by Alis Hawkins
‘What would be his opinion on the matter? Would he greet the proposal with distaste?’
I opened my mouth to reply, but discovered that I did not know the answer to this, either. In many respects my father was a traditionalist, a man of conservative opinions. But, in others, he looked resolutely to the future. It was he who had insisted on close-stool chambers being constructed in all the main bedrooms at Glanteifi and piping running water into the kitchens so that the servants did not have to bring water in from the well. But whether such progressive tendencies would be reflected in his attitude to his own mortal remains I had no idea.
I confessed as much to Reckitt.
‘Would you permit me to ask him? Should he regain sufficient comprehension to understand the implications, obviously.’
Everything in me rebelled against it. Surely the question was insensitive, implying, as it must, that his imminent death was not only a foregone conclusion but one that was being eagerly anticipated by Reckitt, a man of whom my father was unlikely to approve.
And yet, what right had I to deny my father an opinion as to what should happen to his body after his death?
As I struggled inwardly, Reckitt, presumably inferring that he should not press the matter, rose to his feet and returned to the bedside. Reaching down, he took my father’s wrist and held it. ‘His pulse is encouragingly strong.’
It seemed enough, for now.
John
I was still wondering how to go about finding Jenkyn Hughes’s cousin when I called in at the Black Lion to check for messages and Harry’s letter provided the answer. His idea of a meeting for bondholders was a stroke of genius.
Go and see my cousin, Philips, he’d written. I’m including a note to him with this. He might be able to refuse you but he’s less likely to refuse me as acting coroner.
I put Harry’s letter down and had a quick look at the note for his cousin. It was short and to the point – just what you might expect from a blind man in a hurry. But haste hadn’t stopped him referring to me as his valued and trusted assistant.
I wondered whether those words were for my eyes as much as for his cousin’s. He must’ve known I’d read the note.
To be honest, I wasn’t keen to ask a favour of James Philips. He’d barely spoken to me when I went to his office, apart from getting shirty when he thought I was accusing him of something over the life insurance. Without Mrs Parry there, I wasn’t sure he’d even see me.
A knock startled me out of my thoughts, and I looked at the open doorway.
Straightaway, I knew this must be Teff Harris’s wife. She was easily the most striking-looking woman I’d ever seen outside of a picture. Even in an old betgwn, with a man’s jacket over it instead of a shawl, she was beautiful. Perhaps she looked more beautiful because of the jacket. It gave her an exotic look, a hint that she wasn’t like other women.
‘Mr Davies?’
I nodded.
‘I’m Ruth Harris,’ she said in Welsh. ‘Teff’s wife.’
Belatedly, I got to my feet and pulled a chair forward for her. ‘Sit down, please. Can I get you something to eat? I’m sure they’ll bring something if I ask.’ Especially if I asked using the words ‘coroner’s account’.
She asked for a cup of tea and off I went to find somebody to make us one.
When I came back with a tray, she was sitting, looking around at the room and, for the first time, I felt how its bareness reflected on our work. There were no pictures like there were in the more public rooms, only a set of shelves for a few pots. The wainscot made it look a bit less like a labourer’s kitchen but the paneling needed a new coat of paint. Still, it covered the damp that was creeping up the walls, even if it didn’t stop the air smelling of it. No wonder Mrs Weston’d been happy to give us this room, she probably got very little use out of it otherwise.
I poured the tea and put the pot on the hearth to keep warm. I’d persuaded the kitchen maid to nip a portion of sugar off the loaf for both of us and my mouth was watering at the thought of it. I’d take my tea without and just let the sugar melt on my tongue.
‘Have you seen my husband?’ Ruth Harris asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, passing her the tea and sugar.
‘Thank you. Oh, sugar! I’ll save it for Clarkson.’ She slipped the sugar into a jacket pocket. ‘What did Teff tell you?’
I passed her my chunk of sugar. ‘Give Clarkson this as well.’ The smile she gave me in thanks was so sweet that I almost forgot what she’d asked and I had to sip my tea to give myself time to remember.
‘Teff told me that it was him who stripped the body,’ I said. Not strictly true, of course. He hadn’t actually said those words. But we both knew that’s what’d happened.
‘Have you told the police?’ she asked.
I shook my head, swallowing tea. ‘No. And I won’t. Not yet.’ I needed to speak to Harry before I did anything like that. ‘But why didn’t your husband tell the inspector himself when he was arrested?’
Ruth Harris put her cup down. ‘Inspector Bellis is enjoying having my husband in his lock-up, Mr Davies. He’d love to be able to hang Teff for this murder. If Teff’d even told him that he knew Hughes, Bellis would’ve sent him to gaol to wait for the assizes.’
‘Why?’
She looked past me at the fire, as if she was trying to decide something. Then she turned to me. ‘About a year ago, our neighbours tried to run us off our land. They tried to steal our cow and they dumped a barrowload of cow shit into our spring. Teff went to report it but Bellis did nothing. Said we were squatters so we deserved all we got. But we’re not squatters. Teff bought that land. He has papers to prove it. So he went to the magistrates and complained.’ She looked straight into my eyes. ‘Bellis isn’t going to forget a thing like that. He thinks he’s the law. He didn’t like it when the magistrates told him otherwise.’
Mrs Parry had told me that Teff claimed to own his land but the way she’d described his house being built, it hadn’t seemed all that likely. Now here was Ruth Harris telling the same tale. ‘So your house isn’t a tŷ unnos then?’
‘If you mean, did we built it in one night, yes we did. We had to build it quickly and cheaply because we’d spent all our money on the land and the cow. And we wanted to get it built without interference. But it’s not a tŷ unnos in the old-fashioned meaning. We’re freeholders, not squatters.’
‘But your neighbours still objected?’
‘Of course they did! The land we bought had grazing, gorse and a spring. Our neighbours’d been using them all for years without paying anybody. Of course they objected. But they couldn’t complain to the crown, could they? Or the magistrates? We hadn’t committed any crime. They just thought if they could get rid of us, they’d have those things back.’
‘Is that why you’re going to America?’
Ruth Harris made a face that said it was all a lot more complicated than that. ‘The prospects in America are just better. For us and for Clarkson.’
I had to ask. ‘Why did you call your son Clarkson?’
She looked away from me. ‘He’s named after a soldier who saved Teff’s life. He promised he’d name his first-born after him. And Teff’s a man of his word.’
‘But didn’t the man have a Christian name?’
Her eyes came back to me again. ‘That was his Christian name. Clarkson de Vere Mounton. He was Teff’s commanding officer.’
I wanted to ask what an officer was doing saving the life of a private soldier but she said no more, and it wasn’t my business to ask. I got back to the point. ‘So Bellis is just looking for evidence against Teff to get his own back?’ I asked.
Ruth Harris looked steadily at me. ‘To be fair, Bellis might believe Teff is guilty. People are apt to believe anything of an old soldier, aren’t they?’
Especially one who hadn’t been too squeamish about threatening people with a gun.
‘Can you help him?’ she asked.
‘We’re looking for Jenkyn Hughes
’s killer,’ I said. ‘Once we’ve found him, Teff’ll be out.’
‘But not before?’
I felt uncomfortable. ‘If Mr Probert-Lloyd was here, I’m sure he’d put pressure on the inspector to let your husband go. But he’s been called home and Bellis isn’t going to listen to me. It was a miracle he even let me see Teff.’
Her eyes were showing signs of strain – little crows’ feet at each corner. And she had other lines on her face that a beautiful woman shouldn’t have. Looked as if life with Teff Harris wasn’t easy. But she carried herself in a way that told you she knew her own worth. Her husband knew how to value her. Lucky bastard.
‘I’ll be seeing Harry – Mr Probert-Lloyd – later on today,’ I told her. ‘I’ll see if he’ll write a letter to Inspector Bellis asking for your husband’s release.’
‘Thank you, Mr Davies.’
We both knew it probably wouldn’t work. But it was all I could do. ‘Can I ask you something else?’ I asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Is Teff a card player?’
If she was surprised by the question, she didn’t show it. ‘In the army he was. Everybody plays cards in the army when there’s nothing else to do. But only for pennies.’
‘And not since?’
‘No.’ She shook her head, certain. ‘According to Teff, only fools gamble and nobody wins except those who cheat.’
Jenkyn Hughes’d been in debt so, according to Teff’s definition, he couldn’t’ve been a cheater. But what if he’d caught somebody else cheating and threatened to expose them? Or even tried to blackmail them?
That might’ve been very unwise.
Harry
Having his pulse taken seemed to have roused my father for he stirred sufficiently to convey that he would like to sit up. Reckitt and I took an arm each to help him.
‘Thank you.’ Unlike his earlier utterances, this was delivered with all the ease and fluency of his speech before the stroke.
‘Are you feeling better, Father?’
In response, he produced a barely distinguishable word.
‘You feel strange?’ I guessed.
‘Yes.’ Again, this word was entirely clear.
‘Only to be expected, Mr Probert-Lloyd.’ Reckitt spoke from the other side of the bed. ‘Your brain has suffered a significant injury. You are lucky to be alive.’
My father made an indeterminate sound which might as easily have been derision as agreement. Was he glad to be alive or would he prefer not to have survived in this diminished state?
‘From what Harry tells me, you’ve made great progress since yesterday.’ Reckitt spoke slowly but not as if to an imbecile, and I had the impression that he was watching my father very carefully. ‘I consider it likely that you will continue to make progress.’
In response, my father managed to expel sounds which were identifiable as, ‘another’ and, ‘stroke’.
‘It’s possible that you will suffer another stroke, of course.’ Reckitt would not sweeten the pill. ‘But, if you do not, I think we can expect continued improvement.’
Though I could not see my father’s reaction to this news, the word ‘good’ was perfectly distinct.
In my peripheral vision, I saw him raise his left hand and wave it between myself and Reckitt. ‘Talk,’ he spat.
I crushed a reflex resentment; he could not help but sound harsh, though he was simply encouraging us to continue speaking freely as we had been.
How much, I wondered, had he heard of our previous conversation? I decided that, in any case, it was time for a change of subject.
I turned to Reckitt. ‘Our dead American apparently had a tendency to pursue women in a rather unrestrained manner. Could that be a symptom of the tumour in his brain?’
‘It could be, certainly. The mores of American society aren’t particularly different from our own, so that kind of behaviour can’t be accounted for by being in an alien culture.’
‘And gambling? Could it have made him more inclined to take unwarranted risks?’
This time, Reckitt’s answer was both less swift and less definite. ‘Again, it’s possible. But I would need to know his character before the tumour developed.’
‘You mean perhaps he was always an inveterate gambler?’
‘Precisely.’
Had that been his reputation, I considered it highly unlikely that Mrs Parry would have entered into business with him; she was too shrewd for that. It seemed far more probable that the lump in Hughes’s brain had caused him, like Phineas Gage, to become not himself.
I was about to ask Reckitt whether Hughes would have become more and more unreliable or, indeed, whether his tumour might have produced other symptoms, when I heard the sounds of a carriage coming up the drive. The pace of hoofs slowed from a trot to a steady clop as the driver manoeuvred on to the area below the terrace, and the jingle of bits and martingales carried up to the first storey as the horses blew and tossed their heads.
‘I’d better go down, Reckitt.’ Wil-Sam would be scampering for somebody to come and open the door to whatever important visitor had arrived. ‘Would you mind staying here? I don’t like to leave my father alone.’
I got to the bottom of the stairs just as a gentleman was being admitted.
‘If you could let Mr Henry Probert-Lloyd know that his cousin, Mr Arthur Philips, would be glad of a moment of his attention.’
‘It’s all right, Moyle,’ I called. ‘I’m here.’
‘Very good, Mr Henry.’ The butler turned and stalked away. This sudden visitation by a cousin would be a wonder in the kitchen.
‘Cousin Arthur, welcome to Glanteifi,’ I said, allowing him to hear my pleasure at his arrival.
‘Thank you. James tells me that your father has suffered a stroke. How is he?’ He allowed the footman who had appeared to take his coat and hat.
It was a brave question. He must have known that there was a good chance my father had succumbed to a second, fatal attack by now.
‘His condition is improving, thank you. He is sitting up and, if not conversing, then at least able to speak single words. He seems to understand what’s being said to him, which is a blessing.’
‘Indeed! I’m very glad to hear it.’
‘Come up. He’ll be glad of the diversion.’ As I led Arthur Philips up the stairs, I acknowledged, guiltily, to myself that it was I who was glad of the diversion. My father might well be mortified to receive visitors in his current condition.
‘Do you think he’ll know me?’ Arthur asked, cautiously. ‘After all this time, and after … the apoplexy?’
I heard what he was not asking. ‘He seems to know who’s who. And before the seizure he was as sharp as ever. His memory was unimpaired.’
Philips did not reply and I wondered at his being here. Cousin by marriage or not, it was an extravagant gesture after one evening’s reunion with me.
‘Father,’ I said as I closed the door behind us, ‘do you remember my mother’s cousin, Letitia? This is her husband, Arthur Philips.’ I ushered him forward.
‘George, my dear fellow. What a pleasure to see you again after all these years. I’m only sorry that it’s in such unfortunate circumstances.’
My father emitted some vowels which I took to be an enquiry after Philips’s own health. Evidently, Philips made the same assumption for he replied that he and his family were well. At my invitation, he sat in the chair I had vacated and proceeded to speak about his wife and son, telling my father that the ‘whippersnapper, young James’ was now nearly forty and married with children of his own.
Reckitt had risen to his feet as we entered. ‘I should be going,’ he said.
‘Will you come back this evening? We have room to put you up so you needn’t worry about getting home.’
Reckitt agreed to return after attending to whatever duties generally occupied him, then made his goodbyes.
I put a hand on Arthur Philips’s shoulder. ‘If you are settled for a few minutes, I’ll go and f
ind some refreshments for us.’
It was such a relief to be out of my father’s room and in the world where people scurried about and spoke loud and clear that, after arranging for tea to be sent up, I did not hurry back to my cousin.
When I eventually returned to the bedroom, I found Arthur Philips standing at the window and my father asleep once more.
‘I fear my nervous prattling has put him to sleep.’
‘No, no. Reckitt assures me that a great deal of sleep is quite usual.’
‘I must confess,’ he admitted ‘I was surprised to see Reckitt here. I assumed that Prendergast would be your family’s doctor.’
‘He is. Or, rather, he’s always been my father’s doctor. But Reckitt is more up-to-date. More modern in his thinking.’
‘Yes. I know of his methods.’
‘Do you have a personal connection?’ I asked. His tone suggested as much.
‘I’m on the board of guardians of the Cardigan Union workhouse. Dr Reckitt sees to our paupers’ needs. And he applies to us, from time to time, for permission to perform dissections. Or autopsy examinations as he calls them.’
‘So I understand.’
‘Strictly speaking, of course, he needn’t ask permission. Not if the body’s unclaimed.’ Arthur cleared his throat. ‘Do you mind?’