The Duke's Agent (21 page)

The Colonel was unconvinced. ‘Begging your pardon, Miss Lonsdale, but you cannot be expected to know these rank and file militiamen as I do. I have considerable experience of the kind, both as officer and magistrate; the most sober of them can behave with utter wretchedness, particularly when the worse for drink or in a passion.'

‘I did hear a rumour that Miss Grundy might have sued Roberts for breach of promise,' ventured Jarrett. He kept to himself the means by which he had picked up this rumour. Eavesdropping in a local tavern, although an excellent way to collect intelligence, might not appear entirely well-bred.

‘Breach of promise, eh?' barked the Colonel. ‘That would put this Roberts on the spot with his new wife and in-laws.'

Miss Lonsdale was not to be shaken in her opinion. ‘I cannot believe it of Will,' she said decisively. ‘Colonel, I have known Will Roberts from a boy. He used to help his father, a carpenter who worked on my uncle's estates. He
was always a gentle lad. Such a character as his could not commit cold-blooded murder.' She cast Jarrett an indignant look. ‘Besides, Mrs Grundy, Sal's aunt, is my aunt's cook and speaks to me much of her niece. She never mentioned any such thing as a suit for breach of promise and I feel sure Sal would have confided in her.'

The Colonel looked down at her indulgently. He was fond of well-favoured young women, and Miss Lonsdale had a speaking countenance.

‘Sad to say, Miss Lonsdale, boys grow up and even good lads can go bad. But then it is one of the glories of the female sex to think the best of men,' he added gallantly. ‘And indeed, Miss Grundy's aunt would have been a likely confidante of any scheme to go to law. It seems then, gentlemen, we must fall back on this play-actor fellow,' he ended jovially.

‘A play-actor, sir?' asked Henrietta, intrigued.

‘Indeed, Miss Lonsdale,' explained Charles, dropping his voice in a mock dramatic style. ‘It seems that Miss Grundy had collected a play-actor among her admirers.'

‘But how? There are no players in the area at present – none closer than Richmond at the very least. I feel sure we would have heard of them else, would we not, Lady Catherine?' Henrietta appealed to her hostess.

Lady Catherine pursed up her wizened face as she sucked a thread to refill her needle. She jerked her head in agreement.

‘True enough. Fancy always plagues me to let her go gawk whenever there are play-actors about.'

‘Miss Grundy was seen to meet with someone whom the witness took for a play-actor at an inn in Gainford last Tuesday,' said Jarrett. ‘But surely, Colonel, we cannot lay too much weight on Ned Turner's assumption as to the profession of the man he saw. As I recall, he described him variously as a fancy sort of man and likened him to a beau-trap.'

‘A beau-trap?' Miss Lonsdale sought elucidation from
Lord Earewith who leant towards her as if they were old friends.

‘I believe, Miss Lonsdale, that the term refers to a type of rogue who haunts inns dressed as a gentleman in order to trick unwary country folk at cards or dice.'

As if ignoring this by-play, Jarrett continued to address the Colonel and Lady Catherine. ‘In other words, the carter merely thought the man too well dressed to be a working man and yet not quite convincing as a gentleman. True, he also thought he glimpsed a play-bill in the man's hand and heard him ask after a printer. But as the carter had this beau escorting Miss Grundy into the inn on the green at Gainford in the same breath I dare say we should not put too much reliance on that part of his testimony either.'

‘I do not understand what business Sal would have in Gainford, Mr Jarrett.'

Jarrett was startled by Miss Lonsdale's tone. He could not think how, but once again he appeared to have caused the lady offence. He put himself out to be conciliatory.

‘I believe, according to her aunt's account, Miss Grundy was employed in some laundry work for a Lady Yardley or some such, a newcomer to Gainford,' he explained politely.

‘Lady Yarbrook, perhaps?'

‘Why, yes,' replied Jarrett surprised. ‘I believe that was the name.'

‘Not the fabulous Lady Yarbrook?' exclaimed Charles.

‘You know of her?' asked Jarrett.

‘Only slightly – she is one of those blue-stockings who hold salons for artists and distinguished men, hoping to harvest glory from their fame. She likes to be thought clever. Not my natural circles, you understand,' he confided to Henrietta. ‘I came across her and her entourage in Rome a year or two back. She is an original – one of those persons too extraordinary to like and yet whom it seems beneath one to dislike.'

Miss Lonsdale, while acknowledging Lord Earewith's wit, did not quite like this severe dismissal of a mere acquaintance.

‘Well, Lady Yarbrook is also reported to have a passion for theatricals and to have engaged a company of players for the summer!' Henrietta could not help feeling a little gratified at her success in gaining the attention of the company with this piece of information. What was it Amelia Bedford had said? She recalled the stuffiness, the plump flesh encased in tight black satin pressing close, the sickly smell of the rose petals mixed with sweat. ‘Mrs Bedford spoke of a Lady Yarbrook – the daughter of a Duke?' She spoke slowly, looking a query to Charles who nodded in encouragement. ‘Who is married to an Irish peer – but does not wish to live in Ireland,' she continued, gaining confidence.

‘So she don't and he does,' completed Charles. ‘Yes, that sounds like the fabulous Lady Yarbrook.'

‘And that is the full budget of my intelligence, I fear.' Miss Lonsdale threw an apologetic look towards Jarrett. ‘I am not much use as a spy, sir. I only recall that Mrs Bedford was most specific that Lady Yarbrook enjoyed amateur theatricals and had taken her enthusiasm so far that she had adopted a whole company of players into her household. Do you think there could perhaps be a connection, Mr Jarrett?'

‘I certainly think it is worth pursuing, Miss Lonsdale.'

‘Perhaps you would be so good as to go call on this lady, Mr Jarrett, and make enquiries among her play-actors,' intervened the Colonel, eager to reclaim the initiative due to his rank. ‘You'll need to be discreet, though. People of distinction don't like to be associated with a common murder.'

Fortunately, Jarrett was relieved of the need to find a response to such advice by the entrance of a servant.

‘A rider has just come with a message for his lordship, my lady.'

Charles broke open the seal and scanned the note
perfunctorily. A faintly cynical look passed over his clear-cut features. He crossed the room to bow gracefully over his hostess's brittle fingers.

‘Forgive me, Lady Catherine; I am called away and must take my leave. Raif, I shall have to forgo the pleasure of your company tonight. Lady Catherine, may I beg the use of your writing desk to write a short note?'

His hostess inclined her torso with a stately air, her eyes vibrant with curiosity.

Charles sat down at the neat walnut desk and, pulling out a sheet of pressed paper, began to write. He spoke in a low voice to Jarrett. ‘As I expected, it is from Father. I shall go entertain him with this tale. He'll be summoning you next, Raif – you know how he likes to hear of your adventures. I regret I shall not be able to introduce you to Lady Yarbrook in person, but take this letter of introduction. She is a sociable body, addicted to conversation and new company, and I am sure she will receive you.' He pretended to lean back a moment in contemplation of his friend's athletic figure. ‘I fancy you will do well enough on your own. Take my advice, go in riding dress – she has a fondness for a well-turned leg in top-boots.'

Having secured a promise of a place in the Colonel's carriage to convey him back to town, Jarrett walked Charles to his curricle. The groom handed over the reins and swung up behind his master. Charles waved as the horses set off.

‘Remember! You are to make your peace with Tiplady and I look forward to our reunion in a day or so – I shall bring the drawings I made for Thorpe!' he shouted. With that parting shot he swept out of sight.

*

When Jarrett returned to the Queen's Head Mr and Mrs Bedlington were nowhere to be seen. He slipped up the stairs and quietly opened the door to his chamber. The first thing he noticed was his silver shaving kit laid out on a fine
laundered cloth on the chest of drawers, then, leaning against the wall by the window, his easel and cherished paint box. Amid a freshly created sense of comfort a familiar figure sat by the fire. A pair of spectacles on his nose and an array of coloured silks laid out across his knee, Tiplady was calmly setting stitches in a tambour frame. Unlike Lady Catherine, Tiplady had a preference for coloured work. He was a skilled embroiderer. The housekeeper at Ravensworth much admired the set of chair-seats he had worked for her and gave them pride of place in her parlour. The valet looked up.

‘Oh, Mr Jarrett. I did not expect you so soon.' Folding up his materials and setting them neatly in a wooden box, he rose to face his master.

Tiplady was of small stature yet possessed a head that was cast for a greater man. He had craggy features topped by thick grey hair, swept off his brow in a natural wave. His noble nose overhung a slightly petulant mouth, while his majestic eyebrows sheltered pale eyes that were a touch timid. The endowment of such a head on so short a body gave Tiplady a tendency to a haughty look as he always took care to stretch up to his full height and had a habit of surveying the world down his masterful nose even when looking up to taller men.

For a moment master and servant gazed at one another. Tiplady's mouth compressed into a thin line. Master Raif looked run-ragged. It had not taken Tiplady long to draw the account of his master's late adventures from the well of Mrs Bedlington's indignation. Tiplady was intensely loyal to the family he served. His self-respect was intimately bound up with the respect due his master. He was simmering with indignation at the inhabitants of Woolbridge for their late treatment of Mr Jarrett. The very thought of his gentleman being thrown – however briefly – into a common lock-up revolted his passionate attachment to the proper order of things. The fact that this outrage had taken place while he,
Tiplady, was away from his post compounded his shame at the misunderstanding that had taken place in York. The upshot was that he was very nearly not on speaking terms with his Mr Jarrett.

‘You've been getting into scrapes, I hear,' he said, looking two inches to the right of his master's face.

Jarrett gave him an endearing smile.

‘What do you expect, Tip – my man wasn't with me.' He crossed the room and stretched out an arm. ‘Forgiven and forgotten?'

Tiplady wrung the proffered hand with tears in his eyes.

‘Oh, Master Raif, I have been in such distress. My stomach has been paining me fit to die. I've not eaten more than a morsel of bread and a sup of tea since Wednesday.'

Jarrett put on a compassionate face and braced himself for the hours of words to come.

As the evening wore on Tiplady talked himself into a calmer frame of mind. He still listed the various mental and physical tortures consequent on his master's inconsiderate behaviour, but the narrative lost its desperate edge, composing itself into a routine account recorded for payment in due time. Jarrett reflected ruefully that he was back in service. He ate the supper that Tiplady had brought to his room with good grace. (Tiplady was not having his gentleman eating in some common parlour.) He was speculating how much longer he would have to endure before he could decently dismiss his valet without causing fresh offence, when there was a knock on the door. Pushing back the table that caged him in his deep winged chair, Jarrett started up. Tiplady set him back in his place with a look and a waggish wave of a finger. With irritating stateliness the valet advanced and opened the door a crack. He held a murmured conversation with someone without. Jarrett leant his head back and deliberately unclenched his teeth. This was his penance. He must take it like a man.

Tiplady closed the door softly. An object caught his eye
and he turned to straighten something on a side table.

‘Well?' prompted Jarrett.

‘The innkeeper's boy, Master Raif,' the valet responded calmly.

‘And what did he want?'

‘Some tale about a rough-looking man at the kitchen door asking to see His Grace's agent!' Mr Tiplady scoffed. ‘I told him to be off. Foolish scrap! To think of troubling you with such impudence. And after dark too. I've a notion to give the innkeeper a piece of my mind. Fancy allowing beggars to trouble gentlemen guests at his inn!'

The valet gave a start. Master Raif was halfway out of the door.

‘Mr Jarrett! Sir!'

‘Thank Mrs Bedlington for my fine dinner, Tip,' his departing master called back from the stairs. ‘Can't say when I shall return, so don't wait up.'

*

Jarrett caught up with Jack, the innkeeper's son, on the gallery steps leading to the yard. He was a bright-eyed boy with a serious face.

‘Master Jack! You have a message for me?'

‘Your man said not to trouble you. Said I was foolish. I did try, Mr Jarrett, but he wouldn't let me.' Jack was flushed with indignation. He had formed an admiration for his parents' favourite guest. To a twelve-year-old boy, being a suspect in a murder case adds a certain dash to a man's character, but Jack had privately decided that Mr Tiplady was a poisonous old goose. The Duke's agent patted the lad's shoulder consolingly.

‘Never mind, Jack. I'm afraid Mr Tiplady is rather stuck in his ways; you and I just have to put up with them.' Jack exchanged a wise look of sympathy with his hero. ‘I thank you for your trouble,' Jarrett continued. ‘Now: what was the message?'

‘One of the maids told me, sir. A man was asking after you at the kitchen door.'

‘A man? It was not a Mr Duffin?'