by Robin Blake
‘Buy some bread and cheese with this. No need to tell your parents where you got it: just say you found it inside, on the floor.’
* * *
‘The fire was started deliberately, you know,’ said Luke Fidelis.
It was the same evening and I had been sitting by the fireside in my library, turning the pages of Mandevil and digesting the baked trout I’d had for supper. At nine my friend came bustling in, eager to talk over with me the matter of the fire.
‘I hope I do not disturb you,’ he went on, ‘but I’ve just returned from seeing my young patient – he does well, by the way – and as it was low tide I have again waded the river by Penwortham Ford. As it brought me ashore near the Marsh, I had a look around the remains of the inn. It is arson, I have no doubt, and worse, too, I dare say.’
‘I don’t know what you mean by worse,’ I said, as I poured him a glass of claret and handed across the tobacco jar. ‘I agree it is possible that the fire was set deliberately. I was there myself this morning and saw the state of things.’
‘And you agree that the mischief began in the staircase: in the cupboard below the stairs, to be precise.’
‘Yes, it looks likely.’
‘It is the perfect place to set a fire if you wanted to prevent the people upstairs from escaping.’
‘As what – an act of malice?’
‘Of attempted murder.’
‘You go too far. It may yet have been an accident.’
‘How could a fire have started accidentally inside a cupboard? No, Titus, we are looking for an arsonist.’
‘Not me, Luke. The innkeeper, Clarkson, is certainly doing so. He goes about saying the fire was set on purpose to drive him out of business. We shall see if he can give substance to that claim, but since nobody died in the fire, I am not professionally concerned with it. The days are gone when coroners inquested mysterious fires for their own sake.’
‘Although if this one happens to have been set deliberately to interfere with your inquest, you should be concerned.’
He was right about that, and yet the idea was incredible to me and anyway I was tired of the subject; I wanted to talk about Kathy Brock.
‘The future of the inquest itself is greatly more important at the moment. The girl Kathy Brock’s sudden journey to Wigan: let us look at that.’
I bent, lit a spill from the grate and passed it across. His handsome face looked fixedly into the flickering light of the fire as he pulled on his pipe.
‘This gives the appearance of running away,’ he said, puffing a cloud of smoke. ‘And if she did flee, it does not strain the wit to find a reason why.’
He offered the burning spill back to me but I shook my head.
‘You forget I’ve breathed enough smoke in a minute to last me a month. And yes of course, I see what you are saying. I was with her mother today, a simple soul. She told me she’d had a letter from her brother saying his wife had broken a leg and would Kathy come to attend their chirping brood.’
‘You have the letter?’
‘It no longer exists. She burned it, she says.’
‘Ah!’
Luke brooded for a few moments, watching the flames as they danced impishly around the firelogs.
‘Without that letter, it is easier to say that Kathy did not want to speak or be questioned about this dead baby in public, which would be tantamount to a confession. What do you make of Kathy?’
‘I hardly know her. I saved her from the rough treatment of Hannah Parsons, but she did not stay for a conversation. Her mother looks a straightforward woman, but…’
‘Is not to be trusted underneath? I agree, but there’s only one way to prove it.’
‘I know. So: will you come to Wigan with me?’
Chapter 9
THE ROAD FROM Preston to Wigan is a toll road of seventeen milestones. It begins where Church Gate ends and branches away to the south along a sunken or hollow way that descends after less than a mile to the ancient bridge at Walton, which at that time, unless you counted Robert Battersby’s ferry, was the only dry crossing of the Ribble for miles. It was not yet nine on Saturday morning and we had paid the toll and were over the bridge. For a few miles we cantered, until the road began to grow boggy and rutted and we were forced to walk our horses. The road was like this all the way along our twenty-mile journey – for a certain stretch it would be well-maintained and level, and then would sink to a disgraceful condition of holes and protruding rocks that broke the axles of coaches and the legs of horses.
Where our progress was slowed, we were able to talk, and I told Fidelis of my reading in The Fable of the Bees.
‘Mandevil the author is enamoured of paradox. He loves to point out that vice can produce good, while much virtue results in evil.’
‘Ha! His vicar cannot have liked him.’
‘He was constantly denounced from the pulpit.’
‘Not many clergy are known for their love of paradox.’
‘The reason I am telling you about Mandevil is that he makes some remarks pertinent to these enquiries. He looks into what sort of young girl might murder her bastard child and comes to a surprising conclusion: that she is more probably virtuous than vicious.’
‘The conclusion would go with his philosophy. But it must all be a vast joke, surely.’
‘Maybe, but I am not sure. Elizabeth said something similar only the other day – that any such killer would act out of shame. Now we all think of shame as a very proper emotion, which only afflicts virtuous people. So if a girl feels extreme shame after conceiving a bastard, Mandevil puts that down to her extreme sense of virtue. And that will send her to extremes to cover up the offence. Murder, of course, is the extremity of extremes. Hence murder proceeds from extreme virtue.’
‘Well, we’ll shortly be able to put Dr Mandevil’s ideas to the test in the case of Kathy Brock. How old did you say she is?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘And her uncle is the Constable of Wigan, is he?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wonder if that will prove help or hindrance.’
‘The real difficulty is to know how to approach him. If I present myself officially as the Preston Coroner, he will likely have not a word to say to me.’
‘We will devise a stratagem.’
* * *
The town of Wigan, a borough old as Preston, was Preston’s equal in proudly minding its own business. But in its treatment of strangers the people there were peculiarly hostile, there being nothing they liked more than to use red tape against anyone that dared to settle in town without permission, or even to sell a sheep or a bolt of worsted in the market. First they took them to court and fleeced them with a fine, and then they turned them out on their ears.
We had passed through the village of Standish and could see the massive tower of Wigan parish church rearing ahead of us at several miles distance, like a castle keep. A skinny fellow appeared in front of us, perched on a roadside gate. As we came level with him he swept off his hat.
‘Fine morning, good sirs.’
We gave him acknowledgement and continued on our way, but he leapt down and was soon stumbling and panting along beside us, a tatterdemalion figure in hooped stockings and a buffin coat.
‘You goin’ to Wigan? Take my advice – don’t go with money in your pocket.’
We ignored him as best we could but did not shake him off.
‘Thieves they are. I lost every coin I had to them, not to mention my Henrietta.’
It being impossible to ride safely above a walk, as the road for several hundred yards ahead was strewn with rocks and pits and severed by fallen-in tunnel-drains, we had no choice but to listen to his yammering complaint and to the expected request for money that would surely follow.
But in fact it was not money that he wanted.
‘Do a small service for a man down on his luck. It’ll take you but a minute or two.’
We reached a part of the road where a side-walk had been cr
eated beside the quagmire, from a layer of slag from the local ironworks. This smooth, metalled path presented the chance to get away and I was on the point of giving a kick to my horse’s flanks when the fellow said, with sudden desperation in his voice, ‘Just seek out the pinder for me. Goes by the name of Terence Pitt.’
Startling at the name, I glanced at Fidelis, who arched his eyebrows.
‘You know the gentleman?’
‘I do know him. I would not call him a gentleman. Scoundrel, maybe. He took me up by a trick. I went into Wigan town last market day, see, with my little Henrietta. I know what you’re thinking, but she goes everywhere with me. I have her always on a string and she trots along beside me sweet as beetroot. And then Pitt strides into the market like Pontius Pilate. He has two henchmen with him, one at each of his elbows, and no sooner do they clap their eyes on me and Henrietta than they seize us shouting I’m a stranger coming to market and must be put in irons. Well, no sooner do they lay hands on me than my Henrietta gets free and starts running about. Oh you should’ve seen her! You wouldn’t believe it with her short little legs but she runs like a hare. This way and that under the egg-stalls till they capsize and spill their eggs, under the women’s skirts till they’re shrieking, under the horses till they’re rearing and kicking. But the horses never lay a hoof on her, she moves so quick and lish. My darling Henrietta, she is, my little gilt.’
‘Your guilt? What are you guilty of?’
‘No, no, Your Honour. Henrietta’s my gilt, my little pig. And I hope you will help me to get her back.’
‘What is your name?’
‘It’s Spungeon. Jasper Spungeon. Jass.’
‘Well, Mr Spungeon, er, Jass, perhaps you would tell us where to find this Pitt?
‘Why, in the house by the pinfold outside town at the far end of Wall Gate.’
* * *
We came into Wigan along Wigan Lane where the famous battle had been fought that finally ended the civil war in the last century. Ranged alongside the road as we neared the town were workshops where men smelted copper and iron, and the acridness of burning coal stung our nostrils. Reaching the town by the street called Standish Gate we passed the great parish church (which I will admit far exceeds Preston’s in grandeur), and entered Wall Gate where we spotted the sign of the Bear’s Paw Inn. It looked a good place in which to feed the horses and ask for directions.
The landlord, Simon Freckleton, had a loud voice and did not stint to pass judgement on his fellow man.
‘Terence Pitt?’ he said when asked about him. ‘He’s a ruffian who thinks he’s on his way to being a gentleman. But he’s not: he has no manners and his father was nowt but a labourer though he bosses our people as if they were animals, and he bosses our animals, too, come to that, seeing as he’s pinder as well as constable.’
He gestured with his thumb rubbing against his fingers and tempered his voice to a confidential hiss.
‘And he makes a business of it, if you take my meaning.’
‘You are suggesting he is not ruler-straight?’ put in Fidelis.
‘He’s about as straight as a pig’s tail. When you arrest a man, or confiscate an animal, it should be because it’s the right thing to do, not to turn a shilling. A fine is a fine, not a ransom. A lot think the same of Mr Pitt around this town.’
He took us out into the street and pointed along Wall Gate.
‘The pinfold’s down there, at the town’s end and off the road to the right. His house is by it, as you’ll see. You won’t need your horses – it’s a walk of less than a mile.’
Fidelis led the way with a determined stride.
* * *
Having left the mass of houses behind us we came to a sign that pointed away from the road and along a lane to the pinfold, where the house of Terence Pitt also lay. We made our way down it and after two hundred yards the house came into view, and beyond it a collection of hutches, stalls, byres and paddocks variously inhabited by animal species.
By means we had guessed from Freckleton’s insinuations, Pitt had evidently made himself a man of consequence in the town. In addition to his power over people as their constable, he enjoyed the pinder’s job of arresting stray and vexatious animals, which could be returned to their owners in return for a fine. If an owner failed to come forward to pay, the beasts would be sold and the profit split with the Corporation. Much the same system of ransom was no doubt in force for his human prisoners, enabling Pitt to milk his position vigorously. Thus, though he had neither an education nor a trade, he lived in a modern residence on three floors, with sash windows and, above a painted front door furnished brightly with prosperous brass handles and knockers, an elegant fanlight.
The plan we had settled on was to pose as two travellers accidentally importuned by a stranger. Moved by his tale of an impounded pet piglet, we had agreed to his request that we call on Mr Pitt and ask on what terms the animal might be released. While discussions continued we would no doubt be invited into the house and there, perhaps, meet Kathy, the real object of our visit.
The door was wrenched open by an impatient hand. It was that of the pinder himself, who now faced us brandishing a chicken bone. Across his ample chest a linen napkin was spread, tucked at the top into the collar of his shirt.
‘I’m dining. What do you want?’ he said, with small attempt at civility.
He listened with evident impatience as I explained about our meeting with Jasper Spungeon and the matter of Henrietta the pig. His laugh when I had finished fired a volley of chicken shreds out of his mouth.
‘You’re too late. The man attempted to bring that little pig to market without a trader’s licence, making it my bounden duty to confiscate the creature.’
‘Respectfully, Sir, Mr Spungeon can convincingly show that he never sought to sell the pig at Wigan Market, and that your arrest of the pig is a misunderstanding.’
‘I don’t misunderstand, Sir. I never misunderstand. The day I am found to misunderstand will be my funeral day.’
‘But has Spungeon not the customary right to have his case heard and, if successful, to redeem his property?’
‘He would have that right, except that the piggie is now ear-marked for my own table and will be killed, stuffed and roasted next Saturday week, on Mrs Pitt’s birthday.’
‘His rights—’
‘The Devil take his rights. He is a foreigner, like you gentlemen, and no one of consequence in Wigan will speak up for the rights of foreigners.’
He put the chicken bone to his mouth and with two slashes of the teeth stripped away the remainder of the chicken flesh. Then he waved the bare drumstick in the direction we had come.
‘Now, you will leave my property while I return to dinner. Good-bye.’
The door slammed as suddenly as it had opened.
* * *
‘A very disobliging fellow,’ said Fidelis as we retreated the way we had come.
‘He is clearly a petty tyrant, with a regrettable disregard for a man’s rights. But I wish we had not played Henrietta the pig as our opening card. It turned Pitt against us immediately. Perhaps I should have declared myself and my business, and asked outright for Kathy Brock.’
‘That would not have worked. You’ve seen the man. He’s taken the girl in, she is of his family. He would have denied she was there and sent us packing anyway.’
We had reached the main road, which I glanced along in the direction of the town. A rather plump young woman was coming towards us with a basket hooked over her arm.
‘Good heavens,’ I said, ‘isn’t this Kathy?’
I hurried towards her. ‘Are you not Kathy Brock, of Preston?’
Her eyes widened and for a moment her mouth dropped open.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Kathy, do you not know me? I’m Titus Cragg and the last time we met I rescued you from the attentions of a mob of accusing ladies near Marsh End in Preston. This is Dr Luke Fidelis.’
Her face relaxed a little as she rem
embered, and her shoulders dropped. At the roadside there was a mossy water trough with a stone seat alongside it and I gestured towards this. Kathy, who was obviously not unintelligent, took my meaning at once and allowed herself to be led there. A brass cup on a chain hung above the trough.
‘Let’s sit here for a moment, shall we?’ I suggested, gently taking her basket from her and placing it on the ground.
We sat in a row on the bench with Kathy between myself and Fidelis. Turning towards her I noticed the girl’s pallor, her deep breathing and the glisten of a teardrop in the corner of her eye.
‘Why did you run away from Preston, Kathy? Is it because that dead child was yours after all, as the women thought?’
Kathy would not meet my gaze, but stared down at her basket, sniffing.
‘No, Mr Cragg,’ she said in a voice hardly audible over the trickle of water into the trough.
‘I have spoken to your mother, you know. She told me about your miscarriage of a child last year, after you’d been working at Mr Scroop’s house.’
Kathy pressed her knuckles to her mouth.
‘Did it happen a second time, Kathy? And did you not this time reach full term, give birth in secret and, being ashamed at being caught out conceiving a second bastard, did you not kill it, or have it killed?’
‘No! No, that’s untrue, I can swear to it.’
‘All of it?’
She rose suddenly and grasped the drinking cup, which she dipped and raised to her mouth, swallowing noisily.
‘Kathy, tell me at least this: is your mother’s testimony the truth?’
She let the cup drop and it clanked noisily against the stone. But instead of answering my question she rested against the parapet and, a more composed figure now, asked her own slyly spoken one.
‘Would it be that you have been to my uncle’s house already?’
‘We have.’
Her face registered immediate concern.
‘And did you ask for me? What did he say? Was he vexed?’
‘We did not mention you. We pretended we were there about a different matter.’
‘I am right glad you didn’t say my name. My uncle is very pettish if anything bad is said against what he calls the family honour – his own honour, really, as he thinks of it. He does not want his sister’s daughter to put a stain on that.’