by Jane Jakeman
Sara Dermott struggled with embarrassment, but I could guess the rest.
This was something that I do not believe would occur to persons of your own station in life, my lord, but from my own experience when I was a struggling actor living amongst those who were truly the poorest of the poor, I understood what had happened. I had once had a landlady not much better off than Mrs. Dermott: I know the shifts and strategies to which the near-indigent are driven.
The Dermotts could not afford to dispose of the clothes returned to the family by the Coroner’s Office. So poor was this household that even the darned and repaired clothing of a dead sister could not be discarded.
“So you found something?” I said, quietly. We actors boom a lot, you know, but we know also when to speak softly.
Sara brought out a paper, much rubbed and folded.
“Us don’t know what it says, sir,” she murmured, “We can’t read it, you see. Nor could Maggie — she were hoping Miss Lilian could tell her what it was.”
“So how did she know it was anything to do with the Overbury household?”
“Maggie heard them men going mad for having lost a paper. Carrying on terrible, they were. They was searching high and low and the whole ’ouse were in an uproar. Then that pockmarked fellow Casterman said best not to say more about it — that’s what Maggie heard. But there were a paper lying in the hall, under where the gennlemen hangs their cloaks. Maggie found it while she were sweeping up the mud from outside as had tracked into the hall. She reckoned it had fallen out of a pocket or summa, and got blown out of sight wi’ the draught, when the front door were opened, like. So she slipped it in her pocket.”
“Was it all that she gave you? Do you know aught of the objects — the shackles — that were described at the inquest?” The girl started shaking. “No, sir, and I’ve niver seen anything more horrible in my life than when them things were held up in the court. Evil, they looked, real evil. If ever Maggie’d said anything to me about them, we’d never hev let her go back there, I swear it!”
I have to agree with Sara. Those objects did bring a whiff of real wickedness into the courtroom. I still recall the obscene way they flashed in the light. “The devil’s bracelets” I believe they were called in the old slave trade.
“This is all she give me, sir!” Sara passed me the paper. As you may see, it is written in an elaborate and flourishing hand, with many twiddles and flourishes on the strokes:
In Alexandria, this third day of December, in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine.
Received from Mr. Micah Overbury through the offices of Messrs Capaldoni, of the Banca Prima di Venezia, the sum of five hundred guineas, in respect of the cargo which is described below.
I puzzled over the words for a moment, before I understood them, so strangely out of place they seemed in that wretched attic room. And then I made out the description of the consignment: “La Egiziàna”
Now, I have picked up a little Italian as I have traipsed around (never shall I forget that contralto from La Scala!) but I still cannot make much sense of this. The words would appear to mean “the Egyptian,” but the Egyptian what? It seems a nonsense to me, and of what it might import I have no notion, but I am sending your lordship an exact account of proceedings, as you requested me to do and therefore repeat the phrase verbatim and enclose the paper.
I am sealing this letter straightaway, as the messenger is come here in the room to take it to the packet. I trust your lordship is in good health. My compliments to Miss Ariadne.
Finally, my lord, I commend the Dermott family to your charity. They will have none, I believe, from Mr. Micah Overbury.
I subscribe myself your devoted servant,
R. Belos
EIGHTEEN
From Miss Elisabeth Anstruther, Malaga House, The Downs, Bristol, to Lord Ambrose Malfine. care of His Britannic Majesty's Consulate in the city of Alexandria, poste restante.
My mother is well, and conducts herself most affectionately towards me, and I am happy to say that I am entirely re-established in the feelings of my family; indeed, our domestic circumstances here at Bristol are perfectly easy and comfortable. I take pleasure in our house on the Downs, with its tall windows, through which the clear light of day comes pouring in. All is freshly painted here, all well ordered and neat. It is peculiarly soothing to have one’s life arranged with clockwork regularity, and nothing, my love, could be further from your extravagant, grand, and gloomy Malfine.
Yet we live in a state of considerable excitement, for the town is in a ferment. There are many wretchedly poor creatures in the streets of Bristol and about the docks and shipyards, and it was hoped that some relief might be given them, more than is the usual custom, the autumn months coming on to be very cold. But their lives are more hopeless than ever, for no help is forthcoming. Indeed, things are like to become very harsh indeed, for the political reform for which they hoped has not been granted. The Bill before the House of Commons, to allow for Members of Parliament to represent the great and populous cities, was disallowed earlier this year. It is a sad blow against the recent agitations on behalf of democracy, and there is no hope of the people obtaining any redress against their misery, which inclines to real starvation, as I have seen for myself in some parts of Bristol, my mother being occupied with charitable work to relieve some of the suffering. I entered a house only the other day which you would scarce credit to be in a civilised country: there was a woman with her children, all lying beneath one ragged blanket, their limbs no better than mere sticks, and the air so cold that frost lay upon the floorboards around them. Of fuel: none. Of food: none. Looking round for the humblest possessions, or necessities to support life, I saw: none.
My mother’s friend, Marguerite, accompanies us upon these expeditions of relief. Marguerite is of Negro ancestry and was stranded here in Bristol by the tide of events which ebb and flow in the great world beyond, for she and her parents were slaves awaiting shipment in the port when the judgement came through that the slave trade was abolished under the British flag. The captain of the slaving vessel, seeing his profits gone, cut off their shackles and turned them on shore, saying to them: “You may fend for yourselves now! Eat freedom, drink freedom, see if your freedom will clothe and warm you, for I will not be at the expense of keeping you!”
So Marguerite and her mother and father were set down upon the docks to live as best they might, and a hard time they had of it at first, not knowing any in the place nor having anything but the rags upon their backs. But it was at this time that my mother, having cause to go down to the port with an urgent message for my fathers man of business, saw the Negro child and her parents in wretchedness. She being of a gentle and pitying disposition, my mother took them to our house and gave them some employment about the gardens, till at last Grace’s father was enabled to set up as a seedsman, an occupation which he managed excellently. Grace did his figuring and wrote his letters for him, and she has never left off her friendship for my family. Yet, she says to me that we are deceived if we believe the Negroes to be free, for in the plantations they are still slaves to the owners, and labour under the whip of the masters. This I did not know, for I had always believed that, wherever the British flag may wave, all have their liberty and are free from that awful tyranny. But not so, for the slave-owners in the West Indies would not give up their property, as they call their slaves, and could not be compelled so to do. There slavery still rules, under, to our shame, the British banner! And Marguerite believes that there are still slave-traders in our islands of Britain, carrying on their trade by smuggling human flesh as if it were so much dead contraband!
I go still with Mother into the town upon our charitable expeditions, but my father has said that he will forbid them if the situation should become more alarming still, and there be some real likelihood of an uprising. For myself, I do not fear, for when you and I are parted I care for nothing else: the rest of life touches me only as if it were a dream
, but on behalf of my mother I must feel some alarm, and my family may remove to Bath for the remainder of the year.
The envoy you despatched from Alexandria, young Sholto Lawrence, arrived from Egypt at Portsmouth three days ago, and called here with your letter for me, which I read again and again in my room overlooking the sea, in this pale light which flickers and reflects off the water. Sholto stayed here overnight and left yesterday for Malfine, bearing your instructions to Belos. The task with which you have entrusted the young man, who seems to be a great admirer of yours, seems an almost impossible search, that of looking for a needle in a haystack, yet perhaps he may succeed. I am encouraged to believe he may on two accounts: the first is that he can enlist the help of the gypsy men, who go about over the whole county and have a wonderful knowledge of such matters, and the second, not to put too fine a point upon it, is that he has clearly fallen head-over-heels in love with Miss Lilian Westmorland, about whom he cannot stop talking! We had nothing but Miss Westmorland for the whole of his visit, at every opportunity. “Miss Westmorland,” he believes, “is a very fine rider ... Miss Westmorland does not care much for reading the newspapers ... Miss Westmorland has a very charming shawl in just such a shade ...” Clearly, the briefest of acquaintances with the young lady has rendered young Sholto her devoted slave, and he will leave no stone unturned in the endeavour to assist her cause and restore her happiness.
I break off now, for the candle on my table is guttering in a wind that blows up from the sea; it will be a wild night out there tonight. As the Psalmist says:
“They that go down to the sea in ships and do business in great waters;
These see the works of the Lord and his wonders in the deep.”
But I myself desire only tranquility and safe harbour!
My letter is continued the next day, for there is some news to impart. Sholto Lawrence returned from Malfine this morning and begs me to go thither because he feels that my intervention may resolve his difficulties and bring him nearer to being inscribed in the “good books” of his Miss Lilian. I doubt that I can truly be of any assistance in the matter but my father is of the opinion that Bristol is not safe any longer — there have been such rumours of riot — and the alternative is that I should accompany my mother to the tediums of Bath. If I have learned anything from your passionate spirit it is to resist the tyranny of tea and polite conversation, and my father’s carriage is therefore to take me back to Malfine tomorrow. Do not think that thereby I am once more committing myself to you; I desire to be of some use to this ardent young man and to please my father, who will not be satisfied till his wife and daughter are safely removed from the scene of any possible danger.
This correspondence goes with a packet bound for Malta, whence the mail will transfer for Egypt. I see you in my mind’s eye, with the sands blowing about you, unsealing this letter as you sit within your tent. Somehow I cannot picture you with any companions, for we are solitary creatures, you and I. Yet I fear some imbroglio for you; I know you to have a passion for justice that involves you against your will in the affairs of our fellow beings, taking you into dangers and entanglements. It was that idealistic hope for a better world which drove you to fight against tyranny in Greece, where you got so horribly wounded. It was the same passionate defence of the weak that made you intervene to save the gypsy from lynching at Crawshay’s farm last year. And, in spite of all you say against the stupidity and cruelty of the world, of how you long to withdraw from it, I fear your quixotic streak of courage, for it may prove your undoing.
How can I promise to wait for you when any frightful enterprise might come between us, attracting your fervour as
the flame attracts a moth? What, then, would be left for me? I want a living man, not a husk.
Write to me when you can.
E.
*
From Miss Elisabeth Anstruther, at Malfine in the County of Somerset. To Lord Ambrose Malfine, care of his Britannic Majesty's Consul in Alexandria, poste restante.
I arrived back at Malfine yesterday, but I do not intend to stay for long. Sholto called this morning — he is staying at the ale-house in the village, a place that can scarcely be called an inn, let alone an hotel, but it seems that the bed is cleanly enough and there he wishes to remain for the present. He may transfer to Lute House, for he has become acquainted with Dr. and Mrs. Sandys, and I expect they will ask him to stay with them if he desires to remain in the district. However, he has spent some time in the stables here at Malfine, worshipping your Zaraband, whom Pellers brought safely home from her exploits across Dartmoor. In the neighbourhood, it is truly considered a most remarkable feat and Pellers is near bursting with pride in his charge.
The task which Sholto Lawrence has imposed upon himself is a difficult one enough, although I understand he has had your advice upon the matter. But nevertheless the scent is so faint and the thread that is to be followed is so slender, that I doubt any traces now remain. But I will do what I can to help him. He rides out all around in the foulest of weather, across fields and byways, asking of every passing body, so that he is almost become like a village simpleton who can speak of one thing alone, and is regarded with a mixture of indulgence and exasperation by the good folk hereabouts so that he rarely receives a churlish answer. But Belos tells me that people
mutter behind his back and would not in any event give him an answer to the question he so badly desires to have resolved on behalf of his Miss Lilian.
As for Westmorland Park, it remains quite deserted and shut up except for the lodge, but Mr. Micah Overbury keeps a room there and visits it from time to time, though no one seems to know what lies within. On these occasions,
Mr. Overbury’s carriage rolls up to the gates, the lodge-keeper is called for — the call always coming from the coachman, the occupant of the carriage not troubling himself to put his head out and speak with his own tongue — as I say, the lodge-keeper is called upon to open the gates for the carriage which arrives late in the evening and leaves early next morning.
Mr. Overbury has nothing to say to anyone, it seems, and when Mrs. Sandys sent to enquire after his niece’s health, he merely sent a reply to thank Mrs. Sandys for her kind interest and say that he understood the climate of Egypt suited Miss Westmorland extremely well. I have heard also that nothing is known of the groom, Adams, though Dr. Sandys did mention that he had treated Miss Adams for a bad burn on her hand. She was apparently quite silent throughout the painful business of cleaning and dressing the wound, coming to the doctor’s house after dark as though she did not wish to be seen.
Young Sholto has been to the Park to try to speak to Mr. Overbury, but either there is no one at home or Mr. Overbury regrets that he is too occupied with matters of business to entertain Mr. Lawrence. So the young man learns nothing there — nor, I fancy, at Lute House, for good people though the Sandys may be, I cannot think they know anything that would bring Sholto Lawrence closer to his goal.
So he can learn nothing at Westmorland Park and nothing at Lute House.
The man he seeks, that is, the man you told him to search for, has not been seen these two months or more, neither him nor any of his family or tribe — they have the power to vanish into the countryside, almost as if a painter had just painted them out of the landscape a moment before! They may be deep within the woods even now — or on the move anywhere, for aught we know. At any rate, I am the person most likely to recognise them, since they lived here in the grounds over the last year. I will not close this letter yet, but will wait a day or two more.
*
And there is indeed further news. Yesterday morning Sholto rode over to say that he may have learnt something in the alehouse, and I understood why he had preferred to stay there. It was so that he might pick up any wayfarers’ gossip that might lead him to that which he seeks. The young fellow is perhaps besotted with his Miss Lilian, but he is not a fool, after all!
He had learned from some casual talk that there was a gypsy ca
ravan camped about twenty miles from here in the direction of Callerton.
When we got to the place, there was only the blackened ring of their fire and the scene seemed utterly desolate.
“Do stay in the carriage, Miss Anstruther,” said young Lawrence, for we had driven in the Malfine coach. “The day is raw, and it looks as if we are too late in any case. But I may as well just get out and take a look around.”
So I waited in the carriage on the road next to the rough unploughed field where the gypsies had been encamped, behind a screen of scrubby hedge and trees that tempered the cold wind which was blowing across the deserted spot.
There was a small trench neatly dug at the side of the field, with clean water that must have seeped therein. Sholto walked over to look at it.
“They were the old Romanies, all right,” said a voice from the hedge.
A man emerged, young and sleepy-eyed, rubbing his head, and he bent down over the trench, cupped his hand and splashed some of the water over his face. “I was drinking in the tavern with them last night — and by God, they are good men for a wager and a yard of ale!”
He felt his pockets and laughed. “Well, I had nothing more to take! I woke up this morning and they were gone clean away, like birds from the nest!”
He bent down once more, giving a groan as he did so, and again splashed some drops of water over his face.
“Aye, they were true gypsies, all right. See this water here? That was their bath and their basin. They would not wash except in a hole in the earth. Would not drink out of another man’s mug, lest it were defiled by one of us gorgios”
Young Sholto leaned forward eagerly.
“Do you have any idea of where they are gone?”
“Who is asking for them?”
“My name is Sholto Lawrence. I have a most particular reason for finding them — I assure you, I mean no harm to them.”