A Pair of Sharp Eyes

by Kat Armstrong

  ‘To all here today, I beseech you pray for my soul and to the Almighty to pardon my offence. I am guilty of the crime for which I am to hang, and repent my sins, especially this most gravest one of which I am accused. May I beg forgiveness from my dear mother and father, for bringing shame on our family and on all those I love. I never set out to do what I did, I scarcely know how I did it except I know I did do it, how it happened is a mystery to me almost as much as to any.’

  As he rambles the crowd begins to shout and drown him out, and he stops, defeated; the chaplain pats his arm and leads him back to where he stood before.

  Suke Cross does not learn from this example. She shakes off the constable who holds her arm, and steps forward, lifting her chin to face the crowd.

  ‘Lord, don’t argue with your sentence,’ Mrs Hucker murmurs. ‘They will have you dance an hour.’

  Suke’s blood is up too much for caution. And perhaps the people hope to see her endure the cruellest fate in the hangman’s power to give her, or perhaps they want to hear the confession of a female child-killer, but whatever the reason they are silent as she utters:

  ‘May God forgive me and have mercy on my soul.’ It is a promising enough beginning. Then she adds in a rush: ‘But all we the rest, though baptized and born again in Christ, yet offend in many things, and if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.’

  A pause as her effrontery sinks in, and order gives way to riot, the crowd howling and pelting the cart and its occupants with whatever they can find. The constable drags Suke Cross back while her audience stamps with fury and several women spit at her.

  My eye is caught by a small, round-shouldered woman moving through the masses towards the gallows. She must be fifty-odd years old, and as she reaches the cart she makes herself heard to an officer, who nods and indicates for her to use the mounting block to climb aboard. Once there she falls on Suke Cross, tears rolling down her face, clasping her daughter’s bony hands, then running her fingers over the shorn head and shaking her own in seeming disbelief.

  She clings to her daughter until at last the constable parts them and helps Gammer Cross from the cart. Suke still cranes for glimpses of her mother when another officer takes out a linen hood from a crate and pulls it over her head, while a second does the same to Jonathan Berwick.

  Muffled weeping can be heard from the prisoners as the chaplain prays. ‘Almighty God, Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, maker of all things, judge of all men; We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness, which we from time to time most grievously have committed, by thought, word, and deed, against thy divine majesty, provoking most justly thy wrath and indignation against us. We do earnestly repent.’ Considering these general words too scant, he improvises a prayer of his own devising: ‘For the souls of this wicked man and woman, whose crimes are the most detestable that may be imagined, and for the innocent children deprived by them of life, and for all Christians who see by their example that the wages of sin are death.’

  Then, nodding genially to some of the children in the crowd, he offers a homely prayer: ‘For this great city and its brave sea-faring men, for our friends in the West Indies and the East Indies and Guinea and around the world,’ and God forgive my impatience but I wish he would give over his canting and let the hangman do his business. Jonathan’s hood bears a spreading stain where the half-brick gashed his forehead, and Suke Cross sways on her feet.

  At last the chaplain claps shut his book.

  ‘Mother! Father!’ Jonathan calls, his voice faint; but no one answers.

  The hangman clambers up, a little brown-skinned man with a peppering of moles; I had not noticed him perched on the cart-box next to the driver.

  ‘Ah! Make them wait!’ someone jests, and others laugh and cry ‘Aye!’ but with no sign he hears these rude suggestions the hangman reaches for a noose, loops it over Suke Cross’s head, and tightens the knot.

  The same for the other. Over the head slides the rope, and carefully the hangman checks the knot. A pause, a satisfied nod at his handiwork, then, turning, he slowly scans the crowd until his eye alights on the effigy of the black boy. Delighted, the apprentices thrust the manikin above their heads again, handling it so roughly that it sprays the crowd with sawdust.

  A whisper turns into a chant, and soon the place echoes to gleeful cries of ‘Beast! Beast!’

  The chaplain is obliged to stand before the crowd for many minutes, patiently half-smiling now and then, before the noise abates, but at last, save for a stray catcall, the crowd is quiet. From the hood over Suke Cross’s face comes a stifled cry; her knees sag, but the nearest constable has her elbows gripped.

  Suddenly, without a sign, he lets her go. The driver lifts his whip and strikes the horse. The cart is off, dragging the prisoners a yard or two before they drop. All is creaking, juddering timber as the gallows take the strain.

  A lurch, weak spasms, and Suke Cross’s body spins like a sack of flour. Jonathan Berwick is very much alive. He writhes and gurgles. A man steps up to shorten his suffering, but the hangman puts out a hand to bar his way. The body struggles, lets out a set of rasping cries, seems to smother, then twists and shudders and emits a sound like boiling glue.

  Not a soul in the crowd speaks. The feet flex, curl inward, flutter and quiver until at last they dangle lifeless. No more sounds come from the hood. A dead weight turning in the wind; a bundle of logs in a loose white sack.

  The chaplain clambers up once more. Opening his book, he resumes droning. ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’

  On the ground a constable mops his face.

  ‘Don’t cry, Corrie,’ breathes Nell Grey.

  ‘I won’t,’ I say, indignant. I was there when Suke Cross prated about the ‘evil pedlar’. I saw the look of horror Jonathan put on to mask his guilt. I swabbed the floor of blood when Abraham was killed, and I wept for my little fellow George, as good as these two wicked souls are damned.

  Mrs Hucker turns to us, eyes bright with righteousness. ‘So help me God, I wish the crowd had torn them both in pieces.’

  Only then do I turn so no one sees my tears.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Wednesday, April 2nd 1704

  A day or two later Nell Grey, Mrs Hucker and I are at our chores when Mr Tuffnell calls me to the parlour.

  Mr Wharton and Mr Espinosa are there, and I expect to be told to fetch three glasses and a bottle of sherry wine. Instead he bids me stand before him.

  Mr Espinosa brings across a chair and smiles. ‘You had better sit, Miss Amesbury, I think.’

  My heart patters. ‘Is it my sister, Sir? Is there bad news?’

  Mr Tuffnell beams. ‘By no means. I have good news for you, Amesbury—extraordinarily good news.’

  I look from face to face. Mr Wharton, usually so stern and solemn, has unbent enough that he is grinning. Mr Espinosa takes a sealed packet from his frock-coat. If I am not mistaken his eyes twinkle.

  ‘You’d better spit it out, Sir,’ I say.

  Mr Tuffnell draws breath. ‘Remember the prize that I and several other merchants put up for anyone discovering the murderer of my stable boy? Twenty guineas were lodged with Mr Sampson, and Mr Espinosa has them here. Aaron?’ Mr Espinosa hands the packet to Mr Tuffnell. ‘With the grateful thanks of the Merchant Venturers’ Society of Bristol, I hereby present Mistress Coronation Amesbury with twenty guineas, a reward for her brave, determined and shrewd pursuit of the person hanged for the murder of a servant belonging to my household. Here.’

  He presses it in my hand. I think it would be ungracious if I were to ask why the packet feels so light, but fortunately Mr Espinosa guesses my train of thought. ‘It’s a bill of exchange, Miss Amesbury. If you go to my master’s shop, he’ll give you the sum in gold.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you, thank you kindly, Sirs. Though I only sought the truth, Mr Tuffnell.’

  ‘O
f course you did, Amesbury. Virtue is its own reward. But a little gilding don’t come amiss, eh?’

  The gentlemen chuckle, and so do I, too surprised to make a pretty speech of thanks to the Merchant Venturers for their generosity, or to wonder why they are willing to reward me though the other murders remain a mystery. My eyes are moist. ‘I always dreamt of owning my own shop, Sir. I never thought I should.’

  It may be my fancy, but Mr Tuffnell looks a touch put out. ‘Well now, shop-keeping can be profitable, to be sure. But it requires an outlay, and the hours are long and returns exceeding variable.’

  ‘I have my capital now, Sir. I can work hard. I expect I will turn a profit by and by.’

  ‘I for one don’t doubt it,’ Mr Espinosa says. ‘I wish you the best of luck, Miss Amesbury. You deserve a chance to be independent.’ He catches sight of Mr Tuffnell’s face. ‘Though you are most fortunate in your current situation, of course.’

  ‘And you may wish to continue here for now, Amesbury. In which case I recommend that you allow Mr Espinosa to retain the bill of exchange for safe-keeping. He can ask Mr Sampson to look after it for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir, but I will keep it if you don’t mind. I may take it to Mr Sampson to be exchanged on my next half-holiday. Or I may not.’

  ‘Oh.’ My master speaks a trifle stiffly. ‘Well, it is yours to do with as you wish, of course.’

  ‘Meanwhile I thank you and had better return to carrying in the coal pails, if you don’t mind, Sirs?’

  Off I go to share my good news with Nell Grey and promise her two new pairs of stockings when my ship comes in, and I smile, remembering the looks on the faces of those gentlemen, when they hardly knew how to speak to me, a servant and a woman of property at one and the same time.

  ***

  That evening Mr Tuffnell calls me to the parlour again, and this time I find two glasses of sherry wine on the table.

  ‘I’m sure you agree we should celebrate, Amesbury,’ he says, waving me to sit in the Turkey-work chair that his wife preferred when they shared the parlour. Not that they shared it as often as they might have done. ‘I must work tonight, but a glass of sherry don’t go amiss.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘To toast your new-won wealth, and my new house. Mr Wharton has been busy these past two weeks, when I was occupied with the assizes. He’s bought a plot of land on my behalf and hired an architect. In little more than a year I will be removing back to Bristol, to a fine new mansion.’

  The sherry wine is sweet and spicy, and I am happy to clink glasses with Mr Tuffnell. ‘I’m pleased to hear it, Sir.’

  ‘Queen-square,’ he says. ‘My dear late father would have been astonished. But I’ve worked hard for my success, as he did for his.’

  ‘Was he a merchant too, Sir? Did he sell Africans in the Indies?’

  ‘On a small scale.’ A pause, as Mr Tuffnell muses on his humble roots. He returns to the present. ‘Of course, I shall need a helpmeet when I am master of so substantial a household.’

  My heart flips. ‘Will you, Sir?’

  He eyes me playfully. ‘Come, Amesbury, what’s your answer?’

  ‘To what, Mr Tuffnell? You haven’t asked me anything.’

  He fidgets. ‘Now then, Amesbury. No call to make this difficult. You are a young woman with many attributes, but your portion is small.’ He smiles to himself. ‘You must be wondering why you were awarded twenty guineas though certain of the murders continue unexplained. Let us just say, I took it upon myself to ensure you were remunerated—never let it be said I am niggardly to my servants. Quite the opposite. Hang it all, Amesbury, you cannot need persuading—no over-sentimental declarations of undying love and so forth—to accept my proposal.’

  ‘Proposal as to what, Sir?’

  ‘Great God! Are my needs not obvious? Nor my feelings plain? When my wife was alive of course I stifled those feelings—dismissed them as animal urges. But my wife, may it please God to rest her soul in peace, is dead, and although in the ordinary course of things I might have chosen to wait before remarrying, I am very happy to embark on a fresh chapter of my life without delay.’

  ‘You are asking me to be your wife, Sir?’

  ‘What else? To be sure, it is a vast leap from your station to wife of a man of my wealth and standing, but you will adapt, I think. You are,’ he beams, ‘a young woman of resourcefulness and intelligence. I beguile myself with the prospect you may in time be of assistance to me in my business.’ He drops to his knees and reaches for my hand. ‘Think of it, Amesbury—Coronation. Member of the powerful Society of Merchant Venturers in all but name. Helping to send vessels round the world. Judging what to sell and what to buy. Involved in all I do, and adding your wisdom and common sense to every one of my business decisions. I’ve one to make tonight.’ He nods to the pile of papers waiting on his desk. ‘A proposal from Mr Osmund, who wishes to be my equal partner in a voyage to Guinea in the spring.’ Mr Tuffnell taps my hand flirtatiously. ‘What do you advise, Coronation? He’s a novice investor in the slave trade, but a man of influence in Jamaica. Shall I take the risk?’

  He means to be humorous, and I respond accordingly. I am not really expected to give an opinion on the matter. I smile. ‘You ask me to marry you but I’d rather you asked me to be your housekeeper, Sir.’

  His expression is amazed and crestfallen. ‘Housekeeper? You’d rather remain a servant than become my wife?’

  ‘A nest egg such as mine in combination with an upper servants’ salary is a good foundation for a young person, Mr Tuffnell. A few years’ service will set me up very well for establishing my own business. I should like my own business, as I believe I told you earlier, Sir.’

  ‘Miss Amesbury, I can scarcely believe what I hear.’ His expression is comically disappointed. ‘Well, this is a salutary correction to my pretensions as a suitor. I had not thought myself quite so undesirable.’

  ‘A housekeeper is head of the household, saving yourself, Sir. With responsibility for all the indoor servants and keeping the accounts for the kitchen and other expenses, such as lighting and fuel. She plans menus, and sends items for repair. Hires tradesmen, and keeps a tally of such of your stock as is kept at home, Sir, and not in your warehouse. She ensures your house is clean and in good repair. She acts as moral instructress to her fellow servants, and is trusted to inform of any indiscretions committed by them.’

  My master begins to look anxious at this recital. ‘You might be capable, in time, Amesbury—you are a little young for some of the duties you mention.’

  ‘I am quick to learn. As you said so yourself, I am resourceful.’ I pause. ‘It would be an honour to serve you in such a capacity. After all, the role of housekeeper is hardly as exacting as a wife’s. You offered me the greater, Sir.’

  Mr Tuffnell’s palms must be damp, for he wipes them surreptitiously on his coat-skirts. ‘Well, I suppose you make a good point, Amesbury. Indeed you do. That’s settled then. Housekeeper.’ He coughs hastily. ‘At least, when my new house is ready. Until then perhaps you will consider yourself housekeeper-in-waiting. Who knows, you may change your mind given time,’ he adds, murmuring to himself rather than to me.

  ‘Housekeeper-in-waiting. That will do very well. Thank you, Sir. Now then, shall I clear these glasses and leave you to your papers? You did say you have a great many papers to read and sign tonight. I have kept you over-long.’

  I collect the tray and the flask of sherry, and my hand is on the door knob when a thought strikes me. ‘If you are sincerely interested in my view of Mr Osmund’s offer, Sir, I advise you to decline it.’

  He blinks.

  ‘Mr Osmund is not an honourable man. You can take it as certain, for I have met him and found him boorish and ungentlemanly, and his own friends hold him in low esteem. Don’t trust him, Sir. Good night.’

  Mrs Hucker and Nell Grey are seated by the kitchen fire. Cook looks at me concerned. ‘Corrie, if Master makes a nuisance of himself, don’t endure his atten
tions in silence. When he asks to see you of an evening, Nell Grey or I will come too, or I’ll go in your stead. His fancy will wander elsewhere in time, I’m sure. He misses his wife, poor fellow.’

  Making no reply, I set down my tray and refill the glasses to the brim with Mr Tuffnell’s best sherry. Then I place the glasses on the tray and offer it to my companions. Nell Grey looks shocked, and hesitates to help herself, but Mrs Hucker draws a breath and taking hold of the glass nearest to her, bursts out laughing.

  Nell Grey stares at her in puzzlement as the cook exclaims. ‘I knew it. I knew he couldn’t hold out any longer. When’s it to be?’ She swipes Nell Grey’s knee. ‘He’s asked her to marry him. I’m right, aren’t I? I’m delighted for you, girl. I venture to say he’s a lucky man. Congratulations. I hope you’ll be happy and all your troubles will be little ones. Mrs Coronation Tuffnell, eh? Well, you have the right Christian name for a lady, that’s for sure.’

  Though she makes me laugh I can’t let her run on any longer. ‘You’ve leapt to conclusions, Mrs Hucker. Mr Tuffnell made me a proposal which I have gladly accepted, but it is to be his housekeeper when he removes to Queen-square.’

  The good old soul sinks back into her chair. ‘Oh, bless me, is that it, after all? I beg you forget what I just said, both of you. I was dozing before you came in, I daresay I was half-asleep. You must think I’m daft.’ She titters, and falls silent.

  ‘Housekeeper?’ Nell Grey repeats, frowning. ‘Are you sure, Corrie? You’re a clever girl, and capable, but you’re not yet fifteen years old.’ Then she tilts her head and looks at me kindly. ‘Do you think it possible he may change his mind? He’s all at sea at present. It must be hard to keep a cool head so soon after a loss like the one he’s suffered. You mustn’t be disappointed if he bethinks himself, Corrie, dear. He does have a high regard for you, and I’m sure he’ll want you to stay on in his new house. Let’s say a toast to all of us. May our wages be raised in the next twelve months.’

  ‘Hear hear,’ says Cook, and the two of them sip solemnly and Nell Grey offers me her glass that I may share it.