Cheating the Hangman (3 page)

Despite the bitter cold, the next day was so fine I decided to make the journey myself. Successive landlords in my parish had invested enough in their land to ensure it was well drained and in good heart. Soon, however, I rode through lanes in such a state of disrepair I was worried that even the sure-footed Titus might miss his step, and was far more alert in the saddle than yesterday.

The outskirts of Clavercote were deserted, with no sign of anyone within the sad, mean dwellings or working outside. And yet I had the curious sensation of being watched, which continued the deeper into the village I penetrated. There was not so much as the shout of a child or the bark of a dog.

Since I did not know the names, let alone the whereabouts of the churchwardens, I had perforce to rap on a door. There was no reply. At last I located the church noticeboard torn from its rotting supports and lying half hidden in a ditch. Although I did not trust the bank of the ditch to support me if I tried to rescue the board, I
could at least read most of it, and was directed to the key keeper, Mr Powell. His door was opened a mere crack by a slatternly creature who, holding her apron to her face and backing from me as if I carried the plague, tried to slam the door in my face. At last, assisted by a few coins, she directed me to the cottage of the nearest churchwarden, a man rejoicing in the name of Mr Boddice, if my ears were to be believed. However, the poor creature had so few teeth and such bad cold-sores that I had every cause to doubt them.

The cottage stood at a little distance from the others. It looked more prosperous, in that there was an obviously productive kitchen garden, presently scratched over by glossy-plumaged hens. There was also the decided smell of at least one pig. Tying Titus firmly to the gatepost, I stepped up to the front door, though I suspected that most visitors presented themselves at the kitchen door round the back. However, a little ceremony never came amiss.

It seemed that Mr Boddice was not at home, at least according to an adenoidal maid – or daughter, it was hard to tell. Regarding me with what seemed almost like distaste, she directed me to Mr Lawton’s place, just up the lane yonder.

If the so-called lane was naught more than a shallow stream, who was I to argue? Titus picked his way delicately if disdainfully through the foul water, but then shied unexpectedly as a stone flew past. It was followed by another. Neither was large enough to do harm, I told Titus, but the image of the tiny stone from David’s sling hitting Goliath’s temple filled my mind.
Without much prompting from me, Titus decided a moving target would be harder to hit than a stationary one, and our progress to the warden’s house was brisk. I arrived breathless and more than a little splashed. The house was about the same size as St Jude’s rectory – four-square, solidly built, sitting confidently on a slight rise. Another horse was already tied up outside. The chill wind and absence of stable boy to escort Titus to temporary quarters made me resolve to keep my visit as short as was polite. Being out in all weathers, and never knowing if there would be any shelter for Titus, I had got into the habit of carrying a thick rug to throw over him. Usually there was an urchin at hand to guard both rug and horse. Here there was no one in sight. On the other hand, Titus, well trained by Jem, had ways of dealing with strangers, so I covered him and, leaving him to make the acquaintance of his fellow creature, I strode to the front door.

This time I was greeted with a curtsy by a young woman whose cap and apron were pleasingly clean. Telling me she would fetch the master, she relieved me of my hat, gloves and whip, and showed me swiftly into a sunny parlour, in which the lingering smell of coffee with an undertone of beef suggested it doubled as a breakfast room. So far, so good. But I kicked my heels there for nearly twenty minutes before the master in question deigned to appear, closely followed by another middle-aged man. Both were rotund, their noses and cheeks swollen and in hue the bluish-red that implies the consumption of a great deal of port and roast beef. For a moment I wished I was dressed as I had been yesterday, as
a gentleman, and that I might slap my whip impatiently against my buckskins. But I was here as a parson, was I not, so I fixed on a benevolent smile and awaited their apologies for the unconscionable delay. None came. To my astonishment – my clerical attire usually elicited politeness, if not respect – they stared at me as if the pig had wandered in from his sty.

Despite myself I pulled rank. ‘The Reverend Dr Tobias Campion at your service, gentlemen. And whom do I have the honour of addressing?’ My father could not have looked down his nose with more
hauteur
.

The older, more prosperous man declared himself to be Squire Lawton. His companion was indeed Mr Boddice.

‘You are the churchwardens of All Souls’, I believe, gentlemen? The archdeacon has sent me to you.’

The news obviously gave them little pleasure. ‘Has he indeed?’ ventured Mr Boddice.

‘He has asked me to lead your Holy Week worship,’ I pursued, ‘in the unavoidable absence of your own rector. I was sorry to hear of Mr Coates’ indisposition – I hope and pray that his travels will restore his health,’ I added as a matter of form.

What had I said to give offence? I verily believe that had he been outside, Mr Boddice would have spat on the ground.

‘Yes,’ he grunted. ‘All the windows barred and locked and the servants sent away.’

Just as the archdeacon had said.

Squire Lawton’s face remained stony. At last he asked, ‘And how many services were you planning to lead, Rector?’

At last I felt on firmer ground. With a smile, I said, ‘All those that Mr Coates proposed, of course. Though I fear that in view of my own parish duties we may have to negotiate the times of the services themselves. I have noted on this sheet of paper the hours I am engaged in Moreton St Jude’s.’

They exchanged the tiniest of glances, as if the name of the parish meant more than my own. So be it: my role was more important than any name. But Boddice had taken the paper, holding it by the extreme edges as if it might contaminate him. He jabbed a thick finger. Lawton nodded ponderously, his jowls undulating with the movement.

‘These are the same times as we’d expect to hold our own services, so I’m afraid you won’t do, Parson Campion. So we’ll say thank’ee and wish you good day.’

Although shamefully relieved to have been excused from the duty, I said, passing over the archdeacon’s note, ‘Perhaps you should communicate your decision to the archdeacon. He asked me to deliver this.’

At no point had I been asked to sit, but at this point chose to find a chair myself, adopting my father’s pose, which always conveyed a nice blend of patience and irritation via the angle of his folded arms and the slight movement of the leg crossing the other.

Lawton’s face empurpled further. ‘This is a damned instruction!’

‘Saving your presence, Parson,’ Boddice added ingratiatingly.

Lawton shoved the sheet under my nose. It did indeed read like an edict.

‘All I can say is that I am as bound by his request as you are,’ I said. I got to my feet. ‘So it seems we must negotiate our service times after all, gentlemen …’

As far as I knew, young Robert had seen no sign of my disapproval when the previous day he had scrabbled for the archdeacon’s largesse. Ought I, however, to make some sort of apology to him for my small-minded criticism? Or was I making a mental mountain out of a non-existent molehill?

Between periods of pondering my encounter with the bitter souls of Clavercote, I wondered how I could make life better for the unhappy lad under my own roof. How might I make him feel valued? How could I make him feel he deserved the warmth and comfort I was trying to offer him? My usual exchanges with him were – as had been this morning’s – simple commands, expressed courteously, and always followed by warm and genuine thanks. But talking to a stone wall might have been as profitable. And more enjoyable for the wall: poor Robert evinced a visible distaste for human interlocution.

At last, returning Titus to his silent care, I turned to the One to whom I took all my cares. Stepping into the calm of St Jude’s, I said matins and spent a long period in silent prayer, offering to God my earthly problems. I had long learnt not to expect an instant response, knowing that any divine revelation would come in the Lord’s good time. At last I rose, and walked slowly back to the rectory, relishing the calling of the birds and the sight of bobbing daffodils. What a blessed time Easter was. No wonder the ancients had chosen it for one of their
festivals long before our Lord walked on the earth.

I made my way not into the house but to the stables, where Titus was having the rubbing down of his life. Jem had clearly taught Robert most if not all of his skills. Soon – if ever the lad discovered his tongue – he could learn his letters, and I was sure he would make a good pupil.

As usual, Robert had carefully moved to the far side of Titus.

‘You’ll take any amount of brushing like that, won’t you, old boy?’ I asked, rubbing his nose, which was as usual searching for an apple or a carrot. ‘But I wonder if all is well with that right foreleg of yours. I fancied it felt a little tight. Do you think it needs a poultice?’ I spoke to Titus, but as I had hoped, Robert responded.

He paused in his activities and ran his small, thin hands expertly over the leg I really thought was perfectly sound. So, it seemed, did he. Staring at the ground, he shook his head.

‘It seemed a mite … when I was riding,’ I lied. ‘Why not mount him yourself and see?’

Eyes round, he stared.

‘Do you need a saddle? When I was your age, Jem made sure that I could ride my pony bareback, and I wager he has also taught you.’

‘Not Titus,’ he breathed to the nearest bale of straw.

No, not Titus. ‘Well, today is the day you shall ride Titus and surprise Jem,’ I declared, shrugging off my coat and rolling up my sleeves.

I do not know how many times we had been round the paddock when I espied Mrs Hansard’s handsome new
gig outside the rectory. ‘Robert, we have work to do,’ I declared, lengthening my stride. Titus did likewise, and I feared for Robert’s safety. But he might have been glued to the horse’s willing back, and soon I had to run to keep up. Within moments Titus and Mrs Hansard’s pony were secure in their loose boxes. Robert would be agreeably busy for the next few minutes.

‘My dear Tobias,’ Maria greeted me with an affectionate squeeze of the hands, as I led her into the house, ‘it is to be hoped that Mrs Trent has a large quantity of hot water to hand. Look at the mud! Whatever possessed you?’ It was hard to tell whether she mocked or was genuinely shocked. ‘Now, upstairs with you, and I will send Susan up with as much water as she can carry. And you will be well served if it is cold and if your bedchamber fire is out.’

‘Maria, if you will engage to remain in the kitchen with Mrs Trent, both averting your gaze from the yard, there is a much quicker way of dealing with my dirt.’

Fortified by a glass of Madeira and some of those excellent biscuits, Mrs Hansard told me that she had been distributing food to the poorest of the villagers. She had also no doubt been offering work to able-bodied men. Regardless of the expense, Edmund and she had paid teams of villagers to repair their walls and fences, and other workers had pressed stones into muddy tracks to make decent paths. They were paid largely in kind, Maria being especially anxious that every member of each family would benefit. Any housewife feeding her rations to her husband, or denying her daughters to the benefit of sons would be sternly but kindly rebuked. After all,
she would point out prosaically, the womenfolk needed energy to sew the veritable acres of flannel she had persuaded one of Edmund’s grateful patients to pay for, and to knit worsted stockings. To be sure it was spring, and the maidens should have been looking forward to making pretty summer dresses, but as long as they were hungry, they were cold.

‘Edmund labours night and day,’ she continued. ‘I fear it is only the needs of Moreton St Jude’s that keep him here, not dashing off like some raw recruit to tend our soldiers in Spain. I collect that the casualties have been severe indeed at Badajoz. They say that Wellesley wept at the sight of the men whose lives were so terribly lost, heaped in the trenches and the breaches. And those poor men who survived, but who have lost limbs and will be unable to fight again – they will be returning home hoping to be treated as heroes and given work, or even pensions …’

‘And will in all likelihood merely swell the numbers begging or simply starving,’ I concluded for her. Perhaps the man who had accosted me had been a soldier. Pray God he was not a deserter: the army was not kind to those who had strayed from their ranks. ‘These are hard times, Maria. I should pray for victory, I know, but all I want is a prosperous peace.’

‘Amen to that,’ she said reverently. Then she smiled. ‘But now I must take my leave of you and make sure that Cook is aware that you will be joining us at Langley Park for supper – which of course you will, will you not?’

‘What Mrs Trent called a good healthy spit-roasting bird, Tobias, I would consider to be no more than a scrawny
fowl fit only for the pot,’ Mrs Hansard declared, raising her glass of sherry in emphasis. She settled more comfortably in her favourite chair, a little distance from the bright fire that illumined her elegant drawing room. ‘So by dining with us you do her a favour: she will not have to apologise to you once again for the inadequacy of your dinner and she, Susan and Robert will at least get the less stringy breast meat to chew on. As for the legs – I declare the poor bird must have walked to market …’

‘And a parson really needs to keep his finger on the pulse of his parish,’ Edmund declared. ‘What better source of information than the doctor? So eat and drink your fill with us. Heavens, man,’ he added with asperity as I gestured away the decanter that their butler, Burns, was proffering, ‘I shall be glad when Easter is come and gone and you can start eating again like an Englishman. Not that you will,’ he continued, looking at me sternly under his brows. ‘Not until the spring brings a more abundant supply of food for your parishioners, eh? Why do folk not realise what a hard time it is, when all the winter supplies have long since been eaten and that which is in the ground has yet to grow?’