A Tall Dark Stranger (7 page)

He reached out one finger and touched my cheek gently. “A blushing rose.” I felt the heat flush to my face and immediately suggested we continue on our way.

“Must we, just when things were getting interesting?”

“You promised to behave, Mr. Renshaw,” I reminded him.

“So I did and so I shall, ma’am, or you’ll think me no better than I should be. Shall we blame it, like all my other lapses, on India?”

“You’ve lost that excuse, sir. You told me the Indians were excessively polite.”

As we returned to the curricle, Renshaw said, “You mentioned the name Fanshawe. I heard a rumor that Mr. Stoddart left a book at the inn bearing the name Harold Fanshawe.”

“Where did you hear that? I heard nothing of it!”

“One of the ladies you were kind enough to introduce me to mentioned it. Her name was Carter, I believe. You were speaking to that pretty blond lady at the time. Miss Lemon, I think the name was.”

Minnie Carter was a reliable gossip. Her upstairs maid had a cousin who served ale at the Boar’s Head.

“Do you think he was using an alias, that he wasn’t Mr. Stoddart but Mr. Fanshawe?” I asked. I noticed, but didn’t mention, that Renshaw had found the time to assess Addie’s charms in the few moments we had spent with her.

“It was an old book. It might have been in the family for some time, perhaps belonging to his grandfather or an uncle. Does Mrs. Murray have a large family?”

“I don’t know. In the three years I’ve known her, I’ve seldom heard her mention her family, except that she has a sister married to a solicitor in Norwich. Oh, and I remember she once mentioned a brother in London, but his name is Henry. I’ve never seen him.”

“You could mention the name Harold Fanshawe to her.”

“I’ve already mentioned Mr. Stoddart. She was at Oakbay when Lollie and I returned from the water meadow. She didn’t recognize Mr. Stoddart, either by name or description. In fact, I mentioned Mrs. Murray to Stoddart as well and he’d never heard of her, to judge by his lack of interest.”

As we were leaving the meadow, we saw a small funeral cortege filing into the graveyard and stopped to look at it. There had been only the one death in the parish recently.

The paucity of mourners bespoke the death of a stranger or a person of no importance. There were only the clergyman, the beadle, the sexton, and the innkeeper’s son. The last one, I expect, was there because Stoddart had been staying at the Boar’s Head. They all looked more impatient to get on with their own lives than sorrowful at the death.

“That must be Mr. Stoddart they’re burying,” I said. “They didn’t waste any time in doing it.” I felt a pang for Stoddart, cut down in his prime.

Renshaw removed his hat. I bowed my head, and we waited until the little procession had passed, then stood at the lychgate a moment. Although there were no official mourners, it wasn’t a parish burial. Stoddart had a proper coffin and was taken to a burial plot that had already been dug. An unknown corpse without funds would have been buried with less ceremony in paupers’ field.

“I wonder who arranged the funeral,” Renshaw said.

Isaiah Smogg, the gravedigger’s son, stood beside us. I didn’t notice him until he spoke. He was a brash, redheaded, freckle-faced lad of twelve or thirteen who didn’t hesitate to eavesdrop and even join in a private conversation. If he had been wearing shoes, no doubt he would have joined the mourners.

Isaiah is fleet of finger and foot. It is a common spectacle in Chilton Abbas to see him careering down the street clutching some purloined item under his ragged shirt, with one or other of the merchants shouting after him. He will end up in Newgate if he isn’t shot first.

“Mr. Maitland done it,” he said, and spat between his teeth. “Paid for the service and lot and box and all since Stoddart was done in on his land. A fine gent, Mr. Maitland. He tipped Pa a quid.”

“That’s Mr. Maitland all over,” I said, beaming in approval. In fact, I was astonished at his having even thought of such a thing. It might equally be said that Stoddart had met his end on Oakbay property, but it had never entered our heads to arrange his burial.

“Is Maitland always in such a rush to perform his charitable works?” Renshaw asked me in a quizzing way.

“Pa said it might be best to wait,” Isaiah said, “in case Stoddart’s folks showed up. But Maitland, he said, ‘Not likely, is it? The sooner the man’s buried, the sooner forgotten,’ and gave Pa a quid.”

“Quite right,” I said, and took a step onward.

Isaiah turned his bold eyes on Renshaw and said bluntly, “You’re the gent staying with Mr. Sommers. I seen your sporting rig in town—with her in it,” he added, tossing his tousled head at me. “A dandy rattler and prads, mister.”

“Thank you. I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Everybody knows me. I’m Isaiah, ain’t I? I’m named after the Bible. I’m a profit.”

Renshaw held his face perfectly sober and said, “I’m happy to meet you, Isaiah.”

“You didn’t say who you are.”

“I’m Robert Renshaw.”

“You’re brown as an Injun. How’d ye get so brown? Are you a sojer from Wellington’s army?”

“No, I’ve been in India.”

Isaiah turned his eyes to me and gave a cocky laugh. “You don’t want to marry this ‘un, Miss Talbot. Them Injuns burn their wives.”

“We’ve already discussed that,” Renshaw said.

I didn’t want to encourage Isaiah’s impudence and went on to the curricle. Renshaw remained behind a moment, talking to him.

“You should have given Isaiah a good set-down,” I said when Renshaw returned.

“We were just discussing the murder.”

“You take a ghoulish interest in all this.”

“Not at all. It’s merely mental exercise. A little puzzle to keep the mind active while I’m here. I can’t spend all my time chasing ladies. Aren’t you curious to hear what I discovered from Isaiah?”

“You shouldn’t encourage the boy to gossip. Well, what is it?” I asked brusquely. Of course I was on tenterhooks to hear whatever it was.

“Isaiah is often in the shepherd’s hut. He hides there when his papa wants him to help dig a grave. He’s seen a couple using it for what he calls ‘flings they shouldn’t ought to.’ “

“What couple?” I demanded at once.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t encourage gossip. But it was no lady’s maid, Miss Talbot. It was a lady and a gent.”

“Don’t be so provoking!”

“I might tell you ... if you promise to drive out with me again.”

I gave him a saucy smile. “I might drive out with you again ... if you tell me.”

“Might is not good enough.”

“You said only that you
might
tell me.”

“So I did. I shall now say positively that I will tell you if you’ll drive out with me again.”

I scowled, feigning displeasure, although I was not averse to going out with him again. “There is nothing to stop me from asking Isaiah myself.”

“No, no. It goes against your principles to encourage gossip. Never back down on matters of principle, Miss Talbot. You can save yourself a few pennies by accepting my offer instead.”

He helped me into the curricle, joined me, and flicked the whip. “Is it a date tomorrow afternoon?” he asked.

“All right.” To remove the triumphant look in his eyes, I added, “You didn’t have to resort to bribery, Mr. Renshaw. I might have said yes if you had just asked me nicely.”

“You know my opinion of ‘might.’ Now you’ve definitely committed yourself. Shall we say threeish?”

“Are you sure Beau won’t have other plans? You’re his guest, after all.”

“Why, to tell the truth, I believe he wishes me at Jericho. We have little in common after all the years apart. I’m thinking of removing to the Boar’s Head.”

“But you only came here to visit Beau!”

“True, but now I’ve promised dances to several ladies at the assembly. It would be ungentlemanly of me to renege.”

“Much that would bother you,” I scoffed.

“Well, then, if you insist on the whole truth, I’ve found Beau’s neighbors so genial that I can’t bear to tear myself away. Hops are but poor entertainment when all’s said and done. They’ll grow equally well whether I’m there to watch them or not.”

“Is it a large hop farm, Mr. Renshaw?”

He smiled knowingly. “Twenty thousand acres. It, and my other interests, give me ten thousand a year. I can’t complain.”

“Ten thousand a year! Why on earth did you ever bother going to India?”

“That’s a bribe for another outing,” he replied, and wouldn’t be budged from his position.

“Men who stand to inherit such a substantial fortune don’t usually leave home unless they’ve fallen into disgrace. I’m not sure your story will be fit for a lady’s ears,” I said.

“Did I mention I also stand to inherit from an uncle?” he asked blandly.

Really, he was too provoking for words. And too intriguing not to have caught my interest.

I was prevented from keeping my appointment with Renshaw the next afternoon by a horrid rain that dragged on all day. As Lollie said, it wasn’t enough rain to do the crops any good, but it was too much to let us enjoy the outdoors. Renshaw sent a note canceling the drive. I thought he might come for tea to lighten the tedium of a whole day spent indoors with Beau, but he didn’t.

Rainy weather always gives Aunt Talbot a fit of the dismals. Her object of scorn that day was Renshaw.

“Taking you to the water meadow, where murderers lurk,” she said, shaking her head. “What was the man thinking of, and you, Amy, to go with him? He might have killed you.”

“Surely a murderer works more cunningly than that, Auntie,” I replied, making a joke of it. “I shouldn’t think he invites his victims out on dates before killing them. That would tend to point the finger at him, would it not?”

“You speak as if the murderer was normal. It’s quite possible he’s a madman seized by uncontrollable fits of violence, like poor Maggie McGee is taken by those fits of stealing. There’s not necessarily any sense in it. Maggie’s a spinster, and you know perfectly well she took that horn-handled razor from the everything store. I saw her with my own eyes.”

Auntie enjoys a good argument. When she is losing, she resorts to supposition. I had a reply to this latest supposition that the murderer was mad, however.

“The murderer stole Stoddart’s five hundred pounds. That doesn’t look like irrational behavior.”

“We don’t know the murderer took the money. It’s gone, but who is to say Stoddart had it on him? It’s a good deal to carry about in his pocket. He might have bought something with it or paid a debt. Speaking of money, Amy, did you get any notion at all of how Renshaw is fixed financially?”

When I told her about the enormous income from his hop farm, she rallied in his favor for a half hour, but when still the rain continued, she soon changed her tune.

“What is to stop a man from saying he has an income of a hundred thousand a year, when no one knows him?”

“Beau knows him,” I pointed out. “He told us about the hop farm.”

“He didn’t say anything about ten thousand a year. Those bucks hang together like burrs when one of them is after an heiress. Don’t forget Mr. Maitland in your scurry after Renshaw. If you course two hares at once, you’ll catch neither. Personally, I don’t believe a word Beau Sommers says. We’ll have a look at this hop farm before committing ourselves. Whoever heard of anyone making such a fortune from hops? Now if it were sheep or cattle ...”

“Belview Farm supplies hops to dozens of brewers. They must make ten thousand a year,” I said.

“Good God! Is it Belview he owns?”

“No! I only mentioned it as an example. One sees their advertisements everywhere.”

“My wits are gone begging. Of course it couldn’t be Belview. That belongs to Lord Travers. That certainly takes the gilt off the gingerbread. For a moment there I thought you were on to something. Travers would never send his heir off to India.”

After a few hours of haranguing, I began to have doubts about Renshaw myself. I didn’t tell her about his curiosity regarding the murder, or finding the blue ribbon, or, worst of all, his notion of removing to the Boar’s Head. She would never countenance the latter especially. When a gentleman visits a friend, he visits him at his home, not a convenient inn. Maitland, on the other hand, was in high aroma for having buried Stoddart with no fuss and no expense to the rate-payers of the parish.

No one called that evening. The rain continued dripping until we finally retired at eleven o’clock.

* * *

We were up early the next morning. It was Lottie’s custom to rise at seven, like a good farmer. We were at the breakfast table shortly after eight when he came storming into the room. His eyes were open as wide as barn doors.

“The body’s gone!” he exclaimed.

“What do you mean, gone?” Aunt Talbot demanded. She didn’t have to ask what body. We knew it was Stoddart he meant.

“It’s been dug up from the grave. The grave’s empty.”

For some reason I thought of Renshaw and his extreme curiosity about the murder. “You’d best report it to McAdam,” I said.

“Isaiah tells me it was McAdam who had it dug up. Isaiah was watching the men at the sheep dip.”

“It’s time the rascal did more than watch,” Auntie said. “At thirteen he ought to be working, but then who’d hire him?”

“The exhumation is official, not the work of the resurrection men,” Lollie continued. “I went to the graveyard myself. The grave is empty.”

“Why was the body dug up?” I asked.

“Isaiah didn’t know. He said his father had been hauled out of bed at the crack of dawn and asked to disinter the corpse. It was taken into Chilton Abbas.”

It is not to be imagined that our carriage was tardy in following the corpse to the village. We got the details of the story from Constable Monger, who had left his office and taken to the streets in his eagerness to spread the marvelous tale.

“The fambly was found,” he announced to his listeners. The audience consisted mainly of ladies, with a few gentlemen who had come with their wives or womenfolk.

“How?” Mrs. Carter demanded.

“There was a special-delivery letter of inquiry from London yesterday afternoon with the lad’s description.”