My master stops me in the hall this morning as I am carrying coals upstairs.
‘I want you to deliver a letter, Ames. To Mr Wharton, if you please.’
The wind blows round the street door, and rain is drumming on the windows.
‘You won’t melt,’ he says, seeing my face. ‘Jonathan attends me in the Tolzey Walk, and I won’t trust Scrub with a letter of business. I’ll ask my wife to give you a half day next time she can spare you. There’s my good girl.’ And the Devil take Mr Roving-Hands, he has his hands in my skirts before I can dodge him, and nearly reaches to where he should not.
Unawares, Mrs Hucker steps into the passage with a tray of chocolate, and smiling to Master says in the same breath, ‘Idle girl. This chocolate’s getting cold. Take it up to Mistress this moment or I’ll have you whipped.’ She bustles off, and Mr Tuffnell murmurs, ‘Whipped, eh? I should like that.’
He is a wicked man, and yet there is something I cannot dislike about him, whether it be his crinkling eyes or his habit of straightening his face comically when Mrs Hucker grumbles. Some merchants dress in fustian and look more like parsons than men of business, whereas Mr Tuffnell sports lace at his cuffs, wears kidskin gloves, and a white lace collar that sets off his handsome eyes and fine complexion, and I do not always resent his attentions as much as I ought to.
In town the rain beats across the quays like great black wings, and the ships thump the harbour walls, tormented by the wind. I am blinkered by my bonnet, and do not see Mr Wharton standing beneath the eaves of Mr Tuffnell’s warehouse until he whistles to catch my attention.
‘Good day, Sir.’ I pull the letter from my shawl, careful not to get it wet. ‘Shall I wait for a reply?’
He scans the letter, grim-faced. ‘Tell Mr Tuffnell I’ll ship the rest of his sugar to Barbuda House as soon as I can find a carrier.’
‘Doesn’t Mr Tuffnell trust his warehouse to withstand the storms?’
He looks at me sarcastically. ‘Are you his steward?’
‘I was only asking, Sir.’
‘Like many merchants Mr Tuffnell prefers his property to lie under his own roof in winter. Off you go, girl.’
‘May I first ask how Mrs Wharton does, Sir? She was kind to me when I took your letter. You have two fine children, Sir.’
As the sternest fellow will, he softens at mention of his family. ‘They do well enough. Mrs Wharton is in good health. Though she is somewhat upset by the latest news. It is difficult for those of her caste and religion. Being so few of them in Bristol, of course they know one another.’
‘Beg pardon, Sir?’
‘A body was found last night, a Jewish man. Forgive me, the corpse had been badly mistreated, and was much decayed. My wife believes the man was killed from ignorant superstition. He was red-haired, his name was Jacob—Jacob Stein, but “Red Jack” or “Red John” to those who know no better.’ He sees my shocked expression. ‘What? The unfortunate man’s innocence is proven. He was dead long before the recent murders. Now perhaps the good citizens of Bristol will see we cannot blame Jews for every evil that befalls us.’
‘Please tell Mrs Wharton I am sorry, Sir.’ And I am. The name ‘Coronation’, which commemorates a king who saved England from popery and wooden shoes, is shaming when I remember that those who chiefly hate Jews are Protestants.
‘Time you ran back to Wine-street, young miss,’ he says, ‘the sky is clearing. Tell Mr Tuffnell the matter will be arranged by midday tomorrow.’
I find no patch of blue above us and need no reminding to run. The rain is so cold I think only of getting home as fast as my legs will carry me. Only as I cross High-street does it occur to me to call on Liz and tell her what I have been told. If Red John truly is John Hench, she and Bill should know.
***
I find Liz crouched over a pan of boiling suds, and the whole place reeks of lye.
‘However will you dry it all? Lord, Liz, don’t you hate this weather?’
‘Good day to you too, Sister. I shall have to give it back wrung out instead of dry. Meaning half the pay.’
‘It never rained like this in Wiltshire.’
‘We had a better roof. At least the cold keeps Bill away. He goes supping with his mates.’
‘Has he spoken of John Hench lately?’
‘Why?’
‘Some say our stable boy was murdered by a red-haired Jew, but the Jew’s dead. I’m told he died months ago, judging by the state the body’s in.’
‘Well, don’t let Bill hear you pestering me about John Hench.’
‘I won’t.’ Her tone is so snappish I forbear to say it was Liz who mentioned John Hench last time I visited.
‘Hench is a rogue and a thief, but that’s not the same as a murderer. Fetch me a pail of water, would you, Corrie? I’m ready for rinsing.’
The pump runs slowly, so I am gone a while. Liz’s mood has altered when I return. She takes the pail but sets it to one side, and closing the door firmly, indicates for me to sit.
‘I have something to say, and you mustn’t tell anyone.’
As children we used to solemnize our promises to each other by linking fingers. I hold up my little finger but she does not smile. ‘It is a serious matter, Corrie. Life and death, perhaps. I know what you suspect. You’re wrong. John Hench is mixed up in something bad, and so is Bill because of him, but it’s nothing to do with murdered boys.’
I can’t quite bring myself to assure her I had no such thought in my head. I sit quietly as she goes on, and try not to notice her twisting fingers. ‘John Hench shot a deer the other day,’ she says.
‘A deer? Whose deer?’
‘Never mind whose deer. Some lord with a great park outside Bristol. Hench made Bill sell it to a butcher friend of his. He’s done it half-a-dozen times. Bill poaches hares and rabbits here and there, which is folly enough, but a deer is different.’ She looks at the floor, biting her lips. We both remember men in Wiltshire hanged for poaching deer.
‘Where’d Bill put a deer, for pity’s sake? How does he move it without being seen?’
‘He hangs them out the back, and takes them to the butcher in two goes. He has an old wheelbarrow we use for carrying firewood.’
‘He’s mad.’
‘I know.’
‘They’ll hang him.’
‘Stop it. I’m only telling you so you’ll quit badgering me about John Hench.’
I contemplate her for a moment, lost for words. She’s poor, and will be poorer still if Bill goes to the gallows for being too weak to stand up to his friend.
Liz seems to brush aside my pity. ‘Don’t look like that. I’m not the one risking their neck.’ She gets to her feet. ‘I must rinse these shirts and see if I can’t dry them somehow. Help me empty the dirty water outside, then you’d best be getting back.’
Her manner is so sharp that I am glad to leave, though my spirits are low as I make my way to Wine-street. One worry is laid to rest, only for another to take its place. I am glad John Hench is not the murderer. But if ‘Red John’ is a bogeyman dreamt up from fear and foolish superstition, and John Hench a common poacher, who did kill Abraham and the other boys?
I promised Liz I would stop asking questions about John Hench. I never promised to stop asking questions altogether.
***
The wind blows me back down Wine-street to Barbuda House, and after I hang up my cloak in the scullery a puddle spreads across the flagstones.
‘Is Mr Tuffnell still at home, Nell Grey? I’ve brought a message.’
‘Don’t go near him, Corrie Amesbury. A skipper came into port this morning and the Tolzey’s in uproar. There are storms at sea worse by far than we’ve seen in Bristol. Mr Tuffnell came back saying his vessel is likely at the bottom of the ocean, and half his worldly wealth with it. He’s been shouting this past hour, and Mistress is in tears. And Mrs Hucker is in a foul temper too. The weather has made the hams go mouldy, and she snapped at Mr Roach for bringing in damp wood.’
‘Is Cook brave, or stupid?’
‘Stupid, I’d say. Mrs Tuffnell always takes Roach’s side. I heard her telling him not to grieve for George Goodfellow. Roach wouldn’t grieve if it was his own old mother died, never mind a lad he cared for as a handy object to shine his fists on. Mrs Hucker is the one I pity. She loved George in her way. Roach locked him in the cellar once. Mrs Hucker let him out, and told Roach if he tried that trick again she would tell on him to Mr Tuffnell. Roach stole the cellar key when Master’s back was turned.’
‘But surely Master noticed when he came to lock up?’
‘Oh, Roach gave it back. But only after he took a print of it, in a clod of garden clay. If Mr Tuffnell ever misses anything from his cellar I shall tell him to search the bothy before he accuses us women-servants. I wager a pound to a penny Roach took that mould and had some blacksmith make a copy from it.’
‘Why did you never tell me this before, Nell Grey?’
‘What does it signify? It is only another reason not to like Mr Roach. You never liked him anyway. Most servants steal their master’s rum now and then, especially men.’
‘Do they? Does Jonty?’
‘Keep your voice down! He’s borrowed the key once or twice, aye, and helped himself to a dram or two. I wouldn’t be so bold myself, but I don’t care for rum, and I’d be scared of being caught. I don’t judge Jonty for it.’
I watch her as she saunters off. Nell Grey is as honest as the day is long, and yet her fondness for Jonty makes her forget right and wrong. I hope it does not lead her to risk her place one day—Jonty is handsome, but I doubt he is worth the loss.