This shadowing went on for three weeks before we were satisfied that we had pinpointed the time and place where he would finally meet his destiny.
He was, it seemed, a creature of habit – most of them bad, it must be admitted, but that admirably suited our purposes.
Most of his excursions involved drink, opium or women of ill-repute, but he was careful to ensure that he also spent plenty of time with other men of business in order to maintain the illusion of a prosperous, hard-working gentleman of means.
It would be his less salubrious occupations which gave us our best chance – coupled with my desire that he should die in a way which exposed his perfidy.
X thought – hoped! – that I would allow the fatal shot to issue from X’s pistol, but I had no such intention. I was never going to allow X to court danger and only allowed the shooting lessons as a cover for my real intentions.
I would be the one to kill him.
But we had to create the illusion that I had never left the house.
A piece of cotton thread was to be my saviour.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘A Fronte Praecipitium, A Tergo Lupi’ – In front a fall from a great height, behind wolves – to choose between two appalling alternatives
Will Jebson felt like a man standing on a precipice, but he didn’t really know why he was dogged by a feeling of constant apprehension. On the surface nothing had changed. He was married to Martha; they had two children to care for and a business to run. It was true that Martha had suddenly taken this crazed notion into her head about moving to Hanbury and had followed up this folly by suggesting that he try to run two shops half a day’s journey apart, but why should that make him feel that something fundamental was shifting, that his whole world was turning upside down? He had lived all his life in West Wimpleford, and the idea of moving was daunting, but after all, he was a grown man with responsibilities and more and more people were leaving their homes and searching farther afield for employment. There had been a time when a man would live and die without ever having travelled a mile from the place where he had been born, but the countryside no longer held the majority of jobs. Industrialization was taking over and cities grew larger with every passing year. Of course that held its own problems, but Will knew nothing of that, only that he was a man lost in a situation not of his making.
No matter how hard he tried to convince himself that everything was well, the feeling of impending doom refused to leave him.
To the dispassionate observer his house had never been more smoothly run, his children never happier, and the whole atmosphere more peaceful. Even the sulky Lucy was moved to smile occasionally, her workload was so much less now thanks to the newcomer. In spite of this, she was steadfast in her enmity of the inoffensive and eager to please Violette.
It was true that Lucy’s only relative, a brother, had been killed at Waterloo and so she refused to countenance the girl, even though she was adamant in claiming she was not in actuality French. Lucy didn’t care which part of the Continent she came from, she was not going to share her room with her or sit with her in the evenings in the cosy kitchen, chatting over a basket of mending. Will could have insisted and threatened Lucy with dismissal if she refused, but it seemed easier to accept that Violette was going to have to spend her evenings in the sitting room with him.
It should not have been a hardship to him for as time went on he found he liked her more and more, mainly because she was kind and gentle with his children. She showed endless patience with them and even made progress in their education, which had previously been sadly neglected by their mother on the presumption that they could never overcome their birth defects. He had been astounded when Prue and Minta had delightedly told him the French words for various items around the house. He had secretly despaired of their ever learning proper English, so to hear them use and understand French was overwhelming. They had little idea of grammar in either language and confined themselves to single words or the sort of simple sentences infants used when learning to speak, but he had never imagined they would ever know the French words for such items as table, chair and doll. He began to slowly realize that though the girls would always be a little slow, and would always need care, there was no reason to believe that they could not one day perform simple tasks and lead useful lives, instead of being confined to home, forever written off as a burden.
In the company of a woman who listened to them and answered their questions and tried to fulfil their requests, the two little girls ceased to be the cowed and basically silent creatures they had been under their mother’s care. She had been so afraid of the neighbours’ pitying glances and condescending comments that she had scarcely ventured out of the house with her children and Will was ashamed to admit that he had allowed her to do it, more concerned with her contentment than his children’s welfare.
All this unwonted introspection made him feel awkward in Violette’s presence and for the first two weeks they barely exchanged a word. He stayed as late as he could in the shop, ostensibly showing Joe what would be required of him if he was to be trusted with the day to day running of the establishment, but in reality merely avoiding going home at any cost.
For her part, Violette hardly noticed that he was aloof and unfriendly. Her first reaction was one of grateful relief that she was housed, fed, clean and warm. She had endured several years of hunger and degradation after fleeing France after the defeat of Napoleon – for, of course, Underwood had been quite right in his assessment. She was French, but her mother was English and thus she had been unwelcome in the homeland of her father when the British had triumphed. Orphaned, penniless and without even a country to call home, she had chosen to try and make a life in England as a better alternative to a France bankrupted by a lost war and which suddenly viewed her as the enemy.
Sadly her distant English relatives had been quite as hostile and unwelcoming as the Gallic side. They had not wanted her parents to marry and had cast them off without mercy. The child of that marriage was considered an embarrassment and she managed to get no farther than the front step of the London mansion before she was sent away by an implacable servant.
From there she had drifted into whatever work she could find, trying desperately to disguise her accent and claiming to be from Flanders when challenged. She had managed to gain employment as a governess, for being able to teach French was still desirable, but without references she was ill-paid and ill-treated. She had considered herself fortunate when she had been taken on by the travelling players, but she had soon learned that she was viewed as little better than a prostitute by both the audience and fellow actors and had spent most of her time fighting off unwanted advances. Truth be told, she had accepted a few men as lovers when they had taken her fancy, but it had been fleeting, for no matter how deeply her affections were engaged, the men rarely, if ever, felt the same way and she had been used and abused more times than she cared to recall.
It was hardly surprising that she was inclined to see her present occupation as heaven-sent. Two undemanding little girls who wanted only to play and to be loved, an absent mistress; a master who spent more time out of the house than in and when there, treated her with old-fashioned courtesy and something approaching trepidation. She would have preferred Lucy to have been a little more amicable, for she was isolated and craving company but she could happily manage without a friend if the servant girl was determined to be her enemy. She cared little either way. She had learned the hard way to be self-sufficient.
However, it grew too onerous to sit evening after evening with Will Jebson, in uncomfortable silence or exchanging the most basic of pleasantries and after two weeks of this she resolved to clear the air between them.
He was reading a newspaper and she was hemming a nightdress for Prue. The evening was warm and they had the window open, but the curtains drawn so as to deter any moths which might have fluttered into the room, attracted by the flickering candlelight.
She laid aside her st
itching, “Mr Jebson, tell me, have I done something to offend or annoy you?”
He lowered the paper and looked at her, startled and shamefaced, “Of course not. Whatever makes you think that?”
“I can only imagine my work is not satisfactory, then.”
“Why would you think so? I have been delighted with the progress you have made with my daughters.”
She smiled sadly, “You might perhaps have told me so,” she chided him gently. “I have been so worried that you were about to tell me that my services are no longer required.”
“Good gad, no!” he exclaimed, hastening to reassure her, “I could not have managed these past weeks without you – and the girls obviously adore you, which has relieved my mind greatly in the absence of their mother.”
“I’m so pleased. They are charming little girls and I have grown fond of them – but they miss you and often ask why you are seeing so little of them. I was afraid it was my fault and you disliked me so greatly that you could not bear my company.”
He was left speechless by her candour and his own guilty conscience and he found he could not meet her eyes. Not that he was unaware of their appeal. He knew they were dark brown and expressive, long lashes brushed her pale, unblemished cheeks and emphasised the heart-shaped face, framed by dark hair.
She waited for him to respond and when he did nothing but redden slightly and look at his feet, she smiled a secretive smile and asked, “If we are perfect friends again, perhaps you will spare me and the children an afternoon and take us on a picnic? The weather is too fine to waste, for if I have learned one thing about this country of yours, it is that the sun may not always shine.”
The talk of the weather gave him the chance to recover his equilibrium and he managed a small laugh, “That is all too true. But I am very busy just now, with this move to Hanbury ...”
“Please?” she said, her accent strongly apparent over the drawn out vowels.
He ignored the apprehension he felt, “Very well, I’ll see what I can do.”
She was delighted, “That is wonderful. Tomorrow I will ask Lucy to help me prepare a basket of delicacies and we shall walk by the river. The girls will love it.”
When she left the room to go up to bed, he wondered why he felt like a condemned man walking to the gallows instead of a fond father going on an outing with his daughters.
*
He went to the shop early the next morning, promising to be back in time to take his little family to eat their midday meal by the river. During a largely sleepless night he had decided that he must keep his vow, but he could make the outing as short as he possibly could. Luncheon was sufficient, then he could plead he needed to return to town and continue with his urgent tasks.
As he unlocked the door of the apothecary shop, he realized that he actually did have one urgent errand which he had so far neglected. He needed to see Rutherford Petch and hand in his notice on the cottage and assure his landlord that he intended to keep the business premises, at least for the present.
He gave Joe instructions on what was needed for the day then he set off to walk to Pershore House, hoping that he would be early enough to catch the Captain still at home. His gruelling daily round of riding and visiting his tenants had become legendary in the past few months. It seemed he could not endure being indoors after his experiences as a prisoner, or so the gossips presumed. He could not know that his doings were of such universal interest, and would not have been particularly happy to have his every action scrutinized.
Will was fortunate to find Rutherford still at home; in fact he was seated at the breakfast table, alone, for it was far too early for Cressida or Miss Fettiplace to have risen. He was reading the newspaper and grinning broadly to himself. He greeted Will warmly and gestured towards a chair, inviting his guest to join him in a cup of coffee. Will rarely drank the stuff, for it was not the sort of beverage in which ordinary folk indulged, but he felt too intimidated to request tea.
“Have you seen this?” asked Rutherford, nodding towards the paper he held. “Damn me if Underwood has not done it again. The press is full of the story of how he has unmasked a thief who has been haunting all the watering places across the country and lifting jewels as if they were fallen apples. Apparently he took advantage of the mineral baths or sea-bathing to rob the changing rooms. He had a system in which his female accomplice took a job as an attendant and took the gewgaws when the ladies were distracted by their treatments or the entertainments on offer and he smuggled the items out of the various venues hidden inside a hollowed out book. Even when the militia was called in to search everyone, they found nothing. It had been a complete mystery as to how the job was done until Underwood caught the fellow pulling the same stunt in Hanbury.”
Will had not seen the piece and was interested to read about his friend, so he happily took the paper and perused the article whilst Rutherford rang for fresh coffee.
When they were both served and Will had laid aside the paper, Rutherford asked his companion about the purpose of his visit, “For I know you have not just called at this early hour merely in the hope of an offer of coffee,” he added with a friendly smile.
“I have something important I must discuss with you, Captain,” said Will and his tone was so serious that Rutherford was immediately wary. He had a sinking feeling that he was going to be drawn into yet another of the pointless and weary complaints which had been the main focus of his life in the past few months.
He found it hard to keep a note of irritation out of his voice as he asked, “What is it with you, Will – a leaking roof, peeling paint, an infestation of mice?”
Will looked bemused by this litany, “Not at all? Why would you think so?”
“Because it is all I’ve heard for the past year. I’m sorry, Will, that was unfair. Tell me what it is you need.”
“I’m afraid I have to give you notice on my cottage, sir, but I would be grateful if you could allow me to continue to rent the shop.”
It was Rutherford’s turn to be surprised, “So Martha has found somewhere in Hanbury? That didn’t take very long. I must admit I rather thought that you wanted to resist her determination to move away.”
“Martha is very difficult to turn aside once she has the bit between her teeth,” said Will with resignation, coming as near as he ever did to criticizing his wife. It was not in his nature to discuss his private life with anyone, much less his landlord, who evidently had troubles aplenty of his own, without being burdened by Will’s minor grouses.
After his own recent experiences of trying to live his life to please others and failing spectacularly, Rutherford felt an unexpected rush of sympathy for the pale and obviously worried apothecary. It took him mere seconds to decide to speak bluntly, with no regard for the niceties which ought to exist between landlord and tenant.
“My dear fellow, if you feel so strongly about it, you really should tell Martha. I know she is indomitable, but she must surely realize that she cannot force you to make a move which will cause you unhappiness.”
“My happiness isn’t really the issue, though, is it, Captain? I have a duty to give the best possible life I can to my wife and children. My feelings must always be secondary to that.”
Rutherford thought of the two little girls who were, in all probability, going to be dependent on their father for the rest of their lives and could not deny that Will had an unarguable point.
“Well, at least let me do something for you, Will. I’ll leave the cottage empty and charge you no rent for three months, so that if things do not work out for you in Hanbury, at least you have your home to come back to – how would that suit?”
“I couldn’t ask you to do that, Captain. You have the estate to run and how can it be efficient if you leave your properties untenanted?”
“I insist. What price friendship? If I cannot do a favour for the man who saved the life of the man who exonerated me, then it is a poor show. Now, will it suit?”
Will smiled with r
elief, “That will suit very well, sir, thank you.”
Rutherford held out his hand and Will shook it with fervour, “You don’t know how much that means to me, Captain Petch. I was afraid that if I burned my boats I would leave my family in worse straits than ever.”
Rutherford laughed, “I would never leave you destitute – or those dear little girls of yours, Will, never fear.”
“Thank you, sir. And if I can ever be of assistance ...”
“You have already paid any debt a hundred times over, my friend.”
Will went off to picnic with his daughters lighter of heart than he had been since Martha had ever had the notion of moving their business to Hanbury.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘Altissima Quaeque Flumina Minimo Sono Labi’ – The deepest rivers flow with the least sound – Still Waters Run Deep
The two little Jebson girls could barely contain their excitement. Not only was their darling papa going to spend time with them, but they were going to eat outdoors for the first time in their short lives. Having a picnic was not something which Martha had ever considered, let alone arranged.
Violette too was waiting with happy anticipation for the apothecary. Much as she liked the children and was enjoying a life without worry over where the next meal was coming from and where she would lay her head that night – not to speak of whom she might be required to spurn from that bed – she was now ready for some social intercourse with an adult. She had tried and tried again to make friendly overtures to Lucy and had been firmly rejected and she was now almost desperate for a conversation which was not primarily in single words and simple phrases.
A Place For Repentance (The Underwood Mysteries Book 6) Page 15