A Pair of Sharp Eyes

by Kat Armstrong

  Mr Tuffnell blinks, speechless. Mr Espinosa looks most uncomfortable, and breaks in. ‘Miss Amesbury, this is no way to speak about your late mistress.’

  I understand his qualms, but am determined to have the matter in the open.

  ‘It was you yourself, Mr Espinosa, who alerted Mr Wharton to her correspondence with a gentleman in the West Indies. That gentleman, a planter much older than Mrs Tuffnell, made regular payments to her through bills of exchange he sent to Mr Sampson. You paid a high price—almost the highest. She set Roach on you, to silence you.’

  Mr Espinosa sends Mr Tuffnell an anguished look. ‘This is only an allegation Miss Amesbury makes, she has no proof.’

  His spinelessness is vexing, but he hates to see my master suffer so I forgive him.

  ‘It was very hard, Mr Espinosa, to be beaten and robbed and left for dead when you simply wanted to help your friend. You feared that once Mr Tuffnell discovered his wife’s deceit, he might blame Mr Wharton for failing to alert him sooner.’

  Mr Tuffnell, unaware of the way the discussion is tending, regards Mr Espinosa with a kind, if weary smile. ‘No need to deny it, Aaron. You acted from honourable motives. Though I must assure you that however falsely my wife played me, I should never want to save forty pounds per annum by dismissing Henry Wharton.’

  Mr Espinosa bites his lip, then speaks in a rush.

  ‘I had a second motive to alert others to Mrs Tuffnell’s—weaknesses. Pardon me, Sir, forgive my candour, but Mrs Tuffnell did not treat my sister Hannah justly. She befriended her, and showered her with affection. She led Hannah to believe she would offer her a position as her paid companion. Then, for no other reason than that some of her female acquaintance objected to Hannah on the grounds she was a Jewess, she beat and cast my sister out without a character.’

  I can scarcely bear to look at Mr Tuffnell. His expression is so hurt I almost wish that we had let the matter lie. Then I think back to the day I saw the body of a child, dead and bleeding in the yard at Barbuda House. Mr Tuffnell hardly spared the boy a glance. His only thoughts were for his wife and for himself.

  ‘May I go on, Sir?’ I ask. ‘When Mr Wharton confided his fears to you after the feast, Sir, Jonathan Berwick was listening. He was a well-trained servant, his face gave away nothing. But next day he told your wife you knew something that was bound to compromise her in your eyes. Instantly Mrs Tuffnell guessed that Mr Wharton knew she was no wealthy widow. That same night, locked in the cellar by Mr Roach, Abraham happened on a stash of money, far more than could be accounted for by Mrs Tuffnell’s beautifying business. It was money Mrs Tuffnell had given to Jonty, to thank him for his … attentions to her person. Forgive me, Sir.’

  I cannot look at my master, but I sense his shock. He barely breathes as I deliver my speech with as much solemn certainty as I can muster.

  ‘Abraham thought the money yours, Sir, and he was about to show it to you and advise you to find a safer hiding-place. He might have done, but Mrs Tuffnell and Jonathan had come home early from the feast. Jonathan sought to help himself to rum from your cellar, Sir. He and Mr Roach shared a secret key that Mr Roach had made for the purpose. There was an altercation between Jonathan and Abraham, and in his anger Jonathan struck the boy so hard he fell and died. That night Mrs Tuffnell couldn’t admit to you what Jonty had done because he would have named her part in it. Each of them lied and covered for the other.’

  Mr Tuffnell is pale. He is careful to control himself, though the emotion in his voice is unmistakable. ‘But Maria was innocent of murder, at least.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Though I believe it was her idea to cut the boy’s throat after death, to throw suspicion on Red John. Did you not notice the bloodstains on the cellar stairs, Sir? Or wonder why so little blood was on the body when you saw how much was shed when George Goodfellow was murdered?’ My voice rises despite myself. Abraham might have kept the money to buy his freedom; instead he died trying to protect his master’s interests. ‘Or think to ask yourself how a pedlar no one ever saw could break in and no one hear him?’

  For a moment Mr Tuffnell is lost for a reply. Then he rallies, indignant.

  ‘This is nonsense. It must have been Red John or some other stranger who killed Pug. You forget the other boy, George Goodfellow. Red John killed him for certain, or if not he, then Roach did. And if one of them killed George, the same killed Pug.’

  ‘I beg pardon, Sir, I do not forget George Goodfellow. He was my friend. There’s no reason to think the same cruel individual killed George as killed Abraham. The cases are quite different.’

  A commotion within the villa causes all of us to fall silent as Mrs Hucker scolds Suke Cross, and Suke Cross bangs pots in the sink and slams the scullery door. Mr Tuffnell turns apologetically to Mr Espinosa. ‘How these women love to quarrel.’

  Mr Espinosa nods gravely, evidently sharing Mr Tuffnell’s low opinion of females.

  ‘Nell Grey rarely disagrees with anyone,’ I put in. ‘Even Mrs Hucker is a good soul, and far from bad-tempered as Cooks are often said to be.’

  It is kind of me to say this, given how Mrs Hucker is generally inclined to take Suke Cross’s side against me, and it does not help my case that Mrs Hucker marches into the parlour as I finish, and stands in the middle of the room, red-faced and out of breath.

  ‘Excuse me, Sir, but that trollop Suke Cross has tried to give in her notice. I locked her in the pantry to cool her heels, Sir. We’d be in a sorry pickle, Sir, with only Nell Grey and I and Corrie Amesbury here, and the villa not properly aired and cleaned. Unless we have a Scrub, Sir, I shall be forced to give notice too.’

  Mr Tuffnell looks dismayed, and Mr Espinosa raises a finger to forestall another outburst from the cook. ‘Mr Tuffnell, may I suggest you ask Mrs Wharton to help you find persons likely to replace the servants you are missing? She will be efficient and quick. Neither will she cheat you as the hiring-man is sure to do.’ He opens the door and gestures politely for Mrs Hucker to leave the room. Still flushed she does so, though she sends a look of resentment in Mr Espinosa’s direction that I am glad he does not see.

  ‘God, if I only had my wife to help me,’ Mr Tuffnell says. ‘Yet she was weak and venal,’ he adds dejectedly.

  The flash of inspiration that strikes me is hard to account for, though the thought of Suke Cross itching to leave the villa may explain it. ‘Mr Tuffnell, I believe I know who killed George Goodfellow. Your wife played no part in it, nor Jonty. George wrongly suspected Mr Roach of murdering Abraham. He told me so in the kitchen one night. We thought the other servants were fast asleep, but I hazard Suke was only pretending so she could eavesdrop. I reckon Suke Cross stabbed George lest he accuse Mr Roach publicly.’

  Mr Tuffnell is dumbfounded. ‘Have you lost your reason, girl? Why would Scrub care for Roach?’

  ‘He’s an ugly fellow, if you’ll excuse me saying so, but she does love him. Abraham caught them kissing the day I joined the household. Mr Espinosa, we should tell the constable.’

  Mr Espinosa taps his fingers, considering, then nods. ‘Men kill from revenge, Mr Tuffnell. Women from love.’

  I pass over this doubtful statement given that it serves my cause.

  ‘Think it over carefully, Mr Tuffnell. Suke Cross cleans the household knives. She slept closer to the stable loft than anyone but Mr Roach. And I know myself Roach did not kill George. He was astonished the morning the boy was found. After Abraham was murdered Suke Cross wept and wailed. But when it came to George Goodfellow her eyes were dry.’

  A long pause, while both men reflect on this damning proof of Suke Cross’s guilt. Then Mr Tuffnell nods wearily. ‘Forgive me, there has been so much to comprehend … I believe I scarcely knew my wife. To think she struggled with such enemies. She hoped to shield me from the truth, did she not, Aaron?’

  Mr Espinosa rests a hand on Mr Tuffnell’s shoulder. For a moment he looks the older of the two. ‘Sir, in all her difficulties her feelings for you never faltered.’


  Mr Tuffnell gives a wondering laugh. ‘Let no man say that Jews lack human kindness. You are as good a fellow, Aaron, as any Christian.’

  This compliment strikes me as none too generous, but Mr Espinosa seems content with it. ‘I’ll fetch the constable. Meanwhile, Miss Amesbury, go and tell Mr Tuffnell’s cook she is to be commended for putting the suspect under lock and key. By tonight let us be sure to have the murderess joining Jonathan Berwick in Newgate Prison.’

  It occurs to me to tell Mr Tuffnell one last thing: that Mr Roach took his wife’s money in the storm. On reflection I have burdened him with enough for one day. And it will interest me to see whether he succeeds in discovering for himself the reason for the coachman’s disappearance.

  ***

  An hour has passed by the time the constable arrives. We are gathered in the kitchen, where Mrs Hucker fairly bursts with pride. ‘I bested her, Mr Tuffnell. The wildcat nearly had my eye out, but I landed her such a slap I’ll wager she saw stars.’ She waits for his praise.

  Mr Tuffnell strides to the pantry and raps the door. ‘Listen to me, Susan Cross. While you were at loggerheads with Cook, proof arrived that it was you who killed George Goodfellow. Do you hear? The constable is sent for. You are charged with murder.’

  As the significance of this strikes home, Mrs Hucker’s mouth falls open. Her eyes meet mine and I put my finger to my lips. There is no reply from the pantry. With the pommel of his sword Mr Tuffnell thumps the door. ‘Murder,’ he repeats.

  Suke Cross, kicking and shouting moments ago, is silent in her makeshift prison. Mr Espinosa shakes his head. ‘This is cast-iron proof of her guilt, Sir. She’d protest determinedly if she were innocent.’

  Mr Tuffnell’s face is grim. ‘When she stands up in court she will be made to speak. Hear that, Susan Cross? The day you go before the judge at the assizes you shall tell the truth.’ Mr Tuffnell rattles the latch. ‘And then you will pay the price for your most horrid crime.’

  I am ashamed to admit it, but I am afraid of laughing. ‘Sir, shall I go outside and station myself at the pantry window? It is barred, but you never know, Sir.’

  ‘Go on then, Amesbury.’

  As I suspected, Suke Cross is pressed up against the unglazed window. She thrusts her face between the bars when she hears me coming, and I keep a distance despite myself. Her eyes glitter with tears and her voice is hoarse.

  ‘Corrie Amesbury, don’t let them take me, I beg you. They will hang me. Help me.’

  ‘How can I? You had better pray to your Maker, not to me, Suke Cross.’ For the first time I picture how it will be when day breaks after sentencing and they lead her to the gibbet.

  ‘The r-r-rope will hurt so much, I can’t bear it.’ She gives a hiccupping sob. ‘I’m too young to die, Corrie. I thought I would be reunited with Mr Roach by now. And what has become of me?’

  ‘You’re too young? Then why did you risk it? Murdering a child.’ At the thought of George Goodfellow my temper flares. ‘An innocent boy not ten years old.’

  There is a pause, and her voice sinks to a whisper. ‘I’m not a murderer, Corrie. I swear to you.’

  For a moment I waver, then I harden my heart, for I know she lies. ‘It will go worse with you if you deny it, Suke Cross.’ From the side of my eye I see the constable climb from a cart and open the garden gate.

  ‘In there, is she?’ he asks, a set of fetters swinging from his hand as he strides up the path. I think of the negroes I saw at the quays, and the chains that chafed their necks until they bled. ‘She’s only a slip of a thing, Sir,’ I say, about to ask him to content himself with tying her wrists; but he mistakes my meaning.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mistress. She won’t give me the slip. Come on, then. Lead the way.’

  Eager and fearful, I take him to the house.

  In the kitchen Mrs Hucker watches all that passes, her glee ill-concealed. ‘It was I cornered her, Constable,’ she begins.

  He gestures at her to be quiet. ‘Got her pinned, have you, Master Tuffnell? Well done, Sir. We’ll soon have her in Bristol Newgate.’

  Mr Tuffnell flourishes the pantry key. ‘Have your cudgel ready, Constable. She may fly at you.’ He raises his voice. ‘Stand back, Susan Cross.’

  I have never seen such a hopeless, abject creature as the one discovered when the pantry door is opened. Master and the constable peer in and Suke Cross mewls with terror. As they go to drag her out her legs give way. The constable is forced to lift her up.

  She stammers. ‘I never meant to harm George, I swear I didn’t.’ A squeal of pain as the constable grips her wrists. ‘You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Then don’t struggle. It does no good.’

  ‘I wanted to frighten him, I admit it.’ She is gabbling. ‘I wanted to stop him telling tales about his elders and betters. Please Sir, don’t chain me, please.’ The constable, implacable, ignores her, busying himself with fastening the fetters round her wrists. ‘George started crying and he grabbed at me. He used my weapon of defence against me. Cut my hand open—see the scar? I wanted to scratch him a little likewise, so he’d know I was in earnest, but he moved and somehow the knife went right through him. I never meant it to, I swear. You believe me, don’t you, Corrie Amesbury? You know I wouldn’t kill a child.’

  ‘Be quiet, girl,’ the constable says. ‘You did kill him, by your own admission.’

  ‘But they can’t hang me for an accident. He hurt me first, he had a huge great rock and he hurled it at me. He bruised my forehead, see?’ Her hands being held she tries to toss back her lanky hair to show us.

  I am fearful she may rouse her listeners to pity. ‘Don’t twist the truth, Suke Cross. I found the corpse, remember? You butchered him.’ My voice breaks as I remember George’s abraded hands. ‘You stabbed him a dozen times. Then you lied about how you got that bruise.’

  The constable, grimly binding Suke Cross’s arms, pulls harder on the cords until she cries out. ‘Mercy, Sir. I only hoped to make it look like Red John did it. The boy died with the first strike. I never could have cut him alive, you cannot think it. My petticoat was splashed with blood.’ She shudders.

  Her cowardice riles me even further. ‘There for hours, were you, rinsing out your clothes?’ As I say it, I remember the day we spent after George was found, and Suke’s idea to pass the time with laundering. She had Nell Grey and I do the work, too—her hand must have been sore. ‘Don’t ask pity or forgiveness, Suke Cross. You killed George Goodfellow and you will hang for it.’

  Mr Tuffnell takes my arm. ‘We know you loved the lad, Amesbury. Let the constable have her.’

  I obey, though before the constable takes her outside Suke Cross thrusts out her stomach and declaims. ‘I shall plead my belly. It is Mr Roach’s child, and Bristol will hear how you kept a bawdy-house Mr Tuffnell, for all your wealth and fame. Your own wife turned a blind eye to our goings-on, and why did she? Because she was at it like the rest of us.’

  Mr Tuffnell is sickly pale, and the constable has had enough. He drags a sack over Suke Cross’s head. Her protests are muffled, and when the constable delivers a cut to her jaw she cries out in pain. Unmoved, he manhandles her towards the waiting cart.

  ***

  Once we are alone Nell Grey demands I tell her all I know.

  When I explain it was Roach who injured Mr Espinosa she is not surprised. ‘He would have done anything Mrs Tuffnell ordered him to do,’ she says. ‘He was stupid, and a bully.’

  ‘Suke picked that fight with Mrs Hucker, you know. I believe she wanted to be dismissed, thinking Roach was out there waiting for her somewhere. Silly wench, Roach never loved her. To think she murdered in cold blood for his sake.’

  A grim pause, as we both remember George Goodfellow.

  ‘Listen, Nell, this will be hard to hear. Suke killed George but Roach didn’t murder Abraham. That was the work of Jonty Berwick.’

  The poor girl turns green. ‘Jonty could never harm a child.’

  ‘He was weak, Nell Grey. H
e was in thrall to Mrs Tuffnell.’ I tell her about the hidden gold, and, haltingly, explain how Jonty behaved with Mrs Tuffnell and how she made him lie for her.

  Nell Grey cries when I have finished. ‘Even Suke Cross acted out of love,’ she sobs. ‘Jonty only cared for his own skin. Poor Pug. How could he?’

  ‘Because he didn’t think he mattered, being a negro. You said yourself that Mrs Tuffnell treated Abraham like a lap-dog. Tricking him up in plush suits, forcing him to pose with her coffee pot, making him sit on her knee, a great fellow of eight. I never saw such an unhappy child.’ I feel a great ache, remembering how lonely the boy avowed himself to be. ‘I wonder what his real name was.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Abraham’s a strange name for an African. Most are called Sambo, aren’t they? Still … shall we make a wooden cross and write Abraham on it, and see if the verger can be coaxed to put it on his grave? Next time we go to Bristol?’

  Nell Grey agrees it would be fitting, and with our hearts consoled a little by our kindness, we go in search of supper.

  ***

  Later I find Mr Tuffnell hunched by his parlour fire, head bowed low. I am used to my master striding about the house, shouting orders, pulling on his boots or writing at furious speed, splashing his sleeves with ink and calling for someone to run and fetch more paper from the stationer’s. Now he is stricken.

  ‘Shall I stoke the fire, Sir?’ He usually prefers to have the charge of it himself, but tonight he has let it burn away to ash.

  He reaches out his hand. ‘Thank you for what you did to uncover the truth, Amesbury. Though I ought not to thank you, for I would rather remember Maria otherwise. I suppose you proved her innocence in most respects.’

  Although I would like to pull my hand away it is awkward to do so when he is so forlorn.

  ‘She deserved none of it, Sir. Her mother used her very ill, and she tried to make a better life for herself. She lived in terror she would be found out.’