The Stuart Sapphire (14 page)

In Creeve House, Sir Joseph was reading the newspaper and decided that his dear Sarah would be very interested as she had a somewhat ghoulish taste in such matters, an unfortunate trait in a well-bred lady, but considering the circumstances from which he had rescued her, quite understandable.

Laying aside the newspaper and stretching out his hand for the brandy bottle, his greatest comfort these days, he realised that he had not seen Sarah for several days, a not unusual occurrence, for it was their agreement since the birth of Timothy, their only son and heir to Creeve, that his beautiful young wife should be free to live her own life, as was the custom she had quickly observed among other married couples in their stratum of society.

Sir Joseph could not but reluctantly agree, after all he had little choice in the matter. Sarah was his third wife and he had had little luck breeding sons with the other two. The first, chosen by the former marquis, his father, when he was seventeen, was the sixth and last unmarried daughter of an earl. Older than himself and very plain, it
was no love match and, preferring horses to men, she had died in a riding accident on the hunting field.

He had no better luck with the second, his own choice this time, a wealthy young widow with a town house in London and an estate some forty miles away. After several miscarriages she had died in the attempt to produce a daughter, premature, and no bigger than a skinned rabbit.

Sir Joseph had tried to hide his disappointment through the years but she had survived, to plague him and his third wife, the voluptuous Sarah Flint whom he met at a London meeting of the Hellfire Club.

Growing old and desperate by now, he realised that even after two marriages, although he knew how one performed to beget children, which in his case was a fumble in the dark under the bedclothes, he was just learning about the more wicked goings-on with a whore, the acts that she could perform for a man, which could take his breath away.

And Sir Joseph developed a new emotion. Jealousy. He could not bear to think of Sarah being intimate, as was her job, with other men in the club. He wanted her all to himself and so he asked, nay, begged her to marry him. Since there were men younger, certainly more handsome than himself in the club, he was surprised and delirious when she accepted.

It wasn’t until he got her home to Creeve and unwrapped the parcel that he discovered that Sarah was going to be difficult baggage. He had seen her role as the begetter of sons, but he found that favours had to be paid for. After Timothy’s birth, he realised there were to be no more children. Sarah had done her duty and the sensual woman who had teased him in their pre-marriage days was soon little more exciting in his bed, which she rarely graced these days, than his first two wives had been.

Sir Joseph sighed, made excuses and never gave up hope, despite the fact that it was obvious to others that all was not well in Creeve. Sarah soon lost interest in baby Timothy and after the wet nurse’s duties were at an end, abandoned him to tutors.

As for the unwanted daughter, Sarah could not abide “That Girl” as she called her, and her presence became an embarrassment to them both, since Sir Joseph did not dare raise a word in her defence in Sarah’s hearing. He had to admit that he had been greatly relieved when “That Girl” took off for London to stay with her grandmother a month ago.

Refilling his brandy glass, he rang for his valet to ask Lady Sarah to attend him. The valet trudged off and returned to say that Lady Sarah was not at home.

Sir Joseph was considerably ruffled by this, her usual response when she did not wish to be disturbed. After a little insistence and confusion, the valet led him to understand that her ladyship was truly not at home. She was not to be found in the house.

Sir Joseph, the mildest of men, was now feeling aggrieved, since Sarah had not been present at the Masque a few days ago, the event that had been her idea in the first place and which she had carefully planned. But he knew better than to tax her with this omission, since her punishments by withdrawing all favours so reluctantly given could be severe and painful indeed to his pride.

He sighed wearily and dragged himself out of his chair. A hastily penned note was the usual procedure if she was to be absent from Creeve, not out of duty or consideration, but at his insistence. And so he went up to her room which was at the other end of the corridor to his own. Risking her displeasure by opening the door, he was
surprised to see her maid Simone sewing by the window.

She sprang to her feet and curtseyed.

‘Why are you here, Simone? Shouldn’t you be with your mistress?’

Simone blushed. ‘My aunt who lives at Whitdean, Your Grace – she was very ill and her ladyship gave me leave to visit her.’

‘When was this?’

Simone thought for a moment. ‘On Friday, sir.’

‘Where was she going?’ It was usually London.

‘To Brighton, Your Grace, to visit friends.’

A week ago, thought Sir Joseph. ‘And who were these friends?’

Simone shook her head warily. ‘If it please Your Grace, her ladyship does not tell me their names.’

That was a lie. She knew perfectly well Lady Sarah’s destination and her assignations with the Prince Regent but, a simple soul, as Sir Joseph’s brow darkened ominously, she was terrified that this interrogation might make her reveal the truth about her mistress’s secret apartment.

‘I – believe – that she visits the gaming tables – with these friends.’

Sir Joseph’s face was growing scarlet. A week in Brighton at the gaming tables, losing his money as she always did. He would have to put a stop to this. Drumming his fingers on the windowsill, he swung round on the now trembling Simone.

Why hadn’t she taken her maid with her? Who would unlace her, dress and undress her? An unwelcome vision from the uninhibited pre-marriage days flew into his mind and was speedily banished.

‘Did she say when she was returning?’

Simone shook her head, looked at the floor. ‘No, Your Grace,’ she whispered. ‘She did not.’

That was another lie. Because of the Masque next day Simone had expected her mistress to return very early in the morning, as she sometimes did after spending the night with the prince. Arriving in a closed carriage, she entered by the servants’ quarters, the door conveniently left unlocked by Simone.

The servants all knew, of course, that her ladyship had been out all night: ‘Cat on the tiles,’ they whispered and winked behind her back. But this time she hadn’t crept up to her room, to take the bath Simone had prepared for her. And there had been no word since.

Simone was a little concerned but not very. She quite understood that her mistress preferred the Pavilion and the prince to any Masque at Creeve House and she was well paid by her ladyship to mind her own business. As well as feeling secretly proud that her mistress was involved with the future King of England, Simone was always glad of a chance to spend another day with her lover, the alleged sick aunt from Whitdean.

Back in his study, Sir Joseph, rereading the details of the gruesome murder story which he had only skimmed, and putting away his fourth glass of brandy, was about to doze off when the footman announced an unexpected visitor.

John Townsend.

Sir Joseph opened his eyes, emerging from the brandy haze with difficulty, and struggled to get to his feet.

‘Ah, Townsend. Welcome! Haven’t seen you for a while – busy catching criminals as usual. Here to see your nephew, are you? He is doing very well indeed – we are very pleased with his progress. An increase in his wages is on the cards,’ he added with a smile.

But Townsend wasn’t smiling in return. He looked very grave.

‘Bad news, Townsend, someone ill in the family, is that it?’

Townsend gave a deep sigh, shook his head and said awkwardly: ‘Will Your Grace be seated again, please.’

Sir Joseph, who was swaying somewhat, staggered back into his chair. ‘What on earth is it, man?’ Pausing, he squinted up at Townsend. ‘Not the king – not the prince,’ he whispered.

‘Neither, Your Grace. Worse than that.’

‘What could be worse?’ The old man glanced anxiously towards the window. He could hear six-year-old Timothy playing a noisy game with his tutor and a new puppy on the terrace. ‘Not invasion, is it? Dear God, the French haven’t landed—?’

‘No, Your Grace. May I beg you to listen for a moment.’

Sir Joseph sat back in his chair. ‘Go ahead, go ahead. Let’s hear your worst,’ and since nothing could be worse than some ill befalling Timothy, or the Prince Regent, he added: ‘Though I cannot imagine—’

‘No, Your Grace, I am afraid you cannot,’ Townsend interrupted. ‘I have just come from a most bitter and unhappy experience.’ He paused and shook his head, wondering how to continue. ‘From identifying the dead woman who was found near the Lewes Road.’

‘Oh, that!’ said Sir Joseph pointing to the newspaper. ‘I have just been reading about that. Wanted to show it to Lady Sarah, she always enjoys a spicy bit of sensational news. Not much usually, is there? Finds life dull here. But highwaymen and the corpse of an unknown naked woman, that would cheer her up.’

Awkwardly Townsend reached out and put his hand on
Sir Joseph’s shoulder. ‘Your Grace, you must prepare yourself for a shock.’

‘A shock! How? Why?’

‘The body I have just identified in the mortuary – it – is that of – her ladyship.’

Sir Joseph stared at him with disbelieving eyes, then he fell back in his chair and closed his eyes, shaking his head wildly. ‘Never – never.’

The study door opened and Townsend signalled Sir Joseph’s physician who had been leaving the house after attending to the housekeeper’s broken wrist. He confessed that he was also keeping an eye on Sir Joseph’s health which would not improve after hearing the Bow Street officer’s shocking news.

Coming forward, he whispered: ‘Wait outside, Mr Townsend, His Grace may want to have further words. I will give him a sedative – this kind of shock, his heart, you know.’

Townsend didn’t know but was glad to have a chance to visit the stables where his nephew was out exercising the Creeve horses for the forthcoming Whitehawk races.

Returning half an hour later, he met the physician, who was just leaving. ‘He will see you now, I think, Mr Townsend. I persuaded him to take a rest. Yes, he is much calmer and anxious to know what happened to Her Grace in more detail.’

Townsend cautiously entered the study where Sir Joseph reclined on the sofa. ‘I am truly sorry, Your Grace. Please accept my condolences—’

Sir Joseph made a gesture of impatience and in a voice tinged with hope he whispered, ‘You are sure – certain sure.’

Townsend took a deep breath. ‘I am, alas, Your Grace. I
have had the honour to become acquainted with Lady Sarah over the years as a guest here in your house.’ He shook his head. ‘I am deeply shocked and I can only offer Your Grace my deepest sympathy.’

Sir Joseph nodded wearily. ‘Dear God, dear God. On her way home to the Masque – attacked by highwaymen, the newspaper said. That is why she never arrived and I thought she had changed her mind. She does – did – that sort of thing quite often.’ He paused, looking towards the window again.

‘That carriage accident, going down the embankment like that. And stripped of all her clothes – and her jewels. Left naked – naked! How disgraceful!’

‘Disgraceful indeed, Your Grace,’ said Townsend as Sir Joseph went on:

‘So the highwaymen, those devils, are back again to plague us. I understood we no longer had anything to fear from them in this area. As a magistrate it did my heart good to see justice done and the lot of them hanged years ago.’

‘Nevertheless, Your Grace,’ said Townsend, ‘the theory is that it was highwaymen or some such disreputable characters, who seized the chance of robbing – a – dead person.’

Sir Joseph sat up, thumped his fists together.

‘Then they must be found – and hanged, do you hear? No explanation is acceptable, whoever was concerned must be punished – by hanging. I will put notice out of a reward – a substantial reward – for any information leading to their capture.’

Not everyone shared the Prince Regent’s relief as he wrote letters of sincere condolence to the marquis on the loss of a beloved wife and to his brother Frederick on the death of a close and dear friend.

Mention of highwaymen terrified travellers, especially rich ones, and some carriages had built-in secret compartments beneath the seats where passengers, especially ladies, if they had enough warning could hide their jewels, presenting the highwaymen with “bad purses” containing a few worthless coins.

The report of a Gruesome Discovery in the normally mild, genteel and thoroughly boring social news with which the newspaper sought to fill its columns flew like wildfire around the town arousing alarm and despondency.

This was sensational, dangerous and it threatened all travellers. Even those unable to read, and there were quite a few, implored their more literate friends and neighbours for a true account, which regretfully was often given with more relish than accuracy.

Before the dead woman was named, there was some
speculation as to her identity and the town’s whores were counting their numbers. Unidentified also meant the possibility of being given to the doctors for dissection, a terrible fate. But there was worse to come. The word ‘murdered’ was also being whispered.

Princess Charlotte did not share the terrors of the female population as she waylaid Tam in one of her accidental meetings. Such was her alacrity that he suspected she must sit in her room which overlooked the gardens, or had maids posted as sentries, to alert her to his appearance.

‘Is it not exciting news – and so infamous – the marchioness being the victim?’ she said cheerfully, then perhaps aware of Tam’s look at her lack of feeling, she took his arm and whispered: ‘I must confess, I have never cared for her, so it is no use pretending or shedding false tears. She was a very bad influence on my father. The beastly woman coveted jewels – jewels that should be mine by right—’

Tam tried not to listen to her railing against the marchioness, and leaving her as hastily as politeness allowed, he hurried towards his favourite place, the peaceful promenade. Watching the rollers creeping gently up to the shore, he decided that the Prince Regent still had cause for alarm. He had not been as discreet as he thought, especially if the voluble and tactless princess’s gossip reached the marquis’s ears.

Townsend had earlier hinted at a number of complications. The marchioness had died a week ago. Her body had lain above ground for several days in very warm weather, and so it had begun to decompose. Its condition was not at all helped by the multitude of small animals, inquisitive predatory crows and insects that had enjoyed a nibble at her flesh.

Nor could the funeral be arranged with all the pomp and ritual proper to her position in society. Solemn invitations to members of the royal family and the many aristocratic families to whom the marquis was related, either by marriage or the constant yearly celebration of hunts, shooting parties and weekend house guests, had to be abandoned, and the marchioness laid to rest immediately in the interests of health and hygiene since, even confined to the coolest regions of the mortuary, there were distinct and ominous odours of decay floating upwards.

There was however one further complication. Dr Brooke, who had carried out a meticulous examination of the corpse on arrival, prided himself on his accurate knowledge of the time of death acquired over many years. This expertise told him that the marchioness had not died as a result of the carriage accident and that the highwaymen, whatever else they were guilty of, were not to blame for her death. She had been dead for several days before the carriage journey. And what was more, she had been strangled. Marks around her neck indicated that life had been extinguished by a rope or some other means.

Despite the fact that the funeral should have already taken place and the victim laid to rest, Dr Brooke, a conscientious physician, decided that a solution must be found and the murderer apprehended, tried and hanged for the crime.

This information he eagerly passed on to Townsend whose fame as a criminal catcher and thief-taker had long since reached Brighton and he was therefore the most competent officer to take charge of the case and carry out the investigation.

All of which Townsend dramatically reported to Tam,
suggesting that they go on the instant to the scene of the accident and search for clues.

‘Dr Brooke knows a thing or two,’ he said respectfully. ‘Strangling, he says, is not in character for highwaymen, who are brisk about their business. They would not waste time looking for methods of strangling their victims, they might even, with good reason, be superstitious about using ropes, which they live in dread, but would use the speedier method of pistols.’

Tam, who knew most of the story from first hand, was not confident that they would find anything at all, but at least it was a diversion from the wearisome and futile daily search for the missing sapphire. Even Townsend had to admit they were running out of places to visit and suspicious persons to interrogate.

And so the
Brighton Herald
had another field day. Dr Brooke, eager to instigate a search for the marchioness’s foul murderer and, finding the Bow Street officer a little slow to appreciate his observations, took it upon himself to introduce himself to the marquis, thereby risking an attack of apoplexy.

His Grace, however, rallied sufficiently to insist on another reward notice being posted, asking for any information which would lead to apprehending the marchioness’s assassin.

This did nothing for the Prince Regent’s peace of mind. It was what he dreaded most, all his nightmares come home to roost.

Townsend decided that Tam should accompany him to the funeral, in the hope that there might be clues to the murderer’s identity, a forlorn hope based on a firm belief that murderers often return to the graveside of their
victims whose wounds thereupon reopen and dramatically begin to bleed again.

Tam was not quite sure how he was equating this macabre idea with the fact that the victim had been strangled, and failed to share Townsend’s faith in such an easy solution to murder.

Approaching Lewes they turned into splendid gates leading down a drive towards a handsome timber-framed building mellowed in time. This was Creeve House, dating from the sixteenth century, where already carriages were lined up, as mourners emerged for the funeral in the family chapel.

Tam wore his black cloak. Townsend retained his long and perhaps his only overcoat but conceded to custom with a black cravat.

At the door a footman solemnly consulted his list. Their names were not there. Townsend explained that he was a personal friend of the marquis but, perhaps considering his informal dress unsuitable for such an occasion, the footman shook his head. No name, no admittance. He added that as the private chapel could only accommodate family and close friends, the gentlemen might wait with the other mourners in the gardens to pay their last respects as the late marchioness was laid to rest in the family crypt.

Townsend, somewhat huffed, returned to the carriage, and informed Tam that as he was sorely in need of refreshment, the inevitable pint of ale and a pie, they might as well adjourn to the Old Bull in Lewes, an ancient establishment once the lodging of Thomas Paine, the reformer and author of
The Rights of Man
, in his time as an excise officer.

Tam was impressed by his first melancholy visit to Lewes, the small county town whose quaint and charming
hilly streets enjoyed unrestricted access to the Sussex countryside, its roots sunk deeper into England’s history than the Brighton he had just left.

As the carriage rattled along the main thoroughfare, the high street, he had a glimpse of buildings considerably older than the Marine Pavilion, while Townsend eagerly pointed out the site where the Protestant martyrs had been burnt in the reign of Mary Tudor.

Townsend knew Lewes well from his visits to Creeve House, and was eager to tell Tam something of its history. Dating from the Norman Conquest, the castle built by them was deserted in the fourteenth century and eventually disappeared almost completely thanks to later generations using its stones for building purposes.

‘Practically all the old mansions you see have something of Lewes Castle in their foundations,’ Townsend said, pointing out Barbican House, a sixteenth-century
timber-framed
building. ‘If we had time I’d show you the house Henry the Eighth gave to Anne of Cleves as part of their divorce settlement.’

‘One piece of local history you won’t know, being from Scotland, is that after the Battle of Lewes in 1264, fought on the Downs out there, King Henry the Third was defeated by Simon de Montfort and the ensuing terms of peace led to the beginning of the English Parliament.’

Leaving the carriage alongside the Old Bull, across the road was St Michael’s Church. ‘It’s been recently renovated but it dates back to the fourteenth century. Very important church, lot of tombs of ancient families. If Creeves hadn’t a private chapel, then the funeral would have taken place there.’

They were speedily served and Townsend, refreshed in body and spirit, decided they had given the chapel service
a decent interval and that they had best make haste to return or they would miss the best part of the ceremony.

They had left Brighton that morning in brilliant sunshine with few clouds hovering over the horizon, but as they emerged from the inn it seemed that summer had forsaken them.

By the time they were heading down the drive to Creeve House, the mourners were already gathered in the gardens and the distant rumbles of thunder promised a storm violent enough to make the ensuing ceremony at the crypt short indeed. The minister’s words were almost inaudible as the coffin, covered with its black velvet pall and the Creeve coat of arms, was placed in the crypt.

Tam watched the marquis supporting a small boy about six years old and, at his other side, a slim girl, clad like the other female members of the family in mourning weeds, a black veil fluttering from her bonnet concealing her face.

As the rain began servants rushed forward with sheltering umbrellas to be held over the mourners as they started to walk quickly towards the house.

The girl hurried past close to where Tam and Townsend had taken somewhat inadequate shelter. Tam was conscious of her eyes watching him from under the veil as Townsend hissed: ‘That’s the ungrateful daughter who has disgraced the family and broken her poor father’s heart. She was no friend of poor Lady Sarah either, I can tell you.’

And indicating another figure hastening along the path, modestly clad in black but without the mourning veils as befitted a servant, ‘That is Simone, her ladyship’s maid, utterly devoted to her mistress.’

Tam regarded her retreating figure with interest, remembering how, after the prince’s dramatic discovery of the dead woman, Lord Percy had been sent to Creeve to
bring back Simone but had returned frustrated having learned that she was absent visiting a sick relative.

Lord Percy was also walking with Lord Henry a short distance away. Both had arrived independently and were representing HRH the Prince Regent who was unfortunately (and conveniently) indisposed. Townsend whispered that Prince Frederick, Duke of York, had also been expected to attend, as a close friend of the Creeve family, but was similarly stricken with a mysterious indisposition.

To anyone who knew the true facts, like Lord Henry, these indispositions might have been written off as attacks of conscience. Considering the two princes’ intimate relationships with the deceased, it might have made matters somewhat difficult for them to face her bereaved husband.

Although they were getting rather wet, Townsend seemed reluctant to join their carriage and return to Brighton, when a servant carrying an umbrella rushed over and said: ‘His Grace has requested that you gentlemen join the other mourners for a glass of wine.’

Townsend, obviously hoping for just such an invitation, was delighted but, as they hurried to join the crowd gathering at the great doorway, Tam thought for a moment he saw the now familiar figure of the stalker standing under a tree.

‘Mr Townsend! Look, over there. There’s the man who has been following us in Brighton. What on earth is he doing here?’

Townsend turned around and stared with unseeing eyes.

He laughed. ‘Mr Eildor – you are imagining things again.’

‘He is there, I tell you. You’re not looking in the right
place. Here,’ and seizing Townsend’s shoulder he directed his gaze towards the tree.

But even as he and Townsend looked, the man had vanished.

It was Townsend’s turn to be remarkably understanding for a change. ‘Come along, lad,’ he said briskly. ‘You’re cold and so am I. Funerals are depressing things – especially in weather like this. We’ll both feel more like ourselves again when we have a drink inside us.’

And with that Tam had to be satisified, but his ill ease continued. He was certain sure he had seen the Brighton stalker, but what was his sinister purpose in following Townsend and himself to Creeve?

The interior of Creeve was everything its exterior had promised, with its sixteenth-century panelled hall, heavily beamed roof, and minstrels’ gallery. Two elaborately carved fireplaces supported by fierce-visaged mythical heroes faced each other at either end of a marble floor where doors led to a succession of more practical rooms, including Sir Joseph’s study and the library, while a grand oak staircase swept upwards to the bedrooms.

The mourners had spilled over into the salon where Tam was further impressed by the magnificent view over the rolling Downs, taking in an ornamental lake, a pastoral landscape from an ancient painting, including sheep and cows and stately elm trees. Here was a house rooted in England’s history, built to stand the test of time, and Tam decided that it made the Marine Pavilion’s splendours somewhat tawdry and transient by comparison, as if a bad winter storm might lift it from its flimsy foundations and blow it away across the English Channel.