‘Please do.’ I moved my skirts to make room for him on the bench.
He folded his long body to sit beside me. ‘I believe I have just presented you with a motive for murder.’
‘Fear of scandal is certainly a plausible motive,’ I said. ‘But you did not kill Arthur.’
‘Can you be sure of that?’
‘I’m not sure of anything. I do know, however, that he was not poisoned here. If I want to make you into a suspect, Mr Fogle, I will need a witness who saw you and Arthur together much earlier in the day. And I have nothing of the kind.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. I could not have hurt a hair of him – though he hurt me most grievously. That is why Edward Rivers saw me weeping. Arthur cut me to the heart. The love that existed between us was never defiled by earthly lust, and never grossly acted upon. I beg your pardon for my candour.’
‘Thank you, Mr Fogle; I quite understand.’
‘Naturally, it did not take me long to see that he was out of his mind – even without the accusations apparently levelled at me by St John.’
‘Was there anything significant revealed in his confession?’
‘I’ll tell you what I told Mr Blackbeard; though I venerate the secrecy of the confessional, I would never hold back anything that might help to identify the murderer.’
Over in the old stables, a bell pealed flatly.
‘They’ve finished,’ said Mr Fogle. ‘I must leave you, Mrs Rodd.’ He rose and gave me a deep, old-fashioned bow. ‘Good morning.’
Twenty
‘This is the way I see it,’ said Mr Flint. ‘The other side will lean heavily upon the matter of the adultery. They will seek to put the defendants on trial for committing adultery, in order to establish common purpose – surely their only hope, when the evidence is so meagre. My task will be to convince the jury that Barton is innocent on both counts. I will tell them precisely what I told you, Tyson – I would not have taken this case if I suspected for a moment that I was being asked to defend an adulterer. It’s all or nothing. I will remind them at every turn of the monstrous black stain a wrongful verdict will leave upon their consciences – upon their immortal souls—’
‘Flint – my dear Flint!’ Fred cut in, shaking with laughter. ‘Stop! How many times must I tell you? A juror is a tender creature, my boy – especially where personal morality is concerned – and you won’t win them over by threatening them with hellfire!’
‘You’d have me buttering them up, I daresay.’
‘A little butter wouldn’t go amiss, now that you mention it,’ said Fred. ‘I thought you Irish chaps were supposed to have a gift for that sort of thing.’
‘I’m not that sort of Irishman,’ Mr Flint said sternly. ‘You’re thinking of someone more like yourself, Mr Tyson. And that approach won’t answer here.’
‘Stop, I beg of you!’ Fred gave another yelp of laughter, not in the least offended by the man’s rudeness. ‘You’re alarming my sister.’
‘Not at all,’ I said faintly.
This was my first encounter with Mr Patrick Flint, the ‘young tyro’ from Fred’s chambers who would be defending Mr Barton, and I was overwhelmed rather than alarmed – and quite unable to see why my brother considered him to be the ideal man for the job. Mr Flint was a black-browed, black-haired creature, whose clean-shaven features might have been handsome without the permanent scowl. His clothes and linen were of fine quality, yet worn so carelessly that his shirt-cuffs were spotted with ink, and there were several buttons missing from his coat.
We were at Fred’s house in Highgate, in his study that overlooked the old village green, on a damp and chilly afternoon. I had returned to London the previous day. My brother lounged royally at his desk and Mr Flint stood before the fire – literally, with one large foot on the tiles in the grate, which he did not appear to have noticed.
‘There can be no half-measures,’ said Mr Flint. ‘They must be made aware of the peril to their souls.’
‘You can do that without thundering at the poor chaps.’ My brother poured himself another glass of sherry from the decanter on his desk. ‘If you frighten them too much, you’ll be handing a golden opportunity to the other side.’
‘What is “common purpose”?’ I asked.
Mr Flint gaped at me, as if he had only just seen me (he did this every time I opened my mouth).
‘Well now, common purpose,’ said Fred, with a sherry-scented sigh. ‘If two people express a wish to do away with a third person, and one of them goes ahead and does the deed, the law says they’re both guilty. Flint is quite right that the prosecution will have no choice; without clearly establishing common purpose, they barely have a case at all.’
‘Mr Flint,’ I said, ‘you have seen Mr Barton today.’
‘Yes.’ He frowned down at me. ‘I was at Newgate this morning.’
‘What do you make of him?’
‘He’s a decent man,’ Mr Flint said sternly. ‘A Christian gentleman, a priest of God, and not afraid to use his fists in order to protect a lady.’
‘I meant – did you like him?’
‘That’s neither here nor there, Mrs Rodd. My personal feelings don’t come into it.’
‘It’s a blessing that the victim’s crazed pronouncements won’t stand up,’ said Fred. ‘But we’re still pining away for want of a decent alibi. I hoped you’d return from Oxford carrying somebody who saw the pair of them at the time in question, and miles away from those wretched woods. What about the housekeeper – could she have been throwing you a line regarding the movements of Mrs Somers?’
‘Possibly,’ I said. ‘But I doubt it; I’ve known Mrs Richards for many years.’
‘She’s on our side, anyway, and won’t rock the boat.’
‘I know Arthur was out of his mind – but I think you should tell Mr Barton what he said, and ask outright if there’s any truth in it.’
‘With respect, ma’am,’ growled Mr Flint (with no respect whatsoever as far as I could see), ‘what passes between myself and my client does not concern you.’
‘Ignore him,’ Fred put in quickly. ‘The victim’s ramblings won’t stand up in court, but that’s not to say you can’t follow them up in your own investigations, my dear. Two innocent people are on trial for murder. I’m more certain with each passing day that they did not kill Arthur Somers, whether or not they were lovers.’
‘Fred! For the last time—’
‘Oh, all right! All that matters is the fact that they are innocent of murder.’
‘All that matters?’ Mr Flint was stern. ‘My client swears there was never so much as an impure glance between them. Are you calling him a liar?’
‘Oh, Flinty, do pipe down,’ said Fred jovially. ‘As far as the jury’s concerned, I’ll make them out to be paragons of spotless virtue. We’ll get mostly city shopkeepers, with an occasional publican thrown in for good measure, and they can be surprisingly broad-minded if handled in the right way. There’s always a chance, however, that one of them will be a rabid evangelical, and just one Bible-basher is all it takes to turn a jury; I always try to spot them in advance.’
‘Fred, stop teasing; I know you’re far less cynical than you make out.’ I was still annoyed, but also had to stop myself laughing. ‘Don’t mind him, Mr Flint. He doesn’t mean to insult evangelicals.’
‘Yes I do! They’re never any fun.’
‘Fred, really!’
Mr Flint began to mutter angrily about ‘parlour games’, and ten minutes later took his leave.
The moment the door closed behind him, I got up to fetch the hearth-brush, for Mr Flint had left an ashy footprint in the middle of the rug. After I had dealt with the rug I set the fire irons straight where he had pushed them over and swept up the stray cinders in the grate.
‘Well, Letty, what’s the verdict?’ Fred was proud, like a showman with a wild beast. ‘What do you think of my man?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ I said. ‘I was too distracted by those
missing sleeve-buttons, and those terrible cuffs – and he seems to have thrown a broken wine glass into the fire—’
‘Oh, I know, and you’re a trump to tidy up after him. He’s been working here for the past week, and driving Fanny and Mrs Gibson to distraction. Only Tishy is kind to him – she went round the house and rescued seven of his handkerchiefs, which he tends to discard when dirty and stuff down the sides of chairs.’
‘Bless her,’ I said. ‘She seems to have inherited your fondness for a lost cause.’
‘Patrick Flint is a very clever young fellow.’ Fred refilled his glass. ‘He never jokes, never cajoles, flatters nor entertains. The beauty of the man is that he never takes a case he does not believe in with every fibre of his soul. It goes down an absolute treat with a jury.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I said, somewhat reassured, ‘if you promise to do something about his appearance – perhaps find a wife for him, with an endless supply of fresh sleeve-buttons.’
‘He was married once,’ said Fred, ‘though he never speaks of it, to a girl from his home in County Antrim. After a year or so, she had a stillborn child and died, and Flint reverted to being a bachelor.’
‘How very sad!’ This sorrowful fact, imparted as an afterthought, seemed to me to be the keystone of Mr Flint’s character.
‘I always remember it when the man infuriates me,’ said Fred. ‘Poor young fellow, he makes me count my blessings – all eleven of them.’
At that very moment, several of my brother’s smaller blessings erupted in shrieks outside the door; it made us both laugh, and Fred rose up from his desk with a great roar, to end our meeting with a noisy game of ‘Bears’ in the hall.
It was dark when I got home to Well Walk, and to my very great surprise, I found Mrs Bentley entertaining a most magnificent young stranger in our basement kitchen; a fine gentleman in a fine black suit, with a gold watch-chain and immaculate linen.
‘There now, she don’t know you!’ said Mrs Bentley, most amused. ‘Didn’t I say? It’s Carlos, ma’am!’
‘Oh – I beg your pardon—’
Mr Welland’s absurdly handsome footman rose from my rickety old kitchen chair and bowed to me with the grace of a Spanish nobleman. ‘Mrs Rodd, I hope I do not intrude.’
‘Not in the least,’ I said. ‘Please accept my condolences for the death of your master.’
‘Thank you.’
‘He don’t live in Rosemount these days,’ said Mrs B proudly. ‘He has rooms at a private hotel – isn’t that right, dearie?’
‘Yes,’ said Carlos. ‘It is very comfortable, but I do not see so many people.’
‘This’ll be the talk of Hampstead by the morning,’ said Mrs Bentley. ‘Mr Welland left him a fortune! He’s a gentleman now.’
I was very glad to hear it, for I had seen the love between Jacob Welland and his young servant, and it was good to know that he had not left Carlos friendless and alone. Fine feathers do not make fine birds, but I thought his new clothes suited him very well.
‘Will you have a little brandy, ma’am? I’ve just this minute made up a fresh jug.’
‘I bring, Mrs Rodd,’ said Carlos, showing me a whole bottle of what looked like good cognac (and which explained Mrs B’s unwonted liveliness).
‘That is most kind of you.’ I removed my mantle and bonnet, sat down in the chair that Carlos set for me beside the fire and accepted some hot, sweet (and powerful) brandy-and-water. ‘May I ask why you are here – is there anything we can do for you?’
‘He’s lonely, that’s what,’ said Mrs Bentley, refilling her own glass. ‘His only friends are the servants at Rosemount, and he’s not allowed back now his master’s gone.’
‘What a shame,’ I said kindly (though I really did not believe this handsome, wealthy young man would be ‘lonely’ for long).
‘I go there today—’
‘Went,’ said Mrs B.
‘I went there today.’ Carlos smiled at her with real affection, and I remembered that I had asked Mrs Bentley to make friends with the servants at Rosemount. ‘Dr Chauncey has a new patient and says I must stay away. Mr Mitchell says I am no longer a servant and must not mix with servants. But I say these are my friends, the only people I know in the world now that my master is gone.’
‘I have an appointment with Mr Mitchell tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I’m glad to hear that you have someone to advise you, but you mustn’t be shy about standing up to the man.’
‘He is my guardian for next six months,’ said Carlos gloomily. ‘Until I am aged twenty-one.’
‘You’ll be your own master soon enough,’ said Mrs Bentley, patting his arm. ‘And then you can do as you please.’
‘London is strange.’ The fortunate-but-lonely young man turned his melting, mournful eyes towards me. ‘I have been here for one year. My English is not good because my master speaks to me in Spanish.’
‘How long were you with Mr Welland?’ I asked.
‘How long—?’
‘How many years?’
‘This number.’ He held up one hand.
‘Five, dearie,’ said Mrs Bentley. She reached across and counted off his fingers. ‘One, two, three, four—’
‘Five,’ said Carlos, laughing softly. ‘Five years.’
I was touched by his evident fondness for Mrs B, and the gentle chivalry with which he treated her; it was impossible not to warm to him, with or without brandy. ‘Were you with Mr Welland when he died?’
‘Yes, Mrs Rodd.’
‘I’m very thankful that the poor man was not alone, and can only hope he did not suffer too much.’
‘He is quiet,’ said Carlos. ‘He cannot speak. He moves his lips and I understand. He says – “Hannah”.’
‘Oh, poor man!’ I have kept vigil at many deathbeds, and often observed the burning-away, at the very end, of everything but the greatest love. ‘Was that his last word?’
‘No, madam,’ said Carlos softly. ‘The last words were for me – “mi amado hijo”. My beloved son.’
The three of us were silent for a moment.
‘Well, bless my soul!’ Mrs B chuckled, in a great effluvium of hot brandy. ‘So that’s why he left you all that money!’
Twenty-one
The following morning, my brother kindly sent his carriage to take me to Barnard’s Inn in Holborn, where I was to meet Mr Mitchell. I was very grateful, for the day was damp, the crowded roads were plastered with wet, sooty mud and I was anxious about my best black silk gown.
Mr Mitchell received me in his office, on the first floor of the ramshackle old building. He was tall and loosely made, with a small pot belly, and wary little eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles.
‘This is good of you, Mrs Rodd; the estate is nearly wound up, but my client particularly wished me to meet you in person, and to put this into no other hand but yours.’
He took an envelope from his desk, sealed in the old-fashioned manner with red wax, and placed it in my hand with a formal bow. This was very unexpected and I was too curious to wait, so I broke the seal at once. The envelope contained a number of new white banknotes, amounting to a sum of money that fairly took my breath away.
‘I don’t understand – Mr Welland owed me nothing! Why has he done this?’
‘The money is yours absolutely,’ said Mr Mitchell. ‘Whether or not you act upon his request.’
‘Request?’
‘He was near the end when I saw him,’ said Mr Mitchell. ‘But I judged him to be perfectly lucid, and I am satisfied that I understood him correctly. He wished you to find the person or persons who murdered Arthur Somers.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ This was the last thing I had expected to hear, and I was for a moment deeply confused; surely these two cases were entirely unconnected? ‘Mr Welland did not know Arthur Somers, as far as I’m aware; why was he so anxious for me to discover his murderer?’
‘To be frank, Mrs Rodd, I have no idea. The man could barely speak; it was painful to watch
him struggling to form the words. It appeared to be something about Joshua. I reminded him that his brother had passed away, but he would have none of it.’
‘That is understandable; the poor man was dying.’
‘I am merely delivering the message,’ said Mr Mitchell. ‘He kept repeating three words – “Hannah”, “Arden” and “Desolation”.’
Hannah – Arden – Desolation.
Now I was bewildered; what did Mr Arden have to do with Hannah Laurie, and what did either of them have to do with desolation?
‘Hannah was the name of Jacob Welland’s late wife,’ I said. ‘I am acquainted with Mr Arden, who was a friend of his many years ago. Did he leave me any further instructions?’
‘No, ma’am,’ said Mr Mitchell. ‘That was all.’
‘And what is the connection with the murder – if there is a connection?’
‘Once again, I have no idea; I am simply carrying out my client’s instructions. He also left you a small cedarwood box of sundry papers, but to my very great annoyance, it has gone missing.’
This latest revelation only increased my confusion. ‘Do you mean it has been stolen?’
‘That’s possible,’ Mr Mitchell said. ‘Since it contained nothing of value, however, I think it far more likely that it has simply gone astray. It was placed in the carrier’s van yesterday afternoon, to be delivered to the carrier’s office in Smithfield and thence to me. Somewhere between Hampstead and here, however, it vanished. One of my clerks spoke to the driver of the van. The man swore that he had delivered the box as far as Smithfield, but it could not be found.’
‘I’m sure it will turn up,’ I said (privately certain it would do nothing of the kind; this latest incident was all of a piece with the ransacking of Mr Jennings’s rooms at Gabriel, and told me that Joshua’s famous scraps of paper had not been thrown away, as he had assumed). ‘You have discharged your duties admirably, Mr Mitchell; you should not be troubled further. You may leave the finding of the box to me.’
Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar Page 15