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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Tobias Campion
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
It is Easter Day, and a body hangs crucified on a tree. Unlike the Master whom Tobias serves, it will not rise from the dead. Naked except for a loincloth and a crown of thorns, the victim is unrecognisable, his face bludgeoned to a pulp.
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Seitenzahl: 418
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Cheating the Hangman
JUDITH CUTLER
To my dear friend Marion Roberts, to thank her for her years of private kindness and public service
Contents
PROLOGUE
They stop before the oak tree. There is no argument. They must carry out their task, no matter how heavy their hearts, no matter how even the most hardened man is sickened by the grievous sound of the nails being knocked through still warm flesh. Those holding the limbs in place wince with each blow: nails pierce the hands, then the feet.
The birds have gone silent; the trees are still; no animals scurry. It is as if nature itself abhors the deed.
At last they stand back, wiping their hands on the bright grass. They might be admiring their handiwork; in truth they are merely making sure that the nails will hold the corpse above the reach of scavenging creatures – though it cannot be long before the birds peck out the eyes.
Still no one speaks. No one seeks another’s glance. To a man they shift their feet, as if waiting for some sign that they may quit the troubled place and creep home. Everyone will know where they have been, but no one will speak of it. The enormity of the act, conceived in righteous fury, is beginning to press upon them, one by one: at all costs itmust be kept secret in the depths of the dense, neglected woodland.
As country men, in their hearts they know that that is impossible. If they can track game, how much easier it will be to follow their heavy paces, which crushed alike bright celandines and delicate tendrils of wood anemone. Yet by the time the stench drifts on the wind to some hamlet they hardly know of and have certainly never travelled to, maybe bluebells, and certainly more grass, will have shot up to hide the maimed undergrowth.
The noon sky darkens, heavy clouds gathering so fiercely that in summer they would know it heralded thunder. To their terror, even in the chill March, it does indeed. The sky is cleft by a fork of lightning; the clap of thunder makes them reel. One man turns towards the distant church spire, afraid it may have been sundered. What is to be done with the pile of clothes? In these hardest of times, it seems sinful to destroy such fine linen. Many are tempted. Someone mentions dicing for it. But Adam Blacksmith has promised to feed everything into the fire in his forge, and few would argue with a man with forearms like the hams they can barely imagine after the long winter’s hunger.
It is not until they are trudging wearily home, to face the swift, underbrowed glance of the silent waiting women, that the strongest amongst them asks the question that they might have posed earlier: ‘Why didn’t we just bury the bastard?’
CHAPTER ONE
Wherever I was going, it always gave me enormous pleasure, tempered with guilt, to ride Titus. He had always been far too grand for a parish priest, but I found he was one indulgence I could not deny myself. Nor, since today I was riding to meet my mother at Radway Park in Worcestershire, could I restrain myself from wearing my most fashionable buckskins. My hat was well brushed, and my boots polished to perfection – without, I must say, the use of champagne – by the stable lad, Robert, until recently a workhouse orphan.
Tomorrow I would have the pleasure of escorting Mama to my cousin’s home near Banbury, part of her journey to London. But I would be going no further. To think that once my heart would have beaten harder at the thought of all the excitements of the capital: the theatre, the concerts, even riding in the park. Now I—
‘Stand! Stand and deliver!’
How could I be so stupid as to fall into a reverie on this deserted stretch of road and expose myself to the attentions of a highwayman? Not that this man was the handsome be-masked gentleman that my sisters would have naively expected. He was a poor, starved wretch, hardly able to hold still the pistol he was trying to aim at my head.
Holding Titus with my knees, I raised both hands. There was no point in doing anything else: my pistol holsters were empty. ‘You shall have all I carry, my friend,’ I said, ‘and my blessing with it.’
‘And be hanged for dressing like a lord?’
He had a point.
‘I might dress like a lord,’ I said, ‘but I am a man of God, serving the parish of Moreton St Jude’s. If you want money, let me reach for it – I promise you I am unarmed.’ Do not think that because I spoke calmly my pulses were not racing. What had a man in his position to lose by killing me? He would be hanged for taking my few gold coins; he might as well be hanged for taking my life, since alive I constituted a threat.
‘You don’t look much like a parson,’ he objected reasonably. But he lowered his pistol. I tried to place his accent – it was not from around here.
‘I don’t, do I? But you have my word that I am. Should your travels take you into Warwickshire, I can promise you shelter and food. Work, if you have the right skills. The village of Moreton St Jude’s, remember. I am the parson there. Meanwhile, my friend, let me give you—’
My words were interrupted by shouts and halloos. It seemed that help was at hand, but at what cost? The man’s life, assuredly. I leant down. ‘Give me your pistol and I will save your neck. Quickly. Butt first, of course.’ Quickly I slipped the offending weapon into my holster. ‘Thank you, kind sir,’ I said, in the carrying voice I use to make sure that even those lurking in the side aisles of St Jude’s can hear my words. ‘I will be sure of my way from now on. No! Pray wait.’ I pressed a few pence into his palm, which barely closed on them he was so surprised. ‘Moreton St Jude’s,’ I repeated softly.
By now my rescuers were upon us. His arrest was imminent unless he played his part as well as I was playing mine. One man, carrying a cudgel, was probably, from his assured air, the parish constable. ‘We saw you from yon hill, sir, and have sped to your rescue,’ he panted, tugging his forelock.
At his behest the motley group behind him surrounded my attacker, grappling him to the ground. My few pence were torn from his grasp, and the constable seized on them as evidence of robbery.
‘My dear sir,’ I said, affecting my father’s drawl, ‘you are too generous in your rescue. But you are sadly mistaken – had I been robbed, do you not think he would have a great deal more in those ragged pockets?’ If only I carried, like so many of my contemporaries in the ton, a quizzing glass to depress pretension. ‘I merely stopped to ask the way. The hayseed took forever to fathom the answer, but at last he gave me the information I needed and I rewarded him with those few pence.’ Only now did I see that I had perhaps been overgenerous, even in the circumstance I had invented. But my father was renowned for his largesse. Perhaps I had inherited this tendency; my dear friend Dr Hansard would no doubt venture some worthwhile opinion. I felt in my purse again. ‘Gentlemen, since you have been put to such needless trouble, perhaps I might reimburse you. But return those paltry coins to the man and send him on his way first. I fear he has already been delayed too long.’
How much of my tale they believed, I do not know. I doubt it was much. But their credulity was oiled by the sight of two bright half-sovereigns. My would-be assailant loped off into woodland the far side of the road from which they had appeared. Soon my rescuers dawdled away, no doubt reflecting on the eccentricity of the Quality.
But it was not only aristocrats who were eccentric. The highwayman had tried to ply his trade without loading his gun.
The rest of my journey was uneventful enough, possibly because I now kept my eyes and ears open. If I had hoped for a glimpse of the man, to reassure him that I would keep my promises, I was disappointed.
Naturally I would say nothing of this to my mother. She always found plenty to worry about without my giving her genuine cause.
‘I do not like to see you looking so thin, Tobias,’ Mama told me, as she drew me down on to the sofa beside her. She paused as Lady Radway graciously passed us our tea. We were both guests at Radway Park in Worcestershire, whence I would accompany her to the Mintons’ seat. Thence she would progress to the family’s London house, for the best part of the Season, and I would return to the rectory I was honoured to call home.
As our hostess moved away, Mama added, ‘I fear you may be ill. You ate so very sparingly – and rarely have I seen so many tempting dishes at an informal dinner party.’
‘You know, Mama, that Lady Radway can never let slip the opportunity to feed her guests so that they resemble nothing so much as oven-ready capons.’
‘She is the most generous of hostesses. But you did not share in the general indulgence, Tobias.’ She looked at me searchingly. ‘Is it your stomach that ails you? Or is it your heart?’ She touched the back of my hand with her fan.
‘I assure you, my dearest Mama, that my heart is intact.’ My response was too abrupt. I added thoughtfully and by no means untruthfully, ‘In fact, I might commission you to find me a suitable wife amongst your acquaintance.’
My mother had the most expressive smiles of any lady I knew; you might say indeed that she had a range of smiles at her disposal. This one indicated a most unladylike cynicism. ‘And I suppose I have an absolutely free range?’ She counted off attributes on her fingers. ‘An heiress? Yes – provided that she would not mind giving up her life in the ton and her ten thousand a year so that her new husband might feed the poor? Yes, certainly an heiress.’ Her smile changed subtly: ‘A light and elegant dancer? I know you would have no other, but I must find one familiar with the works of all the philosophers? A great reader? She would love your library, but rarely sit in it, since she must constantly devote herself to good works amongst your flock. Have I missed anything? Ah, yes! You require a notable musician – but one whose nimble fingers would surrender their rightful place on an elegant harp in a warm parlour to wrestle with the mysteries of ecclesiastical music, as manifest by some wheezing organ in an ice-cold church.’
‘Indeed, Mama,’ I said, rising to her bait just as she knew I would, ‘the one that graces our otherwise humble St Jude’s is accounted by the cognoscenti to be amongst the finest provincial instruments in the country.’ I sighed. Was it a sin to have such an extravagance that was hardly ever played, let alone listened to with any understanding, in such a poor parish? I once suggested it should be sold, the proceeds being given to those who were literally starving, but the churchwardens had greeted my proposal with a most decided negative. Taking the long view, I knew that they were right.
‘If your heart is whole,’ Mama persisted, returning to her original theory, ‘it must be the case that you are ill. The truth, if you please.’
‘How could that be the case, with my dear friends Dr and Mrs Hansard to care for me?’ I parried. Were I to tell her of my self-imposed rules for Lent, she would be even more alarmed. There was nothing in the Church’s teaching that required me to give up so many of the delights of the table. But how could I indulge myself with a clear conscience when my Master gave up everything in the wilderness? ‘I promise you, Mama, that their dining room is more familiar to me than my own, much to poor Mrs Trent’s despair. In many respects, she is a most admirable housekeeper: her care of linen is unsurpassed, I believe; the rooms are spotless; she rules my little maidservant with a rod of iron.’
‘You have omitted one essential in a woman not merely the housekeeper but also, in an establishment your size, the cook,’ Mama pointed out dryly. ‘The ability to produce a palatable meal. I infer, Tobias, that the reason you dine so often with your friends is that you are barely able to eat your own cook’s offerings. But that should not have prevented you from indulging yourself tonight.’ She looked at me shrewdly.
‘I will confess that I have strangely lost the ability to feast without stinting.’ It was true: the less I ate the less I wanted to eat. But I might go on the offensive: ‘I will not sully the evening’s entertainment by disclosing to you how much port we gentlemen consumed tonight before we joined you ladies here in the drawing room. Whereas Lord Merrivale and his brothers are still steady enough on their feet to play billiards, I truly believe that I would be under their table, snoring loudly, had I taken a quarter of what they had imbibed.’
‘Your father fears you are turning Methodist,’ she observed, so quietly that I had to lean towards her.
‘Then you may tell him how much I enjoyed the Chablis with the fish, and the port with the excellent Stilton,’ I said coldly. I feared that if I did not check her enquiries she would discover that I took no tithes from the parishioners; even if I had been so desirous, it did not take a mathematician’s brain to tell me that a tenth of nothing was – nothing.
Never had I been so pleased to see our hostess sailing towards us again, her turban more like the crest on a knight’s helmet than a piece of innocent silk. Her figure, according to the Gainsborough portrait of her that graced the morning room, had once been sylph-like, and she had been, by Mama’s account, a most wonderful dancer, always the first to have her hand claimed at a ball or assembly, though that might have owed a little to the circumstance of her having been the most notable heiress of the season; all too clearly, over the last quarter of a century she had enjoyed the dishes that made her table groan.
‘My dear Lord … Oh, I still find it hard to call you Dr Campion,’ she said, with the vestiges of a winsome smile showing regrettable teeth. ‘My dear sir, it deeply grieves me to see a handsome gentleman such as yourself sitting apart from my other guests, even if – perhaps especially if – the lady to whom he is dedicating himself is his mother. Now,’ she continued, looking about her with satisfaction. ‘There are enough young people here to set up a country dance or two, and the governess has fingers that will make your feet fly. And I know that dear Lady Hartland is the most proficient of whist players: my husband craves the indulgence of partnering you in a rubber or two.’
‘You mistake, ma’am,’ I said with a smile. ‘My mother is not merely proficient: she enjoys most extraordinary good fortune. It is to be trusted that her opponents play for no more than pence.’ Truth to tell, were my father ever to lose all his money on ’Change, Mama would have been more than capable of running a profitable gaming house, with no weighted dice and not a single bent card in the establishment.
‘And if Lady Hartland is to be otherwise occupied, might I present you to a partner?’
I hesitated.
My mother spoke swiftly. ‘Tobias, you might wish to mortify your flesh by declining to join the set, but I tell you straight that you should not mortify the flesh of a poor young lady by making her a wallflower. Of course my son needs a partner, Lady Radway.’ Turning so that only I could see, she mouthed the words, ‘And a saintly wife!’
Much as I might wish my heart to be saintly, the moment I took my place with a pretty blonde Miss Chisholm for the first country dance, my feet took over. I had always enjoyed dancing, probably even more for the movement than for the chance to become acquainted with a charming young lady. Miss Chisholm gave way in time to a fubsy-faced Miss Fairclough, and she to a red-haired Miss Anne – I never learnt her surname. Alas for my mother’s hopes, they were interchangeable in their determined smiles and insipid conversation, and none had dainty feet.
But Lady Julia Pendragon was altogether different. She emerged from a bruising encounter with Lady Radway’s nephew, a lad about to go up to Oxford, still managing a smile, though I would conjecture that it concealed gritted teeth. Tall, dark and lithe, Lady Julia was the younger sister of a college friend of mine; my recollections of her included her climbing an illicit but tempting tree to rescue the housekeeper’s cat and a failed attempt to teach me to skate. Now, however, she appeared perilously like any other demure young lady, determined to talk vapid nothings.
It was clearly time to remind her of the time when her scapegrace elder brother put a lowly domestic article on the head of a particularly ugly Roman statue on the terrace of one of their country seats – was it in Radnorshire or perhaps in Herefordshire?
She flushed becomingly, shaking her head and failing to suppress a laugh. ‘Indeed, Tobias – Oh, I beg your pardon …’
‘Tobias is my name, Lady Julia, and I am more than happy for you to use it. However, I prefer to be known to strangers simply as Dr Campion – as Henry may have told you.’
I fancied the pressure on my hand might have increased as she said, ‘Indeed, Tobias. I honour you for it. But I must tell you that there are incidents which it is entirely inappropriate for a man of the cloth to allude to.’ This time her chuckle was open. ‘And I have to confess that I am no longer so adept with a cricket ball.’ It was she, after all, who had thrown the missile that had mercifully despatched the piece of china.
The dance separated us, but each time we returned to each other we found another happy memory to amuse us. Then, I know not how, the conversation moved forward of its own accord as we found our way to the green saloon where our kind hostess had ordered further refreshments to be laid out: over a glass of champagne we found that we were charmed by the same music, the same books. Naturally we also spoke of her brother’s new life, and of mine. ‘Do you recollect, Julia, an earnest young groom who did his best to make sure I never broke more than my collarbone? Jem?’
‘The one who insisted I train my puppy properly? Jem by name and gem by nature, my old nurse used to say.’
‘The very one. He moved with me to Moreton St Jude’s.’
‘I would have expected nothing less – although I collect yours is a very small establishment and he might reasonably have expected a better post on a great estate … I’m sorry. You and your father—’
I declared swiftly, ‘A better post Jem has. He is no longer a man subject to the whims of a selfish employer. He has quit caring for horses and puppies. He has become our village schoolmaster, with his own cottage. My dear Julia, I wish you could see how he is transforming the young and ignorant minds of his charges.’
Her bright dimpled smile rewarded me – but her face clouded. ‘But Tobias, it must be a very lonely existence for him. Consider, before he always had his fellow servants for company, even if his prime duty was to you. How does he pass his leisure time?’
‘He has the best-kept cottage garden in the village,’ I said. This was true, but not the whole truth. Was Lady Julia ready to hear that whenever I dined with Dr and Mrs Hansard, Jem would be there too, as an honoured guest and our social and intellectual equal? On the whole, I thought not. In any case I had to relinquish her to the hands of another dancer.
‘I hope to hear more of Jem tomorrow,’ she declared over her shoulder as the pimply youth made his bow and took her hand. ‘Like Scheherazade in reverse.’
‘Alas, Julia, I shall have quit Radway Park before your maid even pulls back your curtains. My mother is an early riser, and expects others to follow her lead.’ Perhaps I nursed a fledging hope that she rose early too. But she said nothing, and I smiled her on her way.
My next three partners were enough to drive anyone into the dismals.
My mother shook her head as I lit her candle at the foot of the stairs. ‘You do not look around hopefully at any of these young ladies, Tobias: you do not need to tell me that your heart is still whole. But one day,’ she added, with the roguish dimple that must have bewitched my father in his youth, ‘I wager you my winnings tonight –’ she shook her reticule – ‘that ere the year is out, I will have made a match for you.’
‘With your talent for gambling, Mama, I would not dare bet against you.’ I might not have made the wager, but I suspected that after all I should have won it, until, that is, the following morning as I handed Mama into her carriage I chanced to look back at the house and saw an open window and Julia Pendragon waving from it.
Since Passion Week, the most solemn period of the Christian calendar, was now almost upon us, I could do little more than consign my mother to my cousin’s care and return to my parish. To please Mama I stayed one night. Cousin Bromwich was a harmless enough man, so long as a good dinner burdened his table. His wife indulged him in this – overindulged, one might say – and he suffered terribly from gout. No matter where he had taken the waters, there was no sign of a cure. As I set out the following morning, Mama, holding Titus’s bridle herself, hissed that she was sure that a regime like mine would be perfectly efficacious.
‘I must remember to invite him to stay with me,’ I said, my eyes gleaming, ‘next Lent.’
‘And would you invite me and your Papa? Tobias, your face looks like thunder at the very mention of him. This is no way to behave – and you a man of the cloth, charged with reminding people to forgive fellow sinners that they might be forgiven!’
‘My dearest Mama, I remember him every time I kneel in prayer. God knows that I forgive him. But he has not forgiven me, as you are all too well aware.’
She dropped her eyes: she found it hard to lie.
I laughed gently. ‘Never once, when you have signed your letters to me, have you written that Papa joined you in your good wishes. My dearest Mama, it was he who broke his foot as he tried to kick me down the stairs.’
‘Only because you had broken his heart, going against his express desire that you took a commission, and insisting on being ordained.’
Titus, aware of conflicting pressures, from the one at his head and the other on his back, shuffled uneasily.
‘When my earthly father desires one thing and my heavenly Father another, whom should I obey?’
Her hand flew in an impatient gesture. ‘I fear you are not aware how priggish you can sound.’
I tried not to flinch, but now to my ears my voice sounded greasy with self-justification. ‘Mama, you know full well that I could never, ever have fulfilled my Lord Hartland’s ambitions for me—’
‘Lord Hartland?’ she repeated sharply, unsettling Titus still further. ‘Indeed, Tobias—’
‘He disowned me – said I was no longer his son. How else should I refer to him? He dismissed me from his sight forever, and indeed, Mama, much as I would like to return to the fold, I fear another attack of the fury with which he despatched me from his presence would bring about another seizure. His heart—’
‘Is already in pieces. Well, Tobias, I can see that in common parlance I should save my breath to cool my porridge.’ Her voice cracked.
‘I promise you, Mama, that the moment my father is ready to treat me as his son, I will be before him on my knees entreating his blessing.’
She nodded, as if but partially satisfied. She added pettishly, as Titus made it clear he wanted to be on his way, ‘I do not like you to jaunter around the country on your own like—’
‘Like the country parson I am,’ I finished for her, to her obvious chagrin, but also dry amusement.
‘At least you do not look like one today. In those buckskins and boots you look quite the gentleman again. And such a smart hat!’
By now, feeling a traitor to my calling, I was as anxious as Titus to depart.
‘Find me a wife, Mama. The paragon you spoke of the other evening. She does not even need to be an heiress.’
CHAPTER TWO
As if even at that distance he knew which route would take him most quickly to his stable, Titus set off at a brisk but sustainable pace, with the minimum of guidance from me. He had always been in the care of Jem, of whom I had spoken to Lady Julia. Even now my heart glowed at the delights of our conversation and our time dancing together. Could she possibly even consider … But the last time I had allowed myself a reverie, I had been accosted. I had been lucky the other day but might not be again. So I dragged my thoughts from her, and tried to be alert to any possible dangers.
Had he been a human friend, Titus would have given a knowing laugh. As it was, he made it subtly clear that he was glad I was in control again, and I found myself talking to him as if he could reply.
We agreed that he might have missed the attentions of Jem, of whom I had spoken to Julia, when Jem took his new position. Now he was technically in the hands of Robert, a silent mouse of a workhouse orphan, though Jem, as much out of affection for Titus as any sense of duty, paid almost daily visits to ensure his standards were being maintained.
Had they not been, I’m sure Titus would have made his feelings clear. However, Jem declared that until he had taught Robert to speak, something he steadfastly refused to do in my presence, there was little point in even attempting to teach him his letters. Accordingly, though he should have been well above mucking out a stable, Jem talked as he shovelled and helped the lad brush Titus till he was glossier than ever. Their labour done, Robert was submitted to a cleansing under the pump, which Mrs Trent thought entirely appropriate in one so young. At this point Jem would often but not always join me in my parlour for a glass of Mrs Trent’s home-brewed ale. He insisted that he did not wish to be seen in the village as in some way presuming, a term which denoted complete disapproval of any notion of social equality.
Titus pricked his ears. What had he heard or seen? But it was only the familiar profile of the church in which I was privileged to lead the worship. Had I not been very much aware of my old friend’s desire to reach his stable, I would have stopped there for a few minutes, even in my travel-stained state, to thank God for the delights of my daily life. However, I could do that as well in the privacy of my own chamber, which called me as loudly as the loose box called Titus.
Between them, Mrs Trent and Susan, the maid of all work, had spring-cleaned the rectory yet again; they rarely confined their activities to the spring, although I had to admit that this time their choice of season was apposite. At least they had remembered to replace each item in my study in its rightful place, rather than tidying it away out of sight, so I could find the drafts of the sermons I was to deliver on Palm Sunday and on Good Friday and Easter Day. However, I would postpone revising them until I had shed my fine travelling attire and donned something more appropriate to my calling. As usual, with no more qualms than if I had been Robert, I sluiced myself down under the pump in the yard, inevitably shocking poor Mrs Trent. I could hear Robert talking to Titus as he rubbed him down. Perhaps one day, when Mrs Trent’s very homely cooking had done its work and he was filling out the clothes she had so kindly made him, he might talk to me. As yet, however, he confined himself to tugging his forelock, his eyes firmly locked on the ground, though his smile whenever Titus appeared was a pleasure to see.
My skin a-quiver with gooseflesh, I considered I had mortified it enough, and was grateful that Mrs Trent had serenely disregarded my taste and lit a bright fire in my bedchamber, and one in every other room I might use. At least she had my direct order that if my quarters were warm, hers and Susan’s must be too. As for Robert, for some reason he eschewed the bedchamber we had allocated him over the kitchen, a room small but always snug. Instead he silently insisted in sleeping either on a heap of straw in the loose box next to Titus’s, a practice I discouraged, though I could understand how reassuring he must find the smell and sound of what he clearly considered his best friend, or curled up on the rag rug in front of the new kitchen range.
I had installed this on Maria Hansard’s advice. It might be – was! – an extravagance for someone in my position and had at first challenged Mrs Trent to the point of her despair – and mine. But dear Mrs Hansard had feigned equal ignorance and the two had learnt how to use it together. Dr Hansard was outraged, hating his wife to do anything that reminded him, and no doubt others, that once she had been no more than a housekeeper.
She, however, had insisted, pointing out that mastering such a contraption, a smaller version of one she demanded for Langley Park’s kitchen, meant that she would brook no excuses from any new cook who came their way in the future.
I was still before the bedroom fire securing my bands when the sound of horses drew me to the window. A very fine curricle and pair, the horses beautifully matched: who could be driving such a natty equipage? Could it be – could it truly be – that my father had against all the odds decided to visit me? But he would have stood on greater ceremony, dumbfounding my poor neighbours with all his formal and lordly splendour in his favourite coach, attended by outriders and liveried footmen.
Deducing that it must be one of my old school or university friends who had strayed so far from the main road to come to see me, I finished my toilette hastily, still watching with eagerness, though endeavouring not to be seen. The tiger jumped down to take the leader’s head. His coat was sufficiently well cut to suggest that his master must have money to burn. Was it Edmund Walton, always a bit of a dandy? Or Tom Alleyne?
Thanking goodness for Mrs Trent’s cleaning frenzy, I ran downstairs to my study, anxious in a childish way to demonstrate a serious endeavour suitable to my calling. I quickly laid on my beautifully polished desk my pile of draft sermons; a couple of volumes suitable for such a spiritual endeavour; my Bible; clean paper; and a trimmed pen.
In the event, I was relieved that I had thus prepared. The visitor whom Mrs Trent ushered punctiliously into my presence was no college friend but a man ten or fifteen years my senior, Archdeacon Giles Cornforth. He too had eschewed clerical garb for travelling. My clothes had been ideal for riding; his were far smarter. In his exquisitely tailored coat he could have been on his way to some select London club.
My face must have shown considerable surprise, which, since I had taken care that no one could see my spying, he interpreted as an appropriate confusion from one so lowly in the ecclesiastical hierarchy in the presence of a veritable prince of the Church. He looked for some few moments at the ink on my fingers. Nonetheless he deigned to shake my hand, for all he thought it the paw of some grubby schoolboy.
Over a glass of Madeira, and some of Mrs Trent’s biscuits, baked to surprising perfection, thanks, perhaps, to that new stove, we exchanged suitably meaningless pleasantries. At last, however, Archdeacon Cornforth withdrew his pocket watch, as if not trusting the handsome timepiece on the mantelpiece, and declared that he really ought to be on his way to Lichfield. He was to dine with the bishop.
‘Now, Tobias, my dear fellow, I have a request to make. You will be conducting all the appropriate services this Eastertide, I make no doubt? And I perceive that you are already preparing your sermons.’ He raised a fashionable quizzing glass and peered at what now seemed all too rough and ready a pile of paper. He picked up one of the volumes of others’ sermons: it was a collection by a cousin of Lady Julia’s, as it happened, Lucius Allardyce, chaplain at an Oxford college.
I tried not to sound defensive, and may have overreacted. ‘Indeed, Archdeacon, and with the greatest of joy.’
He nodded as if I was some puppy whose overeager prancing both amused and irritated him. ‘In that case, I feel it not inappropriate to ask you to take extra services. Not here, man, but over in Clavercote. In – what’s the name of the church?’
‘All Souls’. The rector is the Reverend Adolphus Coates, as I recall.’ Clavercote was about ten miles distant, and to my chagrin I found I did not feel the enthusiasm I ought for journeying back and forth to a distant parish with which I had no connection.
‘The very man. To cut to the chase, Tobias, he has written to the bishop: briefly and at the shortest of notice he informed him that he was about to travel on the Continent for the sake of his health.’
‘The Continent?’ I echoed in disbelief.
‘Quite,’ the Archdeacon said with asperity. ‘Why, with Europe in its present chaotic state, Mr Coates does not choose to repair to Bath or to Cheltenham, I for one do not know. Nor do I know how long he proposes to recover from whatever ailment he fancies afflicts him. Apparently the rectory is locked up and the servants dispersed. Now, you have a reputation, Tobias, for – shall we say – going the extra mile? So it is to you that the bishop has turned. Palm Sunday; Good Friday; Easter Day. We will endeavour to prise a curate or two away from other parishes after that.’ He shot a surprisingly shrewd look under his well-shaped eyebrows. ‘I did not think, Tobias, that you would want our Easter celebrations to be conducted by anyone second-rate.’
‘It is not for me to judge—’ I protested.
‘No. But it is for the bishop and my humble self to do so. I will tell him that you have agreed, then.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘If you will forgive the observation, my young friend, there are times when your righteousness teeters towards self-righteousness. Just a friendly word of warning, nothing more.’ He nodded home the point with as much authority as if he was wearing alb and cassock. ‘And here is a note for the Clavercote churchwardens,’ he added with a slightly curious inflection, ‘to say that everything is in hand.’
Taking this as an exit line, I rang for Mrs Trent to request my visitor’s hat and gloves. Then I escorted him myself to his equipage, which had gathered a small crowd of scrawny village lads, alternately jeering at the young tiger, who was far too high in the instep even to acknowledge their presence, and offering knowledgeable appraisals of the horseflesh.
For a moment, the archdeacon’s face clouded. ‘Pray God this year will see better crops,’ he said. ‘And lower corn prices, of course.’ Reaching into the leather squabs of the curricle, he pulled forth an almost feminine knitted purse. From it he drew a fistful of coins, which he threw towards the lads. To my shame, Robert was amongst the first to dive for them. He, who at least had a roof over his head, and three good meals a day, in addition to all the apples and cakes Mrs Trent thrust into his grubby hands! To do this while some of the other lads were from some of the poorest homes in the village. I must rebuke him.
Then I perceived that other equally fortunate boys were also scrabbling in the dirt: two of the churchwardens’ sons were there, elbowing others in the ribs with a will.
I hung my head. I had forgotten any boy’s absolute need to compete for anything, especially if it involved falling over and writhing in mud to obtain it. My mother’s word rang in my ears: what a prig I was becoming indeed.
Waving the archdeacon on his regal way I reflected that if nothing else I had a theme for a forthcoming sermon. Judge not that ye be not judged.
CHAPTER THREE
Despite the bitter cold, the next day was so fine I decided to make the journey myself. Successive landlords in my parish had invested enough in their land to ensure it was well drained and in good heart. Soon, however, I rode through lanes in such a state of disrepair I was worried that even the sure-footed Titus might miss his step, and was far more alert in the saddle than yesterday.
The outskirts of Clavercote were deserted, with no sign of anyone within the sad, mean dwellings or working outside. And yet I had the curious sensation of being watched, which continued the deeper into the village I penetrated. There was not so much as the shout of a child or the bark of a dog.
Since I did not know the names, let alone the whereabouts of the churchwardens, I had perforce to rap on a door. There was no reply. At last I located the church noticeboard torn from its rotting supports and lying half hidden in a ditch. Although I did not trust the bank of the ditch to support me if I tried to rescue the board, I could at least read most of it, and was directed to the key keeper, Mr Powell. His door was opened a mere crack by a slatternly creature who, holding her apron to her face and backing from me as if I carried the plague, tried to slam the door in my face. At last, assisted by a few coins, she directed me to the cottage of the nearest churchwarden, a man rejoicing in the name of Mr Boddice, if my ears were to be believed. However, the poor creature had so few teeth and such bad cold-sores that I had every cause to doubt them.
The cottage stood at a little distance from the others. It looked more prosperous, in that there was an obviously productive kitchen garden, presently scratched over by glossy-plumaged hens. There was also the decided smell of at least one pig. Tying Titus firmly to the gatepost, I stepped up to the front door, though I suspected that most visitors presented themselves at the kitchen door round the back. However, a little ceremony never came amiss.
It seemed that Mr Boddice was not at home, at least according to an adenoidal maid – or daughter, it was hard to tell. Regarding me with what seemed almost like distaste, she directed me to Mr Lawton’s place, just up the lane yonder.
If the so-called lane was naught more than a shallow stream, who was I to argue? Titus picked his way delicately if disdainfully through the foul water, but then shied unexpectedly as a stone flew past. It was followed by another. Neither was large enough to do harm, I told Titus, but the image of the tiny stone from David’s sling hitting Goliath’s temple filled my mind. Without much prompting from me, Titus decided a moving target would be harder to hit than a stationary one, and our progress to the warden’s house was brisk. I arrived breathless and more than a little splashed. The house was about the same size as St Jude’s rectory – four-square, solidly built, sitting confidently on a slight rise. Another horse was already tied up outside. The chill wind and absence of stable boy to escort Titus to temporary quarters made me resolve to keep my visit as short as was polite. Being out in all weathers, and never knowing if there would be any shelter for Titus, I had got into the habit of carrying a thick rug to throw over him. Usually there was an urchin at hand to guard both rug and horse. Here there was no one in sight. On the other hand, Titus, well trained by Jem, had ways of dealing with strangers, so I covered him and, leaving him to make the acquaintance of his fellow creature, I strode to the front door.
This time I was greeted with a curtsy by a young woman whose cap and apron were pleasingly clean. Telling me she would fetch the master, she relieved me of my hat, gloves and whip, and showed me swiftly into a sunny parlour, in which the lingering smell of coffee with an undertone of beef suggested it doubled as a breakfast room. So far, so good. But I kicked my heels there for nearly twenty minutes before the master in question deigned to appear, closely followed by another middle-aged man. Both were rotund, their noses and cheeks swollen and in hue the bluish-red that implies the consumption of a great deal of port and roast beef. For a moment I wished I was dressed as I had been yesterday, as a gentleman, and that I might slap my whip impatiently against my buckskins. But I was here as a parson, was I not, so I fixed on a benevolent smile and awaited their apologies for the unconscionable delay. None came. To my astonishment – my clerical attire usually elicited politeness, if not respect – they stared at me as if the pig had wandered in from his sty.
Despite myself I pulled rank. ‘The Reverend Dr Tobias Campion at your service, gentlemen. And whom do I have the honour of addressing?’ My father could not have looked down his nose with more hauteur.
The older, more prosperous man declared himself to be Squire Lawton. His companion was indeed Mr Boddice.
‘You are the churchwardens of All Souls’, I believe, gentlemen? The archdeacon has sent me to you.’
The news obviously gave them little pleasure. ‘Has he indeed?’ ventured Mr Boddice.
‘He has asked me to lead your Holy Week worship,’ I pursued, ‘in the unavoidable absence of your own rector. I was sorry to hear of Mr Coates’ indisposition – I hope and pray that his travels will restore his health,’ I added as a matter of form.
What had I said to give offence? I verily believe that had he been outside, Mr Boddice would have spat on the ground.
‘Yes,’ he grunted. ‘All the windows barred and locked and the servants sent away.’
Just as the archdeacon had said.
Squire Lawton’s face remained stony. At last he asked, ‘And how many services were you planning to lead, Rector?’
At last I felt on firmer ground. With a smile, I said, ‘All those that Mr Coates proposed, of course. Though I fear that in view of my own parish duties we may have to negotiate the times of the services themselves. I have noted on this sheet of paper the hours I am engaged in Moreton St Jude’s.’
They exchanged the tiniest of glances, as if the name of the parish meant more than my own. So be it: my role was more important than any name. But Boddice had taken the paper, holding it by the extreme edges as if it might contaminate him. He jabbed a thick finger. Lawton nodded ponderously, his jowls undulating with the movement.
‘These are the same times as we’d expect to hold our own services, so I’m afraid you won’t do, Parson Campion. So we’ll say thank’ee and wish you good day.’
Although shamefully relieved to have been excused from the duty, I said, passing over the archdeacon’s note, ‘Perhaps you should communicate your decision to the archdeacon. He asked me to deliver this.’
At no point had I been asked to sit, but at this point chose to find a chair myself, adopting my father’s pose, which always conveyed a nice blend of patience and irritation via the angle of his folded arms and the slight movement of the leg crossing the other.
Lawton’s face empurpled further. ‘This is a damned instruction!’
‘Saving your presence, Parson,’ Boddice added ingratiatingly.
Lawton shoved the sheet under my nose. It did indeed read like an edict.
‘All I can say is that I am as bound by his request as you are,’ I said. I got to my feet. ‘So it seems we must negotiate our service times after all, gentlemen …’
As far as I knew, young Robert had seen no sign of my disapproval when the previous day he had scrabbled for the archdeacon’s largesse. Ought I, however, to make some sort of apology to him for my small-minded criticism? Or was I making a mental mountain out of a non-existent molehill?
Between periods of pondering my encounter with the bitter souls of Clavercote, I wondered how I could make life better for the unhappy lad under my own roof. How might I make him feel valued? How could I make him feel he deserved the warmth and comfort I was trying to offer him? My usual exchanges with him were – as had been this morning’s – simple commands, expressed courteously, and always followed by warm and genuine thanks. But talking to a stone wall might have been as profitable. And more enjoyable for the wall: poor Robert evinced a visible distaste for human interlocution.
At last, returning Titus to his silent care, I turned to the One to whom I took all my cares. Stepping into the calm of St Jude’s, I said matins and spent a long period in silent prayer, offering to God my earthly problems. I had long learnt not to expect an instant response, knowing that any divine revelation would come in the Lord’s good time. At last I rose, and walked slowly back to the rectory, relishing the calling of the birds and the sight of bobbing daffodils. What a blessed time Easter was. No wonder the ancients had chosen it for one of their festivals long before our Lord walked on the earth.
I made my way not into the house but to the stables, where Titus was having the rubbing down of his life. Jem had clearly taught Robert most if not all of his skills. Soon – if ever the lad discovered his tongue – he could learn his letters, and I was sure he would make a good pupil.
As usual, Robert had carefully moved to the far side of Titus.
‘You’ll take any amount of brushing like that, won’t you, old boy?’ I asked, rubbing his nose, which was as usual searching for an apple or a carrot. ‘But I wonder if all is well with that right foreleg of yours. I fancied it felt a little tight. Do you think it needs a poultice?’ I spoke to Titus, but as I had hoped, Robert responded.
He paused in his activities and ran his small, thin hands expertly over the leg I really thought was perfectly sound. So, it seemed, did he. Staring at the ground, he shook his head.
‘It seemed a mite … when I was riding,’ I lied. ‘Why not mount him yourself and see?’
Eyes round, he stared.
‘Do you need a saddle? When I was your age, Jem made sure that I could ride my pony bareback, and I wager he has also taught you.’
‘Not Titus,’ he breathed to the nearest bale of straw.
