‘So…you have at last found time to visit your old friend,’ Lassimer said. ‘I thought you must have fled overseas to escape your reputation as the doctor who finds dead bodies, as well as producing them.’
‘Enough!’ Adam replied, laughing. ‘I must see to my business as much as you. Nor do I have the benefit of most of my customers coming to my place of work, as you do. In these country areas, those few who can afford a physician expect him to go to them. It matters not how wearisome the journey, nor how foul the roads may be.’
‘I hear you also spend your time infecting others with the pox.’
‘That, sir, would be you, though I know you are most careful inn such matters. I seek only to help them avoid the smallpox, as well you know. My services are much in demand in that regard. Its effects are too often mortal, as well as scarring those who survive. I think we should not joke about such matters. Until recent times, there was little any of us medical men could do when the disease struck.’
Lassimer tried to look penitent, but his grin was never long away. ‘I also hear, my friend, that you have a number of new patients.’
‘The one who said that notoriety is no bar to success spoke truly,’ Adam replied. ‘Since chance brought me to play a small part in the discovery of the archdeacon, I have found people see consulting me as the best way to obtain information. Would you not agree that is a most disreputable mode of behaviour?’
‘In no way, sir, for I hope to employ it myself,’ Lassimer said. His total honesty about his motives made it impossible not to smile.
‘Then you must be disappointed, I fear. I have little more to relate, save that the inquest was a most odd affair. It seemed more concerned with preventing any enquiry into the man’s death than promoting one.’
‘You call that a little matter? Come, sit down in my parlour, take a glass of punch, and tell me all, leaving out not the smallest detail. I will close my shop for this. Anne! Bring us two glasses of punch at once.’ The servant clearly knew her master’s habits, for she had entered the room almost as he called, bearing a jug of punch and two glasses. Lassimer looked at her fondly.
‘Is Anne not a paragon amongst servants, Adam, as well as being the handsomest wench in the county?’
‘You will make the girl blush, Lassimer,’ Adam said, though he observed rather a look of pleasure on the young lady’s face than any embarrassment.
‘A becoming blush would only add the final crowning touch to your beauty, would it not, my dear? Yet I must with reluctance end my contemplation of your charms, for my old friend here has grave news to relate. Be off to your duties!’ As she turn away, he landed a resounding smack upon her rump, which brought forth a squeal. Whether of indignation or delight Adam could not tell.
‘One of these days your familiar ways will land you in serious trouble,’ Adam said, trying, with scant success, to look severe.
‘Nay, my friend’ Lassimer said. ‘I may be lecherous and pay more attention to the wenches than most, but I am no fool. I steal no man’s wife. I seduce no lady of virtue, whatever her age or status. I will not force myself upon any, or pay those who make a business of pleasing men. There are enough and to spare who will join with me in love’s pleasures of their own free will. Some are, perhaps, of lower station, but not all. Several widows of good fortune and breeding have cause to thank me for returning a spring to their steps and a smile to their faces. And not all of those who have found no husband wish to remain virgins too. I own that I play the devilish flirt with my pretty Anne, but I would stop in an instant if she asked me. I have never, I assure you, troubled her bed – and never will, unless she tells me that it is what she wants.’
He paused and a wicked smile passed across his face. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘a man may live in hope!’
As they sipped their punch, Adam related all he could recall of the events at the inquest. He began with the stern unwillingness of the coroner to concern himself with anything beyond the narrowest interpretation of the law. He ended with the rudeness of Mr. Harmsworthy’s words as he was leaving.
Mr. Lassimer was the best of listeners, paying the most intense attention and saying nothing. Only when Adam came to the end of his tale did he share his thoughts. ‘Indeed, it was a most odd affair, as you said. I believe your nautical friend is right: this was nought but a plain use of the law to stop any further exploration of the matter.’
‘But why?’ Adam said. ‘And why would the church authorities, let alone the poor man’s family, appear so willing to let the matter rest there?’
‘Aye,’ Lassimer said. ‘There is a great mystery here. What was the man doing in such a remote spot, so late in the day? Why did Mr. Harmsworthy leave him there alone? It is no place for anyone to be after dark, as I hear, for that coast has long been the haunt of gangs of smugglers. Such men may be desperate to avoid being taken, for I am sure war is brewing in Europe and the Press Gangs will soon be out. Prisons are their first point of call, especially if they know men with some knowledge of the sea are held there. Besides, this business in France overshadows us. Smuggling is now so widespread that the authorities are all but helpless. They have to keep the navy at sea to watch the French. They must also safeguard English ships and colonies from privateers and pirates. I hear many a merchant complain that there are too few customs cutters and revenue men to cope with the smuggling gangs. Harvests are bad, while the woollen trade too is suffering a decline. Men must eat and provide for their families, even those that are turned out of work by enclosure or machinery. If all else fails, they must turn to crime. The gangs pay well for help in landing their contraband. A poor labourer may earn more by that means in one night than he would receive for a week’s back-breaking toil in the fields.’
‘Might the archdeacon have stumbled upon smugglers at their work?’ Adam asked.
‘He might. But I do not believe those who find their living through one sort of crime would not stay their hand from theft of his belongings. Yet you said he was not robbed.’
‘True,’ Adam said. ‘Nor would falling in with smugglers on a chance meeting explain why he was in the churchyard at all. That is what puzzles me most. Mr. Harmsworthy said he had thought it impolite to ask the man for his reason in seeking to be taken there. I could hardly brand him a liar, though I struggled to believe he would not have sought to dissuade such a visit so late in the day. What convinced him to fall in with the archdeacon’s wish to go there?’
Adam’s visits to Lassimer normally left him feeling cheered. Today was different. Today all he felt was despondency. ‘I fear I shall never discover the answers to my questions,’ Adam said. ‘It is all too obscure.’
‘Oh, Bascom, my dear friend,’ Lassimer said. ‘Do not be so downhearted. You are already moved further forward than but a few days ago. You know how the archdeacon got to the churchyard and what has happened to his horse and chaise. You know, to a reasonable certainty, at what time he went there. Best of all, you know that there is a mystery to his visit. If that were not so, why should those in authority seek to conceal the truth. If I know you, that curious mind of yours will not let this matter rest, until you have divined what took place and why.’
‘My affection for you, Lassimer, springs from many sources,’ Adam said, ‘but none more deep than your invincible optimism. You are right. I must not give in to the melancholy. But now, I must leave you to tend your business and go to mine. The day is passing, and there are many things that I must do before it is over.’
‘One more question before you go,’ Lassimer said. ‘Are you doing this for yourself or for the man who died?’
It seemed a long time before Adam replied. ‘Why do you ask?’ he said.
‘The way you were treated during and after that inquest was enough to anger any man,’ Lassimer replied. ‘You have every right to feel annoyed with the way the process was handled. Since it appears the authorities are concealing some aspects of this event deliberately, you may also, with reason, feel such behaviour is not ac
ceptable and not in accordance with the demands of the law. Yet the fact still remains that you have no standing in this affair. You are not a relative of the deceased. No one who is has asked you to act on their behalf. I do not say this to criticise, Bascom. My purpose is rather to prepare you to consider what others undoubtedly will say if your interest comes to their notice. You have been warned to mind your own business once. A future warning may come with more force behind it.’
‘If I am to be honest,’ Adam said, ‘I must own to the truth in what you say. My pride has been hurt. I also feel someone is trying to take me for a fool. Neither is a rational reason for fretting about this puzzle, but they are powerful enough all the same to deny me the simple alternative of ignoring it. Yet I will think hard about your words, old friend. I am not a student any more to throw myself heart and soul into any complex problem that catches my fancy. But something in this touches me as a doctor too. A man has died. How and why he did so remains unclear. That, as much as the wounds to my belief in my own worth, does not let me rest.’
With that they parted, their earlier light-hearted pleasure at meeting quite overshadowed by mutual concern.
8
Mr. Jempson Falls Amongst Thieves
Tuesday, 8 May 1792, on the road from Edgefield to Aylsham, Norfolk
Physicians who had graduated from university occupied the top level of the medical profession. Even a newly-qualified one, like Adam Bascom, could expect significant fees for his services. Eminent physicians with practices in the larger cities often had greater incomes than most of the gentry. Adam had a country practice and was not yet well known amongst the better-off families in the area. It would be many years before he could gain a reputation that would allow him to expect his patients to come to him. For now, he spent much of his time travelling to the houses of the gentry, prosperous farmers, merchants and shipowners, who made up his scanty list of clients.
This dull day at the beginning of May, he was riding Betty home, in company with a farmer and his wife and an elderly parson. Since there had of late been unrest amongst the poor and the agricultural labourers, it was best to travel in groups.
The little party had exchanged their names and the reasons for their travel. The farmer and his wife, Henry and Katherine Ushant, had been to the market. The clergyman, the Rev. George Domble, had been visiting some of the most outlying areas of his large and scattered parish.
Adam had been to conduct an examination of the conditions at the workhouse in Holt. Capt. Mimms had secured this commission for him. Once he told his fellow Overseers of the Poor of Adam’s qualifications – from three universities – their agreement was certain. Adam was grateful to the old man. Yet he could not help a certain embarrassment when he considered how far his meagre experience had been overrated.
The farmer and his wife sat on the front seat of a cart pulled by a single horse, while Adam and the parson both rode. It was thus natural for the two of them to move ahead and fall into conversation. Mr. Domble was a kindly man and much concerned for those whom fate forced to seek refuge in the workhouse.
‘How did you find it?’ he said. ‘The poor are terrified of ending their lives there. They consider it to be little better than a prison, and the days of those within unimaginably harsh.’
‘It is not meant to be an easy place,’ Adam said, ‘and I would not like to live there. Yet I found the Superintendent to be a fair man, who carries out his duties to the best of his ability. The building itself is scarce a dozen years old. There is ample land around it where the inmates may grow vegetables, keep chickens for meat and eggs and even a few cows to provide milk. Most who live there are active and well nourished. Even the oldest benefit from a suitable, if plain, diet – which is more than can be said for many of those outside its walls. What I found hardest to bear was the large number of young women there with their babies. These poor souls are ejected from their homes and condemned to the workhouse by their own families. I suspect many are more victims than bent on scandalous living, seduced then abandoned by the father of the child.’
‘You may well be right,’ the parson said, ‘for Satan has ever found lust and greed two of the easiest ways to lead mankind astray. It is also correct that there are many in the countryside at large who go hungry in these times. Resentful too. The discoveries of ingenious engineers have put many out of work. That is inevitable when we build machines which can do the work of many. Others have lost their land through the process of enclosure. All look across the channel to the dreadful events now happening in France. Perhaps they wonder whether there should not be a revolution here too.’
Adam was surprised. ‘Is it that bad then? Would they destroy our constitution and social order?’
‘I think they would – and the church along with it. Many now see the Church of England as a means for those at the top of society to maintain their privileges. They believe the people who produce this nation’s wealth are thus held in subjection. And we clergy help them, sir, to hold such views. Many a parson is diligent in carousing and hunting with the local gentry, while paying scant regard to the needs of his parishioners – especially the poor. Such people pay curates to take the bulk of the services and do such visiting as they are able. They themselves enjoy servants, fine rectories, their books and the society of their wealthy neighbours. Did you hear of the recent sad death of out archdeacon? That took place not far from here.’
Adam agreed that he had indeed heard of it, though he also took care to conceal his close knowledge of the events. He had told his story far too often already, and did not want to be drawn into it again. ‘Did I not hear that the jury had ruled it an accident?’
‘Yes,’ Mr. Domble replied. ‘Yet I cannot quite put the matter from my mind. I have heard the late archdeacon preach and he was most unbending in his demands. He wished for a return to a rigid, hierarchical society, overseen by a unified church. He would have the king at the top of the heap. The nobles and gentry should come next below him. Then the middle classes below them and the working people and poor firmly at the bottom. God, he said, had put each in his proper place in society, and it was blasphemous to attempt to change this. He was also most strong in his denunciation of dissenters and nonconformists.’
‘But surely those are just the views of one man,’ Adam said. ‘There are, I believe, plenty of people in the Church of England who would not share them.’
‘That is true, Dr. Bascom. But there are many dissenters and nonconformists in this county. They have little reason to feel any love for the established church. We have tried to force them back into our fold, where we should have sought to persuade them. I have met many who attend the chapels and conventicles, and I have always found them to be quiet, godly people. They seek to find the Lord in their own way, as we do. Yet still I regret that we are no longer all members of the one church.’
‘Why is that?’ Adam asked.
‘The church used to be the centre of each community,’ the parson said. ‘All came together there, from the highest to the lowest. Each group could see the other, every Sunday. The rich could not quite isolate themselves from the people around them. The poor would understand that, for the rich to enter the Kingdom of God, they must care for those less fortunate than themselves. Now we are but one sect amongst many, sir. Those who attended the chapels feel they have little or nothing in common with those who go to the parish church. The rich, seated in their grand pews, may hear that Christ died to save all mankind. Yet they act as if most people except them are beyond salvation.’
‘But how would this bear on the death of the archdeacon?’ Adam said.
‘As I said, sir, there are some disaffected people who see how the French have brought the church and the aristocracy down. They would do the same here if they could. The archdeacon was well known to be a fervent Tory. If any people of this revolutionary viewpoint had recognised him, they might have felt justified in bringing about his death.’
‘If some revolutionaries had done t
his, would they not have robbed the man, if only to give the proceeds to the poor?,’ Adam said. ‘His body was not touched…or so I heard,’ he added hurriedly, for he had almost given himself away.
‘Maybe…maybe. But if the reason for his death was hatred of what he stood for, why give anyone the opportunity to dismiss it as a simple robbery?’
Adam was amazed at the idea and they rode on in silence, while he tried to come to terms with the picture thus painted. Could it be true? He knew some were bent on overturning society and depriving the gentry and the rich of their easy sense of entitlement. Yet would even these have gone so far as to lure a prominent churchman to a lonely place where they might strike him down? It sounded far-fetched. Yet, as Mr. Domble had admitted, once considered it was impossible to dismiss. The government would wish to use every way available to prevent those who had done the deed from using it to stir up even greater unrest. That would give a powerful logic to the way in which all questions about what had happened were suppressed from the start. If it were just an accident, it was of no importance. An assassination would be reported in every newspaper in the land. From there, it would breed speculation, argument and still more dissension.
Adam was so intent on this inward speculation about the archdeacon that he stopped paying attention to anything else. He must have heard the cry that startled Parson Domble from his reverie, but he could not be certain. What definitely made him spring to the alert was the exclamation from the elderly clergyman. ‘Good gracious! Ahead there! See!’
The road had, little by little, climbed upwards. Now they were just coming over the rise and looking down into a shallow valley beyond. And ahead and to their left, maybe one hundred yards distant, three men were struggling by the side of the road. One was a tall man, wearing sombre but well-made clothing; the other two were dressed in rags. With but a single glance, Adam knew that a robbery was taking place. One of the ruffians had his hands around the tall man’s throat, while the other was searching through his pockets.
An Unlamented Death: A Mystery Set in Georgian England (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 1) Page 5