The Keeper of Secrets (17 page)

‘I will make discreet enquiries. Dr Hansard, it has been a delight to make your acquaintance, and, Mr Campion, to renew yours.’

We parted with bows and great satisfaction on our side.

‘There is one more matter, Edmund,’ I said, as we watched him out of sight. ‘John Coachman died here. Since we have time on our hands, I would like to pay my last respects at his graveside.’

‘And do you happen to know where he is buried?’ he asked, suddenly irascible. ‘I confess, Tobias, that all this
uphill-downhill
walking has brought a blister the size of a guinea on my heel. We still have to call on the Salcombes. We may need to visit every parish church in Bath, and I am too old and too tired!’

‘Let us ask the Salcombe’s new housekeeper,’ I suggested, understanding the problem of the blister all too well, having a very similar one of my own. ‘Surely she will know what befell a fellow servant, be he never so lowly. Would you wish me to summon a chair?’ I asked hopefully.

He scowled. ‘Crippled I may be, but I am not infirm. We will walk, Tobias – we will walk!’

As a matter of courtesy, we agreed to present our cards to the Salcombes, since any gentleman might be pernickety enough to object to two strangers, however respectable, calling on his housekeeper. Lady Salcombe, however, arrived at her house at
the very moment we were admitted, and throwing etiquette to the four winds prettily insisted that we join her for refreshments. She could not have been more than two and twenty, a blue-eyed blonde doll of a creature standing not five feet tall. Her husband, a tall man twenty years her senior, with a dark complexion hardly enlivened by alarmingly saturnine eyebrows, soon sauntered into the room, nodding at us, but would rather have been reading his newspaper than even attempting desultory conversation.

As we explained the reason for our call, easy tears filled her ladyship’s eyes. ‘But of course you will wish to say your farewells to an old acquaintance! Dear Dr Hansard, dear Dr Campion, pray – I have a houseful of servants to look after me—’

‘All getting fat doing nothing,’ Lord Salcombe observed.

‘—And I am sure they would welcome a breath of fresh air, especially in this lovely weather. If you will be kind enough to furnish me with your Bath address, I will ensure that you receive the information by this time tomorrow.’

‘A drop more Madeira, Hansard?’ her husband asked. Receiving an answer in the negative, he laid down his newspaper and took himself off, without so much as a ‘good day’.

Lady Salcombe’s simple unaffected kindness, without a hint of the condescension that Edmund endured at Lady Elham’s hands, made for a very pleasant half-hour, at the end of which, as we punctiliously made our bows, she rang for a steward to take us to his lordship’s bookroom, whither the housekeeper was summoned.

Mrs Prowle was the antithesis of dear Mrs Beckles. Nearer
sixty than fifty, she was a lady much given to black bombazine and sour looks. However such a hide-bound woman had come into the employ of the free and easy Lady Salcombe I could not imagine. It would have been fair to say that obtaining information from her was like extracting teeth, had she had any such dental furniture left in her mouth.

At last she conceded that she had never heard of John, but that was hardly surprising, since she had become Lady Elham’s housekeeper only in the middle of January. She understood that the previous incumbent had left under something of a cloud, an incident possibly involving the disappearance of certain silverware, but she had no idea of her current whereabouts, or that of her ladyship. A grim snap of the jaw intimated that she had no interest, either.

We gave her more thanks than she deserved and left, rejoicing in the kindness of one woman, if not the other.

‘I confess, my young friend,’ Edmund said as we limped slowly back to the Pelican, ‘if only the Baths were not such a damned unhygienic place, I truly believe at would go and plunge this old body of mine into them!’

And I might well have joined him. But I had another idea.

‘Edmund,’ I began, ‘when we asked the crossing-sweeper about the activities of Lady Elham, he narrowed his eyes, in a such way that I would like to pose him another question.’ In fact he had reminded me sharply of Jem, in his role of the gravedigger in our hayloft
Hamlet
, splitting hairs over who was to be buried. Had we asked him the wrong questions?

My garbled explanation was enough for him to concede that he might accompany me, so off we set with footsteps that might have been slow and painful, but were nonetheless purposeful.

The man might have been a statue, so little had he moved from his original site and indeed posture.

‘And when did you last see her ladyship, if not in her own carriage?’

‘Ah, that’d be two weeks ago. Maybe less.’

Dr Hansard flashed another coin before his eyes. ‘Be precise, man!’

But that he could not or would not be, so we turned away. I would not inflict further pain on my old friend’s feet, nor he, I suspect, on mine.

It seemed that all Dr Hansard and I were now called on to do was to repair the damage to our feet and, casting vanity aside, return them to the comfort of the footwear temporarily laid aside as too unfashionable. There was no sign of Jem or Turner, and it would have been unreasonable to expect a speedy response from those offering to help us, so after literally tending our heels, now we were metaphorically kicking them. It being almost the hour for Evensong, I would have liked to attend the service in the abbey, but felt drawn to Christ Church, a modern building much closer to the Pelican. I admit that my feet were influential in this decision.

To my amazement it had been built with the novel notion of providing pews for all worshippers – no payment was accepted for any of them. To be sure, none of the villagers was ever excluded from St Jude’s because almost all of the pews were in the hands of the Elhams, who graciously permitted any of the villagers to use any but their family pew. Others like Bulmer could and did afford a subscription.

Divine Service concluded, I made myself known to the priest in charge, a man whose courtesy was only exceeded by his scholarship. He was kind enough to show me round, indicating items of interest. He assured me that though Christ
Church would have been convenient for such as Lady Elham to worship, he had certainly never seen her. Nor had he buried poor John Sanderson, the coachman. Neither piece of information surprised me. I declined his kind offer of hospitality, and returned to the Pelican, to find Dr Hansard most audibly asleep.

Turner and Jem were in the taproom. Turner, giving the clear impression that a man of his calibre rarely condescended to use such a place, was buried in a newspaper, and Jem engaged in affable discussion with a couple of other grooms, who presumably had not observed a copy of
Pamela
half concealed in his pocket. I had never known him with a taste for the sentimental before. Did he see in the heroine an equivalent of Lizzie, subject to the philanderings of a Mr B? And if so, whom did he suspect of being Mr B?

There would, alas, be no
Pamela
-like happy ending for our Lizzie.

Loath to disturb either man at his leisure, I slipped quietly back upstairs.

However uncomfortable it made them at first, we invited Jem and Turner to join us as we dined in our private parlour. At last they conceded that since they had information to impart, and since it was a shame to waste the good food set before them, they would indeed sit down with us. It seemed, however, a tacit part of their bargain was that they would wait on us, but at last I could say Grace and our meal began.

Turner took to the variety of dishes to the manner born, as if used to the leavings of Dr Hansard’s table. His housekeeper was as economical as any, hating waste and preferring to
share any bounty with her fellow servants to passing it on to the poor. Jem, whose calling had placed him lower in the pecking order, stuck to dishes that he recognised; though conceding that the wine-roasted gammon was very well in its way, clearly he preferred the beefsteak pudding.

We waited until the cloth had been removed and the dessert was on the table before we filled in the sketchy outlines of our day’s doings. Jem and Turner had had the advantage of being on horseback – an advantage for Jem, rather, since Turner had clearly found the unwonted exercise as fatiguing as we had found ours. But their endeavours had at least resulted in some success, and they were able to report several sightings by
toll-gate
keepers of Lady Elham’s carriage on the Lansdowne road. There were even more on the London road, far more than could be accounted for by journeys home to Moreton Priory.

‘But any lady would have acquaintance in the area she would want to visit, even if she were in mourning,’ I objected.

‘Indeed,’ Hansard agreed. ‘And we can ask Mr King about her ladyship’s particular friends. It would be no surprise if she were on calling terms with the Methuen family, whose home lies to the east, the Blathwayts to the north. And there are any number of less well-known families with smaller properties whom she might visit.’

‘Of course. And I am sure Mr King will point us to them. Yes, Jem?’

‘Begging your pardon, Dr Hansard, we also rode in several directions from both toll-houses—’

‘The charges for which I insist on reimbursing you—’

‘—And made a list of possible places she might have visited.
But there was one in particular that caught our eye. It seems that one family, coming on hard times, as you might say, has let their home to medical men such as yourself, Dr Hansard, who have turned it into a private asylum – as we found when we happened to fall in with a local man at an inn. Lymbury Park, they call it.’ The casual way that Jem dropped the information did not deceive for an instant. The glance he cast at Turner confirmed that they were pleased with what they had found.

Hansard beamed. ‘And did you gather information about any of the inmates that might have interested you?’

He did not need to speak Lord Elham’s name aloud. All of us about the table nodded our tacit understanding.

‘Indeed, sir, we tried our best. But though the man failed to respond to our flattery and other blandishments, we suspect that though it might be higher than a couple of tankards of best home-brewed, the man might well have a price. With your permission, we might try to find him again.’

‘Whatever this venial man demands, he must be paid,’ I declared.

‘He must indeed,’ Hansard agreed. ‘Do you think that bribery would come best from you two, who managed, after all to scrape acquaintance with him, or from a humble clergyman, or even from a bullying justice of the peace?’

Turner and Jem exchanged glances. ‘It is hard to tell, sir,’ the former said slowly. ‘Perhaps he might yield information to you or to Mr Campion, but his price would certainly be higher.’

Hansard stroked his chin. ‘It may be that there is a fellow justice of whom I might make enquiry. Such a man would have power to insist that information were divulged.’

Turner shook his head. ‘I might advise the indirect route, sir. Let the force of law be brought in later, if needs be. Should our interlocutor produce no information of note, then we might be wasting our time – and others’. But should a name be of interest, then the law might be involved.’

And so it was concluded. Turner rang for the table to be cleared and for port.

Jem cried off at this point, telling us that his cousins would be in hourly expectation of him, and Turner likewise declined.

‘I have no further need of you tonight, mind!’ Hansard said. Digging in his pocket, he produced several half-guineas, which he pushed across to the two men. ‘For the expenses incurred by today’s labours, gentlemen. No, no argument. I suggest we all meet here tomorrow morning at nine to make further dispositions.’

We were still drinking coffee after breaking our fast on eggs far from as fresh as those we were used to when a servant brought up a card. To our astonishment, it was Mr King’s.

As one, Jem and Turner rose and cleared the table, disappearing from the room as if by evaporation, before our honoured visitor had climbed the stairs.

Mr King, as immaculate as Mr Brummell even at this hour of the day, consented to accept a dish of chocolate, and sat down, clearly full of news. But not until the courtesies were exchanged did he explain the reason for his call. ‘I have just this moment seen Lady Templemead’s coach arrive at her lodging in Milsom Street,’ he said, ‘and since you thought that she might hold all the information you needed, I made haste to come this way.’

We said all that was proper.

But he had not finished yet. ‘I understand that Lady Elham’s butler may be beyond your immediate reach. I am told that he found a post with the O’Malleys, and is now bound for the West Indies. However, in consultation with some of the servants in the Upper Rooms, I have put together a list of Lady Elham’s more intimate friends.’ Without saying so, he contrived to suggest that Mr Guynette, Master of Ceremonies at the Lower Rooms, would not have been matched such efficiency.

We spoke for a few minutes longer, promising to put in an appearance at the Upper Rooms as soon as our pressing business permitted, and with another graceful bow he left us.

‘Lady Elham’s servants seemed to have dispersed themselves far and wide,’ I observed.

‘They have indeed – though poor John Coachman has done so the most convincingly.’ He coughed, and looked me shamefacedly in the eye. ‘Tobias, in the blur of the recent days, I seem to have lost sight of our original purpose, which was simply to inform Lady Elham of the death of her former abigail.’

‘And to watch her expression as we did so!’ I reminded him. ‘Had it not been for Dr Toone’s calling into question the period of Lizzie’s demise, we should never have insisted on that. And it is hardly surprising that unspoken suspicions should have arisen as a result of her peregrinations hither and there. But we do seem to have become ensnared in a web of suspicion and enquiry. Do you think that we should write to the good people back in Moreton St Jude and explain the reason for what may be a protracted absence?’

He flushed. ‘I have already done so,’ he said gruffly, as if caught out in something shameful.

To whom would he have written but to Mrs Beckles? ‘I am glad of it,’ I cried.

He retired in silence behind the barricade of his newspaper, and I said no more. Instead, I cast my eyes down Mr King’s list of Lady Elham’s friends and intimates in the area. There were few, as was to be expected of a lady in the first months of mourning. I looked in vain for people with addresses north and east of the city to explain her many journeys, and could only draw one sad conclusion, that she must be visiting young Lord Elham in the asylum that Turner and Jem had found.

I had always regarded him as an unpleasant young man, of course, with an unruly temper, with no regard for the niceties of social intercourse or respect for the processes of law. Furthermore, if Matthew were to be believed – and I knew of no reason to doubt him, having seen some evidence with my own eyes – he possessed a vicious streak that delighted in not simply slaying but also torturing animals. But was that sufficient to have him incarcerated in an asylum? Were viciousness of temper always thus punishable, then there would be few sons left to populate the upper ten thousand. Dr Toone himself would scarce have escaped. Yet from being a vilely savage youth, he had grown into a responsible doctor, whose expertise Edmund valued above his own. What excesses could Lord Elham have committed – unless he were guilty of murdering our beloved Lizzie? In that case, he should be tried by his peers and hanged by the neck. And how had his mother found out about her abigail’s death, and contrived to smuggle her son to a place of comparative safety? What
implications did this have for the truth of all her ladyship’s letters giving Lizzie’s whereabouts?

My head reeling, the last thing I wanted was the announcement of another visitor. When I saw from her card who it was, however, I changed my scowl to a beam of surprised delight and ran to the top of the stairs to greet her.

‘Lady Salcombe! How more than kind of you to call!’ And how strange of her to risk censure by calling on two men, with only her abigail to attend her. But perhaps such freedom was these days permitted in Bath.

Her bright eyes took in Dr Hansard’s ill-concealed newspaper as he struggled to his feet, but she contrived to ignore the slippers still on his damaged feet.

She too accepted a dish of chocolate, sitting primly opposite me and watching me over the rim as she sipped. ‘I had to come myself,’ she said, ‘because I have a terrible confession, which has to be made in person.’

‘Your servants have found no trace of John Sanderson’s burial?’ Hansard prompted her.

She turned towards him. ‘But, Dr Hansard, however did you guess? When they came back empty handed, I sent them out again. Only this time I sent them to churches that their fellow servants had visited, lest in their hurry they had overlooked something the next man might easily find. But all report, a second time, that there is no record of his burial, not within Bath. So – and I pray you, tell me if I have done wrong – I have despatched the two most trusted servants to all the parishes within riding distance of the city, and they will tell me this evening what they have found. Can you wait that long? I am sorry if this inconveniences you.’

‘My dear Lady Salcombe,’ I said, ‘you have not inconvenienced, but indeed helped us a very great deal. Imagine the length of time it would have taken two strangers to the city to ilicit the information! Pray, may we—’ I had almost said,
may
I
– ‘call later and speak to your servants?’

She stood up, giving a bob of a curtsy. ‘That would be delightful. Mr Campion, Dr Hansard – I fancy you do not have a great acquaintance in Bath, and it would give my husband and me enormous pleasure if you were to dine with us. Shall we say at seven? Nothing formal, of course,’ she added, ‘just three or four couples.’

Delighted with the invitation, we both escorted her to the door, where we found her dimpled maid whiling away the time by flirting with the singularly ill-favoured Boots.

I was aware of Hansard’s ironic eye upon me as we closed the door. ‘What a pleasure that will be,’ he said, in a tone I did not wholly understand. ‘Well, Tobias, I believe we must venture out to the shops again – unless you propose to wait on her lovely little ladyship in your boots and breeches?’

Equipping ourselves with evening dress must be our priority. Fortunately in the elegant emporia of Bath, a gentleman might soon be made presentable. Even if the fit of the coats might not have passed muster in the ranks of the dandies, we felt that we should not disgrace ourselves.

‘Your pretty ladyship will think you a fine fellow now, if she did not before,’ Hansard observed, as we stood side by side before the tailor’s mirror.

‘She is not mine!’ I said, blushing hot as a schoolboy.

‘Let us just say that she finds you agreeable now, and that
nothing in your appearance this evening will spoil that opinion.’