The Duke's Agent (9 page)

‘And you were robbed?'

‘No. I fought them off. I always travel armed.'

Again the sense of strategy. Jarrett could have sworn that Mr Raistrick wanted more information from him, but instead the lawyer went off on a different tack.

‘You wish to advertise a reward?' he asked. ‘To speak the truth,' he continued, looking down dismissively at his pipe, ‘it's hardly worth making a noise about such affairs unless you put up a reward.' He offered a sly smile. ‘The honest citizen requires a reason to betray his fellow.' He rubbed the forefingers and thumb of his left hand together in a gesture evocative of avarice. ‘Like as not you suffered the attention of two fools who had over-indulged.'

If he had been undecided on coming here, the reception he had met with had made up Jarrett's mind. ‘Naturally I expect to offer a reward, yes. Would ten pounds be sufficient for information, do you think?'

Raistrick's eyes flickered. They both knew the figure was high. Among poor men a bounty of ten pounds would be hard to resist.

‘You are jealous of your person, sir.'

‘If it were but a case of that…' Jarrett let the pause hint that he might not have proceeded. ‘But I am the Duke's proxy in these parts. I cannot have it bruited abroad that His Grace's interests may be assaulted with impunity. It is my duty to prosecute this matter.' He held Raistrick's stare. There was more than a touch of the barnyard about it. He wished he could identify the source of the antagonism he felt between them.

The Justice broke the stare. He leant back his leonine head to roar: ‘Pye!' His clerk appeared at the door. ‘Fetch your pen. The Duke's man wishes to swear a complaint.' Mr Pye slid off to carry out this order.

Jarrett found himself looking about the room for some topic of conversation, his host being apparently content to watch him in silence as he refilled his pipe. He noted the internal door revealed behind a hastily drawn curtain. His eyes fell on a piece of material hanging over a chair that stood by the window. It was a woman's stocking. His host's voice recalled his attention.

‘You one for the Jezebels, Mr Jarrett?'

The question curled across the room flavoured by the man's sensuality. Raistrick scanned his visitor's reaction with a calculating leer.

‘Not as a rule,' responded Jarrett cheerfully. ‘I find myself discouraged by the time one must waste with the physic afterwards.'

Raistrick snorted. For the first time in their interview his face lit up with genuine amusement, allowing Jarrett to glimpse a flash of considerable charm. He was unable to take advantage of this opening, as just then Mr Pye returned to copy down the complaint.

Jarrett gave the bare details of what he could remember of his attackers, omitting any mention of the words he had overheard as they fled. He would go through the formalities and have a few handbills posted offering a reward for information. Given the Justice's attitude Jarrett had little expectation of assistance from that quarter. Their leave-taking was polite enough. After pausing to extract directions to the nearest print shop from the clerk, within a few minutes Jarrett was on his way out. As he stepped off the last stair in the lobby below, some instinct made him glance back over his shoulder. He caught sight of a man who stood in a group clustered behind the staircase. As his eyes moved on his mind belatedly registered the man's reaction. He had started as if he knew him. Jarrett turned to look more closely but the man had dropped back into the shadows.

After many years of sketching, he had developed a good eye for detail and as he left the building Jarrett tried to fix the man's face in his mind. It was not immediately familiar, but the more he thought about it the stronger his impression grew that he had seen the fellow somewhere recently – but where? In an abstracted mood he sought out the print shop and ordered the printing up of some handbills offering a ten-pound reward for information of his two attackers. Given the interest the printer and his daughter seemed to find in their contents Jarrett suspected that the fee he paid for the posting up of the bills was misapplied. The news of both incident and reward seemed likely to be spread across town by word of mouth before evening. As he left the shop the printer's daughter was already in an eager huddle with her neighbour, pointing the Duke's new agent out from behind her hand.

He was well out of town, riding up the road to the toll bridge that stood below the old ruined abbey, before he gave up his struggle to place the face of the man he had seen in the Justice's lobby, tucking the puzzle away for later. Before
him, at the gate paying the toll, he recognised his reluctant acquaintance from Sir Thomas's tea, Lady Catherine's young friend, Miss Henrietta Lonsdale. She was mounted on a pretty black mare and accompanied by her groom.

‘Well met, Miss Lonsdale,' he greeted her. ‘I trust I find you in good health?'

‘I am very well, I thank you – enjoying the evening air. And you, Mr Jarrett?'

‘I have just come from Justice Raistrick's chambers. It is fine weather for a ride.'

She had greeted him with a cautious smile, but now Miss Lonsdale looked distant, as if she were keen to be on her way.

‘You are a friend of Justice Raistrick's, sir?' she enquired thinly.

‘I never met him before this afternoon. Mine was a professional visit. I fell among thieves,' Jarrett replied, pulling a comic face. ‘But not for long,' he continued, ‘I do assure you. I came off none the worse but for a sore leg.'

The change in the lady's manner at this story confirmed Jarrett's impression that her momentary coldness had been prompted by the mention of Justice Raistrick. Remembering Mrs Adam's hissed remark at Sir Thomas's tea, he concluded that the Justice was not considered entirely respectable among polite society in the district.

His new character of victim melted some of Miss Lonsdale's ice. As they conversed a younger, gayer self crept out from beneath the elegant poise. He began to wonder what manner of companion she might prove to be if only one could reach beyond her correct reserve. He had even contrived to make her laugh out loud when a boy approached the bridge with a gaggle of geese. As the birds waddled through the tollgate in their absurd, self-important way, one broke free. It poked its reptilian head forward and lifting its wings with a choleric hiss, made a short dash towards Miss Lonsdale's
horse. The black mare bucked and skipped back. It was all her rider could do to keep her seat. In a tumble of accelerated emotions Miss Lonsdale was mortified and frightened all at once but uppermost in her mind was how foolish she would appear before Mr Jarrett if she were to be thrown by a goose.

Jarrett read the animal's rolling eye and caught the mare's bridle just as she made to rear. ‘Whoa! Easy now! Come help your mistress, man!' he snapped at the groom, who stared open-mouthed. Walcheren was behaving himself like an old trooper but the mare was a couple of hands shorter and Jarrett had to lean at an uncomfortable angle to hold her. The groom bestirred himself and began to coax his own reluctant mount to repel the bird. The boy was roaring and beating his charge back to the flock with his long stick, his face red under his round hat.

Henrietta felt quite faint. She leant forward to stroke the black neck below the agent's firm hand, hoping to disguise her trembling. ‘Foolish Felicia,' she said, ‘you have never liked large birds.'

‘It would seem that Mistress Felicia has reason.' The mare was settling but her ears were still laid back. Jarrett loosened his grip and ran a playful hand over one dark velvet ear. ‘You can turn those ears about, Mistress Flighty. The enemy's retreated.'

The agent's hand brushed Miss Lonsdale's as it rested on her horse's neck. In the gap between his glove and cuff she caught sight of something about his wrist. It was a bracelet fashioned from a golden plait of hair.

At that moment Black-Eyed Sal walked up the lane towards town. As she passed through the toll gate she greeted them, resting flirtatious eyes on Jarrett. ‘Afternoon, sir … and Miss Henrietta.'

He could not resist responding to her infectious smile. He tipped his hat, his eyes following the girl's retreating figure
as she walked up the lane, swinging her basket. He turned to catch Miss Lonsdale watching him and smiled. ‘Who is that wench?' he asked.

‘Her name is Sally Grundy. My cook's niece. She is a laundry maid for the houses hereabout.' The lady paused. ‘There's none better than Sal at starching a shirt or making good a stained gown,' she added lightly. ‘She has quite a reputation.'

‘That I can believe.'

Miss Lonsdale gave him a stiff look. ‘Well,' she said, ‘I must be on my way. Good day to you, Mr Jarrett.'

They exchanged polite bows. As Jarrett looked after her he felt a slight touch of chagrin. Prudishness was the bane of gently born maidens. With a mental shrug he spurred Walcheren on towards home.

By Wednesday, the last day of July, the fine weather had turned oppressive. Hot air stagnated in the valley and cattle gathered down by the river, mournfully enduring the flies under the dusty trees. The busy life of the streets of Woolbridge dulled as the townspeople clung to shady places. Short-tempered and languid, they exclaimed over the heat and waited for the weather to break. As evening came the atmosphere pressed down on the perspiring town like a lid of cast iron.

In Mrs Munday's rooming house Sal sat at her glass in her shift. Sweat pearled on her bare neck as she lifted the weight of her black hair to cool herself. ‘Hark at that, Maggie,' she said to her friend. ‘I'd swear that were thunder way off. We're in for a storm tonight.' Her dark eyes sparkled with life and a faint heat flush touched her cheeks with colour, setting off her fine complexion. Too animated to sit still for long, she darted up. ‘How I loves a storm on the moor!' She flung out her arms with sheer exuberance, embracing the excitement that welled up in her. She hugged herself and laughed.

Maggie watched her, her pebble eyes entranced and her little round mouth hanging open.

‘Now where's that red flannel petticoat o' mine?' Sal tugged the garment from under a pile of clothes and shook out its folds. ‘He called me a gypsy once,' she murmured, looking over a smooth, rounded shoulder at her reflection as she tied the tapes at her waist. Her pretty features lit up with
an impish smile. ‘Let's see what he calls me tonight!' She spun about delighting in the movement of the scarlet cloth.

‘Where are you going, Sal?' Maggie asked.

‘I'll tell you when I'm back.' Sal spoke in an off-hand manner. Her eyes never left her reflection as she dressed herself. ‘If you don't ask no more,' she continued, forestalling Maggie as the other opened her mouth to speak.

A hint of impatience cut up through Sal's merry tone. Maggie was her audience. Audiences applauded or cried, admired or laughed; they grew tedious when they questioned.

‘I'm away,' the black-haired girl announced, snatching up a shawl.

‘Not all alone, Sal? It's getting dark and storm's coming.' Maggie's concern expressed itself in a whining note.

‘The dark and me's good friends. Don't fret me. You go to bed like a good girl and I'll wake you with a tale to tell when I'm back.'

Leaving no time for her friend to respond, Sal skipped off down the wooden staircase. Out in the street she tossed her shawl over one shoulder and headed off out of town in the direction of the abbey toll bridge. She never once looked back and so did not catch sight of the figure that hurried after her in the gathering gloom.

*

The light was nearly gone. Jarrett stretched and shook himself. He was stiff and his skin felt sanded with grime after the sticky heat of the day. He looked down at the crumpled state of his linen. Loath as he was to admit it, he was beginning to miss Tiplady, his valet. Surely the man ought to be back with him by the end of the week. In the last three days he had ridden many miles about the Duke's estates. He had talked to all the principal tenants. Jarrett ruffled his short hair and yawned. The audit began tomorrow and he had a fair idea what he would find.

Little clouds of the sort millers and sailors call messengers
scudded across the lower sky, driven before the winds that heralded the storm. Jarrett leant on his balcony as a rumble of thunder rolled around the circling hills. He looked down at the quickening waters below. Rain must already be falling up on the moors. His mind strayed to Miss Lonsdale and that wench Sally Grundy. What a contrast in womanhood. The one with a countenance of such sensibility, so elegant and correct – the perfect gentlewoman; the other so mischievous, so spirited, so enticing. Together they would make a neat engraving: ‘Man's Dilemma'. A whistle came startling clear from the shadows down below the bridge. He leant out over the gloom to see who called him. The whistle came again. With a sudden smile of recognition, Jarrett moved swiftly to gather up some belongings and he slipped out of the folly.

*

The Queen's Head inn had something of the bustle of a fair day about it that Thursday. The first of the Duke's tenants began arriving around mid-morning. The more prosperous farmers clattered up in traps and gigs; others rode in on solid-haunched ponies and a few even arrived on their own two feet. Many came with family and hands, combining a first view of the Duke's new man with a day in town.

The innkeeper had set out his assembly room on the first floor for the audit. At one end Mrs Bedlington and her maids were furnishing the long table with a fine large leg of boiled mutton, potted shrimps and Whitby polony, muffins and warm oatcakes fresh from the griddle. At the opposite end of the panelled room Jarrett sat behind a heavy oak table, consulting his maps and lists as he interviewed each tenant in turn.

The Duke, who had never shared his generation's passion for farming, had not followed the fashion for improvements. His eldest son, and Jarrett too when he was at home, had often urged him to take better care of his affairs. But His Grace was a stubborn man. He paid scant attention to those
estates he liked and the Durham properties he had largely ignored. The sudden death of his steward, Mr Crotter, had forced the Duke to bring his skittish attention to bear. Since he resented taking the trouble it had been a convenient chance that the arrival of the news of Crotter's death had coincided with his Wandering Raif's return to health. Jarrett had no inclination to take up estate management but, exasperating as His Grace could be, neither Charles nor Raif could leave him to deal with this potential scandal alone. As His Grace was fond of telling them when he was in his happier moods, he was a lucky dog to have two such fine young fellows to depend upon.

The greater portion of the Duke's northern estates remained fragmented in small tenancies. Only a handful of his tenants were farmers of substance. These men strode in, their frock coats and confident manner declaring them set above the general run of their neighbours. The smallholders gave way to them, standing back before the inevitable order of things. These substantial men were not just tenants. Jarrett must share a glass of wine with them, exchange small talk and be introduced to their wives decked out in their fresh trimmed bonnets, fine lace caps and gold chains. With such men rent was a matter of subtle barter. Every landlord of sense valued a prosperous farmer with capital and the skill to deploy it on the land, and worked hard to keep him.

As he bowed off the last of a run of three of the Duke's principal tenants Jarrett had to suppress a sigh. This was hardly the kind of work he would have imagined himself doing only a few months before. Fate dealt a man strange cards. Still, it had to be done and Charles had not lingered in York of his own volition. The picture he must make! Raif the Wraith in the guise of a steward, surely the most settled of professions. How his brother officers would laugh if they could see him now. Under the pretext of rearranging his papers he slid a look about the crowded room. There was a convivial hum
around the table. The farmers and tenants stood in groups growing gradually more animated under the warming influence of the ale being provided by Mrs Bedlington's minions. A terrier darted out between the forest of sturdy gaitered legs, cheerfully pursued by two lively boys. The gloss of their Sunday best clothing had broken down to a more comfortable condition; bits of shirt hung out from below their waistcoats and their stockings were wrinkled. A chubby little girl in a cherry red bonnet toddled after them on uncertain legs.

A countryman in an ancient surcoat, who had been hanging back by the wall leaning on his thorn stick waiting for a propitious moment, advanced to the table. He was clearly not a quick-witted man. He moved deliberately as if every motion required careful consideration. He settled himself, feet apart, before the table. Jarrett rose to greet him.

‘Will you sit down?' he asked courteously.

The invitation upset the train of thought the man had laboriously embarked upon. He looked about him in a startled way seeking the chair that had unaccountably concealed itself behind his broad person. He turned momentarily to face the chair, pondering precisely how to dispose of his staff. He finally settled on the edge of the woven seat, observing Jarrett warily over his stick. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again with a self-deprecating toss of the head and ferreted in a deep pocket. He drew out a handful of coins and proceeded to stack them in three careful piles on the polished surface. Jarrett looked at him inquiringly.

‘Josiah Boyes. How do. Heriot,' the man said. A smile deployed itself across his lumpy face. His front teeth were missing.

Jarrett contemplated the piles, mystified. ‘A heriot is not due on the death of a steward,' he said. He pushed the coins towards the man to emphasise his statement. ‘The heriot is paid on the death of the Lord of the Manor.' He caught himself articulating the words a mite slowly and lightened
his tone. ‘And the Duke, I am pleased to inform you, remains in good spirits.'

The information did not appear to penetrate the man's conviction.

‘Mr Crotter would always have his heriot,' he persisted, ‘and you's taking his place.'

Jarrett paused, light dawning. He pushed the little pile of coins with his finger tips. ‘Heriot?' he repeated. Mr Boyes and he shared a conspiratorial smile. Jarrett carefully counted the money and consulted his list. ‘Mr Boyes of Marsh Fields, is it not?' He smiled encouragingly, as the man nodded. He read a note on his list. ‘It appears you are in arrears, Mr Boyes – and have been from the first in your four years as a tenant of the Duke.'

‘That were all arranged with the steward. It's been a bad year,' protested Mr Boyes. ‘Mr Crotter agreed – the rabbits, sir, they're mortal bad. Steward said His Grace would rub out arrears on account.' Mr Boyes tailed off and jerked his head meaningfully. Jarrett followed the line of his eyes to the coins.

‘The heriot,' Jarrett said.

Mr Boyes nodded with satisfaction. ‘Aye. Steward's right.'

Jarrett raised an eyebrow and consulted his papers. ‘Mr Crotter has left no account of a waiver. The arrears stand. We shall speak of this again. For now I shall take this on account.' He took up the money and writing out a receipt he handed it to the man. ‘I shall be by to visit you in the next week. I must warn you, Mr Boyes, that if we cannot settle this matter His Grace may be forced to evict.'

Mr Boyes's dull features came alive in a look of resentful belligerence. ‘It were arranged,' he blustered. ‘I paid me heriot. I always pays the steward. You haven't the right.'

‘Mr Crotter is no longer with us, Mr Boyes, and in truth I have the right. The time has come for His Grace to reclaim his own – heriot or no.'

Mr Boyes blew himself up like a malevolent toad. He fixed the agent with a killing stare, breathing hard.

‘Good day to you, Mr Boyes.'

The force of the glare did not waver. His face bunched up in a caricature of fury, Mr Boyes rose and stumped off.

It was ever a mistake to imagine that simple folk were bound to be endowed with innocence and good humour. Mr Rousseau's theories concerning the nobleness of simple natures merely indicated his lack of experience of the peasantry. Jarrett cursed James Crotter for slipping so easily out of the consequences of his actions by the simple expedient of dying before his comfortable fire, a drink at his side. He watched Boyes elbow his way out down the stairs, muttering explosively for the edification of all those he passed. Charles would need to look about for a new tenant. A man freshly married, perhaps, eager to work hard for himself and his fledgling family, while lacking the capital to start on a bigger farm. Yes, a small tenancy like that at Marsh Fields should be let to a young couple starting out in life, not wasted on some crafty simpleton. He made a note to look out for such a pair. He knew the whole room was watching him. It had to be allowed that agents were not a popular breed but, even so, he could see he was not making a particularly good impression in Woolbridge. He openly returned the stares. He was not one to run from a fight. Besides, he had a fierce dislike of cheats and sneaking fellows. He could feel impatience rising in his veins like bitter sap. He would have to guard his temper if he was to get through these two days without incident.

A new group approached the table. There were three men. The central figure who formed the focus of the group bore himself with the bent posture of age. He had sparse yellow-white locks and pale watery eyes; fine silvery bristles dusted his chin and cheeks giving him an unkempt air. Glancing at the man's hands as he hobbled towards him, Jarrett suspected
that his visitor was not carrying his years as well as he might. He was flanked on either side by a couple of tall, sturdy lads, whose meaty figures would have served as an excellent illustration to that popular song about the roast beef of old England. As the older man lowered himself into a chair his two guardians remained standing, observing Jarrett from their heights.

‘Samuel Gibbs, at your service,' announced the old man, ‘of Fiddler's Croft.' His unorthodox visit to Fiddler's Croft had prompted Jarrett to research that tenancy. One item of information he had gleaned was that Samuel Gibbs was due to turn seventy-five that year. Jarrett would have wagered his horse Walcheren there and then that the man sitting before him was not even sixty years old, despite the hunching up of his shoulders and his quivering hands. The agent leant back to survey the group and addressed himself to the seated man.

‘I am, as you know, new to these parts and know not a soul by sight. Is there perhaps some person who can vouch for you?'

The tension in the man's frame was evident about the line of his shoulders, but to give him his due his expression only registered rustic bewilderment.

‘Your honour?'

‘Vouch for you – some person who can swear that you are who you say.'