by Alis Hawkins
She had, it seemed, ridden over from Alltybela in the company of one of the grooms, wearing a borrowed pair of trousers so that she might ride astride.
‘Don’t worry,’ she reassured me. ‘We parted company outside town and I walked in. No early risers were scandalised at the sight of me in male attire.’
Perhaps it was my low mood, but I found her insouciance irritating. Fortunately for me, John appeared at that point and conversation turned to whether tea or coffee was more efficacious in alleviating the effects of over-indulgence.
Despite the warm sun of a clear spring day, my mood lifted only fractionally as we headed for home and, once we were on the open road, I nudged my little mare into a trot, leaving Lydia at the reins of the box cart, with John on my father’s old gelding, alongside.
Soon, snatches of conversation behind me suggested that they were trying to lure me out of my doldrums and I imagined the two of them shooting glances at me as they spoke, troubled by my silence. But I had no appetite for chit-chat; my thoughts were occupied by the previous day’s conflicting testimonies.
When John and I had picked over our interviews with Nan and Ruth before dinner the previous evening, we had agreed that, though Nan’s refusal to answer questions was easily explained as an unwillingness to incriminate herself, Ruth’s disturbingly changeable demeanour was far more difficult to rationalise.
‘It’s as if, whenever she feels she’s under attack, she forgets how to be an adult and becomes a child again,’ John said. ‘A little frightened child who doesn’t know how to save herself.’
‘Save herself from what?’
‘Anger?’
But, if Billy Walters’s account of what had taken place in the loft was to be believed, Nicholas Rowland’s anger had not turned Ruth into a frightened child; his accusation that she had been a willing participant in their pornographic writings had turned her into a furious, screaming woman.
I had lain awake for hours fretting at the conundrum of Ruth Eynon’s behaviour. And, in the smallest watches of the night, when all manner of darkness creeps through a man’s soul, I had confronted the implications of Shoni Goch’s words about his cousin.
He said he was owed a maidenhead.
Had Jeremiah Eynon persuaded himself that his stepdaughter desired him, so that he could take what his twisted soul felt he was owed without guilt? Had he accused her of wanting him?
Such a violation of trust, of all that was expected of a father, made me almost physically sick but it might explain Ruth’s extreme response to both Jonathan Eynon and Nicholas Rowland when they had suggested that she wanted something which she perceived as being forced upon her. It also gave rise to a question which would have to be addressed at the re-opened inquest: if Ruth had pushed Rowland away in disgust or terror, could she be charged with manslaughter, or would it be more just to see his fall from the loft as a tragic accident?
A sympathetic jury might bring in a verdict of misadventure but sympathy could hardly be expected once a jury had heard evidence that would include the writing of erotic fiction.
Even if I were to take matters into my own hands and simply rule on a new cause of death ex cathedra instead of holding a second inquest – something I was extremely loath to do as it would imply an entitlement I did not feel – I must still find a way to persuade the Cardiganshire constabulary to withdraw the charges against Jonathan Eynon.
But the Cardiganshire constabulary meant Inspector Bellis, and he was convinced that Eynon was his man.
I know men like him. Illiterate, violent, ruled by animal instincts. The jury’ll find him guilty in a minute.
I could not allow that to happen.
Harry
On Monday morning, despite John and Lydia’s combined and considerable efforts to make me reconsider, I set out, alone, for Cardigan. Ormiston had made it quite clear that he would need John all week on estate business, and Lydia would be busy arranging matters in Llanddewi Brefi on my behalf.
‘As I’m sure you’ll be writing to Miss Gwatkyn in any case, to let her know what I’m planning,’ I said, ‘will you be so kind as to ask her whether she’d mind accommodating Nan and Ruth until after the new inquest, please?’
I knew I sounded officious but I had been unexpectedly hurt by Lydia’s joining forces with John to try and dissuade me from speaking to Bellis. So much so that it had been on the tip of my tongue to suggest that Nathaniel Howell would never have allowed Jonathan Eynon to languish in gaol for a crime he had not committed. Fortunately, though two nights’ near-total insomnia had lent my thoughts a regrettable degree of self-pity, they had not impaired my judgement quite so disastrously.
St Mary’s Church clock was striking ten as I rode past the entrance to Priory House, on the outskirts of town, and onwards to Cardigan’s high street.
Outside the police station I dismounted and chose at random from the boys who came rushing to take charge of my little mare. Then, my palms suddenly sweaty and my heart beating perceptibly faster, I opened the door and walked in to Bellis’s domain.
The smell of beeswax-and-turpentine polish reminded me forcefully of my last visit and, as the torpid Morgan lumbered to his feet to offer me good day and congratulations on my election, I took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, constable. Would you ask the inspector if I might have a few minutes of his time?’
‘He’s not here, sir. Went out ten minutes since. Said not to expect him back for the rest of the day.’
I felt a rush of both intense relief and unreasonable antagonism. How dare he not be here when I had spent sleepless hours rehearsing what I would say to him?
‘I need to see him urgently. Do you know where he is?’
‘No, sir, I don’t.’
I did not entirely believe him; I could almost hear Bellis giving instructions that his whereabouts should not be revealed ‘to all and sundry’.
‘It’s in connection with the case against Jonathan Eynon,’ I pressed. ‘I have new evidence.’
‘But no evidence will be needed now, sir. Eynon’s confessed.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, sir. Called for somebody to go up and see him yesterday.’
‘And what exactly has he confessed to?’
‘Manslaughter, sir.’
On the short ride up to Cardigan Gaol, worried that the warden might refuse to let me see Eynon, I considered various lines of argument. However, having been admitted on the same errand before, I was granted entry to the gaol without demur and, having exchanged tedious but necessary pleasantries with the warden, I soon found myself being escorted to the dayroom.
‘Must admit,’ my guide volunteered, ‘I didn’t think he’d confess. Not the type, if you know what I mean.’
‘He certainly didn’t seem so.’
‘But there’s always something, isn’t there?’ the warder said, apparently taking my response as evidence that I was keen to discuss Eynon’s change of heart. ‘Something that’ll push a man to do the right thing?’
My mind on my interview with Eynon, I made a sound that might as well have been dissent as agreement.
‘I think he realised the game was up when his cousin’s husband came to see him. Even a man like him wouldn’t want the blame falling on an innocent young woman.’
I stumbled as his words almost stopped me in my tracks.
His cousin’s husband.
Morgan Walters.
He must have come down from Llanddewi Brefi the previous day.
Eynon did not acknowledge me as I entered the dayroom, simply stood, motionless, in front of the window.
‘What did Morgan Walters say to you?’ I demanded as soon as the door had closed behind me. ‘It must have been something very persuasive to get you to confess to a crime you didn’t commit.’
Eynon’s stance shifted as he folded his arms, but he did not turn to face me. ‘None of your business, Coroner.’
‘It is my business. Because it was my inquest that got you arrested. But now there’s going
to be a second inquest. Because I’m not even sure there was a crime.’
Eynon had his window, so I stationed myself at the only table, a little island of furniture in the bare room. I did not sit, simply stood there as if I was at the lawyers’ table in the Old Bailey.
‘Nan and Ruth clearly had some kind of altercation with Rowland,’ I said. ‘And he fell out of the loft. It might’ve been an accident. Or they might’ve pushed him.’
Still he did not turn around. ‘Never was an altercation. Billy Walters invented all the nonsense he told you to get his sister into trouble.’
I forced a mirthless laugh. ‘That’s his father’s game, is it? He’s going to force the boy to perjure himself?’
‘Won’t come to that. There won’t be a trial. Not if I plead guilty.’
He seemed very sure of himself. ‘Who told you that?’
‘The police inspector.’
So Bellis himself had been here.
‘So.’ I pulled one of the battered chairs from under the table and sat down. ‘The constable at the police station said you’d confessed to manslaughter. How’s that then?’
Still Eynon stood with his face to the window. ‘Didn’t mean to kill him, did I?’
I waited to see if he would say anything more and he obliged. ‘Inspector said if a death happens in a fight and it couldn’t’ve been foreseen, then it’s manslaughter not murder.’
‘Hah!’ I rested my booted feet on one of the other chairs. ‘Any judge worth his salt’ll look at your record and conclude that Rowland’s death was perfectly foreseeable!’
Finally, Jonathan Eynon turned to face me. ‘Haven’t got a police record, have I?’
Was it wishful thinking on my part or was there a sliver of doubt in his voice? I smiled. ‘Not on paper, perhaps. But do you seriously think that Inspector Bellis doesn’t know why you ran away to sea? After you were arrested, he sent constables up to Llanddewi Brefi and Tregaron to ask around—’
‘Yes, about where I’d been and who’d seen me. They got nothing out of anybody.’
I leaned back in the chair so that it was standing on its back legs. ‘Come on, Shoni! You know how people are. They like to be the ones who know, don’t they? The ones who’ve got the juicy bits of gossip.’
He shook his head. ‘No. People wouldn’t tell the police. They don’t trust them.’
‘Not even the relatives of the man you half-killed?’
He knew as well as I did that where excessive violence was concerned people tended to have long memories and a limited capacity for forgiveness. ‘And don’t you think it’ll seem damned odd to the judge if you claim that Rowland fell out of the loft during a fight, when he didn’t have a mark on him other than the ones he got from falling? Where’s your evidence for this fight?’
‘Never got to lay a fist on him. Went to hit him and he dodged me.’ Eynon was definitely rattled, now. ‘Lost his balance, didn’t he? Fell.’
I swung my feet off the chair in front of me and let the front legs of the one I was sitting on hit the ground with a thud. Then I leaned forward over the table, my stare fixed determinedly in Eynon’s direction. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Even if you went there, Rowland would never have let you in, never mind let you go up into the loft.’
In two paces, Eynon was at the table, looming over me. ‘He didn’t let me in. I just opened the door and—’
I stood up suddenly, cutting him off and making him straighten up. ‘You’re telling me he left the key in the lock?’
‘No. The door was open—’
‘So you just turned the handle and in you went?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the handle turned nicely, you didn’t have to force it – you didn’t break in?’
‘No!’
Keen to avoid being charged with another crime, he had fallen right into my trap.
‘You’re a liar, Shoni Goch!’ As I spoke, I hit the table with the side of my fist and he jerked back. ‘There was no handle on that door! Just a thumb latch. And there was no key or lock, just a bar on the inside—’
‘Handle, latch, it doesn’t matter! I just got the door open and went in—’
‘Stop lying to me! Do you really expect me to believe that Nicholas Rowland just watched you come up the ladder at him? A stranger, in the dark? He’d have pushed the ladder over and you with it before you could get halfway up to him.’ The blood was racing through my veins and I glared into the whirlpool. Though it meant I could not see him, I hoped Eynon might be unnerved by my blind stare.
‘He was in bed. I surprised him—’
‘He wasn’t in bed. He had his overcoat on!’ If I could trip him up again, he might just stop lying to me.
‘It was cold, most likely went to bed in his clothes and just put his coat on when I came in—’
‘More lies!’ I slapped my palms down on the scarred table top. ‘You’ve no idea what he was wearing! Morgan Walters has let you down – he should’ve given you a better idea of the details—’
‘Says the blind man!’
I leaned over the table at him, recklessly putting my face within range of his fists. ‘Yes, says the blind man! Because the blind man has an assistant who sees and notes everything. Because that’s what inquests need. Thoroughness.’
Eynon made a sound that was half derision, half amusement.
‘Oh yes, you were so thorough you’d never heard of me before Fatty Price stood up and pissed all over your inquest! The only reason you don’t want me to confess is because you don’t want to look a fool!’
It was as if he’d thrown a bucket of dirty water over me. I straightened up, suddenly aware that I was panting slightly, my hands shaking.
Morgan Walters had been very shrewd. He might not have provided enough corroborating detail to withstand cross-examination but he had pre-empted all the arguments I might use to get Jonathan Eynon to withdraw his confession.
But second guessing was a game two could play.
‘Morgan Walters probably told you that you’d only get a few months for manslaughter,’ I said. ‘But, take it from me, the Cardiganshire Constabulary will be having a word in the judge’s ear before you’re sentenced. And, whatever he might’ve told you, Inspector Bellis had you down as a murderer before you’d even left Aberaeron.’ I let him think about that for a moment. ‘He’s going to want to see you hanged, Shoni.’
He stepped around the table and came towards me, the intensity of his stare a physical thing. Good sense told me to move, put the table between us again; pride told me to stand toe to toe with him. I did not budge.
‘I know what that teacher had Ruth and her friend doing,’ he spat. ‘You want to bring all that out, do you? Tell everybody? Make sure no decent man ever wants to marry them?’
My blindness trained on his face, I saw his feet shuffle forwards. He was no more than half a pace away from me, now.
‘This isn’t about what I’m going to do. It’s about what you’re going to do. Are you really going to hang for those girls, when this is none of your doing?’
With a bellow like a wounded bull, Eynon laid hold of the table and swung it across the room. ‘Nobody’s getting hanged!’ he yelled, as chairs crashed to the floor and the table hit the wall.
The door to the dayroom was flung open with plaster-denting force and the warder ran in. Despite the fact that my pulse was racing from Eynon’s unexpected violence, I held up a hand and the warder stopped in his tracks.
Stranded in the middle of the room, at a loss as to what I should say or do next, I just waited, heart thudding, knees trembling. Eynon seemed similarly bewildered and simply stood there, breathing heavily. Then, as if responding to an order only he had heard, he turned and dragged the table back to the middle of the room, putting a barrier between us once more.
‘Ruth needs to get out of Jeremiah’s house,’ he said, his voice trembling with suppressed violence. ‘And now she can, ’cos the
re’s money coming to them, isn’t there? Morgan said. For a school.’
I stood there, my fear of him hardly diminished by the warder’s presence, my mind sluggish.
Morgan Walters thinks he’s the boss of Llanddewi Brefi. That was what the boy, Lleu, had said on the night when the ceffyl pren had been carried to Mattie Hughes’s house. Walters was a man who knew how to make things happen, how to manipulate people so that they thought they were acting in pursuit of justice when, in fact, they were serving his purposes.
Eynon leaned over the table at me, both hands planted, palm down. ‘So, Mr Coroner, if you come to the court and try to interfere, I’ll stand there in the dock – with all the newspaper men listening – and I’ll tell the judge that you came here today and tried to bribe me to withdraw my confession.’ He leaned closer still, until I could smell his breath, feel it on my skin. ‘How long d’you think you’ll last as coroner then?’
John
I never thought I’d hear myself saying this, but thank God for Lydia Howell.
Harry’d gone off to Cardigan, confident that she’d follow his instructions and get on with the business of arranging Rowland’s reconvened inquest. Specifically, that she would write a letter to Morgan Walters asking him for the use of the Three Horseshoes on Friday at midday; a letter to Simi Jones giving him instructions about finding a jury and producing them at the specified time and place; and a letter to Miss Gwatkyn asking her to put up with Nan and Ruth for a bit longer and then, if she’d be so good, to put us up at Alltybela when we came up for the inquest.