James frowned. He always did if I made even the slightest, most oblique reference to the days of my first engagement. I think he sensed that I still remembered Ralph with tenderness. For this very reason, I sometimes made casual references to those former days, hoping that because they were casual, they would reassure him. I wanted him to think that they were just a part of my life that I still remembered, but not with any special feelings. If I kept it up for long enough, I hoped this would actually happen. His knotted brow at this moment suggested that so far, it hadn’t. I pretended not to notice.
Mr Silcox hadn’t noticed, either. He went cheerfully on. ‘Edmund does indeed have a sister called Harriet. She teaches at a little school in Minehead. It was she who interested Edmund in education and now he particularly wants to bring it to the children of the outlying areas, such as up here on the moors – just as I have been trying to do for most of my life. Edmund Baker is leaving his post at St Michael’s and is joining me next month. I think he’ll be a good teacher – he’s a patient fellow and very well informed. And I’m doing my best to see that he has a class of a worthwhile size to teach. Now, when I saw you last, James, you said you were interested in sending me your children?’
James said yes, and I began to talk of my son’s good health and rapidly developing intelligence. James agreed, though he said that he hoped the school would concentrate on common-sense subjects and not go off into that there Latin and a lot of silly talk about folk like that Romeo and Juliet, who wrecked their lives for the sake of what they called love. ‘I mind on your telling us about they things and it was all mighty interesting, but it’s not much use on a farm. Hope I don’t give offence.’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Silcox. ‘But even if you don’t have a use for such things, you know them, don’t you? I told you about them. And there they are, stuck in your head and something to think about when you’ve nothing else on your mind! Once you know something, you can’t stop knowing it. Doesn’t mean you have to imitate it. No harm in pondering on how other folk lived in other times. Knowledge can be a kind of amusement. Never mind. Now, my other bit of news, that I couldn’t tell you yesterday, James, as I didn’t know it then myself. It’s about the Cutlers – the parents of that poor girl Maisie who was found in that bog on Codsend all those years ago. Remember?’
‘Not the sort of thing most folk would forget,’ said James. I was silent. I wouldn’t forget, either. If Maisie hadn’t been murdered, I would not be here now. I would be with Ralph. Ralph. Ralph.
‘I’ve always been friendly with the Cutlers,’ Mr Silcox said. ‘I go to see them now and then and yesterday, after I saw you in Exford and I’d gone home, James, they came to see me. Fact is, after all these years, Ernie Cutler still asks my opinions on things, as he did when he was a young man, just out of my schoolroom. I remember he asked me, when he was courting Lilian Summers, that’s Mrs Cutler now, if I thought he was marrying too early. He was twenty, then. Well, he had a good job working in the grounds of the castle, so that he could look after her and that being so, I said the rest was up to him. Anyway, yesterday, only half an hour after I left you, Ernie and Lilian were at my door. They’d borrowed a horse – courtesy of the Luttrells and their head groom – and come twelve miles up the Avill valley to talk to me, riding double. You’ll never guess what’s happened.’
No, we couldn’t. We waited for him to tell us.
‘It seems,’ said Mr Silcox, ‘that two weeks back, they woke up in the morning and opened their front door and found a package on the step. It was heavy, Ernie said. They opened it, and there was five hundred pounds inside, in high value coins. There was no letter with it, no sign where it came from. But there it was. Five hundred pounds.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said, bewildered. ‘Why should anyone …?’
‘Maisie,’ said James, sharper than I was. ‘That’s what you mean, don’t ’ee, Mr Silcox? Blood money, from her murderer.’
I sat up straighter in my chair. ‘Then it couldn’t have been Philip! He’s abroad.’
‘You can’t know that for sure!’ said James rather snappily.
Mr Silcox shook his head. ‘Come, James. The whole of Minehead knows that the Duggan boys are both in Antigua. The Cutlers know – they said as much to me. Peggy has it right. Whoever presented the Cutlers with that money, it wasn’t the Duggan sons.’
‘Josiah could have put that money on the Cutlers’ doorstep, trying to clear Philip’s name,’ said James. ‘I wouldn’t put that past him.’
Mr Silcox laughed. ‘The Cutlers talked to me of that, as well. The first thing they did was go to the village constable and tell him, and the upshot was that there’s been an enquiry, with the magistrates looking into it. Someone did suggest Josiah had done it. But I gather that Josiah was at the enquiry and nearly blew the top of his head off, he was so angry. Said he’d always known his son was innocent and the boy was doing well where he was and he – Josiah, I mean – would be a fool to stir all that old business up now, when folk were starting to forget it and he didn’t have five hundred pounds to throw about, either, not with trade the way it was. Free trade, I assume he meant. The boatbuilding side is healthy enough. We need shipping to guard our shores from Napoleon.’
‘So what happened in the end?’ James said.
‘The finger ought to point at Laurence Wheelwright,’ Mr Silcox said. ‘He’s got money now – he went away for a while and the Lord only knows what he’s been up to, but he’s come back to Minehead, saying he’d had a second legacy last year, from his father, who had a saving disposition, according to Laurence. Both his parents are dead now. He’s taken the lease of a shop in Minehead and turned himself into a ship’s chandler. You know – ropes, paint, sailcloth, lanterns, all the rest of it, bar masts. They’re the Duggans’ province and Josiah wouldn’t want Laurence Wheelwright, of all people, trespassing on his ground. Laurence has had the good sense not to. He could have afforded that five hundred, easily. Only Daniel Hopton holds to his story that Joseph never left the barn roof that afternoon. I wonder about that, you know.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
Mr Silcox frowned uneasily. ‘It’s maybe not fair to speculate. Anyway, if it was Laurence, he’s at least paid for his crime in a sense! But I have wondered if he might have a hold of some sort over Daniel. You see, where they were, wasn’t so far from where Maisie worked, only a quarter of a mile or so. Laurence wouldn’t have had to be away from the barn for very long if he wanted to accost her as she set out to see her parents. They could have quarrelled and … well, you can imagine. He had far more chance of seeing her than Philip had.’
‘But he couldn’t have got her all the way to Codsend,’ I protested. ‘And in daylight, too!’
‘Who said anything about daylight?’ said James. ‘There’s a nice patch of woodland near the Avill smallholding, with a good tangled thicket in it. He could have left the body there and fetched it away to Codsend during the night. Wasn’t that talked about at the time? He’d only have to slip out quietly. Where did he sleep?’
‘He was a foreman,’ said Mr Silcox. ‘All this was said at Maisie’s inquest. He slept over the stables like the other hands but he’d fixed himself a bit of privacy and because he was foreman, no one said anything. He’d screened off a little place at one end of the stable loft. He could have come and gone pretty freely and no one the wiser.’
‘What came out of the enquiry?’ James asked.
‘It seems it was agreed in the end that it was most unlikely that Josiah was responsible for the money,’ said Mr Silcox. ‘That’s what the Cutlers told me. Philip’s apparently safe and well and happy where he is. I dare say Josiah would like it if the boy’s name were cleared, but to fling away five hundred pounds! As one of the magistrates apparently said, it makes no sense. No. It was reckoned that whether it was Laurence or some other of Maisie’s lovers – she was flirtatious and maybe she was seeing a lad or two, that no one knows about – this was conscience money from the murde
rer himself. Five hundred pounds! You’d need a very powerful reason for handing over an amount that size!’
‘And then?’ James persisted.
‘Well, the final outcome was that from now on, the matter’s closed. Maisie’s murderer, whoever he is, clearly has a conscience; let him carry his guilt as a burden to the grave and let her parents have money to comfort their old age, even if they don’t have Maisie. Odd how these ancient customs reappear,’ said Mr Silcox peacefully, blowing more smoke rings.
‘And what old customs would those be?’ James enquired.
‘Oh, back before the Norman Conquest,’ said Mr Silcox, ‘the Anglo-Saxons didn’t execute murderers; they fined them. The fines varied according to the status of the victim and whether it was a man or a woman. They were called Weregild – it meant Man’s Gold. Or Man’s Value; you could translate it that way. Murderers had to compensate the victim’s dependants. That’s a law that’s long gone, yet here it is, reappearing a thousand or so years later, as if some old instinct’s been awoken. Interesting.’
‘I call it outrageous,’ said James.
I looked at him, startled by the hard tone of his voice, and saw that his eyes were as cold and as hard as blue marbles. They looked like that when he was very angry.
‘This is 1806,’ said James fiercely. ‘It’s not the days before that old Conquest. From all I’ve heard about Josiah Duggan, I shouldn’t think that money came from him, any more than anyone else does, but Laurence Wheelwright’s another matter. He’s been let off, to my mind. I reckon that Daniel Hopton ought to be had up and questioned hard about what really happened that afternoon. Hammer the questions home hard enough and long enough and maybe he’d have a different tale to tell!’
I had lived with James long enough to know that and I knew he had a harsh side, but it had not shown itself with this much force before. It made me uncomfortable.
He said now: ‘Did the Cutlers come all the way from Dunster on a borrowed horse just to tell ’ee all this?’
‘No,’ said Mr Silcox. ‘They wanted advice. They’d been told they could keep the money but they wanted to know my opinion about that. They weren’t sure if they should, not knowing where it came from, and considering the likely reason for it. Ernie said it felt as if they’d sold their daughter. I thought they should rather have gone to their own vicar, at St George’s, there in Dunster but they said no, they’d always thought my advice was good and here they were, in need of it and please would I advise them.’
‘And did you?’ James enquired.
‘Yes, I did. I told them to keep the money. Giving it away for some charitable purpose might be a pretty gesture, but it wouldn’t bring Maisie back and they’re not wealthy folk. Ernie won’t be able to work in the castle grounds for ever; he’s got a bad back now. They will be rich now and safe from poverty in their old age. Maisie was their only one, you know. Lilian’s grieved over that, but that’s the way it is, sometimes. So they’ve no young people to help them in their old age.’
James remarked: ‘Well, Philip Duggan’s clear, by the sound of it. I fancy you’re right about that.’
I was careful to show no emotion. Presently, I withdrew to the kitchen. Dinner would be ready soon.
I kept my face calm but my mind was in turmoil like the sea in a gale. Philip was innocent. That seemed proved, now. If it had been proved at once, at the time, yes, I would now be married to Ralph. We had been robbed.
It was confusing because of course, if we had married, neither William nor Rose would exist and that was an awful thought. I could hardly imagine a world without them. But I supposed there would have been other children, just as dear. Children that I was without, would never know … it was too muddling. I couldn’t go on thinking along those lines. I could only think of Ralph, and what we might have had and could never have now.
It was like a ravine opening up at my feet. I did not dare look into it, for fear of falling.
Return of the Past
Our ponies, aged though they were, were as yet not showing their years. In May, James went to Minehead in search of a new and better plough, taking our two-pony wagon to fetch it home in. He came back not only with the plough but with news.
‘Josiah Duggan is dead,’ he said, as he came into the kitchen and sat down.
‘Mr Duggan?’ I was surprised. Josiah had always seemed to me to be full of health and vitality. ‘What … what happened?’
‘Keen for news of ’un, are ’ee?’ There it was again, that jealous edge that James always showed when the Duggans were mentioned, in any context.
Mildly, I said: ‘Well, he was once a friend of my family. What happened?’
‘He didn’t drown, or get himself hanged,’ said James, a remark that was so surprising that I couldn’t stop myself from saying: ‘Smuggling isn’t a hanging offence now even if it still went on!’
‘I allus reckoned it ought to be,’ said James. ‘Not much better than wrecking, in my view.’
‘Wrecking?’ I said. ‘What’s that? I’ve not heard the word before.’
‘Something that wicked folk get up on parts of the Cornwall coast,’ James informed me. ‘Leading ships astray. Showing lights, as if they’re lights of another ship ahead, so as to draw vessels on to the rocks. Then in the wreckers go, kill anyone as hasn’t been drowned in the wreck, and grab the cargo.’
‘I’m sure the Duggans never did that!’ I said, appalled.
‘Maybe, maybe not, but b’ain’t the line just a bit fine, between bringin’ in contraband and maybe fightin’ Revenue men – there’s always the chance someone’ll get killed – and outright murder? Still, Josiah Duggan died in his bed, decently enough. Stricken with an apoplexy in his own parlour, carried to his bed, died next day. That’s the word in Minehead. It’s said that his missus has sent abroad for her sons to come home.’
‘Well, naturally,’ I said.
That, of course, was the reason for James’ sharp tone. He didn’t like the idea of Ralph coming back to England. As for me, I was once more standing on the edge of a ravine, into which I dared not look.
I didn’t usually go to the October fair at Bampton. It was on the far side of the moor and a long way from Foxwell. In the main, it was a pony fair. The ponies were driven off the moor and the foals were looked at, branded if they were to go back on to the moor; otherwise, sold for use when grown in harness or for riding. Someone from Foxwell always went, though. We had foals of our own to sell and such things as new tools, seed, poultry and much else were for sale there. This time, I had several purchases in mind, and also we were going to choose the foals we wanted to keep and buy a pair of mature ponies. That would be interesting. In the October of 1806, I asked to accompany James.
He and Fred had taken part in the annual pony roundup and Fred, with Reggie, another of our farmhands, had taken them on to Bampton in advance and would stay there with them until the fair. The rounding-up was a major business involving the whole moor and covering a couple of days. While it was in progress, I had caught distant sounds and glimpses of galloping ponies, manes and tails wildly flying, tearing along the crest of the hill above us.
We didn’t take the children. Mattie Webster was willing to look after them for us, so we left them with her, and set off the day before the fair, riding our elderly but still hardy Clover and Spots and taking our time, planning to spend two nights at a Bampton inn.
It was a beautiful day. Clear, cool sunshine came and went between the high and harmless clouds that a steady south-west wind was blowing across the sky. The cloud shadows flowed across the moorland hills and valleys, and made the land look as though it were moving, like the sea in a swell. A kestrel hovered for a while overhead, almost as though we were its intended prey, but then swooped, lethal as an unsheathed sword and yet with the same fierce beauty, towards some luckless vole or mouse somewhere away to our right, and all the time, like a twinkling in the sky, there were skylarks.
I enjoyed that journey. I was happy that day.
It was neither too hot nor too cold and there were no flies. In summer, flies are the curse of Exmoor, especially where there’s bracken. We stopped in the town of Dulverton, in the middle of the moor, for a midday dinner and came down into Bampton comfortably before suppertime, to find the place already humming, for the animals to be sold were already there, foals separated now from their dams. The air was full of frightened whinnying, the pens full of tossing manes and white-ringed eyes, the air smelling of horses and dust.
James had written to arrange a room for us at an inn, and the room was duly ready. We took supper, slept well, breakfasted heartily and went out next day into the uproar of a fair already well under way, raucous with the shouts of stallholders, and that persistent whinnying. Fred and Reggie, who had found themselves a room in another inn, met us by the pen where our own foals were.
I felt sorry for the ponies. The separated mares and foals cried for each other, rearing at the fences that enclosed them. The foals that were to be returned to the moor were being branded and this was not pretty to watch, although the foals on the whole seemed more furious than hurt, biting and kicking their human assailants whenever they got the chance. But I didn’t like to see it and as Fred and Reggie were watching over our ponies, James, to please me, said we could shop at the stalls until the selling began. I wanted a new winter shawl and some knitting wool and James required a hat, while the stalls selling tools of various kinds drew James as magnets draw iron. We roamed about for some time before we went to inspect possible equine purchases.
When we returned to the pens, James immediately caught sight of a likely animal. ‘Look at that one, Peggy, that mare colt over there. What a beauty!’
The foal in question was indeed striking, because for one thing, although she had the pale, mealy nose of the Exmoor pony, her head was not quite the right shape and she was bright chestnut with white socks, a colouring never seen in true-bred Exmoor ponies.
‘Not pure Exmoor,’ James was saying. ‘She’d never stand a winter on the moor, but with us, she’d have a nice warm stable.’
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