by Robin Blake
‘Can we find this shoe amongst all these listed?’
‘Every shoe has its own individual number. Let’s see, it should be inked under the tongue – it will be of six digits beginning with one and four.
Fidelis had picked the shoe from his hands and was peeling back the tongue.
‘I can’t see anything,’ he said. ‘No, what’s this?’
He showed the back of the tongue to Fowler.
‘Yes, 1455 something-something,’ the shoemaker read. ‘The last two numbers are rubbed away. But those numbers tell us where to look. All we have to do is find the entry in the book. As we don’t know the date, we will have to work within estimates.’
He turned the pages of the ledger until he found the one he wanted to show us.
‘Let us start three years back. These are some of the last shoes Thomas made before he went sadly to Childwall in January three year ago.’
He fetched a straight-edge and laid it under the top line of records to make it easier to read.
‘I’ll write down all the possible shoes for the last six months in which Mr Truss was still shoemaking,’ I said. ‘May I have writing materials, Mr Fowler?’
These were brought and Fowler ran his finger down the column in which the shoe-numbers were recorded.
‘Here is the first!’ he said. ‘Date 4 September 1739, shoe number 145542, price eight shillings and signed by — I can’t read it. What’s the name? Lewis Mottram, I think. What’s the next one? Here. 15 October 1738, shoe number 145561, signed Jos. Garritty. Oh and another within a week. 19 October, 145564, signed by Martin Carman. Then three weeks later shoe number 145576 signed Chas. Cheeseby. Are you getting this down, Sir?’
He licked his finger and turned the page.
‘And there’s one more in November, number 145579 signed for by Geo: Galliford. And finally, how many in December? Three it looks like. Number 145585 signed T. Barlow, 145590 signed Ben Philps and 145598 dated 29 December signed Henry Scott.’
I reviewed my list of names: Mottram, Garritty, Carman, Cheeseby, Galliford, Barlow, Philps and Scott. I read them out loud. Fidelis, I noticed, listened with his eyes closed.
‘No help for us there,’ was all he said.
* * *
After a week in which the days had been largely fine and warm our ride back to Preston was wet. So, as riding companionably in the rain is almost impossible, each of us went along with our own thoughts and it wasn’t until we stopped for refreshment at Ormskirk, before we had covered twenty miles, that we were able to compare those thoughts.
‘We may not have connected Zadok Moon with that shoe,’ I said, ‘but the evidence against him is still strong, because he was at the inn.’
We were sitting with a jug of hot punch between us. Fidelis took a pull from his glass.
‘A clean-shaven, not a bearded man was at the inn, Titus. It is hard to prove that was Moon.’
‘It is not difficult to find a barber. The murderer of Jackson wanted to prevent any more revelations, did he not? The testimony given at the inquest was bad for Zadok Moon and could have been even worse.’
‘Quite so. We didn’t find out what it was that he had done by way of fraud. We can only surmise.’
‘So he took part in the murder to prevent any further details being made known.’
Fidelis raised a hand high above his head and snapped his fingers.
‘That is the crux, Titus. We still don’t know what it was about Zadok Moon that Jackson either already knew, or was still trying to find out. Nor do we know who helped Moon kill him. Was it, perhaps, Moreton Canavan?’
‘Only Jackson could tell us, surely.’
Fidelis laughed.
‘The same can be said of every murdered man, that he could tell who killed him.’
‘We would surely learn something from the letter Jackson wrote from the Lamb and Flag. I have asked Furzey to try to get it. And perhaps his companion could speak for him, if only she would speak.’
Fidelis now sat upright, struck by an idea.
‘Think of this. With her, we have a not dissimilar problem of communication as we have had with Adam Thorn. So what if we can solve it in the same way?’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Difficult matters are easier to hear than to say. But of all words the easiest to say are Yes and No. So let her hear the case stated and let her simply affirm or deny, nod or shake.’
‘That’s clever, and it might work,’ I agreed. ‘But it must be someone the girl trusts who puts the questions to her.’
‘If there’s anybody in Preston to do it, it might be your Elizabeth,’ said Fidelis. ‘Did you not say she took the girl soup when she was incarcerated in the House of Correction?’
‘That is a good idea, but I have a better one – our friend Elijah Quick! He is intelligent, agreeable and best of all his skin is black.’
Luke slapped the table.
‘Yes, Titus! And I am sure he will agree. Shall I go back to Liverpool and put it to him?’
* * *
I arrived in Preston wet through and chilled to the bone. With hot water ready, Elizabeth banished Matty from the kitchen, poured the water with a handful of pine needles into the bathing tub, and made me sit in it until I was warm through. As I sat there I told her of our adventures in Liverpool, including an account of the Guinea Trade of which I only spared her the very worst details.
Later, as we sat over our supper, the puppy was heard barking in the hall. I went out to him as the door-knocker sounded, and I opened to find Amity Thorn, her face pale and pinched, standing alone at the door.
‘Doctor Fidelis was kind enough to say I could apply to him anytime if I was in trouble, and that I am. I can’t find him at his lodging, though I left word. Is he with you, Sir? Little Peggy his niece that’s been working at Cadley Place is watching the children.’
‘What is the trouble, Amity?’
‘It’s Adam. I haven’t been able to rouse him this last five hours. And now he’s stopped breathing.’
* * *
The rain had cleared away and it was by no means yet dark as we rode out to Peel Hall Lane Cottage, having left word at the Lorrises’ for Fidelis to follow hard upon us when he returned. Amity sat up behind me on the horse’s rump, her arms strongly enclosing my waist and her breathing, mixed with a few sobs, falling on my neck. We jogged along like this for fifteen minutes until we arrived at her house.
Outwardly the place was quiet and still. The first thing I saw was the empty bath chair beside the door.
‘He was in it when he had his turn,’ Amity told me. ‘Then me and Peg dragged him out and into his bed.’
‘That must have been difficult.’
‘Not really, Mr Cragg. He’s that scrawny now, he’s as light as my nose.’
From within came the reedy wail of a sleepy infant, and we found Peg with the baby in her arms, walking around in front of the range and rocking it with what – to my inexperienced eye – seemed an unnaturally vigorous motion. The other two children were asleep on their straw mattress while, beside the fire, a man sat at ease, smoking a stubby pipe. It took me a moment to recognize John Barton, dressed in his best.
‘What’s he doing here?’ asked Amity of Peg, with acid sharpness in her voice.
Barton answered for himself, in a smooth, light tone that sounded nonchalant in this house of mourning.
‘I’ve only come to offer a neighbour’s condolence and services, if there’s any I can do.’
Amity’s voice persisted in trying to cut him.
‘There’s nowt. You can take yourself off.’
Weighing the situation for a moment, he took into account my presence, then knocked out his pipe and stood.
‘Right. You’ll send for me if you’ve need.’
When he had gone we slipped into the inner room. The light was dim and the air already staled by the corpse on the bed. I approached and touched the forehead: it was marble cold.
‘The doct
or always said this might happen, with no warning,’ I said, picking my words gently. ‘His suffering is over, at least we can say that.’
A few minutes later, after Amity had told me again the story of the day’s events, I heard the snort and jingle of a horse and suddenly Fidelis came striding in. He had read my message at his lodgings and followed me without pause. Going in to the body, he produced a tinderbox and struck a flame for a candle. This he passed in front of the dead man’s face and for the first time I clearly saw the look of surprise locked onto it. My father might have called it the Astonished Death.
Gently Fidelis closed the eyes.
‘Perhaps he died dreaming of his treasure, but without letting us know about it. I am at fault. I should have carried my questioning by the eye-blinking method sooner. Now it’s too late.’
We left him and returned to his wife, who was sitting in the chair vacated by Barton, her eyes closed. Peg had somehow induced sleep in the baby and all was quiet.
* * *
Riding alongside Fidelis on our way back to town I told him about John Barton sitting at ease by Amity’s fireside.
‘He was like a man taking possession of what he considers rightfully his.’
‘She won’t allow it. She is too proud.’
‘Do you believe he and Adam were friendly, as he claimed when he spoke to me last week?’
‘If they were, his wife knew nothing about it.’
‘What’s his object, finally? The woman, or the treasure?’
‘Supposing he knows about the money, it would be both, I’m thinking. But does he?’
‘He says the two men were friends. Adam might have confided in Barton: asked his advice.’
‘In that case there would have to be trust and some kind of friendship. Adam would’ve been a fool to confide in Barton otherwise.’
‘I never talked with Adam,’ I said, ‘but my impression is he was anything but a fool. Now, I am anxious to know if you brought Quick from Liverpool. Tell me.’
‘Yes. He is at my lodging. You should have seen Dot Lorris’s face when she saw him with me.’
It was ten o’clock and dark when we reached town. The day had been an exhausting one for both of us.
‘You know me, Titus,’ he said before we parted to go to our own homes. ‘I need my sleep, and there is a patient I must see in the morning. Forgive me if I do not present Elijah to you until afternoon.’
* * *
Fidelis went to his bed but for me the day was not yet over: I found Ephraim Grimshaw waiting impatiently at home, his face glowing not only from the wine that Elizabeth had given him, but also from self-congratulation.
‘I have been much puzzled in the matter of the death of this man Tybalt Jackson,’ he said, ‘as I am sure you have been, Cragg. I mean over why the victim’s face was so crushed and battered out of shape. So I am happy to tell you I have come to the answer.’
‘I am glad to hear it, Mayor. What is it?’
‘It was done deliberately by the murderer in order to make him unrecognizable. There you have it.’
‘Why would he want to do that?’
‘In order to make his escape. To disappear, who knows where – to Scotland, Ireland, America, or wherever malefactors do go to secrete themselves.’
‘Forgive me. I am tired, having ridden today from Liverpool, so perhaps my powers of understanding are weak. Please explain.’
‘Well, who have we all been assuming the corpse is?’
‘We know it is Tybalt Jackson.’
‘Why is that, Sir? It cannot be from his face, which is the usual method of identifying someone.’
‘No, it was his clothes.’
‘But, unlike a face, clothes may be exchanged with ease. A face cannot be exchanged in that way, but it can be changed – dangerously and with great effort, but changed out of recognition. I therefore submit that this dead body that we have is not that of Tybalt Jackson at all. It has been dressed in Jackson’s clothes and its face brutally altered to prevent anyone seeing that it isn’t Jackson.’
‘Then whose is it, Mayor?’
‘Tell me, if you can, who was shadowing Tybalt Jackson, Mr Cragg. Tell me who arrived at the same inn within a few hours of Jackson and spied on him. Tell me who Jackson feared and perhaps, if driven to extremes, he might kill. Tell me the name of that man and you will have told me the name of the murdered man.’
‘You mean Zadok Moon?’
‘The very person. I do believe we have brought in the elusive Mr Moon, whom we have been seeking with such anxiety this last week. Brought in dead, unfortunately, but nevertheless brought in.’
‘And your conclusion as to the murderer’s identity?’
‘I am convinced, Mr Coroner, that the murderer wished us to believe that he himself was the victim. In short, I believe that the said murderer was Tybalt Jackson.’
Chapter Twenty-six
ON MY BREAKFAST table the next morning was a letter from Ruth Peel:
Dear Mr Cragg,
I beg you to pay us a visit as soon as you are able, for we are out of our wits at Cadley Place, not knowing how to pay our way and urgently in need of advice from you as executor of my late employer’s Will.
Ruth Peel.
The letter jarred my conscience. Mr Flitcroft of Kirkham was due later the same morning to look over the silver hoard but, if I hurried, I would have time to go to Cadley Place, and return, before he arrived. I sent for my horse and rode off. The first freshness of the morning had given way to a growing oppressiveness as smoky clouds from the west had crept across the Preston sky. The wayside flowers seemed to hang limply on their stalks and birdsong was infrequent save for the harsh cry of rooks flapping across the farmland.
On arrival at the house young Peggy told me that the housekeeper was in the orchard across the road and I found Miss Peel sitting alone on a seat that had been cut into the trunk of a fallen oak. She was staring into the east where the distant fells, still unreached by the massing clouds, formed a clear and sunlit horizon.
‘Thank you for coming, Mr Cragg,’ she said, rising to her feet as I approached. ‘Shall we walk?’
As we strolled under the trees, she explained that, with so many household bills unpaid, she was finding it increasingly hard to obtain credit with tradesmen.
‘We are desperate. The dairyman is threatening to stop supplying us. The butcher has already done so. I cannot shop at market without ready money. I am everywhere in debt and to be refused credit is so shaming.’
‘I must apologize,’ I said. ‘I should have anticipated your difficulty. However I can reassure you. Now that the inquest has determined that your employer died as a result of a simple accident, there is no legal impediment to Mrs Pimbo taking possession of her lifetime interest in her son’s estate – this house and its contents, and whatever other property he may have had. There remains only the purely formal business of proving the will. So you may assure your creditors that they will be paid.’
‘But they may not believe me. How can I convince them?’
‘I shall provide you with a letter to that effect, Miss Peel. Show it to your suppliers and they will extend your credit for the time being. So if you live economically, you shall make ends meet.’
‘And the shop in Preston, Mr Cragg? Does it still conduct business?’
‘No, it is closed and I fear cannot trade. As to the longer future it does not appear that Mr Pimbo’s mother can carry the business on herself, so I expect a tenant or a purchaser must be found. I have asked Mr Hazelbury to examine the books and report to me about this. I cannot be sure exactly how but, as you heard at the inquest, it does look as if Mr Pimbo’s fallen foul of an embezzler. We do not know the extent of his loss, but it may have been great.’
‘And what of my own—’
She gestured to right and left.
‘I mean, my legacy.’
‘This orchard?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is safe. It is yours, always p
rovided you abide by Mr Pimbo’s curious condition – that you do not marry.’
She closed her eyes for a moment and let out a barely audible laugh.
‘I hardly know what I shall do with all this, Mr Cragg.’
‘I suggest you cultivate it, Miss Peel. Its fruit and honey will yield you produce and even an income, you know.’
‘Yes I suppose so.’
She gave me a faltering look.
‘And if I should, at any time … I mean, if I should marry – what then?’
‘Then I am afraid the orchard would revert to Mrs Pimbo or her direct heirs. You would lose it.’
Miss Peel did not desire to pursue this matter and we discussed instead ways in which the Cadley Place household could make economies, and what should be done about Mrs Pimbo. As her employer’s executor I asked her to continue for the time being in her position as housekeeper.
‘And if you need to raise money you have my authority to sell items of moveable property, or to make any of the economies we have mentioned. You may submit your accounts to me.’
My watch was now telling me I must hurry my old horse back to town. I therefore said my farewells and left her to contemplate her newly-acquired dominion over apples, pears and plums.
* * *
‘I am disappointed, Cragg, most grievously.’
It was less than an hour later and Mr Flitcroft was in my office, surveying, with scepticism, the collection of silver that I had brought from Nick Oldswick’s strong cupboard, and had now arranged for his inspection on my desk.
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘I was looking forward to inspecting something that might interest an antiquary, you know. But – oh dear! – this does not appear at all promising.’
Flitcroft took out his eyeglasses to examine more closely the goods spread out before him. He picked up one object – a small jug – and studied it briefly before he put it down with a click of his tongue and picked up another. Having been through half a dozen or so in the same way, he sighed and turned to me.
‘These are all such modern pieces, Cragg. Have you nothing of any age to show? I do not expect Roman silver – that is exceedingly rare – or even Anglo-Saxon. But nor did I think I should be looking at such recent silverware.’