by Alis Hawkins
‘Didn’t matter if they believed him or not. His friends were there to make sure the house got built. And to say that if anybody tried to pull the house down, they’d be back.’
‘They threatened people?’
‘Not exactly. They just said what they said. If anybody tries to damage the house we build tonight, we’ll be back.’
I thought of the tidiness of the little holding, how it had been cleared and the soil improved. ‘How long’s he been there?’
‘Years. The boy was born there.’
‘And did anybody try to damage the house?’
She looked me squarely in the eye. ‘Teff Harris keeps a gun. Nobody lifted a finger.’
I thought of what the boy, Clarkson, had told me about the cow but I left that alone for now.
‘Not the way to make friends,’ I said.
‘Teff Harris isn’t interested in friends. He’s interested in making enough money to go to America.’
Just then we both heard an exasperated sound from the hearth. ‘This wood is so damp it won’t catch,’ Bets Parry complained.
I stood up. ‘I can try something if you like?’
‘Miracle worker with fires, are you? Or have you got some dry kindling in your pocket?’
She was as sharp tongued as her mother, but she moved aside all the same. I knelt down on the hearth and took out my pocket knife.
Nearly all the little bits of catch-wool and leaves and dry grass that she’d been using to try and get the fire going had burned up. I scraped everything that was left into a little pile then took one of the sticks of kindling and split it down the middle. Like I’d hoped, it was drier inside than out. I stood the blade on edge to the cut surface and scraped the wood into feathers along its length. I did the same with the other half, then took two more twigs and feathered them as well. I put them all on the pile of dry stuff and motioned to Bets to get going with the steel and flint.
In less than a minute, the sticks had caught and Bets was cautiously feeding the fire with thicker twigs.
She looked over her shoulder to see if her mother was there. When she saw Mrs Parry ’d got up off the stool and was busy, she leaned closer to me. ‘If it is Jenkyn Hughes,’ she muttered, ‘then, pound to a penny, it’ll turn out somebody killed him over a woman.’
I found myself copying her, looking over my own shoulder. I shouldn’t have. Mrs Parry saw me checking and came over.
‘Good. You’ve got it going. Right, go and get the warming-stones out of the bedrooms then come and help me see to the pony and the packs. I’ll see Mr Davies off the premises.’
Harry
Alone in my room at the Black Lion later that afternoon, at a loss for occupation, I felt my lack of companionship more acutely than at any time since I had been forced to leave London.
Having been largely absent from Cardiganshire for the best part of eight years, I had not a single friend in the county, a fact that I determined must be remedied as soon as possible. Looking to my father for an introduction to society was unthinkable – acquainting myself with his circle would simply tighten the net of social expectation around me. No, I must look elsewhere; and the obvious place to begin was with my mother’s family.
Jemima Lloyd, who had died giving birth to me, had been a solicitor’s daughter from Cardigan, respectable but not landowning. Lacking her presence to bridge the social gap between them, my father had maintained little contact with her family after her death and I had no memory of any of my Lloyd relations. However, occasional reference had been made to a cousin – a Mrs Philips who lived in St Dogmaels, just upstream from Cardigan, on the Pembrokeshire side of the river. If I left now, while it was not yet dark, it would not be too late to call. Especially as I was family.
When I went to retrieve Sara from the stables, the head ostler suggested that I take one of the stable boys with me to look after the little mare when I got to St Dogmaels. He also provided a lantern for the return journey.
‘It’ll be dark later on,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to go stumbling about, Mr Probert-Lloyd. Some people do what they’re supposed to and hang lanterns out but most don’t bother. Too tight, they are. Sooner we get proper lighting in town the better.’
Used to the gaslights and link-boys of London, I heartily agreed with him.
The stable boy, whose name was Evan, could barely stammer a response when I told him to jump up on the mounting block and sit on the saddle in front of me. ‘Me? Ride?’ Evidently, the suggestion trumped even my speaking to him in Welsh.
‘No point you trotting along behind,’ I told him. ‘I can’t see very well so I need you to keep a sharp eye on what’s in front of us.’
He did not need telling twice and, with him up, we rode through the yard and on to the High Street.
I told him to keep his toes in against Sara’s shoulders so that she was not confused by the bouncing of his heels against her, but the necessary effort seemed to make him tense and the little mare, sensing his unease, threw her head up and sidestepped as if she was being spurred.
I transferred both reins to my right hand and put my left arm around his chest. Immediately, I felt him sag with relief.
As we ambled down towards the bridge over the Teifi, the pressure of my arm holding Evan secure against me reminded me very forcefully of the physicality of boyhood. Boys are forever nudging, kicking, wrestling, flinging an arm around a companion’s shoulders, clutching at each other while fording a stream; such contact is as natural to them as it is to puppies. For myself, as I became older, such casual bodily commerce had been replaced by more gentlemanly contact – football, boxing. Then, as an undergraduate, the carousing which inevitably takes place when young men spend their allowance on alcohol had seen us leaning on each other for support.
Now, the casual intimacy of such contact was lost; my blindness seemed to have immured me in an invisible cell into which others dared not venture. Only Gus, whom I had followed from Oxford to the Inns of Court, still cuffed at me and wrung my hand on coming to see me. Far away in London, at that moment, he might as well have been the Man in the Moon.
‘There’s a man on the bridge looking at us.’ Evan’s voice yanked me out of my doleful reverie.
‘What kind of man?’ I asked, quietly. Whoever he was, I did not want him to hear us speaking about him.
‘A sailor, I think,’ he whispered back.
‘How do you know he’s looking at us?’ I could see the figure now, but dimly, the dusk muffling what remained of my sight.
‘His body’s leaning towards the river but his head’s turned towards us.’
The man’s apparent interest made me very aware of our approach to the bridge. Each footfall on the damp ground, each yard closer, wound a growing tension in me.
‘He’s turning around. His body’s facing us now, too.’
It probably meant nothing, but not being able to see this man and form my own judgement made me feel ill-prepared for whatever might happen.
I urged the mare on to the bridge and heard the change in tone as her feet left the muddy road and slithered slightly on the bridge’s cobbles. I wondered if Evan could feel the beating of my heart against his back. I did not like feeling so exposed and devoutly wished John were with me.
Eyes askance, I could make the fellow out now. His arms were folded across his chest as if he was waiting for something. My wariness communicated itself to Sara and her steps faltered. I urged her on, keen to get past the waiting man.
‘Well, look! It’s Mr Coroner.’
He knew me. Had I met him before or had gossip about me simply scurried through the docks like the ubiquitous rats? His voice seemed somewhat familiar but I could not place it.
‘Good evening,’ I said, pleasantly.
‘Where’s your other boy tonight then?’
Other boy? I realised that he must mean John. He did not wait for an answer. Perhaps he realised he would not get one.
‘This one doesn’t look as if he’d be much use to you.’
>
I half-expected Evan to protest and the fact that he did not told me he was afraid.
‘You think he’ll be able to look after your mare if somebody decides to take her?’ As far as I could tell, the man did not move but I felt Evan shrink against me. ‘You’d do better with me. I’d make sure nobody came near her.’
Was that a threat? Was he implying that harm would come to the mare if I did not employ him? The last thing I wanted was to put Evan in any danger.
‘I’ve promised the boy tuppence, now,’ I said, forcing myself to smile. ‘Another time, friend.’ I nudged Sara into a walk once more.
‘Another time?’ The man took a step towards me and Sara pulled up, uncertain. ‘How will you know me another time, Mr Coroner?’
And then it came to me.
‘I’ll know you by your voice. You were the man I asked about the limestone-hauling boats. I might not recognise you by sight but Mr Davies would.’ Two could play the implied threat game.
He withdrew slightly. ‘Find your stone boat, did you?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘Want to arrest the crew, is it? Think they dropped the body on the beach – ten tons of lime, one man with no face?’
My heart and stomach seemed to contract simultaneously and I felt the pulse surging along my veins at his question. What did he know about the dead man? But then reason prevailed – news of the body would be up and down the docks and shipyards on both sides of the river by now. He could easily have seen the dead man. The workhouse was less than half an hour’s walk from where we were standing.
‘I’d just like to speak to the men who took the limestone up to Tresaith,’ I said, ‘and ask them if they saw anything.’
Did I hear a grunt, or just expect one? In my agitated state, I could not be sure.
‘If you happen to be speaking to any of the men who work the limestone boats,’ I said, ‘I’d be grateful if you could mention that I’d like to see them. I can be found at the Black Lion.’
‘Nobody likes talking to the magistrates.’
‘The coroner isn’t a magistrate,’ I snapped. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get on.’
‘I’ll come along. Your boy’ll need help with the mare.’
But I had had enough. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You will not.’ Even as I spoke, I hated him for forcing me into behaviour I had always detested. ‘No help is needed. Now, let me past or there will be trouble. I may not be able to see, but I know who you are.’ I squeezed Sara’s sides again, pushing her forward. ‘Good evening to you.’
I could scarcely draw breath as we passed him and my skin crawled in anticipation of being laid hold of. But nothing happened. Sara walked steadily on, over the bridge and, as we left him behind, I murmured, ‘Don’t look back yet, but when we turn after the bridge, look and see if he’s following us.’
I waited, and, as we left the bridge, the boy did as I’d asked.
‘He’s going up into town.’
I sighed with relief.
A great advantage of having the boy with me was that he could ask passers-by if they knew where Mr and Mrs Athur Philips lived. To my relief, their house was quickly identified and we arrived before a generously-sized, double-fronted house.
‘Just stay here and don’t get in the way of anybody,’ I told Evan. ‘If anybody asks, tell them the mare belongs to Mr Henry Probert-Lloyd and that I’m visiting Mr and Mrs Philips.’ I didn’t think he would be questioned but it was as well to give him something to say.
Approaching the front door, without conscious thought my hand slipped into my pocket for my card case. Then I hesitated. Would Mr and Mrs Philips be accustomed to visitors presenting cards? I could not decide which would be more awkward, not to offer one and cause offence, or to present one and find the household in a flurry of uncertainty as to what to do with it.
As I stood in the gathering dusk, contemplating my dilemma, misgivings crowded in. How would the Philipses greet me? I had had no communication with them for twenty years. Might they not ask themselves why, if I had not found them worthy of my notice before, they should suddenly be worthy of it now?
‘Can I help you?’ The question spun me around. Whoever was there had spoken in English, his accent sufficient to tell me that he was a local man, though, from the absence of a ‘sir’ on the end of the question, I deduced that I was not being looked up and down by a servant. I smiled and looked firmly into the whirlpool.
‘Good evening,’ I replied. ‘I understand that this is the home of Mr Arthur Philips.’
‘It is. I’m Arthur Philips – how can I be of assistance?’ His accent had shifted to meet mine. Speaking English, I knew I sounded very much the gentleman and his opinion of me – influenced at first, no doubt, by my Mackintosh and hat – had been altered.
‘Mr Philips, I’m sorry to intrude unannounced. I am Henry Probert-Lloyd of Glanteifi.’
‘Henry! Jemima’s boy! Heavens above! Come in, come in!’
I turned vaguely to indicate the mare and Evan. ‘Shall I leave my horse here? The boy’ll be all right with her, will he?’
‘Hold on, now. You haven’t ridden over from Glanteifi at this time of the day?’
I explained that I was staying in town.
‘Let the boy take your mare back then. The landlord at the inn down the road rents his dog-cart out as long as it’s not too late. I can drive you back.’
I thought of the man on the bridge and did not want to risk Evan’s safety. ‘It’s kind of you but I’ve promised the boy a ride back with me. He’ll be fine if he can sit somewhere. The mare won’t try and wander if he has her reins.’
Philips sent Evan around the end of the street and told him how to find the back of the house. ‘Knock at the back door. The servants will tell you what to do with the horse. Then you can sit by the kitchen fire.’
Knowing servants, I very much doubted that Evan would get anywhere near the fire but it was reassuring to know that he would be indoors.
Philips threw open his front door, speaking all the while. ‘We keep early hours these days and we’ll be sitting down to dinner in an hour or so. Will you join us?’ He opened a door and called out to a Mrs Knowles that, if it wasn’t too much trouble, there would be a guest for dinner. ‘She’ll grumble at the short notice,’ he said, turning back to me and hanging his overcoat on the hallstand, ‘but she’ll put a dinner in front of you that you won’t forget in a hurry.’
I caught a moment’s hesitation and knew what it was. He was looking at me and trying to work out what was wrong.
‘Mr Philips – before we go in, I must just tell you, my sight is not what it should be. I’m not exactly blind but I can’t see you. That is, I can see that you’re there but that’s all.’
For weeks I had been trying to settle on a simple and elegant form of words to explain my predicament. As yet, however, elegance eluded me.
Just tell them you’ve gone blind, Gus had advised. Then you’ll have them at a disadvantage when you catch them trying to sneak out without you noticing. They’ll think you’ve developed preternatural hearing.
‘I tend not to bump into the furniture, so people don’t necessarily notice immediately.’ I smiled. ‘They just think I’m being shifty.’
‘Yes, I see,’ Philips said. Then, as so many people found themselves doing, he corrected himself. ‘I mean, I understand.’
‘Please,’ I smiled again, trying to put him at ease with a situation I had yet to feel easy about myself, ‘don’t give it a second thought. I’m always saying “I see”. It’s just a metaphor, isn’t it?’
Dear God, what fatuity this blindness was driving me into! Not two minutes in the man’s company and I was offering grammatical analysis. Fortunately, I was saved from any more drivelling by his opening a door and announcing, ‘My dear, you will be astonished to hear who I have found on our doorstep.’
Arthur Philips had not been over-praising his cook. The meal was the best I had enjoyed since leaving London.
I felt a rush of affection for my mother’s cousin. Most servants were not treated with such kindness and, as I smiled in Mrs Philips’s direction, I wondered how her little cousin – my mother – had viewed her own role as mistress of a whole houseful of servants at Glanteifi. I judged it to be far too early in our reacquaintance, however, to begin asking that kind of question. Not that the subject of my mother was avoided; far from it. Mrs Philips, who had been the oldest grandchild in the family while my mother had been very much the youngest, had fond memories of ‘little Jemima’.
‘Of course, I was so much older than her – nearly grown-up when she was born – we were never playmates, but I remember her so well. She was a sweet child and she had that kind of harmless mischief about her that late-coming children often have. She could be demure when she wanted to be but I’m sure it was her mischievous streak that bewitched your father. From the first time they met, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.’
My father bewitched? I found that not only hard to imagine but vaguely indecent. From my earliest memories, my father had seemed old – he had been past fifty at my birth – and, as far as I recalled, he had never shown much enthusiasm for anything. He had always managed to convey the impression that his continued existence proceeded solely from a sense of duty. I could no more imagine his head being turned by a mischievous girl than I could picture him cavorting naked in the rain.