There for the Taking: Silver and Simm Victorian Mysteries, #13

By Cynthia E. Hurst

Collecting wild bird eggs seemed like a harmless enough hobby for a Victorian gentleman. But the discovery of  some very rare eggs in a Cotswold woodland brings out the worst in two collectors who both want them, regardless of the price they must pay. When the body of a man with a connection to both collectors is found in the forest, clock repairer Jacob Silver and his wife Sarah are reluctantly drawn into helping the police to crack a case where rivalry and obsession have led to murder.

 

'There for the Taking' is the thirteenth book in the Silver and Simm Victorian Mysteries series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lilax Books
• Release date: Jun 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393104032

Cynthia E. Hurst

Cynthia E. Hurst is the author of two mystery series set in present-day Seattle, the R&P Labs Mysteries and the Zukie Merlino Mysteries, and the Silver and Simm and Milestone agency series, which both take place in Victorian England. Like her characters, Cynthia grew up in Seattle, then earned a degree in journalism and worked on several newspapers and magazines in the US and UK. The R&P books are based on her time spent in the small research lab where her parents both worked, and many of the R&P staff's projects are ones actually undertaken by the lab. The Zukie books were inspired by her Italian relatives. She now lives in Oxfordshire, the setting for the two Victorian series. She is also the author of the Time Traveller trilogy, which visits various bits of English history, and which stemmed from an unfortunate incident.

Book preview

THERE FOR

THE TAKING

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Cynthia E. Hurst

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Silver and Simm Victorian Mysteries 13

The Silver and Simm

Victorian Mysteries series

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Tools of the Trade

Forged in the Fire

Writing on the Wall

Stitched up in Style

Ghost on the Green

Pound to a Penny

Bolt from the Blue

Spirit of the Season

Nothing but her Name

Sins of the Sisters

Letter of the Law

Because of the Bees

There for the Taking

Sarah’s Story (companion novel)

Table of Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

Copyright © 2020  Cynthia E. Hurst

All Rights Reserved

Lilax Books

Cover photograph by An Photo from Pixabay

Author’s Note:

Witney in the 1860s was a thriving Oxfordshire market town, centered around the weaving and blanket-making industries. This forms the background for the book, but it is a work of fiction and the characters and situations portrayed here do not represent any actual persons, businesses or organizations. Some locations are also partly or completely fictionalized, in particular the private estate described here.

Taking wild bird eggs from nests, both for scientific study and as a collectors’ hobby, was popular in the 19th century, but was outlawed in the United Kingdom in 1954.

Details of the Jamison family tragedy can be found in Nothing But Her Name, the ninth Silver and Simm Victorian Mystery.

This book uses American spelling.

ONE

She’d done it again.

Without even opening his eyes, Jacob Silver knew he was alone in bed and marveled at the way his wife always managed to slip out from under the bedclothes without waking him and go downstairs to start breakfast. He listened more closely and heard her voice coming up the stairwell from the kitchen below, followed by the metallic clunk of the kettle on the stove and then a burst of cheerful high-pitched babble.

Reassured by the familiar early morning sounds, Jacob got himself upright and began his own daily routine of washing, shaving and dressing. He went down to the kitchen a few minutes later, to be greeted by a small dynamo tackling him at knee level.

Good morning, Joshua, he said, ruffling his son’s dark hair.

Puh puh puh puh.

That’s right, Papa, Jacob said. He picked Joshua up and sat at the table with him on his lap. You know, Sarah, I do feel guilty when you’re always up and hard at work before I even wake.

I know, but you shouldn’t be. Sarah lifted the kettle from the stove and poured the boiling water into the waiting teapot. I don’t mind at all. I’m used to starting work early. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I didn’t get up to make a pot of tea first thing in the morning.

Jacob stopped himself from saying he could think of an activity more interesting than brewing tea to occupy her if she wanted to stay in bed a bit longer. He contented himself with smiling at her, and received a knowing wink in return.

Sarah poured him a cup of tea, setting it where Joshua couldn’t grab the handle. She filled a second cup for herself and sat opposite him, smoothing a few strands of light brown hair back from her face. She had her critics, but even they had never denied her beauty, and her big blue eyes had always enchanted Jacob.

It was still something of a minor miracle to him that he and Sarah were husband and wife, considering how many people had predicted the marriage would be a disaster. Housemaids simply did not marry respectable tradesmen, especially when the maid in question had a complicated and dubious past, and the tradesman, a widower fourteen years older, was considered a heretic. But as both the housemaid and the heretic were outsiders on the fringes of society, most people had ultimately decided it would be better for them to be married to each other than to anyone else.

Nice and quiet, isn’t it? Sarah said. And Joshua’s being a very good boy, letting Papa drink his tea in peace.

He can almost say ‘Papa’, can’t he? And ‘Mama’, and a few other words as well, although I’m not always certain what they are.

They both looked at Joshua, who was occupied in trying to pull a button off Jacob’s shirt.

Oh, arr, Sarah said, using the ubiquitous local expression. There’ll be no stopping him soon. He said something that sounded like ‘omnibus’ this morning, although I don’t think it was.

Probably not.

Sarah sipped her tea. I’ll do your breakfast in a minute, Jacob.

Take your time. There’s no hurry.

They sat in blissful silence for a while until something occurred to Jacob.

Isn’t today one of Mrs Tucker’s days to come in? he asked.

Should be, Sarah said. I don’t know why she’s not here. Perhaps she’s poorly, but she usually sends one of the little ’uns round to tell me if she is.

I hope there’s nothing amiss. She’s always been very reliable.

Mrs Tucker had been more than reliable some years earlier; she had been the only person in the small Oxfordshire market town of Witney willing to work for a Jew. She wasn’t the most efficient housekeeper Jacob could have employed, but she had done the marketing, cooked his meals and cleaned his house to the best of her ability. She had also provided him with a small measure of company in the dark days following the deaths of his first wife and their young daughter.

When Sarah had come into his life a few months later, she had promptly taken over both the housework and companionship roles, but Mrs Tucker continued to come to the house three or four days a week, helping Sarah with the heavy laundry and other jobs as needed. She performed a secondary role as occasional child minder and supplier of fresh eggs from her hens, so Jacob sincerely hoped her absence was only temporary.

The creak of a wooden door and the sound of heavy footsteps came from the scullery beyond the kitchen, and he sighed in relief. The kitchen door opened and Mrs Tucker peered in. She was drenched from the rain, but she looked even more bedraggled than the weather would account for.

Heavens, Mrs Tucker, you’re soaking wet, Sarah said. Come stand by the stove and dry yourself.

Ta. Mrs Tucker unwound her wet shawl, handing it to Sarah to drape over one of the clothes drying racks that hung from the ceiling. She stood in front of the coal-fired stove, holding her plump hands out to its heat. Mornin’, Mr Silver. Oh, that’s lovely, that is.

Jacob returned the greeting, but after a few moments of silence, he eyed her critically. He was sure it wasn’t just the walk through the rain that was affecting her, since she would normally have  launched into a running monologue by this point, a combination of local gossip and complaints about the weather, her idle husband and their brood of children.

But this morning she said nothing, and a glance at Sarah showed she was equally aware of how unusual that was. He was just about to excuse himself to give them a chance for feminine conversation when Mrs Tucker turned to him.

Could I ask you somethin’, Mr Silver?

Of course.

And you won’t let it go no further?

Jacob lifted dark eyebrows. As long as it’s not something that shouldn’t be kept secret, if you follow me.

Oh, arr, I do. Mrs Tucker was as aware as anyone of Jacob and Sarah’s unwitting habit of becoming involved in the local police force’s activities. Inspector Owen Carey, who headed Witney’s small force, had come to regard them as useful, if unofficial consultants, and Jacob as a worthy opponent for the occasional game of chess.

So what is it you want to ask me?

Well, it’s like this. Mrs Tucker took a deep breath, which made her bosom quiver under the wet dress. Jacob noticed her skirt had begun to steam a little from the stove’s heat. As you know, Mr Silver, our Bobby, he goes out once in a while to see if he can find a bird or two.

Jacob mentally translated the sentence. Mrs Tucker meant that her oldest son, a lad of about fifteen or sixteen, sometimes trespassed on the vast private estate not far from the town, and poached a pheasant or partridge if he could manage to catch them. Jacob couldn’t very well criticize, since he’d eaten some of those illicit birds himself, roasted and served with potatoes and carrots.

Yes, I know, he said.

He ain’t supposed to; he knows that, but it ain’t easy to feed a big family without you get a little help now and again. Or help yourself, I reckon you might say. Them rich folk; they’ve got hundreds of pheasants this time o’ year, just there for the takin’, so they won’t miss a bird or two, will they?

Probably not. Jacob wondered if Bobby had been caught by one of the estate’s gamekeepers and was now in trouble with the law. If so, he could hardly intervene.

So Bobby were out last night, Mr Silver, and a dirty wet night it were, too. But he don’t mind, ’cause the gamekeepers don’t like bein’ out in weather like that, see?

Yes.

And he got a nice cock pheasant, just on the edge of the forest.

Jacob nodded.

I got it hangin’ in the coal shed, Mrs Tucker added parenthetically, and we’ll be havin’ it for Sunday dinner.

Jacob nodded again and wondered if he would ever get his breakfast.

So what happened? Sarah asked. He didn’t get caught by the gamekeeper then?

No, he did not.

Nor by anyone else?

No, that’s not it. Mrs Tucker looked from Sarah to Jacob. Bobby always goes out alone, see, ’cause there’s less chance of one man bein’ caught than two. Goin’ through the brush where them birds hide, it’s hard not to make a bit of noise, but easier on a wet night than a dry one.

Jacob supposed that made sense. Walking through the underbrush in the forested part of the estate would inevitably mean some twigs and dry leaves crackling underfoot, especially now in autumn. A rainy night would dampen them down and make it easier to move quietly.

How does he see where he’s going? he asked curiously.

If there ain’t no moon, he uses a little lantern, Mrs Tucker said. No bigger than your hand, but with a candle in it, you can just see a bit ahead. He can cover it up quick-like under his coat if he thinks anyone’s about. And Bobby knows them woods, nigh on every inch of ’em.

Jacob took that to mean Bobby had been successfully poaching for several years, although given the size of the estate, he felt Mrs Tucker might be stretching the truth about his geographical knowledge.

But you still ain’t said what happened, Sarah said, reverting to her countrified accent. If he got a bird and didn’t get caught, what’s the problem?

It ain’t nothing Bobby did, Mrs Tucker said. It’s what somebody else did.

Oh, arr? Sarah said, making it a question this time.

He had the bird and he were headin’ back home when he saw someone. A man.

Jacob felt she might be finally getting to the main part of her question.

And what was the man doing? he asked.

Well, Bobby couldn’t see real clear, bein’, as you know, it were a foul night. So he hunkered down out of the way and waited until the man had gone off.

Did he know who the man was?

Mrs Tucker shook her head. No, he don’t. But when he’d gone, Bobby went over to see if he could find what the man had been doin’, bein’ as he was acting kind of odd about it.

Jacob could see that Mrs Tucker was going to spin her tale out for maximum dramatic benefit. But he could also see she was genuinely worried. So he said patiently, And did he see anything?

Looked like he’d been buryin’ something, Bobby said. He could see where he’d been diggin’ and then covered it up with a pile of leaves. Now that could be just about anything, but why come out in the middle of the night to do it?

So no one would see what he was doing, Sarah said, impatient at this lack of common sense. Did Bobby dig it up, whatever it was?

Lord, no, Mrs Tucker said. It was probably somethin’ dead, y’see. But Bobby was wonderin’ why the man brought it all the way to the edge of the forest. Should have been easier places to bury it, you’d think.

Sarah was losing interest, Jacob could see, and besides, Joshua was showing signs of restlessness. He said, Sarah, why don’t you toast some bread for us?

Arr. Sarah went to the bread box and Joshua, sensing food was in the offing, wriggled off Jacob’s lap to toddle over and pull at her skirt.

In a minute, my duck, she told him. We’ll make Papa’s toast first.

Is there more to the story? Jacob asked Mrs Tucker.

I don’t rightly know, sir. Bobby was tellin’ me about it this morning – that’s why I was a bit late comin’ here – and he said the man didn’t seem like he belonged, if you know what I mean.

I’m afraid I don’t, Jacob said. Didn’t belong – how so?

Didn’t move about like someone used to bein’ out at night, she said. Maybe someone who didn’t even belong in Witney, like. Bobby can go through that forest and ’less you was right on top of him, you’d never know he were there. But this man was carryin’ a lantern and crunchin’ through the bushes and suchlike, and he stopped once or twice like he didn’t know where he was or where he was goin’. Then he’d look around and start off again. Seemed like he were lookin’ for that particular place.

I see. Is there anything unusual about the place?

Not that Bobby knows about. Just on the edge of the forest, under some beech trees. He crosses the field to get to it.

Sarah came over to the stove and began toasting the first thick slice of bread over the fire. Jacob took Joshua back onto his lap to keep him from grabbing the toasting fork.

So I said to him, I’ll ask Mr Silver what he should do about it.

Jacob was surprised at that, since minor infractions of the law were an accepted way of life among the Tuckers of the world. But he supposed Bobby resented someone making inroads who – as he had said – didn’t belong in that world. It would be even worse if the man was a stranger to the area.

"What was he thinking he should do?"

Well, if the man was buryin’ something like a dead cat, then it wouldn’t matter, would it? But if’n it were somethin’ worse, then maybe the police should know about it.

Yes, I imagine so.

But Bobby can’t tell ’em about it, ’cause that would mean sayin’ he’d been out where he shouldn’t be. So’s you see, Mr Silver, he’s caught in a trap, like. Can’t do the right thing, as it were, ’cause that’d mean admittin’ he’d been doin’ something wrong.

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Jacob could see Bobby’s dilemma, although he was mildly irritated at having been dragged into the middle of it. He accepted a piece of toast from Sarah, buttered it and thought.

The man couldn’t have been burying anything as substantial as a dead body, because Bobby would have seen it. Lugging an adult body across the fields to the edge of the estate would have been a difficult task at the best of times, not to mention the difficulty of digging a large enough grave to conceal it. And awkward questions would be asked about the person’s death or disappearance. 

Burying a baby? Perhaps an illegitimate or severely handicapped one whose existence no one was supposed to know about? That was possible, even though Jacob winced at the thought.

But from Mrs Tucker’s account, the man had seemed to be looking for a precise place to bury his object, whatever it was. That sounded as though he – or someone else – expected to come by later and unearth it, so it was unlikely to be human remains.

Mrs Tucker was watching him with a hopeful expression.

What should he do, Mr Silver?

Did Bobby get a clear look at the man? Enough to identify him if necessary?

She shook her head. Not a clear look, sir, no. He might know him if he saw him again, but it weren’t anyone he knew by name. He’d have said.

Did he see which way he went when he left?

Back across the field toward town, sir. Like you’d expect. No reason for him to go anywhere else ’less he belonged to the estate, and if he did, why would he be sneakin’ around it at night?

Jacob couldn’t argue the logic of that statement, although he supposed an estate worker might be engaged in some activity he didn’t want his masters to know about. But Bobby had said the man seemed unsure of where he was going, so it didn’t sound as if he was familiar with the terrain. Most of the workers lived in cottages on the estate itself, and it was hard to picture a member of the titled family which owned the land creeping about it after dark. 

If it became necessary, could Bobby show someone else exactly where he saw the man? he asked. The place where he was burying whatever it was?

Oh, arr. I expect so. Would you want to be lookin’ at it, sir?

I’d prefer not to, Jacob said truthfully, if for no other reason than that I’d be trespassing on private property. But if it transpires that something criminal has taken place, Inspector Carey and his men will need to visit the site.

Mrs Tucker fell silent and Jacob knew she was worried about her son having prolonged contact with the police. He had met Bobby, who like many countrymen, was wary of legal interference in what he considered a traditional and fully justified way of life. The fact that Witney had only had an official, organized police force for a few years didn’t help. Many older residents, such as Bobby’s father, rather resented having efficient law enforcement come to the town. It had put