The Barchester Murders

by G. M. Best

  Contents

  Prologue: An Old Man Dies

  1. Hiram’s Hospital

  2. The Investigation Begins

  3. The Other Suspects

  4. Another Murder

  5. The Secret of Catherine Farrell

  6. Hidden Identity

  7. Family Responses

  8. A Wife Wronged

  9. The Devil’s Sign

  10. The Prison and the Workhouse

  11. A Mother’s Love

  12. The Tragic Outcome

  Afterword: The Writing of The Warden

  By the same author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  AN OLD MAN DIES

  Thomas Rider knew there was something of great significance that he had to say to someone but he could not for the life of him remember what it was. All he could recall was that it was something to do with someone’s mother and that the information was both unpleasant and dangerous. There had been a time when his growing forgetfulness had annoyed him but he had long since come to accept a man entering his eighties had to expect a degree of memory loss, especially when it came to remembering recent events. He took comfort in the knowledge that what he had to say would eventually come back to him and he began thinking of happier days. Experience had taught him that it sometimes helped if he deliberately blocked out the present with its daily reminders of a growing frailty and instead took solace in recalling his childhood and youth, a time as yet unaffected by any memory loss.

  His mind travelled back to when he was very young and those occasional times when his mother would allow him to stay up late. He smiled as he recalled how he would sit quietly on the chair that his father had made for him and watch her preparations for bed with fascination. After she had untied her hair and permitted her long brown tresses to cascade down to her waist, she would take a brush and proceed to comb them with gentle sweeping strokes, pausing occasionally to pull out an unwanted grey hair. It had been one of his mother’s few vanities because the adversities of life had by then taken away the bloom of her cheeks and begun scoring her face with a myriad of fine lines. Many years later he had read somewhere that it took 2,000 frowns to make a wrinkle and he had known at once that the information was false. His mother had never been one to frown and times of hardship had never prevented her filling their house with happiness.

  He had never doubted her love for him. As if it was yesterday he relived those precious moments when he would run to embrace her, pressing his curly head against her breasts so that he could listen to the reassuring beat of her heart and smell the sweetness of her soft body. She would let him rest there for a time and then gently prize his tiny fingers from the buttons on her dress. Often, if time permitted, she would laughingly tell him a story, igniting his imagination with effortless ease. Only when his father demanded that she stop making a fool of him did she insist on him climbing off her knee. And even then she would not let him depart without a kiss.

  His father had been incapable of showing that kind of love. He had been uncomfortably remote and distant all through Thomas’s growing up. He could scarce recall ever seeing his father smile. What had made matters worse was his expectation that any child should be stationary and silent in his presence. Thomas had been compelled to cease playing when his father came home from work. He could still visualize him sitting in his chair and gazing into the hearth, lost in his thoughts and saying scarce a word to anyone. His father had refused to let him stay long enough at school for a good education because he had not wanted him to become cleverer than him. That was why Thomas had ended up plying the same trade as his father – making fancy knives for sale to those who visited Barchester. His mother had not approved. She had thought her son possessed the potential to make far more of his life. But, looking back on his life, Thomas had few complaints. He had always earned enough to live comfortably.

  It was only once he had started working alongside his father that he had come to see his qualities. It was not just that he was a most conscientious worker and scrupulously fair in his dealings with people. Unlike some of the other knife-makers, he never wasted his hard-won earnings on gambling or drinking, but instead made his priority paying his rent and providing regular food on the table for his family. His father had sought no thanks for that because, emotionless though he appeared, he loved them. Only on one occasion had Thomas seen his father shed tears and that was on the day when his mother had died. By then her body was bent and twisted with rheumatism but his father had grieved for her loss as if she were still the beautiful young girl he had married over forty years before. The image of his father’s grief-stricken face, yellow in the candlelight, was not something Thomas would ever forget. The eyes were those of a man already dead. He had not long survived her loss.

  Thomas reluctantly dragged himself back into the present. His father would have told him to get a grip of himself and focus on what he needed to remember. Someone was in danger, even in the sanctuary that had become his retirement home. Yet how could evil cross the threshold of such a wonderful place as Hiram’s Hospital? From the bench where he was sitting he looked out across the dappled water that sparkled in the morning sun. The sky was a wonderful blue and the birds were all silent in the heat. On the opposite shore of the gently flowing river the green grass lay like an emerald blanket covering the undulating countryside. Only a few flower-filled hedgerows and the occasional tree stood out against the surrounding hills. Surely no danger could lurk within a haven so blessed by God?

  He forgot again about what he was trying to recall and a wistful smile crossed his face. Now he was too old to contemplate reaching those fields, yet as a boy he had roamed them freely. He had spent many an hour dipping for newts in murky ponds or hunting after rabbits and hares with a bow and arrow that he had fashioned himself. Pleasure had abounded in simple actions like climbing trees and collecting birds’ eggs or even just beheading cow parsley with a stick. He recalled how as a child he had gazed in wonder at the ice-covered webs of spiders and the strange patterns that adorned windows and water pails in the winter months. Now he feared snow and ice lest he slip and break a bone. Then he had sledged recklessly down the white hillsides and skated across the frozen river without a care that he might slip through the ice into the water beneath. He smiled again as he revisited in his mind’s eye the occasion when he and his friends had built a veritable army of snowmen with hands made blue by the cold. The icy warriors had remained standing like winter scarecrows long after the snow on the ground had melted away. Then there had been the snowball fights! Battles fought with as much courage and daring as children could muster and adults would permit.

  The sound of a solitary bird broke the silence and his reverie. Suddenly it seemed bizarre to be thinking of winter on such a beautiful summer’s morning. He had always preferred the summer. As a boy it had been his custom to go swimming on sunny days until that terrible day when his friend Joshua Bell had died. Weeks of heavy rain had caused the river to flow far faster than was its normal course and Joshua had been swept away and drowned. The poor lad’s father was the village schoolmaster, a kind man, a Methodist who had inscribed some words from John Wesley as a text above his desk: ‘Never forget an ounce of love is worth a pound of knowledge.’ He could still see in his mind’s eye the poor man’s fingers standing out white-knuckled against the black slime that covered his dead child. He had wailed like an animal caught in a poacher’s trap and it had taken all the persuasion of the minister to make poor Mr Bell hand over the body to the undertaker. His heart had shrivelled up like a plucked flower laid out in the harsh glare of the sun. All Joshua’s classmates had been taken to see the corpse. Perfume had been used to mask the smell of death but they had all been terrified at se
eing their friend’s freckled face. It was covered with a waxy sheen like that of a dead fish.

  Thomas looked out again at the river as it flowed past him. It was hard to believe that something so inviting could be so dangerous. But then danger was often something that lurked unseen until it was too late. Thomas winced. It suddenly came to him again that a friend was in danger and he had to warn him. But who? And why? It had something to do with a woman. Or was that just his imagining? As far as he could recall, he had shown little interest in women after the death of his wife all those years ago. She had meant more to him than even his mother. For days after his loss he could think of nothing but the love they had shared. Lying in his narrow bed alone, he had found himself recalling the rhythm of their lovemaking. His mouth pressed firm against hers, the intimate touch of skin to skin, the sensation that seemed to travel through his entire body and then transmit itself into her. And afterwards, he had enjoyed looking at her white nakedness, confident that each time they made love the pleasure would increase as their knowledge of each other’s bodies grew. Yet it was their love that had destroyed her because she had died in childbirth. So too had the child.

  That was it! He had to speak about a woman’s child – a pretty but potentially evil child born of a beautiful but monstrous mother who had murdered her husband. Suddenly it all came back to him. The child’s history had been hidden but now the secret was out and he had to warn the warden. How could he have been so stupid as to forget! He did not want to speak out about what he knew but he had to do so, even though it would cause much pain. He should have spoken up before. Already it might be too late! The agitated old man began to rise from the bench with the help of the walking stick that was now his constant companion on any walk he undertook. As he struggled to his feet, a shadow passed over him and he looked up to see a familiar figure standing before him.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t hear you come to me. I’m afraid I’m a bit stiff from sitting here too long. Will you give me a hand to get up?’

  A strong arm pushed him firmly back down on to the bench and Thomas felt a sharp pain in his chest. A strange coldness seemed to flow through his veins and in the few moments before he died he knew it was too late. He would never be able to warn his friend of the danger that threatened to destroy the happiness of all at Hiram’s. He was no doctor but he sensed the knife had been most skilfully used and that his lifeblood was oozing from a wound near to his heart. There was no rapid flow as there might have been had he been a younger man. Thomas’s chin slumped forward on to his chest. It looked as if he had simply fallen asleep. The murderer quickly moved away from the bench and headed towards the almshouse where Thomas Rider had his home. No one had seen the stabbing and to the casual observer no crime had been committed because the old man lay as if fast asleep on the garden bench.

  1

  HIRAM’S HOSPITAL

  A well-dressed man, not quite six feet in height and broad shouldered, stood alone on the pretty one-arched bridge that spanned the gently flowing river. He was dressed in a grey calf-length frock coat and around his neck was a dark cravat knotted into a wide pointy bow. The fact that he had ridden earlier that day was evidenced not just by the fact he was wearing riding breeches and boots, but by the flecks of dirt that were spattered across them. Nevertheless, Anthony Trollope had spent most of the morning on foot. Busy though he was, he had been determined to take some time off his duties in order to soak up the beauty of Barchester’s ancient buildings. He had especially admired the magnificent cathedral with its towering spire. In his opinion, few churches showed such grace and harmony in their external design and he now understood why the artist John Constable had painted this medieval masterpiece so frequently. It was unfortunate that the cathedral’s interior was not as impressive. To his eyes the nave was too narrow and the scarcity of stained glass made it feel cold and bare. More to his taste had been the exquisite Lady’s Chapel and the cathedral’s beautiful cloisters.

  From his vantage point on the bridge, Trollope looked across at a building that stood quite close to the water’s edge. It was nothing remotely on the scale of the cathedral but it had its own picturesque beauty. His shortsighted vision somewhat blurred the scene before him but he rightly judged it was an ancient almshouse. Beyond it was an altogether grander house and at its rear what appeared to be a partly enclosed garden with a well-mown lawn. A large gravel walk ran down from this to the bridge on which he stood. Looking down over the parapet he could see a bench to his right. On it was a man dressed entirely in black; judging from his posture, he was fast asleep in the sun. Trollope sighed, wishing that he had better eyesight and the artistic skills necessary to capture such an attractive scene on canvas.

  His attention was suddenly caught by the sound of music floating through the air. It was a plaintive air and prettily played on a violincello. He looked for its source and saw that three men had entered the garden of the house. His poor eyesight prevented him making out the features of any of them but he could see that one of them had taken up a seat in the summerhouse in order to play to the others. Even as he watched, one of the listeners began making his way down the gravel path towards the bench on which the sleeping man rested. His progress was slow and, as he drew nearer, Trollope could see he was old although still quite upright and burly. He was wearing a black gown and breeches and these gave him an air of authority. Once he got to his destination he reached out to awaken the sleeper by shaking his right shoulder. At once the peaceful scene took an unexpected turn because the body of the man on the bench immediately slid forwards and collapsed onto the stone-covered ground.

  Without a moment’s hesitation Trollope left the bridge to offer his assistance. For so large a man he moved both easily and rapidly. He ran around to the ponderous gateway that provided entrance to the almshouse and rushed into the garden, shouting that a man had collapsed by the bench near the bridge. His voice was bass and resonant and carried well. The man with the violincello immediately stopped playing. He was a small man with rather grizzled hair. Trollope rightly surmised that this must be the cleric in charge of the almshouse because he was dressed in a black frock coat, black knee breeches and black gaiters, even though, somewhat unusually for a clergyman, he sported a black handkerchief round his neck rather than a clerical collar. He was probably verging on sixty but he bore few signs of age and his eyes in particular were clear and bright behind his double glasses. The cleric immediately turned to his companion and said, ‘It’s fortunate that you’re here, John. Your skills may be required.’

  The person who had been listening to his playing was tall, athletic and strikingly handsome. Trollope thought he was probably in his mid twenties. His black curly hair set off his pale skin and his large brown eyes seemed to shine with a natural intelligence. The young man began running down the gravel path towards the bench by the bridge. Trollope ran after him and the cleric followed suit but was unable to maintain their pace. The man who had fallen was lying absolutely motionless face down on the ground. He was wearing the coarse black gown, black breeches and black buckled shoes worn by all the almshouse’s inmates. His fellow resident had also not moved and appeared to be rooted to the spot with shock.

  The young man knelt down and muttered, ‘It’s Thomas Rider,’ just as the cleric arrived at the scene. ‘Why don’t you see to poor Benjamin Bunce. He’s obviously very upset. Take him back to his room while I examine Thomas and, if possible, carry him inside with the help of this gentleman.’

  ‘What Mr Bold says makes sense to me, providing, sir, you’re willing to help us,’ replied the cleric, trying to retain his composure. Then he added in explanation, ‘Mr Bold is a fully qualified surgeon and I can assure you that no patient could be in better hands than his.’

  Trollope willingly assented and the cleric gently but firmly then said to the standing old man, ‘Come along, Bunce. Thomas is in good hands now. Mr Bold and this kind gentleman will take care of him.’ Bunce nodded and some of the
colour began to slowly flow back into his pale cheeks.

  As the two men moved away, the young doctor signalled to Trollope not to touch the body, whispering, ‘I fear Thomas Rider’s beyond my care. I’ve already ascertained that there’s no pulse and that he’s not breathing.’ Bold waited until he could see that the two were well on their way back to the almshouse before concluding, ‘I saw no point in saying that Thomas was already dead in front of his friend. It’s better that Bunce should hear the news of Rider’s death when he’s recovered from his initial shock.’

  ‘It was kind of you to be so thoughtful. I’m not sure I would’ve had your presence of mind.’

  The doctor acknowledged this praise with a smile. ‘The men who live here are all very old and I’m afraid death can strike any one of them at any moment.’ He looked down on the corpse sadly. ‘But that doesn’t lessen the pain of parting. Thomas Rider will be much missed by his friends here. He was a very kind and intelligent man.’ He gave a sigh and then resumed his professional manner. ‘I would be grateful if you could help me turn his body over so I can properly ascertain the cause of death. I’ll have to write a report for Mr Harding to give to the authorities.’

  ‘Mr Harding?’

  ‘My dear sir, I am sorry. We’ve been remiss in not introducing ourselves properly. I’m John Bold and I’ve newly set up as a surgeon here in Barchester. The clerical gentleman you met is the Reverend Septimus Harding. He’s the warden of Hiram’s Hospital, as the almshouse here is called. He’s also the precentor at Barchester Cathedral. Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Anthony Trollope and I work as a surveyor for the Post Office. I only arrived in Barchester this morning. I left my horses at an inn under the care of my groom, who travels with me, and spent the earlier part of this morning walking around the city and viewing the cathedral. I was on the bridge admiring the almshouse when I saw this man collapse.’

  ‘We’re grateful for your assistance.’