The Keeper of Secrets E-Book

Judith Cutler

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Tobias Campion
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Seitenzahl: 439

Beschreibung

England 1810. Young Parson Tobias Campion is excited and nervous to be starting at the small parish of Moreton Priory. But his first night in the village brings excitement of the wrong kind when he has to intervene in the attempted rape of housemaid Lizzie Woodman. Even in the normal course of events life in the village is far from quiet, as soon Tobias has to deal with both violent and suspicious deaths which put his character and ministry to the test. But matters come to a head when Lizzie disappears from her employers. What has become of the girl and who is responsible? As Tobias searches for answers they find themselves delving into the dark secrets that haunt Lizzie's past.

Leseprobe

The Keeper of Secrets

JUDITH CUTLER

For Richard Hoggart, whose inspired teaching changed my life and that of everyother student who was fortunate enough to come under hisinfluence.

Contents

Title PageDedicationPROLOGUECHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOURCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVEEPILOGUEAbout the AuthorBy Judith CutlerCopyright

PROLOGUE

Spring, 1810

The bird I was watching, flitting to and fro through the woodland to her unseen nesting place, was one of the genus Sylviidae, the warblers. I could not tell in the dim light that was all the noble trees permitted whether she was a sedge-warbler or a whitethroat. I resolved to tread softly in the hope of seeing her more closely – perhaps even finding her nest.

There! I was almost upon her! A whitethroat, surely, with the building material of her nest in her beak – soft, delicate threads, blowing in the breeze as she darted with purpose into a rowan tree. The thread was red.

Dared I tiptoe closer?

Now, while the bird was on another foray, I reached my target, her nest. A miracle of workmanship, it was even lined to protect the eggs and then the young. That much I had expected. Now I saw what I feared, that the lining was not grey-green grass, but that it was all a soft red. I reached to touch. Alas, yes – it was as soft and fine as hair. It was hair.

Whence had it come? I reached and plucked a single fibre. Surely I could not fail to recognise that glow, that lustre? Didthat mean—? As realisation dawned that it was hers, hers indeed, I threw back my head and howled like the most primitive animal till the spring’s blue firmament rang with my pain.

CHAPTER ONE

I was musing on my future, seated in the room I had been kindly allocated in the east wing of Moreton Priory, when I heard the scream of terror. Bursting out into the corridor, I saw a copper-gold waterfall of hair, spotlit by the late afternoon summer’s sun, tumbling straight to the floor. Cruel male hands were gripping it, as the girl tried to evade her assailant’s unwanted embraces. Even at this hour, he was jug-bitten, already too foxed to heed my urgent remonstrations, or to loosen his grip when I tried to tear the poor girl free. There was only one thing to do. I landed him a facer, all the science that Cribb had taught me in that single blow.

He fell senseless, or near enough, at my feet. The girl – a housemaid, already trying to gather her hair back under an ugly cap – now cowered as far from the wretch as she could, pressed against the ancient wainscoting. Her slender body was wracked by great dry sobs. I feared an attack of the vapours, and would have run to summon another servant had she not piteously grasped my hand.

‘You’re safe now,’ I reassured her, pointing to the prone youth, who was much younger than I’d realised.

‘You’ve killed him, sir. And you a parson!’ she cried.

‘Dead! He’s not dead, the ill-bred oaf. Look, he’s moving already. Which is his room?’

She pointed. I shouldered open the door, and gathering the creature by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his breeches I heaved him bodily away from her. He was by now conscious enough to kick it shut behind him.

‘He’ll lose me my place!’ she whispered.

‘Did he hurt you?’ I helped her to her feet.

She modestly rearranged the neck of her gown, and smoothed her apron. ‘What if he complains to her ladyship? I shall be sent packing! And then what will become of me?’ she ended, close to tears.

‘What’s your name?’ I passed her my handkerchief, as she brought the hem of her apron to her eye.

‘Lizzie, sir.’ Fingers touching her clothing as if she were still troubled by her state of dishevelment, she sketched a curtsy. She was tall for a woman, but neither willowy nor Junoesque. Indeed, her figure was perfection itself; the plain clothes of her household uniform could not deny it. Her complexion was pale, as you often find with hair the shade Titian would have been proud of. Her eyes were the blue-green of the far-distant sea and, despite her lowly station, her voice as sweet and low as the Bard himself would have liked.

‘Nothing will happen to you. Because I shall speak to Lady Elham and explain what I saw. And if that young cur—’

‘Lord Hednesford, sir—’

‘Should he ever lay a finger not just on you but on any other young woman here, he will answer to me. Do you understand?’

Understanding me was one matter, believing quite another. And here I came to a stand. What should I do next? Six months ago I would have slipped half a guinea into her hand and sent her on her way, adjuring her to think no more about it and taking my advice myself. That would have been all she would have expected. But now I stood before her an ordained clergyman, as my neckbands had plainly declared. Did a parson in his first evening in his new parish bless her? Or ask if she went to church regularly? What I should certainly not be doing was standing transfixed by her beauty. I swallowed.

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Can I go now, sir?’

‘Of course, Lizzie. But tell the housekeeper to send someone else up to light Lord Hednesford’s fire and bring his water in future. Ask her. Tell her I told you to ask her.’ By now I was almost as embarrassed as she was, and tried to redeem the situation by bowing to her as if she were a lady with whom I’d just stood up to dance.

Turning, she fled down the corridor, and thence the backstairs.

I returned to my room, closing the door quietly behind me, and sat with my head in my hands. Had I done wrong? Should a man of the cloth ever resort to violence? The smarting of my knuckles testified to the force of my blow.

There was a tap on my door.

‘I thought you might want this, sir,’ a wooden-faced manservant announced, producing a jug of hot water. ‘Will you be needing basilicum powder, sir?’

‘I think not.’ But I could scarce forbear to wince as I sponged my hands. ‘Is someone attending to Lord Hednesford?’

‘I should think he might be left to the ministrations of his man, sir. Do not you?’

Despite my protestations, he dusted the raw areas with the powder with which he had provided himself. ‘The maid insists that his lordship – a friend of Lord Chartham, his lordship’s heir, sir – behaved in a far from gentlemanly way, sir, and that you rescued her from his clutches.’

‘She tells the truth, no more, no less. I trust no one will doubt her word?’

‘I will inform Mr Davies, sir, of the truth of the affair.’

Davies was the Elhams’ steward, who had put in train the arrangements for the living here in Moreton St Jude. The gift was in the hands of Lady Elham, a distant but generous cousin of my mother.

‘Thank you.’

‘I understand that your effects have had a mishap, sir?’

‘Indeed they have – if the complete disappearance of two baggage carts laden with furniture, clothing and books can be called a mishap.’

‘No doubt an accident with an axle or a wheel, sir.’

‘No doubt. Meanwhile, I have had to throw myself on Lady Elham’s hospitality, as you can see. Fortunately I had my valise with me in my gig.’

I could have ventured into Moreton St Jude’s wretched-looking village inn, the Silent Woman, slumped across the village green from the rectory, my new and empty abode, but my experiences at a similar hostelry the previous night had deterred me.

Travelling for the first time without all the uproar attending my family’s journeys, and no longer enjoying my own bed linen in the finest of coaching houses, I had realised for the first time at least one of the consequences of my decision to eschew the leisured, moneyed existence of the rest of my family and to take holy orders – lack of readily available comfort. My bedchamber, directly above the taproom, was filled with the sound of rustic conversation and the stink of the cheap tobacco with which the drinkers filled their pipes. When all had become quiet below, the noise began above, was the servants clattered around above me in their attic room. When sleep had at last become possible, I found I was not alone in the vilely lumpy bed, but that I shared it with a variety of viciously biting insects.

‘If you would permit me to unpack, sir?’

‘Thank you.’

‘One presumes that your manservant has been mislaid along with your other effects, sir?’ Shaking out here and smoothing there, he padded silently backwards and forwards, disposing of all my apparel, although I intended to take advantage of the Elhams’ hospitality for no more than one night.

I looked at him sharply. He was not many years my senior, perhaps in his early thirties, but had already cultivated the impersonal demeanour of a good valet. To my chagrin I did not know his name.

As reading my mind, he bowed, but not obsequiously. ‘Sutton, sir.’

‘Alas, Sutton,’ I smiled, ‘my valet and I had to part company. A country parson needs a man – or rather, woman – of all work, rather than someone to devote himself to the care of his garments. So all I shall need is a housekeeper-cook.’

‘And a little maid? And a groom?’

I could not refrain from laughter. ‘Sutton, you wish to fill my humble dwelling from cellar to attic. However, I am not in need of a groom, at least. Jem Turbeville is even now enjoying the hospitality downstairs.’

He nodded tepid approval. ‘A gentleman has his position to maintain, sir,’ he insisted.

For a moment I thought he was going to say something more, but he occupied himself with gathering some sadly crumpled neck cloths. ‘If that is all, sir, I will see to these and return them in time for you to dress for dinner. I take it you will not be wearing your bands, sir?’

Cravenly, I shook my head. I would be wearing full evening dress.

Sutton seemed relieved rather than shocked. ‘We keep town hours, here, sir. Her ladyship receives her guests in the Green Saloon at seven. Dinner is at seven-thirty.’

‘Thank you, Sutton.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Sutton’s ministrations stood me in good stead as I joined my fellow – but in their case, invited – guests in the Green Saloon, a room of perfect elegance dominated by family portraits.

Lady Elham received me graciously, as I made my bow to her. She was a very handsome woman, though it would have taken one of my sisters to tell me if the flaming locks of her hair, partly concealed under a dark brown turban in homage, I fancied, to Lord Byron, owed more to art than to nature. She dressed in a dark green evening dress with an overtunic of silk the exact green of the wall hangings, set off with a heavy emerald necklace. She bore an uncanny resemblance to a portrait on the wall behind her – an enchanting damsel well caught by Lely at his most sensuous.

‘Now, Cousin Tobias – for I decline absolutely to call you Dr Campion, lest anyone confuse you with a physician, and Rector is altogether too formal and as for Parson…’ I rather liked being called Parson, and resolved to keep to myself the secret of my doctorate. ‘Cousin Tobias,’ she continued, ‘may I present you to my husband?’

With little enthusiasm, I fancied, on his side, Lord Elham and I bowed to each other. Like me he was in evening dress, as were all the older men present. Only his son, Lord Chartham, wore pantaloons. He was a sulky youth who tried to outstare me, wondering, no doubt, whether he could refer to what he probably considered my ill-treatment of his friend, Hednesford. Of Hednesford himself there was no sign.

When we took our places in the lofty dining room, complete with huge Tudor fireplace, I hoped that the occasion would offer me the opportunity to meet some of my new parishioners, but the young ladies either side of me at dinner were also visitors, Lord Elham’s Cornish cousins. Both found my choice of career sadly unromantic, not to say unpromising financially. Clearly both wished to marry well, and since I was careful not to disclose the identity of my own family they cared do no more than practise their flirtation skills upon me. Conversation with the gentleman opposite me, Squire Oldbury, was limited by a huge and extremely ugly epergne, the sort my mother had long since banished to a distant attic. He barked an enquiry about hunting, and whether I intended to keep a pack of hounds, but lost interest the instant I answered in the negative.

My cousin kept a very good table. The young lady to my right confided in a stage whisper that her ladyship employed a French chef, at goodness knew how many pounds a year. The three courses set before us gave veracity to the theory, with the estate and the succession houses providing an array of delicacies, including Davenport fowls, salsify fried in butter and a Rhenish cream, that would not have disgraced my family’s kitchens even on the most formal of occasions and would certainly not have been offered to the mere twelve couples now sitting down. No doubt her ladyship had sighed hugely with relief when she had learnt that Hednesford was indisposed, or she would have had to sit down with uneven numbers, not a solecism to appeal to her.

Left alone, the gentlemen did not sit long over port, to my great relief. It inescapably dawned on me that my host was decidedly lacking in understanding, incapable of discussing anything except the hunt or gunsport. His son, still smouldering with resentment against me for what he presumably saw as my officiousness in the matter of his friend and the maid contributed even less to the conversation. His father said in a brusque aside that the lad’s less than robust health was the excuse for his having been tutored at home. In my experience, that often meant a youth was beyond control. Whatever the reason, Chartham lacked the social skills and ease with one’s peers that a spell at school imposes. Much as one strives to love all one’s fellow men, I confess to having it found hard to be attracted to this ginger-haired, loose-lipped, ungainly young man, whose ease in ferreting out his interlocutors’ weaknesses was matched only by his enjoyment of exploiting them. An aristocrat he might be by birth, but a gentleman in behaviour he was not.

The other gentlemen were arguing over the points of a horse I had never seen. I was delighted, even though it was a clear breech of manners, when Squire Oldbury heaved himself to his feet with the proclaimed intention of joining the ladies. Chartham announced he was going to make himself scarce for the rest of the evening. He had enough time, however, to jostle with me in the doorway as we left.

‘Mighty fine guest to strike my friend!’

I wanted to reply, schoolboy-like, ‘Mighty fine friend!’ But I restrained myself. Instead I said quietly, ‘Sir, your friend went so far as to forget himself. I’m sure in the morning he will wish to apologise to the young lady concerned and possibly make some financial reparation.’

‘Pay for squeezing a skivvy!’ He pushed past me, and that was that.

The ladies awaited us in the crimson drawing room. I must confess to being unnerved by the effect my entrance had upon them. It was as if someone had put a large pot of honey near a bees’ nest. Suddenly the room was abuzz with feminine voices. A harp was dragged forward, a piano opened, there was a veritable flutter of sheet music. Even when the word went round that I was no more than a country clergyman, some damsels persisted with their inviting smiles and fluttering lashes.

My inclination would have been to read aloud, as her ladyship indeed invited me to do, despatching the butler to locate her favourite volume of Cowper. ‘Quite an unexceptionable poet for a clergyman,’ she added archly.

The mood of the young people, however, was not for pastoral verse, but for country dancing, and it would have been a hard heart indeed that could have withstood their pleas to form a set.

When her ladyship judged we had made merry long enough, she called for tea, soon afterwards dismissing the younger sort to their bedchambers. I was permitted to seek the masculine entertainments on offer from his lordship, grumbling away over cards in the library or billiards. No card lover, I sought the billiards room. One glance showed me Chartham and Hednesford in occupation. Half of me wanted to remonstrate further with the latter, but I must try for a more private occasion, since I had no wish to antagonise my young cousin further.

No sooner had I made my way upstairs than there was a discreet tap on my door and Sutton appeared.

Assured that I needed no help undressing, he prepared to withdraw.

‘That maid, Sutton – has she recovered from her ordeal?’

‘I believe so, my lord. I presumed to suggest to Mrs Beckles, the housekeeper, that she might in future carry out her duties in another wing. It seems that Mrs Beckles had already resolved on such a move. She has been sufficiently conscientious in her duties, sir, to become lady’s maid, whenever a visitor does not bring her own servant. Mrs Beckles will instruct her fully.’

Satisfied on that score I should have slept the sleep of the just. But at one point I woke sharply, my heart beating with violence. Had I heard a scream? I sat up, straining my ears to hear more. But there was nothing but the creaks and groans of the aged timbers settling for the night, and at last they lulled me to slumber.

* * *

I did not expect my hostess to be at the breakfast table the following morning, and Lord Elham had clearly sunk too much port the previous evening to incline him to conversation now.

As I helped myself to a slice of very fine ham, I summoned Corby, the butler, to my side. ‘Tell me, was there any disturbance in the night? I thought I heard something – a shout, a scream – I know not…’

I would swear I saw panic in his eyes, but he said bracingly, ‘Sir, next you will be telling me you peered out of the window and saw a headless rider galloping into the courtyard! Why,’ he continued, his eyes a-twinkle, ‘I recall a footman saw the hooded figure of a friar being hauled down the main staircase only a month or so ago. Regrettably he had made such inroads into his lordship’s port that I had to dismiss him on the spot.’

Certainly Corby would not venture to accuse me of having been top-heavy, but I took his drift.

‘Now, sir,’ he continued, ‘I understand from Mr Davies – his lordship’s steward, sir – that the carter has at last reached the vicarage. He himself will supervise the unloading of your effects, but requests the pleasure of your early presence. Naturally he would not want to install furniture in the wrong rooms, sir.’

‘Naturally. Will you have my gig brought round in – say – half an hour? And have Sutton apprised of my move?’

As he bowed himself away, another pang struck me. All my life I had had but to raise a finger and my orders were obeyed. Now I would have to do simple errands like that for myself.

* * *

Scarce was the last stick of furniture in place, and Jem, my groom, inspecting the stabling, than there was a knock on the back door. Hurrying through the still unfamiliar territory, I found before me a comely woman in her forties. Although very plainly and respectably dressed, she was as elegant in her way as Lady Elham. She carried a basket covered with a white cloth, as if an alfresco repast were planned.

Curtsying slightly in response to my bow, she said, ‘Mrs Beckles, at your service, Parson Campion. I have the honour to be housekeeper up at the Priory. I hope these few offerings will make life more tolerable for you until you have your own staff.’

‘Why, thank you, Mrs Beckles. That is more than kind of Lady Elham—’ I stopped. ‘I do beg your pardon, Mrs Beckles. These come from you, not her ladyship, do they not?’

She smiled dismissively. ‘A man needs his comforts, sir. Shall I dispose of them in your kitchen for you?’

‘I hardly like—’ Nonetheless, I stood aside.

‘When did any man know his way about a kitchen, sir? Let alone a gentleman.’

Her honest face made me trust her. ‘Mrs Beckles, here in Moreton St Jude I am a gentleman no more.’

She lifted her chin. ‘With respect, sir, being a gentleman has less to do with birth than behaviour – if you’ll pardon me for saying so,’ she added quickly. But encouraged by my smile, she continued, ‘Up at the Priory I see fine lords behaving like savages, and working men as charitable and gracious as if they had been born with a whole canteen of silver spoons.’

I hung my head, but lifted it to say, ‘Mrs Beckles, I think you have just given a better sermon than I shall ever hope to do.’

‘Nay, sir, each to his or her trade. And mine is to tell you that one of the first things you must do is to install a new closed range for this kitchen.’

Extending her attentions to the rest of the house, she hung curtains and stowed linen with the brisk efficiency of Sutton, but more conversation, though none as controversial as her comments about gentility. I tried to draw her out about my new neighbours, but she looked me straight in the eye. ‘That would be gossip and hearsay, Parson Campion. You must make your own judgements. You’ll make some mistakes – every young man does that – but I doubt that you’ll make many. There now, at least you’ll have a shirt to your back in the morning,’ she said, closing the last drawer. ‘I’ll arrange for old Dame Phipps to come and wash for you, shall I? Every two weeks? Or every month?’

I shook my head. ‘Mrs Beckles, pray arrange what you think best. If you can run a house the size of the Priory, I dare swear you know what is best for this.’

Her laugh showed her excellent teeth, of which her ladyship must have been very jealous.

At last what I had wanted to know all morning. ‘Might I ask, Mrs Beckles, how young Lizzie fares this morning?’

‘Indeed you may. She is shaken, a little inclined to weep, so I have kept her busy with tasks in my room.’ She smiled. ‘I honour you for what you did yesterday, Parson. Many another young man would have looked the other way. But you did right. I should be glad for Lizzie’s sake if she could find a position in another house, but wherever she went she would have young bloods thinking she was there for their pleasure, and at least here I can keep an eye on her. But a word of advice, Parson. When you chose servants, let your head do the choosing, not your heart. Many a plain girl works harder than a pretty one.’

‘I suppose, Mrs Beckles, that you would not be able to recommend one?’

She shook her head firmly. ‘It is your new housekeeper-cook you should consult. It is she who will have the training of her after all.’

‘And where would I find a housekeeper-cook? Should I ask Mr Davies for advice?’

We both knew what her answer would be. ‘I think I can find you just the lady,’ she said.

For all its curtains, carpets, tables and chairs, the house felt very empty when she had left.

I repaired to the obvious place – to St Jude’s, there to offer belated morning prayers in the ineffable peace of the ancient building and then to become acquainted with its fabric.

At last rising from my knees, I looked about me. From the shape of the arches and the windows, I judged the building to date from Norman times. There were brasses aplenty, and some grandiose tombs holding the earthly remains of the family who held the benefice, with Latin inscriptions testifying to the excellence of their lives. Nil nisi bonum, I supposed. The choir stalls looked as old as those in the Chapel of King’s College, in Cambridge, where I had taken my degree and later been ordained. I sat in one for a moment, feeling a sense of home there that I had yet to feel in the parsonage. As if in greeting, coloured light danced on my hands with the sudden illumination of the stained-glass windows.

I had hardly closed the heavy door behind me when I realised I was not alone. Rake in one hand, shapeless hat in another, a man in his thirties greeted me. Though much the same age as Jem, he was spare to the point of emaciation, whereas Jem was broad and enough to carry me – as on occasion he had had to, when I had dipped far too deep. His thin face contrasted with Jem’s manly features.

‘Simon Clark, your honour,’ he greeted me. ‘Your verger, your honour.’

Could this man dig a grave a full six feet deep? I doubted it, but little knew how soon he would prove my doubts unnecessary.

‘Call me Parson Campion, Mr Clark. And carry on with your excellent work.’ Now I looked about me, I could see how neat and trim the graveyard looked, barely one weed daring to show its head in the immaculate grass. When he stood where he was, still smiling, I added, with perfect truth, ‘Rarely have I seen so beautifully tended churchyard. Is this all your work?’

Eyes huge and round, he nodded convulsively. ‘Thank you, your honour!’

I shook my head. ‘No, it is I who must thank you. It is you who cleans the church?’

He swallowed hard. ‘That be my good wife, your honour. She does her best, your honour.’

‘Then pray thank her on my behalf.’

‘Thank you, your honour.’

Clearly he could not move until I did, so with another smile, I turned and walked to the lych-gate.

I came face to face with two stolid countrymen, one ruddy and broad, the other as pale and thin as Simon Clark. Neither evinced any immediate signs of friendliness.

‘And who might you be, young sir?’ the red-faced one demanded.

‘Nay, it’s the new rector!’ cried his companion, at last perceiving my white bands, tearing off his hat and bowing.

I thrust out my hand. ‘Parson Campion it is,’ I declared, smiling.

By now both men were bare-headed and ready to be servile, an improvement on truculence, perhaps. In turn each wiped his right hand roughly on his breeches before proffering it to me.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, we weren’t expecting you yet a while.’

‘And not so young, neither, not with so many fine men going for to be soldiers.’

I said nothing.

‘We’re the churchwardens, sir. This here is Farmer Bulmer.’

The red-faced man bowed again.

‘And I be Dusty Miller,’ the pale one added, laughing almost toothlessly at his appellation. He patted his coat by way of explanation. It rewarded him with a puff of white dust. He coughed, though more as a preface to a well-rehearsed speech than in response to the flour. ‘Welcome to your new cure of souls, Mr Campion. We hope you find all as you expect it to be, but if you do not, rest assured we will do all in our power to set it right.’ How many hours, how many scribblings and crossings out had gone into that utterance before he conned it by heart?

‘Thank you, gentlemen. I’m sure we will work together very well.’

‘We hear you haven’t any furniture yet, Parson,’ Bulmer said.

‘Nay, nor any servants, neither,’ Miller added.

I smiled. ‘Thank goodness the carter brought all my effects this morning. As for servants—’ I would rather trust Mrs Beckles’ advice than theirs, but listening would do no harm.

‘You’ll be wanting a good serving-wench,’ suggested Farmer Bulmer, with what I thought might have been the ghost of an unseemly wink.

Sensing a trap, I added firmly, ‘My new housekeeper will select the staff.’ Thank goodness for the prescience of Mrs Beckles.

They exchanged a glance. Miller sucked his few remaining teeth, the pressure putting them at imminent risk.

‘Were there no servants at the parsonage before?’ I pursued.

‘Bless your life, there was just the one. And she went with the last vicar to his new place near Bath.’

‘Such loyalty is commendable,’ I remarked, perhaps wishing that she had had stronger ties to her home village.

My naivety produced guffaws of laughter, not soon enough suppressed. ‘Why, bless your heart, of course she’s loyal! She’s the old vicar’s wife, now, see. And they do say there’s like to be a new arrival in their family soon.’ This time his wink was unmistakable.

‘And him a man not seeing sixty again,’ Mr Miller added, his tone a mixture of admiration and envy.

‘And her not turned twenty-five, I dare swear. Yes, we must find such a housekeeper for you, Parson Campion. Likely you too will want to see if you’ve got a breeder before you tie the knot!’ His bawdy laughter rang across the green.

‘I understand that that is the way of those who know no better, but it is my belief, gentlemen, that it is not the way of a true man of God.’

‘Don’t ’ee go complaining of Mr Hetherington,’ Miller said sharply. ‘A fine man he was, the keenest after a fox you ever did see. Three times I saw him brought home on a gate, and like to breathe his last. But next season he was up and doing, just as a man should.’

I bowed silently and coldly. ‘I believe my presence is needed at the parsonage. But I will be reading morning service again tomorrow, and hope for your presence. Good day to you, gentlemen.’

Helplessness was a sensation quite new to me. At Eton I had gone well prepared with my elder brothers’ advice, and at Cambridge I had found my school friends ready to greet me. Here there was no one, and though I supposed that preparing a nuncheon with the contents of the kind Mrs Beckles’ basket should not be beyond my powers, I found myself waiting for a servant to unpack, to find me plate and knife, even to pull out my chair for me.

Now my only servant was Jem, still toiling in the stables, Augean in their condition. It was only right that for once I should serve him. How might I do so without causing him embarrassment? At last it occurred to me that we could sit together in the yard, perhaps on a convenient hay-bale, and have a truly rustic picnic. I carried a basket outside and summoned him. Awkwardly, first sluicing himself under the pump, he pulled over three bales – it was clear that the third would make a good table. From the embarrassed way he rubbed his hands on the straw, he felt unequal to the task of being our ad hoc butler, so I myself placed the cloth on the spare bale and laid out the basket’s contents on it. Mrs Beckles had provided a good jug of ale, a selection of cold meats and two handsome pies. There was cutlery aplenty in the kitchen, stowed so dexterously by Mrs Beckles, but I knew not where. Without a word, Jem produced a haft-knife, and cut two huge slices of mutton pie.

My appetite assuaged, for food if not for conversation, Jem being ever taciturn, and now completely silent, except for two or three brief utterances on the subject of the horses, I had the rest of my day to fill. Mrs Beckles’ kind ministrations had not extended to my study. My books – quite rightly – awaited my attention.

Installing the last volume in the handsome new bookcase, I felt at last that I might be at home here, my old friends with their worn spines but perennially fresh interiors about me. But I was so filthy the only option open to me was the pump Jem had used earlier. So I was dripping wet when I heard a distant ring on my new doorbell. Of course, there was no servant to respond, and I was loath to miss a visitor. Pulling on my shirt, I almost ran through the house.

‘Hello? Hello there?’ Whoever it was did not wait, but stepped inside, his broad frame making a silhouette against the bright afternoon sun.

Still in my shirt-sleeves, I stepped forward, hand outstretched. If my guest did not stand upon ceremony, neither would I.

‘Edmund Hansard at your service, sir,’ he greeted me, pulling off a shapeless hat to reveal an old-fashioned wig atop the face of a man in his early fifties.

‘Tobias Campion at yours,’ I responded with a slight bow. My hand was enveloped in his.

‘I have the advantage of you,’ he laughed, bright blue eyes a-twinkle. ‘I know that you are the new parson, but you cannot know that I am the doctor. And I come not to treat any ills – for you look a healthy enough young man – but to bid you come and share my board this evening. Aye, and bring your man too. I have no doubt my servants will look after him.’

‘This is most kind—’ I began.

‘Did I not read somewhere that you should do unto others as you would they do unto you? Well, man, someone must needs feed and water you. I keep a plain table, mind you. And country hours. Would six be too early for you? You’ll find me at Langley House, out on the Leamington Road. Till six, then. No need to dress.’

‘Till six,’ I agreed.

He left without further ado, leaving, as Mrs Beckles had done, a house feeling the lack of his presence.

‘Langley House,’ I repeated to Jem, as we trotted side by side through the village, the westering sun bathing it in a golden glow.

On the green a few very young boys, no more than five or six years old, played with a bat and ball. Beyond the green was a duck pond, with St Jude’s the far side of the graveyard to my left. The Silent Woman, so old that Shakespeare might have drunk there, sank down on its knees opposite. On the outskirts of the village a coaching inn was being built, to celebrate the arrival of a turnpike road, no doubt. It would be the only building of note, St Jude’s apart. The rest of the village comprised picturesque thatched cottages, haphazardly arranged in a verdant innocence so beloved of our poets.

We were heading in the opposite direction from Moreton Priory, into neat and I hoped prosperous farmland. Jem rode alongside me, as he’d done from the days he taught me to ride. It was the only time he permitted me to treat him as my friend.

‘And what sort of place are we looking for?’ he asked.

‘Do you know, I’ve no idea.’ I scanned the scattering of cottages we passed, greeting the shirt-sleeved men toiling in gardens crammed from corner to corner with bright flowers and anomalous vegetables. ‘Surely they cannot feed a family from so small a plot,’ I exclaimed. ‘My father’s estate workers have allotments three or four times this size.’

‘Not all farmers are as generous as his lordship,’ Jem replied, eyeing the half-naked children as if they were savages. Their filthy hands shot out as we passed. I scattered a handful of pennies and resolved to do something of more long-term benefit, God willing.

At last we had fairly left the cottages behind. A high stone wall ran parallel with the road. After half a mile or so, it was broken by a handsome pair of gates, and a gravelled driveway led up to a house some thirty or forty years old, elegant in its proportions.

‘Can this be it?’ Jem asked. ‘’Tis a mighty fine place for a country doctor.’

And so it was. The rosy brick-built house glowed in welcome. Three storeys high, its symmetry was more than agreeable to the eye. Perhaps it reminded me of the doll’s house my sister once cherished.

Two lads dawdling home assured us, when prompted by a penny from me and a scowl from Jem with an adjuration to watch their manners when the parson was speaking to them, elicited the information that this was indeed Dr Hansard’s home. Exchanging amused and rueful grins, we set our mounts in motion once again, to be greeted by our host himself on the front steps, deep in conversation with his groom.

As he glimpsed us, he broke into a broad smile. ‘Welcome to Langley House,’ he said.

The evening went with enormous speed. At some point, perhaps as we supped in leisurely fashion, perhaps as we sipped our port afterwards, Edmund Hansard and I progressed from being sympathetic acquaintances to men likely to become friends. It may have been when he showed me his experiment room, where he explained his aspiration to grow pink hyacinths from blue stock, or his curiosities collection, or even his library, where he had had a small fire lit, to take off the chill of the evening. Without exchanging the sort of personal confidence my sisters pressed on their bosom bows, it was clear we saw the world from a similar position, though I would have been hard pressed to recall a single instance where we had formally exchanged opinions.

He pressed a final glass of brandy upon me.

‘So you see,’ he said expansively, ‘the neighbourhood does not know what to make of me. They see this fine house, and from it emerges an old country doctor. Should they admit me through their grand front doors – which, to be fair, Lord and Lady Elham have come to do – or send me, tail between my legs, to the servants’ entrance?’

‘A man of your learning—’ I began.

‘Is less respected for what lies between his ears than for his land, just as any other country gentleman is. Do you think I would have been appointed as a justice of the peace had it not been for my acres? Would my library, my travels, my learning, as you put it, have entitled me to such a responsibility? I think not, my friend. And indeed, if they knew how I had acquired my land and my house, I might not have—’ He broke off as a peal from his doorbell, veritably loud enough to waken the dead, rang throughout the house. He was on his feet in an instant. ‘At this time of night that can mean only one thing – a hatch or a despatch,’ he said with a rueful grin. ‘My young Tobias, I am sorry to bid you such an unceremonious farewell. But I have a feeling we shall deal well together.’

With that he bustled me out, grabbing his hat and his bag from a servant already holding the front door ajar. A man was running his horse round even as we passed through it. Throwing the farm lad messenger up before him, Dr Hansard was on his way.

Jem had brought Titus round at a not much slower pace.

‘Seems he has the bell connected to his kitchen and to his stable, too, so George – that’s his groom – always knows when he has to saddle up,’ he said. ‘Do you want to follow him, Master Tobias?’

I pondered. Once again, a deep longing to be told what to do possessed me. But I had not so much as a tutor to guide me now. ‘If it’s a “hatching” I shall only be in the way,’ I mused. ‘And I know that if mother or baby ails he will send for me.’

Jem frowned. ‘But it might be a deathbed he’s called to. And there, I tell you straight, Master Tobias, you should be.’

To be shamed thus by my own servant! In silence, I let him heave me into the saddle, and within a minute we were following the good doctor’s tracks.

CHAPTER TWO

As I stood beside the grave, I thanked the Almighty that the first deathbed I had had to attend in my new cure had been such an easy one. Old Mrs Gates’s passing had been entirely peaceful with, not so much as a backward glance. Indeed, even Dr Hansard had found it hard to pronounce the absolute moment of death, it was so gentle.

Her family, farmers comfortably ensconced in a house the origins of which must have been at least as old as those of Moreton Priory, had surrounded her, repeating after me the appropriate prayers. Perhaps they had been surprised to see me, but their welcome, once I had introduced myself, was gratifyingly warm. Only Dr Hansard allowed a gleam of surprise, then amused approval, to flicker across his face. I had had the grace, I believe, to blush. I trusted Jem far too well to fear that the reason for my presence would ever become public knowledge.

It seemed that in this part of the kingdom it was not considered seemly for women to attend the final obsequies, and so it was only men gathered round the graveside to hear – and, I hoped, be consoled by – the solemn grandeur of the burial service. They stood in the late summer sun, their heads bowed in a final farewell, in this world at least, but in sure hope of a reunion in the next.

‘Thank you, Parson Campion,’ said Farmer Gates as I signified the proceedings were over. ‘Now, let me press you and Dr Hansard here to join the mourners back at the farmhouse for a glass of sherry before the old lady’s will is read.’ He clapped me familiarly on the shoulder.

Two years ago I should have shuddered at the touch and at such an invitation. Now I would accept them both, for two reasons. The first was to keep Jem’s good opinion, so very nearly lost the other night; the second was that I rattled round my empty house like an egg in a bucket, to use his phrase, and however I tried to fill my hours of leisure with study and prayer, I felt at times a quite desperate need for the company of my fellow men – even if they were, like Farmer Gates, huge, red-faced yeomen, clothes straining at the seams and great hams of hands dealing greasy cards for whist: people, in short, to whom my family would scarcely have bowed from their carriage.

However, even as I smiled my acceptance, Simon Clark, the verger, scuttled across the greensward with a far from reverent haste.

‘Simon,’ I began to remonstrate, in a serious voice.

‘Begging your pardon, your honour, and yours, Dr Hansard, but the doctor’s wanted,’ he panted. ‘Real urgent, they say. Down in Marsh Bottom. Young Will says it’s bad, desperate bad he says.’

‘Is William waiting?’

‘No, Doctor. He’s run straight back, fast as if his life depended on it.’

‘How fortunate you left your gig at the parsonage,’ I said to Hansard. ‘Let me apologise to these good people and I will accompany you.’

‘To Marsh Bottom?’ Simon demanded incredulously. ‘That’s not a fit place for such as you, your honour!’

‘Anywhere on God’s earth is fitting for His servants,’ I said as mildly as I could.

‘Not even a pig would want—’ he persisted.

‘How fortunate I am not a pig. Enough of this, Simon.’ I turned to Farmer Gates. ‘It seems I cannot accept your kind invitation. Pray forgive me.’

He nodded, apparently bemused. I fancied, however, that even if he had not taken offence, my churchwardens had. Mr Bulmer’s complexion was dark with anger, and Mr Miller’s eyes narrowed. But from the expression on Dr Hansard’s face, this was no time for doctrinal or social argument, so, with a final shake of Mr Gates’s hand, I turned towards the parsonage.

Shedding my surplice with more haste than dignity, and providing myself, on impulse, with the requisites for both communion and infant baptism, I bade Jem, busy with a hammer and some long nails, bring the gig round immediately. Even Jem looked solemn when I mentioned our destination, but he gave a grim nod, as if approving despite himself.

‘What is Marsh Bottom, that no one wants me to see it?’ I enquired lightly, as I took my place beside Dr Hansard. ‘Or is it my solecism in declining to partake of the funeral baked meats that gives offence?’

‘I know not why Bulmer and Miller are so hostile,’ he said thoughtfully, whipping his horses into a brisk trot. ‘They dealt extremely well with your predecessor, but that in itself is no commendation, not in my eyes at least. Simon Clark, however, is a decent man, who – not to wrap it up in clean linen – fears for your health as much as for your sensibilities. I doubt you’ll have seen much to prepare you for the Bottom, not unless you have seen military service abroad.’

Although I felt his eyes upon me, I declined to respond. Although one day I had no doubt I would open my budget and be fully frank with him, this was neither the time nor the place, and, were I honest with myself, it was still an episode painful to refer to. ‘My health?’ I prompted him at last.

‘A foul, miasmic place,’ he said. ‘And Simon was right; no decent farmer would want to house his pig in such a sty. But labourers are not pigs, Tobias, and neither are their families,’ he added grimly. ‘I often think they are not valued so highly.’ He slowed his horses to a funereal walk, the lane being so deeply rutted that I would imagine it impassable after rain.

‘The landlord—’

‘—Is so busy improving his lands after at last enclosing them that he has no time to care for his workers’ accommodation. He would probably assert that he has no money, either, for putting land into good heart is not to be undertaken lightly. But soon you may judge for yourself. I normally come to such places on horseback,’ he added grimly, struggling to keep the gig upright.

At last, the gig came to a halt – for the life of me I could not see why – and, reaching behind him for his bag, Hansard jumped down. Nothing loath I followed suit. ‘We have to walk from here?’ I ventured.

‘We are here, man,’ he declared, his voice rough with an emotion I eventually deduced must be anger.

‘But I see nought but a haystack,’ I protested. ‘And a damned poor one to boot!’

‘You see Marsh Bottom,’ he said dryly.

He strode along what might have been a path, his boots leaving phosphorescent puddles in the ooze. I followed in an altogether more gingerly fashion, still wondering whither he led. At last I perceived two or three holes in the side of the stack, which might be doorways, with further holes emitting a quantity of thin smoke.

‘Can it really be that someone lives here?’

‘Three families,’ he threw over his shoulder. ‘One in each hovel. Now do you see why people doubted the wisdom of your venturing down here? Continue at your own risk, Parson Campion.’

I fear that even at that moment I might have turned back, had I not heard a hideous sound, midway between a groan and a scream, issuing from the middle hole.

We plunged within. It took me all the willpower at my disposal not to retch and recoil at the stench of a veritable charnel house. I could not but reach for my handkerchief, pressing it hard against my nose and mouth, however that might diminish me in Hansard’s opinion.

At last my eyes accustomed themselves to the dimness within. The only light came from the doorway – there was no door that I could see – and from the hole supposedly acting as a chimney. There was a pallid glimmer of flame from a fire, but I did not think it would survive much longer. Three or four shapes cowered in the furthest corner. It took me moments to realise that they were children. To my left a woman leant over another figure on a heap of straw that was the sufferer’s only bed.

‘How long has Luke been like this, Mrs Jenkins?’ Dr Hansard asked, as courteously as if he had been addressing Lady Elham.

‘These three days, Doctor. And getting worse.’

‘And why did you not call me earlier, my dear lady?’

A groan and a wringing of hands told him what he needed to know.

‘You must know that in cases like these I never ask for a fee. I might not have saved his leg, or even his life, but I would have spared him pain.’

Another terrible scream rent the air.

‘Parson Campion, pray, take those children outside. This is not a sight for their eyes.’ He might have added, ‘Or yours.’

I did as I was bid, holding out my hands to encourage them. They cowered further into their corner.

‘William, go with my new friend,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘You know what you will find in my gig.’

I moved to the door, hoping with all my heart that they might follow and knowing that when they were safely outside I must return to pray for the dying man.

‘What will you find in the kind doctor’s gig?’ I asked, my voice falsely bright. ‘Come, let us find what he carries.’

‘Apples,’ hissed Hansard, whether for my benefit or theirs I could not tell.

The urchins – more wild animals than humans, with their bodies ill-concealed in rags – erupted, shooting past me and lurching towards the gig, as if their legs were not sturdy enough for the business of running.

I wondered at the doctor’s wisdom in encouraging them to eat fruit, but he must know best. I reached for the bag, allowing but one apple for each grasping hand, and fed one to both horses. The contrast between the animals and the humans shocked me. Never had those childish heads been subjected to brush or comb, never had their hands been washed or the nails pared. I judged not one of them to be more than six years old.

The apples were devoured, stalks and all. I feared to distribute more, but spied another paper-wrapped parcel. Doctor Hansard had provided himself with bread as well. Whatever he had intended this for, I could not restrain myself from breaking it, with a silent blessing, in some strange but not irreverent parody of the Holy Communion. Had I had wine, or better, good milk, I would have administered that too.

Another scream tore through the comparatively peaceful air. This was no place for the children. Approaching William, the eldest, I bent down and asked quietly, ‘Do you know the parsonage, my child?’

‘Where Parson Hetherington lives?’

‘He lives there no longer. I live there now, with my groom, Jem. Pray you, take your brothers and sisters and go to find him. He will find you more food and drink. Ask Jem particularly for milk, mind. And stay with him till I come back. Do you understand that? Tell him Parson Campion sent you.’ As an afterthought, I added, ‘And ask him to send for Mrs Beckles. Do you understand? Mrs Beckles.’

The straw on which the dying man lay was soaked with blood and worse. The stump of one leg jerked frantically in its own dance of death as his body arched and writhed. I swear he had bitten his own arm to the bone in an effort not to call out.