Laetitia Rodd and the Case of the Wandering Scholar

by Kate Saunders

‘There are no official records, but none were needed. It was widely known that my father was a Frenchman, driven into exile by the Revolution. He earned his bread as a tutor of French and dancing, and vanished before I was born. Naturally I made enquiries about him when I returned to this part of the country, but he had left barely a trace behind him. Slightly to my disappointment, he was not an aristocrat, but a minor clerk in one of the palaces.’

  ‘My cousin thought you’d had an education,’ I said. ‘How did you come by such a thing?’

  ‘I made the acquaintance of a gentleman who taught me to read and write, and encouraged me to explore his library – the remnants of it, anyway.’

  ‘Was that Sir Christopher Warrender?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was kind of him to teach you.’

  ‘I paid a heavy price for it,’ said Mr Arden, his face unreadable. ‘Not with money, but another currency entirely – all that I had, in fact.’

  He watched me steadily, allowing this dark and troubling information to sink in, and knowing full well that I would not pursue it.

  ‘He was a scoundrel,’ said Mr Arden, eyeing me with steady calm. ‘Doubly so because he was born with every advantage, and laid waste to all that Heaven had granted him. The old squire was by all accounts a very decent and godly man. Sir Christopher drank heavily and by the time he disappeared, as I remember it, he was a sorry, shambling figure.’

  ‘There is a story that the two of you ran off to Plymouth together.’

  ‘We did not,’ said Mr Arden. ‘I was quite alone.’

  ‘What about the money – so vast a sum for a boy like Dan Smith? Where did you get it?’

  ‘You asked me what sins I confessed to Jacob Welland, when we both thought we were dying. I stole that money.’

  ‘From Sir Christopher?’

  ‘Yes – indirectly.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Mr Arden stood up to tug at the bell-pull beside the fireplace. ‘It’s not an easy subject to talk about; I need the assistance of food and wine and hope you have time to share it with me.’

  I assured him that I had all the time in the world; though I was impatient to hear his version of events, I was not going to turn down the hospitality of the best hotel in London. The waiter arrived and, though it was not yet noon, Mr Arden ordered wine, cold game pie and a plate of ratafia cakes. It was impossible to talk openly when a seeming regiment of starched waiters descended on us with plates and cutlery.

  ‘Well, here it is, at last!’ He was affable, almost cheerful when we were once more alone together. ‘The truth behind my great atonement, Mrs Rodd. Everything that I own, everything good that I have built, has its origins in the crime that I committed thirty years ago. I stole something – not from Sir Christopher, but from the old lady.’

  ‘A necklace?’

  ‘Ah – you know of the necklace.’

  ‘I spoke to a Mrs Belling, formerly Miss Price.’

  ‘Price?’

  ‘Lady Tremlett’s companion.’

  ‘Of course, of course!’ murmured Mr Arden, his quick dark eyes fixed upon me. ‘She comes back to me now.’

  Briefly, I told him everything I had heard from Mrs Belling; he listened politely and with the faintest spark of humour.

  ‘She was half-right,’ was his comment when I had finished. ‘It was all Sir Christopher’s idea – he had seen his aunt hiding the jewels in the bottom of her work-box. But she kept it under her bed and was the type to sleep with one eye open; he would’ve woken her in a moment with his blundering and cursing. Whereas I was as supple and quick as a monkey. I took the necklace, waited for him to drink himself insensible and then ran off.’

  ‘Was it you that sold it for a hundred pounds?’

  ‘I sold it – but actually for forty pounds.’

  ‘Now you must satisfy my curiosity; “Dan Smith” was one of the names given to me by old Mrs Goodly; was it you who gave Goodly the twenty pounds in gold?’

  ‘I gave the man nothing,’ said Mr Arden.

  ‘But you knew him?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘The gold was discovered,’ I said, watching him closely, ‘when the cottage was pulled down.’

  He was quiet for a moment, and then he observed, ‘I always wondered what he did with it.’

  ‘Where did it come from, if you didn’t give it to him?’

  ‘He stole it from me,’ said Mr Arden. ‘He heard of my transaction at the horse fair and waylaid me on the way home; he was a burly fellow and I was easily overpowered. Fortunately I had tied the money up in two handkerchiefs and he only got one of them.’

  ‘Do you know why he never spent any of it?’

  ‘I have no idea; perhaps such a large sum was simply too much for his mind to take in.’

  ‘You had fifty pounds when you arrived at the Mission; where did the rest come from?’

  He was distantly amused. ‘I’m afraid you’ve hit upon another of my sins, Mrs Rodd. Before I got to Plymouth, I replenished my coffers by picking pockets at the races.’

  ‘How did you make so much?’

  ‘I had a natural talent for picking pockets,’ said Mr Arden with a half-smile. ‘And also quite a talent for coercing other boys into stealing on my behalf. Now you are shocked.’

  ‘I must admit that I am, a little!’

  ‘I was a thoroughly bad lot, and if I am able to speak of my past without blushing it’s not due to a lack of shame on my part. My whole life since Desolacion has been one long act of contrition. Before you condemn me for any of my actions, Mrs Rodd, I urge you to consider the end result.’

  ‘No one disputes the good you have done.’

  ‘Does a good action count for less when it springs from a bad one?’

  ‘I – I really couldn’t say.’ I was not prepared for philosophy, and was flustered. ‘It sounds suspiciously like trying to strike bargains with the Almighty – though I’m sure He blesses any act of true repentance.’

  ‘Precisely!’ Mr Arden’s eagerness made his face boyish. ‘I’m not in the business of saving my own soul; it is more that I am constantly aware of my duty to wash away the stains my sins have left upon the world; everything I took must be given back a hundredfold!’

  ‘That is right and good,’ I said. ‘I am grateful for your candour, Mr Arden – especially when you know that I am bound to pass this on to Inspector Blackbeard.’

  ‘If he wants to arrest me for my ancient crimes, so be it.’

  ‘After all this time, I think he’ll be inclined to let sleeping dogs lie.’ I could say this with some conviction; Arden had not given me anything ‘hard’ enough to interest Blackbeard.

  ‘I must not be afraid of the truth,’ said Mr Arden, intense and serious. ‘I know that Barton and Mrs Somers are not murderers; their innocent faces haunt my dreams.’

  ‘And mine!’

  ‘I am praying for them both, Mrs Rodd.’

  ‘The poor souls are being wondrously brave,’ I said. ‘Their circumstances have been made a little easier by the fact that all the public attention has now turned to Swinford.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  I could not resist. ‘I heard that you were in that vicinity, on the day of Mr Fogle’s murder.’

  ‘Me?’ He was visibly startled, though still smiling. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’

  ‘From Miss Yates, of course; I assume that you know she is in town.’

  ‘Well – yes.’

  ‘She must have mentioned that we travelled together. I’m sure the two of you have met since we arrived, and I beg you not to think I’m condemning you for it.’

  ‘We have been underhand,’ said Mr Arden. ‘Her brother rather forced her into that position when he declared that she was forbidden any contact with me. She told me that you and she had talked about a certain book, also “forbidden”.’

  ‘Mr Yates is devoted to Minna,’ I said. ‘Possibly a little over-protective; I doubt he can afford the opinion of a West E
nd doctor.’

  ‘She has some slight irregularity of the pulse,’ said Mr Arden. ‘I rode beside her carriage yesterday, while she was driving through the park. She had just seen a famous specialist who assured her that her condition is not serious, and dismissed her with the usual prescription for port wine and rest.’

  ‘Very sensible advice,’ I said, ‘though anyone might have given it free of charge.’

  ‘And as they all do, he recommended a move to a warmer climate.’

  ‘I’m afraid that would be beyond their means.’

  ‘I would give anything—’ Mr Arden leant forward, eager and intense. ‘Anything – if I could carry her off to Nice or Florence.’

  ‘Have you visited her in Putney?’

  ‘I have not, for she made a solemn promise to her brother that she and I would not meet there. I took a short ride alongside her carriage, and that is all. We were in a public place where anyone might have seen us.’ He paused and shot me a wary look. ‘You once asked me, Mrs Rodd, if I were considering marriage, and I think you and I understood one another very well on that occasion. You know where my heart lies.’

  ‘I believe I do,’ I said. ‘When you and Miss Yates met on the day of Mr Fogle’s murder, was it by accident or design?’

  ‘We had arranged it in advance,’ said Mr Arden. ‘Miss Yates was attending a tea party at a house named The Beeches, a big place a few miles from Swinford. We met, supposedly by chance, in the middle of the village – and had the misfortune to run into Charles Yates, who made a scene that hurt his sister’s feelings very much.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’

  ‘I managed to keep hold of my temper,’ said Mr Arden. ‘As I generally do. Yates is a young man, and has a tendency to hysteria – I should not like him to suffer for it. The merciful shall obtain mercy, and the Lord’s justice shall be done.’

  My mouth was full of cake and I could not say ‘Amen’.

  Thirty-seven

  Our meeting ended cordially, with Mr Arden insisting that I should be conveyed home to Hampstead in one of the hotel’s private carriages. There was no time to mull over the strange story he had told me, for I was due at a charitable tea party near to the Spaniards Inn, and barely had time to draw breath before I set out again. I scribbled a very hasty account to Mr Blackbeard – Dan Smith and Daniel Arden are one and the same – very curious to know what he would do with the information.

  Darkness had fallen when I finally returned to Well Walk. I was very tired after such a busy day, and thinking only of removing my painful second-best shoes. Fate had other ideas, however; to my great surprise, an anonymous black carriage was waiting outside my house.

  ‘Mr Blackbeard sent it over, about half an hour ago,’ said Mrs Bentley. ‘He’s after you to go off somewhere right away.’ She took a scrap of folded paper from the pocket of her apron and held it out to me.

  Dear Mrs Rodd, I wd be obliged for you to come into town, respectfully, T. Blackbeard.

  My exhaustion melted away at once, for I could smell adventure in the air and possibly danger, and the excitement of driving into the heart of the city at night made my blood fizz and sparkle.

  The cab took me back to the fashionable quarter that I had visited this morning. I was set down on the shabbier side of Hyde Park, close to where the old gallows had been at Tyburn. The streets here were well-lit and still bustling with traffic.

  ‘This is good of you, Mrs Rodd.’ The inspector came out to the pavement to meet me, and handed me out of the cab with his usual old-fashioned gallantry. ‘Something odd has turned up, ma’am.’

  ‘Did you receive the letter I sent you this afternoon?’

  ‘Letter? Oh, yes ma’am, and very interesting it was too. But this is something else. And I must admit, I can’t make head or tail of it.’

  ‘I’m always glad to assist, Mr Blackbeard; where have you brought me?’

  ‘This is a temporary police lock-up for the Great Exhibition,’ said Mr Blackbeard. ‘In case of trouble, you know, though there hasn’t been any trouble to speak of.’

  The lock-up was at the end of a small terrace, and consisted of one bare room, where a police constable perched at a tall desk. A man in a dark coat lay dozing morosely, on two chairs before the tiny fireplace. He sat up briefly when Mr Blackbeard ushered me inside.

  ‘Well? Am I to be allowed in?’

  ‘All in good time, Doctor,’ said Blackbeard.

  ‘It’s a great nuisance to hang about in this way – and I’m not to be blamed if he dies.’ He lay down again and shut his eyes.

  ‘Police surgeon,’ said Blackbeard, by way of explanation. ‘Dr Taggart. Called out in the middle of his dinner.’

  ‘I’m dreadfully curious, Mr Blackbeard, and you are making it worse! What on earth is going on?’

  ‘I wish I knew, and that’s a fact! Inside that cell yonder, ma’am, I have a man who’s been shot.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘He came in here some hours back,’ said Blackbeard. ‘He said he’d been shot, and demanded to be locked up for his own protection. He was dripping blood all over the floor, but wouldn’t let the surgeon near him.’

  ‘Did he tell you his name?’

  ‘Herring, ma’am; Richard Herring. Do you know it?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I know nobody of that name. Where did he claim the shooting took place?’

  ‘In this very park, that’s crowded with people and police, if you can believe it.’

  ‘But someone must have seen it, or at least heard the shot!’ I said. ‘And how long has his injury gone without treatment?’

  ‘That, Mrs Rodd, is anybody’s guess. He rolled in here saying he was in fear of his life. But he won’t trust the surgeon and fights us off if we try to bring him out – until I’m afraid to agitate him any further, in case it kills him.’

  ‘He accused me of trying to poison him,’ Dr Taggart said, sitting up again on his makeshift couch. ‘For God’s sake, calm him down before he bleeds to death.’

  The story seemed preposterous to me at first, but I saw that Mr Blackbeard was deadly serious. ‘What I do not understand,’ I said, ‘is why you needed to fetch me; what can I do?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ said Blackbeard. ‘He asked to see you, ma’am.’

  ‘Me? But I’ve never heard of him!’

  ‘He’s heard of you!’ Blackbeard was enjoying my confusion. ‘While he could speak, he said, “I must see Mrs Rodd” – ain’t that so, Kennedy?’ He looked at the policeman.

  ‘Yessir,’ Kennedy said. ‘First he wants Mr Blackbeard. Then it was “I must see Mrs Rodd”. He said it twice, and very clear.’

  ‘Let me see him.’ My protestations were helping nobody, and there was clearly no time to waste. ‘At the very least I can persuade the poor man to allow Dr Taggart to tend to him.’

  Kennedy produced a clanking bunch of enormous keys. The surgeon yawned irritably and grabbed his leather bag. The three small cells were located down a flight of stone stairs, in a large cellar with tiled walls and a dismal echo. Only one cell was occupied. A still figure, swathed in a voluminous tweed garment, lay on the hard bench. He was so very still, and the section of his face that was visible so ghastly pale, that I was sure he was dead.

  The moment I put a foot into the cell, however, a shudder ran through him; he mumbled, ‘No, no, no – I will not be moved!’

  I sat down beside him on the single chair, taking care to leave room for Dr Taggart. The doctor immediately tried to move aside the cape of the tweed coat or cloak, upon which there was a dark stain of blood; but Mr Herring let out a feeble wail of alarm, and he was forced to withdraw.

  ‘Mr Herring,’ I said. ‘It’s Mrs Rodd; you wanted to see me and here I am; I beg you to let the doctor help you!’

  ‘No!’ This was uttered in the feeblest of whispers; a moment later, the man lost consciousness entirely and Dr Taggart was able to expose the great wound in his left shoulder.

  ‘He’s been sh
ot all right. I’ll need to get the bullet out of him, and it can’t be done here.’

  There was something in the man’s white, anguished face and close-cropped fair hair that was naggingly familiar. And then Mr Jennings came into my mind and I realized why he had fainted in Queen Street. He had, quite literally, seen a ghost.

  ‘Well, ma’am?’ asked Blackbeard. ‘You look as if you’d seen a ghost!’

  ‘R. Herring, indeed!’ I cried out. ‘Oh, what fools he must think us! That is Joshua Welland!’

  At long last I was face to face with my wandering scholar.

  There was no time to argue about the identity of the man, though I was more certain with every passing minute that I was right; shorn of his hair and beard, ‘Mr Herring’ bore an unmistakable resemblance to his late brother. Our overriding concern now, however, was keeping him alive.

  Knowing who he was, I also knew that money would be no object. I wrote a rapid note to Mr Mitchell, and took it upon myself to have Joshua carried to Stoppard’s Hotel, as it was just a short distance away. The manager, a Swiss gentleman named M. Marchier, was doubtful about allowing him into the exquisite establishment, but Blackbeard simply ignored him and settled the unconscious patient in two of the very best rooms on the first floor.

  It was Mr Arden who put a stop to the manager’s objections. His rooms being nearby, he emerged on to the landing to find out what the noise was, and instantly offered to underwrite any expenses incurred.

  ‘Let’s hope they ain’t funeral expenses,’ said Blackbeard. ‘You’ll never get a coffin down them stairs.’

  M. Marchier let out a little bleat of horror.

  ‘I’m sure it can all be discreetly managed, Marchier,’ said Mr Arden. ‘People have been ill here before now.’ He bowed to me. ‘You may trust Mrs Rodd to do what is required.’

  His intervention removed the last difficulties, and Dr Taggart was finally allowed to cut the bullet from our unconscious patient. I have long experience of sickrooms, and I rather alarmed the hotel servants with my various commands. The windows overlooked the street, busy with traffic even at this late hour, and could not be left open due to the noise and dirt. Knowing the vital importance of fresh air, I had the heavy plush curtains taken away, and also the thick rugs around the bed – which immediately made the atmosphere less dusty. I had them pull Joshua’s bed away from the wall so that what air there was could circulate freely, and personally attended to the fire (the coals were plentiful and of the highest quality, but a fire will smoke if not properly tended, and the smoke from a coal-fire is thoroughly unhygienic). I sent for an excellent and highly respectable nurse I knew, by the name of Mrs Hurley. I sent to the kitchen for beef tea, to keep ready on the hob in case the patient awoke.