‘That will be sufficient, Mrs Crombie,’ Foxe said. ‘Thank you for your efforts. Put some on, if you would be so kind, and we’ll see if it does any good.’
‘There,’ she said after a few moments. ‘Now, tell me what made Lady Valmar give you these bruises — and leave nothing out.’
It took a long time, but when he had finished his tale, Mrs Crombie couldn’t suppress her outrage.
‘I had heard Sir Samuel Valmar is a brute of a man, Mr Foxe,’ she said, ‘as is his son, Mr Frederick. The difference between them, I am told, is that the father is cold and calculating, while the son is the epitome of the old-fashioned country squire: hard-riding, hard-drinking and interested in nothing but chasing foxes and shooting things. Oh, and making free with his hands should any of the younger female servants be foolish enough to come within his reach. Sir Samuel is at least intelligent. One lady who happened to mention the family in this shop told me the workers on the estate at Hutton Hall reckon Mr Frederick has fewer brains than the foxes he persecutes so diligently.’
‘I have also discovered Lady Valmar is unusually strong for a woman, Mrs Crombie,’ Foxe replied with a wry laugh. ‘when she hit me, I had the greatest of difficulty staying on my feet.’
‘She would need to be of a most determined nature to survive being married to Sir Samuel. He’s a tyrant in all his dealings and cannot bear to be crossed, even in the slightest matter. Even so, I find it hard to believe a mother would so completely repudiate her firstborn. To maintain those feelings, even when presented with proof of the depths to which the family’s behaviour had reduced the poor man, is almost beyond believing. As for colluding with husband or son to have him murdered, that really is beyond belief! Either she is totally unnatural, or she is too afraid of her husband to act in any other way than she has. If the latter, all any of us can do is pray for her. I can scarcely imagine the agony she must be feeling at this moment.’
They were both silent for a while after that, locked in their own thoughts about the families and the misery they can bring to their members in place of what should be love and support.
Foxe would have left then and returned to his library, but Mrs Crombie put her hand on his arm and indicated he should remain.
‘Since we are dealing with sombre matters, Mr Foxe, tell me what you have done to upset Lady Cockerham. I thought you and she had become good friends. I know you were . . . very close, shall we say . . . to her maid, Maria not so long ago. Maria was with her mistress when they came here today. My! How that young lady has changed! She was always a pretty girl, Mr Foxe — none know that better than you. Now she walks and talks like a lady, wears fine clothes and I swear has grown several inches taller. You would not call her pretty now. Beautiful is the only suitable word. Seeing the two together would take any man’s breath away. I would find it impossible to say which is the more lovely, the dark-haired mistress or the fairer servant. Poor Charlie came into the shop while they were here and was struck dumb by what he saw. Indeed, I feared for a moment he would fall down in a faint!’
Mrs Crombie grinned. ‘You know the old saying, “like father, like son”?’ she continued. ‘It just struck me that today we have been treated to something akin to “like master, like apprentice”. I swear Maria winked at the boy behind her mistress’s back, for he turned red as a beetroot and hurried off into the workroom. I suspect he must have gone through into your kitchen soon after, Mr Foxe. When he finally deigned to return to ask me if I had anything he should be doing, his cheek too was reddened as if he had received a sound slap on it. Young Florence may lack the power in her arm to match Lady Valmar, but I dare say she has enough to make it clear that any enthusiastic descriptions of Maria Worden in her presence will bring swift retribution. That young woman regards Charlie as her personal property.’
‘Does he feel the same way, Mrs Crombie?’
‘I doubt it. Like most boys of his age, he is developing a roving eye — something certain men never grow out of, I believe. However, enough of that matter. You have still not answered my question.’ She stopped and put her hand to her mouth in alarm. ‘Oh, no, Mr Foxe! You haven’t asked her to marry you? Surely you couldn’t be so foolish!’
‘What if I did?’ Foxe said. He was on his dignity now. ‘It is an honourable question to put to a lady.’
‘Honourable but foolish, in your case. She turned you down, of course. Then you behaved like a naughty child rebuked by his mother and went away to sulk. You have been sulking ever since.’
‘I have not been sulking! Nor is it natural that she should have refused my proposal. I am handsome enough, I believe. Also well-respected and more than wealthy enough for most women to think I would be a sound catch.’
‘Only those who didn’t know you, Mr Foxe. Do I have to explain? I see that I do, though you may not like what I tell you. There was a time once when I feared you might propose marriage to me, Mr Foxe. I am far beneath Lady Cockerham in status or wealth, but I flatter myself I am not without physical charms. Had you done so, I would have refused you as well.’
‘Why? Do I treat you so badly?’
‘Quite the reverse! I have never made any secret of my undying gratitude for your kindness and generosity towards me. Nor do I believe you would treat a wife in any other way than as a model husband should. You would probably even try hard to discipline yourself to be faithful. In fact, within a short time you would cease to be the Mr Foxe of whom I and others are so fond. Instead, you would become both boring and dull, even respectable; the very qualities which would lead a woman to be eager to accept you as a husband would disappear within a year at the most.’
‘Why should that be? I would be the same man.’
‘Not at all! Today’s Mr Foxe is eager to exercise his brain against the most intractable puzzles. He takes risks and cares little for what others think of him for doing so. If need be, he flouts convention with almost total disregard. He may be a bit of a rogue, but that only adds to his attractiveness. Why does he do these things? It is in his nature, of course. Nothing could change that. What makes the difference at present is that he is free to do as he pleases. If he makes a mistake, incurs someone’s disapproval, finds society shuns him, it is of little account. He can provoke the highest placed people — like Sir Samuel and Lady Valmar — and snap his fingers if they persuade their influential friends to frown on him and polite society to shun him. If he had a wife to consider — or even worse, children — he could do none of this without involving them in his disgrace and its consequences. Would he do that? Of course, he wouldn’t! He is too honourable a man to see others suffer because of him. No, he would trim and moderate his behaviour, try to curb his curiosity and tread warily where once he stepped forward without a care in the world. Boredom would soon follow, then dullness of mind and forgetfulness of what had once made his life what it is today. I would not have brought you to such a pass for all the wealth in the world, Mr Foxe, and nor would Lady Cockerham I’m sure. She turned you down because she values your happiness and future more than anything you could offer her as your wife.’
After that, Foxe could find nothing to say.
16
If Foxe had been discomfited by what Mrs Crombie had said, the introspection it caused him was soon overtaken by severe pangs of conscience. He knew he should go to confront Mrs Danson before doing anything else. With one mystery solved and hopes of proceeding further with the business of the gold pendant seemingly out of his reach, there was no excuse for more procrastination. Her testimony might well provide the final clues needed to solve the murder of her elderly husband. He also owed it to her to inform her of the death of the man he felt certain must have been her brother. What held him back was simple dread of finding she was either directly involved in the death or, at the very least, complicit.
Thanks to these gloomy reflections, his breakfast the next morning was again a miserable affair. Mrs Whitbread’s excellent bread rolls, still warm from the oven, stuck in his throat. Molly
’s attempts at cheerfulness drew such fearsome grunts and scowls that she fled back to the kitchen in tears. There she told Mrs Whitbread she must have done something dreadful to upset the master and must soon be dismissed from his service. Even Alfred, Foxe’s devoted manservant, confided to Mrs Dobbins, the housekeeper, that he had never before seen his master so morose. Being down-to-earth in his judgements, he attributed Foxe’s poor spirits to an excess of brandy the evening before. Together with the lack of night-time female company, of course.
After eating little and scalding his mouth on a bowl of coffee, Foxe could bear it no longer. He rose from his table, demanded his hat and second-best coat on the instant, and swept from the house. He left his servants who were relieved to see the back of him.
Hardly had Foxe reached the edge of the marketplace when an excited group of street children stopped him. They had found Uncle’s child, they told him. The boy, now aged about nine or ten, they estimated, was living in the home of his grandfather: a certain Mr Meyrick. He had recently begun an apprenticeship with his grandfather, who was a cabinetmaker. The boy’s name was Harry, they told him; Harry Valmar.
Here was a heaven-sent opportunity! He could avoid seeing Mrs Danson for even longer, while dealing with something no one could deny was relevant. Foxe seized it with both hands. He turned aside from his intended destination on the instant and let the children lead him to the cabinetmaker’s modest house and workshop.
They took him to a small street off Timberhill. There they pointed out a house still in the old-fashioned, timber-framed style of many of the city’s older buildings. The house stood four-square to the street. It had three stories with a place to one side from which issued the sound of sawing and hammering. It wasn’t the finest house in the street, but it wasn’t the meanest by a long way and it seemed to be kept in good order. The cabinetmaker’s business must be a prosperous one.
Foxe’s arrival at the workshop caused a great stir. Mr Meyrick was not used to entertaining persons of quality. Should he need to deal with such a one, they always expected him to wait on them, not the other way around. As soon as he laid eyes on his visitor, he started to excuse the state of his workshop. He apologised for the wood dust which lay everywhere and told his men to stop their work in case the din should offend his visitor’s ears.
The cabinetmaker was far from being an old man, despite his bald head and the beard about his face now containing more white hairs than grey ones. Foxe judged him to be close to sixty years in age. For all that, he was a sturdy-built fellow; not tall, but strong. That would be thanks to many decades of working with hands and arms and lifting balks of timber. There was something kindly about his face. Foxe judged him to be an honest tradesman of the kind which made up the backbone of the city’s wealth. He liked him instinctively.
Foxe told the men they should continue with their work while he talked to their master. Then he asked the cabinetmaker whether there was a quiet corner of the workshop where they might be private. Mr Meyrick would have none of it. He would have nothing save to conduct Foxe outside again and take him to the front door of the house itself. Once there, the turmoil began again, as Mrs Meyrick flew into a panic at the sight of a gentleman in her parlour. While her husband hurried off to wash his face and hands and tidy himself, she fussed about, apologising for their poor accommodation and sending a maid away in haste to fetch the best china coffee pot and cups. That done, she flapped her hand frantically at the seat and back of the best chair and invited Foxe to seat himself. Foxe might have been the king himself, arriving unexpectedly on some tour of his kingdom.
‘I am merely a bookseller, a shopkeeper and tradesman like yourself,’ Foxe protested. ‘Please calm yourselves. I can assure you I have visited many houses that were much less tidy and clean than this one.’
‘Bookseller you may be,’ Meyrick protested, ‘but all in this city know you to be a wealthy man, sir. One who mixes with the gentry on easy terms, to say nothing of men like our mayor and other leading citizens. You should have sent word for me to come to you.’
‘Nonsense,’ Foxe said. ‘There are merely a few questions I wish to ask you. I would not drag you away from your own business for so paltry a matter. You are a cabinetmaker, I believe?’
‘I am, sir, and generally held to be a good, skilled craftsman. Though I says it myself, I can fit together a table or a chair as well as any in this kingdom — save for the true masters in London, of course. I’ve made pieces fit to grace any gentleman’s home, though I must own that the majority of my customers are local shopkeepers and tradesmen like me. For them I supply sound pieces of good quality. Not the finest inlaid and carved furniture such as you must own. I work in oak, elm, mahogany and sometimes walnut. Lovely wood walnut, but becoming scarce and expensive nowadays, even for veneers.’
‘You have a grandson, I believe, who is now apprenticed to you.’
‘Aye, Mr Foxe, and a good lad he is. ’Tis early days, but I reckon he has the makings of as able a worker in wood as I am — and that’s saying a good deal.’ You could hear the pride in the man’s voice.
‘What of his father, Mr Meyrick. Does he work here as well, or in some other trade?’
The other man’s face darkened and his pride in his grandson was swiftly converted into the most profound sadness. ‘That’s a sad story, Mr Foxe, and I’ll not burden you with the hearing of it. The boy’s an orphan now — near enough anyway — must make his way in this world with only the help and guidance my wife and I can offer him.’
Foxe had, of course, expected this response. He’d only asked the question to make sure he was in the right place before probing further into matters which could only arouse painful memories.
‘The story of that lad and his father is what I have come to you to seek out, Mr Meyrick,’ he replied softly.
‘Why’s that, Mr Foxe, if I may ask?’
‘Of course, you may, Mr Meyrick. First, though, please answer me on one point. Did the boy’s father wear a small gold pendant about his neck; one engraved with a coat of arms?’
‘You bring me bad news I fear, sir,’ Meyrick said. ‘My wife and I have long expected it, though we kept hoping we might yet be proved wrong. George did wear such a pendant as you mention. Not openly, you understand. Always hidden away behind a scarf or cravat about his neck. He told us it was the arms of the Valmar family. That was his name, you see. George Valmar.’
‘From Hutton Hall?’
‘No. He said he had nothing to do with those grand folks. He was only the younger son of some distant part of the family — a second or third cousin, or something like that. He shared the same name, but nought else. I don’t know whether he’d ever tried to make contact with the family there and been turned away, but he rarely spoke of them. When he was forced to do so — perhaps by some questioner who noted the similarity of his name — it was never in kind or friendly terms.’
‘How did he come to be here?’ This was the crux. Foxe might make a guess as to what had happened, but he needed to be certain.
The tale the old craftsman now told him was the stuff of one of the new novels Mrs Crombie kept in their circulating library. The sort which were borrowed and read avidly by many the ladies of the city.
It began with George Valmar turning up one day and seeking to rent a room.
‘I used to let a room or two to suitable people, Mr Foxe,’ Meyrick said. ‘This is a large house and my wife and I were never blessed with a big family. Only a single child, sir. A daughter, whom we named Lottie — Charlotte, that is. Mr Valmar spoke politely enough and was well-dressed too. Not quite as finely as you, Mr Foxe, but well enough to show he was not a mere labourer or some low-grade artisan.’
‘What did he do for a living?’ Foxe asked.
‘He said he’d come from London, where he’d practiced as a fencing master. Called himself “Monsewer Georges Val d'Isère” by way of trade, on account of the French and Italians being accounted the best fencing masters.’
‘Could he have passed as a Frenchman?’
‘Well enough for folks in this city, he told us. Unless he should be unlucky enough to encounter the genuine thing of course. Said he’d enough of their lingo to pass muster. He’d found the competition in London too great to make more than a poor living, mostly on account of the number of foreigners living there. Knowing Norwich to be the second city in the land, he thought to try his luck here.’
The Meyricks had let Valmar have a room and he had soon settled in. Before long, the inevitable happened. He and Charlotte Meyrick grew fond of each other and married.
‘The most devoted couple you ever did see, Mr Foxe,’ Meyrick said, surreptitiously wiping his eyes with a dust-stained handkerchief. ‘George did well as a fencing master, certainly more than well enough to provide for his wife and their child, when it came. Henry, they called him, after his grandfather. We calls him Harry. Two Henrys in one house gets confusing.’
‘They married in a church?’
‘Aye, they did. Proper marriage and all. All Saints’ parish we’re in and to All Saints’ Church they went. Vicar wrote it down, fair and square, in the church register. George Valmar and Charlotte Meyrick, bachelor and spinster of the parish.’
‘They had only the one child?’
‘Just the one, Mr Foxe. Young Harry. Spitting image of his father.’
‘For some eight years, all went well’ Meyrick continued. ‘Then the boy’s mother, Lottie, fell ill with a severe tertian fever. George called a physician and my wife nursed her as only a mother can, but ’twas no use. The poor girl went into convulsions and died, leaving her child motherless and poor George near mad with grief.’
A Sickness in the Soul Page 17