by Robin Blake
‘So come on! Let’s have it out! Don’t disappoint me, Barton. I’d hate to miss the opportunity to break your nose.’
Breathing heavily through his mouth, Barton climbed to his feet. He was about to speak when he heard a sound from the stables behind him – a cough from one of the horses perhaps. He half turned and in that movement it seemed that sanity returned to him.
‘There’ll be no fighting,’ was all he said. ‘Get yourself off.’
‘I’ll go with the greatest of pleasure, when I have knocked you senseless.’
‘You know something?’ sneered the horse-coper. ‘I don’t care what you do with Amity Thorn. She’s naught but a pretty slice of cabbage, and there’s a lot of that in the world. Now get off.’
Fidelis seethed with anger all of the way to Preston, and again when he described these dramatic events to me that evening at the Turk’s Head Coffee House. He was far from regretting his part in the argument with Barton, for his feelings towards Amity were entirely chivalrous, as he was quite certain Barton’s were not. He only wished that he and the horse-coper really had fought, and he had felled the bloody clown. As a knight from Sir Thomas Malory should – but perhaps not a Lancashire medical practitioner – he passionately wanted to have broken Barton’s lance.
* * *
That evening as I walked into the Turk’s Head to meet Fidelis, a group of men that were enjoying a joke together stopped me.
‘What d’you reckon Titus? What should they have done with that black slip of a child that Mallender arrested?’
‘They should be putting her up with some responsible widow woman,’ I said. ‘You know she’s mute. She’s had a lot of bullying and she needs kindness now if she’s to get her voice back.’
‘That’s a shame, then.’
‘What do you know?’
‘It’s all over town. They’ve placed her all right – but with Billy Biggs.’
Another eruption of laughter followed me as I moved away.
‘I fear for the safety of the negro girl,’ I told Fidelis, telling him the news.
‘You wonder if she will avoid Biggs’s wandering hands. Yes, if he thinks he’s dealing with a mere slave, he might think anything is allowed.’
‘I doubt Mrs Biggs would allow him anything. But you are right. Some men that are not in the habit of denying themselves feel freer than they should in such circumstances. I would not like either Biggs or Grimshaw to be left alone with her.’
‘Why Grimshaw?’
I described the scene in the courtroom and Grimshaw’s reaction to the sight of her bared breasts in court. Fidelis laughed and I reproved him.
‘You laugh – but the possibility is serious.’
‘I laugh because such suspicion can get us into fights, Titus. I will tell you about my own adventures this afternoon in that way.’
And so everything I have described above was divulged to me, with Fidelis being scrupulously unsparing of his own feelings or embarrassments. I was incredulous at first about the experiment with Adam Thorn, and then a little taken aback by the rencontre with John Barton. Fidelis dismissed this with a wave of his hand, wanting to return to the subject of his discovery at Peel Hall Lane Cottage.
‘Adam’s mind is working, Titus. That’s the wonderful thing. He became tired under my questioning, and I had no opportunity to get the details of what happened to him on that day when he was struck down. I am most eager to know more. But what is certain is that you will be able to get a statement from him.’
‘It seems,’ I said, ‘that you have most cleverly found the mind of Adam Thorn. I congratulate you. But I too have made some finds today.’
I had the shoe in my coat pocket. Now I produced it.
‘Good heavens, the shoe!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where was it?’
‘After you left me this afternoon it occurred to me that we had never looked right under the Stone, so that was where I searched. This shoe was right there. It must have fallen off Jackson’s foot, and been kicked into the bushy undergrowth.’
‘Well I’ll be damned.’
‘That, however, is not all I have found under the Bale Stone today.’
I gave a full account of the bag of silver objects pushed deep into the burrow near where the shoe had been lying. Luke listened intently. I expected he would cap my discovery with observations of his own, but he uttered only one.
‘One thing is certain. The silver, unlike the shoe, was deliberately concealed in that hole. The person who put it there intended to go back for it. That satisfies the definition of treasure trove, does it not?’
‘It would seem to.’
Fidelis chuckled.
‘I wonder how many instances there have been of the Coroner being also the one finding the treasure.’
‘I wasn’t the first finder, Luke. Someone found it before me, and I believe his name is Adam Thorn.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because among that silver was a bundle of apostle spoons – eleven of them.’
‘Well, well, well!’
He considered the matter briefly, rubbing his chin, then abruptly rose to his feet and reached for his hat.
‘Titus, it has been a day of remarkable discoveries indeed. But I am tired and would like my bed.’
Chapter Twenty-two
ON FRIDAY MORNING I rode the few miles to Kirkham in cheerful weather, which promised another hot day ahead. But I was feeling baffled, and wringing my brains to understand what I had just discovered at the House of Correction.
Before leaving town through Friary Bar I had diverted down Marsh Lane, intending to take the chance of reuniting the late Jackson with his errant shoe. The Porter took me straight to the locked cell in which Jackson reposed, turned the key and left me to it. I found that the corpse-washers Mary and Dolly had been in, and now Jackson lay under a plain sheet, awaiting his next appointment – the viewing by tomorrow’s inquest jury. The clothes bag lay on the floor nearby and this I emptied until I came to the single shoe, to which the one I had with me was the pair. Except that, when I put them side by side, I saw at once that it wasn’t.
The shoes were much alike in style, but the one that had been on Jackson’s left foot was a clumsy, much scuffed and dented object, with worn-down heel and thinned sole. The shoe I had found at the Stone was a less exhausted and more refined thing, with some fancy stitching here and there, though it was by no means new. When I tried slipping the corpse’s right foot into this unexpected shoe I found that it fitted well enough. Tybalt Jackson’s dress had been a little shabby, but not slovenly. Why would he have been wearing odd footwear?
Arriving at Kirkham I found the shop of Joseph Ransom to be a small and hardly prosperous establishment. Instead of a proud position on or beside Kirkham’s Market Square, where it might assert itself as the town’s prime centre of the cordwainer’s art, it kept apart at the bottom of a row of backstreet cottages, a shy business that disdained acclaim.
Yet if this is a true image, Betty Ransom did not fit it very well. She was a forward woman, with flashing eyes and a comfortably upholstered body – a woman who enjoyed inhabiting her own flesh.
‘Come in, Mr Cragg,’ she said gaily, after I explained that I was gathering information about a man that had been staying at her brother’s inn. ‘Ransom is at the tannery, fetching leather, so he’s not here to object to my entertaining a strange man in my parlour.’
We passed through the shop and into the living quarters. The parlour was as orderly and clean as her brother’s was disorderly and foul. She insisted on my waiting while she fetched in some elderflower wine.
‘I make it for sale at my brother’s inn but the fool only gives it away. Drinks nothing but ale himself, and a lot too much of it.’
I took a sip. I would rather have had Tokay, or even Cyprus wine, but in its way this wasn’t bad.
‘I have had a conversation yesterday with your brother,’ I said, when I had complimented her on the wine. ‘He says he went out to t
he tavern on Wednesday night, leaving you in charge of the inn.’
‘He did that. I go over to him every week, Wednesdays. I like it, for a change, though I would wish he’d keep the place cleaner. So who is this man you want to know about?’
‘His name is Tybalt Jackson, whom your brother had received at the inn late on Tuesday, lodging him in the largest guest chamber.’
‘Him with the blackie boy? What about him?’
‘He is dead, I’m afraid. Attacked and found murdered.’
Her eyes widened.
‘Murdered? At the inn?’
‘I don’t know – he wasn’t found at the inn and I doubt he was murdered there. But I want to know anything about his activities during the night. Did you see Mr Jackson, or his servant, at any time?’
‘No. They kept to their room.’
‘You didn’t take them any food or go to their room for any reason?’
‘No. But you mention “activities”, Sir: I did hear them, you know, as I was passing by the door.’
‘What did you hear of them?’
Looking downward, she began to blush and her cheeks dimpled.
‘Well, I’m not sure I can say, Mr Cragg.’
‘You heard talking?’
She looked up at me again, her eyes lit by suppressed merriment. ‘Yes, talking they were, in a way. They were saying things … intimate things, if you get my meaning there. And making intimate sounds, too, if you get my meaning there.’
‘I think I can, Mrs Ransom. But just to be clear, you are referring to Mr Jackson and his servant?’
‘Exactly, Sir. And if the master were murdered, well, I doubt he was killed by the blackie. That boy sounded like he were properly enjoying his’self.’
She retained a serious face, but somewhere behind her eyes that smile still lay concealed. She did not appear to disapprove of what she had heard through the door, even though she thought Jackson’s ‘blackie’ was a boy.
‘What time did you hear this?’
‘Eight or nine o’clock, or between the two anyway. It was just dark.’
‘Half past eight then?’
‘Yes, about.’
‘Now this is very important. Did anyone else come to the inn during the evening?’
‘It was quiet, it always is, but another gentleman did arrive later on, asking for a room. I said yes, if you have the money beforehand. He paid me sixpence and I showed him up to what’s known as the Red Room. There’s a lot of old bedrooms at the Lamb, but most of them’s unfit. I had a job finding one that was not too bad.’
‘What was this man’s name?’
‘Said it was Moon. I laughed. I thought, that’s a made-up name, or sounds like it. The man-in-the-moon! Anyway, it didn’t matter, so long as he had the money.’
‘Did he say where he had come from?’
‘No. I asked if he’d travelled far, you know, out of politeness, but he just said a day’s ride.’
‘A day’s ride from where?’
‘For all he told me, it was from the moon.’
She laughed, and then as quickly grew serious.
‘Is he the murderer, Sir? Oh, just to think I spent the night in the house with a murderer.’
‘It’s much too early to say who was the murderer, Mrs Ransom. But can you describe Mr Moon for me?’
‘It were after dark so I only saw him by candlelight, and he did keep his hat on, which was a bit disrespectful – but as I say, so long as they have the money…’
‘What was his appearance?’
‘He was ordinary height, or a little above. Skinny. About thirty years old, maybe a year or two more.’
‘His face – was there anything to note about it?’
‘No, Sir. Not to notice. Except maybe for what you might call a thin nose. But it was a wide hat and I couldn’t rightly see under it.’
‘Did he have a beard?’
‘No, Sir, his chin were clean shaven.’
‘Apart from the hat, how was he dressed?’
‘There was nowt special about his clothing. I think he wore a green coat.’
‘And his speech?’
‘He talked roundly, not exactly as a gentleman but like one that wants to impress you that way, if you understand what I mean.’
‘And was he alone?’
‘Well, he had a man with him.’
‘A servant?’
‘I don’t know about that. He was just a chap carrying Mr Moon’s valise.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Not really. I hardly looked at him and as soon as he dropped Moon’s bag he left.’
‘So where was the room you showed Moon to in relation to the one occupied by Mr Jackson?’
‘Oh nowhere near. Red Room’s round on the other side of the yard, though both of them look out on it.’
‘They both had windows commanding a view of the courtyard?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the windows of the two rooms were visible to each other across the space between?’
‘That’s right. I suppose this new chap could’ve seen what Jackson was up to if the curtains were not drawn.’
‘And were they?’
She shrugged her well-shaped shoulders.
‘I never did look, Sir,’ she said.
‘Did Mr Moon ask for anything – food, drink?’
‘Ink. He asked for a bottle of ink. I got him one and left him to it.’
‘So there were just three sleeping that night at the inn – or five if we count yourself and Houndsworth?’
‘That’s it. Three more than usual, you could say.’
‘And the newcomer was definitely alone. He had no servant or companion with him.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did he have a horse?’
‘Yes Sir, but I told him we couldn’t stable it, as we had no boy at the moment. So he took it up to the livery at the top of the street.’
‘What baggage did he have?’
The question was not answered for we were interrupted by noises from the shop, a banged door and a shout. Immediately Mrs Ransom’s manner towards me changed, her voice becoming formal and distant.
‘That will be my husband, Mr Cragg. I shall go and greet him and, if you wouldn’t mind waiting here, you yourself shall meet him in a few moments.’
Hastily she snatched up the jug of wine and glasses and left the room. Moments later the couple’s murmuring voices could be heard from the shop, and then Ransom came through to the parlour alone. He had on a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles fitted over icy blue eyes in a lean, narrow face. The set of his mouth looked uncomfortably tight.
‘My wife tells me you have come all the way from Preston, Sir.’
‘Yes, it is on Coroner’s business. One that lodged a night at the Lamb and Flag has died rather suddenly.’
‘Of the food, no doubt,’ said Ransom drily.
‘No, not the food—’
‘Then of breathing the air in the place. Fetid. I won’t go there, and I won’t have my brother-in-law here neither. I don’t understand my wife’s devotion to the wastrel.’
Ransom was hardly one for skylarking, I thought. Self-indulgence was not his ruling passion.
I told him I still had one or two questions for Mrs Ransom and wondered if he would be kind enough to call her to join us. But coming back in and sitting in the shadow of her husband’s presence, Betty Ransom became a very different interlocutor. All sense of imparting confidences, of vivid recall, left her. The responses were stiff and as brief as possible.
‘I was just asking about Moon’s baggage. How much was there?’
‘He had only a single valise.’
‘And next morning, what happened?’
‘I rose at seven and left to come home.’
‘Is that what you usually do?’
‘Yes. I catch a lift from carrier Johnson’s cart, that always leaves for Kirkham at half after seven.’
‘Who makes breakfast?’
‘Did you see anyone at the inn that morning, before you left?’
‘No one. They must have been all asleep.’
‘And in the night – did you hear any activity?’
‘My brother coming in. Nothing else. Nothing at all.’
‘Do you generally sleep soundly at the inn, Mrs Ransom? I mean, if there is ever any disturbance in the night, do you hear it or sleep through it?’
‘I sleep well enough. And I didn’t hear owt unusual on Wednesday night. If a man truly was murdered in the dark hours, I didn’t hear it.’
There seemed little more to extract from her, so I thanked them both and rose to leave. Ransom showed me back into the shop and he was about to open the street door to shuffle me out when a thought suddenly struck me.
‘I wonder if you would look at something for me, Mr Ransom. I will need to fetch it from my saddle bag.’
I went out to the horse, which I had tethered by the door, and returned with the shoe that mistakenly we had thought belonged to Tybalt Jackson. I placed it in the cobbler’s hand and, as he turned it over, I was most surprised to see a wiry little smile creep across his lips.
‘It’s a few year since I set eyes on one of these,’ he said.
‘Don’t tell me you know who wore it.’
‘Not who wore it, who made it. See this?’
He pointed inside the shoe to the insole. It was impressed with the mark of a stamp – T.T.
‘That’s his mark, is that.’
‘Who is T.T.?’
‘Thomas Truss of Liverpool. I learned my trade for seven years as that man’s apprentice. This shoe is typical of him. It’s beautifully stitched and made of good leather. I don’t get much chance to make shoes like this now. It’s mostly boot-work and clogs for the likes of me out here. Primitive.’
‘So this is an expensive shoe?’
‘Not very: middling. Thomas never asked prices anything like as steep as he could or should have. He were a master shoemaker – and I do mean a master – but he always endeavoured to keep the charge low. A fair fit at a fair price: that was his boast, and it’s one I still try to live up to here.’
‘So what kind of person bought their shoes from Thomas Truss?’
‘Not the richest. Not the poorest. Liverpool folk in the middle, with a taste for well-made sturdy footwear. And younger folk rather than older because – well, see this bit here? That fancy stitching wouldn’t appeal to everybody, and especially not to those more set in their ways. The more adventurous types of men and girls liked our shoes, though, because they were a little bit different from the general.’