A Sickness in the Soul

by William Savage

  ‘By a fist?’

  ‘That is the most likely answer.’

  ‘Would it have been enough to render the man unconscious?’

  ‘That is harder to say,’ the surgeon replied. ‘In combination with shock and excitement, the normal beating of the heart might have been interrupted. That alone would be enough to cause the man to faint. I cannot say for certain whether the blow alone would have knocked him unconscious. Given that a heart attack followed soon afterwards, it might very well have done so.’

  The coroner was forced to be content with that. He therefore wound matters up swiftly. The jury were asked to return a verdict and he reminded them that they could only name the murderer if they had clear evidence to support their assertion. In his opinion, they did not. It might have been the mysterious Mr Wake, but there was nothing to prove it.

  Foxe admired the coroner for his judicious words. The jury were probably longing to blame the killing on the mysterious foreigner. Hopefully, this stern injunction would dissuade them from doing so.

  He was proved correct. After the briefest of retirements, the jury dutifully recorded a verdict of “murder by person or persons unknown”. They were then dismissed, and everyone dispersed. As they filed out, many people of the audience directed angry glances towards the chair where the coroner had been seated. Whatever the law, they were quite sure they knew who the murderer was. After all, Foxe heard several tell their neighbours, foreigners were always killing one another on the slightest excuse, weren’t they? It stood to reason one of them would do it again, even in England.

  Foxe had much to think about. Why should someone attack Danson, render him unconscious and return several minutes later to kill him with the dagger? Of course, if his victim had been unconscious from the blow, the murderer might well not have been aware he had already died. The obvious answer was that the killer had spent that time looking for something to steal. Then, to make sure he would not be identified, he decided to finish the old man off. The problem with that explanation, of course, was the fact nothing had been taken or even disarranged. According to Gunton that is. Could he be lying? Could he be protecting someone? The affair had now become hopelessly confusing!

  Foxe was denied more time to puzzle over what he had heard by a chance meeting. As he was walking away from the Guildhall, deep in thought, he encountered one of his better, if rather occasional, customers. William Buxton, a prosperous corn merchant, was a man with many contacts in the city, as Foxe knew. He was also well connected with the Presbyterians who used the new Octagon Chapel. If anyone would know about the Reverend Jonathan Danson, D.D, in his days as a minister, it would be Mr Buxton. Fortunately, he had no especially pressing business. He readily accepted Foxe’s invitation to partake in a pot of coffee in a nearby coffeehouse.

  Once they were seated and supplied with drinks, Foxe broached the subject uppermost in his mind.

  ‘Danson?’ Mr Buxton said. ‘What can I say? I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but the plain truth is that the fellow was an old fool. He’d tried being a proper Christian minister and serving a congregation. No good at either, if you ask me. For a start, he was one of the most boring speakers anyone had ever encountered. He was passed from congregation to congregation, eventually ending with one so small they could barely pay him enough to live on. Back then, he was too poor to afford better than an old coat spotted green with mildew and shoes with holes. His poor first wife relied mostly on handouts of old clothes from kind members of their congregation.’

  ‘When did things change for him?’ Foxe asked.

  ‘About the time his first wife died — around four years ago that was — Danson received a small legacy. Not much, as we all thought at the time, but enough to let him resign from his last congregation and bury himself in a rundown house somewhere near the castle. As I heard it, he then lost his faith and his wits and started to dabble in alchemy and various sorts of magic; thought he was going to discover the hidden secrets of the universe in a pile of mildewed books written by long-discredited authors. Damned dangerous, I call it. Start tinkering with the spirits and demons and you don’t know where you’ll end up.’

  ‘Did he continue preaching at all?’ Foxe asked. ‘I know there are some former ministers who either preach on occasion or give lectures on their areas of study.’

  ‘Who would have had him? No respectable chapel would let him in through its doors. As for public lectures, anyone foolish enough to attend would die of boredom. No, he became a kind of recluse. Lived with his old books and a half-crazy woman to act as his cook and housekeeper. Each was as mad as the other.’

  ‘Do you know where his wealth came from?’

  ‘No idea. People were amazed. One minute he’s living in poverty, the next he’s leased a fancy house and hired a small army of servants.’

  ‘Perhaps his legacy was larger than you all thought?’ Foxe said.

  ‘Must have been, I suppose. If so, why did he wait so long to start throwing his money around? There were dark rumours about him before. His startling rise in the world produced a further mass of speculation. The commonest rumour was that he’d finally found the Philosopher’s Stone and begun changing lead into gold. Stuff and nonsense, obviously.’

  ‘Can you recall exactly when the man began to act as if he were rich?’

  ‘About eighteen months or so ago,’ Buxton replied. ‘Not long before he married again.’

  ‘I know you don’t approve of the subject of his so-called researches,’ Foxe said, ‘but do you know if he was genuine in his scholarship? For example, where did he obtain his degree of Doctor of Divinity? Neither the universities of Oxford nor Cambridge would have accepted him. They require all those studying or teaching there to be practising members of the Church of England.’

  ‘One of the Dissenting Academies I would imagine,’ Buxton replied. ‘Maybe the one in Daventry. Either that or he invented it himself to try to make his ideas seem more impressive. So far as I know, he was never a member of the established church, let alone an ordained one. I think his father was a petty tradesman. I don’t even know where he had later obtained the money needed to undertake a lengthy period of study. A wealthy patron or relative, perhaps?’

  ‘His congregation, when he had one, must have believed in his learning, surely.’

  ‘He certainly acted like a scholar. That’s true enough. Still, you could check up on his degree status easily enough. The extent and quality of his scholarship would be much more difficult to estimate. His study lay in such odd areas. I can’t imagine many people could begin to assess how sound it was. All I can tell you is that none of the leading men of learning in this city — men like our own minister or Dr Priestley, for example — were willing to give him the time of day. What’s your interest in the man, Foxe? He’s dead, so you can’t sell him any of your over-priced books.’

  ‘I didn’t even know he collected books until I went to his house yesterday,’ Foxe said. ‘His library is quite magnificent, you know. If he collected it all recently, it must have cost him a fortune.’

  ‘You’ve been to his house, have you? Did you meet the pretty Katherine?’

  ‘His wife — or rather his widow now? Yes, I did. To be honest, she surprised me.’

  ‘You know she used to work in a bordello?’

  ‘She told me so herself,’ Foxe said. ‘Quite open about it too.’

  ‘It sounds as if she impressed you,’ Buxton replied, smiling. ‘Not easy to do in your case, I imagine.’

  ‘She did,’ Foxe said. ‘I found her sensible, frank and a good deal quicker in her mind than you might imagine.’

  ‘Could be a business opportunity for you there, Foxe. The new widow will hardly want to keep all those weird books. She might well be willing to let you find buyers for them, if you play your cards right. Don’t tell me you hadn’t thought of that!’

  ‘Of course, I had, Buxton, but the day after her husband was found murdered was hardly the time to discuss it. And
don’t be so cynical about the kind of books Danson collected. More people are interested in books on such subjects than you might think. I had a visit from one such person only a day or so ago.’

  ‘Well, you should know, if anyone does. Did Danson buy books from you or was that beyond even his purse?’ The price Foxe asked for the books he sold was a perennial subject of banter between them.

  ‘Never. Wherever he found his books, it wasn’t from me or anyone else I know in the trade.’

  ‘Got anything new I might be interested in?’ Buxton asked. ‘I might just have a small amount of money to spend on the right volumes.’

  After that, the talk was all of books and bindings, until the two parted around half an hour later.

  4

  The matter of Dr Danson’s death was beginning to interest Foxe a great deal. Unfortunately, before he could get any further, news reached him there had been another murder. this one had taken place at the end of a masquerade ball at the Assembly House. Even worse, the murdered man was a member of the aristocracy. Halloran and the mayor were bound to want him to get involved. Dammit! Just when he felt sure he was on the way towards making a breakthrough in the murder of Danson. Why, oh why, did he ever complain life was dull or wish for a new mystery to liven things up?

  Like many of the wealthier citizens of Norwich, Foxe had been delighted with the new Assembly House. Thomas Ivory, the city’s leading architect and builder, had designed and opened it in 1754. Since then, he had attended many assemblies, balls and routs in the building. It had proved a great success and Foxe had enjoyed himself immensely most times he had been there. The building itself was elegant and finely proportioned. Inside, the decoration was of equal quality, for Ivory had not stinted at any point. Events there also offered Foxe two things he dearly loved: one was dancing, at which he fancied himself a master, and the other was the chance to show off — an activity in which few in the city could even hope to surpass him. There was, of course, the added bonus of the presence of a large number of pretty women. Going to a fashionable ball at the Assembly House was guaranteed to raise Foxe’s spirits to peak levels.

  There was, however, one type of ball that Foxe disliked — the masquerade. He was proud of his good looks and something of a dandy in his dress. To spend the evening wearing a mask and a costume of some kind did not appeal to him in the slightest. That, and his temporary lack of a suitable partner, had accounted for his absence from the masquerade that Saturday evening. He had therefore not been present when Lord Frederick Aylestone, the youngest son of Viscount Penngrove, was found murdered in a room away from the main hall itself.

  Poor Foxe had not yet completed his breakfast when a messenger arrived from Alderman Halloran. His master, he told Alfred, was requesting Mr Foxe’s attendance on him. He should come with all possible speed.

  When he arrived, Foxe tried to divert the alderman’s attention by telling him that he felt sure he was on the track of Danson’s murderer. That produced scarcely a flicker of interest, so he added an idea which had only occurred to him that very morning. He suggested the murder of the reclusive scholar might be connected to the embezzlement from the city treasury which Halloran had told him about.

  Halloran dismissed even that with a wave of his hand.

  ‘I have far more important matters on my mind, Foxe,’ he said. ‘Viscount Penngrove has already been in touch with the mayor and frightened the fellow half to death. He seems to feel the city and its government are somehow to blame for what took place.’

  ‘What nonsense!’ Foxe said. ‘It was a private event, surely. Besides, Lord Aylestone must have been more than twenty-one years old and quite capable of deciding for himself where to go and what to do.’

  ‘Don’t be naive, Foxe. Viscount Penngrove is rich, extremely influential where it matters most and looks down on the leaders of this city as mere tradesmen. He’s angrier than a nest of wasps that have been poked with a stick and he’s looking for someone to take the blame for his son’s death. The mayor’s desperate for you to do your magic and come up with the culprit, before the viscount has him drummed out of office.’

  ‘What can I do?’ Foxe asked. ‘I wasn’t even there.’

  ‘It’s a great shame you weren’t,’ Halloran said, ‘but your absence is hardly relevant. You don’t need to have watched a murder take place to work out who did it.’

  ‘Even if I had been present, I don’t see how that would have saved young Aylestone,’ Foxe said. ‘I loathe masquerade balls anyway.’ He knew he sounded petty. Halloran simply ignored him.

  ‘His Worship has asked me to urge you to take a special and urgent interest in this matter,’ he said. ‘Viscount Penngrove, as I just said, is a man of considerable influence at court. The mayor feels his poor opinion of our city could best be raised by presenting him with the means to bring a successful prosecution against whoever killed his son. As quickly as possible too.’

  Foxe protested that he already had an investigation underway; one which promised to be more than usually complex to unravel. Once again, Halloran was unimpressed.

  ‘Please do as the mayor asks, Foxe,’ he said, ‘if only for my sake. If I have to tell him you’ve refused to get involved, my life will be a misery.’

  ‘I’m surprised Aylestone was at the ball at all,’ Foxe said. He knew he would have to get involved, but he wasn’t going to give in easily. ‘He has a reputation for being far too serious for such entertainments. Hasn’t he got himself involved with some puritanical minister who thinks godliness and misery are one and the same thing? You do know Aylestone was the author of that pamphlet? The one denouncing the theatre as the principal source and support for all lechery, vice and godlessness in the city, don’t you? The boy was a fool, as well as a killjoy of monumental proportions.’

  ‘Penngrove told the mayor he’d commanded the young man to be there, in the hope he might find a potential wife amongst those present. When his son protested that to attend such a vulgar entertainment would be inappropriate for someone known to be serious about his religion, his father was ready with an answer. Lord Aylestone was to wear a mask covering a good part of his face. He was also to be dressed, quite inappropriately, as a Harlequin. His son had thus been led to believe his true identity would remain concealed. He just had to remember to leave before the point at the end of the evening when everyone always displayed their true identities.’

  ‘All the aristocracy are interested in is getting heirs to ensure the family holds onto their estates,’ Foxe grumbled. ‘They sell their children like cattle at an auction. Balls like that are part entertainment, part marriage market. Eligible daughters are paraded around like prize heifers, while their mothers seek out suitable husbands for them.’

  ‘Now you sound like one of those seditious radicals,’ Halloran said. ‘We all know how it’s done. Stop being silly, please. Do as you’re asked and find out who killed this fellow. Then you can go back to whatever you’re involved in at present, the mayor will be happy, and I’ll have time to enjoy my books again.’

  How could Foxe do anything else but agree?

  Halloran’s demand to focus all his efforts on the murder of Lord Aylestone only increased Foxe’s bout of bad temper. He had now gone for more than ten days without any female company in his bed, though he could have found some anytime he wished. The trouble was, he discovered, he didn’t have the heart for it. As a result, his servants had begun to question Molly, the housemaid, after she had been to fold back the shutters in her master’s bedroom. Two heads on the pillow meant a cheerful and relaxed atmosphere in the house. One head signalled another day of sour looks and outbursts of irritation.

  Foxe could not have explained the reason for this unaccustomed continence. He’d thought many times of spending time in a suitable bordello. He could also follow his past practice and go to the theatre. There he could usually charm one of the younger actresses into coming back to his house after the performance. The real reason why he did neither was simple. What
he needed was comfort and loving attention, not a night of sexual athletics. Whatever the source of a temporary bed-partner, Foxe knew in his heart what they all wanted: as good a time as he could give them, followed by a suitable reward — money or an expensive present — at the end. He’d gone down that path many times in the past and knew how the business went. Of course, in the days when Kitty and Gracie Catt were his constant sources of female company things had been different. The sisters had provided an ideal balance. Kitty was excitable and sexually voracious; Gracie, the elder, was calm, attentive and warmly appreciative of his presence. Sadly, the two of them had left Norwich for good, and that was that.

  By the time Foxe dined that evening with his oldest friend, Captain Brock, his mood had descended from simple misery into the deepest self-pity. Brock’s wife, Lady Henfield, was away visiting the home of her former brother-in law, the Earl of Pentelow, so Brock had come on his own. The two had met less frequently since Brock’s marriage, which was a matter of regret for them both. Since retiring from a glittering naval career, Brock had tried to settle down but the draw of the sea and ships proved too much for him. With Foxe as a sleeping partner to provide the initial capital, he had built up a thriving business in a fleet of wherries running between Norwich, Great Yarmouth and Lowestoft. These small, flat-bottomed and sail-driven boats served to transport goods to and from the deep-water harbours on the coast, using rivers like the Wensum and the Yare. They were the lifeline of Norwich’s overseas trade and Brock’s fleet were accounted as the best and most reliable of the wherries.

  Hardly had they exchanged greetings that day when Foxe started complaining about the mayor’s demands.