The Duke's Agent (13 page)

‘So now we have two people who might have witnessed Sal's end. The shoe is joined by the clog,' commented Jarrett, intrigued. He smiled up at the man. ‘And what of that print? Am I unlucky enough to have feet the size of a murderer's?'

Duffin returned him a lugubrious, deadpan look. ‘Good thing you've smallish feet,' he said, then grinned. ‘Your boot fair rattled about in that mark. Magistrate would have it that blood had spread soaking into the rock. A print that sharp's never spread, says I. Besides, the shoe that made that mark's straight-lasted – such as common folk wear, the same shoe for left and right. Your boots were made for you. Any fool can see you can tell the left from right. Not that he were listening. He likes you for the deed, that's plain.'

‘And did those marks tell you anything?'

‘The man who made that stride would be a taller man than you,' Duffin replied confidently. ‘A thumb's shy of six foot or near there, I'd swear. And another thing – when he carried her, he got blood on him. It'd have stained his breast and shoulder, the way her head was dripping.'

Jarrett pondered this new information a moment. ‘Ah, well. We will see what tomorrow will bring. Raistrick cannot investigate alone. He will have to be joined by a second Justice soon.'

A pallet of boards stood in a corner. Jarrett pulled the bed into the pool of light that fell from the grating. He sat with one leg stretched out and the other crooked up, leaning his chin on his raised knee. The shadows emphasised the vertical creases that marked out his cheeks. Duffin watched him in companionable silence.

‘Duffin, you told me the Tallyman was a tall fellow with yellow hair who used to be a sailor, did you not?'

The poacher lifted grizzled eyebrows and grunted. Jarrett's shadowed eyes focused beyond the wall. ‘You wouldn't know if he happens to wear a blue coat?'

‘Seen him, have you?' asked Duffin.

‘No. Have you read the handbill from the Justice at Brough concerning the murder of the crofter up on the moor?'

‘Canna read.'

‘The witness gave the murderer to be a tall, yellow-haired fellow in a blue coat. A man with hair braided up in a tail like a sailor – and he was thought to be pock-marked. You described the Tallyman as cribbage-faced, I think?'

Silence lay between them.

‘How did he die, this crofter?' ventured Duffin at last.

‘The bill did not say – though it seems the victim bled freely.'

Duffin pulled back his shoulders with an audible click of his bones. ‘Tallyman's mighty fond of his French knife. Likes that chalking trick of carving a man's cheek to make his point – never mind slicing a poor dog's throat,' he added bitterly.

Jarrett got up from the boards. He paced a turn or two between the shadows and the grimy light.

‘If we were to say – for the sake of argument – that the description contained in the bill I conveyed to Justice Raistrick brings to mind this Tallyman. If this bully has half the reputation you give him, Ezekiel, the magistrate would know of him – surely?' He stood up on the bed and grasped
the bars of the grating, to bring his face closer to the stoic features above him. ‘He does know of him, doesn't he?' he asked urgently.

The poacher's bear-like outline was silhouetted against the light. It gave an expressive shrug. Jarrett dropped back and rubbed his hands over his face and up through his fair hair, making it stand up in spikes.

‘A pretty pickle my eccentricities have led me into,' he murmured ruefully. Duffin's snort of agreement drifted down with the evening air.

In the arcade above, Mrs Bedlington came to the hatch.

‘Mr Jarrett, there are gentlefolk coming down the street!' she hissed in a stage whisper. Jarrett caught a glimpse of Duffin's parting nod before the poacher slid away into the darkness as noiselessly as he had come.

‘Well, Thaddaeus, I'd best be off,' Jarrett heard Mrs Bedlington pronounce in a carrying tone. ‘If I leave the place for more than half an hour it turns into a bear garden. Enjoy your meal, Mr Jarrett – and sleep sound. Though if he gets any rest in that pit you've thrown him into, Thaddaeus Bone, it'll be a miracle!' she added in a crushing aside.

‘Bless you, Mrs B. You are a true friend,' Jarrett called up after her. ‘Please present my compliments to Mr B.'

‘God keep you, sir. I'll be back in the morning with news and your breakfast,' she responded and departed.

Sleep did not prove easy. The boards were uncomfortable and the earth floor so damp it was no better alternative. The pieces of the puzzle shifted about, unsettling his mind. The magistrate knew more of the Tallyman than he wished to admit. The Tallyman was a likely suspect as the murderer of the crofter. All at once Jarrett recalled the tension of the boy hunched in Justice Raistrick's chamber and the muted roar of the caged presence in that inner room. The Tallyman could have been there in that very building while he, Jarrett, waited, an ignorant dupe, to see his master. His frustration at
the thought was leavened by the irony of that juxtaposition. If what he speculated was true, then it must have given the magistrate a devil of a shock to have the Duke's man coming in with that bill in his hand giving the description of his bully as the Stainmoor murderer. Little wonder at his behaviour at their first interview. Jarrett wished he had known at the time how unsettlingly well-informed he must have appeared to the magistrate at that meeting. He would have enjoyed it more.

Gradually he drifted into sleep. The dark figure of the Tallyman dominated his dreams. He saw him at the old manor house standing over Crotter's body. The Tallyman taking the books – an errand boy. He thought of her, Black-Eyed Sal. The tall featureless figure in a blue coat and yellow hair was bending over her lifeless body, a bright red halo spreading out from her black hair.

The sickening thought jolted him awake. Had Sal met her death solely that his enemy might trap him? His blind eyes were wide open in the darkness. Horses' hooves sounded and carriage wheels rolled over cobblestones. The light of flambeaux flickered on the walls of his prison as they passed. The carriages of gentlefolk off to some entertainment. He pictured the town cats exclaiming behind their fans at the scandal of the Duke's agent. He wondered who among his new acquaintance would take his part – if any.

‘Tomorrow promises to be an interesting day,' he told himself. He jammed his coat into a more comfortable bundle under his head. ‘I can only hope my letter arrived and found Charles.' With that thought he sank into sleep.

Footsteps entered his dreams. He saw Sal's feet walking in those bright buckled shoes and, above, the white stockings. All at once she stopped and looked down annoyed. ‘Look at this mud!' she exclaimed. ‘How am I to appear before all these folk clarted up so?' She raised her head and her dark eyes fixed him with their mischief.

Mrs Amelia Bedford wriggled a plump shoulder in its socket to relieve the cutting pressure of her long stays. The flat curls of her yellow hair gleamed in the candlelight. She was confident that no one at her Entertainment would be more fashionably dressed than she. She had planned the occasion carefully to fall after the arrival of a certain parcel from the most sought-after dressmaker in York. She stood now, greeting her guests, decked out in its contents, her whole person suffused with the high shine of self-satisfaction.

The Bedford home was the one house of distinction in an unfashionable part of town. It stood in a short avenue that inclined gently down to the river. Its imposing stone front looked across the wide street to the light-catching high windows of weavers' cottages, while the Poor House was a near neighbour, standing only three plots down. Mrs Bedford frequently scolded her husband about the unhealthy situation to which he confined her. He, however, was governed by a superstition that held that the moment he moved out of sight of his mill his fortunes would wither away. At this point in their repetitive argument he was fond of asking her if that was what she wanted; for how else would he pay for her fancies? He would then sugar the jibe with some compliment about how he liked to see her so bonny, before disappearing once more into his office or mill.

Mrs Bedford smoothed the lustrous black satin of her new gown and flicked open her large fan. Tonight she was sure of her desirability. This evening was carefully planned and
the object of her preparations could not fail to respond. As objectionable as the location of her house was, within, by candlelight, when she was in a good mood, Amelia Bedford was confident it bore comparison with any in the neighbourhood. Even with Oakdene Hall whose rooms, though large, were, she felt, quite barren. She preferred more detail and crowded her own rooms with a medley of vases, sofas, crystal and candelabra, covering her walls with rich papers and paintings of food in luxuriant colours.

The Reverend Prattman entered and bounded up the hall towards her. He had a youthful air for a bachelor of his age, she thought, as she extended a plump hand to be kissed.

‘Mrs Bedford. I am late! I have come direct from the Bishop. He insisted I stay to tea. He invited me to preach, you know. We discussed my text; 1 Corinthians, 33: Evil communications corrupt good manners. Our debate so caught me up I quite forgot the time.'

Mrs Bedford was not disposed to be upstaged by 1 Corinthians, but her eyes fell on new guests. Mrs Lonsdale and her niece were handing their outer garments to the servant. The younger woman's cloak fell back to reveal a dress that made Mrs Bedford's heart burn within her.

‘Why, doesn't Miss Lonsdale look well! A veritable forest nymph!' the parson declared enthusiastically, then wondered if he had said the wrong thing.

Dismissing Mr Prattman with a nod Mrs Bedford braced herself to greet the ladies. ‘Mrs Lonsdale. So glad you could come. Don't you look fine, Miss Lonsdale! Have you been to York?'

‘I am fortunate to have a cousin in London,' Henrietta replied courteously. ‘This is her taste you see, and I the lucky beneficiary of it.'

Mrs Bedford's experienced eyes took in every detail. The fine material fell in fluid folds about Miss Lonsdale's slim figure. She wore short sleeves veiled in a drapery that sketched
a scimitar sweep along the line of the shoulders, drawing attention to the curve of her neck. From the neat bandeau that confined her soft brown curls to the rounded toes of her little flat-heeled pumps, Miss Henrietta was the picture of elegance. Her skirts were ankle-length, Mrs Bedford noted thankfully, the same as her own. A sea-green crepe Vandyked in points about the petticoat; a pretty colour. She grudgingly admitted that with her height the present fashions suited Miss Lonsdale's figure. Unconsciously, Amelia Bedford smoothed her slimming black. Her own curves were more womanly, any man would say so – he certainly would. Besides, she noticed now that the waist on the sea-green gown was a touch low. She pulled back her shoulders, emphasising the plentiful bosom that jutted out over her own remarkably high waist. Anyone with taste knew that waists were rising this season. Comforted, she ushered the new party in.

*

Miss Lonsdale was clear-sighted about the world. There was a time, as a poetic girl of seventeen, when she had thrown open her heart and hopes to a young gentleman who had returned her regard. The object of her affections had been sensitive, kind and dutiful. That duty had led him to bow to his family's tradition and join the regiment. The young Henrietta had agreed with her lover on the force of familial duty. She had spent a year contriving how she might find occasion to visit in the neighbourhood of his barracks for the simple joy of watching him at the head of his troop at a public review. The exchange of letters between them had gradually grown infrequent and her dear one's regiment came to be sent abroad. She learnt to give up childish things. The older Henrietta Lonsdale knew herself to be fortunate. The eldest daughter of an improvident father, she had found a comfortable home with her uncle and aunt, a childless couple. In his last years, harried by ill-health, Mr Lonsdale had passed over the management of his affairs to his quick-witted
niece. By the time of his death Henrietta was mistress of her own estate in all but name. She ran the household; she dealt with the leases and tenants; the accounts were checked by her hand.

Miss Lonsdale's responsibilities, and the confidence they gave her in her own abilities, set her apart from others of her sex. A shrewd observer of society, she recognised it gave a place only to certain sorts of female. A spinster or widow of property was sure to find a welcome in any neighbourhood as a useful matrimonial resource. A spinster residing with a relative in guise of companion also had her place. But Henrietta laboured under particular disadvantages. She was both handsome and youthful and she managed a considerable property without owning it outright. In such circumstances her reputation was at risk. Since she was not prepared to bury herself in the dowdy obscurity of a spinster companion she chose, taking advantage of a set of elegant features, to adopt a formidable line in reserve. In society she joined the ladies as a sort of honorary matron. In so far as she had to deal with gentlemen in business matters, her habit was to correspond by neatly constructed letter. When a face to face interview was required she combined her native wit with a virginal correctness which left the gentlemen feeling protective, while at the same time kept at a proper distance. In this way Miss Lonsdale was able to create her own place in society and her neighbourhood held her up as a handsome woman of pristine reputation; a model of elegant reserve.

Henrietta Lonsdale gently curled her fan back and forth. The rooms were hot and stuffy with the sickly scent of the rose petals her hostess kept in bowls on the occasional tables. She contemplated the clumsy figure who towered over her. The Reverend Prattman was a man whose middle age had caught him by surprise. His voluble conversation had a tendency to sift down to tales of travels to visit old college friends of his youth (he had been up at Cambridge).

‘Dear Squiffy and old Bannister – Daredevil Dick we called him. He came by that name in a most amusing way…'

Henrietta always listened patiently to his stories. She could not help feeling sorry for the parson. He was a man whom equals welcomed with an air of duty. It was not that he ever noticed this – indeed in company he was quite exhaustingly jovial – but she thought he deserved a less lonely life. He told his stories as if relentless repetition would resurrect the good fellow, ready for any lark, from within the careful, fussy man he had become.

‘But then in life one never knows what may lie around the corner!' The parson concluded his tale.

‘Indeed,' agreed Henrietta. ‘Was the fair not only a week ago today and was it not almost at this very hour that they found poor Mr Crotter dead so unexpectedly?'

Mr Prattman looked startled. ‘My goodness! Is it only a week since St James's fair? I suppose you are right, Miss Lonsdale.'

‘Tell me, Mr Prattman, what do you make of the Duke's new agent?'

Henrietta turned her bright gaze on to the parson's soft moonish features. He looked a trifle uncomfortable.

‘A well-mannered man, quite the gentleman – though a little young for so responsible an occupation, perhaps? And what is your opinion, Miss Lonsdale?'

The elegant face was pensive. ‘I find him unexpected,' she said at last. ‘Even something of a mystery, I think.'

‘Really, Miss Lonsdale, a mystery!' The parson threw back his head and laughed loudly. He leant towards her in a playful manner. ‘I would not have suspected you of possessing a romantic imagination, Miss Henrietta!' Miss Lonsdale's friendly smile stiffened as he continued in his jocular tone. ‘Perhaps he will come here tonight and we shall have the opportunity to learn more of him, eh?'

‘Perhaps,' the lady responded a touch curtly. ‘I do not see
Mr Raistrick here, yet I believe the Justice is an intimate of this house,' she observed. The Reverend Prattman gulped as if he had swallowed a fly. He emitted a nervous braying laugh, and suddenly recalled that he had promised their hostess that he would help with the musical entertainment.

In his usual company manner of an overgrown puppy the parson threw himself into the task in a way that was at once overbearing and endearingly solicitous of praise. He sat down at the instrument that stood in a corner and unfolded some music from an inner pocket. It was a happy chance, he explained. The sheets had just happened to fall under his attention as he was preparing to come out that evening, a skilful arrangement (for he was a connoisseur) of a popular tune he had written as a boy. Beaming at the assembled company he waited to acknowledge the murmurs of appreciation due to his youthful talent. Bashfully declaring his hope that the little piece might entertain, he drew a deep breath and began.

Mrs Bedford came to share the sofa. She slipped a hand within Henrietta's arm and whispered loudly, ‘This is cosy! The Reverend is such a clever man. He reads the music, you know.'

Mr Prattman delivered his arrangement in a fine, forceful baritone, whose only weakness might be said to be a slight uncertainty over the wider tonal intervals. These were approached cautiously at first, the note being squeezed out until a firm footing was found, at which point they were struck upon the air with enthusiasm.

Mrs Bedford's eyes darted continually about the room as she kept up a hissed stream of comments on her guests and acquaintances. Henrietta wished she would stop fidgeting or at least sit a little less close. She was forever pulling her reticule of shot silk through her fingers or twisting the watch that hung on a ribbon from her waist.

‘Such pretty pearls.' Her hostess leant so close Henrietta
could smell her breath. ‘Mr Bedford prefers to see me in gold and coloured jewels. Pearls can hardly be picked out on my skin, so pretty and white it is – he says.' Mrs Bedford patted the shelf of flesh pushed up under her chin complacently.

Henrietta hid an involuntary smile behind her fan and glanced around the parson's audience. Mr Gilbert, the surgeon, had stretched his legs out before him, and, raising his eyes heavenward, was contemplating a particularly interesting boss on the ceiling. Mrs Bedford's attention focused on the door. A servant was standing there scanning the room. Mrs Bedford snapped her eyes back petulantly to her guests. She nodded towards Mrs Adams. ‘Poor Maria. She really has no idea! That fan is far too small.' For a brief moment her sharp blue eyes looked almost placid as she flicked open her own, larger, version of the article. Mrs Adams, a matronly woman, had settled herself foursquare in the middle of a straw brocade sofa to listen to the music. Her head was turned to gaze into the crook of one amply rounded arm, as if it cradled an infant or the germ of a profound idea.

Henrietta pulled her attention back to her hostess. Mrs Bedford's critical faculties had moved on to a fresh victim.

‘And so mad keen she is on theatricals, she has taken an actor and his troupe into her household. Imagine!' Mrs Bedford was saying. ‘Travelling players,' she emphasised the words as if they were wicked. The servant was picking his way across the room. He came to Captain Adams and leant to speak into his ear. ‘So rich and well-born she is, I dare say she believes she can do anything. But I'll say it plain, to my mind it cannot be right. Her husband does not even live in the same house with her!'

Privately Henrietta thought Mrs Bedford's prejudices predictably methodistical – many of the greatest families in the land engaged actors to support their amateur theatricals during the summer recess – however, out loud she merely
murmured something about not knowing the lady. Captain Adams was following the servant from the room.

‘Lady Yarbrook,' responded her hostess, as if the name were renowned. ‘She is the daughter of a Duke, of course, and a peculiar sort of woman. She inherited a fine house by Gainford and has come to live in it, for she cannot abide Ireland. Her husband is Irish. You would have thought that the daughter of a Duke might have done better for herself. Ireland is a dreadful country – don't you think, Miss Lonsdale?'

‘I fear I have never visited Ireland, so I cannot say.'

‘Oh, neither have I – I would not wish to; I believe it is a wild sort of place.'

Amelia Bedford cast yet another glance towards the empty doorway. The Reverend Prattman embarked upon his tenth verse.

Captain Adams re-entered the room looking flustered. He crossed the carpet and came to hover over the performer. The parson terminated his song hurriedly and acknowledged the ripple of applause, looking a little hurt. Amelia Bedford's whole face and posture sharpened. To Henrietta's amused eyes she almost pointed, like a hunting dog scenting game.

‘Oh, I do hope the Captain has not had bad news,' Mrs Bedford exclaimed, rising and stepping out towards the pair at the spinet on the same breath. Her curiosity too great to be denied, Henrietta followed her.