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

by William Savage

  All that changed in April of this year. One day, late in the afternoon, someone came to my door. That itself was unusual, for few ever sought me out. My manservant answered their knocking, then came to tell me that two men were seeking to speak with me. Being curious about who these men might be, I agreed to see them, never imagining that my past should be returning to bring me yet more pain. Into my room that day came none other than Michael O’Dowd. He was older, a little bulkier, but yet the same man I had been torn from in Ireland all those years before.

  His tale was soon told. As a result of my uncle's actions, he was seized with the deepest hatred for everyone connected with those who wielded power in Dublin. His father, it seemed, had been blind to the boy's nature. Now he knew, he professed total revulsion. It was too much for O'Dowd and so he ran away from his home. No one tried to find him.

  For a time, he wandered, working where he could and begging where he could not. For a while, he was the plaything of a papist bishop, then of a petty local clan chieftain. Eventually, he took up work with a printer and was taught the skills of that trade. And all the time he sought out those whose grudges against the English banded them together. Yet even he could see that they had little chance of turning their wishes for freedom and reform into actions. That was why, when a few years later he heard of the rebellion and revolution in the American colonies, he sailed for the west. There he determined to make a new life for himself, far from Ireland and its bitter history.

  For a while, he prospered. He found work again as a printer and bookseller, making enough money to afford a comfortable house and a few servants. He served in the local militia. Yet all the while his heart burned at the injustices he had suffered in his past. He told himself to stay content with what he had, but it was too hard.

  At length a sad destiny found him. One day, he fell in with a group of men as eager as he was to bring the same kind of revolution to Ireland as had proved so successful in America. Like them, he believed that since the Americans had succeeded in winning their freedom from English laws and English kings, the Irish might do the same. All that was lacking was money, weapons and leadership. They might prevail upon the French king to furnish the first two, if they could convince him that the native Irish would provide the third.

  When revolution gripped France itself, the time seemed ripe at last. Surely the new French republic would help them. It must be time to turn from plotting and scheming to stir up popular revolt amongst the poor and dispossessed of Ireland.

  Sadly, most of these Irish patriots had been absent, like O'Dowd, for many years. They too easily mistook their dreams for reality. They saw French peasants bringing down the power of the nobility. They missed noticing the mass of educated, middle-class, professional men who acted as their leaders. In their minds, Ireland was a powder-keg awaiting the spark of their fervour to erupt into rebellion. As Michel now admitted, what he found when he returned was far different. Peasants there were in plenty, but so weighed down by hunger, deprivation and years of hopeless servitude that they no longer had the will to resist. Of a middle class, there seemed little enough sign outside Dublin and The Pale. There he found lawyers and doctors, but few who would risk what they had to help peasants they despised much as the gentry did. Worse, the Irish who had stayed in that island, and suffered the full weight of English attempts to root out rebellion, had no wish to be instructed by those who had left. They had their own groups and hierarchies. These ‘Americans’ should go back, they said. How could they be trusted when they had already deserted the cause once?

  Thus O'Dowd, and the Frenchman who stood alongside him in my house on that day in April, soon found themselves isolated. Alone and confused, they tried to carry on, but someone, maybe a spy or a disgruntled native, betrayed them to the authorities.

  Now at last they fled, always but one step ahead of those who pursued, and tried to find some way to reach France and safety. In the end, a group called The United Irishmen offered help. They too rejected O’Dowd ‘the American’ as an ally, but they would not give the English the satisfaction of capturing him.

  O'Dowd said they were directed to travel to England and seek out a man known to the United Irishmen on the east coast. He would take anyone out to a waiting ship on payment of enough gold. Neither had much money, but it was the only chance they had. They pooled their remaining funds and agreed to the plan. In reply, they were told that a smuggling vessel would be waiting for them on a certain night. All they had to do was make their way to a village called Gressington in Norfolk, contact and pay the ferryman and await until the appointed time and tide.

  It was chance brought them to me. When they went to the inn, O'Dowd heard someone mention my name. Since it is an unusual one, he questioned how long the man of that name had lived in the area. It was a risk, of course, but had it been a cousin or someone else he did not know, he would have told them he had been mistaken and left it at that. If I was indeed the Henry. Harmsworthy he had known living there, what better place to hide? Who would look for a wanted man in the magistrate’s house?

  O'Dowd was as persuasive as always, telling me the delay would be no more than a week at the most. If this location proved impossible, they would be told of some other place where the smugglers might meet them. Yet to see him again – to relive for a few days the closeness we had once shared – was enough. I agreed at once to let them stay. I told my servants that one was an old friend from my school days – that at least was true – and the other a French nobleman fleeing persecution by blood-thirsty peasants. My solitary ways now came to their aid and mine, for few ever came to my house and they were safe enough if they remained within.

  Then another person came to my door one afternoon: the Archdeacon of Norwich. He was hot on the trail, as he claimed, of some supposed cell of devil-worshippers and sexual deviants who met close by. On his way to Gressington to meet his informant, his chaise had broken an axle, so he could not continue in that way. This meeting was imperative, for he would be given the names of these men. Then he could expose their wickedness to the public gaze. I thought he was mad, yet his words terrified me. The last thing I wanted was to have anyone, even the church authorities, paying close attention to what was happening in the area around my home.

  I tried to put him off, but he grew angry and demanded that I take him to Gressington at once. Indeed, with all the righteous zeal of the worst kind of fanatic, he shouted that I must take him. If I refused, he would assume I myself was a member of this group he believed in. Was it not said in these parts that I was odd and reclusive? Was it not a matter of wonder that I had never married?

  His wild words grew ever wilder and I had no choice but to agree to his request, taking as long as I could to get ready and have the chaise prepared. Even then, I clung to the hope that along the way I might be able to convince him that no such coven of devil-worshippers existed and he must be the victim of a cruel hoax.

  My hopes were, of course, fruitless. At the churchyard, he demanded I waited to bear him away again. I agreed readily enough, for I wished above all things to keep him under observation and see what might result from his meeting. As you know, no one came. Yet far from being aware, as any rational person would have been, that this proved the tale was false, he grew more and more angry. Soon, he was convincing himself that I was indeed part of this Hellfire Club or whatever. I had delayed in leaving my home in order to send word to my associates to waylay his informant and make away with him. All I wished was to stop his ranting lest he bring others to the churchyard. So I stepped towards him to try to calm him down.

  At that, he started back and must have caught his heel on something, for he fell full-length upon the ground, striking his head on some stone that was hidden in the grass. I thought he was dead.

  Alas, it was soon proved that he still lived. Even as I hesitated, unsure whether to leave him there or try to move the body where it might be better hidden, I heard him groan. Then he started to make feeble efforts to raise himself,
muttering something about me trying to murder him.

  What I did next will haunt me until my death. It seemed to me that only his death could still his tongue and keep my guilty secret – and O'Dowd – safe. If he died there, people would assume he had been set upon by robbers or smugglers. Few questions would be asked. In a moment, I had wrapped my cloak into a soft bundle and was pressing it down over his face. For a little while, I could feel movement, then all went still and I knew him to be dead indeed.

  You will think me an arrant coward, doctor, but all that I could think of was to get away. I went at once to my chaise and set off for home as fast as I could. There I said nothing to anyone. Instead, I spent a sleepless night trying to concoct a story. One that might account for my presence at the churchyard, should anyone have seen me, yet keep me free from suspicion of involvement in the archdeacon’s death. By morning I had a feeble tale ready.

  I did not need it. The authorities seemed full of eagerness to put the death down as an accident and loath to make any further enquiries at all. I spent a few days in great apprehension – not helped by your attempts at the inquest to ask the exact questions any sane person would turn to at once – then all was quiet. I had escaped, or so I thought.

  The rest you know. The authorities let the smugglers feel they were safe. Then they provided the ideal opportunity to carry out illegal activities unmolested. The trap was sprung and all were caught, including O'Dowd and the Frenchman.

  Would they betray me? I did not know and I did not wait to find out. Once again I fled, this time back to Ireland, where I hoped to carry news to Michael’s family and friends of what had happened to him. It was not to be. None would talk with me. I left cryptic messages and heard nothing in return. I was in despair, wandering around Dublin with neither destination nor purpose.

  Thus it was that I started to feel uneasy, as if someone was watching me. Who might this be? I did not know, yet now Dublin felt hostile. I determined to leave as soon as I could find a passage. I sent a letter to my steward to arrange for him to leave a horse for me at Lynn, then made my way back to England, as fast as I might without arousing suspicion.

  The feeling of being watched now grew. Worse, I was helpless and alone. I always carry a pistol on the road for my protection, so I determined that I would take my own life rather than face questioning. I knew myself to be a murderer and a traitor to my country. My life would be forfeit in any case. Perhaps I could at least avoid the shame to my family name. If I went to the gallows, I would blight other lives as well as my own.

  Now I have failed even in that. When I was certain men were following me, I tried to run, hoping to have time to end my life before they seized me. Have you ever tried to fire a pistol from a galloping horse, doctor? It is far harder that I believed. Even with the muzzle pressed to my side, I managed to fail in ending my life there and then. I have ended it, of that I am sure now, but not as I had wished.

  There, my tale is ended. Give me your potion, for God’s sake. Bring me oblivion, for I am in great agony of body and spirit and wish for nothing but to find death as soon as I may. I am the most reluctant murderer. I killed, but never wished or meant to do so. And whether what I have told you convinces you or no, it is the truth. There is no more that I can do.

  33

  Loose Ends

  Friday 24 to Sunday 26 August 1792, Holt and Aylsham

  Henry Harmsworthy clung to life until shortly after five in the morning. During his last hours, he was unconscious and Adam remained by his bedside the whole time. Once Marshall joined him, Adam used some of this time to complete the picture in his mind.

  ‘Mr. Wicken has, as I believe you know, been searching for this Mr. Harmsworthy,’ Marshall began, in answer to Adam’s questions. ‘I understand it was in connection with events that took place in these parts a short time ago. At first, no trace of him could be found. Then, to our surprise, one of our regular watchers reported seeing a stranger who matched Harmsworthy’s description. This man seemed to be trying to make contact with a group of people well known to us, sir. A group suspected of planning various treasonable activities.’

  ‘Where was this?’ Adam asked.

  ‘It was as I believe you had surmised. It was in Ireland, sir. To be precise, in an area of Dublin known to be the haunt of all manner of felons and rebellious rogues.’

  ‘Indeed so, in Ireland then.’ Adam was gratified that his ideas had so quickly been proved correct.

  ‘Yes, sir. Now, thanks to you, we knew where to look, we found him easily enough. In fact, some of our men had seen him earlier, for he seemed to be trying to make contact with a nest of rebels well known to us. The United Irishmen they call themselves and they are desperate men. Our agents had reported seeing a stranger seeking these traitors out. Yet not knowing his identity, or any of his recent actions, they gave their report no particular prominence. In fact, he was so inept that they guessed that he was a writer or a journalist trying to find material for his writing. Only when the description of the man we sought reached them did they realise he had already been seen.’

  ‘What was his actual purpose in seeking these persons out? Did you discover?’

  ‘We did not, I fear. It was clear he was not known to them, for they turned him away and would not exchange words with him at all. I imagine they suspected him of being one of our men, come to try to tempt them into some indiscretion and provoke their arrest. These fellows have learned to be wary of strangers, sir.’

  ‘As I imagine they should be,’ Adam said. ‘Go on, please.’ He could have enlightened Mr. Marshall on this subject, but chose to stay silent, judging it best to present his latest discoveries first to Mr. Wicken. Let him decide who else should be told.

  ‘Our people judged correctly that Mr. Harmsworthy was new to this game. He somehow knew enough to be able to find the right people, but was at a loss when they would not speak with him. For a week or more, he simply wandered around Dublin. Again, he seemed to know the city, yet showed neither sense of purpose in his wanderings nor any delight in them.

  ‘By this time, our people were on full alert and had sent an urgent message to Mr. Wicken seeking instructions. When the reply came, it was clear they must on no account lose sight of the man, but should not interfere in any other way. He might have led us to persons we did not know, sir. The fact that he had first sought out some notorious rebels had to mean that he had some knowledge of them and their activities.

  ‘Our team watched and waited. Four days passed. Then, on a sudden, the quarry seemed to make up his mind what to do next. In a flurry, he left the inn where he had been staying and made all haste to find a berth on a ship traveling back to England.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’ Adam asked. Mr. Wicken must have known something was afoot when he asked Adam to meet Josiah Osman, yet had made no mention of it. Perhaps he too was confused by the randomness of Mr. Harmsworthy’s actions. Or was he was loath to mention the man had been found until he was sure what to make of the reports reaching him?

  ‘Tuesday of last week, sir,’ Marshall said. ’One watcher followed Mr. Harmsworthy aboard. For the rest, as soon as we knew the man was in Ireland, the watch on all the ports where ships arrive from those parts had been increased. Thus it was easy enough to pick up observation of Mr. Harmsworthy when the ship bearing him came into harbour at Liverpool on Saturday morning’s tide.

  ‘Where he had been aimless before, he was now firm in his purpose. He went first to discover where he might board a stagecoach to London and when the next one departed. That was near dawn on Monday morning and Mr. Harmsworthy was on it. What he did not know was that one of our watchers had been substituted for the regular guard on the coach. That coach makes several stops before reaching the capital and we were determined not to lose him along the way.’

  ‘Did he go to London?’ Adam asked. If he had, he could see no reason why he should be acting as Mr. Wicken’s substitute in this way.

  ‘No, sir. At Oxford, he went to
an inn and ordered a post chaise to take him onward the next morning – yesterday – to Lynn. We were surprised at that and had to change our own plans in great haste. He left at dawn and travelled as hard as the driver would let him, so that he arrived at Lynn late that same evening.

  ‘You will understand, sir, that we all have the greatest respect for Mr. Wicken. His ability to anticipate the actions of desperate people is almost uncanny, and never more so than in this instance. It seems that, as soon as he heard Mr. Harmsworthy had crossed back to England, he ordered that a close watch be set on his house. Thus it was that his steward was detected leaving home on Tuesday, leading a spare horse. His master must have sent him a message as soon as he reached Liverpool, though none of our watchers saw him do it.

  ‘Anyway, the steward took the horse to the stables of an inn at Lynn, then returned home alone. Mr. Harmsworthy had himself taken to that same inn as soon as he arrived.’

  ‘So he had his own horse to use yesterday morning,’ Adam said. ‘And was returning to his house.’ At that time he must have been quite unaware of his watchers, or he would never have taken so bold a step.

  There it was. Over at last, all questions answered. Yet Adam could feel neither satisfaction in this knowledge, nor joy at being proved right in so many ways. Beside him a man lay dying: a good man, a dutiful man, who had done his best to live without harm to any. Yet in the end, he had been unable to escape the cruelness of an undeserved fate. Out of love, he had betrayed his country and murdered a man of a far more blameworthy character than his own.

  Now Adam and Marshall sat watching and waiting, as so many must do at bedsides when no more is possible. If it was Mr. Harmsworthy’s destiny to die by his own hand, he should not die alone. When, soon after the sun had risen, Mr. Harmsworthy’s life reached its end at last, Adam and Marshall both stood, heads bowed, while the doctor gently raised the sheet to cover the face of the corpse. For a moment, they stayed silent, looking down at the shape in the bed. No words of prayer were said, yet it seemed neither man was willing to let the magistrate’s death pass unmarked by any ceremony, however brief. At length they turned away together and left the room.