An Unlamented Death: A Mystery Set in Georgian England (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 1) (23 page)

Now I have failed even in that. When I was certain men were following me, I tried to run, hoping to have time to end my life before they seized me. Have you ever tried to fire a pistol from a galloping horse, doctor? It is far harder that I believed. Even with the muzzle pressed to my side, I managed to fail in ending my life there and then. I have ended it, of that I am sure now, but not as I had wished.

There, my tale is ended. Give me your potion, for God’s sake. Bring me oblivion, for I am in great agony of body and spirit and wish for nothing but to find death as soon as I may. I am the most reluctant murderer. I killed, but never wished or meant to do so. And whether what I have told you convinces you or no, it is the truth. There is no more that I can do.

H
enry Harmsworthy clung
to life until shortly after five in the morning. During his last hours, he was unconscious and Adam remained by his bedside the whole time. Once Marshall joined him, Adam used some of this time to complete the picture in his mind.

‘Mr. Wicken has, as I believe you know, been searching for this Mr. Harmsworthy,’ Marshall began, in answer to Adam’s questions. ‘I understand it was in connection with events that took place in these parts a short time ago. At first, no trace of him could be found. Then, to our surprise, one of our regular watchers reported seeing a stranger who matched Harmsworthy’s description. This man seemed to be trying to make contact with a group of people well known to us, sir. A group suspected of planning various treasonable activities.’

‘Where was this?’ Adam asked.

‘It was as I believe you had surmised. It was in Ireland, sir. To be precise, in an area of Dublin known to be the haunt of all manner of felons and rebellious rogues.’

‘Indeed so, in Ireland then.’ Adam was gratified that his ideas had so quickly been proved correct.

‘Yes, sir. Now, thanks to you, we knew where to look, we found him easily enough. In fact, some of our men had seen him earlier, for he seemed to be trying to make contact with a nest of rebels well known to us. The United Irishmen they call themselves and they are desperate men. Our agents had reported seeing a stranger seeking these traitors out. Yet not knowing his identity, or any of his recent actions, they gave their report no particular prominence. In fact, he was so inept that they guessed that he was a writer or a journalist trying to find material for his writing. Only when the description of the man we sought reached them did they realise he had already been seen.’

‘What was his actual purpose in seeking these persons out? Did you discover?’

‘We did not, I fear. It was clear he was not known to them, for they turned him away and would not exchange words with him at all. I imagine they suspected him of being one of our men, come to try to tempt them into some indiscretion and provoke their arrest. These fellows have learned to be wary of strangers, sir.’

‘As I imagine they should be,’ Adam said. ‘Go on, please.’ He could have enlightened Mr. Marshall on this subject, but chose to stay silent, judging it best to present his latest discoveries first to Mr. Wicken. Let him decide who else should be told.

‘Our people judged correctly that Mr. Harmsworthy was new to this game. He somehow knew enough to be able to find the right people, but was at a loss when they would not speak with him. For a week or more, he simply wandered around Dublin. Again, he seemed to know the city, yet showed neither sense of purpose in his wanderings nor any delight in them.

‘By this time, our people were on full alert and had sent an urgent message to Mr. Wicken seeking instructions. When the reply came, it was clear they must on no account lose sight of the man, but should not interfere in any other way. He might have led us to persons we did not know, sir. The fact that he had first sought out some notorious rebels had to mean that he had some knowledge of them and their activities.

‘Our team watched and waited. Four days passed. Then, on a sudden, the quarry seemed to make up his mind what to do next. In a flurry, he left the inn where he had been staying and made all haste to find a berth on a ship traveling back to England.’

‘How long ago was this?’ Adam asked. Mr. Wicken must have known something was afoot when he asked Adam to meet Josiah Osman, yet had made no mention of it. Perhaps he too was confused by the randomness of Mr. Harmsworthy’s actions. Or was he was loath to mention the man had been found until he was sure what to make of the reports reaching him?

‘Tuesday of last week, sir,’ Marshall said. ’One watcher followed Mr. Harmsworthy aboard. For the rest, as soon as we knew the man was in Ireland, the watch on all the ports where ships arrive from those parts had been increased. Thus it was easy enough to pick up observation of Mr. Harmsworthy when the ship bearing him came into harbour at Liverpool on Saturday morning’s tide.

‘Where he had been aimless before, he was now firm in his purpose. He went first to discover where he might board a stagecoach to London and when the next one departed. That was near dawn on Monday morning and Mr. Harmsworthy was on it. What he did not know was that one of our watchers had been substituted for the regular guard on the coach. That coach makes several stops before reaching the capital and we were determined not to lose him along the way.’

‘Did he go to London?’ Adam asked. If he had, he could see no reason why he should be acting as Mr. Wicken’s substitute in this way.

‘No, sir. At Oxford, he went to an inn and ordered a post chaise to take him onward the next morning – yesterday – to Lynn. We were surprised at that and had to change our own plans in great haste. He left at dawn and travelled as hard as the driver would let him, so that he arrived at Lynn late that same evening.

‘You will understand, sir, that we all have the greatest respect for Mr. Wicken. His ability to anticipate the actions of desperate people is almost uncanny, and never more so than in this instance. It seems that, as soon as he heard Mr. Harmsworthy had crossed back to England, he ordered that a close watch be set on his house. Thus it was that his steward was detected leaving home on Tuesday, leading a spare horse. His master must have sent him a message as soon as he reached Liverpool, though none of our watchers saw him do it.

‘Anyway, the steward took the horse to the stables of an inn at Lynn, then returned home alone. Mr. Harmsworthy had himself taken to that same inn as soon as he arrived.’

‘So he had his own horse to use yesterday morning,’ Adam said. ‘And was returning to his house.’ At that time he must have been quite unaware of his watchers, or he would never have taken so bold a step.

There it was. Over at last, all questions answered. Yet Adam could feel neither satisfaction in this knowledge, nor joy at being proved right in so many ways. Beside him a man lay dying: a good man, a dutiful man, who had done his best to live without harm to any. Yet in the end, he had been unable to escape the cruelness of an undeserved fate. Out of love, he had betrayed his country and murdered a man of a far more blameworthy character than his own.

Now Adam and Marshall sat watching and waiting, as so many must do at bedsides when no more is possible. If it was Mr. Harmsworthy’s destiny to die by his own hand, he should not die alone. When, soon after the sun had risen, Mr. Harmsworthy’s life reached its end at last, Adam and Marshall both stood, heads bowed, while the doctor gently raised the sheet to cover the face of the corpse. For a moment, they stayed silent, looking down at the shape in the bed. No words of prayer were said, yet it seemed neither man was willing to let the magistrate’s death pass unmarked by any ceremony, however brief. At length they turned away together and left the room.

Adam felt near overcome by exhaustion. Whether it was from the wild ride, the emotions of the magistrate’s confession and passing, or his own inability to do more than ease the man's agonies, he did not know. Whatever the cause, he needed sleep and a return to normality. Thus it was that he asked Marshall to have him taken to his brother's house at Trundon. One of Marshall's men readied the inn's chaise and Adam, once more heavily cloaked against the morning chill – and prying eyes – left Holt before nine.

Giles was used to his brother arriving unannounced and travel-worn, usually after spending a long night at the bedside of some patient. He was not therefore surprised when Adam came. Nor did he question the simple statement that his brother had been called out to a dying man, and had asked to be brought to the nearest source of a soft bed and relaxing company. Though he was not the imaginative type, Giles understood that being so often close to suffering and death must leave you drained to the uttermost.

After taking a simple breakfast, Adam retired to bed at once. And though Amelia gave firm instructions to servants and children to make no noises that might disturb his rest, it would not have mattered. Had a regiment of dragoons been manoeuvring outside, he would have heard nothing. He slept for nigh on eighteen hours and woke feeling ready for more.

For a while, Adam stayed abed, but hunger eventually drove him to rise. When he had washed and shaved enough to appear respectable, he went downstairs, finding the servants preparing for breakfast. His brother and Amelia seemed determined to avoid any subjects of conversation but the lightest, though they must have been agog to know what had caused him such weariness. In its way, this was almost more unsettling that a barrage of questions might have been, but Adam was much moved by their concern. And so, politely declining an invitation to stay once he had breakfasted, he begged his brother for loan of a carriage to take him home. It would be some time, he told himself, before he would again subject his backside to contact with a saddle.

As he was making his farewells, Giles put a letter into his hand, telling him it had arrived early that morning. He had kept it aside lest it should prove bad news of any kind. Now he was free to read it along the way or keep it until he was safely back in Aylsham.

Adam could not, of course, wait so long to open the paper, so he began to read as soon as the carriage was moving down the drive from the Hall.

It proved to be a letter from Mr. Wicken, saying that he had arrived in Holt late on that Friday evening and needed to deal with certain matters. He would then take some rest in his lodging at the White Lion before calling on Adam. Would it be convenient for him to come to Adam's house on Sunday morning?

M
r. Wicken arrived
at about ten on Sunday morning. Despite one night's sleep, the effect of a long journey, undertaken at high speed, still showed. He was not quite his normal urbane and elegant self.

Hannah ushered him into Adam's study, where her master waited. Then, as Adam had arranged earlier, she brought a jug of punch and a pot of good coffee, with both glasses and cups, then left, closing the door firmly behind her.

Mr. Wicken tasted the coffee, sighed in appreciation and stretched out his long legs. ‘You have no idea how good it feels to be in a fine room like this, drinking your excellent coffee, with no one coming in or out asking for direction,’ he said. ‘I cannot thank you enough for responding at once to my man’s summons, doctor. You impressed all by your calmness in taking charge of a most confused situation. And before you berate yourself for not having saved Mr. Harmsworthy, let me assure you I am fully aware you did all you could. Marshall was a soldier before he entered my service. An experienced officer too. He told me that he knew from the start Mr. Harmsworthy was far beyond the help of any physician.’

‘All I could do was hear what he termed his confession and try to ease his last hours,’ Adam said. ‘I still feel the greatest sympathy for the man. He admitted to killing the archdeacon and harbouring a wanted rebel and a French spy, yet I cannot bring myself to call him murderer or traitor.’

‘We will return to that matter in a little while,’ Mr. Wicken said. ‘Tell me first what he related in his so-called confession.’

Adam did as he was bid, speaking in Harmsworthy's own words with as much accuracy as he could. To do thus brought back much of the pain of the first hearing. Yet he believed he owed it to the dead man to let him speak in his own voice to those who would judge him.

W
hen he had finished
, they sat in silence. At length, Mr. Wicken spoke his thoughts. ‘There is something of the Greek tragedy about poor Harmsworthy's life,’ he said. ‘From all you have told me, it is clear he was caught in the meshes of a most unhappy fate. Is this your judgement too?’

‘It is,’ Adam said. ‘I have spent many hours since the man's death wondering what should be done next. My power to influence events is small indeed, but I feel bound to tell you my conclusions.’

Mr. Wicken smiled. ‘You may have more sway in these matters that you think, doctor. Since you are the only witness to Harmsworthy's words, none can act upon them without your co-operation. But that is of no matter for the moment. Tell me your conclusions and I will see if they match with mine.’

‘Let me make it clear that my concern is for the living, not the dead,’ Adam began. ‘First, I am of the opinion that making it public that Dr. Ross, the archdeacon, was murdered can bring no benefit to any. For a start, in my medical opinion, the blow to his head would have killed him anyway. That seems indeed to have been an accident. We have no proof other than Harmsworthy's words that the man was then smothered while lying on the ground. If he was, it but hastened what must have come about anyway. Mrs. Ross and her family have begun to come to terms with the events of April. To upset them again for no real reason seems to me cruel and unnecessary.’

‘So far we are in complete agreement,’ Mr. Wicken said. ‘The affair of Dr. Ross has only ever been a sideshow in relation to my concerns. Let us allow him, and his family, to rest in peace.’

‘Thank you,’ Adam said. ‘You have eased my mind a good deal. Yet it may not be so easy for us to agree on the rest. To brand Mr. Harmsworthy a traitor to his country for his actions would be just, I agree. There is no doubt of that. He knew O'Dowd was a wanted rebel. He knew the Frenchman …’

‘Monsieur Alphonse Baudet de Harnoncourt, a notorious
agent provocateur
,’ Mr. Wicken interposed.

‘… the Frenchman,’ Adam continued, ‘was a spy sent to try to bring about rebellion in our land. Still, he gave them shelter and did what he could to see them on their way to safety. That makes him a traitor without any doubt. However, he is beyond all our justice and the other two are taken …’

‘One is dead,’ Mr. Wicken said, ‘hanged as he richly deserved. The other says little, but probably knows less. No one trusted him in Ireland.’

‘What remains,’ Adam said, refusing to be led away from his argument, ‘is this. If we make known that Mr. Harmsworthy was a traitor, his whole family will suffer shame and likely ostracism from society. By his own words, none but he was involved in this treachery. I would not see them thus branded and ruined for the sake of his crime.’