A Pair of Sharp Eyes

by Kat Armstrong

  Today, however, Mrs Tuffnell orders me to come in and shut the chamber door, and in a low voice explains I must go to a shop I have not visited before.

  ‘If you mention it to anyone, Amesbury, you shall be turned away without a character, do you understand?’

  She produces a wooden casket and takes from it a diamond ring which she parcels up, securing the paper with thread and sealing-wax.

  ‘Carry this to Mr Sampson’s shop in Jewry-lane. I show great faith in you, Amesbury. Not every mistress would trust so new a servant.’

  I turn my eyes on her, surprised. ‘You may trust me, Madam, you have my word on it.’ Then I add, as innocently as I can: ‘May I ask, is Mr Sampson a money-lender?’

  She pauses, sealing-wax in hand. ‘Off you go at once, Amesbury. And come straight back.’

  ***

  Mr Sampson answers my knock directly: a small, slight man with peppery black hair, a brass eye-glass, and an old-fashioned frock-coat neatly mended at the cuffs and elbows.

  ‘I am sent by Mrs Tuffnell, Sir.’

  ‘Good day to you, Mistress.’ He ushers me inside his small shop, where, as I expected, poor Mr Espinosa is nowhere to be seen. ‘Every day it rains,’ Mr Sampson laments, ‘and we are foretold gales and storms all winter. Ah well, I should be grateful for these sound stone walls. So, Mistress, what does Mrs Tuffnell send me now?’

  Mr Sampson places the package on the shop-counter and carefully breaks the seal, examining the ring while my own eyes are drawn to the crowded shelves behind him.

  It seems Mr Sampson deals not only in jewellery but in rolls of linen and moreen, parcels of Moroccan leather, walking-canes, looking glasses, swords, horn spoons, steel knives, even plain wooden trenchers and earthenware dishes, along with brass buckles and shabby pairs of shoes. One shelf is given over to candlesticks, another to clothing, not just fine suits and gowns but articles as humble as shifts and stockings, shawls and caps. A basket in one corner is piled with wigs, and another with items their owners must sorely miss, such as tinder boxes, cooking-pots, fire-irons and pocket knives.

  The shop is snug and warm, thanks to well-fitting shutters and a glowing fire. As well as smelling of wood-smoke and old clothes the air is pungent from a grey powder Mr Sampson keeps in a jar on the counter, and which he sets about using to polish the item I brought him, resorting to a small brush to clean around the diamond.

  ‘A lively stone,’ he pronounces. ‘We call this the rose cut, see? It was invented many years ago in Venice. I can give your mistress almost what she asks for—three pounds ten shillings. Tell her I wish it could have been more, but diamonds aren’t worth what they were last year. Let me write out the deposit note, Mistress.’

  My eyes continue to travel over the well-stocked shelves behind the counter. A small library of well-worn octavos and duodecimos fill the highest shelf. I eye them hungrily.

  ‘Do many clients bring you books, Mr Sampson?’

  ‘Ha! A scholar, eh?’

  ‘I don’t write so very well, Sir, but I love to read.’

  ‘Then perhaps you would like to look at this?’ He reaches down a chap-book and offers it to me. Jack the Giant-Killer.

  I read Jack the Giant-Killer when I was at dame school, and used to tell the tale aloud to Tom by firelight before he went to bed. It is a pleasure to turn the pages again and remember the Giant with his voice like thunder, and his three heads, and Jack when Arthur made him a Knight as a reward for what he had done.

  ‘There.’ Mr Sampson has finished writing his note, and blots the ink with sand. ‘Place your mark here, if you would be so kind, Mistress.’

  As neatly as I am able, I write A. C. where he points. Then, returning Jack the Giant-Killer to the shelf, Mr Sampson lifts out a money-box and sorts through it, lining up coins on the counter until he has the quantity needed. He ties them in a brown linen purse, nodding approval as I tuck it out of sight.

  A sound of coughing comes from the room behind the shop, and Mr Sampson pauses. ‘Forgive me, Mistress.’

  He disappears into the back-room. I hear murmurs, and the sound of a cup being filled, then Mr Sampson returns to see me out, and I cannot resist. ‘Might I be permitted to say good day to Mr Espinosa, Sir? I know the gentleman a little.’

  Mr Sampson looks surprised, but quickly recovers his manners. ‘I suppose my young clerk might be heartened to have a visitor. Just for a minute or two, Mistress, he is still weak.’

  He lifts a section of the counter and beckons me past a leather curtain to a snug parlour where the fire burns cheerfully and Mr Espinosa lies on a row of chairs, his hands, thinner than ever, resting on a blanket.

  He winces as he turns his head, but manages to smile. ‘Miss Amesbury. I am not so unwell, I assure you.’ Yet his voice is feeble. ‘Do you care to sit?’

  Mr Sampson looks between us, nods, and raising a finger to remind me not to stay for long, returns to his shop.

  I try not to stare at the wound on Mr Espinosa’s forehead. His lower lip is split, and one wrist is thickly bandaged. ‘I am grieved at what happened, Sir. Some people are worse than wolves yet call themselves Christians.’

  ‘I have no reason to think religion was the motive for the attack, Miss Amesbury. My memory is incomplete, but I am certain only one man was involved.’

  I had assumed Mr Espinosa was set on by a gang, the same that hurt the two papists on Gunpowder Plot Day. ‘Did you see the man, Sir? Did he say anything to you?’

  Mr Espinosa tries to make himself more comfortable on the hard oak chairs. ‘Excuse me, Miss Amesbury. My ribs … He was quick on his feet, not big but powerful. His face was hooded. He carried a heavy piece of wood—a plank, perhaps.’

  I flinch. ‘And his voice?’

  ‘I’d know if I heard him again. I don’t remember what he said.’ Mr Espinosa puts a fingertip to his scalp. The surgeon has shaved his hair; the scar is livid and looks slow to heal.

  ‘Sir, if it would not distress you to re-live the assault, will you tell me what you do remember?’ I add, ‘There must be a chance the criminal could be brought to justice.’

  ‘Very well.’ Mr Espinosa shuts his eyes, remembering. ‘I was invited to Mr Wharton’s house. I left here later than intended, and I was walking through Jacob’s-wells when somebody called out, and I turned, and before I knew anything I was knocked to the ground. He wore heavy boots such as drivers wear, I know because he kicked me. The surgeon tells me I have three broken ribs. The man kept saying something, “That’ll do for you, damn you.” Excuse me, Miss Amesbury, those were his words. He brought his weapon down on my head I suppose, for I don’t recall any more until I came round.’

  ‘Mr Wharton found you?’

  ‘He set off to look for me, and by a miracle he saw something lying in the ditch, and though he did not know at once what it was, instinct told him to look closer. Two men helped him carry me here, and Mr Sampson fetched a surgeon who refused payment for stitching my head. So you see, not all Christian men in Bristol are viciously disposed to other races.’ His thin, kind smile again. ‘Nor all Christian women.’

  ‘The tale makes me ashamed of my countrymen, whether or not the villain acted out of hatred for your religion.’ You were alone and had no means of defending yourself, I almost say, but I do not want to imply that Mr Espinosa is unmanly.

  Mr Sampson reappears. ‘Sleep now, Sir.’ I rise to my feet. ‘The more you rest, the quicker you’ll be well again.’

  ‘Good-bye, Miss Amesbury. I am almost well, I assure you.’ But his eyes are closing as he speaks.

  ‘Whoever did this should be tried for attempted murder,’ Mr Sampson says, when the leather curtain closes.

  ‘It is fortunate Mr Wharton found Mr Espinosa when he did.’

  ‘They are friends of long-standing. Though I also wonder if Mr Wharton was the reason for the attack.’

  ‘Surely not? Why would he be?’

  Mr Sampson spreads his hands as if lost for an explanation. ‘Perhaps Mr
Espinosa is loyal to his friend, and forgets his own interests as a consequence.’

  ‘You mean he said something to Mr Wharton and put himself in danger?’

  ‘Aaron knows better than to reveal anything about my clients here. Nevertheless, love of Mr Wharton could have prompted him to say more than was wise, given the lady in question. But I am guilty of indiscretion too, I fear.’ Mr Sampson looks at me. ‘I beseech you, be careful, Miss. You are young, kind-hearted; learn from Mr Espinosa’s example. Never forget that fear engenders evil.’

  ‘I suppose it may, Sir.’

  ‘Most merchants’ wives do not rely on the contents of their cabinets to satisfy their creditors. Remember that, I beseech you.’

  Were it not for the thought of Mr Espinosa lying bruised and broken in the room behind I might smile at Mr Sampson’s earnestness. Instead I walk back to Barbuda House trying not to look behind me at every turn.

  ***

  Mrs Tuffnell is in her russet bed-gown when I return from Mr Sampson’ shop. Her face is rosy, her hair gleaming tresses, and while I darn a pair of silk stockings she nibbles roasted almonds, and prattles about her husband and how they are to take the coach to Clifton Downs on Sunday so she can learn to drive.

  ‘The best of it is, the coach is lined just as I would have chosen if James had asked my preference—midnight blue, red-and-white trim. More distinctive than common black, don’t you think? The same blue the Duke of Marlborough has for his three carriages, the limner said.’

  I hide a smile, for Mrs Tuffnell would believe anything the limner told her. However, I am sobered by how short a time it is since she prized those colours for chiming with Abraham’s blue velvet suit and his red-and-white cockade.

  ‘Deep blue, vermillion, white. They are the colours beloved of the aristocracy in general, not just the Duke, you know. I should like to paint this room by and by, Ames. These dull wood panels are so old-fashioned. Perhaps the same blue as my coach, though a lighter shade, of course. Remind me to speak to Mr Tuffnell about my scheme.’

  Truthfully, I could be anyone willing to listen. Few of Mrs Tuffnell’s own station in life visit her, and for all her talk of Mr Tuffnell, he dines out most nights, and often comes home late. She reads my thoughts.

  ‘I shan’t see him this evening, you see, nor tomorrow.’

  ‘He has his engagements, don’t he, Madam?’

  ‘Exactly. Now the ship has set sail they will be restless until they have another project underway. Ah, well, it is the price I pay for marrying an ambitious man, so I do not complain.’

  ‘What kind of project, Madam? Another expedition to Calabar or Guinea? When the first is still at sea? Is that wise? When so many ships go down?’

  ‘Amesbury, you forget yourself. I will not strike you, for I was wrong to speak in a way that encouraged you to express an opinion. You cannot read, or write your name, or understand the least small thing about a venture such as Mr Tuffnell is engaged in. Pick up your work basket and take yourself away. And remember your place if you wish to keep it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Madam.’ I make my voice humble, though I know she will be sorry when I have gone, and will find some ruse to call me back.

  I would love to see Mrs Maria Tuffnell’s face if she knew I could read as well as she, and write the Lord’s prayer, and recite some Latin too. Her dear husband may not recall what Captain Stiles said of their confederate Mr Cheatley, but I certainly do, having read the captain’s letter and grasped its meaning enough to frighten Mrs Tuffnell for the security of her lavish equipage if I was to tell her the losses Mr Tuffnell faces when his ship comes home.

  ***

  Yet Mrs Tuffnell so regrets her temper-fit that rather than call down, she comes to find me, holding out a pair of new worsted stockings and saying she found them in her closet and would be glad if I would find a home for them. ‘And there is a quantity of yarn you might be pleased with, Amesbury, if you will look and tell me you like it.’

  ‘She’s lonely,’ Nell Grey says, when we are lying in our garret. ‘It makes her cross.’

  ‘She’s fickle and vain, you mean to say. I don’t forget I shall be homeless and penniless if Mrs Tuffnell carries out her threat to turn me off.’

  ‘You’d find another place, Corrie. And if you leave I shall shed many a tear, for I could never love Suke Cross as I do you.’

  ‘I should think not. But there are worse mistresses in Bristol than Mrs Tuffnell. Not every employer threatens dismissal in one breath, only to offer stockings with the next.’ I stretch out my new-clad foot and prod Nell Grey across the gap between our beds.

  ‘Provoke her again tomorrow, Corrie. I could use some new stockings. Only tell her I would rather grey than brown, if she would be so good as to oblige.’

  ‘I’m glad of any colour. Is winter always as cold as this in Bristol?’

  ‘No, it’s worse. We’ve often been snowed in.’

  ‘We were too, at Christmas.’ Snug in bed, our memories of blocked roads and frozen fields warm us, and we begin to fall asleep.

  We are such good friends, Nell Grey and I, that I would dearly like to question her again over what Jonty said after he carried in Abraham’s body. But Nell Grey is fonder of Jonty than she is of me, and besides, I shy away from letting even Nell Grey know how curious I am about the child’s death.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Monday, 19th November, 1703

  The journey from Wiltshire already seems a year ago, so much has happened since I left Erlestoke. I had half-forgotten those I met on my way to Bristol, excepting Mr Espinosa, until one afternoon I am brushing the stairs when Nell Grey comes to say I have a visitor. ‘A young woman with bad skin and ginger hair.’

  ‘Is it my sister?’

  We speak at the same time, so that Nell Grey blushes and laughs at her unflattering description.

  ‘Don’t worry, Liz has brown hair,’ I say, and when I go to the yard there is Miss Bridget Lamborne, looking just as she did when she climbed off her father’s cart at Chippenham, which is to say awkward and at the same time, mightily stuck-up.

  ‘How d’you do, Miss Lamborne? How is Miss Jane?’ I expect her to say she is risen to first housemaid at No. 3 Queen-square, with every perquisite rich guests provide, and next for her to say how much she pities me, as one who belongs to a household notorious for a murder, but I am ashamed of my suspicions when her eyes fill with tears.

  ‘My sister is not at all well, Miss Amesbury. She is … very ill of a sudden. I confess she’s been sent home to Chippenham just this afternoon.’

  ‘Sent home ill? How can she travel?’

  ‘She is not quite ill in that way.’ Miss Lamborne’s reddened eyes meet mine. ‘For this past week and more she has been vomiting. In the mornings. Our aunt found her in the privy, unable to stand. Then all yesterday morning she could neither eat or drink without she purged. Aunt put her on the mail coach at two o’clock.’ Miss Lamborne’s face flames. ‘Before then my aunt questioned and questioned her, and my foolish helpless sister admitted a gentleman had been free with her, the night we stayed in Bath. You remember? Mrs Buckley and her gentlemen friends. So my sister is disgraced, and my aunt will have no more to do with her, and Father will beat her black-and-blue if he does not kill her when she gets home. The worst of it is, my aunt blames me. As eldest I should have taken better care of Jane. You saw how it was. The old bitch tricked us, didn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, Miss Lamborne, I am so sorry. Her abuser should be hanged for rape.’ Miss Bridget makes a little sound and we share a bitter look, both of us knowing how unlikely that is. ‘How old is your sister?’

  ‘Thirteen. Her birthday is September. When Father remarried, our stepmother was severe with us. She made us work long hours. Jane was never strong; it wore her out and made her weaker.’ She bites her lips and speaks in a rush. ‘You must be pleased, Miss Amesbury. There we were a month ago, good positions given us before we arrived in Bristol, and you had nothing. Now your master is among
the richest men in the city, and my aunt is pleased to say I shall keep in the scullery and outhouses another year until she’s satisfied my character is better than my sister’s.’

  ‘I hope I would never gloat over anyone’s ill fortune. I am sorry, truly, Miss Lamborne. If it’s any comfort, my situation is less than perfect. My own sister is poor and unhappy. This household lies under a shadow. Some of the servants are afraid to go to bed at night since the body was found.’

  ‘And yet the murderer’s hardly likely to come here again.’

  ‘He’d regret it if he did. My master sleeps with his sword by his bed, and the groom keeps a stave and a pair of long knives in easy reach. Nell Grey who you saw when you arrived—I share her garret and we’ve armed ourselves with a couple of heavy stones. There are extra locks on all the doors.’

  ‘I heard the murderer undid the locks.’ She shivers. ‘Sometimes I wish I’d never come to Bristol. Do you?’

  ‘I daresay there are wicked people everywhere. If you write to your sister, tell her I hope it will all come right.’

  ‘I shan’t be writing to her. I am forbid, and she can barely read in any case.’ She gives a gasping sob. ‘Oh, I miss Jane more than I ever thought I could.’ Dignity deserts her, and she sobs as though her heart will break.

  ‘Don’t assume the worst,’ I say, ‘perhaps they’ll find a decent man to marry her.’

  ‘Aye, some old goat of fifty who wants a slave to wash his linen and cook for his farmhands twice a day. That’s if she doesn’t die in childbed. All that is sad enough, but the little fool has ruined my chances too. How will I ever marry on the wages of a skivvy?’