Rags of Time

by Michael Ward

  ‘And if I did that?’

  ‘I think the brothers would feel it appropriate to recognise your support by offering what assistance they could in your current troubles.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘There are many ways of doing such a thing. A man like Nathaniel Franklin can be led by the nose.’

  ‘God forgive you, Peter. You have become no better than Henry Jermyn with your plotting and persuasion. A good friend recently told me Henry Jermyn should be avoided at all costs. I intend to follow the advice. Our parents would be ashamed of you, Peter, to hear your hypocrisy, encouraging me to have truck with that Devil.’

  Peter pursed his lips. His face hardened.

  ‘Very well. If that is your position, we have no information for you about the person you call Stone Face. There is no connection between the press operated by our brothers and the murder you have described. We can help you no further.’

  Peter pushed his chair back to leave.

  ‘Peter, for pity’s sake, what about me? I am falsely accused of causing the deaths of three men. Do you think I am capable of that?’

  Peter remained seated.

  ‘No… no, Tom. I do not believe the brother I have known all his life would do such things. But God works in mysterious ways. You must search your heart, brother. You are clearly being tested. Search for the sin that has aroused God’s anger and pray for his forgiveness, as I will, for you.’

  Peter lowered his eyes and prayed quietly to himself, the pale sunlight catching the top of his bowed head. Eventually he looked up.

  ‘Tom, a year ago I believed all godly folk should leave this country for a new world in the Americas, to live and worship according to God’s Holy Scriptures. And our numbers are growing in Massachusetts and elsewhere. I thought then the King’s support for Archbishop Laud could not be challenged. But now I see just how weak our monarch is, and corrupted by his wife’s popery. I see I am being called by Almighty God to rid us of this Papist pestilence, here in England, because we will not survive in the Americas if our base here is destroyed.’

  Peter stood and placed his hand on the Bible in front of him.

  ‘We are in a war, Tom. On the streets of London, in churches across the country, soon perhaps across the fields of England. We have strapped on the Lord’s armour to smite the Papists and their allies, Laud’s Arminian Anglicans, from our land. We are fighting for our faith… our God. In any war there are casualties. Friendships. Family. Even the lives of innocents. I will continue to pray for you, brother.’

  Chapter 25

  That evening

  The garden at the Manor House

  Tom sat in Elizabeth’s garden house. He turned a silver box in his hand, its edges shining with reflected lantern light in the growing darkness. He opened its lid, sniffed and pulled his head away, his brow creased in a frown. The pungent aroma of nutmeg with an undertone of tobacco. He pushed the remains of his meal to one side and placed the silver box in the centre of the table. Elizabeth stood to light another lantern.

  Tom had returned to his refuge in the Seymour garden house preoccupied by Peter’s refusal to help. Now Elizabeth was giving him more to ponder.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  Elizabeth leaned forward.

  ‘I had been thinking through the circumstances of Swofford’s death, over and over, as I did with Venell. I asked you to tell me everything you could remember and one thing stuck in my mind. You said that, according to your father, Robert Petty examined Swofford at Bolton Hall the next morning and appeared to smell the body at one point?’

  ‘That’s what father said, but I do not know how close he was to Petty at the time. Perhaps Petty was simply examining the body closely?’

  ‘Perhaps, but it made me think. Could there be a link between something with a strong odour and Swofford’s behaviour on the stairs at your parents’ house? It is my mathematical training, Tom. I examine all information for patterns or probabilities. So I looked in my books for substances which might make a person lose their senses, even to see things that are not there.’

  ‘You mean the way Swofford was clawing at the air?’

  ‘Yes. Clearly Venell’s attack, and the manner of it, was on Swofford’s mind. Then your father unfortunately showed him the Schongauer print which put a picture of demons in his head. And if he was also under the influence of a narcotic of some kind…? But how would you administer the substance at a dinner party? The wine was an option but it was under the care of your father and his servants.’

  ‘You do not suspect him, do you?’

  ‘My goodness no. But he is an interesting man, your father. I sense mysteries and secrets within… but no. Of course it was not him. But, if it was not the wine, how else was Swofford drugged? I considered Petty’s actions again. What would make him smell a dead body? Did he smell the corpse of Venell in the cellar, or comment on its odour?’

  Tom shook his head.

  ‘Of course not,’ she continued. ‘No, the only thing that might make Mr Petty use his nose would be if he could already smell something and was trying to locate it, or he saw something that might have a smell, like a stain, perhaps. My mind went back to Swofford’s party. I tried to picture him, staggering around the room, leering at the young girls. And it came back to me in an instant. Snuff.’

  ‘Snuff?’

  ‘Sir Hugh Swofford had many vices but perhaps the most unpleasant was his vast consumption of snuff. He was forever stuffing it up his nose and, when he was drunk, he would regularly spill it down his shirt, waistcoat and breeches. I returned to my list of stimulants and an interesting possibility emerged. Did you know if you imbibe large and regular quantities of ground nutmeg, it can cause delusions?’

  Tom considered their nutmeg cargoes and remembered the men could find the smell overpowering when unloading at the warehouse.

  ‘I visited your mother this morning and asked if Sir Hugh had consumed his usual quantity of snuff on the night of his death. She said he had and it had been a disgusting spectacle. Did she recall him using a snuff box? Yes, she did, but no, she did not recall seeing it on his body, or on the hall floor where he landed. She showed me exactly where Sir Hugh had lain and I noticed it was near your parents’ beautiful wall hangings. I needed to ask your mother a difficult question. She could see I was hesitating and said, “Come, Bessy, ask what you must. You are a good girl and I know I can trust you. You would not ask if you did not have to.” I love the way your mother acts on her instincts, Tom. She does not know me well but has decided I am worthy of her trust. I admire that. And “Bessy"! No one has called me that since I was six!’

  ‘What was the question?’

  ‘I wanted to know if any of the household staff might have found the snuff box and pocketed it, without telling her. She considered my question for a moment then left the room. Ten minutes later, she returned and put this box on the table. She did not tell me who had given it to her, and I did not ask. She simply said a servant found it under one of the wall hangings the morning after Swofford’s death, when they were cleaning the hall.’

  Tom tried to work out who might have taken it, but could not. For him it did not matter, but he knew his mother would be furious.

  ‘So Swofford had the box in his hand as he fell and when he hit the floor it slid across the floor and under the hanging?’

  He lifted the lid again and smelt the nutmeg. My God, to think Swofford inhaled this by the ounce each day. His senses must have been blunted by years of excess. He examined the silver box. It was a little over one inch square with a flat lid and a strong clasp. The image of a squatting frog was etched on the lid. It was an amusing piece, well executed. It had been cleaned inside but Tom could still see traces of powder engrained in each corner.

  ‘Why a frog?’ he asked.

  She shrugged.

  A frog… a frog. There was something about this silver box that was familiar to him. What was it? He searched his memory for images of
frogs but came up with nothing.

  Elizabeth picked up a piece of paper on which she had drawn a broad cross and next to it a circle within a circle. She placed it next to the snuff box on the table.

  ‘So what can we surmise from this? Well, in the cases of both Venell’s and Swofford’s deaths, it is likely that someone tried to delude both men into thinking they were being attacked by flying demons, one by trained falcons and the other through the consistent but unwitting self-administration of a powerful narcotic.’

  ‘So the deaths are linked, if your reasoning is correct?’

  ‘It would appear so’

  ‘But why demons?’

  Tom recalled Peter’s accusation that Jermyn was in league with the Devil. My God, perhaps he was, and was invoking powerful magic? Tom had discounted magic and witchcraft. But perhaps he had been too hasty. Could this be possible?

  ‘I have been so desperate to find a reason for all that has happened,’ Tom continued haltingly, ‘that I’m ashamed I even considered whether witchcraft was at play, or some other Devilry.’

  ‘Ashamed? Why ashamed?’ Elizabeth replied.

  ‘I thought you would think such notions ridiculous.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because you would look for more logical explanations.’

  Elizabeth held Tom’s eyes in her steady gaze.

  ‘Tom, we are all of us too ignorant to discount any explanations of the wonders of our world. Yes, I am eager to discover scientific knowledge but I challenge anyone to stand beneath a night sky, swathed with a thousand stars, and not feel our world’s spirit force.’

  She squeezed his arm and smiled, before looking away.

  ‘But tonight, we need to focus on a logical review of the earthly facts and, in particular, who could be the person who links these deaths? After visiting your mother this morning I travelled to Kensington and called again at Venell’s former home. Would any of the servants recall who had bought Sir Joseph his beekeeping clothes? But the staff have all gone. The new family in residence brought their own servants. Venell’s people, except the stockman, left months ago.’

  ‘Oh, Elizabeth, why didn’t I ask you to apply your scientific mind then? Now the trail is cold. And what of Matty’s death? I am convinced the printer is behind that. If not, why would my brother be so unhelpful?’

  ‘Tom, it is possible that two completely separate misfortunes have befallen you, but it is not likely. As I said when we first talked of this, we must look for the common thread.’

  Tom’s body sagged and he held his head in his hands. ‘I cannot think. I am so tired.’

  Elizabeth reached across and put her arms around his shoulders. She looked steadily into his eyes.

  ‘Tom. We will win this battle. We must.’

  She pulled him towards her and kissed him softly on the mouth, a lingering kiss. He pressed forwards but she gently withdrew and looked searchingly into his face.

  ‘Thomas Tallant, what have you done to me? I have always been one who lives for each day. However, increasingly I find myself thinking of a future with you. It is most unsettling. But first we must ensure we have a future. Let us catch our killer and set you free.’ She pulled away. ‘As for the trail going cold, well I am not sure about that.’

  She plunged her hand inside the top of her dress and withdrew a piece of fabric. It was the neck verse.

  ‘You have given me another clue here, but I do not know what to make of it.’

  Tom could smell the fragrance of Elizabeth’s warm body on the cloth as she straightened the fabric on the table.

  ‘I have studied this closely over and over and, finally, it has revealed its secret to me; but what it means, well, that’s another matter.’

  Tom’s weary brain struggled to make sense of Elizabeth’s words.

  ‘If you look at the cloth, it has Ellen’s writing on both sides,’ she continued. ‘The verse in Latin is on one, with the English version on the other. Now, look again. What can you see other than the writing?’

  Tom picked up the fabric. It was creased and dirty but the writing was clear except on the Latin side where dark splashes obscured several letters.

  ‘I cannot see anything, other than a few stains.’

  ‘Consider where you found the cloth, hidden within Matty’s fist. Why would it be there? Why not in his pocket or secreted under a floorboard? Let us assume for one moment it was there to send a message, and Matty is holding it both to help you find it and make you realise he wanted you to find it. If that is true, any changes, no matter how slight, to the original cloth should be examined closely. Look again at the stains which I think are blood. Note that one side only of the cloth has been marked and, more interestingly, the stains only land on letters. It looks like random splashes of blood but not a single drop lands on plain fabric, even though there is much more of that.’

  Tom looked again. Elizabeth was right.

  ‘I think this is very clever because, like any code, it means nothing unless you know what to look for. At a casual glance, this seems like an old cloth splashed on one side with blood. But to an experienced eye, it is saying, "Look deeper for the message”. I looked up the verse in my Latin Bible and discovered which letters had been obscured. I have them here.’

  Elizabeth stepped over to a small side table and returned with a piece of paper. Tom’s heartbeat quickened. Could this be the key to unlocking the mystery? Elizabeth’s next words were not encouraging.

  ‘I can show you the letters, Tom, but they do not take our search any further. There is a meaning there, I am sure, but I cannot divine it.’

  She placed the paper on the table and drew the light closer. The Latin version of the neck verse was written across the page with seven letters or groups of letters marked in red.

  Miserere mei, Deus: secundum magnam

  misericordiam tuam

  Et secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum,

  dele iniquitatem meam.

  Underneath, she had written out the obscured letters.

  n o nd i ta

  Tom’s eyes feverishly scanned the letters. ‘Nondita… nondita… what does it mean? It must be an English word because Matty didn’t understand Latin. Could it be a word game? What if we re-arrange the letters. Let me see …ond, no, and… and I… and I not ! Could that mean something? And I not?’

  ‘Possibly, but there can be more than one message within a code. You must consider all the information. You can see that, in several cases, two letters, not one, are obscured. They are the “nd" and the “ta”. Each of these letters is present singly elsewhere in the verse but they are obscured in pairs on the cloth …nd in secundum and ta in iniquitatem, and that must be for a reason. If I’m right, Matty was telling us to keep these letters together, each in their pair, in the word we create from these clues. In addition, if Matty did this deliberately, he chose which side to stain. Ellen told me she was careful not to write the verse in the same place on both sides of the fabric, in case the ink bled through and spoiled the lettering on the other side. So not a single word of the English verse has been obscured either accidentally or deliberately. They are all in tact.

  ‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but Matty choosing to obscure only the Latin words does not make any sense, because, as I say, he could not read Latin.’

  ‘I assumed not. But, despite that, I am convinced that was his intention. The method is too deliberate to mean anything else, especially when you study the letters again… and discover what he actually said.’

  Elizabeth carefully wrote the letters again, this time in a different sequence, keeping the double letters together as denoted in the message. She held the paper up.

  n o ta nd I

  ‘Notandi? Does that not mean “Take note” or “Observe"?’

  ‘Exactly, Tom. Matty managed to choose a Latin word telling us to take note of what he is saying. I do not know how he has done that. Perhaps he learned the odd word of Latin at school. But he doesn’t say any more!
We do not know what to take note of! It is so frustrating. This is a message from him, I am convinced of it, but I am too stupid to see it.’

  Tom threw himself back in his chair in frustration. He could see Matty’s face. His pride in his schooling and the praise from his teacher, probably the only encouragement he received in his short life. For a second time he felt the young man close to him. Elizabeth had found Matty’s message. He wished they could have met.

  ‘Two conclusions remain,' she said. ‘Either Matty intended to say more but was interrupted, or had said enough and we are missing something staring us in the face. But either way, Matthew Morris was a remarkable young man with a sharp mind and a natural gift for coding. I suspect he would have made a first-rate mathematician. It angers me greatly that his potential has been snuffed out like a candle.’

  Tom stayed in the Seymours’ garden house that night but slept poorly. Elizabeth had dressed his injury with a herbal balm as his hand was swollen and the wound red and yellow. He had tried to make her stay but she said she must go. Their time would come, but it was not now. He must rest and think. Think to save his life.

  She left the clues with him: the drawing of the cross and circles, the silver snuff box and the piece of fabric with Ellen’s writing. He rose twice during the night to study each again by lantern before drifting into a fitful sleep.

  He awoke with the dawn chorus and, in that moment, he knew he had the answer. He lay on his bed, staring at the wooden ceiling, breathing deeply. Yes, all had become clear.

  A little after seven, he unhitched the chestnut mare from the tree outside the Seymour garden and rode her slowly down the lane towards Bolton Hall. He would need his father’s help for the day’s work ahead. At last he knew what he must do. For the first time in weeks, he dared to hope.

  The dark was receding and he could see lights in the downstairs windows of the Hall. The household was coming to life, fires stoked, breakfast prepared. He paused and checked the drive. It was unlikely Franklin would post constables on guard overnight but he must be careful. He waited a few moments before moving forward slowly, smiling at the thought of hot food.