THE MISTRESS OF CASTLE CRAGGE

CHAPTER SEVEN

                      

THE CHAMBERS OF LAWYER GEORGE SPINDLER,

TRURO, CORNWALL

George Spindler studied the letter before him, a deep frown of irritation creasing his brows. After a moment’s thought he reached across and pressed a button on the desk and heard the bell ring in the clerks’ office. Within moments a man entered the room.

His chief clerk, Amos Johnson was in his mid-forties; slight of figure and with an angular face. His dark eyes had the alertness of high intelligence. Amos was astute and George Spindler would trust him with anything.

‘Johnson,’ Spindler said irritably. ‘I have had another letter from that abominable woman Henrietta Swindale; the third in as many weeks. She is again demanding news of the heir to the Cragge estates. Do we have any news?’

   ‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ Johnson said apologetically. ‘The man I sent to Nettlefield learned nothing. The villagers there are a reticent lot.’

   ‘It won’t do, Johnson,’ Spindler said. ‘More effort must be made to trace this Celia Clarkeson or her offspring.’

   ‘I’m surprised Mrs Swindale is so keen to have news of the heir,’ Johnson said.

  ‘The news Mrs Swindale craves is that there is no living heir,’ Spindler said flatly. ‘She’ll not let the matter rest until something is unearthed.’

     He glanced down at the letter again. ‘She write from an address in London,’ he said. ‘Obviously the family are doing the Season. At least she cannot badger me here for another month or two. I want the matter settled before the families return to Truro.’

     ‘I’ll send another man...’ his chief clerk began.

     'No, I want you to go yourself, Johnson,’ Spindler said firmly. ‘Get over to Nettlefield. Put up at the inn there. Spend a day or two – a week. See if you can get the trust of the villagers.’

     ‘Nettlefield is a small, quiet backwater, sir,’ Johnson said. ‘The villagers know everything there is to know of each other, in and out of each other’s pockets, so to speak, but when a stranger starts asking questions they clam up.’ He shook his head. ‘It’ll be a deuce of a job to loosen tongues, sir.’

     ‘Well, what is to be done?’

     ‘I think we must offer some incentive, sir, in a quite considerable way. Money talks and encourages talk.’

     ‘Hmmm! You may be right,’ Spindler agreed. ‘And the Cragge estate can stand the cost.’

     ‘There is another thing, sir,’ Johnson said. ‘The newspapers.’

     ‘What?’

     ‘We must advertise, sir, for information about this Celia Clarkeson and offer a reward. A good many years have passed, and life must go on. There maybe someone who has something to tell of her outside the village. She is certainly not in Nettlefield, at least...’

     ‘What?’

     ‘If Celia Clarkeson is in Nettlefield she is using another name.’

     ‘Why on earth would she?’

     ‘The scandal, sir,’ Johnson said. ‘A young unwed girl in the family way. That must have caused quite a furore in Nettlefield in those days. Folks, country folks, have long memories even if they are good at keeping secrets. She may be in hiding.’