by G. M. Best
‘You’ll be aware that in recent years the Post Office has created a national network for delivering letters as a consequence of Mr Rowland Hill creating the Penny Black. Ten years ago I was sent to work out the best routes for the post to take in Ireland. I did such a good job that I am now sent to improve the service in this region.’
‘And so what exactly does that entail, Mr Trollope?’ questioned the inspector, only marginally pacified by the explanation he had been given. ‘Please elaborate.’
Trollope tried not to show his annoyance. ‘The first thing that I have to do is check that those who work for the Post Office are not cheating the company by charging for long routes that are unnecessary. In that process I talk to local people and ascertain what they think should be happening. I then try to find new and better routes for postmen, ensuring that none require them to travel more than sixteen miles per day on foot. To achieve that I travel widely, exploring every lane and every possible shortcut across open fields. I also make sure that whatever routes I devise tie in with the mail being transported by night mail-carts and with the up-mail from London.’
‘It sounds an onerous task,’ Mr Harding commented, clearly showing the inspector that he had confidence in the truth of his visitor’s story.
‘It is. I usually rise as soon as it is light and travel about forty miles each day on horseback. My only companion is the groom who sees to my horses. I’ve two hunters of my own and can hire a third if necessary. However, you need not feel sorry for me. I love the work. It’s far better than being tied to an office and I get to meet all kinds of people from all walks of life.’
‘So where do you live?’ interrupted Blake brusquely.
‘My home is still in Ireland.’
A look of disdain crossed the inspector’s face. ‘Can you supply me with your address?’
Trollope hid his irritation with difficulty and retorted acidly, ‘Yes, I can, sir, providing that does not mean the authorities will needlessly worry my wife. I don’t want her to know I’m involved in a murder enquiry. It would only serve to needlessly alarm her.’
‘I can assure you that we won’t bother her, sir, unless circumstances change.’
‘You mean, Inspector, unless you think I’m the murderer of Thomas Rider!’ exclaimed Trollope angrily. ‘Damn it, man, I’ll swear on the Bible that I’m entirely innocent in this matter.’
‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Trollope,’ interjected Mr Harding, who had clearly become increasingly uncomfortable at the way Blake was interrogating his guest. ‘I believe you.’
The inspector sniffed. ‘The trouble is, Mr Harding, that you believe the best in everyone. I’ve learned to be more circumspect before I accept a man’s word. There’s a lot of evil in the world and I’m afraid deceit comes natural to some men.’
‘The world is also full of men who are naturally honest and good.’
‘Bah! Tell that to poor Thomas Rider,’ responded the inspector contemptuously.
This cruel taunt totally silenced the warden but served to further incense Trollope. ‘It’s ridiculous for you to view me with suspicion, sir! Have you no common sense? If I was the person responsible for killing the old man why did I then come running to give the alarm? Surely I would simply have run off so none could link me with the crime? The plain truth of the matter is that when I entered the hospital’s grounds I assumed that Mr Rider had simply been taken ill. I was completely taken aback when I discovered that he’d been stabbed.’
‘That’s as may be, sir, but I would still like to corroborate your story by speaking to your groom and I’d be grateful if you would give me the details of your supervisor at the Post Office so that I can also check that you are in Barchester on the company’s business.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ intervened Bold. ‘This man is being poorly paid for his kindness. He simply alerted us to what he’d seen.’
Trollope saw the inspector was not going to change his attitude and interposed to bring the matter to a close. ‘Do not fret, Mr Bold. Neither you nor I may like the inspector’s manner, but I suppose he’s merely doing his duty. People would think less of him if he did not seek to verify my story. Give me a sheet of paper and I’ll write down all the information that he requires.’
Trollope sat at Mr Harding’s desk to write what was wanted. Blake took the sheet and glanced at its contents without the hint of any gratitude. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said curtly. ‘Until I receive assurances that you are who you say you are, I must ask that you don’t leave Barchester.’
‘I understand and I give you my word I’ll stay in the city.’
‘In which inn have you taken up residence?’
‘None as yet. This morning on my arrival I simply left my luggage at The Sun, the inn where my groom is tending to my two horses. It was not my intention to stay in Barchester overnight.’
‘It’s fine for their needs but I wouldn’t advise you to stay there,’ observed Bold. ‘The beds are very uncomfortable and the food is poor.’
‘Then where would you recommend?’
‘If you wish, you may stay here,’ offered Mr Harding. ‘I’ve a spare room you can use.’
Trollope was moved by the warden’s kindness but shook his head. ‘That’s a very generous offer but I can’t possibly accept it.’
‘Why not?’
‘You have enough to do without coping with me.’
Mr Harding shook his head. ‘Nonsense. I’d welcome your presence, especially as I’ve a daughter and I’ve no way of knowing whether the murderer is still around. I’m sure both she and I will feel safer with you also in the house.’
Trollope considered this unexpected response and recognized there was sense in what the warden said. His presence might well make it less likely that the killer would risk striking again. He smiled and warmly shook Mr Harding’s hand. ‘Very well, I accept. I’d much rather stay with you than reside in an inn.’ He turned and looked at the inspector and added, ‘That is, of course, providing you’re comfortable with such an arrangement?’
‘It’s not what I would do if I were in Mr Harding’s position, but if that’s what is agreed, so be it. I’ll arrange for a message to be delivered to your groom so that your baggage may be sent here from the inn after I’ve questioned him. What’s the man’s name?’
‘John Turner. Tell him the horses will have to remain at The Sun until I’m free to leave here. He must get appropriate accommodation for himself there.’
For the next few moments the inspector turned his attention to elucidating more information about the dead man and, once that was done, he offered to make arrangements for the body of Mr Rider to be collected and taken away.
‘You’ll forgive me, sir, if I decline your offer,’ Mr Harding replied. ‘This place was Thomas’s home and I don’t want him taken from it until he’s laid in the earth. The other bedesmen will want to pay their last respects to him and they’re all too frail to travel far.’
‘As you wish, Mr Harding,’ acceded the inspector. ‘But I must ask that you let me question all of them. One or more of them may be able to shed light on Thomas Rider’s murder.’
‘None of them have yet been told what’s happened,’ interpolated Bold. ‘Something needs to be said to them first. They’re not so old that they can’t see we are caught up in some terrible tragedy. They’re aware that Rider has collapsed and some of them saw Mrs Winthrop bring in Mr Blake.’
Mr Harding flinched. The prospect of informing the bedesmen made him feel very uncomfortable. ‘You’re right to remind me that I’ve not fulfilled my duty. I must speak with all my friends and seek to comfort them before any questioning can commence. John, I know that you’ve medical duties elsewhere and therefore can’t stay here much longer. However, I’d be grateful if you would tell Bunce what has happened before you leave and before I release the news to the others. While he is doing that, I suggest, Mr Blake, that you ring the gatehouse bell three times. That will signal I’m to hold a meeting i
n the quad for everyone. Mr Trollope, I’d be grateful if you would find Mrs Winthrop and then help her to assemble the feebler bedesmen. While you are doing all of that I’ll try and compose my mind so I can think what I should say to them.’
All three men did as they were bid. Trollope discovered that the quadrangle to which the warden referred was a quiet haven from which the residents could easily view the flitting fish in the river or look across to the rich green meadows on the other side of the river. It was bordered on one side by a row of riverside seats, on the second by the almshouse, on the third by the gable end of the warden’s home, and on the fourth by part of the garden’s high wall and some overhanging trees. A stone-flagged path had been laid all around its perimeter and at its centre. The more physically fit bedesmen entered the quadrangle quite quickly once the inspector tolled the bell but it took a while for Trollope and Mrs Winthrop to assemble the others. As they did this the black-gowned bedesmen gathered in small groups to share their anxieties, looking like a crows’ parliament. Only Bunce stood apart, his head deeply bowed.
The old men all took off their black hats when Mr Harding entered the quad. He walked over to the centre and wiped the nervous perspiration from his brow. ‘My friends, I want to say a few words to you about a very upsetting event that has taken place here within Hiram’s.’ Not a sound could be heard from any of the men. ‘You may have heard from Bunce that poor Thomas collapsed this morning.’ A few nodded. ‘There’s no easy way to say this but I regret to inform you that he’s dead.’ There was a moment of stunned silence and then this was followed by a murmur of collective sadness. The ashen-faced warden continued grimly, ‘And I regret even more to have to tell you that he was murdered – stabbed to death.’ This announcement sent visible shock waves through them. The bedesmen were used to their number being depleted by death but never before had one of them been untimely plucked from life by the hand of another. ‘That’s why Inspector Blake is here,’ concluded Mr Harding. ‘He’s determined to discover who was responsible and to bring the villain to justice.’
All eyes turned on the policeman. ‘Yes, gentlemen, and I’ll require your help. I therefore want to speak with each of you individually to see what you may or may not know about what’s happened here this morning.’
The thought of being questioned by the police alarmed the old men and Mr Harding spent the next few minutes trying to allay their fears. Watching him at work, Trollope could see why John Bold held the warden in such high regard. He had a natural capacity to put people at their ease. Unfortunately, on this occasion even his skills were not entirely effective. Most of the bedesmen felt it was bad enough that a murderer had entered their sanctuary without then having to face an interrogation. Eventually Mr Harding judged he would have to be present when each of them was interviewed as a means of reassuring them. The inspector concurred with such an arrangement but only on condition that the warden would not interfere with his questioning of them.
‘May I ask, Mr Trollope, that you continue to help Mrs Winthrop?’ Mr Harding asked. ‘I think she’ll require some assistance to bring the weaker ones to my study and then return them to the almshouse.’
‘I’m willing to help in any way I can.’
‘I suggest you bring them in alphabetical order so that none can feel unfairly singled out by the order in which they’re seen,’ said the inspector.
The inspector and the warden went back to the house. Blake sat behind the warden’s desk and indicated that Mr Harding should take a chair at ninety degrees to it. ‘I’d like you to observe every one of them side on. See if you can detect any sign of guilt or unease as each answers my questions, but don’t interrupt unless I indicate that you can. Before they start arriving, give me a list of their names, and before each man enters give me some information about him.’
Mr Harding took a piece of paper off his desk and wrote down all the bedesmen’s names in alphabetical order. Then he passed the sheet to the inspector. ‘As you can see, the first man to arrive will be Elias Bell.’
‘And what should I know about him?’
‘He was a respected tradesman in his day but his mind has become very confused in recent months. I doubt whether he’ll be able to tell us anything.’
The warden’s assessment proved an accurate one. When Elias Bell entered the room, he could not walk without the assistance of the housekeeper. Once she had sat him down, he looked across at the inspector with vacant eyes. He kept rubbing his pinched-up nose and sharp chin with fingers that trembled uncontrollably. It was obvious from his response to Blake’s first questions that he had not even registered that Rider was dead. All he kept repeating was that he had no complaint to make and he hoped Thomas would recover.
‘Don’t worry, Inspector, I think you’ll find the next bedesman much more helpful,’ whispered Mr Harding as Bell was removed from the room. ‘Benjamin Bunce may be over eighty but he’s still an astute man. Moreover, many of the bedesmen confide in him because he’s the most senior, having been here the longest. Indeed I regard him as much as a friend as a ward.’ He looked at Blake’s stern face and added, ‘Please be gentle. He’ll try not to show it but I know he’ll be grieving deeply for the loss of his friend. He and Thomas Rider were very close.’
Bunce entered the room unassisted. The vitality of his manner and the hint of ruddiness in his cheeks made it obvious that the passing of the years had not yet wreaked their full havoc on him. His deep blue eyes, though slightly watery from recently shed tears, had an almost mesmeric quality and gave him an air of natural authority. He stood with his gnarled hands resting on his staff, awaiting their permission to sit.
Once this had been granted, Blake asked, ‘Are you and the others happy here, Mr Bunce?’
The old man’s face visibly tightened at what he clearly took to be a slur on his home. ‘We’ve no reason not to be,’ he replied abruptly. ‘We’ve everything we could want – a good home and plenty to eat and a very kind master in Mr Harding, who also sees to our spiritual needs.’
‘Then can you shed any light on why Thomas Rider should have been brutally murdered?’
‘No, I can’t. He was a good man with no enemies.’ For a moment Blake thought Bunce’s calm façade was going to break down, but somehow the man mastered his grief. ‘All I know is that something was bothering him recently.’
‘Did he give you any clue about what that was?’
‘I tried to get him to tell me but he declined.’ Bunce turned and looked apologetically in Mr Harding’s direction. ‘I’m sorry, your reverence. I should’ve told you because I’m sure Thomas would have confided in you.’
‘Don’t worry yourself, Bunce. You weren’t to know this terrible thing was going to happen.’
The inspector grunted to indicate that he thought Bunce should have acted differently. ‘Can you think of anyone who might know more than you do?’
‘Possibly Jeremiah Smith or John Gaunt. Both were very close to Thomas.’
Blake made a mark next to their names on his list. ‘And is there anyone here you don’t trust?’
‘There’s one here who should not be in my opinion. Abel Handy loves to create mischief, though I’m not saying he had a hand in Thomas’s murder.’
‘Now, Bunce, please remember what I told you’, intervened Mr Harding. ‘There’s good in every man.’
‘There isn’t much good, I’m thinking, in what Abel Handy does, your reverence. He loves making trouble and spying and poking into things that don’t concern him!’
‘I know all about Mr Handy,’ interrupted the inspector. ‘For years that stonemason was this city’s most dangerous radical. Whenever there was any trouble in Barchester you could almost guarantee he would be involved in it. For that reason I have never understood why the cathedral authorities permitted his retirement here. ’
‘Because the poor man lost his ability to work whilst working on the cathedral façade. As I’m sure you’re aware, Inspector, he fell from some scaffolding, sha
ttering one leg beyond repair and breaking his thigh.’
‘But the fall was almost certainly occasioned by him having drunk too much,’ muttered Blake. ‘That’s why so many in the town offered him no pity when the accident happened. They saw his fall as a judgement sent by God.’
The inspector saw Bunce nod in agreement. He asked him a few more questions but without gleaning anything of use. ‘It’s obvious that you know no reason for the murder of Thomas Rider, but others among the bedesmen may. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open in case one of them lets slip some clue about the motive for the murder. Will you do that for me?’
Bunce nodded willingly and, as he left, he tried to offer some comfort to the downhearted warden. ‘I’m certain God will see us all through this mess, your reverence,’ he muttered.
Mr Harding acknowledged his kind words and then announced, ‘The next person you will meet, Inspector, is a former wealthy cutler called Jonathan Crumple. He’s a meek man and I think by temperament a humorous and kindly one, but years of ill treatment at the hands of his children have left him with a melancholy that he cannot hide.’
‘I know him. He let his children waste his fortune. I begin to think that this place specializes in possessing men of poor judgement!’
‘It was misguided love rather than a lack of judgement that caused the problem.’
Blake looked at the warden with disdain. ‘I’m not sure I see the distinction.’
What more might have been said was lost by Crumple’s arrival. Although almost seventy, he looked younger because of his bright blue eyes and apple-red cheeks. ‘Are you all happy here, Mr Crumple?’ asked the inspector, repeating the question he had asked Bunce.
‘I can’t speak for all the others but I can testify that I’ve known neither sorrow nor trouble since I came here.’ He looked at the warden. ‘It’s a great blessing to have Mr Harding look after us.’
‘So you know of no reason why someone here would murder Thomas Rider?’
‘None. Thomas were a good man.’ Crumple’s lips began to quiver as he fought back tears. ‘I shall miss him. He were very kind to me, especially when I first arrived here.’
