Snap Judgment: A Ruth Bowen Regency Mystery

By Brenda Dow

cannot wait to return home to the peace and quiet of High Holborn, after desperate deeds in this backwater of Norwich. Life has been too exciting here. I had an overnight stay in the Castle prison -- a badge of honour for a Quaker thy father would say thanks to an unfriendly judge. I was stunned out of my wits and thrown into the River Wensum by a man who is now a fugitive from the law. That same unfriendly judge fished me out of the river, so all is forgiven him. I have written to Wm. Scorby to reassure him about his daughter Alices good health. She is back working for Mrs. Varley, and is cleared of all suspicion that she tried to harm her. The true culprit is now proven to be Ambrose Flamborough, son of the Varley family lawyer. Bill need fret about Alice no longer. Thy term as sole High Potentate of Bowen & Sons is about to come to an end. Expect your brother and me late Wednesday. Thine affectionate Mother Ruth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jul 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781490706832

Brenda Dow

Inveterate historical romance reader, Brenda Dow enjoys all puzzles and sometimes dreams up scenarios behind unexplained press items. She published a book on solving cryptic crosswords and authored Earl for a Season, a Regency romance published by an e-book publisher. Her favorite author is Jane Austen and her main hobbies are painting in oil and watercolor.

Book preview

Chapter 1

London, August 1817

W hat have you been up to, Mama Ruth? Shaking his head, Michael Bowen cast aside the letter after a second reading. Things happened to his stepmother. She and his brother Wilfred were supposedly enjoying a fortnight’s visit to her family in Norwich. Thankfully, she would be home on the morrow. How she could have ended up in Norwich castle prison, he could not imagine! Here in London, other than a slight tempest that promised with some elders of the Society of Friends, things should get back to normal. He grinned . High potentate indeed! He was confident that Ruth would support his decision to add Jacob Finestone to their list of suppliers. None of his late father’s Quaker business colleagues would suffer from it, and Bowen & Sons Watchmakers could only profit from enlarging their range of business.

He walked to the window. He could hear the familiar sound of a costermonger hawking his wares not far away. The thin drizzle that had cast a pall over the summer morning had finally let up. The air felt fresher. A shaft of sun broke through the clouds with the promise of a fine afternoon.

A sedan chair, borne by two muscular chairmen in tan waistcoats and breeches, entered his street just off High Holborn. A gentleman walked beside it. Michael watched incuriously as the leather-skirted chair swayed to a halt below. Firm footed despite the rain-slicked cobblestones, the carriage men deposited their burden, and the front man turned to open the door. Michael’s image of the occupants of sedan chairs was inclined towards the frail and elderly. A dainty foot emerged. Not that of a valetudinarian, he thought. The gentleman escort extended his hand to help the lady to emerge. Little could be seen of the couple other than the tops of their hats. Seen from that angle, something in their stance gave him to suspect a disagreement was taking place. After a brief conversation, the gentleman stalked off along the street. The faint jangling of the shop bell told him that the lady was entering the shop below rather than the wine dealer on one side or a purveyor of gentlemen’s haberdashery on the other.

He returned to his desk and made a few accounting entries before sanding these items and putting the tall ledger away. He cocked an ear. From a distance, he heard a delicate chime. Michael grinned. In the shop below, William Scorby, his engraver and part-time counterman, was showing off one of his favourite pocket watches.

Shrugging himself into a sombre grey street coat, he descended to the ground level. He checked his appearance in the mirror in the back region. The mirror was angled so that the front shop was visible in the atelier behind. The glass reflected a blue-eyed, square-faced young man, slightly above average in height and endowed with a fine athletic frame. He combed through his fair wavy hair with his fingers. It wanted a more fashionable cut, he thought.

Stepping back, he could see the reflection of Scorby writing out an order in the front shop. He craned his neck slightly to glance at the client, presumably the lady from the sedan chair.

His first impression of the woman was one of a delicate slenderness. A casual glance transformed into more interested observation. Her graceful figure was clothed in a well-cut street dress that spoke of quality. He noticed immediately her large expressive eyes, though he could not see their colour. Her generous full-lipped mouth was set in a heart-shaped face, a face of character rather than beauty. He judged her age to be in the midtwenties. His eyebrows gave a quick elevation of appreciation. Yet why had she entered the shop without her escort? He sensed a mystery. Was the gentleman who walked away her husband? Normally, gentlemen were his primary customers, though young matrons would occasionally pledge their husband’s credit.

As if sensing his scrutiny, she turned her head and locked eyes with his own reflected in the mirror for as long as perhaps two seconds. She turned away. The smile she directed to Bill Scorby was remarkable in its brilliance, betokening a natural animation rather than any attempt at flirting with the middle-aged counterman. She was responding to some platitude he had uttered. The shop bell jangled again as she left.

While the young lady was being reinstalled in the sedan chair, Michael came through to the shop. Didst thee sell one of the French chimers, Mr. Scorby?

Bill Scorby shook his head. Nay, the customer chose a plain gold casing with half pearls on the face. She admired some of the enamelled watches, but she wanted engraving done on the back. He showed a long-toothed grin. She quite fancied the chimer—the Breguet. It does have a fine tone to it, don’t it, sir? But she said she wouldn’t have it chiming the hour in court. That might wake up some of the jury, she said. A droll lady, sir!

An expensive gift!

She paid most on account, sir. I made sure of that, us not knowing the customer.

"I am not worried. Probably the watch is for her husband—

no doubt some species of lawyer who is hardly begging for his bread."

Scorby shook his head. Nay! It goes to an uncle. She… , he consulted the order paper, a Miss Holland, wore no wedding band, though I saw a little sapphire ring on a right hand finger when she took off her gloves to write the order. Not one of the Friends, I think.

Michael raised his eyebrows. So attractive a lady, not yet married—independent of spirit too, I should imagine. No shrinking violet.

Not she! Scorby shot a glance up at him. Quite talkative, she was. Her uncle recently—but this sennight—lost his watch to a robber. Scorby pushed the order paper across the counter. Here’s what she requires.

Michael read aloud. "To Uncle Martinet, in appreciation of twenty-five years of love and care, Thalia. He pulled a doubtful face. An odd inscription! Is that a proper name? He speculated whether Uncle Martinet was the man who had departed from her at the shop door. He noticed an omission. Where do we deliver the order?"

Scorby clicked his tongue in annoyance. I forgot to ask her direction. No matter! She intends to collect the watch in person. A surprise for her uncle, I understand. I have promised it for early next week.

Ah! Then twenty-five years is not up yet. Michael dismissed the matter from his mind. Mrs. Bowen returns tomorrow, thee’ll be glad to know.

That I am, sir.

Take care, Mr. Scorby! I leave thee in charge for an hour. I want to see what imports Jacob Finestone has on offer before we commit ourselves.

The counterman grunted. Take care thyself, Mr. Bowen! Messrs. Tabbitt and Greer will not like thee sending business elsewhere.

Michael shrugged. As long as I give as much business to them as my father did, they have no reason to complain. His kept his voice neutral, careful not to offend. Bill Scorby had been a mainstay of Bowen & Sons Watchmakers for as long as he could remember. So old and valued an employee could well maintain the right to lecture and advise his dead master’s son with impunity.

As he returned back to the mirror to don his hat, he was surprised to see reflected the same sedan chair passing outside the shop again. His first thought was that the lady had forgotten something or had had changed her mind about the inscription, but the chair went by without stopping. He quickly dismissed a rush of disappointment he experienced as foolishness. No doubt the lady was seeking her escort.

He scuffed an arm round the brim of his tall-crowned pearl-grey hat to smooth the pile and set it on his head at a stylish angle. He gave a secret grin. What would Mother Ruth have to say about his new acquisition? He could well imagine his younger brother Wilfred’s scathing comments when he saw it. The words vanity and affectation would figure mightily.

As he stepped out of the shop, he saw the reason the sedan chair had reversed its route. A costermonger’s cart had been upset, and his fruit strewn across the area where the street gave on to High Holborn. A number of urchins were pillaging the spoiled wares even as the costermonger shook his fist and chased them away. The accident had attracted a small crowd of spectators who further blocked the junction.

The hubbub heard through the open door drew Bill Scorby from behind the counter. What’s to do?

Naught but an upset fruit cart.

Scorby sniffed. And with little for idle people to do than gawk! Go and do thy business, Mr. Bowen!

Michael set out on the way to visit his friend Jacob Finestone, dealer in imports and findings in Cheapside. His route led him away from Holborn. He picked his way over cobblestones still slippery from the rain.

Raucous shouts and the sound of splintering wood brought his head up. Seeing nothing untoward, he hurried to the corner of the next street. Michael took in the unfolding scene at a glance. Footpads were setting upon the sedan chair party.

The chair lay in a drunken position on one side, one of the poles cracked. The chairmen must have suffered direct attack to drop the chair, thereby risking injury to their passenger, surely a most heinous offence for their calling.

The chairmen were putting up a good fight, but two of the ruffians were armed with cudgels. Blood was flowing from the head of one of the chairmen; the other had managed to come to close grips with one of the assailants as they swayed in a desperate dance for the upper hand. A third man appeared to be acting as lookout. He shouted something when he spotted Michael running towards the scuffle.

The door of the sedan was moving slightly with muffled noises coming from inside. Obviously, the occupant was trying to push the door up, but the hinges were not designed to swing at an upward angle. In a confusing action, the lookout man helped to pull the door open.

As soon as the woman’s head and one arm emerged, the lookout turned with doubled fists to face Michael. Snarling, he circled menacingly, fists at the ready, inviting Michael’s attack.

Although Michael had had some physical experience, wrestling with his brother for sport, he had never been in a serious fight. Such an act would be roundly condemned by his fellow Quakers whose outlook was pacific. Still, he could not stand idly by. His hesitation was momentary. Tossing his hat aside, he adopted a wrestler’s crouch. His opponent did the same.

The chairmen continued to keep the other two ruffians at bay.

Suddenly, the man made a rush, taking a swing at Michael, but his blow was badly abroad. There were two more feints. The fists failed to connect with Michael’s flesh. It was like a play fight. Michael seized the man round the waist and threw him to the ground, firmly pressing his knee in the small of the man’s back. Amid grunting and panting, Michael heard one of the other ruffians shout.

Get up, Cully! That ain’t the one, you blockhead. Clobber ’im!

He looked up. Thalia Holland sat on side of the upturned chair, watching with interest. Mesmerised, he stared at her. She looked quite unruffled, and her knees were crossed in a less than ladylike manner. She clutched a pale blue velvet bag firmly in her lap. It was gathered at the top by a black cord drawstring.

After a moment’s immobility, the man beneath Michael seemed to experience a surge of strength. He twisted himself around and threw Michael off. Before Michael had completely risen, his opponent sprang to his feet and launched a vicious kick to Michael’s midriff. Michael fell back winded, receiving a further blow to his chest. He rolled away and scrambled to his feet. Turning his head, he deflected a fist to the jaw which might have caused damage had it landed squarely. Hearing a solid thud and a yelp of anguish, Michael looked round in surprise.

Something had hit the footpad full in the face. He staggered and spun round, puzzled as much as hurt. Blood was pouring from his nose. Eyes blazing, Thalia Holland was on her feet, twirling her reticule by the strings in preparation for a second strike.

Michael grinned. Grabbing the man by the back of his coarse jacket and the seat of his breeches, he upended him through the window of the ruined sedan chair. The man’s legs kicked in protest and then disappeared from sight as he collapsed within.

Michael fingered his jaw tentatively. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a fourth man approaching, brandishing a cane. He seized the young woman’s hand.

Run! Now!

She took a couple of uncertain steps with him, but she had not escaped unscathed from the fallen sedan chair. When Michael saw that she was hobbling, he placed his arm round her waist and, with an effort, half carried her along, her bag bumping heavily against his thigh. As they rounded the corner, her lagging steps made him look back to see if they were pursued. The footpads were scattering as the new man on the scene laid about him with his cane. Michael realised it was Miss Holland’s former companion.

No longer concerned with speed, he gritted his teeth, picked the woman up bodily, and carried her along the street to Bowen & Sons. Her reticule made the burden heavier than he had anticipated. Scorby was there to pull open the door, and with relief, Michael deposited his burden on the high-backed customer chair in front of the counter.

Michael and Thalia looked at each other, not knowing whether to laugh or be concerned.

How badly are you hurt, Miss Holland?

She raised her eyebrows quizzically at his use of her name. Bruised only, I think. Not as badly as you must be. That horrible man kicked you. Gently, she touched her white-gloved hand to the reddening spot on his jaw where the glancing blow from the footpad had struck him. That will be very colourful soon. She winced as she set her elbow on the counter.

Michael’s hand flew to the cheek where she had touched it, taken aback by her casual gesture. And you will find bruises you never knew you had, he remarked with an eye to the way she rubbed her arm. He had a mental picture of her swinging her reticule through the air. You dealt most efficiently with that unlucky ruffian. Whatever do you have in that bag?

Never ask a lady what she carries in her reticule.

Michael apologised quickly, not sure if she was serious.

She relented. Books! I am a famous bluestocking, you know. There was a mocking glint in her eye which belied her claim.

He grinned. It was a most effective stroke. It gave me a chance to put that fellow out of action without doing him any damage—any further damage. He pulled his face straight. He must stop grinning like a schoolboy, he told himself. The incongruity of the intimate way in which they, strangers, were chatting after such a violent episode suddenly struck him with a desire to laugh like a bedlamite. He managed to suppress it.

Is there something we should do for you—a cold compress? Scorby, do thee fetch one of the servants.

No, please no! I really don’t want any fuss.

Maybe he was acting in too encroaching a manner. Suddenly unsure of himself, Michael acceded to her wishes. As you please, Miss Holland!

She was looking at him quizzically. I was told this was a Quaker firm.

Surprised, Michael answered, That is indeed so.

The brilliant smile curved her lips again. Thou art a most unusual Quaker, I think.

He nodded in recognition of her point. My speech! Blame my upbringing. My father married a wonderful woman who was willing to become one of the Friends. Sadly, her family cast her off because of her choice, and she was with small acquaintance in a vast new city. It was my father’s wish that we speak in her way so that all sacrifice should not be on her side. We end up a most inconsistent family.

Suddenly embarrassed, he wondered why he was being so forthcoming about his family with a stranger. I must look to the chairmen. One was hurt, I think.

She nodded approval, though Michael had not asked it. He looked earnestly at her face. You will be safe enough here with Mr. Scorby.

He left to return to the scene of the attack. When he rounded the corner, the ruffians had made their getaway. Instead, Miss Holland’s earlier escort was talking to the chairmen. The younger chairman was sitting on the ground, nursing his head.

Michael could assess better the damage that had been done to the chair. Besides the splintered pole, a large crack ran down the back panel veneered with a blond marquetry ivy pattern. A split ran right through the proprietor’s name, Archer and Son, which was emblazoned in gilt letters above the licence number.

As the injured younger man rose shakily to his feet in deference to the gentleman’s presence, a member of the watch was already approaching.

Thankful to find it still lying on the cobblestones, Michael retrieved his hat, not too badly soiled, and returned to the shop. He found Miss Holland making repairs to her appearance in front of the mirror.

On seeing him, she quickly limped back. What has happened to those two chairmen? Are they all right?

Seemingly so! One of them received a crack on the head and is a little bloodied. At least he is on his feet now.

With sudden remorse, she pulled apart the strings of her reticule and rummaged under the books. Two silver coins lay glinting in her hand. She hesitated and went to the door and opened it. Distracted momentarily by the loudly jangling bell, she looked up at it. She turned towards Michael. I thank you, sir, for being my knight in shining armour. She looked at him with a warmth that stopped his heart.

He divined her intention. You must not walk. Do you wish me to handle it?

No. I must thank them in person as I do you, sir.

Strong resolute tones came from outside the shop. No need, my dear Thalia.

The man who stood outside was a couple of inches taller than Michael and of impressive appearance. His features were regular with a frank ardent expression. Carefully groomed eyebrows surmounted rather deep-set eyes which surveyed Michael with indifference. His lips formed too much of a cupid’s bow but were wide enough to offset this feature. He carried his gloves in one hand.

Guardedly, Thalia said to Michael, This is Mr. Thorne. He is a friend of my uncle.

He comes most opportunely, said Michael carefully.

Jack Thorne, the man introduced himself and extended a hand in an almost mechanical gesture.

Michael Bowen.

Thalia gave a gasp. There is blood on your hand, Jack!

Tucking his gloves under one arm, Thorne pulled out a large handkerchief, and carefully wiped the blood off his knuckles. He gave a superior deprecating smile. My apologies! But we can’t all run away from trouble, can we? Luckily, I was there to prevent those gallows baits from pursuing you. The unsubtle glance he cast at Michael carried accusation and jovial contempt.

This gentleman came to my defence. Thalia’s tones were haughty.

Yes, of course! Good man! Jack Thorne nodded his head across the street to where a hackney cab was waiting.

"Perhaps now you will consent to ride a hackney."

She nodded with indifference and limped to the hackney cab. There was a small discussion between her and Thorne before she got in. The horses drew the cab in a tight half circle and went towards the scene of the attack. Suffering from glum feelings following his meeting with Jack Thorne, Michael wondered if the woman would look towards him again. She did not.

Glancing in the other direction, he observed that the litter caused by the upset fruit cart had been cleared away. He turned back into the shop.

Who was yon doughty fellow? asked Bill Scorby.

Michael tested his jaw again thoughtfully. A man with blood on his knuckles but no break to his skin!

Chapter 2

S tand away! Stand away from the coach! The raucous voice of the stable master caused the small crowd of the early morning well-wishers in the yard of the King’s Head Inn to shuffle back from the coach as they awaited the departure of the Norwich to London mail coach.

Ruth Bowen leaned out of the coach window for a last glimpse of her parents and her sister Cecilia. Her travelling companion, her younger stepson Wilfred, had insisted on sitting high up outside where he could enjoy a better view of the countryside. At seventeen, he was still enough of the boy to enjoy the experience. Ruth had ceased to argue the point, beyond exhorting him to have a care not to lose his hat to the breeze. His response had been to jam his flat broad-brimmed hat down low on his forehead with a self-conscious grin.

Cecilia’s lively face was turned upwards. Wilfred, be sure I mean to visit very soon. I will expect to be taken to the Tower and all the parks and gardens—oh, and everywhere. She was not shy, despite her only recent emergence from the schoolroom. Ruth could visualise Wilfred’s blushes as he stammered responses to these demands.

Stand away! There was a heavy thud as the boarding step was folded away.

Mrs. Carstairs, Ruth’s mother, drew her husband back to a safe distance from the coach and its stamping horses. It should have been the other way round. Ruth gave her father an appraising glance. She worried about him. During the brief time she had spent at her home, he had been showing signs of that vagueness which can come with age—the repeated questions of matters established not five minutes before, the forgetfulness of significant matters.

Stand away from the coach now, please, miss. We don’t want you hurt.

Cecilia edged away, still addressing animated remarks to Wilfred.

On the other side of the coach, a tearful mother was bidding farewell to her young son, giving him explicit and repetitive instructions on how to conduct himself while away from home. Ruth looked round. An inn servant was trying to persuade the woman to separate herself from the coach window. The young lad was squashed into a corner behind a spare older gentleman, no doubt his bear-leader. They must be bound on some educational holiday, she surmised. She bent an understanding smile on the woman and watched as she drew back from the coach with laggard steps, fluttering handkerchief busy at work.

Ruth turned her head back to her own side.

A gentleman was talking to her sister. He was well dressed, and his stance suggested a degree of maturity. By Cecilia’s demeanour, she was not averse to this conversation. This had to be someone known to the family was Ruth’s first thought. Ruth had not had the chance to meet all their present acquaintance due to a prolonged absence from Norwich. Now three years widowed, she had at last reconciled with her family after their disapproval at her marriage to a member of the Society of Friends.

Ruth could see her parents standing back against the wall of the inn. Because of the press, they were not in a position to see Cecilia, but they were certainly within her call.

As she looked back towards her sister, she was pointing towards the coach. The man nodded civilly and turned. He looked directly at Ruth.

Ruth’s heart chilled as their eyes met. She recognised him. He had done his best to drown her not more than a week previously.

What was he, a fugitive from the law, doing in the city in so cool a fashion? The authorities believed he had travelled many miles away from Norwich. What was this man doing talking to Cecilia? Cecilia could not know how dangerous this man was. Obviously, she did not recognise Ruth’s would-be killer, for they had never formally met.

Her sister’s safety was her foremost thought. She must warn Cecilia!

Ruth clawed at the door catch and thrust the door open. She jumped down on the cobblestones of the inn yard, landing hard on her feet, stumbling forward.

An alert stableman caught her. That was dangerous, ma’am. The coach company can’t be liable, you know. The coach was already in motion. He had only a brief moment to close the door as the sleek vehicle drew out of the yard.

Ignoring the servant’s continuing homily, she turned to face her sister who was standing open-mouthed. That man was no longer with her.

She caught a glimpse of a door into the inn closing and knew he was making his escape through the building. She had a momentary doubt as to how she ought to act in present circumstances. Though it might be her civic duty to start a hue and cry, she was not prepared to do so.

Ruth girl! What were you about? Her father was shocked into reaction. He plunged forward through the press of people. His hands trembled. My heavens! He shook his head and seemed lost for further words.

You could have had a terrible accident! cried Cecilia. She looked around. Everyone is staring.

This