The Wages of Sin Page 9

  To some extent, of course, the discussion would depend on how sober I found him.

  By chance late in the afternoon I was in the courtyard when the pony cart arrived, and was able to help him down from it. A stable-boy appeared as if by magic, conjuring, with a piercing whistle, a footman, who gathered Bowman’s luggage and made off with it with satisfactory briskness. Bowman might have been surprised by my request to speak to him privately in his room before supper, but he agreed readily – not like a man nursing a conscience guilty of a sin of commission or even omission. He suggested we took sherry as we talked; his advice had been that we should wear smoking jackets as a point midway between formality and the relaxed code we had no doubt adopted in his absence, he added with a twinkle. I suspected the decision would filter as if by osmosis to the women. More important than what they wore, however, was whether they would trust their colleague enough to discuss in front of him any revelations Mrs Billings might have made. I was not entirely sanguine.

  Though Bowman was often too full of bonhomie for my taste, this evening he was serious as one might wish when I broached the topic of Maggie’s disappearance, his normal professionally equable demeanour crumbling further as I unfolded each extra detail.

  ‘The poor child!’ He hauled himself to his feet, as if to reach for the sherry decanter, instead pacing from one end of his room to the other. At last he sat, collapsing into his chair. ‘For God’s sake, there are enough women in the House – or even the village – to help her. Pennyroyal, isn’t that supposed to work – only when it’s not really a baby yet,’ he added hurriedly, as Mother Blount had done. ‘But who could have betrayed the poor maiden, Mr Rowsley?’

  ‘I was hoping you might speak to the footmen. I would have done it myself but you know them so much better than I do, and would know when they were telling the truth and when dissimulating.’

  ‘I trust I will!’ He swallowed – possibly his pride, as he said, ‘Would you want to be with me? You have the authority I lack.’

  ‘Not in this house,’ I said firmly. ‘As far as I am concerned, your word is law here, yours and Mrs Faulkner’s.’ I was gratified to see his shoulders set more squarely. ‘Do you have any suspects already? I know that young men will always indulge in banter, sometimes horseplay, but do any show signs of taking things beyond the acceptable? Or,’ I added, despite myself dropping my voice and leaning forward confidentially, ‘were there any rumours amongst the footmen of bad behaviour from his lordship’s guests or their servants?’ To my chagrin I had to repeat what I had said more loudly as he cupped his hand to his ear: I had forgotten he was hard-of-hearing.

  ‘Do we know – I’m sorry to be indelicate – how far into her … her condition … she was?’

  I shrugged. ‘I’m in no position to so much as hazard a guess. I never noticed, because, to be honest, she was just a quiet, self-effacing maid.’

  ‘Maggie? Quiet? Self-effacing? I always thought her a lively enough young lass. But others must have noticed the change.’ His look was shrewd. ‘Surely Mrs Faulkner—?’

  ‘It is not a subject I felt comfortable pursuing with a lady,’ I admitted, ‘as I am sure you will understand.’

  ‘Quite so, quite so …’ This time he did reach for the sherry, filling both glasses to the brim. Nonetheless, the sip he took was small, discreet. He changed the subject violently: ‘Have we had word when his lordship plans to return? And her ladyship, of course?’

  ‘Not yet. The staff have been working very hard in their absence, as you can imagine.’

  He nodded absently. ‘Yes, Mrs Faulkner has a long-established routine for when the Family are away for short periods. Mrs Arden too.’ He sipped again. ‘You know, Mr Rowsley, I am no longer a young man. I had thought to settle down as the master of a genteel guest house. The usual procedure in such a case is to marry the housekeeper one has worked with for many years – but I am not sure that Mrs Faulkner would … Mrs Arden, now – do you think she might welcome my addresses?’

  I managed to say with what I hoped was a becoming gravity, ‘I think there is only one person who could answer that.’

  ‘Ah! Of course! Mrs Faulkner!’ he declared confusingly.

  ‘I beg your pardon? I gathered that … I understood you to say …’ Perhaps I spoke more sharply than was tactful.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Faulkner. She would know her colleague’s inclinations.’

  I raised my glass. ‘Let us drink to a suitable outcome to your enquiries. All of them,’ I added firmly.

  ‘So the gate was guarded not by Mrs Billings but by a scrap of an urchin who greeted me with the news that his ma was a-working at the ditching,’ Mrs Faulkner said, with a mixture of pity and exasperation and a not altogether kind mimicry of the child’s delivery.

  ‘He was still there this afternoon,’ Mr Bowman agreed. ‘But Mrs Billings, working at ditching? Why on earth should that be?’

  ‘To relieve the flooding after yesterday’s downpour,’ I said quietly. ‘I told Garbutt, who is in charge of the lake dredging, you’ll recall, to employ as many as were needed at double their hourly rates. I never imagined he’d take on a woman.’

  ‘The women from round here pride themselves on their endurance,’ Mr Bowman declared. ‘And down in what it pleased Her Majesty to call the Black Country women make great chains, and iron nails! Heavens! Their arms are like Hercules’! A man would fear get on the wrong side of one! As for the women on the narrow boats – my goodness, what with their fearsome muscles and their shockingly coarse language they truly make one believe there was once a race of female warriors!’

  Mrs Arden slipped a swift glance in my direction: clearly she recalled our conversation about what women could manage if needs be. I responded with the briefest of smiles. Would Mr Bowman really make her, with her capacity for impish humour, a happy woman? In her place I would worry about his pomposity, his deafness and his drinking. But marriage gave women security they lacked in the single state. How many women did I know – yes, and men too – who continued to work almost till their death because there was no other way to survive?

  I would welcome Mrs Faulkner’s views. She was very quiet this evening, however, almost subdued; perhaps her back still troubled her. Yet I sensed an anger about her too. If only I might contrive a word in private. That, however, would almost certainly prove impossible, given her understandable respect for propriety.

  I smiled at her briefly before observing, ‘But poor Mrs Billings is no Amazon. I wonder if the exertion will have harmed her.’

  ‘She would not admit it if it did. And the extra money will help her household. But, if you think it a good idea, I will speak to her tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you. I would be very grateful.’

  Bowman gave a troubled laugh. ‘Take care, Mr Rowsley. A word to the wise. If you take too much interest in Maggie’s family, there’ll be those who draw the wrong conclusion.’

  Much as I would have liked to choke an apology from him, a deep breath gave me time to reflect. The warning might have been tactless but was sincere, and in truth only echoed what Mrs Faulkner and Mrs Arden had hinted. ‘I think it is the responsibility of all of us to care what happened to the child, and I am grateful to Mrs Faulkner for doing so much. Now, may I say grace?’

  ‘You’re a cad, sir, and a bounder!’ My interlocutor had stopped me as the following morning I rode towards Twiss’s farm to see that the repairs still held. He jabbed his riding crop into my chest.

  I left it where it was. ‘Indeed, Mr Newcombe.’ I looked as calmly as I could into the furious face. Tertius Newcombe was one of the churchwardens no doubt seeking to uphold the morals of the congregation. A portly man in his fifties he owned a prosperous farm the other side of the village. ‘And why should you say that?’

  ‘You know damn’ well why I say it. And will say it again.’

  ‘I might think better if you removed your whip, sir.’ I wanted to say a great deal else, but I knew my temper of old and did not wish to becom
e reacquainted with it. ‘Thank you. I collect you are referring to the disappearance of young Maggie Billings?’

  ‘Who else? They say you want to find her to silence her.’

  ‘I certainly want to find her, but buying her silence is the last thing on my mind. As her employer, we – the household – are after all to some extent in loco parentis, I believe – and the idea of a child walking off unaccompanied into the night appals me.’

  ‘A child!’ He was clearly nonplussed.

  ‘According to Mrs Faulkner, at most fifteen – and already a vital means of her family’s support. Let me make this clear: I don’t like the notion of a child being betrayed by a man in the house for which I bear responsibility. It doesn’t accord with my notions of decent behaviour. I doubt if the man in question will confess, so I believe it is the Family’s responsibility to ensure that Maggie, wherever she is now, is given enough money to have a roof over her head and to provide for the child.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘That’s rewarding loose morals.’

  ‘Some would indeed think that, and why not? But if a second child is involved, an innocent baby, then I cannot see how we can judge it, morality or not.’

  Newcombe raised an eyebrow. ‘There are plenty of orphanages – there’s also the workhouse.’

  ‘Either of those would make not just Maggie but also her innocent baby suffer.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘And his lordship approves of what you’re doing?’

  ‘His lordship is away from home. I don’t think this matter can wait till he returns. A girl of fourteen or fifteen on her own? Who knows what danger she is in?’

  ‘She’s in greater danger of eternal damnation!’

  ‘Yes, I heard Mr Pounceman’s sermon. I hope her seducer did too. I can see, Mr Newcombe, that we are not likely to agree in this matter. So let us change the subject to one we can talk of in amity. Your son – Gerald? – seems to me to be a most promising batsman. I hope you will let him continue to play in the village team …’

  ‘Indeed – is there any doubt?’

  I coughed gently. ‘His lordship’s plans for a ground on the estate?’

  He shook his head firmly. ‘A team’s a thing that binds a village together, Rowsley. Which reminds me – good work on Twiss’s farm. Neighbourly.’

  ‘The least we could do. We had the men and the tarpaulins.’

  ‘Hmm. Very well.’ He stared. ‘You’d best make your peace with the rector, though. We must all stick together. Good day, Rowsley.’ His nod was at least polite.

  So was mine, as we shook hands. But my heart was still racing with the effort to keep calm.

  At least I was ready to smile warmly when I encountered the next neighbour, Oliver Page, the doctor. We rode together for a while, talking of nothing much. But I had, of course, to ask if he had heard any rumours about Maggie.

  He sucked his teeth. ‘It’s not impossible she might be six months into her pregnancy.’

  ‘Six months!’

  ‘Tight lacing. Voluminous skirt. Huge ugly apron. I’ve known women practically ready to pod before I knew what was up. Now, what’s this I’ve heard about Stammerton?’

  ‘So it’s all round the village already,’ I said ruefully. ‘But you’ll be aware that not everyone approves.’

  ‘Not everyone has the sense they were born with. It’s music to my ears at least,’ he declared with gratifying enthusiasm. ‘Those apologies for dwellings will fall down soon enough, and it would be far more sensible to replace them, rather than attempt futile repairs. Yes, it makes good economic sense as well as – dare I say – moral sense. But never to underestimate the enemy,’ he said, bringing his horse to a standstill. He leant towards me like a schoolmaster, wagging his finger. ‘I am sure you know that your benevolent concern for young Maggie Billings is scandalising the half of the village that doesn’t cautiously admire what you are doing.’

  ‘I’ve just been roundly rebuked, as it happens.’

  He nodded gravely. ‘It’s not just the gentry who disapprove because they fear you are encouraging dissolute behaviour amongst their servants, it’s some of the poor too, who perceive she may be rewarded for behaviour they avoid.’

  ‘Avoid! Are you telling me that at least half the couples that Mr Pounceman joins in wedlock don’t already have a child on the way?’

  He snorted with laughter. ‘Well, many a countryman wouldn’t buy a bitch to breed from if it hadn’t already littered. I fear many of our young men have the same approach to a potential bride. And, for heaven’s sake, these are young people who might as well get what pleasure they can, bless them. Except that so many of their babes are born into such desperate poverty: after all my years in practice it still grieves me beyond measure when a child succumbs to an illness that a healthier, better fed child would survive. Still, in your new Stammerton, they may thrive. I hope and pray they will. But a word to the wise, my friend: to build Stammerton, you need to keep your job.’ He kicked his mount into action.

  I chanced to encounter Mrs Faulkner that afternoon after she had called at the lodge. She was carrying a basket, now empty: I deduced she had contrived to make her errand one of mercy as well as subtle interrogation.

  She admitted, as we strolled together, that her back still gave her pain, but said, with a shrewd glance, ‘But not as much as Mr Bowman’s observation gave you, I fancy.’

  I stopped in my tracks. ‘I give you my word—’

  ‘Mr Rowsley, now we are alone I may speak more freely. If my calculations are correct, you could not be the father. But in a sense Mr Bowman was right to warn you, if not in public like that. We all have to be like Caesar’s wife, entirely above suspicion. As to Maggie, I believe Mrs Billings was not being straight with me. She still talks of her daughter meeting her fancy-man, in highly derogatory terms. But – you know how a child who has been primed to tell a particular story is rarely convincing? – I felt that with Mrs Billings. If she is indeed telling the truth, she is not telling the whole truth. And I am at a loss to discover what that may be.’

  We walked on slowly. ‘I can’t think of anyone else who might question her more profitably,’ I mused. ‘Unless perhaps Mrs Kenton? Maggie is her own sister, after all – and I, as the putative godfather of her son, might ask her to do that as a favour?’

  ‘And how might her brother-in-law react to that?’ Her voice was cool and considered – but Harry had threatened her, had he not?

  ‘I’m sorry. It was a foolish idea. But I have one or two others. Alf Hargreaves—’

  ‘The pig man?’

  ‘The same. He is keeping his ears open for me. And I hope to persuade the landlord of the Royal Oak, Mr Baines, to divulge some of the secrets Alf is sure he has overheard.’

  ‘So long as hope comes with an open purse, he might. No, I misjudge him. In his line of work he has to keep secrets as well as a priest does. As for Alf …’

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘I know of nothing against him. He’s very proud of Luke, his lordship’s valet, of course. He’s done very well to get so far so quickly.’

  ‘It’s no mean achievement for the son of an unlettered father.’

  ‘Oh, Luke’s a quick learner – yes,’ she added, with one of her rare smiles, ‘he was one of my reading hour pupils. In fact, he was one of my first pupils. I could see – just see – he had ability, Mr Rowsley. Oh, he was a joy to teach!’

  ‘I should imagine you are a very good teacher.’

  ‘I am better now,’ she said, without a hint of pride. ‘Practice has not made me perfect, but it has helped me see other ways of imparting what I learnt myself.’

  ‘Who taught you?’ I asked, eagerly. I was getting closer to her inner life than I’d ever been permitted, unless it was the revelations about her sporting talent.

  She blushed. ‘I mostly taught myself. Like Luke I was a child servant in a great house and I realized … that I needed to read, to know my numbers. And now I love passing on my knowledge.’


  ‘In other circumstances you would be a schoolteacher, perhaps?’ I had a sudden image of her running my model school in Stammerton.

  ‘In ideal circumstance, yes. But you must know, Mr Rowsley, I am well rewarded for my work here, especially as you insisted – I cannot imagine it was his lordship’s idea – that all our wages should be raised. And a teacher is not well remunerated.’

  ‘Mr Bowman,’ I said, ‘plans to run a genteel boarding house when he retires. That would not be your idea of pleasure?’

  ‘With him! The very idea!’ With a sudden embarrassed laugh, she covered her face. ‘Oh, dear: I beg your pardon. That was not polite of me.’

  This time I cut a whole spray of roses, which I held over her head with a smile before passing it to her. ‘No one will know of it from me. But I should warn you he wishes to speak to you of his plans – for another lady,’ I said hurriedly.

  ‘Not dear Beatrice Arden! Dear me. Should I warn her?’

  ‘You might prefer to warn him. As I said, he wishes to consult you, as her best friend.’

  Her grimace was word enough. ‘I shall have to work out something tactful, will I not? Mr Rowsley, this has been a most delightful interlude in our day, but I fear it has not moved our knowledge of poor Maggie forward by one iota.’