“Ah, ha! So it does. Now, the entries, my dear Mrs. Alleyn. The entries.”
They were the recorded births and deaths of a family named Wagstaff, beginning in 1705 and ending in 1870 with the birth of William James Wagstaff. Here they broke off but were followed by three further entries, close together.
Stewart Shakespeare Hadet Died: Tuesday, 5th April, 1779. 2nd Samuel 1.10.
Naomi Balbus Hadet Died: Saturday, 13th August, 1779. Jeremiah 50.24.
Peter Rook Hadet Died: Monday, 12th September, 1779. Ezekiel 7.6.
Troy looked up to find Mr. Bates’s gaze fixed on her.
“And what,” Mr. Bates asked, “my dear Mrs. Alleyn, do you make of that?”
“Well,” she said cautiously, “I know about Crabtree Farm. There’s the farm itself, owned by Mr. De’ath, and there’s Crabtree House, belonging to Miss Hart, and—yes, I fancy I’ve heard they both belonged originally to a family named Wagstaff.”
“You are perfectly right. Now! What about the Hadets? What about them?”
“I’ve never heard of a family named Hadet in Little Copplestone. But—”
“Of course you haven’t. For the very good reason that there never have been any Hadets in Little Copplestone.”
“Perhaps in New Zealand, then?”
“The dates, my dear Mrs. Alleyn, the dates! New Zealand was not colonized in 1779. Look closer. Do you see the sequence of double dots—ditto marks—under the address? Meaning, of course, ‘also of Crabtree Farm at Little Copplestone in the County of Kent’.”
“I suppose so.”
“Of course you do. And how right you are. Now! You have noticed that throughout there are biblical references. For the Wagstaffs they are the usual pious offerings. You need not trouble yourself with them. But consult the text awarded to the three Hadets. Just you look them up! I’ve put markers.”
He threw himself back with an air of triumph and sipped his sherry. Troy turned over the heavy bulk of pages to the first marker. “Second of Samuel, one, ten,” Mr. Bates prompted, closing his eyes.
The verse had been faintly underlined.
“So I stood upon him,” Troy read, “and slew him.”
“That’s Stewart Shakespeare Hadet’s valedictory,” said Mr. Bates. “Next!”
The next was at the 50th chapter of Jeremiah, verse 24: “I have laid a snare for thee and thou are taken.”
Troy looked at Mr. Bates. His eyes were still closed and he was smiling faintly.
“That was Naomi Balbus Hadet,” he said. “Now for Peter Rook Hadet. Ezekiel, seven, six.”
The pages flopped back to the last marker.
“An end is come, the end is come: it watcheth for thee; behold it is come.”
Troy shut the Bible.
“How very unpleasant,” she said.
“And how very intriguing, don’t you think?” And when she didn’t answer, “Quite up your husband’s street, it seemed to me.”
“I’m afraid,” Troy said, “that even Rory’s investigations don’t go back to 1779.”
“What a pity!” Mr. Bates cried gaily.
“Do I gather that you conclude from all this that there was dirty work among the Hadets in 1779?”
“I don’t know, but I’m dying to find out. Dying to. Thank you, I should enjoy another glass. Delicious!”
He had settled down so cosily and seemed to be enjoying himself so much that Troy was constrained to ask him to stay to lunch.
“Miss Hart’s coming,” she said. “She’s the one who bought Crabtree House from the Wagstaffs. If there’s any gossip to be picked up in Copplestone, Miss Hart’s the one for it. She’s coming about a painting she wants me to donate to the Harvest Festival raffle.”
Mr. Bates was greatly excited. “Who knows!” he cried. “A Wagstaff in the hand may be worth two Hadets in the bush. I am your slave forever, my dear Mrs. Alleyn!”
Miss Hart was a lady of perhaps sixty-seven years. On meeting Mr. Bates she seemed to imply that some explanation should be advanced for Troy receiving a gentleman caller in her husband’s absence. When the Bible was produced, she immediately accepted it in this light, glanced with professional expertise at the inscriptions and fastened on the Wagstaffs.
“No doubt,” said Miss Hart, “it was their family Bible and much good it did them. A most eccentric lot they were. Very unsound. Very unsound, indeed. Especially Old Jimmy.”
“Who,” Mr. Bates asked greedily, “was Old Jimmy?”
Miss Hart jabbed her forefinger at the last of the Wagstaff entries. “William James Wagstaff. Born 1870. And died, although it doesn’t say so, in April, 1921. Nobody was left to complete the entry, of course. Unless you count the niece, which I don’t. Baggage, if ever I saw one.”
“The niece?”
“Fanny Wagstaff. Orphan. Old Jimmy brought her up. Dragged would be the better word. Drunken old reprobate he was and he came to a drunkard’s end. They said he beat her and I daresay she needed it.” Miss Hart lowered her voice to a whisper and confided in Troy. “Not a nice girl. You know what I mean.”
Troy, feeling it was expected of her, nodded portentously.
“A drunken end, did you say?” prompted Mr. Bates.
“Certainly. On a Saturday night after Market. Fell through the top-landing stair rail in his nightshirt and split his skull on the flagstoned hall.”
“And your father bought it, then, after Old Jimmy died?” Troy ventured.
“Bought the house and garden. Richard De’ath took the farm. He’d been after it for years—wanted it to round off his own place. He and Old Jimmy were at daggers-drawn over that business. And, of course, Richard being an atheist, over the Seven Seals.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Bates asked.
“Blasphemous!” Miss Hart shouted. “That’s what it was, rank blasphemy. It was a sect that Wagstaff founded. If the rector had known his business he’d have had him excommunicated for it.”
Miss Hart was prevented from elaborating this theory by the appearance at the window of an enormous woman, stuffily encased in black, with a face like a full moon.
“Anybody at home?” the newcomer playfully chanted. “Telegram for a lucky girl! Come and get it!”
It was Mrs. Simpson, the village postmistress. Miss Hart said, “Well, really!” and gave an acid laugh.
“Sorry, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Simpson, staring at the Bible which lay under her nose on the window seat. “I didn’t realize there was company. Thought I’d pop it in as I was passing.”
Troy read the telegram while Mrs. Simpson, panting, sank heavily on the window ledge and eyed Mr. Bates, who had drawn back in confusion. “I’m no good in the heat,” she told him. “Slays me.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Simpson,” Troy said. “No answer.”
“Righty-ho. Cheerie-bye,” said Mrs. Simpson and with another stare at Mr. Bates and the Bible, and a derisive grin at Miss Hart, she waddled away.
“It’s from Rory,” Troy said. “He’ll be home on Sunday evening.”
“As that woman will no doubt inform the village,” Miss Hart pronounced. “A busybody of the first water and ought to be taught her place. Did you ever!”
She fulminated throughout luncheon and it was with difficulty that Troy and Mr. Bates persuaded her to finish her story of the last of the Wagstaffs. It appeared that Old Jimmy had died intestate, his niece succeeding. She had at once announced her intention of selling everything and had left the district to pursue, Miss Hart suggested, a life of freedom, no doubt in London or even in Paris. Miss Hart wouldn’t, and didn’t want to, know. On the subject of the Hadets, however, she was uninformed and showed no inclination to look up the marked Bible references attached to them.