Cheating the Hangman Page 5

  However, as we approached the path through the woods, which was our nearest way home, it became clear that his reluctance to move forward was nothing to do with his attunement to my current humour, but to something that offended him. His ears and nostrils flared. He knapped. However much I might urge him forward with kind words, he resisted.

  At last I dismounted, going to his head and talking softly but firmly to him. Still he resisted my blandishments, though he reluctantly consented to let me lead him on a tight rein into the wood. Fifty yards we walked – and no further. Him having veritably dragged me back whence we had come, I tied him to a sapling, fearing that for once his obvious anxieties would inspire him to return to his stable without me on his back.

  I had penetrated perhaps a hundred yards beyond the point at which Titus had dug in his heels when I first noticed the smell. At first it was simply a sweet tinge to the verdant air. Then the sweetness became unmistakeably sickly. I was in the presence of a dead creature, one beginning to putrefy. Covering my nose and mouth with my handkerchief, I moved gingerly forward.

  I cannot tell how long it took me to come to my senses so that I could run from the sight, and I believe that were it not for Titus’s anxiously nuzzling my face I might have swooned again, as the vile smell seemed to have followed me. And I had to return: somehow I must protect what remained of the dead man. All I had with me was my surplice. That would cover at least his face, though I had to disperse a million flies to do it. God would give me the strength to do it.

  I clung to Titus on my return as a drowning man to a log. Now at last I could heave myself on to his saddle and quit this awful place. It would of course be but a temporary reprieve: I would have to guide Edmund and a party of servants to carry the body to a place of decent privacy. At least I had the sense to tie my handkerchief to a sapling to remind myself precisely where I entered the woods.

  I was on Lord Wychbold’s land: perhaps the information I had to impart would shake him out of his book-fuelled complacency. But as far as I knew he was not a magistrate – for that I must seek out Lord Hasbury, over at Orebury House, since the nearest, Lord Chase, had been living in retirement in Wales for some time. Would I see scenes to shock me? Would any of his guests be sober and decent? Just now I cared not: all I wanted was to remove myself from this accursed place.

  Tumbling from Titus, I cared not for my appearance as I ran up the elegant semicircular flight of steps to the front door of Hasbury’s superb Palladian house. But the butler who responded to my vicious tug on the bell obviously did. The epitome of disdain, he gestured to the side of the house. I was being sent to the servants’ entrance.

  ‘My man,’ I said, in my best imitation of my father’s tones, ‘I am here to see Lord Hasbury in his capacity of magistrate in order to report a murder. You will kindly inform His Lordship of my presence – and there is to be no leaving me to cool my heels because you are too lily-livered to disturb him,’ I added as he showed me with the greatest reluctance into the library – a room as tidy and pristine as Wychbold’s was chaotic and filthy. There was, in fact, no evidence that it might ever have been used for its intended purpose. Meanwhile, it appeared that no orgies were currently in train.

  ‘Good God, man, you look as queer as Dick’s hatband,’ Lord Hasbury announced as he swept into the room. He stopped abruptly. ‘And a parson, too. I thought Coates had flit the coop.’

  ‘I have the honour of being his temporary replacement. Tobias Campion of Moreton St Jude’s at your service, My Lord.’

  A slight frown edged between his eyebrows, but he did not indicate what it might signify. In any case it disappeared as swiftly as it had come. All courtesy, he stepped forward to offer me his hand. He might be in his fifties, but he had the complexion of a much younger man, and though he was plump he did not need the Cumberland corsets so vital to improve the outline of so many of his cronies. His light step suggested he was free from gout, the complaint that so afflicted my father.

  ‘And you want to report a murder? Surely this is the day when you should be celebrating the very opposite of death?’

  I chose to take seriously what I feared he had meant as a jest. ‘Indeed so. And what makes this heinous crime even worse, My Lord, is the way the victim met his end.’

  Seeing that I could barely frame the words, he poured me a bumper of brandy. ‘Here. Pull yourself together. Sit down before you fall down.’

  I complied. Indeed I could do nothing else. At last, fortified by a second burning gulp of brandy, I said, ‘I would ask you to send a servant to summon Dr Edmund Hansard of Langley Park. It is too late for his services as a doctor, but he has extraordinary skill in deducing the circumstances of a person’s death.’ Not that it would take a genius to work out how the man had died – but Edmund would bring with him his calm common sense. ‘When he has arrived, and only then, we need a party of men to – to deal with the corpse.’

  His face might be bland and unlined, but his eyes showed a clear comprehension. ‘You believe that the circumstances will reveal who perpetrated the act?’

  ‘So I would hope. But I know that like Moreton St Jude’s, Clavercote lacks a village constable. Would your steward deputise? However it is done, I must ask that you use your authority to instigate enquiries amongst local menfolk. Every tenant, every labourer, every beggar must be questioned: this is not a murder a man could have committed on his own. I found the victim as I rode between Clavercote and Moreton St Jude’s. I will undertake to have the inhabitants of the latter village interrogated, but as you are aware, over here I am no more than a visiting parson.’

  ‘Very well, Dr Campion, I will do as you ask.’ Perhaps there was an ironic stress on the last word. ‘All that you ask.’ Now there was no doubt of the irony. ‘Meanwhile my advice to you would be that you avail yourself of a modest nuncheon my butler will bring to you here. You will understand that I do not wish this news to reach my guests, to whom it would cause undoubted distress.’

  His guests. For a moment I had forgotten them. I bowed, acknowledging the wisdom of his advice by pushing away the rest of the spirit. ‘But it must reach Wychbold’s ears, and in a proper manner. Would one of your servants convey a note to him?’

  Nodding carelessly, he pointed to a standish and paper, and left the room. Trimming the pen, I gave careful thought to what I might say to Wychbold. At last I wrote something of which I was not ashamed, though the pile of discarded paper testified to the difficulty of the task. For good measure, I wrote notes to my new and sadly inexperienced churchwardens, Mr Mead and Mr Tufnell, asking them to interrupt the good cheer of the egg-rolling and other celebrations by speaking to every male in the village. I should be there myself! But how could I be, when only I knew the location of the body? I was torn indeed, covering my face with my hands in my distress.

  To my horror, although I had not actually touched the poor corpse, whiff of mortality seemed to have lingered on my hands. The smell … The vile, vile smell …

  A servant padded in with a tray of wine, cold meats and fruit.

  The thought of touching food with my tainted skin made the bile surge into my gorge. Breathing deeply, I managed to control myself. If the servant was alarmed he was too well trained to show it. I think he was glad to bolt from the room to fetch the soap and water I requested.

  When at last I could persuade myself to try it, the food was surprisingly welcome, even if I could do no more than pick at a few morsels. Still left to my own devices, I was fortunate to find, tucked away on an obscure shelf, a fine old Bible. So I was able to while away the rest of the time in a mixture of heartfelt prayer and invaluable wisdom. Then, as Hasbury’s butler announced that Dr Hansard had arrived and was already addressing the work party the steward had organised, I made my reluctant feet take me to them. The men were on foot, apart from two on a cart, which carried the wooden planks favoured by Edmund to transport a cadaver and a heavy tarpaulin with which to cover it decently. There was no immediate sign of Titus. Then I s
aw him walking contentedly beside the groom bringing him from the stables, unaware that I was about to direct him towards a place he clearly loathed.

  Hansard brought his horse into step alongside us as we led the way back to the woods, asking questions not about the corpse but about my conspicuously absent host who had made no effort to wish me good day. This was not the moment for jocular speculation about barques of frailty but I was sure his interest was piqued by the rumours.

  He nodded with apparent approval as I dismounted some two hundred yards from my still fluttering handkerchief, and did likewise. But he directed the men on the cart to approach as close as their horse would let them. We all moved forward, our silence more apprehensive, I suspected, than reverent.

  We reached the clearing.

  ‘Dear God, man,’ Edmund exploded, coming to abrupt halt. ‘No one told me the man had been crucified.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  No one argued when my dear friend decreed that he would not ask them to move the poor corpse any further than he had to in order to examine it, lest the rough lanes jolted it so much it disintegrated. The head gamekeeper, a man who seemed to be the unofficial leader of Lord Hasbury’s men, suggested a woodman’s shelter not far from the ice house, and was sure that Lord Wychbold would have no objection to some ice deemed not good enough for the kitchen being used to keep the cadaver cool as long as possible. I despatched one of his team to speak to Wychbold’s steward, faintly surprised that neither he nor his representative had already arrived to see what we were doing on his land.

  All these suggestions met with Edmund’s undoubted approval. Goodness knew how he could bear the task, but he would examine the corpse, which he assured me had been dead before its final humiliation. Then he would record its injuries in the hope of obtaining some hint as to the means of death and thus perhaps the assailant. ‘I wish to God I could ask Maria’s help in recording all the details of the body, but it would create scandal amongst the villagers and even the gentry, to which I will not expose her,’ he declared. ‘Dare not.’

  I could not argue. Instead, writhing with embarrassment, I said, ‘I cannot draw, but I could act as your amanuensis.’

  He responded with kind amusement: ‘And how many times have you cast up your accounts since discovering the crime? But I know that you want action to rid your mind of what you have seen. I believe Doctor Toone to be staying near Stratford. I would value his opinion greatly, but would prefer not to entrust the task of explaining the situation to a mere servant.’ He shot a shrewd look at me.

  ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to fetch him – provided his paschal potations have left him fit to sit on a horse,’ I declared. In fact, the nasty schoolboy lurking within me would have enjoyed holding his head under the pump to sober him up – a belated revenge for all the times Gussie Toone had plunged my head into altogether viler liquids. But now he was Augustus, a most distinguished physician by choice, not financial necessity, and I was Tobias, an ordained clergyman, enjoined to forgive. It was time for us to put away the follies of childhood. He was now only ever known as Toone to his intimates, and as Doctor Toone by those he treated for fashionable ailments.

  Hansard glanced at the ice the men had accumulated and at his watch. ‘If you can persuade him to undertake a moonlit drive, it would be well for our investigation. Burns, who has a countryman’s nose for such things, promises a crisp frost, but a bright warm day tomorrow, alas.’

  Toone might already smell strongly of wine but he was sober enough to send immediately to the stables for his curricle. I made his excuses to his hosts while he made swift preparations for the journey. Within minutes he had run downstairs again, and was shrugging on his driving coat, a garment with so many fashionable capes I thought he must be mistaking Warwickshire for Hyde Park.

  At times like this, Binns, his deceptively sour-faced groom, acted as his valet. He had already stowed his master’s medical and personal bags ready for Toone to take the ribbons. He drove a beautiful matched pair of greys, as elegant as the archdeacon’s. Titus and I became his escort, an arrangement that had the advantage of precluding conversation I might prefer Binns not to overhear, however discreet he might be.

  Mrs Hansard had left instructions with her housekeeper that we travellers must be provided with a late supper; the guest bedchamber would no doubt be warm – the night had turned as cold as Burns had predicted – and the bed aired. The room I had come to regard as mine would be equally welcoming. But what was clearly not welcome to our visitor was the news that I had suppressed for the duration of the journey – that Mrs Hansard would not be venturing forth to make notes and sketch any salient detail as an aide-memoire.

  ‘You joke me! As an artist of such subjects – I do not presume to judge what I am sure are delightful paintings meant for a drawing room – she is unsurpassed!’

  ‘Indeed. But it would be entirely ineligible for her to be seen anywhere near the corpse. Imagine, Toone, a lady in such circumstances. Sketching a naked man’s body!’

  ‘I suppose you have never heard of Madame Kauffman? Or Miss Moser?’

  ‘And I presume that you have conveniently forgotten that when Zoffany painted the members of the Royal Academy surrounding the nude male, the two ladies were present only by means of their portraits on the wall?’

  ‘All arrant poppycock.’

  ‘Not to lowly members of country society, I fear, Toone.’ I sat down again, hoping he would do likewise. Dropping my voice, I added, ‘And Hansard has a particular care for Maria’s reputation, given that however much of a lady she undoubtedly is, she was not nobly born.’

  ‘And what care you for noble birth? You, who are a marquis of somewhere or other, call yourself plain Mister! Or less plain Doctor. You at least appear to have learnt something from the events in France in the last century. As for the others – pouf! Damn them!’

  ‘They are the people amongst whom I live, Toone. I may not always share their opinions any more than Edmund and Maria do – but we have to respect them, whilst, one hopes, leading them to hold more enlightened views.’

  ‘Hmph. Meanwhile, I lack an artist. Are there any drawing masters in the area, sick of teaching damsels to draw daffodils, who might assist?’

  I spread my hands. ‘Apparently a poet is to hand.’

  Toone laughed, as I hoped he would. ‘So he could write a sonnet on blowflies and maggots. I wish him joy of his rhymes. In all seriousness, Tobias, I need someone to record what I find – and I collect that your skill with the pencil is no greater than mine?’

  ‘Not one jot. And my stomach is a great deal more delicate.’

  It occurred to me as I retired to my chamber that perhaps My Lord Wychbold might, as a scholar, have need of someone who could copy for him items of interest. Even one of Lord Hasbury’s guests at Orebury House might be accompanied by a secretary numbering sketching amongst his skills. Accordingly, as soon as I had completed a speedy toilette the following morning – which had dawned with skies as blue and clear as Burns had predicted, the sun already melting the dusting of frost on the south lawn – I put the idea to Edmund, alone in the south-facing breakfast room. Maria entered as I was speaking, and exchanged a wry smile with her husband.

  ‘You may gather that this subject has already been the topic of some animated discussion, my dear friend,’ she said, giving me her hand to kiss. ‘And I think your suggestion may come closest to resolve it, assuming it has a happy outcome. Write your notes while I ask Burns for fresh coffee, and he shall see they are despatched instanter.’

  Edmund spread his hands in mock surrender, as I excused myself to make free of the writing materials in his library. There was still no sign of Toone when I returned, to find Maria already pouring coffee. Now that Lent was over and we had celebrated the joy of the Resurrection, tempered somewhat, of course, by a less blessed corpse, I was happy to carve myself a generous slice of home-cured ham and, when I caught Edmund’s laughing eye, a second.

  Even
allowing for his hasty journey and the lateness of the hour when he had sought his bed, Toone’s delayed appearance at the breakfast table was beyond the line of pleasing. His host and hostess were on the verge of quitting it, to embark on their daily duties, as was I. However, he was all handsome apologies, turning the fact that he had overslept to a compliment to his excellent bed and the gentleness of the housemaid’s knock when she had first brought his hot water. Apparently he had slept through her first call, and only awoken when she brought a second can half an hour later.

  My plan to find him an artist was met with gruff cynicism, as he applied himself to a plate of roast beef liberally spread with mustard. However, he soon had to eat not only his meat but his words, as Burns announced that he had shown a visitor into the library.

  ‘A gentleman concerning Dr Campion’s note, sir.’

  Hansard excused himself from the table immediately, inviting me, as the instigator of the idea, to accompany him.

  Our visitor was on his feet, his back to the room, as he surveyed the delightful springtime garden, which the room overlooked. To his left lay the shrubbery that Maria was restoring to its former glory: some of the bushes were laden with pink or white blossom, others bursting with buds of the most vivid green. It must indeed have delighted an artist’s eye.

  It dawned on me, giving rise to very mixed emotions, that although I had never been introduced to the young man, I might not be unacquainted with him. With his elegant riding apparel, the coat assuredly by Weston, and dishevelled hair à la Brutus, could this be the very person I had seen riding swiftly away from Eliza Fowler’s dreadful cottage? At the time I feared he might be the cause of Molly’s downfall: could I now be about to address him? And how might I frame any accusation? Perhaps I should wait to see what had brought him here: perhaps my note had quickened a guilty conscience.