On the Upper Walk, society was reluctantly vanishing to prepare itself for the next stage of their day. But as with yesterday, many still lingered. The crowd, at the well, of ladies in their negligees spoke less of enthusiasm for the cure than of worldly prurience. The dippers were making the most of their companion's tragic death and who could blame them? Coins were changing hands with great speed for accounts of what an angel Annie had been—or, as I listened to another, what a devil she had been. My heart was full as I thought of Annie's dead body lying here alone last night. I was paying dearly for the cups of water I had taken from her hands, and vowed I would first be sure that Jem Smith had been her murderer, but if in doubt would seek the truth.
I could endure no more, and walked quickly to the bookstore, where another crowd had assembled outside. A distraught Mr. Thomas guarded the door and caught sight of me with relief.
"Come quickly, Parson. There's another verse from Lord Foppington."
I could scarcely believe it. If his verse referred to Annie's death, not Miss Cherrington's, then surely he would not write another. I hastened inside, where Mr. Thomas led me to the table where the Book of Poets lay, with Mrs. Thomas grimly guarding it. The verse was brief and to the point:
Fairest nymph, thy end was just indeed
Thy beauty too great for this world's need.
I blenched. If I had needed proof that the fairest nymph of yesterday's poem had been Annie, this was it. And yet, to what purpose had the foul deed been advertised? A fearful thought came to me.
"Miss Olivia Cherrington?” I cried. “She is safe?” Could there have been another death besides Annie's?
"Thanks be to God, she is,” Mr. Thomas said fervently. “I sent to her lodgings for word."
"It seems it was the water-dipper on whom Lord Foppington's true fancy fell,” Mrs. Thomas said sadly. “His lordship has a roving eye, I fear, and no doubt the girl was all too willing—at first."
"Hush, wife,” her husband said angrily. “Annie is dead, and must be mourned. She was a bright star in this most unnatural world. And we must recall that Lord Foppington denied writing yesterday's poem."
Mrs. Thomas looked chagrined and I hastened to ask, “Did this verse arrive this morning?"
"It awaited me at the door again. The poet, whether Lord Foppington or Mr. Trott, would hardly have brought it in person, any more than he cared to sign his name."
"But why display the poem at all? If he killed the girl, would he blazen the fact abroad?"
"Because he might kill again?” Mrs. Thomas ventured.
"I think not,” I assured her gently. “But why should her murderer wish to announce her forthcoming death here, where Annie would not see it? Only the ton would do so. Poor Annie could doubtless not even read, let alone appreciate verses, even of the dire quality displayed here."
"Lord Foppington is a loose fish,” Mr. Thomas observed, “who professes weariness with everyday life. He and Mr. Trott were members of the Hell Fire Club, where such monstrous folk fed on the death of others for their pleasure."
This was a new thought to me, and must be considered. Held in the caverns of Wycombe, terrible practices were said to have taken place at these orgies—practices to which the Miss Cherringtons of this world would be strangers, but which were part of the risks of living for the Annie Brights. Had she fallen prey to either or both these fops? Were the poems merely part of their sinister game?
"How could Lord Foppington have met Annie last evening?” I enquired. “Surely he would be escorting Miss Cherrington?"
"After yesterday,” Mr. Thomas suggested, “it is possible that Miss Cherrington decided to avoid the Walks."
"And so he wreaked his revenge on Annie?"
"Having laid a false trail deliberately with these poems,” Mrs. Thomas contributed.
I frowned. “But were Lord Foppington or Mr. Trott seen here last evening?"
The evenings were as strictly regulated as the days. On Tuesdays and Fridays dancing took place at the Upper and Lower Rooms respectively. Yesterday being a Wednesday, they would have been playing cards or conversing at the Lower Rooms.
"Both were,” Mr. Thomas informed me. “Mrs. Thomas was unwell, but I met friends for a game of cards, and saw them both. And,” he added authoritatively, “I saw Lord Foppington talking to Annie Bright."
"Did he go to take the waters?” This seemed strange when wine and cognac would be flowing.
"There was no such need. Annie Bright was a serving maid at the Rooms on some evenings, and Jem worked there too."
"You saw her leave with Jem?” I asked.
"I did. I tarried for one last game—forgive me, my love—and when at last I left, Annie and Jem had long gone. All seemed quiet in the Walks."
It looked bleak for Jem Smith, and were it not for those verses, I would believe in his guilt myself. Whom would the coroner and magistrate believe? Jem Smith—or Lord Foppington and Mr. Trott? It was time I met Jem. Alas, breakfast in Jacob's cosy parlour had not seen me, but if the inquest were brief I could be present for dinner at four o’ clock. Meanwhile, a coffee must suffice, and I made my way to the Upper Walk.
Here I could see the waters of society begin to close over the tragic story of Annie Bright. It was twelve o'clock, and the musicians in the gallery opposite overlooking the Upper Walk had begun to play, just as the peacocks began to return to the parade. To my surprise and admiration I saw Miss Cherrington arrive on the arm of an elderly gentleman, whom I presumed to be her father, as she made her entrance onto the Walk. Clad in blue silk, she made a lovely sight and was a braver lady than I had given her credit for. She had heard the news and yet decided to make her appearance despite it. Behind her companion followed Lord Foppington and Mr. Trott, apparently on the best of terms, despite their duel. Neither bore any marks that I could see. They too were in their fine feathers, but what did those feathers guard? The party entered the Coffee House where I sat, and my attention was reluctantly diverted from the charming music of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
Then word came that Jem Smith had been taken to the Sussex Tavern, guarded by Constable Wilson and his hands firmly tied. I could not miss this opportunity and hurried to join them there, on the pretext that Jem might need a parson.
When I arrived, Constable Wilson was still full of his importance as the representative of the law, his rattle at the ready as though even now Jem might make a bid for freedom. The prisoner looked to be a fine upstanding young man, who in twenty years’ time, if proven innocent, would be a solid member of society. Today, he was in a miserable quake.
"I not be condemned yet,” he yelled when he heard I was a parson. The poor fellow thought I had come to escort him to the gallows, and I hastened to make my role clear.
"I would hear your story, Jem,” I told him. “God must judge you as well as the coroner's jury and Sir John, and I stand here as His messenger."
He took a careful look at my face and burst into tears. “Annie and me had words,” he managed to say.
"See, he admits the crime,” Constable Wilson broke in triumphantly.
"No, sir,” Jem gasped. “We fell out as she left the Rooms. She was wanting to be wed, but I was waiting until I had a home to take her to. She thought I did not love her. If you don't want me, there's others that do, she said, and she went running off across the Walk. I went back inside and Mr. Dale, he's the owner, told me to leave her be and come back inside. I never saw her again."
"You didn't walk past the spring on your way home?"
"No, sir. It's dark in that corner. Why would I look there? She'd gone to her home—or so I thought.” The tears flowed as he must have realised that he had walked right past Annie's dead body.
"Did you see Lord Foppington last night, or Mr. Percy Trott?"
His face darkened. “Both of them. Always hanging around her. Annie couldn't see they had nothing good in mind for her. She told me they offered her a position in London. I thought she might go and leave me.” It was ingenuous of Je
m to tell us this, as it provided another reason for his guilt, and yet it was because of that I felt sure he was innocent.
"You heard about Lord Foppington's poems?"
"Yes, Parson.” He looked suddenly hopeful. “You think he might have killed my Annie? Or Mr. Trott? They were gambling in the Rooms that evening.” His face fell. “But gentlemen like that don't soil their hands with murder."
"What about Black Micah or the pedlar?” I asked. Constable Wilson was looking most annoyed at my persistence.
"Annie liked old Micah, but that pedlar—he's a wrong ‘un. Oh sir, you'll save me?"
I longed to say yes, that God could do that, perhaps through my hands, if he were innocent, but I could not raise his hopes. There was little more than an hour remaining before the inquest would begin.
At first I told myself that it was a good sign that Jem accused no one else, but I was forced to change my mind. Jem's guilt might lie so heavy upon him that he wished to face the penalty. Promising I would return for the inquest, I made my way back to the Upper Walk, where the peacocks were strutting in their finery. It would have made a pretty sight, if I could have expunged the thought of Annie Bright's body lying by the side of the spring. Soon the peacocks would mostly depart for the afternoon to walk upon the Common or take an excursion to Rusthall or High Rocks. And all the while Jem's fate would be determined. I began to despair, seeing no way forward.
And then I saw Miss Cherrington again, walking with her companion down the Upper Walk, a dainty parasol guarding her from the sun—although the sun did not require much to banish it today. I went to greet her and she recognised me immediately.
"Parson Pennywick, that poor girl,” she cried. “I thought it would be me."
"I too, Miss Cherrington,” I said bluntly, taking more kindly to her. “But you are safe now. I do not believe the verses were meant for you,” I assured her.
To my surprise, Miss Cherrington looked annoyed, not relieved. “But I am the fairest nymph,” she complained.
"Dearest lady, there is no doubt of that.” Like bees to the fragrant flower, Mr. Trott had joined us, with Lord Foppington at his side.
Miss Cherrington looked at them both severely. “I am going to the bookstore. I am told you have written another verse today, Lord Foppington."
"No,” he bleated indignantly. “Fairest lady—"
Mr. Trott interrupted him. “We must see the Book for ourselves. There is some mistake as neither his lordship nor I has written a poem for today. Permit us to escort you, Miss Cherrington."
Did they want this poor lady to suffer unnecessarily? Fortunately, from the look in Miss Cherrington's eye as she regarded her two suitors, her suffering was not too great at present, despite the tragedy of Annie Bright.
Mr. Trott offered Miss Cherrington his arm, as he led her into the bookshop. Lord Foppington and I followed in their wake. Mr. Thomas immediately helped her most solicitously to a chair. The Book of Poets was brought to her, and she read the two lines most carefully.
"But I am not dead,” she pointed out, puzzled. “And you yourself, Mr. Trott, said I was the fairest nymph."
"You are the fairest,” squealed Lord Foppington, but Miss Cherrington took no notice.
"Do you still deny you wrote these verses, Lord Foppington?” I enquired, as he and Mr. Trott read the new addition to the Book of Poets for themselves.
"I do,” he said. He cast his rival a look of displeasure. “And Percy has a gift for copying work."
Mr. Trott drew himself up. “My seconds shall call again on you, my lord."
"And I shall ask my husband to take these verses from the Book,” Mrs. Thomas declared. She drew me to one side, as Miss Cherrington's swains departed to discuss their next duel. Her husband was occupied in escorting Miss Cherrington and her companion to the door. “They are the work of one, if not both of those gentlemen,” she continued.
"And Annie Bright's murder too?” I asked gently.
But Mrs. Thomas was intent on the verses. “I do not believe that those verses have anything to do with the murder, Parson."
I still could not believe that. Had Lord Foppington written them in the hope that with Annie dead, Miss Cherrington would be off her guard? Or had Mr. Percy Trott hoped to ruin his rival's suit? No. There had to be another solution.
Vexed, my stomach began to object to the absence of a soothing breakfast, and even lacked enthusiasm for the dinner ahead. I could not contemplate taking the waters today, with the memories of Annie so vivid. My mind was in a whirl, a dizziness that came of too much imagination, and too little sustenance. If I was convinced the verses had to do with Annie's death, I must first reason out why. Could I discount the pedlar and Black Micah from my thoughts on that basis? Possibly. Lord Foppington again assumed monstrous proportions in my mind, with Mr. Trott leering over his shoulder.
This is balderdash, Caleb, I told myself firmly, merely the result of an upset digestion. And to think I had brought no rhubarb powder with me! I took prompt action. I asked Mrs. Thomas for directions to an apothecary.
I had not far to go, and there I had the delight of meeting not only with rhubarb powder but with my dear Dorcas.
"Parson Pennywick,” she said in delight. Caleb was used only on informal occasions. “Fancy that. I was here to buy you some rhubarb powder."
"And I was on the same mission.” We looked at each other, highly pleased. “Shall we attend the inquest together?” I asked.
Dorcas was doubtful about the propriety of this, but I persuaded her, and having taken my rhubarb powder with water, we made our way back to the Lower Walk and along to the Sussex Tavern. I could still hear the strains of music and that, together with my faithful remedy, did much to calm me.
"For what reason,” I asked her, “would Lord Foppington write those verses himself? Did he announce his plan to murder Annie Bright only because of his vanity as a poet?"
"No, Parson,” Dorcas declared sensibly. Her comfortable figure at my side, clad in the familiar caraco jacket, gave me strength. “These society folk know well how to look after themselves, when their skins are at stake."
"You are right. It would be too dangerous for him or for Mr. Trott to do so."
We were already at the Sussex Tavern garden and we would shortly reach the room at the rear of the inn where the inquest would be held. And my mind was still in a jumble. And then Dorcas said:
"I'll take a cup of those waters tomorrow, in memory of Miss Bright."
I remembered pressing the coin into Annie's hand. I remembered who had been at my side. Who had sought the excuse to come with me. Whose trade would give him ample opportunity to seize a paper cutting knife. Whose wife was so devoted, he found it hard to get away. Yet he had got away. He said he had been playing cards that evening; he doubtless had the skills to copy Lord Foppington's hand, and the opportunity to place the poems by the bookshop door, where they were found, thus to take the attention away from himself. Mr. Edwin Thomas, beloved of the ladies. Had he expected Annie Bright to love him too, and when she refused his favours killed her?
I was jubilant. I had the story. I was sure of it. Now I must speak to the coroner and to Sir John himself.
"We will soon have this wheatear pie cooked,” I told Dorcas, thinking to please her by a reference to the dish she is so eager to try at Cuckoo Leas.
"No. You will only eat it, Caleb,” she jested. “'Tis the kitchen where the pie is put together."
I stared at her. The kitchen? My mind clarified like liquid passed through a jellybag.
Not Mr. Thomas, but Mrs. Thomas. So possessive of her husband that she would be rid of the woman she falsely believed to be his light o’ love. She did not wish her husband to be incriminated and so wrote those verses to deflect attention from him. Under pretence of being ill, she took a paper knife from their store and stabbed her supposed rival. It was she who had cooked this pie, and thought to enjoy the results.
We were at the door of the inquest room now. Before we ent
ered, I took Dorcas's hand and pressed it to my lips. Jem Smith would owe his life to her—and, of course, to rhubarb. l ©2009 by Amy Myers
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Fiction: THE VERY BAD MAN by Mick Herron
One of the most highly praised novelists to appear on the mystery scene over the past few years, Mick Herron is also a frequent contributor to this magazine. His EQMM fans should especially enjoy his latest novel, Smoke and Whispers, hailed by PW in its starred review as a “masterful thriller” and featuring characters he's brought to EQMM.
If this were a fairy tale, it would read: A long time ago, in a cottage near the woods, lived a little old man. One day a big bad wolf came out of the woods and ate him up. The end. But it wasn't long ago, and sixty-three isn't old. The woods were woods, true, and you wouldn't want to get lost in them after dark, but they'd not been home to anything fiercer than a badger in aeons. Wolves, anyway—we don't worry about wolves. We worry about very bad men. As for the cottage, it was a little large to be described as such, and while it was certainly near those woods, it was only a hundred yards from its nearest neighbour, beyond which you were almost into the village. And besides, endings don't arrive that abruptly. Things continue to happen. Wolves are despatched by woodcutters, and very bad men go to jail. Though sometimes they get out.
So, then: Reasonably recently, a hale and healthy sixty-three-year-old man named Martin Hudson lived alone in a medium-sized house in a rural area, until a very bad man came out of the woods and killed him.
It happened pretty much the way you'd expect.
The dripping was starting to drive him crazy when he heard someone out front. The lights were on, so visitors would know to knock at the door. But nobody did, or rang the bell either. He glanced at the clock. It was just growing dark. Give it a minute, he decided. Give it two. He hovered on the kitchen threshold, while that damn tap kept dripping: splat splat splat.
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