The Keeper of Secrets Page 2

  * * *

  I did not expect my hostess to be at the breakfast table the following morning, and Lord Elham had clearly sunk too much port the previous evening to incline him to conversation now.

  As I helped myself to a slice of very fine ham, I summoned Corby, the butler, to my side. ‘Tell me, was there any disturbance in the night? I thought I heard something – a shout, a scream – I know not…’

  I would swear I saw panic in his eyes, but he said bracingly, ‘Sir, next you will be telling me you peered out of the window and saw a headless rider galloping into the courtyard! Why,’ he continued, his eyes a-twinkle, ‘I recall a footman saw the hooded figure of a friar being hauled down the main staircase only a month or so ago. Regrettably he had made such inroads into his lordship’s port that I had to dismiss him on the spot.’

  Certainly Corby would not venture to accuse me of having been top-heavy, but I took his drift.

  ‘Now, sir,’ he continued, ‘I understand from Mr Davies – his lordship’s steward, sir – that the carter has at last reached the vicarage. He himself will supervise the unloading of your effects, but requests the pleasure of your early presence. Naturally he would not want to install furniture in the wrong rooms, sir.’

  ‘Naturally. Will you have my gig brought round in – say – half an hour? And have Sutton apprised of my move?’

  As he bowed himself away, another pang struck me. All my life I had had but to raise a finger and my orders were obeyed. Now I would have to do simple errands like that for myself.

  * * *

  Scarce was the last stick of furniture in place, and Jem, my groom, inspecting the stabling, than there was a knock on the back door. Hurrying through the still unfamiliar territory, I found before me a comely woman in her forties. Although very plainly and respectably dressed, she was as elegant in her way as Lady Elham. She carried a basket covered with a white cloth, as if an alfresco repast were planned.

  Curtsying slightly in response to my bow, she said, ‘Mrs Beckles, at your service, Parson Campion. I have the honour to be housekeeper up at the Priory. I hope these few offerings will make life more tolerable for you until you have your own staff.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Mrs Beckles. That is more than kind of Lady Elham—’ I stopped. ‘I do beg your pardon, Mrs Beckles. These come from you, not her ladyship, do they not?’

  She smiled dismissively. ‘A man needs his comforts, sir. Shall I dispose of them in your kitchen for you?’

  ‘I hardly like—’ Nonetheless, I stood aside.

  ‘When did any man know his way about a kitchen, sir? Let alone a gentleman.’

  Her honest face made me trust her. ‘Mrs Beckles, here in Moreton St Jude I am a gentleman no more.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘With respect, sir, being a gentleman has less to do with birth than behaviour – if you’ll pardon me for saying so,’ she added quickly. But encouraged by my smile, she continued, ‘Up at the Priory I see fine lords behaving like savages, and working men as charitable and gracious as if they had been born with a whole canteen of silver spoons.’

  I hung my head, but lifted it to say, ‘Mrs Beckles, I think you have just given a better sermon than I shall ever hope to do.’

  ‘Nay, sir, each to his or her trade. And mine is to tell you that one of the first things you must do is to install a new closed range for this kitchen.’

  Extending her attentions to the rest of the house, she hung curtains and stowed linen with the brisk efficiency of Sutton, but more conversation, though none as controversial as her comments about gentility. I tried to draw her out about my new neighbours, but she looked me straight in the eye. ‘That would be gossip and hearsay, Parson Campion. You must make your own judgements. You’ll make some mistakes – every young man does that – but I doubt that you’ll make many. There now, at least you’ll have a shirt to your back in the morning,’ she said, closing the last drawer. ‘I’ll arrange for old Dame Phipps to come and wash for you, shall I? Every two weeks? Or every month?’

  I shook my head. ‘Mrs Beckles, pray arrange what you think best. If you can run a house the size of the Priory, I dare swear you know what is best for this.’

  Her laugh showed her excellent teeth, of which her ladyship must have been very jealous.

  At last what I had wanted to know all morning. ‘Might I ask, Mrs Beckles, how young Lizzie fares this morning?’

  ‘Indeed you may. She is shaken, a little inclined to weep, so I have kept her busy with tasks in my room.’ She smiled. ‘I honour you for what you did yesterday, Parson. Many another young man would have looked the other way. But you did right. I should be glad for Lizzie’s sake if she could find a position in another house, but wherever she went she would have young bloods thinking she was there for their pleasure, and at least here I can keep an eye on her. But a word of advice, Parson. When you chose servants, let your head do the choosing, not your heart. Many a plain girl works harder than a pretty one.’

  ‘I suppose, Mrs Beckles, that you would not be able to recommend one?’

  She shook her head firmly. ‘It is your new housekeeper-cook you should consult. It is she who will have the training of her after all.’

  ‘And where would I find a housekeeper-cook? Should I ask Mr Davies for advice?’

  We both knew what her answer would be. ‘I think I can find you just the lady,’ she said.

  For all its curtains, carpets, tables and chairs, the house felt very empty when she had left.

  I repaired to the obvious place – to St Jude’s, there to offer belated morning prayers in the ineffable peace of the ancient building and then to become acquainted with its fabric.

  At last rising from my knees, I looked about me. From the shape of the arches and the windows, I judged the building to date from Norman times. There were brasses aplenty, and some grandiose tombs holding the earthly remains of the family who held the benefice, with Latin inscriptions testifying to the excellence of their lives. Nil nisi bonum, I supposed. The choir stalls looked as old as those in the Chapel of King’s College, in Cambridge, where I had taken my degree and later been ordained. I sat in one for a moment, feeling a sense of home there that I had yet to feel in the parsonage. As if in greeting, coloured light danced on my hands with the sudden illumination of the stained-glass windows.

  I had hardly closed the heavy door behind me when I realised I was not alone. Rake in one hand, shapeless hat in another, a man in his thirties greeted me. Though much the same age as Jem, he was spare to the point of emaciation, whereas Jem was broad and enough to carry me – as on occasion he had had to, when I had dipped far too deep. His thin face contrasted with Jem’s manly features.

  ‘Simon Clark, your honour,’ he greeted me. ‘Your verger, your honour.’

  Could this man dig a grave a full six feet deep? I doubted it, but little knew how soon he would prove my doubts unnecessary.

  ‘Call me Parson Campion, Mr Clark. And carry on with your excellent work.’ Now I looked about me, I could see how neat and trim the graveyard looked, barely one weed daring to show its head in the immaculate grass. When he stood where he was, still smiling, I added, with perfect truth, ‘Rarely have I seen so beautifully tended churchyard. Is this all your work?’

  Eyes huge and round, he nodded convulsively. ‘Thank you, your honour!’

  I shook my head. ‘No, it is I who must thank you. It is you who cleans the church?’

  He swallowed hard. ‘That be my good wife, your honour. She does her best, your honour.’

  ‘Then pray thank her on my behalf.’

  ‘Thank you, your honour.’

  Clearly he could not move until I did, so with another smile, I turned and walked to the lych-gate.

  I came face to face with two stolid countrymen, one ruddy and broad, the other as pale and thin as Simon Clark. Neither evinced any immediate signs of friendliness.

  ‘And who might you be, young sir?’ the red-faced one demanded.

  ‘Nay, it’s t
he new rector!’ cried his companion, at last perceiving my white bands, tearing off his hat and bowing.

  I thrust out my hand. ‘Parson Campion it is,’ I declared, smiling.

  By now both men were bare-headed and ready to be servile, an improvement on truculence, perhaps. In turn each wiped his right hand roughly on his breeches before proffering it to me.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, we weren’t expecting you yet a while.’

  ‘And not so young, neither, not with so many fine men going for to be soldiers.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘We’re the churchwardens, sir. This here is Farmer Bulmer.’

  The red-faced man bowed again.

  ‘And I be Dusty Miller,’ the pale one added, laughing almost toothlessly at his appellation. He patted his coat by way of explanation. It rewarded him with a puff of white dust. He coughed, though more as a preface to a well-rehearsed speech than in response to the flour. ‘Welcome to your new cure of souls, Mr Campion. We hope you find all as you expect it to be, but if you do not, rest assured we will do all in our power to set it right.’ How many hours, how many scribblings and crossings out had gone into that utterance before he conned it by heart?

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I’m sure we will work together very well.’

  ‘We hear you haven’t any furniture yet, Parson,’ Bulmer said.

  ‘Nay, nor any servants, neither,’ Miller added.

  I smiled. ‘Thank goodness the carter brought all my effects this morning. As for servants—’ I would rather trust Mrs Beckles’ advice than theirs, but listening would do no harm.

  ‘You’ll be wanting a good serving-wench,’ suggested Farmer Bulmer, with what I thought might have been the ghost of an unseemly wink.

  Sensing a trap, I added firmly, ‘My new housekeeper will select the staff.’ Thank goodness for the prescience of Mrs Beckles.

  They exchanged a glance. Miller sucked his few remaining teeth, the pressure putting them at imminent risk.

  ‘Were there no servants at the parsonage before?’ I pursued.

  ‘Bless your life, there was just the one. And she went with the last vicar to his new place near Bath.’

  ‘Such loyalty is commendable,’ I remarked, perhaps wishing that she had had stronger ties to her home village.

  My naivety produced guffaws of laughter, not soon enough suppressed. ‘Why, bless your heart, of course she’s loyal! She’s the old vicar’s wife, now, see. And they do say there’s like to be a new arrival in their family soon.’ This time his wink was unmistakable.

  ‘And him a man not seeing sixty again,’ Mr Miller added, his tone a mixture of admiration and envy.

  ‘And her not turned twenty-five, I dare swear. Yes, we must find such a housekeeper for you, Parson Campion. Likely you too will want to see if you’ve got a breeder before you tie the knot!’ His bawdy laughter rang across the green.

  ‘I understand that that is the way of those who know no better, but it is my belief, gentlemen, that it is not the way of a true man of God.’

  ‘Don’t ’ee go complaining of Mr Hetherington,’ Miller said sharply. ‘A fine man he was, the keenest after a fox you ever did see. Three times I saw him brought home on a gate, and like to breathe his last. But next season he was up and doing, just as a man should.’

  I bowed silently and coldly. ‘I believe my presence is needed at the parsonage. But I will be reading morning service again tomorrow, and hope for your presence. Good day to you, gentlemen.’

  Helplessness was a sensation quite new to me. At Eton I had gone well prepared with my elder brothers’ advice, and at Cambridge I had found my school friends ready to greet me. Here there was no one, and though I supposed that preparing a nuncheon with the contents of the kind Mrs Beckles’ basket should not be beyond my powers, I found myself waiting for a servant to unpack, to find me plate and knife, even to pull out my chair for me.

  Now my only servant was Jem, still toiling in the stables, Augean in their condition. It was only right that for once I should serve him. How might I do so without causing him embarrassment? At last it occurred to me that we could sit together in the yard, perhaps on a convenient hay-bale, and have a truly rustic picnic. I carried a basket outside and summoned him. Awkwardly, first sluicing himself under the pump, he pulled over three bales – it was clear that the third would make a good table. From the embarrassed way he rubbed his hands on the straw, he felt unequal to the task of being our ad hoc butler, so I myself placed the cloth on the spare bale and laid out the basket’s contents on it. Mrs Beckles had provided a good jug of ale, a selection of cold meats and two handsome pies. There was cutlery aplenty in the kitchen, stowed so dexterously by Mrs Beckles, but I knew not where. Without a word, Jem produced a haft-knife, and cut two huge slices of mutton pie.

  My appetite assuaged, for food if not for conversation, Jem being ever taciturn, and now completely silent, except for two or three brief utterances on the subject of the horses, I had the rest of my day to fill. Mrs Beckles’ kind ministrations had not extended to my study. My books – quite rightly – awaited my attention.

  Installing the last volume in the handsome new bookcase, I felt at last that I might be at home here, my old friends with their worn spines but perennially fresh interiors about me. But I was so filthy the only option open to me was the pump Jem had used earlier. So I was dripping wet when I heard a distant ring on my new doorbell. Of course, there was no servant to respond, and I was loath to miss a visitor. Pulling on my shirt, I almost ran through the house.

  ‘Hello? Hello there?’ Whoever it was did not wait, but stepped inside, his broad frame making a silhouette against the bright afternoon sun.

  Still in my shirt-sleeves, I stepped forward, hand outstretched. If my guest did not stand upon ceremony, neither would I.

  ‘Edmund Hansard at your service, sir,’ he greeted me, pulling off a shapeless hat to reveal an old-fashioned wig atop the face of a man in his early fifties.

  ‘Tobias Campion at yours,’ I responded with a slight bow. My hand was enveloped in his.

  ‘I have the advantage of you,’ he laughed, bright blue eyes a-twinkle. ‘I know that you are the new parson, but you cannot know that I am the doctor. And I come not to treat any ills – for you look a healthy enough young man – but to bid you come and share my board this evening. Aye, and bring your man too. I have no doubt my servants will look after him.’

  ‘This is most kind—’ I began.

  ‘Did I not read somewhere that you should do unto others as you would they do unto you? Well, man, someone must needs feed and water you. I keep a plain table, mind you. And country hours. Would six be too early for you? You’ll find me at Langley House, out on the Leamington Road. Till six, then. No need to dress.’

  ‘Till six,’ I agreed.

  He left without further ado, leaving, as Mrs Beckles had done, a house feeling the lack of his presence.

  ‘Langley House,’ I repeated to Jem, as we trotted side by side through the village, the westering sun bathing it in a golden glow.

  On the green a few very young boys, no more than five or six years old, played with a bat and ball. Beyond the green was a duck pond, with St Jude’s the far side of the graveyard to my left. The Silent Woman, so old that Shakespeare might have drunk there, sank down on its knees opposite. On the outskirts of the village a coaching inn was being built, to celebrate the arrival of a turnpike road, no doubt. It would be the only building of note, St Jude’s apart. The rest of the village comprised picturesque thatched cottages, haphazardly arranged in a verdant innocence so beloved of our poets.

  We were heading in the opposite direction from Moreton Priory, into neat and I hoped prosperous farmland. Jem rode alongside me, as he’d done from the days he taught me to ride. It was the only time he permitted me to treat him as my friend.

  ‘And what sort of place are we looking for?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you know, I’ve no idea.’ I scanned the scattering of cottages we p
assed, greeting the shirt-sleeved men toiling in gardens crammed from corner to corner with bright flowers and anomalous vegetables. ‘Surely they cannot feed a family from so small a plot,’ I exclaimed. ‘My father’s estate workers have allotments three or four times this size.’

  ‘Not all farmers are as generous as his lordship,’ Jem replied, eyeing the half-naked children as if they were savages. Their filthy hands shot out as we passed. I scattered a handful of pennies and resolved to do something of more long-term benefit, God willing.

  At last we had fairly left the cottages behind. A high stone wall ran parallel with the road. After half a mile or so, it was broken by a handsome pair of gates, and a gravelled driveway led up to a house some thirty or forty years old, elegant in its proportions.

  ‘Can this be it?’ Jem asked. ‘’Tis a mighty fine place for a country doctor.’

  And so it was. The rosy brick-built house glowed in welcome. Three storeys high, its symmetry was more than agreeable to the eye. Perhaps it reminded me of the doll’s house my sister once cherished.

  Two lads dawdling home assured us, when prompted by a penny from me and a scowl from Jem with an adjuration to watch their manners when the parson was speaking to them, elicited the information that this was indeed Dr Hansard’s home. Exchanging amused and rueful grins, we set our mounts in motion once again, to be greeted by our host himself on the front steps, deep in conversation with his groom.

  As he glimpsed us, he broke into a broad smile. ‘Welcome to Langley House,’ he said.

  The evening went with enormous speed. At some point, perhaps as we supped in leisurely fashion, perhaps as we sipped our port afterwards, Edmund Hansard and I progressed from being sympathetic acquaintances to men likely to become friends. It may have been when he showed me his experiment room, where he explained his aspiration to grow pink hyacinths from blue stock, or his curiosities collection, or even his library, where he had had a small fire lit, to take off the chill of the evening. Without exchanging the sort of personal confidence my sisters pressed on their bosom bows, it was clear we saw the world from a similar position, though I would have been hard pressed to recall a single instance where we had formally exchanged opinions.