The Angel in the Glass Page 15

  ‘Are you, indeed,’ he murmured. ‘I had a feeling you might be.’

  ‘I’m afraid that, first, I have some deeply distressing news,’ I went on. ‘Lady Clemence Fairlight was found dead in the small hours of this morning.’

  His face went very still. After quite a long pause, he said, ‘I see.’ I saw his lips move and I imagined he was praying for her.

  Before he asked, I said, ‘It wasn’t a natural death.’

  His eyes flew to mine. ‘No?’

  I shook my head. ‘She was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered.’ He looked horrified.

  I didn’t think I needed to tell him the details unless he asked. ‘Mistress Denyse found the body,’ I said. ‘It seems from what we’ve been told that she tried to muffle her screams, but the son-in-law, Avery Lond, heard her and went down to see what was the matter. He said to us he didn’t suspect any such horror as the sight that faced him, for Denyse often wanders in the night and then starts to sob, moan and scream when she forgets why she got up and can’t find her way back to her bed. Or so I was told.’

  ‘That poor, poor woman,’ Josiah breathed.

  I wasn’t sure if he was referring to Lady Clemence or her strange daughter. Perhaps it was both.

  Then he said anxiously, ‘Do they – is it thought that Denyse might have killed her mother?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s crossed people’s minds,’ I replied honestly.

  He paled a little more, but he didn’t comment.

  There was a pause. Then I said, ‘It’s not the first dead body that Denyse has seen.’ I looked at him, but his head was turned away. ‘I’m told she saw her father’s.’

  Now Josiah shot me a swift glance. ‘Yes.’

  He wasn’t going to elaborate unless I pressed him, I reflected. ‘You would have been in attendance, Sir Thomas having been your patient.’ I made it a statement and not a question.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And presumably the sight was sufficiently disturbing for Denyse still to dwell on it, fourteen years later.’ He was shaking his head. ‘She does, for I have heard her. Dead bodies! she said, and she told me she’d seen a dead body, then she shouted, Dead, dead, dead!’

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You knew,’ I murmured. ‘You’ve been consulted about her, haven’t you? They’ve asked you more than once if you can do anything to help her, to control her wild moods, to restrain her, and—’

  ‘I was the family’s physician,’ he interrupted sharply. ‘Naturally they asked for my help. But—’ He stopped.

  ‘Was she insane before she saw her father’s body?’ I demanded starkly. ‘It’s my belief that she was.’

  ‘You know nothing about her!’ he flashed back.

  ‘Then tell me! That’s why I’m here, because I need to know!’

  I heard the echo of my loud voice, and knew I’d made a mistake; I’d left myself wide open to the response I’d have given myself, had I been in Josiah Thorn’s position.

  ‘And what right have you to be provided with such knowledge?’ he asked silkily. ‘You are not their doctor, so why should I believe your interest in the matter is anything more than prurient curiosity?’

  It seemed that the only slim chance I had of persuading him to confide in me was to tell him the whole story, describing the moment when Theo and I found out that there had been an intruder at Wrenbeare of whom the family denied all knowledge, that this intruder had been found dead – murdered, I now knew – and that he had seen or knew something about the Fairlight household that they preferred kept secret.

  And now Lady Clemence too had been killed.

  When I’d finished, Josiah was quiet for a long time.

  Eventually he sighed deeply and said, ‘I begin to understand your interest, Gabriel. You have been involved, it seems, through no fault of your own and, indeed, at the invitation of the coroner.’ He sighed again, then put up his long hands, stained with age spots, and rubbed his face. ‘While I must retain the right not to share with you, or indeed with anybody, private matters concerning members of the Fairlight family who are and were my patients, I will tell you as much as I can.’ He hesitated, frowning. ‘As much,’ he amended, ‘as I judge you would be able to learn from other sources.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  He glanced at me sharply. ‘It is with extreme reluctance that I do this,’ he warned. ‘But now you tell me that Clemence has been murdered, in her own house, and I am bound to help in any way I can. If revealing to you matters from the past that I would far rather were left there will assist you and Master Davey to find the truth of her death, then it seems I have little choice.’

  He leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes, as if perhaps the better to recall the past. I waited. Then he began.

  ‘It starts, of course, with Sir Thomas Fairlight,’ he said, his voice already sounding weary. ‘He was born in 1533 into a wealthy family with several titled men among its ranks.’

  ‘Yes, Wrenbeare is an old house, and there’s evidence that once it was fine, and the house of the wealthy and powerful,’ I observed.

  Josiah nodded. ‘Yes. There were some fine men – and women – among Sir Thomas’s forebears.’ His eyes opened and he stared straight at me. ‘But Thomas was not fine; not in any way.’

  ‘So you told me.’ He’d hinted at this when I’d asked him before. ‘He was cruel, selfish, self-indulgent, I believe you said.’

  ‘All of those,’ Josiah agreed. ‘All of them and more, for he developed a strong sexual appetite when he was not much more than a boy, and his youthful sexual encounters were legion.’

  ‘Serving maids, tavern wenches, innocent young servants?’ I suggested.

  But Josiah shook his head. ‘No. Thomas could not make himself approach girls or women. I know this not because I listened to the gossip, you understand, but because Thomas himself told me.’ He paused, and the expression in his eyes suggested he was back in his own past, listening as his patient spoke to him. ‘He was proud, I believe, when he told me of the fumblings with little maids and servants, of how he even tried to force himself on one poor lass. He wanted to be able to brag of his conquests, you see, but in truth there weren’t any. And then he began to realize where his true appetite lay, and by the time he was … oh, about fourteen, I suppose, his sexual nature was firmly established.’

  ‘He preferred boys,’ I said quietly.

  ‘He did. For the next decade and more, he indulged himself to the full, in all the places where his family’s aristocratic lifestyle, wealth and position took him. London and Paris were his preferences. He once told me there was more variety in Paris, and he went there whenever he could.’

  ‘Did his father know why he wanted to go?’

  Josiah shrugged. ‘I cannot say. Mortimore Fairlight was a decent enough man, but he was withdrawn after the death of Thomas’s mother, and I believe he preferred to ignore unpleasant matters and tell himself they weren’t really happening.’

  ‘Yet even a man such as he must have wanted his son to marry and have children,’ I said. ‘Wrenbeare is, or could be, a fine inheritance, and surely he’d have wanted the family line to go on?’

  ‘Indeed he did, and by the time Thomas was in his early thirties, Mortimore had roped in all sorts of aunts, uncles and cousins to help him persuade Thomas to do his duty by marrying, and marrying well.’ He gave a wry laugh. ‘A Fairlight wife had to be the right sort of woman.’ Slowly he shook his head, his face infinitely sad, as if the pains of the world were just too much.

  Presently, though, he recovered, and went on.

  ‘By the time Thomas was thirty-six, he too understood that he wasn’t going to advance as he so fervently wanted to unless he had what everyone in his family was now persistently and clamorously persuading him to acquire: a normal family life. And so, with Thomas reluctantly dragged along, the great bride hunt began.’

  ‘And they found Clemence.’

  ‘They did,’ Josiah ag
reed. ‘One of Mortimore’s sisters knew her kin – she was a Sulyard before she married, an old Devon name – and was aware there was a daughter who was hanging on hand, as the vulgar would have it.’ He smiled, but there was sorrow in his expression. ‘Clemence was sixteen when she married Thomas, and he was thirty-eight. In truth, she was not a beauty. She was hefty, horsy, pale-fair with almost colourless eyes and eyelashes. She was ungainly and unattractive, poor girl, and nobody had asked for her hand before, nor indeed shown any interest in her whatsoever. And once married, she had to face the fact that she didn’t appeal to her husband at all.’ He was shaking his head again. ‘She was as ignorant and as innocent as most maidens going to the marriage bed, and cannot possibly have known that it wasn’t just her: that no other woman would have aroused Thomas either, since he had married against his inclinations.’

  ‘And so she suffered in miserable silence,’ I said.

  ‘She did. Matters might have improved had she turned out to be good breeding stock and given birth to a succession of big, healthy babies – that was after all why Thomas had been encouraged to marry her – but she couldn’t even achieve that, and there was never the longed-for son.’

  For a while there was silence in the cosy room. I was thinking about Clemence, pity and deep sympathy filling my mind, and I dare say Josiah was too.

  Presently Josiah went on with his account.

  ‘It wasn’t until 1574, three years after the marriage, that Thomas and Clemence’s first child was born, and, as I believe I have already told you, I attended the birth. Agnes was small and sickly and at first she failed to thrive, although she improved as she grew out of childhood.’ He fixed me with a stare. ‘You tell me she is married?’

  ‘Yes. She appears to be in good health at present.’

  ‘Good, good,’ he muttered. But his attention seemed to have turned inwards, and I think he had spoken without really thinking what he was saying. He remained quiet for some time.

  ‘And then Denyse was born?’ I prompted.

  ‘Hmm?’ He looked up. ‘Yes, although there was a gap of six years following Agnes’s birth, during which time Clemence had at least two miscarriages. And then,’ he pressed on before I could comment, ‘she managed to carry a second child to term, and Denyse was born.’ He stopped, almost as if he was cutting off his own words. ‘And Denyse,’ he added after a moment, ‘is as you have observed her.’

  I waited, but he didn’t go on.

  ‘I asked you just now,’ I said carefully, ‘whether Denyse lost her reason as a result of seeing her father’s dead body or if the condition had existed before.’ I was sure of the answer, but I wanted him to tell me.

  ‘You did, you did,’ Josiah said wearily. ‘And you already know, Doctor Gabriel, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It became evident very soon after her birth that Denyse was sick in her mind,’ he said. ‘We – I – tried everything, but there appeared to be no remedy. She was—’ But words failed him. ‘Seeing Sir Thomas in that terrible state when she was ten didn’t help, of course, and it is no surprise to hear that the sights, smells and sounds of that dreadful day still haunt her.’

  ‘He was murdered, then? He died by violence?’

  ‘No,’ Josiah said heavily. ‘Like his younger daughter, he lost his mind. He died crying out at the top of his voice, tied down on his bed, thrashing about in his own filth and bleeding profusely from the mouth where he’d bitten his tongue. He’d been raving for three solid days and the sudden silence when at last he gave up the fight and died was like a blessing from heaven.’ He paused. ‘I thought I’d gone deaf,’ he whispered. ‘I could still hear the echoes of him screaming at me, telling me he was going to get himself free and chase after me to cut me in pieces, sobbing that the devils of hell were coming for him and he was going to cut them in pieces too and hurl them into Satan’s fire. Then his heart burst and it all stopped.’ He paused, deep in the past. ‘He was a horrible sight,’ he added softly. ‘His face was purple, his eyes were staring, his mouth wide open in a great yawning howl.’

  Then he flashed right back into the present, glared straight at me and said, ‘And that was when I realized that little Denyse, ten years old, was standing just behind me.’

  ‘Dear God!’

  ‘It was their fault! Lady Clemence, the older sister, the woman who cared for her! They should have been watching her!’ Josiah protested, as if even after fourteen years he still felt the need to exonerate himself. ‘She was meant to be shut up in her room far away from what was going on in her father’s chamber, but the whole household was like a broken wasps’ nest. Everywhere people were hurrying and bustling about, whispering in corners, trying to peer into Sir Thomas’s room, trying to find out what was happening, and most of them just longing to hear the old man was dead, since he was all but universally loathed and feared, and only Denyse had any affection for him, poor little lass.’

  ‘What did she do when she saw he was dead?’ I asked.

  Josiah gave a bitter smile. ‘What do you think? She began screaming, and she didn’t stop.’

  TWELVE

  I rode away from Buckland with my mind a muddle of images, stray thoughts and weird, unlikely ideas. I’d gone to see Josiah Thorn looking for something in the Fairlight family’s past; something which already known about, or accidentally discovered, by someone else had been grave enough to cause that person’s death.

  I’d found out that Sir Thomas Fairlight, knight of the shire, justice of the peace, had preferred boys in his bed to girls or women. When I’d first heard this, in Josiah’s own words that had still carried the echo of his deep distaste for the man, it had seemed shocking. Now, as I rode back towards Tavy St Luke and home, the soft rain a great deal more wetting than it looked so that already I was soaked, I thought about it all again and I realized it wasn’t as bad as Josiah’s telling of it had made it sound.

  Thomas Fairlight was far from being the only man of wealth, power and position whose sexual habits didn’t bear close scrutiny. He’d been dead for fourteen years. Would the exposure of these habits now really be so terrible for his family?

  The upright, plain, solid Lady Clemence would be embarrassed, yes, but—

  With a start I recalled that Lady Clemence wouldn’t be feeling such an emotion, or indeed emotion at all, any more.

  The rain came down harder. Daylight had faded as the heavy clouds built up, dark grey turning to black. It looked as if a storm was coming. Hal’s head drooped and I tried to hunch my shoulders in a futile attempt to protect myself.

  We were almost at the village, which I would pass on my left as I rode on home. I looked down at it in its little hollow. Just at that moment there was a sudden flash of soft yellow light from the church. Jonathan – it was probably he – must have opened the door briefly, perhaps to peer out and see how hard the rain was falling and how wet he was going to get dashing back to his house.

  The light disappeared. I could make out no sign of a running figure, though, and I guessed he had gone back inside.

  I pictured the interior of the church. The aisle, the simple altar, the tiny chapel separated from the main body by its sturdy wall, with the empty spaces at the top where the beautiful panels had once been.

  Without really thinking about it, I turned Hal’s head and, kicking him to a trot, went down into the village.

  There was a long rail behind the church for the hitching of horses and I led Hal beneath the steeply pitched roof that covered it, tethering him then removing his saddle so that I could brush the worst of the rain off him. There was water in a trough, and despite the rain, the air temperature was still warm. I reckoned he’d be all right there for a while. Then I ran across to the church door.

  I didn’t see Jonathan at first. A candle had been lit on the altar, and in the storm-clouded darkness its light seemed very bright. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed there was a second light source, and I walked up the aisle and across to the low doorway that led
into St Luke’s Little Chapel.

  I went in.

  It lived up to its name. It was some five paces long, three or four wide. Its stone walls were bare, and a large, unadorned stone served as the altar. On it was a plain wooden cross. Three small rush lights had been lit at its foot, and there was a little pottery jar containing wild flowers. There was, I thought, beauty in the simplicity.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, Gabriel,’ said Jonathan’s voice. ‘I’m about to begin replacing the panels, and the presence of somebody else would be reassuring.’

  I turned. Jonathan was standing at the foot of the dividing wall, and in deep shadow.

  The turmoil in my mind gave a last flurry of pointless activity and then slowly came to a halt. Realizing that helping somebody in a manual task – and a challenging one at that – was exactly what I needed, I rolled up my sleeves. ‘No doubt you’ve worked out how to do it,’ I remarked. ‘Tell me how I can help.’

  He smiled briefly. ‘Mainly by holding the ladder steady and passing things up to me as I require them.’

  ‘Ladder?’

  He nodded down towards the base of the wall. I made out a roughly made wooden ladder, with eight crude rungs set quite widely apart. I looked back at Jonathan, mentally adding his height to that of the ladder. ‘You’re sure it’s long enough?’

  ‘Yes, if I stand on the top step. Which is why I’m pleased to see you,’ he added. My doubts must have shown in my face, for he said with some impatience, ‘It’s all right, I shan’t fall. And for sure you can’t go up it, since you’re a much bigger weight than I am and, in addition, I’ve already been up and I’ve worked out how to put the panels in.’

  He was quite right about our respective weights. ‘Very well,’ I said.

  He raised the ladder against the wall beneath the first gap and swiftly climbed to the top rung. My calculations had been out, for now I saw that his head and shoulders easily rose above the sill at the base of the space. He took a small hammer from where he’d stuck it through his belt and, without turning, he said, ‘Pass me the first panel, please.’