‘Didn’t fancy goin’ back home with this ’ere, guv,’ he grunted, ruefully fingering the puckered scar that ran diagonally across his face. ‘Frighten my poor Rosie to death, so it would!’
‘You would rather that your wife believed you dead?’ exclaimed the astonished Maitland. ‘But what about your children—you have two young sons, I believe?’
‘Aye, that I have.’ Andrews nodded, his bright blue eyes clouding over. ‘Tommy and Billy—ain’t set eyes on the pair of ’em for nigh on four years now—but I do my best to send ’em all bits of cash whenever I gets the chance, guv!’
‘Very commendable, Andrews,’ returned his former major, raising an eyebrow. ‘However, I would be prepared to gamble that your good lady would as lief have your presence, rather than your pennies!’
‘Not possible at the moment, guv,’ shrugged Andrews. ‘Us old soldiers ’ave got to go where we can find the work—two of my old muckers are up ’ere, too, as it ’appens. I dare say you’ll, no doubt, recall Privates Skinner and Todd?’
‘Only too well, Andrews!’ replied Maitland, with a reminiscent grin, as he brought to mind the pair of rather shady individuals to whom his ex-sergeant had referred. Although they had always been up to some devilry or other, their ingenuity at ferreting out provisions for the communal pot had been second to none. Had it not been for the pair’s amazing scavenging abilities, there had been more than a few occasions when he and his men might well have been forced to face the enemy with empty stomachs.
‘So, what brought you to this part of the country?’ he enquired.
‘Matty Skinner used to work ’ere when ’e were a lad,’ explained Andrews. ‘Put in a word for us, so ’e did—seems coachin’ inns can always find work for them as knows their way round ’orses.’
‘Well, your employers will surely not be able to fault you on that score, Sergeant,’ nodded Maitland, as he turned to go. ‘I just wish you would give some more thought to returning to your family.’ Then, after a thoughtful pause, he added, ‘I dare say I could find you a place in my own stables—probably run to a cottage, too, if needed. What do you say?’
At first, the man’s eyes appeared to light up in eager interest but then, after a brief hesitation, he gave a careless shrug, saying, ‘Thanks for the offer, Guv; I’ll certainly bear it in mind!’
Later that same evening, Maitland, comfortably ensconced in the small parlour that had been set aside for his private use, swirled the remnants of the brandy in his glass and, gazing down into the amber liquid, spent some little while ruminating over the day’s happenings. That his ex-sergeant had not immediately jumped at his offer of employment had surprised him somewhat, since it would seem that the man, if his almost skeletal frame and shabby appearance were anything to go by, could hardly be earning enough to support himself, let alone contribute to his deserted family’s welfare. Sipping thoughtfully at his drink, Maitland could only suppose that, in order to send them any meaningful amount, Andrews must be reduced to sleeping above the stables and taking what he could get, in the way of sustenance, from the inn’s kitchens. Shaking his head at the man’s baffling obstinacy, Maitland then turned his mind to the far more pleasurable subject of the deliciously lovely Miss Highsmith and wondered whether the following afternoon would be considered too early to pay the promised visit to Gresham Hall.
As luck would have it, however, shortly before noon on the following day, the Honourable Jeremy, complete with valet, arrived, along with one very large trunk and several bulging valises strapped to the rear of his smart chaise. This quickly put an end to Maitland’s plans to ride over to Gresham Hall and so, leaving Pringle to organise his master’s belongings, Maitland invited his cousin to accompany him down to the parlour, called for two bumpers of ale and proceeded to share with him the meagre bits of information that he had already manage to obtain from his previous day’s enquiries.
‘Sounds as if this Barkworth fellow could be worth a visit.’ mused Fenton, as soon as Maitland had concluded his short report. ‘Sure to be able to tell us where we might find nuns, at any rate.’ And, tossing back the remains of his drink, he got to his feet, saying, ‘Let’s get on with it, then—nothing like striking while the iron’s hot, as the saying goes!’
Accordingly, the cousins presented themselves at Reginald Barkworth’s little cottage, which was situated close to the parish church at which he had once been incumbent, and were ushered into the cramped and dusty room that the elderly cleric had designated as his office. Hurriedly removing the untidy piles of papers and books from the decidedly rickety-looking chairs upon which they had been perched, he invited the two men to make themselves comfortable.
‘Sit down, sit down, please, gentlemen,’ he exhorted them, taking his own seat behind a desk that was covered in such an assortment of miscellaneous clutter that Maitland, who was a great believer in orderly arrangement, began to doubt whether this shaggy-haired venerable could possibly have anything to impart to them that might help them in their quest.
* * *
Half an hour later, however, he realised that his doubts were unfounded for Barkworth proved to be, as Catford had informed him, an inexhaustible fount of local history and folklore. However, since the elderly curate was only too eager to impart to his listeners far more on the subject than they might have wished to learn and was, clearly, not to be hurried, Maitland resigned himself to listening patiently to his host’s apparently inexhaustible supply of local anecdotes.
The Honourable Jeremy, however, was in no mood to prolong what seemed to him to be an extremely dull and tedious waste of time. ‘Yes, yes, most interesting,’ he muttered, fastidiously brushing away the particles of dust that settled upon his new yellow pantaloons every time Barkworth moved a book or lifted a map to point out yet another fascinating detail in relation to one of his stories. ‘But it’s churchyards we came to see you about—gravestones and suchlike—it’s nuns we’re looking for, ain’t it, Maitland?’
As Maitland shot his cousin a disapproving glance, the old curate pursed his lips and regarded Fenton with a frown.
‘If it’s nuns you’re after, my boy,’ he said scathingly, ‘I doubt that you’ll find any hereabouts. All the local priories and convents were disbanded a good many years ago, even though several of the villages, such as Priors Kirkby and Monkswell, still carry their original names. Even the old Mercy Houses, which the Poor Clares ran, gradually fell out of use well before the turn of this century.’
‘Poor Clares?’ Maitland asked with interest, while Fenton heaved another sigh and gazed dispiritedly out of the begrimed window beside which he was seated.
The cleric nodded and a wide smile lit up his cragged face.
‘Aye, that’s what they called them,’ he said reminiscently. ‘The Ladies of St Clare, to give them their proper title—part of what was left of the Franciscan order, I understand. Lived in small groups, helping the needy and tending the sick—usual kind of thing, but they wouldn’t accept payment, hence the name.’
‘And were there any such Mercy Houses in the vicinity of Dunchurch?’ asked Maitland eagerly, convinced that he had, at last, hit upon something that might prove useful.
‘More than likely,’ nodded Barkworth. ‘Couldn’t advertise themselves, of course, being of the Roman faith—which, in those days, was like waving a red rag to a bull in certain sections of the community.’
After studying his visitors thoughtfully for some minutes, he dipped his quill into the inkwell and began to scratch out some names on a piece of paper.
‘Try these, he said. ‘Most of these village churches do have their own curates but, as to whether they will be able to lay their hands on such records, is hard to say. Nice little churchyards some of them have, too— worth a look, at any event.’
Having succeeded in scattering sand over paper, desk and floor before eventually passing the list to Maitland, he then rose stiffly to escort the two men to the street door, dismissing Maitland’s