by R J Lynch
‘I cannot. His Lordship wishes to see me and before that I must find Emmett Batey and ask what passed between him and Joseph’s wife.’
As he took the reins in his hand and climbed into the saddle he saw Jeffrey Drabble’s eyes fixed on both of them. Drabble had seen the hand on his arm and the smile his beloved gave him; no doubt he had not failed also to notice the besotted look on his own face. Well, at the end of the week there need be no more dissembling. He had promised Kate to keep all secret until their banns were read for the first time in church, but then everyone would know of their love.
When he arrived at the hovel that was home to Emmett Batey’s mother she told him that her son had gone to Philadelphia to look for work in the pits.
‘Has he a horse?’
‘No, Master, he walked.
‘But that must be fifteen miles from here.’
‘And fifteen miles back, Master. But what choice does he have if we are not to starve?’
‘Does he want to work in a coal mine?’
‘He wants to stay above ground as his father and his grandfather did. But Joseph Laws got rid of him and it will be months before the next hiring fair.’
‘If he can start by the end of this week he has no need to wait for a fair, for I have a job for him. Tell him to present himself at my house at seven in the morning. If not tomorrow, because he spends the night at Philadelphia, then the day after tomorrow. If I do not hear from him by then I will find someone else and the opportunity will be lost.’
‘Sir, I will send his younger brother to tell him.’
‘How old is the boy?’
‘He is thirteen, Master. His name is Robert.’
‘Thirteen. Has he time to fetch his brother? Is he not working?’
‘He works when he can, Master. He was passed over at the Whitsun hiring fair.’
‘Very well, Mistress Batey. Send him. If Emmett Batey is at my house at seven, tomorrow morning or the morning after, we have work for him.’
As Blakiston rode away, he thought how much he would have liked to add the words, “and for his brother Robert” to “we have work for him”. Times were hard for those without land, and getting harder. He was confident in what he was doing; future generations would be grateful for the larger farms, the transfer of strips of land in common ownership to more effective units, the modern farming methods that meant fewer people could produce bigger crops. Better agriculture would make the country richer, and so would the mining and manufacturing industries that were growing as men and women no longer needed on the land expanded the workforce in the towns and pit villages. Still, many of the people who had worked the land were paying a terrible price now for the benefits others would have in the future.
The rector would say that all was ordered for the best in God’s world, and the poor would have their reward in the life to come. Walter Maughan on the other hand would say that the poor were being punished by God for sins known to Him though invisible to us. But these comforts were not available to Blakiston.
Giving work to a thirteen-year-old would be an act of charity – a good act. But where would it end? It was a fact that there was not enough work to go round, and employing someone who was not really needed would solve no problems and would damage his own master’s interests. A thought that reminded him that Lord Ravenshead was waiting to see him at Ravenshead Castle. He urged Obsidian into a gallop.
He gave Obsidian into the care of one of the stable boys and stopped in the kitchen, as he always did, to check his appearance in the glass. Then he made his way along stone-floored passageways till he came to the family’s quarters where he climbed carpeted stairs two at a time and entered Lord Ravenshead’s Business Office.
His Lordship was deep in the examination of two maps that lay on his desk. ‘Blakiston! It is good to see you.’ He gestured towards a sideboard. ‘Help yourself to coffee. You might pour a cup for me while you are about it.’
Blakiston did as he was told, taking at the same time two pieces of Scottish shortbread sweetened with caraways and orange peel. His breakfast seemed suddenly a long time in the past. He had drunk the coffee and eaten both pieces of shortbread before Lord Ravenshead wrote a note on the bottom of one of the maps, signed it with a flourish and looked up. ‘So, Blakiston. What I really want to talk about is the wheat harvest. But first you had better tell me the news of this poor woman who was done to death on one of our farms – Margaret Laws, was it not? I understand you have her husband under arrest.’
‘I have, my Lord, or rather he is under arrest for I have no authority in the matter. But he says he did not kill his wife and I am inclined to believe him.’
‘That is bad news.’
‘My Lord?’
‘Blakiston, there could hardly be a busier time in a farm overseer’s life than August and September. I was happy to see you find the killers of Reuben Cooper and I would not prevent you from seeking the solution to this new mystery, but if one is already in your hands I should prefer you to give your attention to the efficient working of my Estate.’
‘My Lord…’
‘Do not misunderstand me; I should not wish to see an innocent man hang so that we can be sure of getting the grain into the barns before the weather breaks. But the Durham Assize takes place in the first week of August, which means it has just passed for the year and Joseph Laws cannot now stand trial until fifty more weeks have passed – is that not correct?’
‘It is, my Lord. And a miserable fifty weeks it will be.’
‘Yes, I dare say, and if he is guilty that is no more than he deserves and if he is innocent then it is a shame. But this estate is responsible for many more people than one tenant farmer and it is my wish that misery should be suffered by as few of those as possible, so please leave Laws where he is until the harvest is safely in. You may spend five pounds each month, if you think it necessary, to ensure that he does not lack for necessities.’
‘Thank you, my Lord.’
There was a discreet knock at the door, which opened immediately to admit Harris, Lord Ravenshead’s butler. ‘Beg pardon, my Lord. News has just come to the servants’ quarters which, knowing Mister Blakiston was here, I felt you and he would wish to hear without delay.’
‘Yes? Out with it.’
‘My Lord, Ezra Hindmarsh is dead.’
‘Who the devil is Ezra Hindmarsh?’ asked Ravenshead.
Blakiston shook his head. ‘I never heard the name.’
‘His father is a tenant on a Blackett farm.’
‘A Blackett farm?’ repeated Ravenshead. ‘Then what has this to do with Mister Blakiston?’
‘My Lord, the boy was strangled.’
‘Oh, no. You are going to tell me he died as Margaret Laws died? That we have one killer who does not stop at a single victim?’
‘It would seem so, my Lord.’
Ravenshead turned his eyes to the ceiling. ‘You will have to investigate, Blakiston. But, please, do not be distracted from the harvest.’
Chapter 12
He had expected a greater feeling of satisfaction. When you have dreamed of revenge for so long, achieving it should surely gratify more. If he were honest—if he looked into his heart and examined what was really there and not what he told himself should be there – he had felt compassion for the boy and revulsion at what he himself was doing.
He had done it nevertheless – put his strong hands around the defenceless boy’s neck and broken it – and he would not allow himself to regret it. He would not. Revenge is necessary, the way the world has been for ever, a fundamental law of nature.
No-one had had mercy on George. Or Mary. Or the others. The lesson had been there for anyone who cared to learn it.
His Lordship wanted the harvest to have the overseer’s attention before all else and he was right to want that. Blakiston rode to the home farm. William Welton, who had the tenancy there, was a man not always in tune with Blakiston’s views on modern farming but he had the wheat harvest well under
control.
‘You will be finished with the day labourers on time?’ asked Blakiston.
‘Aye, Master. All will be done by Wednesday night, so only it does not rain before then.’
‘The crop is still ahead of last year’s?’
We have nearly one third as much again. And the grains are fatter in the ear. That will be the rain we had all those nights in July, with the sun in the day.’
‘A good harvest, then. Is there ought you wish to tell me?’
Hesitation was visible on Welton’s face. ‘Master. This matter of the wheat among the turnips.’
‘Yes? Out with it, man. You doubt the practice?’
‘You want us to sow wheat between the rows of turnips, after we have weeded them. I never heard of such a thing, Master. And nor has anyone else.’
‘This would be a poor land, Welton, with no possibility of improvement, if we never did a new thing because no Ryton farmer has heard of it.’
‘But…’
‘A Mister Walker does it and gets good crops without paying for tillage. We shall try it here, because this land has a sandy nature and so does the Norfolk farm of Mister Walker.’
‘But, sir, when we set the sheep in to eat the turnips, will they not have the wheat as well?’
‘Walker says his do not.’
‘But…’
‘Enough, Welton. If all falls to disaster you may laugh with your friends about the overseer’s foolishness. But try it we will. Is that all?’
Welton raised both hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘There is nought else, Master.’
‘Then tell me where is the farm that Ezra Hindmarsh’s father works.’
Ezra Hindmarsh’s father is dead, Master. His wife also. The fever took them both. The boy lived with his grandfather.’
‘And his name?’
‘Ezra, Master. The boy was named for his father’s father.’
When Blakiston arrived there, he found Ezra Hindmarsh the grandfather in the lowest of spirits. ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ he said.
‘Aye. Thank you, Overseer. It seems this is a time for loss, for it is not twelve month since the boy’s parents went, and his two sisters, and now him. But God took those others and some man killed Ezra.’
‘Did the boy have enemies?’
‘He was nine years old.’
‘You are right. It was a foolish question and I apologise for asking it.’
‘Do I have enemies, you should rightly have asked. And I can only say that if I have enemies who would do this then I do not know who they may be. But I am a Blackett tenant and you are Lord Ravenshead’s man. Why are you here asking these things?’
‘You had heard of the death of Margaret Laws?’
‘Her that was Walter Maughan’s girl? Aye. But what has she to do with this?’
‘She was killed in the same way.’
‘You think who killed her killed Ezra? But surely…I had thought…everyone thought…her death was the chastisement of a harlot. And did I not hear that you had Joseph Laws locked up for it? If he is in Durham jail he could not have killed our Ezra.’
‘He is in Durham jail but he says he did not murder his wife and I am inclined to believe him.’
A woman so toothless that Blakiston guessed she must be at least sixty but standing upright like one much younger came into the room. ‘Mister Blakiston, welcome. Forgive my husband’s manners for he grieves for young Ezra. Can I offer you small beer? Bread? Cheese?’
‘Thank you, Mistress Hindmarsh, nothing for me. I wonder, could I see where the boy died?’
‘It was not here,’ said Hindmarsh. ‘He went every morning to the Misses Carrick and he was killed as he rode home.’
‘You had him in school! That is commendable.’
‘Aye, we thought to give him a more educated life. Now he has no life at all.’
‘And he went and came back on horseback?’
‘A pony, for he was no age. But a good animal and one he cared for. It was when the pony came home alone that I went to look for the boy and found him in the churchyard. I carried him to Doctor Barraclough but there was nought to be done.’
‘The churchyard. I wonder, would you show me the exact place?’
The old man’s face said he would rather not go back there but he stood, nevertheless. ‘My horse will not carry me as fast as that magnificent black of yours. You will need to go at my pace.’
As they rode side by side, Blakiston said, ‘Was the boy doing well at school?’
‘The Carrick ladies were pleased with him. He was a good boy. What you asked him to do, he did. And we wanted him to hold his head a little higher, you know, than we have been able to do.’
‘School would give him that?’
‘He could already read and write and do his sums. Farmers must take their turn as overseers of the poor and my time was more difficult than it might have been because I could not write, and nor could I understand what was put in front of me without someone told me what it said.’
‘I am hearing a lot about the job of the overseer.’
‘I hated it, Master. It must be done, I know that, but it is hard to have to decide the fate of those less fortunate than you.’
‘Walter Maughan says that overseers do God’s work.’
‘Walter Maughan may say what he likes. In my view, we did the work of our betters who did not want to spend more than they must.’
Blakiston refrained from asking whether Hindmarsh’s “betters” included his landlords the Blacketts; the man had suffered enough with the death of his grandson. ‘You will have meant the tenancy of the farm to go to the boy?’
‘We hoped to live long enough for that to happen. Now…’
‘I think you have considered this.’
‘I have. If I fall ill…or my wife does…or if the Blacketts decide I am too old…then the overseers of the poor will be upon us in our turn.’
‘Well, I shall hope that things go well with you.’ As he spoke, Blakiston felt the emptiness of the words and was glad that they had reached the churchyard and he could turn the conversation to other matters.
Hindmarsh dismounted and went without speaking to a patch of land without gravestones; only bumps in the grass told what lay beneath. Blakiston followed him. ‘He was here,’ said the old man.
‘On this grave? Exactly on it?’
‘Yes, Master. He lay on the mound, his head at this end and his feet there.’
‘I wonder whether that was by chance? And, if not, whose grave this is?’
‘I’m sorry, Master, I cannot say. But here is the rector. He may know.’
Blakiston turned towards the path that led into the churchyard from the rectory and saw a frown on Thomas’s usually carefree face. ‘Ezra Hindmarsh,’ said Thomas. ‘Lady Isabella said she saw you here and I have hurried to condole with you.’
The old man looked blankly at the rector, and even Blakiston paused to wonder whether he had ever heard that word “condole” before. Thomas went on, ‘We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord. But it is hard to lose one so young. Have you decided when the funeral should be?’
‘I…I…we have not thought, Rector.’
‘Really, it should be done by Thursday. Shall we say at ten? Where is the body now?’
Hindmarsh’s face was so contorted, Blakiston would not have been surprised to see him cry. As much to protect the man from what seemed heartless as because he wanted the information, he said, ‘Thomas, before we settle that, can you tell us who lies in this grave? Because this is where Ezra Hindmarsh found his grandson.’
The rector looked where Blakiston pointed. ‘I really could not say. This area, you know, is for paupers’ graves. Whoever was buried here was paid for by the parish and the parish does not meet the cost of a stone.’
‘There is no record? Of who was buried where?’
‘In a perfect worl
d, of course…but we live in a world that is far from perfection. There will be a name in the register for everyone buried here since the fifteen hundreds but that will not tell us where a body was interred and without knowing the date we cannot tell which body lies in which grave.’
‘The sexton would know?’
‘He would, but unless these bodies were buried less than eight years ago, which from the condition of the graves I doubt, he will have taken the knowledge to his own grave. Martin Bolam was the sexton before the one we have now,’ he said, noting Blakiston’s puzzled look, ‘and he is dead. Now, Ezra. Where is the body?’
‘With the carpenter, Rector.’
‘Which carpenter? Matthew Rainbow? Ezekiah Dunn?’
‘Matthew, Rector.’
‘Good. Shall I instruct him to have the coffin here on Wednesday afternoon, that is tomorrow, so that it can sit all night in the church? I expect you would like to come and keep vigil? And then we can bury him the next morning. Does that sound right?’
Hindmarsh nodded. To Blakiston, he said, ‘Sir, if you have no further need of me I should get home. Florrie will be grieving alone.’
Blakiston bent and picked up a red rose. ‘Was this here when you found your grandson’s body?’
‘Yes, Master. I thought nothing of it—mebbes the lad was carrying it. You think he could have been killed for stealing a rose?’
‘No, Ezra,’ said Thomas. ‘Someone laid a rose just like this here a few days ago. It has nothing to do with young Ezra. Get off, now, and give your wife what comfort you can.’
When the old man had gone, Thomas said, ‘James, you think me lacking in compassion. Don’t deny it, man; it is written in your face.’
‘I think…’
‘Let us discuss it on Sunday at dinner. We may see what our other guests have to say. Lord Ravenshead, my master under God and yours in toto, has sent for me and I must be gone. I paused only to see poor old Ezra. For whom I do grieve, James, whatever you may think.’
Blakiston nodded his agreement. ‘And I must see what the doctor has to tell me about the state of the boy’s body when it was brought to him.’
