Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

Parson Pennywick Takes the Waters by Amy Myers

The Parson Pennywick of this story (and the previous EQMM tale “Parson Pennywick and the Whirligig,”) is only one of several historical characters created for her crime fiction by former publishing executive Amy Myers. She has also given us Victorian chef Auguste Didier, Victorian chimney sweep Tom Wasp, and her own rendering, in a detecting role, of the Greek goddess of love, Aphrodite. Ms. Myers’s latest novels are Tom Wasp and the Murdered Stunner (Five Star) and Murder in the Mist (Severn House).

“Something is amiss on the Walks, Caleb.”

Looking most agitated, Parson Jacob Dale came into his parlour, where I was taking my breakfast. My old friend and host had just returned from conducting the daily service in the church. He is an elderly man, of even greater years than mine own, and not in good health. “It requires your assistance,” he continued ominously.

“Of what nature?” I asked cautiously. My stay in his parsonage on Mount Pleasant in the delightful spa of Tunbridge Wells was a yearly delight, and I would help where I could, although the coffee and toast before me had greater appeal.

“I cannot say.” Jacob looked at me helplessly. “It centred on the bookseller’s store, so Lady Mopford informed me. A threat of death, she cried. Send for Parson Pennywick.”

I have some small local reputation for successful intervention in such situations, and unsought though that honour is, I find my services called upon from time to time. Lady Mopford, whom I knew from previous visits, was a better source of accurate information than the London Gazette.

“Threat to whom?” I asked.

“I do not know.”

Poor Jacob finds matters outside the daily norm distressing. He is more at ease with his learned books than with the problems of his flock, dearly though he would like to help.

“You could take the waters, Parson Pennywick,” Jacob’s delightful daughter Dorothea teased me, attracted by the unusual hullabaloo.

“Thank you, but I put my faith in rhubarb powder.”

Dorothea laughed, and I could not blame her. She is young and therefore all that is old and tried and true is of no value to her — yet. It is hard for me to change my ways, and I cannot believe that a glass of spring water taken in the Walks, popularly known as the Pantiles, would prove a tonic more beneficial than the fresh air of Mount Pleasant. For no one but Jacob and Dorothea would I go to the Walks during the fashionable hours. It was late in June and the high season was upon us. Earlier this century, the Wells would have been host to every person of fashion in London, but by this year of 1783 the delights of Brighton offer an alternative that it cannot match, particularly for the younger visitors. Nevertheless the spa is still crowded with its admirers.

With a wistful glance at Jacob settling down to my coffee and toast, I hastened to remove my cap and to seek wig, hat, and cane. I too must look my best, as Dorothea insisted on accompanying me.

“Make haste, Caleb,” Jacob urged me from the comforts of his own table.

“The spring will not run dry,” I assured him somewhat crossly, “and doubtless the threats of death will by now have cooled.” I was only reconciled to my fate by the thought of the wheatear pie, a Kentish delicacy that I had been promised for dinner that afternoon.

On the Upper Walk of the Pantiles a threat of death seemed as out of place as a Preventive Officer in a parsonage. I suspected Dorothea was less concerned about the fate of some unknown person than about missing the excitement of the day — which would doubtless be long over when we arrived. To enter the Upper Walk was like stepping onto the stage of Mr. Sheridan’s Drury Lane straight from the rainy muddy streets of London town. Gone are the dull cares of everyday and around one is a whirligig of colour, chatter, riches, and culture. Here one may take coffee, read newspapers and books, write letters, dance, play cards, buy Tunbridge Ware — and above all converse. Death does not usually dare speak its name. And yet today, according to Lady Mopford, it had.

How could death be contaminating such a paradise, I wondered? This was a paradise with strict social rules. By now, at well past ten o’clock, the Upper Walk should be all but deserted, as society would have returned to hotels and lodgings to “dress” for the day. Before then, the ladies appear here in dishabille with loose gowns and caps, and the gentlemen are unshaven, as they greet the day by taking the waters. After their departure they would not return until noon, by which time they are boned-and-strutting peacocks in silks and satins of every hue — a delightful spectacle for one whose calling demands more sober colours.

Today, however, I saw to my unease that a great many were still here. Something must indeed be amiss.

“There,” cried Dorothea. Her arm tensed in mine, but I did not need her guidance, for I could see the crowd outside Mr. Thomas’s bookstore and circulating library for myself. He caters for visitors who, having paid a subscription, may have such books as they choose delivered to their lodgings. Mr. Thomas’s shop is always well attended, but today it seemed all Tunbridge Wells wished to advance its knowledge of literature and science. As we pushed our way forward through the throng, Dorothea caught the vital words.

“The Book of Poets,” she exclaimed.

Even I had heard of this tradition — and indeed read the Book in the past with much amusement. For well over a hundred years, this weighty tome containing copies of lyrics from would-be poets had been displayed in the bookstore. At first, these verses had been of a saucy nature circulated amongst gentlemen in the Coffee House, but then they had been requested by a wider public. Ladies now read the love poems in the Book of Poets, each imagining herself the fair damsel addressed — fortunately in more tasteful terms than in earlier times. Nevertheless, the quality scarcely rivalled Dryden, nor their content John Milton.

Seeing Dorothea, who looked most attractive in her printed cotton morning gown, Mr. Edwin Thomas — a fine-looking man of perhaps thirty years — immediately hurried to her side.

“I’m honoured, Miss Dorothea.”

His wife did not look quite so honoured, but was preoccupied in appeasing the sensibilities of the elderly ladies clustered eagerly around the Book, which lay open on a table of its own. Dorothea was equally eager to view it, and so, with Jacob’s mission in mind, was I, as this could be the source of the threat.

Mr. Thomas cleared our path to the Book, after I had explained my presence. “Let me show you yesterday’s verse first, Parson Pennywick,” he said gravely.

A sheet was laid between two pages, and I read:

These most unmemorable lines were writ in a cultured hand, but lacked talent, however heartfelt the sentiment that lay behind them. It was the custom that the lady’s name should be anonymous, but not that of the author. Thus a bold Foppington,followed by a flourish of which only an English aristocrat would be capable, adorned the end of the poem.

Even I had heard of this fop, whose name was so well bestowed. Lord Foppington was the grandson of the Duke of Westshire, and prided himself on his reputation as the most fashionable macaroni in London society, clad in exquisite silks and satins.

“And now,” Mr. Thomas said even more gravely, “see today’s verse, in the same hand but hardly of the same nature or intent.” He turned the page, where I read on the next sheet:

“It is not the thing, sir; indeed it is not,” Mr. Thomas moaned.

“It is a jest,” Mrs. Thomas quavered. A slender woman of far less height than her husband, she was clearly indignant that the world had singled out her beloved spouse for such tribulation.

As indeed tribulation it was. I did not like this affair. I perceived that no name was attached to this verse, but it looked to be from the same hand as its predecessor. “How did it come?” I asked. “Did the poet bring it?”

“It was by our door this morning,” Mr. Thomas told me. “Many of our poets spend their evenings in the Rooms, either dancing or playing cards, according to the evening, and they pen their tributes during the midnight hours, leaving them by our door to find in the morning.”

By the cold light of day, I thought, many must rue their hot-headed declarations. No wonder the fashion for anonymity of the damsels so highly praised by the poets. Did the author of this last verse rue his violent declaration, or was it merely a lovers’ quarrel which time had solved? Somehow I did not think so. “Have you spoken to his lordship today?” I asked.

“Lord Foppington has not appeared this morning, and no wonder,” Mr. Thomas said in a tone of disgust. “Nor, fortunately, has the fair Miss Olivia Cherrington, whom all know to be the nymph he threatens.”

“He is coming,” squealed Mrs. Thomas, running to the window. “Husband, pray do something. Miss Cherrington accompanies him.”

There was a hush outside as all turned to the approaching couple, who seemed to take such attention as their rightful due. Her maid walked dutifully behind her. Both Lord Foppington and Miss Cherrington were in full dress, despite the early hour, he in beribboned breeches and elegant frock coat, she a delightful shepherdess with ornate polonaise drapery, white stockings peeping below the calf-length skirt, and her hair piled high on her head. They looked as though they indeed graced a stage.

“Mr. Thomas, Miss Cherrington is impatient to read my latest poem,” Lord Foppington drawled, seemingly unaware of the twittering disapproval around him.

“I would,” lisped Miss Cherrington. She looked a sweet child for all her affectation, although more a dainty automaton than a young lady with a mind of her own.

“Pray do not,” Mr. Thomas said anxiously.

“Why?” she asked indignantly, turning the fateful page to read it. I made no attempt to dissuade her. If this was a true threat against her life, she should know about it.

“Oh!” A gasp, then Miss Cherrington grew very white and swooned into Mr. Thomas’s arms. Mrs. Thomas hastened to bring salts, which, firmly removing the young lady from her husband’s arms, she applied to the victim’s nostrils with no immediate effect.

“This is your doing, my Lord,” Mr. Thomas said angrily.

Lord Foppington smiled. “She swoons for my love.”

I stepped forward. “She fears, my lord. You must assure her it is a jest.”

“Fears? A jest? Who are you, sir?” Lord Foppington eyed me querulously.

“Parson Pennywick of Cuckoo Leas. Miss Cherrington fears you wish to kill her.”

“Kill her?” Lord Foppington looked blank.

“Your poem threatens it, sir.”

He cast a look at the verse and looked up, frowning. “This is not my poem. I wrote of love, I wrote of her beauty — not this.”

Miss Cherrington quickly opened her eyes. “It is your hand, my Lord,” she snapped, and swooned again.

His lordship looked alarmed. “Fairest nymph, let me recite my poem for today. Hark—

Mr. Thomas had heard enough. “Do you deny you wrote this?” He pointed to the disputed verse.

“Certainly I do.”

Miss Cherrington, now fully awake, burst into tears. “You are a villain, my Lord.”

Lord Foppington dropped instantly upon one knee. “Fair lady, it is not my hand,” he pleaded. “Depend upon it, this is Percy’s doing.”

“Lord Foppington’s rival for her hand,” Dorothea whispered to me in excitement. “Mr. Percy Trott, younger son of the Earl of Laninton.”

“Of what am I guilty, pray?” The languid voice belonged to a full-bodied gentleman dressed a la mode, who was surveying the assembled company through an eyeglass without enthusiasm — until he spied Miss Cherrington.

A dozen voices enlightened him.

“You insult me, you mushroom,” Mr. Trott accused his lordship indignantly, then turning to Miss Cherrington: “Madam, pay no attention to this clunch, this clown.” And back to Lord Foppington: “At dawn tomorrow, my Lord, we shall meet. My seconds shall call upon you.”

Miss Cherrington’s recovery was now remarkable, and she beamed at the prospect of a duel. “I shall forgive you both,” she announced. “Whether alive or dead,” she added generously.

The three left their stage together, apparently all restored to good humour. Playacting? Perhaps. But plays only succeed if based on true emotions — and what those might be here, I could not guess. The crowd began to disperse, no doubt reminded that it was long past the hour when they should be seen in dishabille.

As for myself, Dorothea reminded me that I had apparently clamoured to take the waters, and docilely I agreed. Overhearing this exchange, Mr. Thomas immediately said he would accompany us to the spring, although Mrs. Thomas’s displeasure at having to remain in the store was obvious. The spring was at the end of the Upper Walk and it was the custom for visitors to the Wells to pay a subscription on leaving to one or other of the dippers for service during the course of their stay. This hardly applied to poor parsons, but it pleased Dorothea when I produced a halfpenny.

Most of the dippers were of mature years, with a practised eye for the richest visitors, but Miss Annie Bright was a merry-eyed girl. Annie, so Dorothea explained to me, was the niece of her father’s housekeeper, Mrs. Atkins, and so I acquired her services in filling the metal cup for me.

The pretty little hand closed around my halfpenny and its new owner gave me a merry smile — at which Mr. Thomas too decided to take the waters. Annie spun me a tale of the wondrous properties of the spring and insisted I drank not one but three cups. An even number of cups would bring ill fortune, she told me gravely, but an odd number would give speed to my legs, make my liver rejoice and my spirits rise. I felt neither of the first two effects, only the flat metallic taste of a chalybeate spring, but as for the third, my spirits did indeed rise, as she smiled at me.

But then I saw Lord Foppington chatting amiably to both Miss Cherrington and Mr. Trott, the threat of the poem forgotten. Except by Caleb Pennywick.

That evening I was late to my bed, having been persuaded by Dorothea that I wanted nothing more than to attend Mrs. Sarah Baker’s theatre on Mount Sion to see a performance of Mr. Sheridan’s The Rivals. A most amusing piece. Early the next morning I was awoken by Dorcas. She is my housekeeper, and at home my dearest companion by day and often by night. It is she not I who keeps the difference between us, for she maintains she has no wish to play the part of parson’s wife. She chose to come with me on my visit to Jacob, but remains in the housekeeper’s rooms, as she is eager, she claims, to learn new receipts for our pantry at Cuckoo Leas. Every morning, therefore, she visits the market on the Walks, and today had been no exception.

“Caleb, wake up, lovey.” She was gently shaking me.

I sat bolt upright in my bed. “Are there no more wheatear pies?” I cried, having dined and dreamed happily of them.

“There’s been a murder done.”

“Miss Cherrington?” I was fully awake now.

“No, Caleb. Young Annie Bright, one of the water dippers.”

The lass who had so eagerly received my halfpenny yesterday. My heart bled for the loss of innocence and joy in this world.

“Found by the sweeper at the spring this morning,” Dorcas continued. “A paper knife was stuck in her. In a rare taking is Mrs. Atkins. I told her you’d find out who did it.”

My Dorcas looked at me with such trust and confidence that I quailed. As I sat in my nightshirt in a parsonage not my own, it seemed a most unlikely prospect that I could track down this murderer. “We are strangers here, Dorcas,” I pleaded. “In Cuckoo Leas I know my flock.”

“You can do it, Caleb,” she assured me. “You brought your brain with you, didn’t you? It’s not left behind in that old cocked hat of yours?”

I was forced to smile. That beloved hat was now so old it was forbidden to travel with me.

“Has a runner been requested?” If the local magistrate deemed this case beyond the powers of the Wells’ parish constable, he had the power to summon a Bow Street runner.

“Not yet, Caleb. Annie was a dipper, not a duchess.” There was no bitterness in Dorcas’s voice. We both knew the ways of this world.

The constable would be unpaid and unskilled, and even a country clergyman might do as well. And I could refuse Dorcas nothing.

I was quickly out that morning. I could not wait for breakfast at ten but would take a coffee in the Coffee House. Dear Jacob, who heard the news with perturbation, offered to accompany me to the Sussex Tavern, where he had been told the coroner was to hold an inquest at two o’clock that afternoon and where the constable might now be found. I refused Jacob’s offer, to his relief. I would be better on my own, as I could more easily assume the role of well-intentioned, meddling old parson rather than that of an aspiring Bow Street runner.

“Oh, I solved it already, Parson,” young Constable Wilson said with some pride, when I found him in a rear room of the Tavern, the grounds of which abut the Lower Walk.

It was my turn to be relieved. “Who committed this terrible crime?”

“Jem Smith, Annie’s sweetheart. ‘Twas a lovers’ quarrel. Killed her late last night and the body was found early this morning.”

“A lovers’ quarrel?” I said, forgetting my planned role. “And he happened to be carrying a paper knife with him while he was wooing her?”

The constable gave me a strange look. “Must have been,” he pointed out kindly. “That’s what killed her, see? That’s the evidence, that is. Proof for the magistrate. Jem will be up in front of Sir John Nicholls after this inquest and then be in the lock-up until the assizes.”

So much for justice. The lad was already condemned, it seemed. I resolved to return here at two o’clock, but in the meantime I would stroll in the Lower Walk. I have not yet explained that the Lower Walk plays just as important a role as the Upper. By unspoken assent, the gentry and aristocracy gather alone on the Upper Walk, and at times dictated by the strict timetables that have been in place for many decades. In the Lower Walk, however, the tradesmen and citizens of Tunbridge Wells flock through for the whole of the day, and it is here on the steps at the far end that the market is held from seven to ten o’clock each day.

Here, if Jem were innocent, I might learn the truth. I was uneasy about that paper knife; it spoke of planning and preparation not of a lovers’ quarrel, and I was even more uneasy about the coincidence of a death on the Walks so soon after the threat to Miss Cherrington — although, of course, the verse had been anonymous.

I stopped so suddenly at this thought that I received a sharp blow in my back followed by a curse. A pedlar had been following in my wake and my apology did nothing to assuage the glare I received from this individual. It was to be hoped that his demeanour would change before customers or he would do little trade. It was the tray he carried before him that had jolted my back.

“My apologies, sir,” I said once more. “My thoughts were with the poor girl who died last night.”

Malevolent eyes greeted me. “Aye. The girl-flirt.” His Kentish vowels were so drawn out it was hard to be sure of what he said.

“That is a harsh word,” I answered him.

“I’ve worse.” He peered at me and so strong a sense of evil seemed to come from him that I almost stepped backwards. “The devil’s filly she was.”

“The constable has taken up Jem Smith for her murder,” I remarked.

He stared at me. “There’s plenty had cause.”

Including himself, I wondered? “Was Lord Foppington one of her suitors?” I thought of that anonymous poem.

A grimy finger touched the side of his nose in a meaningful way. “Could be. And that gentleman friend of his — the one with his nose in the air and his stomach before him.” I identified this as the Honourable Percy Trott. “Then there’s Black Micah,” the pedlar added maliciously. “Saw him here last night. Him who sweeps the Walks.”

“And he found the body this morning, I understand.” This was usually an interesting starting point to consider. When Widow Hart was found dead in Cuckoo Leas, her neighbour had found the body — and it was he had done the frightful deed. “Did you see Annie Bright here last night?”

I saw sudden fear on the pedlar’s face and in answer he pushed rudely past me. I glanced at his tray, with the usual ribbons and pins, but pens and knives also. Did he sometimes carry paper knives, I wondered? I could see none, but perhaps because one had found a tragic home last night.

I could see the crossing sweeper, seated on the shallow steps that led to the trees lining the Upper Walk. Black Micah was a solitary figure, bent in gloom, though many people went up to him and spoke a few words. I went to greet him, introducing myself as a parson — much is forgiven of such a calling which in others would be impertinence.

“A great shock, sir, finding Miss Bright’s body.”

He looked up at me; tears were clearing a path through the grime of his face. “My Annie,” was all he could say.

“Our Lord will judge her from her heart, but I heard she was free with her favours,” I said. “But that is mere tittle-tattle, no doubt.”

“Lies,” Micah roared. His ancient three-cornered hat and beard gave him the look of the Bible prophet after whom he was named. “Their tongue is deceitful in their mouth,” he quoted. “She was my friend, she was, and I saw her there dead, with such a look of surprise on her dear sweet face.”

“Was Lord Foppington a friend also?” I needed to establish this.

Another roar. “Rich men are full of violence, so the prophet tells us. Always there he was, he and that Mr. Percy Trott. Promised her a pound when the season was over. She just laughed at them, knowing they didn’t mean it.”

Had Annie laughed once too often? Had she and not Miss Cherrington been his lordship’s Fairest Nymph?

“You swept the Walks last evening. Did you not see her then? Did you see anyone with her?”

He stared at me, then said, “I will bear the indignation of the Lord, for I have sinned against him.” He would say no more, but rocked to and fro in his grief.

I sighed. Was Micah’s idea of sin that he loved Annie more than he should, or that he had not protected her — or that he himself had killed her?

The market was nearly over now, but the day’s bustle continued, as groups gathered and spoke urgently amongst themselves. There was an edge to the atmosphere today. The voices were low and none invited me to join him. I was a visitor, and, worse, an enemy when one of their own had died.

On the Upper Walk, society was reluctantly vanishing to prepare itself for the next stage of their day. But as with yesterday, many still lingered. The crowd, at the well, of ladies in their negligees spoke less of enthusiasm for the cure than of worldly prurience. The dippers were making the most of their companion’s tragic death and who could blame them? Coins were changing hands with great speed for accounts of what an angel Annie had been — or, as I listened to another, what a devil she had been. My heart was full as I thought of Annie’s dead body lying here alone last night. I was paying dearly for the cups of water I had taken from her hands, and vowed I would first be sure that Jem Smith had been her murderer, but if in doubt would seek the truth.

I could endure no more, and walked quickly to the bookstore, where another crowd had assembled outside. A distraught Mr. Thomas guarded the door and caught sight of me with relief.

“Come quickly, Parson. There’s another verse from Lord Foppington.”

I could scarcely believe it. If his verse referred to Annie’s death, not Miss Cherrington’s, then surely he would not write another. I hastened inside, where Mr. Thomas led me to the table where the Book of Poets lay, with Mrs. Thomas grimly guarding it. The verse was brief and to the point:

Fairest nymph, thy end was just indeed

Thy beauty too great for this world’s need.

I blenched. If I had needed proof that the fairest nymph of yesterday’s poem had been Annie, this was it. And yet, to what purpose had the foul deed been advertised? A fearful thought came to me.

“Miss Olivia Cherrington?” I cried. “She is safe?” Could there have been another death besides Annie’s?

“Thanks be to God, she is,” Mr. Thomas said fervently. “I sent to her lodgings for word.”

“It seems it was the water-dipper on whom Lord Foppington’s true fancy fell,” Mrs. Thomas said sadly. “His lordship has a roving eye, I fear, and no doubt the girl was all too willing — at first.”

“Hush, wife,” her husband said angrily. “Annie is dead, and must be mourned. She was a bright star in this most unnatural world. And we must recall that Lord Foppington denied writing yesterday’s poem.”

Mrs. Thomas looked chagrined and I hastened to ask, “Did this verse arrive this morning?”

“It awaited me at the door again. The poet, whether Lord Foppington or Mr. Trott, would hardly have brought it in person, any more than he cared to sign his name.”

“But why display the poem at all? If he killed the girl, would he blazen the fact abroad?”

“Because he might kill again?” Mrs. Thomas ventured.

“I think not,” I assured her gently. “But why should her murderer wish to announce her forthcoming death here, where Annie would not see it? Only the ton would do so. Poor Annie could doubtless not even read, let alone appreciate verses, even of the dire quality displayed here.”

“Lord Foppington is a loose fish,” Mr. Thomas observed, “who professes weariness with everyday life. He and Mr. Trott were members of the Hell Fire Club, where such monstrous folk fed on the death of others for their pleasure.”

This was a new thought to me, and must be considered. Held in the caverns of Wycombe, terrible practices were said to have taken place at these orgies — practices to which the Miss Cherringtons of this world would be strangers, but which were part of the risks of living for the Annie Brights. Had she fallen prey to either or both these fops? Were the poems merely part of their sinister game?

“How could Lord Foppington have met Annie last evening?” I enquired. “Surely he would be escorting Miss Cherrington?”

“After yesterday,” Mr. Thomas suggested, “it is possible that Miss Cherrington decided to avoid the Walks.”

“And so he wreaked his revenge on Annie?”

“Having laid a false trail deliberately with these poems,” Mrs. Thomas contributed.

I frowned. “But were Lord Foppington or Mr. Trott seen here last evening?”

The evenings were as strictly regulated as the days. On Tuesdays and Fridays dancing took place at the Upper and Lower Rooms respectively. Yesterday being a Wednesday, they would have been playing cards or conversing at the Lower Rooms.

“Both were,” Mr. Thomas informed me. “Mrs. Thomas was unwell, but I met friends for a game of cards, and saw them both. And,” he added authoritatively, “I saw Lord Foppington talking to Annie Bright.”

“Did he go to take the waters?” This seemed strange when wine and cognac would be flowing.

“There was no such need. Annie Bright was a serving maid at the Rooms on some evenings, and Jem worked there too.”

“You saw her leave with Jem?” I asked.

“I did. I tarried for one last game — forgive me, my love — and when at last I left, Annie and Jem had long gone. All seemed quiet in the Walks.”

It looked bleak for Jem Smith, and were it not for those verses, I would believe in his guilt myself. Whom would the coroner and magistrate believe? Jem Smith — or Lord Foppington and Mr. Trott? It was time I met Jem. Alas, breakfast in Jacob’s cosy parlour had not seen me, but if the inquest were brief I could be present for dinner at four o’ clock. Meanwhile, a coffee must suffice, and I made my way to the Upper Walk.

Here I could see the waters of society begin to close over the tragic story of Annie Bright. It was twelve o’clock, and the musicians in the gallery opposite overlooking the Upper Walk had begun to play, just as the peacocks began to return to the parade. To my surprise and admiration I saw Miss Cherrington arrive on the arm of an elderly gentleman, whom I presumed to be her father, as she made her entrance onto the Walk. Clad in blue silk, she made a lovely sight and was a braver lady than I had given her credit for. She had heard the news and yet decided to make her appearance despite it. Behind her companion followed Lord Foppington and Mr. Trott, apparently on the best of terms, despite their duel. Neither bore any marks that I could see. They too were in their fine feathers, but what did those feathers guard? The party entered the Coffee House where I sat, and my attention was reluctantly diverted from the charming music of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

Then word came that Jem Smith had been taken to the Sussex Tavern, guarded by Constable Wilson and his hands firmly tied. I could not miss this opportunity and hurried to join them there, on the pretext that Jem might need a parson.

When I arrived, Constable Wilson was still full of his importance as the representative of the law, his rattle at the ready as though even now Jem might make a bid for freedom. The prisoner looked to be a fine upstanding young man, who in twenty years’ time, if proven innocent, would be a solid member of society. Today, he was in a miserable quake.

“I not be condemned yet,” he yelled when he heard I was a parson. The poor fellow thought I had come to escort him to the gallows, and I hastened to make my role clear.

“I would hear your story, Jem,” I told him. “God must judge you as well as the coroner’s jury and Sir John, and I stand here as His messenger.”

He took a careful look at my face and burst into tears. “Annie and me had words,” he managed to say.

“See, he admits the crime,” Constable Wilson broke in triumphantly.

“No, sir,” Jem gasped. “We fell out as she left the Rooms. She was wanting to be wed, but I was waiting until I had a home to take her to. She thought I did not love her. If you don’t want me, there’s others that do, she said, and she went running off across the Walk. I went back inside and Mr. Dale, he’s the owner, told me to leave her be and come back inside. I never saw her again.”

“You didn’t walk past the spring on your way home?”

“No, sir. It’s dark in that corner. Why would I look there? She’d gone to her home — or so I thought.” The tears flowed as he must have realised that he had walked right past Annie’s dead body.

“Did you see Lord Foppington last night, or Mr. Percy Trott?”

His face darkened. “Both of them. Always hanging around her. Annie couldn’t see they had nothing good in mind for her. She told me they offered her a position in London. I thought she might go and leave me.” It was ingenuous of Jem to tell us this, as it provided another reason for his guilt, and yet it was because of that I felt sure he was innocent.

“You heard about Lord Foppington’s poems?”

“Yes, Parson.” He looked suddenly hopeful. “You think he might have killed my Annie? Or Mr. Trott? They were gambling in the Rooms that evening.” His face fell. “But gentlemen like that don’t soil their hands with murder.”

“What about Black Micah or the pedlar?” I asked. Constable Wilson was looking most annoyed at my persistence.

“Annie liked old Micah, but that pedlar — he’s a wrong ’un. Oh sir, you’ll save me?”

I longed to say yes, that God could do that, perhaps through my hands, if he were innocent, but I could not raise his hopes. There was little more than an hour remaining before the inquest would begin.

At first I told myself that it was a good sign that Jem accused no one else, but I was forced to change my mind. Jem’s guilt might lie so heavy upon him that he wished to face the penalty. Promising I would return for the inquest, I made my way back to the Upper Walk, where the peacocks were strutting in their finery. It would have made a pretty sight, if I could have expunged the thought of Annie Bright’s body lying by the side of the spring. Soon the peacocks would mostly depart for the afternoon to walk upon the Common or take an excursion to Rusthall or High Rocks. And all the while Jem’s fate would be determined. I began to despair, seeing no way forward.

And then I saw Miss Cherrington again, walking with her companion down the Upper Walk, a dainty parasol guarding her from the sun — although the sun did not require much to banish it today. I went to greet her and she recognised me immediately.

“Parson Pennywick, that poor girl,” she cried. “I thought it would be me.”

“I too, Miss Cherrington,” I said bluntly, taking more kindly to her. “But you are safe now. I do not believe the verses were meant for you,” I assured her.

To my surprise, Miss Cherrington looked annoyed, not relieved. “But I am the fairest nymph,” she complained.

“Dearest lady, there is no doubt of that.” Like bees to the fragrant flower, Mr. Trott had joined us, with Lord Foppington at his side.

Miss Cherrington looked at them both severely. “I am going to the bookstore. I am told you have written another verse today, Lord Foppington.”

“No,” he bleated indignantly. “Fairest lady—”

Mr. Trott interrupted him. “We must see the Book for ourselves. There is some mistake as neither his lordship nor I has written a poem for today. Permit us to escort you, Miss Cherrington.”

Did they want this poor lady to suffer unnecessarily? Fortunately, from the look in Miss Cherrington’s eye as she regarded her two suitors, her suffering was not too great at present, despite the tragedy of Annie Bright.

Mr. Trott offered Miss Cherrington his arm, as he led her into the bookshop. Lord Foppington and I followed in their wake. Mr. Thomas immediately helped her most solicitously to a chair. The Book of Poets was brought to her, and she read the two lines most carefully.

“But I am not dead,” she pointed out, puzzled. “And you yourself, Mr. Trott, said I was the fairest nymph.”

“You are the fairest,” squealed Lord Foppington, but Miss Cherrington took no notice.

“Do you still deny you wrote these verses, Lord Foppington?” I enquired, as he and Mr. Trott read the new addition to the Book of Poets for themselves.

“I do,” he said. He cast his rival a look of displeasure. “And Percy has a gift for copying work.”

Mr. Trott drew himself up. “My seconds shall call again on you, my lord.”

“And I shall ask my husband to take these verses from the Book,” Mrs. Thomas declared. She drew me to one side, as Miss Cherrington’s swains departed to discuss their next duel. Her husband was occupied in escorting Miss Cherrington and her companion to the door. “They are the work of one, if not both of those gentlemen,” she continued.

“And Annie Bright’s murder too?” I asked gently.

But Mrs. Thomas was intent on the verses. “I do not believe that those verses have anything to do with the murder, Parson.”

I still could not believe that. Had Lord Foppington written them in the hope that with Annie dead, Miss Cherrington would be off her guard? Or had Mr. Percy Trott hoped to ruin his rival’s suit? No. There had to be another solution.

Vexed, my stomach began to object to the absence of a soothing breakfast, and even lacked enthusiasm for the dinner ahead. I could not contemplate taking the waters today, with the memories of Annie so vivid. My mind was in a whirl, a dizziness that came of too much imagination, and too little sustenance. If I was convinced the verses had to do with Annie’s death, I must first reason out why. Could I discount the pedlar and Black Micah from my thoughts on that basis? Possibly. Lord Foppington again assumed monstrous proportions in my mind, with Mr. Trott leering over his shoulder.

This is balderdash, Caleb, I told myself firmly, merely the result of an upset digestion. And to think I had brought no rhubarb powder with me! I took prompt action. I asked Mrs. Thomas for directions to an apothecary.

I had not far to go, and there I had the delight of meeting not only with rhubarb powder but with my dear Dorcas.

“Parson Pennywick,” she said in delight. Caleb was used only on informal occasions. “Fancy that. I was here to buy you some rhubarb powder.”

“And I was on the same mission.” We looked at each other, highly pleased. “Shall we attend the inquest together?” I asked.

Dorcas was doubtful about the propriety of this, but I persuaded her, and having taken my rhubarb powder with water, we made our way back to the Lower Walk and along to the Sussex Tavern. I could still hear the strains of music and that, together with my faithful remedy, did much to calm me.

“For what reason,” I asked her, “would Lord Foppington write those verses himself? Did he announce his plan to murder Annie Bright only because of his vanity as a poet?”

“No, Parson,” Dorcas declared sensibly. Her comfortable figure at my side, clad in the familiar caraco jacket, gave me strength. “These society folk know well how to look after themselves, when their skins are at stake.”

“You are right. It would be too dangerous for him or for Mr. Trott to do so.”

We were already at the Sussex Tavern garden and we would shortly reach the room at the rear of the inn where the inquest would be held. And my mind was still in a jumble. And then Dorcas said:

“I’ll take a cup of those waters tomorrow, in memory of Miss Bright.”

I remembered pressing the coin into Annie’s hand. I remembered who had been at my side. Who had sought the excuse to come with me. Whose trade would give him ample opportunity to seize a paper cutting knife. Whose wife was so devoted, he found it hard to get away. Yet he had got away. He said he had been playing cards that evening; he doubtless had the skills to copy Lord Foppington’s hand, and the opportunity to place the poems by the bookshop door, where they were found, thus to take the attention away from himself. Mr. Edwin Thomas, beloved of the ladies. Had he expected Annie Bright to love him too, and when she refused his favours killed her?

I was jubilant. I had the story. I was sure of it. Now I must speak to the coroner and to Sir John himself.

“We will soon have this wheatear pie cooked,” I told Dorcas, thinking to please her by a reference to the dish she is so eager to try at Cuckoo Leas.

“No. You will only eat it, Caleb,” she jested. “’Tis the kitchen where the pie is put together.”

I stared at her. The kitchen? My mind clarified like liquid passed through a jellybag.

Not Mr. Thomas, but Mrs. Thomas. So possessive of her husband that she would be rid of the woman she falsely believed to be his light o’ love. She did not wish her husband to be incriminated and so wrote those verses to deflect attention from him. Under pretence of being ill, she took a paper knife from their store and stabbed her supposed rival. It was she who had cooked this pie, and thought to enjoy the results.

We were at the door of the inquest room now. Before we entered, I took Dorcas’s hand and pressed it to my lips. Jem Smith would owe his life to her — and, of course, to rhubarb.