Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar

by Kate Saunders

  ‘Thank you,’ he said curtly. ‘This is my sister, Minna, who keeps house for me here.’

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Rodd.’ Miss Yates was small and pale and delicate-looking, with a plain, peaky little face and a gentle, hesitant manner. ‘Won’t you come inside, out of the wind?’

  She showed me into a small sitting room at the back of the house. ‘I hope you won’t mind the parlour, Mrs Rodd; we never have a fire in the drawing room at this time.’

  I assured her that I did not mind in the least, for it was a comfortable room and the fire was generous.

  ‘It may appear to be rather extravagant,’ said Mr Yates, once his sister had left us alone together. ‘Minna is not strong, however, and I always insist that she must have a decent fire.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ I said.

  He did not sit down in the other armchair, but stood at attention on the hearthrug. ‘I beg your pardon if this seems rude, Mrs Rodd, but I have nothing more to say about the terrible events at Swinford. I told that policeman everything he could possibly want to know.’

  ‘That is not the reason I’m here, Mr Yates. And you must not mind Mr Blackbeard; he is all bark and very little bite.’

  ‘His behaviour at Swinford was disrespectful and occasionally downright ungodly.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ I was longing to ask him about the murder, but there was no point when he was on his guard and prickling like a hedgehog. ‘He is looking into something quite different today, concerning a robbery that occurred many years ago.’

  ‘A robbery?’ The surprise opened out his face, and he looked years younger.

  ‘This must be in the strictest confidence, Mr Yates – but naturally I know that I can rely upon your discretion.’

  As briefly as possible, I recounted the whole story of the stolen gold. It was the last thing he had expected to hear, and he was clearly fascinated; he climbed down off his high horse and sat down to listen, sometimes interrupting with questions. I finished with a recital of the names given by Mrs Goodly, and then allowed the silence to stretch while he thought it all over.

  ‘I had heard of the business with the old woman; if she had been one of my parishioners, I would’ve tried to prevent her being sent away.’

  ‘It was a blessing in disguise, Mr Yates; she has a comfortable home with her daughter now.’

  ‘And the gold was real after all!’

  ‘Do you know if any of those men are still living?’

  ‘No – but you’ll find the same names in every churchyard this side of Oxford. We have a Tapp family here, and a Cummings – look here, you’d better ask my sister, who knows far more about the people of that class than I do.’

  Miss Yates was at that moment coming into the room with a tray of tea-things, which her brother hastened to wrest from her hands; I was touched by his concern for her, and the good-natured scolding he gave her because the tray was too heavy. When she was with us the atmosphere was markedly easier; the last shred of the curate’s pompous disapproval melted away and he rattled out the story like an eager schoolboy.

  ‘You’ll know, Minna; was it the Tapps had a death in the family just before we came here, or was that the Carters?’

  ‘The Tapps,’ said Miss Yates, in her soft voice.

  ‘Yes, to be sure – one of the names you mentioned, Mrs Rodd! He died of an attack of pleurisy—’

  ‘No, that was old Enoch Carter,’ said Miss Yates, laughing at him in a way that lit up her timid little face. ‘Will Tapp was run over by a brewer’s dray.’

  ‘You see, Mrs Rodd, my sister puts me to shame; I have lived in this village for five years and know nothing of my neighbours. Minna knew everybody in five minutes.’

  ‘The Tapps are good, respectable people,’ she said quickly. ‘Will was their only scapegrace; he was wild in his youth, and given to drink in his old age. As to Dan Cummings, he died last winter of pneumonia.’

  ‘Despite the comforts rained down upon him by our esteemed Mr Arden.’ The curate’s voice took on a bitter tang. ‘The great philanthropist who turns his back on the church at his very gates!’

  Miss Yates winced and her thin cheeks reddened.

  ‘Smith is the only name left,’ I said, pretending I had not noticed this. ‘Are there any in this parish?’

  ‘Not here,’ said Miss Yates. ‘I know of several Smith families, however, in several directions; it is a very common name in this part of the country.’

  The clock upon the chimney-piece whirred and chimed the hour.

  ‘I must leave you, Mrs Rodd,’ said Mr Yates. ‘Please finish your tea; my sister will look after you.’

  ‘You have been most helpful, Mr Yates,’ I said. ‘I really should apologize for calling unannounced.’

  ‘Not at all; I’m sorry I was suspicious of you at first.’ He spoke to me, yet his eyes were fixed to his sister. ‘These dreadful events cannot be allowed to damage the reputation of the Church, and we must all be on our guard.’

  He looked at her mildly enough, but Miss Yates’s pale face was suddenly scarlet.

  Twenty-nine

  I pretended not to notice her confusion, and after Mr Yates had left the house, I began to talk about pelargoniums; it was a solo performance at first, but after a few minutes the fierce blush faded and Miss Yates regained her self-possession. We drank second cups of tea and I dared to move the conversation in a more personal direction.

  ‘Were you and your brother brought up in this part of the country, Miss Yates?’

  ‘No, we grew up in Hale, near Manchester. Our father was a clergyman.’

  ‘That is something we have in common,’ I said. ‘I am another daughter of the parsonage; mine was in the deepest depths of Gloucestershire – I don’t like to think how many years ago! Are your parents still living?’

  ‘Our mother died when Charles and I were very young,’ said Miss Yates. ‘And we lost our father six years ago; I can only be thankful that he lived to see his son ordained.’

  ‘I’m sure he was most happy and proud! My own dear father would have loved to see my naughty little brother made a clergyman, but Providence had other plans and he was called to the bar instead. Did your brother consider other professions, or was he always set on the Church?’

  ‘Always! That is – when we were children, I was the religious one, while Charles took his faith more lightly. It was only when he went to Oxford that he experienced it as something profound. He was greatly influenced by Gerard Fogle.’

  ‘Dear me, that must have made the experience of his death a hundred times more painful!’

  ‘You must forgive him for snapping at you, Mrs Rodd. It’s only because some people have been so unkind. My brother’s name was made public and linked to Swinford. That was enough to bring him a fine batch of anonymous letters. And we would have had trouble in the parish itself if Mr Arden had not intervened; he made a special point of shaking Charley’s hand in the street and speaking out against the gossips.’

  ‘Your brother didn’t seem to approve of Mr Arden,’ I observed softly.

  The blood surged back to her cheeks at once, as if I had shot her in the heart; I allowed the silence to stretch, worried that I had gone too far.

  At length she ventured, ‘They have had some differences of opinion.’

  ‘About wretched Church politics, I suppose, and the awkward fact that Mr Arden is an unrepentant Unitarian!’

  I was as cheerful as can be and she responded with a smile; I noticed that, in some lights, her nondescript features became absolutely beautiful, and when a plain girl suddenly turns pretty, I am always interested.

  ‘Mr Arden doesn’t try to convert anybody else,’ she said earnestly, ‘and he has nothing but respect for the established Church. My brother feels, however, that he is a bad influence in the neighbourhood, and ought to set a better example.’

  ‘In my opinion, Miss Yates, his generosity to the poor is example enough.’

  ‘Oh, yes! My brother’s position here m
eant that we couldn’t call upon Mr Arden, but I couldn’t avoid making his acquaintance informally. I often met him in the houses of people I visited and he was compassion itself. I dared to ask him outright for money to improve the school; he took a personal interest in the project, which led to us becoming … friends.’

  The last word fell into another chasm of silence. Hold your nerve, I told myself; she has no one she can confide in, and there are some secrets a young woman cannot bear to keep to herself.

  ‘There was nothing improper between us, Mrs Rodd, please believe me,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Of course I do, my dear! You could hardly have ignored him.’

  ‘I tried to explain as much to Charles,’ said Miss Yates, rather pitifully grateful that I did not chide her. ‘But I couldn’t overcome his prejudice; he believes Unitarians to be next door to heretics.’

  ‘I’m afraid that particular intolerance can be traced back to Swinford; my poor late friend Arthur Somers was constantly flinging out all sorts of accusations against nonconformists.’

  ‘Mr Arden and I never spoke of religion when we met; there were too many other things to discuss – practical things. But I know his mission to be noble: to root out the causes of poverty, and to help people to the means of helping themselves!’

  ‘The signs of his success are everywhere,’ I said. ‘Surely there can be no possible objection to him, when he does so much good?’

  (On I chattered, watching her like a hawk; she was too innocent to be aware of how much she was giving away, yet it was quite plain to me – she was in love with Mr Arden; naturally my mind flashed back to what he had said to me when we walked on the Heath together; was Minna Yates the reason he had allowed himself to think of marriage?)

  ‘My brother says he encourages disrespect for the Church, and he has forbidden me to meet with him in private.’

  ‘That must be rather awkward,’ I said, ‘in a small place like this.’

  ‘It was on account of those anonymous letters,’ said Miss Yates, raising her head proudly. ‘One of them made disgusting insinuations about my friendship with Mr Arden.’

  ‘How dreadful!’

  ‘And now the gossips are saying there’s no smoke without fire. I tried to explain to Charles that the two of us had only ever discussed things like the salary for the schoolteacher, but he was too angry to listen. And he blamed me for being a cause of scandal.’

  ‘You? My dear Miss Yates!’ I could not hide my indignation at the sheer unfairness of this. ‘You are not to blame in the least! It would be a great pity if your brother’s prejudice stopped you and Mr Arden helping your neighbours!’

  ‘Thank you.’ She was as red as a turkey-cock, but relieved that I took her part. ‘I should hate you to think ill of me! That’s what I cannot endure, Mrs Rodd; my brother and I have always been of one mind and spirit, and the coldness of his expression cut me to the heart. He seemed to believe I had somehow set out to “entrap” Mr Arden. I hope you will believe I did nothing of the kind.’

  ‘Of course I do!’ I said stoutly. ‘If he were a few years younger, I’d box his ears for being such a lout! A gentleman – particularly a clerical gentleman – does not insult his sister.’

  Miss Yates smiled. ‘It is the only disagreement we’ve ever had; I put it down to his anxiety about the murder at Swinford. Do you know if the police have found out anything new?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Mr Arden thinks it was a robbery that went wrong.’

  ‘When did you see Mr Arden?’

  ‘Yesterday morning,’ said Miss Yates, meeting my gaze boldly. ‘We met by chance, at the market in Culverton – quite by chance.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure of that!’ I said (not sure at all). ‘And in such a public situation, of course you were forced to acknowledge him. But I thought he was in London.’

  ‘The delay in the trial brought him back to Binstock,’ explained Miss Yates. ‘He never can endure being away for long. And I wanted to speak to him about the wild behaviour of a certain local boy and the necessity of helping him. It was not a personal conversation in the least.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Mr Arden will always stand up for the wild lads, to stop them falling into criminality.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s thinking of his own boyhood,’ I said. ‘He has spoken to me of his wish to give others all the things he never had himself.’

  ‘He is reticent to a fault about his history,’ said Miss Yates. ‘Once, however, he admitted to me that he had been a criminal in his youth.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He was locked up many times when he was a boy, for petty stealing, and for poaching. And he narrowly missed being transported for rick-burning – he was only saved because someone had heart enough to speak up for him. But this is confidential; I should not have said so much.’

  ‘I’m always discreet, Miss Yates,’ I reassured her.

  ‘He told me how he had suffered, and how sin and suffering are two sides of the same coin – if you eliminate the suffering, the sin will go too. And there is so much to be done! Mr Arden makes no distinction between the “deserving” and the “undeserving” poor. He says only the Almighty has the right to make such judgements and that the rich have a sacred duty to share their good fortune, because the less fortunate are our brothers and sisters and not another race of beings!’ The words poured out of her in a rush of exaltation. ‘The woman in the lodge at Binstock is an example of his practical goodness.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I said, ‘I know Mrs Woods.’

  ‘Her husband was killed when part of the old limekiln collapsed on top of him; Mr Arden consulted me at the time about how best to help the poor widow. I cannot begin to describe the marvellous things he has wrought here since he came! My brother says he’s a radical and does not approve, but Mr Arden says the Gospels themselves are radical.’ She added, ‘I beg your pardon if I have shocked you.’

  I assured her that she had not – all the time observing that unmistakable light in her eyes.

  It was possible that this innocent creature was unaware of the fact that she was in love I took my leave of her, thinking what a fine wife she would make for Mr Arden, if only her brother could be brought round.

  Blackbeard was sitting on the wall of the churchyard, in a contemplative cloud of pipe-smoke. He tapped out the pipe when he saw me, and escorted me to the carriage that waited along the road; once we were heading back to Oxford I gave an account of my visit, omitting the romance.

  ‘Mr Yates and his sister have lived here only five years,’ I said. ‘They couldn’t tell me much about local history – except for Mr Arden’s boyhood brushes with the law. I hope you did better, Inspector.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Blackbeard. ‘Not much. All I’ve learned is that this is a terrible place for violent deaths. Apart from the chap that died of pnuemonia, every name on Mother Goodly’s list has been hanged or drowned, or knocked down by a brewer’s dray, until there’s just one man I can’t account for.’

  ‘Dan Smith,’ I said. ‘She called him a “young devil”. But we know he’s not here, Mr Blackbeard; the story was that he ran off to Plymouth with Sir Christopher and was never seen again.’

  ‘I told you not to bother with Plymouth before, ma’am; now I’m a bit more interested.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Do you happen to know any vicars down there?’

  Thirty

  That afternoon, after a heartening luncheon of lamb chops and fried potatoes, I sat down beside the fire in the empty coffee room at the Mitre, to write to my connection in Plymouth – for of course I had one.

  To the Revd Wilfred Bone, The Seamen’s Mission, Union Street, Plymouth

  The Mitre

  Oxford

  14th October

  Dear Cousin Wilfred,

  A shocking amount of time has passed since our last exchange of letters. I make no apology; I know that you do not care to receive ‘frivolous’ letters not concerned with the business of the Mission,
but I am writing with a request for information. I shall never forget how very useful you were in the Heaton case – especially with your knowledge of the inns and taverns around the docks.

  This case may be less straightforward and I shall quite understand if you tell me it is impossible. You will need to cast your mind back all the way to 1819. I am searching for two men last seen in Plymouth during that year and never seen since: a young man who went by the name of Dan Smith, and a gentleman, Sir Christopher Warrender.

  Sir Christopher’s aunt, Lady Tremlett, made a great stir in the town when he disappeared, which I daresay you remember. But there the scent grows cold. I would like to hear any snippet you can tell me about those two men – and I mean ANY little scrap of information, even if it seems inconsequential.

  You and the Mission (I don’t think the two can be separated) are always in my prayers.

  Yours affectionately,

  Laetitia Rodd

  PS – Please send any reply to my address in London

  The following day was to be my last in Oxford, and I therefore had a long list of very dull things to do (settling my bill at the Mitre, sewing a new black ribbon to my second-best bonnet, mending a tear in my umbrella, et cetera). In the afternoon I was due at Mrs Watts-Weston’s At-Home; the weather was dreadfully wet and I did not see how I was to get to the college in my good shoes; I wished I had a pair of homely wooden pattens to protect them.

  This was my train of thought when I was summoned downstairs, directly after breakfast, to find Inspector Blackbeard dripping all over the flagstone floor.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Rodd!’ I could read the signs by now and by Blackbeard standards he was positively jaunty. ‘It’s shocking wet today, ma’am.’

  ‘You are soaked through, Mr Blackbeard! Take off your coat and come to the fire.’

  ‘I can’t stop,’ said Blackbeard. ‘You and I are going on another journey, Mrs Rodd; the carriage should be here in ten minutes or so.’