Daughters of Disguise (Lady C. Investigates Book 4)

by Issy Brookw

  “But you said the court leet was no more.”

  “Indeed no, but do you think they all went away? Now they call it a council but it is all the same, just as it ever was, and having two constables in the town means nothing to nobody. Still, the system works, and everyone knows who everyone is, so there it is.”

  “So do you agree with it?”

  Mrs Jones laughed. “My lady, I just accept it. It is what it is. I do not think any of them are more corrupt than anyone else, really. I have never been to London but I have read the papers. Tell me, is it really any different there?”

  Cordelia had to laugh in return. “No, no different at all, you’re right. It just seems to be more concentrated here, probably because it is so small a place. I have another question, though, and it was something that was mentioned before, when we were all talking of local customs, and justice. Rough justice was mentioned. And some words I didn’t understand. Keffel?”

  “The Ceffyl Pren. Oh, now there is a thing.”

  “But what is it? Why did no one want to speak of it, before?”

  Mrs Jones was no longer laughing. She scratched her chin, an unconscious gesture from the otherwise impeccably-mannered woman. “Well, I think I said before that we have some lovely customs here.”

  “You did. Are you implying that this is not a lovely custom?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps. It is dying out, and they say that is a good thing. So, here it is. I will tell you. Now, you have been married, and you know how men are.”

  “I do indeed,” Cordelia said, feeling the room darken around her.

  “So you know that sometimes, a man oversteps the boundaries of even what men can usually do, or be.”

  “Sometimes?”

  “Often, then, and sometimes so far that he cannot be ignored. You know what I am talking about. I am meaning the rake, the libertine, the one who takes advantage of a younger girl, the man who cheats on his wife so often and so publically and so loudly; the man who beats his woman in a way that no one could ignore. For we know, do we not, that most people would prefer to ignore. Closed doors, and all of that. You see?”

  Cordelia’s mouth was dry. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She understood perfectly what Mrs Jones was saying. What people did in their own private homes was their own business; but it should not be allowed to be visible. What men did with their legal possessions — their wives — was their business.

  Mrs Jones realised that she was picking at her chin again, and she thrust her hands into her lap, as if she was holding them down. “If it is thought that a man needs punishing, then the Merched Beca — the, ah, the daughters of Rebecca, I suppose — they will come for him and take him through the streets, tied to a wooden ladder or a some hurdle or something. They call it a horse, the wooden horse, you see. That is the Ceffyl Pren, the wooden horse, it means.”

  “The women do this?”

  “No, the Merched Beca. Oh, I see, yes. No, they are men, but in disguise, in gowns and bonnets and shawls, with blackened faces or masks, you see, just like in the riots against the rates.”

  “The Rebecca Riots! Yes, I did hear of them. So this is linked?”

  “Well, we have always had the Ceffyl Pren but the riots were a new thing, but they borrowed some of the ideas, and they were the ones to call themselves the Merched Beca. We do like to mix up our customs a little.”

  “I see, I think. And so the aim is simply humiliation?”

  “For the most part, yes, but people do get hurt, and I know there have been deaths, when they resist, you know?”

  “Do they happen often?”

  “No, not really. Let me see. Oh, Mostyn Lewis was one, a few months ago, horrible man, he was. He’s moved now, gone south to try for work in the mines there. He deserved it, you know, he was all over these girls.” Mrs Jones shuddered. “Caradog Lloyd, he was another, but not here in Aberystwyth but back in the village a few miles out, before he came here, so that was last year, I think. He runs a shop here now.” She sucked her teeth. “There was another, around Christmas time, a churchwarden, oh the scandal!”

  “What was his name?”

  “Thomas Thomas, that was. He lives by the docks, but he isn’t a churchwarden any longer. I can’t even remember why they took him, but he ended up dumped in the sea, and how he didn’t die I do not know. It was bitter cold that day.”

  “I can understand why it is done, but it sounds barbaric,” Cordelia said.

  “It is,” Mrs Jones replied. “But as I say, it’s not so common. I did tell you about the Eisteddfodau, didn’t I? Now there is something to be proud of.”

  “Indeed, and you have beautiful scenery, and some lovely food, and the people are very welcoming,” Cordelia said, thinking, well, most of the people, but overall, it’s still a nicer place than London.

  Mrs Jones pushed herself to her feet. “Well, then, let me suggest that you go for a picnic. It is a glorious afternoon, and you are here on a holiday, after all.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “Oh, ignore them as will tell you to sit and do nothing but read the Good Book. The Lord made the sun, did He not? So get out there and give thanks to Him out in His creation, that’s what I say. I’ll pack you up a good amount of food.”

  “That does sound delightful.”

  “And what is more, I shall tell you the very best place to go for views and the avoidance of the more judging sorts of churchmen…”

  ***

  Cordelia and Ruby enjoyed the walk along the seafront. Ruby carried a basket of food and drink, and Cordelia looked around, soaking in the brilliant sunshine. Ahead of them, to the south of the town, rose a steep-sided hill called Craig-lais.

  Mrs Jones had recommended the climb to the summit. “You’ll have wonderful views, and it’s good for the constitution,” she had assured them.

  Within a few minutes of beginning the ascent, following the zig-zags of the rocky path, both women were cursing the hill, Mrs Jones, and Wales in general.

  They stopped for many breathers. Cordelia pressed a hand to her ribs and felt the lines of the corset as she struggled for air. “I tell you something, Ruby,” she said with difficulty. “When they bring the railway to this place, they had better run it right to the top of this hill. Good for my constitution? It’ll be the death of me.”

  “Are you sure you want to continue to the top?”

  Cordelia looked up. “It doesn’t look so far, now. Let’s keep going.”

  The distance was, of course, an illusion and it was some time before they finally crested the summit. Ruby threw herself to the ground, falling onto her back in a nest of grass and bouncy heather. The basket lay abandoned at her side.

  Cordelia had a little more decorum, and she leaned against a large rock, squashing her petticoats and crumpling her skirts as she sought to blink the sweat from her eyes. She was glad that they were far away from the town, and that there was no one here to see her.

  “Good afternoon, p’nawn da!”

  At the sound of the man’s voice behind her, Cordelia nearly choked. She shot to her feet, and even Ruby managed to sit up.

  “I am so sorry,” the stranger said, coming around to stand in front of Cordelia and offer her a low bow. He had evidently walked up the hill from the far side. Infuriatingly, he was simply glowing with exertion in a healthy way, rather than the close-to-expiration way of the two women. Of course, he was unencumbered by as many layers of clothes. She looked enviously at his light wool trousers and loose jacket, and remembered that the Misses Walker and Scott had taken to such modes of dressing.

  She was jealous and wondered how unconventional she would be allowed to get.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” the man continued. He had a low voice, both quiet and deep. He seemed to be in his mid-forties, with a weather-beaten face and grey-flecked dark hair. “I am Gethin Hughes, but everyone around here calls me Twm Sion Cati.” He laughed, but she had no idea what was so funny about that.

  “Cordelia,
Lady Cornbrook,” she said. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  He flicked his eyes towards Ruby who was reluctant to get to her feet. “And your companion?”

  One did not introduce one’s servant, and certainly not one who refused to stand up. Cordelia said, curtly, “My maid.”

  “And what is your name, madam?” the curious man said, addressing Ruby directly.

  Ruby’s eyes went wide. “Er — Ruby, sir.”

  “A pleasure it is to meet you, too,” he said, talking to her in the same way as he spoke to Cordelia.

  He was one of those terrifying — and terrifyingly appealing — progressives, then. Probably an artist, Cordelia thought. They had odd ideas about people.

  “You must be holidaymakers,” he said. “How do you find our little town?”

  “It is very beautiful,” Cordelia said. For a moment, all three of them looked at the stunning view that was laid out before them. To their left, there were rolling green hills, fading to blue in the distance. And to the right was the glinting Irish Sea. Down in the dip before them was the town of Aberystwyth, with a sweeping seafront and tiny colourful houses all nestling together. The new terraces were painted in an array of jewel shades, though the smaller, older cottages were grey and of rough stone. It was a delightful mix of old and new.

  “Indeed it is,” he said. He sighed heavily. Cordelia noticed that he looked very sad.

  “Are you well, sir? Would you like to share our refreshments after your climb?”

  He smiled fleetingly. “That is very kind. No, it is not the activity which has lowered my mood. Only the sad events in my wonderful town lately … sorry, forgive me. You are here to enjoy yourselves.”

  “It is quite all right,” she reassured him. “The dreadful news cannot fail to affect anyone, even us, fleeting though our visit might be.”

  Ruby flipped open the lid of the basket and began to lay out the blanket on the ground. The man continued to stare out over the bay. “They were my friends, you know,” he said, softly.

  Cordelia knew what he meant at once. “Miss Walker and Miss Scott?”

  “Indeed. Oh, poor Patience. She will be so sorely missed. And as for Edith, whatever will become of her?”

  “I pray that she makes a good recovery,” Cordelia said. She desperately wanted to ask if he thought it was murder, but the question was far too indelicate to inflict on a grieving stranger who clearly knew them well enough to use their first names.

  “Do you think she was killed deliberately?” Ruby asked, seemingly untroubled by any notions of politeness.

  Gethin Hughes nodded vigorously. “Of course she was! And they were both targets. Oh, Patience, Edith…”

  “Please, sir, sit and rest with us,” Cordelia said, injecting a firm note into her voice.

  The command crumpled his legs and he collapsed to the blanket. Ruby had set out the plates, and was unwrapping the landlady’s horde of goodies. It was a delightfully informal mess, clouded by the unpleasant topic of conversation.

  “Call me Twm,” he said. “I do not hold with the artificial divisions of society, you know, and as an extension of that, I pay little heed to titles and honorifics.”

  He’ll not call me ‘my lady’, then. Cordelia said, “Why, are you a Quaker? One of the Friends?”

  “Not at all, though many of my aims are in accord with those revolutionaries. I suppose you do not know who Twm Sion Cati was?”

  “I know nothing but I should dearly like to learn.”

  They began to tuck into the food, as if they were all firm family friends of many decades’ standing. Gethin’s — Twm’s — informal approach was infectious. Anyway, Cordelia reminded herself, they were on the summit of a hill far away from anyone who might judge them.

  And if things turned bad, she had no doubt that between them, Ruby and herself could easily fight the man off. They could probably tumble him off the rocks and into the sea below.

  She quashed the part of her that longed to try it, and focused her attention on what he was telling them. He grew quite animated as he explained all about the life of the sixteenth century man, Twm Sion Cati, who seemed to have started out like a Robin Hood figure and somehow ended up marrying an heiress and becoming a Justice of the Peace.

  “As for me,” he was saying, “I am flattered that they call me by the same name, though I have not married any heiress. I inherited my fortune and I am doing my very best to spend it in the wisest of ways. I see no shame in declaring my occupation to be ‘philanthropist.’ And the ladies were two of my keenest allies and supporters…” His voice broke once more.

  As he seemed to want to talk of them, Cordelia said, “You thought that there is foul play involved here. Who do you think might wish them ill? Who could have done such a thing?”

  “I hesitate to speculate,” Twm said after a moment of thought. “For while I can name a handful of people who, for various reasons, did not like Patience or Edith, I cannot honestly say that any of them might have hated them enough to do something like this.”

  That matched what the constable had said. There was dislike of the ladies, and a feeling they could be targeted, but a reluctance to name anyone in particular. “Yet it is a starting point,” Cordelia said. “Had anyone argued with them? Perhaps there was a continual low-level simmering sort of argument? Those that fester may build and build, out of sight, until they explode.”

  “The only person like that would be Davies Y Sbwriel, the Scavenger,” he said.

  “Ah! I have met him. Well, I have seen him. He would not speak to me.”

  “He is an unpleasant, grasping, rude and ambitious man,” Twm agreed. “Patience and Edith were convinced that of all the council, of all the corrupt members of the council, that he was the worst, and they missed no opportunity in calling him out.”

  “Ah! Perhaps they had discovered something about him that threatened his position,” Cordelia said.

  “I do not think that man can ever be dislodged from his power,” Twm said. He sipped at some sweet elderflower cordial. “He ever thwarts me. I had wanted to take over the position of Scavenger and I had my money ready. I could have brought better working conditions to the men who are employed to do the work. But it went to him, again, as always.”

  That gave Cordelia pause. Was Twm suggesting that Davies was a suspect because the Scavenger had argued with the ladies, or because Twm himself had an argument with him? She nodded, but she reserved some suspicions about the man that was now getting to his feet.

  “I thank you for your company and hospitality,” he said. “Cordelia, Ruby, it was a pleasure to meet you. Do pass on my regards to Angharad at the inn. Her bara brith is, as ever, exquisite.”

  “I shall tell Mrs Jones that you enjoyed the … what was it, again?”

  Twm pointed to the speckled fruit bread. “Bara brith.”

  “Indeed.”

  Ruby and Cordelia watched him go but did not speak until he was a small speck on the path far below them. He headed along Marine Terrace towards the town. They finished eating and Ruby began to clear up. Cordelia tried to assist, but her maid tutted at her for not folding the napkins correctly, and took over while Cordelia pondered the ever-changing view.

  “It must have been murder,” Cordelia said at last.

  “Because everyone says so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Everyone may say all manner of things,” Ruby said. “It does not mean they are right.”

  Chapter Nine

  Monday morning was another glorious day. It was hard to imagine that the weekend had brought such tragedy both through the floods, and the death of Patience Walker. Cordelia was sitting in an easy chair in her day room, wondering whether to ask Geoffrey to hire a carriage and drive them all out to tour the countryside, when someone knocked at her door.

  It was Mrs Jones. “There’s Frank the Bludgeon here to see you, my lady,” she said.

  She told Mrs Jones that she’d be down as soon as she’d dressed more appropriately
for public, and Ruby didn’t take long to sort out her hair, bonnet, gloves and a light shawl to cover her shoulders.

  The head constable was waiting for her in the largest of the private snugs. He rose and greeted her with a respectful bow, but she waved him back to his seat.

  He jiggled his leg nervously. “My lady, you see, now, I am here on official business except that, well, to tell you the truth, I am not here officially, you see.”

  “I really do not see,” she said, as kindly as she could.

  “You are a lady-detective? That is what you said to me.”

  “I am,” she said, experiencing a thrill down her spine at the acknowledgement. “I have assisted, and indeed been pivotal, in a number of murder cases.”

  He nodded. “I had my lad look it up. He found you mentioned in a newspaper. I think, my lady, I am going to need your help.”

  Cordelia could have burst with pride. “Me? I would be honoured!”

  Constable Evans’s leg was still jiggling. “There is a problem, my lady. There is no investigation.”

  “But you said…”

  “No, there is no official investigation. The coroner is here, and he has declared it a terrible accident. He says that we must put it about that the prawns in their sandwiches had gone bad. The council have told me to close the case, and they are the ones who pay my wages.”

  “And you disagree…”

  “I do, my lady. My wife does, also. She was most vehement in her insistence that I continue. For the Misses Walker and Scott were most definitely poisoned. They had not touched their sandwiches, nor any of the food there. You yourself saw that to be true. And look, see, the coroner told me himself that they had been poisoned, but that we must say that it was the sandwiches. He is asking me, no, he is instructing me to lie, and I cannot do it, my lady! I cannot.”

  “You are a strong and decent man,” Cordelia said. “I will do anything that I can to help you, I promise you. Here is my first suggestion. I met a man yesterday who said that the ladies had often argued with Davies the Scavenger.”