by Alis Hawkins
Though I did not particularly want the wine, I accepted and sat down. ‘It’s kind of you to be concerned,’ I said, ‘but I believe I am managing tolerably well.’
He moved in my direction and I put my hand out to meet the glass.
‘Not lost your assistant already, I trust?’
‘I’ve sent him to deal with a potential source of information.’
‘Oh.’ Pomfrey was trying to sound mildly taken aback but he was no actor. ‘I understood that an arrest had been made. Perhaps it was foolish of me to believe that the investigation was, therefore, at an end.’
I sipped the Madeira which, as it happened, was more than tolerable. ‘The situation,’ I said, ‘is that a man has been taken into custody on the basis of an allegation contained in an anonymous note. However, I’m far from ready to re-convene the inquest.’
‘I see. And what is Inspector Bellis’s view?’
‘The inspector’s opinion on the matter is, if I may say so, immaterial. He does not arrest suspects at my behest, nor do I hold my inquest at his.’
Pomfrey raised his glass to his lips. ‘I see,’ he murmured, once more.
‘As I said, it’s kind of you to be concerned as to my progress in this matter but I really mustn’t trespass on your time any further. I’m actually here to meet with my medical witness and hear the results of the autopsy which took place yesterday.’
‘Ah. Yes. The autopsy.’ Pomfrey sounded uncomfortable, and I wondered whether I had, inadvertently, introduced the real reason for his visit. ‘Was it actually carried out on the beach?’
‘Yes. It seemed the most sensible arrangement. The shed in which the corpse had been housed was too dark and carrying out the procedure at the workhouse would have meant delaying it another day.’
‘You didn’t find it somewhat … eccentric? Irregular?’
‘I found it practical. Expedient.’
‘Yes. I see.’ Pomfrey gave a species of nervous laugh. ‘Actually, Probert-Lloyd, a question arose as to your choice of physician.’ He paused but I was not inclined to help him out. ‘Why, may I ask, did you choose Reckitt for the job?’
I sipped at the Madeira, taking my time. ‘As a former anatomy demonstrator at Guy’s Hospital, he seemed more than adequately qualified for the job.’ I could feel my blood beginning to rise to the challenge Pomfrey represented.
‘It’s just that Prendergast is generally our man,’ the magistrate said. ‘Sound fellow, well regarded. Doesn’t usually feel the need to cut a body open.’
I sipped on.
‘His word carries weight at an inquest, you see.’
‘I don’t doubt it. However, I was given to understand that Prendergast was generally very busy and that he was most unlikely to be able to perform the autopsy with the urgency I felt the matter required.’
‘Urgency?’
‘The deceased had been dead for an unspecified number of days already. I’m sure you’re aware that dead bodies are apt to decompose and present more of a challenge to those who examine them in search of evidence. Reckitt was able to attend to the matter immediately.’
‘Of course he was. He has no patients to speak of because he’s–’ Pomfrey pulled himself up.
‘A drunk?’ I suggested.
‘The word I had in mind was boor.’ I could feel Pomfrey’s eyes on me. ‘Of course, there are rumours as to his sobriety, but, speaking for myself, I’ve never seen the fellow in drink – or, at any rate, no more than anybody else. However…’ He stopped. ‘Probert-Lloyd, may I speak as one gentleman to another?’
Ho, ho! ‘Please, Pomfrey, speak freely.’
‘Thank you.’ He put down his glass, as if he needed both hands in order to say what he wished. ‘It’s just that Reckitt is a damned queer fish. Odd manner. Behaves as if common courtesy is something only other fellows worry about. Orders other men’s servants about as if they were his own. Once–’ memories prejudicial to the doctor seemed to be pressing in on Pomfrey, now – ‘sitting down to dinner at Llwyngwair, I saw him staring at one of the footmen. Observed some variety of growth on the man’s face and nothing would satisfy him but that the unfortunate fellow should sit down and have the disfigurement explained to him. And to us, seated at the table. Poor man didn’t know what to do with himself. Mortified. As, needless to say, was his master.’
‘Does that make Reckitt a bad doctor?’
‘It makes him a laughing stock!’
‘But does it suggest that he would perform a less than adequate autopsy? As far as I can see, a man who’s so seized by the need to explain medical facts that he makes a footman sit down at dinner is exactly the kind of person who should be asked.’
I heard Pomfrey sigh at my refusal to take his point. ‘Inquest juries are asked to put a great deal of faith in post-mortem examinations, Probert-Lloyd. If they’re sniggering behind their hands at the doctor’s antics – I mean to say, not calculated to help them take his opinions seriously, is it? Not to mention the odd figure he’d cut as a witness.’
I knew I should be attempting to mollify Pomfrey; the magistracy had been sufficiently antagonised by my investigations into Margaret Jones’s death to disapprove of me without further cause. But this stultifying need to preserve decorum set my teeth on edge.
‘You mean we can’t have the jury sniggering at the medical witness if they’re already laughing at a coroner who’s not only blind but has a well-known tendency to rush about the countryside investigating the death of dairymaids?’
Pomfrey’s answering silence was worthy of my father. Finally, he rose to his feet. ‘I’m sorry you can’t see your way to being reasonable about this, Probert-Lloyd. I think we’d all hoped that responsibility would steady you.’
I was relieved of the need to produce an appropriate response by a peremptory rap on the door. Before I could answer, it was swung open, and Benton Reckitt’s voice said, ‘I’m told you’re in conference with somebody, Probert-Lloyd, but I just wished to let you know that I have arrived. With my full report, as requested.’
John
Clear of town, I cantered Seren over Cardigan common and headed north. The sky was bright enough but it was getting colder and there were only a couple of hours of daylight left.
The reins in my hands were stiff and the saddle still wasn’t properly warm under me. Damp, probably. A livery stable wasn’t going to look after tack like the stables at Glanteifi. Still, at least I had my coat.
Seren slowed to a trot up the hill towards Tremain and I didn’t push her. Let her keep her strength for when there were two of us in the saddle on the way to Newcastle Emlyn. I shivered. It’d be even colder by then.
Night would bring down a frost – I could smell it in the air – so it’d be freezing on the way back to the Black Lion in the morning. And, when I got there, there was a good chance I’d find Harry waving a note from Billy Go-About to say that Teff Harris had confessed. I knew he’d hate that. He didn’t want Bellis to be right.
I didn’t feel the same at all. I’d been quite happy to see Teff Harris dragged in to the police station. The man just made my hackles go up.
But that letter…
Ask Teff Harris what he did with the dead man’s clothes after he took him out of the sea and stripped him.
Had Teff Harris stripped the body, or was somebody just trying to get him into trouble? From what he’d said about nobody being willing to take his son in, it sounded as if Harris had few enough friends amongst his neighbours. But if somebody wanted to cause trouble, why hadn’t they said they’d seen him killing the man instead of accusing Harris of stripping the body? If it was a lie, it was an odd one to tell.
At Banc yr Eithin, I stuck my head around the cottage door but the boy wasn’t there. I called for him. No answer. Damn. I’d have to tie Seren up and go looking for him.
I was threading the mare’s reins through the loop-handle of the byre door when I heard his voice.
‘Go away!’
I pulled the reins
out and pushed the thumb-latch down. The door swung in, and the first thing I saw was the boy putting his free arm up over his eyes to stop the daylight stinging them. The other arm was around the neck of a white cow.
‘You sent the police to take my father away.’
‘No, I didn’t. I was here yesterday to talk to your father but I didn’t send the police.’
He stared at me. Defiant. Disbelieving.
‘It was your father who asked me to come. He was worried about you all by yourself.’
‘I’m all right. I’m looking after Gwenno.’ He tightened his hold on the cow. She wasn’t impressed with the arm and shook her head. Mind, she was gentle with him, she’d’ve shaken her head harder to get flies off.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
No reply.
‘My name’s John. John Davies.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ The words came straight out as if he’d had nothing to do with them. Dinned-in politeness.
‘So? What is your name?’
‘Clarkson.’
Clarkson? Why hadn’t Harris painted a target on his son’s chest and given the other boys a sack of stones to throw while he was at it? They’d already have picked up their own fathers’ dislike of Teff, and a name like Clarkson would give them the perfect excuse.
‘Pleased to meet you, Clarkson.’ But there’d been a beat of silent surprise and he’d heard it. His teeth were clamped together.
‘Your father’s worried about you,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t know how long he’s going to be in’ – don’t say gaol – ‘in Cardigan and he wants to know you’re safe.’
‘I’m not going!’
‘I haven’t told you where I’m taking you yet!’
‘I’m not going anywhere. I can’t leave Gwenno. She’s in calf. She’s our future.’
She’s our future? That was straight from his father’s mouth or I was an Irishman.
‘It’s all right. Gwyn Puw’s going to come and feed her, make sure she’s safe.’
‘No. He can’t! They’ll take her!’
‘Who’ll take her?’
‘The ones who tried to take her last time he was away.’
I got it all out of him, then.
Teff Harris took work where he could find it and, while he’d been away from Banc yr Eithin, a few months earlier, some men had tried to take Gwenno from the pasture at the side of the house. Mrs Harris had been fetching milk or gone to market with butter or some such, and men with cloths covering their faces had tried to drive the cow off.
‘I jumped on her back – she always lets me ride her – and made her run away,’ the boy said. ‘The men tried to catch us but Gwenno can run fast.’
‘That was brave,’ I said.
‘I couldn’t let them steal her.’
I wondered how much of that was fondness for the cow and how much was the fear of a thrashing off his father.
‘Why did they want to steal her?’
He shrugged.
‘Did you know them?’
He shook his head.
‘But if that happened last year, your father will’ve sorted it out by now.’
The boy just shook his head again. ‘I’m not going.’
Light dawned, then. ‘You didn’t tell your father about the men, did you?’
I looked into his face. He was afraid. Of his father? Or of me making him leave the cow?
‘Can you get out of that window?’ I asked. The byre window was small but then, so was he.
‘I think so.’
‘Have you got any rope or thick twine about the place?’
He nodded and I sent him off to find it while I looked around. The job would’ve been a lot easier if this’d been a proper longhouse with a central passage and doors to the byre on one side, the house on the other. Then we could’ve just secured the passage door. But the byre’d been built on at the side of the one-roomed house and had its own separate entrance. We’d have to see to both doors.
I showed Clarkson how to tie the thumb-latch down, then left the byre and let him get on with it. A minute or so later he called out. ‘Try it.’
I tried to push the latch up from the outside but it was solid.
‘Good boy! Come out through the window, now.’
When he was out, and on his feet again, I nodded at the thick twine he’d found. ‘You’ll have to do the same to the house door. I’m going to see Gwyn Puw now – you know Mr Puw, the lime burner?’
He nodded.
‘Does your father get on with him?’ I wanted to make sure the boy was going to be safe.
He nodded again, sure.
‘Right. I’ll ask him to come up every day, if he can, until your father’s back.’ Then a thought struck me. ‘How long’s your mam been gone?’
His eyes moved about as he calculated. ‘About a week, I think.’
‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’
‘She said it’d all be over, one way or another, inside a fortnight.’
What was wrong with the sister, I wondered. Sounded like a fever if living or dying was going to be decided that quickly.
The boy’d decided he could trust me now, so I chanced a question for Harry.
‘D’you ever go down to Tresaith to help your father with the lime loads?’
‘When Mam’s here, I do.’
‘Have you ever seen an American man down there? A stranger who speaks differently?’
‘D’you mean Mrs Parry’s friend, Mr Hughes? The one with the white trousers and chequered waistcoat?’
‘Yes’ I said. ‘That’ll be him. Seen him recently?’
‘No. Not since Mam went away.’
Harry
Benton Reckitt did not ask what Pomfrey had come to see me about; in fact, he made no comment on the magistrate’s being there at all.
‘I’ve put down my observations in writing, naturally,’ he said, laying what I took to be his report on the table. ‘But, as you’re without your amanuensis, I shall summarise it for you.’
After his performance on the beach I very much doubted that he was capable of a summary, so I cut in before he could begin his organ-by-organ litany of the corpse’s redundantly healthy body.
‘I believe you said that the tumour in his brain was of interest.’
The alacrity with which he answered indicated that Reckitt was in no way put out by my redirection. ‘Yes. Of great interest.’
I took my life in my hands. ‘Can you elaborate?’
‘The tumour was impinging on the tissue around it, disrupting function.’
‘What do you mean? He couldn’t think properly?’
I heard a deep sigh as Reckitt faced the task of bridging the gulf of ignorance that separated us.
‘May I tell you a story, Mr Probert-Lloyd?’
‘If you feel it’s relevant.’
‘Thank you. I believe it will serve an explanatory function.’ He drew in a lungful of air through his nose. ‘While I was working at Guy’s, I became very interested in phrenology. I assume you know what that is?’
I had not expected to be quizzed. ‘Umm … bumps on the head?’ I stumbled before righting myself and making a more creditable attempt. ‘How the shape of the head tells us something about the character of the person?’
‘A serviceable-enough definition for a layman,’ Reckitt allowed. ‘Phrenology posited organs of the brain to which were assigned particular faculties. It was believed to be an anatomically precise science. One which would change our understanding of human nature.’
I arranged my features to show interest, fearing that any verbal response would only prolong the story he was already failing to tell.
‘The system has been discredited – at least in part– by anatomists but I, in common with many of my profession, was immensely interested in it for a time. So much so that I went to America in order to meet with like-minded professional men.
‘While I was there, I met a medical student by the name of Harlow who was als
o a student of both phrenology and brain anatomy. After I had returned to London, we continued our association via correspondence. Two years or so ago, Harlow had the immense good fortune to be consulted on the case of a man who had suffered an extraordinary injury to his brain. A steel rod – a tamping iron I believe it was called – used in the insertion of explosives into rock, had been shot, by accidental ignition of the explosive, through the man’s skull, causing extensive damage to the left front part of his brain. The rod had been fired at great velocity up through his cheekbone, behind his eye and out through the top of his skull.’
‘Not a pleasant way to die, but a swift one, I image.’
‘Oh, no, Mr Probert-Lloyd, Phineas Gage did not die. He was fortunate in having Dr Harlow as his physician. When Gage developed a cerebral infection, Harlow was able to drain it and to treat him appropriately. In a month or two, he was completely well again. But – and this is the point of my narrative, Mr Probert-Lloyd – Phineas Gage was a changed man.’