by Mary Burns
Naworth Farm
Early morning light filtered through the ash grove as Arthur and his father, and Gwillem Moor, walked silently, the donkey and cart trundling behind them. Arthur couldn’t help but rejoice in the feeling of home—the smell of the air, the sound of the cascading waters where the rivulet from the Castle met the Irthing—the very birds of Cumberland had a different song from those of the south. The trio skirted the edge of the forest and then came to open country, the meadows and fields lush with tall grass—soon to be cutting.
Wil led them on a narrow path that Arthur found his feet remembering without his conscious sense of it—straight towards the freehold farm his father and grandfather had cleared and worked, by favor of the late, heroic Sir Thomas Dacre, the present lord’s father, who was the scourge and bane of all the Scottish clans that regularly crossed the borders to plunder and kill. There had been some dozen years and more of peace since the last skirmish, and it showed in the peaceful lay of the land, and Wil Crooklay’s calm demeanour, as tranquil as the flocks he raised. Arthur had been only two years old when Sir Thomas died, but he would frequently gaze in awe in later years at the magnificent tomb in the Priory church that held both Sir Thomas and his lady, who had died some years before her lord. He wondered if the tombs had been left intact—surely the king’s men wouldn’t desecrate the resting place of such a hero and loyal knight of the realm—and promised himself a visit there in the next few days, if it were possible.
“There’s something you should know, son,” said Wil, speaking low. Arthur looked up, concerned, but his father seemed to have trouble saying more.
“What is it? Da?” he said. But his father hesitated, then shook his head.
“Ach, nothing,” Wil replied, clamping a firm hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’ll know soon enough. There’s the house,” he said then. He seemed anxious, and it made Arthur worried.
The farmhouse was well-built, roomy and, Arthur recalled with a half-sigh, had been comfortable and clean—until his mother died. His father had done his best, but two males were no match for the love and care a determined woman can lavish on a house to make it a home. He followed his father through the door, trying to remember his mother’s face, but ten years had vanquished all but a sense of her loving presence.
A fire burned in the hearth, and Arthur had just time to be surprised about the clean and tidy appearance of the main room, and the bright color of the cloths and window curtains, before the reason for this state of things appeared—a woman, not young but not yet in her middle years, stepped forward from tending a large pot of stew on the fire. Then she smiled and held out her arms. Arthur flew into them with a laugh of joy.
“Gweneth! Oh, Gweneth,” he cried, letting himself be folded in her ample arms.
“Lord, my boy, you’re taller than me, now,” she said, hugging him close, the top of her head nestling against his cheek. Arthur shot a look at his father, who was standing sheepishly by the table—but the son’s grin and wink of approval set the father’s heart at ease.
“I can see my presence here has taken you by surprise,” the woman said, stepping back and tucking in a lock of glossy brown hair that had fallen loose from her head cloth. She shook her head at Wil, with a mock frown.
“It takes nothing from the joy of seeing you here,” Arthur said, taking her hand and holding it tight. “You make it feel like a home again,” he said. With a laugh, he looked back at his father and grinned. “Not that he deserves you, by any means.”
Gweneth smiled, and addressed their other guest.
“Gwillem Moor,” she said, “you are most welcome here, and we are grateful for your service that has brought William—I mean Arthur Joseph—home safely to us.”
The blind harper bent his head graciously.
“Well, then,” she said, pushing Arthur toward the table, and pausing to kiss her husband on his grizzled chin, “you must be starving, and tired as well. Sit, be comfortable, while I bring you some bread and beer.” They began to seat themselves at the large oaken table.
A young boy, about eleven years old, appeared at the open door—he had the same round face and small, sturdy body as Gweneth but his hair was fiery red, long and curly. His eyes lit up when he spied Arthur, but he spoke to Wil Crooklay first.
“I’ve put the donkey in the shed,” he said, “and made sure he was fast, and gave him some feed.” He looked shyly proud of his efforts. “The cart is hid in the small barn, is that well?”
“Excellent, Gareth, very well done,” said Wil. His smile and voice were full of affection. He looked at Arthur. “D’ye recall this fine lad, Arthur? He was, true enough, just a sprout when you left for the Abbey.”
“I remember teaching him to fish one fine summer,” Arthur said, smiling. He got up from the table and knelt on one knee before the boy, to look at him eye to eye. “I’m glad to see you again, here in this home, Gareth,” he said, and put his arms out to hug the boy. “I’ve always wanted a brother.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Gareth stepped into Arthur’s embrace, and the two held each other close for a few moments.
“All right, then,” said Gweneth, a catch in her voice. “Come and eat before the pottage grows cold.”
As he ate the hearty food, and watched the love and good humor play across the faces of his new family, he realized suddenly that he had neglected to say his daily office as yet, and felt a quick stab of fear—would he ever return to the life of a monk? Would he ever become the priest and scholar he’d always hoped he would be? The future was so very dark at this point—and the life of home and family so very dear and present. He closed his eyes and prayed for he knew not what, trusting, as the Apostle Paul said, that the Holy Ghost would understand the prayer of his heart, and translate his anxious feelings to the ear of God.
25
Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;
For man is man and master of his fate.
–Idylls of the King
Brampton, Cumberland
Wednesday Late Morning
We found Mrs. Barnstable seated at a long farmhouse table in the spacious kitchen, looking over some book of accounts or other, it seemed. Delia we had passed on the way, busy with some household chores, cleaning and such. Mrs. Barnstable rose at once upon our coming in, looking a little flustered at our sudden appearance in her domain.
“Oh, please, don’t get up,” I said, and looked around the well-lighted kitchen, with its brightly shining surfaces, spotless floor, and a large pitcher of summer flowers on a sideboard filled with china and plate. “I remember coming down here so many times as a child, filching extra biscuits and treats. Uncle Chaffee always had an excellent cook.” As if on cue, a pot lid began to rattle from the force of whatever was in it—soup or stew—boiling away.
Mrs. Barnstable smiled faintly and moved to the stove to quiet the boisterous concoction.
“That smells absolutely delicious,” John said. “Lamb stew, I’ll wager! Is that for our luncheon?” His boyish good nature made her smile more fully, as she nodded in reply to his question, but then she turned to me, more formally.
“I recall, Miss Paget, that you mentioned we might have a little talk about…everything? Perhaps we would be more comfortable in the drawing room,” she said.
“I like it here,” John said, and promptly pulled out a chair at the kitchen table for me to sit upon. I sat, and then he did the same for Mrs. Barnstable, but before seating himself, he went over to a table filled with fruit and vegetables from the garden, and helped himself to a couple of early apples.
“Anyone else like an apple?” he said.
We both shook our heads, so he took up a small knife and sat down at the table. He shot an inquiring glance at me, and I nodded ever so slightly.
“Mrs. Barnstable,” he said, “we are all at sea here regarding the death of the dear Reverend, as you well know.” He carefully cut away a slice of apple and popped
it in his mouth. “There’s something of a mystery about how he died, and then, of course, there’s that missing item from the cabinet.” She nodded carefully, but looked puzzled.
“Is it not the case that he simply fell down the stairs in the night?” she said.
John and I exchanged glances.
“We have just now found evidence,” I said, watching her carefully, “that the Reverend Crickley’s death was planned, that it was, in fact, murder.”
She paled instantly, and her eyes began to roll upwards. John leaped from his chair to hold her by her shoulders, while I dug in my pocket for a vial of salts. I unstoppered the vial and waved it under the poor lady’s nose as she began to sag in John’s grip. It instantly restored her, gasping a bit, and color rushed back into her cheeks.
“What…what evidence,” she managed to say. I shook my head minutely at John; I wasn’t ready to tell all just yet.
“That doesn’t matter right now,” I said. “But it’s irre-futable, and it leads to many questions.”
She nodded, and drawing a handkerchief from her sleeve, wiped away a few tears that had begun gathering in her eyes.
“Can you tell us,” John said in a gentle voice, “if the Reverend had any visitors in the days just before his death—and indeed, on the very day itself especially. Who would have been in the house or on the grounds?”
Mrs. Barnstable composed herself, and when she spoke, she looked mostly at John, but sometimes at me, though, I thought, rather warily.
“I come to the cottage every day,” she said, “as does Delia. Both of us are here from about seven in the morning until just after tea, although frequently we are in and out of the house on various errands in the town. And then there’s old Glenn, the man who does work in the garden—but he rarely is in the house.”
“What are…were….the Reverend’s usual habits during the day?”
“Oh,” she said, smiling a little, “he was a very consistent sort of gentleman, rising early, as I told you before, and lighting his own fire. He would read or examine things in his library until we brought his breakfast, and then he would take a long walk—sometimes out as far as the castle or the old priory, sometimes around the town. Then back for more reading or writing his letters—he was a great correspondent—then luncheon.” She looked at John shyly. “Sometimes he would come down to the kitchen for lunch here, with me...and Delia, too, of course.” She sighed, and played with her handkerchief, clutched in her hands. “In good weather, he might go out in the garden and putter a bit after luncheon, or meet with a friend, say, Mr. Gravely, and then back to his library until tea.”
“You say you and Delia didn’t stay after tea time,” I said. “Did you or she return to help him with supper? Or to clean up?”
I discerned a faint blush begin to creep up Mrs. Barnstable’s face. “The Reverend didn’t care, of late, to eat much in the evenings, but there would always be a little something for him in the larder or the cold box if he wanted it.” She looked down at her hands, and carefully smoothed out the twisted handkerchief.
“Once in a while,” she said, her voice low, “I would be here of an evening, sometimes, and the Reverend would read some of his writings aloud to me, you see, for him to have a kind of audience, so he would know how it sounded to others.” She hastened to add, “Mr. Gravely, too, would be there, or some other friend, for the same purpose, and to talk and have a little sherry.”
It all sounds very proper, I thought, but tells me nothing. I saw that John had a curious, amused look on his face.
“Can you tell us who visited Reverend Crickley the day before he died?” I said.
“That would be Monday,” she said sadly. “Just two days past.” Her eyebrows knit in concentration.
“Lord Parke was here, rather early,” she said. “But he only stayed for about half an hour, it was before luncheon, I think—yes, because I remember Reverend Crickley asked him to stay and he said he could not.”
“Did they meet in the library?” John asked, and received an affirmative from the housekeeper. He leaned forward slightly, towards the lady.
“Do you have any idea,” he asked gently, “whether Lord Parke was in the library alone at any time?”
She shook her head. “They weren’t in there long,” she said. “But I have no way of knowing for certain if the Reverend didn’t step out at some point, though I must say, it doesn’t seem likely.”
“Anyone else?” I said.
“Mr. Howard also called,” Mrs. Barnstable said. “But he didn’t even get out of the carriage—I think he was in a great hurry,” she added almost apologetically. “His wife is near her time, you see, and I think he was anxious to be back at home again. That was just after luncheon, and Reverend went out to the drive to speak with him, I believe they talked for about twenty minutes.”
I mused over this a moment. “Did Uncle Chaffee seem in any way—that is, how did he seem after this long chat with Mr. Howard?”
Mrs. Barnstable looked troubled. “Now that I recall, he did seem somewhat ruffled after he’d spoken with him. He went straight to his library, and didn’t take his afternoon walk.”
“Anyone else, then?” I said. This lady needed a fair amount of prompting, I thought—or maybe I was just too impatient.
“Yes, that Mr. Wattendall came by,” she said. “It was much later in the day, just as I was taking away the tea things, and preparing to leave myself.”
John and I had both caught her inflection, and exchanged quick glances.
“You don’t care for Mr. Wattendall?” I said, again watching her closely.
Her face was composed and revealed very little. “He is the Reverend’s solicitor,” she said. “In his father’s place, of course, and often one finds that a son who takes over his esteemed father’s practice doesn’t seem to be…what one is quite used to. I’m sure he’s a very able attorney.”
“Did you leave the two of them together, when you left then?” John asked.
She nodded.
“And did you by any chance come back to the cottage later,” I said, “or have occasion to, oh, I don’t know, walk by and see if Mr. Wattendall was still there?”
She shook her head firmly. “I went back to my daughter’s house, where I live with her and her husband, and stayed there the whole evening, working on some embroidery for the church.”
I was tempted to ask if her daughter or son-in-law could vouch for her, but I stopped myself in time. I sat at the table, drumming my fingers lightly on its worn surface. I glanced at John, eyebrows raised.
“One more question, please, Mrs. Barnstable,” I said. “Are the cottage doors regularly locked, during the day or at night?”
“During the day, not really, Miss Paget, I’d have to say,” she admitted. “What with us all going in and out—and Brampton being such a safe and orderly town. But at night?” She thought about it. “I always lock the kitchen doors when I leave,” she said. “But I couldn’t swear about the front door upstairs, or the French doors from the drawing room out into the garden. I’m just not sure what the Reverend did in that regard.”
“Thank you,” I said. Fine, I thought, that means that anyone could walk in or out at will, most likely. Nonetheless, it might do to look into ‘that’ Mr. Wattendall a tad more closely.
Speak of the devil, they say, and he will appear—and as if conjured by my thoughts, Mr. Wattendall himself appeared at the back door of the house, peering into the kitchen.
Mrs. Barnstable gave a great start when she heard the man rap sharply on the window. I was facing him, so was not as startled as I was disconcerted—and annoyed at the interruption.
John jumped up promptly to open the door and let him in.
“Good morning to you, Miss Paget, Mrs. Barnstable,” said Mr. Wattendall, removing his hat and bowing slightly. A second bow was bestowed upon John. “Mr. … Sargent, was it? Yes, thank you, thank you.” He held a leather portfolio under his left arm.
The man was oilier
than I remembered. I remained seated, but Mrs. Barnstable, perhaps remembering her station, rose and said something about having to see about luncheon, then disappeared into the pantry. I looked up at the attorney, whose face wore a slight but fatuous grimace that I believe he intended as a smile.
“And what can I do for you, Mr. Wattendall?” I said.
“Ah, it is much more what I have the honor of doing for you, Miss Paget,” he said, placing his hat carefully on a side table. Deftly turning the portfolio, he began to open it.
“The copies of the late Reverend Crickley’s papers, ma’am, as you requested,” he said, and drew forth a reasonably substantial sheaf of documents. I took them from him and held them—their weight alone was impressive.
“Goodness,” I said, “your clerks must have worked through the night, Mr. Wattendall.” I looked up at him again, inviting him to say more.
“We labor so that others may have peace of mind,” he said in an almost sepulchral tone. I could only nod.
“Perhaps, Miss Paget,” he continued, turning his head in that crane-like way I had noticed in his office, “perhaps you do not recall that your late…that Reverend Crickley did me the honor to name me as the person who should take the inventory of his collection of relics and other items?”
“I do recall, indeed,” I said, though until that moment I had not thought about it again. I didn’t feel quite prepared to have this man traipsing about the house making his catalogue of items, but then, it might be a very good opportunity to question him about his last visit to Uncle Chaffee, and find out more about him in general. I glanced up at John and we exchanged a long look, in which I read a similar train of thought in his eyes. We nodded to each other, and I indicated with a lift of an eyebrow that he should take the lead.
“Mr. Wattendall,” I said accordingly, “I have some … domestic arrangements to attend to for a few moments, so perhaps you wouldn’t mind Mr. Sargent accompanying you upstairs to the Reverend’s library to begin your work?”