The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

THE MYSTERY OF CANUTE VILLA by Martin Edwards

“Why should an innocent and respectable lady of good family and in her late middle years, never touched by a breath of scandal, be haunted by a mysterious stranger whose name is entirely unknown to her?”

The woman in the railway carriage nodded. “You have expressed the problem in a nutshell.”

Her companion tugged at his beard. “It is a tantalizing puzzle, I grant you, my dear Mrs Gaskell.”

As the train rattled round a bend, she said, “I only hope that I have not called you up to Cheshire on a wild goose chase.”

He gave a little bow. “Your summons was so intriguingly phrased, how could any man fail to hasten to your side?”

“Of course,” she said, “I am profoundly grateful to you for having agreed to spare me a little of your precious time. I realize that there are many calls upon it.”

More than you know, dear lady. Charles Dickens suppressed a sigh. It had been his intention to evaporate – as he liked to describe it – from London to spend a few pleasant days with Ellen Ternan. However, as no doubt she had calculated, Mrs Gaskell’s telegram had fascinated him. Within an hour of its receipt, he was on the train heading north to Manchester. He had an additional motive for racing to her side, being determined to seize an opportunity to improve relations between them. Once they had been on first class terms, but ever since their wrangles over the serialization of North and South, she had displayed a stubbornness unbecoming (if not, sadly, uncommon) in any woman, let alone the wife of a provincial clergyman.

He smiled. “Do you remember why I used to call you Scheherezade?”

She blushed. Not, he was sure, because her memory had failed, but rather from that becoming modesty that had entranced him in the early days of their acquaintance.

“You must recall my saying I was sure your powers of narrative can never be exhausted in a single night, but must be good for at least a thousand nights and one. Besides, your message was so teasing that no man with an ounce of curiosity in his blood could possibly resist.”

She permitted herself a smile. “You have not lost your gift for flattery, my dear Mr Dickens.”

“Charles, please.” He gave an impish grin. “Scheherezade.”

As if to cover her embarrassment, she looked out of the window at the fields and copses flying by. “We have reached Mobberley. Soon we shall be arriving.”

He clapped his hands. “I eagerly await my first sight of Cranford! Tell me, meanwhile, more about your friend Mrs Pettigrew.”

“Ah, dear Clarissa. It is difficult for me to think of her by the Major’s name. To me, she will always be Clarissa Woodward or, at a pinch, Mrs Clarissa Drinkwater.”

“You have met her second husband, Major Pettigrew?”

“Only once, at the wedding.”

“You do not care for the Major or his habit of bragging about his service in India?”

“I did not say that.”

“And I did not ask if it were true,” he said briskly. “I asserted it as a fact, inferred from your manner whenever you have mentioned the fellow’s name.”

Elizabeth cast her eyes to the heavens, but managed to suppress a sigh of irritation. “I suppose I can hardly complain if, having been enticed here by the invitation to conduct yourself as a detective, you start to play the part at every conceivable opportunity.”

He laughed. “We have that fascination for the work of a detective in common, do we not? I recall that splendid little piece you wrote for me on disappearances. Let me say, I am thankful I live in the days of the Detective Police. If I am murdered, or commit bigamy, at any rate my friends will have the comfort of knowing all about it.”

“Your memory is remarkable.”

“So is my inquisitiveness. Why have you not seen fit to inform the local constabulary of Mrs Pettigrew’s distress?”

“For no other reason than that, in her letter, she pleaded with me not to do so.”

“And why, pray, do you think she was so reluctant for the matter not to be investigated?”

“I suspect that her husband would not approve. She appears to be reluctant to do anything without his permission.”

Dickens peered out of the window. “The station approaches!”

His companion gazed out of the window. “The coming of the railway has made such a difference to Knutsford. The embankment divides our old chapel from the rest of the town.”

“The march of progress, my dear Scheherezade!”

They were to be conveyed to the Royal George Hotel, where Elizabeth had booked quarters at the rear overlooking the Assembly Rooms. The journey was short but, with his characteristic zest for exploration, Dickens insisted that they be taken the long way round, by way of Princess Street and the Heath, so that he could imbibe the air of a town he had known hitherto only from the pages of his companion’s novel.

“That is Clarissa’s home,” Elizabeth said, pointing towards a grey and forbidding double-fronted house standing in grounds that overlooked a large tract of open land. “Canute Villa takes its name from the ancient king who is supposed to have forded a river here. It is one of the finest houses in Knutsford.”

“A splendid situation. She and the Major can have scant need to practise the elegant economy which I associate with Cranford.”

“I prayed that she would be happy.” She spoke with such soft sadness that Dickens needed to strain to hear over the clatter of hooves on the cobbles. “But when she wrote to me, her terror was evident. I was appalled. Clarissa has known her share of tragedy, but her spirit has always been strong enough to enable her to face the vagaries of Fortune.”

Dickens nodded. “Merely to read the letter is to recognize the fear instilled in its author by the events she describes. You have known her since childhood?”

“She is seven years older than myself, but our families, the Woodwards and the Stevensons, lived a few doors apart from each other and were always on good terms. My brother John was friendly with her twin brother Edgar.”

Dickens knew a little of John. His death had been one of the tragedies of Elizabeth Gaskell’s life. He was a seaman who had sailed the Seven Seas but been lost when his sister was seventeen; some said he was drowned, some that he had been set upon by brigands in the sub-continent, and there was even a picturesque story that he had been killed by pirates. Elizabeth had drawn on her grief when writing; disappearances haunted much of her finest work.

“She married a man called Drinkwater, you say?”

“Thomas was a solicitor, a man fifteen years Clarissa’s senior. He was thought to be a confirmed bachelor, but on meeting my friend at a party, he was quite swept off his feet. Clarissa could have had taken her pick of men, but she saw in Thomas a steadfastness that she found admirable.”

“To say nothing of a handsome income?”

Her eyes blazed. “Charles, that is a scurrilous thing to say! Thomas was a thoroughly decent man. I know that you entertain a certain scepticism about members of the legal profession, but I really…”

“Please forgive me, Scheherezade,” he said quickly, and with unaccustomed humility. “I did not mean to cast aspersions on your friend’s integrity.”

“I should hope not indeed! The fact is that the marriage was one of the happiest I have known. When he died of apoplexy three years ago, she was heartbroken.”

“There were no children?”

“No, to the dismay of both Clarissa and Thomas.”

“And what of brother Edgar?”

“He died ten years ago. Poor fellow, his heart was always weak. He was the last of the male Woodwards.”

“Thus she was left not only alone but also very wealthy?”

As the carriage pulled up before the stables in George Yard, Elizabeth Gaskell slowly inclined her head.

Over afternoon tea in the comfortable public room of the hostelry, Dickens summarized the essentials of the conundrum that Clarissa Pettigrew had posed.

“Since her second marriage, your friend has become a virtual recluse. By nature she is charming and convivial, popular because she has always been not only attractive in appearance but generous and thoughtful. Nowadays, however, she and the Major shun neighbours, friends and even relatives. Your opinion is that this is at his insistence.”

“I refuse to believe otherwise.”

“Very well. According to your observation, the Major is not only considerably younger than Clarissa, but also appears to lack independent means.”

“He is a fine figure of a man, but at the wedding, there was gossip that he had not a penny to his name until he took her for his wife. Some folk said he’d run into trouble while he was serving in India and that if he hadn’t left the army, he would have been disgraced.”

Naturally there would be gossip; this was Cranford. However, Dickens kept the thought to himself. He drained his cup of tea and helped himself to a slice of gateau.

“The effect of the marriage is, as you will appreciate, to transfer into the Major’s name your friend’s inheritance. The house, her first husband’s investments, everything. A scandalous state of affairs, in my opinion. Nevertheless, that is the law.”

“Indeed.” Elizabeth’s face was a mask.

“Still, although the two of you had enjoyed only limited contact by way of correspondence since the wedding, you had no reason to believe that anything was amiss until you received the letter.”

“Friends in the town had informed me of their sorrow, that Clarissa and the Major appeared to be cutting them off. Nobody could believe that was Clarissa’s wish. Everyone blamed her new husband. Rumour had it he once blacked her eye when in a drunken rage. But who would dare to come between man and wife? I felt helpless until she wrote and asked for my aid.”

“Did you know that she had been unwell?”

“Not at all. You may imagine my dismay when she told me that for several weeks illness had confined her to the house.”

“She speaks of a malady affecting her nerves.”

“Which is quite unlike Clarissa. As a girl, I rather idolized her. She was blessed not only with a delightful personality but a robust constitution and ready wit. Very far removed, if you will forgive me, from a Dora Copperfield.”

“According to Clarissa, on Monday last she spied a stranger lurking outside Canute Villa. An unkempt tramp in a battered hat and coat, hiding amongst the trees at the far side of the Heath. At first she paid him scant attention, but on the following day she noticed him again. He appeared to keep watch on the comings and goings of the household.”

Elizabeth eyed him sharply. “You say according to Clarissa. Do you imply scepticism concerning her veracity?”

“We cannot rule out anything.”

She flushed. “Well, I can! Clarissa would never dream…”

“If we are to stand in the shoes of members of the detective police,” Dickens interrupted, “we must refuse to be swayed by personal loyalties or affections. Without logic, Elizabeth, a detective is lost!”

“Please proceed,” she said, struggling for an icy calm.

Dickens cleared his throat and launched into the story, with as much gusto as if reciting Mrs Gamp or Sikes and Nancy.

“In ordinary circumstances, she would have approached the man and shooed him off. However, when she ventured from the door at the side of the house, he vanished. Later that night, however, when noting that the housemaid had drawn the curtains imperfectly and left a gap between them, she caught a glimpse in the moonlight of a dark figure loitering on the edge of the Heath and subjecting Canute Villa to intensive scrutiny. She could not see him clearly, but he was wearing a low-brimmed hat and she was sure that the tramp had returned. Fearing burglary, she informed her husband, but although he went out to inspect the grounds of their home, he could find nothing.

“On his return, he accused Clarissa of succumbing to flights of fancy and went so far as to question her state of mind. She came close to believing that she had indeed imagined the whole episode, but the following day, through the window she caught sight once more of the mysterious stranger. When he saw her looking at him, he disappeared from view. The Major was out of the house at the time and when he returned and she told him what had happened, he consulted the housemaid, a girl by the name of Alice. She denied having seen the apparition and the Major lost his temper – not, I gather, an unusual occurrence – and said that Clarissa was imagining things and that if she did not have a care, she would soon find herself confined to an asylum.”

Pausing for breath, he considered his companion. Elizabeth was fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth.

“Why did her husband not believe her?” she murmured, as though wrestling with an abstruse mathematical problem.

Dickens gave a shrug of the shoulders. “At all events, the next morning saw a further development. While the Major and the housemaid were out of the house, she found a crudely scrawled note tucked under the door of the house. It read simply: Please meet at nine o’clock behind the Lord Eldon. And it was signed ‘Datchery’. A name unknown to Clarissa. Having lived in the town all her life, she is certain that no local resident is so called. Frightened by the message, she showed it to her husband to see if he was familiar with Datchery, or could otherwise make any sense of the message. Her candour proved unwise. The Major flew into a fury and accused her of indulging in an unseemly association with another man and concocting a tale about a mysterious tramp to conceal her illicit relations with a lover. With no one else to turn to, Clarissa wrote in haste to seek the wise counsel of her old friend and confidante Elizabeth Gaskell.”

“You have seen the letter. The trembling script indicates that Clarissa’s nerves are in tatters. She says she fears for her sanity and I can believe it.” Elizabeth took a deep breath. “This is what marrying the Major has done to her.”

Dickens said grimly, “I look forward to making the acquaintance of the unhappy couple. You have explained that I shall be accompanying you on your visit?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Even though she begged me to come and see her, you will recall that she implored me to say nothing in reply that might antagonize her husband, as he always insisted upon reading correspondence that she received, and she had concealed from him the very fact that she had written to me. I composed my response in terms of the utmost diplomacy, saying merely that I would call upon them while taking you around the sights of Cranford. She has always loved your writing, Charles, and I doubt whether even a bully such as the Major could easily object to our visiting them.”

Dickens beamed. “An enthusiast for my work? That settles it, Scheherezade. Poor Mrs Pettigrew is most certainly not in danger of losing her mind.”

The two of them strolled the short distance from King Street to Canute Villa by way of the Lord Eldon, an old coaching inn close to the livestock market at Heathside. Dickens insisted upon inspecting the alleyway where, he presumed, the meeting with the ruffian who called himself Datchery was supposed to have taken place.

“Hmmm.” He tapped a walking stick on the cobbles. “An interesting spot for a rendezvous. Quiet and not overlooked. Convenient for the Pettigrews’ house, so it would be easy to slip away and meet someone here covertly before returning home. There is a good chance that a brief absence would not be noticed.”

“Why would this man want to meet Clarissa?”

“My dear woman, the first question is whether it was Clarissa whom he wanted to meet.”

“You think the note might have been intended for the Major?”

“Or even the housemaid.”

Elizabeth said thoughtfully, “I had not contemplated the thought, but now that you mention it… Alice is as obliging as she is pretty. She has been with Clarissa since Mr Drinkwater was alive.”

“Are there other servants?”

“At the wedding she mentioned a manservant called Bowden, who was rather sweet on Alice. However, in her last but one letter to me, a fortnight ago, she said that the Major had given him notice and not appointed anyone to take his place.”

Dickens wagged a finger playfully. “Ah, elegant economy is practised in Cranford after all!”

“I gained the impression that the expenses of the household were mounting. She said that the Major found it most satisfactory to have a home overlooking a racecourse. No doubt he likes to make a wager from time to time.”

“Let us speak plainly. If the craze for gambling has seized him, then the assets of the late Mr Drinkwater risk being squandered in all too short a time.” Dickens shook his head. “Come, let us make our visit.”

As they followed a path across the Heath, Elizabeth pointed out the site of a grandstand that a new company proposed to erect to accommodate spectators at the races.

“This afternoon the place may be deserted, but they say that with the coming of the railway, the races will attract thousands.”

He rubbed his chin. “The world is changing, Scheherezade. Yet people, at heart, do not change.”

“I’m not much of a man for reading,” Major Pettigrew harrumphed.

Dickens favoured his host with a smile so cordial that it bordered on the oleaginous. “You are a man of action, sir. A pair of humble scribblers such as Mrs Gaskell and myself can do nothing but look with awe upon a soldier who has seen service in far-flung and dangerous corners of the world.”

Pettigrew eyed his guest suspiciously but, unable to find obvious fault with the compliment, nodded towards the door leading back into the house and muttered, “We must return to the ladies. As I sought to make clear when you were introduced, my wife is a sick woman. It is most important that she should not over-excite herself.”

They were standing in the garden to the rear of Canute Villa. A square lawn was fringed by rhododendron bushes, climbing roses and ancient copper beeches. After the demure housemaid had admitted the visitors to the presence of the Pettigrews, conversation was stilted. It was plain from the Major’s brusqueness that he did not welcome guests in his home. However, he could hardly expel such illustrious visitors without observing the common courtesies.

Dickens had convinced himself that, if they were to help Clarissa at all, it would be essential for Elizabeth to speak to her in private. Thus, from the moment they were led into the large and immaculate drawing room, Dickens had chattered without drawing breath before glancing through the bay window looking out on to the lawn and expressing his admiration for the garden in fulsome terms before begging to be allowed to inspect it at close quarters. Elizabeth managed to suppress her amusement at his effrontery and Pettigrew had, albeit with a show of reluctance, consented to show Dickens around the grounds. Once outside, Dickens had talked endlessly about the privations of life as a writer while his host shifted impatiently from foot to foot.

Obediently, Dickens trotted after his host as they returned to the drawing room. Pettigrew was tall and erect in bearing and boasted a splendid dark moustache. Dickens could imagine him charming an older woman, if he put his mind to it, but his chin was weak, and a petulant note was apt to enter his voice when he made even the most commonplace remark.

On entering the presence of the ladies, Dickens caught Elizabeth’s eye. She frowned and gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head as he spoke.

“Mrs Pettigrew, may I compliment you? Your garden is as delightful as your charming home.”

Clarissa’s lips twitched; it seemed to be as close as she could come to offering a smile. Her face was deathly pale and her frail body trembled in the brocaded armchair.

“You are – very kind,” she said in a voice so faint that it was barely audible. “To think that we should entertain a guest as distinguished as…”

“Yes, yes,” her husband interrupted. “Dickens, it is good of you and Mrs Gaskell to have stopped off from your travels to call at our humble abode, but as you can see, my wife is dreadfully fatigued. I do believe, Clarissa, that it would be best for you to go to bed. Come, my dearest, remember what the doctor said this morning. You must not tax yourself. It could be dangerous.”

“ ‘Come, my dearest’,” Elizabeth quoted scornfully when they had repaired to the sitting room at the Royal George. “The man is a hypocrite. He does not care for her one jot.”

To see her old friend in such a sorry state had hit her hard. Dickens was tempted to clasp her hand and murmur words of consolation, but a moment’s reflection persuaded him of the unwisdom of such a course. He would not wish his good intentions to be misinterpreted. Women could be such fearful creatures.

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing of value. She insisted that she had been mistaken. Her husband was right and the mysterious stranger was indeed a figment of her imagination.”

“What?”

“She apologized profusely for having allowed a momentary nervous turn to summon us on a fool’s errand. However much I pressed her, she remained adamant. As for the note from Datchery, she had dreamed it. Stuff and nonsense! I know Clarissa too well. Something quite dreadful must have happened in order to reduce her to such a pitiable state, to cause her to lie to one of her oldest friends.”

“You are convinced that she did receive the note she described?”

“Most certainly. The question is – what has happened in between her writing to me and this afternoon to prompt such a crisis of confidence that, even when free of her husband’s malign presence, she would not admit the truth even to me?”

“I suspect that…” Dickens began.

“Surely the answer is obvious? Pettigrew has intimidated her into denying the truth. For some reason, he is anxious that nobody should know of the tramp, or of Datchery – although I believe that they are one and the same.”

“There is an alternative hypothesis, Scheherezade. If the tramp does exist, what is his purpose? Could it be that the Major has instructed him to haunt Canute Villa?”

“To what end?”

“So that his wife comes to believe that she is indeed mad?”

Elizabeth passed a slim hand across her face. “Oh, Charles, what are we to do?”

That question remained unanswered as Elizabeth and Dickens drank coffee after dinner that evening. The venison had been excellent, but their appreciation of a fine meal had been dulled by concern for the woman trapped in such unhappiness behind the bleak facade of Canute Villa. Each time Dickens came up with a fresh notion for confronting Pettigrew, Elizabeth dismissed it, pointing out the difficulties of coming between man and wife. They risked making matters even worse for Clarissa, she warned. But when Dickens demanded to know what she proposed to do to assist her friend, she confessed to being at an utter loss.

“Only one course remains open,” Dickens said at length. “We must track down the tramp and press him for the truth.”

“But where might he be?”

“This is your home ground, Elizabeth. Where do you suggest a man might seek to hide, or make a temporary home?”

She frowned. “The woodland bordering the Heath is quite dense. And there is the Moor, of course.”

“The Moor?”

Elizabeth nodded. “It is the marshy valley below King Street. Tatton Mere peters out into tall reed beds and folk call it the Moor. It has a special place in my affections, since I used to play there for hours on end as a child. Certainly that area is as wild as anywhere in the neighbourhood. I remember when we were young… my goodness, Mr Tompkins, what is the matter?”

The proprietor of the inn, a ruddy-faced man of equable temperament, had burst into the room. The colour had drained from his face and he was gasping for breath.

“Mr Dickens! Mrs Gaskell! We spoke earlier about your friend Mrs Pettigrew and her husband the Major!”

“What is it?” Elizabeth asked in a tremulous voice. “Has something – happened to Clarissa?”

Tompkins stared at her. “Oh, no, Mrs Gaskell. At least…”

“Come on, man!” Dickens was shouting. “Tell us what brings you rushing in here as though you have seen a ghost.”

“I have – I have seen no ghost,” Tompkins stuttered. “But I have seen the body of a man. It is Major Pettigrew, and his eyes were almost popping out of his head. He has been most foully murdered.”

Not until the next afternoon did Dickens manage to secure an interview with Sergeant Rowley, the detective charged with investigating the most sensational crime to have been associated with Knutsford since the hanging of Highwayman Higgins, whose exploits had inspired Elizabeth to pen a story for Household Words. To his dismay, Rowley was scarcely an Inspector Field or a Sergeant Whicher. Broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced and short of breath, he made it clear that he was not to be impressed either by the fame of his visitor or a close acquaintance with London’s principal detectives.

“You will forgive me for keeping you waiting, sir,” Rowley said, without a hint of apology in his demeanour, “but the murder of Major Pettigrew is a most serious business and I have been fully occupied in seeking to ensure that the malefactor is brought swiftly to justice.”

“I wish you every success,” Dickens said. “I thought it might help if…”

“Bless you, sir,” Rowley said, failing to conceal smug satisfaction, “it is generous of you to offer assistance, but we have already apprehended the culprit. The constabulary of Knutsford may not be as eminent as its counterpart in the metropolis, but I can assure you that our dedication to our work is second to none, the length and breadth of the British Isles.”

“There is talk in the town that you have arrested someone already.”

“Indeed, Mr Dickens. A fellow by the name of Bowden. He used to work at Canute Villa, but the Major gave him notice two weeks ago.”

“You think that Bowden would have waited so long before taking revenge for his dismissal?”

Rowley shrugged. “There is more to it than that. Young Bowden was hoping to marry the girl who works for the Pettigrews.”

“Did she throw him over?”

“Not exactly, as I understand it. But the Major was a ladies’ man, God rest his soul. There is talk that he had taken a shine to young Alice.”

“But she had worked for Clarissa for years!”

“Even so, sir. The Major’s a fine figure of a man and it doesn’t take much sweet talk to turn a pretty young woman’s head.”

“So Bowden killed him to make sure he didn’t lay his hands on Alice?”

“You’re a man of the world, sir, so you won’t mind my saying that I’d wager he’s already laid his hands on that young lady a time or two. Of course, she won’t admit it, any more than Bowden will confess his guilt. But that’s where the truth lies, sir, you mark my words. The fellow is a hot head, this would not be the first time he has been involved in a brawl.”

“A crime of passion?”

“Indeed.”

“Mr Tompkins tells me that Pettigrew had been strangled.”

Rowley frowned. “Extraordinary how fast news travels in this town! And how exactly did he know that?”

“He has a friendly rivalry with the landlord of the Lord Eldon and had called upon the fellow to discuss a business proposition.” While they were talking, a lad started shouting outside. They went to see the cause of the commotion to find him standing over Pettigrew’s body.

“Have you traced the ligature?”

“Not yet. We believe that the crime was committed with a thick cord or rope of some kind. It was pulled viciously around the Major’s neck, cutting into the flesh so much that it bled.”

“Did you find such a cord on Bowden?”

“No, but he’ll have disposed of it somewhere.”

“So you are adamant that the man is your murderer?”

“Oh, he reckons to have an alibi. Claims he was drinking at the Angel, and has half a dozen witnesses to prove it, but the Angel is only five minutes from the Lord Eldon. It’s my belief that he slipped out while no one was looking.”

“And do you suppose the Major would have agreed to make an appointment with the man whom he had given notice?”

Rowley drew himself up to his considerable height. “Rest assured, it is only a matter of time before the details emerge. It is my belief that Bowden lured the Major out there on a pretext, perhaps under a false name.”

Dickens looked at him sharply. “Do you have any evidence of that?”

“As yet, sir, none. But we’ll find it, you mark my words.”

“The fellow is an ignoramus,” Dickens said to Elizabeth an hour later.

“I take it that he has never read one of your books?” she replied demurely.

Dickens snorted. “He has a single idea in his head and is determined to stick to it. I have been speaking to Tompkins and he tells me that young Bowden is well-liked in the town. Sergeant Rowley may find it more troublesome than he would wish to break that alibi.”

“I have been talking to the staff here during your absence.” Elizabeth nodded. “They describe the young man as a hothead. His temper has got the better of him more than once and he has given one or two other fellows in town a bloody nose. But nobody believes there is real harm in him. So you think that he is innocent?”

“I can accept that Pettigrew wished to seduce the housemaid, and thought the task easier to accomplish with her young man banished from the house. And I can imagine that Bowden might resort to violence. But would he commit murder by strangulation? I would have thought a blow to the head was more likely. Besides, if Bowden is guilty – what of Datchery?”

“Perhaps Datchery is a nom de plume?”

“No doubt. The name is uncommon, though frankly appealing – I may steal it for a character one day. There is much here that makes little sense. Suppose the message which Clarissa told you about was intended for her husband, not for her. Why should the Major fulfil the rendezvous twenty-four hours late? Why, indeed, should he wish to meet the mysterious Datchery at all? These are real puzzles. Was Clarissa able to cast any light upon them when you called on her?”

“Naturally, she is deeply shocked by her husband’s death and I did not think it right to interrogate her. Do you have a theory that will explain the mysteries?”

Dickens leaned closer to her and whispered. “Certainly.”

“Tell me.”

He chose his words carefully. “Consider this. What if Datchery were the pawn in a wicked plot on the part of the Major to drive your friend insane? But something went awry with the scheme. Before the day is done, I shall endeavour to discover the truth of the matter.”

“Charles, please. The Major was murdered in a most terrible fashion. Promise me that you will have a care.”

He beamed, relishing the tremor in her voice and the hint of admiration it conveyed. “Never fear, Scheherezade. If I succeed in identifying the Major’s nemesis, think what a story we will have to tell!”

It was easier said than done. Dickens scouted around the Heath methodically for an hour or more, but could find no trace of the mysterious stranger whose appearance had so distressed Clarissa. None of the people he spoke to had seen a man answering Datchery’s description and, as the minutes ticked by, Dickens began to lose heart. The theory he had formed – and which he had taken good care not to share with Elizabeth – was outlandish and he could find no evidence to support it. Reluctantly, he found himself wondering if the tramp had any existence outside Clarissa’s imagination.

As night fell, a chill settled on the town. Even wrapped in a heavy coat, he could not help shivering as he strode towards the Moor. For all its proximity to the bustle of King Street, it struck him as an uncommonly lonely place. Squelching along the soft, muddy track that people had trodden between the tall reeds, he could hear the rustle of wind in the trees and the scuttling of a fox. Otherwise the Moor was graveyard-quiet.

He regretted his lack of candour when speaking to Elizabeth, but he felt he had no choice. Her sole concern was for her friend’s well-being and it would never do to voice his suspicion that Clarissa might have played a part, however unwitting, in the death of her husband. Besides, even if he was right, the chances of learning the precise truth were slim. Tomorrow, he must return to the capital, and make arrangements to spend a few days with Ellen. If he failed to find Datchery tonight, he would have no choice but to leave the Mystery of Canute Villa – as his good friend Collins might like to term it – to be solved by others.

It was slow going with the pathways – such as they were – so treacherous underfoot and visibility fading. Much as he enjoyed walking in the darkness, the terrain was unfamiliar and he needed to take care to avoid slipping into a ditch or streamlet. Every now and then a branch would graze his cheek. It would be so easy for one of them to put an eye out. He found himself yearning for the lights of London at night-time and the warm, reassuring consciousness that, even though invisible, teeming humanity was always close at hand. The countryside was so isolated. Who knew how much wickedness lurked here?

Suddenly, as he trudged towards a small copse, he thought he heard something. A cracking of twigs, succeeded by a cough. Dickens froze, straining his ears. Within a few moments came another sound. A low, painful groan.

Was this a trap? Did someone intend him to suffer the same fate as the Major? He peered through the gloom and thought he could make out the faintest shape amongst the trees. Perhaps it was wishful thinking; too often his imagination mastered him.

Another groan, louder this time, and then another, quite prolonged. He did not believe this was a hoax. Nobody, surely, could counterfeit such a noise of pain and despair.

“Who is there?” he hissed.

No answer. He advanced to the edge of the copse. The darkness was quite impenetrable and a branch grazed his cheek, making his eyes water.

“Datchery?”

This time he heard another sound. Was it a man, dragging himself through the undergrowth? Dickens took a stride forward.

“Datchery! I am a friend of Clarissa. We must speak.”

Suddenly, he felt an arm wrap itself around his neck. The shock of the attack knocked the breath out of him for an instant, but there was no strength in the attack. After a brief struggle Dickens thrust his elbow into the midriff of his assailant. Winded, the fellow lost his footing and Dickens seized his chance. Before the man could right himself, Dickens knelt upon his chest, and gripped his captive’s wrists as though his life depended on it.

“Listen! I do not want to arrest you. I just want to talk.”

The man said nothing; although strongly built, there was no fight left in him. He was wearing a ragged coat and had a beard and, although in the darkness it was difficult to make out his features, his breath smelled foul. This was the tramp Clarissa had described in her letter to Elizabeth, of that Dickens had no doubt.

“I am Charles Dickens. Do you know my name?”

“Dickens?” the tramp gasped. “What – what are you doing here?”

“I am helping my friend Mrs Gaskell to…”

“Mrs… Gaskell?” The tramp’s shock was palpable.

“Yes.” Dickens leaned over the man’s face. “You know of her? She is a well-known author from these parts and her friend is Mrs Clarissa Pettigrew of Canute Villa.”

“Not Pettigrew!” the man hissed. “Do not call her that!”

“Ah!” A thrill of triumph coursed through Dickens. His guesswork – no, his deduction! – must be correct. “You know Clarissa?”

“I… I knew her. Long ago.”

“And you ventured to renew the acquaintance?”

“No – I wanted to save her from that beast Pettigrew. That is all.”

“Did she recognize your name, Datchery?”

“Of course not. She knew me as someone else.”

A shiver of excitement ran through Dickens’ body.

“You dared not tell her your real name. What is it?”

The man groaned. “Mr Dickens, I am dying. Let me leave this world in peace.”

Dickens frowned in the darkness. It took no more than an instant for him to make up his mind.

“I believe I may hazard a guess at your true identity.”

A soft gasp. “You cannot!”

“You are John Stevenson, are you not? Elizabeth’s brother.”

A long silence. “How… how did you know?”

Dickens could not resist a smile of triumph. “Murder by strangulation is a crime often associated with the sub-continent. I wondered if the murderer had learned his craft there. He might have been a past associate of Pettigrew’s, but I also remembered that Elizabeth’s lost brother spent time in India. And if John had by some miracle remained alive – that might explain Datchery’s apparent familiarity with the town and his interest in Pettigrew’s wife. As well as explaining why Clarissa, having met him secretly, tried to throw us off his scent.”

“Dear Clarissa,” the man whispered.

“As for your sister…”

Stevenson raised a trembling hand. “She must never know.”

Within a few minutes Dickens had teased out the whole story. John had been a free mariner on the private vessels working the Indian Ocean, but one terrible day in the winter of 1828, shortly after arriving at the port of Bombay, he had been attacked by the bosun, who had conceived a deep dislike for him following an argument over a game of cards and had started drinking heavily the moment they reached dry land. A brawl ensued and, in falling to the ground, the man had cracked open his skull and died. Two of the bosun’s cronies had accused John of starting the fight and, terrified that he might fall victim to summary justice, the young man fled into the back streets of the city. There he quickly discovered that, in order to survive, he had little choice but to become much more ruthless and dangerous than the cheerful, God-fearing young fellow that Elizabeth, twelve years his junior, had so admired. He became a creature of the shadows, coining the name Datchery as a mark of his decision to become a different man.

Stevenson said little of what he had done over the years, but gave Dickens to understand that the bosun was not the only man who had died at his hands. He had learned the technique of strangulation favoured by the murderous Thugs prior to their suppression. Twelve months earlier, he had finally worked his passage back to London. Whatever crimes he had committed, they were too serious for it to be possible for him, even after such a lapse of time, to dare to assert his true identity. When he learned, with much astonishment, of his sister’s celebrity, it made him all the more determined not to bring dishonour upon her by revealing that he was still alive. Although Dickens protested fiercely, the old man was adamant. Elizabeth might have been heartbroken by his supposed demise, but at least she entertained nothing but good thoughts of him. He could not contemplate shattering her faith in his decency.

The privations of a misspent life meant that he fell sick with increasing frequency. On one occasion he collapsed in Covent Garden and a nurse had assisted him. He gathered from her that his heart was fading. A relapse might occur at any time, with fatal consequences.

Thus he had decided to make one last journey to the North. Not to see his sister, that was impossible, but someone whose memory he had cherished for more than thirty years. He had always worshipped Clarissa, but had been too shy to make his admiration known to her. Now it became a matter of obsession for him to look upon her one last time before he died.

After journeying north to Knutsford, he quickly discovered that the woman he had for so long adored was kept virtually as a prisoner in her own home by an avaricious and violent husband. A husband, moreover, of whom he had heard tell during his years in India. Pettigrew had, after a drinking bout, raped a servant girl. Although his superiors did their utmost to hush up the scandal, the story became well-known and Pettigrew was forced not only to leave the sub-continent but also to resign his commission. Stevenson resolved that he would at least do one last good thing in his life. He would free her from the brute.

It took a little while to pluck up the courage to talk to her. He kept watch on the house and eventually hit upon the idea of asking her to meet him. She had not kept the assignation behind the Lord Eldon on the day he sent her the message, but the next evening, terrified lest her absence be discovered by her husband, she dared to venture out. His faith in her innate bravery had been vindicated. Stevenson said that, once she had recovered from the shock of meeting a man she had believed was long dead, she had begged him not to do anything rash. But his mind was made up.

He had lured Pettigrew out of Canute Villa the previous evening by the simple expedient of a scrawled note saying I know the truth about your time in India. The stratagem succeeded. Stevenson had confronted his enemy, but on his account the Major lashed out at him. Illness had ravaged Stevenson’s body, but the urge to save Clarissa had given him the strength to overcome Pettigew and slowly squeeze the life out of him.

“You must come forward,” Dickens insisted. “An innocent man is under arrest for the crime. Besides that, your sister and Clarissa must know the truth!”

The ailing tramp shook his head. He had lost all his strength now and Dickens had to bend forward to catch what he said.

“No. You swore you would keep the secret, Mr Dickens. And you must.”

“But…”

The old man raised a knobbly hand. “No. I shall not leave Knutsford, Mr Dickens, never fear. Soon they will find me here, dead, and in my coat they will discover… this.”

He withdrew from inside his coat a thick, knotted cord.

“You see that stain? It is Pettigrew’s blood, Mr Dickens, from when I pulled it so tightly around his throat…”

Suddenly he made a strange rasping noise and slumped to the ground, still clutching, at the moment of his death, the means of murder.

Dickens insisted that Elizabeth accompany him to Canute Villa the next morning. It was his impression that there was a faint touch of colour in the widow’s cheeks. Her voice sounded stronger and her carriage seemed more erect.

“I hear that Bowden has been released from custody,” she said. “I have already said to Alice that I am willing to take him back in service. I was distraught when my… my late husband gave him notice.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Is there any doubt that this tramp whose body was found on the Moor is the murderer?”

“None.” Dickens held Clarissa’s gaze. “It has been a dreadful business. And yet – perhaps some good has come of it.”

Clarissa gave the slightest nod. There was a distant look in her eyes and Dickens was sure that she was thinking about the man who had loved her without acknowledgment, let alone hope, for so many years, and how he given her the most precious gift of all. Her freedom.

“How sad,” Elizabeth said, “that a man should become so depraved that he should commit a mortal crime for no rational cause.”

“Who knows what his reasons may have been, my dear Scheherezade?” Dickens said. “Clarissa has given him her forgiveness and so must we.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Poor man. To die, unloved.”

Dickens cast a glance at Clarissa and said, so softly that only she could hear, “Perhaps not unloved at the very end.”