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.
The Very Bad Man
by Mick Herron
One of the most highly praised novelists to appear on the mystery scene over the past few years, Mick Herron is also a frequent contributor to this magazine. His EQMM fans should especially enjoy his latest novel, Smoke and Whispers, hailed by PW in its starred review as a “masterful thriller” and featuring characters he’s brought to EQMM.
If this were a fairy tale, it would read: A long time ago, in a cottage near the woods, lived a little old man. One day a big bad wolf came out of the woods and ate him up. The end. But it wasn’t long ago, and sixty-three isn’t old. The woods were woods, true, and you wouldn’t want to get lost in them after dark, but they’d not been home to anything fiercer than a badger in aeons. Wolves, anyway — we don’t worry about wolves. We worry about very bad men. As for the cottage, it was a little large to be described as such, and while it was certainly near those woods, it was only a hundred yards from its nearest neighbour, beyond which you were almost into the village. And besides, endings don’t arrive that abruptly. Things continue to happen. Wolves are despatched by woodcutters, and very bad men go to jail. Though sometimes they get out.