Page 54 of Dead Beside the Thames
He made to rise, but Jonathon held out a staying hand. “One moment, Papa.” When the marquess eased back into the chair and looked questioningly Jonathon’s way, Jonathon continued, “I wanted to ask…” He broke off and looked at Stokes. “Do you have that letter that Sedbury started to write to me?”
Stokes hunted in his pocket and drew out the folded note. He handed it to Jonathon.
Jonathon unfolded the sheet, read the words again, then huffed. “I thought so.” He looked at his father. “Do you remember the Weatherspoons? The family that had the smithy in Rattenby village?”
The marquess frowned. “I remember them, yes.”
Jonathon looked around at the others. “I’ve been racking my brain over who Sedbury might have meant with his reference to a ‘little maid,’ and finally, I remembered the bit about the pigtails.” He looked at his father. “The only pretty little maid with pigtails that I ever had my eye on was Weatherspoon’s daughter. But they left Rattenby years ago, while I was at Oxford. Do you know where they went?”
The marquess took his time before he replied, “No.” He continued to stare at his son; it seemed obvious the marquess was debating how much to reveal. Eventually, he said, “I don’t know where they went, but I know why they went.”
When he didn’t elaborate, Stokes gently prompted, “And why was that?”
The marquess sighed. “This was back…it must be eight years ago. I was surprised to hear that Weatherspoon was selling the forge and the business—his family had been blacksmiths in Rattenby since before my father was born. By the time I heard of it, he’d sold up, but he did come to see me before he and his daughter left, to tell me why he was going.” The marquess’s gazereturned to Jonathon. “Unbeknown to me, Jonathon had been…flirting with the girl. Weatherspoon’s wife had died long ago, and the girl was all the family he had left. Unsurprisingly, he was protective of her, and he’d noticed Jonathon hanging around. And when Jonathon returned to his studies, Weatherspoon learned that the girl was harboring unrealistic dreams of becoming a lady… Well, the man was solid, respectable, and above all sensible. He was a working man, at his forge most of the day—he could never hope to keep an eye on his daughter all the time. So he decided to take her out of harm’s way. That was why they left the village.”
The marquess paused, then went on, “I thanked him most sincerely and bestowed a sizeable parting gift. Oh, he hadn’t come hoping for anything of the sort—I had to insist he take it. He’d come to tell me because he’d felt the family quitting the village without any explanation to me was rude. As I said, he was a solid, decent man.”
Jonathon looked faintly aghast. “I had no idea…”
“No,” the marquess replied. “In my experience, young gentlemen rarely do. You don’t think through the consequences of your actions.”
“Oh, God.” Jonathon paled and looked down at the note in his hand. His fist clenched. “So it’s my fault if Sedbury…”
“No.” Barnaby spoke decisively. “When it comes to Sedbury’s actions, the only person at fault is Sedbury himself.”
“Indeed.” Penelope looked at Jonathon. “How old was the Weatherspoon daughter when they left the village?”
Jonathon swallowed and frowned. “Fifteen, I think.” He raised tortured eyes to Penelope’s face. “She was sweet and innocent and very pretty in that fresh-faced country way.”
Thinking aloud, Barnaby said, “So on Saturday afternoon, we have Sedbury starting a letter to Jonathon about the Weatherspoon girl. What prompted him to commence writingthat letter at that time?” He glanced at Penelope. “Was there a reason the Weatherspoon girl was on his mind?”
Rather grimly, Penelope returned, “What you mean is, was the meeting arranged for that night something to do with the Weatherspoon girl?” She looked around the circle of faces. “If so, that might explain why Sedbury left the letter unfinished—he expected to have more to add to it later.” She looked at Stokes. “After he returned from the meeting.”
Stokes stared back, then sat up. “He was meeting with Weatherspoon.” Stokes looked at the marquess. “You said Weatherspoon is a blacksmith. How large is he? Taller than Sedbury?”
The marquess was nodding, but it seemed most unhappily. “He is a very large man.”
Stokes got to his feet. “So it’s likely to be Weatherspoon we’re searching for. A very large man, possibly still a blacksmith. I’ll get the word out to my men and, through them, to our informants on the docks.” He nodded to the marquess. “No need to make it a hue and cry. If Weatherspoon’s been living in that area, he’ll be known, and even if he has run, we will, at least, know he’s our man.”
With the briefest of nods to the company, Stokes strode from the room.
The others exchanged glances, then rose and followed more slowly, all wondering and pondering about what would come next.
The following morning, having heard nothing from Stokes in the interim, Barnaby and Penelope were enjoying a quiet and peaceful breakfast and trying not to speculate over what the daywould bring or whether they should head for the docks to be in on the end of the case when the doorbell pealed, and seconds later, Stokes—looking very much as if he hadn’t slept at all, but was nonetheless relieved—walked into the room.
With the barest of nods in greeting, he drew out a chair and slumped into it. “One of our snitches finally told us what we wanted to know.” He helped himself to a crumpet.
Along with Penelope, Barnaby remained silent and waited for more; never before had he felt more empathy for his wife’s impatience.
Stokes took a large bite of the crumpet, chewed, swallowed, then went on, “The entire population of the docks was beyond reluctant to even tell us if Weatherspoon lived in the area, much less give us his address. When any of my men uttered the name Weatherspoon, everyone—even our most reliable chatterers—buttoned their lips. More, they grew stony and hard of hearing. We’d been asking for most of the night and got nowhere until we spoke with one of those who has more reason than most to keep us sweet. As he put it, and I quote, ‘How’s a man to make a living with all you rozzers clomping about?’”
Penelope leaned forward. “So, what did he tell you? Is Weatherspoon there?”
“It turns out”—Stokes blotted his lips with a napkin—“that Weatherspoon is the owner and publican of the Drunken Duck.”
“The pub in the lane just up from the Cole Stairs?” Barnaby clarified.
Stokes nodded. “That’s the one. And although Weatherspoon knows we’ve been searching all around—a constable questioned him and his helpers early on—it seems he’s stayed put. Yesterday evening, before I’d got the word down there, Morgan had a pint in the Drunken Duck, and he said the man behind the bar matches the description we got from the boatman and had a slightly bruised face. But he’s a publican and is constantlywading in to stop fights, so Morgan didn’t get too excited over that.”
