The Duke's Agent (30 page)

Constable Bone shuffled awkwardly into the silence. ‘Well, Mr Justice Ison, sir, if that's done – might I take the little lad up to Mrs Bedlington? He could do with a good meal.'

The Colonel waved them off. He nodded briskly to his
fellow magistrate in a pleased way. ‘A most satisfactory day. We have our murderer, gentlemen.'

Raistrick bent over the body, nonchalantly turning over its clothes. He wiped blood from his fingers on a cleanish piece of the blue coat.

‘What's this here?'

He held a package wrapped in a red silk handkerchief in his brown palm. He shook out the material to reveal a shiny silver disc on a long chain. A watch.

‘Fancy thing from foreign parts,' Jarrett murmured to himself.

Raistrick met the steel-blue eyes unflinchingly. He wound the watch and pressed it to his ear.

‘Broken,' he said and held it out.

Jarrett turned over James Crotter's fine German pocket watch in his hand. The golden deluding voice rolled past him.

‘Colonel, I believe that some days back Mr Jarrett was asking after just such a watch; it was missing, I understand, from the effects of the unfortunate Mr Crotter – the Duke's previous agent.'

‘Is that so, Mr Raistrick?' exclaimed the Colonel. ‘That is strangely interesting. Two birds with one stone, eh, gentlemen?'

‘I wish I could agree, Colonel.'

‘What now, Mr Jarrett?'

‘Surely this death raises more questions than it answers, sir. Who killed this man? How comes he to be found so conveniently just as Captain Adams is sent to bring him in for questioning? And what was his connection to James Crotter?'

‘Mr Jarrett, I sympathise. It is indeed inconvenient to be denied the opportunity to question the felon – but in truth what mystery is there? A thief happened upon a house where he discovered the sole inhabitant had recently succumbed to
a weak heart.' Colonel Ison shrugged. ‘What should a thief do but carry off whatever he could find?' Scarcely pausing for effect, the Chairman of the Bench sailed on, determined to dispel all objections with his reason. ‘And as for the manner of his death, I have not been a Justice for near twenty years in this district without recognising the signs of a river brawl.' The Colonel was comfortable in his superior wisdom. ‘Why, you know yourself, Mr Raistrick here was just called this very morning to investigate reports of a knife attack during some taproom brawl. Perhaps this fellow here is one party to that encounter – the one who got the worst of it.' He raised a hand to arrest Mr Jarrett's protest. ‘This was a villain, Mr Jarrett. We are not in Hartlepool or Newcastle here. We have our rogues but murder is a serious matter in a quiet district such as this. It is a kind of justice – not one I might support officially,' the Colonel gave a brisk shrug, ‘but a murderer is despatched. Let us bless our good fortune!'

‘So you will not pursue the author of this death, sir?'

The Colonel was scornful. ‘A river-rat, Mr Jarrett? He'll be long gone. Unless his wounds fester and kill him,' he added as a pleasant afterthought.

The more Jarrett argued, the more the Colonel's impatience grew. He began to sigh heavily, his eyes wandering over the river and the crowded road. ‘We may review these objections more thoroughly in private another time, Mr Jarrett,' he cut in. ‘But now we must let Adams remove this corpse and have the people disperse. We want no more unrest.'

Raistrick took no part in the exchange. He stood apart, watching the fire-fighters at the Swan Inn across the river. At the Colonel's last words he turned expectantly. His point won, Colonel Ison's manner relaxed.

‘I understand from Captain Adams that you are to be congratulated on clarifying our other little mystery, Mr Jarrett.' Ever the politician, he clapped the agent on the back. ‘An accident eh? Always thought the wench jumped.'

*

It took three men to sling the massive form of the Tallyman into the open cart. It slumped there uncovered for all to see, and many came. They pressed five or six deep about the cart and at first were strangely silent. They gazed and pointed to the blood that dripped between the boards and the distorted face and the gory coat. Then someone began to rock the cart. Captain Adams hurried his men, bayonets fixed, to clear a way. A howl went up and a handful of mud was thrown. Then more mud, and stones and vegetable matter began to rain down as they hastened away the remains of the notorious Tallyman.

Jarrett watched the procession move off, the howls and jeers receding down the narrow street. He rubbed his head wearily.

‘Could do with a dram myself,' a familiar voice said. The poacher was crossing the empty street towards him leading his tall bay. Jarrett's face broke in to a slow grin. He was opening his mouth to make Duffin some wry response when he felt a tug on his coat sleeve. He looked down at the diminutive errand boy from the Three Pots. The urchin handed him a note and scuttled off. Straightening out the crumpled sheet he deciphered a flamboyant scrawl.

‘Mr Raistrick desires that Mr Jarrett will favour him with a visit,' he announced. ‘He claims to have some items of interest to me. He is waiting at the Three Pots.'

‘And you're going?' The poacher eyed him with a dour face as he rubbed Walcheren's ears.

‘How can I resist, Duffin?'

*

It was a plain room; bare lime-washed walls and sufficient light from a window overlooking the river. Raistrick sat by a table to the left of the light, a bottle and a couple of glasses by his elbow. The man's presence was such he could make the most elaborate room his frame, but this rough, bare setting struck
Jarrett as particularly eloquent. The scene which seemed stark at first sight was full of incident and detail. The river view beyond the window was not a mere stretch of water at sunset. The oily surface reflected the moving colours of the flames as the Swan Inn burned. The sounds of the fire-fighters and the crackle of the fire seeped into the room, a disturbing counterpoint to the regular lapping of the water outside.

‘You must forgive these poor surroundings, Mr Jarrett. This tavern happened to be convenient and I wanted to waste no time in showing you these. A scavenger came upon them at the river's edge and brought them to me.'

The lawyer tapped a muddy parcel lying on the table beside him. ‘They are sadly damaged, but I believe they will interest you.' He wiped carelessly at the muddy coating with a bit of cloth and pushed the object towards Jarrett with a little gesture of invitation. The agent approached the table. It was the remains of a pair of leather-bound books. They were burnt and charred and pulpy with mud. Inside there was scarcely anything left that could be called pages, but on the cover of one it was still possible to make out the embossed crest of the Duke of Penrith.

‘We must suppose that someone – this Tallyman, perhaps – took them from the manor in the hope that they would prove of value, then, finding they had none, discarded them.' Raistrick leant back in his chair, his posture relaxed, a faint sense of elation shimmering about him. ‘Now, what else would you seek, Mr Jarrett?'

Jarrett's previous encounters with both the Three Pots and Raistrick's own chambers had not led him to expect excessive cleanliness in either. And yet this room had been recently scrubbed, and a patch of wall appeared to be freshly limed.

‘It is an Englishman's right and duty to protect his neighbours – your words, Mr Raistrick. I would add: and to seek justice for them all. Is that not the aim of all just laws?' the agent responded.

The lawyer laughed out loud. ‘Just laws! A truly radical fancy, Mr Jarrett! The law has little to do with justice. It is about maintaining the order of things. And the law has been satisfied in this case. But why not sit down and join me in a glass? Come, draw up a chair,' he invited. He poured the wine with a flourish and pushed a glass towards his guest, leaning forward to rest an arm on the table.

‘Let us review some practicalities, Mr Jarrett. You asked the Colonel earlier: Who killed this Tallyman?' Raistrick boomed the question in mock-dramatic style and shrugged, both hands spread with palms up. ‘We have no witnesses. But then, why should we good citizens complain? The villainous murderer of an honest man is dead. Had we caught him alive we would have hanged him. Now we are saved the expense and trouble. Perhaps we should rather send up a little prayer of thanks to the good Lord that we are relieved of the necessity.'

Jarrett took a sip of wine, heady with a touch of spice. The aura of confidence was palpable. The magistrate knew he had won, yet it seemed he needed his opponent to know more so that he might appreciate the full quality of his victory.

‘It was my impression, sir, that the law does not distinguish between the relative virtues of victims. Under the law murder is murder, is it not, Mr Justice Raistrick?'

‘You are a philosopher, Mr Jarrett. You are interested in hypotheses. I, on the other hand, am a lawyer and a practical man. I deal in cases.'

‘Then let us discuss cases, by all means. I find it extraordinary, sir, that a Justice of your abilities and experience should not have known of this Tallyman.'

‘Did I say I did not know of him?' The magistrate leant back in his chair. ‘But you never mentioned a previous interest in this Tallyman to me, Mr Jarrett. Had you done so I could have told you he was a petty thief and bully sometimes hired to collect debts.'

‘Collect debts?'

‘Debts, Mr Jarrett, or rents. Among the rougher sort of people due rent is not rendered up on a pretty please. It is necessary to put a little more salt behind the request. This Tallyman was the kind employed on such errands.'

Jarrett's lean figure sat at ease, his bruised leg extended. He was close enough to take in every detail of the eyes facing him across the table. Smoky irises defined by a darker outer ring and pupils as black and sharp as sin. He searched them for any glimmer of conscience or guilt.

‘I was informed, Mr Raistrick, that this Tallyman was seen at the old manor, while Crotter's body still sat by the fire – seen taking these very books.' If he had hoped to trip his opponent he was disappointed. The magistrate expressed genial astonishment.

‘You had a witness! But, Mr Jarrett, why ever did you not say so before?' he chided. ‘Had you only spoken up we might have caught this fellow before he went to meet his maker.'

Jarrett gave a slight bow as he sat. ‘I fear, sir, I was distracted – a certain misunderstanding about a girl's murder, as you might recall.'

‘Ah.' Raistrick acknowledged the point with a salute of his glass.

‘But let us discuss,' Jarrett paused, ‘a hypothesis, if you will. Say that this Tallyman had a reason other than robbery to visit the manor. Might Crotter himself have hired him? To collect debts, say?'

‘It is possible.'

‘Then, you will allow, it is also possible that the villain came to collect debts from Crotter himself?'

‘Perhaps.'

Jarrett seemed absorbed by the lights reflected in his wine. ‘Crotter, by all accounts, died a pauper.'

‘Where is the mystery in that? A debtor is a pauper.'
Raistrick stretched over to refill his guest's glass.

‘The mystery lies in the extent of the depredations made against the Duke's estates. Considerable sums were passing through Crotter's hands. Were they all swallowed in debts? What sort of debts?'

‘Now that is a puzzle. You can find no paper evidence of a connection?' The eyes, predatory for a moment, grew faintly amused. It was Jarrett's turn to acknowledge a point. He sketched a faint imitation of his host's salute with his glass.

‘A pity.' Raistrick brought a french knife out of his pocket, all freshly oiled and shining, and began to clean his nails. Little reddish crescents of dirt fell on to his coat as he talked. ‘This district is small, Mr Jarrett, I have considerable interests here and am generally thought well-informed. A few years back, it is true, Mr Crotter made an unlucky commercial speculation. I was able to be of some assistance in extricating him from that affair. I warned him then that he had no head for business. I never heard of him dabbling in the same way again. He must have gone fishing further afield and come to grief.'

‘So you think this Tallyman was a collector for some person from outside the district?' Jarrett suggested. He nodded slowly. ‘Ah, but then…'

The magistrate looked up from his manicure. ‘Now that is the pause of a man who is about to reveal a winning card, Mr Jarrett.'

‘My witness also saw this Tallyman attempting to burn the books,' Jarrett confessed with an apologetic smile. ‘Now that puzzles me. The attempt to destroy the books makes them appear valuable, or incriminating; but to whom? To the Tallyman – who, by all accounts, could not read – or his employer? You see the source of my bewilderment?'

The carved face assumed a mask of sympathy. ‘Irrational behaviour to men such as you or I, Mr Jarrett. But this Tallyman was a petty rogue. Such creatures spend their lives
drowning what little reason they have in liquor.' The Justice met Jarrett's sceptical look and his eyes slid off a moment. ‘Or perhaps he was merely discontented with his employer and sought to spite him,' he concluded.

‘By destroying something of value to him?'

The magistrate shrugged.

‘And then he found the books would not burn up and changed his mind?'

‘And discarded them in the river, where they were found and brought to me.' Raistrick threw off the matter. ‘Who is to know now?' He shifted his ground. ‘So, Mr Jarrett. Does His Grace the Duke share your passion for justice? If so, he must indeed be a pearl among his kind.'

According to Charles, Jarrett was born with an oak face; at that moment he hoped it was serving him well. There was the nub of it. Charles was a practical man, too, and Charles, in the end, spoke for His Grace. Crotter had died of natural causes. He had defrauded his master the Duke, but he was beyond retribution now. Any paper linking the lawyer to his depredations appeared to be destroyed. The Tallyman might have been a witness but he, too, would be forever silent. And the miner who likely killed him? Even if he had done so at the lawyer's instigation, he would never talk about a deed that would hang him if he were caught. And even if this lawyer himself had wielded the knife that took the Tallyman's life – perhaps the very knife that pared the nails on the blunt-fingered hands before his eyes – was the law to hang a Justice of the Peace for the death of a certified murderer? In his heart Jarrett knew the idea was preposterous.