The Duke's Agent (31 page)

‘So your quest is complete, Mr Jarrett; you have your books. Or should I say Captain Jarrett? For you are a soldier, I believe. I might have guessed. You have been diligent in this affair; the very soul of honour. For King and Country!' Raistrick flung up a hand, inclining his head in mocking
acknowledgement. ‘Most noble, Captain Jarrett.'

‘You sneer at a soldier's honour, Lawyer Raistrick?'

‘Please don't mistake me. I have great respect for a fighting man. No. I merely imply that a soldier may hold a different, higher view of the proper order of things. In battle it is simple to be heroic. In civil life – well, it is more complex. One must be content with sufficient order.' Raistrick drained his glass and belched. ‘Murder, now. Murder, Mr Jarrett, is a messy business. Speaking hypothetically, of course, as a military man you will no doubt agree that as an act of conquest it has its transitory excitement. I am open-minded on the subject, but in civilian life the consequences of murder are in general cumbersome. Still, in this case…' He made a dismissive gesture, his voice bored. ‘This Tallyman was born to hang. I dare say his despatch was convenient to the public interest.'

‘And sudden death puts a useful seal on mysteries,' Jarrett suggested.

‘Perhaps.'

‘And the same wax, in turn, veils the murderer of this Tallyman himself.'

‘Why, Mr Jarrett, you have another hypothesis!' the lawyer exclaimed, almost gaily. ‘Have you identified a killer?'

‘I have a notion as to the instrument. I merely wonder how he was contrived to be used.'

‘Are you suggesting one man might use another to commit murder, Mr Jarrett?' The magistrate made an elegant pass with his knife with a thoughtful air. ‘I suppose it might be said that sovereign princes use their soldiers for just such purposes.'

Jarrett ignored the jibe. ‘You compare yourself to a sovereign prince, Mr Raistrick?'

‘Mr Jarrett,' he chided, ‘we are discussing hypotheses, not cases.' Ever the genial host he refilled the glasses. ‘You still look puzzled, Mr Jarrett.'

‘It is only a small matter, sir, but I was told this Tallyman had a devil of a reputation. How come he allowed his throat to be cut so neatly? There were no signs of struggle on the corpse. It is almost as if he were caught unawares, somewhere he thought he was safe.'

Raistrick picked up the gleaming knife and returned to his nails. ‘A wide reputation is a dangerous thing, sir. It can lull a man into believing himself invulnerable – it can make him careless. In my opinion' – the bold eyes rose to meet Jarrett's – ‘based on my inspection of the wound, you understand, the man's throat was cut while he slept – in a chair, say. A sleep perhaps deepened by drink.'

Putting down his knife, Raistrick picked up the bottle. He cast the dregs into his glass until it brimmed over and wine slopped on to the table. ‘Speaking of which …' He made a play of holding the empty bottle up to the light. ‘We are in need of fresh supplies.'

He leant his broad-shouldered frame over and fetched up another bottle from under the table. Jarrett's eyes fixed on the patch of wall behind his chair. There was the shadow of a stain underneath the new white-wash. It mapped some dark liquid that had splashed, perhaps from the height of a seated man, and dripped in trails down to the floor. Every sound and smell came sharp and thin through his senses. With a certain click Jarrett knew he was present at the site of the Tallyman's death. His host's figure reclaimed the space, his knowing eyes dancing with amusement.

‘After all,' he continued smoothly, ‘what was the substance of this bully's reputation? A hard head and a viciousness of temper that overawed little people. A flea who dreamt he was a tiger!' The Justice fluttered a scornful hand. ‘It bites and in its last moments awakens to the truth!'

To Jarrett's heightened senses the lawyer's personality seemed an expression of some primal force of human nature, unadulterated by morality, custom or guilt. The man clearly
relished displaying himself to one he judged able to appreciate his talents. Jarrett was amused, and faintly honoured, that he had been considered worthy to witness such a display. The lawyer sensed the ebb of power between them.

‘You have high-born friends, Mr Jarrett, but I guess that you yourself lack their material means? It is a misfortune to be born without the property to support natural talents. Now, I have made my own fortune – but then I am no gentleman.'

Jarrett acknowledged a certain pride in the virtues he believed to belong to the condition of gentleman. He felt the sting of the other's scorn.

‘This world is no kind place to impecunious gentlemen of honour.' The insinuating voice curled about him. ‘It is a sad fact that however fond our noble friends may be of us, distinctions in property do tend to make a client of a man. You keep to your soldiering, Mr Jarrett – it is the profession for heroic gentlemen without property. Maybe you are the sort who needs a coat and badge. Some men seek a more bounded, disciplined life; it relieves us of the burden of responsibility for taking the larger decisions. It takes an odd kind of man to stand alone in this world.'

‘Are you insulting me, Mr Raistrick?'

‘Am I?' The lawyer's expression portrayed enquiry without malice. ‘Most men are petty creatures. They huddle for comfort in the stinking proximity and warmth of the herd, blowing down each other's snouts so they may not have to listen to the harsh truth in the wind. I have no such weakness. I am who I choose to be, Mr Jarrett. Can you say the same?'

Could he? Jarrett faced the stark question.

‘In some ways we could almost be alike, you and I, Mr Jarrett,' the animalist voice flowed on. ‘We live off our wits. Independent men who must make our own fortunes – and judgements.'

This man was a knave; a Justice-embezzler; a lawyer who
mocked the law and perverted even sacred codes to his pure advantage, and yet Jarrett was half-shocked to discover he felt no revulsion. To have no loyalties but to the self; no ties of love or duty to call you to self-sacrifice; to know no guilt. In the darker corner of his soul he envied the man his total freedom.

‘You mistake me, sir.' Jarrett reclaimed his own integrity. ‘There are some principles I will not give up.'

Raistrick nodded slowly. ‘And there, Mr Jarrett, there lies the difference between us.' He gave a little stretch of his body, a contented predator, resting at high noon. ‘Well – you have solved your mystery; you have your books and we return to the status quo.'

Jarrett stood up and snapped a military bow. His features relaxed a little into a crooked smile. ‘Until our next engagement, Mr Raistrick.'

The lawyer inclined his pagan head. ‘Until our next, Mr Jarrett.'

He swung his legs up on to the table, straight and strong, and cocked his profile to look out of the window. The fire at the Swan glowed red in the heart of its blackened shell as the smoke curled across the surface of the river, stained ox-blood in the setting sun.

‘In the words of our Colonel Ison – a most satisfactory day,' the lawyer magistrate remarked. And there Jarrett left him; framed in that room, whittling the blood from under his nails, the charred remains of James Crotter's books forgotten beside him.

*

A light breeze lifted the petals strewn over the simple coffin as the choirmen bore the earthly remains of Black-Eyed Sal to her grave. The Reverend Prattman had been persuaded to ignore the gossip of ignorant folk and had granted her a spot by railings at the bottom of the churchyard where the air murmured restfully in the tall trees.

The burial was well-attended. The Woolbridge maidens lined the path. Prudence Miller, a fetching ribbon twisted in her hair, wept loudly within the arms of two stiff-faced lads who exchanged uncomfortable glances over her glossy head. The young people bunched together, averting their eyes from Mrs Grundy's grieving figure, supported between Jasper and Polly Bedlington. The cook huddled within the warm earth tones of Sal's shawl, which Ezekiel Duffin had retrieved from the place where she fell. Her restless hands moved constantly, smoothing the rough wool.

Even Mrs Munday came to pay her respects, standing, hatchet-faced, beside a shrunken Maggie Walton. The Duke's agent arrived late and walked over to join Captain Adams who escorted Miss Lonsdale, her aunt being indisposed. The Woolbridge maidens cast knowing glances at the trio. They bent their heads together, exchanging speculations. There was an added frisson when Will and Mary Roberts were seen approaching and stopped at a respectful distance among the trees. For a moment all eyes fixed on Mrs Grundy, but wrapped up in her sorrow the old woman made no sign.

‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live.'

As the Reverend Prattman boomed out the service for the dead, Jarrett found his gaze drifting up to the crest of the path and the elaborate coffin tomb where he first laid eyes on the once vital creature they came to bury. A stir amid the outer ring of mourners reclaimed him from his thoughts. It fluttered among the maidens and spread to the lads who looked to each other perplexed for a moment. An elegant figure was descending the path.

The mysterious newcomer seemed oblivious of the attention. Two rows of gold buttons gleamed on his lavender coat and the travelling cloak that brushed the ground was loaded with numerous capes. He swept off a broad-brimmed beaver
hat and stood with head bowed, the breeze stirring the curls of his guinea-gold hair.

The coffin was lowered and the Reverend Prattman finished the service at a brisk pace. The principal mourners turned away from the grave. The mysterious gentleman threw up an arm in a peremptory gesture, arresting the grave-diggers as they began to shovel the earth on to the coffin. Flicking his cloak behind him, he sank gracefully to one knee. The maidens noted his poetic countenance and the piece of heather he clasped in his gloved hand. He pressed the spray to his lips. Dividing it into two, he dropped one purple sprig on to the coffin below. Eyes downcast, his melancholy lips appeared to frame Sal's name as he held the remaining sprig to his heart.

Francis Mulrohney rose with an air and paced solemnly away from Sal's grave. The Woolbridge maidens would tell of Sally Grundy's mysterious gentleman friend for many a year.

The actor stopped to shake hands with Mr Jarrett.

‘So what did you think of me performance, now?' he asked with a lift of one eyebrow.

‘Touching,' Jarrett replied.

‘Was it not? I fancy my Sal would have liked it.' The Irishman held the sprig of heather to his nose, running a quick glance over the gaggle of maidens who exclaimed over him at a distance. ‘From what she let drop now and then, they did not treat her kindly.' He brought out a bill-fold and tucked the heather into it. He paused as he replaced the wallet in his breast pocket. ‘A useful piece of business that,' he reflected, giving his breast a brief pat. ‘I might use it next time I play “The Stranger” – not merely a ring, but a flower. Aye.' He gave Jarrett an engaging smile. ‘Well, I'm for Dublin. My gracious patroness has lent me a chaise for the first stage; it'll not do to keep the coachman waiting any longer. The occasion apart, it has been a pleasure, Mr Jarrett.'

‘Mine also, Mr Mulrohney. I hope I may one day have the opportunity to see one of your complete performances. You give me a high opinion of your talent.'

They shook hands heartily and, drawing himself back into his part, Francis Mulrohney made his exit through a clutter of admiring maidens.

Miss Lonsdale left a conversation with Mrs Bedlington and joined the Duke's agent.

‘Was that Sally Grundy's gentleman friend, Mr Jarrett?' She sounded unconvinced.

‘Yes, Miss Lonsdale. The actor, Mr Mulrohney, with whom she became acquainted while working at Lady Yarbrook's.'

‘Ah, of course. He is an actor.'

Jarrett smiled at her tone. ‘I believe he was putting on a performance for the benefit of Miss Miller and her kind, Miss Lonsdale.'

The grey eyes were suddenly full of warmth. ‘Was that it? But how very kind of him.'

Mrs Grundy was labouring her way up the hill. By Johanson's tomb she stopped. Will Roberts stood in her path. The tall youth held his ground, pinned by the blank look. With a stiff nod the grey woman acknowledged him. Will Roberts dipped his head and stepped aside and Mrs Grundy passed by.

‘Mr Jarrett, will you escort me?' Jarrett started at Henrietta Lonsdale's brisk voice. She linked arms with him in a determined fashion and steered him towards Will and his wife.

The young man greeted the pair with a shy smile.

‘I wish to thank you, Mr Jarrett, sir.' He bent in an awkward bow. ‘Miss Henrietta told me you spoke for me before the magistrates.'

‘It was only justice, Will. I believe you would have prevented Sally Grundy's death if you could,' Jarrett responded.

‘That I would, sir.' Will slid a shamefaced look at his silent wife. ‘She was never a bad lass, just wild,' he mumbled.

It seemed as if her release from the sergeant's tyranny had begun to allow a personality to form in Mary Roberts's anonymous face. Jarrett discerned a genuine flicker of annoyance at her husband's mention of Sal.

‘What news of your father, Mrs Roberts?' the agent asked gently.

The child-woman looked to Will.

‘Should have known even fire couldn't take the sergeant,' Will commented.

‘Devil didn't want company,' muttered little Mrs Roberts.

Will clasped her hand more firmly over his arm. ‘He'll not rise from his bed again, Mr Jarrett.' Will spoke with a new found assurance. ‘But we'll see he's looked after, Miss Lonsdale. I still know how to behave like a man, even after what he made of me.'

‘Are you to stay in Woolbridge, Will?' Miss Lonsdale asked. The Swan Inn was hardly more than a shell after the fire. In Henrietta's opinion neither Will nor his wife had the character for an alehouse life.