‘Still abed, sir. Might I have a confidential word, sir?’
‘What is it?’
The gyp took out a pocketbook, extracted a small news-paper cutting and laid it gently on the table. ‘From the
Holdsworth scanned the item. It recorded a verdict of accidental death on a fatality in Trumpington Street – a girl named Tabitha Skinner, fourteen years of age, who had suffered a fit as she slept and suffocated. The melancholy event had occurred on the night of Thursday, 16 February, at Mrs Phear’s house. Four months ago, Holdsworth thought, almost to the day. There was a particular pathos to the story, for the girl had been an orphan from the Magdalene Hospital in London. Mrs Phear, the widow of a clergyman, was active in the affairs of the charity and had brought the girl to Cambridge at her own expense in the hope of apprenticing the unfortunate girl into domestic service.
He looked up. ‘When was Mrs Whichcote found at Jerusalem? What date, precisely? Do you know?’
‘The morning of Friday, the seventeenth of February, sir,’ Mulgrave said.
‘Who is this Mrs Phear? Does she come into this?’
‘She once worked as the governess in the household of Mr Whichcote’s father, sir. I’ve seen her more than once at Lambourne House, and I believe Mr Whichcote sometimes visits her in Trumpington Street.’ He waited a moment, his face impassive, but Holdsworth did not speak. ‘Shall I bring the rolls, sir, or will you wait until Mr Frank joins you?’
‘No – rouse him now, will you?’
The gyp limped up the stairs, dot and go one. He knocked on Frank’s door. He rattled the handle. His footsteps descended, dot and go one.
‘Not answering, sir. And the door’s bolted.’
Holdsworth went upstairs. He tried the door and called Frank’s name. He raised the latch and threw his shoulder against the door. It burst open. He plunged into the room so quickly that he almost fell.
The bed was empty, the covers thrown back. There was no sign of Frank, and nowhere he could be hiding.
Mulgrave came up behind him. ‘At least he ain’t hanged himself, sir. Not here, anyway.’
‘Hold your tongue,’ Holdsworth snapped, though a moment earlier the same thought had been in his own mind. He went across to the window, a small casement, which was immediately under the eaves and overhung with thatch. He put his head out and looked down. It was no drop at all for a man of Frank’s size, not if he had managed to get through the window feet first and let himself down. There had once been a flower bed directly underneath, now full of weeds. It would have given him a soft landing.
Holdsworth withdrew his head and looked about him.
‘He’s took the coat and hat he wears for shooting,’ Mulgrave said. ‘And the stout shoes.’
Holdsworth opened the drawers in the little chest, one by one. There was no telling what else Frank had taken, if anything. He found a purse containing a half a dozen guineas and some silver. Did Frank have other money? Or perhaps he hadn’t needed money where he was going.
‘So where the devil is he?’ Holdworth said.
Mulgrave glanced up at the ceiling, as if perhaps the answer lay there. ‘God knows,’ he said. After one of his carefully calculated pauses, he added, ‘Sir.’
Early on Wednesday, 14 June, there was a hammering on the front door of Lambourne House. Augustus, who slept in a room beside the kitchen, was deep in a dream involving his long-dead father, a journeyman carpenter, and at first the hammering merged with the dream and became part of it. But then the noise transferred itself to the back door of the house and became louder. At last the sound forced Augustus reluctantly out of his dream and into the waking world.
As he stumbled out of bed, his first thought was that Mr Whichcote would be in a fury at such a racket so early in the morning. The hammering continued even when he called out that he was making all speed he could. He struggled with the bolts on the kitchen door.
Outside in the yard were four men, none of whom he recognized. They gave him no opportunity to change his mind about admitting them. As soon as the door was open a crack, one of them had his foot over the threshold. Another pushed the door wide, took the footboy by the shoulder and moved him backward. The men pushed their way into the house.
‘Bear witness, boys,’ said the eldest of the four, a man with a round red face and a great stomach straining against his waistcoat. ‘This obliging young lad asked us to step in. We have not forced an entry.’ He patted Augustus’s head with a hand like a flap of belly pork. ‘Is Mr Whichcote within?’
‘Yes, sir. But he won’t be stirring for -’
‘Never you fear, he’ll stir for us.’
‘But, sir, it’s more than my place is worth.’
The fat man laughed. ‘Why, your place ain’t worth a brass farthing, so I wouldn’t worry about that. Either you take us to your master directly or we find our own way. We’re sheriff’s officers, and I have a writ to serve against him. Who else is here?’
‘Only me, sir.’
‘Other servants?’
‘Cook left yesterday. So did the maid. There’s old Jem, but he don’t sleep in.’
The fat man tramped upstairs, followed by his men. As he reached the first floor, Mr Whichcote appeared in the doorway of his bedchamber. He was wearing only his nightshirt and his nightcap, and his delicate features were twisted with anger. ‘Who the devil are you?’
‘Sheriff’s officers, sir,’ the fat man said cheerfully. ‘I’ve got a writ against you here for seventy-nine pounds, eight shillings and fourpence at the suit of Mr Mulgrave.’
‘Don’t be a fool. He’s lying. Besides – you can’t come in here. You’ve forced an entry. I’ll have you up before a magistrate.’
‘No, sir, you won’t. This lad of yours invited us in, bless him. As all of us will swear on the Holy Bible itself if need be.’
‘God damn him, the little blockhead.’
‘All I care about is this writ, sir,’ the bailiff said. ‘And that tells me you got a debt to discharge, plus fees. You find me the money, sir, I give you a receipt, and away we go.’
‘Do you suppose I keep that sort of money in the house?’
‘In that case I have to ask you to come along with me, sir. But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t do everything pleasant and easy, is there? You’ll want to write a letter or two, I daresay. We shan’t stop you doing that. And if you want an hour or two to make yourself ready, sir, you’ll find us very obliging in that, and I’m sure you’re a gentleman as knows how to show his gratitude.’
Whichcote held up his hands as if attempting to make a physical barrier between himself and whatever was going to happen to him. ‘This is such a trifling matter,’ he said to the bailiff. ‘It could be so easily arranged. All it will take me is an hour or two.’
‘I am sure that will be very agreeable to all concerned, sir. Now, perhaps you’d like to dress. We ain’t got all day, you know.’
One of the sheriff’s men waited on the landing. The bailiff ordered another in a stage whisper to wait outside Mr Whichcote’s window in case the gentleman was in a hurry to leave. He then invited Augustus to give him and his remaining colleague a tour of the house. The fat man moved from room to room like a prospective buyer. He did not seem impressed by what he saw.
‘Oh, they’ve let things go here, my boy, haven’t they? You’ll be well out of it. Take my advice and look for another situation. You’ll thank us one day, you know. This is only the start of it.’ He patted Augustus’s head in an avuncular way. ‘Writs are like sheep, you see. Once one of them finds its way out, all the others follow. You mark my words, we’ll be serving more of them before the end of the day.’
‘But a gentleman like Mr Whichcote -’
‘Is a gentleman that owes money, that’s all I care about, and in the eyes of the law that makes him as common as you or me. Maybe he’ll be all right. Maybe he’s got rents due at the end of the quarter. Maybe his creditors will come to an arrangement. But if you ask me, it all depends on whether his friends will rally to his help. That’s what pulls a man through in these cases, nine times out of ten. But in the meantime it’s the sponging house.’
