Those Who Know

by Alis Hawkins

  On the way back to the election platform I allowed my hand to be wrung, received good wishes, smiled in a fashion that I hoped would seem humble-yet-competent and generally behaved exactly as Minnever wished until we climbed the steps up to the stage. Aided and abetted by the Liberal cohorts, news of Caldicot’s absence from both Cardigan and Newcastle Emlyn had gone far and wide, and speculation as to whether he would appear today was rife in the crowd awaiting us.

  We greeted the town worthies, Minnever regretfully denied any knowledge of when the ‘other party’ would be pleased to present themselves and we sat down. ‘We shall sit here and look prepared,’ he murmured. ‘As, indeed, we are.’

  I hoped his confidence was not misplaced. Verwick, as a local man, might reasonably anticipate a significant number of votes.

  Suddenly, I was aware of somebody pushing through the crowd and bounding up the steps on to the stage. John.

  ‘Harry. You’ve got to come with me.’

  ‘What? It’s about to start.’

  ‘The Tories aren’t here yet. And Montague Caldicot wants to speak to you.’ I did not move. ‘Come on, Harry!’

  ‘Why should I speak to Caldicot?’

  ‘Because he can give you the coronership.’

  I felt a rush that was half excitement, half apprehension. Was that within his power? I stood up. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Harry, you can’t walk off the stage!’ Minnever hissed.

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘Then I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No. You stay here. Unruffle any affronted Tory feathers.’ Minnever’s presence would, inevitably, confine any conversation between Caldicot and me to matters electoral and this might be my only chance to force information from him about Nicholas Rowland.

  I followed John down from the stage, trying to ignore the jeering that our departure provoked.

  Was I being foolish in chasing off after Caldicot? Could this be a ruse on his part to make me seem as dilatory as he was?

  ‘He’s just this way,’ John said, leading me through the crowds.

  We found Caldicot standing a few yards back from the street, beneath the bare branches of a substantial tree.

  ‘I appreciate your coming, Probert-Lloyd.’

  ‘Whatever you have to say, be quick. We have very little time.’

  Did he glance over at John? Or was he staring at me, appraising me for weakness? ‘I have a proposal,’ he said. ‘I will make a speech in which I will both renounce my own candidacy and make it clear that you are the only man for the job. In return, you will see to it that nobody stands trial for Nicholas Rowland’s murder.’

  Whatever I had expected, it was not that. ‘I can’t possibly—’

  ‘It’s clear that one of those girls pushed Nicholas to his death but if they come to trial, there will be a scandal. Nicholas’s reputation will be ruined and any prospect of the collegiate school’s coming to fruition will be destroyed.’

  ‘And how do you imagine I would prevent a trial?’

  ‘By obtaining a confession and having the culprit committed to an asylum. Not a mad-doctor in the country would quibble.’

  He was right. Men who write erotic literature might be considered rakish and their acceptability in polite circles questionable but women are held to a different standard; any female found writing erotica would be considered morally insane. But his plan was unconscionable.

  ‘That’s absolutely out of the question. I’ll do my best to obtain a confession and avoid a trial but I will not conceal those young women’s actions by having either of them quietly shut away.’

  ‘And if there’s no confession? If it all comes out? Are you prepared to see plans for Nicholas’s school perish on the altar of your self-righteousness?’

  ‘Not on any altar of mine, Caldicot.’ I kept a tight hold on my temper despite the insult. I could not be seen in a public argument with him; not today of all days. ‘If it perishes, it does so because Rowland could not live up to the values he supposedly wished to inculcate.’

  There was a pause, then Caldicot sighed. ‘Very well. So be it.’

  John

  ‘Harry, I didn’t know that’s what he was going to say, I promise you!’ We’d barely stepped away from Montague Caldicot but I didn’t care if he heard me.

  ‘He said he could make sure you got the coronership but he wanted to talk to you first.’

  Harry waved my apology away, already heading back towards the stage. ‘He’s desperate to keep it all quiet. I think it was him that Rowland was meeting when he went walking at night.’

  I thought of the Young Man’s Awakening and the Two Rollicking Lads and I knew what he meant.

  ‘He and Rowland belonged to a club in London,’ Harry said, staring straight ahead so that he could see where he was putting his feet. ‘A club for men with particular tastes.’

  ‘For sex with other men.’

  He stopped in his tracks and his head whipped round.

  ‘One of the books I brought back is about a young man and what he gets up to.’

  ‘You’ve read them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A few yards ahead of us, I spotted Mr Crowther and the Tory committee. I grabbed Harry’s arm. ‘Come on. If we hurry, we can get back on to the stage before the Tories.’

  I used my shoulder to make a path for us and one of the people I shifted out of the way turned to push me back but stopped when he saw Harry. ‘Oh, here’s Mr Probert-Lloyd back again!’ he shouted out. ‘Hasn’t run away after all.’

  There was a bit of mock-cheering then and a few people threw rolled-up ribbons so that they unravelled in the air and draped themselves over Harry. I could see that the policemen at the front of the stage weren’t too keen on that so I turned around and held my hands up. ‘Thank you but we haven’t won yet! Save your ribbons, ladies and gentlemen!’

  We got to the steps just ahead of the Tories and there was more cheering and jeering as we climbed up. Once we were in our seats, I scanned the crowd for Caldicot. At first, I couldn’t see him, then I realised that he was climbing up on to the side of the stage to cut the Tory committee off before they could sit down.

  ‘Stand down your new candidate, Crowther,’ he said. ‘I’ll address the meeting.’

  ‘Indeed you will not.’ The Tory agent’s teeth were clenched so hard that his voice barely escaped from his mouth. ‘You’re no longer the party’s nominee.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I wish to speak.’

  Mr Crowther seemed to gain another inch in height and six in girth. ‘Out of the question. Your abominable behaviour has forfeited any right—’

  ‘I don’t wish to speak on your behalf but on my own.’

  ‘Then you may speak on your own time. After the nomination.’

  Caldicot took half a step toward his agent. ‘Do you want a riot?’ he asked. ‘These people have come for a contest. If you send me away now, they won’t be best pleased.’

  He was right. And Mr Crowther knew it. The crowd was here for a contest. Keeping Caldicot quiet would be a big mistake.

  If either of them could hear that the crowd had fallen silent, they gave no sign. They just stood there, less than a yard apart, eye to eye, neither wanting to be the one who backed down. ‘Let me speak,’ Caldicot said, ‘then you can proceed with the nomination.’

  Mr Crowther seemed to be working hard to unclench his jaw. ‘Sit down and we’ll proceed with the nomination. Then you may speak.’

  ‘No. I must speak first.’ What was Caldicot going to demand next? Mr Crowther on all fours so he could stand on his back? ‘Don’t think I won’t tell them that you’re trying to silence me.’ Caldicot gestured at the crowd, eyes fixed on Mr Crowther.

  The agent turned, just for a second, to look at Harry, as if he thought he might be in on this. Then he went back to giving Caldicot the beady eye. ‘Very well. In the interests of preventing a riot. But this is the end for you. Do not imagine that you’ll be able to count on the party’s support
again.’

  ‘I assure you, Crowther, henceforth Tory support or the lack of it will be wholly irrelevant to me.’

  And that was that. Mr Crowther went and took his seat, shaking his head at all the stares and questions he got from the other Tories. It’s finished. He’s taken things out of our hands now.

  Caldicot walked to the front of the stage and, slowly, swept his eyes around the crowd.

  ‘I’m sure some of you were at Tregaron when Mr Probert-Lloyd and I spoke,’ he said. ‘And all of you, whether you were there or not, will have a pretty good idea of what was said by both of us. The Carmarthen Journal was very generous with its quotations.’

  He smiled and a few titters went round, but I don’t think people were really sure whether they were supposed to be laughing or not. This wasn’t what they were expecting.

  ‘I told no lies at Tregaron,’ he said, ‘but the way I used the truth was dishonest. I criticised Mr Probert-Lloyd for refusing to accept the verdict of a legally-constituted jury. I accused him of being a hypocrite.’

  He stopped and looked around at the crowd, drawing them all in. Every face was turned up to him, every eye on him.

  ‘And the reason I did that was because I wanted to stop him from refusing to recognise the verdict of another jury. A more recent one. The jury that sat at the inquest into Mr Nicholas Rowland’s death.’ He stopped for a moment and I saw frowns and heads turned to neighbours. What’s he saying?

  ‘I knew Mr Probert-Lloyd felt that the jury had made a mistake and I did not want him to continue to investigate.’ He paused again. ‘You’re wondering why.’

  Nobody said a word, not even the drunks. This was the kind of speech you didn’t heckle. No more than you’d interrupt a eulogy to speak ill of the dead.

  ‘I wanted to stop him,’ Caldicot said, ‘because I feared that he would discover information that would not be to my advantage.’

  A murmur went round then, but it didn’t rise to anything more than that. Just a murmur of surprise and uneasiness.

  ‘I’m not going to talk about what that information was. All you need to know is that I didn’t want it to be made public. But, you see…’ He held his empty hands out – no secrets! ‘The thing about the truth is that it needs to be made known.’

  Again, I saw his head move as he looked around, drawing every one of them in to this almost-telling of secrets.

  ‘Hidden truths are dangerous. People who want to keep them hidden do desperate things. And the more damaging to them the truth might be, the more violent and drastic are the steps they have to take. It’s only by letting the truth come out that violence can be prevented.’

  I saw looks exchanged here and there. Didn’t matter whether people were wearing blue ribbons or red, none of them knew what they were supposed to make of this.

  ‘Mr Probert-Lloyd knows the value of the truth. He knows it’s the only way to stop the poison spreading. The truth isn’t always easy. Sometimes it’s hard, painful. It feels as if it might kill us. But it is necessary.’

  I’d never heard a crowd stay so silent for so long. But then, this wasn’t just a speech, was it? It was a confession.

  ‘Harry Probert-Lloyd isn’t a man to give up when the search for the truth gets difficult. He won’t give up when magistrates tell him he can’t have the money he needs to pursue it. He won’t give up when the Cardiganshire constabulary’s decided that it already knows who the guilty party is. He won’t give up in the face of threats, bribes or embarrassment. He’s shown you that already and he’s been acting coroner for less than four months.’

  In the Tory camp, an argument was going on in whispers and mutters. An argument where at least one person had to be asking why Mr Crowther wasn’t stopping this. But it would’ve been a brave man who’d stood up and tried to silence Montague Caldicot now.

  ‘I failed to turn up at the last two hustings,’ he said. ‘And, as a result, I suspect that the Tories have found an alternative candidate.’ He turned, as if he wanted an answer from Crowther, but all he got was a face like a block of wood. ‘However, the best candidate for the coronership is already doing the job. He turned and held his hand out to Harry. ‘I give you Mr Harry Probert-Lloyd.’

  Harry

  I rose in response to Caldicot’s speech and shook his hand while the crowd celebrated as if I had ordered a public holiday and a pound sterling for each person present. And, bowing to manifest public opinion, the Tories capitulated.

  Thus elected unopposed, I made a brief speech, thanked all concerned, and – as swiftly as decorum would allow – left Minnever and the Liberal contingent to celebrate on my behalf while I returned to the job in hand. Elation would come later; for now, I felt only relief.

  On the way back to the Black Lion, at my request, John outlined exactly what kind of books Rowland had involved the two young women in writing.

  ‘According to Caldicot, it was the girls’ idea,’ he finished. ‘They’d discovered Rowland’s copy of Fanny Hill and, if what happens in the Two Naughty Pupils book is what happened in real life, they took it away from the loft to read it in private. They must have decided they could make money by doing the same. If not better. I mean, with the Amorous Celtic Tales I think they might’ve thought they were doing something a bit superior.’

  We arrived at the Black Lion to find it teeming. Excusing our way through the crowds in the coachyard, we made our way up the outside staircase which gave access to the upper floors. Lydia opened the door to her chamber as if she had been standing with her hand on the latch, waiting for us.

  ‘I was watching for you out of the window,’ she said, joining us on the balustraded gallery and closing the door behind her. ‘We’ve tried to speak to them,’ she said, keeping her voice low lest people in the courtyard below overhear. ‘But, despite our best attempts, they’re choosing to say nothing about that night.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What’s your opinion – both of you?’ I asked looking from her to John. ‘Do you think Billy was telling the truth?’

  There was clearly some silent communication while they decided who should answer first, then John said, ‘I do believe him, yes. But, from what he told us, there’s nothing to say it wasn’t an accident, more or less – so why would they refuse to speak?’

  ‘You don’t think Ruth pushed him deliberately?’ I asked.

  ‘If Billy’s description is any guide,’ Lydia said, ‘Rowland had become confrontational. Perhaps Ruth simply pushed him away from her, not realising how close he was to the edge of the loft?’

  The suggestion seemed plausible. ‘Let’s put it to her, shall we?’ I opened the door and we filed in.

  The room was not large and the small window, set low in the wall, let in relatively little light. Nan Walters and Ruth Eynon were sitting side by side near the foot of the high-framed bed while Phoebe Gwatkyn occupied the room’s only chair. She rose as we entered the room but the two young women remained seated.

  ‘Ladies,’ I greeted them. They responded in kind but did not move from their position on the bed. As I could not observe their facial expressions, I decided that I might as well make use of my blindness to put them at a disadvantage so I crossed the room and sat on the low windowsill. With my back to the light, they would be unable to see me well. Still, I paid a price in discomfort as I was obliged to stretch my legs out in front of me without anything to lean back on.

  ‘I’d like to ask you about Billy’s account of what happened in the schoolroom on the night of Mr Rowland’s death.’

  Neither of them stirred and I had the impression that they were holding themselves firmly in check lest they unintentionally reveal something.

  ‘You both accused Billy of lying,’ I proceeded. ‘But perhaps he simply didn’t understand what he’d heard. It seems to me that perhaps an accident took place?’ I paused, waiting for one of them to take the bait, and realised that I was holding my breath as I tried to wring every modicum
of information I could from what remained of my vision. As far as I could tell, neither of them so much as twitched. I tried again. ‘Would you like to tell us, in your own words, what actually happened that night?’

  ‘I don’t think so, thank you, Mr Probert-Lloyd.’ Nan Walters spoke for both of them, her voice clear and decisive. ‘You may choose to believe Billy if that’s what you wish. Ruth and I have nothing to say on the matter.’

  ‘You don’t want to tell us what actually happened?’

  ‘It’s your prerogative to believe what Billy said or not as you see fit. We have nothing to say.’

  ‘But you don’t deny you were there?’

  I was almost certain that Ruth Eynon drew breath to answer me but Nan Walters put a hand on her friend’s arm and nothing was said.

  I allowed a silence to develop. Nan Walters remained true to her intention to say nothing more and Ruth Eynon followed suit; she had, I suspected, become accustomed, long ago, to bearing uncomfortable silences in her father’s house. However, I did not think she was as determined as her friend so I decided to test her resolve.

  ‘Ruth Eynon,’ I snapped, ‘did you or did you not go to the schoolroom on the night Mr Rowland died?’