The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime Volume 8

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Everyone turned to see who the new voice belonged to. It was Ransford Gaines, flanked by an armed escort.

  “Dad,” said Claire. “What kept you?”

  Everyone now turned to stare at Claire. Everyone except Jake, who kept his eyes fixed on Gaines.

  “I was busy,” said Gaines. “I had a few other things to do. Is this all the cash?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, kids, get it together.”

  Claire and Tom stood and shovelled the cash into the bags while nobody else moved.

  “Think of it as a lesson,” Gaines said. “Next time you decide to use a man’s name, make sure you’ve asked first. And you really want to take a man’s money? Point a gun at him.”

  His escort smiled and waggled his gun.

  Gaines reached into one of the bags and tossed a bundle of notes on to the table.

  “Get drunk and learn your lesson,” he said to all of them. He turned to Jake, who was still staring at him, “What you staring at?”

  Jake just shrugged and leaned back in his chair.

  Gaines smiled, “You’re the guy who held up a store with a banana, right? Give me a call, you’ve got balls.”

  He nodded and left, followed by his escort and, holding hands as they carried the cash, Claire and Tom.

  The room stayed silent for a long moment.

  Jake reached for a fresh beer and took a long swig.

  “Now that there? Exactly the kind of ending I’m talking about.”

  PARSON PENNYWICK

  TAKES THE WATERS

  Amy Myers

  “SOMETHING IS AMISS on the Walks, Caleb.”

  Looking most agitated, Parson Jacob Dale came into his parlour, where I was taking my breakfast. My old friend and host had just returned from conducting the daily service in the church. He is an elderly man, of even greater years than mine own, and not in good health. “It requires your assistance,” he continued ominously.

  “Of what nature?” I asked cautiously. My stay in his parsonage on Mount Pleasant in the delightful spa of Tunbridge Wells was a yearly delight, and I would help where I could, although the coffee and toast before me had greater appeal.

  “I cannot say.” Jacob looked at me helplessly. “It centred on the bookseller’s store, so Lady Mopford informed me. A threat of death, she cried. Send for Parson Pennywick.”

  I have some small local reputation for successful intervention in such situations, and unsought though that honour is, I find my services called upon from time to time. Lady Mopford, whom I knew from previous visits, was a better source of accurate information than the London Gazette.

  “Threat to whom?” I asked.

  “I do not know.”

  Poor Jacob finds matters outside the daily norm distressing. He is more at ease with his learned books than with the problems of his flock, dearly though he would like to help.

  “You could take the waters, Parson Pennywick,” Jacob’s delightful daughter Dorothea teased me, attracted by the unusual hullabaloo.

  “Thank you, but I put my faith in rhubarb powder.”

  Dorothea laughed, and I could not blame her. She is young and therefore all that is old and tried and true is of no value to her – yet. It is hard for me to change my ways, and I cannot believe that a glass of spring water taken in the Walks, popularly known as the Pantiles, would prove a tonic more beneficial than the fresh air of Mount Pleasant. For no one but Jacob and Dorothea would I go to the Walks during the fashionable hours. It was late in June and the high season was upon us. Earlier this century the Wells would have been host to every person of fashion in London, but by this year of 1783 the delights of Brighton offer an alternative that it cannot match, particularly for the younger visitors. Nevertheless the spa is still crowded with its admirers.

  With a wistful glance at Jacob settling down to my coffee and toast, I hastened to remove my cap and to seek wig, hat and cane. I too must look my best, as Dorothea insisted on accompanying me.

  “Make haste, Caleb,” Jacob urged me from the comforts of his own table.

  “The spring will not run dry,” I assured him somewhat crossly, “and doubtless the threats of death will by now have cooled.” I was only reconciled to my fate by the thought of the wheatear pie, a Kentish delicacy that I had been promised for dinner that afternoon.

  On the Upper Walk of the Pantiles a threat of death seemed as out of place as a Preventive Officer in a parsonage. I suspected Dorothea was less concerned about the fate of some unknown person than about missing the excitement of the day – which would doubtless be long over when we arrived. To enter the Upper Walk was like stepping on to the stage of Mr Sheridan’s Drury Lane straight from the rainy muddy streets of London town. Gone are the dull cares of everyday and around one is a whirligig of colour, chatter, riches and culture. Here one may take coffee, read newspapers and books, write letters, dance, play cards, buy Tunbridge Ware – and above all converse. Death does not usually dare speak its name. And yet today, according to Lady Mopford, it had.

  How could death be contaminating such a paradise, I wondered? This was a paradise with strict social rules. By now, at well past ten o’clock, the Upper Walk should be all but deserted as society would have returned to hotels and lodgings to “dress” for the day. Before then the ladies appear here in déshabillé with loose gowns and caps and the gentlemen are unshaven, as they greet the day by taking the waters. After their departure they would not return until noon, by which time they are boned and strutting peacocks in silks and satins of every hue – a delightful spectacle for one whose calling demands more sober colours.

  Today, however, I saw to my unease that a great many were still here. Something must indeed be amiss.

  “There,” cried Dorothea. Her arm tensed in mine, but I did not need her guidance, for I could see the crowd outside Mr Thomas’s book store and circulating library for myself. He caters for visitors who, having paid a subscription, may have such books as they choose delivered to their lodgings. Mr Thomas’s shop is always well attended, but today it seemed all Tunbridge Wells wished to advance its knowledge of literature and science. As we pushed our way forward through the throng, Dorothea caught the vital words.

  “The Book of Poets,” she exclaimed.

  Even I had heard of this tradition – and indeed read the Book in the past with much amusement. For well over a hundred years, this weighty tome containing copies of lyrics from would-be poets had been displayed in the book store. At first these verses had been of a saucy nature circulated amongst gentlemen in the coffee shop but then they had been requested by a wider public. Ladies now read the love poems in the Book of Poets, each imagining herself the fair damsel addressed – fortunately in more tasteful terms than in earlier times. Nevertheless the quality scarcely rivalled Dryden, nor their content John Milton.

  Seeing Dorothea, who looked most attractive in her printed cotton morning gown, Mr Edwin Thomas – a fine-looking man of perhaps thirty years – immediately hurried to her side.

  “I’m honoured, Miss Dorothea.”

  His wife did not look quite so honoured, but was too preoccupied in appeasing the sensibilities of the elderly ladies clustered eagerly around the Book, which lay open on a table of its own. Dorothea was equally eager to view it, and so, with Jacob’s mission in mind, was I, as this could be the source of the threat.

  Mr Thomas cleared our path to the Book, after I had explained my presence. “Let me show you yesterday’s verse first, Parson Pennywick,” he said gravely.

  A sheet was laid between two pages, and I read:

  Fairest nymph, fair — of the Wells

  Whose magic spells

  Are cast upon thy humble slave

  Who but the merest glance doth crave …

  These most unmemorable lines were writ in a cultured hand, but lacked talent, however heartfelt the sentiment that lay behind them. It was the custom that the lady’s name should be anonymous, but not that of the author. Thus a bold Foppington, followe
d by a flourish of which only an English aristocrat would be capable, adorned the end of the poem.

  Even I had heard of this fop, whose name was so well bestowed. Lord Foppington was the grandson of the Duke of Westshire, and prided himself on his reputation as the most fashionable macaroni in London society, clad in exquisite silks and satins.

  “And now,” Mr Thomas said even more gravely, “see today’s verse, in the same hand but hardly of the same nature or intent.” He turned the page, where I read on the next sheet:

  Alas, I am spurned by fairest —, my love divine

  But no other shall with her form entwine

  No other hand shall win her favour

  From death’s cold grasp no man can save her.

  “It is not the thing, sir; indeed it is not,” Mr Thomas moaned.

  “It is a jest,” Mrs Thomas quavered. A slender woman of far less height than her husband, she was clearly indignant that the world had singled out her beloved spouse for such tribulation.

  As indeed tribulation it was. I did not like this affair. I perceived that no name was attached to this verse, but it looked to be the same hand as its predecessor. “How did it come?” I asked. “Did the poet bring it?”

  “It was by our door this morning,” Mr Thomas told me. “Many of our poets spend their evenings in the Rooms, either dancing or playing cards according to the evening, and they pen their tributes during the midnight hours, leaving them by our door to find in the morning.”

  By the cold light of day, I thought, many must rue their hot-headed declarations. No wonder the fashion for anonymity of the damsels so highly praised by the poets. Did the author of this last verse rue his violent declaration, or was it merely a lovers’ quarrel which time had solved? Somehow I did not think so. “Have you spoken to his lordship today?” I asked.

  “Lord Foppington has not appeared this morning, and no wonder,” Mr Thomas said in a tone of disgust. “Nor, fortunately, has the fair Miss Olivia Cherrington, whom all know to be the nymph he threatens.”

  “He is coming,” squealed Mrs Thomas, running to the window. “Husband, pray do something. Miss Cherrington accompanies him.”

  There was a hush outside as all turned to the approaching couple, who seemed to take such attention as their rightful due. Her maid walked dutifully behind her. Both Lord Foppington and Miss Cherrington were in full dress, despite the early hour, he in berib-boned breeches and elegant frock coat, she a delightful shepherdess with ornate polonaise drapery, white stockings peeping below the calf-length skirt, and her hair piled high on her head. They looked as though they indeed graced a stage.

  “Mr Thomas, Miss Cherrington is impatient to read my latest poem,” Lord Foppington drawled, seemingly unaware of the twittering disapproval around him.

  “I would,” lisped Miss Cherrington. She looked a sweet child for all her affectation, although more a dainty automaton than a young lady with a mind of her own.

  “Pray do not,” Mr Thomas said anxiously.

  “Why?” she asked indignantly, turning the fateful page to read it. I made no attempt to dissuade her. If this was a true threat against her life, she should know about it.

  “Oh!” A gasp, then Miss Cherrington grew very white and swooned into Mr Thomas’s arms. Mrs Thomas hastened to bring salts, which, firmly removing the young lady from her husband’s arms, she applied to the victim’s nostrils with no immediate effect.

  “This is your doing, my lord,” Mr Thomas said angrily.

  Lord Foppington smiled. “She swoons for my love.”

  I stepped forward. “She fears, my lord. You must assure her it is a jest.”

  “Fears? A jest? Who are you, sir?” Lord Foppington eyed me querulously.

  “Parson Pennywick of Cuckoo Leas. Miss Cherrington fears you wish to kill her.”

  “Kill her?” Lord Foppington looked blank.

  “Your poem threatens it, sir.”

  He cast a look at the verse and looking up, frowning. “This is not my poem. I wrote of love, I wrote of her beauty – not this.”

  Miss Cherrington quickly opened her eyes. “It is your hand, my lord,” she snapped, and swooned again.

  His lordship looked alarmed. “Fairest nymph, let me recite my poem for today. Hark – When fairest — takes the waters, Withdraw, all ye other daughters, So far in beauty—”

  Mr Thomas had heard enough. “Do you deny you wrote this?” He pointed to the disputed verse.

  “Certainly I do.”

  Miss Cherrington, now fully awake, burst into tears. “You are a villain, my lord.”

  Lord Foppington dropped instantly upon one knee. “Fair lady, it is not my hand,” he pleaded. “Depend upon it, this is Percy’s doing.”

  “Lord Foppington’s rival for her hand,” Dorothea whispered to me in excitement. “Mr Percy Trott, younger son of the Earl of Laninton.”

  “Of what am I guilty, pray?” The languid voice belonged to a full-bodied gentleman dressed à la mode, who was surveying the assembled company through an eyeglass without enthusiasm – until he spied Miss Cherrington.

  A dozen voices enlightened him.

  “You insult me, you mushroom,” Mr Trott accused his lordship indignantly, then turning to Miss Cherrington: “Madam, pay no attention to this clunch, this clown.” And back to Lord Foppington: “At dawn tomorrow, my lord, we shall meet. My seconds shall call upon you.”

  Miss Cherrington’s recovery was now remarkable, and she beamed at the prospect of a duel. “I shall forgive you both,” she announced. “Whether alive or dead,” she added generously.

  The three left their stage together, apparently all restored to good humour. Play-acting? Perhaps. But plays only succeed if based on true emotions – and what those might be here, I could not guess. The crowd began to disperse, no doubt reminded that it was long past the hour when they should be seen in déshabillé.

  As for myself, Dorothea reminded me that I had apparently clamoured to take the waters, and docilely I agreed. Overhearing this exchange, Mr Thomas immediately said he would accompany us to the spring, although Mrs Thomas’ displeasure at having to remain in the store was obvious. The spring was at the end of the Upper Walk and it was the custom for visitors to the Wells to pay a subscription on leaving to one or other of the dippers for service during the course of their stay. This hardly applied to poor parsons but it pleased Dorothea when I produced a halfpenny.

  Most of the dippers were of mature years, with a practised eye for the richest visitors, but Miss Annie Bright was a merry-eyed girl. Annie, so Dorothea explained to me, was the niece of Jacob’s housekeeper, Mrs Atkins, and so I acquired her services in filling the metal cup for me.

  The pretty little hand closed around my halfpenny and its new owner gave me a merry smile – at which Mr Thomas too decided to take the waters. Annie spun me a tale of the wondrous properties of the spring and insisted I drank not one but three cups. An even number of cups would bring ill fortune she told me gravely, but an odd number would give speed to my legs, make my liver rejoice and my spirits rise. I felt neither of the first two effects, only the flat metallic taste of a chalybeate spring, but as for the third, my spirits did indeed rise, as she smiled at me.

  But then I saw Lord Foppington chatting amiably to both Miss Cherrington and Mr Trott, the threat of the poem forgotten. Except by Caleb Pennywick.

  ***

  That evening I was late to my bed, having been persuaded by Dorothea that I wanted nothing more than to attend Mrs Sarah Baker’s theatre on Mount Sion to see a performance of Mr Sheridan’s The Rivals. A most amusing piece. Early the next morning I was awoken by Dorcas. She is my housekeeper, and at home my dearest companion by day and often by night. It is she not I who keeps the difference between us for she maintains she has no wish to play the part of parson’s wife. She chose to come with me on my visit to Jacob, but remains in the housekeeper’s rooms, as she is eager, she claims, to learn new receipts for our pantry at Cuckoo Leas. Every morning therefore she visi
ts the market on the Walks, and today had been no exception.

  “Caleb, wake up, lovey.” She was gently shaking me.

  I sat bolt upright in my bed. “Are there no more wheatear pies?” I cried, having dined and dreamed happily of them.

  “There’s been a murder done.”

  “Miss Cherrington?” I was fully awake now.

  “No, Caleb. Young Annie Bright, one of the water dippers.”

  The lass who had so eagerly received my halfpenny yesterday. My heart bled for the loss of innocence and joy in this world.

  “Found by the sweeper at the spring this morning,” Dorcas continued. “A paper knife was stuck in her. In a rare taking is Mrs Atkins. I told her you’d find out who did it.”

  My Dorcas looked at me with such trust and confidence that I quailed. As I sat in my nightshirt in a parsonage not my own, it seemed a most unlikely prospect that I could track down this murderer. “We are strangers here, Dorcas,” I pleaded. “In Cuckoo Leas I know my flock.”

  “You can do it, Caleb.” She assured me. “You brought your brain with you, didn’t you? It’s not left behind in that old cocked hat of yours?”

  I was forced to smile. That beloved hat was now so old it was forbidden to travel with me.

  “Has a runner been requested?” If the local magistrate deemed this case beyond the powers of the Wells’ parish constable, he had the power to summon a Bow Street runner.

  “Not yet, Caleb. Annie was a dipper, not a duchess.” There was no bitterness in Dorcas’s voice. We both knew the ways of this world.

  The constable would be unpaid and unskilled, and even a country clergyman might do as well. And I could refuse Dorcas nothing.

  ***

  I was quickly out that morning. I could not wait for breakfast at ten but would take a coffee in the Coffee House. Dear Jacob, who heard the news with perturbation, offered to accompany me to the Sussex Tavern, where he had been told the coroner was to hold an inquest at two o’clock that afternoon and where the constable might now be found. I refused Jacob’s offer, to his relief. I would be better on my own, as I could more easily assume the role of well-intentioned meddling old parson rather than that of an aspiring Bow Street runner.