The Fabric of Murder (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 2) (14 page)

Brock nodded again. He was never a talkative man, but the tension of this moment seemed to have stilled his tongue completely.

‘Wait there, Brock. I will go to my study and write the note for the alderman. I will not be many minutes. I’ll send Alfred to you and you can tell him if you would like any refreshment while I am busy.’

‘None, thank you.’ The sound of his own voice seemed to surprise Brock, for he coughed once or twice and appeared embarrassed at the noise.

Foxe grinned, but said nothing. Like Brock, he would be glad when this matter was concluded. But unlike the older man, all he would be able to do until the morning was wait and fret. Still, there was no point in useless regrets. His part in bringing these rogues to justice lay in the future.

J
ust after midnight
, Brock sent word that he had done all as Foxe required. The constables had taken McSwiggan late in the afternoon, before he had the opportunity to get drunk. By mid-morning at the latest, his desperation for more alcohol would be extreme. Underhill, the forger, had been called to his door at about ten in the evening. Then they hustled him away into the hands of the sword-bearer and his men before anyone might even notice what was going on. As Foxe had asked, they had lodged him in the gaol and given him no opportunity of speaking with any other person. Foxe could sleep well.

Even so, before he retired Foxe composed a short note to Alderman Halloran and left it for Alfred to deliver early the next morning. In it, he told the alderman that two of the three conspirators were arrested and in custody. It was up to him now to secure the third. Foxe would have liked to supervise the taking of James Hinman in person. Yet he had come to the conclusion that he should not come face-to-face with the man until he was sure of his ground regarding the other two. They were close to having enough evidence to make a conviction secure, but not quite there. If Underhill and McSwiggan gave evidence for the prosecution, the case against Hinman would be a foregone conclusion.

If only he knew more about Hinman’s dealings in Halifax before he came to Norwich. All the information he had was what Hinman had put about himself. He claimed he had worked for one of the principal merchants there. That he had been in charge of his sales of cloth to customers abroad, chiefly in the United Provinces, Denmark and Sweden. Had he been honest in that work? Had he been cheating his master in some way? Most people found a way of acting in the world which suited them and stuck to it. Criminals especially. They became specialists in one type of crime, be it burglary, embezzlement or highway robbery.

Thus Foxe’s mind ran around and around, denying him the sleep he craved, until he could bear it no more. Leaving his bed, he put on a warm dressing-gown, lit a candle and went down to his library. There he selected one of his favourite books and settled down to read. Of course, once he did this he fell into a deep sleep almost on the instant.

H
e was awoken by Alfred
, who was not much surprised to find his master asleep in a chair, his book fallen on the floor and the candle burned out. It was often that way when matters were coming to a critical point in one of the adventures he sometimes became involved in. He retrieved the book, woke Foxe as gently as he might and waited while his master stretched and groaned himself into full consciousness.

‘What’s the time, Alfred?’

‘A little before eight o’clock, sir. If you would like to return to your room, I will have the maid bring you a jug of hot water there, so that you may wash and let me shave you. Would you like Mrs. Dobbins to serve your breakfast earlier than usual, since you are awake?’

Foxe indicated that he would and stumbled up the stairs to his room. Half way up, he turned and enquired whether Alfred had delivered his note to the alderman’s house.

‘I had just returned from taking it there myself when I found you, sir,’ Alfred told him. ’Alderman Halloran’s footman said his master had not yet arisen, but he would be sure to place it into his hands the instant he did.’

‘Thank you, Alfred. Please send the boy to call Mr. Brock to wait on me immediately after I have eaten.’

‘Mr. Brock is already here, sir. I suspect he too found it hard to sleep, for he looks as if he has not laid eyes on his bed for many hours. Mrs. Dobbins laid a place for him at the kitchen table. I gather he has already consumed half a dozen eggs and three fresh rolls and is drinking the house dry of chocolate. I trust that we have acted as you would wish?’

‘As always, Alfred. Let Brock finish his breakfast in peace. Bring me two rolls with butter and jam. Also a little cheese. Chocolate too, of course, if our guest has left me some. I will eat in my room.’

As Alfred nodded and moved away, Foxe mused on the day before them. Underhill first, he said to himself. If Brock is looking even more of a villain than usual, that will be to our advantage. He was sure Hinman must have obtained money from somewhere to set himself up as the kind of person Bonneviot would listen to. Even if it had been his plan from the start to cheat the man, did he also intend murder? The hiring of McSwiggan to kill Bonneviot had many of the marks of a hasty response, concocted under the pressure of strong emotion. For all the rest, Hinman’s planning had been careful and precise. He had failed in the matter of an inventory to go with his fake bill of sale, of course. Yet that might have been no more than the unfamiliarity of someone unused to those kinds of transactions. It might even have come about for no better reason that the plain fact that he had no precise idea of what cloth was in the warehouse. He could not have gone there to make note of what he was planning to steal.

How to present himself to Underhill? Not as Foxe, that was sure. He needed an alias who had a direct interest in the forgery itself as a means of making sure Hinman went to the gallows. Yet it must also be someone without much in the way of scruples in achieving his desire. Underhill must believe any threats they made were serious.

Thus Foxe reasoned with himself as he washed his face and Alfred shaved him. In the end, he thought he had found the perfect answer. Pulling clothes from cupboards and boxes – Alfred would put all away later – he found what he needed. A dark frock-coat a year or more out of fashion and a waistcoat that he had regretted purchasing the moment it was delivered. He added plain worsted breeches and blue woollen stockings. The final touch was an old pair of shoes whose quality was well below his normal standards. Then he topped off all with a wig and hat of similar shabby appearance. Now, he thought, he would look the part of Mr. Hamilton Foxearth, one of the many second- and third-rate lawyers who infested the city. These men spent their lives pursuing vexatious litigation for clients without the means to pay someone better trained. None, in his experience, were honest. Mr. Foxearth would claim to be speaking on behalf of one of the smaller merchants Bonneviot’s death must have left with unpaid debts. A dealer in linen yarn from Ireland might seem most credible. Brock could attend as his clerk. Though they claimed to be men of the law, such vermin as Mr. Foxearth often backed up legal arguments with more direct means of persuasion.

Thus, having eaten his breakfast and dressed himself in this regrettable manner, Foxe went down to the kitchen to collect Brock. A pretty pair they made indeed. Mr. Foxearth was the image of a man more ready to twist and pervert the laws of the land than see them enforced. His clerk, Brock, could only have been a clerk in name. His unwashed face, thick with stubble, and his bloodshot eyes suggested he would be more able with his fists than a pen.

‘No, Brock. You must not wash, nor make yourself look less of a rogue. You are perfect as you are. Here, cram this dreadful hat on your head and try to slouch a little more. Excellent! I have already asked the alderman to inform the gaoler that Joshua Underhill will have two visitors this morning. When they give the password ‘haywain’, they are to be admitted without further question. Quickly now. We must do all before noon, if we can, and that includes time for you to visit McSwiggan on your own.’

‘Before we leave, wouldn’t it be best to tell me who the devil you are pretending to be and what we are going to do?’

‘Don’t you recognise Mr. Hamilton Foxearth, the eminent lawyer?’

‘Eminent fraudster, you mean. Eminent hedge-attorney. By God, one look at him and you know his case and his evidence are a mass of perjury and falsehood.’

‘Precisely, Brock. Now, if such a one came with a mixture of smoothly told lies and poorly concealed threats, would you be surprised?’

‘What do you take me for? That kind of man deals in nothing else!’

‘And what would his clerk be?’

‘Some ruffian without learning or scruples. Someone ready to turn his employers threats into blows and his property claims into arson, if they were not met.’

‘There, Brock. You knew your role all along. Now, let us waste no more time. We will leave by the gate from the garden. Alfred, scout ahead and let us know when none are around. I would not wish them to see what guests that most respectable bookseller, Mr. Ashmole Foxe, has been harbouring in his house. Then it is all speed for the gaol to give our cunning forger a taste of his own medicine.’

They found Mr. Joshua Underhill possessed of a mighty rage of righteous anger at his treatment the night before. Not knowing they had any part in his arrest, he launched at once into a series of complaints and accusations.

Mr. Foxearth listened intently. Sometimes he injected a supportive comment. Sometimes he turned to his clerk and cried out incomprehensible phases. ‘There is a
visio doctrinae falsae
if ever I saw one!’ he said at one point. Later he shouted ‘
Habeas corpus mutabilis
must be claimed at once!’ And at the end, ‘
Secundum ordinem Melchisidek
I say to that.’

At length, Mr. Underhill paused for breath. Mr. Foxearth had established at the start that Underhill had no one to represent him, nor any means of paying someone if he had. At once he offered his services –
pro bono nunquam
, of course – and poured scorn on the actions of the authorities in treating an honest man thus.

‘Have they told you why you were taken in this barbarian way, sir? Have they?’

‘They charged me with forging a document – a bill of sale, I believe.’

‘Which, of course, you would never do!’

’Never!’

‘What is your profession, sir, if I may ask?’

‘I am a scrivener.’

‘A scrivener! So your work itself is to write legal documents, is it not? Are they charging you with the crime of following your profession? Even if you had written such a document – which you vehemently deny – it would be no crime. It is the way you earn an honest living. But tell me, just between ourselves, did you write such a document? You see, if you admitted to doing so, it would make your defence yet stronger. To write such a document is no offence at all, neither by statute nor by common law. Yet to use it fraudulently – say with a certain signature added – would be to utter a forgery. That is punishable by death.’

‘Death?’ Underhill’s voice was barely a squeak.

‘In every case. No reprieve or mitigation allowed. Indeed, the law holds it to be a form of treason. Thus it is punishable by hanging, drawing and quartering.’ That punishment had fallen into disuse long ago, but Foxe suspected Underhill would not know it.

‘Hanging, drawing and …’

‘Quartering, sir. Partly hanged, cut down, castrated, disembowelled alive and then …’

‘C…c…castrated…?’ Underhill looked as if he was going to be sick.

‘Fear not, dear sir. You may trust in Hamilton Foxearth. I know exactly how to remove this terrible threat from your person. Only help me a little and I will make sure you you face no worse a charge than aiding and abetting.’

‘Help you?’

Underhill’s natural suspicions were aroused, despite his terror at the thought of facing the ancient punishment for high treason.

‘It is but a small thing, sir. My concern in this matter is not with you, but with the man who commissioned you.’

‘Commissioned me?’

‘But of course. He is the criminal. He it is who should be facing the gallows, not you. He has used the document you wrote in all innocence … you did write it, I take it?’ Underhill nodded agreement. ‘You wrote the document innocently. It is he who has used it to perpetrate a most abominable fraud against my client, a respectable yarn merchant. He has claimed to own goods – using the document you wrote and based on the signature you added for him …’ Underhill nodded again. ‘… to cheat my other client out of a significant sum of money owed to him by one Master Bonneviot, once a merchant of this city. If I can prove this document to be false, based on your sworn evidence …’

Underhill suddenly realised that he was being asked to give evidence in court that he had forged a document being used to cheat people out of money. At once, he began to protest. He had done nothing of the kind. No one had ever commissioned him in that way. He was completely innocent of ever having set eyes on Mr. Hinman.

Since that man’s name had not yet been mentioned, Underhill had just proved his guilt beyond doubt. He had also named his co-conspirator in the presence of two witnesses.

‘Oh dear, Brock. I fear Mr. Underhill is going to prove difficult. And it was such a small favour in return for freeing him from almost certain death. Maybe you can persuade him of the mistake he is making?’

Brock moved forward to tower over Underhill, forcing the man back until he was pressed up against the wall.

‘Listen, cully!’ he growled. ‘Mr. Foxearth may be a mild and patient man, but I ain’t. What ‘e’s telling you is plain good sense. You may be a fool, but that Hinman ain’t. If ‘e’s brought before a judge, you be damn sure ‘e’ll lay all the blame on you. Say you gave him the document and told him it was genuine. Now, since ‘e’s gentry and you’re scum, who d’you think the jury will believe? You’ll be for the drop and he’ll walk off smiling.’

Underhill was shaking now. ’But he said if I ever told anyone …’

‘He ain’t here and I am. Do what the nice Mr. Foxearth says, turn King’s Evidence, and you’ll save your scrawny neck. That Hinman can’t save you, even if ‘e wanted to – which I’m certain ‘e don’t.’

‘But if I deny everything, and he does too, they’ll be no case.’

‘D’you think they’d go to court with nothing better than a snivelling forger and a fake gentleman? They’ll have plenty of other evidence, believe me. Besides, suppose ‘e did act like that and you was let off. D’you know what would happen then?’

Underhill stayed silent, his eyes staring into Brock’s face, now no more than an inch or two from his own.

‘You says you’re a scrivener. Right?’

‘I am.’

‘A man what makes his bread by writing things. Now, suppose such a one was to meet with a nasty accident. Say ‘e happened to break both his hands, so that ‘e couldn’t hold a pen, let alone write. What use is a forger who can’t forge? Tell me that, cully!’