A Pair of Sharp Eyes

by Kat Armstrong

  ‘Enter,’ comes the command. And when my fingers struggle to release the door catch, a rather less lofty, ‘Hurry up, girl.’

  I am determined Mrs Tuffnell shall not find me the bumpkin she took me for. I obey her every order as fast as I am able, and little by little as her stays are laced and her petticoats arranged and her bed-gown put on over the rest her mood lightens and she ceases to snap. By the time her attire is complete the sweat runs down my back, but she is too entranced to notice.

  I allow she looks very well. Her waist is narrow yet her figure full, and any blemishes in her complexion are hidden by a careful application of white lead. She covers this with a dusting of red ochre, finely ground, then allows me to paint a cupid’s bow on her lips, and advise her where best she should place the patches on her neck and shoulders.

  Bearing in mind Mr Tuffnell’s fancy, I am so bold as to suggest her left breast.

  She stands and slowly turns before her pier-glass. Her shoes are dainty, with neat turned heels, and white silk ribbons to fasten them, and her stockings are white silk likewise, and her gown rose-pink, her sleeves the same, and her petticoats are red-and-white striped, and her hair dressed with long, curled crimson ribbons, while her bed-gown, close-fitting gold brocade, is adorned with flowers and leaves embroidered with seed pearls, gold sequins and gold thread. She is perfectly turned out, from her glossy tresses to the lace gloves she bids me pull on for her, wearing plain mittens on my own hands lest I damage the patterning of tiny pearls.

  ‘Fetch my husband, Amesbury.’ Her eyes dance. ‘Go on, hurry.’

  In the next chamber Mr Tuffnell has just completed his own toilette. I enter to find the footman putting away the cone and box of powder for dressing his master’s wig. The merchant stands before his own glass in a fine black frock-coat faced with yellow silk, a deep pink waistcoat edged with wide gold braid, a dazzling white stock and white silk stockings, and narrow black shoes tricked out with gilt buckles.

  I take care neither to remark on Mr Tuffnell’s appearance nor let my eyes rest on his elegant calves and smooth complexion. Even the prospect of his wife in her finery does not deter him from ogling my bosom as I speak.

  ‘Mrs Tuffnell’s ready to step out, Sir.’

  Humorously, he consults the timepiece hanging at his waist. ‘Only two hours. Very good. For our wedding she was in her dressing-room for four.’ The manservant smiles but wisely says nothing.

  But when Mr Tuffnell catches sight of his wife he forgets to be merry. His mouth falls open.

  Flushed and bashful, Mrs Tuffnell smiles. ‘It’s the petticoat I wore for our wedding, James. Only the bed-gown is different, at least the sleeves and lace are new. Oh, and you haven’t seen this gauze shawl before.’ Shyly, she turns one way then the other.

  He shakes his head. ‘You’re as beautiful as Queen Anne herself, dear Maria—the Queen in her first flush of youth. Your waist so slender, the whole shapely beyond words. Your hair … I never saw it arranged better. Turn round again, my angel. These sleeves show off the whiteness, the delicacy of your arms.’ He beams. ‘The other men will be wild with jealousy. I’ll have to be on hand lest some palsied old alderman tries to steal a kiss from these rosebud lips.’ He plants a lingering kiss of his own, careless of my presence until his wife gives a cough. Then Mr Tuffnell stands back to admire her once again.

  He gives a start. ‘But where’s your page? He ought to walk behind you. His dark looks will throw your radiance into even sharper relief.’

  Mrs Tuffnell’s white lead is applied so thickly she must be careful not to crack it, but she allows the smallest frown to pleat her brow. ‘I fear the hour is far too late to keep Pug up, James.’

  ‘Nonsense. He’s not an infant. You are too careful of his comfort, Maria, he must learn to do as he is bid. Amesbury, fetch Pug right away. The scamp had better have washed his face and changed his linen.’

  I am about to explain that Abraham is in the cellar and very likely grimy by now, but Mrs Tuffnell frowns pettishly.

  ‘Really, James, I’d rather Pug stayed home. He looked uncommon sulky last time we took him out to supper. Then he complained the next day of stomach pains after eating candied figs. Jonathan can walk us to the Merchants’ Hall, we don’t need Pug this time.’

  Mr Tuffnell’s indulgent smile shows he cannot deny his wife anything tonight. ‘Very well, if you insist. But remind me to show Master Pug the rod if he looks sulky another time, little devil.’ Wistful at missing the chance to show off his wife and her black boy, he adds, ‘Are you sure we shan’t take him? I may have to send you home before me, if one of my partners insists on talking business late into the night.’

  ‘Then I would feel safer with Jonathan, dear heart. This time of year the streets are dark.’

  ‘They are, it is true. Very well then. Here, let me rearrange this shawl once more. You do look beautiful, Maria—did I say so?’

  From his avid gaze you would think Mr Tuffnell had eyes for no one but his wife. Yet when I hand him his silver-topped cane he contrives to squeeze my fingers—for the briefest moment, you understand—so that far from wishing I were not dressed in plain calico and brown wool, and about to spend my evening supping gruel in the kitchen, I feel sorry for Mrs Tuffnell. She doesn’t know her beloved James one jot, and if she did, she would think him the least faithful gentleman in Bristol.

  ‘Shall I wait up for you, Madam? You’ll need me when you undress.’

  ‘Not tonight, Amesbury. I’ll be kind and say that after your long day you’ll be glad to retire betimes.’

  ‘Pardon me, but will Mr Tuffnell help you unlace, Madam?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, Mr Tuffnell can help if assistance is needed. You must be with me at first light, however. I’ll want you to brush my clothes and repair them and put them away and launder my linen. That will do for now, girl.’ Dismissing me with a wave, she takes her husband’s arm and off they saunter, leaving a fragrant blend of civet, rouge and lavender-water in the air behind them.

  There is a flurry downstairs as Mr Tuffnell shouts for Jonathan the footman, and Jonathan dashes to find Mr Tuffnell his umbrella, and Mrs Tuffnell refuses to cover her raiments with a plain grey cloak, and all agree it cannot rain, then at last the street door shuts and Nell Grey and I hide at the chamber window and watch the threesome walk the length of Wine-street, Mrs Tuffnell stepping daintily over puddles with the help of her husband, the footman walking at a respectful distance behind his master holding the umbrella.

  ‘I’ll introduce you to Jonty properly tomorrow,’ Nell Grey says. For some reason her nose is pink. ‘He looks handsome in his new grey livery, I think.’

  ‘Though Mr Tuffnell is the handsomer. Isn’t he tall?’

  ‘Yes, but dark. I like fair better.’

  ‘Why don’t they use their carriage?’

  ‘That’s the joke of it. The streets are too narrow. I heard Mr Roach complaining they will scarcely have any use for it. She don’t mind. It’s only for show. There.’ Nell Grey watches with satisfaction as the threesome turn the street corner. ‘Now we can have our supper.’

  ‘Shall we not rescue Abraham? He must be cold.’

  She looks askance. ‘I dursn’t risk Mr Roach’s wrath. Don’t fret, he will let him out by and by. He won’t want Mrs Tuffnell to come home and find her pet missing. Come, let’s see if Cook won’t leave out a bit of bread and dripping for poor Pug. Gracious, I am hungry myself, ain’t you?’

  And though I take my chance when Nell Grey is out at the necessary, and speak through the cellar door to ask if Abraham can hear me, there is no reply. I tell myself he is most likely fast asleep.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thursday 1st November, 1703

  The following morning Mrs Hucker has just shown me to the sink where I am to wash Mrs Tuffnell’s linen when Mr Roach charges in.

  ‘Abe’s lying out there in the yard.’

  George is just behind the coachman. ‘He’s dead!’

  Jonathan
, seated at the kitchen table with a cup of small beer, leaps to his feet as the rest of us—Mrs Hucker, Suke Cross and I—rush outside. I glimpse a bundled figure in the corner nearest the stable before Mr Roach tears off his coat and throws it over the corpse, too late to conceal the bloody neck and the ghastly sightless eyes. Suke Cross screams and throws herself into Mr Roach’s arms; he pats her shoulder awkwardly before taking a step back.

  Nell Grey, who had been sweeping grates, comes running to see the cause of the commotion. Her eyes alight on a small brown hand just visible beneath the coat and she begins to cry.

  Mrs Hucker raises her face to the window that overlooks the yard and fills her lungs. ‘Mr Tuffnell! Mr Tuffnell!’

  Jonathan joins us, deathly pale. ‘The master’s coming. Be quiet, all of you.’

  Mr Tuffnell takes in everything at a glance, though he is too late to prevent his wife, who has followed him outside, from collapsing in a faint as she realises who lies beneath the coachman’s coat.

  ‘My dear Maria!’ Mr Tuffnell bears up his wife, whose form is as limp and lifeless as her page-boy’s. ‘Amesbury, help.’ Somehow we scramble back into the house, Mr Tuffnell lowering his wife into the chair nearest the kitchen hearth, Nell Grey and I running to fetch water and a napkin to moisten our mistress’s forehead.

  I am dimly aware of Mr Roach and Jonathan carrying the body into the scullery and shutting the door so the rest of us are spared the sight of the child laid out on the stone sink where I was due to wash my mistress’s linen. We struggle to revive Mrs Tuffnell as the men call for George Goodfellow to fetch the constable, and Mrs Hucker and Suke Cross vie with each other to grieve loudest for a boy neither regarded when he was alive. Mrs Hucker shrieks and wails, hysterical, and Suke Cross blubbers like a baby, every now and then gasping out, ‘Poor lad, poor little lad,’ as if Abraham was her own brother instead of the object of her senseless jealousy.

  Finally, Mrs Tuffnell gives a feeble moan.

  ‘Thank the Lord.’ Mrs Hucker sinks onto the bench and fans her face with her apron. ‘I thought her dead too.’

  The sun is not yet risen, and the kitchen remains chilly despite the fire. I unpin my shawl. ‘Sir, put this around her.’ Mr Tuffnell drapes the shawl tenderly around his wife’s shoulders, examining her face as if afraid she may succumb to another faint.

  By and by he supports her through to her usual chair in the parlour, while Nell Grey, with more patience than Suke Cross deserves, offers the scullery maid her arm and brings her in their wake. Meanwhile I run to the kitchen for a taper to light the candles above the fireplace.

  When our mistress is settled and Mr Tuffnell has gone out to the scullery, Mrs Hucker permits herself to sit. She twists and worries the corner of her neckerchief. ‘How could someone do such a thing? To Mrs Tuffnell’s precious boy?’

  Mrs Tuffnell’s own voice is childlike. ‘What has befallen Pug? Did I faint? Oh, my head hurts so.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Madam. Mr Tuffnell has the matter in hand. Don’t distress yourself. It will be put to rights soon.’ I am afraid to repeat the awful tidings, and with soothing nonsense I distract my mistress as best I can, though everything is said above the grim sound of Mr Roach’s tread in the scullery. I catch Nell Grey’s eye. Suddenly I cannot bear to stay in the room another moment. ‘Excuse me, Madam, I’ll fetch you a warmer shawl.’ I scuttle into the passage, and as I hoped, Nell Grey comes after me.

  ‘It must be Mr Roach did it.’

  Her eyes widen in alarm. ‘Ssh. Don’t speak so loud.’

  ‘Who else could it be? He’s a bully, and he took against Abraham.’

  ‘Corrie, it isn’t for us to name names.’

  Just then Mr Roach steps out of the kitchen. His face is blotched, and he grabs Nell Grey by the hand. ‘Come with me. And you,’ he says to me, ‘you can tell the master what you know.’ He drags us to the kitchen where Mr Tuffnell has shut the scullery door and stands by the fireplace wiping his face.

  ‘This pair can vouch for me,’ Mr Roach says. He is out of breath. ‘Tell Master the truth. I put the lad in the cellar yesterday for his own good. It was the last time I set eyes on him.’ It is unfortunate that Mr Roach makes reference to his eyes, given that they flash dangerously as he speaks.

  ‘Well?’ Mr Tuffnell demands. ‘Can you maids confirm it?’

  I believe Nell Grey is on the brink of tears, though I am not sure why unless it is the thought of what lies in the room behind us.

  ‘Mr Roach did put the child in the cellar last night, Sir,’ I say. ‘As far as I know, he left him there.’

  ‘I said it!’ Mr Roach is triumphant. ‘For that matter, this girl here could have killed the lad. Forgive me, Sir, but she is the only stranger in the house.’

  Nell Grey gives a little jump.

  ‘Sir, Corrie Amesbury and I were in our beds by eight o’clock. I can vouch we were together all night long.’

  Mr Tuffnell looks inquiringly at Mr Roach.

  ‘Mr Tuffnell,’ the coachman says heavily, ‘I allow I should not have been so severe with the lad, but you would not have had him lame your horse. Many a man would have taken a whip to him.’

  ‘Of course you were right to chasten him for throwing stones at Caesar. There is no reason to suspect you of involvement in his death. No hint of that is in my mind.’

  ‘Well, Sir. I thank you.’

  ‘However, you must explain how you were able to enter the cellar. I have the only key, and it was with me at the Tolzey yesterday.’

  Mr Roach’s face is a study in injured amazement. ‘The cellar wasn’t locked, Sir. You must have forgotten to lock it last time you went in there. I didn’t lock the child in. I told him, “Stay put ‘til I say otherwise, or risk a hiding.” And give him credit, Sir, he did. At least at first. I wish he had done so all night long. If he had, instead of venturing out when we was all asleep, he might be alive now.’

  ‘Indeed. Well, you did a wrong thing, Roach, by entering my cellar without permission. However, I am prepared to overlook it. It would seem petty to rebuke you when so grave a matter is in hand.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  I am not a little astonished by this easy way of passing over what is surely a breach of trust between man and master, but a knock at the door announces Jonathan’s return with the constable.

  Mr Tuffnell beckons them down the passage. ‘Come in, Constable. I expect my footman informed you what has happened. My house is under attack from some person unknown who has robbed me of a valuable servant. My wife is distraught.’

  ‘I understand. If I could see the body, Sir, and you could show me where it was found?’

  ‘Certainly. You girls, get yourselves back to your mistress.’ We obey, though not before I hear Mr Tuffnell adding, ‘The boy’s throat was cut, though fortunately less blood was shed than one might expect. Nevertheless, it is no fit sight for women.’

  In the passageway Nell Grey and I embrace for a moment.

  ‘I am unconvinced,’ I whisper. ‘Mr Roach was the last to see him alive.’ I think back to Mr Roach’s cruelty towards the negroes on the quays. ‘What if he killed Abraham in a fit of rage?’

  Nell Grey shakes her head. ‘He’s acting strange because he helped himself to rum from Mr Tuffnell’s cellar. He’s frightened the master will find out.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  She pauses, her hand resting on the parlour door handle. ‘Because Mr Roach nearly fell down in the yard last night. He couldn’t walk, never mind cut anybody’s throat. Come on. You must attend Mrs Tuffnell, and neither of us needs Mr Roach to think we are talking about him in dark corners.’

  I do as she says, and Mrs Tuffnell is glad to see me, and has me busy rearranging cushions at her back and fetching the promised shawl. Nell Grey is ordered to light the fire, and Mrs Hucker pours our mistress a glass of sherry wine. She keeps up a patter of cheerful nothings, but the parlour walls being thin, I can hear Mr Tuffnell telling the constable who Abraham was, when h
e joined the household, his age, Mr Roach every now and then adding, ‘That’s right, Sir. That’s it.’ At one point Mrs Tuffnell’s eyes meet mine and there is no doubt she knows very well what has happened even if she is not yet able to speak of it.

  By and by the constable comes in saying that this is another instance of the pedlar striking at a defenceless child, and in the meanwhile we must lock our doors and pray for the culprit’s swift discovery. Mr Tuffnell declares he will not sleep ‘til the murderer is found, though I catch him looking at the mantel clock while the constable is speaking, and I fancy he hankers after work as usual.

  When they are gone I take Mrs Tuffnell back to her room, keep her company while she cries and eventually lapses into a fitful sleep, and at last I begin to put away her finery from the night before.

  As I go about my tasks, I wonder why I feel so much mistrust towards my fellow servants. Mr Roach is too loud and indignant; I am surprised Mr Tuffnell is so ready to accept his innocence. Jonty is weak; I cannot picture him harming anyone. And yet the constable let out that the footman insists on keeping vigil over the corpse, and washing and dressing it with his own hands, despite Mrs Hucker protesting it is the work of laying-out women, and I wonder why Jonty feels such sorrow. As for Mr Tuffnell, he must know he was remiss in failing to bolt the cellar yesterday, and that he does not reprimand Mr Roach as severely as he should.

  Even Nell Grey may know something she does not tell me. If she is afraid of Mr Roach I can scarcely blame her for shielding him. And yet I am sorry she shirks the truth if privately she thinks him responsible for the murder.

  I have a suspicion of my own. I believe these people would like the world to forget Mrs Tuffnell’s page, for he was only a slave, and a negro, loved for his presence rather than himself; and when all is said and done Mr Tuffnell can buy another ‘Pug’.

  Yet I shall not forget Abraham, who liked and confided in me in the short time I knew him. I can listen at doors, and spy on everyone, for thanks to my mistress I am continually running back and forth to kitchen, scullery, parlour and bedchamber. If there is any wrongdoing I shall find it out. And take it to my master, and ask what he intends to do.