by Granger, Ann
‘You mean to a public house,’ said Bessie.
‘Yus, Miss Sharp-as-a-razor, I do.’ Wally turned back to me. ‘Public houses is also very good places to get into conversations. You can find out a deal from a bit of chat over a pint of ale.’
‘You will be careful, Mr Slater,’ I begged.
‘Don’t you fret,’ he assured me. ‘People looking at me can see what I am; and there will be Victor outside busy chomping in his nosebag, to prove it. I ain’t the law, like your husband. I’m just a cabbie. I’ll come back here to collect you and her – ’ Wally nodded towards Bessie – ‘about half past one, how’s that?’
We watched the cab roll away.
‘Well, now, missis,’ said Bessie as we turned back towards the church. ‘What do we do now?’
‘We visit the church,’ I said, ‘as anyone new in Putney might do. That will occasion no gossip. Then, we look for a likely burial.’
The tide was out and the river low. A group of bare-legged urchins scavenged on the mudflats below the church. The exposed riverbed glistened grey or brown and, here and there, patched with a fetid green, and was strewn with all kind of debris. The swollen body of a drowned dog had been left by the retreating water as if the river gave it back to the land. Gulls wheeled overhead and the familiar odour of human refuse assailed our nostrils as we walked up the path to the doorway. Even with Mr Bazalgette’s new sewer system now in place, Father Thames was still more than full of all kinds of filth.
We hurried to the church and stopped to survey the graveyard with some dismay. At first sight it was a jumble of tightly packed, sunken graves and mossy headstones and tombs, none of which looked recent. There were no new flowers or urns. The church noticeboard told us the building itself was in use, but its burial ground appeared to have been abandoned.
‘It don’t look like they buried the old fellow here,’ said Bessie glumly, gesturing at the scene, ‘whatever that porter told you.’
‘They must have buried him somewhere,’ I insisted, quelling my own doubts. ‘We’ll just have to search. Let’s see if there is anyone in the church who can help us.’
We were about to enter the building when an elderly man appeared suddenly from within. We almost collided and he began to apologise profusely.
‘I do beg your pardon, ladies! I was hurrying home to my luncheon and didn’t expect anyone to be coming inside now. I trust you are not harmed? I am parish clerk of this church, ma’am,’ he added to me. ‘Did you want to go inside? There’s no service due, not until this evening, six o’clock, when there will be a service without any music, as it isn’t Sunday. Our organist doesn’t play except on a Sunday or at weddings and funerals.’
‘We only wanted to look at the building,’ I told him. ‘Is it very old?’
Closer to hand, parts of the church did not look so ancient, though the tower appeared to have age to it.
He was anxious to confirm my suspicions. ‘Some parts of it are indeed very old, ma’am, as is this tower above us. It was in this church, you know, that in sixteen forty-seven after Cromwell had defeated King Charles, a great debate was held to decide what should follow. But if you will go inside now you will see there was a deal of repair and alteration some thirty years ago. There was a fire then, ma’am, and much of the building destroyed.’
‘I couldn’t help but notice your churchyard,’ I went on, as he seemed disposed to chat. ‘I see it is very full and the graves appear very old. I suppose some of them must be of historical interest.’
‘It is indeed full, ma’am, and no one has been buried there in my lifetime, and I am sixty-four! They ran out of space at the end of the last century.’ Then, with an astuteness I had not expected he asked, ‘Was there a particular burial you had in mind, ma’am?’
It was time to confess. ‘There is, but it would have taken place some sixteen years ago, in eighteen fifty-two, and, from what you tell us, it cannot be here.’
‘Ah,’ said the clerk, ‘then it will be in the ground given to the church for burials by a very generous and pious gentleman by the name of the Reverend Dr Pettiwand. But after a hundred years of burials since he gifted it, that is also full, alas, and we must bury our departed loved ones elsewhere. If however the person of interest to you died in eighteen fifty-two, there is a good chance he was given one of the last plots in Pettiwand’s ground.’ He shook his head. ‘Putney has grown apace since I was a boy. Who would have thought it? What we require now is a large public cemetery such as has been set out elsewhere. What would be the name of the deceased, ma’am?’
‘It may have been Spelton or Shelton,’ I told him.
I should not have been surprised that this amiable parish clerk was as particular as the clerk in the blue coat at Somerset House. I felt I had to explain.
‘I am asking on behalf of someone who knew the area many years ago, a Mr Mills. He did not live here but used to visit often. Unfortunately he is no longer able to come himself.’ So far, so true . . . stretching a point.
The parish clerk shook his head. ‘Spelton, eh? I know of no one of that name, and I am a local man as I told you, and have been parish clerk here for a good few years. We can look in the register of burials, ma’am. But I do not have on me the keys to the cupboard where it is kept.’
Was I to face defeat? I urged, ‘Mr Mills did not remember the name of the gentleman’s house, only that it had a weathervane designed like a running fox.’
To my delight, this struck a chord with the clerk. ‘Indeed, yes, ma’am! The gentleman, Mr Mills, is quite right. Fox House, it’s called, and was formerly an inn. It must be nigh as old as this church here. But it had long ceased to be a hostelry when I was a boy. I never knew it but as a private house and belonging to Mr Sheldon most of that time. Mr Mills, if you will forgive me, has not got the name quite right and that misled me!’ He shook a triumphant forefinger at me. ‘It is not Shelton, ma’am, but Sheldon.’
‘That’ll be him!’ exclaimed Bessie impetuously. Then she blushed brick red, cast me an apologetic look and stared down hard at the ground.
But the parish clerk was anxious to tell me more. ‘Oh, yes, I remember old Mr Sheldon. He was a fine old gentleman and very generous. I fancy he had made a good deal of money in the coffee trade. Mr and Mrs Lamont still live there. Mrs Lamont was Miss Sheldon before she married, and old Mr Sheldon’s relative. She lived there with him.’
‘That is indeed probably the one,’ I told him.
‘Then I can tell you that you will find him in the burial ground I spoke of. I can give you directions but it will be a good twenty minutes’ walk for you ladies, and uphill.’
I assured him we were good walkers. He gave us the directions and added that if we failed to find Mr Sheldon, we should return to tell him that afternoon, but not before four. He bid us a cheery good afternoon and set off for his luncheon.
He was a reliable informant and although it was a warm walk, and uphill, we eventually found the burial ground he’d told us of. We divided it between us, Bessie beginning on the far side and I on the nearer side and working methodically towards the central pathway. The parish clerk had been correct in telling us this graveyard, too, was full. I wondered how long our search would take us. Wally would be wondering what had become of us. But then I heard a cry of triumph from Bessie and looked in that direction to see her waving energetically with one hand and indicating downward with the other. I hurried towards her and found she pointed at a headstone fashioned in gothic style.
‘Found him!’ she crowed. ‘Here’s Mr Sheldon, just like that old clerk fellow said.’
I read the inscription eagerly.
ISAIAH MATTHEW SHELDON
Born 17 April 1769 at Fulham
Departed this life 15 June 1852 at Putney
A pious and charitable gentleman remembered
with gratitude by many
Behind me, Bessie was still uttering little exclamations of triumph. I almost exclaimed aloud myself, for this was surely the o
ld gentleman of whom Mills had spoken.
‘Would you believe it?’ asked Bessie, her glee mixed with awe. ‘We found ’im. We found the old gent as was murdered.’
‘Hush, Bessie!’ I said quickly. ‘Don’t speak of that here. You don’t know who might overhear us.’
My warning came in the nick of time. Other people were approaching. I heard women’s voices and turned.
Coming down the path towards us were two women, one still a fairly young woman, probably about my age, and dressed very fashionably. The other was slightly older and dressed very plainly, a lady’s maid, perhaps. I had only a fleeting impression of a pale face. She walked behind the fashionable one. Both were looking towards us in a manner I could only describe as unfriendly.
‘Good day,’ I said cheerfully.
This did not cause them to soften their expressions. The elegant lady asked, in an icy tone, ‘You are visiting my uncle’s grave?’
I sent up a quick silent prayer of thanks that the parish clerk had not accompanied us and couldn’t speak of my interest. He might do so later, of course, if he encountered the former Miss Sheldon, as this must surely be, now Mrs Lamont. She was what is called a handsome woman, with strong regular features and fine dark eyes. A few years earlier, with the bloom of youth on her, she might even have been called beautiful. Ben had told me that he believed Mills had had an eye for a good-looking woman. Was that, I wondered, what had kept Mills watching at the window, that dismal night in the rain, when this woman, if it were the one, had entered the room where the old man dozed by the fire? He had not raised a hand to rap on the windowpane – and perhaps save a life – because he had been transfixed by the sight of a lovely girl?
I spoke up with as much confidence as I could muster. ‘We are only walking round and viewing all the headstones out of interest. I am a visitor to Putney and one can learn so much about a place from the headstones in a graveyard.’ Again, all true. ‘I see,’ I went on, ‘that your late uncle was a very charitable gentleman. He must be much missed in the community.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mrs Lamont with no thawing of her voice. ‘I trust you will find other things in Putney to take your interest.’
That was a clear dismissal. There was nothing more to do but smile and bow and make my departure, Bessie following behind.
‘My!’ said Bessie, when we were outside the burial ground and in the street. ‘That was a close one.’
‘It was, indeed, Bessie,’ I agreed with feeling. ‘Thank goodness the clerk had to hurry off to his meal, and didn’t come with us.’
‘I suppose that was her, then, the one who . . .’ Bessie remembered she must not mention the word ‘murder’. ‘The one Mr Mills saw.’
‘It might well be. Come along, we ought not to linger. I am sure Mrs Lamont is watching us. Let us take an interest in some of the other buildings in Putney.’
We made our way back to the High Street, where we strolled along, pausing occasionally to look in a shop window or gaze up at the frontage.
‘That other one,’ Bessie said suddenly, ‘the woman who was walking with her. I didn’t much like the look of her.’
I had to admit I’d paid very little attention to the woman I had assumed a lady’s maid.
‘Mrs Lamont,’ went on Bessie, ‘wanted to know what interest you had in her uncle’s grave, and that might be a natural question. But that other one, my! If looks could kill, why the pair of us, you and I, missis, would be laid out flat on the grass alongside the dead!’
Our stroll had brought us to an old inn with an arched carriage entrance leading into a cobbled courtyard.
‘There’s Victor!’ I exclaimed. ‘Mr Slater must be inside. Come along, Bessie.’
We ventured into a narrow wood-panelled entry. A stout female descended on us and asked if she might be of assistance.
I explained to the landlady, as I supposed this to be, that I was seeking somewhere a lady might obtain some luncheon. Bessie and I were shown, with some ceremony, into a very small room, called by the landlady ‘the Sun’. It was otherwise uninhabited and appeared to have been disused for some time, if the amount of dust was anything to go by. We squeezed ourselves on to narrow benches in a window bay, where there was a round table. The landlady informed us that the establishment’s veal pie was famous all over Putney and beyond, diners travelling across the bridge from Fulham to sample it. Would we not have the veal pie with some boiled potatoes and a dish of tea? I said we would.
‘Now, Bessie,’ I said when the landlady had gone to see to our order. ‘Just slip out and take a glance into the taproom and see if you can see Mr Slater. You don’t have to hail him or do anything obvious, just let him catch sight of you and he will know we are here.’
Bessie did as bid and returned to tell me that Wally was settled comfortably with several companions, ale tankard in hand, and talking nineteen to the dozen. ‘And they say women gossip!’ said Bessie scornfully. She was sure he had seen her in the doorway, as his face had crinkled up fit to frighten the cat.
Bessie had encountered the landlady again and, to explain why she was not waiting in the Sun, requested if there was some place to which a lady might retire ‘for necessary purposes’. The landlady had told her there was a privy in the yard but hardly fit for a lady’s use. If two respectable persons like us were in need, let her know and we could go upstairs to the landlady’s private living area where there was an earth closet, of which the landlady was extremely proud.
Either the veal pie was as excellent as promised or our efforts that morning had made us very hungry, but we made short work of the food and the tea. Having paid we ventured upstairs to the earth closet. The landlady sent up a servant girl with us to guide us to the very spot. She took us to what appeared a large clothes cupboard, but when she had flung open the doors we beheld the contraption itself. The girl insisted on demonstrating exactly how we must crank the handle on the side of the hopper above the wooden seat to release the ashes within down into the bucket below it. She eventually left us but not after informing us, in a hushed voice, that ‘the Queen, God bless her, has got one just like it.’
‘Really!’ exploded Bessie when the girl had gone. ‘As if neither of us had ever seen one before!’
After our adventures with the earth closet we made our way back down to the stable yard where we found Wally Slater waiting beside Victor in the shafts of the growler.
‘If you want to take a look at Fox House,’ said Wally, ‘I’ve found out where it is. It’s all right, Mrs Ross, no need to worry. No one has suspected anything. I just got talking to the locals and I found out a deal of interesting facts, as you might like to know. But I can’t tell you here.’
‘We could drive slowly past, Mr Slater, but we must not stop or appear interested!’ I warned him. ‘Bessie and I have already encountered the lady who lives there.’
‘And she was very suspicious, if you ask me,’ added Bessie.
‘I suppose,’ Wally told her, ‘that whether we was to ask you or not, we gets your opinion, free and gratis!’
Bessie and I clambered into the cab and Wally on to his perch. We heard him whistle to Victor and we set off.
Bessie was by now so excited by the whole adventure that she fairly fizzed alongside me and could hardly keep still, despite my twice begging her to stop fidgeting. We had left the main area of habitation and began passing by scattered houses. Wally turned on to another road, leading across some open heath scattered with clumps of bushes and occasional trees. We then lurched and bumped across some rough terrain before arriving on another stretch of modest highway. Wally had slowed Victor to an amble and we proceeded at this gentle pace until the little trapdoor above our heads flew open and Wally shouted down, ‘Up ahead, on your left, Mrs Ross!’
‘Remember, don’t stop!’ I shouted back in warning, but the trap had already snapped shut.
The house came into view to our left. It was much as Ben had described it – following Mills’s description. It was lo
ng, low and very old. It would be easy to believe it had once been an inn. I longed to put my head out of the window so that I could see the very top of the roof, to establish whether the running fox weathervane was still in place. But I dared not show so much interest in case we had been observed from within.
‘Lonely old spot, ain’t it, missis?’ observed Bessie. ‘You could get up to any amount of mischief out here and no one see you.’
‘We must be following some medieval track leading to London from the south, a drovers’ way,’ I told her. A quick glance to my right took in a small clump of trees facing the house across the road. That was where Mills had tethered his horse on the night of the storm, sixteen years earlier. I felt a tingling as if I, too, were in the midst of an electric storm. It was just as Mills had told Ben, quite unchanged in every detail. The condemned man’s testimony was to be trusted. I certainly did not doubt he’d witnessed a murder that dreadful day.
Just then I heard another loud whistle above my head, and a rap on the trapdoor, although it didn’t open. Victor broke into a trot. Something was happening and Wally was sending us a warning.
At that moment we overtook a pedestrian, walking towards the house. We saw him briefly as we bowled past, a tall, dark-haired, moustachioed man in a country suit of tweed and a soft hat. He was striding out, walking stick in hand. We were aware of his sharp gaze fixed on us, and the look of suspicion and surprise on his face, before Victor carried us past and onward. Had we, I wondered, encountered Mr Lamont, on his way back home? If so, he might mention our cab to his wife – and she, in turn, mention the strangers who were so very interested in her uncle’s gravestone.
‘It can’t be helped, Bessie,’ I said to her. ‘But I think we have stirred things up.’
‘If you don’t stir up the soup-pot, you don’t find out what’s at the bottom of it!’ said Bessie in a surprisingly wise observation. ‘Mrs Simms used to say that. Her what is cook-housekeeper to Mrs Parry.’
‘Oh, I remember Mrs Simms!’ I said. I remembered everything about my time as companion to my Aunt Parry. It had been full of surprises, not least in bringing me together with Ben again for the first time since childhood.