But such activities clearly had their advantages which were now borne home to me. I believed my father was a man who was capable of taking actions which might be impossible for most men.
My spirits were rising. He would use his influence to free Romany Jake.
My mother whispered to me when we were alone in that room which was to be mine and which was next to my parents’: “If anyone can save the gypsy, your father can.”
“Do you think he will?” I asked.
“He knows your feelings. My dear child, he would do anything he possibly could for you.”
That was a great comfort and I felt a good deal better than I had since that terrible moment when the door of Grasslands had opened and Romany Jake stood there while I realized that my father and the man Forby were behind me.
The very next morning my father was busy. He had discovered that the trial would not take place for a week.
“So we have some time at our disposal,” he said with gratification.
He saw several people of influence and when we met over luncheon he told us that the victim was said to be a man of unsullied virtue by his friends.
“We have to prove him otherwise,” he added.
“Would that save Romany Jake?” I asked.
“No. But it would be a step in the right direction. The girl will be represented as a person of low morals.”
“How could they prove that?”
“Easily. They’ll have friends to come forward and swear to it. I’ll tell you what I plan to do. The gypsies are encamped outside the town. They are awaiting the trial. I’ll see them tomorrow and I’ll impress on them that if we can prove the girl to be a virgin, we may have a good case.”
“Why not now?”
“My dear daughter, you are impatient. First I have to make inquiries. And have you forgotten that we have a dinner appointment for tonight?”
“Those nice Barringtons!” said my mother. “It will be interesting to get to know them.”
“We are here to save Romany Jake,” I reminded her.
“We’ll do our best,” said my father. “Now these Barringtons live in the neighbourhood. They are gentry … obviously. They might know the local squire and perhaps they were acquainted with his nephew. You have to tread cautiously in these matters. Leave no stone unturned. A little diversion this evening will do us no harm.”
So that evening we drove out to the Barringtons’, where we were most warmly welcome. Mr. and Mrs. Barrington with their son, Edward, were waiting at the door to greet us, and we were taken into an elegant drawing room on the first floor. Its long windows looked out over well-trimmed lawns and flowerbeds.
We were given wine and again effusively thanked by them all.
“We want you to meet the rest of the family,” said Mrs. Barrington. “They are all anxious to express their thanks.”
My father raised his hand. “We have had too many thanks already for what—-on our part—was a very trivial service.”
“We shall never forget it,” said Mr. Barrington solemnly.
“Oh, here is my daughter Irene,” said Mrs. Barrington. “Irene, come and meet the kind people who brought your father home yesterday.”
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.