Mark Dunn - Under the Harrow

I led Muntle away from his playfellows so that I might speak to him without our being overheard. One of the deputies, a redheaded fellow, ridiculously over-freckled, eyed us with interest as we strolled away.

“Is he the one?” I asked in a low voice, whilst making a slight nod with my head in the direction of the juvenilely mop-topped young man.

“Aye. Boldwig. Billy Boldwig. It wasn’t even a month ago that he was thrust upon me. I didn’t hold out great hopes for him, but I had no idea that he would shew not even an ounce of promise whatsoever. He is by turns disruptive and indolent, and he all but slept through his truncheon training, in spite of the fact that his mates have nicknamed him ‘Billy Club’ for the obvious reason. I fear he’s going to be a problem and there’s really not much that I can do about it.”

“Because it was an M.P.P., his own father, William Boldwig of the General Agency Office, who insinuated him upon you.”

Muntle nodded, stopping beneath a large oak tree that gave adequate shade and an accommodating degree of privacy. “You would think that having a father with the power to put you into whatever situation you desired, ‘deputy sheriff ’ should appear nowhere upon a list of prospective occupations. Whilst respectable, the job offers little or no cachet of which I’m aware.”

“Perhaps Billy hopes eventually to steal your job away from you, Muntle. I would keep a careful eye on him were I you.”

I smiled, but Muntle did not. It suddenly became obvious to me that this wasn’t the first time that the thought had entered his head.

“Now to my reason for this impromptu visit, Muntle: your presence is requested in rooms above Bocker’s Fine and General Stationers at two o’clock this afternoon.”

“For what purpose?”

“An interview. Will you be finished with your game of quoits by then?”

“Who is to be interviewed and for what reason? It’s my day off, you know.”

“Her Christian name is Tattycoram. I don’t know her surname. She’s one of that small flood of char-girls and bottle washers from Blackheath that are making life so much more pleasant and convenient for our moneyed Bashaw class. She has information that should shine a brand new light upon what happened to her mistress, the unfortunate Mrs. Pyegrave.”

“By the bye, the poor woman finally succumbed to her injuries this morning. I just received the report of her demise not twenty minutes ago.”

“And is there to be an investigation into its cause?”

“We have the cause of death: fall from a great height.”

I frowned. “You know what I mean. Was it an accident or was it not an accident?”

Muntle sighed, then turned in such a way as to put his back to his new redheaded deputy who seemed to be edging closer to where we stood, his large floppy ears apparently straining to hear everything that was being exchanged between us.

“Lord Mayor Feenix has nudged me off.”

“But why?”

“He contends that there is nothing to be found out, and that any degree of delving should constitute a great waste of my time. There is not even to be an inquest. Pyegrave said that his wife had been drinking, stumbling about, and knocking things over. He put her to bed and thought that she would stay put until morning. It is his assertion that she didn’t stay put, Trimmers, but rose in the night, tripped over a hassock and went flying out of the open window.”

“Do you not find that story to be a bit far fetched?”

Muntle half-shrugged. “A bit…and perhaps a little bit more.”

“Tattycoram would think, I warrant, that this account was beyond far fetched. As it so happens, she heard the whole thing, listening most attentively outside the door to Mrs. Pyegrave’s bedchamber.”

“That’s what she wishes to do? Offer an earwitness account of what took place in that room?”

I nodded. “Is it required that you seek the Lord Mayor’s permission to speak to her?”

“Of course not. It may be a fact that I’m nudged and leaned upon with far more muscle these days than I have been in the past, but I do maintain some small vestige of independence in my office, Trimmers. At least for the time being.”

This last statement was made in a most circumspect undervoice, for the new redheaded deputy had fully completed his incursion and was now standing only a couple of feet away, signalling Muntle’s attention with an “ahem” and a raised, soliciting forefinger.

“Yes? What is it, Deputy?”

“Speaking on behalf of the other players, I was wondering how much longer you wished to delay the game. The tavern is open now and there has been some discussion as to whether or no we should take custody of the tap before the pew-sitters make their thirsty onslaught.”

“I’ve no objection if you want to go along, Boldwig. You needn’t have even asked me.”

“I interrupt, as well, to enquire with regard to the matter being discussed betwixt the two of you — if there be some small office or service I may render to be of assistance.” Boldwig pursed his lips and squinted his eyes in a buffoonish show of earnest sincerity.

“I have no idea what you mean, Boldwig. This is a private conference that has nothing to do with my duties as sheriff.”

Billy Boldwig took a couple of self-abasing steps in retreat. “Begging your pardon then. I had it in my head that you were discussing poor Mrs. Pyegrave’s death upon her hospital bed this morning — that Mr. Trimmers here was gathering information to put it into the Crier. ”

I answered for myself: “I don’t write for the Crier , Boldwig.” It was time now for a little blatant prevarication: “And there was mention of Mrs. Pyegrave’s tragic demise between us, but only briefly and in passing.”

“Because…” pursued Boldwig, “I know that Lord Mayor Feenix would prefer that the family be allowed to grieve and bury their dear loved one without prying trespass by the papers or any other sort of meddling for that matter. I know this family quite well, sir, and feel tacitly empowered by the connexion to speak on their behalf.”

Muntle brought his eyes to bear on Boldwig without speaking. I knew the hard and penetrating look, having seen it upon my friend’s face on previous occasions: the kettle nearly ready to blow its lid but kept in place by a most strongly-applied hand. After taking a breath to rein in his temper, he replied, “First of all, Deputy Boldwig, what is said between Lord Mayor Feenix in his capacity as Minister of Justice and me, in my capacity as Sheriff of Dingley Dell, should be of concern to my deputies if and only if I choose to make it their concern — and this goes treble for he who is the most recent addition to my constabulary. Secondly, you have no business knowing how the Lord Mayor feels about the Pyegraves, unless you have been obtrusive and prying yourself. Have you been obtrusive and prying, Deputy Boldwig?”

Boldwig gave immediate offence (or at least he coloured in such a way as to lead one to this conclusion). “I most certainly have not , Sheriff. My father, as you must know, is close friend to the Lord Mayor and they are both close friends to Pyegrave. Whatever intelligence has come to me I have absorbed merely through inevitable proximity to those amicable attachments. Begging your pardon again, sir, I shall be on my way.”

With that, the obtrusive and prying Mr. Billy Boldwig turned to go to that place where he could draw himself a pint, although his withdrawal from our society was by no means tidily executed, for it was accompanied by a series of studious glances over the shoulder, each of which seemed evidential of further opinion and speculation about what his employer might do that a Feenix or a Boldwig or most certainly a Pyegrave should not approve.