A Pair of Sharp Eyes

by Kat Armstrong

  ‘Miss Amesbury!’ Mr Espinosa calls to hinder me, but too late; I have crossed the room.

  ‘Mrs Buckley? My name is Miss Coronation Amesbury. You have forgotten me, I dare say. Will you oblige me, Madam, by speaking to me privately?’

  Mrs Buckley’s mouth drops open, and she turns to her nearest companion, a naval officer, and pulls a droll face as if to say: What impertinence is this?

  ‘I believe you would rather hear what I have to say in confidence, Madam. Of course, I could address you and your friends, the choice is yours.’

  Spots of colour mount her cheeks, and she scrapes back her chair. ‘Very well, I can spare a moment. We were about to leave, you know.’

  ‘Of course, you have a great friend lives nearby, have you not? Mrs Charlton.’

  We have reached the doorway between the private dining-room and the public one, and her eyes narrow. ‘Who did you say you were, Miss?’

  ‘Just as I thought, you forgot me the day I left Bath. And I’m sure you’ve forgotten my friend, Miss Jane Lamborne of Chippenham. Miss Jane was sorely abused the night you gave us hospitality, Mrs Buckley. She has lost her good place in Bristol, and her good name. I am minded to let those maids in there know what befell my friend, lest they make the same mistake she did. Perhaps you will let me through to speak to them?’

  This is a gamble on my part, for the company grows raucous, and the young women might not hearken to me however loudly I addressed them. However, the threat is enough to alarm Mrs Buckley.

  ‘How dare you, Miss! I am twice your age, and well known in Bath and held in high esteem. You are a country miss without even the usual charms of youth, and I do not wonder at you for mentioning your friend. I expect she was highly admired when she was here, and let me guess, you was overlooked.’

  ‘Mrs Buckley, I am an honest maid. I worked for Mrs Maria Tuffnell until her untimely death. On the evening I spent in Bath I had more sense than to be tricked by you, Madam.’ I am about to test whether a reference to Mr Roach will light a spark of recognition in Mrs Buckley’s eyes, but her expression alters to horror at the mention of Mrs Tuffnell.

  ‘Dead?’ she gasps. ‘It isn’t true.’

  ‘Before she died, she revealed to me she had been cruelly mistreated by a certain Mr Roach.’

  ‘But I can’t believe she’s dead. Not Mary.’ Her face crumples, and if it were not for Miss Jane Lamborne I would sincerely pity her. ‘What happened?’ she asks, as a tear slips down her cheek.

  ‘A beam collapsed, and crushed her in the storm. She seemed to rally, but she died the day after. When the surgeon opened her, he found a great loss of blood internally.’

  Mrs Buckley grasps the wainscot. ‘Then she suffered grievously.’

  ‘She died in agony, Madam. And some of her pain was mental as well as physical. Her servant, Mr Roach, had been tricking her. And an elderly gentleman living nearby claimed to be her bankrupt father, and dunned her for money, yet when I took the sad news to him he said he was no relation to the lady. He would miss her charity but was otherwise indifferent to her.’ I cannot but sound contemptuous as I relate this brief account of my last meeting with Mr Ayres.

  ‘God forgive me.’ In her awe Mrs Buckley’s mask seems to slip and I glimpse the hollow creature within. ‘My darling, dead,’ she says. She grabs the arm of a passing pot-boy. ‘Show us to a private room.’

  The boy gestures to the throng as if to say the place is full, but Mrs Buckley thrusts her face at him. ‘A room,’ she says hoarsely.

  I am aware of Mr Espinosa shadowing us as the boy shrugs and leads us to the back of the inn and into a small windowless chamber where the grate is cold and the few furnishings are stacked against the wall.

  Taking one look at Mrs Buckley’s pallor, I fetch a chair and she sinks onto it.

  ‘I can’t comprehend what you said. She was so young.’ She covers her face with her plump, jewel-clad fingers. I stand over her as she sobs, and when eventually she looks up, I see she will tell me all I need to know.

  ‘You were her mother.’

  Mrs Buckley’s ringlets quiver. ‘I gave her a good start. She might have married a baronet or a viscount if she had let me take charge of her. But she was wilful.’

  ‘You mean you hoped to sell her to the highest bidder?’

  She ignores the question. ‘She fell in love with a West Indian planter. She was only supposed to make him happy for a night, but no, the very next day she declared she was in love. Fifteen years old, and she ran away from home. Then he went back to Jamaica, didn’t he? Leaving her with child.’

  ‘She had no child. What happened to it?’

  ‘It died at three days old. At least she had the sense to make the planter promise to support his infant—and to forget to tell him when it died.’

  ‘You mean she continued to receive monies though the child was dead? How, when the planter was so far away?’

  ‘Ignorant girl. Bills of exchange—any money-lender will honour them. She bore the child, and mourned for it. The man was rich enough. He ought to have supported her.’

  ‘No doubt you sought to take her back, once she had a steady income?’

  ‘What? No. She wanted nothing more to do with me. Next thing I knew she was in Bristol, passing herself off as the widow of a rich Creole.’ Mrs Buckley gives a mirthless laugh. ‘Not plain Mary Buckley any more. She was “Mrs Maria Buckingham.” Good luck to you, I said.’ Her voice breaks. ‘Much good it did her in the end.’

  I allow the old vixen a moment to weep, but I am determined to extract all the intelligence she can provide.

  ‘Tell me why she was giving money to Mr Ayres. Was he her father?’

  Another sob, designed to draw out my pity though it falls far short of the mark. ‘She may have believed so. He was fond of me once—perhaps Mary remembered him. He was gentlemanly, I expect she wanted to credit his claims. Or perhaps he threatened to expose her past unless she helped him. He probably put it this way: her old friends helped to make her what she was.’ She sniffs, her confidence returning. I see she defies me to contest her own part in Mrs Tuffnell’s ‘success’.

  I step closer until Mrs Buckley cringes. ‘Would another of her good friends be Mr Roach, by any chance?’ I hiss. ‘Or plain Pete, as he used to call himself?’

  It crosses Mrs Buckley’s mind to lie but, ‘We knew Pete, yes,’ she admits.

  ‘He brawled and bullied when he lived in Bath, by all accounts. Then he moved to Bristol, where he terrified your daughter into stealing her husband’s property, and went on to beat her page-boy ‘til he died. He will hang when they find him, be in no doubt. You are a cold cruel woman who sought to sell your own child, and if it was up to me, you’d hang too.’

  To my amazement Mrs Buckley laughs. ‘Pete, stealing property from one of Bristol’s merchant venturers? Pete, who eked out a living as a bully? ‘Til he went to Bristol the most he earned was a shilling here and there for press-ganging fathead country boys to go to sea. If Pete was rich, why would he risk his neck by murdering a slave-child? You thought yourself quicker-witted than your friends the night you stopped in Bath, Miss. You flattered yourself.’

  ‘And you may mock me all you like, but when Mr Tuffnell learns how you treated his beloved wife you will be sorry.’

  Mrs Buckley leaps to her feet, but Mr Espinosa has been skulking outside the chamber throughout our conference, and he bursts through the door as she lifts a hand to strike me.

  ‘You again!’ she cries. He has her arm tightly gripped. ‘Sneaking Israelite! I remember you.’

  His eyes flash. ‘And my sister, Miss Hannah Espinosa, do you remember her? Whom you almost destroyed when she came to Bath last summer? Forcing strong spirits on her, and dragging her to a bawdy-house?’

  I stare, astonished. Mr Espinosa has never been frank with me about his sister. Mrs Buckley sneers. ‘Ugly Jewess, she could never have found work in a respectable household. She should have thrown in her lot with me.’

 
Mr Espinosa is white with anger. He speaks through clenched teeth. ‘My sister is a virtuous woman, but no one, virtuous or otherwise, deserves to fall into the hands of such as you, Madam. We will ensure Mr Tuffnell and his friends among the magistrates learn who you are and what you did. Be assured you will not escape justice. You have ‘til tomorrow morning to hand yourself to the constable.’

  Before Mrs Buckley can form a reply, Mr Espinosa takes my hand and leads me through the dining-room and out into the street. ‘We’ll take rooms elsewhere and catch the mail coach back to Bristol in the morning. Let Mrs Buckley think we are already on our way to see the magistrate.’

  ‘Do you truly believe Mr Tuffnell will listen to us, Sir?’

  ‘I think he will be grateful to learn that his wife was guilty of no more than seeking to cover up her past. She cannot be blamed unduly for that.’

  ‘Except she also sought to cover up the brutal murder of her page-boy.’

  ‘That is true.’ We are silent. Mr Espinosa hesitates. ‘As you point out, she was far from perfect, though I forgive Mr Tuffnell if he chooses not to dwell on the worst in her character now she is gone.’

  ‘Perhaps the worst in his was his blindness when it came to her.’

  ‘Indeed. I hope we can convince him to campaign for Jonathan Berwick’s release, and exert his power to have Mr Roach brought to justice.’

  ‘Mrs Buckley could say nothing to convince us Roach is innocent. We know him too well.’ Mr Espinosa’s hand goes to his scar, healed now but noticeable where the hair has not grown back.

  ‘Mr Espinosa? There is one more thing that troubles me about Mr Tuffnell. I believe it troubles Mr Wharton too.’ I choose my words carefully, for these men are close friends. ‘Mr Tuffnell trusted his business partner, Mr Cheatley. I carried a letter which warned my master that Mr Cheatley had altered the terms of their business contract before the Prudence set sail for Calabar. His wife read the letter and destroyed it, Sir, because it went on to hint at difficulties in her own affairs.’

  ‘Be direct, Miss Amesbury. No one overhears us.’

  ‘Mr Wharton would have told Mr Tuffnell in person that Cheatley was insisting on higher prices than were originally agreed. What neither men knew was that the Prudence set sail with fewer hands than were needed to supervise the negroes they would buy in Calabar. The captain planned to make up the shortfall caused by Mr Cheatley by tight-packing. I take it he meant he would carry more negroes than he had room for. If the slaves should mutiny, Sir, the crew themselves may rebel, forced to oversee so many negroes and perhaps in small expectation of fair payment.’

  ‘What do you suggest? There is little to be gained in warning Mr Tuffnell. He can do nothing to avert disaster from such a distance.’

  ‘I thought it worth mentioning to you and Mr Sampson, and perhaps to Mr Wharton, Sir. I should be sorry if men who are honest suffer for the follies of those who aren’t.’

  ‘Miss Amesbury, I don’t discount your kindness in warning us, but I’m disappointed you think so little of your master. We agreed it wasn’t his fault his wife bewitched him.’

  ‘As it was not entirely her fault she set out to marry him. I’d have more respect for Mr Tuffnell if I thought he cared a jot about those whose labour he depends on.’

  ‘You can hardly blame him for employing others. Do you wish yourself out of work and starving?’

  I am suddenly weary of explaining myself to someone who is obstinately wedded to his own views of the world, notwithstanding the cruel blows that world delivers to his own door.

  ‘Of course not, Sir. I meant something quite different. It is late, Mr Espinosa, will we go in and ask for rooms? When we have slept a good night’s sleep we may continue our conversation on our journey home tomorrow.’

  His face clears. He is relieved to drop the subject. ‘That is a good idea. Well, to tomorrow. Ha! Here is the inn-keeper. May we have two chambers, Sir? My maidservant here will be happy to share with another female. I would be glad of a room of my own.’

  I expect the whistling host who leads us upstairs imagines I am Mr Espinosa’s mistress rather than his servant, and is surprised we do not ask to share a room. But I intend never to bed or wed any man, and if I do it must be one who looks with clear eyes at the world around him.

  Were I to search from here to the West Indies, I doubt if there is more than one who does.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Clifton

  Thursday, 13th December, 1703

  The mail coach brings us to Bristol just after noon, and the roads being strewn with rubbish from the storm, we agree it will be quicker to go on foot to Mr Tuffnell’s villa.

  Who should we meet as we pass College-green but Mrs Wharton and little Harry, baskets in hands, heading to market?

  ‘Aaron.’ She curtseys to him, giving me a kindly smile.

  ‘Esther. Good day to you. How do the repairs progress at home?’

  She pulls a face. ‘Noisily. The men have been hammering on the roof since eight o’clock, so Harry and I left Baby Emma in the care of a village girl. We hope to buy some dinner that won’t need a fire, the chimney being unfit to use. How is Mr Tuffnell, Sir?’

  ‘Still desolate.’

  ‘Poor gentleman. To think Henry and I saw Mrs Tuffnell at the Merchant Venturers’ feast just weeks ago.’

  A thought strikes me and makes me bold. ‘Did Mrs Tuffnell seem herself that night, Madam?’ She frowns. ‘Yes.’ Then she catches Mr Espinosa’s eye. ‘As you can vouch, Sir, she was given to avoiding me. We met in the ladies’ cloakroom at the end of the evening. She nodded as we were putting on our cloaks, that was all.’

  ‘Mrs Tuffnell was a hardened anti-Semite, make no mistake.’ Mr Espinosa turns to me. ‘She did not wish to be seen in public on friendly terms with one of our tribe.’

  ‘Because she was uncertain of her standing here in Bristol, Sir.’ I am loath to speak uncharitably a second time; all three of us depend on Mr Tuffnell for our livelihoods.

  ‘Perhaps. You are right, of course. That is, I hope so.’

  Mrs Wharton, understandably, has limited interest in a woman, now dead, who slighted her and betrayed her friend. Her young son has been jumping on and off a pile of bricks during the conversation.

  ‘Come on, Harry. You will spoil your shoes. Say good-bye.’

  ***

  Mr Tuffnell is seated by the fire in his shirt-sleeves when we arrive.

  ‘Espinosa. I have been waiting these two hours. I have been thinking while you were gone. It must be Roach who abused my wife. When you were in Bath did you uncover any information to suggest he had been taking money from her?’

  ‘May we sit, Sir?’ Mr Espinosa asks. He indicates for me to take a stool by the window, and draws his own chair close to Mr Tuffnell’s. I glance into the garden where Suke Cross is plucking laundry off the bushes and bundling it in her apron as furtively as if she plans to run away and sell her master’s linen.

  ‘We found the person in Bath we hoped would help us understand the matter,’ Mr Espinosa says. Seemingly, he does not feel a need to acknowledge my role in Mrs Buckley’s discovery. ‘She knew your wife well. She knows Mr Roach too, and cast doubt on the notion Mr Roach blackmailed Mrs Tuffnell. She claimed he might have been a petty thief but was incapable of greater cunning.’

  ‘Then who did extort money from my wife?’

  ‘It remains a mystery. I am convinced Mr Roach was the man who attacked me in November. Jonathan Berwick confirmed Roach’s brutishness when we visited him in prison.’

  ‘Roach must be found at once if that is true.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir, though I imagine he is far away by now.’

  Both gentlemen seem to have forgotten me. I catch my master’s eye. ‘Sir, can I recall for you the annual feast given by the Merchant Venturers on All Hallows Eve?’

  Mr Tuffnell looks startled, then puzzled by my question. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You attended the feast that night, and your wife w
ent with you. Who sat at your right hand, Sir?’

  ‘My agent’s wife. She and her husband always sit with me on such occasions. One day, I like to tell Mr Wharton, he too will be a member of the Merchant Venturers’ Society.’

  ‘And who sat on your left?’

  Mr Tuffnell’s expression saddens. ‘My late wife. She wore her flowered silk. You yourself helped her dress that night, Ames.’

  ‘Sir, will you tell us how you travelled home? Did Mr Roach fetch you in the coach?’

  Irritated, Mr Tuffnell shakes his head. ‘The banqueting hall is less than a furlong from Barbuda House, and the way too narrow for the coach, in any case. We walked.’

  ‘With Jonathan Berwick carrying the lantern for you?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Before you left, as the feast came to an end, did Mr Wharton say anything to you, Sir? While your wife was busy putting on her cloak and gloves? We met Mrs Wharton on our way today, and she chanced to mention that Mrs Tuffnell would not acknowledge her at the feast, but what interested me was that the ladies retired to the cloakroom before the evening ended, meaning the gentlemen could speak to each other without their wives overhearing.’

  ‘I had nothing to say that night that Mrs Tuffnell could not be privy to.’

  ‘You might not, Sir, but Mr Wharton did.’

  ‘He may have said a few words to me on a business matter. The Prudence was rumoured to be struggling in bad weather. I recall Mr Wharton mentioned it, having received a letter sent by schooner from the skipper of the Prudence, Captain Stiles.’

  ‘That’s as may be, Sir, but Mr Wharton raised another concern, didn’t he? One he had mentioned by letter, though the letter never reached you. That night he told you he suspected your wife had no business connections with the West Indies that could profit you. Quite the contrary, though Mr Wharton didn’t know the half of it. As I found out in Bath, the husband she claimed to have lost is alive and well and living in Jamaica.’