After one or two more compliments in the same vein he turns to me.
‘Your name, young miss, if you please.’
‘Miss Coronation Amesbury, Sir. Late of Erlestoke in Wiltshire.’
He lifts an eyebrow as if to say plain ‘Amesbury’ would have done. ‘So it was you who found George Goodfellow this morning?’
‘And the last to see him alive,’ Mr Tuffnell puts in. ‘My wife’s maid walked the lad across the yard last night.’
‘Oh? Why was that?’ the magistrate asks.
‘George was frightened of the dark, Sir,’ I say. ‘He was used to crossing to the stables with his master, Mr Roach, but Mr Roach had gone ahead last night.’
‘I see. Well, tell me, when you were in the yard did you see signs of any person lurking there? Hear anything untoward?’
‘No, Sir. It was cold and windy, as soon as George called down to me I hurried in.’
‘I should think you did. Knowing one servant from the house had been the subject of a savage murder, you were brave to step out in the first place. Were you not afraid you might be the next victim of this notorious pedlar?’
I regard the magistrate, whose pudgy face and pale blue eyes remind me of a hedge-cutter my father used to know, and who was known as ‘Quicksilver’ owing to his unusually slow wits.
‘My mistress’s page-boy died within the house, Sir.’
Mr Tuffnell tuts. ‘Don’t mislead Sir William, Amesbury. Our slave was found dead in the yard, Sir, as I’m sure you will recall.’
‘Indeed. And I also recall that his throat was cut, so it is inescapable that the same monstrous and inhumane creature who deprived you of your blackamoor, Mr Tuffnell, is responsible for this second heinous crime. To butcher children in their sleep. It is impossible to comprehend who would do such a thing. Pineshott, cease your infernal sniffing or I will have you horsewhipped, you rheumy, good-for-nothing scribbler.’ With this he addresses the clerk, who responds with a melancholy nod of apology and a hasty hunt up his sleeve for a rag. ‘The latest crime brings the total murdered in Bristol to nine children since last summer.’ Sir William closes his eyes and draws a long pious breath. ‘Media vita in morte sumus.’
‘Quite.’ Mr Tuffnell reaches for his purse. ‘These deaths are, as you say, egregious. I propose to offer a reward of five guineas to anyone who can furnish information leading to the discovery of the culprit, Sir.’
‘You are all charity, Mr Tuffnell. I venture that if we advertise your generosity, other men of property in the city will contribute to augment the prize, and it shan’t be long before our pedlar is under lock and key.’ Sir William pauses, and I expect him to say that he will be the first of these other gentlemen to add to Mr Tuffnell’s bounty, but instead he turns to Pineshott. ‘I trust you have that minuted, you lazy dog.’
‘They must needs be strong locks, Sir William,’ I say. ‘George Goodfellow was secure in the stable, for I locked the door myself, and yet whoever killed him got past the locks as well as if they had the key.’
Mr Tuffnell huffs impatiently. ‘A stable is not a strong-room, Amesbury. Any determined person could scale the walls and enter via the loft.’ He turns to the magistrate. ‘Forgive my servant, Sir William. She forgets the building’s modest size.’
Sir William lifts a finger. ‘And yet the girl makes a good point, Mr Tuffnell. It may be that this pedlar has powers of witchcraft, indeed it seems likely that he does. If not, someone in the household would surely have heard him going about his diabolical work.’
It does not surprise me that the likes of Suke Cross talk with wild eyes of pedlars who can walk through walls and open doors with spells, but I had thought a wealthy gentleman might scoff at superstition and wonder how a roofless pedlar could escape the efforts of an entire city to track him down. I suppose I should be grateful he views me as a mere girl. A shrewder gentleman would have wondered if I had killed poor George.
‘Mr Tuffnell,’ the magistrate continues, ‘your house does seem to labour under a curse, and it may be as well to ask the parson to say prayers with your family in the coming days. Meanwhile it is my solemn duty to look into the matter so far as it concerns the law, so I must ask you to bring your servants to speak to me in turn that I may question them as scrupulously and rigorously as I have done this young person. Good day, Sir. Miss.’
Sir William may be less shrewd than I hoped for, but he is right in one regard, for by nightfall Mr Tuffnell returns from the city to report that his prize money has been multiplied by the generosity of his fellow merchants, and the reward now stands at twenty guineas.
By then Jonty tells us that upward of a dozen people have presented themselves claiming to have seen Red John, including an old woman, an oyster-seller, who was certain she passed a man with ginger whiskers at first light on College-green, a basket on his back and his shirt-front stained with blood. Two choristers say they saw a redheaded pedlar lurking beyond the cathedral, and that when they walked towards him the apparition seemed to melt away like fog. A gentlewoman, respectably dressed and well-spoken, said a vagrant with reddish hair and forked beard brushed past her near the Corn-exchange, but shortly after her testimony her brother arrived to offer his apologies, explaining the young lady is prone to delusions and possessed of crafty ways to draw attention to herself. Jonty assures us that if Red John is guilty, he will not wait to be taken up now the city is on watch. Though there is no proof he is the murderer, there seems little will to consider any other might be guilty of the deed.
Somehow the day is got through by washing and starching quantities of clothes, a task that fills the time though it also fills the rooms with damp linen since the rain keeps falling and we cannot dry outside. Suke Cross steers the talk to ghoulish stories of Red John when she can, and I never knew a longer afternoon than the one spent in the scullery boiling shifts and underclothes and listening to Suke droning about sorcerers and headless boys. We eat supper early and in silence, tender-hearted Nell Grey dripping tears as she chews her mutton. Afterwards Jonty and Mr Roach bank the fires and check the doors and windows, making no remark of the weather though ordinarily we would be exclaiming at the rising wind and the fact the yard is under water.
After a short span of time Nell Grey says quietly that we are going to bed, and Mrs Hucker nods. ‘I will come up too, girls. And you, Suke Cross, enough talk of evil pedlars or none of us will sleep a wink.’ Tapers in hand, we troop to the garrets, Mrs Hucker jabbing Suke in the ribs when the sound of Mrs Tuffnell weeping in her chamber proves contagious.
‘I don’t know what her game is,’ Nell Grey says, after we have shut our door. ‘Suke was never but half-decent to George Goodfellow.’
‘Had she been fond of him she wouldn’t have had the stomach to carry on all day. Notice how she dodged the heavy work, and left us to do the scrubbing? Lazy heifer.’
Nell Grey unpins her hair. ‘I know how hard it has been for you, Corrie. I don’t want you leaving Mrs Tuffnell’s service, but I shan’t blame you if you do.’
At her kind words, grief swells up in me like flood water. I comb out my hair fiercely to save looking at her. ‘Two children have died in this house, Nell Grey, yet there’s no will to blame any but some old pedlar nobody’s ever seen. I’m not about to jump ship. I’m staying put ‘til we find out what’s happened.’
‘Oh, Corrie Amesbury. What makes you think you can discover more than the constable, or magistrates, or Mr Tuffnell? If you did name the murderer who would listen to a servant-girl?’
‘Am I a negro slave, bound in chains, forbid to speak? I am free-born.’ I take hold of Nell Grey by the arms. ‘I saw injustice once upon a time, more than once. My brother killed, my virtue put in danger.’ I stop before I tell Nell Grey too much about the lecherous old squire. ‘I vowed I’d never stand by again and leave wicked folk unpunished. I don’t believe this Red John is the guilty man. Or if he is, I want the proof of it.’
‘God bless and save you, but don’t ask me to stand
with you, Corrie Amesbury. Mrs Tuffnell will beat you if she thinks you bring her house into disrepute. And what if you do find out the killer? He’ll stop at nothing.’
‘I promise to be careful. But I don’t think I am in as much danger as you fear, Nell Grey. All the victims were boys, remember.’
Nell Grey is undressed, and she climbs into bed in her shift, shivering as her flesh touches the sheets. ‘Well, I only hope you’re right.’ She blows out her taper. ‘Lord, but it is dark. I wish it would cease blustering. Jonty said the old plum tree is half out of the ground. It was planted by Mr Tuffnell’s grand father in the reign of the first King Charles. Worst winter weather for seventy years.’ She yawns, and her words are slurred. ‘It’ll rain forty days and nights, and Bristol will be washed away.’
‘You’re dreaming, my lover,’ I say softly, as I used to say when Tom muttered of giant-slayers in his sleep. Exhausted by the events of the day just gone, Nell Grey makes no reply save a snore, and that is the last thing I hear before I too fall asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Four
My master stops me in the hall this morning as I am carrying coals upstairs.
‘I want you to deliver a letter, Ames. To Mr Wharton, if you please.’
The wind blows round the street door, and rain is drumming on the windows.
‘You won’t melt,’ he says, seeing my face. ‘Jonathan attends me in the Tolzey Walk, and I won’t trust Scrub with a letter of business. I’ll ask my wife to give you a half day next time she can spare you. There’s my good girl.’ And the Devil take Mr Roving-Hands, he has his hands in my skirts before I can dodge him, and nearly reaches to where he should not.
Unawares, Mrs Hucker steps into the passage with a tray of chocolate, and smiling to Master says in the same breath, ‘Idle girl. This chocolate’s getting cold. Take it up to Mistress this moment or I’ll have you whipped.’ She bustles off, and Mr Tuffnell murmurs, ‘Whipped, eh? I should like that.’
He is a wicked man, and yet there is something I cannot dislike about him, whether it be his crinkling eyes or his habit of straightening his face comically when Mrs Hucker grumbles. Some merchants dress in fustian and look more like parsons than men of business, whereas Mr Tuffnell sports lace at his cuffs, wears kidskin gloves, and a white lace collar that sets off his handsome eyes and fine complexion, and I do not always resent his attentions as much as I ought to.
In town the rain beats across the quays like great black wings, and the ships thump the harbour walls, tormented by the wind. I am blinkered by my bonnet, and do not see Mr Wharton standing beneath the eaves of Mr Tuffnell’s warehouse until he whistles to catch my attention.
‘Good day, Sir.’ I pull the letter from my shawl, careful not to get it wet. ‘Shall I wait for a reply?’
He scans the letter, grim-faced. ‘Tell Mr Tuffnell I’ll ship the rest of his sugar to Barbuda House as soon as I can find a carrier.’
‘Doesn’t Mr Tuffnell trust his warehouse to withstand the storms?’
He looks at me sarcastically. ‘Are you his steward?’
‘I was only asking, Sir.’
‘Like many merchants Mr Tuffnell prefers his property to lie under his own roof in winter. Off you go, girl.’
‘May I first ask how Mrs Wharton does, Sir? She was kind to me when I took your letter. You have two fine children, Sir.’
As the sternest fellow will, he softens at mention of his family. ‘They do well enough. Mrs Wharton is in good health. Though she is somewhat upset by the latest news. It is difficult for those of her caste and religion. Being so few of them in Bristol, of course they know one another.’
‘Beg pardon, Sir?’
‘A body was found last night, a Jewish man. Forgive me, the corpse had been badly mistreated, and was much decayed. My wife believes the man was killed from ignorant superstition. He was red-haired, his name was Jacob—Jacob Stein, but “Red Jack” or “Red John” to those who know no better.’ He sees my shocked expression. ‘What? The unfortunate man’s innocence is proven. He was dead long before the recent murders. Now perhaps the good citizens of Bristol will see we cannot blame Jews for every evil that befalls us.’
‘Please tell Mrs Wharton I am sorry, Sir.’ And I am. The name ‘Coronation’, which commemorates a king who saved England from popery and wooden shoes, is shaming when I remember that those who chiefly hate Jews are Protestants.
‘Time you ran back to Wine-street, young miss,’ he says, ‘the sky is clearing. Tell Mr Tuffnell the matter will be arranged by midday tomorrow.’
I find no patch of blue above us and need no reminding to run. The rain is so cold I think only of getting home as fast as my legs will carry me. Only as I cross High-street does it occur to me to call on Liz and tell her what I have been told. If Red John truly is John Hench, she and Bill should know.
***
I find Liz crouched over a pan of boiling suds, and the whole place reeks of lye.
‘However will you dry it all? Lord, Liz, don’t you hate this weather?’
‘Good day to you too, Sister. I shall have to give it back wrung out instead of dry. Meaning half the pay.’
‘It never rained like this in Wiltshire.’
‘We had a better roof. At least the cold keeps Bill away. He goes supping with his mates.’
‘Has he spoken of John Hench lately?’
‘Why?’
‘Some say our stable boy was murdered by a red-haired Jew, but the Jew’s dead. I’m told he died months ago, judging by the state the body’s in.’
‘Well, don’t let Bill hear you pestering me about John Hench.’
‘I won’t.’ Her tone is so snappish I forbear to say it was Liz who mentioned John Hench last time I visited.
‘Hench is a rogue and a thief, but that’s not the same as a murderer. Fetch me a pail of water, would you, Corrie? I’m ready for rinsing.’
The pump runs slowly, so I am gone a while. Liz’s mood has altered when I return. She takes the pail but sets it to one side, and closing the door firmly, indicates for me to sit.
‘I have something to say, and you mustn’t tell anyone.’
As children we used to solemnize our promises to each other by linking fingers. I hold up my little finger but she does not smile. ‘It is a serious matter, Corrie. Life and death, perhaps. I know what you suspect. You’re wrong. John Hench is mixed up in something bad, and so is Bill because of him, but it’s nothing to do with murdered boys.’
I can’t quite bring myself to assure her I had no such thought in my head. I sit quietly as she goes on, and try not to notice her twisting fingers. ‘John Hench shot a deer the other day,’ she says.
‘A deer? Whose deer?’
‘Never mind whose deer. Some lord with a great park outside Bristol. Hench made Bill sell it to a butcher friend of his. He’s done it half-a-dozen times. Bill poaches hares and rabbits here and there, which is folly enough, but a deer is different.’ She looks at the floor, biting her lips. We both remember men in Wiltshire hanged for poaching deer.
‘Where’d Bill put a deer, for pity’s sake? How does he move it without being seen?’
‘He hangs them out the back, and takes them to the butcher in two goes. He has an old wheelbarrow we use for carrying firewood.’
‘He’s mad.’
‘I know.’
‘They’ll hang him.’
‘Stop it. I’m only telling you so you’ll quit badgering me about John Hench.’
I contemplate her for a moment, lost for words. She’s poor, and will be poorer still if Bill goes to the gallows for being too weak to stand up to his friend.
Liz seems to brush aside my pity. ‘Don’t look like that. I’m not the one risking their neck.’ She gets to her feet. ‘I must rinse these shirts and see if I can’t dry them somehow. Help me empty the dirty water outside, then you’d best be getting back.’
Her manner is so sharp that I am glad to leave, though my spirits are low as I make my way to Wine-street. One wo
rry is laid to rest, only for another to take its place. I am glad John Hench is not the murderer. But if ‘Red John’ is a bogeyman dreamt up from fear and foolish superstition, and John Hench a common poacher, who did kill Abraham and the other boys?
I promised Liz I would stop asking questions about John Hench. I never promised to stop asking questions altogether.
***
The wind blows me back down Wine-street to Barbuda House, and after I hang up my cloak in the scullery a puddle spreads across the flagstones.
‘Is Mr Tuffnell still at home, Nell Grey? I’ve brought a message.’
‘Don’t go near him, Corrie Amesbury. A skipper came into port this morning and the Tolzey’s in uproar. There are storms at sea worse by far than we’ve seen in Bristol. Mr Tuffnell came back saying his vessel is likely at the bottom of the ocean, and half his worldly wealth with it. He’s been shouting this past hour, and Mistress is in tears. And Mrs Hucker is in a foul temper too. The weather has made the hams go mouldy, and she snapped at Mr Roach for bringing in damp wood.’
‘Is Cook brave, or stupid?’
‘Stupid, I’d say. Mrs Tuffnell always takes Roach’s side. I heard her telling him not to grieve for George Goodfellow. Roach wouldn’t grieve if it was his own old mother died, never mind a lad he cared for as a handy object to shine his fists on. Mrs Hucker is the one I pity. She loved George in her way. Roach locked him in the cellar once. Mrs Hucker let him out, and told Roach if he tried that trick again she would tell on him to Mr Tuffnell. Roach stole the cellar key when Master’s back was turned.’
‘But surely Master noticed when he came to lock up?’
‘Oh, Roach gave it back. But only after he took a print of it, in a clod of garden clay. If Mr Tuffnell ever misses anything from his cellar I shall tell him to search the bothy before he accuses us women-servants. I wager a pound to a penny Roach took that mould and had some blacksmith make a copy from it.’
A Pair of Sharp Eyes Page 20