Pengarron's Children

by Pengarron's Children (retail) (epub)

  ‘So am I,’ he said, kissing her soundly then listening for noises outside. ‘The rain has nearly stopped. I’m afraid I’ll have to take you home soon.’

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ she said vehemently, snuggling even closer to him.

  ‘And I don’t want to take you yet, my beloved. Just think though, if your father or one of your brothers found us like this, I’d be skinned alive.’ He became very serious. ‘Jessica, I want to see you again, to spend lots of time with you, just the two of us. If our families learn how we feel about each other they’ll not give us a moment’s peace. Clem might even try to stop us meeting. I shall be kept busy for the next week or so. Will it be all right if I ride over to Trecath-en after that to arrange something quietly? When I’ve thought of somewhere we can go where we won’t be disturbed? In fact by then I might have the very place. What do you say, my love?’

  ‘I say yes, Kane,’ she replied, smiling into his entrancing eyes. ‘I’ll eagerly look forward to it.’

  He pulled her close. ‘Then let’s not waste the time we have left now.’

  * * *

  Hezekiah Solomon did not allow the storm that shook Mount’s Bay to put him off calling on the Reverend Lanyon. He had written requesting an interview and Timothy had written back straightaway suggesting this afternoon. He was most curious as to why the dandified gentleman wanted to see him and waited in anticipation in his lantern-lit study for his arrival. Hezekiah arrived promptly in a fine carriage, the newest one in Cornwall, which was causing quite a stir in the county. It was drawn by four grey horses, all of the same age, height, build and length of mane and tail. Timothy saw the spectacle from his study window and wondered if Captain Solomon had chosen the horses himself in his usual fastidious manner.

  Hezekiah bowed low as Nancy Wills announced him and after enquiring if refreshment was required, which was declined, hastened back to Catherine to work on the wedding clothes.

  ‘A dismal afternoon, Captain Solomon,’ Timothy said amiably as Hezekiah fussed with his wig in front of a small square mirror near the door. ‘Please be seated. If you do not want a dish of tea, may I offer you a glass of Madeira?’

  ‘That would be most agreeable, thank you, Mr Lanyon. It is very good of you to see me at such short notice. You must be wondering why I have asked to see you, with me living in the parish of St Mary’s, Madron, at Penzance. And I understand there is to be a wedding in your family in a few weeks’ time. You must be very busy.’ Hezekiah sat down with flowing movements and crossed his ankles neatly.

  ‘The Parsonage has been full of dressmakers and materials, Captain Solomon. My sisters and my housekeeper chatter about nothing else. I think at times I am quite forgotten but, I might add, that is not always a bad thing.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Hezekiah smiled, then sipped his Madeira. ‘I shall try to be brief, Mr Lanyon. I know I should be talking to the vicar of my own parish but I do not know him, or the curate who is sometimes to be found at the chapel down the street where I live. I know that Sir Oliver and Lady Pengarron set great store by you, Mr Lanyon. The thing is, I’ve spent all my life as a non-believer but now that I have retired from the sea and have had time to think and… well, you see, I’m beginning to think it is time to give serious consideration to the possibility of there being a God, a creator. To try to understand what the Gospel is all about. I found myself listening to an open-air Methodist preacher recently in Penzance. He spoke of things that I’d never thought of before. That if we don’t believe, we will die in our sins. It brought me up sharply. Of course I could not bring myself to speak to such a fellow and the next obvious step was to speak to an ordained clergyman. I hope you don’t mind me choosing you. We have met briefly at Pengarron Manor and I thought of you. Perhaps, apart from the Holy Scriptures, you can recommend some suitable books for me to read. I would like to do some deep studying before putting my questions to someone.’

  ‘I do not mind in the least, Captain Solomon. I would not like to see a single soul lost. I should be able to find something to fit your requirements. Please excuse me a minute.’

  Timothy went to his packed bookshelves, keeping an eye on his visitor. He doubted if the other man was being truthful.

  Hezekiah’s eyes darted over the desk, preying on a letter the parson had been writing.

  Timothy covered up the letter when he brought back two thick clothbound books. They were brown with age. ‘These should be of help to begin with, Captain Solomon, and I recommend that you read all the Gospels, paying particular attention to St John, and then the Acts of the Apostles. Take your time in reading, there is no hurry to return the books. I will be most interested to know what you think at the end of it. I would also recommend that you try to pray.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Lanyon. You have been most kind and considerate. Could I encroach on a little more of your time and ask you to write down your recommendations? Which Gospel was it in particular and the Acts of whom? I can see I have a lot to learn and I fear I will forget what you have so kindly told me.’ Timothy thought this a most odd request. This little man, he knew, had a perfect eye and ear for minute detail. He obliged him as Hezekiah finished his Madeira. When he left, Timothy opened the windows wide to rid his study of the other’s effeminate smell.

  In his carriage, Hezekiah opened the front covers of both theological books then tossed them carelessly onto the seat opposite. He kept hold of the instructions Timothy had written down and as he was driven back to Marazion he studied the strong, open handwriting. Hezekiah chuckled. Clerics were rarely known to scribble; it would be easy to copy his lettering and the signature he’d found in one of the books.

  Hezekiah had been irked at first when it became apparent that the Reverend Lanyon was interested in Olivia Pengarron and she, it seemed, in him. It had not gone beyond the pair passing lingering looks and participating in the occasional quiet conversation, which her parents did not seem to have noticed. Hezekiah didn’t think anything would come out of a dalliance between the Lord of the Manor’s daughter and the young parson. Timothy Lanyon might have youth and good looks but he did not have the wealth or position to be considered as a suitable husband. Nevertheless, there was a romance brewing and Hezekiah had decided to use it to his advantage.

  He had given up showing an interest in the young lady himself. Much to his chagrin, it was obvious that Oliver would never accept him as a suitor for his daughter. He was too old and Oliver knew of his baser appetites, which was fine for a prostitute but not for Olivia. There were many others interested in her, young gentlemen from the top county families, and Hezekiah would stand no chance against any one of them. But what angered Hezekiah the most was the fact that Olivia obviously loathed him and took no pains to hide it.

  So he was trying a different tactic. He would stay away from the Manor and meet Oliver only at the gaming tables or on social occasions. He had recently taken up with a young rich widow who shared his carnal perversions. It kept him satisfied for the most part and he hoped it would put Miss Olivia Pengarron off her guard. Because he meant to have her.

  Chapter 18

  After his crops were ricked, or threshed and sent to the miller, Clem had found time to ride over to Penzance in a bid to establish Kerris’s true identity. He began his investigations by paying a visit to a popular local inn and listening in on the gossip there. It wasn’t long before the horrific murders were mentioned and a rather hushed discussion was started.

  A grim-faced sailor asked him, ‘Know what we’re talking about, do ’ee?’

  ‘Aye,’ Clem said, as if he was only half interested, as all faces turned to him. ‘I come from further round the bay, two miles from Marazion. There’s been some awful murders round there too over the past twenty-odd years. You must have heard about them.’

  ‘Aye, we have,’ the serving girl interjected, raising her shoulders as if her heavy bosom was too cumbersome to be carried comfortably. ‘From what some folk do say, ’tes not only round the bay but up-along too.’
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  Clem gave an involuntary shudder. It made the business he was here on uncomfortably close to home. ‘Makes you nervous for your kin, though ’tis only the immoral and low life being killed.’

  ‘Not the last one!’ exclaimed the landlord, slamming down tankards of frothing ale on the bar. He glared at Clem with hostility. There was bad feeling between Penzance and Marazion folk, ever since the former had ousted the latter as the principal market of the region. ‘She were a good, decent little maid. Well brought up, she was, a Methodist. Her father’s a silversmith. They got a nice little house up Caunsehead.’

  Clem ignored the frostiness of the landlord. ‘There’s many theories going round to who the killer is. Some say he could be a sailor, begging your pardon,’ he added to the first man who had spoken to him. ‘They happen sporadically so it could be when a ship moors up here or at the Mount.’

  ‘Aye, Penzanns is a seafront town, ’tes what most folk think ’ere too,’ someone else said.

  ‘Didn’t one of the victims have a maidservant go missing? One who was never found?’ Clem queried, glancing round at the men and the well-built serving girl who gave him a come-on eye.

  ‘Why do ’ee ask?’ the landlord spat, and Clem was suddenly surrounded by suspicious faces.

  ‘No reason, forget I asked.’ He scowled at them. ‘Just being conversational.’ He drank up and left, the landlord putting a restraining hand on the serving girl. Clem didn’t think she had any information to pass on; more than likely she just wanted to proposition him. He couldn’t tell anyone he suspected the missing maid was living on his farm. If he spoke to the killer or someone who knew the killer, he would put Kerris’s life, and possibly his family’s, in terrible danger.

  He wandered about Penzance, listening to talk among traders and customers around the Market House at the top of Market Jew Street and round the corner at Greenmarket. He browsed in some of the shops, buying a length of ribbon and some lace for Jessica in a haberdasher’s. He hoped to hear some gossip from the women in there but he had the opposite effect on them. They stopped talking and stared at him as he paid for his purchases and put them in his pocket. He had no luck that day and returned again the following week. He walked up the side streets and alleyways then made his way slowly down Chapel Street where most of the coinage town’s gentry lived, and slipped down a path leading to the Customs House. There were Revenue men and soldiers standing about but they didn’t look as if they would gladly talk to him. Stopping to light his pipe he made to retrace his steps and came face to face with three painted and bewigged harlots who had come down that way looking for trade. Clem quickly debated with himself whether to try for information from this quarter and decided against it. He made to walk round them.

  ‘Now don’t ’ee be goin’ off, me ’an’some,’ one of the women said with a cackly laugh, swinging her hips. ‘If you come with me I can promise thee a good time.’

  Clem made an impatient face and the women surrounded him. Another of them said in a sultry voice, ‘Mmmm, aren’t you some good-looking with such a moody face. We could all give you a good time together, if you like. What do you say, girls?’

  The last one said loudly, which made the Revenue men and soldiers roar with laughter, ‘I say let’s take him back to my place and his wife will never see him again!’

  Clem pushed himself roughly through the women and walked off to an accompaniment of cheers and catcalls from them and the uniformed men. When he was about to turn up the little side path again he turned back and bowed ceremoniously to the prostitutes and gave them his best smile. They fell about laughing and called after him to change his mind.

  Back in Chapel Street he made his way just a little further along, crossed the street and stopped by St Mary’s Chapel, where a legless beggar hailed him. ‘Got a penny for an old soldier, sir?’

  Clem tossed the beggar, who may have been an old soldier but was not an old man, and unusually clean-looking for one of his trade, a shilling and crouched down to talk to him. ‘Have you done well today?’

  ‘Not too bad, thank ’ee, sir. A fine-lookin’ gentleman just gived me a two-shillin’ piece. My son and I will eat bread and meat tonight.’

  ‘Where’s your son now?’

  ‘Oh, he’s off lookin’ fer any labourin’ job he can do. He’ll be back to pick me up on our cart, which is our home, hopin’ I haven’t fell foul of one of the constables and been locked up fer vagrancy.’ The beggar pointed to the space where his legs should have been and grinned widely. ‘I don’t get too much trouble from ’em, ’tisn’t as if they can put me in the stocks!’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Clem asked.

  ‘Jacob Penberthy and me son’s called Ben. Got work fer him by any chance, have ’ee, sir? Ben’s got a strong, broad back and I can turn me hands to anything, nothing wrong with them.’ Jacob Penberthy held up two large calloused hands as proof of his statement.

  ‘My name’s Clem Trenchard and I’m the tenant farmer of Trecath-en Farm on the Pengarron estate, which is round the bay, past Marazion. I’m sure I can find something for you both for a few days and you’re welcome to sleep in my barn. Tell me, Jacob, do you use this spot often?’

  ‘Well, ’tes a rich man’s street. If they’m in a generous mood I do quite well and the curate in there,’ he thumbed towards the Anglican chapel behind him, ‘I don’t think he likes me being here but he rarely tells me to clear off. I do the rounds of the bay, been coming here fer years. Why yer asking?’

  ‘Well, you must know about the gruesome murder of a woman in this very street recently.’

  ‘Aye, Miss Tredinnick. She was some good to me, ’twas a terrible shame about she.’

  ‘Do you remember Miss Tredinnick’s maid? She disappeared on the night of the murder.’

  ‘No.’ Jacob Penberthy crushed Clem’s hopes as soon as they were raised. ‘They lived further up the street and I can’t see folk coming and going up that far. I never did see Miss Tredinnick with anyone.’

  ‘So you’ve no idea what the maid looked like or what she was called? From folk talking about it perhaps?’

  ‘Weren’t round here back in the spring when the murder happened and folk are reluctant to talk about such a terrible thing openly in case it brings ’em bad luck. But…’

  ‘But what, Jacob? Think hard.’

  ‘Well, once or twice Miss Tredinnick mentioned the name Amy. That could be the maid, I s’pose.’ Jacob looked keenly at Clem, glanced up and down the street and cautiously behind them. ‘Think you know where she is, do ’ee?’

  ‘I might, but ’tis better I don’t say any more. The name might be useful though. I thank you, Jacob.’

  Jacob eyed Clem and touched his arm. ‘The gentleman who gave me the two shillings today asked me a few questions about Miss Tredinnick and her missing maid too.’

  Clem felt real panic over this. ‘Do you know who he was?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s anything for you to worry about, sir. He’s called Mr Blake. Do you know who he is?’

  Clem breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t strange for a man who had set Dinah Tredinnick up in a house in this street to be asking questions about her. He searched about in his pockets and gave Jacob a few more pennies. ‘I have to be going now, Jacob. Find your way over to the farm sometime. I’ll be glad to see you again.’

  ‘’Twill be an honour, sir.’ Jacob saluted him.

  ‘Not sir, call me Clem.’

  He made off down the steep hill that ran to the seafront, leaving behind the chapel with its sharply pointed whitewashed spire that acted as a ship’s landmark. The smells of pitch, salt and fish filled his nostrils.

  He heard his name called and turned. Peter Blake was standing a few paces from him.

  ‘Get out of my sight, Blake, or I’ll push you out of it.’ Clem hated him for the same reason that Sir Oliver Pengarron did, that he had once tried to force himself upon Kerensa.

  Blake looked uncertain but did not move. ‘I wish to speak to you,
Trenchard. It’s come to my notice that you’ve been asking questions about Dinah Tredinnick’s maid.’

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘I don’t know your reasons but I’m most anxious to trace the maid myself. She was a kind and loyal servant and Miss Tredinnick and I greatly valued her. If her whereabouts can be ascertained then this evil murderer might trace her too and she could be in terrible danger. I’ve been putting two and two together. I know you have a woman staying at your farm who has lost her memory. Do you think she could be Miss Tredinnick’s maid? Is this why you are in Penzance asking questions?’

  At least the man was being honest about his relationship with Dinah Tredinnick, Clem thought grudgingly. He asked cautiously, ‘What was the maid’s name and what did she look like?’

  An expression of hope passed across Peter Blake’s finely featured face. ‘She’s called Amy Venton. She is short and dark with a sort of square face.’

  ‘I think you’d better come back to the farm with me,’ Clem said grimly.

  * * *

  Kerris was in the kitchen with Jessica when Clem arrived back. Because Clem had been sharp with Kerris before he’d left earlier that morning, she moved uneasily to Jessica’s side. He had been questioning her, trying to get her to remember something to help him with his enquiries but she had panicked, imploring him to leave her alone.

  Clem had grabbed her wrists as she’d made to run from the kitchen. ‘You must have some idea who you are, for goodness’ sake! You’ve been here over four months, you must remember something,’ he’d said impatiently.

  She’d struggled to get free. ‘I don’t, I don’t! Let me go! Kenver!’

  ‘That’s right, call for Kenver. You always use him to run to, to hide behind. Why’s that, Kerris? What are you trying to hide? Don’t you want to know who you are?’

  ‘Clem!’ shouted Kenver from the doorway, his face white with anger. ‘Let her go or I swear, cripple or not, I’ll find a way to break your back!’