by G. M. Best
A few more questions elicited nothing of use. Blake dismissed him. He put his head into his hands and pushed his fingers through his hair with frustration. ‘I’ve no desire to grow old if it reduces me to such a pointless existence as that man has!’ he exclaimed. ‘How can anyone be so oblivious to what’s going on around him!’
‘Unfortunately age tends to make people more self-centred,’ responded the warden, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Their sole concern becomes what might happen to them rather than what might be happening in the life of another. You’ll find that the next on your list, Billy Gazy, is far worse than poor Crumple in that respect.’
When Mrs Winthrop brought Gazy in, the only indication of life was the way the old man repeatedly rubbed his bleared eyes with the cuff of his bedesman’s gown. All Gazy could say in response to any question was ‘I don’t know’ and this was said in a tone that sounded like a bleating old sheep.
The next name on Blake’s list was that of John Gaunt but Mrs Winthrop sought permission to bring in a different man. ‘I thought you might not mind if I brought Job Skulpit here instead, though it’s not yet his turn. I think Mr Gaunt is too upset to be questioned at this juncture. I’ve given Mr Trollope the task of trying to calm him down.’
Blake turned to the warden. ‘Should I read anything into this delay in meeting John Gaunt?’ he asked.
‘No, I think not. John has least reason to fear seeing you because he spent all his working life with the police. He’s a former gaoler from London’s Newgate prison.’
‘Then how did he come to retire here?’
‘He was born in Barchester and returned here when declining health prevented him retaining his employment at the prison. Although I was not then the warden, I put in a good word for him and helped secure a place for him here. His closest friend was Thomas Rider. He’ll be genuinely distraught at his death.’
‘Very well, I’ll see him later. Who’s this Skulpit?’
‘A former tailor. He’s a bit weak-minded but basically a good man.’
‘Show in Mr Skulpit, Mrs Winthrop.’
The housekeeper did as she was instructed. Unfortunately, during his brief wait Skulpit’s nerves had reached such a pitch that he could do little but weep when he entered the room. His face was almost completely obscured by a large handkerchief that he was using to mop up his tears. Round shouldered and partly crippled with arthritis, he kept gulping almost like a fish out of water in a vain attempt to control his emotions. It was not until Blake roared, ‘For heaven’s sake, pull yourself together man!’, that a red-eyed face emerged from behind the handkerchief. The poor man’s distress had served to emphasize all its worst features – the heavily lined forehead, the long nose, the thin cheeks and the weak mouth. Skulpit squinted painfully at the inspector because his former trade had ruined his eyesight and Blake inwardly groaned because he appreciated that the bedesman could scarce see!
The inspector soon tired of Skulpit’s ignorance and he demanded Abel Handy should be brought before him instead. Handy was a well-built man and it was evident that he still had great strength in his large hands, but any hopes the inspector had of him being the possible killer were instantly dispelled when he entered the room. It was obvious the former stonemason had not properly recovered from the appalling injuries he had sustained at the time of his fall and so there was no way that he could have retained his balance to execute the attack on Rider. Handy hobbled slowly into the study and sat down without being invited to do so, placing his crutch on one side of him and his stick on the other. There was something about the truculent and cruel look in his eyes and the furtive way that he gazed around the room that communicated the man’s inherent wickedness.
‘Do you know anything about what has led to Thomas Rider’s murder?’
Handy stared back sullenly. ‘If I do, what’s it worth?’ he answered in a voice that was coarse and rough.
The inspector raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean?’
Handy smirked. ‘Information’s always worth summat to them who wants to know.’
‘Damn it, man, it’ll be worth your avoiding prison because if you’re not more cooperative that’s where you’ll go!’
‘’Twas only a joke, sir.’
‘This is no joking matter, and if you’re not more civil you’ll find yourself ejected from this almshouse!’ yelled an incensed inspector.
Handy refused to be browbeaten. ‘There you’re wrong, sir. It’s not in yer power to make me lose my place here – indeed, even the warden ’ere can’t get rid of me. It’s the rule that once you’re in Hiram’s only death can remove you – as poor Mr Rider ’as discovered to his cost!’
Blake frowned. ‘Have you no sympathy for the murdered man?’
‘Why should I? He were like a number of ’em in this place. Grateful without cause.’ Handy looked sneeringly at Mr Harding. ‘Too many of the bedesmen think they owe everything to the warden’s generosity. In fact, he’s robbing us of what is ourn by right.’
Blake saw Mr Harding’s face flush but the warden did not jump to his own defence. Could it be that there was some truth in Handy’s allegation? The inspector suddenly felt the murder case might have more behind it than he had originally envisaged. He muttered sharply, ‘Explain yourself, sir!’
‘We wants what John Hiram left us. We should be getting hundreds of pounds not the pittance that we receive,’ replied Handy scornfully. ‘I’d petition the bishop and write to the press if I ’ad my way but most of the men ’ere were born with no pluck in ’em. They get cowed at the sight of a gentleman’s waistcoat or a parson’s collar.’
‘I’ve not come to discuss the rights and wrongs of your situation here, Handy. As far as I can tell you get more than you deserve. You weren’t brought here to be made a rich man and, even if you were, you’d be incapable of writing to anyone because you can’t spell your name let alone pen a letter.’ He looked at Handy’s unrepentant visage and disliked what he saw. ‘If I had my way you’d be in the poor house,’ he added with a gesture that showed his distaste for the man.
Mr Harding sat ill at ease throughout this exchange because he knew there were others who felt Hiram’s money was not being directed properly, even though his son-in-law had tried to make him think otherwise. He therefore made no attempt to contradict the bedesman and responded quietly, ‘Abel, I think this is not the time or place to discuss this matter. Not when Thomas Rider lies dead on his bed. If you want to speak more on this matter you must seek a more opportune time. You may not like your position here, but you’re an observant man and I suspect there may be more helpful things that you can tell the inspector than what you’ve so far said.’
Even the ungracious Handy was not immune to this argument. He nodded in a surly fashion and then replied, ‘I’ve no idea why Mr Rider were killed but I can tell ye that the murder must’ve been done by someone ’ere at the hospital.’
‘And why should I believe anything you say on this matter?’ Blake demanded sceptically.
The goodwill generated by the earlier words of the warden was instantly dissipated by the inspector’s distrust. ‘I know the police. Yer’d pin the murder on me if you could! Unfortunately yer can see I’m a cripple!’
‘Don’t expect any sympathy from me about your condition. You fell from that scaffolding because you’d been drinking too much!’
‘Aye, and I suffer for it every day.’ Handy’s mouth tightened and a bitter smile twisted his lips. ‘But that’s why I can vouch no stranger entered through the gateway of the almshouse this morning. You see, my injuries largely confine me to my room and I spend most of my time looking out of my window. It faces the entrance and I like to see who passes by and who enters or leaves. I can guarantee that no stranger entered Hiram’s Hospital until that Mr Trollope ran in.’ His smile took on a more sinister appearance. ‘You don’t have to search far for yer killer, Mr Blake. The murderer were no passing stranger. Thomas Rider were killed by someone ’ere.’
&nbs
p; ‘You mean one of the bedesmen?’
‘I doubt it. Most of ’em are either half dead or too weak livered.’ He chuckled mischievously and his voice dropped as if to convey the significance of his next few words. ‘You see, there be far more able-bodied people who could’ve done it.’
‘Who?’
‘Well, for a start there’s Mr Harding and both his daughters, and, of course, the archdeacon, Dr Grantly. Nor should yer forget that young surgeon, Mr Bold. He’s always ’anging around ’ere.’
‘You’re not seriously suggesting that any of them are involved in Rider’s death!’ said Blake incredulously.
The bedesman gave a malicious smile and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Blake, other than that murderers who use a knife aren’t usually old and infirm. Yer can draw yer own conclusions!’
3
THE OTHER SUSPECTS
Abel Handy’s insinuations upset Mr Harding so much that the inspector was compelled to curtail the interview. Blake recognized that the warden’s reaction could be that of an innocent man wrongly maligned, but he equally saw that it could stem from the allegations having contained some truth. He thought it unlikely that a man of Mr Harding’s reputation would commit a murder, but he was not so sure about the rest of his family or Mr Bold? The resulting tense atmosphere was not helped by the entry of the next bedesman, Gregory Moody, because he was Handy’s closest associate. Moody had always taken pleasure in mocking the warden behind his back, calling him ‘old Catgut’ in order to deride his violincello playing. Mr Harding was aware of this and understandably feared that Moody would choose to spread yet more innuendo against him and those he loved. This generated a degree of hostility in the warden’s manner that the inspector could not help but notice and be surprised at.
For years Moody had been the city’s gravedigger and so he was well known to Blake. There had been a distant time when, despite his profession, he had been much in demand in Barchester because of his wit and good humour. Looking at him now, it was hard to see why. Everything about him gave the impression of meanness, especially his dirty face with its narrow eyes, sharp nose, thin lips and unshaven chin. ‘May I sit down, sir?’ he mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his right hand. ‘I suffer much these days from rheumatism.’
Mr Harding knew this was a lie. Moody was physically still quite fit for his age, but he liked to pretend otherwise. He enjoyed exaggerating every ache and pain. ‘No, you can stand,’ he said curtly.
‘That’s most unlike ye, Mr Harding. Yer must be worn out by this terrible business,’ the bedesman replied without a hint of sincerity in his voice. ‘Perhaps some of Mr Hiram’s money should’ve been spent on securing our safety rather than on buying cathedral music and then this ’ere murder wouldn’t ’ave ’appened.’
‘Don’t be impertinent or I’ll have you taken to the city lock-up for the night!’ barked Blake angrily.
Moody seemed to sense that he had overstepped the mark and fell silent until the inspector began questioning him. However, in his responses he could hardly utter a sentence without conveying resentment at his lot. Frowning with frustration, Blake opted to draw the interview to an early close rather than persevere with such an untrustworthy witness. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief and tried hard not to show his disappointment that he had so far failed to uncover any clue as to why Rider had been killed. Blake looked at the list that the warden had given him. At least the next man due before him was one of Rider’s friends and if anyone knew what had been worrying Rider, it ought to be those closest to him.
‘I’m sure that you will find Jeremiah Smith more helpful,’ Mr Harding commented before Mrs Winthrop showed the man in. ‘He worked in the same trade as Rider and the two men were friends long before they entered here. Both men had a high reputation for not only the quality of their work but also their honest dealings with people. You can trust what he says.’
Jeremiah Smith entered the study hesitantly and Blake looked him up and down. The former cutler was short of stature and rather dumpy in appearance but there was a frailty about him that could not be hidden. The skin on his lined face was as white as starched linen and it had an almost see-through quality. A slight puffiness around his eyes bore testimony to the distress he had experienced on hearing of his friend’s murder. His breathing sounded heavy and laboured. Yet Smith still carried with him an air of integrity, both in the way that he moved and in the look of his grey eyes. His white hair added to the impression that here was a venerable man.
‘Mr Harding tells me that you were a good workman in your time, Mr Smith.’
‘That I were, sir,’ he replied hoarsely but with a touch of pride. ‘None better, though I say so myself, till age caught up with me.’ He stretched out his gnarled and brown-blotched hands towards the inspector. ‘I lost the steady touch required.’
‘But you’ve not lost your wits, have you?’
‘No, that I ’aven’t, sir.’
‘So tell me what might have led to the death of your friend, Mr Rider.’
Almost at once Smith’s whole demeanour changed. The honesty in his expression seemed to drain away and he looked as if he would rather be anywhere else than in the warden’s study. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he said bleakly.
‘But you must have given the matter some thought.’
The bedesman’s face remained deeply troubled. ‘I ’ave, sir, and I think it were the work of the devil!’
‘The devil does not use a knife, Mr Smith. I can assure you a human agency is at work here. I’m told by Mr Bunce that something was bothering Thomas Rider in the days before he died. Is that right?’
Smith hesitated and then nodded. ‘Yes, something had deeply upset ’im.’
‘Did he tell you what that was?’
For a moment it looked as if Smith was going to try and leave the room, but then he turned and looked at Mr Harding in the way that a dog looks to its master for guidance.
Mr Harding tried to give him a reassuring smile. ‘Jeremiah, if you know what was troubling Thomas you should tell the inspector.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir,’ muttered Smith. ‘I promised Thomas that I wouldn’t tell no one.’
Anger flooded over the inspector and he shouted contemptuously, ‘What utter nonsense! The man’s dead and so your promise means absolutely nothing. Tell us what you know at once.’
‘A promise is a promise,’ protested Smith.
The inspector slammed his fist on the desk. ‘Mr Harding, order this idiot to tell us what he knows!’
The warden looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I am sorry, Inspector, but you can’t expect me to order a man to go against the dictates of his conscience. However, I will try to persuade him that he is being foolish.’ He moved over to where the old man was sitting and put his right hand on Smith’s shoulder. ‘Jeremiah, I appreciate that you wish to keep your word to your friend, but think what has happened here today. Thomas was brutally murdered. We have to find out who murdered him and for all we know your information may be critical in helping us.’
Tears came into Smith’s eyes but he slowly shook his head from side to side. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Harding, but I promised and if you knew what it was I don’t think you’d want me to speak out in front of the police.’
A further appeal from the warden might have weakened his resolve had not Blake chosen that moment to lose his temper. ‘You’ll tell me what you know this instant or I’ll have you clapped in a cell for obstruction of justice. And if you then still refuse, I’ll have the gaoler throw away the key and you can rot within its walls till you die!’
Far from helping, the tirade resulted in the bedesman refusing to answer any more questions. A stubborn look appeared in his face that augured ill for obtaining any more information from him. After exploding at him some more, Blake ordered him out of the study, saying that he would have him arrested as an accessory to the crime if he remained silent. It was left to Mr Harding to offer more
conciliatory advice before Smith left them. His voice was as friendly as the inspector’s had been hostile. ‘Sleep on the matter, Jeremiah, and I think you’ll see that it makes sense to talk with us. I suggest that you come to me in the morning if you’ve changed your mind and then I can arrange for you to meet with Mr Blake again.’
‘Mr Harding, I think you need to run a tighter ship,’ Blake said scathingly once Smith had departed. ‘The men here do not recognize authority!’
The warden blushed but refused to be intimidated. ‘I don’t think, sir, that you can expect a man who has made a promise to his closest friend to break it without first struggling with his conscience. I’ll send Bunce round to see Jeremiah later this evening and I’m confident that he’ll persuade him to tell us what he knows tomorrow. Have patience.’
‘It’s difficult to be patient when I’ve sat here all afternoon and made virtually no progress on this matter,’ protested Blake. He glared at Mr Harding as if he was some kind of naïve child in want of parental guidance. ‘Let’s quickly see the rest and get this wretched business finished. I’ve had more than enough for one day. My head’s beginning to thump! Who’s left?’
‘As you can see from your list, there are just three more: Matthew Spriggs, Reuben Wilson and, of course, John Gaunt.’
The two interviews that followed were very perfunctory. Matthew Spriggs was a much younger man than the other bedesmen but hideous in his appearance because he had suffered extreme burns from falling into a fire when drunk. One eye was burnt out and one cheek burnt through and the rest of his face was badly scarred. He had sustained such injuries to the rest of his body that returning to a life of employment had been rendered impossible. One arm hung entirely useless at his side and Blake judged that his physical disability ruled him out as a suspect. Spriggs told them nothing helpful. Nor did Reuben Wilson, whose pale face looked as if it had been permanently dusted with a fine coating of flour. The former miller simply confirmed what they already knew – that Thomas Rider had been visibly upset in recent days. He claimed that he knew nothing about the cause.