by G. M. Best
‘Mr Trollope, can you tell me what’s going on?’ she enquired. ‘I understand why my father is distraught at having two murders here, but why is Mr Blake now seeking to question my sister and me about the matter?’ She blushed as she went on to say, ‘Surely we are not suspects?’
‘My dear Miss Harding, I hope not,’ prevaricated Trollope. ‘I’m sure that Mr Blake is simply doing what’s expected of him when two men have been murdered.’
‘But both my sister and I were away with Dr Grantly when the first murder occurred and in our beds when the second took place. We can offer the inspector no information on either crime.’
Trollope was uncertain whether to confront her with what he knew or not. ‘It’s not as straightforward as that,’ he said grimly.
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘It’s possible that Mr Rider was murdered before you and your sister left here. The inspector is therefore bound to ask you about your movements yesterday morning.’ He hesitated, still unsure whether he should say any more, and then said in a measured voice, ‘I’m sure that your answers will have put him at ease about your innocence.’ He saw from her face that this had not been the police response and decided to give her at least the opportunity to clarify what she had been doing that morning. ‘As to this morning you were up very early – I know that because you were seen walking in your nightdress in the garden – so you might possibly have seen something that might help the inspector.’
Eleanor Harding’s cheeks turned a deep red. Shame filled her face as she replied, ‘I’ve no recollection of going outside my room.’
‘But you must have!’
‘No. I assure you I’ve none.’ She saw the disbelief in his face and he saw her chew at her lips with her small pearl-white teeth. ‘You think I’m lying, sir, but I’m not.’ She spoke haltingly. Her voice sounded strained. ‘If I did leave my room I was asleep at the time.’
‘How can that be?’ he asked incredulously.
‘My father will tell you that I’ve been an occasional sleepwalker since I was a child and, when that happens, I remember nothing of what I did or where I went.’
Her confession threw a totally different complexion on the situation and Trollope was deeply embarrassed that she had been made to confide her weakness to a stranger like himself. ‘I’m truly sorry to hear that you suffer from somnambulism,’ he said apologetically. ‘Can nothing be done about it?’
‘My father has tried various doctors but their treatments have proved ineffective.’
‘Then I’m sure that Inspector Blake will be understanding over the matter.’
‘I wish that I had your confidence.’ Her voice trembled. ‘I fear it’s more likely that he will assume my sleepwalking is an excuse to hide from him what I was really doing.’
‘Then the sooner we can all get to the truth of what happened, the sooner the inspector will no longer have reason to question you,’ Trollope replied ambiguously.
‘And are you active in investigating the matter?’
‘Not officially, Miss Harding. But I’ve a vested interest in finding out the truth because I don’t think Mr Blake will let me leave Barchester until the murders are solved. I’m therefore talking to the bedesmen in the hope that one of them may say something to me that has not been said to the inspector. Many working men have a deep distrust of the police.’
‘And has any of them said anything different to you?’
For a moment Trollope wanted to tell her the rest of what he had been told. Only the fact that he had promised Crumple not to reveal the source of his information prevented him. Instead he chose his words carefully. ‘I’ve been told a number of things by different bedesmen, but I’ve nothing as yet that I can take to the inspector.’
He saw Miss Harding’s lips tremble again. Was that relief that there was no evidence yet pointing to her involvement with John Bold? Or was it disappointment that he had as yet found nothing to prove her innocence? He could not judge. His senses told him that he was looking at a pure young lady but why, if that was the case, had she been skulking in bushes talking with the surgeon? And why could she not remember her movements that morning? Was her talk of sleepwalking the truth or was it just a convenient cover?
‘I’m going out for a walk,’ she said. ‘I need some fresh air. Could you tell my father that I’m in the garden if he requires me?’
‘Most certainly, Miss Harding, but where is he?’
‘In his study. The inspector and Dr Grantly have gone to talk with Mr Bold. They think he will have finished his examination of the body by now. My father was too upset to accompany them.’
Once she had left, Trollope knocked at the oaken door of the study. He heard the warden’s voice say ‘Come in,’ and he entered.
‘I’m sorry to intrude on you, Mr Harding, but I seem to have uncovered a rather disquieting event and I think you should be the first to hear about it. From my conversations with the bedesmen it would appear that one of them saw your daughter, Miss Eleanor, walking outside in her nightclothes this morning, although she has no memory of that.’
The warden gave a deep groan. ‘I fear the murder has triggered an attack of the condition I had hoped was gone forever. As a child my daughter often sleepwalked but she has not done so for many years.’
Trollope was relieved to hear confirmation of what Eleanor had told him, but he knew he had yet to voice the more damming evidence against her. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Harding, she was also seen holding a meeting with Mr Bold in the bushes outside your house yesterday morning.’
This time the warden did not immediately speak and it was obvious that the news caused him distress. Trollope quickly proceeded to outline what Crumple had seen and heard but without divulging the source. Mr Harding listened with increasing disapproval. ‘And why has the person who saw this not reported the matter to the inspector?’ he asked.
‘He feared the inspector might misconstrue the nature of their meeting and that the story might be leaked to the outside world, damaging your family’s reputation. The bedesman concerned loves you very much, Mr Harding, and he’s kept quiet to avoid giving you any pain.’
Mr Harding was not naïve enough to be deluded as to what lay behind Trollope’s visit. ‘But he – and you – fear my daughter may be complicit in the deaths that have taken place and so you come to me,’ he said with a quiver of his lips.
‘You must recognize, Mr Harding, that it is a most unfortunate coincidence that her movements place her in a position where she could have killed both men.’
‘How dare you or anyone even think for a moment that Eleanor might be involved in these crimes! She would not hurt a fly!’
‘But what about Mr Bold?’
The warden wrung his hands with frustration. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew him. John may be a bit headstrong at times but, believe me, he’s a very fine young man.’
‘That’s not what Dr Grantly thinks,’ replied Trollope hastily.
‘I’m afraid the archdeacon is prone to make rash judgements on people. He thinks Mr Bold lacking in wisdom and prudence because he will not believe all that Mr Grantly believes. That doesn’t make Mr Bold a probable murderer! As a doctor he devotes his time to saving life, not destroying it. I’ve known him put his own life at risk on many an occasion because he would insist on treating those with contagious diseases.’
‘Then why does Mr Grantly not respect him more, even if their opinions differ?’ challenged Trollope.
‘Because Mr Bold is a man of the people in every sense of that. He fights their cause. He has witnessed such poverty that he cannot abide the injustices within our society. That makes him an outspoken critic of anything he judges wrong, including some things within the Church.’
Trollope felt his pulse racing with the adrenalin of the moment, but realized that everything the warden said rang true. ‘I accept all that you say, Mr Harding. I’ve no reason to doubt the good character of either your daughter or Mr Bold from my
dealings with them. However, some might judge their meeting to be at best inappropriate and at worst a sign of some form of plotting.’
Colour burned up the warden’s cheeks. ‘I agree their behaviour was injudicious but I suspect I’m to blame for that.’
‘In what way?’
‘John and his sister Mary spent many a day here as they grew up. I loved the lad and increasingly saw him as being the son I never had. As a consequence it’s not surprising that John became great friends with Eleanor and Susan. Sadly Susan’s relationship with Dr Grantly led to her distancing herself from John, but that made Eleanor spring increasingly to his defence. The more she defended him, the more she found herself dwelling on his qualities as a man – and, of course, the more he appreciated her. For some time I’ve feared that the two of them may have fallen in love.’
‘But if you like Mr Bold, why should that be a problem?’
Mr Harding breathed in deeply and sighed. ‘Because of my son-in-law’s antagonism to him. The harmony of my household would be ruined if John sought to marry Eleanor.’
Trollope frowned. ‘Surely you would not deny Eleanor happiness with a man she loves?’
‘Not by choice. That’s why I haven’t denied John Bold access to this house even though Dr Grantly has long wanted me to do so. What I have done is prevent Eleanor and John from having opportunity to show affection towards each other. I hoped – perhaps foolishly – that I would be able to make my son-in-law eventually see the truth about John Bold’s character.’
‘What you’re saying, Mr Harding, is that the family’s attitude may explain why Eleanor and John Bold were meeting privately in the bushes?’
The warden nodded. ‘I think my actions have made them resort to clandestine meetings.’
‘But what about the overheard conversation between them? That was not talk of love but of action that was required against someone.’
‘Eleanor may have been referring to me or to Dr Grantly.’
‘That makes perfect sense but I doubt whether Mr Blake will accept your explanation of the purpose of their meeting. The information is likely to make them his prime suspects.’
‘But they have no motive!’
‘He will seek to find one.’
Mr Harding’s normally benign face filled with anger. ‘Then he’ll be wasting his time!’ He cleared his throat and then chose his next words carefully. ‘We can only hope that Mr Blake does not get to hear about my daughter being outside this morning and about her meeting with Mr Bold yesterday. In that way he’ll concentrate on other leads he may have acquired.’
Trollope knew he was standing at a crossroads. Mr Harding was asking him to trust his version of events and to prevent the inspector hearing the bedesman’s story. Dare he take such a risk? He thought once more about his first impressions of Eleanor Harding and John Bold. Could they really be guilty of two such horrendous crimes? And what possible motive could they have? Not without some disquietude he replied, ‘I’ll not tell the inspector anything.’ He saw instant relief appear on the warden’s face. ‘I’ve no desire to provide information that would doubtless lead to two young people’s reputation being needlessly dragged through the mud by the town gossips,’ Trollope continued, ‘but we must both pray that the true cause of these murders will soon be uncovered. I can’t guarantee that my source may not also speak to others and the inspector may get to hear. If he does, both you and I will appear to have been deliberately hiding evidence from him. He won’t like that!’
‘I’ll face that situation if it arises. In the interim I’m grateful for your understanding and for the concern shown by your informant in asking you to speak to me first. Pass on to him my thanks.’
5
THE SECRET OF CATHERINE FARRELL
When Trollope left the warden’s study he decided he might speak again with Miss Harding but he could see no sign of her in the garden. He therefore decided that he should return to Jonathan Crumple and encourage him to remain silent. However, as he entered the main door of the almshouse, he was diverted from this task by the sight of John Gaunt beckoning him to enter his room.
‘Will you come in, Mr Trollope?’ the old man asked plaintively. ‘You were so very kind to me yesterday and I’m not sure who else I can turn to for advice.’
Trollope had been favourably impressed by the former gaoler the previous day, even though Gaunt had not been at his best because of his grief. He was better educated and better spoken than most of the other bedesmen and not at all the grim figure that Trollope had expected. ‘If I can help, I certainly will,’ he replied.
There was little in the way of comfort in Gaunt’s room. The furniture was old and worn and the carpet had long lost its original colour and was threadbare. The sole decoration was a large cross that hung on one of the walls. Below this stood an old lectern on which rested an ancient copy of a Bible. Judging from its tatty appearance it had been much thumbed. Trollope sat down on a plain oak chair and Gaunt slowly lowered himself into another so the two men faced each other. There was a long pause because both looked for the other to speak first. Finally the bedesman nervously wiped the side of his face and his jaw with his left hand and then asked, ‘Is there any chance that Jeremiah died a natural death?’
‘No. He was definitely murdered.’
‘Then am I right in thinking that none of us is safe until the murderer is found?’
‘I’m afraid that may be the case.’
‘But why should anyone choose to kill any of us? Each of us already has a foot in the grave. What’s so urgent that we must be sent into the afterlife ahead of the limited time that we’ve left?’
Trollope sensed Gaunt was hiding something and wondered how best to draw him out. He hesitated and then replied, ‘No one knows the murderer’s motive but we know both Thomas Rider and Jeremiah Smith were privy to some secret. I think it’s possible that they were killed because the murderer wanted to silence them. Do you agree?’ He saw Gaunt visibly pale and hazarded a guess. ‘Do you perhaps know the same secret? If you do, then you shouldn’t require me to tell you that your life may also be at risk.’
‘What I know may have nothing to do with
their deaths,’ countered Gaunt, unwittingly providing Trollope with the knowledge that he was the holder of information.
Trollope pressed home his advantage. ‘Or it may. Do you want to take that risk? Why not confide in me?’
Gaunt swallowed hard and fought back his tears. ‘Because what I know concerns Mr Harding. I’d rather die than inflict any suffering on him.’
‘He wouldn’t wish for you to also die. Why don’t you tell him what you know?’
Gaunt shuddered. ‘He already knows.’
‘Then tell me. I promise that I’ll say nothing to the police. If I know what the secret is, then I can talk with Mr Harding and perhaps he and I can together resolve these murders.’
Like Crumple before him, Gaunt was clearly uncertain what to do, but his desire for self-preservation eventually won the day and he reluctantly muttered, ‘Very well, Mr Trollope, I’ll tell you what I fear and why I fear it, even though I remained silent when questioned by the inspector and the archdeacon.’
‘I’m sure you’ve decided to do the right thing,’ Trollope reassured.
The bedesman sighed. ‘Only time will tell. You see, I’ve strong reason to believe that the killer must be one of Mr Harding’s daughters.’
‘Which one?’
‘That I don’t know, but Mr Harding will.’
‘You are talking in riddles. Please explain!’
‘The world thinks that Mr Harding has two daughters but in fact only one of them is truly his. The other is adopted and has tainted blood. I’m certain that she would do anything to keep secret her true ancestry! I told Thomas Rider about it and I suspect he told Jeremiah, even though I told him to keep the information to himself. She must have discovered that they knew and she has silenced them.’
Trollope was staggered. Could th
ere really be some dark family secret behind the murders? ‘Tell me what you know and how you came to possess the information,’ he commanded.
‘My case is an unusual one,’ commenced Gaunt, ‘because I’m the only bedesman not to have lived and worked entirely in Barchester. I was born here but my parents died when I was still a young lad. I was sent to London to be brought up by my mother’s sister and I returned to Barchester only about ten years or so ago when a protracted sickness forced me to abandon my work at Newgate Prison. And I bless the day that I came back because Mr Harding took pity on me and recommended that I should become a bedesman here. If not for his kindness I’d have ended up in the workhouse.’ The thought of what might have happened to him was sufficient to deeply disturb Gaunt. He struggled to contain his feelings and it was a while before he felt able to resume his account. ‘My apologies, sir,’ he mumbled, ‘I find it harder to hide my feelings now that I’m old.’
Trollope sought to reassure him. ‘Don’t fret, Mr Gaunt. Your feelings do you credit. Just take your time.’
‘As a child I was happy in London. My aunt was a good woman and her husband treated me as if I were his son, though I was no blood relation. I think it helped that he’d no child of his own. They made sure that I received a good education both at school and in church. He worked as a turnkey at the Marshalsea and some days he would take me with him to the cells. I’d run errands for those prisoners who had the means to make their stay in prison more comfortable. I’d purchase what they required in return for a small fee.’