‘This is the old gamekeeper’s cottage, Mr Foxe,’ the woman said at that point. ‘The poor man was killed recently in a fight with a gang of poachers. He wasn’t married and was getting old too old to manage his job and keep this place in any kind of good order. His replacement has not yet arrived. When he does, I find it hard to believe he’ll relish living here. The master begrudges any money spent on estate houses — save only the lodges and any other properties which may be seen from the road. He is absent on business today, thank goodness. Even so, my mistress wishes to speak to you in private, well away from prying servants listening behind doors. This cottage is both empty and remote from the house itself. You will not be disturbed. I will wait in another room until you have finished and then escort my mistress back to the house. We often take long walks in the gardens and grounds on a fine day. No one will suspect she has been meeting you here.’
With that, she leant forward, opened the carriage door and stepped out, leaving a surprised Mr Foxe to follow her. Together, she in front and Foxe behind, they went up to the door of the cottage. The maidservant knocked three times before opening it and signalling Foxe to enter in front of her.
Lady Valmar was waiting for him in what must once have served as the gamekeeper’s parlour. Now cobwebs hung from the ceiling, the floor was marked by drifts of dust, and leaves had blown in from somewhere to settle about the hearth. Lady Valmar stood stiff and upright, just as he remembered her from their last meeting in Colgate. This time, however, her face bore the signs of sleepless nights and recent tears.
As soon as Foxe had entered the room and without any preliminaries, she spoke, her voice weak and shaking a little.
‘Tell me about my son, Mr Foxe. My poor, darling, wronged George.’
‘You recognised the pendant,’ Foxe said. ‘I knew you had. I saw you start as I laid it before you.’
‘He loved that pendant. I gave it to him on his twelfth birthday and he wore it always. Am I right in assuming that he is dead?’
Foxe nodded.
‘I dared say nothing before. My husband had threatened me with terrible consequences if I spoke as much as a word,’ Lady Valmar continued. ‘He’s beaten me many times, Mr Foxe, so I know what to expect if I dare to disobey him. He’s not really a bad man. Not wicked. It’s mostly that he can’t bear to be disobeyed or thwarted. That was why he threw George out of the house and said he would disinherit him. My other son, Frederick, knows to avoid anything that would upset his father. It’s easy for him. He’s only interested in hunting and drinking with his friends. George wanted to do more. To get involved in things; to improve the estate. He was all for introducing new farming methods and rotations and improving the lives of those who work here.’
‘Your husband wouldn’t hear of it?’ Foxe said. ‘But surely, it would have been to his advantage?’
‘Even if it did, he would have rejected it. He hadn’t thought of it first, you see. He also cares nothing for his servants, his workers. No, nor even for his wife. All he cares about is some outworn concept of family honour and status. He thinks being a Valmar gives him the right to do anything he wishes, so long as he can maintain things as he claims they have been for hundreds of years. Frederick goes along with him because he’s too lazy to do anything else. Now, tell me about George. Do you know what he had been doing all these years?’
‘So far as I can discover,’ Foxe replied, ‘living first in London. Then he returned to live in Norwich in the house of a cabinetmaker. In both cities, he earned his living as a fencing master under the name of Georges Val d'Isère.’
Lady Valmar smiled. It was a weak smile, but the best she could manage.
‘That is the name of a village in the French Alpine regions, Mr Foxe,’ she said. ‘I had a French maid; one who was with me when George was a small child. She came from that part of France. She loved my son and spent a great deal of time with him. She even taught him something of the French language. He had a natural ear for languages, Mr Foxe, and picked it up in no time. Later, his tutors improved it still further, but she gave him a flying start. How typical of him that he remembered her!’
‘The cabinetmaker he lodged with had only one child, your ladyship,’ Foxe said. ‘A daughter. Naturally enough perhaps, she and your son fell in love and then married. After that, George found the two of them a house nearby.’
‘What has happened to her?’ Lady Valmar asked eagerly. ‘Does she live there still? I thought you said the man from whom you took the pendant was living as some kind of vagrant?’
‘He was,’ Foxe replied. ‘Your son’s wife died about two years ago. According to her parents, her death caused him such grief that he acted as if he had lost his mind. After that he disappeared. No one knew where he had gone. It was only after his body was found that I discovered he’d been living on the streets as a vagrant. Whether he still knew who he was and what he had been, I cannot tell you. All I know is that he entertained the street children with tales of life as a child in a grand mansion. They thought he made them up to amuse them.’
‘How did my son die?’
Foxe had been dreading this question. Should he tell her the truth, or try to sidestep an answer by saying he’d not seen the body himself and was not sure? No, that would be lying. She deserved better than that.
‘A professional assassin killed him, Lady Valmar. Probably when he was sleeping. A professional who kills for payment. Your son was murdered.’
Lady Valmar let out a deep groan. Then she put her hands up to cover her face and hide her tears. Between sobs, she gasped out how much she had loved her firstborn. How proud she had been of him as he grew up. How much his father’s cruelty in banning him from the house had affected her, ruining her life and happiness ever since.
‘He even struck the boy, Mr Foxe. Struck him in the face and called him a disgrace to the family name. Told him to get out and never return. Yet, throughout this whole tirade, my son said nothing. He stood like Christ before his accusers. At the end of my husband’s tirade, he turned on his heel and walked out of the house. I never saw him again. My husband wouldn’t even let me go to him to say goodbye. At that moment, sir, I hated my husband from the very depths of my soul.’
Foxe waited. It would have been unthinkable for him to do anything else. Lady Valmar was somewhere else, remembering that terrible day; clenching and unclenching her fingers and shaking from the emotions which ripped through her body and mind. When at length she grew calmer, Foxe tried to apologise for upsetting her. She waved his words aside.
‘Do you know who sent the assassin?’ she asked him.
‘I have some ideas, your ladyship, but I cannot yet be certain.’
There was no way he could cause this woman even more pain by sharing all he knew. Especially the certainty that the man who had caused this deed to be done was a member of her close family. Instead, he tried to send the conversation down a different track.
‘Your son, George, had a son of his own. I’ve seen him. A fine boy, whom I’m told is the image of his father.’
Lady Valmar stepped forward and took hold of Foxe’s arm, as if by doing so she could wring information out of him.
‘Who is he? Who? Where is he? How old is he? Please tell me at once, Mr Foxe, I beg of you. I have a grandson! A grandson! Is he well?’
All the time she was speaking, she was shaking Foxe.
‘I believe he is some ten years old, your ladyship,’ Foxe replied, gently disentangling himself from her grip. ‘A strapping young lad, as I said, full of life. He lives with his other grandparents, who have looked after him tenderly since his father left. I gather your son never told them his past history or true identity. They assumed the boy had no other family and intended to bring him up to follow in his grandfather’s trade.’
‘Praise God! May He bless them for their kindness!’ She paused, as another thought came to her. ‘Have you told my husband any of this?’
‘I have not, your ladyship,’ Foxe said. ‘Not yet.�
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‘Then do not, Mr Foxe, I beg of you. The boy will be happier without him having anything to do with my husband. How I wish I could go and see him! The image of his father! I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.’
‘I will do as you ask me, Lady Valmar,’ Foxe said. ‘Your second son will of course need to know at some point of the boy’s existence. I know this estate is most likely entailed, almost certainly on the next, legitimate male descendant of the original owner. Am I right in thinking that?’
‘You are. For all his bluster, my husband could not interfere with that. After my son left, he told everyone he had gone abroad; then that he had died there. Both lies, of course, but both things he devoutly hoped might yet become true.’
‘Then Frederick’s hopes will one day be dashed. Your son, George, may indeed be dead, but this lad I told you of — Henry, they call him — is the true and legitimate heir to this estate and the baronetcy. Not Frederick.’
‘My husband will never accept that, Mr Foxe! Never! The child of a cabinetmaker’s daughter? He would rather die! He will certainly put every obstacle possible in the boy’s way if he finds out.’
‘That is what I thought,’ Foxe said. ‘Even so, my lady, there are other matters about which I must speak with him. Matters he will certainly not wish to hear about either. I’m sure he will put every obstacle in my way too. He told the butler, in my presence, that I was not to be admitted should I return at any time.’ Foxe glowered at the thought. ‘He will find I am not so easily kept away. There is nothing he can do to me. I do not fear your husband, Lady Valmar. Both I and my wealth in business are beyond his reach. He may rant and rave all he wishes, but I will find some way of telling him to his face what I am sure he most dreads to hear.’
‘But surely, Mr Foxe, to hear of his son’s death, whether in Norwich or anywhere else, will be no more than he has wished for all these years?’
She paused, wrinkling her brow in thought. What could it be that her husband would be afraid to hear, if he allowed Mr Foxe to speak with him again?
‘He knew about our son before this, didn’t he?’ Lady Valmar hissed. ‘He knew! He knew George was alive! Did he also know where he was?’
‘I am quite certain he did not know all, your ladyship. Yes, I think your husband knew his eldest son was alive and well. That, and probably no more. At least until recently.’
Lady Valmar seem to have missed Foxe’s caveat.
‘Then may God curse him to hell!’ she cried. ‘I didn’t think I could hate him any more than I did, Mr Foxe, but this news has proved me wrong. I have changed my mind, Mr Foxe. Tell him he has a legitimate grandson. Tell him about the new heir. Only don’t tell him how to find the boy. Then, when you tell him, I hope the poisonous bastard chokes on the news! May it be like a burning coal lodged in his guts! A mortal wound from which that evil spawn of a pox-ridden whore can never recover! I hope he dies in agony and spends eternity in torment!’ A life of employing ladylike language was overturned in a moment by the depth of her fury.
Once again, Foxe was forced to wait until Lady Valmar could gain control of her emotions. When she did, she was able to speak to him more calmly again.
‘Will you be my messenger to the boy, Mr Foxe? I dare not meet you again in person, but Agnes, my personal maid, who brought you here, is entirely trustworthy. May I send her to you with a message for the boy? Better still, I will write — Do you know if he can read?’
‘I’m told he reads very well, your ladyship. His father taught him much and his grandparents have been sending him to a school nearby.’
‘Very well. Then I will write to him. Wait a moment! Does he know his real identity and that of his father? Have you told him?’
‘I thought to spare him the pain, at least for a few years yet, Lady Valmar. Until today, I was forced to assume that both you and your husband would reject him. There was no point in filling his head with dreams which might very well not come true — at least until your husband died. By then, he will be old enough to fight his own struggle to receive all that is due to him. Now, if you wish it, I will tell him at least part of the truth. Let him understand that he has a grandmother who cares about him. By all means let him know that much, your ladyship. But, if you will be guided by me, write to him merely as his grandmother. Let all mention of your wealth and status be omitted in any letters you send him. I’m sure you can invent a plausible reason why it is, as yet, impossible for you to meet with him.’
‘You are a wise and compassionate young man, Mr Foxe, and I will do as you say. Maybe from time to time I will send him what little money I can. Will those who care for him allow me to do that, do you think?’
‘I’m sure they will,’ Foxe replied. ‘Yes, I’m sure of that — and help him to spend it wisely as well. I will tell them enough of this meeting to understand all they need to at this point. His grandfather and grandmother know the truth of young Henry’s breeding but have promised to stay silent. They will say nothing of your name or standing. I will explain to them that you knew nothing of the boy’s existence until I told you today. I will also tell them there are certain pressing domestic reasons which must keep you from him for the time being. I believe they trust me enough not to pry any further.’
Foxe went home from the meeting with Lady Valmar feeling angry and frustrated. He was also deeply concerned for the woman’s well-being. She had told him that her husband had used physical violence towards her before when she had disobeyed him. Heaven knows what he would do to her if he discovered she had been talking secretly to Foxe about the son whose existence he had denied for so long. Before he came away, Foxe had tried to persuade her to leave for her own safety. All she had done was shake her head and tell him she had promised to be Sir Samuel’s wife for better or for worse. That it had turned out to be all for worse did not release her from that promise.
Now accepting her eldest son’s death at the hands of his father or brother would prove to be part of that bargain. Foxe had not been able to share that knowledge with her; nor would he, until he could not avoid doing so.
In the meantime, he felt more anxious about confronting Sir Samuel than he had before. He could look after himself. What worried him was that he must weigh his words to avoid being the cause of the man finding out any of his knowledge was due to this clandestine meeting with his wife. He had long expected any further meeting with Sir Samuel would be a most unpleasant affair. How do you confront a man — any man — and accuse him of having paid an assassin to murder his eldest son? To accuse the younger son of having done that deed would be almost as bad. Yet, it was the only way he stood any chance of protecting Lady Valmar and bringing the case to an end at the same time.
After dinner that evening, Foxe sat in his library and tried to turn his thoughts to something else. He occupied his mind with the problem, still unsolved, of the book that had been stolen from Dr Danson’s library. He was now as certain as he could be that it was not George Stubbings, Mrs Danson’s black sheep of a brother, who had murdered his sister’s husband. Since the man was dead anyway, to gain further proof was impossible. He found it inconceivable that Stubbings, a fellow whose sister said he was illiterate, would steal any book — let alone one as obscure in its content as that one. A book containing pornographic pictures perhaps. Maybe a book in a rich binding; something which looked valuable, even if you could not read a word of what was written inside. Not a book which, according to the mysterious Mr Smith, was totally unremarkable from the outside. While inside it contained nothing beyond pages of text, interspersed with symbols and magical signs.
But if Stubbings hadn’t taken the book, who had? Mr Cornelius Wake? Had he killed Danson by striking him? Had Danson died from the shock and exertion of trying to stop his book being stolen? This Mr Wake was a man about whom virtually nothing was known. Only the fact that he had written to Danson in Latin, using a relatively simple code to prevent his letter being read by unauthorised eyes. Even that much could not be explained eas
ily. He might have written in Latin to indicate that he was a learned man with a serious purpose in asking for an interview. The use of code seemed entirely superfluous, unless it was meant to be a sign that he was part of some hidden brotherhood already known to Danson.
After more than an hour of turning this over and over in his mind and getting nowhere, Foxe took his candle over to his desk. There he found pen and paper and wrote a letter. Then he folded and sealed it, addressing it to Mr Anthony Smith at St George’s College, Cambridge.
In the letter, Foxe wrote that he had found a copy of the book Smith was searching for. Unfortunately, it had been stolen and the owner murdered before he could open negotiations about a possible sale. The book had been in the library of a certain Dr Danson, a reclusive book collector in the city. Whoever it was who had been so desperate to lay their hands on the book, it seems he had been willing to steal it, presumably because Danson refused to sell. Perhaps even kill for it. He, Foxe, would continue trying to find another copy, but he didn’t hold out much hope.
That done, he called for Alfred, his manservant, to come to help prepare him for his bed. At the same time, he gave Alfred the letter and asked him to send it off next morning. With luck, it would reach Cambridge in two days at the most.
19
When his carriage drove up to the gates of Hutton Hall the next morning, Foxe was afraid, at first, that he would be denied entry. What he would do then, he wasn’t quite sure. He would think of something. Whatever difficulties were put in his way, he was determined one way or another to secure a meeting with Sir Samuel Valmar.
His resolve was destined to remain untested. The same gatekeeper who had been there the previous afternoon stepped forward to open the gates. He even nodded to Foxe’s coachman in a friendly manner and then stood aside to allow them to drive onwards towards the house itself.
A Sickness in the Soul Page 21