by Alis Hawkins
Accustomed to singing together in chapel, the voices around us fell into an easy unison as soon as they began speaking.
‘To tell them their sins and make them repent.’
There was something profoundly disturbing about this chorus. Individual wills had been subsumed into something collective, something less than reasoningly human.
‘And what are their sins?’
Feet moved a step forward to our right and a thud on the ground indicated that a hefty staff had been brought smartly down. I felt a gut-loosening wrench of panic at the thought that every man might be carrying a similar stave.
‘Henry Probert-Lloyd. Guilty of the sin of fornication,’ a voice intoned.
I knew there was nothing to be gained by protesting. Nothing but blows and scorn.
The staff came down again. ‘Guilty of refusing to acknowledge fatherhood of his own child.’
Was it Matthew Evans’s voice? I was almost certain of it.
A third time the staff embedded itself wetly in the ground. ‘Guilty of refusing help to the mother of his child.’
That cut me close. Though help had not been sought, I should have been man enough to offer it.
‘Guilty of trying to blame Rebecca for the accidental death of Margaret Jones while she was trying to bury his own child.’
A picture appeared in my head at these last words: Margaret kneeling in the rain, scrabbling frantically at the earth, a swaddled bundle lying next to her. Margaret, her long auburn hair slicked to her head in the downpour, reaching in to slide the bundle down beneath the roots, looking up as she heard a groaning, crashing sound. The tree’s roots, tearing themselves free of their hold on the bank; the tree coming down, bringing soil and stones with it, collapsing and cascading down the slope; stones bouncing down onto the path, soil and rock and roots burying Margaret with her child. I saw it all in a terrifying heartbeat; as clearly as if I had stood there and watched.
The man I took to be their leader spoke. ‘Got anything to say, have you, Henry Probert-Lloyd?’ His speaking Welsh to me was not a sign of acceptance and camaraderie but of contempt. I was being addressed in familiar form, like a child or a servant.
I was acutely aware of John next to me. I had promised him he would be safe, yet he was already wounded and in danger of further violence. However, though I was well aware that any denial on my part would provoke our captors, I could not bring myself to confess to things I had not done.
‘I should have done more for Margaret Jones,’ I said, keeping my eyes submissively on the ground. ‘Though the child was not mine and I am not guilty of fornication,’ I was forced to raise my voice as the outrage around me began, ‘I should have recognised my responsibilities and provided for her.’
‘You dare to deny a father’s name to this child, still?’ the leader asked, his voice full of scorn.
Unwise or not, I had to stand up. I would rather bear their blows than kneel there in the mud while they looked down on me. But, though I managed to stumble to my feet, I had not straightened up before I was gripped by both elbows and had my feet kicked from under me. I was borne to the ground once more, this time face down.
I turned my head so that my cheek met the mud rather than my nose and mouth.
‘Hold him there,’ I heard the leader’s voice behind me. The smell of mud and water and wet stones filled my nostrils. I could hear a trickling through the earth as my ear was forced down into it. In seconds I was soaked through to my skin.
‘John Davies,’ a voice said, and feet moved forward. ‘Guilty of being a magistrates’ informant.’
I flinched as a heavy stick slammed into the ground inches from my face. What? Did they think we were investigating at the magistrates’ behest? In other circumstances it might almost have been amusing.
‘John Davies.’ Thud. ‘Guilty of conspiring with Henry Probert-Lloyd to say that Margaret Jones was murdered by persons connected with Rebecca.’
I remembered John’s response when I had warned him that the magistrates might not like his working with me. I shall just have to blame you, shan’t I? He had been blithe, certain that he would not be blamed for my annexing his services.
I tried to force myself to my feet. ‘You can’t blame him—’
A foot was placed, very deliberately, on the side of my head and pressed down so that my ear squelched into the mud and my nose filled with water. ‘Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut.’
John
‘Anything to say, John Davies?’
I was afraid to speak. Afraid I’d choke on my own vomit.
‘Guilty, then.’ The same voice.
‘No.’ A croak. But he’d heard.
‘No? Not an informant? Or are you saying you and Henry Probert-Lloyd didn’t invent a plan Beca was supposed to have made up with Margaret Jones?
‘Misunderstanding,’ I managed.
‘Oh! Misunderstanding is it?’ It was Matt Evans, Tregorlais. He was enjoying this. Like a cat with a mouse. Bastard.
‘So you weren’t accusing Rebecca of making a plan with Margaret Jones then killing her because of it?’
There must have been a plan. I could see the killer in my head. Hear him. All you had to do was one thing. One simple thing. You said you’d do it. You said you had done it. But you were lying, weren’t you? Lying!
I couldn’t think straight. My heart was beating too hard and fast.
Shit. Run. Can’t.
Are they going to kill us?
Shit!
‘Were you?’
Was I what? What was the question?
‘Yes! No – I don’t know!’
I could feel tears. Did not want to cry.
I didn’t want to die, either. Were they going to kill us?
‘Confused is it?’ Him. Not Matt Tregorlais. The leader. ‘Telling lies does that to you. Makes you confused. You don’t know what’s true anymore.’
A sudden blow between my shoulder blades. I fell forward. Put my hands out just in time to save my face. A boot came down on my back. Pinning me. Pushing me down till I was lying in the mud, like Harry.
‘Well, listen, and I’ll tell you the truth,’ the leader’s voice said.
‘Rebecca did not ask women to do her work for her. Margaret Jones had nothing to do with Rebecca and her death had nothing to do with Rebecca. It was a judgement on her. She’d done away with her child in secret, as she thought. But God Almighty sees all. And, because of His righteousness, He buried her as she had thought to bury her sin.’
I knew he was lying. But I wanted it to be the truth. With my whole being, I wanted it to be the truth.
But I knew it wasn’t. I could see him. Knee in her back. Hands round her throat.
After you saw Howell, you were going to go to Probert-Lloyd, weren’t you? You were going to tell him – save your own miserable skin…
If there wasn’t a plan, what had Davy Thomas thought Margaret’d been going to tell the magistrates?
‘Do you understand, John Davies? Do you understand what the truth is now?’
My face was in the mud. I couldn’t speak. But I made a noise. ‘Good. Right.’ His tone changed. He wasn’t talking to me anymore. ‘Bring them up.’
The boot left my back. I didn’t move. What now? A kick in my side. ‘On your feet.’
I did as I was told. Water trickled down under my clothes.
Shrivelled my balls.
I thought my legs wouldn’t hold me up. They felt like they had on Bristol docks. Not mine to control.
‘Move.’ A shove in the back showed me which way. I staggered forward and my legs carried me. Just.
A gust of wind. Chill. I shivered, clamped my jaw shut.
‘Up there.’ Another push in the back. Off the track, up into the trees.
I couldn’t see where I was going. Just followed the boots of the man in front of me. Harry was somewhere ahead. His sight was much worse in the dark. Did they know he was blind?
I fell, slipped, got dragged back to my feet.
‘I told him we should’ve brought a light,’ somebody muttered.
Him. The leader. I didn’t know who he was. They all looked the same. Black faces, shawls and aprons. They’d’ve looked like fools in daylight. In the dark they were terrifying. The man in front of me stopped. I put a hand out to stop myself crashing into him and he turned, knocked my hand away as if I’d infect him with something.
‘Bring them here.’
I was shoved over to my right. Again, I put my hand out to steady myself.
‘Get off me, magistrate’s boy!’
I stumbled, got pushed upright again.
Something was shoved at me. ‘Take it.’
A spade.
‘Dig. Both of you.’
Neither of us moved fast enough for them. I got a shove in the back.
‘Go on! Dig.’
I heard the sound of a spade being dropped. Then Harry said, ‘I’m not digging my own grave.’
‘Who said grave? You came here looking for the truth. We’re going to show you the truth.’
A shove in the back almost sent me onto my face. ‘Dig!’
I saw no help for it. I shoved the spade into the ground and pushed. The earth was soft and easy to shift. Just as well, I was shaking so much I could barely keep a grip on the handle.
‘And you.’
Harry’s spade went into the ground too.
A thought came to me. Could I swing the spade at somebody’s head? No, they’d hit back. I could almost feel the blows from those sticks they were carrying. On my back, swung against my legs. At my head. I’d had one of those already and my head was throbbing.
We dug further and further into the bank. We were in each other’s way. We tripped over the earth we’d taken out. And with every spadeful I heard Harry’s words. I’m not digging my own grave.
Blisters were filling up on my palms. The hole was deep into the bank, now. Any second, the top would start to give way.
Eventually, one of them said, ‘Enough.’
I dropped my spade, felt about on my left palm. Two of the blisters were broken and there was a sticky wetness. Like blood.
‘This is the truth,’ the leader’s voice said. ‘This is where Margaret Jones tried to bury her child. And this is where God saw fit to bury her and take her life. The jury brought in an honest verdict. Accidental death. This was her grave.’
My heart was galloping in my chest. But I couldn’t run. I wouldn’t get more than two steps.
The open blisters on my palm were stinging with sweat-salt. With all that digging I wasn’t cold any more.
‘Come forward.’
My heart kicked in my chest and I looked around as the leader spoke but he wasn’t talking to me and Harry. One of his men stepped forward and hands pulled away from the hole we’d dug. Me to one side, Harry to the other.
‘Spit in the grave,’ the leader said. ‘Then swear, “The inquest verdict was true”.’
The man spat and said the words.
‘Now you.’ Another man came forward and did the same.
Then another. And another. One by one, they all spat and swore.
‘Now you, Henry Probert-Lloyd.’ A hand in the back pushed Harry forward. He took a step towards the hole to stop himself falling over but then he just stood there.
‘Spit in the grave and say the words.’
‘No.’
‘If you swear, you can go. If you don’t, we’ll tie you up and leave you in the hole. Margaret Jones found out that digging in these banks makes them come down pretty easy. You might be lucky, or the roof might come down and bury you. Spit in the grave and swear that the inquest verdict was true. Then you can go.’
‘No.’
He turned. ‘John Davies.’
Hands pushed me forward. I couldn’t swear. Not because it wasn’t true. I didn’t care about that. It was Harry. I couldn’t have him thinking I was a coward.
I didn’t dare to open my mouth. Wasn’t sure what would come out.
So I shook my head.
‘Spit. Swear!’
I shook my head again. I could almost feel their sticks on my back, feel them beating me to the ground, tying me up, throwing me in the hole. And that overhang – it wasn’t safe. It’d never last till morning. It’d collapse and we’d die, drowned in earth. And nobody’d know we were there. Just like Margaret Jones. My breath caught in my chest.
‘Tie them up. To each other.’
Hands grabbed us, spun me round. Next thing I knew, I was back to back with Harry. A rope went around our chests, pulled us together, arms pinned tight.
‘On the ground.’
Before I could move, my feet were kicked from under me for the second time. I hit the ground, Harry with me. We fell over sideways and somebody held us down with a boot. Then I felt a rope go round the wet trouser legs of my ankles.
‘Put them in.’
They shoved us into the hole. Shoulders against the back wall.
‘You’d better pray the roof doesn’t fall in before somebody finds you. You’ve been warned. It was accidental death. If you spread any more rumours, next time we’ll make sure the roof collapses.’
I thought he’d turn and go then but he still had something to say.
‘And if I hear any scandal about the Reverend Nathaniel Howell I’ll know who to come after for it.’
Then there was just the sound of them sliding and clumping down the bank to the path.
When we couldn’t hear them anymore, I felt Harry’s head turn.
‘I’m sorry, John.’
I didn’t reply. Too afraid how my voice’d sound. My throat was tight with fear.
‘You should’ve done what they wanted,’ he said. ‘Then they’d’ve let you go.’
Suddenly, a voice called out from down the slope. ‘Mr Probert-Lloyd?’
‘Twm!’ Harry shouted, startling me almost out of my wits. ‘Up here!’
Without lamps they couldn’t see us so we kept calling out till they found where we were.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Twm panted while one of the other men cut the ropes around us, ‘we crept up but when we saw how many of them there were we knew we just had to wait.’
Something fell on my head. A stone. Then another, and a trickle of earth.
‘Get out!’ I scrambled onto my knees, pushed myself towards Twm. ‘Quickly! Get out!’
We were only just in time. I’ll never forget the sound of the bank giving way, crashing down into the hole where we’d been lying. I’d heard the same sound before. When David Thomas pulled the bank down on Margaret Jones.
Harry
The following morning, John and I followed our newly established routine and met for breakfast in the Salutation’s dining room.
The clothes he had worn to the rendezvous in the Alltddu would, like my own, be unfit for decent company, and I had told him to bring them with him to the hotel so that I could have them laundered at Glanteifi. Consequently, he informed me, with some mortification, he was dressed in clothes that he had assumed would never see a weekday again.
‘You couldn’t even call them second best. You’re lucky you can’t see people’s pitying looks. They’re thinking you’ve come down a long way in the world to be associating with somebody whose trousers are so baggy around the knees, there could be a pair of rabbits living in each leg and nobody’d ever know.’
I was grateful that he was capable of making light of the situation after the previous night’s terrors.
‘I don’t know about you,’ I said as we ate, ‘but two things strike me about the events of last evening.’ We had had no opportunity to discuss the threats and mistreatment we had endured, as Twm and the others had insisted on accompanying us all the way into town and seeing us to our respective doors. ‘Firstly, they were very anxious to tell us there wasn’t a plan. And, secondly, they’re still desperate to pass off Margaret’s death as accidental. So much so that I began to wonder whether they actually believed it.’
; John’s knife and fork came to rest on either side of his plate as he gave me his whole attention. ‘You don’t believe that, though?’
I did not. Not rationally. And yet, I had believed for so long that Margaret must have come by her own death that a remnant of such a belief could not help but linger. John saw my hesitation.
‘Harry, think about it. We had a pretty easy time of it digging last night, with those spades. But how easy d’you think it would’ve been to dig into the bank with your bare hands?’
Before I could reply, he supplied his own answer. ‘It would’ve been a damn sight harder. Hard to impossible, I’d say. So where was Margaret Jones’s spade? If she dug a hole big enough to bring the tree down on top of her, what was she using to do it?’
He was right. No spade, nor anything resembling any part of a spade had been found with her remains.
‘So you still think Margaret fell foul of some botched plan, then? A plan that somehow ended in her death?’
‘Yes! Why else would they try and shut us up? If she’d really died accidentally, why would they care?’ He gave a derisive snort. ‘All that “spit and swear” nonsense. Like a lie’ll be true if enough people tell it.’
He seemed completely sure. It was something to hold on to when we confronted Isaac Morgan.
John
The rain kept us quiet on the ride up to Morgan’s farm. There’s something about the way rain falls on your head – all those little taps – that keeps you shut in on yourself. Harry’d made me go back to my lodgings for my old cap. And he’d brought an overcoat for me, from Glanteifi. I was glad of it, I can tell you.
