‘He did not try to run away from you?’
‘Not at all – he knows I am perfectly harmless, and in that lonely place I could not have betrayed him if I’d wanted to. I think I managed to stammer out a couple of questions, which he brushed off impatiently. He said I was just the man he needed and he had a bundle of papers that he’d like me to keep for him – vital notes for the book he was writing, which he said would be a sensation and cover him with glory.’
‘So he had not stopped working,’ I said, ‘despite living in hedges and ditches.’
‘I begged him to come back to college,’ said Mr Jennings, ‘but he claimed no library in Oxford – or anywhere else – could be of the slightest use to him. I had no idea what he was talking about. Night was falling, and it seemed to be pulling Joshua back into the darkness, until he was nothing more than a black shape. I heard him laughing at me – not at all unkindly, but almost with the old affection. “My dear old Jennings,” he says, “don’t be so slow! You and I have talked of it more than once – I’m taking inspiration straight from the pages of Joseph Glanvill.’ Whereupon I blurted out, “Who?” like a great idiot, and Joshua laughed again.’ He halted on the path and turned to face me, engrossed in his story. ‘I know I should have asked more questions, but the ferry was approaching and he simply disappeared.’
‘Did he give you those papers?’ (I was excited; papers were concrete things, and the writing of Joshua would surely contain some clue to his whereabouts.)
‘Oh, yes – a thick pile of them, which he abruptly shoved into my hand at the last minute. “Keep them safe,” he says. “Don’t give them up to any person but me, and tell no one that you have them.” Naturally I was wildly curious, and I began to read them the very second I got back to my rooms. But I’m afraid Joshua’s masterpiece turned out to be rather a let-down.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Oh, dear.’ Mr Jennings resumed his strolling, looking uncomfortable. ‘The pages were of all shapes and sizes, sometimes torn from parcels, sometimes scraps of rubbish. The handwriting was nearly impossible to make out, beyond a few phrases of Latin and Greek. And quite a few sheets were covered with a language I had never seen; I showed it round the common room and someone said it looked like an attempt to write in Romany, the old language of the gipsies. And that was when I understood why Joshua had mentioned Joseph Glanvill.’
‘You have lost me, Mr Jennings.’
‘Oh – well – he was a seventeenth-century chap, Mrs Rodd, mainly a fine apologist for religious toleration, but he also believed in witches. Joshua had somehow obtained a mouldy copy of Glanvill’s The Vanity of Dogmatizing, and we spent many evenings reading what Joshua called “the wondrous nonsense” to one another over the fire. And there was a story in it that he particularly liked, about a certain ragged scholar who left his college and vanished into the surrounding countryside.’
‘So when Joshua did his own vanishing,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘it amounted to a deliberate reference to this story.’
‘Yes indeed, and there’s more. Glanvill’s poor scholar runs into two men from his college, while in some lonely country place – and tells them he is learning the great secrets of the gipsy people, which will one day astound the world. When Joshua met me at the crossing, the similarity to Glanvill clearly struck him at once, which is probably why he was laughing at me.’
‘And have you kept the papers that he gave to you?’
‘I couldn’t have thrown them away, even if they were nonsense. Joshua trusted me to keep them safe.’
‘I should like to see them, if that is possible.’ The scraps of paper he had described could at least give me clues to Joshua’s whereabouts; I had already decided to take the many hints and search the woods at Freshley. ‘Thank you, Mr Jennings; you have been most helpful.’
‘Watch it!’ Arthur suddenly ran to catch up with us. ‘The Gorgon approacheth!’
‘Mr Jennings! Mr Jennings!’
Mrs Watts-Weston was at our heels in a tumble of grey silk skirts, with a white straw bonnet hastily stuck on top of her blue-ribboned morning cap, positively chasing us along the path.
It was only relatively recently that the Oxford colleges had allowed their dons to marry, and the place was still reeling from the subsequent invasion of petticoats; those slumberous quads and cloisters now rang with the voices of children, and the wives of the great men saw no reason not to interfere with centuries of tradition.
‘Mr Jennings—’ The Gorgon caught up with us, and we waited while she recovered her breath and settled her skirts. ‘If I hadn’t been looking out of my parlour window at the exact moment you passed, I should never have known about this – and I’m sure you were present at dinner the other night, when I mentioned that I would like to meet Mrs Rodd!’
‘How do you do, Mrs Watts-Weston,’ I said quickly, extending my hand. ‘I am Laetitia Rodd.’
The introductions were made and I resumed my walk with Mrs Watts-Weston beside me. She was a tall, commanding lady in the early forties, her soldierly figure only slightly softened by childbearing.
‘I cannot claim to have met the man you are seeking, Mrs Rodd; he had already left the college when my husband and I arrived here. There was, however, an encounter that you may find interesting.’
‘An – encounter?’
‘That’s all I can call it.’ Her lips twitched into a complacent smile; she was enjoying her moment of mystery. ‘I’m afraid I’m acting against the wishes of my husband in telling you about it; he is quite rightly concerned with the reputation of this college, and wishes to avoid gossip. In this case, however, I can’t see how it can do the college any harm.’
‘You may be assured, ma’am, that nothing you say will go any further; discretion is the cornerstone of my work.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Mrs Rodd – but this is Oxford, where secrets have a way of leaking into the surrounding air and getting into a person’s bloodstream!’ Her voice was loud and she made no effort to lower it. ‘Anyway, my husband and I heard the tale of Joshua Welland shortly after our arrival. A certain book had gone missing from the Founder’s Library; a valuable edition of Vico’s Scienza Nuova. I don’t know if you take an interest in philosophy?’
This question startled me. ‘I know nothing about it.’
‘Never mind, it’s not to the point.’ She looked, for a moment, a little disappointed. ‘The last person to have had possession of the missing book was Joshua Welland. My husband refused to have Welland publicly named as a thief, and undertook to pay the cost of the book from his own pocket, if it was not returned to the college within a year.’ She added, ‘Frankly, I was very cross when I heard about this; it was a significant sum of money, and while we are comfortably situated, every penny is accounted for.’
‘You have a large establishment to run here, of course.’ I was assailed by a memory of my own ‘establishment’ in Bloomsbury when dearest Matt was still beside me; I am thrifty by nature, and was constantly dismayed by the expense of running such a place to the proper standard. ‘Husbands often fail to appreciate how much things cost – small, everyday things that they don’t even notice until they go missing.’
Mrs Watts-Weston was amused. ‘Yours too? I thought only shut-away, scholarly types were thus afflicted! My husband is one of the cleverest men in the world and this country’s foremost Latin poet, but he couldn’t tell you the price of the bacon he eats every morning, and he seems to think that a family of five children can live on fresh air. That is why I was annoyed by his grand promise. You’ll never see that book again, I told him. The man has sold it, or burned it, or wrapped the pages around a hot pie, and we’ll be forced to pay for it – so don’t you dare complain when we have to spend the Long Vacation in Margate instead of Boulogne!’
She shot me a smile from the corner of her eye, and I was sufficiently off my guard to laugh; I liked the forthright manner that had made the Gorgon such an object of terror.
‘You may be s
ure,’ she went on cheerfully, ‘that the whole of Oxford knew every detail of our disagreement. The undergraduates were laying bets on whether or not the missing book would be returned before the year was out. The weeks passed, the months passed, and I had resigned myself to the loss of the money. It was early autumn and very fine weather, and I had taken the children out to Boars Hill to pick blackberries. My son, Alfred – two years old at that time – wandered out of sight for a few minutes. When I found him shortly afterwards, he was holding a square parcel, neatly wrapped in brown sacking.’
‘The book?’
‘Yes – the Vico, in perfect condition! All my son could tell me was that a man had popped out of a hedge and put it into his hand.’
‘You must have been very relieved to see it.’
‘I could have turned a cartwheel,’ Mrs Watts-Weston said, laughing quietly.
‘Did you see anything at all of the man?’
‘Not a thing – but it must have been Joshua Welland.’
‘So he keeps his ear to the ground,’ I said, considering this. ‘Someone relays the latest news to him.’
‘Evidently – though heaven knows who it is. I have told you everything I know. I hope it will be useful to you.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Watts-Weston; the smallest thing can be useful in a case of this kind.’ Her story showed, at least, that my wandering scholar was blessed (or afflicted, depending on your point of view) with a sense of humour.
‘I know you have already spoken to Daniel Arden, over at Binstock.’
‘Yes, and he was most helpful.’ (I was by now resigned to the fact that every man, woman and child for miles around knew all my movements, apparently almost before I did myself.)
‘What did you make of him?’
‘He is most interesting,’ I said, rather taken aback by the bluntness of her demand.
‘Fascinating – such a shame that he’s a dissenter, and we can’t be properly acquainted. I took the trouble to meet him because I have a distant family connection to Binstock Manor.’ Mrs Watts-Weston absently righted her lopsided bonnet. ‘My maternal grandmother was born a Warrender; they built Binstock and lived there for many centuries, until the last one ran off and left the place to fall into ruin.’
‘You don’t believe the story that the last of the Warrenders was murdered?’
‘Certainly not – stuff and nonsense!’ the Gorgon said briskly. ‘My mother always maintained that the man was a wastrel and ne’er-do-well. He simply ran away from his debts. Generally, where there is any kind of mystery, the dullest explanation turns out to be the truest, don’t you find?’ She glanced down at the gold watch she wore at her waist. ‘I must leave you, Mrs Rodd. It has been a pleasure to meet you – and no thanks to you, Mr Jennings! In future, you will inform me of any visitors you have who might be of interest to me. Good morning!’
Eight
Rachel and I had a quiet luncheon together, of cold lamb, tender new peas and blancmange. The afternoon was warm and drowsy and we sat out in the garden, in the shade of a great oak tree. Rachel had brought her work for the sewing club; the same pieces of off-white calico that she had been carrying when she was attacked.
‘I’ll help you,’ I said, taking one of the needles from her tortoiseshell case. ‘I’ve made such quantities of babies’ caps in my time, I believe I could do it in my sleep!’
Those little caps were very easy to sew, being just a rectangle to cover the top of the head and a gathered piece behind. I liked to stitch in a private prayer sometimes, for the downy pate of the babe who would wear it.
Rachel gazed at the scrap of material in her hands, her expression sorrowful and dreamy, and asked, ‘Did it ever make you sad?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I mean – was it sad for you to sew baby clothes when you had no baby of your own?’
I had been waiting for a chance to broach this subject myself. For a moment I listened to the bees humming and the ducks splashing and quacking in the nearby pond, considering how I could persuade her to confide in me.
‘I can see that you are sad, my dear, and you have all my sympathy. I hoped you and Arthur would have a family by now.’
‘So did we, but it was not the Lord’s will.’
Now I had to choose my words very carefully; I knew that the Lord was sometimes blamed for shortcomings that were purely human.
‘You are still young,’ I said. ‘You should not give up hope too soon. What do the doctors say?’
‘I – I don’t need to consult a doctor.’ Rachel’s cheeks were red, and her expression of dumb pain went to my heart. ‘I know it won’t ever happen, and I am quite resigned to it.’ Her gaze dropped away from mine. ‘You must have noticed, Mrs Rodd, that we – we do not sleep in the same room.’
‘Oh, my dear.’ I did not need to say more.
‘Arthur is the very best of husbands, and any fault is likely to be mine – because I’ve failed to be the wife he needed.’
‘Rachel!’ (I had to prevent myself groaning at this; never had I longed so fiercely to talk to Matt.) ‘Are you telling me that the separate rooms were your idea? No, I didn’t think so. In which case, the failure is not on your side.’ I could go no further without being indelicate, but the plain truth of the matter was that Arthur Somers had bungled yet another of his given duties.
‘He is so good, I think sometimes that he is a saint,’ Rachel murmured. ‘He prays to be freed from the impurities of the flesh.’
Perhaps fortunately, before I could retort that married people were one flesh and there was no impurity about it whatsoever, we heard Mr Barton’s whistle, and the man himself walked through the wooden door in the garden wall.
‘Ladies, good afternoon.’ I had a sense that he was on his guard when he saw me. ‘Please forgive my dustiness – I’m looking for Somers.’
‘I’m afraid you have missed him,’ I said. ‘He went out again, almost the minute after we came home from Oxford. I believe he was walking over to Swinford.’
‘Hmm,’ said Mr Barton. ‘No surprise there.’
‘He wouldn’t stay to eat anything, and it’s such a hot walk across the fields.’ Rachel was anxious. ‘I was hoping he would stay at home this afternoon, to write his sermon.’
(Another memory, rather unwelcome, assailed me; Arthur’s awful, rambling sermons, full of scholarly references that nobody understood; Matt used to cough very loudly to shut him up when he could endure no more.)
‘I’ve written this week’s sermon,’ said Mr Barton. ‘It’s on the desk.’
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘I look forward to hearing it.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Rodd, but don’t expect too much. The most that can be said for my sermons is that they’re short and to the point.’
‘I’m sure your parishioners are most grateful. Won’t you sit down? You look very hot.’
‘Yes, do!’ Rachel eagerly put aside her sewing and rang the little bell on the table. ‘And you must have some of my lemonade. I made it this morning.’
‘I’m glad you’re still making your lemonade,’ I said. ‘Mine was never half so delicious, even when I followed your recipe to the letter.’
She smiled, looking very young. ‘Mrs Richards thinks I’m a terrible nuisance, but I love being in the kitchen. I think nature intended me for a cook.’
Mr Barton sat down in one of the wicker chairs, fanning himself with his hat. The lemonade was brought out, cool from the larder. Mrs Richards called Rachel indoors to consult about some domestic matter, and the curate and I were alone.
His face darkened – he had been making an effort at cheerfulness, I saw now, for Rachel’s sake, and clearly had something heavy on his mind.
‘Your meeting at Gabriel was satisfactory, I hope?’
‘Most interesting, thank you, Mr Barton.’
‘Good.’ Mr Barton leant towards me. ‘I heard a snippet about Joshua Welland this morning. It might be nothing. I paid a visit to the gipsies on the common.’
This alarmed me, and my work dropped into my lap. ‘You were looking for the couple who attacked Mrs Somers.’
‘Yes – please don’t tell her.’
‘Did you find them?’
‘Those ruffians did not belong to the camp, and they’re not gipsies,’ said Mr Barton. ‘The old woman who occasionally deigns to give me sixpence-worth of conversation told me they were simply itinerant tramps.’ He broke off to gulp down his lemonade.
‘The gipsy people do not deserve their bad reputation,’ I could not refrain from saying. ‘My late husband was constantly defending the poor creatures from every sort of accusation. Did your old woman know where those travellers might be found?’
‘She said they might have headed into Freshley Woods. But she added that they’d better watch out for the charcoal burners there, who are very suspicious of strangers.’
‘That was certainly true of the charcoal burners we had in Herefordshire. They were insular people, and fiercely territorial.’
‘That’s when she dropped her hint about your lost scholar, Mrs Rodd,’ said Mr Barton. ‘She maintains that he was taken in by the charcoal burners after the gipsies expelled him from their camp.’
‘He was expelled?’ I was startled. ‘Did she say why?’
‘No; my sixpence had run out, and I had no more change.’
‘I must speak with her; I’d be grateful if you could help me, Mr Barton.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He gave me a rueful look. ‘Not much to go on, I’m afraid.’
Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar Page 6