by Alis Hawkins
Having abandoned his notes, Caldicot did not move back to the lectern but remained at the front of the stage. ‘Since somebody has seen fit to bring up past scandals.’ He turned his head, implying that I, or perhaps Minnever, was the culprit. ‘I might just ask you to think about the conduct of Mr Henry Probert-Lloyd.’
I had known this attack might come but, now that it had, I could not muster the detachment with which I had hoped to greet it. I felt as if my very life was threatened. My pulse raced and my palms were sweaty.
‘Last autumn,’ Caldicot went on, ‘having insisted that an inquest be held on human remains known intimately to him, Mr Probert-Lloyd sat, watching proceedings, and never spoke a word.’ A brief pause allowed the audience to take this in. ‘He bore witness to nothing of what he knew of dairymaid Margaret Jones’s last days. As the son of a county magistrate, he knew he would not be compelled to do so. So there he sat, protected and complacent.’
Caldicot was a soldier. He knew how to wield power. And he knew how to manage men. He allowed the crowd to bay their disapproval of my supposed refusal to give evidence for a few moments, then raised his hands to call for calm.
‘But, worse than that, when the verdict was delivered, he refused to accept it. A jury, composed of men like you, had its verdict rejected as unworthy! And off he went to investigate on his own behalf. Without so much as a nod to the constabulary or the magistrates, he went about the countryside interrogating people, bullying them into giving up evidence, while he hid his own part in proceedings to the last.’
At that, as if he could impose upon them no longer, he threw up his hands and the crowd exploded into outrage and condemnation.
It was masterly. Because, on the face of it, everything he said was true. I had not given evidence at the inquest into Margaret Jones’s death. But only because my father had refused to sanction an inquest until I had given him my word that I would not attempt to speak during the proceedings. And I had not involved the constabulary or the magistrates because it had been made abundantly clear to me that officialdom wanted no part in any investigation. As far as the magistrates had been concerned, the sleeping dogs of the Rebecca Riots, however much they might intimidate a jury, should be left to lie undisturbed, lest the whole rebellious business be re-ignited.
Fleetingly, it occurred to me to retaliate. To stand and accuse Caldicot of lying about his association with Nicholas Rowland. To ask him, outright, how consecutively-numbered banknotes with his name on them came to be in the teacher’s possession when Caldicot claimed never to have given him money. To suggest that, though he might respectfully decline to speak of the reason for his leaving his regiment, it seemed that Nicholas Rowland might have been aware of it and used the knowledge for his own ends.
Fortunately, however, wisdom prevailed and I held my peace.
But I would have my questions about that money answered, one way or another. By God, I would!
My legs were beginning to shake with the prospect of standing to deliver my speech when I became aware of a stir in the crowd. Something away from the stage had caught their attention.
‘A policeman’s just come marching into the square,’ John said, into my ear.
The hum of the crowd’s diverted interest felt like balm after their angry shouts of a few moments before and, as Pritchard stood to greet the officer, I also rose to my feet, pleased to note that my knees were no longer trembling.
‘I’ve come to see Mr Probert-Lloyd, the coroner,’ the face beneath the tall hat said.
I identified myself and the constable marched up to position himself below me in front of the stage. ‘I’ve been sent to inform you that Jonathan Eynon, also known as Shoni Goch, has been apprehended in Aberaeron. He is being taken to Cardigan to await a hearing before the magistrates’ court.’
The Talbot Inn
Sunday
My dear Miss Gwatkyn,
I could not leave, this morning, without scribbling a brief note to thank you for your kindness in welcoming me at Alltybela yesterday. It is a great comfort to know that I may claim at least one friend here in Cardiganshire.
It is strange, don’t you think, that it is possible to know some people for years and never be more than familiar acquaintances whilst, with others – as in our case – mere hours suffice to make intimate friends?
I hope you will not feel that I am trespassing on such a new friendship when I say that, though my opinion has not altered about the wisdom of attempting to re-open the inquest at this stage, I do feel that, perhaps if any new information were to come to light regarding Mr Rowland, it should be communicated to Mr Probert-Lloyd? Having discussed the case at length with him last evening, I know both that he has misgivings about the general assumption of Jonathan Eynon’s guilt and concerns about the future of Mr Rowland’s proposed school. He will, I know, do whatever he can to ensure that neither cause is forgotten.
As to the other matter, I wonder whether it might need to be made public in the event that the magistrates decide to commit J. Eynon to trial? If he is able to provide witnesses to attest to his whereabouts during the afternoon he may be exonerated. However, if he cannot produce such testimony and he is committed to trial, any evidence that there might be other parties who had reason to wish Mr Rowland ill should, surely, be brought forward – do you not agree? I understand how delicate this matter is but I am confident that your conscience will guide you in the right path.
I hope we may meet again – soon! – but, in the meantime, I remain
Your friend,
Lydia Howell
Part Two
John
With Shoni Goch being marched down to Cardigan gaol, I knew Harry’d want to stay in Tregaron to try and find out the truth. But he couldn’t. For one thing, the inquest was over and it wasn’t his job to ask any more questions. And, for another, Minnever’d got the next week mapped out for him. After what’d happened at Tregaron, he reckoned Harry needed a lot of coaching before his next public meeting in ten days or so.
So, on Sunday, we packed up and went back to Glanteifi.
At least Harry was down to a single opponent now. Dr Reckitt had decided not to stand. One crowd quacking at him’d been quite enough.
Harry was pleased. Reckitt’s withdrawal had mended what could have become a rift between them.
‘I was badly advised,’ he’d said to Harry when he came to apologise. ‘Led to believe that it was common practice to undermine the other candidates. It was only when I saw you refuse to rise to Caldicot’s taunts, that I realised it was not.’
And refuse to rise was exactly what Harry’d done. When he’d stood up to speak to the crowd after the news of Shoni Goch’s arrest, he hadn’t tried to put up any defence against the things Caldicot’d accused him of, nor thrown any of his own accusations about. No, he just talked about some of the inquests he’d held. Told the crowd that the job of the coroner wasn’t just to find out how somebody’d died, it was also to take care of those they’d left behind.
His speech had been dignified, respectful. It’d spoken well of him.
Trouble was, it’d spoken too quietly to do him any good. The crowd in Tregaron market square had heard insults and accusations from Reckitt and Caldicot and they’d wanted more of the same from Harry. They hadn’t come for reasonableness or humility.
And the hustings in Cardigan and Newcastle Emlyn would probably be no different. Caldicot or his agent would pay somebody to ask what’d got him thrown out of his regiment, he’d give his ‘I’ve learned my lesson’ speech and then accuse Harry of being a hypocrite.
If Harry couldn’t find a better way of getting voters on to his side, he was going to lose the election.
For that first week back, I was no help to him. A whole pack of new tenancy agreements’d been signed on Lady Day and Mr Ormiston and I were already a long way behind where we should’ve been with our visits to the various farms. Not to mention seeing late payers who’d begged another few weeks to find the money for t
he quarter’s rent. Those were hard visits, especially the ones to tenants who still didn’t have the money and who, in all likelihood, would soon need to be given notice to quit.
The following Monday, I came back to the mansion at dusk to find Minnever blessedly absent for once and Harry in the library with Lydia Howell. They’d obviously been discussing Rowland’s inquest because, once he’d greeted me, Harry turned back to the long windows and stood, peering out into the last of the daylight. ‘When I go to Cardigan tomorrow, I’m going to go to the gaol,’ he said. ‘To see Jonathan Eynon.’
I looked over at Lydia Howell but got no reaction. Up to me, then.
‘Minnever won’t like that,’ I said, warming my hands by the fire and wondering whether I’d have time for a bath before dinner. It’d been a long day in the saddle and I was sore and stiff. And, to be honest, I still hadn’t got over the novelty of being able to have a bath whenever I felt like it.
‘I don’t give a damn what Minnever says.’ Harry’s voice was flat, quiet. ‘It’s because of him that I didn’t pay enough attention to the hearing. I’m not going to let Eynon hang for my negligence.’
‘For all you know, he’s guilty,’ I said. ‘Might’ve confessed by now.’
‘Or been induced to confess.’ Harry was set on blaming himself for anything that happened to Shoni Goch.
I was saved from having to say anything else when the door opened and Glanteifi’s housekeeper, Isabel Griffiths, came in with a letter.
‘Twm’s just brought this back from town.’ She held it up. ‘Who should I…?’
Lydia got there first. ‘Please, give it to Mr Davies. I know he usually reads Mr Probert-Lloyd’s letters to him.’
‘I have done in the past,’ I said. ‘But you’re his private secretary now. That’s the sort of thing you should be doing, isn’t it?’
Harry lost patience with us. ‘For goodness’ sake, does it matter? Will one of you just read it to me, please?’
Lydia took the letter and Mrs Griffiths left. But not before I’d caught a backward glance from her. She had her eye on things. On me as well as Lydia.
The light was better by the window so we all moved to the other end of the room.
‘It’s from Miss Gwatkyn,’ Lydia said. ‘Informing you that Nicholas Rowland’s will is being read next Saturday, in case it’s still of interest to you. And inviting you to stay at Alltybela.’ She read on. ‘And she’s enclosed another letter. As his executor, she’s directed that all his mail should come to her and she thinks you should see this one.’
‘Who’s it from?’ Harry asked.
With a bit of luck, it’d be a note from somebody who’d seen Shoni Goch coming out of the schoolhouse on Sunday afternoon looking furtive. That’d put an end to all this nonsense about Harry going to Cardigan. And, as for him going to hear the will read on Saturday, that was nonsense, too. Saturday was nomination day – the day polling would start in the election.
But Lydia took the second letter out of an envelope and my hopes faded. It was unlikely to be from an eyewitness. Cardiganshire folk generally couldn’t see the point of buying something to wrap their letters in when just folding and sealing them did the job perfectly well.
‘It’s from a bookseller,’ she said. ‘The address is Holywell Street in London. Dear Mr Rowland. I beg to inform you that your complimentary author copies and payment, as usual, await collection. I remain, etcetera. It’s signed by a W. Gordon.’
‘Copies?’ Harry was bemused.
Lydia went back to the other letter. ‘Miss Gwatkyn’s no better informed than you. Rowland apparently never mentioned being the author of anything.’ She turned the letter over and read the back. ‘She wonders whether this is to do with his connections at University College.’
‘Payment as usual,’ I said. ‘Sounds like he’d been busy. Maybe that’s where some of the money in his trunk came from.’
‘Yes.’ Looked as if Harry wasn’t so much agreeing with me as adding things up in his head.
‘I suppose we’d better write back to this Mr Gordon,’ I said, not knowing whether I should be talking to Harry or Lydia. ‘Ask him to send the books and the money to Miss Gwatkyn?’
Lydia held Phoebe Gwatkyn’s letter up to me. ‘Actually, as one of the trustees of the collegiate school charity, Miss Gwatkyn feels that it might be as well to clarify what’s owed by – or to – this printer before the will is read, so that Rowland’s assets and liabilities are clear to anybody who might want to continue plans for the school.’
She began reading again. ‘Perhaps it might be in order for one of Mr Rowland’s executors to travel to London in order to speak to Mr Gordon and put all Mr Rowland’s London affairs in order.’
She looked up at Harry, who was chewing his lip. Thinking.
‘I agree,’ he said. ‘If this W. Gordon receives a letter telling him that Rowland’s dead and asking him to send the payments due, what’s to stop him shaving a good slice off?’
‘So shall I write back to her to that effect?’ Lydia asked.
More lip chewing.
‘It seems to me,’ Harry said, staring hard at the carpet he couldn’t see, ‘that there are two imperatives here. Firstly, to ensure that all the monies owed to Nicholas Rowland come into his estate. The larger the fund, the more likely it is that somebody will come forward to establish the school as he’d planned.’ He looked up and fixed his eyes somewhere in the air between me and Lydia where he could see us both. ‘Which I imagine we all agree would be a good thing. Secondly, to ensure that we acquaint ourselves with all the circumstances which might have had a bearing on Rowland’s death. Especially if it bears on Jonathan Eynon’s guilt or innocence.’
I looked at him. He could talk about imperatives all he liked but I knew what he really meant. ‘Executors be blowed,’ I said. ‘You want to go to London, yourself, don’t you?’
Except, he couldn’t, could he? He was speaking at a public meeting in Cardigan in two days’ time. Unless he sprouted wings, London was out of the question.
So I went instead.
Harry
The following day, with John already on his way to London, I packed a bag, told Mrs Griffiths that, if necessary, I could be contacted at the Black Lion Hotel in Cardigan, and went out to the stableyard.
I found Lydia waiting for me.
‘Did you want to speak to me before I go?’
‘No. I’m coming with you.’
‘That won’t be necessary. I don’t need you.’
‘Then on what basis have you employed me?’
‘I mean I don’t need you in Cardigan. There’ll be no correspondence, no paperwork.’
‘I thought I’d made it clear that I wasn’t accepting a post as a clerk.’
Conscious that the stableyard had become unnaturally still, I drew Lydia aside to a spot where we might less easily be overheard. ‘What I mean is that there is no Glanteifi business to transact. Everything I do in Cardigan will be as candidate for coroner.’
‘So I’m private secretary to Glanteifi, not to Harry Probert-Lloyd?’
‘You’re my private secretary not assistant coroner.’
‘Thank you. I understand that perfectly well. But the assistant coroner isn’t here. If I were a man, we wouldn’t be arguing. You’d have assumed I would come in John’s place.’
That pulled me up short. She was right.
‘Despite your protestations of egalitarianism, when it comes to suiting the action to the word, you can’t accept the assistance of a woman.’
‘It’s nothing to do with your being a woman.’
‘What is your objection, then?’
I knew that, in our correspondence, I would have answered her question without a second thought. Face to face, however – even though I could not see her – I found the whole thing humiliating.
‘The truth is,’ I said, attempting to keep my tone matter-of-fact, ‘that I’m still not entirely reconciled to the notion of needing help from anybo
dy.’
There was a pause as if she was weighing up my words. ‘I hadn’t envisaged being at your elbow the whole time. I know you’re not incapable. But surely I could be of some help in Cardigan? While you’re at the gaol with Jonathan Eynon, I could talk to shopkeepers and their customers, for instance, canvass opinion about the election.’
Belatedly, I realised that this was as much about Lydia’s needs as mine. I should have forseen that being left behind at Glanteifi without employment would be both humiliating and frustrating for her.
And her proposal did seem sensible. No doubt Minnever had his spies amongst the populace, but women would be less guarded about their opinions if Lydia were to engage them in conversation while out shopping.
‘What would you do while I’m dining with Minnever and the magistrates this evening?’
‘What I’d do if I was here. Read. Write letters.’
I bent to pick up our bags. ‘In that case, I’ll ask Twm to get the carriage ready.’
Following the inauspicious start to our journey, I sat opposite Lydia in what I still thought of as my father’s carriage, wishing that we could have brought the box cart instead. But that had been out of the question. Minnever had made it quite clear that I could not appear alone in public with Lydia and I could only imagine the fury with which he would greet the idea that she and I had ridden all the way to Cardigan together in the open air, visible to everyone we passed.
Though I knew I should say something to smooth things over between us, the right words eluded me and it was Lydia who took the bull by the horns.
