Travels Through An Imaginary Landscape

     At Reverend Miller’s weekly card party on Thursday my mind was so far from the business of the cards that I actually managed to lose a hand to Mr Duncan without even trying. He puffed and preened over his triumph with such unwarranted satisfaction that I then felt obliged to trounce him for the next three hands in a row before I excused myself, giving up my place at the table to Mrs Godwin. Ignoring the disapproving glare Mrs Godwin gave me as we passed, I went over to join Michael where he was hovering by the tea table.

     Michael, Emily and I did not loiter long after the debacle in the cellar. The recriminations over the loss of the clues to Captain Crowley’s treasure promised to be lengthy and we had already been away from Mrs Grant’s party too long. Leaving John Crowley, Turnbull and Jenny to bicker over an appropriate distribution of the blame, with Tom Bailey acting as a kind of vaguely amused referee, we bid the Saracen’s Head a hasty farewell and slipped out into the cool night air.

     It proved to be a tedious wait. Now that the resurrection business was deemed to be safe from competition Sam and Harry went on their way but Tom remained from a mixture of curiosity and a desire to finish off the brandy. As the minutes ticked by several of the other customers got up in turn to leave but nobody new entered to take their place. I was just beginning to worry that our absence from Mrs Grant’s party would surely be noticed if we stayed away much longer when the door opened and a blast of cold night air finally heralded the arrival of a new person on the scene.

     The location for the meeting of the resurrection men was a suitably grim-looking courtyard reached via a narrow alley near Pulteney Bridge. When we first arrived the place appeared empty but as my eyes adjusted to the gloom I could make out a few human-shaped shadows dotted around the edges, one of which eventually peeled itself away from the wall. Stepping forward to meet us was a broad-shouldered man of about thirty or so, dressed in dark corduroy trousers and a dark jacket with just a neckerchief to provide a rather incongruous splash of colour. His eyebrows, initially raised in greeting towards Sir Robert, soon furrowed into a deep frown once he caught sight of Michael, Emily and I trailing in his wake.

My dearest Lucy,

                       I was delighted to receive your letter this morning but I am once again so sorry to hear of your continuing troubles. I can well understand how anxious you must be over young William’s health but I hope you will not take it amiss if I dare suggest that perhaps your worries may be a trifle excessive. You have, after all, the reassurance of both the doctor and your friends that it is nothing more than a passing sniffle (your neighbour, Mrs Stepney, in particular sounds like a most sensible woman full of good advice – having brought up seven of her own you must surely allow that she knows a thing or two about these matters!). And I am quite sure that Henry does not mean to be unfeeling about it all – only I am sure he must have such a lot on his plate with all the parish business just now. I think it sounds very much as though all three of you could do with a change of scenery – the sooner you are able to arrange your stay in Bath the better.

     By 7pm that evening the fine weather of the last few days had broken and a steady rain was falling, smothering the finer streets of Bath with a thin sheen of greasy mud and turning the poorer roads and alleys into a quagmire. Michael and I stood huddled in a doorway of the Westgate Buildings, our attention fixed upon the rear entrance of the Hospital of St John opposite. An arched gateway led into a narrow courtyard, beyond which stood a handsome stone building of classical proportions. My hours since tea-time had not been idle and I had led Michael here in order to fill him in on the fruits of my labours.

                                                     12 Gay Street,

                                                      Bath,

                                                      1st April 1818

My dearest Lucy,

                       I did not expect to find myself writing to you again so soon, before you have even had chance to reply to my last letter, but I felt I simply must send you this brief note to acquaint you with the very sad event we have just experienced here. I fear I am not much good with the gentle phrasings and soft words which ought to accompany such tidings so I will just come right out and say it. Poor dear Captain Crowley has passed away! It was most unexpected, occurring as it did right in the middle of Mrs Grace’s party yesterday. He seemed perfectly well and in fine spirits at the start of the evening but sometime after supper he simply sat down in the window seat and died. Of course, everyone here in Bath is very sad at his loss (and I rather fear Mrs Grace was especially put out as it necessarily entailed the abandonment of what had been, until then, a most successful party).

                                                    12 Gay Street

                                                     Bath,

                                                     31^st March 1818

My dearest Lucy,

                       What a delight it was to receive your letter this morning but I am very sorry to hear that you are not able to join us here in Bath for another few days at least. I was so looking forward to hearing all your news! Of course, I understand that Henry must be very busy with his parish duties just now and it is only natural that you should be worried about travelling with young William so soon after his illness. But I do hope now that the doctor has pronounced him quite well you will be able to make your journey very soon and I solemnly promise to keep you up to date with all the news and gossip from Bath in the meanwhile.