A Pair of Sharp Eyes

by Kat Armstrong

  For the rest of the night the tempest blows, the city quakes under its onslaught, and we lie beneath the oak table in Mr Sampson’s parlour, unable to keep a candle alight, dozing whenever the noise lessens, fearful the chimney stack will fall through the roof or the windows pierce us with glass shards.

  The hours seem endless, but at last sunrise comes creeping through the shutters, and the gales that caused such havoc die away. Immediately we long to see the aftermath; our clothes are dripping wet, but Mr Sampson has a large quantity of unredeemed stock, and he lends me a petticoat and a pair of shoes, and gives Mr Espinosa a pair of breeches and an old frock-coat. We set off for Barbuda House, determined to raise a party to recover Mrs Tuffnell’s body from the ruins.

  Nothing prepares me for the sight of Bristol, once so fine, reduced to sodden rubble. Whole streets lie under water, rows of houses are flattened, windows buckled, doors torn off, roofs collapsed, walls reduced to heaps. Everywhere, dazed people pick through the wreckage of their homes. A church has lost the top portion of its tower, which lies slantwise on the chantry, itself a pile of stones and broken slates. We pass an aged woman weeping on her doorstep; the rest of her house has blown away like straw. A younger woman stands dumbly, surrounded by fallen lath and plaster. In her arms she holds her only belongings: a single shoe, a wooden dish, sodden bedding. Yet elsewhere a line of cheerful labourers passes tiles hand-to-hand, already intent on rebuilding a workshop whose only remaining traces are a set of wooden posts. At the end of Wine-street a pair of sawyers are hard at work cutting up a fallen tree that blocks the way.

  Barbuda House appears undamaged, but when we clamber over the flattened gate to the yard the kitchen and the offices are a jumble of timbers and spoiled thatch. The yard is choked with thick black mud. No one could survive in what remains of Mr Tuffnell’s cellar; the rubbish lies in feet of dirty floodwater.

  His wife lies somewhere here, dead or as close to death as makes no difference. ‘Poor lady.’ I did not love my mistress, but I would not wish such a fate on anyone. Her body wracked, her fear beyond imagining. ‘Her end was quick, at least I pray it was.’

  ‘My God!’ Mr Tuffnell clambers, tripping and cursing, over the debris, his face ghastly as he takes in the damage to his property.

  I clutch Mr Espinosa’s arm. ‘You tell him. I can’t.’ Picking my way out to the street as quickly as I can, I leave the clerk to tell the truth to Mrs Tuffnell’s widower.

  An awful moment, and the gentlemen appear, pale-faced but purposeful, and in no time Mr Tuffnell is shouting orders and mustering men to help him search. Mr Espinosa shakes his head when I suggest the task is hopeless, and it is clear Mr Tuffnell will not give up until every part of the ruined cellar has been dug out. Every few moments he orders the men to pause, cup their hands to their ears, and listen for sounds of life beneath the rubble.

  At one point a dog belonging to one of the labourers darts forward, cocks an ear, and worries at a heap of pantiles. Immediately the men form a chain, passing the tiles down the line with speed. However, after a minute or two the dog loses interest, and when the entire mound has been shifted and no one is discovered, hope ebbs and the work goes on steadily as before.

  One man, older than the rest, has been set to sifting through the rubbish for items that may be salvaged, and after I explain I am a member of the household he hands me a trowel I can use to scrape earth and dust away from objects as I find them. In the next hour I find a candle snuffer, a set of andirons (bent and twisted, but good enough a smith could repair them), a drinking cup with only one small chip from its lip, and a heap of linen sheets stained and wet but un-torn. These I set aside for the villa in Clifton since that is now our home.

  One discovery upsets me greatly, which is the collar Abraham was once forced to wear. It used to lie in Mrs Tuffnell’s closet, and I suppose that in her haste to escape the storm she overlooked it. She might have pawned it to Mr Sampson, were the device not so distinctive her husband surely would have missed it.

  The ivory is highly polished, the silver finely worked, yet I would have hated to see such an object on the boy, it being more suitable for a dog than a child, and I am glad Mrs Tuffnell did not make Abraham wear it in the short time that I knew him.

  ‘Silence!’ Mr Tuffnell speaks with such authority he is instantly obeyed. We wait, ears straining, until from the heap of bricks and shattered tiles and splintered beams comes a faint and desperate cry. Every man leaves off where he was working, and immediately digs away with bare hands at the place the sound came from. Mr Tuffnell is most eager of all, and Mr Espinosa and I join the effort, until Master shouts again: ‘Easy does it. Slow and careful.’ A piece of russet cloth, crumpled, white with dust; a torn bit of lace I last saw when Mrs Tuffnell made her confession; finally, an inch of human flesh, not pallid as a corpse would be, but pink and stirring as if the person we have found struggles to break free. Another minute, the removal of a pair of timbers, and my mistress is lifted out, coughing and crying until exhaustion and shock overtake her and she falls into a swoon.

  Mr Tuffnell calls out. ‘Fetch water, Amesbury.’

  I seize the cup I have just recovered, and run to fill it. A conduitpipe on the corner of Wine-street survived the night, and a line of dazed and thirsty citizens queue there with pails and pitchers.

  Mr Tuffnell dips his own shirt-sleeve in the water, and moistens his wife’s lips. He wipes the dirt from her brow, speaking softly.

  No answer comes. He bends his face, hoping to detect a breath, seems to believe there is none, and casts about for help.

  ‘Let me try, Sir.’ I kneel at Mrs Tuffnell’s side and loosen her stays. I dampen my finger and hold it to her nostrils; she breathes, but barely.

  I lift the cup and let a drop of water trickle through the blue-tinged lips. She moans. I touch her cheek, whisper in her ear that she is safe. Her eyelids flutter; she lets out a groan and a cheer goes up.

  I call to the men. ‘Bring that board. That house will give us shelter, Sir, they are good neighbours.’

  Lying on the makeshift stretcher his wife looks small, and she flinches as the men begin to lift her. Mr Tuffnell strokes her fingers. ‘She’s ice-cold,’ he says.

  ‘Put this round her,’ I say, untying my neckerchief, and when the gentleman answers his door I bid the men bring her in and place her by the parlour fire.

  While Mr Tuffnell is poured a glass of brandy, the neighbour’s wife makes Mrs Tuffnell comfortable with a feather bed, and even fetches a straw pallet so I may stop tonight to nurse my lady. Mr Espinosa brings the surgeon, who dresses Mrs Tuffnell’s wounds and binds her left arm, which he fears may be broken, then prescribes a draught, saying she has a concussion and needs to sleep.

  I am busy washing my mistress’s hands and face, changing her linen, combing the dust from her hair and coaxing her to take the sleeping-draught, when Mr Espinosa comes to take his leave.

  ‘She looks very ill, doesn’t she?’ I whisper.

  ‘She may surprise you.’ I suppose he reflects on his own recovery these last few weeks. ‘In a day or two she may be well enough to be moved to Clifton. The country air …’

  ‘I wonder if I might ask you a favour, Mr Espinosa. Would you make enquiries about my sister as you go about today? She worked at Elliott’s Market Garden, as I’m sure you remember.’

  ‘Of course. Though already people are returning to the city, and patching up their houses. I expect your sister will get word to you soon.’

  While Mrs Tuffnell lives, I cannot bring myself to tell anyone, even Mr Espinosa, what my mistress claimed in her confession, but I cannot resist mentioning Mr Roach.

  ‘Sir, the attack on your person from which you have so well recovered. Would it surprise you if I said Mr Tuffnell’s coachman was the man who assaulted you?’

  ‘It would surprise me very much.’ He flushes. ‘It may be unsavoury, Miss Amesbury, but these sorts of attacks are the result of prejudice of a general sort. Mr Tuffnell’s coach
man could have no particular quarrel with me.’

  ‘Mrs Tuffnell was afraid of Roach on her own behalf last night, and I believe he was her creature when he set on you, Mr Espinosa.’

  ‘What did she say last night?’ He lowers his voice. ‘We were all out of our wits while the storm was raging, and Mrs Tuffnell is highly-strung.’

  ‘She’s terrified her husband will discover her dealings with your master. It’s my suspicion that before you could say anything to Mr Wharton, she had you silenced.’

  He gazes at my mistress’s pale face, the bluish circles beneath her eyes. ‘Forget anything she told you when she was hysterical, Miss Amesbury. You are both sorely in need of rest. Try to set aside wild assertions made when Mrs Tuffnell feared for her life.’

  I have done my best. If Mr Espinosa does not choose to probe into the Tuffnells’ affairs I cannot force him.

  Mrs Tuffnell lies quietly once the clerk has gone, and I sit by her and begin to doze. The clocks are mostly silent, damaged by the storm, and church bells are nowhere to be heard, but time passes, and when I open my eyes the light in the room is fading.

  ‘Amesbury? Are you there?’ Mrs Tuffnell’s voice is strangely wistful, as if she is further from me than the few feet between her bed and my chair.

  ‘Yes, Madam.’

  ‘Where’s my husband?’

  ‘He’ll be here soon, Madam. Can you manage a dish of gruel, if I ask the Cook to make some? Or a little bread-and-milk?’

  ‘Let me be.’ She shifts painfully on the mattress, and pulls the sheet up to her chin. ‘Has Mr Tuffnell mentioned Jonathan Berwick, Amesbury?’ Her voice is as weak as an old woman’s.

  ‘No, Madam. Let me tell what I see from the window here. One or two elm trees are down, but your neighbours’ garden has not suffered as it might have done. The sundial still stands, and it is very pretty, Madam. Perhaps Mr Tuffnell would buy you a sundial when you recover.’

  ‘You must tell my husband to find Jonathan Berwick, I insist. I sought him last night, only he must have lost his way amid the storm.’

  ‘Madam, put your troubles out of mind. Mr Tuffnell wants you to bring your will to bear on getting well.’

  ‘Hold my hand.’ I take it, and she squeezes it harder than expected. ‘I am dying, and I shall tell the truth, so help me God.’

  ‘You told the truth last night, Madam. God heard your confession, I know He did.’

  ‘Then I am damned. I told you Mr Roach killed my black boy. Did you believe me, Amesbury? What did you tell your friend the Jew?’ Her fingernails dig into my wrist.

  ‘Try to sleep, Madam. Master will be here soon. Shall I send for another draught? The doctor ordered me to keep you calm.’

  The words are useless. Her face and hands burn and she does not know me. A sheen breaks out on her forehead, and she shivers violently. Then for a moment her breathing seems to stop. I snatch up her hand and find no pulse.

  Desperate, I shout for help, and the lady of the house comes running. She sends for the surgeon, and we rub Mrs Tuffnell’s face with brandy and try to help her sip.

  She rallies, sinks, rallies; then draws an agonising breath, the last she takes upon this earth. May God have mercy on her soul. Before the surgeon reaches her, just as her husband comes running in, my lady breathes out with a sound I hope is her soul departing to a better place, and she dies.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Monday, 10th December, 1703

  A week or two after we move to Clifton, Nell Grey and I are turning beds and sweeping half a year’s worth of cobwebs from the bedroom ceilings when Mrs Hucker shouts for me.

  I look at Nell Grey. ‘That’s it. There’s no lady for me to wait upon so Mr Tuffnell wants rid of me.’

  Nell Grey swats me with a feather duster. ‘You’d better be mistaken. I need you here to deal with these spiders.’

  I am more hopeful when I find Mrs Hucker up to her elbows in flour. If she intended to dismiss me she would surely take her apron off. ‘A visitor for you,’ she says. ‘Don’t be long.’ She jerks her head in the direction of the yard.

  There, by the back door, is my sister Liz. She wears a new brown jacket and a smart pair of leather shoes, and her hat is freshly trimmed with bright blue ribbon. Far from looking worn and gaunt she has roses in her cheeks, and is decidedly plumper than when I saw her last.

  ‘Liz! I was frightened you were injured or worse. How did you know to find me here?’

  ‘I went to Wine-street and the neighbours told me where you’d gone.’

  I kiss her, and she must be more pleased to see me than she lets on, for she gives my shoulder an awkward pat.

  ‘I tried to find you, Liz, when the storm struck. I saw what happened to your house.’

  ‘When the back wall blew down I ran to Mr Elliott’s. Bill had gone already—he’d heard bad weather was on the way. And I’ve not seen him since,’ she adds contemptuously.

  ‘He’s abandoned you?’

  She juts out her chin. ‘Mr Elliott has been kind to me. He says he’ll keep a roof over my head.’

  ‘But where’s Bill?’

  ‘I don’t care, unless news comes he’s dead and I am free to marry.’ She blushes. ‘Mr Elliott’s not that old. He says he’s been sweet on me since the day I started in his garden. He has no heirs, and when he dies he intends to leave me his business. We’d wed if we knew for certain Bill was dead.’

  ‘Oh, Liz. I’m happy for you. Come here.’ I plant another kiss on her cheek. ‘Why did Bill go, though, Liz?’

  She closes her eyes in impatience. ‘You know why. I didn’t fool you the day you asked about John Hench. Come here.’ She moves a few yards from the house, so we cannot be overheard; her voice is low and rapid. ‘Hench did kill those boys, three of them.’ She sees my face, and hurries on. ‘The other three were accidents. Bill swears two drowned in a quarry, one in the Frome. The bodies were bruised and cut about, but none was knifed whatever some folk say.’

  ‘How would Bill know? Why believe him?’

  ‘The mortuary men drink down at the harbour along with him and John Hench. They examined the bodies of the boys who drowned. And Bill admitted to me what happened to the other three.’ She shuts her eyes. ‘He and John Hench got greedy. They stole a cow from someone’s byre first. They contrived to scare off the boy who was sleeping in the loft. Next time they weren’t so lucky. Bill never meant to hurt anyone. He’s stupid, but he isn’t wicked.’

  I let the statement pass.

  ‘They were after taking a cow and her calf. A farm-lad startled them. He tried to raise the alarm, and John Hench went to silence him. Put his hand over his mouth. Next thing Bill knew John Hench was all over blood and the boy was dead.’

  I cannot swallow.

  ‘It changed John Hench. After that he said he didn’t care, he’d hang anyway. A month later he killed a gamekeeper’s lad, and shot a deer. Then he planned another robbery, and made Bill help him. I didn’t know what they were up to, or I’d never have told Bill the whereabouts of Mr Elliott’s bothy. Bill got it out of me.’

  ‘John Hench killed Davy Roxall? How much did Hench expect to sell a few old shovels for? The price of someone’s son? Don’t tell me he murdered Abraham and George Goodfellow for what he hoped to thieve from Mr Tuffnell.’ My face is hot with anger. ‘What did he think we keep in our stable yard? Was he after robbing horse-shit and hawking it round the city gardens?’

  I spit the words in my contempt. Liz wipes her cheek.

  ‘He didn’t kill either of them.’ Her voice is low. ‘He ran up country after Davy Roxall died. He was scared they’d trace him through me and Bill. Bill took his chance when the storm struck, and ran away. He’ll be hoping people think he’s dead. Bill’s a liar and a coward but he didn’t kill those other three boys, and I don’t know who killed the two belonging to your master.’

  The yard is silent, and the garden beyond is silent too, except for a gull crying, and the wind in the birch trees between Mr Tuffnell
’s land and his neighbour’s. The house and garden overlook the Avon Gorge, and beyond the Gorge, the harbour and the river.

  The rocks and the hanging woods have stood for centuries. I wonder what they make of men who think a cow reward enough for murdering a child. I let the wind carry away my tears, and Liz does not notice them.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve the chance of a fresh start,’ I say at last.

  Her voice is defiant. ‘Bill led me a miserable life. I should have told somebody what he and Hench were up to. Mr Elliott and I, we’re making a payment to Thomas Roxall, to compensate him for his loss.’

  I remember Mother crying when the inn-keeper said I could ride to Bristol in his brother’s coach as recompense for Tommy being killed. ‘That’s kind, Liz,’ I say. ‘Mr Roxall will be grateful.’

  Failing to notice the bitterness in my voice, she looks around. ‘You’ve a good berth here. It’s even grander than the other house. Do you think they’ll keep you on past New Year’s Day?’

  ‘I hope so.’ I may as well tell her the truth. ‘The master likes me.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says meaningfully. ‘Well, mind yourself, there’s no wife now to catch him trying to stick a hand in your petticoats. He’s hardly likely to make an honest woman of you.’ Unlike her doting Mr Elliott, she means.

  ‘I know that. I don’t want him to.’

  ‘What?’ Liz casts her eyes over the back of the villa, the high brick chimneys and painted wooden gables. ‘You can’t fool me, Corrie Amesbury. You missed the chance to marry one fine gentleman, you won’t refuse another.’

  I am thankful Liz was spared in the tempest, but her voice is like a dog that will not give up yapping.

  ‘Liz, Robert’s father wouldn’t let us marry. The squire sent him to the West Indies to get the two of us apart.’ I swore never to tell the rest, but the words spill out. ‘I was on Back-lane one day, sorrowing for Robert, when his father rode up and laid into me, calling me a whore who’d ruined his son’s life. He raised his whip, I thought he’d kill me. All of a sudden he was grabbing hold of me, kissing my neck, putting his filthy fingers in my bodice.’