by G. M. Best
A very unhappy Inspector Blake gathered together the few notes he had made during the interviews and furiously shoved them into his pocket. ‘Mr Harding, I’ve had enough! I’m not going to wait for John Gaunt to compose himself. I shall return to the police station in order to write an initial report and set in motion the checks on whether Mr Trollope is who he says he is. If he is, then I can only hope that by the time I return tomorrow morning Jeremiah Smith has thought better of his refusal to speak with us and that John Gaunt is better disposed. I warn you now that if I can’t obtain some useful information from those two men I’ll be forced to begin questioning not only you and Mr Bold but also your daughters and Dr Grantly. Someone here must know something about this murder!’
Mr Harding let Mrs Winthrop escort the inspector out of the house. While she was doing that he sat motionless on the chair in his study. Then slowly but surely he began to make all the moves associated with playing the violincello. With one hand he made the slightest possible passes with an imaginary fiddle bow and with the fingers of the other he stopped sundry imaginary strings. This was a practice that he engaged in whenever he was highly agitated. The more vexed he was the shorter and slower would be the passes and the upper hand would not be seen to work. Only when his mind began to see a way through the problem would he rise to a higher melody. Then he would sweep the unseen strings with a bolder hand, and swiftly finger the chords from his neck, down along his waistcoat, and up again to his ear. On this occasion he could see no way out of his problems and so he continued performing on his imaginary violincello until interrupted by the entrance of Trollope into the study.
Trollope was upset to see how badly the warden was taking what had happened. He looked like a man who was experiencing nothing but suffering: it was evident in his tightened mouth and trouble-laden eyes. ‘Now that the interviews are over for today, is there anything more I can do for you, Mr Harding?’ he asked kindly.
‘I wish you could but I fear that I’ll find no comfort until we’ve discovered who was responsible for poor Thomas’s death.’
Instinctively Trollope tried to divert the poor man’s attention on to something other than the bedesman’s death. ‘Would you mind telling me a little about Barchester as I’m new here?’ he suggested.
The warden was at first surprised that a man could think of such matters at such a time but, seeing the concern in Trollope’s face, he recognized the motivation that lay behind the question. This was no ill-timed idle curiosity. It was an attempt to turn the focus of his mind on to less painful images. ‘Barchester’s origin lies in the fact several ancient trade routes used to cross this region and a hill fort was created to serve as a market place in times of peace and a stronghold in times of strife. The fort was subsequently developed first by the Romans, then by the Saxons, and finally by the Normans, who built not only a motte and bailey castle on its site but also a cathedral.’
‘Presumably the precursor of the current building?’
‘No, not quite. In the thirteenth century the Church decided to create a new cathedral outside the castle at the confluence of the Avon and the Nadder and it was round this that the new town of Barchester developed.’
‘And has the cathedral changed much in the intervening centuries?’
‘The only major change has been the creation of its wonderful spire in the fourteenth century. By that time Barchester had developed into one of the largest and richest cities in the country because of its importance in the wool trade.’
Trollope saw that the warden was taking no pleasure in their discussion, but decided to persevere with it. ‘I saw no evidence of that wool trade today,’ he said in a tone that invited a further response.
‘No, the city’s merchants failed to rise to the challenge of changing fashions. Fortunately in the seventeenth century the city found a new role as a centre for those wishing to visit Stonehenge. Barchester became known for its flannels, serges, blanketings, linseys, cottons and fancy cloths, and for some other high-quality goods. Sadly, it’s no longer fashionable to come here but the evidence of the city’s former wealth abounds in the many old buildings that you saw today.’
‘I can see why their beauty has kept you here.’
For the first time Trollope’s words seemed to touch the warden and make him forget the tragedy that had torn apart the community he served. His face ceased to look quite so careworn. ‘It’s another beauty that has made me so happy here. Planning the worship at the cathedral has been a source of constant joy to me.’
What more might have been said was prevented by the arrival of Mrs Winthrop with the news that the warden’s daughters and son-in-law had returned to Hiram’s Hospital. At once the warden’s face returned to its former troubled state. What was he to say to his daughters about what had happened? And what would his son-in-law have to say? The murder was bound to bring the almshouse into disrepute. His misery took visible shape once again in the momentary clutching for a violincello that did not exist. Trollope moved to leave, judging that the warden would prefer to meet his family without having a stranger present. However, his exit from the study was prevented by the unexpectedly quick appearance of Eleanor Harding.
‘What’s wrong, Papa?’ she asked, rushing across to her father. ‘Something terrible has obviously happened in our absence.’
Trollope thought Mr Harding’s daughter was very striking. She was not beautiful in the classical sense because she lacked the pearly white skin tone and the finely chiselled features and the perfection of shape associated with that. What she had instead was a radiant personality that exuded affection and warmth. Almost instantaneously Trollope decided that here was a woman whom you might pass in the street without notice, but whom you could hardly pass an evening with and not lose your heart. He could not help smiling. It was no wonder that John Bold was a constant visitor to the hospital!
Mr Harding greeted the emotional arrival of his daughter with a degree of reserve that sprang from his natural shyness but Trollope could see the natural affection that existed between them. However, before the warden could say anything, his other daughter also entered the room. She looked ten years older than her sister although maybe marriage and bringing up children had aged her. She lacked Eleanor’s vivacity, but she had a good-natured face and a pleasing figure. Trollope thought that he detected in her manner a steadiness that many men would find attractive, especially if they had lost a wife and were looking for another who would care for their children.
Her husband, the Rev. Dr Theophilus Grantly, followed her into the room. He looked quite a few years older than her but he was a good-looking man with heavy eyebrows, large open eyes and a full mouth and chin. Trollope could see at once that he was the polar opposite in terms of temperament to Mr Harding. If the warden was a model of Christian meekness, Dr Grantly was the personification of the Church militant. He wore his broad-brimmed hat, his fine frock coat, his decorous breeches and his neat black gaiters as if they were the armour of God. Why had the young Susan Harding agreed to marry such a formidable figure, especially as it committed her to caring for five children? Was it genuine love or had she been won over by his status and what he could do for her father’s career?
Mr Harding seemed to draw strength from the presence of his family and his initial confusion quickly vanished. Although his voice shook a little, he introduced Trollope to his family and then proceeded to inform them of the murder that had taken place and the resulting visit of the police inspector. The more Mr Harding spoke the unhappier Dr Grantly became. He was annoyed that his father-in-law had not immediately tried to send word to him of what had happened and angry to hear that the inspector had made so little progress in solving the case. Nor was he happy about his father-in-law offering accommodation to a stranger, though he could not say that in Trollope’s presence.
‘I really don’t know where to begin,’ he grunted when Mr Harding had ceased his tale. ‘You should have sent for me straightaway and let me deal with the police.
Don’t you realize the danger this story poses to the reputation of the almshouse if the killer is not swiftly found? Once the profane press get hold of what has happened they’ll produce the most lurid accounts. The adverse publicity could permanently damage the reputation of Hiram’s Hospital.’
‘I’m sorry, Archdeacon. I think the shock prevented me thinking clearly on the matter,’ Mr Harding replied penitently.
The apology did not appease Dr Grantly. ‘I should also add that I think John Bold’s involvement in today’s events is very undesirable,’ he said angrily. ‘I know you’ve liked him since the days when he sat as a boy and listened to your playing, but now he’s a dangerous firebrand. He’s always going on about the need for the Church to reform itself.’
‘That’s only because he loves the Church and wants it to play an even greater role in society.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, he has all the fervour of a revolutionary and we all know what excesses that led to in France!’
This attack on John Bold did not please Eleanor Harding but she was too frightened of her brother-in-law to openly challenge him. Instead she tried to change the subject by pointing out how exhausted her poor father was.
Mrs Grantly graciously supported her sister by seeking to divert the conversation. ‘I don’t suppose either Papa or Mr Trollope has eaten properly for the day,’ she said calmly and with an authority of manner that brooked no denial. ‘I want to hear no more about this sordid matter until they have both had some nourishment. Eleanor, why don’t you go to the kitchen and ask Mrs Winthrop to arrange for supper to be served as soon as possible in the dining room. While that’s happening, may I suggest, dearest husband, you stay here with Papa so you can together write a letter that can be sent to your father informing him of what’s happened here. I know the bishop is too unwell at present to come to the hospital but he’ll be able to ensure that the police are guarded in what information they supply to the press. As for myself, I would ask, Mr Trollope, that you accompany me into the drawing room. There you can tell me a little more about yourself. It’ll help take my mind off what’s happened.’
Although the archdeacon controlled many things in the church, it was his wife who held the mastery in matters domestic and everyone did as they were bid. Trollope followed Mrs Grantly into the parlour but not without some nervousness. He quite rightly suspected that she wanted an opportunity to find out whether her father’s trust in him might be justified. He was suddenly acutely conscious that he was only wearing what he had worn to travel to Barchester and that his dusty and dirty garments did little to enhance his position.
‘How did you end up working for the Post Office, Mr Trollope?’ Mrs Grantly asked once she had made herself comfortable and directed him to a nearby chair. Her mouth pursed slightly and she raised her eyebrows as she looked at him. ‘It’s an unusual profession for a gentleman.’
‘That’s a long story, Mrs Grantly, and I’m not sure you would want to hear it all. Suffice it to say that for financial reasons my parents moved abroad when I was nineteen and a friend of the family found me employment in London at the Post Office.’
Her face retained its solemn manner. ‘And do you enjoy your work?’ she enquired.
Trollope looked at her astute face and judged that she would be better won over by total honesty than by any attempt to gloss over his life. ‘I confess that I hated it at first and for seven years my life was neither creditable to myself nor useful to the public service. I got into debt through spending too much time gambling and I acquired a reputation for being insubordinate and unpunctual. In the end my supervisor, a man called Maberley, got rid of me by packing me off to a post in Banagher in County Offaly in Ireland. I think he thought it would be the end of me but in fact it gave me a new start and now I love my work.’
‘And may I ask what led to this transformation?’
‘Mainly that my work in Ireland was far more enjoyable. Instead of being chained to a desk I spent most of my time outdoors on horseback and met with all kinds of people from lowly cottagers to grand landowners. I also found that my circumstances were much improved because my salary went much farther in Ireland than it had in London and I met the young woman who eventually became my wife. To win her father’s approval I had to show that I could be a worthy husband. The rest you know from what Mr Harding has already told you about me. I am currently working on improving the postal routes in the south-west of England.’
Mrs Grantly’s intuition told her that he had spoken the truth. Her alarm at finding her father had invited a stranger to stay began to ebb away. ‘And do you have ambitions to do anything else?’ she enquired.
Trollope blushed. ‘I would like to become a successful author like my mother. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?’
‘Surely you don’t mean that Fanny Trollope is your mother?’ gasped Mrs Grantly.
‘Yes, she is.’
‘I read her first book on the domestic manners of Americans with huge delight and since then I have read quite a few of her other travel books and all of her novels. They’re very good.’ She looked at Trollope with fresh interest. ‘Have you yet had anything published?’
‘I have but not to great success. A few years ago I had a three-volume novel called The Macdermots of Ballycloran published but it was not well received in England. If I’m honest, I think it was only published in the first place because the printer hoped people would see the name “Trollope” and think my mother had written it. I tried again with a novel called The Kellys and the O’Kellys but hardly anyone bothered purchasing it. After that my publisher told me he could give me no further encouragement to write.’
‘I’m not sure that any author would find it easy to win popularity by setting his novels in Ireland,’ Mrs Grantly commented. She made the country sound as if it created a bad taste in her mouth. ‘You should have chosen a more congenial setting for your books.’
Trollope tried not to show his amusement. He was used to those who knew nothing of Ireland maligning it. ‘I did try my hand at historical fiction. I wrote a book on the French Revolution called La Vendée. It also was not a success.’
‘If you’ll pardon me for saying so, I don’t think writing about that horrid revolution was any more sensible a choice! Perhaps you should write society novels. That’s what your mother excels at.’
‘You may be right but I’ve not wished to directly compete with her books.’
‘A laudable desire but I doubt whether your mother would worry about that if it meant her son achieved success,’ she replied with a twinkle of amusement in her eyes.
‘You may well be right, Mrs Grantly,’ he answered tactfully.
Their conversation was interrupted by a polite knock on the door and the housekeeper entered to announce that supper was ready. Mrs Grantly at once rose from her chair and offered to escort Trollope to the dining room where Eleanor Harding was already awaiting them. Once Mr Harding and Dr Grantly joined them, they all sat down to eat. Trollope could not help noticing how finely the room was furnished and how the table was laid with fine silver tableware. Surely the philanthropist John Hiram had never intended his bequest to result in the warden living in such splendour? Mrs Winthrop had prepared a meal that would have made even the most determined observer of Lent surrender to temptation, but the events of the day cast such a shadow over the proceedings that none of them ate very much. Nevertheless, they pretended to enjoy what they were eating and they engaged in polite conversation. In that process Mrs Grantly shared with the others what she had learned about Trollope’s literary ambitions and his connection to the famous writer, Mrs Fanny Trollope.
When they had all finished their pretence at eating, Mrs Grantly sent for Mrs Winthrop and asked her to commence clearing away the unwanted food and to bring some port. Whilst this was happening, the archdeacon requested a far more detailed account of what the bedesmen had said to the inspector during their interrogation. Mr Harding duly obliged. Trollope listened with particular interest
because it was his first opportunity to find out what he had missed by not being present during the interviews. Everyone listened very intently, even the housekeeper, who appeared to take more time over her task than was necessary. The only interruption took place when Mr Harding told them what Abel Handy had said.
‘How dare the man insinuate that one of us might be responsible!’ stormed Dr Grantly. ‘He should be horsewhipped for his impudence! I seem to recall that I told you at the time that he shouldn’t be admitted to this hospital. He’s a born troublemaker!’
What more might have been said was prevented by a knock on the front door that heralded the arrival of Trollope’s baggage. He immediately requested that he should be permitted to go to his room to unpack and attend to his ablutions before retiring for the night. The others readily assented to this and his departure acted as a catalyst for the meeting to break up.
‘I think Eleanor and I would also benefit from going upstairs to our respective rooms. I feel in need of a rest and I’m sure she does too,’ announced Mrs Grantly.
‘I think that would do both of you good,’ concurred Mr Harding. ‘I think that I’ll go for a short walk in the garden before I go to bed. I may also use the opportunity to visit some of the bedesmen to see how they are faring. It has been remiss of me not to visit them all. Do you wish to accompany me, Archdeacon?’
‘No, I’m sure you do not require my assistance. I would prefer to retire back into your study because I’ve some urgent ecclesiastical papers that require my attention before I go to bed.’
As Trollope made his way upstairs to his room, he found himself thinking about what Abel Handy had said. Someone had plunged a knife into Thomas Rider with unerring precision. Did that not point to a younger and firmer hand wielding the weapon? Most of the bedesmen were far too frail. The trouble was that he could not see any of the Harding family committing such a crime. None of them had any motive to kill Thomas Rider. Nor did any of them look like the kind of person who would commit such a crime. Mr Harding was far too kind, and his daughters both appeared to be fine women in their own respective ways. It was equally difficult to see Dr Grantly as a killer. He might be a bit pompous but Trollope suspected his heart was in the right place. That left only John Bold, but he also appeared to be a very good man. The more Trollope thought about it, the more impossible the whole thing seemed. The old men who might possibly have some hidden reason for killing Rider lacked the physical capacity to do so, while those at Hiram’s Hospital who were fit enough to commit the murder had neither the reason nor temperament to do it. Yet someone had stabbed the man that morning. Who could it possibly be? And for what possible motive?