by Lynch, R J
‘I had thought of that possibility, my Lord.’
‘You had better question Jackson again. But one may lie by what one does not say as well as by what one does, and Wale has certainly been guilty of that.’
‘How so, my Lord?’
‘He said Cooper came from a godless place. Did he say how he knew that? What were his words exactly?’
‘He said the old man’s first settlement was a bay to the north of Scarborough.’
‘A bay to the north of Scarborough. An interesting choice of words. Edinburgh is to the north of Scarborough. Far to the north. My late wife’s cousin at Alnwick is to the north of Scarborough. Also to the north of Scarborough, Blakiston, but somewhat closer to it, is the port of Staithes, and that is where Reuben Cooper was born. I know that because I have business with a ship-owning family there, the Walkers. When John Walker learned that Reuben Cooper had removed here, he warned me of his slovenly and unchristian ways. It was Walker who recommended our curate.’
‘He knew him?’
‘Martin Wale also hails from Staithes, Blakiston. The Walkers are Quakers and they found Wale’s stern doctrines troublesome and so, although he was not of their Society, they wished him gone from their parish. You know a rigorous church man may make trouble for dissenters. I agreed to take him because I thought he might be a useful balance for Rector Claverley’s somewhat easy ways. I have from time to time regretted my decision, for our curate is a harsh and narrow man. But he is from the same small port as Reuben Cooper. He must have known him. I wonder why he did not choose to tell you that?’
Chapter 10
His conversation with Lord Ravenshead had given Blakiston much to think about concerning Martin Wale, but he faced the same problem as before: the knowledge that Martin Wale did not have to talk to him and would probably not do so. Dick Jackson had no such defence, for if he crossed the land agent he risked the regular work on which survival depended. When night had fallen and the labourers were returned from the fields, Blakiston went to Jackson’s cottage. Smoke was pouring from the rough chimney.
He found Jackson and Jeffrey Drabble drinking tea before a roaring fire. ‘I wish to speak to Jackson alone, Drabble,’ he said. ‘Do me the favour of waiting outside.’
When Drabble had gone, Blakiston moved close to the fire. ‘What is this?’
‘This, Master? It is a fire.’
‘I know it is a fire, Jackson. I can see that it is a fire. What I want to know is what you are burning on it.’
‘That, sir? It is a bucket.’
‘A bucket.’
‘Yes, Master. Someone left it in my garden. It was too damaged to be used as a bucket, which I suppose is why it was left, but I thought it would make a good fire. Which it does, sir. As you can see. Although it has an unpleasant smell to it.’
‘Someone left it in your garden.’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘But of course you have no idea who that someone might have been.’
‘No, Master.’
‘How are your relations with the curate?’ When Dick looked puzzled, he went on, ‘Come, man. It is a simple question. Mister Wale. Do you dislike him?’
‘I...but, Master...I have no...relations with the man. He is the curate. I am a labourer. I am nothing to him. Why should he care about me?’
‘You told me you heard him arguing with Reuben Cooper shortly before Cooper’s death.’
‘Aye, sir. I did.’
‘And if I suggest you made up that story to cause trouble for Mister Wale?’
‘But, Master. Why should I do that?’
‘Or to draw attention away from your own involvement in Cooper’s murder?’
‘No, Master.’
‘And Cooper? Did you get on well with him?’
‘No-one got on well with Reuben Cooper, Master. He was not one to make friends.’
‘But you, Dick Jackson. Did you have more reason than most to dislike him?’
Jackson stared at Blakiston. Something was going on behind that expressionless face. Of that the overseer was certain.
‘You were neighbours. You lived in the next cottage. You must have had dealings with him. It can not have been otherwise.’
‘No, Master.’
‘Then tell me.’
‘No-one ever saw Reuben Cooper working for others, Master. It seemed he did not need to.’
‘And so you believed he had money. And you killed him for it.’
‘No, Master. I swear it. I am innocent of this. I meant only that he would be at home when I and others were in the fields, labouring for one of the farmers.’
‘Yes?’
‘I have chickens, Master. Like most people here. I depend on the eggs. Sometimes when there should have been eggs there were none. I believe Reuben Cooper took them.’
‘Did you ever confront Cooper about these missing eggs?’
‘Often. He laughed at me. And there was the business of the cow.’
‘The cow.’
‘On days when I have work for a farmer, I take my cow to the common grazing before the sun is up so that I can tether it on the best grass. More than once I have returned at night to find Reuben Cooper’s cow tied where mine had been, and mine roaming where it would. I have been fined for allowing my cow to graze where it should not. And I know I tied the beast securely.’
‘And so you lost your temper and killed him.’
‘Master, I did not kill Reuben Cooper. I am an old man, Master. I was born in the first year of the reign of the first George. I shall be forty-nine on my next birthday, if I reach it. Soon I shall be dead. But I do not want to die at the hands of the hangman.’
‘Well, Dick Jackson, you have much to answer. I find you burning a bucket that was left after Cooper’s house burned down...’
‘What? But sir...’
‘...destroying whatever may have been within it and preventing us from knowing. Was it blood, Jackson? That is what I believe, and what I wish to know, and you have prevented me from ever finding out.’
‘Master, someone left it here...’
‘Aye, so you say. Did anyone see this someone? May I seek this someone out and ask him? No, I thought not. And you were an enemy of Cooper, with reasons to wish him dead. I shall leave you now to think about your immortal soul. I have a good mind to call the Constable this minute and have him arrest you to face a charge of murder. But you are going nowhere. I shall be back, Jackson, and back, until you have satisfied me of your innocence, or confessed your guilt.’
When Blakiston had ridden off, Dick Jackson heard his friend Jeffrey Drabble at the door. ‘You are pale,’ Drabble said.
‘The man thinks I killed Reuben Cooper. Or he says he does.’
‘But you did not?’
‘I did not.’
‘Then you should fear nothing.’
‘He is asking questions. He will find out about the Dobson boy.’
‘That was thirty years ago.’
‘I tell you, the man will not let go. He wanted to know my relations with Mister Wale. As if the likes of us have relations with the likes of him. And this bucket...well, I shall not tell you what he said about this bucket. He said I told him of the argument between Reuben Cooper and the curate to take suspicion away from me.’
‘Argument? You said nought of this to me.’
‘Aye, well. Sometimes ‘tis best to keep your mouth shut. As I wish I had with yon overseer.’
‘What did they argue about?’
‘I heard little. Cooper was ranting about a bairn, I know not which. The curate just ranted.’
‘Did you tell the overseer about the bairn?’
‘I told him nothing. He warned me about my immortal soul. As if we did not see his cur
led lip in church on Sundays. He no more believes in an immortal soul than he thinks that witches can fly.’
‘You never saw Eliza Swain on her broomstick?’
‘This is not a matter for laughing, man. He’d stretch my neck with a rope and not think twice.’
Chapter 11
Next morning, Kate had her second lesson with Mistress Wortley. In truth, she was making more progress in learning how a woman of importance might speak than in the matter of reading and writing, but already she was the first member of the Greener family who could write any letters at all. When she came out onto the green, she found her bright pinkness of the previous Sunday repeated, for there was the very man who had caused it.
Blakiston sat his horse, a sheet of paper spread out across its broad neck. He looked up to satisfy himself where some landmark was, and then returned his gaze to the paper before him. Kate saw an opportunity to slip past him unobserved, and took it.
‘Kate Greener!’
The voice ringing out sent her heart into her worn down shoes. She stopped and turned. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘You have lived here longer than I. Look at the grass track between those two pillars. What path is that, do you think? And who owns it?’
‘Sir, I do not know who owns it. It has been there as long as I have lived. But the cottagers are not allowed to drive their cattle there. Only the two farms beyond the church can do that.’
‘The Bishop’s farms. As I thought. His Lordship bought the title to my house from the Bishop of Durham, and this map shows that the track belongs to my house. The Bishop’s farmers are misrepresenting the boundaries, to their master’s benefit and the detriment of mine.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Well, we shall see about that.’
Kate, who had not the faintest idea what the man was talking about, was further hampered by a sort of shock that had passed through her when his eyes bored into hers. She stood mute.
Blakiston smiled. ‘Forgive me. I am cross at the idea that my employer’s generosity might have been abused. And you are Kate Greener, who I am told seeks to better herself. Oh, come, you are the talk of the parish dining tables.’
If she had been mute before, a new word was needed to describe how Kate felt now. The talk of the parish dining tables? Her? The words she longed to find simply refused to appear.
‘And there are fears that your sister Lizzie may be mad. Is she?’
Speechlessness was replaced by fury. Had her beloved sister suffered as she had, only to have her pain talked about by strangers? Lord Ravenshead’s agent might be the most handsome man ever to grace the parish of Ryton, but no-one had the right to turn Lizzie’s hurt into amusement for his own pleasure. Kate seized her petticoats in her hands. Her face set in anger, she stalked away.
It took her some moments to realise that she did not walk alone. However fast she attempted to move, Blakiston’s fine chestnut horse kept pace. When she turned, its head was almost over her shoulder. She stopped.
There was an unfairness about this. Kate had never felt such injustice before, but she felt it now. Her face with its set mask of rage stared at the agent’s smile. She was a labourer’s daughter. He was a man of power and influence. She had to give way.
She could not.
Blakiston, she could tell, was at ease and enjoying himself. ‘Do you normally walk away when someone speaks to you?’
If Blakiston decided to punish her family, they would be destroyed. She knew that. She must make her peace.
She could not.
‘Sir,’ she said. Her voice trembled in passion, but she refused to raise it. ‘My sister Lizzie is not mad. What she is, is angry.’
Blakiston smiled. ‘I heard some man had slighted her.’
For the first time in her life, Kate saw how she and her class seemed to those above them. This man was amusing himself. He saw a young woman in helpless anger and he enjoyed a few moments sport with her. Well, she would not have it. ‘No man slighted my sister,’ she said. ‘Amnon took his way with Tamar, and another man has taken his way with my sister, and against her will. Do you think God does not see this? Do you think God will not punish the man who took my sister? Is she to smile, and walk as though she did not mind, because he is rich and she is poor?’
The smile had disappeared from Blakiston’s face. What she saw there now was compassion. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I did not know. Your sister should not have been the butt of humour. Tell me who did this thing and I will see him brought to justice.’
The kindness in his eyes softened the fury in hers. ‘Master, I cannot, for you could not. He is much more powerful than you. You could do nothing, and Lizzie would suffer again, and this time for speaking of what he did to her.’
She could not read the expression on Blakiston’s face, but she knew it was not hostile. After a few moments silence, he held down his hand. ‘Come, Kate Greener. I should not have spoken to you as I did. Get up before me and I shall carry you home. I am on my way to see Jeffrey Drabble and I must pass that way.’
‘Sir, I cannot.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ He wrapped a strong arm around her waist and hoisted her into the air. Kate knew a second of terror and then was placed firmly in front of Blakiston’s saddle. There was a click from his tongue and the sharp slap of the reins across the horse’s neck and they were moving towards the edge of the village and Kate’s home.
When he had delivered Kate, Blakiston went looking for Jeffrey Drabble. He saw the look of trepidation on the man’s face as he approached. No doubt he had heard of the conversation with Dick Jackson and did not relish taking his own turn in an interrogation. Well, that might be all to the good.
‘You are a friend of Dick Jackson?’ Blakiston began.
Drabble nodded.
‘You have known him a long time?’
‘Our mothers were sisters. Dick is my cousin. We were born on the same day and christened on the same day. We gleaned and gathered acorns and kindling as children together. We hired ourselves out as day labourers for the first time on the same day.’
‘Married on the same day?’
‘Dick never married, sir.’
‘He is a man of little appetite?’
‘He is a man like any other, Master.’
‘What does he do, then, for female company?’
‘What I do myself, since my Nell died thirty year ago giving birth to our son. He pays for it.’
‘Any woman in particular?’
Drabble’s eyes took on a faraway look. ‘Ah, master. You should have known Dick and me when we were young. After Dick came back from the wars. We were not the broken old men you see today. When we’d collected our pay from whomsoever we were working for, or when mebbes one of us had sold some eggs, or a bit of pork from the pig, we’d take water from the well and wash ourselves. We’d brush our breeches and take our best waistcoats and we’d ride into Newcastle behind old Sticky Bainbridge.’
‘Who?’
‘The carter, Master. They called him Sticky because he had a wooden leg. He was wounded in the militia, and Sir Thomas gave him a bit pension. Sir Thomas Liddell, Master. Him as was Lord Ravenshead’s father. Sticky commuted it to a lump sum and bought himself a horse and a cart. Sticky’s gone now, sir. Dead these many years. When we got to Newcastle, Dick and me would find a stew and take a pint of ale and cast an eye over the house’s wares. Then we’d choose two. Sometimes, when money was plentiful, we’d take a meal after the first two and choose two more later in the day. When we’d got our strength back, you know.’
‘Bainbridge would be waiting for you all this time?’
‘Bless you, sir, no. Sticky would be home tending to his beast long before we’d be ready to leave the nest. Many’s the time, sir, Dick and I have walked the eight mile home in the middle of the night, just the
moon to guide us. Sometimes not even that. We’d hear the church clock sound the hour. Then we’d sluice ourselves down with water from the well, smoke a pipe of tobaccy and go straight into the fields for three hours before breakfast.’
Drabble’s eyes took on the reflective look of someone whose mind is focussed on the past. ‘My mother was a pious old bird, Master. Always in the church about summat. She remembered that clock being put in when she was a girl. I don’t think she’d have liked knowing what we’d been doing when we heard it striking three of the morning. And while we were working, every time we went into the hedge, over the stink of the piss we’d catch the smell of some scented strumpet we’d been with. Oh, they were happy days, Master. You wouldn’t notice how tired you were because you were so easy in yourself. A woman relaxes a man, sir, like nothing else in this world can. Well. I’m sure you know that yourself. If you don’t mind me saying so, sir.’
‘And now? Who do you and Jackson pay for her favours now?’
‘Well, sir, you don’t need a woman so often when you get to our age. But when we do, Master, Mary Stone gives us what we need. Like she does everyone else around here.’
‘Everyone?’
‘Everyone, sir. If she’s good enough for yon curate, she’s good enough for the likes of us.’
‘Drabble, I suggest you think twice before you say a thing like that. I have already suspected your cousin of casting doubt on the curate to take attention away from his part in Reuben Cooper’s death. Take care you do not join him in my suspicions. And, now that I think of it, you were there in Jackson’s house when he was burning the bucket. What can you tell me about that?’
‘Bucket, sir?’
‘Do not play the innocent with me, Drabble. A bucket was left in the church porch. It came from the wreckage of Reuben Cooper’s cottage. There was good reason to suppose it had blood in it and I intended to have Mister Foster, the cattle doctor, examine it under his microscope. But I could not, because someone had removed it. And then I found it on Dick Jackson’s fire, and you and he warming yourselves before it. How did it get there? Can you answer me that?’