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.