Dark Waters (14 page)

‘Other side of this is where the barley's kept. They can never get enough of it, rats. They get in through the drain here.'

He indicated an aperture low down in the wall.

‘Why not simply block it up?'

‘That's useless. They'd find another way. This is best because with this I know where to catch them. They will always run the easiest, quickest way. See this?'

He pointed to an earthenware pipe about 3 inches in diameter and 4 feet long lying on the ground beside the wall.

‘I put the poison in that pipe mixed with some of Mr Lacey's best grain. I soften the grain first, of course.'

‘You mean you cook it?'

‘Aye. It makes it easier to mix, does that. And mark that pipe. It's got to be too narrow for a cat or a dog, and too long for a child to reach into, see? I'll never know how a rat as big as that got in, but it did, for it lay dead just over there by the water butt.'

I went down on one knee, planted a hand on the ground and lowered my head until my cheek almost touched the pipe's end. In this ungainly position I peered into the pipe. I could see light coming through from the other end but some substance partially blocked it about halfway along. I got up and dusted the dirt off my hand.

‘I see just how you've planted the poison, Mr Satterthwaite. I will certainly call for you if our nuisance persists.'

I held out my hand and he shook it with military rigour but, as I was leaving, he called after me.

‘I hope Dr Fidelis is enjoying his pet.'

I turned, momentarily at a loss to know what to reply.

‘Has she settled with him?' Satterthwaite went on. ‘Do you know?'

‘Alas, she has not,' I replied. ‘She has died.'

Satterthwaite looked concerned.

‘Well, she were lish as a butcher's brat when I gave her over. What was up with her?'

‘Nothing intrinsic,' I replied. ‘Let's just say she gave her life in the cause of justice.'

I left him to scratch his head over this and walked back across the lane, and into the courtyard of the Gamecock. I had much to think about. Allcroft could certainly have been poisoned with the rat catcher's arsenic, but I had not proved the case. Even if I could do so, it would not mean of necessity that Satterthwaite was guilty. Anyone could have collected some of the poison, as long as they knew where and how he laid it – and it may have been no secret that he had done so most recently only last Tuesday night.

Of course, it had not escaped me that one of those perfectly placed to know such details was Maggie Satterthwaite – who was not only the rat catcher's granddaughter, but had served Allcroft with his meal.

I entered by the yard door, passed through the flagged passage and into the hall of the inn, where I was confronted by a tall figure coming in from Stoney Gate.

‘Hello,' I said. ‘You're Peters, Mr Destercore's man.'

He reacted with some suspicion though he clearly recognized me.

‘That's right.'

‘Well, your master will find this a friendly house. It's famous for its good ale.'

‘I've tasted it,' said Peters. He had a genteel way of speaking, and his manner of dress, too, seemed a cut above that of a manservant. His buckles were of silver and his waistcoat's piping had woven into it gleaming strands of what looked like silver thread, not as thick or glittery as Ephraim Grimshaw's, but not the expected trim to the garment of a servant.

‘You stop here?' I said. ‘I thought you were at Porter's.'

‘Mr Destercore's there, and I'm here. Now, if you would excuse me…'

So I let him pass. But our encounter had given me even more to think about.

*   *   *

When my conscience is taxed, or my understanding falls short, I talk the matter out with Elizabeth for, unless I do, I find it forms lumps in my mind that will not shift. That night, as we lay side by side with our heads resting on the bolster, and she having given me all the details of her mother's departure that day for Broughton, I told her the full story of my dealings with the Gamecock Inn and the death of Mr Allcroft.

‘It was horrible. Blood, excrement, vomit, excruciating cramps – I am sorry, dear, but Allcroft died no ordinary death. It should have been subject to inquest, as I now know.'

‘But it was a natural illness, wasn't it? There's been a fearful story going round that it was plague.'

‘Utter nonsense. Allcroft was sick from what he ate. Death came to him in the form of a stew.'

‘So why not put that to a jury?'

‘I have a difficulty about that,' I said. ‘The body has already gone from the town and out of my jurisdiction.'

‘So what was wrong with the stew?'

‘Luke has made a rather convincing case for its having been deliberately poisoned.'

‘Poisoned! How?'

I told her about the experiment carried out that morning in Adam Lorris's garden. When she heard of the rat's demise she gave an involuntary laugh.

‘Oh, dear! Poor innocent Athene. But how can Dr Fidelis be so sure of his case? Some men are rats, as many women have found, but a rat is not the same as a man.'

‘In much we are the same. If you hurt us we cry, if you cut us we bleed, if you hold us underwater we drown.'

‘Yes, but a rat does not laugh, or write letters, or know God.'

‘How can you be sure?'

‘A rat writing letters, Titus?'

‘All right, I concede there are no rat letters, strictly speaking. There might be a rat God.'

‘That is irreligious, dearest.'

‘Probably. I am not concerned with religion, but with facts, and they are these – Allcroft ate some food, the rat ate the same food, they both died. It is therefore my and Dr Fidelis's submission that a person, or persons, unknown laced that food with a poison, conceivably rat poison. I also adumbrate a possible connection of the culprit. Maggie Satterthwaite was the inn servant who brought the hotpot up to Allcroft's room, and who is also the granddaughter of Isaac Satterthwaite, our distinguished rat catcher and a man accustomed to the use of white arsenic in destroying rats.'

‘Titus, will you please try not to address me as if I were the House of Lords? Just tell me in plain words why would Maggie, or anyone, kill Mr Allcroft? He was a most amiable gentleman, and my parents' friend.'

‘I don't know, my love, but there is one dark possibility at the back of all this. Allcroft was on a list of voters kept by the Whig agent Mr Destercore, who has come here as Mr Reynolds's corner man in the election. I have seen this list. The names on it are those thought to be particularly likely to vote against Mr Reynolds. They are his political opponents.'

‘You make this list sound so sinister. But isn't it normal for the parties to collect intelligence and tally the votes?'

‘Of course. But it is definitely not normal for names on their lists to be murdered a week before the election. Elizabeth…' I took her hand and caressed it. ‘You should know something else. Your uncle Egan's name was also on that list. I am wondering if he also was a victim.'

‘But he died by misadventure. Your jury said so and you agreed.'

‘But now I am not so sure. Especially when I recall that it happened the very night Destercore stopped at the Ferry Inn. And remember Dick Middleton's evidence.'

‘You know what I think of that.'

‘But if these were indeed murders – and if they were political – and that became even suspected here in town, there would be incalculable trouble. Mobs have sprung up and great houses been burned to the ground over lesser matters.'

Elizabeth had been resting on her side facing me. Now she rolled onto her back and lay for a few moments in silence. At last she went on.

‘I'll grant you that Uncle Egan was a proud and deep-dyed Tory, when his head was clear enough to remember it. But the whole thing seems too fantastical. That Destercore has come here to murder Tories to alter the result! How could he? This is not a rotten borough with a mere six or seven votes. There are hundreds of voters here and to make a difference he would have to commit a mass murder, not just kill two or three.'

‘Perhaps his tally tells him the voting will be that close.'

Elizabeth yawned and stretched like a cat.

‘Well, I'll tell you something. Maggie Satterthwaite may be very pretty and perhaps not very wise. But she has always been a law-abiding girl.'

‘She's not entirely good, though. She was dismissed from her place at the Ferry Inn – do you know why?'

‘Ah! I wondered if that would be remembered.'

‘Her grandfather remembers it. He is bitter.'

‘Her dismissal was the decision of Mary-Ann and Grace. It was well founded enough but the cause was not her dishonesty.'

‘What, then?'

Elizabeth hesitated.

‘She fell in love, I think.'

‘There's no disgrace in that.'

‘She was found in bed with the man.'

‘Ah!'

‘Indeed.'

She yawned again.

‘Now I must rest. Remember tomorrow is May Day.'

I leaned across and kissed her sleepy lips.

‘Goodnight, then,' I said.

‘Goodnight, sweet prince,' she murmured in reply.

Chapter Ten

O
N
M
AY
D
AY
the chill and rain that had gusted through the week gave way to warm air and sunshine. For most of Preston, this was to be a festive day without work. In place of the Friday market, a fair was to be held in Market Place, beginning at noon, with dancing, the crowning of the May Queen, amusement stalls, boxing booths, bearded ladies and much more in that vein. It was traditional for the girls to go out first thing, to scoop up morning dew with their hands and rub it into their faces, which they believed would give them soft skin. Then they gathered wild flowers for garlands to dress the town wells and the doorways of their houses. It was also customary to perform antics and play tricks, and shout, ‘May gosling!' at those who were fooled.

It was not a workless day for me. My first act on entering the office in the morning was to write a note to Luke Fidelis. I had the idea of dining at the Gamecock, I wrote, and would he like to join me? This was sent by hand of a boy and, after I had been working for half an hour with Furzey on drawing up Miss Colley's new will, his reply came back that he would be seeing patients in the morning and at the same time developing an appetite for the meal he would be very glad to take with me at the inn. He suggested we meet at two o'clock.

By ten the will was drawn up and a fair copy in legal hand had been made by Furzey. This I rolled up and then set off to Miss Colley's on Fisher Gate. My client greeted me effusively.

‘Mr Cragg, have you brought my will for signing? How very genteel of you to come in person. You will take a glass of Madeira? I hope you like macaroons.'

While she saw to my refreshment I sat down at her dining table and unrolled the will.

‘You must read it through before you sign,' I said.

‘Oh, be a kind attorney, Mr Cragg,' she begged. ‘Read it to me.'

‘You really should peruse it personally before you sign, you know.'

‘Of course I shall peruse it – after you have read it to me.'

‘Very well.'

I began reading, taking a sip of wine and a nibble of macaroon between each clause. When I had finished I handed the document across.

‘Please have a look over it and then we will need a witness to your signature.'

‘I know the ideal person. I shall send word.'

She left me alone and went downstairs, returning after a few minutes.

‘You must have another glass while we wait,' she announced.

‘Only if you will engage in the meantime to look over the will,' I said.

It was agreed and at last she was sitting with the paper on her knee and spectacles on her nose.

‘A beautiful hand your clerk has,' she remarked as she bent over it.

For the next few minutes she sat looking at the page. Though she exclaimed from time to time – at a name or an item bequested – she was not I think reading the document consecutively, but rather she was examining it, while remarking on one word or another as she randomly noticed them. I had seen this before in female clients of the gentry class. It was not that Miss Colley could not read; she believed reading in public to be somehow indelicate, undignified or unladylike. So she treated the document as if it were there to be appreciated just for its visual quality, like a fine engraving from Salvator Rosa.

Little more than five minutes had passed when there came a knock on the door and a lady swept in. She was voluminously dressed, and her face was heavily rouged and powdered. It was Miss Colley's neighbour, Mrs Lavinia Bryce.

‘You require a witness to your signature, my dear Miss Colley? Allow me to be the one.'

She spoke heroically, as one volunteering for a gallant and perhaps suicidal military exploit. This tone amused Miss Colley, who tittered that she'd been in no doubt of Mrs Bryce stepping up to the line. However, certain social obligations had to be observed before the signing ceremony could take place. First the will was laid on the table, and Mrs Bryce was put at her ease in an upholstered chair. Then my name and person were presented to her and duly acknowledged, after which a glass of Madeira was placed in her hand and a macaroon offered – and declined on the grounds that Mrs Bryce found the biscuit excessively binding. Finally a certain quantity of conversation was to be made, and the topic that Mrs Bryce favoured was quickly apparent.

‘We are all transfixed by the election, are we not? Poor Mr Reynolds, it is exhausting him extremely. I have to keep him constantly up to the mark, you know, telling him that the Great Prize is within his grasp and that he must not let his resolution waver. Without me I fancy he would have wilted by now. So many speeches to make, and bumpers of wine to drink, and banquets to attend.'