The Keeper of Secrets (21 page)

‘Lady Templemead,’ I began, ‘as Mr King’s letter will possibly have informed you, we are here only to make enquiries as to Lady Elham’s whereabouts.’

‘So I understand. But I cannot apprehend why you should conceive for one moment why I could help you.’

‘Lady Elham has given us to understand that you are cousins,’ I said, ‘and, moreover, close friends.’

‘Cousins? Believe me, it is the most distant of connections. Bosom bows with that woman? Indeed no. We may be nodding acquaintances in Bath, but then, one is with so many people one would not wish to meet elsewhere.’

‘So you have no idea where she might be now?’

‘None.’ Her tone, her demeanour, told us that our interview was over.

‘Your ladyship, might I ask if your acquaintance was such that you might employ one of her ladyship’s servants?’ I asked. Was there an etiquette in such matters or had I simply made myself look foolish.

‘That would be a matter of convenience, not friendship.
There are, however, some whose personal recommendations one would give more credence to than others.’ She did not need to add, that Lady Elham was not one of those. Her cold smile spoke volumes.

I was about to blurt that Lady Elham was fashionable enough not to have her word doubted, when Dr Hansard stepped forward, with his most charming and conciliating smile.

‘Indeed, your ladyship,’ he said with a sigh, as if not just understanding but agreeing with her. I had seen my mother adopt just such a tone, when extracting gossip from uncomprehending acquaintances.

‘Such waywardness of manner,’ her ladyship agreed, dropping her voice and indicating that we might sit. ‘One moment in the boughs, the next quite mawkish. At one moment she was talking of remarrying – at her age, Dr Hansard! – the next of taking the veil and retiring to a convent.’

‘Is that why she wished to place her abigail with another lady?’ he asked, placing himself at right angles to her on one of the sofas. ‘Because she herself no longer needed her?’

‘Abigail? Abigail? What is this?’

‘We understood,’ Hansard explained smoothly, ‘that Lizzie Woodman, Lady Elham’s personal maid, had evinced a desire to live in town, and that you, spending more time there than Lady Elham and being in need of a dresser, had agreed to employ Lizzie.’

She had begun to shake her head even before Hansard had finished speaking. ‘I have been faithfully served by my dresser since the dreadful times in France. Marie has talents a younger
woman could not dream of.’ She did nothing so vulgar as to smooth her hair or dress in order to elicit a compliment for either herself or for her dresser.

I kept my voice as calm as I could. ‘So you never employed Lizzie Woodman in your household?’

She looked at me with a thin eyebrow indicating that she preferred to converse with the genial doctor. ‘I may have a scullery maid by that name… How would I know?’

How indeed? Benevolent employer my own mother was, but I suspected the staff she knew by name were far outnumbered by those equally essential to her comfort who remained completely anonymous as far as she was concerned. I accepted the rebuke with a bow.

Hansard shook his head in apparent sympathy. But I knew that even as he uttered his bland platitudes, he must be as desperate to confer with me as I was with him.

‘And what is the news you must so urgently convey to Lady Elham?’ Lady Templemead demanded.

‘A family matter only,’ Dr Hansard said.

‘A matter serious enough to send you chasing about the countryside in search of her?’ Lady Templemead observed. ‘The very thought gives me palpitations.’

‘Palpitations?’ Hansard’s voice was like honey. ‘My dear lady – and spasms, too, no doubt? Permit me.’ He took her wrist, and solemnly nodded his head. ‘Ah, there is some sign of distress in your pulse. You must not overexert yourself, my lady, or I cannot answer for the consequences. Should the symptoms persist, I must tell you that there is no better man than Sir William Knighton.’

We rose as one, our sympathy for her almost all she desired.

‘But I have been so remiss! I have omitted to offer you poor travellers refreshment. Pray, a little wine?’ She was ready to ring the bell.

‘Alas, my lady, we must decline your kind offer. We must continue our search for Lady Elham. Pray, have you no idea where she might be found?’

She stared. ‘In her home at Moreton Priory, I should suppose.’

Jem and Turner deduced from our grave faces and unwillingness for conversation that we had serious tidings. However, our news must wait until we could speak in private. Accordingly, they observed the usual master–servant niceties until at last we arrived at a respectable-looking inn. Although Turner tried to bespeak a private parlour, the best the landlord could offer was the taproom, which, he assured, was always empty at this time of day. For all our sakes we were happy to accept this offer and the refreshment he promised.

At last, foaming tankards before us, we could open our budget. They listened in silence until the narrative was complete.

‘Lady Elham was lying all along!’ Jem breathed. ‘There never was a job in London, or a secret husband, or a journey to Warwick or Leamington?’

‘There might have been all three, but not while Lizzie was in the employment of Lady Templemead,’ Hansard replied.

‘Why should Lady Elham lie?’ And so wildly? I thought of her words about Lizzie and her babe.

‘The usual reason is to protect someone,’ Turner said, applying himself fastidiously to the landlord’s best home brew.

‘But who? You tell us it is impossible for Lord Elham to have killed Lizzie because he was locked up in Lymbury Park,’
Jem said, with such anger that he might almost have been blaming Hansard himself for Lizzie’s death.

Hansard, moreover, might have been accepting the blame. ‘All I can suggest, gentlemen, is that we return to Lymbury Park to see if I mistook the dates, or if there is forgery that it would take better eyes than mine to detect.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We are to dine with Sir Hellman this evening, Tobias, are we not? So stop sipping at that glass as if you were a delicate miss straight from a seminary. We have miles to cover, and fast.’

Jem wasted no time, but, knowing the horses had to make the return journey, did not force the pace. Suddenly, however, he brought the carriage to a halt on the main road. We peered out. There was no sign of an accident.

Turner had already leapt down, and was helping someone to his feet.

‘I am all for charity, Tobias, and could recite as well as you the story of the good Samaritan, but what the deuce does Turner want with a beggar when he knows that speed is of the essence?’

Turner returned at a run, putting his face to the window. ‘It is the man whom Jem and I met that inn, sir!’

‘The venial man?’ I prompted him.

‘Indeed. He has lost his post at Lymbury Park and is walking to Bath to seek employment there. May we take him up, sir?’

At first my instinct was to suggest that Turner relinquished his place beside Jem and joined us inside himself, Turner knowing the art of companionable silence. However, I soon
realised both my selfishness and my folly; in his disgruntlement, there might be much more that the dismissed servant could tell us.

It seemed that Hansard had the same idea. ‘By all means. Turner, invite him into the carriage, please. We may find he is less venial now. And does he have a name?’

‘Sam, sir.’

Sam was exhausted and hungry. Losing his employment as an attendant had lost him access to the servants’ hall and also his home.

‘Sam Eccleshall at your service, gents both,’ he declared with a low as he got into the carriage. ‘I was seen speaking to Jem and whatshisname, sir,’ he told Hansard. ‘And for all I told them I’d been as secret as the tomb, they threw me out. And I’m not used to this walking, sir – I got blisters the size of florins, and I’ll swear my stomach’s flapping in the wind.’

‘Jem and Turner will take you to the inn while we speak to Dr Brighouse,’ Hansard assured him, ‘and there you can eat your fill. Then, if you still wish to find work in Bath, we can convey you there the moment we conclude our business at the Park. I wonder why they didn’t want you to talk to Jem and Turner,’ he mused, as if not expecting an answer, which he could in any case have supplied himself. Sam had given away information that his employers had not wished others to know, and by doing so betrayed their trust in him.

‘I dunno. I never told them nothing to the purpose, did I? Maybe you kind gentlemen could put in good word for me.’

‘Maybe we could. As a matter of fact, we may well be able to do so,’ he assured him, duplicitously. ‘I’m sure good strong reliable men like you are hard to find. It’s not everyone who
would care to work in an insane asylum.’

‘Indeed, nor would they, sir. The sights you do see would move many a man to tears, I can tell you. But not me, not no more. I’m used to it, see.’

‘What sort of thing might move one to tears?’ I asked, not seeing why Hansard should have to shoulder all the burden of the conversation.

‘Seeing those young lads crying for their nurses – that’s sad, that is. And seeing old men, swaddled up like babies.’

‘Old men?’ Now I came to think of it, all the inmates that we had seen had been young. Even the party working in the gardens had been no more than five and thirty. I had a sudden pang of fear: what if that cordial ex-soldier had been observed as he spoke to me, and he too had now paid the price? There was little enough work for the halt and the lame.

‘One or two.’

‘And when did they arrive?’

Hansard went too fast.

A cunning look crossed Sam’s face. ‘I suppose you gents wouldn’t have a drop of daffy about you? Or blue ruin? ’Cause I’m fair parched, that I can tell you. No?’

‘At the inn, Sam, at the inn. And a good beefsteak.’

‘Now, you were telling us about these poor old men—’ I leant forward confidentially, receiving for my pains a gust of stinking breath.

‘Ah, so I was. Like the others, filled to the ears with laudanum, and such. You’ll know the sort of thing, sir, being a medical man,’ he told Hansard.

I raised an eyebrow; it was unlike Turner to have been so indiscreet.

‘And what else?’ he asked.

‘They see things. And sometimes they won’t give them any laudanum and they see worse things. The screaming and hollering they do make. One old guy, he comes in as sweet as you or me, and they’ve got him up on that top floor, through all that snow and frost, and you wonder he survived. No fires, you see, in case they harms themselves, or sets fire to the place.’

‘And when did this old man come?’

He pulled a face. ‘Just as the weather turned cold, sir. A weather-beaten old cove he was, suffering something shocking with his rheumatics.

‘And when did you say the weather changed?’

He smacked dry lips. But he knew he had met his match in Hansard. ‘A couple of weeks before Christmas, gennelmen. Maybe three or four. No, not so long. Three.’

I could see from Hansard’s expression that he was going through the same mental processes as I. John Sanderson – dear John Coachman – was supposed to have died here in Bath. There was no evidence in any of the parish records of his death. Perhaps, praise the Lord, he might still be alive, and incarcerated in the same secretive asylum as Lord Elham.

Hansard rubbed his hands as he caught my eye. ‘Thank you, Sam. Now, I wonder how far it is to that inn.’

I have never seen my friend move so fast. Flourishing an entirely blank piece of paper he had purchased from the landlord of the inn where we had deposited Sam, he burst into Brighouse’s book room.

‘John Sanderson! In the name of the law, where are you
keeping John Sanderson? So help me, if I have to choke the information out of you, I shall have it!’ Hansard grabbed the other doctor by the throat.

‘I have no patient by that name—’

‘Have you that patient by another name? Speak, man!’

Brighouse’s eyes were bulging. All he could do was point upwards.

‘If he’s dead, by God you shall pay for it!’

‘Let him speak, Edmund,’ I whispered urgently. ‘Do not have his blood on your hands.’

‘And the blood of how many others is on his hands? Pah!’ He suddenly released his hold, and threw him across the room. ‘On your feet! Lead the way.’ He grabbed him by the scruff of his neck to assist him.

We found what was left of John Coachman in a cell-like room neither better nor worse than the one in which we had found Lord Elham the previous day. The doses of laudanum had left him vacant-eyed, with a severe tremor. What little hair he had was now snow white; his strong frame, prey once to nothing worse than rheumatism, was reduced to skin and bone; as for his head, there was no sign of the kindly but shrewd mind that had once functioned within.

‘What is to be done?’ I whispered.

Once John Coachman had been moved to a superior room, one adjacent, in fact, to Lord Elham’s, we adjourned to Dr Brighouse’s book room. Now the personification of the obliging physician, with no more than occasional fingering of what must be a very bruised throat, Brighouse summoned yet more refreshments for us all.

‘You will not be surprised if I ask you to eat and drink what you offer before we touch anything.’ Hansard smiled grimly. ‘Why did you do it, Brighouse? Connive in the living death of that old man?’

Hand still shaking, Brighouse poured three glasses of brandy, and drank deeply of one of them. ‘There, gentlemen, you will see there is nothing to fear. What was better, to connive in the patient’s living death or to kill him outright, as I was bidden?’

‘But die he assuredly will, unless some miracle occurs.’

‘He will have the best nursing I can provide – provided, gentlemen, that you ensure that the person who required his death can never come near me to exact retribution for my betrayal.’

‘I am sure we can promise you that,’ I said easily. ‘Especially as we do not know who he is. I think it is time you enlightened us, do not you?’

‘I dare not! I dare not!’

‘Come, you are being unreasonable. We all know that a most heinous crime has been committed. The miscreant must – will! – be apprehended. Then you will have no cause to fear,’ Sir Hellman reasoned.

‘No, no! Pray, do not ask me – not yet. I dare not!’ Indeed, he was white to the lips with terror. What kind of monster could instil this degree of terror in a rational man?

He held up his hands in supplication. ‘Look around you, gentlemen – pray, look in any of these rooms at any of my patients and tell me what could be done better! It is only those who are a danger to themselves or to others who receive the harsh treatment that you have seen. And would they be better
treated anywhere else?’ He took another sip of brandy. ‘Now, I will undertake to reduce Mr Sanderson’s doses of laudanum, and to increase his diet, much as you have already instructed me to do in the case of Lord Elham. But you must protect me! Pray, gentlemen, protect me!’

I took a steadying nip of brandy and walked to the window. ‘Have you dismissed anyone from your service recently?’

No doubt fearing another burst of fury from Hansard, he nodded. ‘Sam Eccleshall blabs when he’s in his cups. I cannot risk the identity of my patients being known – you must see that.’

‘And the man in charge of the patients who were gardening? Is he still employed here?’

Brighouse dropped his gaze. ‘He swore he revealed nothing, but how could I trust him ever again?’

‘Reinstate both, Mr Brighouse,’ I told him, ‘and in future pay them more to keep their mouths shut. You will find Sam Eccleshall in the Pig and Whistle. You will have to run that good sergeant to earth yourself, but I will expect to see him at his post when we return.’

‘You are coming back?’

‘Very soon. After all,’ I said, ‘we shall need to return this, shall we not?’ I picked up his ledger. ‘And now, we will take our leave of you. Good day, sir.’

When we returned at last to the Pelican we had very little time to change for our dinner engagement, one which, I admit, I was most reluctant to keep.

‘The man made his money from slavery, Edmund!’ I
declared, as Turner eased me into my tailcoat. ‘How can we soil ourselves by accepting his hospitality?’

‘Because none of us is pure. How much of your father’s wealth – which, I accept, you have largely eschewed – comes from his own labour? Your stipend derives from Lady Elham and her family, with which, given all the indications so far, one would prefer not to be connected. The guineas my farming patients pay me are available because labourers are paid so very badly.’

‘But slavery! Every feeling must be offended!’

‘Indeed. But first let us admit that giving away a fortune made perhaps by his father, even his grandfather before him, is not easy. And secondly, let us see what he does with his wealth. He may have manumitted his slaves; he may be a great public benefactor; and above all, Tobias, he may be extremely useful in keeping an eye on Lymbury Park, both as a justice and as one who has already seen and been revolted by some of the practices of the place. Ah, thank you, Turner – you have once again transformed your country bumpkins into civilised gentlemen.’

Turner smiled. ‘And, moreover, sir, I will endeavour to find the truth about Sir Hellman from my colleagues in the taproom, though I suspect that Jem may be more adept at the art than I.’

There was a knock at the door. The Boots had a letter in his hand for one whom he referred to as a
gennelman
.

It was addressed to me, but in a hand I did not recognise. Hansard clearly did, however; his face tightened and the hand held out for Turner to fasten his cufflinks shook.

I opened it. It was from Mrs Beckles.