I could endure no more, and walked quickly to the book store 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:
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 him?” 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 on to 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 realized 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.