The Essex Serpent(25)

‘Don’t you know me? Am I such a sight?’ Again the man held out his arms, then tugged off the knitted cap, and a thicket of untidy curls the same russet shade as her own long plait gleamed in the lamplight.

‘Daddy! Where have you been? What have you done – how have you cut your cheek?’

‘John, lad: and don’t you know your own father?’ With a child in the crook of each arm, the Reverend William Ransome reached out to cuff Naomi kindly on the shoulder, and nodded at Cracknell, who said, ‘And a sight for sore eyes you represent as ever, Parson; and if I could suggest the littl’uns be taken home and kept there, I’ll bid each a goodnight.’ Bowing to them all – and most deeply to John – the old man retreated into World’s End and slammed shut the door.

‘And why are you all out so late, might I ask? We shall all of us answer to your mother for this; and as for you, Miss Banks, what will I tell your father?’ He tweaked Naomi’s cheek, and propelled her home towards a grey stone cottage that overlooked the quay. The girl looked once over her shoulder at her friends, then hurried inside, and they heard the door bolted.

‘Yes – but Daddy, where have you been? What have you done to your face? Do you need a stitch?’ (This said eagerly, since Joanna had a private longing to wield the surgeon’s knife.)

‘Never mind that: why is John crying, and he as old as the hills!’ Will tightened his hold on the boy, who swallowed the last of his sobs. ‘As for me: I have been out rescuing sheep, and frightening ladies, and I must say’ – they’d reached the chequered garden path, and the borders where snowdrops gleamed in the dark – ‘that I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in a long time. Stella! We’re home, and we need you!’





MARCH





Stella Ransome

All Saints Rectory

Aldwinter

11th March

My dear Mrs Seaborne –

I write in the hope that a note from me won’t seem a note from a stranger, since Charles Ambrose assures me you’re expecting to hear from the Ransome family, of Aldwinter, Essex – and behold: here we are!

But first, I hope you will accept the most sincere condolences from my husband and myself on your recent bereavement. We hear little of London, and yet Mr Seaborne’s name reached us via Charles, and sometimes even in The Times! We know him to have been a man greatly admired, and I’m sure greatly loved. You have been in our prayers, and most of all mine, as I think I can imagine best a wife’s grief at her husband’s loss.

And now: to the matter at hand. Charles and Katherine Ambrose will be here next Saturday for supper, and we would be delighted beyond measure if you would join us. I understand you are accompanied by your son, and by a companion of whom Charles speaks very fondly, and we would be pleased to meet them also. There is no occasion to be marked, only the chance to see old friends and make new ones.

Our address is as you see it, and we are easily reached from Colchester: I’m afraid there’s no train, but it’s a pleasant enough journey by cab. You must stay with us, of course: we have room, and you will not want to travel home so late. I will await your response, and in the meantime plan what dainty dishes I can set before a woman with London tastes!

Yours very sincerely,





STELLA RANSOME


PS – As you see, I could not resist sending you a primrose, though I was too impatient to press it well, and it has stained the page. I never could learn to bide my time! – S.





1


Dr Luke Garrett surveyed his room at the George Hotel, Colchester, with grudging pleasure: it was clear that Spencer had spared no expense. His fingertip, having been swept across each surface, remained spotless. ‘I could perform an appendectomy in here,’ Luke said, with what his friend rightly took to be an air of wishing disease on passers-by. The cleanliness of the room established, Garrett flicked open the brass fastenings of his suitcase and withdrew a pair of crumpled shirts, several books with pages folded down, and a sheaf of paper. This he set on the dressing-table, reverently surmounted with a white envelope on which his name was written in a neat decisive hand.

‘She’s expecting us?’ Spencer nodded at the envelope: he knew Cora’s handwriting well, since his friend had lately been in the habit of passing him each of her letters, the better to examine the meaning behind each phrase.

‘Expecting? Expecting! I wouldn’t have come, left to my own devices – I’ve far too much to do. Not to put too fine a point on it, Spencer, the woman begged. “I miss you, dear” she said’ – he gave his wolfish grin, and above it his black eyes shone – ‘“I miss you, dear”!’

‘Will we see her tonight?’ Spencer said this carelessly. He had motives of his own for this display of impatience, but having successfully concealed them even from Garrett’s forensic gaze was unwilling to show them. Too absorbed in re-reading Cora’s letter (mouthing dear! to himself twice), his friend noticed nothing, only said, ‘Yes: they’re at the Red Lion; we’ll see them at eight – at eight on the dot, if I know Cora, which I do.’

‘Then I will go for a walk. It’s too fine a day to be cooped up, and I want to see the castle. They say you can still see ruins from the Essex earthquake – will you come?’