The Hidden Man (33 page)

‘What's he doing here?' asked Amity of Peg, with acid sharpness in her voice.

Barton answered for himself, in a smooth, light tone that sounded nonchalant in this house of mourning.

‘I've only come to offer a neighbour's condolence and services, if there's any I can do.'

Amity's voice persisted in trying to cut him.

‘There's nowt. You can take yourself off.'

Weighing the situation for a moment, he took into account my presence, then knocked out his pipe and stood.

‘Right. You'll send for me if you've need.'

When he had gone we slipped into the inner room. The light was dim and the air already staled by the corpse on the bed. I approached and touched the forehead: it was marble cold.

‘The doctor always said this might happen, with no warning,' I said, picking my words gently. ‘His suffering is over, at least we can say that.'

A few minutes later, after Amity had told me again the story of the day's events, I heard the snort and jingle of a horse and suddenly Fidelis came striding in. He had read my message at his lodgings and followed me without pause. Going in to the body, he produced a tinderbox and struck a flame for a candle. This he passed in front of the dead man's face and for the first time I clearly saw the look of surprise locked onto it. My father might have called it the Astonished Death.

Gently Fidelis closed the eyes.

‘Perhaps he died dreaming of his treasure, but without letting us know about it. I am at fault. I should have carried my questioning by the eye-blinking method sooner. Now it's too late.'

We left him and returned to his wife, who was sitting in the chair vacated by Barton, her eyes closed. Peg had somehow induced sleep in the baby and all was quiet.

*   *   *

Riding alongside Fidelis on our way back to town I told him about John Barton sitting at ease by Amity's fireside.

‘He was like a man taking possession of what he considers rightfully his.'

‘She won't allow it. She is too proud.'

‘Do you believe he and Adam were friendly, as he claimed when he spoke to me last week?'

‘If they were, his wife knew nothing about it.'

‘What's his object, finally? The woman, or the treasure?'

‘Supposing he knows about the money, it would be both, I'm thinking. But does he?'

‘He says the two men were friends. Adam might have confided in Barton: asked his advice.'

‘In that case there would have to be trust and some kind of friendship. Adam would've been a fool to confide in Barton otherwise.'

‘I never talked with Adam,' I said, ‘but my impression is he was anything but a fool. Now, I am anxious to know if you brought Quick from Liverpool. Tell me.'

‘Yes. He is at my lodging. You should have seen Dot Lorris's face when she saw him with me.'

It was ten o'clock and dark when we reached town. The day had been an exhausting one for both of us.

‘You know me, Titus,' he said before we parted to go to our own homes. ‘I need my sleep, and there is a patient I must see in the morning. Forgive me if I do not present Elijah to you until afternoon
.
'

*   *   *

Fidelis went to his bed but for me the day was not yet over: I found Ephraim Grimshaw waiting impatiently at home, his face glowing not only from the wine that Elizabeth had given him, but also from self-congratulation.

‘I have been much puzzled in the matter of the death of this man Tybalt Jackson,' he said, ‘as I am sure you have been, Cragg. I mean over why the victim's face was so crushed and battered out of shape. So I am happy to tell you I have come to the answer.'

‘I am glad to hear it, Mayor. What is it?'

‘It was done deliberately by the murderer in order to make him unrecognizable. There you have it.'

‘Why would he want to do that?'

‘In order to make his escape. To disappear, who knows where – to Scotland, Ireland, America, or wherever malefactors do go to secrete themselves.'

‘Forgive me. I am tired, having ridden today from Liverpool, so perhaps my powers of understanding are weak. Please explain.'

‘Well, who have we all been assuming the corpse is?'

‘We know it is Tybalt Jackson.'

‘Why is that, Sir? It cannot be from his face, which is the usual method of identifying someone.'

‘No, it was his clothes.'

‘But, unlike a face, clothes may be exchanged with ease. A face cannot be exchanged in that way, but it can be changed – dangerously and with great effort, but changed out of recognition. I therefore submit that this dead body that we have is not that of Tybalt Jackson at all. It has been dressed in Jackson's clothes and its face brutally altered to prevent anyone seeing that it isn't Jackson.'

‘Then whose is it, Mayor?'

‘Tell me, if you can, who was shadowing Tybalt Jackson, Mr Cragg. Tell me who arrived at the same inn within a few hours of Jackson and spied on him. Tell me who Jackson feared and perhaps, if driven to extremes, he might kill. Tell me the name of that man and you will have told me the name of the murdered man.'

‘You mean Zadok Moon?'

‘The very person. I do believe we have brought in the elusive Mr Moon, whom we have been seeking with such anxiety this last week. Brought in dead, unfortunately, but nevertheless brought in.'

‘And your conclusion as to the murderer's identity?'

‘I am convinced, Mr Coroner, that the murderer wished us to believe that he himself was the victim. In short, I believe that the said murderer was Tybalt Jackson.'

 

Chapter Twenty-six

O
N MY BREAKFAST
table the next morning was a letter from Ruth Peel:

Dear Mr Cragg,

I beg you to pay us a visit as soon as you are able, for we are out of our wits at Cadley Place, not knowing how to pay our way and urgently in need of advice from you as executor of my late employer's Will.

Ruth Peel.

The letter jarred my conscience. Mr Flitcroft of Kirkham was due later the same morning to look over the silver hoard but, if I hurried, I would have time to go to Cadley Place, and return, before he arrived. I sent for my horse and rode off. The first freshness of the morning had given way to a growing oppressiveness as smoky clouds from the west had crept across the Preston sky. The wayside flowers seemed to hang limply on their stalks and birdsong was infrequent save for the harsh cry of rooks flapping across the farmland.

On arrival at the house young Peggy told me that the housekeeper was in the orchard across the road and I found Miss Peel sitting alone on a seat that had been cut into the trunk of a fallen oak. She was staring into the east where the distant fells, still unreached by the massing clouds, formed a clear and sunlit horizon.

‘Thank you for coming, Mr Cragg,' she said, rising to her feet as I approached. ‘Shall we walk?'

As we strolled under the trees, she explained that, with so many household bills unpaid, she was finding it increasingly hard to obtain credit with tradesmen.

‘We are desperate. The dairyman is threatening to stop supplying us. The butcher has already done so. I cannot shop at market without ready money. I am everywhere in debt and to be refused credit is so shaming.'

‘I must apologize,' I said. ‘I should have anticipated your difficulty. However I can reassure you. Now that the inquest has determined that your employer died as a result of a simple accident, there is no legal impediment to Mrs Pimbo taking possession of her lifetime interest in her son's estate – this house and its contents, and whatever other property he may have had. There remains only the purely formal business of proving the will. So you may assure your creditors that they will be paid.'

‘But they may not believe me. How can I convince them?'

‘I shall provide you with a letter to that effect, Miss Peel. Show it to your suppliers and they will extend your credit for the time being. So if you live economically, you shall make ends meet.'

‘And the shop in Preston, Mr Cragg? Does it still conduct business?'

‘No, it is closed and I fear cannot trade. As to the longer future it does not appear that Mr Pimbo's mother can carry the business on herself, so I expect a tenant or a purchaser must be found. I have asked Mr Hazelbury to examine the books and report to me about this. I cannot be sure exactly how but, as you heard at the inquest, it does look as if Mr Pimbo's fallen foul of an embezzler. We do not know the extent of his loss, but it may have been great.'

‘And what of my own—'

She gestured to right and left.

‘I mean, my legacy.'

‘This orchard?'

‘Yes.'

‘It is safe. It is yours, always provided you abide by Mr Pimbo's curious condition – that you do not marry.'

She closed her eyes for a moment and let out a barely audible laugh.

‘I hardly know what I shall do with all this, Mr Cragg.'

‘I suggest you cultivate it, Miss Peel. Its fruit and honey will yield you produce and even an income, you know.'

‘Yes I suppose so.'

She gave me a faltering look.

‘And if I should, at any time … I mean, if I should marry – what then?'

‘Then I am afraid the orchard would revert to Mrs Pimbo or her direct heirs. You would lose it.'

Miss Peel did not desire to pursue this matter and we discussed instead ways in which the Cadley Place household could make economies, and what should be done about Mrs Pimbo. As her employer's executor I asked her to continue for the time being in her position as housekeeper.

‘And if you need to raise money you have my authority to sell items of moveable property, or to make any of the economies we have mentioned. You may submit your accounts to me.'

My watch was now telling me I must hurry my old horse back to town. I therefore said my farewells and left her to contemplate her newly-acquired dominion over apples, pears and plums.

*   *   *

‘I am disappointed, Cragg, most grievously.'

It was less than an hour later and Mr Flitcroft was in my office, surveying, with scepticism, the collection of silver that I had brought from Nick Oldswick's strong cupboard, and had now arranged for his inspection on my desk.

‘I am sorry to hear it,' I said. ‘Why?'

‘I was looking forward to inspecting something that might interest an antiquary, you know. But – oh dear! – this does not appear at all promising.'

Flitcroft took out his eyeglasses to examine more closely the goods spread out before him. He picked up one object – a small jug – and studied it briefly before he put it down with a click of his tongue and picked up another. Having been through half a dozen or so in the same way, he sighed and turned to me.

‘These are all such
modern
pieces, Cragg. Have you nothing of any age to show? I do not expect Roman silver – that is exceedingly rare – or even Anglo-Saxon. But nor did I think I should be looking at such recent silverware.'

‘I believe I did explain,' I said, ‘that the find would be from the time of Cromwell, and King Charles the First.'

Flitcroft barked a laugh, without mirth.

‘Most is not even that, Sir, but of the present century – Queen Anne, the first King George, the present monarch, all of these are represented here! This is not a hoard of old metalware, Cragg. It is nothing but the jumbled contents of a middling family's silver cupboard. The oldest and best pieces are the apostle spoons. They have at least something well-bred about them.'

With a sigh he produced from his pocket the almanac with its table of assay dates and asked for a sheet of paper and writing materials.

‘However, having ridden all this way, I may as well make a list for you of the objects whose hallmarks are legible. Give me a few minutes.'

I waited out the minutes as patiently as I could while he worked his way through the items, checking each hallmark before adding it to a list. When he had finished, he sat back, handed me the paper and, snapping open a snuffbox that he drew from his waistcoat, took a pinch of snuff.

‘The cities named beside each item are not necessarily those of the manufacture,' he explained. ‘They are merely the assay-office at which the silver was warranted.'

I looked down the list and read:

Item: 11 Apostle spoons – London – 1596

Item: Candle-holder – York – 1637

Item: Triangular Salt-cellar – Chester – 1630

These, dated before the Battle in which Benjamin Peel lost his life, might have formed part of Peel's hoard. But the next four objects immediately negated that possibility.

Item: Caddy spoon – Chester – 1727

Item: Buckle – Chester – 1676

Item: Little Jug – York – 1712

Item: Marrow spoon – Edinburgh – 1719

So there it was in ink: Flitcroft's scornful assessment was right. Most of these things were not even as old as the century – the caddy spoon had been made only fifteen years ago. Whatever this miscellany of plate was that I had found in the rabbit hole, it had nothing to do with Benjamin Peel's hoard.

Bidding me a disgruntled farewell, Flitcroft was shown out by Furzey, who himself now wandered into my room with the letter I had asked him to draft for Miss Peel to show to her tradesmen. He looked over the silver as I was replacing it in its bag.

‘You thought
this
was Benjamin Peel's lost treasure?' he said.

‘I thought it might be part of it.'

Furzey's lip curled into a shape that could have been amusement, and could have been scorn.

‘If you'd asked me, I would have told you it wasn't. That doesn't look half important enough to be a Corporation's plate, even of a century ago.'