Charles Palliser (73 page)

“As it happens, I do know the name,” I said. “And I noticed a tomb of theirs out there.

If they only sold their land a generation or two ago, why did they stop being buried here in about 1614?”

“Why, they had their own chapel at the Hall from about that date. Extra-parochial, of course. Those records must be very old for the chapel was abandoned long ago — after a murder, so they say.”

“A murder?” I exclaimed, for I recalled Mrs Belflower’s story of the parricide and the elopement and the duel and was amazed that there should have been any truth in it.

“Who was murdered?”

“That I don’t recall,” he said so off-handedly that I did not suspect that he 332

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was prevaricating. “They say round here that the chapel was de-consecrated on account of it, but that’s so much fustian. But however that may be, certainly the muniments were moved here for safe-keeping about that time. And the chapel is in ruins now for the Mompessons don’t use it.”

“That’s because they don’t live on the estate, do they?”

He rubbed the wig so that it slid backwards and forwards across his bald head: “No, and more’s the pity for the rent-money goes straight to London and there’s little enough of it round here anyway. I respect Sir Perceval Mompesson as a landlord, though many don’t, I know. For Stoke Mompesson — the home village on the estate — is an excellent place, very prosperous. It’s a close village, of course, and that makes all the difference.

They may achieve that here in Melthorpe one day and I hope they do for otherwise I see no hope. You see, the high poor-rates here are driving out trade.”

There was no interrupting him and it seemed to me that he was talking on in this way in order to avoid some other topic: “I blame the greed of the farmers. For in the old days when I was a young man, farm-servants were hired for the year and lived with the family.

But now since the price of food rose in the Wars, the farmers have started hiring labourers by the day so they don’t have to feed them. Of course that means the men can’t keep their families — especially now that the common is enclosed. And so the parishes have brought in the system of outdoor relief and the consequence is that the farmers get their labour cheap, for nigh on all the labourers are on the parish now as roundsmen. And that means that the shop-keepers pay for the farmers’ labour through the poor-rate. And on that account, and also because there’s so little money circulating around here now, many of them have gone for broke. (For example Mr Kittermaster was sold up and has gone.) That is why they were so ready to take action against your mother. But as I say, things may improve for the poorest of the freeholders are anxious to sell their cotts, though the trouble is that then they would go upon the parish and push the poor-rate up still higher. But now the Mompessons’ steward has found a way of buying up the freeholds and making sure that this doesn’t throw more of the poor upon the parish.”

“That sounds very fair and generous of them,” I said, rather grudgingly.

“Well, let’s hope it succeeds or I despair of this village. But there was no call for the tradespeople to act like that against your mother. Yes, that was a bad business.”

“So that is all you can tell me?”

He looked at me oddly and said nothing. I was about to take my leave when he suddenly spoke in a rush:

“There is one other thing. Mr Barbellion also wanted to see the register of baptisms.”

“For the past fifty or sixty years?”

“No indeed. Much more recent. Just going back a very few years.”

He was bright red now and the wig was being slid backwards and forwards so rapidly that I almost expected it to catch fire: “In fact, not to be roundabout with you, Master Mellamphy, it was your baptism that he was looking for. There, now it’s out.”

I was astounded by this but I immediately thought of the codicil and the significance of the fact that my mother and myself were the entailed heirs.

“I often wished to tell your mother in the past,” Mr Advowson continued; “but Mr Barbellion asked me to say nothing of it. And he was most gentlemanlike THE COMING OF AGE

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in thanking me for my help. Yes indeed, most gentlemanlike. But I feel I can tell you now on account of what has happened to you and your poor mother, for I know he played a part in forwarding the action for debt against her.”

“Might I see the entry now?”

To my surprise, since I had assumed that he had now made his confession and had nothing more to hide, he looked embarrassed again: “Certainly, if you wish. Now where is that blessed register? Put me in mind of the year.”

I told him and he said: “And the month and day of your birth?”

“The Seventh of February,” I said.

“Why then, that was the first year we had to keep separate registers for baptisms, marriages and deaths under Sir George Rose’s Act. So I’ll wager yours will be one of the first entries.”

He opened the least ancient of the chests and brought out a folio volume bound in mottled calf, banged it down in a cloud of dust, and opened it up. I looked over his shoulder and, indeed, the entry that referred to me was the very first. There were three different hands: Mr Advowson’s careful copper-plate, a neat hand that I did not recognise which had written “and father”, and finally my mother’s less tidy writing. The whole entry read thus:
“10th. February:
A fine frosty day. Excellent news of the capture of Cuidad Roderique by Sir A. Wellesley. Baptised John Mellamphy son of Mary Mellamphy of this parish, privately, being like to die. Mr Martin Fortisquince godfather and father: Peter Clothier of London.”

As I stared at it Mr Advowson began nervously to speak: “How it happened was, I wrote it down to ‘godfather’ and when I pointed out to your mother that I should record the name of the child’s father and his parish of settlement, Mr Fortisquince it was who added the words ‘and father’ and then they looked at each other. I was quite struck by their manner. And then she took the quill from him and added ‘Peter Clothier of London’. But she would not give his parish.”

Clothier! So that was the name represented by the initials “P. C.” on my mother’s locket! And the “M. C.” with which she had signed her note to Sir Perceval. Then the Silas Clothier mentioned in the codicil was some kind of connexion of mine! But there was another shock: my mother’s name was different from my father’s. (Perhaps here lay the explanation of the rector’s remark the day I had discovered the tomb of Geoffroi de Hougham and of our seclusion from the society of the village.) And yet I could not accept the most obvious implications of this. For one thing, I could have no legal claim of any kind if this were correct. I looked at Mr Advowson who, as if to confirm the conclusion I had drawn, glanced away with an embarrassed little cough. Something else occurred to me: this was the name that Quigg had been alluding to when he had named me “Cloth-Ear”. Then how did Mr Steplight (alias Sancious) know that that was my real name? But
was
it my real name? Why had my mother apparently tried to conceal it?

And why was she so unwilling to give my father’s parish of settlement, which she had reluctantly admitted to me was Christchurch in Spitalfields? And what was the role of Uncle Martin in all of this?

Whatever the truth of the matter, it seemed to me that if Mr Barbellion was so interested in this entry, then I should have a copy made. (I should explain that there was no registration of births at this date, except by the parish.) If my life was in danger, it would be a wise precaution.

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“Mr Advowson, if I could get enough money to pay you, could you make an official copy of it?”

“Indeed I could. But as to the fee, well, now it would need to be vellum or at least parchment, and be sealed and witnessed. five shillings is the usual charge. But I dare say I could find an old piece of parchment. And seeing it’s for you, Master Mellamphy, and

… well, seeing it’s for you, as I say, I could do it for three. I wish I could say less but I can’t rob my own children.”

I thanked him and, telling him I hoped to return soon, I made my way back to Sukey’s cottage where I found her at work on the knitting-frame while her aunt, who had returned, bustled about. I was sorry to find the old woman there for I wanted to ask Sukey something in confidence.

“She told me as how Neighbour Feverfew has been offered twenty pound for her freehold,” the old woman remarked, in the course of a recital of the gossip gleaned during the morning’s work.

“It’s a pity you don’t own the freehold, Sukey,” I said.

“Oh no,” she exclaimed. “For the freeholders get nought from the paritch no matter how sick and old they may be. That’s why they choose to sell and go on the parish —

that is, if anyone will buy.”

“I see,” I answered. “In that event, why would anyone buy?”

“Nobody will, leastways until just these last years,” Mrs Twelvetrees put in. “But now the Mumpseys’ steward is buying them up and then demolishing the cottages.”

“Why?”

“They say he wants the village to be closed like Stoke Mompesson,” Sukey said.

“Why,” Sukey’s aunt declared, standing up and making ready to go out again; “I remember when they pulled down the old village there. ’Twas when I weren’t hardly more nor a gal. And they made the park where the village had stood and built the new one where ’tis now. And they barred the day-labourers from it and to this day they aren’t allowed to rent cotts there. And so Sir Parceval pays no poor-rates and gets his pauper labour paid for by other paritches.”

“And that’s what they’re doing here,” Sukey explained.

“I see,” I said.

So that was what Mr Advowson had meant by saying that the steward had found a way of buying out the freeholders without increasing the burden upon the parish’s poor-rate!

“But where do the labourers live?” I asked.

“Many on ’em live a couple of hours’ walk away as our Harry does now,” the old woman said, fastening her bonnet. “Or if they can find a cott, they live in open villages like ’Ougham where there are none but freeholders. But it’s a hard living for there are no rates collected and so there’s no poor-relief. That’s why I couldn’t stay there when my goodman died.”

“The Mompessons should have let you,” I said.

She turned to me gravely: “Don’t speak agin ’em, Master John. My good man sarved them all his life and had nought but respect for ’em all his days.”

When the old woman had gone out I exclaimed to Sukey: “Why, they’re not fit to own the estate! To own land is a great trust, you know, Sukey. Why, if I owned it, the tenants would be happy and contented and the stewards just and honest and the cottages would be rebuilt and the land drained and the stock improved and so on.”

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“Oh, that is beautiful, Master Johnnie. I wish it could come true.”

“Why, Sukey, what would you say if I told you I might own it one day?”

At first she thought I was joking, but when I had explained to her a little about the codicil and my connexion with the Mompesson family, she saw that I meant it.

“But you see,” I concluded, “if I am to have a chance of owning it one day, I believe I should have a copy made of my baptismal entry.”

She instantly gave me the money I needed from her little leather packet, assuring me that it was hers and not Harry’s. Promising to repay her many times over, I hurried back to the vestry.

Mr Advowson looked up in surprise at seeing me and reached for his wig: “Why, young fellow, to be frank, I didn’t think to see you back. Let me see if I can find a piece of parchment.”

He hunted through the nearer of the two oldest chests, but finding nothing suitable, then pulled out the oldest of them and brought out from it piles of documents and register-books. At last he found a parchment with a large piece that was blank at the bottom which he cut off.

As he began to sharpen a quill he said: “We need a witness. While I’m doing this, might I trouble you, Master Mellamphy, to step out and find the under-sexton? He’ll be at work in the yard. His name is about all he can write but that will suffice. The sexton is ill or I’d send for him.”

I left him laboriously copying the document with his head at the same angle as his quill, his accursed wig discarded beside him on the table, and his tongue half out of his mouth as if guiding the pen from a distance. When I regained the graveyard I saw the tall but stooped figure of a labouring man some way away and went towards him. When he turned I found to my surprise that he was known to me: he was bent now and his face was more lined, but it was Mr Pimlott. All my feelings of suspicion came flooding back and, giving no sign that I knew him, I explained my errand as to a stranger. Though he looked at me long and closely I could not tell if he recognised me. When he understood what I wanted, he stuck his spade in the ground with a sudden thrust. I looked at it and it seemed to me to be identical to the famous mole-spade.

As I turned and he followed me he suddenly said: “I noticed you a-fore. About an hour agone. You was looking at that grave.”

I turned and he gave a sort of smile: “Why, I knowed you straightaways, Master Mellamphy.”

I made no answer and he said no more to me until, having entered the vestry and signed the document where the clerk showed him, he suddenly noticed the old chest that had been pulled out from its usual place.

“Why, now there’s a strange thing, Mr Advowson. That there rose on that chest. I ain’t never seen but two others like that a-fore now.” He turned to me: “And one on ’em was on that tomb.”

“What tomb are you speaking of, Pimlott?” Mr Advowson asked impatiently.

“The big ’un under the yew.”

Mr Advowson was fussily shaking a sand-box over the piece of parchment and paying little attention.

“And what was the other time?” I asked.

“Why, now there’s the strangest thing. ’Twas on a silver box of your own mam’s, Master Mellamphy.”

He spoke with a strange kind of triumph and it seemed to me that he was 336

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making it clear that he had played a part in the burglary and its theft, for there was no other way that he could have seen that letter-case since he had never had reason to enter the room in which it was kept.