Chapter 24
Motives for Murder
Sunday
31 August 1806
I DID NOT FIND MY OWN BED UNTIL NEARLY THREE o’clock in the morning. Lady Harriot would have had me stay the night at Chatsworth, but I declined the honour most vociferously — being little disposed to tarry too long in Paradise, lest it make me ill-suited to my usual realm. Besides, I had brought no change of clothing, and could not appear at the breakfast table in evening dress.
His Grace the Duke was so kind as to send me back into Bakewell behind his own horses, the moonlight being strong enough to permit of driving, even at so advanced an hour. Dawson the coachman having been summoned from his bed, he vented his grievance in pounding soundly at the broad front door of The Rutland Arms. Stumbling and weary, I mounted the stairs behind the candle of the unprotesting Mr. Davies — who must be said to possess experience of Dukes and their shocking hours. I do not think I was suffered even to dream.
But I awoke with a start at seven o’clock, as though the presence of a stranger in the room had unnerved me. All was still; only birdsong and sunlight crept through the window-curtains. Without hesitation I reached under my pillow for the stillroom book of Tess Arnold, and began to read where I had left off Friday evening.
23 January 1806. Met LH above Miller’s Dale.
LH: Lord Hartington? Lady Harriot? Or — Lord Harold Trowbridge? The appearance of no one among Tess Arnold’s patients should surprise me now. I suspected, however, that LH signified one person only; and though Tess offered no hint of what she had supplied or charged for her services, there was reason for secrecy in their meetings.
1 February 1806. LH with tutor. Saw one hour above Miller’s Dale.
Of course the boy possessed a tutor, one who might go with him from London to Derbyshire and back again; one more suited to the instruction of a pupil with impaired hearing, than a host of Eton masters should be. I did not need Andrew Danforth’s indignation to fear Lord Hartington’s fate among schoolboys; they should despise him for his awkwardness, and taunt him cruelly for infirmity. But what a lonely life the Marquess seemed to have led! No small matter, then, the attentions of a worldly young woman; and well worth a winter ride to the heights of Miller’s Dale.
14 February 1806. Ten draughts against the Gravel to Lady Elizabeth, of burdock root, vitriolated Tartar, and syrup of Marshmallows, five shillings. Also one for liverish complaints, of celandine, turmeric, madder, and bruised woodlice, to which added, twenty-five drops morphia from Michael Tivey, one guinea.
Bruised woodlice? I shuddered. Lady Elizabeth appeared to have suffered from a variety of ailments, and to have dosed herself most liberally; there were further entries for the liverish concoction, each with increasing amounts of morphia. I had not thought she should have found occasion to visit Chatsworth during the London Season; but in fact I knew very little of her movements.
27 February 1806. Master John seized with vomiting and a bloody flux. Mistress hysterick. Administered salt of wormwood in lemon juice to the child, with hartshorn and diascordium against the stools; to the Mistress, asafetida in rue-water. Urged Dr. Bascomb be called.
3 March 1806. Master John wasting in fever. Dr. Bascomb bled him to reduce the heat of the blood. I applied the leeches.
5 March 1806. John d’Arcy Danforth, aged two years, five months, and nineteen days, died this morning of a malignant fever.
14 March 1806. To Lady Elizabeth, by post, Tincture of Bitter Almonds in Juniper Water, one shilling.
By post. The malingering Bess had not, then, been in residence at Chatsworth. No mention of what use might be found for Tincture of Bitter Almonds.
28 March 1806. Mistress thrown this morning into early labour, several weeks before she expected. Placed Tansy steeped in Sack in cloth bag against the navel, and gave posset of milk and Oil of Sweet Almonds. As Master was absent on business in London, askt Mrs. Haskell to send to Buxton for Dr. Bascomb. Doctor came, and at eight o’clock in the evening, Mistress brought to bed of a dead child. Gave Mistress bruised millipede in white wine against sore breasts, and Hartshorn water against histericks.
How sick Lydia Danforth must have been, of these useless draughts for ills no human hand could cure! How desolate that last, and most dreadful, lying-in, with her faint hopes of happiness staring sightless from the eyes of a stillborn babe!
There was a further episode in the Danforth tragedy; and I found it not long thereafter.
8 April 1806. Mistress taken today with malignant fever. Gave powder of Bark and Virginian Snakeroot in strong cinnamon water. Dr. Bascomb called, and bled her.
10 April 1806. At a quarter past one o’clock this morning, Mistress taken to God. Mr. Charles has shut himself up in his room and sees no one.
There were entries enough after this — Tess Arnold’s careful hand ran all the way up to the twenty-second of August, when she had applied a poultice of elderberries against a scullery-maid’s burn; but none of them afforded me so much interest. It was singular, I reflected, that Andrew Danforth had suffered not the slightest indisposition in nearly four years of record-keeping; and Charles Danforth had been ill only once. The entry that referred to him was the very last one contained in the stillroom book.
23 August 1806. Master seized with vomiting after dinner. Offered red surfeit water but he would have none of it.
Charles Danforth had refused the maid’s physick; and Charles Danforth was still alive.
I sat upright in bed for close to an hour, while the light and birdsong of morning strengthened beyond my window, and considered of the nature of the Danforth ailments. Of Lady Elizabeth’s peculiar combination of liverish complaints and blocked menses. Of Lord Hartington’s loves and Lord Hartington’s silent rages.
I thought of Michael Tivey, and how useful a friend he had proved; I thought of the lies Tess Arnold had told her sister, of Freemasons and sacrifice in the hills above Miller’s Dale.
Lastly I considered of George Hemming. There was but one reason I could think of for his perilous course towards judgement and execution — for if Tess Arnold had blackmailed the solicitor, she had taken his secret to the grave. The stillroom book betrayed not the slightest hint of the reasons for his shame and misery. But I thought I could conceive of explanation enough.
I closed the quarto volume at last and set it carefully to one side. Then I got up and went in search of paper and a pen. Before I might dress for Sunday service — before I might do up my hair, or petition Mr. Davies for hot tea — there was a letter to be drafted to Dr. Bascomb of Buxton. The innkeeper must certainly know the physician’s direction; and Sunday or no, I would have the answers I required.
“YOU WILL BE SURE TO OBSERVE THE TOMBS IN THE Vernon Chapel, Jane,” observed my cousin Mr. Cooper as we toiled up the hill to All Saints Church.