‘Is it safe?’ I insisted. ‘I pity the men from the bottom of my heart, but I may not pre-empt their trial and punishment, no matter how I might deplore it.’ I turned my eyes to the two sufferers, dropping my voiced as I asked, ‘Do you have anything in your pharmacopeia that might ease their suffering?’
‘Only laudanum. And we would have to administer a very high dose for it to be efficacious. In a healthy man, it would do no harm; but these are not healthy men.’
Somehow I asked, ‘You mean it might end their sufferings altogether?’
Keyte nodded. ‘Indeed. There is a hair’s breadth between a merciful dose and a lethal one. I am sure that neither Dr Toone nor I would hesitate to administer a draught were either man simply lying in his own bed. But here—’ shrugging, he spread his hands expressively. His next words came out with a rush. ‘In front of witnesses, I dare not, lest I be accused of perverting the course of justice.’
‘And I dare not, for the sake of Dr Campion’s conscience.’ Toone clapped me on the shoulder in an affectionate gesture.
Shaken from the reverie Ethan’s words had induced, I dropped the bottle of cordial.
The gaoler grumbled twice over – at having to clear up the glass and missing his projected treat: he had even brought a tankard to the cell. But Keyte produced a hip flask of good brandy, and poured it all into the tankard. The delicious fumes filled the cell. To my astonishment, the gaoler turned to Toone. ‘I might spare a drop for they two there?’
It was but a drop in each tankard, but I blessed him for his kindness.
‘I will be staying at the Green Dragon for the trial,’ I said, ‘so I will see you again. Thank you a hundred times, my man.’ I dug in my breeches for half a guinea, but found only a whole one. I pressed it nonetheless into his hand – I would not do his job for a thousand times more.
It was too late for Keyte to dine with us when we left our patients, but I invited him to do so when I attended the trial. He undertook to visit the gaol regularly to see how his patients did. I promised to pay his fee.
We parted well pleased with each other. Of Ethan’s words I said nothing; surely they had to be regarded as his final confession, and were to be shared with no one. But clearly some sort of justice was being done.
Of Betty and Martha there was no sign when I returned the next afternoon to Clavercote to apologise for the loss of the soup. My enquiries elicited a slight hesitation before any of those I questioned responded – usually with a vague gesture that they were somewhere over yonder. I had thought that my efforts on the villagers’ behalf had earned me a greater degree of trust, indeed warmth, but today, despite occasional bursts of sun, there was a decided chill in the air. Some of it was attributable to the continued struggle for life of Adam Blacksmith, who had been injured trying to save others during what the villagers all called the Big Storm. Little groups would congregate near the forge, hoping for news. I joined them, even knocking to gain admittance so I could pray with him. Of all those in the village he seemed least keen to be reconciled with me, however; his daughter, a new baby in her arms, hung her head as she begged me to go.
But Lawton and Boddice seemed to make a point of shaking my hand and wishing me good day. By now I was totally confused, and very glad to make my excuses: I had an early evening confirmation class to teach.
Since Mrs Trent was still devoting so much of her time to the villagers of Clavercote, I naturally turned to Langley Park for dinner, to be greeted by three very serious faces.
‘And yet I do believe I should quietly rejoice,’ said Toone, shaking my hand in greeting. ‘Ethan has died, relatively peacefully, according to Keyte. He fell into a deep slumber soon after we left, the gaoler told him, and never awoke. I am glad he was spared a trial, gladder still that he did not swing.’
‘I have to ask: does any suspicion attend his death?’
‘Lord, no. If there were, Hansard would go on oath that the man was not expected to live so long. As for poor Josiah, it would be a mercy if he had left us in just such an easy way, but it is to be hoped that the judge will allow natural causes to take their course. Damnation, we would not let a dog or a horse suffer thus – why a human being? And do not tell me it is God’s Will, Tobias, or I swear I will knock your head off.’
Burdened with words uttered under what I believed was the seal of the confessional, I could only speak the simple truth. ‘I know nothing of God’s Will. Does anyone? And I grieve as much as you at the imprisonment of a dying imbecile. There are those who praise those who endure suffering with patience and joy at the prospect of the life hereafter, but Josiah has very little concept of this life, and none, I fear, of the next.’
Toone shook my hand. ‘Forgive me. My tongue ran away with me. Dear God, Edmund, I could use some of your excellent sherry …’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Did the trial judge share the doubts and reservations we friends had expressed? Who knew? But, in the course of the two minutes that Josiah, who had had to be carried into the dock, stood – or rather slumped – before him, he ascertained that he could not understand the charges and therefore could not plead. He recommended his immediate removal to the nearest asylum to live out the rest of his days.
I did not know whether to mourn or rejoice. Neither, I think, did my medical friends, nor Mr Lawton or Mr Boddice.
‘I have bespoken a private parlour, gentlemen, at the Green Dragon. I believe we should adjourn there, to hear a few explanations. Squire Lawton, Mr Boddice – you are particularly invited.’
The pair eyed each other, like village lads caught scrumping. But since no one else refused my invitation, they could scarcely do so without appearing rude.
Lawton downed his first glass of wine as if he was a harvester slaking his considerable thirst with small beer. I was happy to indulge him, but though I wanted him loquacious I did not want him strident and argumentative.
Boddice was more interested in the nuncheon the landlord had thought to provide.
The rest of us, including Keyte, sipped and ate more circumspectly.
‘Squire – Mr Boddice: you have been implicated in this from the start, have you not? You organised the murder of Mr Coates, had him, not inappropriately, hung from a tree in a vile parody of the crucifixion, tried, as I asked questions, to have me killed and then – for what reason I know not – decided to co-operate with me. What say you? The most senior laymen in Clavercote, plotting and taking life! I am ashamed. The archdeacon will know of all this as soon as I have your confessions.’
Lawton shook his head, laughing grimly. ‘It wasn’t quite like that, Parson. In fact, though you may not credit it, we saved your life.’
‘Of course you did,’ I agreed sarcastically. ‘It was you who placed Dan where he might save me from a throttling. I’m sure he will be glad to hear it. He is making excellent progress, but not for anything will I divulge where he is staying.’
‘You were right to fear for his life, Parson,’ Boddice chipped in. ‘But not at our hands, I warrant you. That attack had nothing to do with us.’
‘Nor the lynching? I am to believe it was you who saved me from the mob, not Mrs Trent? I tell you straight, gentlemen, I do not.’
‘She beat us to it. Believe it or not, ’tis true. We’d not have let you come to any harm, sir.’
‘Nor did you burgle my home and half those in Moreton St Jude’s, I suppose.’
Lawton looked outraged. ‘No. Indeed we did not. And we don’t know who was behind it, neither.’
‘And no one tried to kill my friend’s dog as a warning?’
‘Kill a dog? What are you talking about? This is the first I’ve ever heard of it.’
‘Suppose,’ I said icily, ‘you tell me and my colleagues something we can believe. The moon is made of green cheese, perhaps.’
Lawton finished his second glass. ‘Do you have your Bible handy, Parson? Because I will swear on it that what I have to tell you is true, though there are folk who will deny every word o
f it.’
I rang for the waiter. We needed another bottle. No one spoke until Lawton had sipped deeply. Then he continued, ‘There is a rumour that one of the gentry – a neighbour of yours, Dr Hansard, worships the Devil and such. I know nothing of that, but I do know that there was a far worse man in our village – the Devil himself. Not just any man – a man of God.’
‘Coates? Good God!’ I let my anger spill on to the speaker. ‘You knew, and did nothing?’
‘It wasn’t quite like that, Parson,’ Lawton repeated, with surprising calm and firmness, laying a restraining hand on his fellow warden’s arm.
‘Exactly how was it, then?’ I demanded.
Hansard insisted on accompanying me to the archdeacon’s residence, pointing out phlegmatically that there was little point in breaking my neck putting Titus at too high a fence, which my seething anger might well lead me to do. Grudgingly admitting that a witness to my proposed conversation would be useful, I agreed. We set out at a spanking – but not dangerous – pace in Toone’s curricle, Toone undertaking to ride Titus decorously back to Langley Park to apprise Maria of the day’s events so far.
‘What ever happened to vows of poverty?’ Edmund murmured as we waited in the gilded library, decked with pictures of Archdeacon Cornforth’s smug-looking predecessors. ‘No, that was for monks, was it not? All the same, what would some of these bloated and arrogant-looking men make of your life, Toby?’
‘They would recognise it all too well, I fear.’ I counted my advantages in life one by one. ‘I live in a rectory with enough rooms to accommodate as many guests as I would wish. I am blessed with glebe land—’
‘Glebe land which profits you nothing, from what I hear.’
‘There are tithes—’
‘Which you refuse to take!’ He pointed to another man, whose triple chins overflowed from their clerical bands. ‘Do you suppose he ever denied himself for Lent?’
‘You have to understand, Edmund, that those men probably had to enter the Church – younger sons, with little alternative.’
‘Younger sons of rich men who brought with them their ambition and sense of entitlement!’
‘Now you talk like Toone.’
‘And Archdeacon Cornforth drives an equipage as good as Toone’s. What am I to make of it all, Toby? Add Coates into the mix, of course …’
At this point, the butler entered and bade us follow him to the blue saloon, where, he told us in sepulchral tones, the Venerable Archdeacon Cornforth would receive us.
The saloon was an even grander room, not least because the curtains and other furnishings had recently been renewed to the standard that my mother would have demanded at home. The result was truly elegant comfort, with good modern landscapes – a Turner here, two Constables there – gracing the walls.
Cornforth was on his feet, holding a piece of paper he set down on a side table. He did not offer us his hand, instead, with a graceful gesture, wafted us to our seats. The butler passed us sherry and biscuits, hovering in the background as if to ensure that any conversation was appropriate to the civilised room.
‘The matter I have to broach, Archdeacon,’ I said, ‘is of the utmost confidentiality. Indeed, this is not a social call at all, but a matter of serious Church business.’
The butler left so quietly he might have evaporated.
I stood to make my accusations.
‘Dear Dr Campion,’ he said, ‘you tower so dreadfully. Surely we may sit in comfort to discuss what you have to say, like the gentlemen we are?’
‘I have to make a serious accusation – so many serious accusations – that I prefer to stand.’
‘Very well.’ He sat back, steepling his hands with such an air of patronising tolerance I was glad to have Edmund beside me, his very presence a restraint.
‘Firstly, you knew about Coates’s appalling activities and did nothing to stop them.’
‘Oh, Dr Campion, how wrong you are. I did everything in my power to stop them. As soon as I discovered why he had left his previous two cures of souls, for – er – similar reasons; in fact, I spoke to the bishop. He told me that forgiveness was at the heart of Christ’s teaching, and that if Coates was penitent and promised to commit no further sin, then we should give him the chance he craved – to serve another parish.’
‘So Coates had seduced and raped in other villages,’ Edmund observed.
‘In two towns, to be more precise. The bishop hoped that the healing air of the countryside, its calmer way of life, would enable Mr Coates to live a life of quiet reflection.’
‘Instead it offered him the chance to lead an even more depraved life. As the churchwardens told you.’
‘As indeed they told me. As indeed I told the bishop. I believe that he himself remonstrated with Mr Coates—’
‘Remonstrated!’ I repeated.
‘Rebuked, if you prefer. And I understand that Mr Coates promised once again to mend his ways.’
‘But could not keep his word,’ Edmund concluded. ‘As a medical man, I have known men who could not stop drinking, though it was killing them, men who could not give up gambling, though it was ruining them. A kind interpretation of Coates’s behaviour would be that he was similarly addicted. Cures are possible, sir,’ he continued, speaking from deep, bitter experience, ‘but not unless the man avoids the opportunity to indulge his weakness. Surely the Church could have put him in a post where his behaviour could have been closely scrutinised? And repetition prevented? Could you not have demanded that? Failing that, all the information should have been put in the hands of a magistrate! Or did you fear scandal? Or did you suspect that the Church would simply close ranks and deny everything?’
There was no reply.
I continued my narrative: ‘Coates’s conquests – no, Coates’s victims! – were dearly loved women, whatever their age or status. And one day their menfolk would tolerate no more. They would have to go to extremes to protect them – am I right, thus far? So they executed a criminal no one else would deal with and then, now fired by vengeance, nailed him to a tree in the vilest parody of the Crucifixion. But you knew about it, did you not, in advance?’
‘No. No, of course not. How could I? Heavens, I had a letter in his own hand informing me that he was leaving to take the cure. I thanked God for it, I can tell you!’
I shook my head gently. ‘I am sure that you received a letter, but it was in the hand of a man who freely admits to being but half educated. You must have seen Coates’s handwriting at some time or other. He went to Cambridge, I recall, and that university is not in the habit of accepting men who are barely literate. I don’t suppose you kept the letter? Did you pass it on to the bishop? Or send him a copy you wrote yourself? Do you not answer me? Well, I can tell you that one of the wardens in Clavercote was compelled by the conspirators to write it. He freely and penitently admits it, but was sure as he wrote that you would recognise it as a fake and take action. Which you signally failed to do. You still do not wish to speak? Very well, I will make one or two more observations, the first intimately connected with my own safety. You ordered me to lead services in Clavercote: did it not dawn on you that the villagers so loathed members of the clergy that they would prefer to see them dead? Mr Boddice and Squire Lawton did their very best to put me off. But I was persistent, almost with fatal results. On the first occasion, the presence of a vagabond to whom I had done some trifling favour saved my life. You seemed more than interested in this man, whom I housed at the rectory. Did you want Dan removed, murdered even, lest he could identify my assailants?’
At last something I had said struck home. He might control his voice, his hands, even the expression on his face – but he could not stop the ebb and flow of blood to his face. He was ashen-pale. ‘On no account. Yes, yes – he was a witness to the attack. I thought I would see what a little encouragement – financial encouragement – would do. Because I did know that an attack … I confess I asked some men to try to deter you from going back! And look what ha
ppened when you persisted,’ he added, back in the saddle again. ‘You were nearly lynched! So all I was doing was—’
‘Trying to prevent my getting hurt by having me assaulted. I am sure there is logic there I should applaud. But that was not the whole of your involvement, I fancy. One day, before Dan’s fortuitous arrival on the scene, you chanced to see, in my study, a half-finished sketch. I will admit my explanation for its presence was not just misleading but also feeble. You were right to be interested in it on those grounds alone. But I suspect that your interest also stemmed from the fact that the sketch was recognisable as Coates, thanks to a very fine artist. And by then you were deeply embroiled in the fiction of your own creation, that he had departed for the Continent – we are at war, sir! So you embarked on a series of break-ins to locate it and destroy it. Oh, you were clever – your henchmen disturbed a lot of other households so that I would not appear to be the only victim. It was highly convenient that Dan could become a scapegoat – though, of course, had a hasty magistrate found him guilty he would in all likelihood have been transported, an experience which would swiftly have proved fatal. You would have sent an entirely innocent man to his death, Archdeacon. I have sent him to a place of safety amongst poor people who value human life.’ I paused at last for breath. Then I recalled what I had done earlier in the week. ‘Tell me, was scapegoating three sick old men for the death of Coates your idea?’
‘No – but when I heard of it I … The soup, Campion, and the cordial … They would have prevented any suffering on their part, had they got as far as sentencing.’
Hansard sprang to his feet. ‘You were prepared to kill them, like dogs?’
Cornforth too rose, walking to the window and pulling back the curtain. ‘Do you see that fresh-dug mound there? Under the sod lies my faithful dog Horatio. I hope you will forgive the allusion, gentlemen. He was old and weak. He would not have survived without me, and I could not take him to where I am going. So I … did what was necessary. And I am about to do something else that is necessary. You see that half-written letter there? I suggest you read it. It is to the bishop.’
Cheating the Hangman Page 24