by Alis Hawkins
‘I imagine he was. Such a close brush with death must change a person.’
‘No! It was not through gratitude to be alive that Gage was changed. Nor did he repent of previous sins and resolve to live a better life. It was entirely the other way about!’
‘How so?’
The doctor had not needed prompting; he was already answering before the question had fully left my mouth. ‘Prior to having an iron bar tear through his brain, Phineas Gage had been known as a capable and intelligent man. He was efficient, energetic and shrewd and was regarded with great respect by both his employers and the men who worked under him.’
Reckitt paused, but I was beginning to realise that these narrative gaps were not designed to invite a contribution from his listener; they simply allowed him to order his next set of thoughts.
‘Following his physical recovery, however, those who knew the man described him as “no longer Gage”. He became impulsive, unreliable, surly. He took risks he would never previously have countenanced and appeared unperturbed by their consequences.’
‘And you put this down to the accident he had suffered?’
‘More specifically, I attribute it to the damage inflicted on hisbrain, Mr Probert-Lloyd. Though much of phrenological theory is now disregarded, I have no doubt whatsoever that its principal tenet – that particular functions are localised within specific areas of brain tissue – is correct. And, from the damage done to Phineas Gage, Harlow deduced – and I concur – that the moral character of a man is located in the front part of the brain, here.’
He raised a hand to tap his forehead.
‘Dr Harlow is now devoted to looking for further evidence of our theory, particularly in those who have died after becoming, like Gage, not themselves. But his research is being hampered by the reluctance of relatives to allow autopsies to be carried out.’
Though I did not say so for fear of provoking him, my sympathies lay with the relatives rather than the inquisitive doctor. ‘So,’ I said, ‘to bring us back to your autopsy, you believe – if I understand you correctly – that the tumour growing in the brain of the dead man would have affected his character?’
‘I believe it is highly probable.’
‘And how quickly might this have happened?’
‘If I had a hundred tumours and their attendant case histories I would know the answer to your question, Mr Probert-Lloyd! But I haven’t!’ Reckitt was impassioned rather than impatient and a sudden suspicion bloomed in my mind.
‘Do you perform autopsies on the paupers in the workhouse?’
He did not hesitate. ‘If necessary.’
‘And by necessary, you mean…?’
‘I mean, as I imagine you would, in order to understand their death.’
‘Whether or not there is an inquest?’
‘As you will know, an inquest is always supposed to be conducted when a death occurs in a public institution,’ Reckitt said. ‘But if the death follows a period of obvious disease or decline, often the magistrates see no need to involve the coroner.’
I knew he was right. The investigation of workhouse deaths was, effectively, an extension of the obligatory inquiries into deaths in prison or police custody where, as I had indicated to Bellis, the use of force might well be suspected. But, whilst deaths in poor law union premises were hardly a rare occurrence, they were usually due to old age and infirmity rather than anything more reprehensible.
‘So, in the absence of calls for an inquest, if you suspect that the deceased had been suffering from a growth on the brain, you ask for the body to be released to you in order to perform a dissection?’
‘If I’ve been attending the patient, I believe I have a moral right to do so.’ Reckitt paused and made a gesture which I was not quick enough to interpret. He might have been running a hand over his face.
‘When the requirement was introduced for deaths to be certified before they could be officially registered,’ he said, ‘I believe most medical men saw it as a way of earning another fee for attendance. As a matter of fact, some doctors of my acquaintance are notorious for decamping from a bedside where they suspect that death is imminent so that they will be obliged to come out again to certify the death.’ He paused for a second as if he was passing judgement upon such behaviour. ‘But some of us see certification in another light entirely. It represents – or could represent – an unparalleled opportunity to look at illness and death not just on an individual basis but on the basis of whole populations. If certification demanded universal post-mortem examination, we could look at what illnesses claim most lives, compare the age at which individuals succumb to those illnesses, see the districts or counties where diseases of particular kinds are most prevalent! We could, in short, begin to look at cause and effect. At the conditions prevalent in particular locations or professions that lead to declining health and premature death.’
He stopped but I did not know what to ask him. I could not see the point he was trying to make in relation to the corpse on Tresaith beach.
‘I conceived the idea that if I could identify those workhouse inmates whose circumstances had deteriorated prior to their being admitted, I might be looking at a sub-population of individuals whose illness had precipitated such circumstantial decline. And, of those illnesses, some would reside in the brain.’
‘And you became the workhouse doctor in order to further your research?’
This time the silence which preceded his answer seemed of a different quality.
‘Not for that reason alone, no. The truth is, I have never caught the trick of wooing patients. I am not a Prendergast. But I believe I have made more than a virtue out of necessity. I have made a vocation.’
I nodded. His was the zeal of a man following a calling, not pursuing a lucrative career. ‘And the tumour in the brain of the Tresaith corpse?’ I asked.
‘Is significant, I believe. Allow me to explain.’
I listened to him carefully and, when I was fully apprised of the facts, I realised that Reckitt was correct. The presence of a tumour in our corpse’s head could, indeed, be of great significance.
John
With Clarkson safe in his house, I didn’t need to go to Newcastle Emlyn so I decided to nip down to Tresaith and see if Mrs Parry was back yet.
Why? My devil’s advocate wanted to know. Why are you still trying to impress Harry? He’s not going to give you a job, is he?
I’d dreamed of that job. I’d seen the brass plaque with our names on it so many times in my head. Probert-Lloyd and Davies, Attorneys at Law. Because I knew Harry’d give me articles if I was his solicitor’s clerk. Of course he would.
But now, he’d decided he wasn’t going to be a solicitor. He was going to be coroner for the Teifi Valley. If he could persuade the electorate. And with people like Mr Schofield and Billy Go-About not fancying his chances, that wasn’t a small if.
What if there was a chance, though? If I had to be a solicitor’s clerk, wouldn’t it be better to have the odd outing as coroner’s assistant?
Or Assistant Coroner.
Tell him you made a mistake. Tell him you’re sorry.
No. It was a climb-down too far.
Mrs Parry was back, but only just. The pony that was tied up outside The Ship, tail to the wind, still had luggage strapped to its back.
I looked in through the open door and called out a greeting.
‘Good God alive,’ a voice said. ‘Back two minutes and they’re here already!’ A woman followed the voice towards the door. Middle aged, stout, man’s hat, man’s cloak. She stopped when she saw me. ‘Well. You’re not one of mine, are you? You’ll be here about the body, I suppose?’
I nodded. I wasn’t surprised she knew about the corpse. News like that travels with the wind.
‘Not here anymore. Know where it’s gone, do you?’
Her information wasn’t quite up to the minute, then. ‘Cardigan workhouse.’
‘Why?’
‘See if anybody’ll
come and tell us who he is.’
She snorted and folded her arms. ‘Hoping one of the girls from down the docks’ll recognise him by something other than his face, are you?’ I tried to keep my face blank but I can’t’ve made a very good job of it. ‘Oh, don’t look so shocked, boy. Didn’t think you’d find a lady running a shipwrights’ tavern, did you?’
There was no answer to that question that was going to help me so I ignored it. ‘I’m John Davies, acting coroner’s officer.’
She nodded. Didn’t bother introducing herself. We both knew who she was.
‘The acting coroner, Mr Probert-Lloyd—’
‘What?’ she interrupted. ‘Not George Probert-Lloyd, the magistrate?’
‘No. His son. Henry.’
‘Ah, yes. Heard he was back from London.’ She shut her mouth then as if she might’ve said more but realised, just in time, that it’d get back to Harry if she did.
‘Mr Probert-Lloyd would like to speak to you. Can you come down to Cardigan tomorrow? He’s staying at the Black Lion.’
‘No. Not tomorrow. I’ve got things to do here. Might be able to come down and see him the next day.’
Another day to wait. Harry wouldn’t be pleased. But, on the other hand, he owed Mrs Parry a certain amount of leeway. A dead body’d been housed on her premises in his name.
‘Mrs Parry, do you own the limekilns as well as The Ship?’
She frowned. ‘I do, as it happens.’
‘Did you check them before you went away?’
‘Check them? For what?’
‘Just to make sure everything was as it should be.’
‘Telling me it wasn’t, are you?’
‘Did you?’
We had no idea how long our corpse had been dead. If Mrs Parry could testify that he hadn’t been lying beneath a pile of kiln-waste when she left, that would help.
But she was shaking her head. ‘I leave the kilns to Gwyn Puw. You’d have to ask him.’
‘We spoke to Mr Puw today.’
‘There we are then.’ She looked around as a girl came in from the back. ‘Bets, hurry up and get the fire lit in here, will you? It’s colder inside than out.’
I threw a sympathetic glance at the girl who’d staggered in carrying a bucket full of coal.
‘Mam, I’m going as fast as I can, all right?’
So Mrs Parry had her daughter skivvying for her. Still, as Mr Schofield would’ve said, you don’t get rich by squandering your assets.
‘I told you we should’ve come back earlier,’ Bets complained. ‘We’ll never get the pony up to Hendre before it’s dark.’
‘Don’t fret about the pony. He can stay with us another night.’ Mrs Parry unfolded her arms and stood, hands on hips, looking at her daughter. ‘Why’ve you brought the cheap coal in, girl? That’s Gwyn’s stuff.’
‘Well, that’s all there was. There’s no anthracite out there.’ She glared back at her mother, giving as good as she got. ‘Go and look if you don’t believe me.’
Mrs Parry sniffed. ‘Somebody’s been a naughty boy.’
‘Not Puw,’ I said. ‘We were in his cottage the other day and he was burning the same stuff as you’ve got in that bucket.’
I got a sharp look for that. It wasn’t my business to defend Puw and Mrs Parry was wondering why I was doing it. Well, the truth was that Gwyn Puw had helped us. The lime-waste’s disturbance and the American pennies he’d found in it were the only clues we had so far.
‘Puw told us you’re in business with an American called Jenkyn Hughes,’ I said. ‘Is that right?’
She folded her arms again over the old-fashioned cloak. I wondered if it had belonged to her husband.
‘What’s it got to do with the coroner who I’m in business with?’
I wasn’t going to let her fob me off. ‘When did you last see Mr Hughes, Mrs Parry?’
My change of tone got nothing from her but a lifting of one eyebrow. She might just as well have said, Ooo, listen to him! Getting above himself just because he’s somebody’s assistant.
I looked her in the eye. ‘We think he might be the dead man who was found on the beach.’ All right, I wanted to shock her. She obviously wasn’t going to tell me anything otherwise. But she barely blinked.
‘You think it’s Jenkyn Hughes? Why didn’t you just ask Gwyn, then? He’s seen Hughes about the place enough to know what he looks like.’ When I didn’t answer straight away. she peered at me. ‘Or was his face that much of a mess?’
‘Puw thinks it might be a quicklime burn.’
Mrs Parry turned away, then, but only to fetch two stools. She put one of them in front of me. ‘You obviously know all about it, John Davies,’ she said, planting her backside on the other stool. ‘So tell me.’
It didn’t take long but, by the time I’d finished, Mrs Parry’s mood had changed. An unknown corpse in her beer shed had turned into what might be a dead business partner. I could see that she was already working out how his death might come back on her.
‘It’ll be a simple matter to find out whether he’s still alive,’ she said. ‘He’s lodging at Captain Coleman’s, the other side of Cardigan Bridge. On the St Dogmaels road.’
Captain Coleman, St Dogmaels road, I repeated in my head. I didn’t want to stop and take my notebook out while Mrs Parry was feeling helpful.
‘It was Teff Harris, Banc yr Eithin, who found the body,’ I said. ‘He says he’s working for you. Carting the lime.’
She nodded. ‘He brings in a gang to fetch it up the beach.’
I opened my mouth to speak, then stopped. I’d been going to say ‘Apparently, he found the body, naked on the lime,’ but that would’ve told her I was suspicious of him. Better if I got her opinion of Teff Harris, first. So I just said, ‘The body was lying on the lime that was waiting to be carted up the beach.’
Her face didn’t change. She just waited for me to go on.
‘Mr Probert-Lloyd got the impression that Teff Harris wasn’t very popular with his neighbours,’ I said. ‘Do you know why that might be?’
She tilted her head slightly to one side and looked at me. ‘Asking me to gossip, is it, Mr Davies?’
‘Not at all. I’m asking you for an opinion as to why people might’ve taken against Mr Harris.’
I looked away to give her time to consider what she wanted to tell me. Bets was kneeling on the hearth making a meal of getting the fire going. I could tell she was listening to us and pretending not to. I’d done the same often enough myself.
‘Well,’ Mrs Parry said, ‘he keeps himself to himself. He’s ambitious. Hard working.’
I waited for her to go on. What she’d said might not make him popular but there had to be more to it than that for Harris to’ve asked Harry to make sure his son would be safe.
‘Let’s say he’s not what you expect from a man who lives in a tŷ unnos.’
I nodded, slowly. We knew that much already.
‘Then there’s the house itself. How it got built.’
I felt a flicker of excitement.
‘You’re most likely too young ever to have seen a tŷ unnos going up.’ She didn’t wait to find out whether or not it was true. ‘Not that there were dozens a year even in the old days – people go on as if every young couple without two ha’pennies to rub together would be building one. But if that was true, we’d have no common land left, would we?’
It was a rhetorical question.
‘I saw it done once. Hell of a thing – like a wedding night! Lamps and lanterns everywhere, people swarming about like a pack of Irishmen digging and building and trimming and throwing. It’s not a small undertaking to build a house in a few hours. Even if you’ve got everything you need with you, you need all the people you can call on to help you with it.’
She stopped, looked at me. Waiting.
‘But that wasn’t how Teff Harris did it – is that what you’re saying?’
‘The building of Teff Harris’s house was a military operation. T
he first thing anybody knew was a gang of men marching up to the bank in two rows, like soliders. Spades and axes and saws and hammers they had, instead of guns, but that was the only difference.’
‘You saw this?’
‘I did. Somebody came down to fetch my husband in case there was going to be trouble. Parry was good in a scrap. Knew what to do.’ She nodded, satisfied, as if that was the most any wife could want of a husband. ‘Anyway, they marched up to Banc yr Eithin – late in the day, this was, getting on for sunset – and then they just sat down on the ground to wait.’
‘For the sun to set?’
‘And for people to start making trouble. Because they were ready for trouble, you could see that.’
‘And did it come?’
‘Parry went and asked them what they were doing. They said they were going to build a house. Of course, somebody wanted to know by what right they thought they were going to build a house in our parish and that’s when Teff Harris stepped forward and said he’d bought the land.’
‘Did they believe him?’