tomb. Jarrett caught the glint of light on a blade and stepped back on to the path where he could sense clear space around him. He hoped that the sound of movement on gravel would be distinct enough to give him some warning if an assault was to come from behind. He placed the lantern on the ground and crouched down a little, balancing his weight more evenly, feeling the heavy pipe in his hand.

  It was not Duffin but a smaller man, his face in shadow. His shape bobbed from side to side as he shifted his weight nervously. He edged closer around the tomb. Stepping towards the lantern light the man thrust a hand forward, holding out a printed piece of paper.

  ‘This mean money?’

  Jarrett did not recognise the voice. He suspected the accent was not local. Taking care to keep out of range of the man’s knife, Jarrett advanced a step. The man was holding a copy of the handbill he had had printed concerning the assault on the road to Greta Bridge. Jarrett looked into the face of one of his assailants. It was the smaller of the two; the one Walcheren had winded. Apparently the man could not read.

  ‘The intention was to offer money for information leading to your arrest, and that of your companion,’ he explained, trying not to sound amused. ‘For your assault on me, you understand.’ The miner ignored him.

  ‘But you’d give money for information?’

  ‘What kind of information?’ Jarrett was puzzled.

  ‘Word is you’ve been asking after the Tallyman.’

  ‘You have information about the Tallyman?’ Jarrett was sceptical.

  The man stepped back from the light. He seemed to be struggling to unwrap something from around his waist. He shook out a bundle of material. Keeping a firm grip on it, he spread it out towards the light. It was a coat. A blue coat, large in size. Too large to fit the man holding it – and there were dark stains on it. Jarrett stretched out a hand to finger the material but the man twitched it out of his reach, pushing the blade towards him to warn him off.

  ‘It’s blood,’ he stated.

  Jarrett straightened up thoughtfully.

  ‘Why should I give you money for this?’

  ‘Not for the coat. This tells you I know what I know. You give me money and I’ll tell you more.’

  ‘What can you tell me?’

  ‘I know plenty; about him – the Tallyman.’

  ‘And his master?’

  The miner snorted. ‘I’ve no mind to stir him against me. I reckon you know enough about him, and if you don’t I’m not the one to tell you more.’

  ‘This coat matches a description of a murderer’s coat – a case of the murder of a crofter up on Stainmoor a few days back. There’s an offer of twenty pounds for information that leads to the capture of that villain.’

  ‘Twenty pounds!’ The man gave a humourless laugh that caught in his throat and made him cough. ‘That’s a tidy sum. But you have to catch him first.’

  ‘Do you know if this Tallyman killed the crofter?’

  The man’s face grew cunning. ‘I’d say that were his blood.’

  ‘What reason could this Tallyman have to kill some poor wretch of a crofter on Stainmoor?’

  ‘Tallyman was told to disappear for a while, you arriving all of a sudden, asking questions. Tallyman was travelling and he got hungry. Reckon the stupid bastard woke, that’s all. It’ll be a daft turn if he hangs for that after all he’s done,’ the man reflected.

  ‘So you’re telling me he is back in Woolbridge, this Tallyman?’

  ‘His kind always come back.’

  ‘And you’re not afraid of such a man? Why betray him to me?’

  ‘I’m not from here. I’m moving on – and I need travelling money.’

  The miner jerked forward, his knife at the ready. Jarrett shifted the lead pipe into the light.

  ‘Maybe your information is worth a coin or two.’ Jarrett spoke crisply, as if they were bargaining in a market rather than squaring up to kill one another. ‘But there is something else I would pay real money for – if you are a man to get it for me.’

  The shape before him stilled. ‘Speak on.’

  ‘Books – some half-burnt books. The Tallyman fetched them for his master from the manor house where James Crotter died. If you can bring me news of those, I’d pay you well.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Ten pounds?’

  The man rubbed a hand over his pallid mouth. ‘Books? Tallyman’s no reading man. Them books’ll be his master’s business. I’ve told you, I’ve no mind to bring him down on me.’

  ‘Twenty pounds.’

  The man stared and licked his lips. ‘He has no suspicion of me,’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘A man can travel a goodly distance on twenty pounds,’ commented Jarrett. ‘If you cannot bring me the books themselves I will still be interest
ed in their whereabouts.’ He did not believe that the man had any chance of performing such a task. So cunning a manipulator as Raistrick would be unlikely to let such a pawn near any of his secrets. Still, it was worth setting off a ferret or two; it might stir something up.

  The man made his decision. ‘Done,’ he said. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow night then.’

  ‘That is not convenient – the next night.’

  The man was reluctant, but Jarrett was not to be moved. ‘If you cannot wait an extra day…’ He shrugged and picked up the lantern as if to leave.

  ‘Night after next then,’ the man called out. ‘I’ll be here when the clock strikes midnight – and I’ll not linger.’

  Jarrett threw a golden coin into the light. ‘For good faith,’ he said.

  The man snatched it up, slipped around the tomb and disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

  Jarrett waited a moment, listening to the wind moving about the silent graves. An interesting interview. Picking up his lantern, he pondered the odds that the man would keep their rendezvous. Then, the lead pipe resting jauntily on his shoulder, he marched back to the Queen’s Head to relieve his watchman and make for bed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘I am advised to sweat, sir. I have a merino gown, a shawl, a wadded cloak and a fur tippet and I perspire, sir, I perspire. It does me no good at all but the doctors wish it.’

  Lady Yarbrook was ensconced in a low wicker chaise, her round face flushed and polished with sweat. Her hair was dyed an improbable shade of foxy brown and supplemented by lavish curls of false hair. Instead of the usual carriage bonnet, a Spanish mantilla hung in swags from a silver comb, its airy lace in strange contrast to the bundle of clothes in which she had wrapped her stout frame. She squinted at Jarrett’s letter of introduction, held at arm’s length between thumb and forefinger.