Bitter Herbs Read online

  “I would be delighted, ma’am. My Grace is subject to coughs in the hard weather; as a doctor I am exposed to much in that line as I do my rounds, and then bring it home to her, poor child.”

  Edmund took Dr Peplow away to his study after tea, where they were soon admiring specimens of daphnia under the microscope. Their talk turned in the direction of the recent sensation in the town and Edmund was pleased to have someone he could talk to about the case while his sister was away. He mentioned his resolve to interview Frank and Jem. The doctor asked if he would be able to trace the gipsy pedlar. Edmund explained that he had been looking out eagerly for his friend and pupil Rosanna, a gipsy girl whom he had taught to read in the summer, to ask for her assistance with this, but he had had no word of her. Unbeknown to him, she and her family had gone further south into Herefordshire and had no intention of returning north for some time.

  “In that case, I may be able to assist you there, Bredwardine,” said the doctor. “I have some acquaintance amongst the gipsy tribe myself. I was passing an encampment on my way home to Shifnal one afternoon, after delivering a baby in Evelith; some of the children ran up to my horse to beg for pennies and I fell into conversation with them. They told me their older sister was very ill, so I took it upon myself to approach the parents and offer to examine the child. They were wary at first but they are intelligent people and obviously very concerned about their little one. They had been afraid it was what M. Bretonneau*(6) has called diphtheria, but I was much relieved to see that it was a case of streptococcal pharyngitis, where the symptoms are similar, even to the development of the whitish exudate on the tonsils, which resembles the pseudo-membrane of the more fatal disease. I was able to prescribe sage tea with honey, not too unpleasant to take, as well as warmth, rest and good feeding. The child was on the road to recovery within a few days, for I went again to see. The parents’ gratitude was very touching. They are camped near Wellington right now. Let me have a copy of your sketch and I will talk to them, to see if they know the man who sells them. They trust me enough to know that I will not have the man arrested, but seek only knowledge.”

  “That would be exceedingly kind of you, Peplow. It will take quite a burden off me, as I need to interview Jem Roberts and Frank Marsh also.”

  “Aye, I thought as much. You were as concerned about poor Tompkins back in the summer. I shall be glad to do it, man, glad to do it.” The doctor was always embarrassed by displays of gratitude for what he only thought of as the duty of friendship or care for his patients, and this was a pity, for he was a stout friend and a physician of such competence that he was often exposed to them. They passed onto a discussion of the likely poisons. Dr Peplow agreed that deadly nightshade, called in Latin atropa belladonna, was the most likely culprit.

  “Do you know where it might grow hereabouts?” he asked Edmund.

  “I have been giving the matter much thought. I am fairly sure that I have seen it in the ruins of the abbey, and perhaps against the wall of the churchyard in summer. Harriet will know for sure; she is a skilled herbalist.”

  “Your sister has many estimable qualities. How did you leave her?” The doctor affected to speak casually but the pleasure on his face when he heard of Harriet’s health and happiness during her unexpected trip did him no disservice with her brother.

  “When do you expect her home?”

  “Thursday. You must come to tea soon to hear her adventures.”

  “That would be very pleasant. If I may, I should like to bring Grace too.”

  “Nothing would please us all more.”

  Gratified but embarrassed afresh, Peplow reverted quickly to their earlier discussion: “To return to the less pleasant subject of poisons,” he said, “the root of the deadly nightshade is the most potent and most toxic part, I believe. The eyedrops are distilled from the juice of the berries, which although dangerous, are not so deadly. I do not think therefore that the eyedrops, swallowed, would necessarily be fatal; the victim would be likely to vomit the worst of it out fairly soon after. Old Culpepper talks of its being of use medicinally, like many other dangerous plants, if used with extreme care and only externally, for ‘inflammatory swellings’. It is not an abortifacient. Of course, it is commonly said that poison is a woman’s weapon. You were satisfied that Kitty Pardoe was telling the truth?”

  “Yes, she was honest enough and I cannot see when she could have administered the dose, or otherwise forced Dilly to take anything from her. She was seen not to touch her or pass her anything. I cannot conceive that anyone else would have such a strong motive to harm the child. I must turn my attention to the men she knew next.”

  Deborah came in at that moment with the brandy decanter and glasses on a tray which she put within easy reach. Overhearing the last sentence, she started and dropped a curtsey.

  “Beg pardon, Mr Bredwardine, but I wonder if you had heard a piece of news about Jem Roberts? He has given in his notice at Mr Edwards’ and gone off in a hurry, they say. Some folks are saying he knows more about Dilly’s death than is right.”

  Chapter 15

  The hasty departure from the scene of a potential suspect looked ill. Edmund could not take up the investigation straightaway however. His duties as parish priest overtook him until after the Christmas feast, but he did not forget his promise to Daniel and Deborah. At the first opportunity he had quizzed Mr Trent the apothecary about the vial he had picked up beside Dilly’s bed. They had met at the bedside of Ben Jones, Mr Meredith’s servant, who had been much afflicted by bronchitis in the cold weather, and the old man’s bushy eyebrows waggled as he took his customary pinch of snuff to assist his memory but he had little hesitation in saying that the vial in the sketch was different in shape and thickness to the one he had found. “That was a sad case, Mr Bredwardine, very sad. Poor child.” Edmund was relieved. His faith in Kitty at least seemed to have been justified.

  As he celebrated the communion on Christmas Eve, Edmund watched his flock come up to take the bread, the rich and the poor, some sad and some merry, all alike in hope and trust, and he grieved for those like Emma Jones and his own servants for whom the cloud of Dilly’s passing made the season dark.

  He reflected on this further as he and his family enjoyed their quiet festivities, all reunited around the board now Harriet was back, looking younger as a result of her unexpected holiday, and full of all that she had seen and done, and he determined to resume his investigation as soon as he could, in order to try to bring some peace to those less fortunate than he.

  Accordingly, after the first Sunday service in January, Edmund seized the opportunity to waylay Tom Williams, the stockman who worked alongside Jem Roberts at Mr Edwards’ farm within the town as he came out of the church and ask him to remain behind for a while. Tom was clearly puzzled but went back inside willingly enough and sat on a pew near the back until Edmund should have leisure to speak to him. He thought perhaps that the Reverend needed him for some job and showed no sign of perturbation when Edmund joined him.

  “Thank you, Tom, for staying for me. I have been puzzling my head lately about poor Dilly Jones. I am looking into the matter for her family.”

  “Ay sir? I thought the coroner ruled on that.”

  “Indeed he did, Tom, but there seem to be many questions still unanswered and I made a promise to her mother and cousins that I would seek to answer at least some of them. I was curious about Jem Roberts, for instance. You worked with him until recently but he has left now, I understand. It was a hasty departure, was it not? Mr Edwards has been grumbling to me about it, but he did not know what prompted it. There is some gossip in the town about Jem and Dilly. I wished to ask you what you thought of your fellow worker?”

  Tom looked uncomfortable and wriggled in his seat. “Well, sir, I don’t want to speak out of turn. Jem was a good, hard worker, always put ‘is back into it.”

  “And as a person, Tom? Was Jem a violent or quarrelsome man, for instance?”

  “Oh no, sir, no. He
did ‘ave a right temper on him from time to time, mind. He was main angry with Dilly when she deserted ‘im at the fair for Frank: he went on and on about women and their fickleness for some time but Susie, Susie Harper, you know sir, our dairymaid, a right sensible lass, she told him straight that ‘e should have been more agreeable on the day instead of sulking, and then she might never have gone off with Frank. I really dunna think Jem would have tried to ‘arm the wench, Dilly, I mean. I never saw him strike a blow; he kept out of brawls, didn’t drink overmuch. He did brood something chronic over Dilly, but I allus thought it were more ‘is pride that were ‘urt then his heart.” Tom stopped to think for a while.

  “I’m sure he didn’t do her harm, sir,” he went on. I think he couldn’t face going around where he used to see her go by, or past her grave. He had to leave, it were that painful to ‘im.”

  “Thank you, Tom. Do you know where he is gone?”

  Tom hesitated. “What will you do, sir? I dunna want to see ‘im in trouble.”

  “You overestimate my powers, Tom, but I mean Jem no harm, I promise you. I would like to talk to him, and hear his version of events from his own lips. It seems to me that there is much in what you say about his wishing to leave a locality that had too many painful memories. Can you tell me where he lives now?”

  “Aah, sir. He lives at Harley now, working for Jack Lewis.

  “Thank you, Tom. Good day to you.”

  * * *

  He took Taran from the stable and set off for Harley. The servants at the farm told him ~Jem was not there but directed him to the local tavern and he rode on there. He tied the pony outside the inn and looked inside. He saw Jem in a corner, alone, a pint pot before him, almost untouched. He bought two pints and walked over to Jem, who was startled to see his former parish priest materialise before him.

  “May I join you, Jem?” Edmund asked mildly.

  “Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.” He frowned with puzzlement as Edmund pushed the spare pint towards him. “It’s a surprise to see you here, sir.” He paused in the middle of swigging from his first pot, with a worried look. “There is no trouble at home, sir? Does my father need me?”

  “No, Jem, no trouble at home. But I fear you are troubled in yourself, and I have sought you out for that reason. You were much upset by the death of Dilly Jones, I daresay?”

  Jem started to flush, his skin gradually suffusing to a deep raw red, like freshly cut steak. He gripped the edge of the table with strong hands and looked away.

  Edmund watched him steadily. “This distresses you, Jem?” The labourer breathed in deeply and set his jaw before answering.

  “Aah, sir. It does. ‘Ow could it not? I…I cared for her, sir, but she didna care for me.”

  “Tell me, Jem. It may ease your heart to tell someone, for I think your spirits are much oppressed.” Edmund’s tone was gentle and he sat back in a deliberately relaxed way, sipping at his drink, as though inviting Jem to take as much time as he pleased. Jem considered. He was still very young, just seventeen, and insecure in his manliness after the humiliation at the fair, but the man sitting beside him was a clergyman and in Jem’s mind therefore, partook of some of the gentler qualities of women. He slowly began to unburden himself, though the remembrance of his mortification still haunted him and scorched him from time to time with the hotness of his shame, which he sought to quench with great gulps of ale.

  “I ‘ad been taken with ‘er the first time I saw her, in your own church, sir. She seemed so soft and so fair, and I allus remember how her hair used to curl round her little ear just so, sir.” His hand mimed the action of putting a soft curl behind his own ear. Jem screwed his eyes shut at the pain of the memory. “She always seemed to be happy and smiling. I would look and look at her and she would never see me, or I would look away if she did peep. I used to daydream, sir, about her being my sweetheart. She was never pert or hard, like some of the wenches.” Here he stopped and covered his eyes with his large red hand. Edmund’s heart expanded in sympathy as he saw Jem’s face contorted with grief, and hot slow tears dropped below the shielding hand. He reached for his own handkerchief and passed it silently to Jem, pressing him on the shoulder in sympathy as he did so.

  It took Jem a time to compose himself, but Edmund did not stir. He had often stopped in his travels around the parish to observe some wild creatures disporting themselves, unaware of his presence, and he exercised the same patience now, sipping at his ale and waiting until the lad could summon the strength to go on.

  “I finally got up the courage to ask her to go to the fair with me, sir. She said ‘yes’ and my heart was like a swallow, as light as they are, way up in the blue, for a bit. But it all went wrong on the day. Nothing ‘appened like I’d ‘oped. We couldna’ find much to say to each other and I just got more and more angry when she kept saying how strong and brave that Frank Marsh was, and then ‘e just collared her, as though she belonged to him, and his gang just pushed me to the ground and off she went, like any trollop. I ‘ated ‘im and I ‘ated ‘er then, but I repent me now, I do. I repent me now.”

  “What do you repent, Jem?” Edmund asked quietly.

  “My anger and.. and... my hate, sir. I couldna help it. It came up in me like a river flooding, but it’s all gone now. Poor little wench. I feels like it was my fault. I wished ‘em both dead once.”

  “Jem, finish your drink and come with me to the church.”

  Puzzled, the young man did as he was bid and supped the last of his ale before following Edmund out and across to the village church, where they entered the dim interior.

  Edmund turned to Jem and put his hand once again on his shoulder. “Jem, here before God, did you ever do Dilly harm?”

  Jem was silent for a long time. The floodwaters of rage had indeed receded but a dreary sludge of resentment had remained for a long time. At last his words came as if each were wrenched from deep within his chest. “Never, sir, never, I swear. In my heart, I wished ‘er dead at my feet after she went off with Marsh, but I never laid a finger on her. Now she is dead, I am so sorry. I.. I wished it and now it is true, God help me.” The groan that accompanied this confession rent Edmund’s heart. The lad was now weeping uncontrollably and Edmund put his arm companionably across his shoulder, saying nothing until the storm abated. He rose and going into the vestry found some water and poured Jem a glass which he took back to him. The boy thanked him and gulped most of it down in one. Once he adjudged Jem had calmed himself sufficiently to pay heed, Edmund addressed him again.

  “Come with me, Jem, and let us pray.” He stood up and put his hand out to Jem. They walked together to the altar and Edmund kneeled at the altar rail and bade Jem to do likewise. Jem seemed to be in a dream but he put his hands together. The two men prayed intently and thus Edmund gave Jem the absolution his repentant heart and soul had craved for his dark thoughts. There would be a new beginning.

  Edmund watched the young man go out again, his heart’s sorrow eased and cleansed and he prayed that he would not come to any major harm, but would recover from his first disastrous love.

  It struck him afresh how Dilly, simple child as she was, had blundered along all unawares of the effect she had on others, leaving a wave of strong feeling in her wake. Yet those closest to her all loved her and even those with most cause to hate her had repented, to a greater or lesser degree. Jem had been the most embroiled of them all in a net of conflicting emotions, perhaps, but even he would not have put his hand to any evil deed, Edmund felt sure. It seemed most likely that her death was a sad accident. He hoped that the doctor would find the gipsy pedlar soon.

  Chapter 16

  Dr Peplow and Grace had enjoyed a peaceful Christmas together, disturbed only by another determined attempt on the part of Letty Fretwood once more to cast Miss Dixon, who with her mother, was visiting cousins in Shifnal, into his path, at a Twelfth Night party. He was obliged to dance with Miss Dixon twice, or be deemed curmudgeonly where the men under forty were so few, and the matr
ons of Shifnal began to look askance at his fair partner, an intruder from Wellington, for several of them were hoping that the doctor might look their daughters’ way. The next day, because of Letty’s machinations, he and Grace were obliged to convey Miss Dixon and her mother home after their holiday, and, worse still, to accompany them on a shopping expedition, on the excuse that they would give him the benefit of their advice on choosing fabrics for new clothes for Grace. His mild vexation at their clinging to him like burdocks was mitigated by the fact that this was one area where he might need their help; his housekeeper was his usual resource, but she had rather old-fashioned ideas. His spirits lifted however when he spied his gipsy friend Bosco, and his wife Selva, on the road to Wellington, near Ketley brook, and was able to fulfil his promise to Edmund to ask them about the pedlar. Once he had assured them that the man was not in trouble, but indeed likely to gain a handsome tip for any information he could provide, they had advised him that Tom Boswell was the pedlar he was seeking, and that his family were camping in the vicinity of Wellington for a few days. Grace was excited at the thought of visiting the camp. She begged her father to go after the shopping expedition was done.

  Selva smiled at her. “Perhaps the little lady would like to have her fortune told? Tom’s mother has the skill. The other ladies too, if they would care to.” Selva had made the suggestion because she thought it would please Grace, whose respect for and ready acceptance of the gipsies mirrored her father’s and had pleased her. She had less regard for the women who had kept aloof while John and his daughter had chatted to her husband but if the others wanted it too, it would mean all the more silver for their friends. This suggestion set the Dixons atwitter with excitement; whilst they were exclaiming to each other, Grace and her father exchanged dismayed looks. They had both wanted to carry out the visit after shedding the burden of courtesy by leaving the Dixons in town but there was no help for it. They looked at each other and wordlessly agreed to shoulder the burden afresh and so they completed the shopping as quickly as possible before setting out for the encampment sited on some common land near the Holyhead road.