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The warmth of Lichfield’s ruddy brick buildings a little way off to his left glows against the greyness of the day as Samuel strides along New Walk at the side of Minster Pool, en route via Cock Lane to Jeb Brougham’s offices in Bird Street. The trees are almost in full leaf on the limes, elms, birches and oaks that overlook his progress.
Samuel finds himself longing for the clear blue skies and warm sunshine of the kind of Spring day that seemed to fill weeks of his childhood and had an especially English character in his mind. His own children would be taking part in the Bower Procession on Whit Monday and they had been talking about their costumes and garlands for days. But, after a week or more of wet weather, he wonders if there will be enough flowers in blossom to satisfy the needs of the children, or whether the blossoms will be half rotten with the damp or besmirched with mud.
On his way he is stopped by people who are all as shocked at the news of the discovery of Newton’s body as they are avid for additional detail to whet the appetite of gossip. Samuel uses these brief meetings to make people aware that he is responsible for investigating the matter with the full authority of the High Constable and that he is anxious to talk to anyone who might be able to throw light on the circumstances of Mr Newton’s tragic death.
Arriving at the Midland Carrier Company, Samuel is greeted by a gruff, elderly clerk behind the counter. He is surrounded by piles of papers and various torn or broken packages. Peering through a pair of wire rimmed spectacles, he is writing in a thick ink-blotched ledger with a large moth-eaten quill. With an ill-tempered wave of what remains of the feather and the word ‘George’, he directs Samuel to the coaching inn, across the street. As the man looks up, Samuel notices that one of the lenses of his spectacles is cracked with a small piece of glass missing from the lens.
The yard of the George is quiet.
The steaming horses hauling the mail coaches will not arrive until later, when the yard becomes a sea of activity, ringing with voices and the sound of iron on stone. In a quiet corner, Jeb is now busy, sorting through a pile of packages. He looks at one and makes a mark on a sheet of paper he is holding in his hand, before moving on to check the next in the pile.
‘Good day, Jeb,’ says Samuel.
‘Is it?’ says Brougham, frowning.
‘Are you harassed?’
‘Nothing more than the usual.’ He waves the sheet of paper without looking at Samuel. ‘Goods gone missing, goods misdirected, goods or promises broken. All in a morning’s work for a shipper, I can assure you. But, come on, why am I honoured with your company today? Business bad?’
‘Are my motives so transparent?’ Samuel retorts with an attempt at a laugh. ‘I wanted to ask you about Thomas Newton.’
Jeb puts down the package he is holding and turns to another stack of parcels.
‘Appalling business. Appalling.’ Jeb sucks his teeth, looking grave. ‘Terrible thing for the children to have to deal with.’
‘You said he was a social acquaintance, but how well did you know him, Jeb?’
‘Ah-ha. It’s a proper enquiry, is it?’ Jeb stops checking the packages and turns to Samuel. ‘You and Rigby in league again, eh?’
Samuel shrugs. He’s surprised Brougham knows about his arrangement.
‘I knew him, Samuel, indeed I did. In fact, on occasion he had acted for me. To look over a contract, conveyancing, that sort of thing – he advised me when we bought the premises.’
‘What kind of man was he, Jeb?’
‘A man one could trust, Sam. A very good man. He was known for showing kindness to people who were down on their luck. If he felt the cause deserving, he would act without taking a fee. Unusual for a lawyer, eh?’
‘What about his business affairs? Had he crossed anyone? Was there any reason someone might want to harm him?’
‘Now here we’re approaching a delicate issue Samuel. There were mutterings, that’s what I’ll call them. Rumours. Concerning the Trust.’
‘Trust?’ Samuel only knows of one. ‘The Conduit Lands Trust?’
‘Yes – but not exactly,’ says Jeb, leaning on another stack of packages and holding up his hand. ‘Let me explain. The Conduit Lands Trust was set up when Edward VI abolished the Guild of St Mary and gave Lichfield its Royal Charter. It was a cunning move designed to bring the lands owned by the Guild into royal possession. But a certain Mr Bean was a little faster away from the stalls than the young Tudor’s ministers. Bean arranged that a great deal of land and property passed to the Trust for safe keeping for the benefit of the citizenry. That’s you and me, Samuel. Quite a little commonwealth, Lichfield, ain’t it?
‘Now that’s the Trust most people know about. Some people refer to it as the Greater Conduit. But at the same time another Trust was set up by Bean and his colleagues, the Lesser Conduit as it’s called. It had the same purpose, but its terms of administration were different. It gave greater scope for the involvement of merchants in good works and the support of the poor.’
‘So, Mr Newton was acting on behalf of this Lesser Trust?’
Jeb nods.
‘And some people didn’t like what he was doing.’ Jeb nods again.
‘Merchants are men like me, aren’t they Samuel? People involved in commerce and industry. Individuals able to negotiate freely according to their needs and abilities, without fear or favour. The architects and builders of our nation’s prosperity. Nothing should stand in the way of commercial progress, surely?’ Jeb leans forward and lowers his voice. ‘But that’s not the way of it, Sam. Today, for merchants, read freemasons.’
‘Do you mean that Mr Newton was a freemason?’
Jeb raises his eyebrows. ‘You have it, but in a smaller volume if you will,’ he warns, looking about him. ‘Now the charitable works of freemasons are well known. That is why every man on the Council of the Lesser Trust is a freemason. Newton was one of them. As I understand it from my good friend Major Morgan – you know, the printer – there was a plan afoot for the disposal of some of the Lesser Conduit’s properties at a preferential rate to other members of the Lodge.’
‘Lodge?’
‘The Lodge of Knowledge. It meets at the Scales Inn. Once a month. Usually on a Tuesday evening.’
‘The day Mr Newton disappeared.’ Samuel muses. ‘How many people belong to this Lodge?’
‘I’m not sure – twenty, thirty. But I guarantee you it represents the lion’s share of this city’s trade.’
‘I’m surprised you’re not a member of it yourself, Jeb?’ laughs Samuel.
‘I’m surprised I’m not,’ says Jeb dourly, then laughs. ‘Knowledge is power, as Bacon said.’
Samuel takes his handkerchief from his pocket and positions the small piece of stone within it so that only its cleaner side is visible. ‘What do you make of this, Jeb? Do you know what stone this is?’
Brougham leans forward to look more closely. He frowns and blinks.
‘Haven’t a clue, Sam. But you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?’
‘No. I know nothing about it.’
‘Significant in the matter of Mr Newton, is it?’ Brougham asks. Samuel makes no reply.
‘Well, time and tide wait for no one, Sam, especially carriers. This lot need to catch the Birmingham Mail at four.’
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