The Wages of Sin Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Judith Cutler

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter I

  Chapter Two

  Chapter II

  Chapter Three

  Chapter III

  Chapter Four

  Chapter IV

  Chapter Five

  Chapter V

  Chapter Six

  Chapter VI

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter VII

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter IX

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter X

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter XI

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter XII

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter XV

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter XX

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A selection of recent titles by Judith Cutler

  A Matthew Rowsley mystery

  THE WAGES OF SIN *

  The Lina Townend series

  DRAWING THE LINE

  SILVER GUILT *

  RING OF GUILT *

  GUILTY PLEASURES *

  GUILT TRIP *

  GUILT EDGED *

  GUILTY AS SIN *

  The Fran Harman series

  LIFE SENTENCE

  COLD PURSUIT

  STILL WATERS

  BURYING THE PAST *

  DOUBLE FAULT *

  GREEN AND PLEASANT LAND *

  The Jodie Welsh series

  DEATH IN ELYSIUM *

  * available from Severn House

  THE WAGES OF SIN

  Judith Cutler

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2019

  in Great Britain and 2020 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2019 by Judith Cutler.

  The right of Judith Cutler to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8938-6 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-654-8 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0352-6 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The biggest influence in this book was Cutler family folklore: my great-grandmother, a daughter of the estate’s gate-keeper, was made pregnant by the youngest son of one of Shropshire’s richest landowners. Noblesse clearly not obliging, she was despatched from the estate with the warning that if she did not go quietly, her family – her parents and all their siblings – would lose their employment and their tied accommodation. She survived, as did her daughter, Granny Cutler, a redoubtable woman who by the time I knew her was more to be feared than to be loved, having raised a large family in absolute poverty.

  Apart from having spent a lifetime visiting National Trust properties, where the areas behind the green baize door seem to me tell more about life than the glossy, front-of-house rooms, I turned to several invaluable books: The Rise and Fall of the Victorian Servant by Pamela Horn; Keeping Their Place by Pamela Sambrook; The Victorian Kitchen by Jennifer Davies; and Norah Lofts’ Domestic Life in England. My thanks to all these women whose deep knowledge puts mine to shame. My good friend John Marshall gave invaluable advice about the clergy of the time.

  Any mistakes? Mine. Apologies.

  To the women running and supported by Gloucestershire Domestic Abuse Support Service

  ONE

  There were days when my responsibilities running Lord Croft’s estate weighed heavily on me. I might be responsible for increasing – and spending! – my employer’s fortune, but I had to ensure his people were treated fairly too. After nearly two months in the post, I was all too aware that most of the glances they exchanged as I approached were suspicious or even actively hostile. Who could be surprised, when only last week I had to tell a tenant that his farm was in such poor heart he would have to leave come Candlemas. Before that it was a dairyman watering milk. I had no natural allies in the household as yet; both Mr Bowman, the butler, and Mrs Faulkner, the housekeeper, had every reason to doubt me too: a man younger than they suddenly descending on their realm, a real live deus ex machina.

  So it was a great pleasure to ride on my own in the early morning sunshine hoping to find a few white-skinned mushrooms, their gills a delicate oyster-brown, for my solitary breakfast in a house almost embarrassingly bigger and better appointed than any other on the estate. But having gathered my harvest and remounted Esau, I saw that someone else was stirring, had indeed already finished one of his daily tasks. A portly gentleman carrying a medical bag was emerging from the Kentons’ cottage, with an expression of satisfaction on his worthy face at odds with its weariness: Dr Page. Silas Kenton was more than simply seeing him out, he was practically dancing round him, pressing on him what looked like newly picked peas, in, of all things, a cricket cap. Obviously Mrs Kenton had successfully been delivered of her latest child.

  ‘I gather congrat
ulations are in order,’ I called, dismounting and looping Esau’s reins over the fence. ‘Good morning, doctor; good morning, Kenton.’

  Page shook my hand; Kenton tugged his forelock. ‘’Tis another boy, Mr Rowsley.’

  ‘And a very fine, lusty fellow too,’ Page agreed. ‘But I’ve been telling young Kenton here not to think of going in for a whole team of cricketing sons. His sixth already! He’s got a beautiful wife, and he doesn’t want to wear her out with childbearing.’

  ‘No, indeed.’ How on earth did they all fit in the cottage, by no means the largest on the estate? Impulsively I passed the young father the clutch of mushrooms, trying not to laugh at his bemused disbelief. ‘An easy breakfast for you, Kenton, and your good wife. Now, I can see your garden is doing well, and that you will not lack for food. But I’m sure her ladyship or Mrs Faulkner will be sending down beef tea and everything else that women consider needful in these circumstances.’ This time I pressed a couple of guineas into Kenton’s hand, closing his fingers round them. I added, overriding his stuttered thanks, ‘But if Dr Page considers that your wife needs anything in particular, you are to use that to purchase it. Understand?’

  Another tug of the forelock, with more stammering and a deep blush; he had just realized I had given him twice what he might have expected.

  ‘The chickens are laying all right, sir.’ Did he sound defensive? Perhaps I had been too generous and he felt patronized. ‘We’ve still got a scrap of that old porker we killed; one of the litter he sired is doing nicely.’

  I followed his gaze. Yes, penned in a so far untamed corner of the garden it was chewing its way through the scrub with every appearance of enjoyment. ‘I don’t like the way it’s eyeing your hat,’ I told Page, with a laugh.

  ‘Indeed, after all those brambles and nettles, straw would be an epicurean feast. Now, good day to you, Kenton – and don’t forget what I said.’ Dr Page took my arm, propelling me towards his trap. Once out of earshot, he said, ‘You won’t have to do anything about that animal, will you, Rowsley?’

  ‘Do anything?’ I repeated stupidly.

  ‘Blakemore – the last land agent – was very much against tenants keeping any sort of livestock, even the odd hen, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘Did he give any reason?’

  ‘Said his lordship – his late lordship, of course – didn’t want his land turned into a menagerie. Personally I think it was the man’s own prejudice.’

  ‘I trust his son has more sense.’ At least in public I did. In private was entirely a different matter. ‘And to be sure, well-fed workers should be better workers, shouldn’t they? Purely in terms of self-interest Lord Croft should encourage such activity.’ But might not, I conceded silently, if he actually knew about it.

  Page clapped me on the shoulder: ‘It’s clear his agent has more sense, at any rate! Of course it’s right that people should eat adequately. How a family can sustain itself on bread soaked in tea to taste like meat, I cannot imagine. But I have been idle long enough,’ Page said quickly, almost as if he wished to dissociate himself from any criticism of my employer that his words might have implied. ‘Good day to you.’ He waited until I was on horseback before he waved and set off.

  I could have waylaid one of the lads dredging the lake, telling him to take to the household staff the news of Mrs Kenton’s safe delivery. But I decided to go myself, taking a circuitous route back to the House to see how his lordship’s other ‘improvements’ were progressing. No! I must not allow irony to enter my thoughts, let alone my voice, when I spoke of them. In truth, there was much urgent work needed to preserve the house and the Capability Brown estate. The house in particular needed attention. The original must have been Tudor, perhaps earlier, in a sort of capital E shape. Since then there had been many additions, not all of them aesthetically pleasing – perhaps the worst being a grand entrance hall, which strove hard to be impressive, but sat uneasily on a frontage that would have preferred Georgian restraint. Much of his land, not just here in Shropshire but in other counties across the country, was in bad heart too. But it was hard, very hard, to make his lordship invest in anything that would not bring an immediate return of pleasure or financial benefit. I was becoming accomplished in delivering half-truths, if not outright lies.

  Leaving Esau to the care of the stable lad, I chose to enter the House through the servants’ entrance, though I was sure that Mr Bowman would have preferred to see me bowed and scraped through the imposing entrance hall into the corridor leading to my office. What must these men and women, through whose territory I passed, make of my habit? Some might have suspected me of spying on the menial staff – from the latest terrified tweenie who pressed into the shadows as I walked past, to the occasional pot-valiant footman. In fact I did it in honour of my father, once a country clergyman. In his time he had experienced the humiliation of being turned from the front door as one too lowly to use it. When he became an archdeacon, of course, this was no longer the case; perversely he would often insist on using the below-stairs route, greeting his old friends as he did so.

  By now I was learning to know the staff and their functions, though the standard liveries on tall young footmen with impassive faces and the desperately unflattering caps on the young women in their ugly grey dresses made the task harder. And there were so many of them – there were some twenty-eight permanent indoor servants. To all of them I was always ‘Sir’, or to the dozens of outdoor workers ‘Gaffer’. At the moment, the only reason I had for my authority was my role. A land agent was a man to be feared because of his ability to take away livelihoods at a stroke. What I wanted was to be respected for the breadth and depth of my knowledge. I wanted to be admired for my human decency and my sense of justice.

  The first person I saw as I passed along the back corridor was Mrs Faulkner, standing in the servants’ hall perusing some list or other. To some a housekeeper was just a small woman bustling round a house, however impressive that house might be. Instead I saw her as the captain of a great ship – the brew-house, the dairy, the laundry, not to mention the cleaning and the cooking were all ultimately her responsibility, though she never gave the impression of having to do anything herself.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Rowsley – and what a fine one it is,’ she called.

  Naturally I entered, raising my hat in response to her curtsy.

  She raised her voice: ‘Maggie!’

  A maid, surely no more than fourteen with her pretty round face and plump childish arms, scuttled in, took the hat, and went to hang it up somewhere. Half turning to me, as if to say something, Mrs Faulkner watched her. In the end, she shook her head, saying nothing. I sensed that for once her smile was polite, not welcoming.

  On reflection perhaps the cheer in my voice grated. ‘I have news to make it finer, Mrs Faulkner. Mrs Kenton was safely brought to bed this morning. Both mother and child – another healthy boy – are doing well.’

  A slight frown replaced her smile. ‘Dear me, all those children! Ada used to be in service here, you know – and she could have done very well for herself if she hadn’t fallen for young Silas Kenton. But of all the young men working on the estate, I’d say he was the best, though I’m not so sure about his brother.’

  I nodded. ‘Silas seemed happy to take Dr Page’s advice about the size of his family.’

  ‘Dr Page was in attendance? No wonder everything went well. He’s a good doctor and a good man,’ she declared decisively. She lowered her voice as she explained, ‘I believe it is his habit not to charge the poorest families for his services. But he would not want that to be widely known.’

  I bowed. I risked saying, ‘My godfather, also a country doctor, had the same creed. So no one will hear of it from me. Do you think, Mrs Faulkner, that her ladyship would wish to send a few items – perhaps some nourishing jelly – to the Kentons?’

  ‘It is most likely,’ she said calmly. ‘If she is well enough, she might wish to take her gifts herself, when she takes the air in her n
ew dog-cart. If not, I will undertake to walk down this afternoon and deliver them. I like to see the progress of the improvements his lordship is making,’ she added.

  Did this mean she would like me to accompany her? Or was she making a simple statement? It was strange to think such a practical woman enigmatic, but in truth I found it hard to describe her, even to myself, though we had been acquainted since Lady Day, when I took up my position here. In person, she was neither tall nor short, neither plump nor slender. Her face was equally unremarkable, except for her eyes, which were always watchful but showed a certain brilliance when she was amused. As for her age, though there were hints of grey in her hair – always, of course, mostly covered with a cap – her skin was as clear, as youthful, as the youngest maid’s. She was not much older than me, I would say. Perhaps she was forty.

  ‘If there is anything you would particularly like to see, please let me know and I will be at your service.’ I was ready to bow myself out.

  Before she could reach for the bell, another small figure mat-erialized in the furthest doorway, bobbing a deep but not elegant curtsy.

  ‘Thank you. I will. Meanwhile, Mr Rowsley, Bessie here has just made – under Mrs Arden’s supervision, of course – her first batch of rolls.’ It was typical of her to know what was going on in what was really the cook’s realm.