Degree of Solitude

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  She could see the scarred cheek did not move when he spoke. It stayed frozen around the red, thick line which scored it from the corner of his mouth to the corner of his eye. The scar was not horrible at all. She had been braced for a monstrosity which made him appear deformed, yet it was just a scar. Red, yes. Thick and new and highly visible, but that was all.

  She realized she had stopped speaking. Catrin hurried on. “They are taking the body to Dr. Jones to examine, so they will be better able to tell when she died after that, won’t they?”

  “You should go with them and find out,” Daniel said.

  “Me?”

  “It is traditional for the lords of the land to take such matters in hand,” Daniel said. “If I were… It would be appropriate for me to investigate alongside Nevern and Kernigan. You must go, instead.”

  “Kernigan will not agree to that.” After all, he had failed to introduce his wife, last night.

  Daniel scowled. “Then make him agree to it!” he snapped. He hissed and brought his hand to his temple and rammed his fingers against his skull, on the same side as the scar. “You know how to win your way with recalcitrant gentleman. You’ve been doing it for years.”

  Catrin stepped back. His tone! There was such harshness and lack of caring in it. It was a tone he had never used with her before. Not until yesterday.

  He saw her shift and move back. He slapped the notebook in front of him, making the pencil jump and drop to the floor with a soft clatter. “Do not do that!”

  She brought her hand to her throat as it tightened and made breathing difficult. “Do what?” Her heart threw itself again her chest.

  He leapt to his feet. “Fear me!” he ground out. He paused and brought both hands to his head, his fingers thrusting into his hair. He closed his eyes.

  “You’re not the Daniel I remember,” she whispered.

  Daniel dropped his hands. He looked at her squarely, his clear eyes steady. “No, I am not,” he agreed, his voice still harsh. He swayed and squeezed his fists. “I am returning to my room,” he added. “Tell them I saw nothing. Heard nothing. I cannot be of assistance.”

  He moved to the door which gave access to the stairs. His path was not erratic, but it was not quite straight, either.

  Catrin watched him go, her heart thudding unhappily and her eyes aching. She wanted to go after him and talk to him. She wanted to fix whatever it was which had just reared up between them like a guard dog snarling at the gate.

  They had always been able to talk, before.

  Now, she didn’t know if he would tolerate discussion. And besides, Nevern was waiting. She had no time to deal with this.

  Catrin moved back out to the front door. She unhooked her shawl from the big bronze hooks hanging along the wall. There were umbrellas and coats and hats hanging from the hooks, too.

  Despite the size of the house and its grand name, it felt more like a farmhouse in many respects. Possibly, it had started life in that role.

  Gwen came through the door which led to the kitchen and servants’ quarters in that wing. “Miss?” she asked, when she saw the shawl in Catrin’s hands.

  “Would you mind running upstairs and getting my jacket for me—the tweed with the blue buttons? Please hurry. The Baron and the Mayor are waiting for me.”

  Gwen nodded. “At once, Miss.”

  Startled, Catrin watched her run up the stairs. Gwen had never used that expression before. Now she and Sayers were both using it.

  Gwen hurried back down, shaking out the jacket and holding it out to her. “I heard there was trouble in the village, Miss.”

  “How did you hear that?” Catrin asked, startled, as she pushed her arms into the jacket and buttoned it swiftly. She took the shawl back from Gwen and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  Gwen grinned. “The Baron and the Mayor call here together? There’s trouble afoot.”

  Catrin gave a soft laugh. “Very perceptive of you, Gwen. There is trouble. I’m about to find out more. Mr. Williams has gone back upstairs. Tell me…is there any salicylic powder in the house?”

  “What on earth is that, ma’am?” Gwen asked bluntly.

  Catrin hesitated. “Willow bark extract,” she amended, using the common source of salicylic powder.

  “Oh, yes, miss. I believe Cook has some in the pantry.”

  “Have a half tablespoon of the powder mixed in water or tea and given to Mr. Williams, please,” Catrin told her.

  She moved out into the courtyard and watched Nevern take in her jacket and shawl and the reticule on her wrist.

  “I am afraid Mr. Williams neither saw nor heard anything last night,” she said. “I presume you are about to visit Dr. Jones’ surgery, to find out more about the poor woman?”

  “You don’t think you are coming with us, do you?” Kernigan said, his tone sharp. “It’s no place for a lady, where we go next.”

  “I am acting on Mr. William’s behalf,” Catrin replied. “Surely you do not want him under the impression you disapprove of his decisions?”

  Kernigan’s mouth opened and closed.

  “Or should the entire affair be turned over to the constable?” Catrin asked, before he could recover enough to string a sentence together. “Newport does have a police constable, does it not?”

  “It does,” Nevern replied, his tone smooth. “You met him last night. Young Simon Evans, of the Haverfordwest Borough of the Pembrokeshire Police Force.”

  “That is very forward of Newport, to have a police constable assigned to the town.”

  Kernigan looked mollified at the praise, but still unsettled.

  Nevern’s smile was mischievous, as if he knew what Catrin was doing. “Simon is a local lad. His father works in the quarry. So does Simon, when the work is there.”

  She thought of the earnest young, rounded face of Simon, who had sat across from her at the dinner table. He would have no sway with these two gentlemen.

  “Let’s move on, shall we?” Nevern said. He called up to the driver, “Dr. Jones’ house, please!” Then he opened the door to the carriage and held his hand out to Catrin.

  Before Kernigan could protest once more, she stepped up into the carriage and settled on the back-facing seat. It would allow Kernigan and Nevern to take the forward-facing seat, which would further smooth Kernigan’s feathers.

  The pair settled on the seat and Kernigan closed the carriage door. Nevern reached up and knocked on the roof.

  Catrin glanced at the windows of the drawing room as they rounded the plinth. She could see nothing beyond them. They were as faceless and blank as Daniel’s gaze had been.

  Chapter Seven

  The carriage rounded the corner of the narrow road and moved onto the wider road which the stage coach had used yesterday, when Nevern said, with a touch of discomfort. “Oh, my lord…!”

  Kernigan looked at him.

  Nevern glanced at Catrin. “Perhaps it is as well you are with us. A lady’s presence might…” He pushed to his feet and opened the carriage door and leaned out of the moving vehicle to speak to the driver.

  The driver shouted back. The carriage swayed as it changed directions.

  Nevern settled back on the seat.

  “The Jones family lives by the Parrog,” Kernigan said.

  Nevern nodded. “And Jones is in Carmarthen at the moment, testing for his blasting certificate.”

  “Oh, dear…” Kernigan said. He glanced at Catrin.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Jones,” Catrin said. “Are they the young lady’s family?”

  “Indeed,” Nevern replied. “Blodwen was found by quarry men on their way to the morning shift, Jones wouldn’t have been one of them. The mine manager, Owens, would expect someone else to take care of telling the man.”

  “No one has told Mrs. Jones yet,” Catrin murmured, her heart aching for the poor woman. “It is just as well I am here.”

  The cottage of Mr. and Mrs. Colwyn Jones was close enough to the wharf—the Parrog—that the squawk of gulls and o
ther birds hovering over the returning fishing boats, hoping for fresh pickings, was loud.

  The stench of brine was strong enough to make Catrin’s nose wrinkle.

  The cottage was small, with neither lace nor drapes at the two tiny windows. The door was unpainted and stained a silver-gray by wear and weather. The walls had once been white. Smoke and mud from the street had turned them a dull gray, too.

  It took several minutes of knocking for anyone to respond to Nevern’s hail. The woman who opened the door had red-rimmed eyes and a drawn face. Her clothes were plain but neat. She clutched the hem of her apron in her hand and used it to dab at her cheeks.

  “Baron Nevern…” Her chin wobbled and fresh tears spilled. “You’re here about my darling Blodwen, then?”

  Nevern cleared his throat, looking acutely uncomfortable. Kernigan said nothing. He looked at his feet.

  Catrin pushed past both men. “We are, Mrs. Jones. I’m so sorry about your daughter. Such as pity. Shall we step inside? Let me put on the kettle and make you a cup of tea. Then you can tell me all about Blodwen.”

  She took Mrs. Jones’ arm and drew her gently back into the cottage. Like many such small abodes, the entire front half of the cottage was a single room with a kitchen at one end and chairs around a fireplace at the other. A peat fire burned in the fireplace.

  The two doors leading off the room would be bedrooms—one for the parents and the other for any children. No one else was in the cottage but Mrs. Jones, not even a neighbor.

  Mrs. Jones let Catrin lead her to the small table and seat her on the bench beside it. Catrin patted her shoulder.

  She glanced at Nevern and Kernigan as they moved into the room behind them. “Why don’t you talk to Mrs. Jones while I make tea?”

  She put her shawl on the table and set about stirring the fire in the stove, pushing the hottest coals beneath the plate. Then she ladled water into the large kettle from the bucket sitting on the counter and put the kettle on to boil.

  When the tea was made, Catrin put the pot and the three cups she found on the shelf above the fire on the table and seated herself on the same bench as Mrs. Jones.

  Mrs. Jones was telling a story to the men about Blodwen’s caring nature. “…almost every day, it seems like, she would sit with Nancy Howell. Poor woman has naught but two or three marbles left upstairs and is like to forget to eat and die that way. Blodwen still visits, though, when most neighbors find themselves too busy for the task. That’s Blodwen for you…” Mrs. Jones hesitated. Her chin crumpled. “That was Blodwen,” she whispered.

  Catrin patted her hand, then poured the tea. As there were only three cups, she didn’t take one herself. “My name is Catrin Davies, Mrs. Jones. I am cousin to the Honorable Mr. Williams, who is living at Ysgolheigion.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Davies,” Mrs. Jones said, between sniffs and dabs.

  “Who broke the news to you, Mrs. Jones? Baron Nevern came here as directly as he could, to make sure you didn’t hear it from whispers in the street.”

  The smile Nevern gave Catrin was one of gratitude for her championship.

  Mrs. Jones gave another great sniff. “Emily Floyd—she being from the house on the other side of this one—her son came home from the quarry as soon as he heard. Tommy knows my Colwyn is in Carmarthen right now. Emily and Tommy came over just a while ago and told me what the early shift found.” She pressed her apron to her mouth. “Is it true, some wild animal tore her to pieces, my Lord?”

  “We are still determining that, Mrs. Jones,” Nevern said, discomfort making his face turn pink.

  “You can help us learn what happened,” Catrin told her. “Would you like to do that?”

  “Yes!” Mrs. Jones said stoutly.

  Both Nevern and Kernigan relaxed.

  “Did Blodwen visit Mrs. Howell yesterday?” Catrin asked her.

  “Why yes…almost directly after the nooning, she said she would take a long visit with Mrs. Howell, as she had missed a day or two.” Mrs. Jones pressed her lips together, then added softly, “She was thoughtful, that way.”

  “So, straight after your noon meal, Blodwen walked to Mrs. Howell’s house to visit her.”

  “Not that it’s a taxing walk,” Mrs. Jones added. “Mrs. Howell lives just next door, you see.”

  “Oh, I do see.” Catrin gave her a smile. “The house on the other side from the Floyd’s, then.”

  Mrs. Jones gave her a tremulous smile.

  “Do you know what time she left Mrs. Howell?” Catrin asked.

  Mrs. Jones’ smile faded. “She didn’t come home after that.”

  “It didn’t worry you that she was out after dark?”

  Mrs. Jones gave a soft snort. “Everyone in Newport knows Blodwen. No one would want to hurt her. Blodwen has roamed the village freely since she was taller than the door handle. She liked to visit, did my Blodwen.” Mrs. Jones swallowed. “Her soul is free to wander where it will now, I guess.” She covered her face with her apron.

  Catrin pushed the woman’s teacup closer and rested her hand on Mrs. Jones’ shaking shoulder. She glanced at Nevern and Kernigan. Nevern raised his brow.

  “Perhaps we should speak to Mrs. Howell, while we are here?” Catrin asked softly. She got to her feet. “Shall I ask Mrs. Floyd to come and sit with you, Mrs. Jones?”

  Mrs. Jones shook her head. “Emily is busy with her five. I can’t impose.” She dropped her apron. “I’ll be all right,” she added. “It keeps coming back to me, like I’m just hearing it for the first time, you see…”

  Catrin picked up her shawl and waited for the two men to get to their feet.

  As they moved out of the cottage once more, Kernigan let out a slow, long breath. “There’s little point in talking to Nancy Howell,” he said, keeping his voice down. “She is as addled as Mrs. Jones described.”

  “While we’re here, it might be worth speaking to her,” Catrin said, stepping out of the tiny front yard and walking to the gate in front of the next yard. “This house is hers?” she asked.

  “It is,” Nevern said. “Why would you be wanting to speak to her? What is it you are thinking, Miss Davies?”

  “Do you not wonder why a young girl—how old was she, by the way?”

  “Oh, perhaps nineteen,” Nevern said. “Certainly a marriable age.”

  “Why would a young girl of marriageable age and a sweet and caring disposition, according to her mother, be out upon the Preseli hills at night?” Catrin asked as she moved down the narrow path to the front door of the next cottage. She rapped sharply on the door and turned to look at the two men.

  “Does it matter?” Kernigan asked. “Once talk of a rogue wolf moves around Newport, no one else will linger there at night.”

  “She was the wandering type,” Nevern added. “Even her mother said so.”

  The door opened slowly and a single, rheumy eye peered at them. It blinked. Then the door opened a little more. Catrin smiled as warmly as she could. “Mrs. Howell?”

  The bent, old woman nodded, her head shaking with the movement. “Aye, I am.”

  “May we come in? I’d like to speak to you about Blodwen Jones.”

  “Blodwen?” Mrs. Howell’s worn and wrinkled face shifted into a small smile. “A lovely girl, that Blodwen. Pretty. Come in, come in.”

  The cottage was almost identical to the Jones’ house, but considerably less tidy and clean. On a rickety table pulled close to the fire was a basket holding balls of wool for knitting. A skein of wool was spread upon the table. Mrs. Howell was in the middle of winding a ball.

  She sat in front of the skein once more and picked up the half-wound ball and wound it.

  The two men hovered by the door.

  Catrin sat on the bench beside Mrs. Howell. “What time did Blodwen leave, yesterday, Mrs. Howell?”

  “Yesterday?” Mrs. Howell repeated. She blinked, her focus returning to the movement of her arms as she wound the ball, following the large round outline the skein made on the ta
ble. Her fingers were thin, the skin fine and the bones lifting it sharply. Her flesh was liver-spotted with age. “I don’t remember,” she admitted. Her watery eyes lifted to look at Catrin. “I sometimes don’t,” she added. “Why do you ask?”

  “Blodwen is…missing,” Catrin said. It wasn’t a lie, and she was unwilling to upset this fine old lady.

  “Missing? Oh, nonsense. She’ll turn up,” Mrs. Howell said. “Out upon the hills I imagine—she loved them so. Or she might be stepping out with that young man of hers.”

  “Young man?”

  “The Irishman,” Mrs. Howell said. “From the quarry.”

  Nevern drew in a sharp breath and Catrin glanced at him. He was nodding.

  “Who are you people?” Mrs. Howell said sharply, lowering the ball of wool. “What are you doing in my house?”

  Catrin’s heart gave a large thud. Mrs. Howell’s face was filled with fear as she looked from the men to Catrin and back. She shook.

  Catrin got to her feet and held out her hands, her palms up. “We are just leaving, Mrs. Howell. Do not worry yourself. We can see ourselves out.”

  “I don’t know you! Who are you? Why are you here?”

  Nevern opened the cottage door and the three of them stepped through hurriedly and closed it.

  Catrin let out a deep breath. She was shaking as badly as Mrs. Howell. She rested her hand on the door. “Oh, the poor thing!” She looked at Nevern and Kernigan. “Who takes care of her?”

  “Her husband, I imagine,” Kernigan said. His tone was disinterested. “We should repair to Dr. Jones’ surgery. We’ve wasted enough time.”

  Nevern looked thoughtful as he stood aside to let Catrin precede him along the path to the gate. They were in the carriage and underway once more when he said to Catrin, “So Blodwen may or may not have been there yesterday.”

  “Did you notice the balls of wool in the basket?” Catrin asked him.

  “Wool?” Kernigan said, and snorted. He turned his attention to the passing scenery.

  “I saw there were balls of wool in the basket on the table. What of them?” Nevern said.

  “The ball of wool Mrs. Howell was winding was loose and untidy. It will unravel the moment she puts it down. There was one other loose ball in the basket. The rest were firmly wound, neat and tidy.”