by L. C. Tyler
‘And yet,’ I say, ‘I do not believe that he acted alone. Jem’s murderer at least was no stranger to the village.’
‘So, an accomplice?’
‘I think so. I fear it may be Ben Bowman, though the Colonel doubts it can be true.’
‘I agree with the Colonel. He is an unlikely murderer . . . Has Bowman lived here all his life?’
‘He has – though his wife is from London.’
‘Indeed? Tell me about Mistress Bowman. What did she do in London?’
‘She earned her living from play-acting.’
Probert looks perplexed. ‘A woman on the stage? I have heard of such things in France, but not here.’
‘Her father was the manager of a theatre in London. She helped him with selling tickets and running the company generally. She can still quote whole acts of Shakespeare’s plays if you ask her. Ben Jonson’s too.’
‘I thought her face was familiar. Though I do, of course, strongly disapprove of theatricals and all other entertainments banned by our enlightened government, there was a time when I gained foolish enjoyment watching one band of actors or another. I have visited most of the London playhouses. Perhaps I saw her there. How grateful she must be to the Lord Protector for saving her from such a debauched existence.’
‘I fear she finds her new life rather dull.’
‘Indeed? I grant that she would have few other ladies to converse with – I mean, anyone with any learning.’
‘My mother reads and writes of course. So does Dickon’s mother. They exchange receipts sometimes for jam or pies. Oh, and Aminta Clifford was taught by the same tutor as her brother.’
‘Your village is a veritable Athens of the eastern counties. But I am racing ahead of myself. Tell me first what you know about Henderson’s sad demise. Then let us return to the dramatis personae.’
I take a deep breath and tell him what I know of the murder, as far as my discovery of the missing button.
‘Very clear so far, Mr Grey. I thank you. And where is the button now?’
‘Goodwife Mansell claimed it as one of her perquisites for laying out the body.’
‘Did she? No matter. I’m sure Henderson would wish her to have it. He was brutal, but not ungenerous. And the letter?’
‘It is at home,’ I say.
‘But you are sure that the signature was 472.’
‘Yes.’
‘I have seen others from the same source – from the person we believe is the coordinator of the Sealed Knot here in Essex. If Henderson had it, it is one that had already passed through our office. Perhaps we shall look at it together later, but I am no cryptographer and it is not urgent. Please continue.’
‘Then I found more blood in Ben’s stable – a lot more. And finally, Jem, who lived above the stables, was killed, as you know.’
‘Yes,’ says Probert. ‘Jem’s murder troubles me almost as much as it troubles you. I have seen many deaths – more than I can reasonably be expected to remember. I fought in England and in Ireland. I have seen the corpses of whole families killed by soldiers during the late wars; the children were not spared then any more than Jem has been spared now. But this death seems particularly unnecessary. Was it Henderson’s killer who did this, I wonder? To kill an enemy agent is one thing . . .’
‘The wounds were much the same. I would swear that it was the same hand.’
‘Indeed? That rules Pole out then. He was under arrest when Jem died.’
‘Pole has escaped,’ I say.
‘That is inconvenient when I have had no opportunity to question him myself. I thought it would have been better to have put him in the lock-up, even if it did mean that Harry Hardy’s pigs had to be inconvenienced. Flight signifies guilt. So, perhaps Pole is our man after all.’
‘I think not. Jem was willing to tell the Colonel who the killer was. If it had been Pole, surely he would have trusted me more than the Colonel. And Kit said Jem would not tell me, because he said that I would not believe him. If Jem had said he had seen Pole in the stables, I would have had no difficulty believing it.’
‘Because you do not like him?’ asks Probert.
‘I do not like his haughty airs or his finery,’ I say.
‘Tush,’ says Probert, inspecting the arm of his stained and shabby doublet. ‘If it were a crime to be well dressed, then you would have to suspect me as much as anyone. Still, your defence of Mr Pole is noted. I am intrigued, however, about Jem’s remark that the killer is the last person you would expect. Who in this village would you expect least? That may help us.’
Sadly, the list is a long one. It is difficult to believe that any of my fellow villagers would commit murder, though I much fear that one has. I return to my suspicions about Ben, but Probert remains unconvinced.
‘He has been evasive,’ Probert agrees, ‘and he is certainly worried about something. But if Jem had seen Ben murder Henderson, would he have stayed with him, even as long as he did? I think not. I agree that your rider may be involved in some way. He is the only outsider to enter the picture. Or have any other strangers passed through?’
‘Nobody has stayed at the inn since Henderson, other than you. But now I think of it, there was also a Mr Clarges visiting Colonel Payne at the manor.’
‘Thomas Clarges? Here?’
‘Yes, Thomas Clarges. Where should he be?’
‘He was in Scotland when we last heard. He’s General Monck’s brother-in-law . . . I think, Grey, you may have stepped into deeper water than you intended. As indeed so may I. You say that you do not suspect the Colonel in all this?’
‘It is true he has acted tardily in his investigations. And yet he is a good man – he lets Sir Felix live in the Steward’s cottage, for example, and does not trouble him unduly concerning the rent.’
‘Even though he is a Royalist?’
‘If Sir Felix had fought for Parliament, his fortune would be intact.’
‘You believe that? But a thought occurs to me: if Sir Felix is in the Steward’s cottage, where does the steward live?’
‘There’s no steward now,’ I say. ‘Sir Felix’s steward left when he did.’
‘What was his name?’
‘We called him Grumpy Mansell. He was forever chasing us out of the orchard or accusing us of trapping rabbits in the woods.’
‘You mentioned another Mansell – a woman.’
‘Goodwife Mansell? She who is a silver button better off than she was? I think she must be his aunt.’
‘And Steward Mansell’s first name is what?’
‘I can’t remember. We wouldn’t have had much use for it. It began with a C. Charles? No, I would remember that. What was it? Much though we children disliked him, by the bye, I have to say that he was a great asset to Sir Felix. He understood the estate work better than any man. He could hedge and ditch if he had to, and he knew the woods as if he had grown up in them. What was he called? Christian? Crispian? No, it was Christopher!’
‘So, would they have called him Kit Mansell by any chance?’ asks Probert.
Yes, of course. I wondered why Kit was so well informed of my youthful misdemeanours. I had not recognised the formerly well dressed and closely shaved steward when meeting the bearded, weather-beaten collier. But I could see that, once dismissed by the new owner of the Big House, he might turn his hand to charcoal burning as well as anything else if he wished to stay in the village. Aminta at least knew who Kit was; hadn’t she said that Jem would be safe with him?
‘I wonder what Kit knows?’ I say.
‘I wonder what they all know,’ says Probert. ‘But we only need one person here to break his silence and perhaps we shall know. Let us apply a little pressure to the weakest part of the wall. I rather think you are right in one respect – that part is Ben Bowman. His mortar is crumbling. We shall dig a sap beneath him and watch him collapse. Then we shall storm the citadel shoulder to shoulder. But enough for tonight, Grey! We make good progress. Tomorrow morning I shall talk kindly to Ben and see if he will tell
me what I want to know. Then perhaps I shall talk to him less kindly. One way or another, I shall crack him like a hazelnut. Meet me here again at noon. Is it not good to be working together?’
As I am leaving the inn, I meet with Dickon, who is also on his way home. I draw him to one side.
‘Dickon,’ I say. ‘Good news. I have just spoken with Mr Probert. He is not the Royalist agent we suspected he was. He is the loyal servant of Mr Secretary Thurloe and is as anxious as we are to solve the riddle of the two deaths that have occurred in our village.’
Dickon nods. ‘Ben said you were closeted with him. If you supped together, I hope you took a long spoon.’
‘He’s on our side,’ I say, because Dickon does not seem to have understood this.
‘Is that what he says? And you believe him?’
‘He has given me good reason to trust him.’
Dickon says nothing.
‘Look, Dickon, I think we are close to finding out who the murderer was. Kit gave us a clue: he said that Jem told him Henderson’s killer was the last person I would suspect. Tomorrow morning Probert will talk again to Ben. One way or another, he thinks he can make him crack.’
‘You seem strangely happy about that,’ says Dickon.
‘Ben is an amiable soul,’ I say, ‘and I would have no hurt come to him. But this small discomfort he will have brought upon himself.’
‘If you say so, Mister Lawyer,’ says Dickon.
‘It is what is right, Dickon,’ I say.
‘He’ll not talk to Ben tomorrow morning anyway,’ says Dickon. ‘Ben will be up before first light to ride into Saffron Walden. It’s market day.’
Of course. Goodwife Mansell will be going to sell Henderson’s clothes, and Ben will be going to buy whatever he needs for the coming week.
I look back at the inn, wondering whether to tell Probert now. ‘I’m sure the afternoon will be an equally good time to talk,’ I say.
Dickon nods and wishes me a good night.
‘Will you walk with me as far as the crossroads?’ I ask. I am aware that Dickon does not quite approve of what I have done, and I do not wish to part on bad terms.
‘I’m riding back, not walking,’ he says curtly, and sets off towards the stables.
I stroll slowly to the crossroads, but Dickon does not overtake me. He may have taken the shortcut through the Park, which the Cliffords would never have allowed, but to which the Colonel feels unable to object.
I’ll seek Dickon out tomorrow. I feel some sympathy for Ben, but really I have acted for the best. Now that Probert is closing in on his quarry, how can we not have a swift and satisfactory resolution? It is impossible that it can be otherwise.
Another Letter
Letter Number 15
2 July 1657
To Sir Edward Hyde, Lord Chancellor, c/o The Abbess, Benedictine Convent, Ghent
My movements in the village, as I explained in my last, are somewhat restricted by circumstances, else I might have hoped to have told you much of interest. I regret to inform you however that the boy Jem, who witnessed Henderson’s killing, has himself been killed. I do not know where this will end, but I fear he may not be the last.
For M – P grows fretful. I am concerned as to what he might do. Probert is inquisitive, but I think I can deal with him. He is not as clever as he believes.
Your obedient
472
At the Stables, and Afterwards
Probert rubs his eyes. ‘It would have been better if you had told me last night, but I can talk to Bowman as well this afternoon as this morning. And Bowman’s absence will allow me greater latitude than usual for my investigations here. Show me some blood, Mr Grey.’
Again I enter the twilight world of Ben’s stable. The grey is still there. He’ll be needing exercise. He scarcely pays us any attention as we cross to the far side of the building. Again I push the straw to one side to reveal a reddy-brown patch of earth. It seems less convincing than before, just a stain, but Probert nods.
‘And Jem lived where?’
I indicate the hayloft with the narrow ladder leading up to it.
‘You’d better go up then. I’m not sure I’d squeeze through that trap door.’
He would in fact squeeze through quite easily, but why go himself when he can send me? The gloom in this smaller space is more all-encompassing, but I stand for a moment to let my eyes become accustomed. Jem’s simple straw mattress is in one corner, with two blankets untidily dumped in the middle. There is little hay in evidence – last year’s is almost all used up, and this year’s will not arrive for another week or two.
‘What am I looking for?’ I yell down to Probert.
‘How should I know that?’ he says. He makes it sound as if this was my idea.
I look under Jem’s mattress and then kick what is left of the hay. It’s harder than expected. I kneel down and examine what I have found. Then I carry one of them carefully down the ladder, for it is very heavy, and hand it to Probert.
‘How many are there?’
‘Six, under the hay,’ I say. ‘Much the same as this one. There may be others.’
He hefts the musket in his hands. ‘Any powder or shot?’
‘Not that I could see.’
‘This has the Sealed Knot’s signature on it,’ says Probert. ‘Six old muskets and no ammunition. That’s their idea of military action. They’d have put these in the hands of a bunch of frightened village lads and left them to face a troop of battle-hardened dragoons.’
‘Was this what Ben Bowman was hiding in that chamber?’
‘Probably. Too spineless to say no if the Knot asked him to do it and they were regular customers. Put that one back anyway. It will do less harm up there than anywhere else. And we may need to show the evidence to the Magistrate.’
‘You’ll go to see the Colonel?’
‘Yes, I think it’s time for that too. And then I may try to get to know the countryside a little better. Your friend Grice has a farm just off the London Road, does he not?’
‘The quickest route is over the fields. But Dickon was at the inn all night and then went straight home. He says he milked the cows and slaughtered a pig.’
‘An industrious young man,’ says Probert. ‘Slaughtered a pig? That is the sort of irrelevant detail that distinguishes the true narrative from the fanciful. I’ll see you back here at dinnertime.’
‘Do you want me to do anything in the meantime?’
‘Yes, you might try to find out a little more about Kit Mansell. He was the last person to see Jem alive – or the second last anyway.’
‘I’ll ask Aminta,’ I say.
I suppose I should have expected Aminta to be distressed at the news of Jem’s death. She has taken it worse than I, who saw the body.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she says eventually. Her face is grey.
‘Nor can I,’ I say. But isn’t that doubly untrue? The sight of a small body amongst the brambles will never leave me, much though I wish it would. I have no cause to doubt his death. And haven’t I feared for Jem since the moment he vanished from the stable?
‘You have heard that Roger Pole has also now fled and is not to be found?’ I ask. Under different circumstances I might smile.
‘Yes,’ Aminta says blankly.
‘Of course,’ I say, ‘he wasn’t to know that Jem would be killed last night, but the timing of his flight will make some suspect him. Obviously, I don’t mean that I think he killed Jem.’
On the other hand, it is probable that Pole is the Sealed Knot’s coordinator in Essex and as such may know something about Henderson’s death. Perhaps I should not be surprised that Aminta and Pole, as the only Royalists in the village, should be drawn together.
‘I do not doubt Roger’s innocence,’ says Aminta. ‘My fear is not that a killer has fled but that a killer is still amongst us.’
This is my concern too.
‘I had suspected Ben of being involved,’ I say, ‘but Probert thinks n
ot.’
‘Ben?’ Aminta looks at me as though I am some sort of ninny.
‘He has muskets hidden in the stables.’
‘Henderson wasn’t killed with a musket,’ she says. ‘In any case, from your description of Henderson’s body, it could not have been Ben who wielded the knife.’
This is true, though I had not expected Aminta to understand why. I look at her with a new respect.
‘He could still have helped the stranger on horseback . . .’
‘I don’t think he helped anyone. Certainly not your stranger.’
‘Do you mean you know who the stranger was?’
‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘I simply mean he’s gone – long before Jem’s death. It can’t be him.’
‘But you do suspect somebody here?’
‘The whole village will be suspecting each other soon. Yes, I suspect somebody, but it is better not to blurt out one’s suspicions before the evidence is there.’
Unlike me.
‘And you know as well as I do,’ she adds, ‘that there aren’t more than three or four people who could have done it.’
I nod. ‘There is something else I need to ask you,’ I say. ‘Kit Mansell – why did he not become the Colonel’s steward? The Colonel must sorely need a man of his capabilities. And Mansell’s talents are wasted as a charcoal burner.’
‘While my father and brother were away fighting, Kit looked after the estate for them.’
I try to think back to the war. I was too young then to wonder who looked after an estate when the owner was away. These things seemed to manage themselves. The apples were certainly guarded as well as ever.
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘Kit resented it even more than we did when we were forced to sell. He refused the Colonel’s offer of a place. He went away but has very recently returned.’
‘But charcoal burning . . .’
‘He finds it congenial. He says there is no need to catch charcoal poachers or chase boys who would steal his charcoal.’
‘Aminta, would Kit have had any reason – any reason at all – to want Jem dead?’ I ask.