He turned then and left the room and the house. I sat down to pick at my breakfast. And I had no way of knowing that I would never see him again.
* * *
It was shortly after midday, and Cook had the meal ready and waiting. I had spent the morning wheeling Daniel around the garden, since it was a fine bright day and I thought the fresh air would do him good.
The birds were busy looking for worms, and though I knew he was too young to understand, I had pointed them out to him.
‘Look, see that, Daniel? That thrush with the wriggly thing in his beak? I believe he has babies in the nest and is taking it home for their dinner! Watch, now! He’s going into the bush! Very soon we may see those little ones learning to spread their wings!’
Daniel gurgled and flapped his plump little hands as if he, too, were trying to learn to fly, and I laughed, the first time I had laughed or even so much as smiled since telling Richard I could not go with him.
I had fed Daniel, as always, finding comfort and something like peace in his rhythmic sucking, and then took him to the parlour to await Mr Paterson’s return.
He was late, and Cook was, I imagined, becoming anxious that the meal was spoiling, for several times I heard Dorcas come along the hall and go to the dining-room window, sent by Cook, no doubt, to look out and see if there was any sign of him. But she was nowhere in evidence when I heard the clatter of hooves and, a moment later, the front door opening. I got up with the intention of setting Daniel in his crib, and to my astonishment, saw Thomas in the hall.
I think I knew in that first startled moment that something was very wrong. Thomas never used the front door, and of Mr Paterson there was no sign. Moreover, Thomas’s face, usually so implacable, wore an expression that might almost, under other circumstances, have appeared comical. His eyes were very wide, displaying the whites all around the coal-black centres, his lips thrust outwards, his jaw slack.
‘Thomas!’ I said. ‘Whatever—?’
‘It’s Mr Paterson!’ His voice was hoarse.
‘What is wrong with Mr Paterson?’ I asked. ‘Has there been an accident? Is he ill?’
‘You’d better sit down, ma’am.’ Thomas ushered me back into the parlour, solicitous as ever in spite of his own obvious distress.
‘Why should I sit down?’ I demanded. I was very frightened now, and beginning to tremble. ‘What is it, Thomas?’
Thomas wrung his hands.
‘Oh, Mrs Paterson… he’s dead! He’s been murdered!’
* * *
For a moment I simply could not take it in. Mr Paterson dead? Murdered? I stared at Thomas, shock robbing me of all my senses.
‘What are you talking about?’ I asked dully, and then, more shrilly: ‘What are you talking about, Thomas?’
‘Mr Paterson,’ Thomas said. ‘In his office. He’s been killed, ma’am.’
‘Killed? How?’
‘Bludgeoned. His head broke open. Oh, Mrs Paterson…’
Thomas put his hands to his own head, bowing it to his chest and rocking his body to and fro. Any display of emotion was so totally unlike him that I could no longer be in any doubt but that what he said was true, unbelievable as it seemed, and suddenly, surprisingly, I was icy calm.
I laid Daniel down in his crib, crossed to the drinks table and poured some brandy into a glass.
‘Here,’ I said. ‘You’d better have this.’
He made no move to take it. I took him by the elbow, steered him towards a chair, sat him down, and put the glass into his hand.
‘Go on, drink it!’ I instructed him. ‘Do as I say, Thomas. It will make you feel better.’
Obediently he raised the glass, drinking a little with lips that shook so much that I heard his teeth rattle against the crystal and some of the brandy ran in a glistening trickle down his chin.
‘Now tell me,’ I said urgently. ‘Tell me everything.’
Haltingly, as if shock had robbed him of the English language he usually spoke so fluently, he told me.
He had called at the quayside premises to collect Mr Paterson as he had been told to do, but Mr Paterson had not made an appearance. After waiting some time, Thomas had taken it upon himself to go inside and look for him.
He had called from the doorway, and when there was no reply, climbed the stairs to the first floor room where Mr Paterson had his office. And there he had found him, slumped over his desk, wig awry, as though asleep. At first, Thomas had thought he had been taken ill and collapsed – then he had seen the blood. Matted in his wig and in his own hair beneath it, congealing on his collar, splattered across the ledgers on which he had been working. The base of his skull had been shattered by some heavy object, very likely the heavy trivet which held the fire irons, for they were all scattered about the grate. And he was dead. Quite dead.
As I listened, I had to hold on tightly to the unnatural calm that had descended upon me. When he stopped speaking, sinking his head once more into his huge, black hands, I refilled his brandy glass and poured a little for myself, sipping it jerkily and feeling the warmth burn my throat and permeate my veins.
‘What did you do then, Thomas?’ I asked, though I think I already knew. ‘Did you run to raise the alarm?’
Thomas gave a little shake of his head.
‘No, ma’am,’ he answered, as I had expected. ‘I drove straight home. I didn’t know what else to do.’
I set down my brandy glass. ‘Then we must call a constable at once. Mr Paterson cannot be left there like that. And we have to find out who has done this terrible thing.’
‘I think I have a clue,’ Thomas said. ‘It may assist the law in apprehending the murderer.’ He fished in his pocket and brought out a leather coin pouch. ‘This lay on the stairs – I saw it on my way up to the office and picked it up. I think whoever killed Mr Paterson may have dropped it as he fled.’
He held the pouch out. I took it, and the remains of my composure drained out of me as I looked at it, washed away on a tide of horror and disbelief.
There were initials stamped in gold lettering on the pouch.
And those initials were R. W.
* * *
R. W. Richard Wells.
The blood seemed to drain from my body.
Oh, there must be others in this town who shared the initials R.W., but how many of them would have reason to wish Mr Paterson dead?
In a flash I saw it all, as vivid as a scene from one of the stage plays I had watched my parents perform when I was a child. Richard, calling on Mr Paterson to try to reason with him. Mr Paterson dismissing him with the same cold hauteur as when he had come to the house to take me with him, returning to his desk, and taking up his pen to show Richard that the interview was over, impress upon him the irrelevance and unimportance of his plea. And Richard, in a flash of fury, grabbing up the heavy brass trivet and bringing it crashing down on the base of Mr Paterson’s skull.
Or perhaps he had gone there having the intention of killing Mr Paterson clear in his mind. Perhaps he had seen Mr Paterson go into his office, known he was alone, and seized his chance. For he knew full well it was Mr Paterson who stood between us. As long as he lived, Mr Paterson would keep me with him by refusing to allow me to take Daniel, and I would never abandon my little son. With my husband dead, I would be free. Free to go to him with no fear of losing my child, free, even, to marry him.
It would, of course, be cold-blooded murder, not even mitigated by provocation. Was Richard capable of such a thing? I did not know, but I thought of the hard masculinity of him, that slightly dangerous air which I, to my shame, found so fatally attractive, and thought that perhaps he was.
My heart was beating now like a trapped bird within my chest, my mind chasing in wild, scarcely coherent circles.
I did not love my husband; these last days I had come close to hating him. I would never grieve for him as a wife should; I was too glad to be free of him. But oh, I did not wish him dead, and in such terrible circumstances! And the thought t
hat he might well have died at my lover’s hand was insupportable, both because it made me as guilty as if I had struck the blow which killed him, and because I knew that I could never find true happiness with a man who could do such a thing, for whatever reason.
I looked once more at the pouch with the tell-tale initials stamped upon it.
‘I’ll take care of it, Thomas,’ I said, slipping it into the pocket of my gown. ‘I must go and tell Cook and the others what has happened. And you must go and find a constable or a watchman and ask him to go to the office without delay.’
As I crossed the hall to the kitchen, where, if I was not much mistaken, I would find a row of curious ears pressed to the crack in the door, the pouch seemed to burn a hole in my pocket.
I had not yet decided what I should do with it, whether I should show it to an officer of the law, or dispose of it so thoroughly that it would never be seen again. With all my heart I prayed that my terrible suspicions were wrong; that the pouch belonged to some other man who shared Richard’s initials, or that, if it was indeed Richard’s, there was some innocent explanation for it being on the stairs to Mr Paterson’s office.
But at that moment, numb with shock and horror, I was quite unable to think of one.
* * *
I was still in the kitchen when there came a hammering at the front door.
‘Answer it please, Perrett,’ I said, but by the time she had wiped her eyes on her apron – all the servants, with the understandable exception of Dorcas, the slave, were very upset by the news I had brought them – there was the sound of a commotion in the hallway.
I ran to the door and saw a group of men milling about. Two or three of them were attempting to drag Thomas out of the front door and down the steps. All of them were shouting obscenities.
‘What is going on?’ I cried.
A burly man I recognized as a constable of the port stepped forward towards me.
‘Mrs Paterson, a most serious thing has occurred. Your husband has been beaten to death in his office at the quay.’
‘Yes, I know, but—’
‘And there is no doubt his slave is responsible.’
‘Thomas!’ I cried. ‘No – you are making a terrible mistake! Thomas would never—’
‘He was seen running from the scene,’ the man went on. ‘He thought to secure his freedom, no doubt, or take revenge for some imagined ill-treatment. You can’t trust these savages.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’ I cried. ‘Thomas found Mr Paterson dead! He came straight home…’
The man smirked. ‘We’ll see what the magistrate has to say about that! He ran here, no doubt, because he knew we were after him. You’d not be defending him, Mrs Paterson, if you could see what he’s done to your husband – not that I’d want any lady to have to look on such a grizzly sight. You’d be thanking us, and paying these men a goodly reward for their trouble!’
At that very moment the volume of the commotion outside increased to a crescendo, and through the open door I saw Thomas break free from his captors and pound off along the street, the mob close on his heels.
The constable swore, then turned back confidently to me.
‘They’ll catch him again, have no fear of that. He may have been strong enough – and quick enough – to take them by surprise once, but he won’t do it again. He’ll be in a place of safety before the hour is out, mark my words – unless he’s lynched first. The men are in an ugly mood, I can tell you.’
‘Oh dear God!’ I whispered.
In the parlour, no doubt awakened by all the commotion, Daniel had begun to cry lustily.
‘You’d best get a male relative to take care of things for you,’ the constable advised me. ‘What has to be done is no job for a lady. Is there someone who can help you?’
‘There’s my cousin Theo…’ I managed.
‘Theo Grimes?’ The constable’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, you’d better get hold of him right away. He’ll know what has to be done.’ He strutted importantly to the door and I followed. There was no sign now of Thomas or his pursuers, but my throat closed as I imagined the chase, as fervent as any fox hunt, and with violent death just as likely an outcome.
In a state of total gibbering shock, I went to Daniel, picked him up and rocked him in my arms, clinging to him as the only breath of sanity in a world gone mad.
My husband murdered. Thomas hunted for the crime. And the pouch bearing the initials R.W. in the pocket of my gown.
With the arrival of the constable and the mob, it had gone completely from my mind. Now I remembered it and burned with guilt. I should have shown it to the constable. I should have told him it was proof of Thomas’s innocence. But was it? Even if he had listened to me – and I doubted that he would – the pouch proved nothing. Convinced of Thomas’s guilt as he seemed to be, the constable would doubtless have argued that I had only the slave’s word for it that he had discovered the pouch on the stairs leading to Mr Paterson’s office.
Was it possible, I wondered distractedly, that the constable was right? Might my husband have met his death at the hand of his trusted servant? Though I had never seen him anything but deferential and loyal, was it possible that something had finally caused him to snap and lash out at all the indignities that had been visited upon him? There were enough of them, in all conscience, to drive any man to the limits of his endurance, especially one as fiercely proud as Thomas. The threats to have him whipped if he stepped out of line, the silver collar and stupid livery he was forced to wear, simply the knowledge that he was owned, body and soul, all this must have been festering for years beneath that impassive exterior. And I remembered, too, the fury and hatred I had seen in his eyes on the night Dorcas had been raped. If he had killed Mr Paterson in his bed that night I would not have been surprised.
Could it be that some final act of callousness or display of mastery by my husband had suddenly ignited the fire that smouldered in Thomas, fanning it to a blaze as the bellows fan the smouldering embers of a parlour fire? The men who had come to take him had seemed utterly convinced of his guilt. Had they perhaps heard some kind of a struggle taking place immediately prior to Thomas running from the office? Certainly he had been in a terrible state when he arrived home – more upset than I would have expected, given his hatred of Mr Paterson…
I caught myself up sharply. What on earth was I doing? Was I trying to make a case for Thomas having struck the fatal blow because I wanted him to be guilty – found it a preferable scenario to the one I had envisaged earlier – better by far than believing my beloved Richard was responsible for the wicked deed?
The thoughts whirled around and around in my tortured brain like a flock of birds startled by the shot from a gamekeeper’s gun.
What should I do? Should I take the pouch to a magistrate? If I did, I might be incriminating the man I loved, and who might yet be entirely innocent. If I did not, I could be betraying Thomas and leaving him to a terrible fate – if it had not already overtaken him. I did not know what to do, and the indecision was tearing me apart.
There was only one person who could show me the right way, I thought, and that was Richard himself. A great wave of longing for him washed over me, yes, even though I still harboured the fear that he might have been the one responsible for my husband’s murder. I longed for him to tell me it was not so, longed for him to take this terrible burden from my shoulders.
And Richard knew Thomas and respected him, too. He had sympathy as I did for what slaves endured. If Thomas had indeed lost his head and bludgeoned Mr Paterson to death in a moment of madness, Richard would know best how to represent his interests; he would speak up for him. If he had not, if Richard himself had been responsible, I could not believe he would let an innocent man suffer for his actions. And if, as I prayed, it had been neither of them, but some ruffian from the docks, intent only on stealing what he could from Mr Paterson’s office and his person, then he would know how to present that to the magistrate too.
But I did not know how I could get to Richard. My only point of contact with him was through Lady Avonbridge, and I had no way of getting to her house. I could not drive the carriage, and I could not walk so far. What was I to do?
A hammering at the door interrupted my thoughts; I froze still as a statue, heart pounding as my shattered nerves leaped and twanged and I wondered in panic – What now?
I heard Perrett go to answer it, then the sound of a man’s voice. Relief flooded me. I ran into the hall.
‘Oh Theo!’ I cried. ‘Thank God you’re here! The most terrible thing…’
And: ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I came as soon as I heard. Don’t worry, Davina, I’m here to take care of everything.’
* * *
He came into the parlour, poured himself a brandy, and asked me for the details of what had happened. He had been working at his books in his own warehouse office, he told me, when news had reached him that Mr Paterson had been discovered dead, and he had come straight away to offer me his assistance. He had even thought I might not yet have heard the news, and he could have been the one to break it to me.
‘I didn’t like the thought of you hearing it from strangers,’ he said, patting my hand. ‘I am your own flesh and blood and I hoped to be here for you.’
‘That’s kind, Theo…’ Tears pricked my eyes, the first since all this had begun. ‘But I didn’t hear it from strangers. I heard it from Thomas. It was he who found Mr Paterson, or at least, that’s what he told me. But the constable came, and a gang of men acting as vigilantes, and they tried to take Thomas away. He went on the run, but he’s likely been captured by now, and I don’t know what they will do to him…’
‘Thomas?’ Theo exclaimed. ‘They tried to take Thomas?’
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