The first faint rays of morning light were beginning to filter through as Ruth finally laid her head on her pillow. It was good to feel safe and warm in her own bed. Almost mesmerised by the flickering flame of the candle on her bedside table she tried hard to forget the trauma of the past hours. Whether it was just the euphoria of at last being home with those she loved, or the pure relief of her escape from the clutches of a manic, deranged captor, her body tingled and it felt good to be alive as she hugged her pillow and curled into a foetal ball but sleep wouldn’t come. Despite all she’d gone through there was still that faint latent hope in her mind that wouldn’t go away, that Joseph could still be her father and that perhaps it was just pure desperation and not really wickedness that was driving him.. She genuinely hoped that he hadn’t badly injured himself when he fell. These thoughts kept returning to her tired mind but she rationalised that what he’d done was wicked, truly wicked, and something a father wouldn’t subject his daughter to. When sleep did finally envelope her, the doubt about him had finally won through.
Sarah was extremely attentive and continually looked in on her daughter as she slept – she wasn’t going to let her out of her sight now, not for one moment.
By late morning the search party had returned to Bright Meadows defeated. There had been no sign of Joseph and now, despite the lack of sleep, Amos saddled Duke and set off for Leeke to find Inspector Wilkins; something had to be done to find this maniac before something even more serious happened. He stabled the horse at the Market Inn as he’d done previously and walked to the office of Simms the lawyer – he’d tell him where Wilkins might be found.
“Ah Mr. Carlisle. I have important news”, said the fawning Simms, rubbing his hands together in that same inimitable manner, letting his pince-nez fall from his nose to be caught by the cord pinned to his collar.
“Important news, Mr. Simms?”
“Yes. I’ve this day received a communication from London’s Bow Street. The locket, of which I enquired, was indeed made by the silversmiths, Rosenberg brothers, and their recollection is that it was made for a young lady, a Miss Mirabel Cordin, of Hammersmith who commissioned it for her intended who was joining the East India Company’s militia. Miss Cordin, now Mrs Blakely, has been interviewed on our behalf and it transpires that the locket was indeed hers but was stolen in a burglary less than two years ago.”
“That explains the locket, but was there no news of Joseph or of the Carews?”
“Ah, the Carews. Well my dear Sir, it appears that Carew has an impeccable character. He is indeed, a Member of Parliament, a retired Colonel of the First Foot Regiment serving in the British Colonies. Apparently he hasn’t enjoyed good health for some considerable time and the rumour has it that he intends to retire before the next elections. He’s not been seen about Westminster for some considerable time. Curiously, nothing is known of a son. His wife died some time ago and it was believed they were childless. As for this Joseph fellow, we seem to have drawn a blank. Army records show that Joseph Craven was indeed killed in Massachusetts and apparently there is no reason to believe otherwise. The magistrate at Bow Street didn’t recognise the description of this person who purports to be Joseph but he promises that it will be borne in mind and should anything come to light he will contact me further.”
“So, Mr. Simms, our suspicions were well founded – it may all be a little inconclusive, but now more than ever before I’m convinced it’s all been a charade to rob us of the money. The locket throws even more doubt on this Joseph’s story. If it was stolen less than two years ago and we were to believe his story, he was supposedly mixed up in smuggling opium between India and China at that time. It begs the question ‘How did he come by the locket?’ It makes me think that he’s probably the burglar that stole the locket and all this about smuggling opium, India and China is just eyewash. Thank you for making your enquiries but now, if you’ll excuse me, I must find Inspector Wilkins of the local police. I’m more determined than ever now to see this impostor behind bars because last night my daughter was held hostage by him in an effort to force my hand. Fortunately she escaped his clutches but he made it clear he intended to use her to force me to pay a ransom so now I must get Wilkins to organise a search to find him before he tries something worse”.
Wilkins showed no surprise in seeing Amos and as he took the briar pipe from his mouth he reached across the table and handed him the reply he’d received from Bow Street. Amos quickly ran through the letter which seemed to be identical information to that passed on by Simms.
“What brings you to see me Mr. Carlisle?” asked Wilkins as Amos reached the end of the letter and handed it back.
“Yesterday, my daughter was kidnapped”.
“Good grief man, why have you left it until now to tell me?”
“She escaped. She’s safe now but she was held in a barn, tied hand and foot”, said Amos and he went on to relate the whole story to him, continuing, “We organised a search but he’d escaped. I think the time has come for a properly organised search to be made, that’s why I’m here. I’ve come to ask for your help”.
Meanwhile, a knock at the door brought Sarah to answer and there stood the Reverend Elias Catchpole with a face etched with concern. Sarah was quite taken aback to see him there. He raised his hat and said politely,
“Hello, Mrs Carlisle, I felt I ought to visit and offer you my support following the dreadful happenings of last night. I was with Miss Cousins at Bright Meadows; she lost her brother only a short time ago and it’s my Christian duty to visit my parishioners who’ve suffered such a loss. Whilst there she told me what had happened and so I felt I must offer you some spiritual support”.
Sarah smiled at him and stepped back to invite him inside. He looked such a charming young man, his eyes were like dark mysterious pools and he exuded charm from every pore. Sarah felt a twinge of excitement just speaking with him. She’d seen him earlier, at Master John’s funeral and later at the harvest festival, on both occasions at a distance and she’d been impressed then, both with his looks and his eloquence, but now, in her own home, he was larger than life. She felt just a little bit ashamed in herself; here she was a married woman and a mother, entertaining such risqué yet exciting thoughts. To her mind it was so wanton to be affected in this way by a much younger man – and a man of God too. Somehow he looked taller than before, at least six feet and lithesome. Perhaps it was a combination of his dark clothing, knee-breeches and woollen stockings, the shining buckles of his shoes and the stark relief of his white cravat that exaggerated his height. His black hair was a little unruly, perhaps ruffled by wearing a hat, and it hung to almost collar length. The relaxed manner about him and his charming personality made it a pleasure to be in his company. There was no bible thumping as she’d seen from many men of the cloth.
She offered him tea and they sat together discussing the trauma of the night before, when Ruth emerged from her room. As she entered the living room Elias Catchpole rose to his feet and offered his hand as Sarah introduced them. Ruth felt a little awkward speaking with him until his charm began to work on her too and she began to relax.
“It was obviously a frightening experience, so is there anything you feel I can help you with? Perhaps your spiritual feeling?”
“Not really”.
“Well, what are your feelings towards your kidnapper?”
Ruth looked towards her mother wondering what she should say and Sarah intervened to explain the story of Joseph Craven, from their childhood romance through to his death, but carefully omitting the fact that Ruth was born outside wedlock, fearing a ‘man of the cloth’ would look unkindly on such matters. The final episode when Joseph miraculously re-appeared from the grave made the Reverend Catchpole catch his breath in amazement at such audacity. Amos’s doubts about this scarred and disfigured ne’r-do-well were quite understandable.
“What an astounding story, but all credit to you for your charitable attitude and your generosity. Even though there were serious doubts about the man, you looked after him in his hour of need – truly a reflection of the parable of the Good Samaritan. So, now that he’s returned your charity with kidnapping and violence, Ruth, what do you feel towards him.”
Ruth struggled to know how to answer him and with one eye on her mother for support she replied,
“It’s hard to say what I feel. I thought he was my father, and to be honest I still wonder, although, I ask myself, ‘what father would kidnap his daughter and leave her bound and helpless in the dark with rats and bats for company?’ My common sense now tells me he can’t be who he says he is and yet my heart wishes otherwise. When he fell from the ladder I was too afraid to go to help him. I was almost consumed by fear that I might become another murder victim, but strangely, as I fled I was worried that he might have seriously injured himself and felt I really ought to go back and check.”
“I’m full of admiration for you. Your fortitude really does you proud. May I take it that you’ve found forgiveness in your heart?”
Ruth hesitated and looked again towards her mother but then, gaining confidence, she answered,
“Forgiveness? That’s a difficult thing. Is this truly my father we’re discussing and is he suffering some desperation, and did he really mean to hurt me? If he is my father and his actions were truly driven by desperation; if I could really believe he never meant to harm me, then yes, perhaps then I could forgive, but, if he’s deceived me, if he’s an impostor and if, when he held me captive, his intentions were evil, then how could I be expected to feel forgiveness?”
The Reverend Catchpole, laid a hand on Ruth’s hand and replied very gently, “The dear Lord looks upon us and sees into our hearts. It’s so important to understand that He fashioned our hearts and minds and only Beelzebub himself would implant uncharitable thoughts in our heads, and so for your own peace of mind I must implore you to find forgiveness in your heart”.
“Please don’t be offended Reverend, but doesn’t the bible teach us ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth’, where is the forgiveness in that?” asked Ruth which made Sarah feel rather uncomfortable.
“You’re quite right, Ruth, the Old Testament does indeed, quote ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth’ but it was a teaching handed down by God to Moses that was totally misunderstood or deliberately perverted in its true meaning by the scribes and Pharisees. They took it out of context and used it to teach revenge and hatred which was never intended. If you were to read Mathew 5.38, the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus said, ‘Who-so-ever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also’, I think what he was saying to us was revenge is wrong. ‘An eye for an eye’ was not the teaching of revenge, nor was it the teaching of hatred, it was not as the scribes and Pharisees taught; our Lord meant that a punishment rendered by the judges must be appropriate to the crime, it was not a licence to seek revenge. We have to understand that even the blessed truth can be made into a lie by taking it out of context”.
“We study our bible and it says ‘He that justifieth the wicked and he that condemneth the just are equally an abomination to the Lord’, we neither justify what’s been done nor condemn Joseph, if indeed he is the Joseph I knew and loved, because surely his mind is affected by his injuries, but forgiveness is still a difficult thing for any of us”, said Sarah in support of her daughter.
The reverend finished his tea and then said, “Let us pray together”, and they all held hands over the table and with bowed heads and eyes closed, he said a few words that might bring Ruth and Sarah comfort, and ended with the Lord’s Prayer. As he left the house he enquired if he would see them in church on Sunday. When he was out of earshot, Sarah smiled as she said to Ruth, “My, what a dishy young man”. Ruth wasn’t inclined to respond, feeling that he didn’t have the right to tell her what she should feel, man of the cloth or not – he wasn’t the one who’d been held a prisoner – he wasn’t the one who’d been frightened half out of her mind, but even so there was something about him that stirred her womanly feelings just as Matthew had. As he closed the gate he stood at the roadside for just a moment and smiled to himself, appreciating the honesty and the ability of Ruth to speak her mind. There was no doubt, Ruth would stay as a bright interlude in his memory and he walked off with quite a spring in his step.
Wilkins was quite alarmed at the turn of events and assured Amos that he would arrive the following morning with as many men as he could muster but the task would require the co-operation of local men to boost the search party. They would all meet at Bright Meadows Farm but Amos was to spread the word and ask for volunteers. In fact a word with the two farm lads at Bright Meadows was enough and the call went out for every available man around the village to meet at first light. Amos felt some encouragement as he looked out on the setting sun to see such a red sky remembering the old adage ‘Red sky at night – shepherd’s delight’. The morning weather was sure to be good. These old proverbs had some basis in truth but they were no guarantee, and sure enough, the wind rose in the night and by morning it was blowing strong and heavy cloud was threatening. By the time the men had gathered it was already beginning to rain and the downpour really started as the police cart pulled into the yard. As Wilkins and his contingent of four uniformed men jumped down from the van and ran for cover inside the byre, Amos thought it a very apt name the cart had been given – the black Maria – he hardly understood its connotation but felt it well described this vehicle of utter despondency with its bars and heavy lock, ready to take some poor soul to a prison life of hard labour at best, or worse still transportation or even the gibbet. The horse was taken from the cart and stalled in the byre with hay to eat.
The rain eased for a while as Wilkins split the men into different parties, each with a uniformed officer and instructions upon the area they were to concentrate. The local men, mostly farm labourers, were probably better equipped to search the area than the police, being familiar with the landscape and knowing the probable hiding places. Each had armed himself with a stout staff – just in case. There’d been some asides between them about what they intended to do if they actually caught this blackguard – after all, Elaine’s murderer hadn’t been found yet and he was a good bet for it; anyway, Amos’s girl had been tied up, held captive, and he’d been breaking into houses in the village so he was due for some gentle retribution, in other words a damned good hiding.
It was a tiresome job in the pouring rain, soaked to the skin, feet and legs caked in mud, traipsing from culvert to barn, copse to thicket, anywhere that might have provided shelter for this miscreant. Other parties were deployed visiting cottages and farmsteads, searching outbuildings, but the hue and cry had gone out long before the search and the local occupants were quick to assure them they’d already searched and made sure no-one was hiding at their property. Wilkins, with his party, concentrated on the village visiting each home and making a search of all the cart hovels and shelters. By mid-day most were feeling dejected, wet and weary, and in odd ones and twos began to drift away to go home and try to find dry clothes; quite disappointed that they hadn’t had their bit of fun. The stalwarts returned to Bright Meadows but the mood was quite depressed as Amos thanked them for their efforts. He returned to Sarah quite exasperated that such an effort had proved fruitless and he was now convinced that Joseph had escaped and was well away from Meerbrook.
Suddenly there was turmoil in the village again with the news that old mother Badcock was found dead. The shop hadn’t been open and no-one had seen anything of her for two days causing neighbours to become concerned. It was common knowledge that she enjoyed poor health – at least she was always complaining of bad stomach pains and Doctor Board had been out to see her more than once. Unable to get any response by banging and hollering, Obidiah Croft, put his shoulder to the door and forced his way in. The front room shop was in disarray with shelving pulled down and goods scattered about the floor, and there beneath it all lay mother Badcock – dead, and cold as stone. There were no marks of violence readily apparent but the fact that the place appeared to have been ransacked prompted Obidiah to send his son riding hard for the police.
Inspector Wilkins was beginning to know Meerbrook and its residents very well, in fact it was starting to become something of a headache to him. The moment the death was reported to him, he immediately associated it with the troublesome burglar calling himself Joseph. He realised he was jumping to conclusions, but who else could it be? He’d gone there in all haste but Obidiah had tired of waiting and he’d secured the shop as best he could and gone home, leaving everything as he’d found it.
Wilkins carefully pushed on the door and as it opened the little bell tinkled, usually alerting old mother Badcock to a customer. Carefully treading his way into the shop he noted that the mortise lock had been forced away from the woodwork, exactly as he expected, as Obidiah Croft’s message had informed him that he’d had to force the door. He stood and looked around him at the chaos. Mrs Badcock lay on her left side underneath two wooden shelves which appeared to have been ripped from the wall. Scattered around her were skeins of silk, balls of wool, bobbins of cottons, knitting needles and paraphernalia of dressmaking including a bale of Scheele’s Green dress material.
Stepping over the body and avoiding the broken glass of a toffee jar, he cautiously made his way into the kitchen. His meticulous inspection noted that the window catch was unfastened although the window was closed. On close inspection there were scuff marks on the sill, quite indistinct, but which could well be footmarks. Perhaps where someone had climbed in or out, closing the window behind them? On the table stood a dark brown glass jar with no label and alongside it a single teaspoon. He pulled the cork stopper from the jar and peered at the contents that appeared to be very fine granules of a white powdery substance. He lifted the jar to his nose but whether or not it was the cold in his nose, he perceived no smell, and replaced the jar on the table where he’d found it with its stopper intact. The fire was out in the grate and the kettle stone cold. The tea-pot, still part full, was on the hob and it too was cold. A tea-cup, stained in a ring around the inside base where the dregs had dried, also stood alongside the pot. She’d obviously made herself tea at some stage before the attack.
Nothing through the remainder of the little cottage appeared to be out of place, but who would know? Mother Badcock had lived alone for as long as anyone cared to remember. Probably old Mrs. Jessop, the vicar’s housekeeper, was her closest friend, often keeping each other company and sharing the odd cup of tea. He made a mental note to see Mrs Jessop.
Wilkins returned to the body and carefully lifted the bale of material from her and placed it on the set of drawers that served as a counter. The shelving he pushed aside and carefully kneeling to avoid the debris he began to examine the body. There was already post-mortem staining which told him that the body had lain in that position for some time. He noticed a small cut to her forehead that had been underneath her when he’d first looked at her but there was hardly a trace of blood, which, instinct told him, meant that the injury had been caused in the fall and death had been instantaneous or had rapidly followed.
He stood pondering everything that his mind was taking in, then taking his notebook and pencil from his pocket he placed it on the counter and began to write. Every detail that he’d perceived went into his notebook and at each entry he paused with the pencil tip in his mouth thinking of what he might have missed. Resting his elbow on the bale of Scheele’s Green material he sketched a picture of what lay before him. Closing his book he placed it in his pocket, licked his pencil tip again, and placed it behind his ear. He sent a constable to order the removal of the body to a mortuary whilst he began his enquiries.
Mrs Jessop was unable to help to any useful degree. She was very upset at the loss of her friend but she hadn’t been feeling well these last few days and so hadn’t ventured round to see Mrs Badcock. She could confirm that her friend had been poorly for months suffering with pains in her belly that nothing seemed to shift. Dr. Board had been either two or three times and had prescribed something but it had done her no good.
Obidiah Croft was resting in an easy chair as Wilkins called. His wife invited the inspector into the house and Obidiah apologised saying,
“I’m sorry, inspector, I’ve got such awful pain in my belly, I don’t know what’s come to me”.
“Well, just tell me how you came to find Mrs Badcock. What made you force the door? I just want you to tell me how it all came about”.
“I wanted some baccy. I smoke a pipe see? And I was about out o’ baccy so I went to mother Badcock’s, as I usually do, but she was all closed up. Well, that was Tuesday mornin’. By Tuesday tea I’d smoked the last, so this mornin’ I went back to the shop an’ it was still locked up. I thought it was strange so I banged and shouted but there was no mother Badcock. I peered in the windows, best I could, but there was no movement. By this time I was gettin’ a bit worried so I went round the neighbours but no-body had seen anything of her. I wondered if she’d fallen and was perhaps lyin’ there helpless so I thought I’d better do somethin’ about it. I decided to force the door – that’s when I found her. What’s happened, has she been murdered?”
“It’s too soon to say. We can’t go jumping to conclusions”.