Death of a Radical

by Rebecca Jenkins

  A ground-floor window opened above his head. A chubby hand and a brown velvet sleeve were followed by the round-cheeked face of a man with full red lips and gravy on his chin. Jarrett straightened up, quickly putting his hand in his pocket.

  “Dropped it taking out my handkerchief,” he said with an easy smile. “Careless of me but no harm done. Mr. George, I presume?” he inquired. “Frederick Jarrett. Agent to the Duke of Penrith. I met Mr. Teward on the road and he asked me to call by. I was hoping to have a word.”

  Mr. George wiped his chin with a large linen napkin. He rocked formally from the waist, his expression both conciliatory and solemn.

  “Is that so? A sad, sad affair. I am breakfasting in the parlor; do come join me.”

  “Such a sad business,” Mr. George repeated, waving Jarrett to the table. “Poor Pritchard. Have you breakfasted?”

  The tragedy, it seemed, had not affected Mr. George’s appetite. A solitary slice of beef lay in a smudge of gravy on a blue and white platter, a napkin-lined basket was empty but for crumbs, and egg shells littered the cloth around his plate. Mr. George picked up the coffee pot and gazed at it uncertainly.

  “This coffee, I regret, is cold,” he said. “Shall I ring for the landlady?” Without waiting for a response he picked up the little brass bell by his plate and rang it vigorously. For good measure he opened the door and called out. “Mrs. Teward!”

  A voice responded from down the passage.

  “Coffee for Mr. Jarrett, if you’d be so kind.” Mr. George closed the door. “Such an obliging woman,” he remarked jovially. He returned to his seat. Pushing back his plate, he brushed away a scatter of crumbs with the back of one plump hand.

  “Mr. Jarrett, you say? Agent to the Duke of Penrith? And Mr. Teward sent you?” Mr. George’s forehead creased in a puzzled frown. “You are a magistrate perhaps?” he suggested.

  “No. But I am responsible for the duke’s properties in these parts,” Jarrett replied, content to imply that Mr. Teward might be a tenant of his Grace.

  Mr. George’s lips formed a question but at that moment the maid, a clumsy girl with reddened eyes, came into the room. She struggled with a tray that was almost overbalanced by a large milk jug decorated with hunting scenes in pastel pinks and blues. As she approached the table, it tilted. Mr. George rescued the jug neatly. With a startled look the maid abandoned her burden and fled.

  “Ah! These country inns!” Mr. George remarked cheerfully. He poured coffee into a fresh cup. “Milk?” he asked, and poured before his guest could protest. Jarrett normally took his coffee black.

  “You arrived with your colleague from Brough yesterday, I understand.” Jarrett accepted the proffered cup.

  “The afternoon before. This is—was to be,” Mr. George corrected himself, “our second day.”

  There was a folder on the table embossed with a gilded badge. A sheaf of papers peeped out. The uppermost leaf was a neatly executed list with figures attached.

  “You are come to Woolbridge for the fairs, sir?” Jarrett asked. Mr. George stilled.

  “Filling an army contract perhaps? Wool cloth?” Jarrett suggested.

  Mr. George gazed at him, his head cocked to one side, his eyes as blank as a bird’s. Jarrett nodded toward the folder.

  “I recognize a procurement docket,” he explained. “16th Lancers—Portugal—until last year.”

  “Ah! One of Wellington’s men!” cried Mr. George, suddenly good humored again. “Lieutenant?”

  “Captain.”

  “Beg pardon.” Mr. George acknowledged his mistake. “We prefer not to advertise our presence too widely. These are profitable contracts.” He bunched up his round cheeks in an apologetic grimace. “Don’t want to give opportunities for underhand dealing. All fair and above board, you know.”

  “A large order?”

  Mr. George wrinkled his neat nose.

  “Considerable,” he admitted. His eyes narrowed speculatively. “Does his Grace have interests in mills hereabouts?” Jarrett gave him a cold look. “Forgive me,” Mr. George said hastily. “An unintentional impertinence! His Grace’s affairs are a private matter, dear me.”

  “This tragedy—will it interrupt your business?”

  “No, no, no!” Mr. George responded with a dismissive little shake. “It is my custom to travel alone …” He spread out his plump hands, palms up, and trailed off into a shrug that somehow conveyed the idea that he was a man who would do his duty whatever the circumstances.

  “Was Mr. Pritchard a close friend?”

  “A colleague.” Mr. George put aside his coffee, his expression oddly prim. “We have worked in the same department for some years. This was our first tour together.” He checked himself. “Pritchard had an excellent reputation.”

  “And was it known that Mr. Pritchard was in ill health?”

  “Poor Pritchard!” Mr. George wagged his head sadly. “Forever complaining about some little ailment or another.” He looked up at Jarrett, his chubby face contrite. “I fear I didn’t take sufficient notice. Just thought it was his way. But then when a man’s time is come, God’s will be done,” he finished, the pious sentiment at variance with his comfortable expression. He picked up his cup and took a sip.

  “And last night, did he seem uneasy in any way?”

  Mr. George’s forehead creased in thought.

  “He complained of being fatigued from the journey,” he said cautiously. “But as to anything more …” He gestured helplessly with his cup. “He said he would take his sleeping draft and go to bed.”

  “A sleeping draft?”

  “He always carried it. He was, by his own account, an indifferent sleeper.”

  “What kind of draft was it?”

  “I never saw it. I understand he regularly took it.”

  Jarrett contemplated the broad, open face before him. Mr. George seemed at ease with himself and the situation. He thought of the bird-like expression he had glimpsed a moment earlier and wondered if the man was really so guileless.

  “It must have been a shock to find him this morning.”

  “Indeed. But I didn’t find him,” Mr. George corrected firmly. “The landlord called me after his wife discovered the tragedy.”

  Jarrett sipped his own coffee. It was bitter. Chicory. Mr. George shot him a sympathetic little grimace and picked up the painted jug.

  “A little more milk perhaps?”

  Jarrett shook his head. Mr. George added a little milk to his own cup. The hunters pursued their merry chase around the jug with the pink hounds at their heels.

  “I was awoken by a dreadful wailing in the passage. Our maid, I believe. I was making my toilette when Mr. Teward knocked.”

  “Your room is next to Mr. Pritchard’s?”

  “To the right down the passage.”

  The second unshuttered room, thought Jarrett. Was it Mr. George who laid out his colleague in that fashion? If the limbs were still pliable he couldn’t have been long dead.

  Mr. Jarrett gave his companion a rueful smile. “How times have changed! In my day when we traveled on the king’s shilling we were expected to share accommodations.”

  Mr. George looked displeased.

  “I am not a junior, Mr. Jarrett,” the civil servant said haughtily and then repenting, added with a touch of humor, “Besides, poor Pritchard snored terribly. Had I been forced to sleep in the same room I should not have had a wink of sleep.” His eyes widened as if caught by a sudden thought. “I have heard that such snoring can be a sign of a weak heart. Do you think perhaps that is significant?”

  “Perhaps. How did you find him?”

  Mr. George shifted in his chair.

  “I did not go in.”

  “No?” Jarrett lifted his eyebrows.

  “I stayed at the door of the room,” Mr. George said stubbornly. “The Tewards had already found him. Perhaps you think me squeamish, Mr. Jarrett—I’m not proud of it, but Mr. Teward assured me Pritchard …” he hesitated delicately, “had
gone to a better place.”

  “You did not take a moment alone with him, to pay your respects?”

  “No!” The denial was energetic. Mr. George stood up abruptly and turned his back to stare through the window. He pulled out a handkerchief to dab his face. The fabric dislodged a paper bag from his pocket. It fell to the ground. “I paid my respects from a distance. Pritchard was a private man. He would have preferred it that way.” Mr. George’s tone was querulous. “I did not like to intrude.” He glanced down and spied the bag. With a soft tsk! of annoyance he snatched it up and replaced it in his pocket.

  “Forgive me. I am moved.” Again he applied the handkerchief to his face. He turned back to his interrogator, his manner infused with an air of martyred politeness. “If you require nothing else, Mr. Jarrett, I should be grateful for a little solitude. I find this sudden loss has affected me more than I knew.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A line of washing cut across a corner of the kitchen. Behind it a boiling kettle whistled. He ducked under the line and removed the kettle from the range hot plate. A tantalizing smell assailed him. A symmetrical phalanx of tawny currant buns was cooling on a wire rack on a long bench by the hearth. His stomach rumbled. He picked one up. Its absence left a reproachful hole. He put it back.

  “Mrs. Teward!” he called out.

  No answer. A door opened somewhere, admitting a chill draft of air. Voices and footsteps and Meg Teward came into the kitchen bundled up in a large shawl and carrying a basket, with her daughter at her heels.

  “Mr. Jarrett,” she greeted him. “We’ve been collecting eggs.” She put her basket on the table and unwound herself from her shawl. Hester was clutching a gray puff ball of a dog with bright jet eyes.

  “You keep him away from those hens,” her mother advised her. “Your da catches him he’ll not stand for it; he’ll fetch his hesslen stick.”

  Her daughter pushed out her lips in a mulish look; it was a half-hearted expression. The threat had the sound of one often repeated and never acted upon. Hester marched up to the visitor.

  “Tuffy’s been biting ’ens,” she informed him. It was a young dog, barely out of puppyhood. It wagged its stump of a tail and bobbed its head at him.

  “Has he? Bad dog!” he responded with a straight face.

  “Bad dog!” she repeated with relish. “I give him a kelk to square ’m up.”

  The dog bounced up and lapped her on the mouth. Hester grimaced, giggled and departed on some business of her own.

  “You’ve spoken to Mr. George, then,” Mrs. Teward said. She was cleaning the muck off the barn eggs and placing them in a broad earthenware bowl.

  “Yes.”

  She surveyed him with an unexpectedly motherly look.

  “You’ve not breakfasted? You must be half starved.”

  “That new bread of yours does smell wonderful,” he confessed.

  He drew out a chair and sat down while she brought him a warm loaf and butter. She lifted the cover from the large platter standing in the middle of the dark oak table.

  “You must try my baked ham,” she said with pride.

  “Your husband is a lucky man, Mrs. Teward.”

  She watched him approvingly as he demolished half a loaf and three generous slices of ham.

  “Fancy a curran wig?” she asked as he finished.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She laughed and fetched the tray of currant buns.

  “Curran wig,” she repeated.

  He grinned back. It was good to see her smile. The color had returned to her cheeks. Mrs. Teward sat in a rocking chair by the range with one of her daughter’s pinafores and began to mend the hem. He bit into the bun. It was spiced with a sticky honey glaze. He licked his fingers. It was such a comfortable scene he was reluctant to disturb it.

  He pushed back his empty plate. Her hands dropped in her lap. He glanced over at the little girl playing in the corner.

  “Hester, honey,” her mother said. “Go up and find Joan for me and ask her how far along she is with the beds.” The little girl danced out singing with the dog at her heels.

  “I’m sorry to have to trouble you with this …”

  She shook her head. “No trouble—not from you.”

  He leaned forward, his forearms on his knees.

  “You say Mr. Pritchard lies now as you found him? Neither you nor your husband laid him out that way?”

  “No!” She shivered. “He was lying like that. ’Twas unnatural.”

  “It’s certainly odd.” He paused. “And you don’t think Mr. George went in—for decency’s sake perhaps?”

  “I wondered,” Meg Teward responded, her confidence returning as her curiosity came to the fore. “But he was not going into that room,” she said positively. “Nearest any of us saw him come was the door.”

  “But he might have gone in earlier?”

  Mrs. Teward sucked her bottom lip. “I wondered,” she repeated, “but Mr. George is so certain he never went in that room. And Dan said he was shocked when he told him. Went lily white, he said.” She shrugged.

  “Was the window open when you first went in and found him?”

  “It was!” she agreed eagerly. “Don’t know what he was thinking. He let all the weather in. The room was bitter.”

  “The shutters are closed at night?”

  Mrs. Teward nodded. “Close them when I go up to put the pan in—to warm the beds like. Mind, Mr. George, he’s the same.”

  “How so?”

  “I put up the shutters last night like every night, but this morning both had their shutters back.”

  “A hardy pair,” he commented. “Had Mr. George left his window open too?”

  “Oh no!”

  “But you found Pritchard’s window open; you’re sure?”

  She nodded. “Wet all blown in. I told Joan she was to wipe the boards …” She hesitated, wide-eyed. “You don’t think that’s what killed him?”

  “Cold air couldn’t fell a man tucked up in his warm bed with those weighty curtains around him,” he reassured her. “Something else did for Mr. Pritchard. It’s a puzzle.” He stared into middle distance. “And that second pillow, it was at the end of his bed?”

  “Pillow?”

  “There are two pillows—the one under his head and the other at the foot of the bed. Did you find the second one like that, resting on his feet?”

  She frowned at him, twisting her mouth up. For a moment she looked just like her little girl.

  “No.” She spoke slowly, remembering. “’Twas on the floor. I must have picked it up. What does it matter?”

  “At the foot of the bed?”

  “No, by t’wall; up at t’head.” She started as Mr. Jarrett stood abruptly, his expression distant.

  “Forgive me!” he said vaguely. “There is something I must just—”

  And he left the room.

  The bag stood by the chair where Pritchard had left it. Jarrett’s hands moved through the contents. He brought out a small glass bottle. The paper label was handwritten in a thin, faded script: Sleeping Draft. The rest was smudged. Jarrett could barely make out “… drops in water.” There was perhaps an eighth of an inch of brown liquid left. He drew out the stopper and inhaled the heady odor of dried grass. Laudanum. He corked up the vial and replaced it. Crossing the room, he picked up the pillow at the foot of the bed and, taking it to the window, inspected it. There were faint stains on the linen. At first he wondered if they were merely evidence of Mrs. Teward’s lack of laundry skills, but after a quick survey of the other linen on the bed he dismissed the thought. The landlady was a careful housekeeper. The stains were new—pale streaks in the middle of the case, still faintly damp. He held it close and sniffed.

  Grasping the pillow firmly in both hands he stood over Mr. Pritchard’s unlovely head a moment and then he replaced it at the foot of the bed. He returned to the dead face. His movements economical and precise, he lifted each eyelid in turn. Then he bent indecently clos
e. First he smelt and then peered at the gaping mouth. Making a soft, frustrated sound he straightened up abruptly and circled the bed, drawing back the curtains to their furthest extent before resuming his oddly intimate position. Tilting his own head to catch the light, he thought he discerned a faint purple tinge to the skin of the lower cheeks and chin.

  “If it’s a bruise, it might develop,” he muttered to himself. “Or it might not.”

  The door pushed open and an animal scampered into the room, its toenails clicking on the boards. With an excited snuffle and a bark Tuffy darted under the bed. Jarrett heard the dog’s jaws click on something. Hester followed her pet in a flying tackle. She emerged wrestling a caramel-colored block from between its teeth. Tuffy relinquished his prize and trotted out of the room. Hester popped the square into her own mouth. She looked up at Jarrett with a smug expression.

  “One of Mr. George’s toffees,” she announced. “He give me one before.” She stared at the shape on the bed. She sucked on her sweet. “Dead as a door nail, ain’t he?” she remarked. Her baby hand reached for his and Jarrett enclosed it gently in his fingers.