by Lynch, R J
However, he met with no trouble and soon he was leaving his horse at an inn in the Close and making his way to John Taylor’s shop.
Taylor was at first reluctant to answer his questions. ‘Is there some trouble over the coat, sir? I am sure the man I saw with it is honest.’
‘Then he has nothing to fear from me. His name, please?’
‘I would not wish to get him into trouble, sir.’
‘He is not likely to be in any trouble.’ Blakiston moved his coat slightly to allow the butt of one of his pistols to be seen. ‘But you may be, if you do not tell me who he is and where I can find him.’
Taylor licked his lips. ‘Sir, his name is Hugh Moises. He is the head master at the Grammar School.’
‘Which grammar school? There is more than one, is there not?’
‘I believe you will find him in the old hall of St. Mary’s Hospital.’
‘Thank you.’
Blakiston was glad to find that his objective was within walking distance. Moises was also pleased when he was called from the room in which he was teaching Greek to the sons of the local middle class.
‘They think themselves gentlemen, Mister Blakiston, but they are ruffians and louts.’
‘Ruffians and louts whose fathers have money.’
‘Just so, sir. Just so. Now. What can I do to help you? You are surely too young to have a son of your own to enrol?’
‘You were named to me as the possessor of a fine coat. A woollen broad cloth coat, lined with silk. Would you mind telling me how you came by it?’
Moises looked startled. ‘Oh, sir. You will not tell me it was stolen?’
‘I have not come to take the coat away from you, Moises. I merely wish to know how it came into your hands.’
‘Why, sir, I bought it from Mistress Stewart in Sandgate.’
‘The pawn broker?’
‘Yes, sir. I saw the coat in her shop and enquired after the price. She wanted but thirty shillings, sir, which I thought a bargain. I had need of a warm coat and so I bought it. It has served me well, and does so still. It is a fine coat.’
‘Thank you, Moises. I shall let you return to your Greek and your ruffians.’
The teacher’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘A man must live somehow, sir.’
Mistress Stewart was even less eager to talk to Blakiston than Taylor had been. This time, instead of showing the pistols, he placed a florin on the shop counter. The woman’s eyes grew warmer.
‘I knew there would be trouble with that coat.’
‘Will you tell me what happened?’
‘It was brought here by a woman I had never seen before. She asked me to give her two pound for it. She was not the sort of woman who would be lawfully in possession of such a coat and I told her to be off. I have no truck with stolen goods, sir.’
‘I am happy to hear it.’
‘She was back the next day with a reverend gentleman angry at what he said was my disgraceful treatment of this poor woman in her condition. He said the coat was his and that he had sent her to sell it on his behalf. He said she was a respectable woman and I had treated her like a common thief. He was a church man, or he seemed to be. I have wondered since whether he was a fraud. Real priests do not usually spout bible words at you without ceasing. But, to be brief, I bought the coat. He wanted two pound but I thought it might be a difficult item to sell in this shop if he did not reclaim it, which he did not, so I gave him seventeen shilling and six pence. I never saw either of them again. When it was still on my hands after six months I put it in the window and a gentleman passing by bought it that same day.’
‘Could you describe this woman?’
‘She was about my height, sir. But younger than me. She wore a blue neck cloth and a cotton gown, none too clean, over a red petticoat. Quilted it was. She had two bairns with her. And she did not wear a hat. Nee hat, sir!’
‘Did she by any chance have red hair?’
‘She did, sir! Respectable woman he called her. I know a harlot when I see one, Master.’
‘And her condition?’
‘I only saw it when he mentioned it. With some women, you know, it does not show until late.’
‘But she was with child?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. When he said so, I could see it.’
Blakiston pushed the florin over the counter. ‘Thank you, Mistress Stewart. You have been most helpful.’
‘Thank you, sir. There won’t be any trouble?’
‘Not for you, you may be sure. Tell me: did the clergyman give a name?’
‘He must have done, sir, for I would not take a pledge from someone I did not know. But I cannot tell you what it was, for I have forgotten it.’
‘Do you not have a register?’
‘I do sir, and he will have signed it, but I cannot read.’
‘I can, Mistress Stewart.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see what you mean, sir. Just a minute.’
She lifted a dog eared book onto the counter. Turning back the pages, he found the signature. It was, as he had expected, that of Martin Wale.
Chapter 47
When Blakiston arrived at the rectory that evening, Thomas led him into his study. ‘Dinner is not quite ready. Let us take a glass in comfort.’
Blakiston settled into his chair. ‘You look a little shamefaced, Thomas.’
‘My dear fellow, be glad you have no wife. Any of us can behave foolishly from time to time, and marriage means there is always someone there to point it out.’
‘All is now well?’
The Rector shrugged. ‘Married life is a procession of events that both parties will decide to bury for the sake of harmony. But your expression speaks of self-satisfaction. What news have you?’
‘I believe I am close to knowing why Matthew Higson was killed. Naming the murderer will not be far behind.’
‘But that is wonderful news! Tell me what you have discovered.’
But at that moment, Sarah knocked at the door to say that dinner was ready to be eaten, and Thomas stood up. ‘We must not keep Isabella waiting. I have not redeemed myself enough for that. You must tell us at the table.’
‘I think not, Thomas. I should not wish Lady Isabella to hear what I have to say. It might distress her. I need to interview your curate, and that were best done in your company. He could not then refuse to speak to me.’
‘You think he knows something?’
‘I believe he may.’
‘I shall summon him here tomorrow at ten.’
Blakiston nodded his thanks. ‘You would do me a great favour if you sent word for Mary Stone to visit us here an hour later.’
‘Mary Stone? Here? You wish me to invite a harlot into my study?’
‘I could go to her, of course. But I think the effect would be greater if I were able to bring them together in this way.’
‘Oh, very well, James. Though Heaven only knows what my wife will have to say on the matter. To say nothing of the servants.’
The interview with Martin Wale took place promptly at ten next morning in the Rector’s study. Rosina served coffee with sweet cakes. Blakiston waited till she had shut the door behind her. Then he moved on to the attack.
‘Lady Isabella gave you a coat,’ he said to Wale. ‘Tell me what happened to it.’
The curate looked from him to Claverley and back again. ‘I...but...the coat?’
‘The coat,’ repeated Blakiston.
Martin Wale pushed a cake into his mouth. ‘The coat,’ he said when he had swallowed it.
‘Come, man,’ said Blakiston. ‘You have not had such a superfluity of fine woollen coats in your life that you have forgotten this one. Where did it go?’
‘I have not seen it for some ti
me.’
‘You have not lost it. How would it be possible to lose a coat like that?’
‘I...I think it must have been stolen.’
‘Stolen.’
‘I think so. It was there and then...it was not there.’
‘It simply vanished.’
‘Vanished. Yes.’
‘From your rooms at the Mill?’
‘I...I think so. Yes, yes. It must have been. From my rooms at the Mill.’
‘You spoke of this to Miller Hetherington and his wife?’
‘No. No.’
‘Why not? Could you afford to lose such an expensive coat?’
‘No, but...’
‘That coat must have been the only thing of value you owned.’
‘I...yes.’
‘If you needed to raise money quickly, you would have had nothing else to sell.’
The curate stared at him without speaking.
‘If, let us say, you needed something to take to Mistress Stewart, the pawn-broker on the Side, to pledge for two pounds, the coat would have been your only recourse.’
‘Oh, dear God, save me. How could you possibly know that?’
‘James,’ said the Rector. ‘Would you please tell me what is afoot?’
‘Twelve inches,’ gasped the curate. And he began to giggle, and would not stop.
‘He is out of his senses,’ said Claverley. ‘James. Please. Explain.’
‘Your curate pawned his coat. He asked two pounds for it, but the woman would give him only seventeen shillings and sixpence.’
‘Seventeen...Do you realise, you wretch, what that coat cost my wife?’
‘She had it from her father,’ said the still giggling curate.
‘That was invention, you fool. To save your feelings. Feelings! Hah! Seventeen shillings and sixpence. We must make sure Lady Isabella does not learn of this.’
‘I am more interested in why he needed the money.’
‘Yes. Of course. It will have been an act of charity. Misguided. Foolish, even. But an act of Christian charity. Who was it, Martin? Which of my parishioners was in such need that you pawned a coat to help him?’
Wale shook his head. ‘I cannot tell you that.’
‘You must. There are no secrets of the confessional here.’
Blakiston said, ‘What happened to the child Mary Stone was carrying?’
The horror in Martin Wale’s eyes was such that Blakiston almost missed the Rector’s sudden start. Wale sank to the floor. ‘I am undone. The ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master’s crib: but Israel doth not know, my people doth not consider. Ah sinful nation, a people laden with iniquity, a seed of evildoers, children that are corrupters: they have forsaken the Lord, they have provoked the Holy One of Israel unto anger, they are gone away backward.’
‘Who was the father of Mary Stone’s child, Martin?’
‘How could you know? How could you possibly know?’
‘Martin. Who was the father of Mary Stone’s child?’
The curate began to beat on his chest with both fists, one after the other. ‘Me! I was the father. The child was mine!’
The silence was broken only by the sound of the Rector clearing his throat and Martin’s muffled sobbing. Once again, Blakiston almost missed the Rector’s discomfort. He let the silence continue. Then he said, ‘Where is the child now, Martin?’
It was to the Rector that Wale spoke, and not to Blakiston. ‘He is in hallowed ground, Rector. He received a Christian burial.’
‘Where, Martin?’ Blakiston insisted.
‘I put him in the grave with Elizabeth Pate. She was a good woman, Rector, and she had been dead but two days. I opened the shroud and laid the child upon her breast. He will have travelled with her into the arms of our Lord.’
‘He would need to have been baptised for that,’ said the Rector, his voice quiet.
‘He was baptised. I baptised him.’
‘So he was born alive,’ Blakiston said.
Wale nodded.
‘And how did he die?’
Wale’s voice was so low that both men strained to hear him. ‘I killed him. I baptised him, and then I placed my hand over his nose and mouth to stop his breathing. I killed him.’
Another silence. Then Blakiston said, ‘Who saw you bury him, Martin?’
The curate looked up at him. ‘What manner of man are you, that you know things you cannot know?’
‘Who, Martin? Was it Matthew Higson?’
‘No.’
‘I cannot hear you, man. Please speak up.’
‘I said, No! It was Reuben Cooper. Reuben Cooper saw me.’
‘Ah! At last. God in Heaven, the long search is over. Reuben Cooper saw you burying the murdered child, and demanded money to remain silent, and that is why he died.’
‘It was late and the night was dark. I had a candle to light my way. I thought the whole Parish was abed. But Cooper was creeping about like a thief in the night. He thought I was digging up relics for witchcraft. He thought I intended a Black Mass. As if I ... I ... would be involved in such a thing as that. But then he came closer and he saw the babe.’
‘And so you sold the coat. But it was not enough. No money would have been enough for Cooper.’
‘He was an evil man. He had got his own daughter with child...’
‘You know that for a fact?’
‘I know Marjorie told me so, and I believed her. And yet he taunted me.’
‘And so you killed him.’
Wale hung his head. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. He looked up. ‘What will happen to me?’
‘You will hang, Martin. For the murder of Reuben Cooper you might have been transported. But for the child...you will hang.’
‘God have mercy on me.’
‘That is His prerogative, Martin,’ said Blakiston. ‘You will surely know no mercy on earth. Clear up one last matter for me. Why did Matthew Higson have to die?’
‘Oh, poor Matthew. He was a good man, and pious. He had heard me preach against the ending of unborn life. He saw Eliza Swain collecting the herbs she would use to try to bring off the babe and he thought I should know.’
‘And you were afraid he would speak of it to others, and they would want to know whose baby the herbs were meant for, and the whole sorry tale would come out. And so you killed him, too.’
Wale nodded.
Now the Rector intervened. ‘How did you know Mary Stone’s child was yours?’
‘She told me so.’
‘Oh, Martin. Mary Stone is a harlot. She goes with men for money. Many men. Did you never doubt her word?’
‘No.’ The curate looked bewildered. ‘I had sinned and this was my punishment. I had offended against God and my holy vows. If she said the babe was mine, it was mine.’
Claverley shook his head. ‘It seems to me that we could have been spared all this if you had but an ounce of common sense. You are a fool, Martin. Tell me: when you baptised the child, what name did you give it?’
‘Thomas, Rector. We called the child Thomas.’
The Rector seemed to struggle for words. At last he said, ‘And who chose that name?’
‘Mary. She said she had always liked the name and she wanted it for her son.’
‘There was a bucket,’ Blakiston said. ‘It was found in the ruins of Cooper’s cottage and it found its way into Dick Jackson’s garden. Do you know anything of that?’
‘I carried it there,’ said Wale. ‘Jackson is not a god-fearing man. I offered him to the Lord by putting the bucket where you could see it, and think Jackson had killed Reuben Cooper. But the Lord did not accept my offering.’
Thomas took out his clay pipe and, taking his time, began to fill it
. When it was alight, he said to Blakiston, ‘Is there any more you need from this disgrace to Holy Orders?’
Blakiston shook his head.
‘Then I shall send John for the constable and have him arrested. He will have to go to Durham, to await the next Assize.’
‘Very well. But where can we hold him while John is on his errand? You have only the one manservant, I believe.’
‘I shall have him locked in the cellar. There is no escape from there.’
When John had taken the curate away to be locked up, Blakiston said, ‘It is an ingenious story he has served up for us. A pity there is scarcely a word of truth in it.’
‘What?’
‘Your curate is an uncommon good hater for a man of the cloth, Thomas. But a killer of men? He has not that in him.’ Blakiston eyed the Rector. ‘Thomas. Mary Stone will soon be here. You are pondering matters that have to do with you and her and you are wondering whether there is something you need to tell me. There is not. Whatever may have passed between the two of you is your business and not mine and I shall thank you to keep it that way.’
Claverley nodded. ‘Thank you, James. I shall respect your wishes.’
Chapter 48
The direct approach having worked so well with Martin Wale, Blakiston decided to repeat it when Mary Stone arrived. Without preamble, he said, ‘Mister Wale is locked in the cellar below. He has confessed to three murders. Reuben Cooper’s, Matthew Higson’s and your infant child’s.’
‘Has he?’
‘Do you have anything to say on these matters?’
‘Should I?’
‘There is the small matter of truth to consider.’
Mary laughed. ‘Truth! Truth is a comfort only the rich can afford.’
‘Mister Wale has confessed, but I do not believe his confessions. I think he confessed to save you.’
Mary smiled but said nothing.
‘When the fire had settled down and I showed the curate the scratches on the wall of Cooper’s cottage, he was seeing them for the first time. I am convinced of that. He lost all composure. I did not understand his agitation then, but I understand it now. He was distraught that someone had looked for treasure in the wall. Distraught because he knew who that someone must have been. What did you find?’