The Fabric of Murder (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 2) (2 page)

I
t was a magnificent library
. There were shelves of books on every wall, running from floor to ceiling. The only gaps were the doors, the great fireplace and the four vast windows that let in enough daylight to read by. Since today the sun was shining, the shutters on these windows were part closed. The sixth and seventh earls had both insisted on it. Sunlight faded the leather bindings. Although the eighth earl was now the owner, he took no interest in the collection. The servants continued exactly as before. The seventh earl had only been dead these six months after all.

How many hours had the two previous earls spent in this room? How often had they taken favourite volumes from the shelves? How many times had their hands trembled in excitement as they unwrapped a fresh purchase?

Save for the servants, none came in now. To Foxe’s keen eye, the books already seemed neglected, almost forlorn. He could see dust on the steps of the library ladder and on the top edges of the books in the lowest shelves. He half expected to be able to hear the steady noise of thousands of bookworms and silverfish chewing through the leaves in the largest folios. All that mattered now was the potential for raising cash. Soon all the best books would be gone. The seventh earl’s appetite for gambling and enjoying himself must far outstrip the income from the estate. The best Foxe could do was rescue the cream of the collection and see them into the hands of kinder and more appreciative owners.

George, Eighth Earl of Pentelow, was not the ‘gentleman of great discernment’ Foxe had described to the alderman. That description applied to father and grandfather. The son who stood now in the library, gazing at the thousands of books his father and grandfather had bought, was a philistine. He could never see any attraction in musty, leather-bound tomes. If you had money and land enough, why bother with books? Money would buy you many more exciting pastimes. His grand house should, he had decided, become a perfect venue for balls, dinner parties and the gambling that went with them. Indeed, sweep away these wretched books and this massive room would make a perfect ballroom. He was happiest in London, of course, where he could enjoy the theatre, his many clubs and the many delights of the most wanton city in the land. If he had to come to Norfolk, at least he should have space to bring society to him. He had many friends who felt the same and lived close enough to visit and be visited. For the rest, gambling, drinking and wenching he could find anywhere.

Living by these beliefs, as eldest son, had already caused the shortage of ready cash that was obliging him to sell books. That link did not cross the eighth earl’s mind.

‘Look around, Foxe. My father spent hours in here, silly old fool. His father too. Well, at least they left me something to sell in hard times, I suppose. Take your pick. Only do not take too many. I would not have my visitors notice the shelves are emptier than they were. I can buy more books to fill up the spaces, you said?’

‘I can find them for you, if you wish, my lord.’

‘I do wish, Foxe. Can’t see myself wandering around smelly bookshops and having to be polite to grubby booksellers. Ah, no offence intended, sir.’

‘None taken, my lord. How much money are you looking to … raise?’

‘Five hundred pounds, if it is possible.’

‘Yes, that will demand some gaps, but not too many. Your esteem parent and his father were skilled collectors of many rare editions. I may be able to find that amount for you with a hundred books or less.’

‘Capital, Foxe. I’ll leave it to you then. Tell my footman which ones you want and he’ll have them taken down and packed into boxes. Ah … no chance of swift payment, I expect? It’s just that I have one or two rather pressing debts incurred at cards … ‘

‘I will give you a banker’s draft before I leave, my lord, if that is acceptable to you?’

‘Acceptable? … You’re a marvel, Foxe. Never cease to amaze me. Right, to work right away. I’ll send someone with refreshments in a little while, shall I?’

‘That would be most acceptable, my lord.’

As George, Eighth Earl of Pentelow, wandered off, Foxe mentally rubbed his hands with glee. To have access to a collection of this importance would bring him a great amount of profit. Better still, it would remove some of these priceless treasures from the hands of the spendthrift earl. Those who bought them would value them. They would also care for them better. The smell of old books charmed some people, but to Foxe it meant only one thing – decay.

Foxe wandered around for a while without any plan or direction. To tell the truth, he did not know where to begin. Amongst such riches he felt humbled. He was loath to turn to such a mundane task as picking out those most likely to find a ready buyer amongst his customers. Nor was there need to hurry. Unless the eighth earl mended his ways, which seemed unlikely, Foxe was sure he would return many times.

Now he roamed at random, taking down a volume from time to time to inspect it . Most he put back on the shelf. A select few he carried to the massive table in the middle of the room. There he set each down with the greatest care. To an onlooker, it might have appeared he thought them asleep and was trying not to awake them to what was happening. Foxe knew that in the sale of rare books, as in all kinds of art, condition was a major part of setting the price. His purchasers would seek out every tiny flaw or piece of damage in the hope of persuading him to accept less. It was his job to see they had no further source of bargaining than the ones already inflicted by age or neglect.

It was during this period of aimless wandering that Foxe noticed something odd about one of the bays of shelves. Or rather, something odd about the books it contained. For a start, they seemed too regular in size and binding. He knew many books were sold unbound, so that the purchaser could have them in personal bindings, often marked with a family crest. To have many books of the same height was also not unusual. After all, certain paper sizes were becoming standard, such as quartos and folios. But to have so many of such uniform width? That argued that all must contain almost the same number of pages, which he could not believe. He went over to look closer.

Here was another oddity. While each volume seemed similar in appearance, their subject-matter ranged over almost the whole gamut of topics. There were volumes of philosophy, history, theology, natural science, poetry and even the practice of agriculture. None seemed to be set in a series of volumes. And while most were in English, others were in Latin, French, Italian, Greek, Spanish and Dutch. All languages were muddled together. You might find a row that began with a work of philosophy in Latin, a book of Ancient Greek poetry next to it, then a treatise on navigation in French.

Foxe stood back and considered what this might mean. That it was deliberate, he was certain. On the other shelves he had browsed, someone had laid the volumes out in a clear and rigorous order. Might this bay consist only of books for whom no place might be found elsewhere? Single books in series, for which the other volumes were missing? Bound groups of pamphlets or the like? But would not such a miscellany always contain items of many different sizes and lengths? How would it produce the suspicious uniformity which had drawn his attention in the first place?

Idly, he drew first one book from the nearest shelf, then several more. Another mystery! Not only were these volumes alike in every dimension and detail of binding. All had pages of an odd shape. The height was consistent with quarto size, but it seemed that all the leaves must be no more than four inches width! It was as if each book had been sliced in half from top to bottom. Thus it would fit shelves of maybe half the depth of a normal shelf for books of this size.

Foxe took one of the books in his hand and sought out several similar-looking books on other shelves. He was right! Lay one book on top of the other and the two would be almost the same height. Look at the width and one was barely half as wide as the other. These shelves had been made expressly for this library. It must be deliberate that one bay was far shallower than all the others. As in most great libraries, the largest volumes were in shelves close to the floor. These were both taller and deeper that the others, so that they could accommodate the great size of the books in them. Then came a kind of shelf, formed by the top of these deeper shelves meeting shallower shelving above them. From here to the ceiling, the shelves were uniform in height and depth. Smaller books were placed in line with the rest, leaving a gap behind them.

All except the shelves in that one bay. Here both the dimensions of the shelves and of the books were of near total regularity.

Perhaps there was some reason why shelves of more normal dimension could not be made here? A chimney breast from an older part of the building? Even a priest’s hole, though such were rare in Norfolk. It had long been a most protestant area and supplied many for the Parliamentarian armies in the Civil War against the first Charles. Still, it might be possible. Where better to hide an entrance than behind a bay of bookshelves in a vast library?

‘Priest’s hole?’ The Earl said. ‘Not to my knowledge. Anyhow, that part of the house was only built in my grandfather’s time. Not much need for priest’s holes then, I would have thought. And there’s nothing behind that wall either, except a passageway used by the servants.’

‘You never heard of some hidden cupboard or the like?’

‘Never. Of course, I didn’t go into the library that much. Not my kind of place. But I’m sure I would have known of anything like that.’

‘So you won’t know how it might open, assuming there is anything to open?’

‘No idea! Grub around, Foxe. You’re a curious kind of fellow. If there’s a hoard of hidden treasure, I’ll rely on you to find it. By God, I could do with treasure right now. D’you think you’ll be able to raise the cash I need?’

‘I have little doubt of it, my lord. I must contact potential purchasers, of course. They will wish to bargain, which takes some time. Yet they will hand over their money in the end.’

‘It’s all so confounded slow!’

‘Indeed, my lord. I cannot rush these things, if you are to obtain the best prices. Nor can I walk through a library such as yours and pull books from the shelves as if they were bags of tea. I will need to return, perhaps several times, before I can be certain of fulfilling your request in the best and least obvious way.’

His lordship would have protested again at the delay this must cause, but Foxe forestalled him. ‘I believe that you have some temporary embarrassment that is pressing, my lord. Is that not so?’

‘Most pressing, Foxe!’

‘Then I may be able to help. I have prepared a banker’s draft for two hundred pounds. I have it here. Will that be of use?’

‘Of use? Of use? It will save my life and reputation, Foxe! I knew I could rely on you. Come as often as you like. No need to wait upon me being at home. I will give the servants orders to admit you to the library at any time you wish.’

‘I have left perhaps a dozen volumes on the large table in the centre of the library, my lord. Your footman has my instructions on how they should be packed and sent to my shop. It is most important that he follows them to the letter. To damage a book is to lessen its value in that instant.’

‘I’ll make damn sure he treats them like the most delicate china! All will be done as you wish. I will have them transported in my own carriage for additional safety.’

‘Then, my lord, with your permission I will take my leave.’

The earl’s coach was summoned, Foxe was brought his coat and hat, and the two men took their leave of one another. As Foxe travelled back to Norwich, most of his thoughts remained in the earl’s library, puzzling over the nature of that single bay and its contents.

T
he land
behind Mr. Fox’s house was surrounded by a high wall, which he kept in excellent repair. The only way through it was via a strong pair of wooden carriage gates, always secured by a heavy beam within. The small door set into the right-hand gate, however, was usually unlocked during the day. It provided entrance or exit to the tradesmen who came to collect orders, and the draymen who brought deliveries. Mrs. Dobbins, Mr. Fox’s cook and housekeeper, was known to be a good customer. She also had sharp eyes for any attempt to provide light weight or less than the best quality. Since she paid fair rates for what she needed, and her employer paid his bills promptly – which was quite a novelty – those eyes were rarely needed. All who did business with the house made sure not to put such important custom at risk.

The space behind this wall was taken up by a substantial coachhouse with stables and tack-room attached. None were in use at present. Within the city, Foxe preferred to walk or hire a chair. On his various journeys, he used the stage or obtained a suitable conveyance and driver from a local inn. He was well aware that his style of life already drew comment. It was unthinkable that a mere bookseller should own a coach and horses and employ the groom and coachman to go with them. So, though he could well afford such luxuries, he chose to avoid the curiosity they would bring with them.

Anyone passing by that day might have seen a man leaving by the entrance to the coachhouse and yard. That he was a tradesman was clear by his clothing. A baker or a shopkeeper from elsewhere in the city come to collect payment for his latest account.

The man did not hurry. Once or twice he paused for a moment, as if unsure of his way, for he looked around him carefully before going on. At length he came to the marketplace. There he walked with greater assurance, slipping easily between the mass of stalls and customers as if he was now on known ground.

To one side of the marketplace lay a maze of narrow streets, lined by shops and houses. There the ground fell away towards the quays and warehouses along the riverside. The Lanes, people called them. They often contained the homes and businesses of tradesmen and artisans like this man. Perhaps he lived there, for he seemed to know his way well.

Coming to an inn, he slipped inside and waved to the landlord with the assurance of a regular customer.

‘Is Brock here?’ he asked.

‘As always. You do know where to find him. I’ll send Molly over with more ale.’

Indeed, Brock was in his usual place, an empty pot of ale before him. His eyes were shut and he seemed to be asleep. Yet, when the new arrival was still more than two yards distant, he greeted him, his voice made harsh by too much tobacco and too many years on the river.

‘Foxe,’ he said, without bothering to open his eyes. ‘Thought you’d be here soon. Molly bringing ale?’

‘Have no fear. She’ll be with us shortly, though I dare say you’ve taken some already. Now, there’s something I need your help to deal with …’

‘Master Bonneviot’s murder, I’ll wager.’

‘Then you would win. Tell me what you know, Brock. Softly, mind. I would not have the world hear what we are talking about.’

‘Wouldn’t matter,’ Brock said. ‘Everyone’s talking about the same thing. Found in an alley close to Colegate with ‘is throat cut.’

‘Robbed?’

‘Maybe. If he were, it wouldn’t have been much. Too wise a cove to go about in this city with more than a few coins in his purse. The word is he were ‘sassinated.’

‘Any idea why?’

‘He were a hard man.’ There was that phrase again. ‘Not too popular with his workers or those who supplied him with yarn and the like. He always drove a hard bargain, then only paid when ‘e had too.’

‘Why do business with him, then?’

‘People couldn’t afford not to. He might have been rough to work for, but the work he gave was steady. If you were good, he paid as well as anyone else. If you weren’t, he laid you off. Simple.’

‘Cruel.’

‘Not by his way o’ thinking. He’d ‘ad to work and scrape a living at the start, so ‘e never saw why others should ‘ave things too easy.’

The girl brought their ale, placing the pitcher in front of Brock, with an extra cup for Mr. Foxe. She smiled at the two men, then winked at Foxe and threw a quick glance towards the staircase. He smiled back, but shook his head.

‘Busy. But thank you.’

‘She’ll get you up there one day, I warrant,’ Brock said as she left. ‘Pretty enough, even for the likes o’ you, Foxe. Good tits on ‘er too.’

‘Drink your ale, Brock. Will you help me again? Same as before?’

‘Aye. I reckoned that were what you came for. Already decided before you walked through that door.’

‘So. Tell me what you know of Bonneviot. What about his business, for example?’

‘Not doin’ too well is the word about ‘ere. Lots of different notions of why. These are good times for cloth merchants and weavers in this city. The most likely tale is that he fell into some quarrel with the Londoners who buy most of what ‘e made. That may ‘ave lowered ‘is sales for the moment.’

‘Any speculation about his death?’

‘Plenty! Some says it was just some cut-purse: a robbery gone wrong. Others reckon ‘e ‘ad it coming to ‘im for years. Always falling out with someone, Bonneviot. If it’s right that he wasn’t paying his accounts too readily at present, someone might ‘ave decided to get ‘is own back.’

‘Not a good reason for murder, Brock. Kill your debtor and you’ll never see your bill paid.’

‘Could ‘ave been some weaver or servant he’d treated bad. Bonneviot wasn’t a man to treat anyone well. If someone ‘ad annoyed ‘im, he might well ‘ave served ‘em some slight or harm.’

‘Maybe. Maybe.’

‘You ain’t convinced.’

’No. Do we know what he was doing in that part of the city?’

‘No idea. Still, there’s no reason he shouldn’t ‘ave been there. A good many well-off merchants ‘as homes in Colegate. He could’ve been going to visit a friend – if he ‘ad any – or a woman. You never sees ‘is wife.’

‘Children?’

‘A daughter by ‘is first wife and one son by the second. Not much known of late about the lad. Hasn’t been seen in the city for a good few years. Said to be inclined in the artistic way … and y’know what folks mean by that!’

‘Are they right?’

‘Maybe. I suspect he ‘ad a hard upbringing. Do as you’re told and like it. One or two who knew the family well says that, in time, the boy turned against ‘is father. Argued with ‘im over just about everything, then took off sayin’ he was going’ on the stage. Mind, with a father like that, you’d either grow up just as nasty or turn into a molly.’

‘So, what’s the son like?’

‘Smallish, thin, a bit limp-looking. Mother spoiled him and his father despised him.’

‘Know where he is?’

‘No idea.’

‘Not following his father’s trade, by what you said.’

‘Don’t take all that stuff about goin’ on the stage too serious. Many a lad rows with ’is father round about that same age. Mostly they sorts it out. Bonneviot did ‘is apprenticeship in London. His son might be doin’ the same.’

Foxe downed his second cup of ale and stood up. ‘I’ll drop in again in a day or so. If you get anything more before, send word by Charlie Dillon. He knows where to find me.’

‘Clever little scrap, Charlie, for all he’s a runt. Not surprising, mind you. His ma’s always in and out of the workhouse or in and out of gaol. Must be hard to be a whore’s kid. I gives ‘im a few pennies when I can.’

‘I do too,’ Foxe said, ‘and, I’ll bet, a good many other men who’re sorry for him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he earns more than you do some days.’

‘Doubt it. I’m may be too old for honest work, but I have others to work for me.’

‘Indeed you do,’ Foxe said. ‘Now, where did Bonneviot live?’

‘Round about Cow Tower way. Cross the river and you’ll find the house on the left. Not too far from ‘is warehouses along the river.’

‘I thought I might talk to some of his weavers.’

‘Will they talk to you?’

‘Only one way to find out. Now, get to business, Brock,’ Foxe said. ‘Find out whatever else you can. Don’t spend your time and money in here downing ale and ogling poor little Molly.’

‘Poor little Molly? She’d service both of us within the space of half an hour, then go back to serving ale without another thought.’

‘You may be right.’

‘I know I’m right. I likes young Molly, but I ain’t blind to how she makes most of her money. Now, if you want to know all about what rich folk like Bonneviot get up to in their spare time, go and see Gracie Catt.’

‘How do you know that’s where I’m going next?’

‘It’s where I’d go. Leave me in peace to get on with finding out what I can.’

‘Very well, Brock. Here, give Molly this shilling from me before you leave.’

‘For what? Smiling at you? Give it to ‘er yourself and I warrant you’ll get a least a kiss – and probably a moment or two before she pushes your ‘and away.’

‘No, I’m in a hurry. You can have the kiss in my place.’

‘Got expectations with Mistress Gracie, ‘as you?’ But Foxe was gone.

B
y now
, Foxe reckoned it would be about the right time to call on Mistress Gracie Catt. It was late enough for her to be out of bed, but early enough for her establishment to be entertaining few clients. First, he must return home to change his clothes.

Once again, he slipped in through the back gate. When he came out, he was unrecognisable. It was clear this man was a foreigner and more than a little of the dandy. Yet he could not be a gentleman. No, he was bound for work of some superior kind, perhaps as a music tutor or singing master. He carried a portfolio beneath his arm and, as he walked, beat time with the other and hummed to himself.

A large man, looking somewhat foolish in footman’s garb, opened the door to Mistress Catt’s house. It would not have been wise, however, to cross him. Fortunately, he seemed to know Foxe, nodding an acknowledgement and stepping back to allow the visitor to move inside.

’Signor Vulpino.’

‘Horton. Is your mistress ready to receive visitors?’

‘I believe so, signor. Wait ‘ere and I’ll find out.’

A few moments later, the man returned and beckoned to Foxe. ‘You knows the way, signor. She’s waiting in her boudoir for you.’

Mr. Foxe – or Signor Vulpino, teacher of deportment, as most knew him here – walked upstairs and along a lengthy corridor. There he encountered several of Mistress Catt’s ladies and received many kisses. All were delighted to see him. A girl who looked good and moved like a lady could command a higher price for her favours. If she became truly elegant in appearance and manner, she might even reach a point where she could choose her clients herself. Higher still and she could hope one of the gentlemen might wish her to be his exclusive property. To become the mistress of a rich man, who would set them up in their own accommodation and load them with jewels and dresses, was the ultimate ambition.

Mistress Catt waited until Signor Vulpino had made his bow, then rose and spoke to the maid who waited just outside her door.

‘No interruptions after you’ve brought tea, Sally.’

Then she turned to her visitor with a practiced and professional smile. ‘I am delighted you have come, Signor Vulpino. Please take a seat. One of my newest girls, straight from a village, is in sore need of your professional help. For a few weeks, I can manage to present her as an unsullied virgin. But even my customers soon remember they’ve either deflowered her already or know someone who has.’

‘How old is she, Mistress Grace?’

‘Fifteen. Well-developed for her age, but yet childlike enough to pass for an innocent.’

‘I will be delighted to assist her, signora. And your other ladies?’

‘All would benefit from some extra tuition.’

The two of them went on in this vein until tea had been brought and Sally closed the door behind her as she left.

Foxe enjoyed a lengthy gaze at the woman before him. En déshabillé, she looked ravishing, from her rich, dark curls to her neat feet in their silken slippers. Sadly, ravishment would have to wait. He still had another call to make this afternoon.

‘Business or pleasure, Ashmole?’ Mistress Catt asked.

‘Unfortunately, business.’

‘I hope you do not favour my sister above me, sir.’

‘Never, Gracie, my dear. As you know, I am most careful to give neither of you cause for jealousy.’

‘The mayor has asked you to investigate Bonneviot’s murder?’

How did she know? The same way she knew everything else.

‘Indeed. Can you instruct your ladies, please? On the usual terms, I suggest.’

‘A little on account?’

Foxe leaned across and kissed her. A long, slow kiss compounded of equal parts desire and affection. When he straightened up, he opened the portfolio he had brought with him. From it he withdrew a small purse, which he dropped into Gracie’s open palm.

‘You know kissing me like that makes me want more,’ Gracie said.

As the madam of the most fashionable and expensive bordello in Norwich, Gracie Catt no longer needed to work on her own account. However, being but 30 years of age, she was still in her prime and had no intention of wasting it. The next time he came, he had better be in condition. Gracie both expected and gave the highest levels of performance.

‘Business?’ Foxe asked in a soft tone.

‘Business.’

‘Was Bonneviot a customer?’

Did he notice a distinct shudder before she answered?

‘Once or twice. Then I barred him.’

‘The reason?’

There it was again.

‘He was … quite rough. I care for my girls, Ash. I won’t have them mistreated. We have several customers who enjoy certain … special services. Some girls are happy to oblige, for an extra fee, of course. I force none to do so. Bonneviot said nothing in advance, then caused … injuries. The first time I warned him. The second time, I had Horton throw him into the street. He never came back.’

‘His son?’

‘Hah! Came once, but couldn’t get the job done, despite all the help my girls gave him. He’s a feeble specimen, Ash. Makes a lot of noise to hide the fact he can’t get it up. Might do better with a boy, of course.’