The Barchester Murders

by G. M. Best

  The two men began to turn over the corpse and only then realized the cause of the old man’s death. There was a deep wound in the centre of his chest. Trollope held up his hands with horror. Like the stones on which the body had lain, they were smeared red with the dead man’s blood. ‘My God!’ he gasped. ‘He’s been stabbed to death!’

  ‘And from a blow wielded with some expertise,’ Bold said tersely. ‘Whoever struck him did so very close to his heart.’

  ‘You must believe me when I say that I never saw anyone stab him,’ stammered Trollope. ‘I genuinely thought he was simply a man asleep on a bench. The man you called Bunce thought so too. He shook him to wake him and that was when the body fell to the ground.’

  ‘I can see from the spectacles you’re wearing that you are shortsighted. Are you sure that you did not see anyone else? I can tell that poor Thomas hasn’t been dead long.’

  ‘My sight’s not good but I can assure you there was no one else here. The murder must have taken place just before I arrived on the bridge.’

  ‘That may be the case but I’m afraid I must ask you to stay here until we’ve reported this matter to the police.’

  ‘Of course. And I’m very happy to help you carry the poor man to his room before the proper authorities are notified.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Trollope, but the police may want to see the body in situ.’ He moved part of the dead man’s black gown so that it covered Rider’s sightless eyes. ‘Our first step now must be to notify the warden and ensure that none of the residents venture down here. Mr Harding will be distraught. He looks on all the old men here as his friends.’

  As the two men neared the almshouse, the cleric emerged from its main door to greet them, having encouraged Bunce to take a rest in his room. ‘My apologies for not introducing myself, sir,’ he said, turning towards Trollope. ‘My name is Reverend Septimus Harding and I’m the warden of Hiram’s Hospital. Thomas Rider is one of the twelve men under my care.’

  Trollope introduced himself and Bold then conveyed the terrible news that Thomas Rider had been murdered. The warden’s eyes rounded with amazement and suddenly all his authority seemed to desert him. The doctor took one look at his friend’s grief-stricken face and took charge of the situation. ‘Listen carefully to me, Mr Harding. I have to return to guard the corpse so you must tell Mrs Winthrop what has happened. Instruct her first to direct Mr Trollope to where he can wash the blood from his hands and then get her to fetch Inspector Blake. I’ll use the time before he arrives to ascertain more fully the nature of the blow that killed poor Thomas.’ The doctor turned to Trollope and explained, ‘Mrs Winthrop is Mr Harding’s housekeeper and a very capable woman. Not the sort to panic over what has happened even though she will be painfully shocked by the news.’

  Mr Harding thanked Bold for offering such practical advice and immediately escorted Trollope into his home. It was obvious that no expense had been spared on its construction. It was a far grander building than the almshouse and had the most beautiful oriel windows. The warden led the way into his book-lined study. As far as Trollope could see there were volumes of all sorts on its shelves – not just theological works and serried ranks of collected sermons but histories, geographies, scientific works and even books of verse and fiction. Mr Harding invited him to sit down and pulled the cord to summon his housekeeper. Within a few moments she arrived.

  Mrs Winthrop had the air of authority that is so often the hallmark of a woman in her position. She heard the news of the murder with a remarkable outward calmness. Only the whiteness of the knuckles on her clenched hands showed her inner turmoil at what had happened. Trollope could see that she had probably been very attractive when she was younger. She had large brown eyes and well-proportioned features. However, the years had not treated her well. Her brown hair was streaked with grey, her face was quite heavily lined, and, worst of all, her left cheek was disfigured by an ugly scar. It almost looked as if someone had slashed her with a knife. The plain clothes that she wore made it obvious that she took no interest in her figure, although she was still slim and shapely.

  ‘I’m sure that the police will soon capture the person responsible, sir,’ she blurted out in a voice that trembled only slightly. ‘Though I can’t think who would want to do such a terrible thing to a kindly old man.’

  With admirable efficiency she immediately led Trollope out of the study to where he could wash his hands. ‘Has Mr Harding been here long?’ he asked curiously en route.

  ‘He’s only been warden here for ten months, sir.’

  ‘And what about the murdered man?’

  ‘Thomas Rider was here long before Mr Harding.’ Suddenly her face lost its mask-like quality and she bit her lip in an effort to hide her emotion. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to speak too much about him at present, sir. He was such a harmless man and I can’t bear to think of him having been murdered.’

  Outwardly Trollope had a loud, booming manner reminiscent of the kind of man who went out hunting with hounds, but that belied his true nature. He was at heart sensitive and generous-hearted. He saw at once that it would be unkind to ask the housekeeper anything more about any of the individuals caught up in the tragedy. Instead he changed the conversation to safer territory as they entered the kitchen and she provided him with a bowl of water and some soap. ‘Perhaps you could tell me something about the history of this place to take both our minds off what has happened?’

  ‘Certainly, sir, though you must appreciate that I’m no historian.’

  He smiled reassuringly at her as he began to wash his hands. ‘But doubtless you can tell me who was responsible for building the almshouse?’

  ‘The hospital was founded by a wool stapler from Barchester called John Hiram. In his will he bequeathed his house and certain meadows and closes near the city to set up a charity for the support of twelve superannuated wool carders.’

  ‘And does Hiram’s Hospital still offer a home to retired wool carders?’

  She handed him a towel. ‘No, sir, the wool industry has long disappeared. Now the hospital offers a place to twelve men drawn from a range of occupations. The one qualification they share in common is that the bedesmen (as they are known) must have been bred and brought up in or very near to Barchester. Each receives not only his accommodation but also one shilling and sixpence a day.’ Not without a shudder, she covered the bowl of bloodied water. ‘You’ll forgive me, sir, but I must now go and fetch Inspector Blake. Can you make your own way back to Mr Harding’s study?’

  ‘That’ll be no problem, Mrs Winthrop. Thank you for your assistance.’

  When Trollope returned to the study he found Mr Harding had not moved. He was still sitting in the same chair with the same dejected posture. It was obvious from the expression on his face that he was not coping well with the situation. Trollope sat down opposite him and tried to take his mind off what had happened by engaging in small talk. ‘I gather you’ve been warden here for less than a year, Mr Harding?’ he asked. When there was no response, he added, ‘Am I right?’

  The warden’s innate sense of courtesy overcame his silence. ‘Yes, you’re correct, Mr Trollope, but I’ve been in Barchester for over twenty years. I started my clerical career in London and then I came here after my wife died. That was back in 1830.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear of your loss. It must’ve been quite a big decision to move here.’

  ‘Not really. I didn’t feel that London was a good place to bring up two motherless daughters and becoming a minor canon in Barchester was a very happy change from the kind of work I’d been doing. I loved in particular the music at the cathedral and willingly took on the duties of precentor when the holder of that office became ill. I can honestly say that I’ve never for one moment regretted being here until today.’ The pain in his voice was almost tangible and his eyes spilled over with tears.

  ‘And do your two daughters still live here?’ enquired Trollope as gently as he could, determined to encourage a h
appier train of thought.

  ‘Eleanor does but my other daughter, Susan, is married to the Rev. Dr Theophilus Grantly, the archdeacon of Barchester. He’s the son of the bishop. They live in the rectory at Plumstead Episcopi with the five children from his first marriage – three boys named Charles, Henry and Samuel, and two girls, Florinda and Grizzel. It was shortly after their marriage that the bishop encouraged the precentor to formally retire and I was formally appointed in his stead. Soon afterwards he also appointed me in charge of Hiram’s. The role’s not an onerous one. I simply have responsibility for the twelve men who are able to reside here through the generosity of the founder of this place.’

  Trollope could not help but smile to himself. He suspected that Mr Harding would probably have remained a minor canon but for his daughter’s choice of husband. What more might have been said between them was lost because of the sudden entry of John Bold. Both men rose rapidly to their feet. The doctor looked in the direction of the warden and wasted no time on pleasantries. ‘Inspector Blake’s already arrived,’ he stated. ‘He happened to be passing the entrance to Hiram’s just as Mrs Winthrop was going out to get him. He’s instructed that I move the body into the almshouse but only after he’s seen you in Thomas Rider’s room. He’s searching Rider’s possessions to see if he can find any clues as to why he’s been murdered.’

  ‘Then I’ll go at once,’ replied Mr Harding, looking like a rabbit caught in the glare of a poacher’s lamp. ‘John, will you look after Mr Trollope until I return?’

  Bold nodded his assent and Mr Harding immediately left the study. Only then did Trollope ask the young doctor what his examination of the corpse had shown.

  ‘There are no signs of any bruises arising from any struggle. It’s my opinion that Thomas did not expect the blow and that the killer knew exactly where to strike. The blade was plunged almost directly into his heart. The only consolation is that I doubt whether the poor old man felt much pain. Death would’ve been almost instantaneous. What really puzzles me is what was the motive? I just can’t see any reason why anyone would wish to kill him!’

  ‘Are you so sure? In small communities like this it’s not unknown for a tiny grievance to rankle and for passions to get out of control.’

  ‘I hear what you say but Thomas was not the sort of person who attracts enemies. He was honest in his word and kind to anyone in need.’

  ‘And presumably that’s why Mr Harding is so upset?’

  ‘In part but I’m pretty sure that he will be holding himself personally responsible for what has happened because Mr Rider was under his protection. He takes the welfare of the men here very seriously.’

  ‘Have you known him long?’

  ‘Since I was a boy. My father was a successful surgeon in London but much of his wealth was invested in property here. As a family we often used to visit Barchester. At first my sister Mary and I were very lonely but Mr Harding and his daughters then befriended us. I still regard him as my greatest friend. When you interrupted us in the garden I was listening to him play his violincello. It gives Mr Harding great pleasure and it’s an easy way for me to show my gratitude for his kindness over the years.’ The sincere way in which this was said conveyed Bold’s deep affection for him.

  ‘So what brings you to Barchester now?’

  ‘I live here. While I was still training to become a physician, my father decided to retire here in the company of my sister. They took up residence in a villa not far from Hiram’s and I stayed with them every holiday. When my father died just over twelve months ago, I decided not to sell his house. I’d just completed my qualifications and it seemed an ideal opportunity to begin my work in a place that I knew.’ He gave Trollope a rueful smile. ‘Unfortunately the nine doctors already in residence haven’t greeted my arrival with pleasure and so far I’ve had little opportunity to use my medical gifts except among the poor who can’t pay.’

  Trollope looked at the handsome doctor and wondered whether his decision to stay in Barchester owed something to the warden’s other daughter. ‘Mr Harding tells me that he lives here with his daughter Eleanor, but I’ve seen no sight of her,’ he said, to see how Bold would react. The immediate blush that came to the doctor’s cheeks confirmed that his conjecture was accurate.

  ‘Eleanor was here earlier this morning but she went out in the small carriage that Mr Harding has newly purchased for her. Her sister and brother-in-law accompanied her.’

  ‘Pardon me for saying so, Mr Bold, but I’m surprised that the post of warden should carry with it enough income for a carriage to be kept.’

  Bold looked slightly discomforted. ‘I’ll be honest with you, sir. None here have anything but good to say of Mr Harding, but many in Barchester aren’t happy with the arrangements at Hiram’s Hospital. The money paid out to the bedesmen is but a tiny element of the income that’s derived from John Hiram’s estate. The land that in his day was used for farming is now covered with rows of houses and the value of the property has therefore increased beyond all measure. It’s a scandal that so wealthy a foundation contributes so little to the poor of the city.’

  ‘So does the bulk of the income therefore go to the warden?’

  ‘A sizeable proportion does. I believe Mr Harding gets about eight hundred pounds per year, which is probably about four times what the post deserves. I suspect just as much money ends up in the hands of Mr Chadwick, who acts as the steward for Hiram’s property.’

  ‘From what you say the post of warden is a very snug sinecure,’ Trollope replied drily. ‘If Mr Harding is the good man you describe, why’s he not uncomfortable about that?’

  ‘When a man’s appointed to a post it’s natural that he should accept the income allotted without much enquiry. I think it says much for Mr Harding’s character that one of his first actions as warden was to increase the payment made to the bedesmen.’

  ‘And was that well received?’

  Bold shook his head. ‘On the contrary. It encouraged some of the old men to think they should be getting even more and it offended the other members of the cathedral clergy, especially Mr Harding’s son-in-law, Dr Grantly. ’

  ‘Why?’ asked Trollope, genuinely puzzled.

  ‘He told Mr Harding that he was setting a very bad precedent in reducing his own income, even if it was by only a small amount. He said that the bedesmen had no need of extra money because all their wants are supplied. They have warm houses, good clothes and a plentiful diet.’ Bold paused and smiled. ‘I should also add that Dr Grantly simply will not hear anyone criticize what the Church does. I think he’d consign all those who question what Hiram’s money is being spent on to darkness and perdition if he could!’

  ‘You make him sound a monster.’

  ‘No, in his own way he’s a good man, but Dr Grantly tends to confuse the Church with Christianity. That’s why he’s currently encouraging Mr Harding to think that he can justify his income by spending much of it on the cathedral choir and on the publication of collections of ancient church music.’

  ‘But you think otherwise about the matter?’

  Bold hesitated several moments before replying. ‘Yes, I do. I love and respect Mr Harding but I think it’s wrong that he receives so much. I see many diseases that could easily be prevented if the money from Hiram’s bequest were put to better purpose.’

  ‘And have you told Mr Harding that?’

  ‘Not in so many words. He’s such a kind man that I fear to cause him pain on the matter.’

  Trollope suspected that Bold’s reticence probably stemmed from his attachment to Eleanor Harding, but he chose not to say so. An uncomfortable silence filled the room and it was broken only by the return of Mr Harding. A very tall and unprepossessing man dressed in a blue frock coat and white trousers accompanied him. He had dark and rather lank hair, heavy lidded and bulbous brown eyes, a bony narrow nose that was slightly misshapen, a wide mouth that was thin-lipped, and hollow cheeks that were heavily scarred by smallpox. ‘Permit me to int
roduce you, Mr Trollope, to Inspector Blake,’ said the warden in a voice that betrayed his inner tension.

  There was no indication of any warmth in the policeman’s handshake. ‘A terrible crime has been committed here, Mr Trollope. A terrible crime,’ he stated solemnly in a gruff voice. He paused as if to give time for this information to sink into the minds of all three men and then added, ‘I’ve seen poor Mr Rider’s body.’ He raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips as if somehow this would convey to all of them the horror of what he had been forced to face. ‘And I’ve asked Mr Bold to provide me with a full medical report. I’ve not yet met a criminal who can hide from good evidence!’ He stared hard at Trollope. ‘You may be a stranger here, but make no mistake, sir, I’ll find the murderer and ensure that the cord goes round his neck!’

  ‘I think that I would prefer to be described as a visitor to Barchester rather than a stranger,’ observed Trollope.

  ‘A visitor is a stranger until more is known of his background. And we know nothing of yours, sir. Would you mind telling me how you come to be here?’

  ‘I’ve no objection but I can assure you that it won’t help you with your enquiries.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ snapped back the inspector rather pompously.

  It was immediately obvious to Trollope that he was being viewed as the prime suspect. Just a short time earlier he had been standing on a bridge enjoying the morning sunshine. Now the day looked as if it might end with him being confined to a prison cell as a suspected murderer!

  2

  THE INVESTIGATION BEGINS

  Trollope tried not to show his alarm and stated as calmly as he could, ‘Sir, my name is Anthony Trollope as I’ve told these gentlemen. I’m here because I work for the Post Office as a surveyor and at present I’m travelling across the south-west of England.’

  Inspector Blake gazed back at him. Distrust was writ large on his face. ‘May I ask for what purpose?’ he replied in a tone that implied it was only a matter of time before Trollope confessed to the crime.