Cheating the Hangman

by Judith Cutler

  Meanwhile I had an enjoyable conversation with Walker in a quiet corner of the servants’ hall. ‘I have heard two snippets that intrigued me but may signify nothing. One concerns a tiny cottage on an adjoining estate: I overheard a visiting lady’s maid making a foolish assignation with one of the grooms, and he suggested it would be a prime place. Abel March, I believe, Mr Toby. And there has been continued speculation about the erratic behaviour of one of the wenches here – young Sally. One of her fellow skivvies said it was as if there were two Sallys – a remark that drew the deepest blush from the girl concerned. Mr Toby – could there be two girls looking alike?’

  I thought back to my encounters with her – with them. ‘Of course: that would explain much.’

  ‘Such as, Mr Toby?’

  ‘Do you know, I am not quite sure. But it will make something fall into place … Let us assume that both girls have positions, ones that give them little pleasure, so they vary otherwise tedious lives by changing places. For them to do that without detection, the other Sally must live fairly close by. Say, within a twenty minutes’ run. I will make enquiries.’

  ‘As will I, Mr Toby, you may rest assured. And regarding our putative lovers, I am sure that Thompson will keep his ears open.’

  Ludicrously pleased with myself for finding – at second hand – two nuggets of information, I made my way home to Langley Park, only to find the household in a flutter. It appeared that Mrs Trent had written to Mrs Hansard.

  ‘She begs me to journey to Fladbury,’ Maria declared, ‘where she has found a person whom it is in our interest to interview. At least that is what I think she says.’

  She passed me the note. To save us money, Mrs Trent had crossed and recrossed the lines, so the whole was only decipherable with patience.

  ‘Does this say the Chequers?’ I pointed.

  ‘I think so. Can it be that she recommends us to take rooms at the inn while we conduct our business with this person? Alas, nowhere can I find anything that might be a name. But she is certainly asking for my presence, so I surmise that the person is a woman. Edmund suggests that the three of us leave early tomorrow morning, returning in the evening, when the moon will be bright enough to light our way. Toone has offered to care for any of his patients should an emergency arise.’

  Such generosity surprised me but I did not remark on it. ‘Edmund does not think it necessary to make provision for an overnight stay? At this inn?’

  ‘You are both busy men: he reasons that there can be little need for all three of us to linger there.’

  ‘He would not leave without you, Maria,’ I pointed out. ‘But I suggest that I ride alongside the curricle, so that we act according to circumstances.’

  It might have been a cold wet spring in Moreton, but compared with Fladbury we had suffered not at all. It was still possible to see wet tidemarks on the bridge and other low-lying buildings where recent floods had reached, and the Avon was still running full. Despite this there was a pleasant air of prosperity about the village, and we were greeted by a warm burst of sunshine. Leaving Edmund to oversee the stabling of the horses, I summoned the landlord of the Chequers Inn to bespeak a private parlour. He was inclined to be slow and awkward – I was only a country parson, after all – but I had not recently been in my father’s company for nothing and he was soon obligation itself, bowing gratifyingly low as the Hansards entered. Almost before we could think of it a pot of good coffee arrived, accompanied by some honey-flavoured cakes.

  If Maria had wanted to open the conversation, she could not have been provided with a better opportunity: she was quick to pronounce the cakes delicious, and to ask who had cooked them. Soon she was able to enquire after another mistress of bakery, Mrs Trent. Soon a stable boy was despatched to fetch her from the farm at which she was staying.

  Her pleasure in seeing us was infectious: one would have thought we had all been apart for a month. But she was big with secret, and could hardly wait until the by now almost over-attentive landlord had withdrawn to speak. Even then she looked anxiously at the door: she did not wish to be overheard.

  ‘It is the most beautiful day,’ I observed, ‘and though it may be dirty underfoot, I for one would relish a quiet stroll to see the river.’

  And so it was agreed. When we were in the open, we gathered round a fingerpost as if discussing which way to take.

  ‘I have found Mr Coates’s housekeeper,’ she announced in a stage whisper. ‘Mrs Eliza Paten. She has come here to look after her niece until her confinement. I think she wants to stay.’

  ‘Did she say anything about Mr Coates?’ Edmund asked.

  ‘Nothing that she would say in front of a man,’ she replied awkwardly, ‘which is why I wrote to you, Mrs Hansard, begging your pardon, gentlemen.’

  ‘Not even another clergyman?’ I ventured.

  Her grimace was answer enough. ‘The water meadows are far too wet for us to walk to the farm. We would need to hire the landlord’s gig; his horse is slow but very reliable.’

  Edmund and I found the wait uncommonly tedious: this must be how so many women felt, when required to wait at home while their menfolk had adventures. Assured that they would be absent at least one and possibly two hours, we continued the walk round the village that we had abandoned earlier. There were some attractive shops, but neither of us wanted to purchase a new bonnet or a frieze waistcoat. A handsome house, perhaps twenty years old, attracted the eye. The blacksmith toiled rebuilding some gates. At the centre stood a fine old church, though we both feared, as we entered, that it might need some restoration. Edmund was taken by the memorial to the Throckmorton family, one I chiefly associated with the Throckmorton Plot against Elizabeth, the anointed queen.

  Neither of us, however, could be absorbed for long by either history or architecture. After several minutes kneeling in prayer side by side we were ready to return to the Chequers to temper the irritation of waiting with a glass of the landlord’s finest and a tasty nuncheon.

  Mrs Hansard and Mrs Trent returned as the landlord laid the first plate of food on the table, every inch of their demeanour indicating a successful foray, but they appeared to have agreed to tantalise us for a few more minutes by readily accepting glasses of wine, which they sipped with infuriating genteelness.

  ‘Mrs Hansard was able to write down everything Mrs Paten told us,’ Mrs Trent announced at last. Then, as if ashamed at having spoken first, she ducked her head and said nothing.

  Maria was more assured. ‘It is not necessary for a housekeeper actually to like the person she works for, but Mrs Paten appears to have held Mr Coates in positive loathing. She stayed because he paid her well above what she might expect, and because she was afraid of the consequences of quitting. At other times he was improbably kind, not to her but to some of the villagers, and she liked to believe that that was what he was really like. She insisted that he was regular and punctilious in the way he carried out his church and parish duties.’

  ‘Did she tell you what ailment might have sent him abroad to take a spa cure?’

  ‘Not at all. She didn’t even know he was going anywhere until he failed to return home one night. The next evening, when it was already dark, some clergyman she’d never seen before called round with the news that her master had left the country. It was he who told her to quit the place first thing the following morning.’

  Edmund stared. ‘So Coates goes on a journey of some length and duration without so much as asking her to sew a button on a shirt! Was this normal in him?’

  Maria nodded. ‘Apparently all his comings and goings were erratic. She learnt from bitter experience – the threat of dismissal without a character – not to ask where he had been for the days or nights he was absent. Days and nights,’ she repeated meaningfully. She produced a sheaf of closely written papers from her reticule. ‘Everything she said is written down, as Mrs Trent says.’

  ‘She gave a great deal of information,’ Edmund observed dryly.

  ‘And something
else besides!’ Now Mrs Trent patted her reticule. For the first time I noticed how bulky it was, with what an irregular outline. ‘The keys to Clavercote Rectory, Mr Toby, sir.’

  Much as we wanted to return home forthwith, it was incumbent on us, in all humanity, to call in to see how Dan progressed. He was still weak and pale, but beginning to hobble about. Edmund inspected his wound, pronouncing himself satisfied thus far but insisting that he continue to apply fomentations and liberal applications of the ointment Toone had provided. Mrs Trent’s cousin personified kindness.

  ‘Kind nursing and good fresh food have helped him turn the corner. And the sun is to my mind a great healer,’ said Hansard. ‘Though I do not expect you to need it, here is the name of one of my colleagues who will provide immediate assistance. I will pay the fee myself.’

  Happy that Mrs Trent was content to be with her family, I promised her that I would come myself – with Robert as my tiger – to collect her when she was ready to return. ‘But do not leave it too long,’ I added. ‘Now I cannot spend time at the rectory I find I miss it and my good friends there.’

  ‘Next week at the very latest,’ she said, firmly, ‘now I’m no longer needed.’

  ‘It was meant to be a holiday for you!’

  ‘So it was. But I don’t think we women take holidays, sir. Now, you keep away from those folk from Clavercote till I come back.’

  ‘How can I make use of these keys without going to the village?’ I joked.

  Her face was a study. ‘Are you riding Titus, Mr Toby? In that case give me five minutes to gather my things and I swear I will ride pillion!’

  It was all too clear that she was serious.

  In fact our journey was altogether more decorous. Back at the Chequers I was able to hire a hack for Edmund, and the ladies travelled in the curricle, Mrs Hansard and Mrs Trent taking it in turns to handle the ribbons.

  We found the Morton St Jude’s rectory still guarded by the cricket team, who reassured us jovially that all was right and tight. But for once even Mrs Trent quailed at the thought of starting fires and airing beds, and doing all without the assistance of Susan, no doubt fast asleep at Langley Park. The Hansards insisted that we both postpone our return till the morrow.

  A stop at the schoolmaster’s house was rewarded by a volley of barks and from Jem a peremptory call for silence. Cribb slobbered all over us, his tail flaying any leg within range. Jem confined himself to a handshake, kissing the ladies’ hands with some aplomb and, I suspected, much affection.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  There could be no housebreaking on the Sabbath, I decreed, and no one argued. Accordingly my little family and I returned first thing to the rectory, where I could hear all the bustle of fires being lit and water drawn. Meanwhile I got ready for the eleven o’clock service, praying that though my preparation had been scant, the sermon would nonetheless move hearts.

  We all arrived at the church door with rather more haste than dignity. Mrs Trent led her charges in first, leaving me to catch my breath and assume a more reverent demeanour. I sensed, as I walked into the church, that there was a slight frisson: not the welcoming applause of the previous week, but a murmur of what felt like apprehension.

  It was not until I was turning on the chancel steps to greet my flock that I realised why. Seated right in the middle of the nave was none other than the archdeacon. He did not look as if he was full of the joy of God.

  I hoped the sermon would be better than I thought it was.

  All the hymns were sung with enormous gusto: I must take courage from that. My wardens gave the readings in good clear voices, with only the occasional nervous stutter. I suspect that Mr Mead winked at me as he concluded his, which had been the parable of the Good Samaritan. It was almost like a divine prompt. Putting aside my notes, I spoke extempore, speaking of the villagers’ constant kindness to each other and to wayfarers. I held up a furiously blushing Mrs Trent, Susan and Robert as shining examples of people with little being generous in giving to strangers with less. But, I pointed out, sometimes being kind to one person meant having less time for another. I had neglected them of late, as I was trying to help people in great trouble in a village without a pastor, and I was very sorry. As soon as I could, I promised I would devote myself to all the needs of my own flock – even if, I ended, that meant opening the batting against the fiercest bowler the neighbouring villages could put up against our team. The demon bowler, I added.

  The faces showed kindly amusement. We declared our faith in the Creed, and then, standing to one side, I asked Archdeacon Cornforth to preside over Communion.

  The service over, I saw Mrs Trent in urgent conversation with Maria Hansard, who was accompanied by Edmund, but not by Toone. Maria appeared to calm and reassure her. But, collecting Susan and Robert like a frantic mother hen, she sped off home as quickly as she could. As I shook hands with the remainder of the villagers, Mead and Tufnell literally stood shoulder to shoulder with me, a phalanx of protection against any vicarious episcopal rebukes.

  Accordingly, when I invited the archdeacon to join me in a glass of sherry, I invited them too and also their wives, blushing with pleasure under the brims of their best bonnets. Suspecting that there had not been time to light a fire in my parlour, I suggested we sit outside on the terrace, the gardener’s efforts glowing in the spring sun. Perhaps Mrs Trent’s cakes were fewer in number than usual, but I could explain that for her – she had been visiting a sick friend.

  Archdeacon Cornforth was not a man to be confused by a smokescreen of idle chatter. ‘Did you not have a sick man living with you? A man some feared had attacked you but whom you were adamant had in fact saved your life?’

  ‘I did indeed, sir, but from nowhere some relatives appeared in response to a letter he dictated to one of those nursing him and they took him away to recuperate with them.’

  ‘So he has evaded justice!’

  ‘Begging your pardon, there is one Justice none of us can evade, Archdeacon,’ put in Mrs Tufnell, sherry-brave. She flushed to her ears and subsided.

  ‘Indeed so.’ He raised his eyeglass to depress any further pretensions. ‘And how have you all fared while your rector has been gallivanting around the countryside?’ His tone was regrettably patronising.

  Stung, Mead pulled himself up as straight as a military man. ‘We have been praying for his safety, sir, hoping he would be saved from the lion’s den like Daniel before him. People setting on a decent man while he rides home from a deathbed; people trying to hang him and his friend – men who only ever try to do good, sir.’

  ‘And you know this for a fact, not just as an overheated rumour?’ asked Cornforth with forensic precision.

  As if he did not know exactly what I had told the bishop! So my word was an overheated rumour, was it?

  ‘I know it because my nephew’s intended saw it – the lynch mob, sir, not the attack.’ He set down his glass on a stool Robert had conjured from somewhere in lieu of a table. ‘You know who saved Dr Campion, sir – the good woman who made these cakes. And yet he goes back again to tend another old gaffer. He ought to be made a saint, saving your presence, sir.’

  It was clear that unless Cornforth was prepared to outstay the wardens, we would not have the conversation he wanted. My father would have dismissed them with an arrogant wave of the hand. So, I suspect, would Cornforth, on his own territory. For a while I worried that they meant to make a day of it, but as if by common consent the wardens and wives got to their feet and made polite farewells. Then I recalled that they took their meals at country times, and did not want their lamb to roast to death.

  I took the initiative the moment Cornforth and I resumed our seats. ‘There is something that you need to see, Archdeacon – a deposition by Mr Coates’s housekeeper, Mrs Paten, regarding his behaviour while she was in his employ. Given its incendiary nature, it is currently locked away for safe-keeping.’

  ‘Indeed. I do not take kindly your direct appeal to the bishop, Campion –
there are procedures to follow, hierarchies to honour. They are there for a reason. To be honest, it is a matter not under your jurisdiction. The churchwardens of Clavercote are the ones who should, if necessary, request assistance. In fact, I have half a mind to go and speak to them now.’ He dusted an imaginary speck from his coat sleeve. ‘I left my curricle at the inn I saw across the green. It looks a prosperous enough place.’

  ‘It was ready to fall down. But some of the local farmers joined together to repair it. There is a new landlord, and as you can see, a brand-new sign: the Lost Cause. After St Jude’s,’ I added.

  He might have been stung by an early wasp. ‘The patron saint of – Campion, I am appalled you should encourage such papism.’

  ‘It was a fait accompli by the time they told me – a pleasant village joke, Archdeacon. But what my wardens told you then was no joke. I truly believe that if you appear in Clavercote in your fine clerical clothes, with a pair of horses many aristocrats could not afford, you will be putting yourself in danger. If you wish to talk to the wardens, send for them and speak to them here: I will vacate my study so that you may do so in privacy. Or of course,’ I added, with what felt regrettably akin to malice, ‘you might ask my housekeeper to travel with you to ensure your safety.’

  He was spared the necessity of replying by the arrival of Will, with a message from the Hansards. Although it was addressed to me, it contained an invitation to Cornforth to dinner, with a rider that he and his groom would be most welcome to stay overnight at Langley Park. I rubbed mental hands at the thought of an encounter between him and Toone. Who would come off better?

  ‘If I might trouble you for pen and paper I will write to accept,’ he said at last – scarcely with spontaneous effusions of joy. ‘And perhaps I might avail myself of your study to speak to the churchwardens, if someone is prepared to deliver a message, that is.’