Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar

by Kate Saunders

  I was nettled, for there was more than a grain of truth in this. ‘It’s not merely that they lied to me so boldly, Inspector – although I was very hurt – it’s hard for me to understand how two such people could so far forget themselves.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘In my opinion, you should go a bit easier on them.’

  ‘Are you saying my judgement is too harsh?’

  ‘It’s the sin everybody lies about,’ said Blackbeard. ‘People go to extraordinary lengths to hide it, like Adam and Eve trying to hide their shame from God. Your friends were so ashamed of what they’d done, they were ready to die for it!’

  ‘No – they were waiting for the true murderer to be found, so that they could return to something like normal life without anyone finding out.’

  ‘Come along now, Mrs Rodd! They are not criminals. All they did was commit a sin that thousands commit every day. They fell in love – you may frown, ma’am, but you’ll never stop folks doing that.’

  ‘I don’t want to do anything of the kind – even if such a thing were possible. I suppose I assumed Rachel and Mr Barton would have more self-control.’ I sighed resignedly, already giving in. ‘But how many of us are models of self-control when we fall in love? You are right to rebuke me.’

  Now, at last, I let go of my prejudices and all my old fondness for Rachel, and my liking for Henry Barton, came surging back. My mind flashed to practicalities (where should they go if they were released? could they marry? could Mr Barton keep his holy orders?), which I set aside until I could talk to my brother.

  ‘No rebuke intended, ma’am,’ said Blackbeard. ‘Just trying to cheer you up.’

  It was kind of him, but there was little to ‘cheer me up’ in the appearance of the rectory at Hardinsett. The air of neglect was more pronounced this time – there were weeds growing in the gravelled drive, and all the curtains and shutters were drawn across the windows. It made me sad to remember what a pretty house it had once been.

  Mrs Richards was suspicious and very much on her guard when I appeared with Blackbeard at my side. She led us to the kitchen, which was perfectly clean and orderly, but held signs of someone living there; she whipped away a rack of clothes drying before the fire. My instincts come into their own at a time like this, and I was sure she was covering something up; we needed to play on her loyalty to Rachel.

  I kept up a soothing stream of chatter, until the three of us were sat down and drinking cups of tea. Mrs Richards stared at Blackbeard, and at myself, and gave me nothing but monosyllables.

  ‘We have had some hopeful news about the trial, Mrs Richards,’ I said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We have two witnesses, who are prepared to swear they saw Mrs Somers and Mr Barton upon the day of the murder.’ Briefly, and in language more refined than that used by Mrs O’Hare, I related the facts to Mrs Richards.

  She was startled and discomfited, and could not meet my eye.

  ‘It’s all well and good,’ said Blackbeard. ‘Trouble is, Mrs Richards, you swore Mrs Somers stayed here all that afternoon. And you also swore that you stayed here, too. Without accusing anybody of telling lies, I do seem to have two different versions of the truth.’

  ‘I know that you want to help Mrs Somers,’ I said gently. ‘You can help her now by setting the record to rights. I would suggest that you went out somewhere.’

  She looked at us then, her dark eyes flicking between our faces. ‘I’d prefer to speak with you alone, Mrs Rodd, if I may.’

  I expected Mr Blackbeard to object, but he stood up at once and puzzled me by letting out a dry snivel, indicative of amusement, as he left the room.

  ‘This is awkward, ma’am,’ said Mrs Richards (very red about the face). ‘I did leave the house that day – I thought Mrs Somers was asleep in her chamber, so I slipped out to – to see a friend.’

  ‘I see.’ (I did not.) ‘When was this, exactly?’

  ‘It was directly after I spoke to the ribbon-man at the back door. The other servants were out on account of their half-day. It was in the early part of the afternoon.’

  ‘At what time did you return?’

  ‘Round about sunset.’

  ‘You were away for a long time,’ I said. ‘Was Mrs Somers here when you returned?’

  ‘She – she left her bedchamber and came downstairs about twenty minutes after.’

  ‘Can you say where you were?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Richards. ‘What I mean is – no disrespect to you, ma’am – I’d much rather not.’

  ‘You know I will be as discreet as possible.’

  She looked me in the eye at last. ‘Nobody can know about it. My friend can’t be seen with me. On account of his wife.’

  ‘Oh.’ I understood at last, and had an effort to keep my voice level, but – really! Was everyone in the entire world, even sensible Mrs Richards, enjoying an illicit romance?

  ‘His name’s Robert Melks,’ said Mrs Richards. ‘He has a farm at Uppershot, two miles along the Swinford road, and his wife ran off three years ago. They didn’t have any children. We weren’t harming anybody.’

  ‘I’m sure you were not,’ I said quickly. ‘And the rights and wrongs of it are none of my business. I’m very grateful to you for your honesty.’

  ‘But you can’t ask Melks to back me up, ma’am, or the whole world will know.’

  ‘Did anyone else see you in that neighbourhood?’

  ‘I was doing my best not to be seen!’ said Mrs Richards. ‘Dinah Hatch from the inn – I ran into her when I passed by Burnt House Lane just outside Uppershot. She’ll say she saw me. And Mr Daniel Arden came by on horseback and gave me a greeting.’

  ‘Oh, if Mr Arden is able to place you away from the rectory at that time, we may be able to spare Mr Melks.’

  I thanked her sincerely, and left with a lighter heart, to report to Mr Blackbeard in the carriage. ‘She was dreadfully ashamed,’ I told him. ‘And I don’t wonder!’

  ‘Didn’t I say, ma’am?’ was his response. ‘It’s the sin everybody lies about.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think you are right, Inspector. This case will broaden my mind, if nothing else. Frankly, the more I consider the facts of Mrs Richards’s dalliance, the less I am inclined to condemn her for it. As she said, she was harming nobody; the man’s wife deserted him.’

  ‘It’s a pity Mrs Somers don’t have the same excuse,’ said Blackbeard. ‘She was carrying on right under her husband’s nose. I’m afraid no jury’s going to love her for it.’

  I could not reply, for my mind veered back to the conversation I had with Rachel about her marriage. She had allowed me to believe that their separate bedchambers were a recent arrangement. I had failed to understand what she was really trying to tell me – which was that Arthur had never fulfilled his duties in that area and, in the strictest sense, Rachel had never had a husband to deceive.

  Thirty-three

  On the following day, I finally managed to leave Oxford. I might have been sorrier to say goodbye to this most beautiful of cities if the weather had not been so gusty and damp and generally disagreeable.

  ‘Mrs Rodd!’

  I had been thinking only of my luggage, and had not noticed Mr Yates and his sister in the crowd on the station platform.

  ‘This is a piece of good fortune,’ said Mr Yates. ‘I was just looking out for someone to keep an eye on Minna – I’m forced to send her to London all alone, and it would be a weight off my mind to know that she has a companion.’

  ‘Charley, you mustn’t worry so!’ Miss Yates touched his arm. ‘Don’t mind him, Mrs Rodd; he doesn’t mean to bother you.’

  I replied, quickly and sincerely, that I would be glad to have Miss Yates’s company on the journey. Her brother, greatly relieved, settled us in a very comfortable First Class compartment, which we had to ourselves.

  ‘I’m going to see a doctor,’ Miss Yates told me, once we were under way and rushing through the fi
elds. ‘A very important and expensive doctor, because Charles cannot stop himself fretting about my health.’

  ‘Have you been ill, Miss Yates?’

  ‘Not at all! I often catch cold in the winter, otherwise I’m perfectly healthy. I would far rather save the money.’

  ‘London is hardly a healthy place for you.’

  ‘I’ll be staying with our great-aunt; she has a villa in Putney, well out of the smoke.’

  We produced the books we had brought for the journey. I was reading a volume of Gerard Fogle’s Collected Sermons, in the hopes of finding either spiritual refreshment or some little thing that gave a clue to his murder (as yet I had found neither). Miss Yates read a small, shabby book with great attention and I covertly studied her; though she did not appear to be ill, I could see why her brother worried about her health. She was very pale and transparently thin; I drifted into wondering if Mr Yates was able to take her to Italy or the South of France, to spare her another English winter.

  My book slipped from my hands to the floor. Miss Yates picked it up and handed it back to me with a shy smile. ‘Mr Fogle’s sermons! What do you make of them?’

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid. Too many roses and lilies for my taste. I know this book has been enormously influential, but have managed to avoid it up to now.’

  ‘It’s very well-known to me,’ said Miss Yates. ‘Charles has often read it aloud to me; there is much that I don’t understand, but a great sense of the Beauty of Holiness.’

  ‘How well did you know Mr Fogle?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t claim to have known him; I only met him once, when he came to visit my brother. And I was too much in awe of him to do anything more than shake his hand.’

  ‘Your brother knew him much better,’ I suggested.

  ‘As well as anyone,’ said Miss Yates. ‘On the very night before his death, Charley prayed with Father Fogle in his bedchamber – which made his discovery next morning yet more frightful.’

  ‘Poor man, I can quite imagine.’

  ‘He was very agitated that day.’ She paused and then said in a rush, ‘That was my fault.’

  ‘Yours, Miss Yates?’

  ‘I don’t see any harm in telling you, for I know you will keep it to yourself. Charley had come fresh from a dispute with Mr Arden.’

  ‘Were you the cause of this dispute?’

  ‘Indirectly, yes,’ said Miss Yates. ‘Mr Arden had given me a certain book, of which my brother disapproved.’

  ‘And did you know of his disapproval?’

  ‘Well – yes.’ Her thin skin flushed painfully. ‘When he found me reading it, he made me promise to send it straight back. But I did not keep my promise, as you see – for this is that very book.’ She held the book out to me; I opened it to discover that it was Rights of Man, by Thomas Paine.

  (I will admit that I was not as shocked as perhaps I ought to have been, for I had my own guilty history with this book; when I was a girl I heard my dear father preach a withering sermon against it, and that made me so curious that I read it at the first opportunity when I discovered a copy hidden in the sewing-basket of a friend’s governess.)

  ‘It is Mr Arden’s own copy. He meant no harm – but Charley was very angry.’

  ‘Has he ever read it himself?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘I have read Rights of Man, Miss Yates; I found the writing to be crudely sensational, but I thought parts of the argument highly sensible and just – and perfectly compatible with a religious point of view.’

  ‘Just what Mr Arden says!’ All of a sudden, her pale face was radiant. ‘He simply wished me to understand him more fully, and was surprised that my brother was so angry.’

  ‘And their disagreement took place on the day of Mr Fogle’s murder?’

  ‘It was only a disagreement on Charley’s side; Mr Arden is a great believer in the soft answer that turneth away wrath.’

  ‘Most sensible,’ I said. ‘I’m sure I ought to disapprove of your deceit, but I cannot approve of your brother telling you what you may or may not read.’

  ‘He is only trying to protect me, Mrs Rodd – as he promised our father he would.’

  I decided to change the subject by opening my basket of provisions and persuading my companion to share them with me. Later, when she had fallen asleep, I fell into dreaming of a match between Minna Yates and Daniel Arden, and the good they could do together.

  Upon our arrival in London, Miss Yates was claimed by a manservant of respectable appearance and I took a cab to Hampstead, where dear Mary welcomed me with a homecoming feast of sliced ham, bread-and-butter, pound cake and a fragrant pot of my favourite Orange Pekoe tea.

  ‘And I mustn’t forget to tell you, ma’am,’ said Mrs Bentley, ‘Mr Tyson looked in this afternoon. He’s picking you up in his carriage tomorrow morning first thing.’

  I fought off yet another yawn. ‘Oh, dear – I was hoping to rest tomorrow! Did he say why?’

  Mrs Bentley, who had a soft spot for Fred, chuckled fondly. ‘He said he needed you to stop him throwing Mr Patrick Flint out of the nearest window.’

  Thirty-four

  ‘I fail to see why Mrs Rodd is here,’ growled Mr Flint. ‘It is thoroughly improper.’

  ‘Pish!’ said Fred. ‘The only “improper” element in this room is you, Flinty. I’m here to stop you preaching one of your hellfire sermons, or we’ll never get to the truth of the thing. I brought my sister because tact is called for and you don’t have a tactful bone in your body.’

  It was early in the morning; my brother’s carriage had pulled up in Well Walk before I had properly digested my porridge, to bring me to Newgate Prison. We were not in the governor’s office on this occasion, but a large room of whitewashed brick, lit by a jet of gas and one high window. It was bare and echoing, furnished with a plain deal table and a few chairs. Fred and I sat at the table; Mr Flint roved about the room like a thunderstorm.

  ‘Tact!’ He spat the word out contemptuously. ‘The whole rigmarole sickens me! He’s a liar, he’s a libertine – he has disgraced his priesthood!’

  ‘But he hasn’t broken the law,’ said Fred. ‘Do bear that in mind.’ He brushed a few stray crumbs from the front of his waistcoat (he had spent the entire journey eating). ‘The jury must be made to see that this encounter – sordid as it may be – is proof that Barton could not have committed the murder, the only matter for which he is on trial. Morality doesn’t come into it.’

  ‘That’s where we differ,’ said Mr Flint coldly. ‘I believe morality comes into everything.’

  ‘Indeed it does,’ I put in quickly. ‘I quite understand your feelings, Mr Flint, for I was dreadfully shocked when I first heard Mrs O’Hare’s story. If we can’t set aside our moral judgements, however, we’ll get nowhere.’

  ‘I cannot defend a man I despise.’

  This was very bad and I looked at Fred in dismay.

  ‘Fear not, my dear,’ my brother said, not in the least put out, ‘I’ll bring him round.’

  Mr Flint had no chance to protest, for the door opened – with a great rattling of locks, as if any of us could forget we were inside a prison – and Mr Barton entered, with a uniformed warder. Once more I was struck by how out of place he looked here; this handsome young clergyman in his black suit and white collar, still apparently unaffected by his imprisonment.

  The warder retreated to a chair beside the door. Mr Barton greeted us all very courteously and sat down at the table. Mr Flint remained standing.

  ‘And so the wall is breached at last!’ said my brother. ‘We have two witnesses who saw you and Mrs Somers on the day of the murder. As I said in the little note I sent you, it’s all out now.’

  The young man reddened and squared his shoulders. ‘I won’t admit to anything that might hurt Mrs Somers.’

  ‘The truth can only help her now,’ I said, as persuasively as I could manage in Flint’s glowering presence. ‘We haven’t come here to condemn you.’

  He held my
gaze defiantly for a moment, then looked away with a sigh of resignation. ‘You couldn’t condemn me as heartily as I condemn myself, Mrs Rodd. I’m ashamed to remember that I accused poor Arthur Somers of weakness in the face of temptation. My own behaviour was a thousand times worse.’

  ‘During my visit to Hardinsett last summer,’ I said, ‘I noticed that you were in love with Mrs Somers; was the Haymaking Supper the first time you declared yourself? And I wish you would explain what made Arthur so angry with you that he knocked you down.’

  ‘And why he called you “Judas”,’ said Fred, eyeing him keenly.

  ‘No mystery there!’ snapped Mr Flint. ‘You betrayed him by falling in love with his wife!’

  There was a spell of silence, during which I was interested to watch Mr Barton’s face. We had him cornered and he knew it, yet I saw a spark of defiance.

  ‘I don’t deny that I fell in love with Mrs Somers – what would be the point?’ he said. ‘Yes, I love her. Yes, I would happily die for her. She is an angel.’

  Mr Flint snorted angrily.

  ‘Did I fall in love with her at first sight? No, I did not.’ Mr Barton, clearly uncomfortable, reddened, but carried on. ‘When I took up my post as Arthur’s curate, two years ago, I thought his wife was very beautiful and very kind – but love never entered my head. Never! May heaven be my witness, Mrs Rodd, my work in the parish was my only concern. As someone I once counted among my friends, I’m particularly anxious that you should know everything – not that I’m making excuses—’

  ‘I am still your friend, Mr Barton,’ I said, as gently as possible (and turning my back on Flint). ‘Let us have the whole story at last.’

  ‘It’s outrageously indelicate,’ said Mr Barton. ‘I know you are broad-minded; I hope you won’t be offended. I have to touch on … certain things.’

  ‘I’m beyond offence, Mr Barton,’ I told him sincerely. ‘When I first came to Hardinsett, I decided you were in love with Rachel Somers, but had not yet admitted as much to yourself. Was that right?’