by Alis Hawkins
‘I don’t know.’ Sensing her discomfort, I waited. ‘I thought it might be something Dr Gwynne had said,’ she admitted eventually. ‘Something my husband didn’t want to tell me.’
I did not think she was lying, but neither was I confident that this was the whole truth. Keen not to misdirect her – nor to give her a way out – I said nothing.
‘The point is,’ her tone was suddenly more decisive, ‘everybody knows Dr Reckitt’s the one who can tell you why somebody’s died. He knows what to look for.’
I wondered whether she understood just how deeply Reckitt looked. But if she knew of his reputation, she must surely be aware of his almost invariable resort to dissection.
‘So far, Dr Reckitt has been unable to find any clue as to why Lizzie died,’ I said. ‘Would you be prepared to allow him to open her body?’
Welsh lacked a commonly used word for ‘dissection’, which made the question so much starker than it would have been in English, but if Esther Rees flinched, I did not see it. She remained stiffly upright on the stool before me. ‘Yes. I want to know why my daughter died.’
‘It’s an expensive business,’ I said. ‘The fee for such a post-mortem examination is two guineas.’ Did her eyes widen, even fractionally, at such a sum? John would have noticed and told me later; I could not rely on Reckitt doing the same. ‘Normally the fee is paid as part of the inquest costs,’ I told her, ‘but as things stand, I’m not sure I can justify calling an inquest. There’s nothing to suggest that your daughter died anything but a natural death.’ I heard Reckitt take a breath to disagree and held up a quelling finger in his direction. ‘The county magistrates already complain that I hold too many inquests and ask ratepayers to pay for too many post-mortem examinations.’
‘Are you saying that Dr Reckitt can’t look inside my Lizzie’s body to see why she died unless you hold an inquest?’
‘Unless you have two guineas.’ Again, though less ostentatiously this time, I signalled that Reckitt should stay silent. I knew perfectly well that he would carry out an examination of Lizzie Rees’s viscera gratis, simply to further his own knowledge, but I wanted to see if Mrs Rees knew, or even suspected, more than she was currently telling us.
When she did not respond, I asked gently, ‘Do you have any information that might justify holding an inquest, Mrs Rees?’
A silence gathered, then lengthened. Had John been there, he would have been able to signal to me, simply by leaning backwards or forward in his chair, whether I should be patient or press on with further questions. Reckitt might have inferred the mechanics of our wordless system during the many inquests he had attended with us, but if so, he was too caught up in his own feelings to make use of it now. So as best I could, I studied Esther Rees in my peripheral vision. But her posture was unmoving, and I learned nothing from it.
‘Your husband told us that there was a young man who was sweet on Lizzie,’ I suggested.
Mrs Rees made a dismissive sound. ‘Foolishness.’
‘You didn’t favour this man?’
‘I didn’t favour any of the young fools!’
‘But this one in particular, the one who brought the wool – what is his name?’
‘He may be unsuitable, but I’ll not bring trouble down on his head, not without reason.’
‘But we may wish to speak to him.’
‘If there’s evidence that he did something, I’ll tell you.’ It was clear that I would wait in vain for her to relent. ‘We don’t have the money for a post-mortem examination.’ She pronounced the Latin words carefully, as if she was drawing them syllable by syllable from her memory. ‘So if it’s evidence you want, Mr Probert-Lloyd, I’ll just have to trust you to do what’s right.’
John
Walking up the drive to Glanteifi, I knew I wasn’t in a fit state yet to talk to Harry and Lydia Howell about the exhibition – or anything else – so I decided to go to my room and change for dinner first.
Wil-Sam rushed up to me as I came through the door, all smiles and greetings. I was glad I didn’t have to deal with the starchy English butler, Mr Moyle, any more. He and Harry’d never got on, so he’d left soon after old Mr Probert-Lloyd had died, and Harry hadn’t replaced him.
‘What was it like?’ Wil-Sam wanted to know. ‘Did you see anybody important?’
I’d seen Jem Harborne. Who knew how important he was going to turn out to be?
‘No, ’machgen i, I didn’t. I’ll tell you all about the Exhibition later, all right? I need to go and get changed now.’ And I needed not to have his trusting little face in front of me. I didn’t want to think about what might happen to his family’s farm if I couldn’t persuade Mr Ormiston to change his mind.
But before I could go anywhere, Lydia appeared. ‘Wil-Sam, go and ask Mrs Griffiths to send some tea for Mr Davies, will you. And cake.’
The boy scampered off and the two of us were left alone in the hall. ‘Can you get somebody to bring the tea up to my room?’ I asked her. ‘I need a wash and change before I sit down with you and Harry. I’ll join you both for dinner.’
‘Harry’s in Eglwyswrw. He’s dealing with a sudden death with Dr Reckitt.’
Harry going out to see a body without me was just what I’d been afraid of, and my mouth started speaking before I could think. ‘Just him and Reckitt? Why didn’t he take you with him?’ As soon as the question was out, I wanted to take it back. I looked away, but I could feel her eyes on me.
‘I’m sure Dr Reckitt will be ample assistance,’ she said steadily. ‘Why don’t you come and sit down in the library to have your tea – you can change later.’
If I insisted on going up to change, she’d think I was embarrassed about what I’d just said. And then dinner’d be awkward when I came down. Best to drink tea with her now, try and smooth things over.
In the library, I almost went straight to the chair I usually sat in, by the fire, but it didn’t feel right, sitting down with just me and Lydia there. So I went to the long windows at the far end of the room. It was a nice evening – standing there looking out onto the terrace wouldn’t seem odd. The windows were still open and the wallflowers in the beds outside smelled so sweet it was like breathing in sugar.
‘What did you think of the Great Exhibition?’
I shrugged without turning around. ‘Lleu was very taken with it.’
‘Lleu’s a child; of course he was impressed.’
Meaning that she thought I should be a bit more selective. That she expected me to make some intelligent comments on what I’d seen.
Instead, I just stared out of the window. The mansion stood on a hill, and below us the Teifi wound around in a wide, slow-moving loop. The new grass in the hayfields on the far bank was bright green and gold in the sunset, and I could see the swans that’d built their nest on the little island in the middle of the river settling for the night. It was as different from London, with its dusty worn-bare grass and litter in Hyde Park, and its clamouring noisy streets, as night was from day. Like a different world.
‘If you want to know the truth,’ I said, still keeping my back to Lydia, ‘I thought it was loud and crowded and expensive and incredibly boastful.’ With those last two words, my throat closed up and I felt tears sting my eyes. I’d been trying to keep my worries about everything on a tight rein, but admitting what I really felt about the Exhibition had loosened something. Thank God Lydia couldn’t see my face.
‘Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.’
I swallowed, hard, and cleared my throat to make sure my voice wasn’t going to crack. ‘What book of the Bible is that from?’
‘It’s not from the Bible. It’s from a poem. About a vast ruined statue from a vanished empire. The poet sees it lying in pieces in the desert sand. Nobody remembers the ruler it commemorates, but there’s an inscription on it: “I am Ozymandias, king of kings / Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!”’
I turned to face her. ‘Is that what you think’ll happen to our Empir
e?’ The word brought a memory to mind – the Indian elephant Lleu had admired so much, standing there stuffed and draped in gold.
‘Of course. It’s what happens to all empires. They rise, they grow, they overreach themselves and they crumble.’
I stared at her. This was the kind of conversation she usually had with Harry, not with me.
I felt stranded. I knew what I should do – just march over to the hearth, take the chair opposite her and join in, like Harry would have. But I wasn’t him.
Lydia was looking at me, as if she was trying to draw me over there by sheer force of will. As soon as I could bring myself to meet her eye, she spoke. ‘I didn’t come here to try and steal your place, John.’
It was such an unexpected thing for her to say that it felt as if she’d kicked my legs from under me. I felt the guilty blood rushing to my face. ‘I didn’t think you had.’
‘But you’ve been worried that perhaps that’s what Harry wants, haven’t you?’
I didn’t move. I couldn’t think what to say. What gave her the right to sit there calmly telling me what was in my head?
‘Come and sit down,’ she said.
I didn’t move.
‘John—’
‘I should change for dinner.’
‘There’s only me here, and I’m happy for you to eat dinner as you are. Please.’
My legs seemed to move of their own accord, but I only let them take me as far as the big table in the middle of the room. The one Harry and I had played shuffleboard on in the evenings before Lydia’d come to Glanteifi. Like everything else in the library – the carpets, the dusty books, the long curtains – it seemed old and faded after the Gelyots’ house.
The way she was looking at me made me very uncomfortable. I put a hand out, as if touching the table would give me more reason to stand there.
‘John, I don’t want to be coroner’s assistant.’
I shrugged. It wasn’t what she wanted that mattered, was it? My fingers found an old dint in the table that somebody’d tried hard to smooth away, and I worried at it. I could feel Lydia willing me to look at her.
In the end, she won, and I looked up. The way the light was falling into shadows showed me the lines that were gathering at the corners of her eyes.
‘Thing is,’ I said, wanting to show her I was being reasonable, that I wasn’t a child worrying over nothing, ‘you’d be good at it. We all know that.’
She leaned back in her chair, her hands clasped in her lap, and looked at me. ‘Are you determined not to be reassured?’
I turned my eyes away.
After a long silence, she stood up. ‘Well, I can’t make you believe me.’
Just then the door opened and Elsie, one of our maids, came in with the tea. Thank God.
Once Elsie’d gone back to the kitchen, Lydia passed me a slice of cake.
‘Harry received a letter this morning. From the county magistrates.’
‘About?’
‘When we’ve finished our tea, I’ll fetch it and you can see for yourself.’
* * *
Whatever Lydia’d said about not bothering to change, I felt dirty after all the travelling I’d done, so I went upstairs. The magistrates’ letter could wait a few minutes. I wanted to sit down to dinner in clothes that didn’t smell as if they’d been screwed up and sat on by every passenger on the Carmarthen coach.
When I walked into the dining room five minutes later, washed and changed, Lydia was already sitting at the table. ‘Refreshed?’ she asked.
I nodded. One of the things I’d got used to since coming to live at the mansion was having water brought to my room whenever I wanted it. Warm water, too. Not that I’d bothered anybody to bring me warm water just now. Not with dinner waiting. Wouldn’t want to annoy our cook, Mrs Elias, by keeping dinner waiting.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Lydia said, ‘but I told Elsie not to bother lighting the fire. By the time the room warmed up, we’d be leaving it again.’
She and Harry had got into the habit of going back to the library after dinner to drink tea or brandy, or to finish the decanter of wine we’d started at the table. I joined them if I wasn’t busy, but until I’d taken the solicitor’s examination that Harry and I had agreed I should do before I took over from Mr Ormiston, I had other things to be getting on with. I wondered if Lydia was expecting me to join her when we’d eaten our dinner.
‘No point wasting coal,’ I said as I sat in my usual place. I wondered whether the chandelier’d been left unlit to save money as well. It was one of the first things Harry’d ordered after his father died – a huge twenty-four-candle specimen that hung low over the table. What sight he had left was as good as useless in poor light, and he said he was fed up with not being able to see his food.
‘Why don’t you sit there instead?’ Lydia asked, nodding at Harry’s place at the head of the table. ‘It might be easier if we’re not staring across at each other.’
I didn’t really want to take Harry’s seat. But she was right about us staring at each other, so I moved, and before I could tell him I’d do it, Ianto the footman came and shifted my plate and cutlery. I watched him place things just so. Was he mocking me? In my mind’s eye I could see his expression when he went back to the kitchen. Guess who sat in the master’s place?
‘I thought we’d manage with a more moderate quantity of candles,’ Lydia said. ‘Since it’s just you and me.’
I nodded, but still, I was glad Ianto hadn’t pulled the curtains. The pinkish gold of sunset brought some light into the room and made it look warm instead of just gloomy. Bit different from the Gelyots’ dining room, mind. While I was there, I’d got used to eating by the incredible brightness of gas light, and to be honest, the light in Glanteifi’s dark-panelled dining room was worse than at the cheap hotel we’d stayed in on our journey home.
Lydia waited until our food was in front of us, then said, ‘Do you want to read the magistrates’ letter now, or would you rather enjoy your food and read it later?’
I glanced at Ianto. He was standing in the corner, looking at the wall opposite as if he’d turned to stone. It was all very well asking whether I’d rather read the letter now or later; the truth was I’d much rather she hadn’t asked at all. If she’d just put the damned thing in front of me, that would’ve been fine. But now, if I said I’d rather wait, Ianto’d think I didn’t want him to know anything about it.
‘Let’s have it now.’
She took it out of a pocket and opened it before passing it to me.
It could’ve been a letter I’d written – neat and carefully legible. No room for error. It was addressed to Harry, but from the way it was worded, I was willing to bet that identical copies’d gone out to any number of people – inspectors of police, registrars, local justices of the peace.
The letter begged to inform ‘all interested parties’ of a decision taken at a recent meeting of the county magistrates.
The Cardiganshire County Constabulary now having complete oversight of all areas however remote, it said, the magistrates judge it inappropriate, henceforward, to remunerate any parish officer for duties which belong more properly to the uniformed constabulary.
These duties include, but are not limited to, dealing with vagrants, taking action against drunkenness, bringing malefactors before the petty sessions and – I looked up at Lydia, who could see that I’d reached the meat of the thing – informing coroners of sudden suspicious deaths, empanelling inquest juries and bringing forward witnesses for inquest proceedings.
If individual parishes saw fit to continue to employ a local constable, that must be their own affair, the letter advised, but no county finances will be disbursed to defray expenses for any of the above activities. Likewise, local registrars will no longer be remunerated for bringing news of suspicious deaths to the attention of the coroner but must take any relevant information to the nearest police station.
I looked up. ‘They’re basically putting him unde
r the thumb of the police. He’ll only be able to act on their instructions.’
Lydia nodded. ‘More or less. Obviously this doesn’t actually prohibit anybody else from informing him of a suspicious death…’
‘No, but if the parish constables don’t get paid, they’re not likely to bring deaths to Harry’s notice. Same with the registrars.’
Registrars were busy men, and registering deaths – and births, if they could persuade people to remember – was a sideline for them. They weren’t going to spend time coming to see Harry about a death that might or might not be suspicious if they weren’t getting paid for it.
Still, most of the sudden deaths we went out to came to Harry from family members, so perhaps there wasn’t too much to worry about. It wasn’t supposed to happen, strictly speaking – they were supposed to go through somebody official – but people’d soon realised that the only reliable way to make sure that Harry knew about a sudden death was to tell him about it themselves.
I glanced at Ianto in the corner. Still pretending to take no notice. Back in the kitchen, he’d be giving them chapter and verse.
I read the letter again, turning it to the nearest candle and wishing we had the Gelyots’ gas light. I remembered what Jem Harborne’d said about Soyer’s Symposium at night – that all the lights were reflected again and again around the room by silvered glass. Maybe we should get some here and put them amongst the candles in the chandelier. Anything to make the dining room a bit cheerier and brighter.
The letter was going to cause trouble. It might be addressed to ‘all interested parties’, but Harry’d see it as the bench of magistrates calling him to heel, and he’d fight it, I knew he would. And the last thing I wanted was another fight. The one I was going to get into with Mr Ormiston was all I could manage at the moment.
‘I assume Harry took this pretty personally?’ I asked.
‘He did. The question is, was he right to?’
‘Well, the number of inquests has gone up almost threefold since Mr Bowen’s time, and Harry can’t say that’s all because Mr Bowen was ill for so long – he definitely investigates more deaths than most coroners, so he costs more money than the magistrates think he should. But they haven’t come up with this just to annoy Harry, have they?’ I folded the letter up and passed it back to her. ‘Other counties are bringing in similar rules. The county magistrates in Dorset,’ – or was it Devon? – ‘did something similar a while ago.’