Cheating the Hangman by Judith Cutler Read Free Book Online Page B

in Clavercote, pressed me to fill my saddlebags with enough for the youngsters there to eat, if not race. She also produced an attenuated version of her famous box for the new baby, which still, according to Edmund, clung desperately to life; not expecting any of the garments to be returned, she picked out the least good, though she made sure that each was laundered to within an inch of its life.
    Sunday had dawned with the total perfection of a spring day. The sun was warm, trees were throwing out their blossom, birds sang as sweetly as any choir and all my congregation seemed to share my joy. All Souls’ was but half full, and the singing was sadly perfunctory. The few farmers’ daughters flaunted their spring finery; of the poor cottagers there was unsurprisingly no sign. Accepting, with a reluctance I hoped I concealed, an invitation to return to Squire Lawton’s home for a festive sherry, I asked as I sipped if Lord Wychbold had shown any sign of improving the dwellings on his land.
    ‘Wychbold? Up at Lambert Place? A curst rum touch if ever there was one. All that book learning has fair addled his brain, if you ask me, with all those break-teeth words. There are those,’ he added judiciously, sucking his teeth and looking around to see that no one in the empty room might overhear – the rest of the household were preparing a tempting-smelling repast to which I was not invited – ‘whosay it’s more to do with what he got up to when he was young.’ He gave the most enormous wink, touching the side of his nose with a dirt-engrained index finger. ‘Goings on, they say. Devil worship,’ he clarified ghoulishly.
    ‘The rumours have not escaped me. This is surely not a suitable topic for such a day as this, Mr Lawton.’
    Not quelled at all by my repressive tone and words, he added, ‘And now there’s all that to-do at Orebury House. Rakes and barques of frailty turning the fine old place into a brothel. And every man jack with a fine title to his name, as well as a fine—’ He made an indecent joke.
    For nothing would I have pointed out that by insulting Lord Hasbury and his friends he was insulting friends of my father – and, heaven forbid, my father himself. As it was, I verily believe that he could not fathom the reason for my real displeasure at his unsavoury humour. Thanking him tepidly for his hospitality, I made my excuses and left.
    Wishful to cleanse my head of his sullying conversation, I resolved to ride home not via the lanes but through the healing verdure of fields and woodlands. While not entirely embracing Mr Wordsworth’s fervour, I truly felt the cares of the last few days lifted from my shoulders as I felt the sun on my face. Titus, in tune with my mood, had relaxed to the slowest of walks.
    However, as we approached the path through the woods, which was our nearest way home, it became clear that his reluctance to move forward was nothing to do with his attunement to my current humour, but to something that offended him. His ears and nostrils flared. He knapped. However much I might urge him forward with kind words, he resisted.
    At last I dismounted, going to his head and talking softly but firmly to him. Still he resisted my blandishments, though he reluctantly consented to let me lead him on a tight rein into the wood. Fifty yards we walked – and no further. Him having veritably dragged me back whence we had come, I tied him to a sapling, fearing that for once his obvious anxieties would inspire him to return to his stable without me on his back.
    I had penetrated perhaps a hundred yards beyond the point at which Titus had dug in his heels when I first noticed the smell. At first it was simply a sweet tinge to the verdant air. Then the sweetness became unmistakeably sickly. I was in the presence of a dead creature, one beginning to putrefy. Covering my nose and mouth with my handkerchief, I moved gingerly forward.
     
    I cannot tell how long it took me to come to my senses so that I