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

by William Savage

  Inevitably, Adam’s thoughts strayed again to that morning in April, as fine and windless as this, when he had purposed on a similar walk from his brother’s home. That was the day that began the puzzle that taunted him still. The day he stumbled on the body of the archdeacon, lying in the grass of the churchyard. Could it be only three months ago? So much had happened since. It seemed at least a year must have passed, but no; it must be three months more or less to the day.

  As he walked, he tried to review what he had learned since then. He knew that the archdeacon had died from a blow to his head. A blow almost certainly caused by falling and striking the back of his head against a stone or part of a tomb-marker. Whether that one blow was the only cause of his death was unclear. He may have suffered an apoplexy at the same time, or shortly afterwards. His end may have been due in part to the effects of lying unconscious all night on cold, damp ground. The truth might never be known, for the body was duly buried some months ago.

  He was almost sure that there had been no scuffle and no large group of people present. Both would have left signs. There were none. One other person might have been there. It was impossible to say.

  No one had robbed the body or disturbed it after the fall. That argued against a footpad or the rascally constable. No weapon had been found. The archdeacon had not been struck on the head while standing upright. That too seemed beyond argument.

  A heron sprang up from amongst the grasses at the edge of the river and flew away with a harsh cry. It had been hunting, Adam thought. If only he could also know where to pursue his quarry. All he could do was return again and again to what he knew, hoping to flush out something missed before.

  The inquest had been arranged to record a verdict of accidental death, he told himself. Thanks to Mr. Wicken’s visit, he knew why it had been so. He also knew why Dr. Ross’s family had accepted the verdict so meekly. Mrs. Ross secretly feared her son might have been involved in some way. Everyone else, assured that there were no signs of murder or robbery, found the verdict quite satisfactory. The Bishop and the church authorities, he assumed, felt the same. Too much enquiry might stir up scandal, which no one wanted. Besides, the saddest part of the death of Archdeacon Ross was that no one mourned or missed him. People had soon forgotten their surprise at his death. When he lived, he had made himself universally disliked. In a few years, his memory would be altogether gone. So much he knew. Now, what yet remained to be explained?

  Though his purpose had been to enjoy the beauty of the morning, in truth Adam had noticed almost nothing in the last quarter mile. He was so deep in his thoughts he might as well have been walking the streets of Norwich or pacing up and down in his room. Now he noticed on a sudden that he had already gone farther than he intended and must needs turn back. The way ahead was too overgrown for easy passage.

  Turning back, he tried once again to direct his attention to the natural world about him: to the butterflies, and flowers they rested upon, and to the birds, his first love. It was useless. Within a dozen paces, his thoughts were back with those characters and events that now seemed to occupy his mind through most of his waking hours.

  He still had no idea why Dr. Ross had been in Gressington churchyard. That, most of all, gnawed at him. Theories abounded, yet all were based on nothing but imagination. Hellfire clubs, Black Masses and blasphemous gatherings were nonsense, in his view. The stuff of excitable scribblers in cheap broadsheets, not sober reasoning. Thanks to Peter’s words, Adam was almost certain the archdeacon had arranged to meet Constable Garnet. His own reasoning told him no actual meeting took place. What was the meeting for? Why did the constable fail to keep his rendezvous? Both were mysteries. Was the archdeacon so delayed the constable had already gone away? Did Garnet fear a trap? Did he come then see Mr. Harmsworthy, the magistrate, there with the archdeacon? Might he have assumed it was a trap and he was about to be arrested? He could not have known that Mr. Harmsworthy was there only by chance and he must have recognised him.

  That started another thought. The meeting with Garnet was, presumably, meant to be secret. Yet Dr. Ross must have realised what would happen if the constable saw him arrive with the magistrate. In such a case, no informer would say or do anything that might incriminate him. When the Archdeacon’s chaise suffered damage, was Harmsworthy’s house the only place he could go? Might he not instead have taken the horse from between the shafts and ridden it? A man such as he seemed to be would hardly have cared whether that might leave a coachman with a long walk on a dark evening. Was there a coachman anyway? Adam was almost sure Mr. Harmsworthy had made no mention of one.

  Adam’s stomach growled, reminding him that he had yet to break his fast. That spurred his pace, but did little to calm the thoughts rushing through his mind. What was the Archdeacon’s purpose in meeting Garnet? To gather information for his own reasons? To find some proof that his dreadful warnings of moral decay, so derided by most, were true after all? And why involve Mr. Harmsworthy? It seemed the Archdeacon had demanded, not a fresh horse to ride, nor the loan of a vehicle, but that Mr. Harmsworthy in person should take him to his meeting.

  Were Dr. Ross and Mr. Harmsworthy in league in some way? Was Mr. Harmsworthy in league with Constable Garnet? Garnet had been confident that he could aid the smugglers without being suspected. Worse, he could also carry on his own ‘trade’ in taking spies and letters to and from ships offshore. Was there someone powerful to protect him? Then there were the pornographic books Mr. Wicken had found in Garnet’s house. Was this yet another business venture? Looked at in this way, the man must have been supremely confident of his own skill in evading the authorities. Either that or, more likely, to have found some means of persuading the local representatives of justice to look the other way.

  Adam shook his head. He was becoming as mired in speculation as everyone else. Without more facts, he could answer none of these questions. Yet Garnet and Dr. Ross were both dead. Mr. Wicken had assured him he knew nothing of the archdeacon’s purpose in going to Gressington. And now Mr. Harmsworthy was gone away, none seemed to know where.

  Time to lay it aside, he told himself yet again. His priority must be to see whether he could start a process of reconciliation between Mrs. Ross and her son. The young man had no part in his father’s death, of that he was sure. If Mr. Jempson could discover where to find him, Adam might send a message in which he would detail his mother’s poor health. Add the remorse and guilt she felt for her previous inaction and it would be a hard-hearted son who refused to come to his mother’s help. The only conclusion he could reach today was that until Mr. Jempson received word of Adam wishing to talk with him, he could go no further.

  Adam had left his house set on enjoying a good walk on a fine morning. He had walked even further than he intended on that glorious morning, yet returned home in sombre mood. Despite all his inner reasoning and analysis, he was no further forward. Only the scent of a fine breakfast restored a little of his spirits. As luck would have it, Mrs. Brigstone was busy somewhere in the house, so he managed to slip up to his room. By dressing in a more suitable morning gown before she saw him, he could avoid any remarks about his unseemly appearance.

  26

  The Quaker's Daughter

  Thursday, 5 July 1792, Aylsham

  Adam was to get his wish to talk with Mr. Jempson sooner than he thought. After his frustrating walk the morning before, he had given his mind to business for the rest of the day. He dealt with correspondence, and he composed a suitable announcement to place in several local newspapers. All physicians, apothecaries and surgeons needed to advertise. Indeed, some newspapers might carry almost a whole column of such announcements. The business of tending to sickness was crowded. Apothecaries like Lassimer at least served a proper apprenticeship. Others merely announced their self-taught abilities. Such were the many barber-surgeons, local midwives, drug peddlers, and sundry charlatans. Amongst these, the skills of the huckster often counted for more than medical knowledge.

  To
Adam's satisfaction however, society now expected the modern physician to be a proven man of science and learning. Physicians needed to establish their credentials as members of the upper, educated classes as well as clinicians. His own university career was impeccable and would stand him in good stead. Yet he must still advertise his services and acquaint the neighbourhood with what manner of person he was. He had written and rewritten with care, stressing his qualifications first, then his practical skills. Some physicians aimed to treat all types of sickness amongst a given group of people. Others hoped to do better by specialising. Based on recent events, Adam decided to pursue this latter course. His announcement thus emphasised his skills in treating all manner of nervous and melancholic complaints. Melancholy had become known as ‘the English disease’ through its sheer prevalence, so it should offer excellent opportunities.

  Tired by his concentration, Adam had then gone to bed early. He hoped for another fine day on the morrow. If so, he would, he resolved, once more begin with a bracing walk in the fresh air. Only this time he would set aside his puzzles and focus on Nature's beauties.

  Sadly, it was not to be. It seemed the weather gods had exhausted their meagre store of sunshine for the time being and Thursday’s dawn brought dull and misty weather once again. Still, that matched his mood. All the excitement from his time in Norwich had drained away. His review of the few sure facts about Archdeacon Ross’s death had brought no fresh insights. His speculations, far greater in number, only convinced him that it would most likely prove impossible to resolve.

  Such sour thoughts took away his appetite, whether for breakfast or for the impending consultation with Mrs. Bremerson. This wealthy widow of the neighbourhood showed a pleasing eagerness to request expensive visits and treatment. Yet this was matched by the inventiveness with which she concocted fresh ailments to bring to him. The reality was that she enjoyed rude health, despite being now in her fortieth year, as she told him one day, with a look of such archness that he was hard put not to laugh aloud. He would have placed her nearer sixty, despite her made-up face and the fashionable clothes she had sent from London. Whatever the truth, she paid her account promptly, which was rare in these parts. Even better, she sang his praises to all who would listen, and was thus the kind of patient most doctors would envy him for having.

  Usually she called him to her large house on the road towards Cromer. Today she had sent word that she was visiting friends in the town, so would come to him instead. Once seated in his consulting room, she kept him talking of trifles while she took note of the room and its decorations. Her friends would have a full account later of at least part of their doctor’s house and his taste in furniture and fitments. Now, at last, she was ready for business.

  Her stomach, she told him was greatly upset. Indeed, she had convinced herself that she had contracted some dangerous nausea from eating a dish of jugged hare. It was presented to her, she told him, by ‘that dear Lady Nestonbury’. Although the lady's heart was kind, she thought her chef, being French, was seeking to destroy the British upper classes. His method was to add some diabolical poison to the food he prepared. She had been awake all night after eating the hare and had since felt nauseous on several occasions. Would the doctor need, perhaps, to take her pulse or – here she giggled – place his hand where he might feel how distended her stomach was? Could he offer her something to ward off the effects of whatever evil potion had been in the food?

  Dr. Bascom did not need to accept her invitation to leave his chair and venture closer, it seemed, nor did he need to lay his hands on her. A few questions would suffice. She pouted at his words, but assented. Thus she revealed that she had eaten almost the whole hare.

  ‘It was quite delicious, you know,’ she said. ‘The poison must have been one of those undetectable by the victim. The kind the Borgia family invented.’

  She had washed down the hare with one or two glasses (more like four or five) of an excellent Portuguese wine Mr. Haston, that paragon amongst Norwich vintners, sold.

  Her response to his last question affirmed his diagnosis.

  ‘I accompanied the hare with a few simple vegetables: early peas and carrots, a little cabbage,’ she said. ‘Oh, and new season potatoes, of course, and then some apple jelly made with the last fruits from the store. Nothing more, unless you reckon some stewed quinces and a small handful of walnuts.’

  In the end, Mrs. Bremerson was sent away as happy as she could be since Adam had remained in his seat throughout the consultation. He gave her a receipt for some medicine for indigestion to take to ‘that nice Mr. Lassimer’ down the street. Then added the advice to eat lightly for some while, until ‘the poison’ should have cleared from her system.

  ‘But doctor,’ she complained,‘I eat like the tiniest bird! If I eat less, I shall waste away. You can see how thin I am.’

  The doctor could see nothing of the sort, but was too polite, and too aware of her worth to his practice, to do other than nod assent.

  * * *

  It was shortly after noon that Hannah, his parlourmaid, disturbed her master’s reading to announce that a Mr. Jempson had called. Would the doctor be able to receive him? His book forgotten, Adam sent her on the instant to ask Mr. Jempson to join him.

  As the grave-looking Quaker entered, it occurred to Adam that he had not seen the gentleman at his best on the only other occasion of meeting him. Even after he had returned with Adam to his house, he had seemed pale and shaken by his ordeal. His clothes too bore signs of him being thrown to the ground by his attackers.

  Today, however, he was in fine fettle and quite recovered from any after effects. His clothing might be in the sober style required by his Quaker beliefs, but even the most cursory glance revealed the fineness of the cloth. That and the skill of cutting and sewing together spoke of tailoring of the highest excellence. The man standing now before Adam, holding out his hand with every expression of delight, could not be taken for anything but a most prosperous merchant.

  They exchanged greetings and compliments and Adam, remembering his duties as host, ascertained that Mr. Jempson would prefer to take a cup of coffee to a glass of punch. They engaged in the usual small talk of people who liked one another, yet knew little of the other’s background. Then, after Hannah brought a pot of fine coffee and cups, and it was tasted and pronounced delicious, it was time to get down to business.

  ‘I apologise for being absent when thy messenger called at my Norwich house,’ Mr. Jempson began. ‘I was away on business in Lynn. I have been fortunate enough to conclude that business a little earlier than expected. Thus I determined to return home via Aylsham. My daughter is busy arranging the new house to her satisfaction and desires me to give my approval.

  ‘To be plain, my friend. I would not dare to do otherwise. My daughter, Elizabeth, has the kindest of hearts, but greater determination than any man I know. Whatever she sets her mind to, that she accomplishes without fail. It is a brave fellow who questions her choices – and a foolhardy one who seeks to change what she has done. She has cared for me since her dear mother died. Now she is set on retaining that task, though I have urged her on many occasions to seek a suitable husband. I can easily afford to have as many servants as I want and my wants are few. She need not fear for my well-being, should she set up a home of her own.

  ‘My man sent word to Lynn that thou hadst called and wished to see me urgently, but I had left before his message reached me. Fortunately, he had sent a similar message to Aylsham, in case I made a detour on the route back to Norwich. That message awaited me when I arrived last evening. Thus here I am.’

  Adam’s impatience had been mounting steadily through this preamble. Yet he had taken care to smile and nod and show no sign, he hoped, of the turmoil within his mind. Now, when Mr. Jempson paused, he could contain himself no longer and moved at once to the heart of the matter.

  ‘When we met last,’ he said, ‘you were returning from Lynn, as now. You also said that, on your outward journey, you
had been escorting a young couple travelling there. The man, you told the clerical gentleman who was amongst our party, had recently joined your Society. Before that, he had been a member of the established church. Was his name perhaps Mr. William Ross? It is most important that I know.’

  Mr. Jempson appeared stunned, both by the nature of the question and the abruptness with which Adam presented it. ‘Mr. William Ross? No, his name is not William or Ross. Why shouldst thou have thought so?’

  A third person, had one been present in the room just then, could not have avoided laughing aloud at the sight the two presented. Mr. Jempson looked bewildered. Adam, betraying in his face the most acute disappointment, had thrown himself back into his chair and clutched the arms as if his life depended on it. For a moment, neither moved, then Mr. Jempson recovered himself and leaned forward.

  ‘There is a story here, friend. Unfortunately, thou hast determined to start it part way through. Now, return to the beginning and tell me why it should be so vital for thee to know about this Mr. William Ross. I cannot offer thee my aid, which I am most ready to do, unless I know what thy purpose is in seeking this man out.’

  Sick at heart as he was, Adam could see the sense in what Mr. Jempson suggested. As briefly as he could, he explained all. First how he had found Dr. Ross’s body and become concerned that the man’s death was too easily attributed to chance. Then why he was now convinced that his fears on that score were unfounded. He decided not to stray too far into the detail of Mr. Wicken and the raid on the smugglers. Mr. Jempson could have no interest in that affair, beyond the one common to all who traded by sea. Instead, he turned to the messages from Mrs. Ross and his meeting with her in Norwich.