Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar

by Kate Saunders

  He blushed until his eyes watered. ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘And was the Haymaking Supper the start of it all?’

  ‘Not quite. You were present. It was when Ra— – Mrs Somers – was attacked by that blackmailing villain. That’s when I knew that I was in love with her. I was bitterly ashamed of the fact, and did my best to overcome my sinful emotions. But we – but I – honestly didn’t intend—’

  (Flint took his watch from his pocket and glared at it; my brother quelled him with the awful frown he sometimes used in court in the process of destroying a witness.)

  ‘She came to me asking about the blackmail – begging me to tell her why Somers was so anxious. She was weeping. It seemed only natural to take her in my arms.’

  ‘And then it was only natural that her husband would call you “Judas” when he caught you at it,’ said Fred. ‘That much is obvious.’

  ‘Not to me,’ I said, thinking of everything I had observed during my visit, and suddenly determined to get at the truth. ‘Mr Barton, what was the great spiritual crisis that drove Arthur to Swinford?’

  ‘This is completely beside the point,’ interrupted Mr Flint. ‘You and Mrs Somers were lovers; now that is established, the jury will have every reason to think you lied about everything else – I ask you again, Tyson: how am I to defend such a man?’

  Mr Barton’s temper broke at last; he leapt to his feet and his voice had the same quiet intensity I had overheard at Hardinsett. ‘Very well, you may have the true reason that Arthur struck me – it was nothing to do with his wife – he claimed that he was in love with me!’

  ‘Good grief!’ muttered Fred. ‘You can’t say things like that, my boy.’

  ‘Not even when I’m about to be hanged for murder? I’m sick of saying nothing. Must we die because something is unmentionable? Arthur struck me because he was jealous – because I had given my heart to Rachel and not to him – now, how will that look in the Morning Post? Does this give me yet another motive for murder? I’m as good as dead – she’s all I care about now.’

  As soon as the words were uttered, I remembered certain things I had witnessed last summer and knew Mr Barton spoke the truth.

  ‘I must be blunt, Mr Barton,’ I said. ‘I can think of no polite way to phrase this. Was her maidenhood intact?’

  He had been red in the face and now he turned white. He nodded.

  ‘After ten years of marriage!’ Fred, the father of eleven, could scarcely imagine such a thing. ‘Never once?’

  ‘Somers admitted it to me himself,’ said Mr Barton, very quiet. ‘The situation made him miserable, for he loved his wife deeply, and really longed to be a husband to her in the truest sense. That’s why he did all that praying at Swinford.’

  ‘Dear me, you’re a victim of the most monstrous bad luck!’ Fred shook his head and pulled from his pocket the inevitable flask of spirits. ‘If Somers hadn’t got himself murdered, none of this would’ve seen the light of day – the vicar and his wife both in love with the curate!’

  ‘For pity’s sake, Tyson, how can you treat this lightly?’ Mr Flint burst out. ‘You seem to imagine this disgraceful story will somehow clear Barton’s name, when it exposes him as an adulterer!’

  ‘I beg your pardon for my flippancy,’ said Fred. ‘Naturally, we’ll dress it up for the jury; the whole matter of the blackmail, and Somers’s fondness for getting himself into trouble at horse fairs, will win them over. Adultery’s a small thing – even an understandable thing – when you set it alongside such a great unmentionable.’

  ‘Will that really be necessary?’ The prospect of such a scandal absolutely sickened me. ‘Must you make out that poor Arthur was a villain?’

  ‘This is precisely what I was trying to avoid,’ said Mr Barton. ‘If this comes out it will make people forget how good he was – like that line in Shakespeare – the evil lives on while the good is oft interred with their bones. Or something like that.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Look here, Flint, I know I ought to have told you everything when we first met, and I’m sorry for it, but it was only another of my clumsy attempts to protect the woman I love. As far as I’m concerned, we are man and wife – and I would be glad to die for her. But if you want to drop me, I’ll understand.’

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ said Mr Flint, who had listened to this in perfect stillness and silence. ‘I have no intention of “dropping” you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mr Barton.

  ‘Phew!’ said Fred. ‘You had me worried; I won’t ask what prompted this rare about-face.’

  ‘It’s because I respect a man who defends those he loves,’ said Mr Flint, with an inward expression that made me wonder if he could be recalling something about his lost wife. ‘And so will the jury, by the time I’m done with them.’

  ‘Splendid!’ My brother beamed around at us all. ‘Now, before we’re chucked out of here, is there anything you need?’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ said Mr Barton, with a half-smile. ‘I’m very well-off for comforts, however; my situation and the surrounding publicity has won me many admirers, and complete strangers have showered me with gifts. I’ve had flowers, bottles of ink – someone even sent a boiled lobster.’

  ‘Well then, is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘If I’m condemned,’ said Mr Barton, ‘if we are both condemned … I wish to marry Mrs Somers before I face my maker.’

  There was a silence amongst us, during which I sent up a quick prayer for the two unfortunate lovers.

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, my boy, and we’re not there yet.’ My brother hated to admit the slightest possibility of defeat. ‘The police will find the real culprit – any day now!’

  Thirty-five

  ‘I nearly refused to see you, Mrs Rodd,’ said Rachel. ‘If you know everything, as your brother says, you will know how wicked I have been.’

  I see her now, her face palely composed in the shadow of that hideous widow’s cap, her slight figure framed by the long rain-spotted window. She was lodged with a Mrs Dunster, widow of a clergyman (we have all sorts of uses), in a narrow house that overlooked a small, out-of-the-way city square.

  ‘My dear,’ I said, ‘I have not come to scold you; won’t you sit beside me?’

  Rachel sat down at the other end of the hard, shabby sofa. ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘If you mean Henry Barton, I visited him this morning.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘In good health,’ I said. ‘And in reasonable spirits; his courage is a thing to behold.’

  ‘When I heard that the old woman had seen us – oh, the mortification! This is Heaven’s punishment, and it is all my fault!’

  ‘Mr Barton says it’s his fault,’ I said. ‘We’ll say you are both equally at fault and leave it there.’

  She gave me a faint smile. ‘I was especially worried about what you would think of me, Mrs Rodd, your standards being so high.’

  ‘And my mind being so narrow!’ (I was a little hurt to be cast in this forbidding role.) ‘Let me assure you, however, that my mind has lately broadened to such an extent that you could now drive a coach through it. We’ll get on much better if we forget about moral judgements and concentrate upon facts. I would be interested to know about Arthur’s state of mind, in the days leading up to the crime.’

  Rachel’s gaze moved wistfully to the window. ‘It’s like recalling another world!’

  ‘Did anything strike you as odd, or unusual?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I heard that the confession-business made him anxious,’ I said.

  She nodded.

  ‘Rachel, if he told you anything about it, I implore you to tell me!’

  ‘Arthur did not confide that sort of thing; you saw how serious he was about the sanctity of confession.’

  ‘Mr Arden claims that he met Arthur two days before the murder, at the old limekiln; did he mention it to you?’

  ‘No – how odd!’ Rachel became mo
re animated. ‘Arthur would certainly have told me; Mr Arden fascinated him.’

  ‘Mr Arden has volunteered to me, more than once, how he liked Arthur.’

  ‘Oh? I don’t think there was much liking on Arthur’s side,’ said Rachel. ‘He gave the man the respect he was due and no more.’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Arden got his dates muddled,’ I said. ‘Or perhaps I misunderstood him. Do you recall anything else about those last few days?’

  ‘No – that is, I remember that the weather was very warm and close, which made everyone short-tempered.’ Her eyes flooded with tears. ‘That might be one reason why Henry and I did what we did, but I’m not trying to make excuses for us.’

  ‘When did the two of you arrange that meeting at Millings Cross?’

  ‘The day before – oh, of course we knew it was wicked of us, and a dreadful sin – and of course I don’t expect you to believe me when I say I couldn’t help it – and yet I felt helpless, utterly unable to stop myself – and worse – utterly unwilling!’ The tears streamed down her white cheeks. ‘And now we are to die for it!’

  ‘No, no, my dear—’

  ‘I can’t describe the force of it – the power – after I had resigned myself – or thought I had – to never being touched, never kissed! Mrs Rodd, you cannot imagine the sadness of my honeymoon!’

  ‘My dear!’ My heart ached for her; no, I could not imagine it; I remembered the intense happiness of my own honeymoon and was dismayed to think that I was at least partly to blame for this most ill-assorted match. ‘Keep up your courage; we will find the truth!’

  ‘Two letters for you, ma’am,’ said Mrs Bentley, when I got home to Hampstead late that afternoon. ‘You go and change your gown and then you can read them by the fire with a nice bit of toasted cheese.’

  In these comfortable conditions I settled down to read my letters about twenty minutes later. The first was in the small, tight hand of Cousin Wilfred.

  Dear Cousin Laetitia,

  I read your letter with great interest and your request pricked my conscience, for I remembered that I never properly acknowledged the very generous donation of ten pounds, fifteen shillings and eightpence that you sent last year after your charity bazaar. I fear my thanks were swept away by the disagreement I had with your brother.

  You are asking me to cast my mind back a very long time, to when I was newly arrived at the Mission. The name of Sir Christopher Warrender meant nothing to me at first, until I recalled, all of a sudden, the hue and cry created by his aunt. She or her agents made enquiries here, knowing how many people take refuge with us.

  As for ‘Dan Smith’, however, I did recall someone of that name, from around that time. He was very young, scarcely out of childhood, and with a singular air of self-possession that set him apart from the other men. Youthful as he was, he had a good sum of money – about fifty pounds – and he had already secured passage on a ship (I don’t know which ship, or where it was bound). He could read and write, and gave me the impression that he had received some kind of education.

  The Mission, as you know, besides sheltering the very poor (and the very drunk), provides a decent lodging for sailors and other transients, at a very low cost. Upon arrival here, these men surrender any valuables, so that I can put them in the safe. I write the sum down in the ledger, and the man either signs his name or – far more common – makes his mark.

  Dan Smith particularly sticks in my mind because he left us with a most extraordinary donation of a golden guinea; such a sum that I hardly liked to accept, and even wondered if the boy was a little soft in the head. But he assured me, with great sincerity, that he wanted his last act in his native land to be one of charity. He went on his way and I have never heard of him since. I hope this information is helpful.

  You and Frederick are always in my prayers. Please be assured that I have forgiven Frederick for his intemperate and unfeeling remarks last time we met, when I had simply suggested that the number of his offspring indicated an inability to subdue certain appetites.

  Yours affectionately,

  Cousin Wilfred

  Setting aside that last paragraph (Fred had told me of the regrettable incident), Cousin Wilfred’s letter interested me very much. Here was Dan Smith, but we had been seeking a ploughboy in the company of a gentleman, and this Dan Smith was alone.

  Now my mind made one of its leaps, which were often so annoying to Inspector Blackbeard.

  The description made me think irresistibly of Daniel Arden; it was the guinea that did it. Mr Arden was known to have left the country at around the time of Sir Christopher’s disappearance. Why could it not be him? I was eager to speak to him again; I had never asked him about his youth in any detail.

  Were Mr Arden and the fabled ‘Dan Smith’ one and the same?

  If so, he must have known Warrender.

  And what about that money?

  The questions were positively swarming now. I decided to call at Mr Arden’s hotel at the earliest opportunity, and to leave an urgent message if he was not there.

  The other letter, in a hand I did not recognize, was from Mr Jennings’s mother:

  The Chimneys

  Little Rampling

  Sussex

  Dear Mrs Rodd,

  You were kind enough to write to my son expressing concern for his health. Silas is unable to reply himself; the doctor has forbidden him all reading and writing. Although he is not seriously ill in body, his nerves are suffering greatly, for which I blame far too much study. I am assured that a few weeks of complete rest will restore him.

  Yours respectfully,

  Agnes Jennings

  No mention of the bad fish – that was my first thought. Mr Jennings was suffering from ‘nerves’, the cover-all word that was used for anything from dangerous insanity to mild laziness. Wondering if something – someone – had frightened him away, I pushed him to the back of my mind.

  As things turned out, he did not stay there for long.

  Thirty-six

  The following day, which was to be so momentous, dawned bright and clear. In the normal way of things, I was perfectly able to travel across the city either on foot or by public omnibus. Today, however, my best black silk was required yet again (I apologize to the reader for ‘harping on’ about that precious dress, but it was my only good one, and its maintenance took up a great deal of our time).

  ‘It’s still wet underfoot, ma’am,’ said Mrs Bentley. ‘You can’t risk those shoes.’

  ‘I suppose not, but my boots won’t do in Piccadilly.’

  ‘You’ll just have to take a cab, and that’s all there is to it.’

  She was quite right; I resigned myself to the extravagance and gave the little boy next door a penny to fetch me a cab from the nearest stand. I was going to call on Daniel Arden, for Cousin Wilfred’s letter had kept me awake half the night, and I wanted to speak to him before I said anything to Inspector Blackbeard.

  Stoppard’s Hotel, in Half Moon Street, was as discreet in its appearance as a private house and much favoured by rich foreigners (the noble Portuguese girls I took round the Great Exhibition had been staying there). The door was opened by a haughty young footman, who showed me into a beautifully appointed public drawing room which had that hush I always associate with the houses of the very wealthy, as if money muffled the noises of the vulgar outside world.

  ‘Mrs Rodd, you have a delightful habit of surprising me!’ Mr Arden came hurriedly into the room, attired in a black riding coat and high black boots. His face, which had been anxious, cleared and he smiled as he shook my hand. ‘I have been out riding with the swells on Rotten Row and very dull I found it; I could swear that my horse yawned.’

  ‘I beg your pardon for descending on you at ten in the morning,’ I said. ‘I know it is considered very early in this part of town.’

  ‘You and I still keep to our country hours, Mrs Rodd! How may I help you?’

  It struck me that he looked youthful, even dashing, and Minna Yat
es flashed into my mind; was he aware that she was in London?

  ‘I wanted to hear your opinion of a certain letter,’ I said. ‘From the Reverend Wilfred Bone.’

  ‘Should I know him?’

  ‘That remains to be seen; it might be nothing at all. Mr Bone lives in Plymouth.’

  ‘Ah.’ Though his manner remained casual, I knew he was on his guard. ‘Yes, to be sure; you are pursuing the ghost of Warrender, according to the tallest stories.’

  ‘Wilfred Bone is in charge of the Seamen’s Mission in Union Street. He was replying to my enquiry about a youth by the name of Dan Smith.’

  ‘I see.’ Mr Arden sighed, and then puzzled me by laughing softly to himself. ‘I take it Bone is one of your famous clerical connections.’

  ‘My cousin,’ I said. ‘On my mother’s side.’

  ‘Give me ten minutes to change my clothes; I’ll have them send in some coffee, if that is agreeable to you.’

  It was highly agreeable; the coffee arrived quickly and was excellent. Mr Arden returned a very short time later, and I had that sense of being wrapped in his attention, so deep was his concentration when I read him my cousin’s letter.

  He was silent afterwards and I let the silence stretch into minutes.

  ‘You are Dan Smith,’ I said boldly. ‘I wonder that nobody recognized you when you came home.’

  ‘Dan Smith was a boy of fourteen when he left,’ said Mr Arden. ‘A small and scrawny imp, who could easily have passed for a child of ten. I waited for someone to recognize me, and no one did, though I made no secret of the fact that I had grown up in that part of the country. Without actually telling lies, I have been less than truthful.’

  ‘Where were you born, Mr Arden?’

  ‘In Binstock – more accurately, in a ditch nearby. My mother’s name was Ellen Smith. She was the daughter of a farm worker, and her family disowned her for being with child. I can’t claim to remember her, for she died when I was very young.’

  ‘Do you know who your father was?’