by Alis Hawkins
‘I hope you don’t think I’m leading John astray, Mrs James. We just had to get out of the rain and find somewhere dry to discuss our business.’
‘Well, you sit over there – never mind your boots, I’ll clean it up after. Sit down and I’ll get you something to drink.’
We sat down next to the window and Nelly drew pots of beer for us. Harry smiled. ‘You never see barrels tapped in London any more. They’ve set pumps up everywhere now – fixed to a counter with the barrel beneath.’
‘Mrs James wouldn’t like that. She’s not one to stand behind a counter like a shopkeeper. She likes to be amongst her customers.’ So she could take them by the scruff of the neck if she needed to throw them out.
Once Nelly had given us our beer and gone discreetly through into the back room, Harry turned to me.
‘What did you make of Parry?’
I tried to gulp a mouthful of beer, so I could answer him quick- smart. But I choked and almost coughed beer over him. This business of having to speak so he knew I wasn’t ignoring him was going to drive me mad.
‘He’s scared,’ I croaked.
Harry nodded. ‘He won’t want whoever threatened him to know that he’s been talking to us.’
I put my beer down. I didn’t want him to think I was a gossip, but I knew things about Parry that might be useful. I needed to think.
‘Do you think they threatened his children?’ Harry asked. ‘What did he say? “Can you keep my children safe?” Something like that.’
‘Possibly’ I said, taking care to sound cautious.
‘Go on.’
‘Well… a fire wouldn’t just threaten his family, would it?’
‘His business, then?’
I had to be careful now. I knew that Parry was being sued for bad debts but I couldn’t tell Harry that. Didn’t want him to think I couldn’t keep a discreet tongue in my head.
‘I don’t think the business is doing as well as it used to,’ I said.
‘What makes you think that?’
There’d been clues in the shop. Especially if you already knew. ‘I go to Parry’s shop pretty often,’ I said, ‘for Mr Schofield, you know.’ Harry nodded. ‘Well, until recently, there was always a fire burning in the grate. To keep the stock dry. And he used to like to sit his well-off customers down next to it.’
‘And there was no fire today.’
It was a statement, not a question. Parry’s shop’d been as cold as a miser’s charity.
‘Then there’s his stock,’ I said. ‘Most of it’s out the back but he used to keep more in the shop – you know, to catch people’s eye. It’s gone down a lot recently.’
‘You think he’s in debt?’
I knew he was in bad, bad debt. If Beca burned even a fraction of his stock, Stephen Parry’d be in deep trouble. No way to fulfil orders. Out of business.
‘He might be,’ I said. ‘Common knowledge that he’s doing a lot less printing than he used to. What I hear’ – I’d heard this in town, so I could pass it on – ‘is that he’s got unreliable. His work’s shoddy sometimes, late other times. And whatever he earns, he’s drinking half of it.’ To drown his sorrows and put the workhouse out of his mind. ‘He’s in the Drovers’ more than he’s in his shop.’
Harry’s face went still, as if he was seeing something I couldn’t. ‘Do you know if he’s got a maid living in?’
‘Must have. Somebody’s got to do all the women’s stuff.’
‘But you don’t know who it is?’
‘No.’ I set my sights a bit higher than maids-of-all-work, thank you.
He sighed. Then he changed the subject. ‘That question you asked Parry – about why he’d agreed to be on the jury?’
The one he’d avoided by turning on me. ‘Yes?’
‘It was obviously a tender subject for him – how did you know?’
‘Because I was there when Matthew Evans – you know, the plwyfwas, lives at Tregorlais farm? I was there when he came in to talk to Parry about being on the jury.’
‘Came in? Where was this?’
‘The Drovers’ Arms.’
‘So what did Evans say?’
I cleared my throat. Clear and concise, Mr Schofield would have instructed. Clear and concise.
‘Matthew came in and said he’d like a word with Parry outside. Well, Parry refused.’ He’d been with his drinking cronies; told Matthew he wasn’t going outside with anybody, thank you very much. ‘So Matthew told him, in front of everybody, that he had to be on the jury for this inquest—’
Harry pounced. ‘Had to be – that’s what he said?’
Matt Tregorlais had stood over Parry. Right then, he’d told him if that’s how you want it. Here’s the message. You’ve got to be on the jury for this inquest into Waungilfach’s servant.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Had to be.’
‘Then what?’
‘Parry objected.’ Who are you to tell me what I’ve got to do, Matthew Tregorlais?
‘And, presumably, the plwyfwas whipped him into line?’
I took a mouthful of beer, slowed myself down. I had to make sure I got this right. Kept his suspicions on Beca where they belonged. And I needed him to trust me when it came to details. I was going to have to watch my step if I wanted to steer Harry in the right direction. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘Parry was drunk – and loud – but Matthew wasn’t. He kept his voice down so I couldn’t hear what he said. But, whatever it was, it shocked Parry. He looked’– what was the polite way to say he’d looked like a ram lamb who’d just had his balls nipped off? ‘Stunned,’ I said. ‘And frightened, too.’
‘What d’you think Matthew’d told him?’
I shrugged, then remembered to speak. ‘I don’t know.’
Harry drank some of his beer, then asked, ‘Did you hear anything else Matthew Evans said to him?’
‘Yes. You know that minister Dic the saddler was talking about – Howell was it?’ I knew it was. Dic’s mention of the minister’s name’d had Harry changing the subject as if his life depended on it.
He nodded. ‘Yes, Nathaniel Howell.’ His face gave nothing away.
‘Well, his name came up. Parry said something like “Nathaniel Howell’s long gone!”’
As it happened, that was exactly what he’d said. Nathaniel Howell’s long gone. ‘What do you think he meant by that?’ I asked.
Harry shook his head, eyes on the table. ‘I don’t know. Howell moved away, years ago. Did either of them say anything else?’
‘Not that I heard. They went outside, then, and didn’t come back.’
The Reverend Howell might have moved away years ago but his name meant something to Harry. Was it to do with his involvement with the girl, or was it possible that Harry Glanteifi had ridden out with Beca?
Either way, I needed to know. I couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Not if I wanted to keep myself safe.
Harry
Nathaniel Howell. Dic had brought his name up and, now, it seemed that Matthew Evans the plwyfwas had mentioned him, too.
On the face of it, what Dic had said made little sense, an apparent non sequitur: I never rode with Beca. And I didn’t belong to Nathaniel Howell’s chapel either. But I had discovered the minister’s association with Rebecca soon after my return from Oxford at Davy Thomas’s behest.
Beca won’t stand for your father’s pig-headedness Davy’s letter had said. She has already sent him two letters telling him to show her more respect. The second one warned him if he did not keep his opinions to himself, his house would be burned down.
My father – the supposed beneficiary of my homecoming – had been less than enthusiastic to see me; not only had I defied the year-long order of banishment that was supposed to cure me of my feelings for Margaret, I had also come back to a disturbed and disturbing situation.
‘What can you possibly hope to achieve by abandoning your studies and coming home?’ he had demanded.
‘I was given to understand’ – I did not me
ntion Davy’s name as my father would bitterly have resented any intervention on his part – ‘that life and limb, not to mention hearth and home, were at risk from your response to the Rebeccas.’
‘My response?’
‘You constantly denounce the actions to remove illegal tollgates—’
‘Because it’s not the farmers’ place to remove them! They presume to take the law into their own hands.’
‘Only because the law fails them and does nothing! Prior to Rebecca’s actions, had the magistrates prosecuted a single tollgate keeper for overcharging? A single trust for placing illegal gates?’ I had never confronted my father before. Always, when challenged, I had retreated into compliant obedience. But he had removed me to Oxford and instructed me to change my ways; so change them I damn well would.
‘Do you defend these Rebeccas?’
‘I defend their right to take action if nobody else will uphold the law!’
‘To take action? They’re rioting, boy!’
‘Riot is in the eye of the beholder.’
‘Do not bandy words with me, Henry! What do you know about any of this? Nothing!’
‘No, because you sent me away—’
‘For your own good! You presume to return home, without my permission, and cast yourself in the role of saviour of the estate when these sympathies of yours would very soon bring us to ruin! You will oblige me by returning to Oxford and allowing me to run Glanteifi as I see fit.’
Was our argument overheard? Glanteifi was not an exceptionally large house and servants were apt to be here and there around it, outside doors, under windows. But whether our disagreement was relayed to Nathaniel Howell from within or Margaret Jones had mentioned me to her minister, the preacher of Treforgan soon knew both that I was home and that I had some sympathy with the Rebecca movement. So it was that I received my summons.
Prosaically, it was sent in the mail and handed to me by Moyle after the daily collection from Newcastle Emlyn. Neatly folded and sealed, the stamp’s edges cut with scissors, not torn, the letter seemed carefully done, even genteel. Baffled at who could be writing to me at my father’s house when few knew I was there, I opened it.
The hand was even and literate and addressed me in Welsh, showing that its author knew more about me than simply my name and place of residence.
As it has come to our attention that you are sympathetic to our cause, you are bid to help us in a pressing matter. Be in the lane outside Treforgan chapel tomorrow night at half past ten o’clock. Come in a carriage, arrayed in every particular as a lady. In this you will show your sympathy to the unjustly treated amongst us. You will see how you may be of service when you come.
Signed,
Rebecca and her children.
John
As we left The Lamb for Pridham the chemist’s, I had to tell Harry that I didn’t have a notebook. Good memory I might have but I knew I was going to need to write some things down. I should’ve told him straight away, when we met in his room but, to be honest, I’d been embarrassed. Somebody like him would always have a notebook. He wouldn’t even think about it. But I couldn’t afford to buy one for myself.
‘We don’t use them in Mr Schofield’s office,’ I told him. ‘If we need to make notes, there’re always off-cut pieces of paper lying about.’
So, back we went – not a word of complaint from Harry, fair play – and he pulled a large portmanteau from under the bed. Very deft, he was. Undid the buckle on the heavy lid in a second.
‘There’ll be something suitable in here, I’m sure. It’s full of things I threw in from my digs in London and haven’t had need of since.’
Piles of shirts and underlinen and neckties came out onto the bed. I gave a quick glance into the case’s blue-and-white-striped lining. Didn’t want him to see me looking. Then I remembered – I could look all I liked. He wasn’t going to know. So, I watched as carefully as if I’d been taking an inventory for Mr Schofield.
Item: one rectangular silver flask, filigree-engraved.
Item: one letter opener, porcelain-handled.
Item: one pocket watch, gold.
He dangled the watch by its chain. ‘I’ve no use for this, now. But we may need to know the time while we’re out and about. Carry it, will you?’
I took it from him. It was a handsome thing, pretty new by the look of it. It’d stopped so I’d have to set it by my landlady’s long case clock.
‘I’ll take good care of it, Mr Probert-Lloyd. I promise.’ He gave me a small smile and went back to his search.
Item: two long wooden boxes – probably pen holders.
Item: one small chess board.
Item: one inlaid wooden box – containing chess pieces if the similarity of the wood was anything to go by.
All of those things would be useless to him, now. He couldn’t check the time, make a note, play a game of chess with a friend. But at least he had the Probert-Lloyd fortune to fall back on. If I lost my sight I’d lose my position with it. I’d be in the workhouse.
‘Here we are.’
Item: one notebook, covers marbled.
With the book in his side-vision, he flicked through the first few pages. Making sure he hadn’t written in it, I supposed. Then he passed it to me. ‘Obviously you’ll need a pencil as well.’ He tossed something small at me. ‘You can use that one until we can get you one of your own.’
I looked at what he’d given me. A tiny silver model of a pistol, about two and a half inches long. I was embarrassed for him.
‘Mr Probert- Lloyd, I’m sorry but this isn’t a pencil.’
He took it from me, twisted the barrel and handed it back. The twist had released more of the silver tube, with a pencil lead at the end. He smiled. ‘I didn’t know what it was when it was given to me, either.’ I looked at the pencil. Even opened up, it was still only about as long as my palm, it’d easily fit into my pocket with the book. A name was engraved along the side of the barrel: S. MORDAN. Who was that? I wondered. Carefully, I held the pencil point-up and twisted.
The extra length disappeared back into the barrel.
‘It’s a beautiful thing,’ I said. ‘I can’t take it out and about in my pocket.’
‘I’m afraid, for obvious reasons, I don’t have a lot of pencils. I only keep that one for sentimental reasons – it’s one of a pair I was given as a coming-of-age present. You’ll see the date and my initials engraved on it.’
I opened the pencil again and looked. S. MORDAN on one side, the initials HGPL and a date, 26 June 1845, on the other.
I counted backwards. When Margaret Jones died, Harry’d been not yet nineteen years old. But he’d had some kind of romantic association with the girl before that. I looked at him. Fair, curling hair, small, slight build – it was only his beard that stopped him looking girlish himself.
There was more to Harry Probert-Lloyd than met the eye.
Edward Pridham didn’t run his chemist’s shop any more, he’d given that over to his son. But he still thought it was his job to tell Newcastle Emlyn what to do. It wouldn’t’ve surprised me if he’d summoned Matthew Evans and announced that he was going to sit on the inquest jury instead of waiting to be asked. Gave himself airs.
On the Pridhams’ handsome double-fronted doorstep, Harry turned to me. ‘Will you knock and announce us?’
So, he was going to treat me like a servant, whatever he said. I banged the heavy brass knocker and told myself I shouldn’t be surprised. He was the squire’s son. But then another explanation put its hand up. He’d’ve been embarrassed, wouldn’t he, if he couldn’t recognise the person who opened the door? Easier for me to be the one they saw first.
He needn’t have worried, as it happened. A maid appeared. And local gossip was right. The Pridhams’d put their servants in uniform. No young woman hereabouts wore a black skirt and a white apron and, to my mind, she looked out of place on a Newcastle Emlyn doorstep. I wondered what Harry thought, fresh from London.
‘Good mornin
g. How can I help you?’
We explained our business and she showed us in to the front room. ‘I’ll see if Mr Pridham’s available.’
She’d been well trained. Her English was as good as her manners.
Once the door had closed on her, I looked around what Pridham probably called the drawing room.
Money. Everything in that room shouted it. The striped wallpaper was fresh and bright, not a trace of lamp– or candle-smoke. The cut weave of the carpets was thick and the velvet chairs looked new – no worn patches in the fabric, no scuffs or scratches on the legs.
And the room was warm. Good-sized chunks of anthracite burned in the grate, not like the culm and blankets of dusty small-coal my landlady used. A fire burning in a room nobody was in. That was what having money meant.
The door opened and in he came. Edward Pridham.
‘Probert-Lloyd the younger! I saw you at the inquest looking very solemn-faced. Back for good, now, are you?’
He didn’t ask us to sit down. Either Harry didn’t notice or he knew how to keep his feelings to himself. Time would tell.
‘Good day to you, Pridham. May I present John Davies, currently acting as my assistant.’
I sketched a bow. Mr Pridham stared. The words ‘organ-grinder’s monkey’ might as well have been floating over his head, like in a newspaper illustration.
