Irene was a fresh-faced young woman of about twenty. She shook our hands warmly and said how grateful she was to us.
“And here is Clare. Clare, come and meet Mr. and Mrs. and Miss Frenshaw and join your thanks to ours. Miss Clare Carson is our ward and a remote relation. Clare has lived with us almost for the whole of her life.”
“Since I was seven years old,” said Clare. “Thank you for what you did.”
“I think we might go in for dinner,” said Mrs. Barrington.
The dining room was as elegant as the drawing room. It was rapidly growing dark and candles were lighted.
“This is a most unexpected pleasure,” said my mother. “We did not expect to be invited out in Nottingham.”
“How long do you stay?” asked Edward.
“For a week or so, I believe. We are a little undecided at the moment.”
“It depends I suppose on how long your business lasts.”
“That is so.”
“Business is always uncertain,” said Mrs. Barrington, “as we know to our cost, don’t we, Edward?”
“That is very true,” agreed Edward.
“You are involved in the making of lace,” said my mother. “That must be quite fascinating.”
“My family has been in the business for generations,” explained Mr. Barrington. “Sons have followed sons through generations. Edward is taking over from me. Well, I would say he has taken over, wouldn’t you, Edward? I have little say in matters now.”
“My husband wants to get away from Nottingham,” Mrs. Barrington told us. “He wants a place in the country somewhere, not so far away that he can’t look in on the factory now and then. But his health has not been good. Affairs like that of last night are not good for him.”
“They could happen anywhere,” I said.
“But of course. He has not been very well lately …”
Mr. Barrington said: “I’m quite all right.”
“No you are not. Bear me out, Edward. We’ve been discussing this. You come from Kent, I believe?”
“Oh yes,” said my mother. “Eversleigh has been in our family for generations. It’s Elizabethan … rather rambling … but we all love it. It’s the family home. We’re not far from the sea.”
“It sounds ideal,” said Mr. Barrington.
“Are there any pleasant houses for sale in your neighbourhood?” asked his wife.
“I don’t know of any.”
“Let us know if you do.”
“I will,” promised my mother.
“Kent would be rather a long way from Nottingham,” said Clare.
She was pale, brown-haired with hazel eyes. I thought her rather insignificant.
“Indeed not,” said Mrs. Barrington. “We should want to be a fair distance away otherwise Mr. Barrington would be running to the factory every day. It would be the only way of stopping him if there was a long journey to be made. In any case there are no houses for sale there. I think we shall look in Sussex or Surrey. I have a fancy for those areas.”
“They are beautiful counties,” said my father; and the conversation continued in this strain until Edward said: “The assizes are coming to Nottingham tomorrow. There is a trial coming up. A gypsy murdered a young man. Judge Merrivale will probably try the case.”
“Merrivale,” said my father. “I’ve heard of him. He’s quite a humane fellow, I believe.”
“He isn’t one of our hanging judges.”
I put in rather hotly: “It is wrong that there should be hanging judges. They should all be humane.”
“So should we all,” said Edward, “but, alas, we are not.”
“But when it is a matter of a man’s life …”
“My daughter is right,” said my father. “There should be one standard for all. What chance do you think the gypsy has?”
“He hasn’t a chance. He’ll go to the gibbet. No doubt about that.”
“That will be most unjust!” I cried.
My eyes were blazing and they were looking at me in some surprise.
“Perhaps I had better explain our business here,” said my father. “I have come to do what I can for this gypsy. It appears that he killed a man who was attempting to rape one of the girls on the encampment. Unfortunately the man who was murdered was the nephew of Squire Hassett who is quite a power round here.”
The Barringtons exchanged glances.
“He is not a very popular man,” said Edward. “He drinks to excess, neglects his estate and leads rather a disreputable life.”
“And what of the nephew who was killed?” asked my father.
“A chip off the old block.”
“Dissolute … drinking … a frequenter of brothels?” went on my father.
“That would be an accurate description.”
My father nodded. “You see, the gypsies encamped on my land. I met the fellow who is accused. He seemed a decent sort for a gypsy and his story is that this nephew was trying to rape the girl.”
“It’s very likely,” put in Mr. Barrington.
“Oh! Could I get some information about him? Perhaps from people who have suffered at his hands?”
“I think that might be possible. There was one family up at Martin’s Lane. They were very distressed about one of their girls.”
“Wronged by this charming fellow, I suppose,” said my father.
“No doubt of it. And there were others.”
“Perhaps I could prevail on you to give me the names of these people.”
“We shall be delighted to help.”
I was getting excited. I believed that fate had led us to the Barringtons who were going to prove of inestimable value to us.
It was in a state of euphoria that we said goodnight to the Barringtons and rode back to the inn.
“What a charming family!” said my mother. “I wish they would find a house near us. I should like to see more of them. I thought Mr. and Mrs. Barrington so pleasant, Edward and Irene too. The girl Clare was so quiet. I would say Edward is a very forceful young man.”
“He would have to be if he is running a factory,” said my father.
“Clare was like a poor relation,” I said.
“Poor relations can be a little tiresome because they find it hard to forget it,” added my mother. “Everyone else is prepared to but they seem to get a certain satisfaction in remembering.”
And so we reached the inn, talking of our pleasant evening. Mr. Barrington’s ill fortune on the road had turned out to be very diverting for us.
The next day we all went to the gypsy encampment. I could smell the fires before we reached it, and a savoury smell came from a pot which one of the women was stirring. Other women sat about splitting withy sticks to make into clothes pegs. The caravans were drawn up on a patch of land and the horses tethered to the bushes.
“Is there a Penfold Smith there?” called my father.
A man came out of one of the caravans. He was middle-aged and swarthy; he walked towards us with the panther grace of the gypsy.
“I am Penfold Smith,” he said.
“You know me,” replied my father. “You camped on my land. I have heard that a friend of yours is in trouble and I have come to help.”
“He was betrayed … near your land.”
“No, no!” I cried. “He was not betrayed. I did not know …”
“My daughter wanted to help him. It was not her fault that she was followed. I am here to do what I can for this man. If you will help me we may get somewhere.”
“What could we do … against the squire and his sort? He owns the land here. He’s a powerful man and we are only gypsies.”
“I have some evidence which may prove useful. I can prove that the victim was a man of disreputable character. It is your daughter, is it not, who was attacked by him?”
“It was.”
“May I see her?”