Cheating the Hangman (12 page)

‘Are you suggesting that the murder was occasioned by jealousy? The poor envying the rich?’

‘I cannot imagine the family of a rich man failing to raise a hue and cry if he disappeared.’ I felt I was being disingenuous – but in truth there had been no frantic enquiries, no appearance by the Runners the Archdeacon mocked me with. Why ever not? Even if a recluse like Lord Wychbold had disappeared, his servants would have raised the alarm. This was certainly a reflection to take with me to Langley Park this evening.

Although I was carefully enthusiastic with my invitation to the archdeacon to join me in some refreshment, with equal politeness he found himself forced to decline. He was certainly angry that I had not given ground, but without a direct instruction from the bishop himself I would not change my mind.

‘Such determination is quite unlike you,’ Hansard declared later that evening, ‘and I honour you all the more for it.’

‘Will it have an adverse effect on your preferment?’ Maria asked anxiously.

‘What if it does? I have no wish as things stand for a bigger parish with a better stipend. I feel that God wants me to remain here. And I am certain He does not want me to become a prince of the church.’ Staring at the claret in my glass, I mused, ‘When I first met the archdeacon I thought he was deeply spiritual, a man to emulate. Then I saw his equipage: a man with that taste in horses is not one blessed with humility. And the more I am acquainted with him, the more I see him as a politician, trying to manipulate others, though whether for good or otherwise I am not in a position to judge.’

‘But you did not want him to see Maria’s sketches,’ Hansard observed.

‘They were not mine to show. They will be safer in your library than in my study, Edmund. It was wrong of me to leave them in full view, though I dare swear that neither Mrs Trent nor Susan has seen them.’

Toone, hitherto quietly sipping his wine, looked me straight in the eye. ‘Yet you credit this man with having prompted you to wonder why no one has mounted a search
for a missing relative or friend? – which, hitherto, to our absolute shame, we have collectively failed to generate between us. You are a generous man, Campion.’

Jem nodded. ‘But no longer generous to a fault, thank God. Recollect, Toby, that when you do have to venture to Clavercote you may call on my company. I’m training up a puppy some children were trying to drown. He’ll rival Matthew’s Salmagundy in size the way he’s eating. We’ll guard you!’

‘Thank you,’ I said, adding in parentheses to Toone, ‘Matthew prefers canine teeth to those on a man-trap to deter poachers.’

Toone nodded curtly. ‘You’ve been keeping your ears open for useful gossip, Jem. Am I correct in assuming that since I arrived nothing at all of interest has happened in the village and its environs?’

‘In the village, no,’ Jem declared cheerfully. ‘Nothing at all. Being so far from London we don’t get all the latest news about which great lady has been found in a compromising position with which lord.’ With hardly a pause to enjoy Toone’s amazement at his retort, he continued, ‘In the
environs
, however, we have news of a wicked bogeyman, sent specially to make bad children attend their betters. Since this apparition arrived less than a week ago, I suspect he might be too late for some hardened cases. And I also suspect he might indeed be human. Matthew has been keeping an eye open for someone who seems to have been helping himself to birds – even birds’ eggs – and beasts and cooking them over a campfire. But each time Matthew locates the fire, the ashes are cold, and he finds signs of another bivouac elsewhere in the forest. He
suspects he’s harried him on to someone else’s estate by now.’

‘A fugitive from justice? Could he be the killer?’ Maria asked eagerly. ‘No,’ she answered herself, ‘not if the first sighting was only a few days ago.’

‘But the first part of your theory might be correct, in which case he might be a dangerous man,’ Toone agreed.

‘Or he might be a pauper struggling not to be returned to his parish poorhouse. Or a deserter. We cannot know until he is found and questioned,’ Jem said flatly. ‘And it is hard to mount a manhunt for someone so skilled at not being caught.’

‘Pray God all our neighbours have obeyed Tobias’s demands from the pulpit to remove mantraps from their land,’ Maria said.

It was obvious that when three villagers’ cottages were broken into everyone would deduce that the man in the woods was the miscreant. In truth, since no one ever locked their houses in Moreton St Jude’s, it was more the case that an uninvited guest walked in and made a mess. No one could discover that anything at all was missing, not even bread from the kitchen. Everyone was still talking about the drama – which would no doubt prove Toone’s theory that nothing of note ever happened in the village – when Jem, out for a walk with his new dog late in the evening, experienced a similar invasion. He found his books left in disarray; someone had taken all his clothes from the press; but nothing was missing. Then it was Mr Tufnell’s turn.

Together Mr Mead and Mr Tufnell visited me, and
insisted, apologetically, that the church must be locked. Both sucked their teeth as their eyes took in my books and some of the ornaments my mother had pressed on me to remind me, somewhat equivocally, of my home.

‘Pity you’ve not got a dog,’ Tufnell said. ‘That horse of yours would make enough fuss if anyone ventured into his stable: ’Tis a pity you can’t keep him in here.’

‘What about the lad who looks after him? Young Robert? No,’ he answered himself, ‘he’s too hen-hearted, poor little mite. Still not speaking?’

‘Only to Titus, in general. Though he knows his letters now.’

‘You don’t want him to write a letter to this here burglar – you want him to shout out loud!’ Mead said, though his laugh was kinder than his words. ‘He’ll be one like my grandson – says nothing till he’s four and now you can’t stop him.’

‘Excepting that Robert must be pushing ten,’ Tufnell mused. ‘Mind you, he’s turning into a nice little batsman …’

Mrs Trent refused to countenance my asking Robert to sleep anywhere except where he chose. ‘The lad’s coming on. Knows he has to say please and thank you for his food. But any argy-bargy about burglars and you know where he’ll fetch up – sharing Titus’s stable again. In any case, you can’t break into a rector’s house – it would be nigh-on blasphemy! Everyone says that Mr Tufnell is a warm man, and, apart from Jem, most of the others are rumoured to keep a well-filled sock under their beds. Don’t you worry, Dr Campion. I shall keep my eyes and ears open, and lock up the silver without
saying anything to Robert. And you might lock those bookshelves of yours: no one would know except you and me.’ She patted my arm. ‘If they try to steal any of your clothes I think people might just guess, don’t you?’

Blasphemy or not, one night when I was present at a deathbed in the village, I did become a victim. Whoever had entered my study had done it so silently that Mrs Trent, Susan and Robert, cosy in the kitchen, heard not a sound. The women were sewing, Robert practising forming his letters – both quiet enough occupations. So whoever broke open my book cupboards and forced my desk drawers must have worked like a cat. The china and porcelain remained intact. Nothing was removed, as far as I could tell. And of course no food left the house.

The Hansards had no qualms about taking stern precautions. As Edmund pointed out, his patients depended on his being able to lay his hands on their medicines, nor would they want the notes he kept on their conditions and the treatment he prescribed being bruited abroad. So he sent for a locksmith, despatching him to the rectory once he had secured Langley Park. To reassure Mrs Trent, who reminded me cheerfully that lightning never struck twice, and the less confident youngsters, I agreed to the man’s expensive
suggestions, though I cannot recall ever using the locks he fitted once the strange epidemic was over – which it very soon was. Someone tried to remove the few coins the innkeeper had taken one evening, but was dissuaded by a large but sadly flat-footed dog, which returned from its futile chase with its jaws clamped round a juicy marrow bone stolen, it later transpired, from an irate neighbour’s kitchen.

Despatching Susan, who declared herself reluctant to be alone in the rectory, to an aunt in the village for the afternoon, Mrs Trent, Robert and I continued our visits to Clavercote with items for the Tump family. By now Sarey and Joseph were well enough to sit in the warm spring sun, so all the village could, if they wished, chaperone my visits, and more found themselves willing to share Mrs Trent’s largesse. To families whose idea of a nourishing meal was dry toast soaked in cold tea, cuts of ham and slabs of cheese were luxury indeed. Fearing, however, that all would find its way on to the plate of the man of the house, we discussed, as we packed the once overflowing baskets prior to our return home, the possibility of ensuring that the children had a share. We agreed that a visit to Mr Lawton was called for, with the bonus that Mrs Trent was first cousin to his housekeeper and might be able to engage her co-operation in the plan.

‘Curates? Waste of time. Stuttering and stumbling – can’t put together a decent sermon like you, Parson Campion,’ Lawton declared.

‘Could they teach children their Bible stories?’ I asked.

Lawton snorted. ‘Those feckless brats? We can’t even drag their parents to church.’

‘The children might be persuaded if they knew they would have a square meal there,’ I said, watching his face
turn an alarming hue. ‘Very well, let us start on a small scale. Let us promise every child who presents itself for an hour before divine service a portion of bread and cheese. What you and your fellow warden cannot provide, and I fear you would not need much at the start, I will endeavour to supply. The rest is up to your curates. I will write to the bishop myself to tell him of your largesse.’

It would be wrong to say I was delighted to be summoned to a deathbed in Clavercote, but I felt a certain satisfaction that at last I was trusted. So confident was I of my welcome, that I did not summon Jem and his dog, now known as Cribb, because of his habit of knocking down anyone with whom he had a chance encounter.

It was deep dusk when I left the village, having stayed with the old man until he went quietly and penitently to meet his Maker. Titus was inclined to flinch at every snap of a twig, and soon his nervousness conveyed itself to me, bringing home to me my folly. I strained my eyes against the darkness. But I sensed, rather than saw, a man lying by the side of the road. I approached cautiously.

My sense of smell returned first. I was lying under a coat that smelt of sweat and dirt. There was also the worrying odour of a suppurating wound. Nearby was a man who had clearly not washed for many a day. I forced my eyes open. Standing over me, cudgel raised, was a footpad. To my amazement, however, he had his back to me and was yelling at people I could not see. At last he bent down to me, using his cudgel as an old man might use a walking stick as a support.

‘Cowards,’ he said, his breath as foul as the rest of him. ‘Three of them. Oldest trick in the book, Your Honour. One lies himself down, groans a bit, up turns a good Samaritan and the others lay about him and rob him. Only I spoils their game.’

Was he telling the truth?

‘Can you help me up?’

‘Doubt if I should. You might have something broke. And, Lord love you, sir, it’s all I can do to stand myself. Carry you I cannot.’

‘Did they take my horse?’

‘Him? It’d take old Hookey’s army to capture him. Made himself scarce, but I reckon he’s over there – hear him cropping?’

I whistled. Over he came, wanting, it was clear, to nuzzle me but not keen on making the acquaintance of my rescuer.

‘Nice bit of horseflesh,’ he said.

‘Strong, too. He’ll carry both of us back to his stable. Can you help me on to his back? Then I’ll haul you up behind me.’

Neither was achieved without a struggle, but at last Titus had us both safe and we were on our slow way. Dimly I realised that I should have had the man in front of me – had he been ill-inclined he could have cut my throat with ease. But he held on as if in genuine fear of slipping off. As we entered Moreton St Jude’s, we passed Jem and his Cribb. Jem was by our side in an instant.

‘Would you come with us to the rectory?’ I asked feebly. ‘I doubt if either of us can dismount without help. I was attacked – so stupid, to travel by night without a companion.’

‘Not to Clavercote – Toby, what a fool you are to be
sure. Nearly there,’ he said reassuringly – though whether to me, the man clinging to me for dear life, to Titus or even Cribb I had no idea. ‘I’ll run ahead and warn Mrs Trent. You’ll need Hansard for sure. But how may I send for him?’ he pondered.

‘Send Robert. Yes, on Titus. They have an understanding.’ Possibly that was what I said. I tried harder with the next sentences. ‘Look after this man. He saved my life and needs Edmund far more than I do.’

How I reached my bedchamber, I knew not – nor how I came to find myself clean and in my nightshirt. And in daylight? Maria was seated beside me, reading a leatherbound volume that provoked her to silent laughter from time to time. I must remember to ask her why. But then it dawned on me that there was something – someone! – I needed far more urgently to remember.

‘The man who rescued me?’ I asked, only to be surprised how hoarse and thin my voice sounded.

She put down her book and plied me with water. ‘Your throat is very bruised. Someone tried to strangle you. Was it that man?’

‘The one I brought home? Far from it. He saved me. Titus carried us both.’

‘More than that – he let Robert ride him to Langley Park. And can you believe it – Robert told us you had been hurt and needed us urgently. A lot of words, Tobias, all at once! I think your sad injuries have occasioned a miracle.’

‘But what of the man who saved me?’ I insisted. ‘Pray do not tell me he is dead.’

‘The word is that he is the man responsible for all
the burglaries. The villagers want to haul him before a magistrate – he is threatened already with the noose or with transportation. Were Lord Chase at home I think his hours would be numbered but they are shy of approaching Lord Hasbury.’

‘You must not let them. Not till I have spoken to the man.’

She pressed me firmly back on to my pillow. ‘He will speak to no one at the moment, rest assured. Admittedly he is guarded by two sturdy villagers, but Edmund tells me he is very ill. Far worse than you. The man is starving and has a very bad wound. He may not survive the day. Now what are you doing?’

‘Pass me my dressing gown and slippers, I beg you. I must see him. I will pray for him – pray with him!’

He did indeed look very ill. They had installed him in the bedchamber intended for Robert, but hardly ever used. Kind hands had washed him and dressed him in what I recognised as my oldest nightshirt – it hung about him as if he was a child. His hair had been cut very short, so he almost looked like a convict. But they had shaved his face and trimmed his nails too. He was so still he might almost have been laid out. But someone had made a little cage over his legs, like those Edmund favoured for his gout patients. He was being treated like a living man, at least.

I found my legs too sore to kneel but could sit beside him, holding one of the poor thin hands as I prayed.

Edmund soon appeared, every inch the authoritative physician, to shoo me back to my chamber. ‘You need sleep, my friend – that’s the best drug I can prescribe. And so does this poor starving creature. Damn it, there’s not enough of
him for me to risk bleeding him. I am relying on poultices for his leg. In a few moments I will endeavour to persuade him to sip a little milk mixed with water. No, not brandy – his constitution is too weak – but I have prepared a restorative draught. And Mrs Trent is preparing chicken broth even as we speak.’ We exchanged a grimace. ‘But Maria tells me no one can ruin chicken broth. Or thin gruel.’

‘I will wait here while you feed him – if only we knew his name, Edmund!’

‘It may be several days before we do. Go back to bed to rest and pray: that is my advice both as your doctor and as your friend. And I promise you that should he be capable of speaking, I will summon you instanter.’ He smiled. ‘Toone is dealing with all my other patients – him and his coloured water …’

I was well enough to demand something other than gruel and chicken broth the following morning, and was greeted by the good news that my rescuer was still alive, with a much stronger pulse. I insisted on donning my day clothes, though I consented to being propped up in my rarely used drawing room in a chair by the window with a pile of my favourite volumes beside me. Truly my head felt as if it was stuffed with horsehair: I could not follow the words of a sermon or even a poem. It was hard to recall the name of a daffodil or of the robin that Robert had been training to take crumbs from his hands. Maria had told me something important about Robert: what was it? And what was the much more important thing that was hopping round my horsehair brain like a flea in the upholstery of a cheap hackney carriage?

My usual means of summoning things to my memory was to occupy my mind in other ways – even by taking a turn in the garden. However, I was by no means sure I could trust my legs. Then I believe I smiled: there was one thing I could always trust, the power of prayer – even if, to my shame, I verily believe I dozed before I had finished.

But as I slept, the question – and, more importantly, the answer – came to me. Where had I come across my rescuer before? The answer came like a beam of light: when I was daydreaming on the road to Radway Park – when he had signally failed to rob me. Then I had rescued him from a certain encounter with the hangman. Now he had amply repaid his debt.

Or so I hoped. What if it had been he who had attacked me but found himself too weak to sustain the attempt?

Even my quavering power of reason soon dismissed that idea: Titus was a strong animal, capable of outrunning most pursuers, and definitely not likely to dawdle along while some pedestrian tried to pull his master from the saddle. Someone must have been agile enough to climb a wayside tree and drop on top of me from it, thus dislodging me and bringing me down. Then – without a doubt – someone had tried to strangle me. Would this man have had the strength to do that?

To my surprise it was Toone who looked in on me in the early afternoon. He forbade me the wine I offered to him, but then relented, mixing it with a little water. When Mrs Trent, bobbing one of her deepest curtsies, came in to ask if he might fancy a nuncheon, he pleased her enormously by saying he would, if I could fancy a morsel too. Fearing gruel, I was inclined to demur, but it seemed that from
somewhere had sprung a beautifully cooked chicken, which would go perfectly with some of Mrs Tufnell’s best bread. It transpired that Mrs Mead had prepared the chicken. As if excusing herself, Mrs Trent said her neighbours had feared she would be too occupied with two invalids to spare time in her kitchen.

As we finished our repasts, his by far the more impressive, I glanced at Toone. ‘Might I ask you a favour? It concerns the attack.’

He paused, the decanter over his glass. ‘Ask away.’

‘Toone, there will be those who wish to accuse and convict my fellow patient of assaulting me. What I would beg you to do is return to the place where he found me and see what you see there. Broken branches, hoof marks – anything.’

He poured swiftly and drank with equal speed. ‘In other words, Tobias, you do not want that rapscallion to be your assailant. Well, we shall see. The only problem would be finding the exact place.’

Stammering and starting, I tried without particular success to tell him where to go.

He threw his head back and laughed, not unkindly. ‘Look, the day is as fine as any in high summer. Hansard will not be pleased, but would you care for a spin in my curricle?’