by Lynch, R J
‘But, Miss. Will you not marry again?’
‘For what?’
Kate had no answer. The woman was right; she was offering a window into a way of life that was simply unimaginable.
‘As a spinster, Katherine, I was at the beck and call of my kin. Beyond my clothes and jewels and a teapot left to me by an aunt I had no property and, so far as my menfolk understood, no brain. Had I not found a husband, I should have been sent from family home to family home, looking after this selfish old woman and that petulant old man. I was saved from that when I became a wife, but at the price of pretending I had no existence independent of my husband. But now, Katherine, I am not a spinster and I am not a wife. I am a widow, and a widow with money which I may dispose of as I wish. Why should I give that up to live once more in the shadow of some man? Now I shall tell you once more. Put your money away. Take it home with you. Give it to your mother.’
‘But why should you teach me, if not for money?’
‘Because you have spirit, child. Spirit enough to have been found in church with your head in a book you could not read but wished to. The world does not value spirit in a girl, but I do. I would nurture it wherever it is to be found.’
Chapter 8
It was murder. That was no longer in the slightest doubt. The body had been removed to the church’s outbuildings where Blakiston examined it in the presence of a church warden. And so it was at the church that the story started, spreading outwards from cottage to cottage, inn to inn, man to man and wife to wife so that by the next day there was not a soul in the parish over the age of three who did not know. The hole in Reuben Cooper’s skull was too big to have been caused by an old man stumbling in the confusion of fire. As Dick Jackson observed to Jeffrey Drabble, ‘Someone did the old bugger in.’
Martin Wale laid his head on his arms and sobbed. May God forgive me. For sin shall not have dominion over you: for ye are not under the law, but under grace. Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Oh, God, God, God, why hast thou forsaken me?
And yet, she has such...oh, let me not dwell on it. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.
But such sweet breasts. And the cleft flesh, like the cloven hoof mark of the devil. Let no man say when he is tempted, I am tempted of God: for God cannot be tempted with evil, neither tempteth He any man: But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed.
Tempted. Enticed. Aye, I was tempted and enticed, and I fell. He that covereth his sins shall not prosper: but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy. But not to the Rector. Not to that overweening statue of pomposity whose father’s money bought him the beautiful Isabella. I cannot confess my sin to him.
But if not him, then to whom?
Oh, God, forgive me.
That Wale had lied to him, and not once but twice, Blakiston was certain. Why he should have done so, the agent had no idea. But he had other things on his mind. His duties to Lord Ravenshead came first, and finding an old man’s killer was not among the foremost of those duties.
Benjamin Laws was the tenant at New Hope Farm, which he worked with his sons Joseph and Tom and such day labourers as he needed from time to time. Blakiston regarded New Hope as a well run farm, but Benjamin was seventy-one years old, born on the very day of the Glen Coe massacre and subject to the aches and infirmities of an old man approaching the end of a life of toil. What Blakiston wanted to know was how the farm would run when Benjamin was gone.
He did not say so, of course. The land agent is responsible for the management of all farms on the Estate and is entitled to go onto any farm he chooses and spend as much time there as he likes without saying, “I am here to see how your eldest son will manage when you are dead.”
On the fourth of February in a harsh northern winter, Blakiston might have expected to find everyone clustered around the fire—and that is exactly where the aged Benjamin was, being fussed over by his wife who was twenty years younger than he was. His two sons, however, were hard at work in the biting cold. Blakiston watched them, struck by the single-minded intensity with which both young men worked. Then he returned to the farm house to take a dish of tea by the fire with the old man and discuss how they would manage the change from a three crop to a four crop rotation.
As he prepared to leave, Blakiston said, ‘You have two good sons.’
‘Aye, Master. They’re good lads, both of them.’
‘It is a pity that both cannot inherit the tenancy. The younger boy...Tom, is it?’
‘Aye, Master. Tom is the second born.’
‘From what I have seen he would make a better farmer than many who are already tenants. But it cannot be. This farm is not large enough to divide. We need bigger farms, not smaller.’
‘Well, Master, God’s will is God’s will.’
‘Do you say so? Tell me, Benjamin Laws, have you any other children beyond those two?’
‘A daughter, Master. Henrietta. We call her Hetty. She is a scullery maid at the Castle.’
‘And how comes it that a man of advanced years has sons so young?’
‘’Twas the influenza, Master.’
‘Ah. I am sorry.’
‘Aye, Master. I had a wife and five bairns before what you see me with today. And then the influenza came, in 1735 I think it was, and in three weeks all were gone but me.’
‘A sad story.’
‘It was the same for many.’
‘And that, too, was God’s will?’
Blakiston saw the startled expression in the old man’s eyes and realised he had better take this no further. ‘Well, Uncle, I shall keep you from sleep no longer.’
He was outside and about to mount his horse when Benjamin’s wife appeared in the yard. ‘Beg pardon, Master.’
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘I heard what you were saying about our two boys. You are right, Master. Tom is a good boy, a good young man really. He deserves better than to be a day labourer, or to be driven off the land entirely and down a coal pit. If there was a farm somewhere for him...’
‘Well, Mistress Laws, you know we are making farms bigger by joining two into one. There will be many who are tenant farmers today and will be labourers or pitmen tomorrow. Or beggars, may Providence help them.’
‘It seems so hard, Master.’
‘It is hard. But the population is growing and we must have more food. Still, Tom Laws has impressed me. He is a credit to you, Mistress. If I see a way to advance him, I will do it. And there is something you can do for me.’
‘Master?’
‘You recall the day Reuben Cooper died?’
‘I do, Master. He was an awful man and I am sorry that I cannot feel more grief for his passing.’
‘You had dealings with him?’
‘He attacked me, Master. When I was younger, and newly married to Benjamin. I fought him off, but there were others who were not so fortunate.’
‘Cooper was surely no adornment to Ryton. Nevertheless, he has been murdered, and his murderer should hang.’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘We know that there was a man in the parish that day who looked like a vagrant but was not. His name was Joseph Kelly. Or so he said, at any rate. Did you see anyone who was not of this parish?’
‘No, Master. But I rarely stray far from the farmhouse.’
‘Will you please ask your sons? And your working men? If anyone saw this man, I should like to hear of it.’
‘I will, Master.’
‘Thank you. And I say again; if I see some opportunity to advance your younger son, I shall take it.’
When Blakiston returned to his rooms that evening, the future of Tom Laws was
not at the centre of his attention for a letter from his brother awaited him. Lieutenant Peter Blakiston, on shore while his ship was refitted, had ridden out to their old Sussex home to see how things stood. His letter was full of breezy reminiscence and news of old acquaintance. One sentence, though, stood out, and Blakiston knew that it was for the sake of this one sentence that the whole had been written. Blakiston crumpled the letter and threw it away. Then he picked it up again and smoothed it. He placed it in a table drawer.
He had known bad moments before, but this was the worst. He needed a refuge from the sadness that threatened to engulf him. He considered the inn, but he would not expose his pain to others. He had a bottle of brandy and he could consume it in private, but he knew the shaming degradation that lay at the end of that road. What was left was simply to get through the night. He knew he would not sleep, and so he did not take off his clothes or lie down but simply sat in his wooden chair and allowed the candles to gutter and die.
He woke at three to his amazement—amazement because, if he had woken, he must have slept. Stiff and with an aching neck, he pulled off his clothes and climbed with a heavy heart into bed.
Chapter 9
That Sunday, Kate Greener went to church because she wished to and Blakiston because he must.
Kate had never really studied the land agent before. Her world was divided between those she moved and lived among and those “out there” who ran everything. They were rich and she and her kind were poor and that was simply how God had ordered His creation. Blakiston belonged to the rich and powerful and she ignored people like that, except to curtsey politely when she was noticed, because they had nothing to do with each other.
She did idly wonder whether he and Mistress Wortley might not find happiness together, for she still could not really believe that a woman, even one as accomplished as Mistress Wortley, could truly be fulfilled without a man. And Blakiston was a man worthy of any widow. Tall and straight-backed, Blakiston was such a man as maids may dream of.
His clear blue eyes, though, were the eyes of a man in pain, and the hurt of another human being cried out to Kate across the social gulf that stood between them. Despite the difference in their stations, Kate for a moment imagined her own arms instead of Mistress Wortley’s comforting him. These were thoughts she had never entertained about any man, and the image was so strong that her face turned bright pink and she was in that unbecoming state when Blakiston, his attention attracted by a squeaking door behind her, turned and stared straight into her eyes. Kate wished that she could sink out of sight into the stone floor beneath her feet.
That evening, as arranged, Blakiston rode to the Rectory for dinner. Dining rooms belonged by convention to the masculine part of the house, and so he was glad to see that, as in the Rector’s study, panelling still held sway. Blakiston did not care for the introduction of French ways.
As well as Blakiston, the guests were Leonard Foster, the cattle doctor, and Job Nickson and his wife. Nickson was a prosperous retired attorney who said almost nothing and, indeed, appeared to be asleep for much of the meal; his plump wife spoke, in Blakiston’s opinion, enough for both of them.
‘Blakiston,’ said Foster. ‘I am glad to have the chance to speak to you. Could you see to it that more turnips are grown next year? The sheep and cattle are struggling for want of winter fodder.’
‘My dear Mister Foster,’ said Isabella, ladling soup into dishes, ‘you must not mention turnips in this house.’
Blakiston raised an eyebrow. ‘But why ever not?’
‘My husband cannot hear the word without shaking. See, he has turned white at their very mention.’
Blakiston looked at Claverley in surprise.
‘Oh, my dear fellow,’ said Thomas. ‘I wish I had never heard the word turnip. Would that the Lord in his mercy had not made such a root. You know it is but recently they were grown hereabouts? My predecessor, the last rector, came to an arrangement with our farmers that he would take no tithes on turnips. My lord Bishop was displeased. When I was presented to the living, he instructed me to revoke the agreement. This was before you came to live here. The farmers fought me all the way to the court. Their argument was simple. You know that only the very poorest people will eat a turnip, for they consider them food for beasts. They loosen the roots and leave the turnips where they lie to be eaten by sheep or cattle. I receive my tithes on the livestock, so why should I tithe what feeds the livestock? The bishop, of course, said this was nonsense, for did I not receive tithes on hay, and did not hay feed cattle? Would I now give up those tithes, too?’
‘And the result?’
‘The court found in my favour. As you might expect. For I am gentry and the judges are gentry and the farmers are not, and when did our courts ever go against the interests of their own class? But I tell you, James, it has cost me dear in the dislike of my flock.’
‘Come, gentlemen,’ said Hesther Nickson. ‘Are we to have talk of business at the dinner table? Fie on you.’ She turned to Isabella. ‘I hear that young Kate Greener seeks to better herself. She is learning her letters from Widow Wortley. It seems to me that that lady would be better employed finding a man to care for. I hope the girl will not completely forget herself. I have been thinking of taking her as a maidservant, for my girl is of little use and Kate Greener is always neat and clean and decently turned out.’
Her husband stirred from his torpor. ‘But what of her sister, Lizzie? I believe the girl may be demented. I saw her only this afternoon, walking by herself and chattering away as though she had a crowd around her, and was furious with all of them.’
‘Is there madness in that family?’ asked Hesther. ‘I should not like to take into my house someone touched by madness, however decent.’
‘I have heard nothing of the sort,’ said Isabella. ‘I have always found the Greeners a good Christian family. Though it is true Lizzie has seemed angry about something when I have seen her recently.’
‘I expect some imagined swain has slighted her,’ said the Rector. ‘That is the cause of most ills in girls of that age and class.’
‘And you, my dear Isabella,’ said Hesther. Do I imagine it, or are you looking particularly well today?’
‘If you mean,’ said Isabella, ‘to ask whether the Rector and I are to be blessed once more, then the answer is that we are. A second child is to be born at the Rectory.’
‘My dear, I congratulate you. And tell me, do you still follow your good works with Mary Stone?’
‘I hope,’ said Thomas, ‘that now that my wife has told you our news, and though I should have preferred her to wait until we were a lot more certain than we are now, we may hear less of Mary Stone.’
‘I need no further time until I am sure,’ said Isabella. ‘And as for Mary, who has greater need of a kind word than she?’
‘Mary Stone,’ said Blakiston. ‘I don’t believe I have heard...’
‘You would do well to keep things that way,’ said Job Nickson. ‘In the hearing of our womenfolk, at least.’
‘Mary,’ said Lady Isabella, ‘provides a useful outlet for husbands whose wives are in an interesting condition.’
‘I trust you do not discuss such unwholesome matters with her,’ said Claverley.
‘Husband, what Mary and I discuss would surprise you.’
Seeing how uncomfortable the Rector appeared, Blakiston turned the conversation to other matters. The evening proceeded for another two hours, but there was no further reference to Mary Stone. When it came time for his guests to leave, Claverley walked with Foster and Blakiston to the door. ‘Foster,’ he said. ‘Is there a way to tell whether something is blood?’
‘Had you asked my father,’ said Foster, ‘he would have told you to soak in it the shredded root of a dandelion. If it turned black, your substance was blood. And I suppose you would have had one c
hance in two that the answer was correct. For myself, I should prefer to look at it through my microscope. Blood is fairly easy to detect. But why do you ask?’
‘One of the men found the burnt remains of a bucket in the wreckage of Reuben Cooper’s cottage. He thought it might be blood. Why he thought that, I could not say.’
‘And where is this bucket now?’
‘In the church porch.’
‘Next door, in other words. Give it to me. I shall carry it home and look at it in the morning.’
But he was not able to do so, because when the three men walked to the church and looked in the porch, no bucket was to be seen.
The following Wednesday, Blakiston had his regular meeting with Lord Ravenshead. They talked about the three Winlaton farms and his Lordship agreed Blakiston’s proposal that they be formed into one. The subject of turnips and the cattle doctor’s request for more was briefly discussed. Then the Baron wanted to know the latest developments in the search for Reuben Cooper’s killer.
He listened closely as Blakiston recounted the pitifully few facts he had established. At the end, he said, ‘You have talked to Eliza Swain?’
‘I do not know who she is.’
‘She is a witch. Or so the people hereabouts believe. She is also a gossip, and that I believe. There is very little she does not know about our local doings. I shall have her brought to you. Before I do, let us speak of Martin Wale. You believe he lied about arguing with Cooper three days before he died?’
‘Dick Jackson was adamant he had heard their voices raised.’
‘I think we must take the word of a penniless cottager with caution against that of a curate. Perhaps Jackson himself had a hand in Cooper’s slaughter and wishes to cast suspicion elsewhere?’
