Those Who Know

by Alis Hawkins

  Though, at any other time, I might have enjoyed the company and conversation of lively-minded women, I found myself ill at ease. My mind flitted from Caldicot’s banknotes to Reckitt’s suddenly less irrefutable evidence; from Llew Price’s request that I speak to him to Mattie Hughes’s removal to Alltybela; from the future of Rowland’s school and back to my suspicions about Caldicot.

  Scarcely present as anything but a social simulacrum of myself, I allowed Minnever to extol my virtues and pose questions which I might answer to my own advantage, while uncertainties stamped in determined battalions through my brain.

  I nodded and smiled as my career in London was examined at length, my enforced return to Glanteifi sympathised over and my conduct of cases as acting coroner admired. And, all the while, I knew I should be elsewhere pursuing the truth.

  After two hours or so, I felt I might have done my duty but, even as I was casting about for a compliment with which to take my leave, my hostess asked, ‘May we hear your views on capital punishment, Mr Probert-Lloyd?’

  The question prompted an outpouring from the Circle’s ladies on the subject of the barbarism of the gallows, a strength of feeling which was hardly remarkable in supporters of the Peace Society but which, in my less than perfectly composed state, took me somewhat by surprise. Voices came from all directions and I felt as if I had been thrust, unwittingly, into a game of Blind Man’s Bluff. Unable to see who was speaking, I found it difficult to differentiate one voice from another as all-too-palpable emotions swirled around me.

  Mrs Jenkinson tapped a spoon on the side of her cup for quiet but, though the hubbub died down, my sense of disorientation and vulnerability did not. I imagined them all looking at me, seeing a man disconcerted by ten seconds’ outcry from a drawing room full of polite females. How weak I must seem to them, how inadequate. A sudden premonition of an onslaught far worse than this, the following day in the market square, sent such a tremor of apprehension through me that I could hardly breathe.

  With a sudden horrifying clarity, I realised that others must see me in the same way as they viewed one-legged Mattie Hughes: as diminished, existing in a category of humanity different from those with all their faculties. The same category into which my father had slipped after his stroke.

  Seconds, during which I might have answered Mrs Jenkinson’s question, ticked by and I saw Minnever stir in my peripheral vision.

  No. I could not allow him to rescue me. The thought was intolerable. I drew in a deep breath and cleared my throat, conscious of how loud the sound was in the now silent room.

  ‘Ladies.’ My own voice sounded strange, as if I was hearing it from a distance. ‘It seems, from your response to Mrs Jenkinson’s question, that we are in absolute agreement.’ Then, as they always had in court, cogent words started to flow. ‘Though successive administrations have taken great strides towards making our legal system more humane, its continued insistence on an eye for an eye,’ I had heard the phrase several times during their outrage and something in me had the wit to quote it calmly back at them, ‘still marks us as a retributive rather than a humane society.’

  ‘But what of you, personally?’ a voice asked. ‘The existence of capital punishment must affect you, as coroner?’

  ‘Yes,’ another voice chimed in, ‘might it not hinder you in the performance of your duties?’

  Politely, I turned towards the second speaker, the whirlpool blotting out the upright posture and claret-coloured dress that had been visible a moment before. ‘Are you asking whether I might feel it necessary to sway a jury towards manslaughter if I felt they might be inclined to bring in a verdict of murder?’

  ‘Yes. There must be occasions when the commission of a murder might be justified. Or,’ she added hastily, as audible breaths were taken, ‘at least less culpable, might there not? One thinks of the case of the battered wife whose son decides that if the law will not protect his mother, then he must. Or, indeed, the poor woman herself.’

  I wondered whether she knew as well as I did that the courts would treat those two cases very differently. A son might expect to be treated leniently as a principled protector but no judge would countenance anything but the gallows for a woman who turned murderously on her husband, however abominable his treatment of her.

  ‘In the kind of case to which you refer,’ I said, taking great care, ‘we should be very grateful that we have juries in this country. For a jury, seeing injustice in the letter of the law, will bring in a just verdict where they can.’

  ‘And you would allow such a thing in your inquests?’ another asked. ‘You would neither seek to dictate to nor overrule a jury?’

  I had underestimated the ladies of the Teifi Valley. I had come blithely in to Mrs Jenkinson’s drawing room to make myself pleasant, but these Peace Society supporters – the wives of solicitors and ministers, grocers and drapers and bankers – had taken it upon themselves to become informed. And, now, they would go home to their husbands – qualifying voters to a man – and give them chapter and verse on my performance.

  I placed my cup and saucer on the slender-legged table at my side. ‘Unless I was convinced that an egregious injustice would result,’ I said. ‘I believe the coroner’s role obliges me to allow a jury to make the decisions it sees fit. After the presentation of all relevant evidence and any necessary advice, obviously.’ This careful articulation of very little drew nothing but an expectant silence, forcing me to continue. ‘But I’m no absolutist. Whilst I believe the law on capital punishment should be changed, I will not object to working within it until it is changed.’

  ‘But will you campaign for abolition?’

  I turned in the direction of the last voice. ‘I haven’t the liberty of time to do so, I’m afraid. Quite apart from my current hopes of election, following my father’s recent death, I have an estate to run.’

  Murmurs of sympathy did not mask another challenge. ‘But, as somebody who supports abolition, might your time not be better spent campaigning for the Society rather than becoming coroner?’

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ I said, alarmed by the thought that the ladies might go home and persuade their husbands not to vote for me in the hope that I might turn campaigner. ‘I believe I may do more good as a coroner. Not only can I put the minds of the bereaved at ease and bring to light unsuspected foul play but, in holding to account those who are responsible for accidents, I hope I can play a part in making the increasing number of mechanised workplaces safer.’

  To illustrate my point, I outlined the sad case of a mill worker whose leg had been crushed in a fulling machine. Following its amputation, he had developed gangrene and died, leaving a wife and four children with no means of support. ‘Had the mill owner had more care for the conditions in which his employees were forced to work, that man would not have died. As coroner, I was able to censure the owner publicly and my remarks were taken up by the press. As a consequence, he has offered a sum of money to the widow.’

  A new voice came, somewhat hesitantly, from beside the drawing room’s piano. ‘You don’t feel that, were you to sit on the bench of magistrates instead of serving as coroner, you could offer an enlightened example to your fellow justices of the peace?’

  John would have laughed. That had always been his line.

  ‘I’m afraid that my views would, indeed, be an example to them,’ I said. ‘Unfortunately, it would be an example of the kind of radicalism that they abhor and I fear that their own judgements would become harsher in response.’

  My response had the merit of being true, though it was not the whole truth. But I could scarcely tell the ladies of the Olive Leaf Circle that I craved independent employment, that I was desperate to secure some occupation not contingent upon my position as squire to Glanteifi.

  ‘Then we must help you become coroner,’ Mrs Jenkinson spoke with the authority of somebody whose word would be the last on the matter. ‘Any influence we have with our menfolk will be brought to bear, Mr Probert-Lloyd. You may
depend upon that.’

  ‘I think you might have warned me, Minnever,’ I grumbled, once the front door had closed on us and we were out of earshot. ‘I’ve seldom felt more cornered. Why didn’t you tell me they’d want to ask those sorts of questions?’

  ‘Because I didn’t know. Mrs Jenkinson approached me, by letter, asking if you’d be so good as to come to their meeting this afternoon. I replied to the effect that you’d come if time allowed. Thought you’d know all about Olive Leaf Circles.’

  ‘I do. I knew plenty of members in London. But I didn’t expect to find active Peace Society campaigners in Tregaron!’

  I felt Minnever looking at me askance and half-turned, keeping my eyes where I could see him. ‘What?’

  ‘I won’t be the only person who’s noticed your condescension towards virtually every institution that exists in the Teifi Valley. You’re not going to win any elections if people suspect that you’re constantly comparing Cardiganshire to London and finding it wanting!’

  I felt a prickling on the nape of my neck and up my scalp. Minnever was right, I wanted London back. I wanted the freedom to be Harry Probert-Lloyd, up and coming barrister, not young Harry Glanteifi, Justice Probert-Lloyd’s blind son with the odd ideas.

  For once, my blindness was a refuge. To have been forced to look Minnever in the eye, both of us knowing that he had stripped me to my shivering core, would have been too much. I would have had no choice but to walk away. From the party, from the election, from everything. But blindness blotted out accusation and pity as surely and indiscriminately as it blotted out detail. I stared resolutely into the whirlpool and tried to drown myself in it.

  ‘If you really want to be coroner, Harry, you’ve got to start seeing allies and equals instead of people who fall short of your ideals. You may not like it, but to get anywhere in public life there has to be reciprocity. You’re not a barrister any more so stop being so combative! Believe it or not, sometimes people are actually on your side.’

  I began to defend myself but he silenced me. ‘You can’t be defensive on the hustings, Harry – if people see that, you’ll lose them. You’re already at a disadvantage because of your sight – it’s going to be difficult for you to read the crowd. You only need one heckler to catch the mood and then, unless you play things very carefully indeed, you may as well go home.’

  The gusty breeze jostled me, combing its damp fingers through my hair, forcing any response I might have made back down my throat. I felt as if the wind had ganged up with Minnever against me, like a playground bully following hard on a teacher’s heels. Ha-ha! Harry Probert-Lloyd’s not as clever as he thinks he is. Got a telling off!

  I looked about me from the corner of my eye, wondering whether people were looking, whether they had heard Minnever’s words, whether they were waiting for the rest of the lecture. Instead, Minnever put his hand under my elbow. ‘Come on. Let’s go back to the Talbot and thrash out a strategy over a bottle of something fortifying. Then John and I can rehearse you.’

  John

  It was raining hard again by the time Minnever’d dragged Harry off to talk to some ladies’ meeting, so I decided not to ride back down to Llanddewi Brefi to talk to Llew Price. He could wait till tomorrow morning. As long as we spoke to him before the inquest, it’d be fine. Instead, I’d stay in the warm and get down to writing a list of the questions Harry’d need to ask witnesses. That was the routine we’d got into – I’d write a list of questions then we’d spend the evening before the inquest going over them.

  But when I walked into the Talbot, the landlord, Mr Thomas, was standing there talking to a tall gentleman in riding clothes, a servant hovering in the background with a couple of bags. ‘Will there be anything else, Mr Caldicot?’ Mr Thomas asked him.

  So. This was Harry’s rival. Caldicot wasn’t what I’d expected. He was older, for a start – definitely over forty. And, for some reason, I’d pictured him overfed and flabby-looking. In the flesh, he was anything but. He had the kind of face you only get from sun or wind and the way he held himself showed muscle not fat.

  I knew what Harry’d want me to do, so I mustered up my best English accent. ‘Mr Caldicot, good day to you. I’m John Davies, Assistant Coroner.’ Thought I’d better give myself a promotion, he might not speak to me otherwise.

  He gave me a polite nod which I took as permission to carry on.

  ‘As you’ll probably know, Mr Probert-Lloyd is here to conduct an inquest.’

  He nodded again. Not a man to waste words, Montague Caldicot.

  ‘Were you thinking of attending?’ I asked.

  He didn’t smile but his face changed enough to tell me he was amused by my cheek. ‘You mean, am I coming to cast an eye over the opposition?’

  I tried to look as if butter wouldn’t melt. ‘Partly that.’ I was feeling my way, listening to every word in my head before I let it out. ‘But also, Mr Probert-Lloyd’s been given to understand that you were acquainted with the deceased. Mr Nicholas Rowland.’

  Montague Caldicot frowned, very slightly. ‘I think “acquainted” is overstating things. I believe Rowland and I found ourselves in the same company, once or twice, in London.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, trying to look a bit embarrassed without overdoing it. ‘In that case, perhaps our information has credited you with too much influence. We’d been led to believe that Mr Rowland’s coming here was almost entirely your doing. That you’d represented Llanddewi Brefi as somewhere propitious to establish a place of learning.’

  I heard myself sounding like a dictionary. Propitious indeed! And place of learning wasn’t much better. But, to be fair, ‘school’ sounded too ordinary for what Nicholas Rowland had had in mind.

  Caldicot gave me a half-smile. ‘I wish that were true! I’d be delighted to wield such influence.’ He turned to his servant. ‘Take the bags upstairs, would you, Stephen?’ Then he turned back to me. ‘I was going to sit down and take a glass of something, Mr Davies. Would you care to join me?’

  ‘I’d be delighted, thank you,’ I said, trying to sound as if I sat down to drink with the likes of him every day. But then, I did, didn’t I? For all his oddness, Harry was Caldicot’s equal. Still, I hoped he wasn’t going to offer me brandy. Couldn’t stand the stuff.

  Mr Thomas, who’d moved a little way off when we started speaking and made himself busy untying a parcel of printed bills, showed us into the little dining room we’d eaten in a few nights ago. He nodded wisely when Caldicot asked for a bottle of claret and left us to it.

  Once we’d sat down in the two upholstered chairs that’d appeared next to the fire, Caldicot went straight back to where we’d left off, as if he owed me an explanation for some misunderstanding. ‘I believe I do recall a conversation with Rowland about his school.’ He stretched one leg out and rubbed at his thigh as if it pained him. ‘He was introduced to me as being involved in education and the conversation moved, as it would, to the Education Commissioners’ report. Rowland was quite infuriated by it, as I recall. Adamant that something must be done.’

  Just as I was thinking that this was all a bit too pat, Mr Thomas came in with a decanter of claret and poured us each a glass.

  Caldicot raised his. ‘Your health, Mr Davies.’

  ‘And yours.’ I sat on the edge of my seat. ‘Still, it’s even more commendable, given your brief acquaintance, that you were kind enough to support Mr Rowland once he was here.’

  Caldicot crossed his legs. The little frown was back. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  I felt my heart beating hard. Affable or not, Montague Caldicot wasn’t going to take much more pushing. ‘I beg your pardon, I was referring to your donation to his collegiate school fund.’

  Caldicot swallowed a mouthful of wine and fixed his dark eyes on me. He might as well’ve said, Listen very carefully, young man. ‘I’m afraid that, once again, you’re giving me credit where none is due, Mr Davies. Laudable as I found Mr Rowland’s aims, I never had occasion to donate money in support
of them. I believe we met once more, fleetingly, but that was the limit of our acquaintance.’

  ‘I do beg your pardon,’ I said, again. Quite honestly, I was pleased not to have stammered and I began weighing my words very carefully, like a boy looking ahead in the Bible passage he’s reading aloud for a name that might trip him up. Nebuchadnezzar. Amalekites. Onesiphorus. ‘I believe we may have made an erroneous assumption,’ I said. ‘Some of the banknotes we found in Mr Rowland’s possession – which we assumed were subscriptions to his school – had your name on them.’

  The frown was still there. ‘But, as we both know, Mr Davies, banknotes may change hands many times.’

  ‘Of course. As I say, I do beg your pardon – it was a lazy assumption on our part.’

  The frown left his face and he gave a single dip of the head. Apology accepted. ‘Easily done. Quite honestly, I’m flattered to have been thought a benefactor. But, in this case, sadly not.’

  I smiled, sipped and moved on to safer ground. ‘Are you relishing the challenge of the election contest?’

  He downed the rest of his claret and reached for the decanter. ‘Candidly, I’d rather face an enemy armed to the teeth. At least then I’d know what to do.’