I knew better than to nag him for more information, though my instinct told me this was something significant; I hurried into my thick cloak and walking shoes, and when I got downstairs again, the carriage was already waiting in the yard.
‘We’re off to Millings Cross, ma’am,’ said Blackbeard.
‘I know it; Mr Barton lives at Millings Cross.’
‘So he does.’
‘Why are we going there?’
‘It’s on account of a man in the town lock-up,’ said Blackbeard. ‘Gives his name as “Pauly O’Hare” and he’s one of the gipsies from the common. I don’t say they’re all thieves, ma’am, but this man is most definitely a thief, with a record to show for it as long as your arm. This time he runs the risk of being hanged.’
‘Oh.’ I had not expected this and was intensely curious.
‘He tried to make a bargain with me, along the lines that if I let him out, his dear old mother had something to tell me about the murder. Now, I’m not in the habit of striking bargains with blackguards, but I thought I’d pay the old woman a visit, to see what I can get out of her.’
‘There was an old woman that spoke to Mr Barton sometimes,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘If he paid her.’
‘We won’t need cash today, ma’am; I have it in my power to make life a bit easier for her son. She’ll have every incentive to be truthful.’
‘Do you know what information she has?’
‘Maybe nothing,’ said Mr Blackbeard. ‘Then again, she might be a witness.’
‘To Arthur’s murder?’
‘No.’
‘To what, then?’
‘Let’s wait and see, ma’am.’
I had to be content with this, for Blackbeard pursed his thin lips and turned his attention to a copy of Jackson’s Oxford Journal, wet from the rain and folded very small. At least the rain had cleaned the windows of the carriage; I was able to see when we turned off the Hardinsett road, down the narrow and grievously muddy lane that led to Millings Cross.
As Mr Barton had said, the place was barely a village. I was a little ashamed that I had never taken the trouble to visit his church; it was a small and modest building of raw red brick, with a churchyard at the very edge of the rough common. There was only one house that looked remotely genteel enough for a clergyman: a low-built thatched cottage.
‘You’re to wait in the house, Mrs Rodd,’ said Blackbeard. ‘The camp’s no place for you.’
I could have argued that I had been in far worse places, but knew him well enough to know that his mind was made up and argument was futile.
The rain had by now abated to a thin drizzle. I climbed out of the carriage, on to a very imperfect road, and looked at the gipsy encampment on the other side of the common; a dismal collection of carts and caravans, wreathed in grey smoke from several sluggish fires.
The door of Mr Barton’s cottage was opened by a young policeman.
‘No servants here,’ said Blackbeard. ‘Barton lived alone, ma’am; the woman next door came a few days a week to do his cleaning and washing and suchlike.’
I was shown into a small sitting room, plainly but decently furnished with a desk and easy chair. There was a bitter smell of smoke, for the policeman had tried – and failed – to build a fire in the cold grate. When Mr Blackbeard left to fetch the old gipsy-woman, I knelt down on the hearthrug to make a proper blaze (people will never use sufficient kindling, but damp coal needs every encouragement) and by the time he returned the fire was burning merrily.
Mrs O’Hare, the gipsy-woman, was as battered, grimed and ragged as anyone who has spent a lifetime out of doors. She was suspicious and cagey and shot glances of pure loathing at Blackbeard, but then she saw the fire and flung herself at it as if embracing an old friend. I believe she would have climbed into it if she could.
‘Let’s hear it, then,’ said Blackbeard, eyeing her keenly. ‘Your son reckons you know something.’
‘My Pauly never done it.’
‘It don’t look good for him, not as things stand. If his old mother decides to turn witness, however, all kinds of things are possible.’
‘What things?’
‘Depends what you’ve got for me,’ said Blackbeard. ‘Who knows, eh? You might even save his life!’
She drew back from the fire then, and her eyes, so bright and black in her wrinkled face, were full of calculation.
‘Mrs O’Hare,’ I put in, as gently as possible, ‘you have nothing to fear from telling us the truth; I promise that you will not lose by it.’
‘Give me my son first.’
I murmured to Blackbeard, ‘Are you able to do that?’
‘I can’t spring him just like that,’ he said. ‘But some of those charges might disappear before the next assizes. She knows the game, ma’am.’
Mrs O’Hare considered for a moment, then said, ‘I saw Barton on the day of the murder. And I saw her, too.’
‘You saw Mrs Somers?’ I blurted this out and was all set to protest that she must have been mistaken – but Blackbeard shot me one of his looks and smote me into silence.
‘Where did you see them?’ he asked.
‘Right here,’ said Mrs O’Hare. ‘Right in this house. And he was a-waiting for her. There wasn’t another soul about save for the ribbon-man, and I shooed him away. And then I crept up to look in the window. And the two of them was a-hugging and a-kissing of each other and went at it – right there, on that couch.’
The reader may imagine the horror, the dismay I felt upon hearing this crudely worded statement. Rachel – angelic Rachel – had lied to me.
If this was the answer to my prayers for an alibi, it was hardly a matter for rejoicing – proof that the lovers could not have broken the Sixth Commandment on the fateful day, because they had been too busy breaking the Seventh. Sickened by the sense of their shame, I opted to allow Blackbeard to question the old woman for the details.
She claimed to have seen Mr Barton and Rachel in the early afternoon of the 18th of August.
‘I came here to see Mr Barton.’
‘To beg off him, I suppose,’ said Blackbeard.
‘What if I did? Barton’s a good man, and I had no food for the children. But afore I could get to the door, I saw the lady running down the lane so I hid myself in the hedge.’
‘Are you sure the lady you saw here was Mrs Somers?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Sure enough to say it in court?’
‘Yessir – if you free my Pauly. She was in a blue gown and all in a tremble, and when Barton comes to the door, she says, “I should not have come.” And he says, “We are quite alone.” And then they went inside.’
I found my voice at last. ‘Do you know how long she stayed in the house?’
‘I saw Mrs Somers coming out,’ said Mrs O’Hare, ‘round about evening milking.’
‘Do you know where she was going?’
‘No, missis. I came to the door here, and Barton gave me a sixpence. Now what about Pauly?’
‘If that’s your story and you stick to it,’ said Blackbeard, ‘your Pauly will get off with a five-bob fine.’
She was not satisfied, and not sure she trusted him, but knew it was the best she could expect. Despite Blackbeard saying no money would be necessary, when we left I gave her a shilling; the largest coin in my purse.
‘Bless you, missis!’
‘I wonder,’ I said, on an impulse, ‘was it you that spoke to Mr Barton of Joshua Welland?’
She gazed fondly at the coin in her grubby palm. ‘Yes, missis.’
‘Well now, you may as well get your full bob’s-worth,’ said Blackbeard.
‘You said Joshua was expelled from your encampment on account of a woman,’ I said. ‘Is this true?’
‘He was living with one of our girls,’ said Mrs O’Hare. ‘And then he ran off with the whore that was his brother’s wife.’
I flinched at the word she uttered so carelessly. ‘Thank you.’
Inside the
carriage, on the jolting, muddy journey back to Oxford, I was too sore at heart to speak for the first mile or so – during which Blackbeard maintained a tactful and even sympathetic silence.
Eventually he said, ‘She’s not the witness I’d have chosen, ma’am.’
‘No, indeed.’
‘And it ain’t the prettiest story she’s telling.’
‘No,’ I said wretchedly. ‘But I have to believe it’s the truth.’
‘Come along now, Mrs Rodd!’ There was a slight mellowing of his face, and a hint of cheerfulness about him. ‘I’ll get that ribbon-man to back her up, and then we’ve got your friends a fine alibi.’
‘You’re quite right, Inspector.’ I was suddenly ashamed of my lack of thankfulness when my prayers had been answered so decisively. ‘I know that this ghastly revelation could save their lives; I’m simply trying to digest it.’
‘Mrs Richards lied to you,’ Blackbeard went on. ‘She said Mrs Somers was at home all afternoon.’
‘I thought she was hiding something,’ I said. ‘She might think she’s helping Rachel. Or she might have been out of the house herself. I must speak with her again; I’m sure she will tell the truth this time. I will put off my return to London for another day. Do we have enough for them to be released without a trial?’
‘That’s not my area, Mrs Rodd. That’s business for the lawyers. If Barton and Mrs Somers are off the hook, it means I must start looking for my murderer somewhere else. And we already know they didn’t do away with Gerard Fogle.’
‘You will pursue the matter of Goodly’s confession, I suppose,’ I said. ‘Although I fail to see how Mr Fogle could be connected with an old piece of village scandal about a robbery.’
‘People confessed things to him,’ said Blackbeard. ‘There’s your connection. Let’s say Somers knew something from Goodly, and he went and confessed the same to Fogle. Let’s say somebody has a secret, and didn’t trust those vicars to keep it.’
Thirty-one
The rain had stopped by the afternoon, and a faint sun gave the puddles a sheen of silver. I simply could not risk my best black silk on the wet streets, and presented myself to Mrs Watts-Weston in my second-best alpaca. The At-Home was in full swing when I arrived; the drawing room of the Warden’s House was packed (mostly with ladies on this occasion, though clergymen made up a sizeable minority).
Mrs Watts-Weston, magnificent in dark-red silk, greeted me with great complacency. ‘You are not the main attraction today, Mrs Rodd; only look at my triumph! Nobody else has managed it, he never goes into society – yet there he stands, large as life, eating macaroons!’
I was pleased and surprised to see Mr Daniel Arden; as usual utterly at ease and very elegant in his black coat and grey silk waistcoat.
‘If you’re looking for Mr Jennings,’ said Mrs Watts-Weston, ‘I’m afraid you will be disappointed. He is unwell and has gone home to his mother.’
I said I was sorry to hear it and hoped it was nothing serious.
‘Oh, he’s not at death’s door. He ate some bad fish a couple of nights ago – or so he claims, though I must emphasize that no one else in the college was affected. And then yesterday he fainted in the street.’
‘Dear me, poor Mr Jennings!’
‘Simply dropped down without warning, right in the middle of Queen Street – and a horse trampled his hat. He was carried into the stationer’s and upon coming to himself was mortified. I’m sure that’s why he scuttled off home.’
From the other side of the room, through a forest of heads, Mr Arden caught my eye and gave me a rather rueful smile.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Watts-Weston, annoyed. ‘He’s seen you and now he’s coming over, and it’s not your turn to talk to him! There are at least three people in front of you.’
‘I can drive him away, if you like,’ I offered, unable to help smiling at her fondness for organization. ‘And I promise not to monopolize him.’
Someone important arrived at that moment, and Mrs Watts-Weston charged off across the room.
‘I hoped I would see you here, Mrs Rodd,’ said Mr Arden, coming to my side. ‘I know hardly anyone, and everyone I meet wishes to interrogate me! I was told this would be a “small” gathering.’
‘You are the lion of the moment, Mr Arden,’ I said. ‘And I’m afraid you will simply have to put up with it.’
‘I shouldn’t complain. It’s high time I contributed a little more to what is called polite society, for the sake of the boys if nothing else.’
(And a possible future wife, I mentally added; was he deliberately preparing himself to propose to Minna Yates? My instincts are very sharp where this sort of thing is concerned.)
‘The official reason for my presence is my business with the Warden; we are in the process of setting up a fund to assist the poorest scholars.’
‘How splendid!’
‘Joshua Welland was our inspiration,’ said Mr Arden, looking at me keenly. ‘It’s not official yet, and I’d be obliged if you would keep it to yourself – but I imagine you have quite a gift for that.’
‘I like to think so; you may rely on me to be discreet about this.’
‘The Warden feels, as I do, the shameful injustice of the system as it stands. Joshua was a sizar and did not pay for his tuition because he also worked as a college servant. People seem to think that the system is perfectly fair and that prevents them from seeing the reality.’ Mr Arden’s enthusiasm made his face youthful and handsome. ‘Which is that these young men are grievously overworked and underfed, and must sacrifice food and fuel in order to study. My money would award full scholarships, and enable poor men to live decently while they are studying.’
‘It is most generous of you,’ I said. ‘Let there be no more ragged scholars.’
‘Speaking of which,’ he said, smiling, ‘I heard of Joshua Welland’s final bequest to Mr Jennings; your scholar was a generous soul and I wish now that I had managed to know him better. My boys still talk about him, though I have told them of his death more than once; the poor little fellows are too innocent of grief to accept it.’
This was neither time nor place to ask him about Hannah Laurie, nor his reasons for adopting her twins. I suspected, however, that he was motivated by nothing more mysterious than love – and loneliness. I changed the subject to Mr Jennings’s sudden indisposition.
‘I believe I was present at the dinner where Jennings ate the fateful fish,’ said Mr Arden. ‘He was involved with the discussion about the scholars’ fund, and made several very sensible suggestions. I wish him a speedy recovery.’
‘I don’t think he is gravely ill.’
‘By the by, Mrs Rodd, I hear you were at Binstock.’
‘Yes, the day before yesterday, and I thought it a very pretty place.’
‘I’m guilty of the sin of pride where that village is concerned; when I bought the place it had fallen into a sorry state.’
‘I met Mr Yates and his sister.’ (I said the name as casually as possible, all the time watching Mr Arden’s response; he did not blush, yet a kind of light came into his face, and his attention intensified.) ‘I found Miss Yates most charming.’
‘More than that,’ said Mr Arden quietly. ‘I never thought I would meet anyone whose thoughts were in such perfect harmony with my own.’ He did not want to speak of her, but could not help it. ‘You mustn’t think we only meet to talk about politics. Minna – Miss Yates – is practical, and quite fearless in her demands if the cause is good enough. I have worried sometimes that she takes too much upon herself.’ (He could not have denied it if he tried: the love shone out of him; I could not help judging these pure, principled lovers alongside Rachel and Mr Barton.)
‘Her brother was rather prickly.’
His smile soured. ‘Mr Yates does not approve of me. And I don’t have time to win the man round.’
‘You should be patient,’ I said, longing to speak frankly about a possible match. ‘The business at Swinford upset him more than he
will admit.’
‘Now you sound just like her, Mrs Rodd. She’s utterly devoted to that brother of hers.’ He reached across to take a cup and saucer from a passing servant and hand it to me. ‘I beg your pardon, I’m forgetting my manners; would you care for some sugar?’
‘No thank you.’
‘I’m glad you have met Minna Yates, and wish you might come to know her better – but we’re both bound for London very soon. Are you any closer to finding an alibi for your friends?’
‘I can tell you – if you swear not to repeat it – that Inspector Blackbeard has made a certain promising discovery.’
He laughed softly. ‘You have given me just enough to intrigue, and no more; I’ll take the hint and forbear from pestering you with questions.’
‘Mr Arden, I did not invite you here to wait upon everybody!’ Mrs Watts-Weston appeared at his side, and very firmly took possession of his arm. ‘It has been the Dean’s turn to meet you for nearly ten minutes!’
Thirty-two
‘You’ll be happy to hear that I’ve spoke to that ribbon-peddler, Mrs Rodd. And he backs up the old woman’s story.’
‘That is good news, Inspector,’ I said warmly.
‘Assuming we can get Mrs Richards to sing another tune, your friends will be off the hook.’
‘I sincerely hope so!’
It was the morning after the At-Home, fine and fresh, with warm sun and a crisp, chill breeze. Mr Blackbeard was escorting me to Hardinsett so that we could give Mrs Richards a chance to change her statement. Despite the breeze, I had opened the window of that plain black police carriage, and was gazing out at hedgerows heavy with blackberries and rosehips.
Mr Blackbeard folded his arms and gave me what I privately called his ‘tortoise’ look, because it reminded me of a dreadful stuffed tortoise I once saw in the house of a retired colonial bishop; cold and blank of expression, with hard slits for eyes and a long, somehow disapproving mouth.
‘You don’t look happy,’ he said. ‘Not like you should.’
‘I won’t be truly happy until they are freed, and the charges dropped.’
‘You’re still shocked, ma’am,’ said Blackbeard, ‘that’s the trouble. They’re not murderers, for sure – but they’re not saints, and that’s what you can’t abide.’
Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar Page 22