by Alis Hawkins
I knew a man who worked at the Salutation. A few drinks did the trick.
There they were, he said, young Harry Glanteifi and Mr Gelyot, eating their steak and kidney pudding. And Harry says, quite casual, as if he already knows the answer, ‘Of course, I’m counting on you to stay and help me with all this, Gus.’ But ‘Gus’ shook his head, didn’t he? ‘P-L,’ he said, ‘you know I can’t. I’ve got to get back to London for next week. And anyway…’ he said, ‘I’m not the man you need. You need somebody who knows the people here. Somebody who can be your eyes.’
‘Be your eyes?’ ‘
‘That’s what he said.’
So, when Harry Probert-Lloyd walked in to Mr Schofield’s office the next morning, it felt as though I’d summoned him with my thoughts. As if he’d come to say Why is John Davies thinking about me all the time? Instruct him to stop, Mr Schofield!
The way he looked at me when he came through the door made it worse. Came in and turned his eyes straight on me, even though he was saying good morning to Mr Schofield at the same time.
Why was he looking at me?
Old Schofield slid out from behind his desk to do the Good-days and the How-are-yous. He always sat in the front office. Said it was good for business if people could see him hard at work. He had a room behind where he took people for private meetings.
‘Come through to my office, Mr Probert-Lloyd. My clerks can be about their business without distraction then.’
I glanced up at Peter as they went through the inner door. He raised an eyebrow and I shrugged. I didn’t know any more than he did. But I was pretty sure his heart wasn’t beating fit to burst out of his body.
I didn’t have long to wait, thank God. It can’t have been five minutes before Mr Schofield put his head round the door. ‘John? Come into my office, would you?’
Years of working for Mr Schofield had taught me what he liked. He liked us to be waiting for him outside the office door at eight o’clock. He liked the lines on his paper to be ruled exactly a third of an inch apart. He liked to see us using a particular brand of boot black. What he didn’t like was surprises. Put him at a disadvantage, surprises did. His lips’d go thin, then.
That’s how they were now. Thin. Compressed. What had Harry Probert-Lloyd told him?
Did he know? He couldn’t. Could he?
No.
But if he’d been involved with the girl…
I stood just inside the door, trying not to let anything show on my face.
Harry Probert-Lloyd spoke up. ‘Have a seat, John.’
I glanced quickly at Mr Schofield. He nodded, just once. It felt strange, sitting down with him and another gentleman as if we were equals. Could they hear my heart beating? Or see it? I was sure I was shaking with each thump of blood.
‘Mr Probert-Lloyd has a proposal for you, John.’ Not an accusation. A proposal.
Well, whatever it was, I’d be saying yes, wouldn’t I? If old Schofield had called me in to his office, he must’ve approved this proposal already. I looked over at Harry Probert-Lloyd but he was looking down at the desk. Apparently, a brass blotter was more interesting than me.
‘As I’ve been explaining to Mr Schofield,’ he said, ‘following the inquest earlier in the week, I’ve been asked to look more fully into the circumstances surrounding Margaret Jones’s death. To find possible grounds for reopening the inquest.’
Asked? Who’d asked him? Must be his father and the bench. Perhaps there hadn’t been a falling-out, then. But, if not, why had he moved into the Salutation?
He looked up from the blotter but didn’t get as far as looking me in the eye. His gaze settled somewhere about my chin. Thank God I’d stopped cutting myself whenever I shaved. ‘I need somebody to assist me in my investigations,’ he said. ‘I can’t go to Jervis and Evans because they’re solicitors to Glanteifi and the estate can’t be seen to be involved. So, Mr Schofield has very kindly agreed to help.’ Hah! Very kindly agreed to let me do the helping was what he meant. ‘He’s agreed – if you’re willing, John – to allow you to work with me.’
‘It will mean a lot more work for Peter,’ Old Schofield piped up, ‘so I’ll expect you to be here if, at any time, Mr Probert-Lloyd doesn’t need you.’
‘We’re assuming, Mr Schofield, that John is happy to do this.’ Harry Probert-Lloyd looked into the air somewhere around my ear. ‘Would you be so kind as to be my assistant for a week or two, John?’
Help him investigate her death? How could I do that?
But then, didn’t have a choice, did I? If I embarrassed Mr Schofield, he’d make my life miserable. Sack me, even.
So I said, ‘Yes. Thank you, Mr Probert-Lloyd.’
‘You should thank your employer, too. He speaks very highly of you.’
I glanced at old Schofield. Pinched smile. He didn’t like Harry Probert-Lloyd telling me that. ‘If you work hard, John Davies, this is a great opportunity for you.’
‘Yes, Mr Schofield. Thank you.’
It was a great opportunity, but not in the way Schofield meant. And only if I could manage it carefully.
Harry
Of course, I had known from the moment John Davies sat down in Schofield’s office and agreed to my request that I would have to tell him the real reason why I needed an assistant. But, now that the time had arrived, I realised just how loath I was to do so.
For months I had been taking steps to prevent my loss of sight being noticed, in the hope that Figges was wrong and my affliction would prove to be temporary. Alone in my rooms, I had become practised at fastening neckties without the benefit of a mirror image and finding button-holes without being able to see what I was doing. Now, with my sight stubbornly refusing to improve, I was glad of my proficiency. But, though I might be able to arrange my clothing neatly, there were other aspects of my appearance that were more problematic.
A few weeks prior to leaving my lodgings in London, I had discontinued my daily barbershop shave and gone about with a scarf around my face, eating from a pie-shop like a working man instead of dining out, waiting for stubble to become beard. I had never had a valet and I was not about to ask for one at Glanteifi. If I could not see well enough to shave myself then I would be bearded.
Now, as I waited for John Davies to arrive, I nerved myself to say the words. I am going blind. I had not yet been able to bring myself to tell anyone. Gus knew, of course. It had been his uncharacteristically bald ‘You’re having trouble seeing aren’t you?’ that had first sent me to Figges.
Wanting distraction, I forced my deficient sight around the room. I had been assured that it was the best the Salutation had to offer and, as well as all I could reasonably want in the way of wardrobes, drawers and desks, I had been mightily relieved when the maid showed off the enclosed night table. I had had a horror of being forced to endure the presence of a pot under my bed.
But, despite its comforts, the room’s outlook was considerably less pleasant than the view from my bedroom at Glanteifi. The prospect of the Teifi and its meadows from my bedroom window remained clear in my mind’s eye. Swans nested on an island in the middle of the river’s wide loop beneath the house and otters played with their pups when they thought nobody was there to see them. It was a source of great sadness to me that, for the rest of my life, I would catch only sidelong glimpses of that view. But at least I had the recollection of its full glory. How much worse to be born blind and never to understand the beauty of the world around you, never to know the expressiveness of a human face, the comic antics of a hound pup, the seductiveness of a raised eyebrow.
I walked over to the window and stood, trying to spot a break in the clouds. Since Gus’s return to London, I had been fighting the demon despondency and trying hard not to question the course I had set. I had even wondered, briefly, whether I should go back to Glanteifi and tell my father everything that had happened that summer. Perhaps, then, he would understand why I could not let the jury’s verdict rest.
A knock at the do
or spun me around. John Davies had arrived.
He was a quiet young man. It was not simply that he did not speak until spoken to, he was quiet in his movements, too; he sat still, not obtruding himself upon one’s notice. He would be easy to overlook and that would make him an excellent observer.
John’s only experience of me, thus far, had been in English as Charles Schofield did not speak Welsh. But I was in need of a companion as much as an assistant and English would only serve to emphasise the differences between us.
‘You may have got the impression from Mr Schofield that I needed a translator,’ I told him. ‘But, as you can see, my Welsh is perfect and I’d much rather we spoke Welsh together.’
‘If that’s what you’d prefer.’
‘It is.’ I sat down on the old-fashioned silk-covered chaise under the window. I was trembling. ‘Have you noticed anything odd about me?’ I asked. I wanted to know whether he would say what he thought or maintain some kind of deferential ignorance.
‘It’s not really my place to say…’
‘Yes it is. I’ve just asked you.’
Silence. I sighed. Since he had walked through the door, I had done nothing but wrongfoot the poor fellow. ‘Listen, John, I don’t want a servant. I don’t want “yes sir, no sir”. I want somebody I can talk to, somebody who’ll give me their true opinion. Do you understand?’
‘I understand, Mr Probert-Lloyd…’
‘But you don’t think I mean it. You think that the first time you offer an opinion I don’t like you’ll get a mouthful of “how dare you?” Am I right?’
‘Well—’ I could hear a wary smile in his voice, ‘I wouldn’t have put it exactly like that.’
‘I won’t do that. You have my word. So, let me ask you again. When we met yesterday, did you notice anything odd about me? Or have you noticed anything since being in this room?’
It was more than just a test of his mettle; I had to know how obvious my loss of sight was to those around me.
‘Alright then,’ John said, audibly bracing himself. ‘Yesterday, at Mr Schofield’s office, I thought you were deliberately not looking at me. Now… from the way you touched the chair before you sat down – as if you were reassuring yourself where it was – well, I wonder if… if you can’t see very well?’
Could he tell that my smile was two parts relief, one part ruefulness? I now knew that he was both observant and capable of parting with unpalatable opinions; but if he had spotted my difficulties so easily, how many others had suspected something but been too polite to say? Perhaps my father had already guessed and hoped that banishing me from Glanteifi and the ministrations of its servants would bring me to heel. I put that thought aside.
‘You’re quite right,’ I said. ‘I can’t see your face. In fact, from here, if I look straight at you I can’t see you at all. I can see the window,’ I indicated with my right hand, ‘and the bed over there. But nothing here.’ I sketched a circle in the air to indicate the extent of the whirlpool at the centre of my vision.
‘So I’m going to need you to tell me what you see. And, whatever you think, it is your place to speak your mind. That’s what I want from you and if you’re not prepared to do it I’ll find somebody else.’
There was a moment of silence as he digested this. ‘Right.’
‘Move your chair closer, will you – about six feet away?’
He did so.
‘Now, your face is a blur but I can see your legs. If I look down at your feet, they disappear and your face pops into view but I can’t see it in any detail. I can see you’ve got dark hair and spectacles but unless you were to move right next to me, I wouldn’t be able to see any expression on your face.’
I caught him nodding. ‘I need you to speak, John. I might see you nodding but I probably won’t and I don’t always want to be asking whether you agree with me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No need to apologise.’ Now it was my turn to hesitate. ‘I’m not going to insult you by asking if you can keep your mouth shut, but nobody here knows about my sight yet. Or, at least, they may have guessed, but I haven’t let it be known. You’re the first person I’ve told.’ Perhaps that would assure him that I meant us to be more than employer and servant.
‘Nobody will hear it from me.’
‘Thank you.’ I took a breath and tried to strike a matter-of-fact tone as I ground on with my own humiliation. ‘Obviously, because I can’t see detail, I can’t see to read – I can write when I need to but not easily and, anyway, I can’t read what I’ve written, so I’ll need you to make notes for me. Any questions?’
A considering silence, then: ‘Can I ask how you manage to write?’ I got up and went to the bureau in the corner. After some fumbling, I managed to open my writing box and take my frame out. I unfolded it then beckoned for him to come and see.
‘I had a cabinet maker construct it for me,’ I told him as he bent over the desk. ‘Each turn of the small cogwheel on the left moves the ruler down a line. As long as I keep my wrist on the ruler I can write relatively legibly. So I’m told, anyway.’ Sidelong, I watched him. Something in his stance suggested that he wanted to pick the frame up – see how it felt, how it was made. ‘Once it’s positioned correctly, as long as I take care not to move the paper, it works relatively easily.’ I kept to myself the long evenings of practice: how best to hold the paper still, how to keep my left thumb on the paper at the exact spot where I had left off in order to dip the pen.
I thought I detected a small smile. ‘Ingenious.’
I folded the frame and closed the bureau once more. ‘Mr Schofield told me that you were with him at the inquest.’
He nodded, but also remembered to speak. ‘Yes.’
‘Tell me your impressions, will you?’
‘Impressions of the inquest?’
‘Yes. Anything about it that struck you.’
Charles Schofield had spoken of John as a young man with acute powers of observation and analysis so I assumed that the ensuing silence meant that he was marshalling his thoughts rather than simply stuck for anything to say.
‘I think,’ he said, finally, ‘that everybody was very careful in what they said. They answered the coroner’s questions but they didn’t tell him much.’ He stopped and I waited to see if he would say anything more. Unlike most people, however, he did not succumb to the urge to fill a silence.
‘What did you think of Mr Williams, Waungilfach?’ I asked.
‘He looked very ill at ease.’
‘And his wife?’
‘Cross.’
I found myself smiling. ‘Yes. She was. Do you think Williams had anything to do with the death?’
When he didn’t reply immediately, I added, ‘I’m not asking whether you think he killed her. I’m just asking whether you think he knows more than he said.’
‘I think every one of those witnesses knew more than they said.’
I nodded. ‘They were all afraid of something. And I think that something was Rebecca.’
John did not reply. What was he thinking? He must have heard the gossip but he was young, he would not have experienced Rebecca and her methods at first hand. Still, time would tell. ‘There were two jurors who didn’t agree with the majority,’ I said. ‘Was one of them Dic the Saddler?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the other?’
‘Pridham, the chemist from this end of town.’
There was no point speaking to those jury members who had successfully been intimidated; we were far more likely to get useful information out of the two who had refused to be swayed.
I stood and took my overcoat from the hook on the door. ‘Right,’ I shrugged my way into the heavy wool, ‘we’ll go and see Dic, first.’
We did not have far to walk – the saddler’s shop was mere yards away from the hotel.
A familiar apprehension rose in me as I approached the door. In order to see where people were, I needed to scan a room quickly and the need to let my ey
es roam in my head made me self-conscious. But John stepped forward. ‘Let me’ he said, thumbing the latch and pushing the door into the shop. ‘Behind the bench, to your right,’ he murmured as I went through.
I had half a second to be grateful for his quickness of understanding as the dry smell of newly tanned leather filled my head with childhood memories.
‘Mr Jones!’ I greeted the saddler ‘I don’t suppose you remember me.’
Dic had made my first saddle – one made especially, he had told me, for a fat little grey pony – and I had loved it. It had been the first thing I owned that belonged to the world beyond the nursery and I had insisted on cleaning it myself.
‘Good grief, Mr Probert-Lloyd, of course I remember you!’ Dic’s voice was high, reedy. ‘Not looking for a new saddle are you, sir? I’m sure there are far more fashionable saddlers than me, up there in London.’
‘More fashionable, Mr Jones, but not more skillful.’
Dic had always spoken English to my father and, not wanting to disconcert him, that was how I had addressed him. However, I could see, now, that English would confine us to conventional platitudes so I switched to Welsh. ‘Dic, I need to ask you about the inquest.’
He hesitated, then responded in kind. ‘What about it?’
