The Fat Badger Society (Drusilla Davanish Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  Reluctantly I nodded and she did so. I moved the other chair beside her and seated myself, handing her the token. ‘This was wedged in a corner of a drawer.’

  She looked at it and then at me, obviously puzzled. ‘But – what is it?’

  ‘It’s the kind of thing French royalists carry to identify themselves to each other. It’s possible some corresponding societies use them too.’

  She stared at me dumbfounded, as the implications of what I’d said sank in. ‘When you say some corresponding society members, you mean those reformers I’ve read about in the newspapers. The ones who want England to go the way of France....’ I didn’t deny it and she burst out indignantly, ‘If you are suggesting Septimus would betray England---’

  ‘No, I’m quite certain he wouldn’t.’ And without thinking I said, ‘The men who murdered Jeffel both carried a token just like this.’

  She frowned in bewilderment. ‘But they were burglars. You said so in your letter, and it was in “The Times” too. You cannot believe Septimus would be involved with burglars.’ I groaned inwardly at my own stupidity. I wasn’t accustomed to keeping secrets from Julia.

  What use would I be to Mr. Pitt if I couldn’t learn when to keep quiet? As I tried to think what to say, she burst out, ‘Drusilla, what is going on? What is it you’re not telling me?’

  ‘Forgive me --- I can’t say any more – I’m not allowed to.’

  ‘Not allowed to? But why not? Who said you can’t speak of it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that either.’

  She pressed her fingertips against her forehead trying to work it out. ‘Was Jeffel shot by those men?’ I nodded, and as I sought for an explanation she would accept, she asked, ‘If these burglars thought the house was empty why did they bring pistols?’ When I didn’t answer, she said, ‘That’s the wrong question, isn’t it?’ And her eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, now I see. They weren’t burglars, were they?’ I stayed silent and she said, ‘If they weren’t burglars, why did they come to Ashton Grange? And why must it be kept quiet?’ Baffled, she sat thinking and I tried changing the subject, but she was not so easily distracted. Nor did it take her long to work it out.

  Suddenly she gave a small gasp of understanding. ‘The King – that’s what it was. He was there.’ I had written to tell her how I’d met the King, and that he often called at the house. ‘Those men came to kill him.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘No, but that’s what happened, isn’t it?’Again I didn’t answer, and she said, ‘I can see from your face that I’m right.’

  ‘For God’s sake Julia, swear to me you won’t repeat that to anyone. Not even to Richard. If the newspapers found out there had been an assassination attempt when these corresponding societies are causing so much unrest----’

  ‘I won’t tell a soul, I promise. Provided you tell me who said you mustn’t speak of it. Was it the King?’ I shook my head. ‘It must have been Mr. Pitt then.’ Again my face gave me away. ‘Well, Septimus would never have been involved in a plot to murder the King. He wanted to change things for the better. He thought what was happening in France was unspeakable. He often told me so.’

  He had said much the same to me too, and I believed him. ‘He was a patriot. We both know that. I’ll get to the bottom of it somehow, Julia.’ I glanced at the clock on the mantel shelf and said, ‘Oh heavens, is that really the time. I must go, I’m afraid. But I’d like to check Septimus’s study again, and his bedchamber, if I may.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I must go to church in the morning, but I could come over in the afternoon.’

  We agreed on a time and as she rang for her butler to see me out, I decided it would be sensible to mention Mr. Hamerton’s arrival, if I could do it without her suspecting his visit was connected with what we had been talking about. The difficulty was she knew me so well that an absolute lie would never fool her, but fortunately I saw exactly how to do it, and in a way that would give her something else to think about apart from her own troubles. I waited until Wade came into the room, and as I got to my feet I said, ‘Oh, by the way, we brought a guest back with us from Windsor. A gentleman who is thinking of moving to the Island.’ I followed Wade to the door, and stopped just long enough to tell her, ‘He’s about thirty and a widower.’

  Her face instantly brightened. ‘You wretch. You could have told me before. Do you like him?’ I laughed and went on my way without answering. Julia loved matchmaking and was always trying to marry me off. If such thoughts lightened her mood, even for a little while, so much the better.

  As for Septimus, I believed what she’d told me. Julia was not given to exaggeration or making a fuss unnecessarily, and I was determined to find out how he’d died. One thing was clear, however, the Fat Badger corresponding society was already established on the Island, and probably had been all the time I was in Windsor, if not before. This society had failed to assassinate the King in Windsor, but they’d killed Jeffel, and probably Septimus too. And I swore, there and then, that I would not rest until every one of these murderers had been strung up on the gallows. If that included Mr. Hamerton, then so be it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When I reached Westfleet I learned my aunt and Mr. Hamerton had arrived from Cowes half an hour earlier. He, having now been conducted to his bedchamber, was changing for dinner. My aunt and uncle were on the point of going to change too when I walked into the drawing room. Naturally they wanted to hear what I’d learnt about Septimus, and why Richard was home. Shocked though they were over Septimus’s death, they accepted the inquest verdict without question. After explaining about Richard’s accident, I mentioned Julia was unwell, and told them why, knowing the news of the expected child would delight them both.

  Over dinner we did not speak of the Tanfields, good manners demanding we did not discuss the problems of people with whom Mr. Hamerton was not yet acquainted. But we were not short of conversation. Mr. Hamerton said he’d looked at the newspaper while waiting for us to join him in the drawing room before dinner. ‘It seems the elderly and infirm in France are no longer to be excused from the guillotine,’ he declared in disgust as he cut into a slice of beef. ‘Two women of almost eighty were executed the other day. If I could get my hands on those butchers on the Committee of Public Safety I would----’ he stopped suddenly, his cheeks growing pink with embarrassment. ‘I beg your pardon sir,’ he said, addressing my uncle. ‘I – I – should not speak of the French in that manner in your presence.’

  ‘Why ever not? I agree with every word you said.’

  ‘But – I understand you are French by birth.’

  ‘True, but I grew up in England. My father was French, only he died when I was a baby, and my English mother took me back to London. Where I stayed until my French godfather left me his small estate in Normandy. We moved there some eighteen months before the storming of the Bastille.’

  ‘But you returned to England when the revolution started?’

  ‘Would that we had,’ came the rueful response. ‘Foolishly, we thought it would all blow over. I persuaded my wife and daughter to take refuge at Westfleet, while I stayed behind, convinced the revolutionaries would not trouble themselves with my small estate. We were not wealthy, and those who worked for me had plenty to eat and decent homes to live in. But, in the end, that made no difference. I was arrested, and my house burned to the ground.’

  ‘Arrested?’ Mr. Hamerton exclaimed in horror. ‘But how – how did you get away, sir?’

  ‘I was fortunate.’ He hesitated and then said, ‘I had been in prison for months when I was told I was being moved to Paris. Thousands are imprisoned there, and people of our class invariably end up climbing the steps to the guillotine. Knowing there would be no escape from a Paris prison, I wrote what I believed would be my last letter to my wife and daughter, and begged the prison governor to send it to them.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Not him. He just laughed and tore it to shreds in front
of me. The next morning a carriage came for me, I was handed over to two soldiers, who cursed me roundly, and said I had a fine head that would look better when Sanson, the executioner, held it aloft for the crowds to see. I know the road to Paris very well, but instead of taking that we turned north towards the coast. I assumed they were picking up another prisoner, but we didn’t stop again until we reached a fishing village late that night, where I was put on a smuggling vessel going to the Isle of Wight.’

  Mr. Hamerton stared at him in amazement. ‘Who were these brave men, Mr. Frère?’

  ‘One was my future son-in-law.’

  ‘Giles Saxborough?’

  My uncle nodded. ‘I hadn’t seen him since he was a boy and didn’t recognise him. The other was a Frenchman.’

  ‘By heavens sir, you had a lucky escape.’

  ‘I know it, Mr. Hamerton. I am an extremely fortunate man. So you may say what you like about France.’

  ‘Well, I don’t approve of the revolution, Mr. Frère, although I believe the aristocracy brought it on themselves. The way they treated their workers was an absolute disgrace. No Englishman would allow children on his estate to starve.’ He looked up from his dinner, a puzzled frown on his face. ‘Yet, some people in this country still want a revolution. At all costs we must prevent that happening. When I think how close those two men came to assassinating the King at Ashton Grange, it makes my heart pound.’

  We all expressed our heartfelt agreement, and later my aunt said to me, ‘Mr. Hamerton expresses himself just as he ought, Drusilla. He is the perfect English gentleman.’ She eyed me speculatively. ‘You do like him, don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ I said. And I did. But I had no intention of letting that, or his fine words at the dinner table, get in the way of finding out whether or not he was a French spy.

  Mr. Hamerton joined us for church in the morning, and before going in we stopped by Septimus’s grave, that being the first one we came to. Jeffel’s was nearby, and I was thankful he had been laid to rest here as he’d wanted, but I made a solemn, and silent, promise to him, that Mr. Brown, whoever he was, would be brought to justice. And I went into the church my fists clenched in anger at the loss of those two fine men.

  I hadn’t expected Julia to attend the service in her delicate state, but Richard was not there either. Afterwards, out in the sunshine, I saw Mr. Reevers and Mr. East, but could do no more than exchange greetings with them before friends and acquaintances, understandably shocked by what had happened to Jeffel, came to offer their condolences. When I parted from the last of these kind people, I saw my aunt and uncle and Mr. Hamerton were talking to Mr. Upton, the parson, and a young man I hadn’t met before. As I approached them, both gentlemen bowed, and Mr Upton begged to be allowed to introduce his nephew to me. ‘Mr Sims, my sister’s son,’ he said proudly. ‘Paying us a visit from London, ma’am.’

  Mr Sims was of less than middle height and decidedly skinny. His dress was neat and sober, in keeping with his features. After exchanging the usual civilities I asked if he meant to make a long stay on the Island.

  ‘A few weeks, ma’am.’

  Aunt Thirza said, ‘Mr Sims is recovering from an illness, Drusilla. His doctor advised sea air would be of benefit.’

  I smiled encouragingly at the newcomer. ‘Sea air is one thing the Island is not short of.’

  Mr Upton gave his nephew a hearty slap on the back, making him stagger a little. ‘Never fear, Lady Drusilla, we’ll soon have him on his feet again. Fresh air, long walks and good cooking, that’s what he needs. Frankly, he spends too much time with his head stuck in a book.’ And he explained pompously, ‘Francis is an academic. History is his subject, and chess his hobby. In fact he spends his evenings pitting his wits against another academic young man in Dittistone. It keeps him out very late. Sometimes,’ he confided in a tone that suggested he was about to divulge something quite shocking, ‘he doesn’t get back until after eleven. Well, at the parsonage we are always in bed by ten. But, as he says, it would be too rude to expect his friend to stop in the middle of a game. So we have given Francis his own key. Not something we do lightly I assure you, but as my wife says, if we can’t trust our own nephew who can we trust.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I murmured politely, relishing every word, wishing Mr. Reevers had not already left, knowing how much he too would enjoy this insight into life at the parsonage.

  My uncle asked Mr. Sims which era in history was his favourite, and was told without hesitation, ‘The Civil War. A most exciting time, when England was in great turmoil.’

  ‘Much as France is now,’ commented Mr. Hamerton, who had been listening politely.

  Mr Sims looked as if he would say more but, as he drew breath, Mr Upton announced, ‘I pride myself on knowing a thing or two about revolutions. Francis and I have already enjoyed some excellent discussions about France.’

  His nephew said very little, merely agreeing. He seemed rather reserved and I could not decide whether that was due to a natural reticence or because Mr Upton gave him little chance to speak. For Mr Upton liked nothing better than to air his views, convinced that, whatever the circumstances, he always knew best.

  Aunt Thirza remarked, ‘Personally I’ve always been fascinated by the Tudors.’

  Mr Upton wrinkled his nose. ‘Not a great interest of mine, I must confess. Henry the Eighth was not a good man, but without him there would be no Church of England. Of course, when Mary succeeded him she tried turning the country Catholic again, but thankfully it didn’t last.’

  I glanced at Mr Sims, wondering how he would react to Mr Upton removing Henry’s son, Edward the sixth, from the succession, and was rewarded with an answering gleam, but neither he nor I said a word. Mr Sims, I decided, had the measure of his uncle.

  But my aunt would never allow such a mistake to pass without comment, and she politely pointed out that Edward had succeeded Henry.

  ‘Oh no, ma’am. Edward died at a very young age. Am I not right, Francis?’ Certain his nephew would back him up.

  ‘He did die at fifteen, but-----’

  Mr. Upton interrupted, 'There, what did I tell you, ma’am? Francis knows his history, believe me.’

  When his uncle finished speaking Mr. Sims said, ‘I’m afraid Mrs Frère is right----’

  ‘Right? But----’

  ‘Edward succeeded his father at nine, reigned for six years and died at fifteen.’

  Mr Upton stared at him and thundered in disbelief, ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I am.’ And taking his watch from his pocket, said he rather thought it was time they returned to the parsonage. ‘It won’t do to be late for nuncheon, Uncle.’

  I suppressed a smile, aware Mrs Upton was a stickler for meals being on time. As for Mr Sims, he was obviously accustomed to his uncle’s mistakes, but I thought him rather calculating; a cold fish, as my father would have said.

  That afternoon Mr. Hamerton accepted my aunt and uncle’s offer to show him the full extent of the Westfleet gardens, enabling me to visit Julia as promised. But as I went up to my bedchamber to put on my hat, I saw Mr. Hamerton’s valet walking down the drive, heading towards the village, giving me the perfect opportunity to search Mr. Hamerton’s bedchamber. Quietly slipping into the room, I saw it was exceedingly neat and tidy, with nothing on the bedside cabinet except a small portrait of a lady I assumed to be his late wife. Inside the cabinet was a bible and a couple of books on moths and butterflies.

  Searching for anything that might connect him to the Fat Badgers I discovered a box at the back of his closet. It wasn’t locked and I opened it eagerly, my fingers trembling slightly. Inside were papers concerning financial matters, which to my surprise, showed he’d already sold his house in Windsor. And that his furniture had been moved into store on the day of the ball in London.

  At the bottom of the box were two letters, written by his wife before their marriage. But nothing else, nor were there any hidden compartments in the box. I replaced everything exactly as I’d found
it, and quietly left, feeling very disappointed.

  I’d hoped to find a Fat Badger token, but I wasn’t surprised that I had not. For, surely, no top enemy agent would be so foolish as to leave such a thing in his bedchamber. His lack of personal papers was surprising, however, for they bore no resemblance to the quantity I had accumulated over the years. As if he’d kept only what really mattered to him, and destroyed the rest. The one thing that was clear, was that he’d decided to move to the Island some time before he’d mentioned it to us.

  But why had he not told us? I could not ask him, at least not in a direct way. It was, however, the first indication that he had something he wished to hide. As I was to discover, it was not to be the last.

  I decided to walk to Julia’s, it being only about a mile. I put on a hat with a wide brim to keep the sun out of my eyes, walked downstairs and told Luffe where I was going. And having decided his efforts so far showed he had the makings of a good butler, I offered him the position permanently.

  ‘Me, my lady?’ he said, touching the middle of his chest with his index finger in disbelief.

  ‘Yes,’ I smiled. ‘Do you think you can do it?’

  ‘Oh yes, my lady. I can do it all right. I just thought–-’

  ‘That’s settled then.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady,’ he said, beaming from ear to ear. ‘I won’t let you down.’

  ‘No, I don’t think you will,’ I assured him.

  Aunt Thirza would not be pleased, but if she complained I would have to gently remind her, yet again, that Westfleet Manor belonged to me, and therefore the decision was mine alone. It was getting on for two years since she and Lucie arrived at Westfleet without warning, seeking refuge from the revolution in France. My father had been alive then and had welcomed them warmly, begging them to stay as long as they wished. I was happy for that arrangement to continue, for my uncle had not totally recovered from the months he’d spent in a French prison.