A Pair of Sharp Eyes

by Kat Armstrong

  Liz’s hand covers her mouth. Her eyes are shocked, but she is laughing. ‘Then what?’

  ‘I broke free and ran into the Rough. He couldn’t find me. In the end he rode away.’

  ‘So that’s why you came to Bristol.’

  I won’t have her pity me, or think I would flee from anyone.

  ‘No, Liz. I came to Bristol for a better life. As you did.’

  She pinches her lips, about to retort, when Mrs Hucker appears at the back door, coughing sharply.

  ‘You’ve work to do, Amesbury. Good day, young woman.’ Abashed, Liz makes a bob, and before I can offer her a kiss, she hurries off.

  ***

  So badly did his home suffer in the storm that Mr Wharton remains at the Hot-wells to supervise repairs. Mr Espinosa is acting as Mr Tuffnell’s agent in his friend’s absence, and tonight he comes to Clifton to discuss Mr Tuffnell’s losses from the floods.

  Afterwards Nell Grey comes to say that Mr Espinosa is waiting for me in the yard. ‘Don’t tell me he’s courting you, Corrie Amesbury. A Jew!’

  I would rather Nell Grey believed Mr Espinosa and I were lovers than she suspected we were in league to find the truth about Abraham’s death. She already considers me an oddity; if she thought I was looking into the past of our late mistress she would think me odder still.

  I find Mr Espinosa standing with his back to the villa, surveying Mr Tuffnell’s flower plot.

  ‘Good day, Sir.’

  He lifts his hat. Without it his face is younger, and I am surprised as always by the kindness and shrewdness of his eyes. ‘You may be interested to hear what I’ve discovered, Miss Amesbury. Your brother-in-law proved impossible to trace, but I was asked to make additional enquiries on behalf of Mr Tuffnell.’

  ‘Not about Bill Eardley?’

  ‘No, no. Mr Tuffnell’s menservants who vanished in the storm. No one could tell me the whereabouts of Mr Roach, but it seems that Jonathan Berwick was arrested the day after. Mr Tuffnell suspected he’d seized advantage of the crisis to abscond with several articles of clothing.’

  I do not voice what I suspect: that Jonty knew of Mr Roach’s money, having found it on his forays to our master’s casks of rum. He surely hoped to take the purse that night, only to find Barbuda lay in ruins. And Mrs Tuffnell followed Jonty there, hoping to elope with him.

  ‘He was sheltering in a deserted barn near Temple-Meads. A falling branch had lamed him and he was too badly injured to go on. The villagers examined him and found a suit of clothes hidden on his person. He broke down under questioning, and admitted stealing the suit from his master. He’s bound to be transported. Or worse.’

  ‘Where is he? Bristol Newgate?’ The city’s gaol is only yards from Wine-street. ‘Poor man, the place is notorious. We must take him food and blankets.’

  ‘Miss Amesbury, you mustn’t think of visiting him. A common prisoner isn’t housed in goal as debtors are.’ He hurries on. ‘His cell will be crowded, rat-ridden, full of dangerous miasmas; the inmates suffer from scrofula and worse. Were I your brother I would forbid you to go.’

  ‘Mr Espinosa, I thank you for your concern, but you are not my brother.’

  He purses his lips unhappily. ‘Jonathan Berwick deserves neither your interest nor your kindness.’

  ‘He may not. Yet he has both. I cannot help it.’

  Mr Espinosa rubs his face. ‘Then will you let me come with you?’

  I can think of no objection, and secretly I will feel safer in Mr Espinosa’s company, so it is fixed that our visit to Bristol Newgate will take place after my trip to market tomorrow, it being easy to pass this off as taking longer than usual, since many of the roads and footpaths are blocked with trees and fallen buildings.

  ***

  Tuesday, 11th December, 1703

  Jonty was the handsomest fellow I ever saw when I took up my post with Mrs Tuffnell. As manservant he wore a smart grey suit, fine linen, and each day before he helped Mr Tuffnell to dress, he shaved his own face with pumice, powdered his wig and pared his fingernails. Added to this he had the natural looks of any man of five-and-twenty who is tall, well-formed, with clear eyes, a good complexion and a ready smile. They denied it, but I used to think Jonty and Nell Grey might wed one day, if they succeeded in courting without our mistress finding out.

  The gaoler leads us along a freezing, ill-lit passage to an evil-smelling cell lined with straw so soiled it would disgrace a stable, and here are crammed a dozen wretches chained to the walls, dressed in rags that cannot keep out the cold, it being as draughty here as in the street.

  Mr Espinosa approaches a man I did not notice at first, and who lies with his face covered by his arm. ‘Jonathan Berwick?’

  Jonty startles and sits upright. His face takes on a hunted expression. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘To ask the same question of you, Mr Berwick. Will you speak to us?’

  Jonty shrugs as if he would rather not, but after all, he can hardly walk away.

  ‘I brought you a pie.’ Mr Espinosa produces a parcel from his pocket. Jonty must be as hungry as he looks, for he swallows at the sight of it and devours it in moments, tearing at the pastry and snatching every crumb.

  ‘So what happened to make you run away?’

  ‘You know what happened, I’m sure.’

  ‘You don’t indict yourself by speaking to Miss Amesbury and me. We are your friends. If you tell us the truth we may be able to coax Mr Tuffnell to help you.’

  Jonty makes a mirthless sound. ‘Him help me? Hardly.’

  ‘Why did you rob him?’

  Jonty’s eyes are raw-rimmed. ‘I told you, I shan’t answer.’

  Mr Espinosa clears his throat. ‘Mr Berwick, have you spoken to the Prison Ordinary? And made confession?’

  ‘Confession?’ Jonty’s voice is rough. ‘What good would that do?’

  ‘It might save your soul, when you go before the Almighty. Admit to us, it was you killed the black boy, was it not? I must tell you, Mr Berwick, with my own eyes I saw you strike him not long before he died.’

  ‘I struck him for his own good. To teach him to keep his mouth shut. Miss Amesbury will tell you how the child milked any argument to make himself seem blameless, just as children will do. He needed saving from himself, given who he lived with. You should speak to other servants belonging to Mr Tuffnell, not I.’

  ‘Mr Berwick, are you accusing Mr Tuffnell’s coachman? Be careful what you say.’

  ‘I do accuse him.’

  ‘His motive?’

  ‘The lad found a stash of money Roach had hidden in the cellar at Barbuda. God bless him, Pug thought it belonged to Mr Tuffnell, and that Mr Tuffnell should know his gold was not so well concealed as it ought to be. Roach caught him carrying the purse to Master, and in rage at having his ill-gotten hoard discovered, he beat the lad.’

  Mr Espinosa looks at me and lifts an eyebrow. ‘We can vouch for the viciousness of Mr Roach.’

  Yet something troubles me. ‘Why would Mr Tuffnell conceal his coachman’s violent behaviour?’

  Jonty shrugs. ‘Mr Tuffnell didn’t know of it. His wife begged me not to tell him, after I found Abraham half-dead, lying in the yard. His head was broken when Roach knocked him down. I carried the boy indoors, cleaned his wounds, wrapped him in a blanket, and took him to my own bed by the kitchen fire. When I woke next morning I found him cold. Dead of his injuries, poor innocent. He died in dead of night, and the only comfort is he weren’t alone.’

  I am puzzled why Mrs Hucker did not find the pair when she went to light the kitchen range. ‘You must have woken very early. Did you not go straight to Mrs Tuffnell?’

  ‘Instead of accusing Roach, she said I would be blamed for the death. It looked bad for me, that I had taken the boy into my bed. I would be called unnatural. She said my only hope was to throw the blame on Red John.’ Jonty begins to cry. ‘She told me to cut the boy’s throat, so his body would look like the other victims.’

  ‘But why?�
�� Mr Espinosa’s astonished tone conveys his doubt that what we are hearing can be true.

  ‘I think I know the answer,’ I say slowly. ‘She sought to throw suspicion away from Mr Roach. Whatever the reason, she was determined to protect him.’

  ‘Why should she care about a fellow like that?’

  ‘I reckon he knew things to her discredit. He was a well-known bully, he used to live in Bath. Perhaps Mrs Tuffnell lived there too before her marriage. It all hints to me that she had things to hide.’

  ‘Please, leave off your questions,’ Jonty says, anguished. ‘If you drag up more, they are bound to hang me. Even if you found proof of Roach’s guilt they won’t believe you. A maidservant and a Jew. Go. You torment me.’

  ‘Jonty, don’t despair. We will prove your innocence, shan’t we, Sir?’

  Mr Espinosa puts his hand on Jonty’s shoulder. ‘Mr Berwick, I am Mr Tuffnell’s deputy while his agent’s indisposed. I will ask him this favour, that Miss Amesbury and I may travel to Bath to confirm or disprove the explanation you give us. If we discover intelligence concerning Mr Roach that suggests his guilt, be sure Mr Tuffnell will listen to me, or if not to me, to my friend Mr Wharton. If James Tuffnell is convinced, he may be relied on to present evidence of your innocence to the justices at the assizes. Do not lose all hope yet, my friend.’

  I wait for Jonathan to nod and thank Mr Espinosa for his kind offer. But he must be as far from hope as he claims, for his eyes are dull, and even before we leave his cell he slumps down again, his face turned to the wall.

  ‘One final question, Berwick. Will you swear you had nothing to do with George Goodfellow’s death?’

  Jonty scrambles up so fast, and his expression is so fierce, I cannot help but take a step back, though his shackles prevent him laying hands on me.

  ‘How can you ask such a thing? I was George Goodfellow’s friend. I worked alongside him since he came to Mr Tuffnell’s house aged seven. Leave me alone, will you? I can’t bear to be accused any longer.’ Pulling his dirty coat over his head, he turns away once more, and it is plain we will get no more out of him today.

  Mr Espinosa calls for the turnkey, and we make our way back up from the dismal pit. A thought strikes me.

  ‘Sir, before we leave let me speak to Mr Ambrose Ayres. He may not know of Mrs Tuffnell’s death.’

  Mr Espinosa nods, and the gaoler who waited while we spoke to Jonty makes an ironic bow before leading us to the debtors’ gaol.

  After the prison pit the faded courtyard is almost a haven, and Mr Ayres is gracious as ever when the turnkey delivers us to his cell. He poses on a hard wooden chair draped in a length of dirty reddish velvet, and addresses the turnkey with all the civil condescension of a lord who amazes a crossing-sweeper by presenting him with a shilling rather than a penny.

  Except in this case there is no shilling.

  ‘Leave us, there’s a good fellow.’ A wave of the hand. ‘How may I help you young people? Miss Amesbury, good afternoon. Good God, a Jew. I knew a Jew once. Chief Rabbi of a synagogue near Tower Bridge. Perhaps you know him too, Sir?’

  This sort of whimsy does not help us with our quest.

  ‘Mr Ayres, we bring sad news. The lady who used to send me to you is dead, Sir, a victim of the storm.’

  Mr Ayres’s smile disappears, though he quickly recovers. ‘Shocking, to be sure.’ He holds up his palm. ‘Withhold the details, please. They would haunt me in here in my simple hermitage. Dear, dear. I’d thought to propose a bowl of punch for two most welcome guests. Punch is hardly apt after so dismal an announcement.’ He subsides into a fluttering performance with a worn scrap of silk that serves him for a pocket handkerchief.

  Mr Espinosa waits until the handkerchief is folded into Mr Ayres’s frayed sleeve.

  ‘Sir, we would be greatly indebted if you could confirm for us the nature of your connection with Mrs Tuffnell. Miss Amesbury here suggests you were a relative.’

  ‘You were her father, weren’t you, Sir?’

  ‘Father? I am a bachelor, a respectable bachelor. If Mrs Tuffnell chose to sprinkle a little benison upon me now and then, I did not choose to offend her by sending back her charitable gifts. But there was never any question of obligation of kinship.’ He smiles. ‘I was an object of benevolence, pure and simple.’ His face falls. ‘It pains me to admit I shall miss her kindnesses, trifling as they were. My current circumstances are quite comfortable, of course.’ He fingers the balding velvet of his seat. ‘Nonetheless, I’m unlikely to die from a surfeit or any other excess.’ He gives a barking laugh.

  I wait for Mr Espinosa to express his sympathy and promise Mr Ayres assistance, but instead the clerk draws the interview smartly to a close, and as we take our leave his face wears a look of disapproval tending to dislike.

  ‘Mr Ayres has charm, don’t he, Sir?’ I venture. ‘He must have been a handsome man in his youth. Perhaps Mrs Tuffnell is to be forgiven if her heart was captured by him to a small degree.’

  ‘He’s a charlatan. Mrs Tuffnell was less worldly than she liked to think if she could be taken in by such an egregious rogue.’

  ‘He must have been someone once upon a time, Sir. He knew the Chief Rabbi, don’t forget.’ But as I say it I blush, for it is hardly likely a West Country bankrupt could be close friends with such a person.

  ‘There’s no synagogue near Tower Bridge. I suppose Mr Ayres told you he was best friends with the Lord Lieutenant of Wiltshire?’

  I pick my way over the cobbles without answering.

  ‘Reserve your sympathy for Mrs Tuffnell, Miss Amesbury. How many more people will come forward to admit they duped her?’

  Suddenly I tire of his scathing tone. ‘I don’t know, Mr Espinosa, but I was the one who thought of speaking to Jonathan Berwick, so I don’t think I’m such a gull, do you?’

  He is startled, and softens. ‘You are right, of course. Mr Ayres isn’t worth quarrelling over. Let us focus our minds on what we may find in Bath.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bath

  Wednesday, 12th December, 1703

  Mr Espinosa is as good as his word. That afternoon, with what amazing words of diplomacy I do not know, he speaks to Mr Tuffnell and obtains permission to go to Bath the following day, taking me with him as his servant. Any reluctance from Mr Tuffnell is overcome when Mr Espinosa hints his fear that Mrs Tuffnell was made to suffer in the months before her death, and that he hopes to find proof with which to prosecute her abuser.

  ‘Luckily for us,’ Mr Espinosa tells me, ‘Mr Tuffnell was so distressed by this suggestion he begged me to spare him any details until the case is proven.’

  ‘Perhaps you should never reveal to Master quite what his wife was led to do, Sir.’ I speak in a roundabout way, since we are in the carrier’s cart, and the other passengers can hear me.

  Mr Espinosa winces. ‘No indeed.’ He drops his voice further. ‘To think she proposed the mutilation of the boy’s body. It is incredible.’

  ‘She stopped at nothing to protect herself as mistress of Barbuda House. Yet she did love Abraham in her way, and I know she loved her husband.’ Out of respect for Mr Espinosa’s feelings I forbear to add that Mrs Tuffnell may have loved her husband more than he deserved.

  ‘Poor fellow. He should have chosen better. An honourable man.’

  ‘Shall we take our dinner at the West-gate Inn, Sir?’

  ‘Must we? They were most reluctant to serve me last time, if you recall.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you was willing to put up with their ignorance one more time, Sir. I have a score to settle.’ My hope is that Mrs Buckley will be treating another group of guests to dinner, and cannot dodge me in a public dining-room without a scene that causes her more embarrassment than it does me.

  Mr Espinosa’s lips twitch. ‘Never let it be said you shirk a fight, Miss Amesbury. Very well. I shall hope I am served beef and not ham on this occasion.’

  We begin to notice the curious looks we attract, and given the
general waste, from blown-down trees to flooded fields, visible from the carrier’s cart, we join with our fellow passengers in swapping stories of the storm. A miller from Twyning in Gloucestershire tells of eleven barns blown down in that village; a fellow chips in to say he heard of one who fell from a ladder trying to save his hovel, and who landed on his plough and never spoke a word before he died. And this as far off as Northamptonshire, while in London it is said a dozen people lost their lives that awful night.

  A shipwright from Bristol retorts that eighty people died in the marshes and the river there, whole families perishing together. He claims to know of 15,000 sheep drowned in the Somerset Levels, and the country lying under water for twenty miles either side of the River Severn.

  Finally, we run out of words to express our horror at this calamity, which speaks of the Almighty’s anger with his godless people, and turn our attention to the view of Bath as the cart begins its descent towards the city.

  ***

  Entering the dining-room at the West-gate I fear I may have been foolish in expecting to encounter Mrs Buckley. The inn is crammed with dinner guests, as well as those who sleep here overnight and for whom gout, gallstones, breathlessness and corpulence are no hindrance to a dinner of four courses with a plentiful array of meats and sweet dishes at each, as well as ale, beer, claret, cider, brandy, rum and sherry wine. The hubbub is such I wonder if I may fail to find Mrs Buckley even if she is here. Then an outburst of ribald laughter from a side-room prompts me to glance round, and there she is, presiding over a table laden with expensive dishes, holding forth to a throng that includes several extravagantly dressed gentlemen and a greater number of young ladies attired in simple straw bonnets and petticoats of calico and cambric.

  Supper is well advanced, judging by the guests’ red faces and the number of empty platters carried off by the serving-woman. As I watch, a maiden is swept from her chair by the gentleman next to her. Holding her on his knee and proceeding to plant several kisses on her blushing cheeks, he hands her to his friend, who does the same, though this second fellow is bold enough to kiss her lips. Smiling yet indignant, she struggles and protests, but it seems the game is to hand her round the table, each gentleman helping himself by fondling her bosom or pressing his lips to hers. It cannot be long before the parties leave for some less reputable establishment, and I see that my best, nay my only, chance lies in confronting Mrs Buckley at this very moment.