Those Who Know

by Alis Hawkins

  ‘We’re in an odd position, you and I,’ she said. ‘Having exchanged letters for months we know each other both very well and hardly at all. It’s only to be expected that it will take a while for us to find a comfortable modus vivendi.’

  I nodded. With my gaze somewhere in the vicinity of her knees, Lydia’s face was visible to me above the whirlpool.

  ‘I suspect,’ she went on, ‘that we’re both wondering whether the compatibility of thought we discovered in writing to each other is robust enough to survive day-to-day commerce. So I suggest that we simply try and say exactly what we would have written.’

  ‘That’s not possible, surely?’ I said, more abruptly than I had intended. ‘Physical presence affects things too much.’

  ‘Only if we allow it to, Harry.’

  A jolt like a mis-step off a kerb went through me at her use of my given name, entirely giving the lie to what she had just said. Until now, I realised, she had avoided addressing me by name and, despite hearing ‘Dear Harry’ for weeks in John’s reading of her letters to me, her use of it now, alone with me, felt shockingly intimate.

  ‘Very well,’ I managed. ‘I’m willing to try if you are.’

  ‘Is it so difficult? From your letters, it’s obvious that you had occasion to meet with women on equal terms in London.’

  It was true. Until failing sight had tethered me to my lodgings, wary of people’s curiosity or pity, I had attended talks and debates where equality of expression was championed and where, in the main, a tolerable attempt at practising it had been made. ‘But, in those circumstances,’ I pointed out, ‘one was always surrounded by other people.’

  ‘Conveniently chaperoning everybody present without the word ever having to be uttered.’ She sounded half amused, half exasperated and I was afraid I had disappointed her already.

  Distracted from my discomfort by the sound of a cuckoo’s call through the carriage’s open window, I laughed. ‘That’s what I feel like. A cuckoo. A London cuckoo in a Cardiganshire nest. As if I have to fight for all I’m worth to survive and not be caught out for the imposter I am.’

  I wondered if she felt the same. She certainly had as much cause as I did, more, perhaps. ‘And you?’ I asked. ‘How is it, being back? Does it feel odd?’

  She sighed as if a tension had been broken and I felt my own shoulders ease a little. Outside, the horses’ pace slowed as they approached a steep hill and their hoof beats slowed to a walk.

  ‘The smell of the air is the smell of home,’ she said, her head turning to the open window. ‘And speaking our own language again—’ She shook her head as if she could scarcely find the words. ‘But I find I’m wary,’ she went on. ‘Afraid of being recognised – my previous life revealed.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ And I did, for her situation was something of a mirror-image to my own. I was always at a disadvantage when I went out amongst people, for they always knew me before I knew them. Lydia would know people but would have to pretend ignorance, for she had no right to be acquainted with anybody in Cardiganshire. Not as Miss Lydia Howell. It must have been a strain, constantly watching for a spark of recognition, of suspicion, and having always to be vigilant lest her reactions should suggest familiarity with people who should be strangers.

  ‘Poor Nathaniel,’ she said. ‘I miss him.’

  There was much that I could have asked in response to Lydia’s wistful comment but discretion kept me silent. It was not yet time for such questions. And she, perhaps feeling that we had made progress enough, changed the subject.

  Taking Lydia at her word, I left her at the Black Lion to make arrangements for us while I made my way to the police station. If I wished to see Jonathan Eynon, it would be necessary, first, to pay a visit to Inspector William Bellis.

  To say that I did not enjoy a cordial relationship with the constabulary’s senior representative in Cardigan would be to understate matters. We had got off on the wrong foot from the very beginning of my first inquest as Coroner Bowen’s locum, and had remained there ever since.

  A former soldier, Bellis was a man who enjoyed the exercise of power and, unlike inspectors elsewhere, often exercised that power personally, taking to the streets with his men at the merest suggestion of a threat to the town’s peace and shouting, Go about your business!

  Much mocked for this, he had quickly become known in Cardigan as Billy Go-About and I repeated the belittling nickname silently to myself as I walked, like a protective charm. Without John at my side I felt vulnerable and shifted my unfocused gaze constantly. It had been market day the day before and, though the streets were relatively quiet today, they were also more than usually foul with the droppings of livestock. I tried my best to skirt the more obvious piles and slicks that remained, but I knew that the first thing I must do on arriving at the police station would be to locate the boot scraper. It would not be wise to give Inspector Bellis further cause to dislike me.

  Locating the police station both from memory and its lack of large shop-front windows, I opened the door and walked in. At least, having been there before, I knew the layout of the place and could look directly at the constable who had risen to his feet.

  ‘Mr Probert-Lloyd, sir!’

  Thankfully, the voice was familiar. ‘Good morning, Constable Morgan.’ I knew Morgan to be an overweight sluggard who rarely went out on patrol, preferring to act as Bellis’s general factotum and guard dog. He aped his superior’s attitude towards me and could not resist a sly dig.

  ‘I’m sorry. Mr Caldicot’s beaten you to it, sir.’

  Just for a second, I wondered why Caldicot had come to ask about the case against Jonathan Eynon, but reason swiftly reasserted itself and I understood that my rival was here to canvass Bellis. ‘I see.’

  ‘Been in with the inspector for a while, he has. Would you like me to tell Mr Bellis you’re here?’

  I hesitated. On the one hand I did not wish to stand about in public, unannounced but, on the other, Bellis might just prolong his conversation with Caldicot if he knew I was waiting to see him. Fortunately, the decision was made for me when the door to the inspector’s office opened and Montague Caldicot strode out. At least, I inferred that it was Caldicot since the figure was not in police uniform but wore a long jacket with a patterned waistcoat beneath.

  ‘Probert-Lloyd! I thought I heard Morgan utter your name.’ Caldicot closed the door behind him as if I could have no possible business with the inspector. ‘The assistant coroner not with you today?’ He emphasised the title just enough to let me know that he did not approve of John’s appropriation of it.

  ‘No. He’s travelling up to London.’

  ‘London?’

  His tone implied that he could imagine no earthly reason why John might have business there and it riled me into an injudicious reply. ‘Indeed. I’ve sent him to bring back information which may lead to my re-opening the inquest into Nicholas Rowland’s death.’

  ‘What do events in London have to do with a death in Llanddewi Brefi?’

  ‘That’s what John has gone to find out.’ I did not wish to continue this conversation beneath the gaze of the torpid Morgan. Nor within earshot of Bellis, whose ill-fitting office door offered him privacy from the public gaze whilst allowing him to hear everything that was said beyond it. ‘Caldicot, I’d value a few moments of your time, actually. In private?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have a meeting in…’ He took his watch out and consulted it. ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘This will take no more than two, I assure you.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Outside, I drew him away from the police station into a quieter side street.

  ‘Reckitt has withdrawn his candidacy,’ I said. ‘It will be a straight fight between you and me.’

  He did not respond. With my gaze offset, I tried to get an impression of him in my peripheral vision but could see nothing more than the shape of his face and his dark hair. John had described him as stiff-countenanced. As an army officer, he must hav
e become used to keeping his reactions well guarded.

  ‘Given that,’ I went on, ‘is it possible that you and I might agree to conduct the remaining public meetings in a civilised fashion and allow the voters to decide which of us would be the better coroner, rather than which of us is the greater hypocrite?’

  Caldicot betrayed no reaction to this directness; not so much as a shift in position or an intake of breath. ‘You don’t think hypocrisy is a topic that should be addressed when considering fitness for public office?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s as important as other things.’

  ‘I disagree. Your assistant’s trip to London provides an excellent example. In your remarks after the verdict on Rowland’s death, you made great play of the fact that the jury had exercised its right to bring forward evidence as well as to decide on the ultimate verdict. It was the coroner’s job, I believe you said, to respect that decision.’ Caldicot leaned toward me, emphasising his height advantage. ‘But, in actual fact, you have no respect whatsoever for that decision. You’ve sent John Davies to London to find evidence with which to overturn the jury’s verdict because you don’t agree with it.’

  ‘If new information comes to light, it’s my duty to pursue it.’

  ‘No.’ Previously he might have been speaking to a subaltern; now he was barking as if at a private soldier. ‘That is the job of the police. They must now make a case against Jonathan Eynon. If there is evidence that somebody else is guilty then so be it, but finding that evidence is not the coroner’s responsibility. Not once the inquest jury has given its verdict.’

  He straightened up once more and I felt his eyes fixed on me. ‘If you want me to stop calling you a hypocrite, give me an assurance, now, that the verdict on Nicholas Rowland’s death will stand and you will stop interfering in this case.’

  If I did not agree, I might as well join Reckitt in withdrawing my candidacy. I had seen the effect of Caldicot’s words at Tregaron and they were unlikely to produce a different effect elsewhere. But I could not do as he wished. The jury at Rowland’s inquest had not heard all the facts. More than that, if Miss Gwatkyn was to be believed, some of the evidence they had heard might have been untrue. Did Nicholas Rowland not deserve better?

  ‘I cannot give you that assurance,’ I said. ‘Because I’m not interfering. I’m doing my duty.’

  ‘Then the scope of the coroner’s duty is another thing on which we will be seen to disagree, and on which the electorate may judge us.’ He took his watch from his pocket again. ‘And now, if I’m not to be late for my meeting, I must take my leave.’

  ‘Wait. A moment, please.’ I held out a hand as if to restrain him but did not touch his arm. ‘Quite apart from the inquest’s verdict, there is the fate of Rowland’s new school to consider. He’d already secured a parcel of land and accumulated not inconsiderable funds – the project might still attract a sponsor and come to fruition. It’s been brought to my attention that he’d been writing books for which he was owed money. Money that rightly belongs to the school fund. Would you have me simply ignore it?’

  There was a pause before he answered. A pause filled – I would have sworn it – with deep discomfort on Caldicot’s part. ‘It’s not the coroner’s duty to pursue monies owed.’

  ‘Possibly not. But this bookseller may also have information which helps us better understand Nicholas Rowland and suggest a different motive for his murder. The police, as I’m sure you’re aware, wouldn’t dream of going to London in pursuit of evidence.’

  I willed Caldicot to reply but to no avail. The news that John had gone to London to see Mr Gordon had obviously disconcerted him. Why?

  I tried to fix my eyes somewhere near his face. I could not look him in the eye, but that would have to do. ‘I know you told John that you were barely acquainted with Nicholas Rowland but I wonder whether, perhaps, you had reason to keep any association to yourself? If so, it would be better to tell me now, man to man.’

  Still, he said nothing.

  ‘God knows, Caldicot, I am no friend to the county magistrates but even I can see that they would be put in a very unenviable position if some scandal should suddenly attach itself to one of their coroners—’

  ‘How dare you threaten me?’ Caldicot’s tone was such that I took a step back.

  ‘I assure you, I was not—’

  ‘Enough! I will not allow you to delay me any further. I shall see you at the meeting, tomorrow.’

  And, with that, he turned and was gone.

  When I returned to the police station, Morgan announced my presence and was instructed to show me in.

  ‘Good morning, Acting Coroner,’ Bellis greeted me without rising from his seat. ‘Though you will be burdened with that temporary title for less than a week, now, I’m pleased to say.’

  He had phrased it carefully but my temper had already been roused by Caldicot’s accusation. ‘Yes,’ I said, sitting down uninvited. ‘By next Tuesday evening, the Teifi Valley will see its coroner duly elected once more. But that’s not why I’m here.’

  ‘Oh? You don’t believe in seeking the support of men of influence?’

  His mocking tone set my teeth on edge. ‘Mr Bellis, let’s not pretend that my asking for your support would be anything other than a waste of both our time. I’m here to see Jonathan Eynon.’

  His posture changed abruptly as if to exaggerate his surprise, a gesture largely wasted on me. ‘Why? Eynon’s no longer any concern of yours. The magistrates have heard his story and seen fit to commit him for trial. You’ve absolutely no reason to see him.’

  I fought down a very real urge to leap to my feet and punch Bellis, concentrating on what he had not said rather than what he had. ‘He hasn’t confessed then?’

  ‘He might as well have done.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘He has no alibi. We have witnesses who’ll testify that he left Tregaron at no later than six o’clock. Time a-plenty to walk back to Llanddewi Brefi and kill the teacher.’ Bellis leaned back in his chair as if the argument was over. ‘You don’t know men like Eynon,’ he said. ‘But I do. The army’s full of them. Illiterate, violent, ruled by animal instincts. Jilted like that, by a chit of a girl, a man like him wouldn’t have stood for it. The jury’ll see it straight away. When we’ve put our case, they’ll find him guilty in a minute.’

  He folded his hands over his midriff, the picture of complacency. ‘Go home, Acting Coroner, and leave this to men who know what they’re doing.’

  I once heard that a man’s senses are sharpened in battle, that he becomes aware of things that might pass unnoticed in a less exigent state. When I had walked in to Bellis’s office I had been aware of only one dominant smell – the beeswax and turpentine polish that had been used on the huge desk behind which he sat. But, now, I became aware of other smells. The filth that remained on my boots despite my best efforts at the scraper. The rubberised coating of my coat, warmed by my leaning back against it. And the smell of hair oil. I wore none, therefore it was Bellis’s.

  As the perfume of it turned in my nostrils and became distasteful, I knew that I would never again smell it without thinking of this moment of clarity. Bellis was my adversary, not my ally. There was no point in arguing that we both worked in the cause of justice; he despised me and would frustrate me if he could, and I would not ask for his assistance unless compelled to do so.

  I stood and pointed my gaze down at him. ‘New information has come to light which may lead to my re-opening the inquest into Nicholas Rowland’s death. As we speak, John Davies is on his way to London to gather evidence.’

  There was a silence during which Bellis rose, slowly, to his feet. ‘If you intend to re-open the inquest,’ he said, finally, ‘then you’ll need to hurry, won’t you? You may soon find it’s not your job to do so.’

  He was going to try and deny me access to Shoni Goch. I sniffed the air like a hound taking scent of the fox, breathing in Bellis’s oily stink, feeding my detestation of the man. ‘Tha
t’s why I’m keen to see Jonathan Eynon today, Inspector.’

  ‘And if I refuse to allow it?’

  ‘You and I both know that you cannot refuse. But if you make it difficult, then I will go to a magistrate.’ I allowed the whirlpool to settle directly over Bellis’s face and glared into it. ‘It would be unfortunate if I was obliged to report that you had been less than helpful. I know how much you value being on good terms with the bench.’

  The struggle for dominance could not have been more obvious if we had opened our trousers and started pissing up the wall.

  ‘I’m very busy at present. If you come back tomorrow, there will be a letter waiting for you.’

  ‘And, as you know, I am busy tomorrow.’

  ‘Indeed. And yet, here you are, insisting on doing my job instead of doing what you can to retain the one you temporarily have.’

  I had had enough. The overpowering smell of his hair oil was beginning to make me feel sick. ‘Inspector, either you provide me with a letter now, or I go to the nearest magistrate.’

  Several silent seconds dragged by and I began to fear that he would call my bluff. Then, abruptly, he bellowed, ‘Morgan!’ The constable put his head around the door. ‘Write a note to the governor of the prison asking that Jonathan Eynon be produced for the acting coroner. When it’s done, bring it here and I will sign it.’