The Fabric of Murder (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 2) (8 page)

T
he next morning
, at about eleven, Foxe stepped into the building that housed the presses and offices of
The Norfolk Intelligencer
. At once he felt himself taken back to the sights and smells of his childhood. His father had been a printer and bookseller. Young Ashmole spent many an hour amongst paper, presses and inks. There he learned the intricacies and secrets of the printer’s trade. That should still have been his trade today, had not a near-forgotten uncle made a vast fortune in the sugar plantations of the West Indies. When the uncle died childless, he left all to his nearest male relative, who happened to be his nephew Ashmole.

The young Foxe had no wish to live in such a colonial outpost. Nor did he relish the idea of being the owner of hundreds of slaves – especially if he was not on hand to see how his overseers might treat them. First he sold the plantations and the rum distillery. Then he determined never to put his money where he could not keep a close eye on how it was used in the world.

To become a gentleman with a grand mansion, sweeping parkland and thousand of acres of land under tenancies did not entice the young Foxe either. By this time, in his chosen profession of bookseller, he had known too many such men. Hunting, gambling and racing horses bored him. Being a magistrate and local dignitary repelled him. The very notion of being a Member of Parliament disgusted him. He was not interested in becoming a lecher, nor in drinking to excess. These were what brought many of the gentry to the point of bankruptcy. Their grand inheritances in land were also prey to the uncertainties of harvest and climate. There might be outbreaks of disease amongst their animals. Even the willingness of tenants to pay what they owed could not be relied upon. It was men of this class, like the eighth Earl of Pentelow, who most often called Foxe to help them sell books. Only thus could they stay out of the hands of their creditors.

Foxe’s principles of investing were simple. He put his money into things people needed regardless of circumstances. He also kept a close eye on all who handled money on his behalf.

For the first principle, he turned to solidly-built properties. His favourites were buildings occupied by merchants, members of the professions and well-to-do people of the middling sort. He owned several such in Norwich itself, though not one of his tenants knew their landlord’s identity. Both Kitty and Gracie Catt lived in houses he owned. So did nearly a dozen of the lawyers, doctors, merchants and prosperous shopkeepers of the city. He was owner of a major share in a brewery and maltings. With his friend Brock, he was a silent partner in a fine fleet of barges and Norfolk wherries. He had also bought a good amount of government securities and placed significant deposits with the prime bankers of the locality.

The second principle was equally simple. He kept his holdings local, so that he could watch over them in person and he employed committed Quakers as his agents and clerks whenever he could. Such people had the best reputation for honesty. Their modest style of life rendered them nearly immune from the main causes of fraud and peculation – gambling, whoring and indulging in strong drink.

His own lifestyle, though grandiose for someone who claimed to be a mere provincial bookseller, was also relatively modest. Thus his fortune was still increasing. His only significant indulgences were the Catt sisters and he took good care that they above all should not suspect the true extent of his wealth.

That day Foxe was once again a simple bookseller and son of a local printer visiting an old family friend. A man who just happened to be the editor of one of Norfolk’s principal newspapers.

He found Sebastian Hirons, the editor of the newspaper, sitting surrounded by piles of journals, open books and handwritten notes. How the man ever found anything on his desk, or made sense of what he did find, was a rare mystery. Still there was little that passed in the city of Norwich that escaped his eye, even if he took care that much of it should not appear in his newspaper. Those who bought copies would not care to find too many of their personal dealings amongst the stories they read over their breakfast things or in the coffee house.

‘Hello, young Foxe,’ Hirons said when he noticed him. ‘What do you want to know this time?’ He was not a man given to polite pleasantries when they were not essential.

‘Hello Hirons. Who says I want to know anything?’

‘You wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’m a busy man. Tell me what it is and I will give you the answer, if I know it. Otherwise go back to peddling old books and leave me to get on with bringing out the next edition.’

‘Bonneviot,’ Foxe said. ‘Why was he laying off out-workers when the other master weavers seem to be prospering as rarely before.’

‘Easy! Bonneviot had picked one fight too many with the London merchants who bought his cloth. All determined not to do more business with him. That left a huge hole in his book of orders and large stocks in his warehouse.’

‘No more than that?’

‘Wouldn’t you say that was bad enough? The vast majority of shipments of this city’s worsteds and other fabrics go to London. If you can’t sell them there, where are you going to sell them?’

‘Abroad?’

‘Sounds easy, doesn’t it, Foxe? Isn’t though. You need contacts, agents, commercial travellers, heavy insurance and the ability to wait many months to get payment. Even the payment you do get will have passed through the hands of some banker. All such are eager to make money on changing a draft drawn on a foreign bank and in the local currency into English pounds. Bonneviot had none of these necessities in place. All his success had come from managing his costs, bullying his out-workers and negotiating with the London dealers.’

‘Do you know what he was going to do?’

‘I know what he wasn’t going to do: eat humble pie and try to repair his reputation with those he had sold to before. Not his style. Bonneviot always had to win, whatever it cost him – or those around him. I suspect he was trying to find a way to open up new markets, in much the same way the merchants of Halifax and Bradford have done in recent years.’

‘Could he have done that?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. Unless, of course, he found two things first.’

‘Don’t play with me, Hirons. You always did love to drag a story out. If you’re so busy, get to the point and I’ll leave you alone.’

‘Bonneviot needed a banker willing to lend him a good sum. He also needed a partner with the knowledge and contacts to set up enough steady orders from around the country and abroad. The word is that he had found both. Before you ask, I have no idea who the banker was. The partner is easier. If I were you, I should look carefully at a certain Mr. James Hinman. Until recently, he claims to have been the right-hand man of a merchant in Halifax. Now he aims to set up on his own account in Norwich. I hear he is eager to find a source of cloth to sell in the countries bordering on the German Ocean.’

‘So, Bonneviot supplied the cloth and Hinman supplied the knowledge and contacts and managed the sales. That might save Bonneviot’s business. Is that the way of things?’

‘I believe it may be.’

‘What do you know of Hinman? Is he honest?’

‘Probably as honest as most men who sell to others for a living. That is as much as to say devious, conniving and prone to exaggerating his prospects.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Hinman only appeared in the city maybe three weeks ago. He seems wealthy enough to make a show in the coffee houses. He makes sure all should know of his plans and abilities. Yet I wager few of our sober master weavers would have given him the time of day. A regular braggart, many say. No, his problem was much worse than that.’

‘Hirons! I declare you will drive me insane with your hints and prevarications. I am not some reader who must be tempted into turning the page. Speak plainly, I beseech you.’

‘Hinman may be what he says he is. Only time will tell. What is far plainer is that he is a man in a hurry. He is, perhaps, closer in age to your tender years than my mature ones. Old enough to feel he should have made his fortune by this point in his life. Young enough to believe he may still do so, if he but moves quickly enough. Such thoughts make a man prone to every kind of rash action. It is my understanding that the Halifax merchants spent decades building up their overseas trade. Maybe Hinman convinced Bonneviot he could do the same here. Of course, Bonneviot was desperate, ready to believe anything that would offer him a way out of the morass he had put himself into.’

‘So … Bonneviot takes Hinman as a partner in this new venture and tries to survive long enough to benefit from the results.’

‘You have it in a nutshell. Have you ever thought of writing for a reputable newspaper?’

‘Never! Nor, I am convinced, does such a journal exist. Now, is there more I must wheedle from you?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Then I will go and leave you to continue whatever you were doing.’

‘Before you go …’

‘Now comes the price!’

‘I have heard tell that the Earl of Pentelow has amassed large debts through gambling. To pay them, he must sell his father’s library. Are you dealing with those books?’

‘The eighth earl is indeed desperate to raise money. Many could tell you so, not least his creditors, who will, I expect, have to wait a long time to receive even part of what he owes them. His father and grandfather were noted book collectors and the library at Pentelow Hall is renowned.’

‘I’ll take that to mean yes.’

‘Take it as you will, Hirons. If you heard he is selling books, you cannot say you heard it from me.’

‘Great God above! You are more slippery than a Jesuit lawyer.’

‘And if you thought I would tell you ought of Lord Pentelow’s books, you are more naive than a Bermondsey virgin. And only one of those has ever been found above ten years old.’

‘Go away, Foxe. You got what you wanted.’

‘As, I believe, did you.’

‘Go away, I said.’

As Foxe left the editor’s office, Mr. Hirons raised his head and called out, ‘Who are you taking to the Mayor’s Ball next month? Kitty or Gracie?’

Sadly, Foxe’s hearing sometimes left much to be desired.

M
r. Foxe wanted
to go home. What was the use of this investigation? Each new piece of information added to the mystery. None of it made sense. He felt lost. What direction should he take next? Did it matter? The death of Bonneviot would probably never be solved.

But he had promised that he would visit Gracie Catt and could not disappoint her. Thus he walked with heavy step towards her house, looking neither right nor left. Even when Horton let him in, he ignored the man’s friendly greeting and went at once to her room.

Gracie was waiting for him, all smiles – at least until she saw his face. ‘Ash? What on earth …’

Foxe did not speak. He just gave her a perfunctory peck on the cheek and went over to the window. There he stood, frowning at the world outside but seeing nothing.

All the while, he was muttering to himself. ‘Why kill …? Sure that would wreck all … Cannot have applied for probate either … Who are the executors …? Should have asked … Idiot! Where’d he get the money …? Why lend to a business in trouble?’

On and on he went. Behind him, Gracie walked to the fireplace and pulled the bell-cord to summon her maid.

‘No interruptions on any account, Sally. Ask Miss Ruth to deal with any clients. I am not to be disturbed! And tell cook I will send to say when dinner should be ready. Until then, she is to wait. Now, be off!’

After a while, Foxe realised that all was silent in the room. He stopped his furious conversation with himself and listened. Not a sound. How rude he had been! And to Gracie too! In some apprehension about what his reception might be, he turned around.

The sight before him made him gasp. Gracie stood, waiting. On her head, she wore a simple lace mob-cap over her curls. For the rest, she was clad only in the lightest of shifts, so that he could see the nipples of her breasts resting against the fabric.

As he opened his mouth, ready to present the most abject apologies, she shushed him.

‘Not a word, Ash! Come, take off your coat and waistcoat and put them here. Not a word, I said! I will help you with your breeches. Ah … I am glad to see that part of you at least remembers where you are. The shirt too must come off.’

All the while, she was urging him across the room towards a door open to her bedroom. When they were both inside, she pushed it shut behind her. Then she thrust her hands hard against his chest, so that he fell onto the bed rather than climbing into it. As he lay there, she removed her shift in one fluid movement and threw herself on top of him.

What passed next was but a blur of writhing, groaning and thrusting. Never had their passion been so intense. Never had they cried out so often as the longed-for consummation approached. When it was over, and they lay panting beside one another, it was Gracie who first found breath to speak.

‘If that is the result of such a vile mood at the start, Ash, I give you permission to come to me every time your temper is bad. Now, my dear, listen well. I wish to hear nothing – nothing, I say! – about the matter of Bonneviot. Speak but one word about that and I will be gravely displeased.’

‘But Gracie …’

‘No buts!’ She wriggled against him, then giggled. ‘What is this? Are you so soon recovered? Lah, sir, you are insatiable!’

This time, their love-making was more measured and gentle, though the results were much the same. What on earth the rest of the house would make of Gracie’s squeals and his groans, Foxe could not imagine. But there, all within must be well used to such noises and what they signified. At least these were genuine. Most here were cleverly feigned.

Once more the two snuggled together, sweating now, but smiling too.

‘Lie there,’ Gracie commanded. ‘I must rise and tidy myself a little before calling for Sally to come. No, lie still I say. Do not be troubled by thoughts of how the sight of you might offend her modesty. She has seen many a naked man. Though perhaps not so often one who, even now, is already almost ready for more.’ She tapped the offending part of his anatomy with a finger.