Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar

by Kate Saunders

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Mr Mitchell thawed a degree or two. ‘It was destined for Smithfield, as I said; an inn near the London Wall, the Cross Keys.’

  ‘I know it.’ Here was some good news – Mrs B’s son, Mr Joe Bentley, was under-manager of the stables at the Cross Keys. He had his mother’s excellent powers of observation, and he would have noticed the smallest thing amiss in his domain.

  Mr Mitchell coughed and looked pointedly at the clock on the chimney-piece, and appeared to think our interview was at an end. I had another matter to discuss, however, that had nothing to do with stolen boxes.

  ‘I saw Mr Carlos yesterday,’ I said, ‘in all his newfound splendour. He’s a nice boy; I don’t believe the sudden turn in his fortunes will spoil him.’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ said Mr Mitchell coldly. ‘Welland appointed me as his guardian and instructed me to educate him in the ways of polite society. He is to be a gentleman. There will be talk, of course, about Welland’s reasons for leaving a fortune to a handsome young servant.’

  ‘Carlos is his son.’

  ‘So you have heard this claim, Mrs Rodd.’ Mr Mitchell’s long nose twitched disdainfully. ‘Whatever the truth of the matter, my personal opinion is that the six months of my guardianship will not be sufficient to eradicate the servant in him.’

  ‘He only needs a little time and patience!’ I spoke as persuasively as I could, though I wanted to snap at this sneering, superior man; no wonder poor Carlos was so miserable, when he ought to have been rejoicing. Snapping, however, would get us nowhere. ‘If you will pardon me, Mr Mitchell,’ I said sweetly, ‘you should not be burdened with such a responsibility. You are a very busy man.’

  ‘I cannot deny it,’ said Mr Mitchell, eyeing me cagily.

  ‘In my opinion, the best way to prepare Mr Carlos for his new circumstances would be to place him in the heart of a respectable household. I can recommend an excellent tutor, Mr John Bourne, the vicar of St Luke’s in Knightsbridge.’

  ‘Oh?’ He was definitely interested now.

  ‘Mr Bourne is a thorough gentleman, and while I would not accuse him of being “worldly”, he is very well versed in the ways of polite society. His wife is charming, and they do not have any daughters, so there can be no vulgar gossip about fortune-hunting. More to the point, they lived in Spain for several years when Mr Bourne was chaplain at the Embassy, and speak the language.’

  He could not hide his relief. ‘It would be a weight off my mind, ma’am, I can’t deny it. I have no idea what to do with the boy. I am a bachelor. I couldn’t very well take him into my own household; it consists of three rooms and one servant. He is lodged at a private hotel in Half Moon Street. I would be most grateful if you could write me a letter of introduction to your Mr Bourne. I won’t expect him to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.’ Mitchell had stopped glaring at the clock and trying to get rid of me. ‘The boy’s money will cover a multitude of sins.’

  ‘Mr Carlos is hardly a sow’s ear,’ I pointed out. ‘I think he will surprise you.’

  ‘I’m sure I hope so, Mrs Rodd. Jacob Welland was a valued client of mine, who became a valued friend – though never close enough to tell me he had a son. It is my duty to carry out his instructions to the very best of my ability.’

  The rain had stopped by the time I emerged from Barnard’s Inn, and a watery sun gleamed out intermittently between banks of cloud. There was no question of my walking to Smithfield, for the streets teemed with carts, vans, carriages, horses and people, all jostling against each other. A lone female being invisible in such a tumult, I asked Mr Mitchell’s chief clerk to summon me a cab from the nearby stand. The cab driver appeared to be sober and was wholly civil to me, but he had a terrible habit of roaring profanities at other drivers from the box, and it was not a pleasant journey.

  The Cross Keys was a large and prosperous establishment in the heart of the city, near to the old London Wall. It was past midday when I arrived and I breathed the rich atmosphere of meat and gravy rather wistfully. A waiter showed me to a dismal ‘coffee room’ tucked out of sight, supposedly designed for ladies but empty and lacking a fire.

  I did not have to wait long, for Mr Joe Bentley appeared after a very few minutes; a burly man in a rough jacket and leather gaiters, with the remains of the bright-red hair that was the family hallmark.

  ‘Mr Joe.’ We shook hands. ‘It’s very good of you to see me, and you must not worry that I’m bringing bad news about your mother; she is in marvellous health.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Mr Joe. ‘I’m glad to hear it – if I ask her how she is, she bites my head off.’

  ‘You know how stubborn she is, Mr Joe; she won’t admit to being in the least bit elderly, and I have to hide any attempts I make to help her.’ I remembered, with a momentary lifting of my spirits, the money left to me by Jacob Welland, and all the small comforts it would buy us. ‘Before I leave I must talk to you about sending one of your daughters to help us out – but I am here to enquire after a certain box, addressed to me, care of Mitchell, that has apparently gone missing.’

  He knew of it, and interrupted my explanation. ‘Well, that box has now been found, ma’am.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘It turned up this morning, in the alley behind the stables. The driver confessed that he had left the van unattended for some time, outside a public house in Kentish Town. He reckons that’s where the box was filched.’

  ‘Has it been opened? Are the contents intact?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about the contents, Mrs Rodd,’ said Mr Joe, ‘but I’d be grateful if you could sign it off in the ledger.’

  The so-called ‘coffee room’, as I had already guessed by the smell, was at the rear of the inn and conveniently placed for the stables. Mr Joe took me to a tiny office, crammed with ledgers and papers, in which the business of leaving and picking up luggage was transacted. The cedarwood box, about the size of a large shoebox, stood upon the counter.

  The lock had been broken, but it was quite impossible to know if anything had been removed; I looked inside just long enough to see a jumbled heap of Joshua’s shabby scraps of paper, and arranged to have it carried up to Well Walk (Mr Joe would take no fee for this, on account of the ‘mix-up’).

  How did Jacob have those famous papers? The only possible explanation was that Joshua had given them to him; which meant that he really had come to Hampstead to take leave of his brother. I made a mental note to talk again to Mr Carlos.

  Once I had left the Cross Keys, I made my way through the scrum of men towards the cab-stand.

  ‘Mrs Rodd!’

  I was very surprised to see Mr Daniel Arden at my elbow, strikingly elegant in a black suit and grey silk waistcoat, and positively laughing at me. ‘We are destined to run into each other, ma’am; may I be of any assistance?’

  ‘Mr Arden, it’s always a pleasure to run into you,’ I said, ‘and it would be most helpful if you could find me a cab – a clean one, if possible, with a sober driver.’

  ‘I have a carriage at my disposal, ma’am; the driver is as sober as a bishop, if not a judge, and this maelstrom is no place for a lady.’

  He held out his hand with such winning cordiality that I momentarily forgot he was a witness for the prosecution, and allowed him to help me into a small and luxuriously appointed hired carriage that waited nearby.

  ‘Where may I take you, ma’am?’

  ‘I’m on my way home to Hampstead,’ I began. ‘If you could take me as far as the old turnpike at St Giles—’

  Mr Arden would not allow me to finish. ‘Then let me carry you back to Hampstead; I am at leisure this afternoon, and very much in want of good company.’

  It was pleasant to lean back against the red plush cushions, with Mr Arden sitting opposite, so close that my black silk skirts lapped around his knees.

  ‘I don’t care for life in London,’ he told me cheerfully. ‘In the country there are always a dozen things to do. In the city I
devote hours to doing absolutely nothing, and it’s hard work.’

  ‘I know that you are in London because of the trial,’ I said. ‘I suppose we should agree not to speak of it.’

  ‘I suppose so – but I would be very happy to hear that you are homing in on the true criminal.’

  ‘To be frank with you, Mr Arden, we are still floundering.’

  ‘That’s a shame; I wake every morning with the hope that the whole thing will be stopped before it gets to court.’

  ‘Amen to that!’

  Mr Arden opened a little cupboard in the carriage door, to reveal a silver flask and two small glasses. ‘Once again, I am able to offer you refreshment, just as I did on the day we met in the woods.’

  The sherry was delicious, and very soothing to my aching feet.

  ‘It was at the old limekiln in the woods at Freshley,’ I said. ‘I’d just had my strange encounter with the charcoal burners. And you appeared out of nowhere, Mr Arden, exactly as you did today, like a genie in The Arabian Nights.’

  He smiled. ‘A genie would have whisked you home on a flying carpet. Are you any closer to discovering where the victim spent his final hours? But perhaps I should not ask.’

  ‘Your tact is admirable; I only wish I could boast to you about our progress.’

  ‘You must have faith,’ said Mr Arden. ‘The Lord will reveal the truth – in his own time, and on his own terms.’

  ‘We are waiting for him to reveal someone – anyone! – who saw either Arthur Somers or the defendants on the day of the murder,’ I said. ‘Thus far, we have no one. Between the hours of noon and six o’clock, the three of them might as well have been invisible!’

  ‘I saw Arthur Somers two days before, if that helps.’

  ‘I’m afraid not – though it’s a kind offer from a witness for the other side.’

  ‘We met by chance at that same old kiln,’ said Mr Arden. ‘It’s a sorrowful memory to me now. Somers loved the peace and beauty of that place as much as I do; I had come across him there before.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘On this occasion, I found him fast asleep on a soft bank of moss, like one of Shakespeare’s enchanted lovers. I did not intend to disturb him; my dog woke him.’

  ‘Dear Arthur!’

  ‘He was very much amused,’ said Mr Arden. ‘We had our usual good-natured dispute about Church politics. And then he spent some time trying to teach my dog tricks – with no success whatsoever.’

  ‘Your last sight of him was a happy one,’ I said. ‘I shall try to think of it; he wasn’t designed for tragedy.’

  ‘Would you care for a sandwich?’ Mr Arden opened the little cupboard to produce a tin box. ‘I never travel without provisions.’

  The sandwiches were tiny, perfectly symmetrical, and delicious.

  To move us away from the subject of the murder, I told Mr Arden of my meeting with Mr Mitchell. ‘Here is more proof that you are a genie; your name was mentioned.’

  ‘My name?’

  ‘When Jacob Welland lay dying,’ I said, ‘he had no breath to speak, but shaped three words, over and over. “Hannah”, “Arden” and “Desolation”.’

  Mr Arden was visibly shaken; the colour drained from his face, and for a moment he looked years older.

  ‘Do you know what he was trying to say, Mr Arden?’

  ‘Did he say anything more?’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘Well—’ He had recovered his composure now. ‘Good God! And this is no profanity, but sober truth; his goodness is infinite. Jacob’s last words are proof to me that his soul was saved at the end.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Forgive me, Mrs Rodd; I’m not about to preach at you. The experience that I shared with Jacob Welland – I would be happy to tell you of it, but not while I’m shut away in here. I am pining for a breath of air and a glimpse of the sky. Would you do me the honour of walking with me on Hampstead Heath?’

  ‘Most happily,’ I said. ‘You must take me home first, however, so that I may change into more suitable clothes. And I am concerned about your shoes, Mr Arden; they may be too fine to withstand the mud.’

  ‘I don’t care about my shoes.’ He smiled at me, thoroughly in command of himself once more. ‘I would positively welcome the sight of some honest mud!’

  We had now left behind the snarl of narrow city streets, and were driving smoothly past the sheds, small taverns and market gardens that lined Kentish Town Road, in those last days before it was torn up by the railway.

  Our conversation was easy and amiable; we kept to the safe subject of news from Mr Arden’s home. His local knowledge was impressive; he had heard all about Tom Goodly’s famous deathbed ‘confession’.

  ‘His wife was treated shamefully by her neighbours,’ said Mr Arden. ‘If her daughter had not come to claim her, the poor soul would have ended her days in the town asylum.’

  He declined my invitation to come into my house, although he did permit me to send Mrs Bentley out to his carriage with a cup of tea while I hurriedly changed my dress, shoes and bonnet.

  Hampstead Heath is never empty, and the better paths were fairly busy, even on such a damp afternoon. There are always out-of-the-way places, however, if one is prepared to put up with the puddles, and I led Mr Arden along a favourite path of mine that ran alongside the wall of Caen Wood.

  Mr Arden walked quickly and spoke little, until we sat down together upon the trunk of a fallen tree. He took off his hat and raked his fingers through his plentiful dark-grey hair. ‘When you spoke of “desolation”, Mrs Rodd, you touched upon the greatest, the most solemn experience of my life. It happened on an island off the coast of Chile; the Spaniards named it “Desolacion” and it was certainly desolate. Jacob Welland and I were partners in misfortune. We had fallen into one another’s company several months before, and endured terrible hardship together, but this time we knew that we had come to the end. The two of us lay, half-starved and shivering with fever, and confessed to one another the sins we had committed that would haunt us to our graves. We prayed with all our hearts for a chance to redeem ourselves.’ He looked at me in silence for a moment. ‘Please note that we were not praying for our physical bodies, but our immortal souls; I believe this is the reason we were heard.

  ‘Jacob told me, for the first time, of his ill-fated marriage to Hannah Laurie. He also told me of a dalliance he’d had with a certain woman. He deserted this woman and their child, and now he yearned to atone for his sin. We were ready to surrender our souls to God, and were granted another chance to do God’s work in the world.’

  ‘What sins did you confess to, Mr Arden?’

  ‘Many and various,’ he said. ‘Large and small. The fact that I am alive and well is proof that my sins were forgiven. Jacob and I were born again.’ He spoke quietly and earnestly, his eyes pinned to me. ‘Everything I do at Binstock springs from my sense of atonement. He spared me so that I could give the poor all the things I never had – food, shelter, education, a chance to get on in life.’

  ‘I have seen many examples of your success.’

  ‘Thank you; I can’t help being proud of the improvements I’ve been able to make. I like to believe that I was granted my wealth on the condition that I used it properly.’

  ‘Do you mind my asking where you acquired it?’

  He smiled. ‘It certainly didn’t appear out of nowhere, but my experience on the island was the turning-point; I had sunk all my money into a mining enterprise, and the mine suddenly came good.’

  ‘Did you and Jacob Welland stay together?’

  ‘We went our different ways soon after Desolacion, but that was not a reflection of our friendship. We met God together on a bare hillside, and it bound us for all time.’

  ‘Did you know about his son?’

  ‘I know that the boy’s mother sang and danced in the streets, and that Welland had left her destitute. And I know that he vowed to find her, though I couldn’t say when he did.’ said Mr Arden, ‘I’ve seen Mr Carlos, ho
wever; we happen to be staying at the same hotel in Half Moon Street. He is a fine young man.’

  ‘I must confess,’ I said, ‘that I cannot see any resemblance to his father.’

  ‘Oh, it’s there,’ said Mr Arden. ‘Especially around the eyes and forehead. Jacob’s eyes were blue and his son’s are dark, yet their shape is exactly the same. I can never forget. Once upon a time, I thought they would be the last thing I saw on earth. He was a good man, Mrs Rodd.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  He was silent for a few moments, then said abruptly, ‘I did not ask for much in return for my work. I have lived quietly – trying not to be selfish, trying not to think of my own gratification. But I’ve lately begun to wonder if following my heart’s desire might not be selfish after all.’

  ‘Your heart’s desire?’ I was all ears now. ‘Do you mean you are thinking of getting married?’

  ‘Let’s say that it has crossed my mind – but only in the most general sense. There is no particular lady. It’s simply that I am feeling my solitary state. And I could do so much more of God’s work with a wife at my side.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘But perhaps I’m too old.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ I declared. ‘You are not too old in the least!’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Rodd.’

  The light was fading now, and the wind began to be cold. Mr Arden gave me his arm to escort me back to Well Walk.

  Twenty-two

  My brother was very well-known inside Newgate Prison; he often said he spent more time in that dreadful, sorrowful place than he did in his chambers. It was a blackened, eyeless hulk of a building, crouching at the feet of the Old Bailey, just across the street. The cells inside the prison were grouped around a central courtyard, with the common prisoners upon one side, and upon the other the prisoners who could afford to pay for slightly better quarters.

  ‘But you won’t find Barton hanging out with even the better sort of felon,’ said Fred drily. ‘He’s being kept in the rooms of the prison governor, by virtue of his collar. And he’s receiving us in the splendour of the governor’s private office.’