Chapter 43
Jane collared Henry as he was standing by the window looking out at the tower of the church they had been to earlier. He was so deep in thought he jumped when her small hand touched his arm.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry, Jane. I was miles away, trying to remember something I’m not even sure I knew in the first place.’
She thought she understood what he meant, something akin to déjà vu, perhaps.
Henry had the list of their details in his hand; he tapped the bottom name before he read it out.
‘Wutheridge, that’s nice. Like Wuthering Heights.’
Jane huffed. ‘Hated that book. Beautifully written, of course, but there was no one in it for whom I could find the least sympathy.’
‘Me neither.’ Henry smiled. ‘Either nasty or spineless. But Wutheridge is… classy.’ Like you, Jane, he added to himself.
Because she was, a wonderful lady, sprightly and sharp and he would pray that she remained so to the end of her days.
But there was something about the name that was already familiar to him, tied up with the prison, the train, St Stephen, and it wouldn’t come to him however much he tried hard to force it to the forefront of his mind.
It was probably the blow he took to his head; its effect lasting, making him think he knew things when he didn’t.
‘We did try and trace where it came from as it’s rare. Apparently, it’s either derived from the old German for a tyrant or from the Devonian for a castrated ram.’
That made Henry hoot.
‘Trust me, if you knew the Wutheridges, you’d plump for the former.’
‘Formidable, were they?’
‘Oh, you have no idea. Now, August Wutheridge, barrister at law. A man that could make the judge quake in court. He would have been a very good Wutheridge for you to have known. More weapon than human.’
Henry didn’t sound convinced. ‘He sounds terrifying.’
‘As a tyrant, he was more Marcus Aurelius than Caligula. Although the last and worst of them – Michael Wutheridge – could give “Little Boot” a run for his money.’ And thank goodness he hadn’t procreated. She dreaded to think what his and Alison’s mix of genes would have brewed.
‘Marcus Aurelius – Verissimus – the most true of all.’ Henry smiled.
Jane raised her eyebrows. ‘You know your stuff, don’t you?’
‘Called so by his adoptive grandfather Hadrian, who recognised his strong sense of morality from a very early age,’ Henry went on to prove he did indeed know his stuff.
‘I’ve read a lot about the emperors. That’s one good thing about the Rose Garden, we had a lot of books in the library.
I think I’d have gone mad if we hadn’t. I made a good case for us having more.
Reading calms prisoners down, and it passes time and it educates them, gives them something to talk about, keeps them out of mischief.
Men in prisons aren’t good when they get bored.
I don’t know how anyone goes through life without being able to read. It must feel like half an existence.’
Jane was reminded once again of Elizabeth’s proposed bookshop project. Books were more important than their small, humble form might suggest. Here, standing in front of her, was a prime example of their power. The more books that circulated in the world, the better good they did.
‘Henry, I wonder if I could ask you a favour,’ she said quietly, checking she wasn’t being overheard.
‘Of course, dear lady. Ask away.’
‘May I take advantage of your… particular old skill set,’ she said with a twinkle of a smile. ‘One last time.’