Page 54 of A Hint of Scandal

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Malt Shovel Inn, when located, appeared to be an establishment of less than salubrious appearance, despite the vicar’s description of it as respectable, and was clearly frequented in the main by an eclectic mix of impoverished students and surly looking locals. A volatile mix of Town and Gown if ever there was one. Not that Max had ever been here himself in his student days. He wasn’t at all sure he should be taking a gently bred young lady into the gloomy interior of this inn.

Heads turned in their direction as if drawn by a powerful magnet. A group of students, identifiable from their habitual and possibly inflammatory sporting of their gowns, were gathered at a large table by the small-paned window at a game of dice, a game which halted as half a dozen pairs of eyes ran over Serafina’s slim form. Three men who might well have been merchants of some kind sat in a shadowy corner, heads together as though arrested in some clandestine deal. Two other men looked up with unwelcoming scowls on their jowly faces from their card game, pewter tankards on the table in front of them. The landlord, a youngish man who had nevertheless lost almost all his hair leaving only a few straggly strands that for some reason he’d combed over the top of his shiny pate, fixed them with the sort of glare that said they weren’t welcome here.

The only inhabitant of the inn who took no notice of their arrival was the brindled hound lying in front of the smoky fire.

Max had fought his way around Spain, Egypt and Portugal though, and wasn’t about to be intimidated by the landlord of a backstreet English inn. With a guiding hand on Serafina’s back, he marched up to the bar. It was only a few planks of seasoned timber laid upon barrel tops. Best to spend some money in here first. “Good day to you, innkeeper. A pint of your best cider for me.” He looked at Serafina with his eyebrows raised, waiting for her to tell him what she would drink.

After a moment she must have realized what he meant, for she shook her head as though in a hurry. “Nothing for me.” Despite her assurances of being made of strong stuff, she’d clearly never been in this sort of establishment before. Perhaps she was wise in her decision not to partake of any fluid from the innkeeper’s none too clean receptacles.

The landlord supplied a pewter tankard of the requested beverage, and Max took a long draught of it then handed over a few coppers in payment. “Excellent stuff.”

Mollified a little, the landlord gave him a nod. “Thank’ee, sir.”

The clientele, such as it was, had lost interest in them by now and returned to their previous occupations. No sign of anyone who might be George Paynter though. None of them looked old enough to have acted as witness to a marriage twenty seven years ago.

He was just about to broach the subject when Serafina got in before him. “I wonder if you might be able to assist us,” she said, bestowing what must be her most innocent and sweet expression on the landlord. “We’ve come here looking for a Mr. George Paynter. The vicar of St Michael’s directed us here.”

The landlord made a pretense of straightening his few strands of hair before answering. It seemed Serafina’s polite enquiry might have worked. She might not be as pretty as Letty or Arabella, but any young lady with a smile like hers could be assured of gaining whatever she was asking about.

“Well, miss,” the landlord said. “Then you’ve come to the right place. Thass him over there in that high backed seat by the fire. Everyone knows not to sit in that seat—it’s been his since before my old dad died.” No wonder they’d not noticed him before, as his seat almost completely hid him from view.

“You’re Robert Trubshawe’s son then?” Max interjected before Serafina could. She was rather taking over this enquiry. Not that he really minded. It was a much more enjoyable enquiry thanks to her participation.

Young Trubshawe nodded. “Aye, I am that.”

Serafina seemed disinclined to small talk, for she was already heading over to the fireside. Max followed, nursing his tankard. This time the dog did open a sleepy eye for a moment, but only to close it again and go back to sleep. Not much of a guard dog.

Serafina took the only other seat, as high-backed as Mr. Paynter’s, so Max took up a position behind it, feeling somewhat secondary. For some reason though, he didn’t mind.

From the stubble of white hair that covered his head and his equally white beard, George Paynter looked to be at least seventy years old. His skin had a deeply corrugated appearance to it that spoke of years spent out of doors, although a distinct pallor also hinted that those years had been some time ago now. He peered at them out of faded blue eyes that were also decidedly bloodshot. However, he appeared to be reasonably sober.

“What are you drinking, Mr. Paynter?” Serafina asked.

The old man blinked at her. “You offering?”

She nodded. “My companion will fetch you a tankard of whatever it is you like best.”

A chortle emitted from the old man. “I like best a whisky, my dear, but I don’t think I’d best have a tankard of the stuff.”

Max nodded to the landlord who poured a generous measure into a small glass and brought it over. George knocked it back in one. “Thass better. Thank’ee kindly. Now, no one goes round giving out free drinks lessen they wants something. So what is it you fine folks want of me?” He fixed them with a keenly intelligent eye.

Once again, Serafina got there first. “You were a witness to a wedding at St Michael’s some twenty seven years ago, were you not?”

His already heavily wrinkled brow furrowed still further, but his eyes, bloodshot or not, held distinct canniness. “Aye, I was that.”

She kept going. “Do you remember it?”

He nodded. “I do that. What’s it to you?” A grin crept over his face revealing his startling lack of teeth. The one he still owned in his upper jaw stood out like a sentinel. “Do you want me to do it again? For you two? I’m a bit over the hill nowadays, but not averse to standing up as witness for a wedding. Got paid well for that first one, mind, so I’ll be wanting the same again.”

A blush rose up Serafina’s cheeks. “No. We don’t want to marry today. But we do want to know what you remember of the wedding twenty-seven years ago. If you can recall the details.”

The man was a drunk though. Would he be able to recall anything that would help them? Was he even telling the truth when he said he remembered something that had happened that long ago?

But the old man was to prove a surprise. “I c’n remember it like it was yesterday,” he said, with another practically toothless grin. “Not going to forget being paid ten whole guineas for half an hour’s work, now am I? Me and young Bob’s old dad did it. Got ten guineas each out of it. The young man as wanted us to act as witnesses were in a tidy hurry to get the job done, and seemed to have plenty of money to splash out.” His eyes rose to meet Max’s and he winked. “Looked a lot like you, sir, if I may say so. A lot.”

Serafina twisted in her seat to look up at Max. “Did Julian look like you? When he was young?”