A Sickness in the Soul

by William Savage

  ‘What did he do after that?’ Foxe asked.

  ‘I reckon he was truly driven mad, Mr Foxe. Stark mad. Nothing else could explain what it was happened next.’

  ‘What was that, Mr Meyrick?’

  ‘He upped and disappeared. Attended her funeral, then walked away. Said he needed to be by himself for a while. At first, we thought no more than his grief was to blame. My wife and I both spent time on our own after our daughter died, thinking of her and praying for her soul. Then the days passed, and George didn’t return. I sent men out looking for him. I even went myself two or three times. ’T’were no good. We’ve never set eyes on him from that day to this. Must be more than two years now.’ Meyrick stopped and looked steadily at his visitor. ‘I suspects you’ve come to tell me he’s dead, Mr Foxe. That right?’

  ‘It is, Mr Meyrick, and very sad I am to do so. His body was found more than a week ago. At first, of course, no one knew who he was. He’d been living rough, you see. What put me onto his true identity was the gold pendant. I discovered the meaning of the engraving. First, I tried at Hutton Hall, but they denied all knowledge of such a person.’

  ‘Aye, they would, as I told you. He wasn’t connected with that lot.’

  ‘That isn’t true,’ Foxe said gently. ‘If he told you as much, it was to conceal his true identity. It was true he had nothing to do with Sir Samuel Valmar and his wife by the time he came here. He must have also believed that he never would have again. He probably thought it best to invent a tale of being a distant cousin to explain his name and prevent awkward questions.’

  ‘Who was he, then?’

  ‘George Valmar, exactly as he told you. Only the George Valmar who was Sir Samuel’s eldest son and heir to the baronetcy.’

  ‘Good God alive! Begging your pardon for swearing, sir, but you’ve fair taken my breath away. Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure enough. They denied it when I went there. That was because he and his father had quarrelled many times. The last time their disagreement was bad enough for his father to deny him the house and try to disinherit him. Sir Samuel has a nasty temper, Mr Meyrick. He cannot bear to be crossed. After I’d tried to get him to acknowledge the gold pendant taken from George’s body, he became furious. Told me to leave on the instant and instructed his servants — in my hearing — to deny me entry, should I come to the house in the future. I happened to come upon Lady Valmar in the street and challenged her to acknowledge the dead man was her son. It was she who struck me, Mr Meyrick, giving me the black eye you can see I still have.’

  ‘I wondered about that, Mr Foxe, and where you got it. I never believed a lady of quality might stoop to actual violence. To deny your own flesh and blood! A mother too! I cannot imagine how any woman could fall so low as to do that. Are they both lost to all decent human feeling? Wickedness, that’s what it is. Pure wickedness. To behave in such a way! The devil truly walks amongst us, Mr Foxe, seeking whom he may corrupt.’

  Mr Meyrick fell silent for several minutes while the enormity of what Foxe reported sank in. Then, all of a sudden, he started up and turned again to Foxe, his eyes blazing with anger.

  ‘Was my poor son-in-law buried in a pauper’s grave? Was he? Me and my wife couldn’t abide such a thing as that. He was a good husband to our Lottie and a fine man, sir. For him to have been buried in such a way would fair break my heart. Tell me where he lies, Mr Foxe, so that I can make things right.’

  ‘He’s not in a pauper’s grave, Mr Meyrick. I saw to that. He was placed in a proper coffin and laid to rest in the churchyard of St Peter Mancoft, my own parish. I hoped one day to restore him to the bosom of his family, should I be able to find them. The Valmar family vault should rightly be his last resting place. Nevertheless, I’m sure the churchyard here, close to the family whom he chose for himself and who loved him to the last, would be better. You may ask to have the coffin moved and reburied, Mr Meyrick, or leave him where he is. I have already arranged for a stonemason to carve a proper headstone. I don’t care a whit if Sir Samuel objects.’

  ‘May God bless you for your kindness, Mr Foxe! ’Twill be hard enough to tell my wife what has happened. If she thought he lay in a pauper’s grave, she’d never get over it to her dying day. We’ll see as he lies next to his wife, as is only fit and proper. That is, if you agrees to it.’

  ‘I shall see it is done as soon as possible, Mr Meyrick. I shall also instruct that both their names are carved on the headstone. No, you need not offer to pay for it yourself. I have already determined to do so and can afford it far better than you. There is one condition, however.’

  ‘Anything, Mr Foxe, so be it’s lawful and seemly.’

  ‘Both, Mr Meyrick. I want you to say nothing of this to young Harry — at least, nothing until I say you may. There are matters I need to attend to first. You may tell him his father has died, but no more than that. I dare say it will be enough for the present anyway. Let us wait until what I plan to do has been accomplished. Then I will return and tell you what further news you may give him. Please say nothing to your wife either, beyond telling her George has been found dead and given a decent funeral and burial place. Please, I beg you, say nought about his true identity. Not yet.’

  Mr Meyrick promised to do as Foxe asked and Foxe left, leaving the stricken cabinetmaker to break the sad tidings to his wife and grandson. For himself, Foxe had rarely in his life been so angry; nor so determined to do all in his power to right so manifest a wrong. Let Sir Samuel rage and threaten all he wished. He would take no more notice of his noise than he would of the barking of a lady’s lapdog.

  Foxe took his time walking home. After several days of cold and damp, the weather had turned warmer and the sun had come out. He always enjoyed walking through the city on fine days. He would stroll along, nodding left and right to various acquaintances. It was often a good time to work out new ideas about whichever puzzle was then occupying his thoughts.

  On this occasion, he certainly had plenty to mull over. For his own peace of mind, he had to try to find a way to proceed further in the matter of George Valmar. That poor fellow might indeed be dead, but there was now his son to consider. The boy’s future should not lie in a cabinetmaker’s workshop. He should be learning how to run the household and estates which would one day be his by right.

  But were they? Sir Samuel Valmar claimed his son George had died somewhere overseas. He had also told other people that he’d disinherited the young man after their final quarrel. Were either of these statements true? Foxe didn’t think so — indeed, he was sure the first one was a blatant lie. Could he be certain? Had George Valmar truly been deprived of his inheritance? If he had, any son of his, legitimate or not, could make no claim on the Hutton Hall estates.

  At once, Foxe turned aside, to make his way to where his own lawyer, Mr Samuel Morphew, lived. If the man was at home, it would be simple to ask him. All these grand estates tended to be entailed. Inheritance was then legally restricted to direct male heirs. It was not in the gift of the person currently in occupation and could not be taken away without obtaining legal permission to do so. Foxe had heard of such entails being removed — ‘broken’ the correct term was — but thought it was exceedingly rare and difficult to achieve. Yet without breaking the entail, Sir Samuel Valmar would be unable to prevent his eldest son inheriting so long as he were alive. Any direct, legitimate, male descendant of that son would automatically become the heir after his father’s death.

  He was out of luck and the lawyer was not at home. Still, Foxe was able to make an appointment to see the man the next morning. He always enjoyed visiting Samuel Morphew. Not only was the man a pleasant, cheerful fellow and a good friend, but he possessed elegant taste, furnishing his rooms in a way Foxe found especially pleasing.

  Next morning found the two of them sitting in the room Mr Morphew used for his business, drinking fine coffee. All the while Foxe looked around him, admiring the mahogany furniture, the gilded mirrors on the walls, and the magnificent displ
ay of Chinese porcelain vases along the mantelpiece.

  ‘Where d’you find these fine Chinese pieces?’ Foxe asked Morphew. ‘Surely there is nowhere in this city where a man might buy such splendid items.’

  ‘I’m lucky enough to have a relative who works for the East India Company,’ Morphew told him. ‘Senior members of the company like him are allowed to import small amounts of porcelain for their own use or to sell to chosen friends.’

  ‘I wish I had a relative like that,’ Foxe said ruefully.

  ‘You have a friend who does,’ Morphew replied. ‘Tell me what you would like, Foxe, and I’ll see what I can do for you. But be warned! Such pieces cost a good deal of money.’

  ‘I’m sure they do. Still, I would be willing to pay a substantial amount to own one or two items of a similar nature.’

  ‘I doubt that you’ve come here to discuss purchases of porcelain,’ Mr Morphew said. ‘Shall we get down to business? I have a good deal to do today, even if you are at leisure.’

  ‘I want to discuss the law surrounding entailment of an estate,’ Foxe began. ‘Let’s say you wished to disinherit your eldest son and the estate was entailed on the next, legitimate, male heir. Could you do it? If you could, how would you go about it and break the entail?’

  Morphew stared at Foxe in amazement. ‘But you don’t have a son, legitimate or otherwise — at least, as far as I know,’ he said. ‘Besides, the business I have done for you in the past makes me certain that your own inheritance is not subject to any entail either. What on earth is this all about? Another one of your puzzles?’

  Foxe nodded his assent. ‘It could be of vital importance, Morphew,’ he said. ‘If I’m right, it was an entail of this nature which led to a most brutal and wicked murder.’

  ‘I’m intrigued,’ Morphew said. ‘Can you tell me anymore?’

  ‘I would prefer not to go into any detail, unless it’s essential for you to be able to answer the question I just posed to you,’ Foxe said. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Not if you only wish to know the basics of the law on the matter. If you wish to explore a specific case, I would need to see the precise wording of the original Will in which the entail was established. Most of them follow a standard approach, but it’s possible to imagine certain variations in specific cases.’

  ‘The basics of the law will be more than good enough,’ Foxe said.

  ‘In that case, Foxe, my answer is that you could break such an entail, but it wouldn’t be easy. When an estate is entailed, all main beneficiaries under the terms of the original Will have only a life interest in its income. They don’t own the land or the mansion in their own right. That means they can’t sell it, or any portion of it. They can usually raise money through a mortgage, using the estate as security, but no more. All subsequent inheritance is also governed by the terms of the original Will. That includes who may properly be accounted as the heir. In ninety-nine cases from a hundred, such Wills require that the estate should pass strictly to the next, legitimate, direct male heir in each generation. If that fails, the next closest person in descent from the one who made the Will — the next legitimate male, I mean — will inherit. The purpose, as I’m sure you will grasp, is to make sure the lands and wealth are retained within the family.’

  ‘Tell me how I would go about breaking such an entail,’ Foxe said.

  ‘Very well. As I mentioned, it is a difficult and lengthy business. You would first need to gain the agreement of the executors and trustees for the original Will — or their successors. If you could do that, the next step would be to apply to the relevant court. That may be the consistory court of the local diocese or the appropriate archdiocese. If the Will had been proven in Norfolk, for example, that means the Archdiocese of Canterbury. It’s more likely to be the Court of Chancery in London — a fearsome place, believe me. In either case, you would make an application to set the terms of the original Will aside, thus transferring outright ownership of the land to the current possessor; or to vary those terms in the way you wished. The courts are nearly always extremely unwilling to do something like this, unless you can offer them a compelling reason. It would definitely be expensive and probably very, very slow. In the Court of Chancery, it could take years. Such cases have been known to last over several generations. It’s not unknown for the money to run out long before any resolution has been reached. Besides, the courts are nearly always extremely unwilling to do something like this, unless you can offer them a compelling reason.’

  ‘They wouldn’t agree to what you wanted simply to allow you to punish your eldest son after a quarrel?’

  ‘I imagine the court would be most unwilling to disinherit any existing legitimate heir, save on the most pressing grounds. In basic terms, my answer is that they would not agree.’

  ‘And if that eldest son had a son of his own?’

  ‘Then they would be even less willing, since that would mean disinheriting a second legitimate heir as well.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Foxe said. ‘You have been most helpful and told me all I need to know at this stage. One final point. Would it be possible to lay hands on the original Will to check its specific terms?’

  ‘Unfortunately, a Will is not a public document. The executors or trustees would never divulge such information, save on the death of the current beneficiary. Certainly not to anyone outside the immediate family. I’m sorry.’

  There Foxe had to be content. Another dead end, it appeared. Still, you never knew what time would change.

  By rights, Foxe should now have set the mystery of George Valmar’s aside and turned his attention once again to bringing someone to justice for the killing of Dr Danson. He was already as certain as he could be about the identity of Danson’s killer. Since the man Foxe suspected was dead, that left only two puzzles about the affair. Who sent him to steal the book from Danson’s library, and why?

  Foxe was convinced such a man had either been sent to steal on behalf of someone else or knew someone to whom he thought he could sell the book. Neither seemed likely to apply to George Stubbings. From all he had heard, the said Stubbings was almost certainly illiterate. None who sent him could have been certain he would know which book to take from the shelves. He would not have been able to read the titles for a start. He certainly wouldn’t have stolen for himself; nor did Foxe believe book theft would have occurred to Stubbings as a way to earn money.

  It was while Foxe was trying to work out what this might tell him that he had another idea. This one had the further advantage of allowing him to continue to procrastinate about confronting Mrs Danson. On his way home from Mr Morphew’s house, he therefore looked around for some of the street children. He usually sent Charlie to find them when he wanted them or dispatched the lad to give them a message. Still, several could usually be found hanging around the marketplace. There they begged or stole from the stallholders, looked for opportunities to pick pockets, or, in case of the older girls, solicited for trade.

  Soon enough, Foxe found a girl whom he recognised from the last group which he had talked with. He called her over and gave her some pennies for herself and to distribute amongst the others. Then he set her the fresh task: to find out whether any stranger had been asking for the man they called Uncle during the past few weeks. If there had been such a one, he would like as good a description of the man as they could give him. He was probably rough looking, Foxe told the girl, but not necessarily. It could be a servant, even one from a great household.

  Once again, the street children did him proud. Before the end of that day, he already had his answer. A man, probably a servant from the way he dressed, had questioned several stallholders and even a few of the older tarts. He said he was looking for a man he described as being aged around thirty years and well spoken. One somewhat above the average height with fair hair and sturdy limbs. The only other thing he could tell them was that the fellow was said to have been living rough and sleeping on the streets. He wanted a detailed description — and a name, if
possible — and offered to pay for anything he was told.

  None of the street children would have helped him, naturally, but he hadn’t asked them. Still, he must have found what he was looking for, because he hadn’t been seen now for two weeks or more. Then another man had appeared. This one already knew that the man they called Uncle was the person he sought. All he wished to know was where he slept at night.

  Foxe asked if they could describe this second man. They said he was dark skinned and had black hair. There was also something about him which scared them — and not just because he spoke with a foreign accent.

  Brunetti for sure, Foxe said to himself. It had to be. The first man would have been a servant sent to locate George Valmar and make sure it was the right person. After that, the second man, Brunetti, was instructed to find and eliminate him. The question was, who sent the assassin? The father or the younger son? It had to be one or the other. They were the only two people who would be desperate to prevent poor George claiming his proper position as the legitimate heir.

  17

  By this time, Foxe had exhausted all excuses and could no longer postpone talking with Mrs Danson. A man going to the funeral of his dearest friend could not have set out more reluctantly than Foxe that morning. He walked with his head down and his eyes on the ground before him. He looked neither to the right nor the left. If anyone greeted him, he ignored them. All the while his mind was in a turmoil of conflicting emotions. He hated himself, hated the notion of the task before him, coming close to hating Mrs Danson for causing him to become fond of her. All the while, he rehearsed different words and questions in his head.

  Should he tackle her directly or try to introduce his concerns slowly and subtly? What would he do if she refused to tell him anymore or ordered him out of her house? That would be not the worst problem either. What would he do if she confessed to arranging for her husband to be murdered? The law said he must hand her to the constables to face trial and probable death by hanging. His heart said he should beg her to reconsider her words and save herself.