Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar

by Kate Saunders

  The young clergyman was waiting for us there, perfectly at ease; it came as a slight shock to see him quite unchanged, as if he had not been living in the very shadow of the scaffold.

  ‘Mrs Rodd, this is a pleasure.’ He shook hands with all of us and we sat down beside a fine fire, in the well-appointed office that the governor had kindly vacated for us.

  ‘She wants to talk to you,’ said Mr Flint, looking sour. ‘I can’t stop her if you don’t mind it.’

  ‘Flint!’ my brother snapped. ‘Manners!’

  ‘I’m delighted to see you, Mrs Rodd,’ said Mr Barton, almost laughing. ‘And I hope you will talk to me; you have been in Hardinsett, and can give me news of home.’

  ‘I can,’ I said, ‘though none of it is very happy.’

  His face darkened now; we were both thinking of Rachel.

  After a short silence, he asked, ‘How is the church – has anyone stepped in to take the services?’

  ‘Yes, a Mr Whitely, from Iffley. He can only do one service a week, unfortunately.’

  ‘Better than nothing,’ said Mr Barton. ‘I’m glad to hear the place is ticking over.’

  ‘And I know you will want to hear about your boys; they are well, and know nothing of your true situation.’

  ‘Thank God! They’re far too little to understand.’

  ‘Mr Arden told them you had gone away.’

  ‘Good, let them think that while they can,’ said Mr Barton. ‘I miss them like fury.’

  ‘So you spoke to Arden,’ Mr Flint cut in. ‘What did he have to say for himself?’

  ‘He’s a most unwilling witness,’ I began.

  ‘He’s a liar, with no respect for the established Church,’ said Mr Flint hotly. ‘And that lodge-keeper of his is another one. If they are not exposed as liars, the jury has no choice but to believe their disgraceful piece of slander is the truth!’

  ‘You must not torment poor Mrs Woods,’ I said, quailing at the thought of that timid young woman being mauled in the witness box. ‘I judged her to be a very truthful person – don’t you agree, Mr Barton?’

  His gaze fell away from mine, and he was silent.

  ‘But this is irrelevant!’ protested Mr Flint.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Fred, staring intently at Mr Barton’s bowed head.

  ‘Mr Barton,’ I said, as gently as I knew how. ‘Consider what you are doing. You know Mrs Woods; are you really prepared to watch her being torn apart in court? We are all your friends; we know you did not murder Arthur Somers. We cannot help you, however, unless you tell the whole truth – my dear, it’s too late to be delicate – this is the only way that you can save Mrs Somers!’

  I was very sorry for him; at my words his bravado melted away, exposing all his bewilderment and terror.

  ‘And I mean everything,’ I went on, ‘including the business of the blackmail. Arthur would not have wanted you to give your life for the sake of his reputation.’

  ‘Don’t imagine you can shock her,’ said Fred happily. He produced a large silver flask from his pocket. ‘Have a nip of brandy to keep your strength up.’

  He would not allow Mr Barton to refuse and firmly handed him one of the little silver cups, filled to the brim.

  Mr Flint was very still, and suddenly sickly pale. ‘If Mrs Woods is not lying – but I know that Mrs Somers—’

  ‘She’s blameless,’ Mr Barton said emphatically. ‘That must be understood from the start.’

  ‘Maggy Woods says she saw you and Mrs Somers kissing,’ said Fred. ‘Did she?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Barton. ‘But it wasn’t Mrs Somers’s fault, and if we hadn’t been in a public place, she would have resisted more forcefully – I acted impulsively and without her permission. The blame is entirely mine.’

  Mr Flint breathed heavily and I wondered what was the matter with the man.

  ‘Whoops-a-daisy,’ said Fred. ‘That could give me trouble. Still, forewarned is forearmed. While we’re talking about that infamous dance, what about the punch-up you had with the victim?’

  ‘As I told Flint,’ said Mr Barton testily, ‘that is unfortunately true. Somers and I had a difference of opinion.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I’m not prepared to say.’

  ‘And here we hit the wall!’ said Fred. ‘You’re not prepared to say what matter you were discussing, though it obviously wasn’t the nature of the Trinity. Give it up, my boy. The jury will hear that Somers shouted “Bloody Judas” and knocked you down flat.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where does Judas come into it?’

  (I was also very curious about this, and increasingly annoyed with myself for going to bed early on that fateful night and missing the whole drama.)

  Mr Barton reddened and frowned and the silence stretched into minutes, yet I sensed a yielding in him, and even a certain relief, and hoped most devoutly that Mr Flint would not jump in and spoil it all.

  ‘I have not been keeping quiet to protect myself or my own reputation.’ His voice was low, he was deeply in earnest. ‘It was all for her sake. I know that I have wronged Mrs Somers. I was trying not to make things worse for her – if they could be any worse.’

  Poor young man, he had sunk to the lowest level of misery, where there is no longer any point in trying to obscure the truth.

  ‘I saw for myself how fond you were of Arthur Somers,’ I said. ‘I know you couldn’t possibly have murdered him. I am absolutely sure of your innocence. But I observed many things while I was at Hardinsett. My dear Mr Barton, it was as plain as the nose on my face that you were in love with Rachel.’ He could redden and wince all he liked; there was no more time for niceties. ‘Your behaviour towards her was perfectly proper – but if your attachment was obvious to me, it must have been so to Arthur. Was that the cause of the fight?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Barton. ‘You remember that ghastly evening, Mrs Rodd; after you retired, Somers and I had to see off the last stragglers. We were both tired and overwrought. He accused me and I confessed my – my feelings for his wife.’

  ‘And then he knocked you down,’ said Fred. ‘Which is more than understandable, heaven knows, though Somers didn’t strike me as the knocking-down type.’

  ‘He wasn’t,’ I said. ‘He was the mildest of men.’

  ‘Rather ungrateful of him to whack you, after everything you’d done for him,’ said Fred. ‘Let’s talk about the blackmail, shall we?’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ snapped Mr Barton.

  ‘Mr Barton, I have a confession to make to you.’ The time had come to tell him what I had overheard while eavesdropping.

  He was mortified; as for Mr Flint, he was pale with anger, and scowled at me as if to blame me for the sordid events I had described.

  ‘I was forced to take a fresh look at certain incidents in the past,’ I said. ‘And a great deal became clear to me. For instance, that time in Herefordshire – my husband couldn’t tell me, but Arthur was being blackmailed then, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Barton. ‘He told me it had happened before, and that your late husband somehow managed to save him.’

  ‘You were angry with him.’

  ‘I was angry for her sake, for his wife’s sake. I could not bear her to be defiled by the evil rumours going about. And I was angry with Somers for involving me in the filthy business.’

  ‘Tell us about Banbury Fair,’ said Fred.

  ‘The man wanted more money, as I had warned Somers he would. I met him at the fair and knocked him down for his impudence regarding a certain lady. And I’d do it again.’

  ‘But you’re in holy orders!’ I was shocked by such shameless belligerence.

  ‘If I had not been in holy orders,’ said Mr Barton, ‘I would’ve killed him.’

  ‘Mr Barton—!’

  ‘Any half-decent man would have done the same.’

  ‘Yes, by God!’ cried out Mr Flint, clenching his fists.

  ‘Bravo,’ said Fred, beaming round at us all. ‘Th
at’ll go down very nicely – you can remind the jury of their red-blooded manhood, Flint – the Sir Galahad card is always a strong player.’

  ‘Fred, how can you?’ I protested. ‘Am I the only Christian in this room, as well as the only female? Violence can never be condoned!’

  ‘Sometimes it can,’ Mr Barton said quietly. ‘God gave me these fists, Mrs Rodd, to use on his behalf. I thrashed that man in order to defend two persons I loved and honoured. Arthur Somers was no saint, but his weaknesses must not be allowed to cancel out his virtues. He was one of the best men I’ve ever met, and a better man than I am.’

  ‘That’s good,’ my brother cut in briskly, ‘but not good enough. We’re still struggling with that lost afternoon of yours, upon the day of the murder.’

  ‘I went walking in the old forest around Freshley St Johns.’ His expression turned shuttered and stubborn. ‘I didn’t see anyone, and no one saw me.’

  He was lying; we all knew it.

  ‘Wherever you were,’ said Fred, ‘someone saw you; I beg you to spill the beans before the other side springs it on us in court.’

  ‘Mr Barton—’ I was mindful of the time ticking past; we could not afford to waste a moment of this precious interview. ‘I have heard that Arthur said he saw you, hours before his death, and claimed that you “upset” him.’

  His eyes flashed anger at me, and I hit the ‘brick wall’ with almost physical force. ‘I did not meet Somers on that day. I did not argue with him, and I did not put poison in his lemonade.’

  ‘This is irrelevant,’ Mr Flint put in crossly. ‘The victim’s ramblings simply won’t stand up, as I have already explained to you.’

  I ignored him. ‘I’ve also been making enquiries about Tom Goodly and his deathbed confession.’

  ‘Oh?’ Mr Barton was startled.

  ‘Could Arthur have been killed because of something Goodly confessed to him?’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Somers didn’t reveal a word of what passed between them, but that wasn’t enough to stop all kinds of extravagant rumours.’

  ‘Do you recall any rumours in particular?’

  ‘Well—’ He made a visible effort to draw this into focus.

  ‘The hidden gold, for instance?’

  ‘Gold?’ He looked blank for a moment, then reluctantly smiled. ‘Oh, to be sure – Arthur did tell me that he had trouble keeping Mrs Goodly out of the way. And that the poor deluded woman kept begging him to ask her dying husband about the gold.’

  ‘Might there have been a grain of truth in the story? Was that what Goodly wanted to confess?’

  ‘I very much doubt it,’ said Mr Barton.

  ‘Did Arthur ever tell you about anything else he heard that night?’

  ‘Never; the secrets of the confessional were sacred to him.’

  ‘I remember that he was anxious about something,’ I said. ‘When I asked him, he told me that he felt other people’s secrets as a burden upon his own soul.’

  ‘Oho, he must’ve heard something good and meaty!’ For the very first time, my brother showed a spark of interest in this line of enquiry. ‘A lovely confession of murder, perhaps; are there any unsolved killings in the neighbourhood?’

  ‘None that I know of,’ said Mr Barton.

  ‘What about Sir Christopher Warrender?’ I demanded. ‘He disappeared, but I’m beginning to believe—’

  ‘No!’ Fred interrupted me with a rude groan. ‘For pity’s sake, don’t distract us with some old piece of folklore!’

  ‘Aren’t you interested in finding the true killer?’

  ‘That’s a matter for the police, Mrs Rodd,’ said Mr Flint. ‘My business is purely to build a case for Barton’s defence. I’d like to talk to him alone now, if you please.’

  My brother and I took our leave of the prisoner; I shook his hand, trying to stifle the thought that it might be the last time I saw him before he stood in the dock. He seemed to guess what I was thinking; he held my hand a little longer than was necessary, and smiled at me with special warmth.

  ‘Thank you for everything, Mrs Rodd.’

  Fred and I left the room, and out in the corridor I immediately fumbled for my handkerchief, to wipe my eyes.

  ‘Oh, my dear!’ sighed Fred. ‘I have learnt over the years not to have feelings about my customers, but that young man would move a stone!’

  ‘Don’t take any notice of me; I didn’t mean to give way.’

  ‘We have made progress, of a sort. You got him to own up about the canoodling with Mrs Somers.’

  The ‘canoodling’ made me wince. ‘I wouldn’t call that progress; it shows Mr Barton in a very bad light.’

  ‘Again, forewarned is forearmed,’ said Fred, smiling. ‘You must trust Flint to trim it and dress it, and serve it up to the jury as a delicacy.’

  ‘Fred, I can’t bear to think of Rachel in court; it will kill her! Is there nothing we can do?’

  ‘I’ll protect her as far as I can, you know I will.’

  ‘She shouldn’t be there at all!’ I whispered fiercely. ‘She’s innocent, they’re both innocent! We should be doing everything we can to find the true criminal!’

  Twenty-three

  The cedarwood box that had been through so many adventures stood on the kitchen floor, on the faded rag-rug in front of the fire. It was the evening of the day after my visit to Newgate, and I had spent most of it toiling through Joshua’s papers. This was the first time I had been able to examine these at my leisure and, though I had not found anything remotely useful to my investigation, I was intrigued.

  Once I had got used to the odd appearance of the writing, and had scrutinized the faded lines through a strong magnifying glass, I found that many of the passages in Latin and Greek were long extracts from various famous works, as if Joshua had tried to preserve everything that he remembered in a kind of private library. My Latin was rusty, but Papa had taught me well and I remembered enough to translate several passages that were not taken from classical literature. There were also a few pages in English.

  To discover a stolen horse, bury the harness and build a fire above it, saying, ‘Who stole thee/ Sick may he be.’

  Take a sucking babe to a stream; hold it over the water while saying, ‘Tell me, Oh Nivaseha,/ By this child’s hand,’ and the water will flow in the direction of the stolen beast.

  These strange snippets (including a rather horrid recipe for love-sickness, which involved cutting open a dead crow and observing the behaviour of the maggots) I took to be part of Joshua’s great work about the ancient wisdom of the gipsy people – cut short when the gipsies expelled him from their encampment. I also found many sketches, ranging in quality from detailed drawings of animals and flowers to rough maps and diagrams whose meaning was anybody’s guess.

  Mrs Bentley did not like the scraps of dirty paper strewn about her kitchen. ‘I can’t see what you want with it all, ma’am, I’m sure.’

  ‘I want to know why the box went missing; what could the thief have been looking for?’

  ‘Hmm.’ She was sceptical.

  ‘I’m curious, Mary,’ I said teasingly.

  ‘I used to say to my boys, curiosity killed the cat.’

  ‘And it’s a welcome distraction from my anxiety about the trial.’

  I cleared the papers away when our visitor appeared. Mr Carlos had sent me a note that morning, asking if he could call later. The note had been delivered by an impossibly superior ticket-porter from the hotel in Piccadilly. Mr Carlos himself arrived with a homely basket of dear Mrs B’s favourite delicacies, including a parcel of pigs’ trotters – ungenteel but delicious.

  She would not hear of anybody else preparing them. Mr Carlos and I were banished to the drawing room upstairs, where I had lit a fire. The young man seemed easier; he was becoming accustomed to drawing rooms. Mr Bourne, the vicar of St Luke’s, Knightsbridge, had called on him, and Mr Carlos had been much impressed by his kindness.

  ‘He does not
think I am stupid because I cannot read English books. He brings me Spanish books and speaks to me in Spanish. I shall be very happy to move myself to his house. Could you please tell me, madam, the money I should pay to him?’

  I mentioned a suitable sum of money.

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ said Mr Carlos. ‘I do not like the hotel. The servants are rude to me, and they look at my things.’

  ‘You are a great object of curiosity to them. Mr Bourne’s servants will be far better behaved.’

  I took the opportunity, while I had Mr Carlos before me, of asking him about Joshua’s bundle of papers.

  ‘I’m sure these are the same papers that I saw in Oxford, in the rooms of Joshua’s friend, Silas Jennings. They can only have been brought to Rosemount by Joshua himself. I did not believe poor Jacob when he told me of his brother’s nocturnal visit, nor did Dr Chauncey. But it seems he was being entirely truthful.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘Did you see or hear anything?’

  ‘I was sad that I did not wake,’ said Mr Carlos. ‘In the morning, my master’s bed is covered with papers. He says I must tell nobody that he has them.’

  ‘Why the secrecy?’

  ‘My master says there is a map amongst the papers, that shows where gold is buried.’

  ‘Oh.’ I could not hide my disappointment, yet even as I dismissed this as nonsense, I was struck by how that rumour of lost gold persisted. ‘Surely he did not believe such a wild story?’

  ‘I do not know, madam.’

  Mrs Bentley called that supper was ready and Mr Carlos and I descended to the kitchen.

  There are few things more alarming than being roused at the dead of night.

  I was rudely woken by violent pounding on the front door. Imagining every kind of dreadful news, I hurriedly lit my chamber-candle, pulled on my flannel wrapper and hurtled downstairs.

  It was my brother – he assured me at once that all was well at home, and he was radiant with excitement. ‘I had to tell you at once, my dear; events have taken such a splendid turn!’

  He was on the point of revealing all to me when Mrs Bentley appeared at the top of the stairs, a white, wispy-haired wraith, wrapped in a black shawl, and brandishing a poker to defend herself. Fred was very much at home in our house, and while I assured Mrs B that we were not in danger, and persuaded her to return to her bed, he revived the kitchen fire, commandeered the best brandy and raided my tiny larder for cake.