by L. C. Tyler
She considers my question carefully before shaking her head. ‘No, Kit would not kill anyone,’ she says, ‘except perhaps to defend me or my father. Then he might. Jem’s killer may be a monster, or he may be desperate to protect somebody or something.’
‘Jem was no sort of threat to you?’ I ask.
‘Quite the reverse,’ she says. ‘But you will have to excuse me; I must start preparing dinner. I have some rabbits to deal with. Kit traps them and kindly brings us a few now and then. Some might call it poaching, but he says the rabbits are still ours by rights. I have to skin them and draw them myself of course. When you’ve no servants, you have to be quite handy with a knife.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I suppose most women do.’
*
The charcoal burners’ clearing is empty. No fire smoulders today, but the scent of ashes hangs in the air, and the logs are stacked and waiting. It is as I retrace my steps to the road that I meet one of Kit’s companions.
‘He had to go to the inn for the inquest,’ he says.
‘What inquest?’
‘Jem’s of course. And that man from London’s.’
‘But everyone is away in Saffron Walden,’ I say. ‘How will they be able to take evidence properly?’
I run all the way back to the inn, but by the time I get there the Coroner has come, opened the inquest, closed it and gone. Both Henderson and Jem were killed by footpads from another county. Suffolk probably. Nothing more to be done.
Jem is to buried this afternoon.
Probert is less concerned than I.
‘It is irregular,’ he concedes. ‘One might go so far as to say that it is contrary to the Law and to all precedent, but it makes little difference. I have conducted my own inquest, you might say, and formed my own views. The Coroner is clearly a good friend of the Colonel’s, and holding an unannounced inquest on market day is a stroke of genius. Payne is playing a weak hand of cards well enough.’
Probert is sitting at a table outside the inn, making do with a mutton pie, pease pudding and apples for his dinner. He offers me none, nor does he ask me to take a seat. Perhaps I was better competition than he is willing to admit.
‘How did things go with the Colonel?’ I ask.
‘As well as they might,’ he says.
I take a seat anyway. I think it is, if anything, even hotter today and would prefer that we sat inside the inn. The air is suffocating. It is like trying to breathe warm water. The sky is no longer pure blue, however. Clouds are building in the distance, and there is a sort of crackle in the air. Probert finishes chewing sheep and prepares to address me again.
‘Payne prevaricated, as I expected, and tried to tell me he had good reason for not reporting Henderson’s death. He does not like you, by the way. He feels that you betrayed Pole in a scurvy manner. He regrets Pole’s escape but blames Cobley for not keeping the village lock-up in good order. He wriggled and squirmed. He tried to tell me he was a close friend of the Lord Protector, but that was, I think, many years ago. He worries about what I shall report back to Mr Secretary Thurloe.’
‘He worries about most things,’ I say.
‘Perhaps this time with cause. I do not intend to report favourably on his zeal and efficiency.’
‘Does he know where Pole went?’ I ask.
‘He says he went north. I don’t know why he thinks that, still less why he expects me to believe it. I asked Payne about Clarges, by the way.’
‘And?’
‘He was not pleased that you had mentioned Thomas Clarges to me. He seemed to think that you had betrayed some sort of confidence, in which case I am most grateful to you. But he claims Clarges is simply an old friend who called in on his way from Scotland to London, where he had other, perfectly legitimate business.’
‘I have never suggested otherwise,’ I say.
‘Did you not? But you thought Payne’s actions suspicious. I know you said that Payne had not investigated Henderson’s murder with the eagerness that might be expected in a justice of the peace.’
‘Did you say all of that to Colonel Payne?’
‘Of course. I think you have somehow made an enemy there, but no matter. For the most part he accepts my conclusions – that Henderson was indeed close to uncovering a Royalist plot. He seemed uncertain whether it was less blameworthy to have suspected such a plot himself or to have had no inkling of it – he danced from one position to another quite charmingly. He did agree, however, that we should leave the muskets where they are for the moment.’
‘Until you have questioned Ben?’
‘Yes. Payne proposed that Jem himself might have stored the muskets there, but that seems unlikely. Of course, I see the attraction of their being gathered together by one who can no longer hang for it. Your friend’s story appears to be true, by the way – in some respects at least. A neighbour remembers being woken by the squealing of a pig being slaughtered at some early hour. So, it would seem that the Grices did go straight home at the time Dickon claims. But Dickon may not have been as sober as he would have you believe. One of his brothers says he made a bit of a mess of the pig. Blood everywhere.’
‘And your conclusion is . . . ?’
‘Your friend is telling the truth about the time of his return. Of course, that doesn’t mean he was at the inn all night. But he has given me the names of his fellow drinkers, whom I shall also need to speak to. But not yet. You say the charcoal burners were at the inquest? I shall seek them out and discover what more they can tell me. Then perhaps I shall call in at the Steward’s cottage before returning to the inn to question Mr Bowman. So, Grey, meet me here this evening. I begin to think I know who the murderer is, and Jem was right that it will surprise some in the village, though not all.’
Throughout the afternoon the clouds gather into a dark billowing mass that hangs furiously above us, a giant bruise in the sky. Far off there is a rumble of thunder like an echo of a battle fought long ago. A breeze appears from nowhere and whips the branches of the trees into a brief frenzy. Then all is still again, waiting.
It is as Jem’s coffin is being carried from the inn to the church that the first drops of rain fall, throwing up the dust. The fat, warm summer rain darkens the road spot by spot, until there is no more powdery, buff surface to be seen. The villagers far-sighted enough to bring cloaks wrap them close around, and most of the women pull shawls or their white scarves over their heads; but those bearing the coffin – and I am one – have to suffer the constant assault from the sky. We are soaked before we have reached the crossroads but trudge on bareheaded, stepping over small rivulets that spring somehow from the grass and weave across the road. There is a brief respite at the lych gate, where we huddle while the Rector says a prayer, then it is onwards to the awaiting grave.
Some clergymen might hurry a service like this for a recently arrived and scarcely noticeable inhabitant of the village, but Abraham Reading, much to our discomfort, accords Jem the respect that is due to him. We cluster around the grave as if for warmth. The church is just a looming grey mass beyond the swirling sheets of rain. Reading stands ramrod straight, water dripping from his lank hair, prayer book threatening to dissolve in his hands. He alone seems not to flinch when the lightning flashes and the thunder explodes above us.
Word has spread quickly. Most of the village is there. The Colonel stands apart from the rest, hunched in his cloak, his hat in his hands. Away from the manor house, he seems slight and insignificant. Sir Felix, at the very edge of the grave, has given his own cape to Aminta. I see him touch her shoulder and whisper something, but I can scarcely hear the Rector himself above the noise of the rain. Aminta nods. I catch her eye, and she smiles briefly. Sir Felix stands perfectly still, apparently not noticing that he is soaked to the skin. When you have faced a hail of Roundhead musket balls, this must seem very little. I will speak to Aminta once the service is over. With Pole fled, perhaps everything is not lost.
The lightning flashes again. My mother, beside me, frowns as if at an unn
ecessary interruption. She wishes to blame somebody for this downpour but cannot identify any culprit other than God. Briefly she bows her head and clasps her hands together. Prayer is my mother’s way of holding God to account.
Ben and Nell are a short distance off, sharing Ben’s – or more likely Nell’s – wrap. Ben is clearly back from the market – as is Mistress Mansell, who is enveloped in a bundle of garments of various sizes, presumably her unsold stock in trade. Will Cobley stands looking at the ground, his hat firmly crammed onto his head. I wonder if the Colonel has reprimanded him for sleeping through another murder. It’s scarcely his fault this time. Ifnot, bareheaded, looks up at the sky, then wipes the rain out of his eyes. Like Sir Felix, he disdains any cloak, and the water drips from his leather jerkin. Harry Hardy has pleaded age and rheumatism and taken shelter in the church porch. Will Warwick is creeping away to join him. I do not see the Grices, though word of the burial may not have yet reached the farm. Nor do I see Probert.
One of those assembled round the grave may well be Jem’s killer. I look at each face for some sign of guilt or remorse, but I see only weariness and suspicion. They too are wondering which of them has done this thing. Then Abraham Reading holds up his hand. We are about to sing a hymn.
Sodden earth is thudding onto the coffin lid when I see Kit come striding through the gate, his eyes searching for somebody. I should have noticed his absence too, which now seems odd. I expect him to talk first to the Rector or the Colonel, but it is me whom he approaches and draws to one side. Water drips from his hat and his clothes. There is blood on his collar.
‘Probert has been shot,’ he says.
‘Where? When?’
‘In the woods. Not far from where we found Jem. As to when . . . I couldn’t say. We found him as we were coming along the path to the church. He was lying almost on the path. A little way off we found a musket.’
‘Probert’s dead?’ I ask, aghast.
‘Not dead,’ says Kit. ‘Not yet anyway. The ball is lodged in his shoulder. He’s lost more blood than is good for a man, and I don’t know what damage the shot has done. He has a strong constitution, but God alone can say what the outcome will be.’
‘Where is he?’ asks my mother.
‘He is being carried here through the woods.’
‘Go back and direct them to the New House,’ says my mother. ‘We will take care of him. I shall go home at once and prepare. Jem will forgive me if I leave others to see him safely to his last resting place.’
My mother, as the sometime wife and unpaid assistant of a surgeon, is regularly consulted in the village on breaks and sprains and fevers and stomach ache. She and Martha prepare all manner of ointments and potions, of which I know little but which some villagers set much store by. Even in my father’s time, many preferred my mother’s ministrations to his. But a wound like this is surely beyond even her.
‘Was he able to say who shot him?’ I ask.
‘He was able to say nothing at all that made sense. He kept saying “the least expected”, as if that signified a great deal,’ says Kit. ‘Does he mean what Jem meant?’
‘Perhaps,’ I say. ‘But a name would be more helpful.’
‘He may tell us yet. And if he is capable of telling us who fired the shot, you may be better able to understand his words than others.’
‘I’ll go back to the road,’ I say, ‘and direct the men to our house.’
‘Thank you,’ says Kit. ‘Then I have done all I can for Probert. I shall stay and pay my respects here.’ He removes his hat and gives it a shake. Then, bareheaded, he walks slowly towards Jem’s grave.
‘He has a fever,’ my mother says, ‘but that is as it must be. His shoulder is now free of musket balls, and the wound is clean.’
Probert is in my bed. I have no idea where I shall sleep tonight. Perhaps none of us will sleep. We sit by the bed for an hour. Neither of us speaks. We are listening for the slightest word from Probert, but Probert sleeps soundly. That, at least, must be good. He wakes briefly, shivers and mumbles but does not look in the direction of his audience. Then he is still again.
Outside the sun is shining on the wet garden. The air is full of the freshness that you get after summer rain. I hear a horse approaching rapidly. There is an urgent banging on the door below, and Martha brings Dickon into the room.
‘He lives yet?’ asks Dickon anxiously.
My mother nods. ‘By tomorrow we shall know God’s intentions,’ she says. ‘Of course, I have already informed God what outcome would be best.’
‘It was a musket shot,’ I add. ‘The weapon is downstairs. Kit found it nearby and carried it along with him.’
‘Is it one of the muskets that you came across at the inn?’ Dickon asks. ‘I have been with the Colonel and he told me about them.’
‘Does it matter?’ I ask.
‘It would be another piece of evidence against you,’ says Dickon.
‘Against me?’
‘Listen,’ says Dickon urgently, ‘I have come to warn you that the Colonel plans to have you arrested.’
‘Arrested? For what? When Probert was shot, I must have been carrying Jem’s coffin – or at all events, at the inn beforehand.’
‘Do you know when Probert was shot?’
‘Not to the minute,’ I say.
‘Exactly,’ says Dickon. ‘But it is worse. The Colonel is also going to arrest you for Henderson’s murder. And Jem’s.’
‘But . . .’ I say.
‘He says you were out all night when Henderson was killed.’
‘True,’ I say, ‘but so were others.’
‘You were also the First Finder but failed to raise the hue and cry.’
‘Technically correct, but I did report it to the Colonel as soon as we had taken Henderson to the crypt. He was satisfied enough at the time. He said I did right.’
‘Who did he say it to?’
‘Me.’
‘Any witnesses to that?’
‘No.’
‘Then you may not be able to rely on it in court. You also destroyed or lost important evidence.’
‘What?’
‘A silver button apparently.’
‘Well, yes,’ I say. ‘I did that, but . . .’
‘And you invented a strange horseman whom you could accuse of the murder you committed.’
‘He was real.’
‘John – nobody else saw him. Not Ben, who was at the inn, nor Ifnot, who lives just beyond the inn. How can the rider be real and nobody else see him?’
‘But I saw the horse. It was in the stable. You must have seen the horse too.’
‘I saw a grey horse in the stable. Ben says it was Henderson’s.’
‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘Yes, but even if they put me on the jury, I’ll be just one of twelve.’
I sigh. ‘What else did the Colonel say?’
‘You were the only one who knew where Jem was hiding.’
‘Except Kit and the charcoal burners.’
‘Are you accusing them?’
‘Of course not,’ I say. Nor am I accusing Aminta or my mother or the Colonel.
Dickon looks at me significantly. ‘Kit apparently said that Jem refused to go with you out of the wood but preferred to risk going alone. Jem was frightened of you and would tell you nothing.’
‘I told the Colonel myself that Jem preferred to go alone,’ I say. ‘It signified nothing. Jem wasn’t frightened, just cautious.’
‘Just cautious? Again that is a distinction that you will need to explain very carefully to the jury. The Colonel says you then placed the ring, which you had stolen from Henderson, in Pole’s hat to put the blame on an innocent man.’
‘But you know that I didn’t do that. You saw the note. It was hidden under my tankard when we went to search for Jem. We were both out of the room.’
‘I was out of the room,’ says Dickon. ‘When I came back, you were standing by the table.’
In spite of the
warmth of the day, I feel a chill in the room. So, this is what fear is like. There’s more than enough to hang me there – even if my family did own the village almost from the Conquest to the time of Good Queen Bess.
‘Surely you don’t believe that I put the ring there myself?’ I say.
‘No,’ says Dickon. ‘No, of course not. But if I were asked in court, what could I reply? I’d have to answer the question truthfully. I would be under oath.’
He says this in such a sanctimonious way that I wonder if I am being paid back for approving Ben’s being cracked like a hazelnut. If so, it is a little harsh, I think. In the end, Ben wasn’t cracked at all.
‘And then,’ continues Dickon, ‘you knew exactly where to find the muskets.’
‘Probert suggested I should search there,’ I say.
We both look at Probert, who is in my bed, saying nothing.
‘I am innocent of all of these crimes,’ I say.
There is a pause during which I hope for some agreement on this point. It is my mother who eventually breaks the silence.
‘Of course he is,’ she says so sharply that Dickon actually takes a pace backwards. ‘What possible reason would John have for killing any of these people?’
Dickon is looking at my mother with a strange respect, as if she really was still the lady of the manor. He coughs nervously before he speaks.
‘The Colonel says that John, as a Republican zealot, killed Henderson, believing him to be a Royalist spy. Jem saw John at the stables that evening and fled when John later threatened him. John then had to kill Jem to stop him testifying to the Colonel. Probert was getting close to discovering Jem’s murderer, and so John crept out just before the funeral and waylaid him as he came through the wood. He then hurried back to attend the funeral as if nothing had happened.’
‘Nonsense,’ says my mother. ‘As you know well.’
‘I’m only telling you what the Colonel is saying,’ says Dickon. ‘I think that John may have upset the Colonel in some way. I tried to dissuade him, but I believe the Colonel will issue a warrant this afternoon.’
‘If I am a Republican zealot,’ I say, ‘what am I doing with a cache of Royalist muskets?’