A Pair of Sharp Eyes

by Kat Armstrong

  Chapter Nineteen

  Friday, 2nd November, 1703

  Mrs Tuffnell has a dark grey shawl about her shoulders when I carry in her breakfast. Her face is more woeful than Nell Grey gives her credit for.

  She being in need of kindness, I take particular care when setting out the toast and tea things. ‘Perhaps you’ll be easier in your mind when the funeral is over, Madam,’ I say gently.

  She frowns, and I think I have overstepped the mark. Then she reaches for a letter lying ready on the table. ‘Be discreet, Amesbury. Take this to the other end of Wine-street, and ask the attendant to show you to Mr Ayres’s apartment.’

  Stealthily I feel the letter: it contains a quantity of coins.

  ‘Mrs Hucker wants me to buy the fish, Madam. I can take this on my way.’

  ‘Then you need not explain yourself to Cook or any other.’

  ‘No, Madam.’ I dearly wish you would explain yourself, I long to say. What ‘attendant’ does she mean? Does she send me to a Bedlam? She glances at the window.

  ‘Ah well, sun’s up,’ she says, as contentedly as if she has forgotten Abraham’s death entirely. ‘I’ve an order for a dozen perfumed washballs to make for a customer in Castle-street. And you have your letter to deliver, so let’s not dawdle, girl.’

  I suppose I should not condemn her for welcoming a distraction from the grief weighing on the house, but Mrs Tuffnell’s moods are so changeable I begin to wonder if she is not affected in some evil way by the ingredients of her still-room.

  As she hurries off, forgetting me in her eagerness, my eye falls on her desk, which is in its usual muddle. Among the mess of documents, receipts and druggist’s bills is a letter in her own hand, but the signature at the bottom is one I never saw before. Maria Buckingham.

  I step back and upbraid myself with the thought of what would become of me if Mrs Tuffnell ran upstairs unexpectedly and found me prying into her papers. If my mistress chooses to use an alias it is no business of mine.

  And yet, I reflect as I go downstairs, knowledge once gained cannot be forgotten. The proof that Mrs Tuffnell is not all she seems may have more in it than meets the eye, and should remind me to be on my guard against trusting her too readily.

  These ideas make me nervous, and as luck would have it, just as I am leaving Barbuda House I run into Mr Tuffnell in the passage.

  ‘Heavens, Sir, you startled me.’

  ‘We are all shaken today,’ he sighs. Yet he loves to rest his hand on my upper arm, and his thumb wanders to my bosom. ‘Poor girl, you must wonder where you’ve landed up.’

  ‘Hopefully the murderer will be found and brought to justice, Sir.’ I try to prise free, but he clamps my hand.

  ‘And where are you off to this morning, if I may ask?’

  ‘To market as usual, Sir. For mackerel.’

  Mr Tuffnell lolls against the wall and adopts a knowing tone.

  ‘Indeed? What’s this, Amesbury? Taking messages to your sweetheart?’ Before I can prevent him his hand is inside my neckerchief and pulling out my mistress’s letter. His expression softens instantly.

  ‘My wife indulging her benevolent nature. Dear creature, she is a model of charitable generosity. Here.’ He produces a silver coin from his pocket. ‘Add a half-crown to her dole.’

  He saunters off to tease Nell Grey into bringing him a pot of tea in the midst of Mrs Hucker making dinner for the household, and I make my exit before he invents a reason to call me back.

  What neither Mrs Tuffnell nor her spouse is pleased to tell me is that Mr Ayres lives in what is known in plain speech as a debtors’ prison. I daresay they consider me a simple country girl; but I know a turnkey when I see one, even if a spunging-house is not a place I ever set eyes on, nor do I know of any person forced through debt to stay in one.

  This grim building, which lies at the dingy, neglected, half-abandoned end of Wine-street rather than the bright and spacious portion where Barbuda House is to be found, stands cheek-by-jowl with Bristol Newgate. The windows are secured with iron bars, and an air of extreme want hangs over the place, the ground around it being dank and weedy, the roof missing many tiles, the buildings themselves in poor repair. A wall-eyed fellow in torn stockings guards the entrance, and he shuffles from his sentry-box to bar my way.

  I flourish Mrs Tuffnell’s letter.

  ‘I’ll take that for you.’ He reaches out a greedy hand.

  ‘Thank you, Sir, but I was told to give it to none but Mr Ayres.’

  He snorts. ‘As you like.’

  I follow him across a scabby patch of grass where barefoot children play at Fives, and a skinny kitten is forced to chase a rag tied to her tail. The place is divided into a dozen tenements, each door bearing the inmate’s efforts to mark it with such items as sprigs of heather, knots of coloured ribbon and withered flowers. The turnkey knocks on a door that has a trio of pheasant’s feathers nailed to it, and without waiting for a summons, kicks it open and retreats to his sentry-box, leaving me to introduce myself.

  Mr Ayres sits next to the fire, if a single smoking branch can be called a fire. His cell is tiny and bare, and the smoke is not enough to mask the smell of damp, cold stone. I suppose Mr Ayres would be worse off if he had to share his cell with another prisoner, but he might be warmer if he did.

  ‘I come from Mrs Tuffnell, Sir. With this.’

  He takes the letter carelessly, but I notice him feeling for its contents and quickly tucking it in his sleeve. ‘Oh,’ says Mr Ayres, his tone injured as he sees me turn to leave. ‘Are we not to pass the time of day? Very well.’

  ‘If you would like me to stay awhile, Sir, I shall, of course.’

  He looks about himself as if the meagre furnishings strike him for the first time. ‘I can offer you that packing case by way of a chair, or if it be too primitive, this four-legged stool. Though recently reduced to three legs it is serviceable if you treat it with respect.’

  ‘It will do very well, Sir.’ I lower myself gingerly onto the stool, wishing it stood a little nearer to the hearth.

  ‘I must apologise for the absence of refreshments.’ Mr Ayres shakes his head, surprised. ‘It is my time-hallowed custom to offer wayfarers a beverage, and victuals into the bargain. But alas my provisions are quite run down. Take it that I would have set in front of you a feast of dainties, snippets of fried bread, lightly poached eggs, herrings in oatmeal, perfectly fresh cheese.’ He sighs. ‘You must wonder how I come to be in such a place.’

  ‘I suppose any one may run up bills and find himself without means to pay them,’ I say.

  Mr Ayres jerks upright, indignant. ‘I daresay I have, as you put it, run up bills, and yet who in this fallen world proceeds through life without incurring debt? When one’s station requires a certain splendour in one’s attire?’ He gestures at his waistcoat, on which may be glimpsed remnants of gold thread, frayed and faded. ‘The obligations of friendship cannot be subordinated to considerations of sobriety or economy. Largesse is the thing that distinguishes us from the lower animals. To load the board with luxurious foodstuffs, fragrant pineapples from the isles of the Caribbean, peaches from England’s finest glasshouses, fricassées, ragouts, jellies and junkets. Once upon a time my house was the resort of the highest ranks in the kingdom. Do you advise I should have stinted my guests? Given dry bread and green bacon to a duchess, asked my lord to slake his thirst on home-brewed beer instead of filling his cup to overflowing with the grapes of Burgundy and Champagne?’

  Mr Ayres speaks with passion, and yet his eyes sparkle and I suspect that a very little would be enough to tempt him into laughing at himself.

  ‘I suppose it might have been prudent to water his wine down a little. Not to give the duchess rotten meat, but boiled ham can be very pleasant with a few green peas, Sir, and is cheaper than roast beef.’

  ‘Alas, you have the small soul of one who never dreams of rising above her station. Tell me, where are you from? Wiltshire, is it? Ha! I was a close friend of the Bishop of
Salisbury once upon a time. Good old Bishop Burnet forgets me now, I fear.’

  ‘I hope you are mistaken about my dreams, Sir. I do certainly hope never to fall below my station.’

  I regret my jibe, for his face loses all its cheerfulness. Instantly he is no longer a once fine gentleman possessed of dignity, but a gaunt old man in a threadbare coat.

  ‘Would you like me to pass on any message to Mrs Tuffnell, Sir?’ I say, ashamed of my sharp tongue. ‘Or my master?’

  ‘Tell Mrs Tuffnell I am obliged. Inform her I was distressed beyond measure to hear of her loss.’ He eyes me. ‘You are surprised. But even here, in this half-forgotten house of penance, we are not bereft of news. I knew of the murder the day it happened.’

  ‘Mrs Tuffnell will be glad of your condolences, Sir. He was a fine child and greatly loved.’

  ‘And Mrs Tuffnell is laid low with grief.’ He pronounces this as if to test the words.

  ‘She has been distressed, Sir, naturally. I happened to be present when she learned the news.’

  ‘I imagine consoling her was not an easy task, the circumstances of the death being what they were.’

  ‘It is a dreadful trial for everyone in the household, Sir.’

  ‘Mrs Tuffnell can be trying herself when she is out of temper.’ His voice grows light as he speaks his thoughts aloud. ‘I wonder if she is a kind mistress.’

  I hardly know if I should answer. There is a pause, and I say: ‘She was kind enough to offer me a place, Sir, and gives me no cause for complaint.’

  ‘Good, good,’ he says, voice vague. His eyes widen. ‘Whereas the dead boy said otherwise. He found her harsh.’

  I choose my words with care. ‘Abraham missed his home and his family, Sir. He chafed a little when his mistress sought to correct him.’ Behind my back I cross my fingers and pray that if Abraham is listening, he forgives me.

  Drily, Mr Ayres regards the vaulted ceiling of his cell. ‘I see you are not to be tempted into saying anything Mrs Tuffnell would not wish to hear. A loyal servant. Yet is that quite what she deserves? As a near relative I may be frank where others hesitate to judge. I would describe her as … capricious.’

  I resent his persistence in trying to trip me up, and nearly retort that my father never failed to speak kind words of me. I am certainly not to be tempted into speaking ill of Mrs Tuffnell if she is his relation.

  ‘She is a fair employer, and as you see yourself, Sir, she is generous. Her husband, Sir, asked me to give you this. I am sorry, it slipped my mind ‘til now.’ I wait for Mr Ayres to accuse me, but instead he jumps up, snatches the half-crown, tosses it, nods at the ringing sound it makes, then kicks aside a loose brick in the floor and drops the silver into the hole before replacing the brick. The contrast between his sly way of speaking about Mrs Tuffnell and his expression of artful satisfaction makes me smile despite myself.

  ‘You are right, Mistress,’ Mr Ayres says. ‘Mrs Tuffnell is generous to all. The epitome of generosity no less. In making her acts of charity regular and well-judged she is also wise.’ He sees my surprise, but offers no explanation for this puzzling remark. A smile overspreads his thin lined face. ‘Thanks to her I will have veal for dinner today, and a glass of ratafia. Though it might be politic to report that I intend to eke out her funds by eating porridge for a fortnight. I leave it for you to judge.’

  I take this as my cue to leave, and rise. ‘I will be sure Mrs Tuffnell and her husband know of your gratitude, Sir.’

  Mr Ayres’s lips pucker, and I see he considers he has met a kindred spirit, one who knows the gulf between what is said and what is thought and felt. ‘I am sure that you will make a pretty speech on my behalf, Mistress. Do, pray, call on me again.’

  ‘I am honoured, Sir.’

  ‘And I.’ He bows from the waist, as if I am the spirit of his friend the duchess, though his eye gleams satirically as if to say, ‘You and I both know you are a servant.’

  As I leave the spunging-house for the fish market I reflect that I am puzzled by Mr Ayres. Pink-complexioned, with hair that is greying but once was fair, he looks as English as I am with my ruddy cheeks and round blue eyes. Whereas Mrs Tuffnell, whose hair is thick and dark and eyes are black and darting, is the copy of the Spanish and Portuguese sailors on Bristol’s quays. In certain lights, without her blessed white lead, she is almost as dark-skinned as Abraham.

  Family likenesses are not to be relied on, for which I have cause to be thankful. I would not like to share looks with my Wiltshire sister Meg, for all she prides herself on her milkmaid’s plump smooth hands; and poor Liz was never pretty even before she was stricken by the pox. I do carry the marks of my late father, however, so well that I myself can see it.

  I am in danger of feeling not a small degree of pride at my talent for noticing the lack of semblance between my employer and Mr Ayres. Then I reflect as I make my way back to Wine-street that I may be as foolish as Mrs Tuffnell thought me when she sent me to the spunging-house. It never crossed my mind ‘til now to wonder why her loving husband has not paid off Mr Ayres’s creditors and given the old gentleman back his liberty.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tuesday, 6th November, 1703

  Last night Mr Tuffnell insisted his family stay at home, fearing the many bonfires lit for Gunpowder Plot Day would lead to riots and assaults. This morning Mr Roach speaks to a neighbour’s groom, who says a party of revellers ran across two papists in the early hours, beat them with staves and left them for dead. Though one was carried to a hospital, the other died upon a stretcher before he reached it.

  Young George Goodfellow is due to go home to Keynsham for a holiday, and the intention had been for him to travel on foot, but after this news Mr Roach volunteers to take him on horseback and Mrs Tuffnell says she is content to have him use her own brown mare, adding she would not risk the life of another child, and can manage without her horse a day or two.

  On our way home from the market Nell Grey and I witness a negro woman weeping as her child is taken from her, the boy having been sold to a wealthy man who stands idly chatting to the seller, a sea-captain, while the mother grieves and the child, clutching the pommel of his new master’s saddle, cries despairingly.

  We walk back through streets where all I see is brutishness: children struck by their fathers; women cursed at by their husbands; horses thin and covered in untreated sores. Not for the first time I wonder if I have left Erlestoke for a city where the sole aim is to make money, heedless of the cost in misery and pain.

  Yet rather than run back to Wiltshire I see a lesson to be learned. I think of Abraham’s agony as he lay dying from his wounds, and though I cannot prevent the buying and selling of other children, I am more determined than ever to find out what happened to my young friend, and why.

  During the quiet of household prayers I reflect again on this, and decide to ask Mr Espinosa for his opinion of the matter. He is sure to join the funeral procession in the morning and I shall catch him then.

  ***

  Wednesday, 7th November, 1703

  At ten o’clock the undertaker and his men shoulder the little coffin, and the bells toll as we begin our walk to church. Mrs Tuffnell leans on her husband and trembles so violently that my master signs for me to take her other arm. The other servants bring up the procession, and the street is lined with onlookers. I notice a dozen negroes in the crowds; one or two may be free men, or sailors, but others must have been granted a holiday, or else they come without permission from their owners, intent on paying their respects to a youngster of their race.

  The bells fall silent, and those spectating cross themselves before turning to leave as we file into church. Some benches are filled already by friends of Mr and Mrs Tuffnell; I recognise the ladies who call on my mistress in the afternoons, and wonder which among them Abraham most disliked for their teasing attentions.

  At first I do not notice Mr Espinosa, who stands apart with an uneasy air, as if he fears he is not welcome. He takes a seat on
a bench at the back of the nave, and I am pleased to see Mr Wharton nod to him, though Mr Wharton himself sits near the front, close to his master.

  St Werburgh is not a beautiful church. The walls are drab, and the parson afflicted with a brown wart on his chin, and he cannot say his ‘r’s,’ so that we are enjoined to remember Abwaham, and I wish the parson would not harp on about the God’s love in his sermon, when the world feels empty of that virtue, and I wish the coffin was not so small, and that Mrs Tuffnell and her friends would not weep so loud. I weep too, not only for Abraham but for my brother Tom, and by the time we leave the church I am crying for myself, for the losses I have endured and those to come.

  ‘Corrie?’ Nell Grey indicates for me to go with the rest. A baked ham waits at Barbuda House, with two dressed chickens and a handsome salmon, and Mrs Hucker set a third fowl aside for the servants since in the flurry of the morning none of us took breakfast.

  ‘I will come in a moment, Nell Grey. Let me stay awhile, please.’

  She takes in my over-wrought state. ‘Very well, but don’t linger, else you will displease her.’

  The church falling quiet, I kneel and say a prayer for my father and brother. I had forgotten Mr Espinosa until that gentleman quietly clears his throat and I look up to find him watching me. Excepting the two of us, only an aged stooping verger remains in the chancel, snuffing the candles one by one and no doubt waiting for us to go.

  ‘Miss Amesbury.’ Again, the familiar catch as he pronounces my name, but whereas the parson’s speech was comic and misplaced, Mr Espinosa’s distinctive way of speaking is pleasant to my ears. I stand and curtsey.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘I’m walking back to Mr Sampson’s. Shall I take you to Wine-street on my way?’

  My tears rise afresh. ‘Thank you, Sir. I am ill today. I don’t know why, I only knew the boy a day or two.’