An Unlamented Death: A Mystery Set in Georgian England (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 1)

by William Savage

  ‘Please, Dr. Bascom. Do not blame yourself. I was taken aback for a moment, that is all. I am quite well, I assure you. The accuracy of your diagnosis and deduction amaze me more than I can say, for you have struck the nail fairly on the head.’

  ‘Dear lady,’ Adam said, still inwardly cursing himself. ‘Let me continue at once, since I know now that the news I bring can cause you only relief. Why your late husband went to Gressington on that fateful evening I still do not know for sure. Yet what I can tell you with assurance is that it was neither to meet your son there, nor to pursue him in any way. Whatever happened to cause Dr. Ross’s death, accident or not, your son had nothing whatsoever to do with it.’

  In the lengthy silence which followed, Adam stood and stared at his hostess, quite unable to decide on what he should do. She shut her eyes and held one hand to her mouth, becoming quite still. Gradually her breathing seemed easier and some colour returned to her cheeks.

  At last, her eyes still shut and tears staining her face, she spoke. ‘Please sit down, doctor, for I can sense you looming over me. If you do not move away a little beyond my reach, I may not be able to prevent myself from jumping up and kissing you. And that would be most improper.’

  Adam sat, though he still leaned forward, ready at any moment to spring to aid his patient.

  After a little longer, the lady opened her eyes. ‘You cannot imagine what relief you have brought me, Dr. Bascom, and what gratitude I feel. I can still scarcely speak from it. But sit still and I shall explain all. First, let me recall my proper duties as a hostess and call the servant to bring us refreshments, for I see from the clock over there that it is already past noon. I imagine that you would take something, sir? My appetite has returned on the instant and I find myself more thirsty and hungry than I believe I have ever been before.’

  ‘Thank you, madam. Some small refreshment would be most welcome, for breakfast feels to have left me some long time ago. I am delighted that you feel ready to accept nourishment again. Only, I beg you, be moderate at the outset, whatever you feel. Even the best of food and drink may be rejected by a stomach that has lain empty, or near so, for some time.’

  Neither wished to go to the dining room, so Mrs. Ross bade her servant bring them some cakes and a pot of good chocolate for herself. Adam chose chocolate also. He feared that ale or punch might make him sleepy, for he felt quite worn out.

  ‘Please forgive my impertinence, doctor,’ Mrs. Ross said, when the dishes and plates had been cleared away. ‘I believe that I see in you a physician who should give thought to healing himself also, for you appear quite tired out.’

  ‘You are as able at diagnostics as I am,’ Adam said. ‘I am indeed tired, for much has happened in these two days. Yet I am not so tired as to be unable to listen to your tale. As so often, my curiosity will, I vow, give me no rest until I do.’

  ‘Then I will begin at once,’ the lady said. ‘Our marriage was blest with but two children, the elder a girl and the younger a boy. There was a third, another boy…but he did not long survive. Our daughter is now married and is raising a fine family in their house near Cambridge. She is a most dutiful and happy wife, I am glad to say. I was the first, but never the second.’

  ‘Never, madam?’

  ‘That is how it seems now, doctor. But my trials in the uncertain landscape of marriage are not so much to the point and I will pass over them for the moment. I need say only one thing, for that is essential to understand what I will tell you and the part I played in it. I was totally dominated by my husband. His wishes became mine. His actions I could not question. I now see that was destined all along to cause great grief. Our son, William, is a fine young man, sir. At school he was an able scholar, excelling in mathematics and all subjects bearing on things mechanical. Yet almost from the day of his birth, my husband had destined him for high office in the church. What my husband wished was unalterable law in our household.

  ‘When his school days were ended, William pleaded with his father to allow him to study at a Scottish university. They are, I believe, better disposed to mathematical and similar subjects than the more conservative universities in England. His father would have nothing of it. William must attend the university at Oxford, as his father before him. Nothing less would fit him for swift ordination and a smooth path to a bishopric. When William protested that he felt no vocation to the church, that too was dismissed as something that would come in time.

  ‘William went up to Oxford at the start of the Michaelmas term last year. He did not wish to go, but his father fell into a violent temper and ordered him to do as he was told. He even preached him a powerful, extempore sermon on the need to honour one’s father. Mothers were not mentioned, since my husband had long assumed I would subordinate myself to him – as indeed I did, God forgive me. Needless to say, William fared poorly at Oxford. He avoided the studies he found so irksome. Unlike the sons of the rich, he did not waste his time in gambling or drinking. Instead, he travelled to Birmingham to meet with some of the leading citizens there. They are men of great mechanical and business ingenuity, I believe, and held in the highest regard by many. Of course, that counted for nought with my husband. Especially when he found the majority to be dissenters.

  ‘At the end of the Hilary Term, in April of this year, a message came from William’s tutor that he should not return. In deference to my husband’s standing in the church, and his position as a graduate of the university itself, it was most discreetly phrased. His tutor wrote that William might not yet be ready to embark on the studies his father had arranged for him. Perhaps, given a gap of a year or so, he might take up his studies there again.

  ‘I will leave you to imagine the scene between father and son. Each spoke in the most intemperate language; each doubtless hurt the other badly. What finally caused a break was when William announced that, during a visit to Birmingham, he had encountered a young lady and fallen in love. Her father had brought her to meet a Dr. Joseph Priestley, a man of great reputation as a natural philosopher. Father and daughter had then shown friendship and condescension towards my son. As happens in such cases, youth and shared interests soon led to a more tender attachment. Before the end of the week the father and daughter spent in Birmingham, my son was smitten.

  ‘All this he explained, adding that he had maintained a correspondence with the young lady, with the full approval of her family. He hoped, he said, to ask her to be his wife, once he was in a position to support her.

  ‘If he thought this might pacify his father, he could not have been more mistaken. At once, my husband’s fury increased and he shouted that no son of his should ever marry a strumpet he had met by chance. Of course, our son sprang to the defence of his love, saying that she came from an excellent family and a wealthy one. Her father, it seems, is a most respected merchant and banker. The boy never got to say his name, for at the word ‘banker’ my husband at once demanded to know if the family were dissenters.

  ‘It was the final blow. No son of Archdeacon Ross, no son of a man destined to be a bishop of the Church of England, could ever marry a dissenter. It would destroy my son’s prospect of high church office. Worse, far worse, it would harm my husband’s career also.

  ‘William was ordered from the house at once and told never to come here again. He was not even allowed to speak with me before he went. Indeed, my husband only told me of his action well after the boy had gone. It was when he sat at his desk, writing to his lawyer to cut William out of his will. When I asked where William would go, the only answer I received was that he could go to the Devil himself, for all his father cared.

  ‘I thought I had loathed my husband before, but now I found that I hated him with every fibre of my being. Yet still all those years of subservience held me in their chains.’

  Mrs. Ross was weeping freely now and Adam would have stopped her continuing with her tale, had she not thrust out a hand to signal him to stay where he was. ‘No, sir. Do not ask me to stop. Until I tell someone all,
this poison will continue to wrench the life from me. I am not a wicked woman, I believe, merely a weak one. Now I have been punished for that almost more than I can bear. Let me seek redemption and a new life. The events I have described happened scarcely two days before my husband left this house, never to return. He is dead, sir, and though his God damn me to burn for eternity for saying so, I am heartily glad of it.

  ‘When the news came of his unexplained death, I feared the worst. Oh, not that my son would willing kill his father – never that. Yet perhaps they had met, continued their argument and some accident had thus been brought about. I expected my son to hear of what had happened and hurry home. When the days passed and he did not, I thought I should lose my wits. I played the part of the grieving widow, prostrated by her husband’s death, since that was what people expected. To my secret joy, it even served to absolve me from attending that monster’s funeral. I vowed on the day my son was banished from his own home that I would never again act as a dutiful wife. Nor would I cross the threshold of an Anglican church, if I could by any means avoid it. As soon as I have found fresh lodgings, doctor, I will leave this house and have no further dealings with any part of my former life.’

  ‘Have you heard from your son?’ Adam asked, as gently as he could.

  ‘Not one word,’ she replied. ‘I believe my daughter must have some idea where he is, for they were always close. If that is so, she will not tell me. All she will say is that he is alive and well under the protection of people well-disposed to him. He may have forbidden her to say more, for I am sure he must blame me in part for what happened to him. I could – God knows I should – have sought to reverse my husband’s actions. I did not and my silence must have seemed to betoken full support.’

  ‘I will not tell you not to blame yourself, madam,’ Adam said, ‘for it is too late for that. Nor will I blame you in any way for your feelings about your husband’s death, since he bore the majority of the blame in this matter. In the same circumstances, I must have felt the same. Still I can perhaps offer you a glimmer of hope.’

  ‘You have heard of my son?’ she asked, sitting up and leaning across to grasp his hand.

  ‘Not that,’ Adam said. ‘Not quite that. Now, I must ask you to bear with me and summon up your courage, for all I can offer at this stage is a hope, nothing more.’

  ‘I will do as you say, doctor, and it can be the start of my path to a better life. I have always been a coward. No longer. Men say that faculties grow with use. Thus I will use my stunted courage and hope, in time, to see it grow stronger.’

  ‘You have my profound admiration, Mrs. Ross,’ Adam said, and meant it. ‘I will not say that I pray for you, for to be truthful, as I think you guessed at my last visit, I place no credence in prayer to gods of any kind. Rather I will say that I believe you to be far stronger than you think. I am sure you will be capable of withstanding the blows fate has dealt you and recovering from them.’

  ‘What is it you hope then, doctor?’ Mrs. Ross asked.

  ‘I have realised information I received some time ago, but could make little sense of at the time, now points me in a certain direction,’ Adam said. ‘Before I came here, I sent a message to a person I met completely by chance. He is a dissenter, as he told me freely, a Quaker. But from my own observation and all I have heard of him since, I judge him to be an honourable and good man. I hope to enquire of him whether he has any knowledge from within his community and contacts of where your son may be and his state of mind. My hope is thus to gain more certain information for you. Yet it is possible he knows nothing. If that is so, I will ask him to make enquiries on my behalf. I am sure he will do this, for we parted last on the best of terms and I have no doubt he will aid me in any way he can. Now, madam, be patient. None of this is certain. My hopes may be sound or they may not. All I can promise is that I will tell you the outcome, plainly and honestly, whatever it may be.’

  Mrs. Ross still held Adam’s hand. Now her grip tightened and she pulled him towards her, reaching her face up to kiss his cheek. ‘There, I have done it and you will brand me a shameless woman. I could not prevent myself, though I hope you will not feel you have to confess my actions to others. None has shown me as much kindness as you, sir, in many a year. If I possess any power of blessing, it is yours in full measure.

  ‘Now, my most dear friend – for you see my shamelessness knows no bounds―I must ask you to leave me. I am exhausted beyond measure and must sleep. For the first time in this whole sorry business, I feel hope that will make my sleep the sweeter. Whatever happens next, I will never forget what you have done for me. When I am well, I shall make it my business to seek out your mother and tell her what a fine son she has. I have a fine son too. Thanks to you, I can now think of him again without any shadow falling over me. Should I see him again or not, I will never forget that either.’

  22

  A Musical Interlude

  Later that afternoon

  Adam was destined for a considerable disappointment when he returned to his mother’s house. Roger had come back with the message that Mr. Jempson was away. He was on a visit to oversee some of his business interests in Lynn and would not return until later in the following week. Being by nature impatient, Adam felt the disappointment keenly – so keenly that only action could relieve his mind. He determined to go at once to see the man whose name Mr. Wicken had given him. Thus, to the amazement of all at his mother’s house, he turned around and left again.

  The name on the paper had been Tobias Sulborne; the address in one of the small streets that ran between the Cathedral Close and the river. It was, of course, quite possible the man was about his business somewhere. Yet since that weighed less with Adam than his need to be active rather than fretting at his mother’s home, he went there just the same.

  Mr. Sulborne’s house proved to be a neat dwelling, not large but in good condition externally. It lay in a good situation, for it was closer to the majestic bulk of the cathedral than to the wharves and warehouses along the river bank. As Adam approached, he could hear a fortepiano. Someone must be at home, though it might rather be Sulborne’s wife or daughter than the man himself. As he got closer, it was plain that whoever sat at the keyboard was no common performer. The music was rich and complex and the manner of playing both assured and dextrous.

  A young maid answered the door, ushered Adam inside and hurried off, taking his visiting card. At once the music ceased, so she must have gone to whoever had been playing. When she returned, she told Adam the master would see him at once. Then she led him into a pleasant room, not overly large, containing both the fortepiano he had heard and what must be either a spinet or harpsichord. Mr. Sulborne himself proved to be a man of middle age, middle height and middling stature. The kind of man you might pass ten times in the street, yet fail exactly to recall on the eleventh.

  After the usual introductions and pleasantries, Sulborne ushered his guest to a chair by the fireplace. The maid was sent for coffee.

  ‘My wife and children are out, Dr. Bascom,’ Sulborne said, ‘so you have chosen a propitious time to make your visit. The Good Lord has seen fit to bless us with abundant increase, all healthy and full of energy. My youngest child is yet but four years old, while the oldest is now fifteen. When all are present, the house can seem quite small, though they are well-schooled to stay quiet when I have a pupil come here.’

  ‘You are a music teacher then,’ Adam said.

  ‘In part,’ Sulborne replied. ‘I see Mr. Wicken neglected to tell you more about me.’

  ‘He told me almost nothing,’ Adam said. ‘He gave me a slip of paper as he left on which he had written your name and address.’

  Sulborne smiled. ‘I fear Mr. Wicken is often distracted by weight of business. But you are not of this city, or you would know my name at least. I am the cathedral organist and master of the choristers, sir. Yet even such an ancient and magnificent see as this pays its organist but a meagre stipend. I am forced to supplement my income
by giving music lessons in the city. I teach fortepiano and spinet, together with singing. My pupils are the daughters of merchants and professional men such as yourself. Indeed, sir, I taught Miss Lasalle, who I believe has now become your mother’s companion. She is a most accomplished pianist and has a lovely singing voice. Occasionally, she even pays me a visit and we play and sing duets together.’

  It seemed to Adam that all people sang Miss Lasalle’s praises, so that he might even have come to dislike her, had he not met her first.

  ‘But you have not come here to talk of such trifles I know,’ Sulborne continued. ‘Ah, here is Betty with coffee. Refresh yourself, sir, and I will tell you what you want to know.’

  At the start, Mr. Sulborne’s tale repeated what Mr. Wicken had suggested. The only surprise to Adam was that Mr. Wicken had been born in Norwich. In his early twenties, he had been a tenor in the cathedral choir. That was at about the time Sulborne had first come to assist the previous organist. Shortly after that, Mr. Wicken had moved to London, though he had remained in occasional contact.

  ‘It was through his most kind endeavours,’ Sulborne said, ‘that I met both Mr. Handel in his old age and Mr. Haydn during one of his visits to the capital. Percival Wicken has ever been a friend to me. So I am naturally ready to assist him when I can – which is but rarely, for he is become a great man, while I remain but a humble organ-player.’

  It was in January, Sulborne said, that Mr. Wicken had first asked him about Dr. Ross. That was when he suggested that Sulborne should strike up an acquaintance with the man. It would be of service to him, he sad, and those who employed him.

  ‘I knew him, of course,’ the organist said, ‘as all did about the cathedral. Yet I suspected I was beneath his notice. He was not an agreeable man, doctor, as I am sure you have been told. At first, he rebuffed my efforts. Yet I think even Dr. Ross had at last come to realise that none would associate with him if they might avoid it. Not even his own colleagues in the church or the Chapter. He was both arrogant and narrow-minded, but he was also lonely. And like many such, instead of mending his ways, he became bitter towards a world that he felt had rejected him. It only made matters worse, I fear. Where he had warned, he now denounced. Where he had been merely domineering, he became an outright tyrant.’