Authors: Jean Rowden
They turned a corner and the tramp almost rolled from the seat, and Phoebe shifted away from him, startled by the movement. As she did so, she heard an echo of her father’s voice in her head. ‘We are all God’s creatures, Phoebe, equal in his eyes.’
It wasn’t easy, for he was heavy despite looking half-starved, but she managed to lift the man into a more comfortable position. Swallowing her revulsion, she set his filthy head upon her lap.
The vagrant stank, and his hair was matted with dirt and blood. Phoebe sighed; her dress would be difficult to clean. As if in sympathy, he too let out a deep sigh, a slight frown between his brows mirroring hers. She gave a rueful smile; they had more than their humanity in common. Her father, leaving her with his sense of duty, had bequeathed her little else; on his death she had been almost as destitute as the poor beggar who lay in her lap. That thought led to others, and the last vestiges of the holiday spirit left her; if Lord Pickhurst succumbed to his wife’s wishes and sent the Pengoar children away, she would be looking for another post. The unpleasantness
at Clowmoor Manor still haunted her. It had been such a relief to find a safe haven at Knytte, and even more reassuring with Jonah working nearby.
She sighed again. The accusation her cousin had made was untrue; she’d never considered marrying him as a way of escaping her poverty, nor would she, no matter how much she feared being cast out into the world again. She’d only ever seen him as a friend, but losing his friendship was hard to bear.
Phoebe stared unseeingly ahead, looking into a future that held no guarantees, no certainty of any kind. Like so many women who had to fend for themselves, if fate was unkind she could be no better off than this poor soul who lay injured and helpless in her care. Without conscious thought, she let a hand rest upon the filthy head, stroking it gently.
The ganger wasted no time. As soon as the dogcart drew away, he sent a boy to the nearest farm with a message and a sixpence, and within five minutes he returned with a borrowed pony, a shaggy half-tame colt off the moors. Giving his men orders to keep at their work, the roadman set out for Clowmoor. He feared the young woman’s tongue; she might bring Sir Martin’s wrath down upon him, but he thought if he acted quickly enough the reward would be his.
With the Lord Lieutenant’s house within sight, he began to feel a little less sure of himself; he didn’t think he could ride up to the front door of such a place, no matter what news he carried. He slowed the pony to a jog; he must go to the stableyard and hope to meet somebody who could help him.
A tall black horse was being ridden fast from the opposite direction; seeing the diminutive pony the animal balked and veered across the road, almost unseating the gentleman upon its back. The rider soothed the black, and with some coaxing
it came closer. Given a clear view of his face, the ganger recognized him at once. Mr Docket was well known all over Sir Martin’s estate and beyond, and he was generally considered a decent man. The ganger waved a hand and shouted, kicking the pony on.
Docket frowned as the roadman told his tale. ‘You’d better come with me,’ he said. ‘Sir Martin isn’t at home, but this can’t wait.’
Once they reached the stables, Docket gave the order for horses to be put to a carriage, urging the grooms to hurry. He sent a boy to Trembury, carrying a message for his master, while another was dispatched to summon the Lord Lieutenant’s personal physician.
The roadman stood watching, open mouthed, amazed at so much fuss being made over a tramp.
‘I shall go at once to Knytte,’ Docket said, addressing the roadman as the carriage started down the drive. ‘If this man you’ve found is the one we’re looking for, then I’ll see the reward is sent to you. In the meantime I suggest you get back to your work, and pray you’ve done him no serious damage.’
B
eddowes had been dreaming, rising gradually towards consciousness. There was an unfamiliar taste in his mouth. Swallowing, he remembered what it was. He’d never had a taste for cider, yet the pain in his head suggested a drinking bout lasting several days.
He floated nearer to the surface. There was movement. He could hear hoof beats, and the grate of metal tyres. Beyond the cider and the stench of his own filthy body, Beddowes noted a more pleasant scent, one that reminded him of summer meadows and the first cut of hay. A hand swept the tangled hair from his forehead, and the gentleness of the touch shocked him into opening his eyes.
Coming abruptly to full consciousness, Beddowes saw a young woman staring down at him. There was an expression of concern on her face; something about her seemed comforting, as if she was somebody he knew and trusted, yet he couldn’t recall ever seeing her before.
‘Look, he’s awake.’ The words were clear and shrill, and spoken by a child who belonged to a class far above his own. Beddowes tried to twist round so he could see the speaker.
‘Don’t move,’ the woman said; her voice as cultured as the boy’s, and as gentle as her expression. ‘You need to rest.’ She turned her head a little, her tone changing to become almost severe, though somehow Beddowes doubted she could ever be
anything but kind. ‘Master Pengoar, pray mind your manners, it’s rude to stare.’
With his senses unexpectedly keen, Beddowes understood at once; the young woman was a governess. A childish glee accompanied this feat of deduction; it reminded him that he gained great satisfaction from his work as a police detective. Pleasure was instantly replaced by something close to panic. His memory was patchy, incomplete; why was he here, in rags and apparently destitute? An event leading to dismissal would surely be hard to forget, but the recent past was a blank. One thing was plain; he was a long way from Scotland Yard.
The rhythm of the wheels changed as the vehicle turned between high gates. Here the dusty green leaves of late summer hung over them; he assumed they must be approaching the end of their journey.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll be well cared for at Knytte,’ the young woman said, as if his sudden fear had communicated itself to her. ‘Lord Pickhurst is a humane man, he’ll not send you away without a meal, and I shall make sure your hurts are tended.’
Talking was more difficult than he’d anticipated, but he forced the words from his throat, shocked to hear that they were little more than a croak. ‘Thank you miss, you’re very kind.’
He was rewarded by a smile. She really was pretty, he thought, his own cracked lips sketching an attempt to respond. Beddowes wondered briefly what her name was. At that instant he barely felt sure of his own; he hoped the rank which had been his for so long, both in the service of Her Majesty and in the police force, still belonged to him.
The news spread with exceptional speed. Within twenty four hours it was common knowledge in every inn, stable-yard
and kitchen between Hagstock and Trembury: a man had been captured and taken to Clowmoor House. The more knowledgeable among the gossip-mongers identified him as the tramp described on Mr Docket’s handbills. Some said he had been arrested and charged with the theft of Mrs Stoppen’s jewellery, while others scoffed at this idea, maintaining that he wasn’t the thief, merely an accomplice. Very little was agreed upon, except that Sir Martin Haylmer would be handing out the maximum penalty when the man appeared before him in court.
As Monday afternoon turned to evening, wilder rumours grew; it was said the militia were to be called out to escort the criminal to prison because he was known to have escaped before and might vanish into thin air if not watched for every second.
In contrast, a roadman assured his audience that the miscreant had been beaten to within an inch of his life by other members of a criminal gang, and was even now hovering between life and death. This particular rumour gained credence when it was confirmed that Dr Long had been summoned from Hagstock, and had remained at Clowmoor all afternoon.
Once the children were in bed and asleep, Phoebe sat at the window once more, staring into the darkness that enveloped the garden. The tramp was very much in her thoughts. She’d heard none of the gossip: belonging neither above stairs nor below. She’d stayed away from the servants’ hall.
When he had taken charge of the fugitive the day before, Mr Docket had assured her the man would be properly cared for, but he had rushed him away in answer to Sir Martin’s summons before she had a chance to fulfil her promise and see the poor soul fed and his hurts tended. Phoebe felt uneasy, for she hated to break her word.
Monday night was disturbed by dreams. She sat in a ruined tower. A man lay with his head on her lap, looking up at her. His eyes were those of the penniless derelict, yet he was well-groomed, his beard and his hair trimmed and clean. As he smiled up at her he looked ten years younger, and when his hand reached for hers she took it eagerly. She awoke with a start, strangely perturbed.
Annie was already dashing noisily around doing her chores, seeming even more eager to finish than usual. Phoebe closed her ears to the girl’s chatter. Once in the classroom she tried to concentrate on the children, but her thoughts kept returning to the tramp and her strange dream. She was still feeling distracted when there was a knock on the door, and a footman and maid entered.
‘Excuse me, miss,’ the footman said, ‘Lord Pickhurst wants to see you in his study. Clara is to stay with the children while you’re gone.’ He held the door for her, curiosity in his eyes; obviously he had no idea what was behind this rare summons.
Phoebe ran her hands over her hair to check that it was suitably restrained. She hurried downstairs, her mind racing. Was she about to lose her post? Lady Pickhurst had been trying long enough to have the children sent to school, yet only yesterday his lordship had spoken of Rodney with such affection.
As Phoebe approached the door of his lordship’s study a terrible thought struck her. Perhaps Jonah’s foolish infatuation with Lady Pickhurst had been discovered; her poor cousin would lose both his job and his reputation. And if that was the cause of her summons then what of her own position? She would be tainted by her relationship to him.
Phoebe entered the study, and her heart plummeted; it seemed her worst fears were about to be realized. Jonah stood by Lord Pickhurst’s desk, looking even larger than usual, and
completely out of place in his dusty working clothes. He spared her no more than a glance before turning his head away; the breech that had been opened between them seemed wider than ever. Jonah was the last of her family, and she bit her lip to stem the flow of tears.
‘Miss Drake, Sir Martin Haylmer, in his position as chief magistrate, sent a message this morning in which he asked me to speak to you. Since Jackman was already here to see me on business, and bearing in mind his connection to you, I trust you won’t object to his remaining. Jackman, the plans are on the table by the window, you might occupy yourself with them for the moment.’
‘Sir Martin?’ The relief was so great that Phoebe felt suddenly faint, hardly hearing the rest of what her employer had said.
Lord Pickhurst looked at her with concern. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No your lordship, I’m afraid I may have run downstairs a little too fast, but I’m quite well.’
‘Good.’ Lord Pickhurst gave her an uncertain smile. ‘I have some news for you.’
Phoebe glanced at Jonah, but he had his back to them and showed no sign that he knew she was there. ‘News?’
‘About the man you brought off the moors yesterday,’ Lord Pickhurst said. ‘I gather you acted very sensibly. Sir Martin has asked me to express his gratitude for your help. Sadly the fellow was found too late. He died during the night.’
‘Oh no!’ Her hand flew to her mouth. It was the last thing she’d expected. ‘I hadn’t thought he was so ill,’ she said, and suddenly the dream returned to her. It was disturbing to think that this stranger had entered her sleeping mind, alive and well, perhaps at the very moment of his death. She became aware that Lord Pickhurst was still watching her, and
felt she must say something. ‘I felt guilty about doing so little for him. Mr Docket promised that he would lack for nothing, but he hurried him away very quickly. Perhaps if he’d been allowed to stay here at Knytte the poor man might have survived.’
Lord Pickhurst shook his head. ‘I fear not. I assure you he was well tended. It wasn’t lack of attention that killed him. He’d suffered serious injuries which had been neglected for too long. However, he was conscious for a short time, and he asked that you should be thanked for your kindness.’
‘I did very little. Tell me, do you know anything of his history?’
‘It appears he was a dishonest rogue by the name of Cobb, and he wasn’t nearly as poor as he appeared. He came from London to buy some of the jewellery stolen in the recent robberies.’
Phoebe stared at him. The dream had played her false; those eyes, that smile, hadn’t looked like those of a sinful man.
‘Yes, it’s a bad business,’ his lordship went on. ‘I understand he was in some part repentant, but Sir Martin tells me he gave the police no useful information.’ He looked up at her again. ‘You may be aware that the reward for finding this man was claimed by a road-mender, but Sir Martin feels that you played a significant part, and more to the point, he wishes you to be commended for your compassion. He has instructed me to give you this.’ He handed over a small purse. ‘Five guineas. I trust you feel no reluctance in accepting it.’
Her first instinct was to refuse, but Phoebe thought swiftly, and lifted her chin; thanks to Jonah her job was in jeopardy and she couldn’t afford to have scruples. ‘No. Thank you, your lordship. I am sorry the poor man died. I shall write to Sir Martin to express my gratitude.’
Phoebe returned to the nursery with the purse in her hand, and a tumble of thoughts running through her head. She felt somehow unclean, as if she shared some responsibility for the death of the tramp, although commonsense told her not to be a fool. Managed carefully, five guineas would keep her for quite a while if she lost her post.
‘Mr Mortleigh, you’ve found time to return to us.’ Lucille’s heart was beating fast. She was eager to challenge her lover and confirm her worst suspicions of him. Glancing at the clock, she could hardly believe it was only mid-afternoon. She daren’t allow her gaze to linger on his face in case he read her thoughts.
Lord Pickhurst greeted their guest with more open
enthusiasm
, rising to usher him to a chair. ‘You’ll take a drink, Mortleigh? I was about to order tea, since my wife usually takes it about this time, but perhaps you would like something stronger after your journey from London?’
‘Tea will be perfect, thank you.’ Mortleigh smiled. He took the opportunity to mime a kiss to Lucille when her husband turned his back to reach for the bell-pull, but she ignored him.
They made small talk about the trains, and the inconvenience of having no station closer than Hagstock, until the servants withdrew and the three of them were alone again, seated around the small table.
‘And how was London?’ Lucille asked distantly, as she handed their visitor a cup.
‘Too hot and very dusty,’ their guest replied. ‘I found myself longing for the time of my departure, so I could return to the delights of the country. And Knytte in particular,’ he added, with a little bow towards his host.
‘I trust you conveyed my good wishes to Mr Laidlaw,’ Lord Pickhurst said. ‘Did you leave him well?’
‘He is much improved in every way, thank you. Indeed I have no more fears for him.’ Mortleigh looked down into his teacup. ‘I regret that his indisposition has soured our relationship, however. It is unlikely we shall ever see him back in this part of the country.’
‘What a pity,’ his lordship said. ‘We had so little time to discuss my plans, and Laidlaw had a genuine interest in the alterations I’m making. He shared my enthusiasm for the remodelling of the ruins, it would be a shame if he never saw them completed.’
‘I hope the work is making good progress,’ Mortleigh said. ‘I spent a full hour in your garden once, and I swear it was one of the most pleasurable times of my life. I trust I shall be able to spend a great deal longer exploring its delights. Unlike my friend, I find the country has many benefits.’
‘Some people find it lonely,’ Lord Pickhurst replied, glancing at his wife, who was bending, flush-cheeked, over the tea-pot. ‘Evidently you are not one of them?’
Mortleigh shook his head. ‘Hardly. I always find excellent company in the country.’
‘I imagine that you are constantly in demand, particularly among young women,’ Lucille said, having regained her composure; his reference to the delights of the garden had all too clearly referred to his clandestine visit that first night. ‘There was a party at Dunsby Court on Saturday, and I’m sure you were sorely missed.’
‘Yes, I had to refuse the invitation,’ he replied, meeting her look squarely. ‘Unlike the fairer sex, who have only to entertain themselves, men have business to attend to. With so many of your neighbours gathered together I don’t doubt you had an enjoyable time.’
‘I’m afraid not. Gardens are all very well, but I prefer to dance and dine within doors. We didn’t stay more than two
hours, which meant we missed all the excitement. I suppose you won’t have heard the news. Mrs Stoppen was robbed. Her famed ruby tiara was stolen, that very afternoon, while the entire household were out in the grounds.’
‘What, the jewel thief has struck again?’ Mortleigh looked astounded.
Lord Pickhurst nodded gravely. ‘The rogue gets more brazen. We are almost the last house of note to be left untouched, and I fear he may make the attempt to break in here. I have taken the advice of the Lord Lieutenant, and deposited Lady Pickhurst’s jewels in the bank. Since even he has been a victim I can’t help but be uneasy.’
‘I can hardly believe any stranger could enter Knytte undetected,’ Mortleigh said.
‘I prefer not to take the risk. Within the week I shall have a new safe installed.’ He smiled at his wife. ‘Perhaps you may keep at least some of your trinkets here again once it is done.’