by Issy Brookw
“Good. I am glad to hear it.”
“One thing, madam. I assume you are holidaying here?”
“I am. I stay at the Red Inn.”
“And what force are you allied with?”
“I am an independent detective. A new sort.”
“Ah. I had thought you were here under some official capacity.”
“I am, sir; my own official capacity.”
“Some might say, begging your pardon, that you are one of those armchair detectives who solve crimes from their parlour and write incessant letters to the police to inform them of their errors.”
“Indeed I am not! I have solved many murders. I have aided the Metropolitan Police, and the authorities in both Cambridgeshire and North Yorkshire.”
“Is that so? Well, as it is your holiday, you should trouble yourself no further. I thank you for your offer of help, but as you can see, this is now in the hands of those who can analyse for poisons. The coroner can undertake this task. As soon as we have the method, we shall surely have the culprit.”
She saw that there was nothing else she could usefully offer, so she accepted his polite demand for her to leave. She inclined her head, thanked him, and left.
She talked over all her observations to Stanley as they walked back down the hill. She found the descent almost as painful as the climb, as it made the fronts of her shins hurt. The discomfort was worth it. The rain was now much eased, and though behind them, in the hills, there was still a mass of grey clouds, in front of them they could see bright and clear skies. Cardigan Bay was a wide sweep of silvery water and from this vantage point, she felt she only needed to run forwards fast enough and she would be able to take flight.
Stanley listened carefully. “The man is perfectly set on the fact of foul play?” he said.
“It seems so, and I am inclined to go with his instinct, though of course, I hope that he is wrong. It could be an accident. Though certainly, those women had enemies, or at least, people who did not like them. He said so, though curiously he could not name any. I saw some of that enmity for myself, in the druggist’s shop.”
“Could it be that one lady has poisoned the other?” Stanley suggested.
“What, and gave herself a smaller dose to make it look like she is innocent? How wonderfully wicked,” Cordelia said. “It must be considered. However it is likely to be the simplest explanation: that both were targets.”
“Then how did one die, and one survive?”
“I fear we will not know that until we know the exact poison itself,” she said.
“We? My lady, are you officially investigating?”
“As much as I ever am,” she assured him.
Chapter Seven
The talk at the inn was all of the ladies and the tragedy surrounding them. Over the weekend, Cordelia spent time in the saloon bar, talking with Mrs Jones and anyone else who happened to pass by. Everyone swore that Miss Walker could not have died by accident. Were they just hankering for a juicy story, perhaps? Cordelia found that people would not give her any information directly. Everything was done by half-statements and insinuation.
“They are not, perhaps, the most conventional of people, but they are our people,” Mrs Jones said.
“I quite understand,” Cordelia replied, not fully understanding. “And they did many good works locally?”
“Indeed! They were tireless. Of course, that doesn’t please everyone, does it?”
Cordelia didn’t need to ask for an explanation about that particular point. She had always dabbled in philanthropic endeavours of one kind or another; it was a lady’s duty and one she had been well instructed in. It was a sad delusion to think that people who worked for charitable ends were all good, honest people devoid of egos or arrogance.
“Tell me about the police here,” she said.
“Oh! Frank the Bludgeon, is it?”
“Is that one of them? I met a Frank Evans and another one, more junior I think, who was on guard outside the ladies’ house.”
“Then you’ve met our entire police force,” Mrs Jones said, to the general laughter of the others in the bar. “Frank the Bludgeon, that’s Frank Evans, and he is the head constable. He’s a good man, is our Frank, though he puts a little too much faith in clouds and signs. And the other one, the junior constable, that’s Iolo Evans. No relation to Frank, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“The house of correction is on Great Darkgate Street, halfway down.”
“A house of correction? Goodness, that sounds rather fancy,” Cordelia said, impressed.
Mrs Jones laughed. “Oh, well, there’s two cells and a bit of an office, you see. But that’s what we call it.”
“And just the two constables?”
“Yes, two, but they can call in petty officers if they need to. Well, I mean, they can call in Jones if he isn’t fishing. And Geraint. And a few others.”
“I see. So there is not a lot of crime hereabout?”
“No, no,” Mrs Jones said, and the others around her also shook their heads.
“Anyway, we have ways of seeing to justice, you know,” a man nearby said. “A community like this, we look out for one another.”
“Rough justice,” someone else said.
Cordelia was interested. “So what do you think about the new police forces being introduced all over the country?”
“We have no need of that here. That’s England, that is. They wouldn’t understand our ways, you see,” Mrs Jones said, and she began to tidy up the bar. The talk turned once more, and Cordelia was left wondering about how rough the local rough justice really was. And what part did Frank Evans — Frank the Bludgeon — play in that?
She felt restless, and as the day was completely dry, she hauled Ruby out for a walk around town. Geoffrey attached himself to them, prowling behind them like a bodyguard. “There might be a murderer loose.”
“There might be a dodgy batch of tea,” she retorted.
The streets were sparkling in the sunlight, and pools of water stood all around, glittering and reflecting the impossible blue of the sky. There was not a breath of wind and she could hardly believe that a storm had been raging not twenty-four hours earlier.
The heavy rain which had fallen onto hard-baked earth had caused flooding even in the town, and she could not imagine how desperate the situation would be, further to the south. “I must find some way of helping,” she said to Ruby as they perambulated along Marine Terrace, looking out across the grey rocky beach.
“But my lady, you are a visitor here, and have no access to your usual resources.”
“I feel so helpless! I do not like it.”
“I know, my lady. But leave it to those who do know, and who can act. Do you agree that Miss Walker might have been murdered?”
“I cannot say. The policeman is set upon foul play, but maybe he is bored. They must discover exactly what killed her, first. A natural occurrence in the tea? An accidental mixing of arsenic with milk? Or a terrible and deliberate act? Let us find this police station, this house of correction as they call it.”
They ambled to the end of the terrace, and turned back into the town itself. Ruby was looking about her as they went along Pier Street.
“Are you all right?” Cordelia asked.
“I — have remembered an errand I must run,” Ruby said. “Your peach-coloured bonnet, the ribbons need replacing. May I go to the haberdasher’s?”
“You may,” said Cordelia, who had certainly not noticed anything amiss with her bonnet. She gave Ruby some coins because here, unlike at home, she had no accounts in the local shops. “Oh, meet me back at the inn. Geoffrey here is a more than capable companion.”
If I give her a little liberty, I might discover what she is up to, Cordelia thought. She pretended to become absorbed in a shop window display, but she kept her eyes sideways and fixed on the route that her maid took as she skipped away.
Geoffrey came closer to Cordelia’s side. “I can see her i
n the reflection of that top pane.”
Cordelia saw that the window bowed out and that meant she could follow Ruby’s progress without turning her head. “I see her. What shop is that, that she is lingering outside of?”
“A barber’s, my lady.”
“Well, she is not there for her own hair — ah! Who is that?”
“I do not know. It is hard to make out.”
They peered at the shadowy reflection. Cordelia couldn’t bear it, and half-turned her head. Ruby was reaching her hand up to a man, and seemed to be touching his face. Then their backs were to them, and the couple disappeared down the street.
“She is courting again,” Cordelia said. “A barber? It makes a change from footmen. But will you do what you can to find out more about the lad?”
“Of course. In my usual manner, or…?”
“No, absolutely not. You must be discreet.”
He huffed, and they wandered on.
When they finally found the house of correction, they were both underwhelmed.
“It’s just a small building,” she said, looking at the locked door. “And empty, besides.” She knocked again, and took to tapping on the window, but to no avail.
She stepped back and sighed.
“My lady, may I suggest something?”
Geoffrey sounded unusually polite. She was surprised enough to say, “Yes, of course.”
“Investigate this. They all say it’s murder, the people on the streets, and that is who I would believe.”
“I am not sure. Either way, it is down to the authorities to decide, and to investigate.”
“My lady, I think that the authorities would rather it was not a murder. There is a huge division in this town, and we can only see but a part of it.”
“A division? Between which parties? The English and the Welsh?”
“No, nothing so easy. People are people are people, my lady, no matter their tongue. But that means, also, that people anywhere are corrupt and grasping and seek to rule over others. You cannot see behind the surface but I can, and everything here is controlled.”
“By whom?”
“I am not sure, yet. The town council, but I have heard it called something else. The court leet.”
“Is that Welsh?”
“I think not. It is old, though, old and powerful.”
“Why would they want to cover up a murder?”
“Why would they want a murder to be known?”
“I will take heed of your words,” she said. Maybe the policeman was right. He would know more of the undercurrents in the town and the machinations of which Geoffrey spoke. They walked aimlessly, and she saw that they were heading south through the town and over a bridge. They could see the docks.
“There was a very rude man here when I came before,” she said. “Davies the Scavenger.”
“So I heard. Have no fear. No one will slight you today.”
“I wish I understood what people were saying! This is so frustrating, and I am ashamed to say, I am a little embarrassed at my lack of language skills.”
Geoffrey laughed. “Ruby says you cannot pronounce Aberystwyth.”
“I cannot even say hello,” she said sulkily.
“Good morning is easy,” Geoffrey said. “Bore da. You can say that, my lady.”
“Borr-reh da?”
“Close. Good. Roll the r.”
“My governess despaired of my French and my Italian caused her to break out in hives,” Cordelia said. “But you surprise me. You have picked up that phrase so soon?”
“Oh, I have travelled around, before I came to your late husband’s service,” Geoffrey said, and she was delighted to see a hint of pride on the man’s face.
“Then let us make use of your skills!” she said. “Come, I want to talk to this Davies fellow.”
“But—”
She strode down the stone steps and into the bustling dockyard. Men and boys rushed past from all angles. Far at one end, a ship was being constructed in a dry dock. By a wharf, another smaller vessel was being loaded. Carts and barrels and crates and boxes were everywhere, and the gulls wheeled overhead, crying incessantly.
Cordelia pressed her hand to her nose. On her previous visit, she had not noticed the smell. Now the warmth of the sun seemed to be making the odours rise up and they were not all pleasant. There was wood, and tar, and salt, and refuse, and sweat and more besides.
It was little wonder that the council made people have their rubbish taken away. Where a fishing boat was tied up, there were piles of the most foul smelling waste she could have imagined, and she did not look too closely.
“Geoffrey, ask someone where Davies is,” she said.
“Why, though, my lady?”
“He insulted me and I am still annoyed.”
“Leave it be,” he said.
He was right, of course. She sighed. “Well, then. I will leave it. But let us investigate, as you have advised me to do. Ask for the names of enemies of the ladies, anyone who might want them dead.”
“My Welsh is basic…” he said, suddenly hesitant. “I mean, ‘good morning’ is easy, but…”
“You said…”
“Yes, my lady,” he replied, and with a grimace he approached a group of men. One was sitting on a crate, a huge net all around his feet. He was pulling at one end with a wooden shuttle in his hands. The men around him seemed to be serving no purpose at all, save conversation.
Cordelia could not understand what Geoffrey said, slowly and haltingly. The men cocked their heads and appeared to be listening, but when they replied, they spoke in English.
“No, butt, I can’t tell you anything, like.”
Geoffrey switched to English too, with visible relief. “I’m just wondering who might have wanted to harm Miss Walker or Miss Scott?”
Still the men shrugged. “Don’t know, really. Could be anyone, see.”
“But they were well-liked in the town.”
“Da, they were, weren’t they, but you know. Liked and not-liked. You know.”
“You know,” echoed another.
This is nonsense, Cordelia thought in exasperation. Why won’t they talk? She strode forward and said, “A woman lies dead. Do you all think she was murdered?”
Suddenly no one would look her in the eye. They bent their heads and one said, “Yes, yes, but who knows?”
There was more grumbling. The man with the nets was hunched over his work, and the others began to drift away, speaking once more in Welsh.
“What are they saying?” she asked Geoffrey.
He walked away as he answered her. “It’s all too fast for me to catch, really, and it’s a slightly different dialect to the one I learned. I think, though, that no one is happy with being asked questions by you, or I.”
“Because we are English?”
“Not really, no. Simple because we are asking.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“I am sorry. But you have been up against opposition before, my lady.”
“Huh.” She glanced back and saw that no one was looking their way. In fact, their complete lack of observation was painfully obvious. It was clear that everyone was watching Cordelia and Geoffrey very closely and very secretively. “I am offended.”
“So are they, my lady. What call has a visitor, and a female one at that, got to be coming and asking about things, about something that could be a source of shame to their town? Of course they will close ranks.”
“They will not defeat me.”
“I am sure they will not.”
Chapter Eight
Sunday was very quiet. The inn was closed, of course, and Stanley had disappeared to worship somewhere. Ruby, too, was absent. Cordelia assumed that Geoffrey was in an alcohol-sodden sleep. She spent the morning in her room, reading. There was a piano in the saloon bar downstairs, and this was the first day that it had been silent. She thought she ought to attend church, but she was a rare churchgoer and did not feel comfortable doing it for the s
ake of appearances. Still, she ensured that the book she read was an improving one with a strong moral message. It was her compromise for the sanctity of the day of rest.
At midday she wandered down into the quiet, empty rooms of the inn. The blinds and curtains were drawn, and the place was dark. She thought she was alone in the saloon bar, so when Mrs Jones greeted her, she jumped in the air and squeaked.
“My lady, forgive me!” Mrs Jones stood up from the table where she had been sitting, and adjusted her sober black dress, smoothing down the folds of her skirt. There was a mug on the table; the landlady had evidently been enjoying a rare moment of peace.
“No, it is I who must apologise. You know, I am glad to have caught you. Please, do sit down again.”
“Is everything quite all right?”
“Yes, yes. I just want to talk to you about local matters. I am deeply interested in the culture here. This will sound foolish, but I had not realised it would be quite so different to England.”
“No, my lady, that doesn’t sound foolish at all.” Mrs Jones got herself comfortable again. “Is it the dreadful events with the ladies that has you curious?”
“In part. Tell me about the council, those who run everything here. My coachman mentioned something, some other name for them. A court leet?”
“Ahh.” Mrs Jones leaned back, still as straight as a poker by virtue of her very fashionable corsetry. “There is a complicated thing. Wel, te. Well, then. There is no court leet, of that you must understand at the start. It was done away with these ten years past, you see.”
“What did it do, this court? Was it to do with the police?”
“Not just the police, no. It was how things were run here. All things. By men. They had twelve men, more or less, all burgesses of the town, and that included the coroner and the mayor and the clerk and the scavenger. All the important folks. They’d meet twice a year, Easter and Michaelmas.”
“That sounds reasonable, and just like any council.”
“Well, for around two hundred years or more, it had all been controlled by one family and the members of that family. And the burgesses had particular privileges, you see. They were the ones who could vote for the MP, and they were exempt from market and corn tolls, and they had the rights to pasture on the common. They paid handsomely for this but that payment got them total control.”
