Shadow of the Past (21 page)

‘Is it far?’ I asked, almost despite myself.

‘For a young man like you, not above the half hour,’ he declared with finality.

Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Mrs Twiss interposed. ‘Now, Parson Campion, it is at about this hour I ring for the servants to join our evening prayers. I believe my husband has already asked if you would be kind enough to lead us…’

I did not feel I had time to pursue the usual courtesies of leaving my card before making my call upon the Larwoods, so I presented myself the very next day at the house near Holcombe that the Twisses had indicated. Perhaps manners were freer here, for the rosy-cheeked servant had no hesitation in showing me into the morning room. Half of me was full of shame that I had imposed on the friendly family; the other half was pleased that at last I might ask a direct question of the parties I believed to be involved. Jem had insisted on waiting outside – perhaps he thought that the Larwoods might try to run for it, or perhaps he preferred not to lie yet again, even by implication, about his identity.

Guilt was uppermost when I was offered refreshment by Mrs George Larwood, a kindly old lady, a lace cap perched perilously on hair thick, springy hair still showing traces of the original auburn. I declined it swiftly, explaining apologetically that my business was in fact with the younger Larwoods. I remained on my feet.

‘The matter is, alas, confidential,’ I added.

With a shrewd look, she rang the bell, bidding the young servant, whose mousy hair looked almost abnormal in the household, to fetch Mr John. His wife was not mentioned.

Mrs Larwood did not quit the room when he appeared, but retired to the window seat and her stitchery.

Mr John Larwood, whom I judged to be in his late thirties, was a strong man of military bearing and a coat almost certainly cut by Stultz, although I had heard no suggestion that he might be engaged in anything other than commerce. His eyes, as blue as the previous day’s sky, were set under brows, like his hair, almost orange in hue.

Now wearing my bands, I could be no less than honest, introducing myself under my own name. ‘A few weeks ago I called at your house, Mr Larwood. My enquiry about the whereabouts of Mr Chamberlain caused your wife a great deal of anxiety; indeed, I think it made you flee the city.’

‘I had received some bad news,’ he blustered.

‘I think that I myself was the bad news. But I came merely to ask a question, not to threaten you in any way. I assure you that you have nothing at all to fear from me.’

Despite my softly spoken and sincere words, his white skin became if possible even more bloodless. But he did not flinch from asking, ‘Why do you want Mr Chamberlain?’

‘I wished to restore some property to him. However, that was but part of a larger mission, Mr Larwood, concerning a death and a missing person.’

He nodded me to a seat, himself remaining on his feet, the better, I suspected, to control the situation. ‘I deserve an explanation.’

After a moment, I sat down, thinking to reduce the tension crackling about the room. ‘An explanation you shall have –
provided, Mr Larwood, that you reciprocate. I had arranged with your wife to speak to you at four. When I arrived to keep the appointment, I found no one at home. Calling at the back door of your house, in the hope of speaking to one of your servants, I was knocked down by someone emerging from your brew-house and robbed. Was this at your behest? In which case,’ I continued, reading the answer in his face, ‘Would you be kind enough to restore my watch to me? Its value is sentimental only.’

‘Yes.’ It was impossible to tell whether he was agreeing with my estimation of its value or acquiescing in my request. He made no effort to summon a servant or to leave the room himself.

‘May I ask why you should do such a thing?’

‘I wished…to deter you from following us. I hope your injury was not serious.’ He sat heavily on a chair opposite, its legs so spindly that I wondered how they would support him. ‘I repeat, what is Mr Chamberlain to you?’

‘I do not know him.’ I raised a placatory hand. ‘Nay, I promise you that I tell the truth. But I think he knows a young lady who disappeared in most mysterious circumstances after a death in my parish. His address and a little property were found in the trunk she abandoned.’

‘What was the property?’

‘Something else of sentimental value. But not to me. You have a daughter, Mr Larwood, whose dark hair is at very least unusual in your family. May I tell you what I think? I think that you and your wife, denied by the Almighty issue of your own, have adopted her.’

I might have struck him. ‘What of it?’

‘I think you have given her a loving home she might
otherwise have lacked, and there is no shame at all in that. Heirs are adopted every day, young women taken into childless households to bear a woman company. So are you trying to protect someone else from the shame of disclosure? The natural mother?’

He was on his feet in an instant. ‘How did you guess?’ He motioned away his mother as she made to comfort him. She remained standing but, fearing she might faint, I rose and persuaded her to take my seat.

‘The item of sentimental value was a lock of a baby’s hair,’ I said. ‘It was not auburn, as yours is. And your daughter’s is not auburn either.’

‘It would ruin the woman were identity to be known. It is not my secret to betray.’

‘I understand that. And believe me, when I promise you that were it not that a lady – possibly the same one – is being sought by the coroner as a witness, I would not have made this journey. Rather me than a court official or a Bow Street Runner,’ I added. ‘However, now I am here, I would also wish to assure myself of Miss Southey’s good health. If one man is slain, and a young woman disappears, leaving behind her luggage, which is then ransacked, you will admit that there is cause for alarm.’ Would my friend Dr Hansard have introduced the name at this stage? Had I been wise? But the risk might have had a result.

Without speaking, he rose and poured three glasses of wine, his hand shaking so much that a little slopped on the carpet.

‘There is no need for anxiety, sir. I am a man of the cloth. You have my word that I will reveal to the court nothing that is not absolutely germane to the case.’ For manners’ sake, I
sipped the wine, which was thin and sour. ‘What I fear is that, knowing I am searching for her, Miss Southey will make the same desperate bid to escape as you and your family did, trying to elude all pursuers.’

He nodded, as if accepting the justice of that, at least.

Keeping my voice low, and, I hoped, gentle, I asked, ‘Could it be that Miss Southey is your daughter’s natural mother?’

‘You’d best tell him, my son,’ Mrs Larwood said quietly, a handkerchief to her lips. ‘Then perhaps he’ll go and leave us in peace.’

‘If anyone finds out, we lose our daughter,’ he declared, as if each word hurt his throat to utter it.

I took another risk. ‘Because Mr Chamberlain does not want it known?’

He looked at me sharply. ‘Indeed.’

‘But he has no powers to remove her. Not unless she is his natural child,’ I conceded.

‘No, he is not. But he is an important man – has influence—’

Someone else had used almost the same words, had they not? I dredged my memory. At last I had it: old Mrs Powell had told me that Miss Southey had left the Hall in the company of an important man. I was tempted, however, to dismiss it as coincidence – the adjective was hardly unusual, after all.

‘Sufficient influence to remove a child from a loving family? Unless he is the father indeed, I think not.’

‘He is anxious to – to protect Miss Southey’s good name.’

‘In that case,’ I reasoned, hoping that for once Dr Hansard would not have criticised my logic, ‘if he is not the child’s father is he the mother’s?’

‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘But you are not here to speak of him, just of Miss Southey—’

‘Am I to assume that Southey is an assumed name?’

‘Possibly.’

‘And is Chamberlain assumed also?’

‘I do not know.’ He looked me in the eyes. ‘I give you my word, I do not know the true name of either party.’

Believing him, I pressed my fingers to my temples, not knowing which questions to ask next. At last I ventured, ‘I think I must speak to Miss Southey herself. Do you know her whereabouts?’

‘Not directly. I was told that – should the need ever arise – I must write to her care of a third party.’

‘And who would that be?’

Mrs Larwood rose to her feet. ‘We will have no peace from him, man of the cloth or no, until he has winkled every last secret from us.’ Holding her handkerchief to her eyes, she fled the room.

‘Your mother loves the child as much as you do,’ I observed.

‘She has brought light into our lives,’ he declared. ‘Mr Campion, I could not love her more dearly were she my own flesh and blood. My wife also. Can you not…must you…? Say I persuaded Miss Southey to write to this coroner of yours explaining what she saw and why she left – would not that suffice?’

‘I wish with all my heart that it would. But a man has been murdered, Mr Larwood – a good man, who almost literally gave up his life so that another might live. A poor man, hoping for no reward but the good fortune of his friend. He lies even now in an unnamed grave in my own parish. Does not such a man deserve justice?’

I think I was about to persuade him, when we heard childish screams coming form outside the house.

‘Dear God, that is Emma! What is happening to her?’ And he dashed from the room.

It was as if the whole household, myself included, was like a flock of sheep set into a panic by the shadow of a bird. I suppose the Larwoods had already been cast into alarm by my reappearance. They must have construed everything in that light, with myself as a stage villain. So when they saw their precious child in a stranger’s arms, they all thought the worst.

I at least could see that it was no vicious kidnapper who was holding Miss Emma, who was showing every sign of being charmed out of her tears. It was Jem.

‘Give her back – for God’s sake, man, have mercy,’ Mrs Larwood implored.

Larwood looked ready to kill with his bare hands, but held back lest the vicious kidnapper harmed his daughter.

Meanwhile, I was trying – vainly, it seemed – to reassure everyone. ‘She is quite safe, Mr Larwood. ’Tis my friend, Mr Yeomans – Pray, cease this noise at once. ’Tis my friend, I tell you. Enough! Jem, bring the child here, if you please.’

Not knowing what had but recently passed between us, Jem looked bemused, setting down an equally puzzled little lady,
who swiftly apprehended everyone’s anxiety and resolved to resume her noise. Mr Larwood darted to her and scooped her up, but she insisted even more loudly that she wanted her mama or her dear Nurse, a weary-eyed woman who now joined us.

Jem looked from one to the other. ‘Miss Emma took a tumble and cut her hand. See, that is my handkerchief about the wound.’ He addressed himself to the child, with his kindest smile. ‘We had just decided that she would not expire on the spot, had we not, Miss Emma? And I had promised we would go and find Mama.’

‘This is my friend, Mr Yeomans,’ I reiterated. ‘He did not wish to join me inside lest he overheard matters best kept within your family. But you may trust him with your life – and with your daughter’s.’

‘You said I might ride on your shoulders,’ Miss Emma declared, holding out her arms to him.

Mr Larwood pressed her close, but the child was squirming so much she was likely to fall. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he set her down, and she ran straight to my friend. Nonetheless, he looked for approval from her parents before scooping her up. ‘Young lady,’ he said, tilting his head up so that she might hear, ‘guide me to your nursery, so we can clean that hand of yours. And maybe Nurse will find you a bandage.’

Nurse Fowler smiled, however anxiously, and led the way indoors. By now Miss Emma was singing at the top of her voice – as Betty Ewers had declared, she had the sweetest voice and sang in tune, far from the monotonous yells that too often characterised our village children’s music-making. The rest of us followed in stately procession, since our numbers
now included the older Mrs Larwood, an indoor man, the servant who had admitted me and a sturdy and truculent-looking man whose rusty ginger hair and painful gait suggested most strongly that he might be Mr Larwood senior.

We foregathered once again in the room to which I had originally been admitted, but the ladies, both inclined to be tearful, agreed with Mr John Larwood that they should go and see how Miss Emma did. He found brandy of a far superior quality to the wine, and offered it to me and his father, with whom I exchanged a courteous bow.

‘Your friend has certainly won the trust of my daughter,’ the younger man conceded.

‘He already has the trust and love of all who know him,’ I declared. ‘In fact, I ought to have asked him to speak to you in my place, for his simple eloquence would have convinced you more than my blundering words that we only seek the best for everyone. There is one thing that you should know, however,’ I added. ‘When I was assaulted and robbed, I sent for the Bow Street Runners, who found your address for me. The man on the case is a tenacious individual, by name of Alfred Mullins. I would not be at all surprised if he makes his way here, although I have declared the case closed.’

‘Not if he is coming from London, he won’t,’ Mr George Larwood declared. ‘I hear there’s deep snow near Marlborough. Coaches jammed into the drifts, horses with broken legs – all sorts. I hate snow. We don’t get much down here, thank the Lord, and if we do it doesn’t lie, not like up on the moors. Just think of those poor Frenchies,’ he continued, pointing to an old newspaper, ‘coming all that way from Moscow in that Russian weather.’

‘Nothing can make me pity them,’ his son declared.

‘Nay, in the general run of things, I loathe every last one. But ’tis the wicked leader of theirs, that Devil’s spawn Napoleon, who I hate most. Half a million he takes to Moscow, officers and men, and ’tis said that only twenty thousand have managed to cross the Niemen. Killed not by the Russians, cleanly, in battle, but dying of hunger and cold.’

‘Belike if the autumn weather had been more like autumn than winter there’d have been far more of them and all of them looking to invade us next,’ his son said.

‘Surely he will not make another attempt,’ I said.

‘That there Boney’ll do anything, you mark my words. And all those Frenchies and Americans in that new prison up on Dartmoor, they’ll all rise up and then where will we be?’

At least I had diverted his anxieties from his family, but it seemed that he was at peril from something far more dangerous than me. Perhaps we all were.

‘What I would propose, gentlemen, is this,’ I said, returning to the only matter over which I had control. ‘If you furnish me with pen and ink I could write a deposition to Mr Mullins, explaining that all has been resolved and requiring him to leave you in peace. I might add a guinea under the seal to ease his conscience. But first I would ask you to trust me further. Surely you have access to Miss Southey without resort to Mr Chamberlain in case of an emergency?’

‘You can have all the paper and ink you want,’ Mr John Larwood declared. ‘But on the last suit I cannot satisfy you. All I have is his address. I give you my word.’

‘And will you trust me with that? I promise you the utmost discretion. And I will add a word to Mr Mullins to the effect that you are threatened with blackmail, and that he must give you all possible assistance should you require it.’

The men exchanged glances.

‘Blackmail is what Mr Chamberlain threatens, is it not? Since you have not broken the law, you must be protected from those who do. Moreover, you are actually assisting the Warwickshire coroner, and entitled to security twice over.’

I had said something of significance, that was clear.

‘Warwickshire?’ Mr George Larwood repeated, but more to his son than to me. ‘Is that not where—?’

‘Where Mr Chamberlain lives?’ I prompted. ‘I beg you, let me have his address this instant.’

‘We know not where he lives,’ the younger man replied. ‘If we ever had to contact him, we were supposed to send our letter to an inn in Warwick. The Rose and Crown. And we were not to expect a speedy response—’

‘Which implies he does not collect his letters with any frequency,’ I concluded. If only I had Dr Hansard beside me.

‘That’s what we thought. That belike he lives elsewhere, and only calls in on market day,’ his father said.

Market day was a reasonable assumption if you were a countryman dependent on such things.

‘Is there any reason why you might wish to write to him? Any emergency?’

Both shook their heads. ‘Only
in extremis
,’ the younger Mr Larwood declared. ‘So that Miss Southey might attend…’ He swallowed hard.

‘To send such a message would be beyond all things cruel,’ I said swiftly. ‘I must confer with the coroner in charge of the case to see how he wishes to approach the problem. Gentlemen, in the circumstances you have been all consideration, all patience. But now I think Mr Yeomans and I must quit Devon with all speed.’

The old man nodded. ‘Aye, that you should. If you don’t want to be laid up at Bristol for a week with the snow.’ Presumably he had the same ability to predict the weather as our villagers.

‘But first your letter to Mr Mullins,’ his son said, reaching a standish from a pretty escritoire, and finding passable paper in a drawer. ‘Will you take some refreshment? You and Mr Yeomans? Cold meat and cheese can be had on the instant. Meanwhile I will have the gig harnessed, and a lad shall ride down to Dawlish to procure your seats on the stage. You have just two hours to pack your bags.’

‘Part of it at least is easy,’ Jem said.

He had flung our clothes into our valises while I paid our shot, and now we were ensconced, if not comfortably, in a coach whose only other passengers thus far were a comfortable-looking woman in her forties and a girl so young and pretty that I was surprised to see her travelling alone without a chaperon or even a servant. She was too shy to be drawn into conversation with even a clergyman such as I, and perhaps considered herself above the other woman, who spoke at length of her new situation in Cullompton. After feigning sleep the girl now genuinely slept, her rosy mouth falling slightly open. Her bonnet was sadly crushed against the squabs, as we jolted over ruts and through puddles. So far at least, as the older woman pointed out, we could be thankful that there was no snow. At each change of horses she sniffed the air, country-fashion, and declared that the worst we could expect yet was a sharp frost. As the day darkened all too swiftly into night, she was proved right, and she nodded with satisfaction as we helped her out at her destination.

‘What part?’ I asked Jem humbly, myself lacking the least idea of how to go forward.

‘That inn in Warwick where we are to lure Mr Chamberlain. A good ostler is always required – and I am sure that you can pen a letter that will find them ready to employ me.’

‘An ostler? In a public inn? Dear Jem, it is not to be thought of.’

‘Nay, Toby, I am not some blushing maiden with a reputation to protect. We need someone to watch the comings and goings that a letter to Mr Chamberlain provokes. It has to be some sort of letter, I collect? Very well, I am the one to keep watch, and if necessary follow him to his home.’ When I said nothing, he added anxiously, ‘I believe that young Willum will tend your stable as well as I.’

‘He will tend it well enough – but not as well as you, Jem. But I wonder if he – finding, as I am sure he does, that the village is sadly lacking in excitement – might not wish to join you. In such situations, two sets of eyes are better than one. And his are very sharp eyes indeed.’

‘So they are. But—’

‘You doubt my ability to run my own stable for a week? There must be half a dozen men who will offer at this time of year. And the experience will stand them in good stead. They will not do it well, but at least you – in heaven’s name, Jem, you cannot be a groom for ever. What would you like to do now?’

It was too dark to see his face, but I would have vouched for the surprise in his voice being genuine. ‘Do? But I do what I am – a groom.’

‘That is what you were born to. But you must know that
you have exceptional talents that would take you far in the world. If, God forbid, you were to join the army, your advancement would be swift.’

‘As to that, I have often wondered whether it was my duty…But truth to tell, Toby, I like my comforts. Marching hours on end only to bivouac in the cold; camp food; intolerable tedium; and then the inconvenience, if there is a battle, of getting killed or losing a limb here or there – no, I cannot say that I wish to enlist.’

‘A commission?’ I knew that my mother could persuade my father to purchase one for him, if not in a cavalry regiment.

‘At my age? Rubbing shoulders with all those lads straight from university? No, thank you.’

I had to agree.

‘This life suits me, truth to tell,’ he continued. ‘Especially this jauntering around the countryside, which adds a little spice to life. What else could a man ask?’

‘A man might ask for a pretty girl to welcome him home from his jaunterings.’

‘Even a clergyman might. But I don’t see either of us having one. That Miss Julia – she might make a man dream. Dream it would be, though – I can’t see a man like Mr Twiss wanting a groom as a son-in-law.’

‘Nor a village parson,’ I agreed. ‘But as to dreams, Jem – I have one too. You know that Lady Chase speaks of having a school for all the village children, and requiring all those on her estates to send them there till the age of eleven or twelve?’

‘You did mention it.’

‘Such children would need a schoolmaster. And I see you as that master.’

I heard his sharp intake of breath. But there was a long
pause before he said, very slowly, ‘Nay, that is a task for a university man.’

‘If it were Eton or Harrow, indeed. But do you imagine that the good women running dame schools have such an education? If they can teach their charges their letters and numbers that is all. But you! You are as well read as many of my acquaintances – nay, far better, for all they have degrees. You are patient. And you have other skills to pass on – for Lady Chase wants more than book-learning for the children. The girls are to sew and cook, the boys to grow vegetables and learn animal husbandry. Do you not see yourself—?’

But there I had to stop. Suddenly we were all thrown hither and yon. For a while if seemed as if the coach must overturn, but at last it was righted, and we continued as before. The jolts were enough to awaken the young lady, however, and she gave a screaming gasp.

‘Pray to not be alarmed,’ I said quickly, wondering whether I should take her hands to reassure her, but fearing that might but add to her distress, ‘you are in a stage coach, ma’am. I think you may have been asleep?’

‘Of course. Of course. But it is so dark, and – pray, where are we?’

‘Near Taunton, ma’am, I think. And we have a long way to go yet. So why do you not try to sleep again?’

‘I would be afraid – to have more such dreams,’ she whispered.

I rather thought she would be afraid to fall asleep knowing that there were only two strange men. So I started a light conversation which passed the time well enough but which prevented any further talk between Jem and me. And at last I think we all slept.