None So Blind

by Alis Hawkins

  But what message had I been intended to take from my involvement? My presence, along with my father’s carriage and pair, had, without doubt, served Rebecca’s purpose and made Howell’s message to Williams plain – those whose acceptance you crave see you for what you are and hold you to account just as much as those whom you consider beneath you.

  And yet, had I not been given a warning, too? Though every man gathered outside Treforgan had been in women’s garb, did my being required to appear ‘arrayed in every particular as a lady’ not set me apart, set me up for ridicule, just as much as my confinement in my father’s carriage had done? You are not one of us and you never can be.

  I had been used by Howell. Cleverly used.

  You must go and see her and make amends.

  There and then, I had decided that I would go nowhere near Margaret Jones.

  I was not Nathaniel Howell’s to command.

  John

  Harry leaned forward and banged his forehead on the scruffy table. Just once. ‘Are we ever going to get anybody to speak plainly to us?’

  We were back in The Lamb and – thank God – he’d accepted Nelly James’s offer of something to eat with our beer. It was well into the afternoon and I could hardly think for the growling in my belly. There wasn’t any hot food – The Lamb wasn’t an inn, only a public house – but Nelly knew better than to let one of the gentry go hungry on her premises.

  I looked at him, sitting there with his head on the boards. It was all very well him going on about nobody speaking plainly to us but I’d’ve welcomed a bit of plain speaking from him. First he’d gone out of his way to lie to me about how he knew Ezra Lloyd’d been Howell’s Charlotte, and then he’d reacted like a bar-room brawler when he thought Lloyd’d spoken out of turn.

  If I hadn’t grabbed his arm, he’d’ve hit Ezra Lloyd. I’d felt the blow coming as if he’d aimed it at me.

  He sat up and sighed. I wondered if the question going round in my head was still nagging at him, too.

  What did Ezra Lloyd know about Margaret Jones and her innocence or otherwise?

  But I had another question as well. One Harry wouldn’t be asking.

  Who was David Thomas?

  Harry put his elbows on the table and looked down at it so he could see me – sort of – over the top of his blind blur. I had to lean forward to hear him when he spoke. There was a conversation going on not three yards from us and you’d’ve thought that the men having it’d taken a vow to be heard in the street outside.

  ‘Why did you ask Ezra Lloyd whether Howell ever took his men out on ordinary Beca outings?’ he asked me.

  I glanced towards the back of the room. Nelly was standing there but I didn’t think she’d hear us over the loudmouths. ‘Because if the Reverend Howell was a proper Rebecca, he’d’ve been less likely to make enemies. But if he was using the name for his own ends…’

  ‘Some people might not have taken kindly to that.’

  ‘Exactly.’ I watched his face. ‘Was the Reverend Howell a man who had enemies?’

  ‘He was a great boy for all men being equal in the sight of God.’

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Probert-Lloyd?’

  ‘Harry,’ he said. ‘You called me Harry when you were trying to stop me laying hands on Ezra Lloyd.’

  I felt myself going hot. ‘I’m sorry. I just thought—’

  ‘Don’t apologise! It did the trick and stopped me. And anyway, I should have asked you to call me Harry before this.’ He sounded serious, as if he’d given it some thought.

  ‘Thank you. Harry.’

  His smile was sad. One of those you give a child who’s parroted something serious that he doesn’t understand. ‘It shouldn’t be a matter for thanks.’

  ‘You’re a gentleman.’

  ‘I’m a man. And you’re a man – or very nearly so, anyway. How old are you, actually?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘Not far off, then. Right. When we’re just the two of us, we shall be Harry and John. When we’re out and about, I shall leave it to you how you address me.’

  I couldn’t fathom him. One minute his lips were locked and he was leaving me guessing, the next he was treating me like a trusted friend. But if he didn’t want to stand on his dignity, why was he trying to keep Margaret Jones a secret from me? What else wasn’t he telling me?

  ‘What you just asked,’ he suddenly said, ‘about whether Howell had enemies?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ezra Lloyd said something about there always being opposition to those who challenge sin.’

  ‘Just one of those pious things people say, isn’t it?’

  ‘But what if it wasn’t? What if there was actual oppositionto Howell’s crusade? Not just grumbling – men prepared to deal with young women in a very different way? Teach one of them a lesson so the rest didn’t come to Howell for help, for instance.’

  I looked at him. ‘You think it might’ve been Margaret Jones they tried to teach the lesson to – and it went too far and they killed her?’

  I had to say they, didn’t I? So as not to give away what I knew. But it wasn’t a gang that had killed Margaret Jones. Just one man. Was he the one who’d got the short straw?

  ‘But why would that have made Nathaniel Howell leave?’ Harry asked. ‘D’you think he felt responsible – felt that he should’ve seen how things would turn out?’ He thought again. ‘That is, of course, if he did go to Ipswich. If he’s still alive.’

  Just then Nelly brought us a plate of cheese, bread and cold meat. After she’d left us to it, I asked, ‘Do you think William Williams really asked you to stop investigating just because he’s finding it socially awkward?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘I can’t see Williams as a killer.’

  I cut some cheese. ‘No, but d’you think he might’ve had something to do with it?’ Just then a huge laugh came from the men behind us and I was reminded to keep my voice down. God alone knew who was listening and who they were telling.

  Harry’d stopped eating and was just staring at nothing. Thinking about what I’d said. ‘He might have wanted to get back at Howell, I suppose, after he was forced to take Samuel in. Especially if he knew Esme’d been plotting with Howell to have the child brought to Waungilfach.’

  ‘Didn’t dare take it out on her so he went for Howell instead?’

  Harry nodded, chewing. ‘Yes. I don’t think Mrs Williams would stand for much from her husband.’

  Common gossip agreed with him but there was more to it, as well. ‘It’s not just that. There’s talk that it’s only her money – which is to say, her father’s money – that’s keeping Waungilfach from bankruptcy.’ That was news to Harry, I could see it in his face.

  ‘Having Samuel brought to his door was the second time Williams had been humiliated by Howell,’ he said, slowly, as if he was changing his mind about something.

  I cut a lump of cold beef into small pieces and waited.

  ‘Before Beca started –’ he said, ‘the summer before – Howell brought the ceffyl pren to Waungilfach. He told Williams that if he didn’t mend his ways, he’d make him ride it up Newcastle Emlyn high street. William Williams had more reason than most to hate Nathaniel Howell.’

  I took a swig of my beer. ‘Brought’ the ceffyl pren he’d said, not ‘took’. So. He’d been at Waungilfach when the ceffyl pren came. He’d been with Margaret Jones at night. A scandal, like Mr Schofield had said.

  ‘There’s somebody we haven’t thought of in connection with the murder,’ I said, my heart jumping against my ribs as if it was trying to attract my attention and shut me up.

  ‘Who?’

  My heart was loud, now. Be quiet! But Harry was keeping things from me. If I was going to steer him to the truth, I needed to know what he was hiding so it didn’t trip me up. ‘The father of Margaret’s child,’ I said.

  His brows came down and I felt a sudden fear. But the words he’d written in the notebook were sti
ll fresh in my mind. I betrayed Margaret Jones. There had to be a good chance that he was the father of her child. And that would explain why he hadn’t given evidence at the inquest. Old George Probert-Lloyd would’ve had a fit at the thought of that coming out.

  Harry owed me now, for not letting him hit Ezra Lloyd. So I pushed it. ‘Somebody must’ve known who the father was,’ I said. ‘At the inquest, Rachel Ellis said she didn’t but I’m pretty sure she was lying about that. Out of fear.’ Rachel Ellis had definitely been afraid of something up there in front of Coroner Bowen.

  Harry chewed his lip. ‘It comes back to William Williams then. Williams was known to take advantage of his female servants so if he was the father Rachel might’ve been afraid to say so.’ He bit off a chunk of bread and chewed for a bit. ‘I think it’d be worth paying her a visit. Do you know where she and her husband live?’

  ‘I can find out. Dai Penlan – the one who gave testimony at the inquest – drinks at the Drovers’. He’s worked for Williams for years – he’d know. I could go and see if he’s there tonight, if you like.’

  ‘Yes. Do that. Thank you.’

  Perfect. I’d planned to be in the Drovers’ that night, anyway. I wanted to see if I could get some of my other questions answered.

  Harry

  John had not managed to find out who Stephen Parry’s maid was so, as we were barely a hundred yards from the stationer’s on leaving The Lamb, I decided that we should try and speak to her directly.

  Parry’s premises, however, proved to be locked up and his neighbour, emerging in response to our persistent knocking, told us that one of the Parry children was sick.

  ‘Taken her to his mother-in-law’s, he has, to be looked after.’

  ‘What about his maid?’ John asked. ‘Is she still here?’

  ‘No,’ the woman said scornfully. ‘He wouldn’t trust her here by herself. Sent her home, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Where do her parents live?’ I asked.

  ‘The Morgans? Up on Moelfryn.’

  John was already wincing from saddle soreness so I decided against the ride. Time enough to speak to the girl later, if it proved necessary. As there was little we could do until we had found out where Rachel Ellis lived, I felt it would be politic to send John back to Charles Schofield for a few hours so that both he and I stayed in his employer’s good graces.

  Once we had parted, I walked into the Salutation, intent on arranging for my laundry to be done, only to hear a polite greeting as I stepped into the hallway. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Probert-Lloyd, sir.’

  I looked around and was able to see the figure of a man near the door. I had the impression that he had recently stood up, as if he had been sitting, waiting for me.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I said, keeping my tone neutral, hoping that he would give me some clue as to who he was.

  ‘It’s Twm, sir, from the stables. At Glanteifi.’

  Was he just assuming that a gentleman recently come from London would not make the effort to learn one servant from another, or had my father warned him that my sight was failing and I might not recognise him?

  I was suddenly sick of having to guess what people thought.

  ‘I’m sorry, Twm.’ I spoke in Welsh, though he had used English. ‘I’m going blind, you see, and I didn’t recognise you.’ His answering silence was understandable; what was the proper form when the man who would one day be your master announced such a thing? ‘You were waiting for me, were you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Your father sends his compliments and asks if you could spare him an hour of your time.’

  Dusk was turning swiftly to dark as I trotted up the drive at Glanteifi on the horse Twm had brought for me, and I wondered how I would get back to the Salutation later. But, perhaps, what my father wished to tell me was that he had relented and I was free to come home?

  Leaving the horse with one of the grooms, I made for the back door and poked my head in to the early lamplight of the north-facing kitchen and scullery.

  ‘Is Mrs Griffiths in?’

  Now that Twm knew of my blindness it would be common knowledge amongst the servants five minutes after his return and I wanted to tell our housekeeper myself. I knew I could count on her to deliver both the news, and my request that none of the servants should treat me any differently, with infinitely more discretion than Moyle would.

  Isabel Griffiths had been housekeeper at Glanteifi since before I could remember and she stood like a symbol of constancy behind every childhood memory I had of the servants’ quarters. At the back of the house, she was queen and her determination to run her realm as she saw fit had never wavered before any behaviour of mine; she had administered reprimands with as liberal a hand as she had slices of bread and butter. I had absolute faith in both her judgement and her affection for me.

  So, having explained my loss of sight, I was not in the least surprised when, instead of offering futile sympathy, she asked a sensible question.

  ‘Is that why you’ve employed that young man from the solicitor’s office?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hah! I told them it wasn’t because you didn’t know people here anymore. I told them, just because he’s been making his fortune in London doesn’t mean Harry Probert-Lloyd isn’t one of us. He is.’ I smiled at her unashamed partisanship. ‘Mr Moyle won’t like it – me knowing before him.’

  ‘You’d better make sure you tell him, before he has to hear it from Twm or one of the others. But he wouldn’t expect to hear it from me, in all honesty. There’s never been any love lost between us.’

  ‘Yes. Now why is that?’

  I suppressed a grin. The question – and her refusal to beat about the bush – was typical; Isabel Griffiths had always wanted to know the whys and wherefores of things. I could see the exact look she would have on her round face: eyes narrowed in a wrinkled frown that said she had yet to understand something she felt she should already know, top teeth drawing in her bottom lip as if she could squeeze the answer out of it.

  ‘He disapproves of me,’ I said, baldly.

  ‘It’s not for him to disapprove of you – or to approve for that matter – you’re the heir to the estate.’

  I noticed that, honest to a fault, she did not say there was nothing to disapprove of. ‘Moyle is loyal to my father,’ I said, ‘which does him credit.’

  I knew Isabel Griffiths would be pursing her lips at that. It was time I made my way to my father’s study but, as I began to make my apologies, she spoke again.

  ‘Has anybody told you that Mari Thomas is dying?’

  I felt a shock go through me, as much at the name as at the news. ‘Dying? How long has she been ill?’

  ‘Some time.’ I almost heard Mrs Griffiths’s mouth clap shut on that piece of news.

  ‘Why didn’t anybody tell me?’

  Mrs Griffiths did not answer me, and, in the silence, I was aware of an ember shifting in the grate. Things were changing at Glanteifi. Time was passing here just as it had in London, and it was taking the people who had filled my childhood with it. The bed in the corner of Isabel Griffiths’s room was new. Either we had more maids than previously or she had decided that she no longer wished to leave the warmth of her little sitting room of an evening and climb two flights of stairs to an unwelcoming bed. The thought that Mrs Griffiths might be getting old struck a chill into me.

  ‘You and Mari didn’t part on the friendliest terms,’ she said, finally. ‘Blamed you, didn’t she? For Davy. For being left with no son to care for her in her old age.’

  I sighed. Yes, that would be like Mari Thomas, however unjust. ‘I should go and see her. Whatever has come between us, I’ll always owe her my life.’

  My father had asked for an early dinner for the two of us, but it soon became clear that this was not on account of the volume of things he had to say to me; candles lit across the width of the long dining room table, we ate in virtual silence. ‘I would rather not impair either of our digestions if you don’t mind,’ he had sa
id when I attempted to find out why I had been summoned. ‘Let’s do justice to this first, shall we?’

  I do not know whether my father was able to savour his food but, for myself, I tasted very little. Apart from being unable to examine what I was eating and, therefore, ending up several times with a mouth considerably fuller of mutton fat than I would have liked, it was unnerving to imagine my father watching me and asking himself why he had not noticed the strange way in which I held my head while I ate, the way I seemed to look away from my wine glass before I picked it up. How, I imagined him asking himself, could I not have realised that the boy was having trouble seeing?

  ‘The worst thing,’ I found myself saying into the silence, ‘when eating anyway – is that it’s almost impossible to clean one’s plate properly. I always feel like some churl who doesn’t know any better, leaving my plate in an unseemly mess.’

  Listen to yourself burbling, I thought. Is this what you and he are reduced to – table etiquette? It was not as if what I had said was even strictly true; though mildly discomfiting, a failure to arrange one’s plate neatly was nothing compared to being unable to bone a fish. What on earth would stop me telling him that?