The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime Volume 8

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Oh, I solved it already, Parson,” young Constable Wilson said with some pride, when I found him in a rear room of the tavern, the grounds of which abut the Lower Walk.

  It was my turn to be relieved. “Who committed this terrible crime?”

  “Jem Smith, Annie’s sweetheart. Twas a lovers’ quarrel. Killed her late last night and the body was found early this morning.”

  “A lovers’ quarrel?” I said, forgetting my planned role. “And he happened to be carrying a paper knife with him while he was wooing her?”

  The constable gave me a strange look. “Must have been,” he pointed out kindly. “That’s what killed her, see? That’s the evidence, that is. Proof for the magistrate. Jem will be up in front of Sir John Nicholls after this inquest and then be in the lock-up until the assizes.”

  So much for justice. The lad was already condemned, it seemed. I resolved to return here at two o’clock, but in the meantime I would stroll in the Lower Walk. I have not yet explained that the Lower Walk plays just as important a role as the Upper. By unspoken assent the gentry and aristocracy gather alone on the Upper Walk, and at times dictated by the strict timetables that have been in place for many decades. In the Lower Walk however the tradesmen and citizens of Tunbridge Wells flock through for the whole of the day, and it is here on the steps at the far end that the market is held from seven to ten o’clock each day.

  Here, if Jem were innocent, I might learn the truth. I was uneasy about that paper knife; it spoke of planning and preparation not of a lovers’ quarrel, and I was even more uneasy about the coincidence of a death on the Walks so soon after the threat to Miss Cherrington – although of course the verse had been anonymous.

  I stopped so suddenly at this thought that I received a sharp blow in my back followed by a curse. A pedlar had been following in my wake and my apology did nothing to assuage the glare I received from this individual. It was to be hoped that his demeanour would change before customers or he would do little trade. It was the tray carried before him that had jolted my back.

  “My apologies, sir,” I said once more. “My thoughts were with the poor girl who died last night.”

  Malevolent eyes greeted me. “Aye. The girl-flirt.” His Kentish vowels were so drawn out it was hard to be sure of what he said.

  “That is a harsh word,” I answered him.

  “I’ve worse.” He peered at me and so strong a sense of evil seemed to come from him that I almost stepped backwards. “The devil’s filly she was.”

  “The constable has taken up Jem Smith for her murder,” I remarked.

  He stared at me. “There’s plenty had cause.”

  Including himself, I wondered? “Was Lord Foppington one of her suitors?” I thought of that anonymous poem.

  A grimy finger touched the side of his nose in a meaningful way. “Could be. And that gentleman friend of his – the one with his nose in the air and his stomach before him.” I identified this as the Honourable Percy Trott. “Then there’s Black Micah,” the pedlar added maliciously. “Saw him here last night. Him who sweeps the Walks.”

  “And he found the body this morning, I understand.” This was usually an interesting starting point to consider. When Widow Hart was found dead in Cuckoo Leas, her neighbour had found the body – and it was he had done the frightful deed. “Did you see Annie Bright here last night?”

  I saw sudden fear on the pedlar’s face and in answer he pushed rudely past me. I glanced at his tray with the usual ribbons and pins, but pens and knives also. Did he sometimes carry paper knives, I wondered? I could see none, but perhaps because one had found a tragic home last night.

  I could see the crossing sweeper, seated on the shallow steps that led to the trees lining the Upper Walk. Black Micah was a solitary figure, bent in gloom, though many people went up to him and spoke a few words. I went to greet him, introducing myself as a parson – much is forgiven of such a calling which in others would be impertinence.

  “A great shock, sir, finding Miss Bright’s body.”

  He looked up at me; tears were clearing a path through the grime of his face. “My Annie,” was all he could say.

  “Our Lord will judge her from her heart, but I heard she was free with her favours,” I said. “But that is mere tittle tattle no doubt.”

  “Lies,” Micah roared. His ancient three-cornered hat and beard gave him the look of the Bible prophet after whom he was named. “Their tongue is deceitful in their mouth,” he quoted. “She was my friend, she was, and I saw her there dead, with such a look of such surprise on her dear sweet face.”

  “Was Lord Foppington a friend also?” I needed to establish this.

  Another roar. “Rich men are full of violence, so the prophet tells us. Always there he was, he and that Mr Percy Trott. Promised her a pound when the season was over. She just laughed at them, knowing they didn’t mean it.”

  Had Annie laughed once too often? Had she and not Miss Cherrington been his lordship’s fairest nymph?

  “You swept the Walks last evening. Did you not see her then? Did you see anyone with her?”

  He stared at me, then said, “I will bear the indignation of the Lord, for I have sinned against him.” He would say no more but rocked to and fro in his grief.

  I sighed. Was Micah’s idea of sin that he loved Annie more than he should, or that he had not protected her – or that he himself had killed her?

  The market was nearly over now, but the day’s bustle continued, as groups gathered and spoke urgently amongst themselves. There was an edge to the atmosphere today. The voices were low and none invited me to join him. I was a visitor, and, worse, an enemy when one of their own had died.

  On the Upper Walk society was reluctantly vanishing to prepare itself for the next stage of their day. But as with yesterday many still lingered. The crowd at the well of ladies in their negligées spoke less of enthusiasm for the cure than of worldly prurience. The dippers were making the most of their companion’s tragic death and who could blame them? Coins were changing hands with great speed for accounts of what an angel Annie had been – or, as I listened to another, what a devil she had been. My heart was full as I thought of Annie’s dead body lying here alone last night. I was paying dearly for the cups of water I had taken from her hands, and vowed I would first be sure that Jem Smith had not been her murderer, but if in doubt would seek the truth.

  I could endure no more, and walked quickly to the book store where another crowd had assembled outside. A distraught Mr Thomas guarded the door and caught sight of me with relief.

  “Come quickly, Parson. There’s another verse from Lord Foppington.”

  I could scarcely believe it. If his verse referred to Annie’s death, not Miss Cherrington’s, then surely he would not write another. I hastened inside where Mr Thomas led me to the table where the Book of Poets lay, with Mrs Thomas grimly guarding it. The verse was brief and to the point:

  Fairest nymph, thy end was just indeed

  Thy beauty too great for this world’s need.

  I blenched. If I had needed proof that the fairest nymph of yesterday’s poem had been Annie, this was it. And yet to what purpose had the foul deed been advertised? A fearful thought came to me.

  “Miss Olivia Cherrington?” I cried. “She is safe?” Could there have been another death besides Annie’s?

  “Thanks be to God, she is,” Mr Thomas said fervently. “I sent to her lodgings for word.”

  “It seems it was the water-dipper on whom Lord Foppington’s true fancy fell,” Mrs Thomas said sadly. “His lordship has a roving eye, I fear, and no doubt the girl was all too willing – at first.”

  “Hush, wife,” her husband said angrily. “Annie is dead, and must be mourned. She was a bright star in this most unnatural world. And we must recall that Lord Foppington denied writing yesterday’s poem.”

  Mrs Thomas looked chagrined and I hastened to ask, “Did this verse arrive this morning?”

  “It awaited me at the door agai
n. The poet, whether Lord Foppington or Mr Trott, would hardly have brought it in person, any more than he cared to sign his name.”

  “But why display the poem at all? If he killed the girl, would he blazen the fact abroad?”

  “Because he might kill again?” Mrs Thomas ventured.

  “I think not,” I assured her gently. “But why should her murderer wish to announce her forthcoming death here, where Annie would not see it? Only the ton would do so. Poor Annie could doubtless not even read, let alone appreciate verses, even of the dire quality displayed here.”

  “Lord Foppington is a loose fish,” Mr Thomas observed, “who professes weariness with everyday life. He and Mr Trott were members of the Hell Fire Club, where such monstrous folk fed on the death of others for their pleasure.”

  This was a new thought to me, and must be considered. Held in the caverns of Wycombe, terrible practices were said to have taken place at these orgies — practices to which the Miss Cherringtons of this world would be strangers, but which were part of the risks of living for the Annie Brights. Had she fallen prey to either or both these fops? Were the poems merely part of their sinister game?

  “How could Lord Foppington have met Annie last evening?” I enquired. “Surely he would be escorting Miss Cherrington?”

  “After yesterday,” Mr Thomas suggested, “it is possible that Miss Cherrington decided to avoid the Walks.”

  “And so he wreaked his revenge on Annie?”

  “Having laid a false trail deliberately with these poems,” Mrs Thomas contributed.

  I frowned. “But were Lord Foppington or Mr Trott seen here last evening?”

  The evenings were as strictly regulated as the days. On Tuesdays and Fridays dancing took place at the Upper and Lower Rooms respectively. Yesterday being a Wednesday, they would have been playing cards or conversing at the Lower Rooms.

  “Both were,” Mr Thomas informed me. “Mrs Thomas was unwell, but I met friends for a game of cards, and saw them both. And,” he added authoritatively, “I saw Lord Foppington talking to Annie Bright.”

  “Did he go to take the waters?” This seemed strange when wine and cognac would be flowing.

  “There was no such need. Annie Bright was a serving maid at the Rooms on some evenings, and Jem worked there too.”

  “You saw her leave with him?” I asked.

  “I did. I tarried for one last game – forgive me, my love – and when at last I left Annie and Jem had long gone. All seemed quiet in the Walks.”

  It looked bleak for Jem Smith, and were it not for those verses, I would believe in his guilt myself. Whom would the coroner and magistrate believe? Jem Smith – or Lord Foppington and Mr Trott? It was time I met Jem. Alas, breakfast in Jacob’s cosy parlour had not seen me, but if the inquest were brief I could be present for dinner at four o’clock. Meanwhile a coffee must suffice, and I made my way to the Upper Walk.

  Here I could see the waters of society begin to close over the tragic story of Annie Bright. It was twelve o’clock and the musicians in the gallery opposite overlooking the Upper Walk had begun to play, just as the peacocks began to return to the parade. To my surprise and admiration I saw Miss Cherrington arrive on the arm of an elderly gentleman, whom I presumed to be her father, as she made her entrance on to the Walk. Clad in blue silk, she made a lovely sight and was a braver lady than I had given her credit for. She had heard the news and yet decided to make her appearance despite it. Behind her companion, followed Lord Foppington and Mr Trott, apparently on the best of terms, despite their duel. Neither bore any marks that I could see. They too were in their fine feathers, but what did those feathers guard? The party entered the Coffee House where I sat, and my attention was reluctantly diverted from the charming music of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

  Then word came that Jem Smith had been taken to the Sussex Tavern, guarded by Constable Wilson, and his hands firmly tied. I could not miss this opportunity and hurried to join them there, on the pretext that Jem might need a parson.

  When I arrived, Constable Wilson was still full of his importance as the representative of the law, his rattle at the ready as though even now Jem might make a bid for freedom. The prisoner looked to be a fine upstanding young man, who in twenty years’ time, if proven innocent, would be a solid member of society. Today, he was in a miserable quake.

  “I not be condemned yet,” he yelled when he heard I was a parson. The poor fellow thought I had come to escort him to the gallows, and I hastened to make my role clear.

  “I would hear your story, Jem,” I told him. “God must judge you as well as the coroner’s jury and Sir John, and I stand here as His messenger.”

  He took a careful look at my face and burst into tears. “Annie and me had words,” he managed to say.

  “See, he admits the crime,” Constable Wilson broke in triumphantly.

  “No, sir,” Jem gasped. “We fell out as she left the Rooms. She was wanting to be wed, but I was waiting until I had a home to take her to. She thought I did not love her. If you don’t want me, there’s others that do, she said, and she went running off across the Walk. I went back inside and Mr Dale, he’s the owner, told me to leave her be and come back inside. I never saw her again.”

  “You didn’t walk past the spring on your way home?”

  “No, sir. It’s dark in that corner. Why would I look there? She’d gone to her home – or so I thought.” The tears flowed as he must have realized that he had walked right past Annie’s dead body.

  “Did you see Lord Foppington last night, or Mr Percy Trott?”

  His face darkened. “Both of them. Always hanging around her. Annie couldn’t see they had nothing good in mind for her. She told me they offered her a position in London. I thought she might go and leave me.” It was ingenuous of Jem to tell us this, as it provided another reason for his guilt, and yet it was because of that I felt sure he was innocent.

  “You heard about Lord Foppington’s poems?”

  “Yes, parson.” He looked suddenly hopeful. “You think he might have killed my Annie? Or Mr Trott? They were gambling in the Rooms that evening.” His face fell. “But gentlemen like that don’t soil their hands with murder.”

  “What about Black Micah or the pedlar?” I asked. Constable Wilson was looking most annoyed at my persistence.

  “Annie liked old Micah, but that pedlar – he’s a wrong ’un. Oh sir, you’ll save me?”

  I longed to say yes, that God could do that, perhaps through my hands, if he were innocent, but I could not raise his hopes. There was little more than an hour remaining before the inquest would begin.

  At first I told myself that it was a good sign that Jem accused no one else, but I was forced to change my mind. Jem’s guilt might lie so heavy upon him that he wished to face the penalty. Promising I would return for the inquest, I made my way back to the Upper Walk, where the peacocks were strutting in their finery. It would have made a pretty sight, if I could have expunged the thought of Annie Bright’s body lying by the side of the spring. Soon the peacocks would mostly depart for the afternoon to walk upon the Common or take an excursion to Rusthall or High Rocks. And all the while Jem’s fate would be determined. I began to despair, seeing no way forward.

  And then I saw Miss Cherrington again, walking with her companion down the Upper Walk, a dainty parasol guarding her from the sun – although the sun did not require much to banish it today. I went to greet her and she recognized me immediately.

  “Parson Pennywick, that poor girl,” she cried. “I thought it would be me.”

  “I too, Miss Cherrington,” I said bluntly, taking more kindly to her. “But you are safe now. I do not believe the verses were meant for you,” I assured her.

  To my surprise, Miss Cherrington looked annoyed, not relieved. “But I am the fairest nymph,” she complained.

  “Dearest lady, there is no doubt of that.” Like bees to the fragrant flower, Mr Trott had joined us, with Lord Foppington at his side.

  Miss Cher
rington looked at them both severely. “I am going to the book store. I am told you have written another verse today, Lord Foppington.”

  “No,” he bleated indignantly. “Fairest lady—”

  Mr Trott interrupted him. “We must see the Book for ourselves. There is some mistake as neither his lordship nor I has written a poem for today. Permit us to escort you, Miss Cherrington.”

  Did they want this poor lady to suffer unnecessarily? Fortunately from the look in Miss Cherrington’s eye, as she regarded her two suitors, her suffering was not too great at present, despite the tragedy of Annie Bright.

  Mr Trott offered Miss Cherrington his arm, as he led her into the bookshop. Lord Foppington and I followed in their wake. Mr Thomas immediately helped her most solicitously to a chair. The Book of Poets was brought to her, and she read the two lines most carefully.

  “But I am not dead,” she pointed out, puzzled. “And you yourself, Mr Trott, said I was the fairest nymph.”

  “You are the fairest,” squealed Lord Foppington, but Miss Cherrington took no notice.

  “Do you still deny you wrote these verses, Lord Foppington?” I enquired, as he and Mr Trott read the new addition to the Book of Poets for themselves.

  “I do,” he said. He cast his rival a look of displeasure. “And Percy has a gift for copying work.”

  Mr Trott drew himself up. “My seconds shall call again on you, my lord.”

  “And I shall ask my husband to take these verses from the Book,” Mrs Thomas declared. She drew me to one side, as Miss Cherrington’s swains departed to discuss their next duel. Her husband was occupied in escorting Miss Cherrington and her companion to the door. “They are the work of one, if not both of those gentlemen,” she continued.

  “And Annie Bright’s murder too?” I asked gently.

  But Mrs Thomas was intent on the verses. “I do not believe that those verses have anything to do with the murder, parson.”