by Lynch, R J
‘But, sir,’ said Stevenson, ‘we know that Reuben Cooper was killed for his money. And that Matthew Higson killed him.’
‘Do we?’ said Blakiston. ‘And how do we know that? No, Stevenson. I begin to fear that I looked for Reuben Cooper’s killer in the wrong place, and imputed to the killer the wrong reason. But we will speak again of this later, when I have my thoughts straight. For now, I would fain speak to Katherine Greener. Alone,’ he added, as the constable made to return to the farmhouse with him. ‘You may go with Tom to where the body is buried and make your interview with him as you exhume the remains of Matthew Higson. We shall see what is to be seen, and then Mister Wale must make arrangements for him to receive a Christian burial. And I suggest you treat Tom Laws with courtesy, for he is better valued in this parish than you are.’
It seemed at first that Blakiston would not have his wish to talk to Kate alone, for she was in the company of a florid-faced man of about thirty in a farmer’s calling garb of grey cotton breeches tied below the knee, a flowing coat of brown wool and a waistcoat. Around his neck he had tied a spotted silk handkerchief. Buckled shoes with prominent heels covered in dust completed the ensemble. A round hat lay on the table beside him. He rose to his feet when Blakiston entered.
Blakiston’s nod of acknowledgement was the shortest he could manage. ‘You are?’
‘Thomas Gilbey, an’ it please your Honour.’
‘If it is your name, it is your name. What will please me is your leaving us so that I may speak to Miss Greener about the unpleasant experience she has had in your company.’
‘My Lord, I would remain.’
Blakiston allowed a look of astonishment to envelop his face. ‘I am no Lord, sir, not yours or anyone else’s, and the business I have with Katherine Greener is private.’
‘But we are to be married, Master.’
‘Hah!’ Kate’s haughty expression would have graced a duchess. ‘Not us. I’ll not marry you. Gan away home, man.’
Gilbey was crestfallen. ‘But, Kate...’
‘You have never asked me that question, Thomas Gilbey, and I have dreaded hearing it, but now you have your answer in any case. Please, go. And I would take it as a kindness if you did not call here again.’
The red face was now even redder. ‘The ribbons I have bought you. The time I have wasted on you. You...you hussy.’
Blakiston stepped forward and slapped him across the face. ‘How dare you speak like that to a lady? Be gone, before I take a whip to you.’
Gilbey snatched up his hat and stumbled to the door. As he reached it, Blakiston heard the word “Lady!” spat from his lips.
Kate regarded him coolly. ‘So, sir, you believe me to be a lady?’
Blakiston bowed. ‘As good as any other, Kate Greener.’
She smiled. ‘You are gallant. What do you think? Because my father was a labourer, must I marry someone who bores me?’
‘Why, Kate, many a king’s daughter has had to suffer that fate.’
The smile slowly faded. ‘Well, sir, as I have said before, I am glad I am not gentry. Much less the daughter of a king. But you are not here to talk about who I would wed.’
‘No, Kate, I am not. You must have been sore shaken when you came on the bones of Matthew Higson, if that indeed is who you found.’
‘It was not nice. Though mebbes the only interesting thing that ever occurred to me in Thomas Gilbey’s company.’
‘What have you to tell me?’
‘Very little. Or less than little. Mister Gilbey comes here because he wants a wife. He has a cousin who married someone from hereabouts. He told me she said I was a good-tempered girl who would do what she was told. You know sir, if you smile at people they will think you are biddable, even if you are not.’
‘I would not know about that.’
‘No, sir, I suppose you would not.’
‘You think I do not smile enough?’
‘I think you have a kind face, sir. I think people would like you more, and fear you less, if you smiled sometimes. But as you know I am full of girlish ideas.’
‘And Matthew Higson?’
‘Thomas Gilbey has no time for idle chatter as he calls it. He does not want to be talked to by my mother or overheard by a maid. In truth, once he could have got the business of making me his wife out of the way I believe he would have had little time for me. Except at night, of course.’
‘Kate, for goodness sake...’
‘I am sorry, sir. I did not mean to embarrass you.’ She dropped a little curtsey. ‘I must remember that the gentry are not like ordinary people.’
‘Kate, I asked you to tell me about finding the bones of Matthew Higson and all you have done so far is tease me with the shortcomings of your suitor.’
‘Yes, sir. Well, sir, what I began to tell you was that Thomas Gilbey wanted to take me to some quiet place to get me away from those who might aggravate him by speaking. As well as for...in order to...’
‘Yes, Kate, I am aware of men’s reasons for wishing to get pretty girls alone. The bones?’
‘Well, they were there, man. I mean sir.’ She dropped another curtsey. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Do you laugh at me, Kate Greener?’
‘Me, sir? I would not dare. We walked further than I think Thomas Gilbey intended, for he wished to linger on the ground and I to stay on my feet in his company, and not only because there was snow on the ground, and so I went on walking. And we came to the wall where the sheep have made a track up to Jacob’s Haugh and there they were. Lying half out of the ground. I would have swooned, sir, only I was afraid of what Thomas Gilbey might take it into his head to do while I was in a faint. Eleanor, man, what do you want? Are you not meant to be scrubbing out the dairy?’
The servant bobbed a curtsey to Blakiston. ‘Sir. I’m sorry, Miss Kate, but there is a boy here. A post boy!’
‘A post boy? At Chopwell Garth? Never!’ She hurried to the door.
Remaining in the kitchen, Blakiston watched a young man on a decrepit horse holding out a packet. When Kate reached up for it, he snatched it away. ‘That’ll be twopence, please. Two pence and a kiss from those sweet red lips.’
‘You’ll get no kiss out of me, you impudent scamp. And get that broken down nag away before it drops dead and blocks the door. Is that the best mount they could find you?’ She returned to the kitchen just long enough to scoop up two coins from the milk money. ‘There’s your tuppence. Now give us the letter and be off.’
There was more excitement a few moments later, when Tom returned with William Stevenson and carrying a collection of bones in a blanket and a small wooden crucifix with what looked like a red seal on the base of the shaft, but it meant nothing to Kate. She simply stared at the packet the post boy had brought and wondered what was in it. And then, with a jolt, she realised that it was in her power to know.
Kate shared her news with Florrie and Lizzie, and was consumed with impatience till Tom and Ned came in from the fields to which Tom had returned after the Constable’s departure. Still she would not take away from Lizzie the pleasure of giving her news to Tom herself.
‘There is a letter from America,’ Lizzie said. ‘Who wrote it for them, I do not know, but Kate has read it for us.’ She pressed a piece of paper into Tom’s hand. ‘Joe has sent you this. If you take it to Newcastle and present it to the bankers in the Close, they will give you money for it. It is not much money, but it is the start. He has begun paying his debts, Tom Laws. He said he would. Come, sit down. We have so much to tell you of America.’
They sat so long over their meal that it was late when Nellie could at last begin to clear away the dishes. Lizzie, fresh from daily observation of her own condition, looked hard at the maid. ‘Have you something to tell us, Nellie?’
The girl coloured and b
it her lower lip.
‘When you walk out with George Humble,’ Lizzie went on. ‘Have you also lain down with him?’
Tears came to Nellie’s eyes. ‘Oh, miss. What am I to do? He’s played us false.’
‘He’ll make you an honest woman, surely?’ said Florrie.
‘He’s gone for a soldier, ma’am. Your lad may see him in America before I do here.’ And she began to cry in earnest.
‘See to the pots,’ said Florrie coldly. ‘We will discuss the mess you’re in tomorrow.’
That night, Tom lay in his bed and listened to Lizzie in hers, crying long into the night. The dreadful rage had not abated. It was clear from the baby’s cries that she, too, was being kept from sleep. At length he got up, went into Lizzie’s room, plucked the tiny baby from its cot and carried it back to lie beside him.
Chapter 42
Claverley turned the small crucifix over and over in his hands. ‘You say this was in the grave under Matthew Higson’s body?’
‘So Stevenson and Tom Laws tell me. Though you could not call that sad hole a grave. Do you recognise it?’
‘And the cause of Higson’s death?’
‘His skull had been beaten in behind. Much like Reuben Cooper’s. And there were broken bones in his neck, as though someone had first attempted to strangle him. Death did not come of natural causes, we may be sure of that. The crucifix? Do you know it?’
‘I might. You see the red marks? They are faded, but they are there.’
‘I thought they might be sealing wax.’
Claverley shook his head. ‘It is a kind of paint used by sailors to keep the water from harming their vessels. The crucifix belongs to my wife. She has had it since she was a child. A sailor on her father’s ship fashioned it for her.’
Blakiston absorbed what the Rector had said. ‘There can be no mistake?’
Claverley shook his head once more.
‘Then we must ask Lady Isabella when she saw it last.’
Claverley’s eyes resolutely refused to meet Blakiston’s. ‘We must certainly ask her to account for it’s being with Matthew Higson, and what she may know about that.’
‘But surely...’
‘Please, James, do not question me on this. There are matters that are between a man and his wife and can not be otherwise.’
‘Thomas, you do not suspect...I simply will not believe...’
‘James, for the love of God desist. My wife is a woman like any other. Not you, not I, no-one truly understands a woman. Not even the woman herself.’
Blakiston sat in silence for a few moments. Then he stood. ‘You will let me know what your wife has to say on the matter?’
Claverley continued to turn the crucifix in his hands. ‘I will, James. Though when that will be, I cannot say. She went from home this morning. Her mother is ill, almost certainly about to die, and Lady Isabella is with her.’ At last he looked up. ‘I fear your inquiries will be delayed a little further.’
Blakiston reached out his hand. ‘May I take it back? There is someone I would show it to.’
Carrying the crucifix, Blakiston rode straight to Blackhall Mill Forge. He had expected to be the first to give Catherine Robinson news of her fiancé’s death, had wanted to see her reaction for himself, but he had underestimated the speed at which bad news travels in the country. He found Catherine weeping, while Sophia Bertram, wife of William, tried to comfort her.
The two women looked up as Blakiston dismounted. He raised his hat to Sophia.
‘Is it true?’ asked Catherine. ‘Have they found Matthew? Is he dead?’
‘We cannot be sure,’ said Blakiston. ‘But I think so. The hat...the breeches...it appears to be him.’
The girl started to her feet. ‘Hat? Breeches? You are going by his clothes? Take me to him. Let me see his face.’
Blakiston looked towards Sophia Bertram. He gave his head an almost invisible shake. Sophia stood and put her arms round Catherine.
‘I am sorry,’ said Blakiston. ‘There is no face for you to see.’
The maid screamed and fainted into Sophia’s arms. The cook, who had been watching from the shadows inside the open doorway, rushed forward to take her from her mistress’s arms and carry her indoors.
Blakiston sighed. He held out the crucifix. ‘Mistress Bertram, I should be in your debt if you would show this to her when she returns to her senses. It was found with Matthew Higson’s bones. I would fain know what she can tell me about it.’
Sophia nodded. ‘I suppose there can be no doubt?’
Blakiston shook his head. ‘I fear not. Higson is dead, and someone killed him.’
Blakiston held the invitation in his hand and wondered whether a door into the family of Reuben Cooper’s family was opening to him. But that was not his first thought, which was one of concern. Had Blakiston not been a man almost incapable of fear, then fear is probably what he would have felt now.
When it had become clear that his father had squandered his inheritance, and that the future held only uncertainty, Blakiston had experienced months of sick foreboding. The feeling returned now when he learned that Sir Edward Blackett had written to Lord Ravenshead asking whether his lordship would object to a meeting between his overseer and Sir Edward. Had Blackett conceived an enmity for him? An objection to his prying? Was he to be thrust into insecurity again? Would he have to leave this place, as once he had had to leave his childhood home?
His lordship replied to Sir Edward that he would make no difficulty. He asked Blakiston at their weekly meeting whether he knew why a member of parliament and squire of a neighbouring estate should wish to speak to him. Blakiston said he did not, and promised to call on the Baron the morning after the meeting to recount whatever had been discussed that might affect affairs at Ryton.
The formal invitation had been delivered that morning by messenger. If Blakiston would be good enough to ride over to Hoppyland Hall near Hamsterley on the following morning, Sir Edward would be pleased to meet him there.
Hoppyland had been in the Blackett family since 1619, when the grandfather of the first baronet of Matfen had bought it. Hamsterley had never been a major seat of the Blacketts, and it had now stood empty for a year since the death of John Blackett, but it was spoken of as a tidy and desirable estate.
The Vane family were the major landlords in the neighbourhood but the interests of the Blacketts were not negligible. Four years earlier, in 1760, the Blacketts and their fellow landowners had pushed for the enclosure of Hamsterley as they had more recently in Ryton. The difference was that, at Hamsterley, they had been successful.
Blakiston approached the Hall as he approached any place, no matter how exalted. Any trepidation he might feel was carefully hidden. For a man who spent part of every week in the Business Quarters at Ravenshead Castle, Hoppyland Hall was in any case not especially imposing; but it was not the building that lay heavy on his thoughts. It was the man he was to meet.
Sir Edward, waiting outside the hall, welcomed him cordially, though his smile did not reach his eyes. A well dressed woman sat side saddle on a grey horse and a man in much the same clothing as Blakiston stood a little behind. ‘Mister Blakiston,’ said the baronet. ‘Good of you to come.’
‘I confess to a certain curiosity, Sir Edward.’
Blackett raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you indeed? You know Hoppyland?’
‘I was never here before.’
‘I hope it will be a pleasant experience. This is my agent, John Heron. I have some affairs of the estate to attend to, Blakiston, and then I shall offer you refreshment and we may discuss our business. Grace Hodgson is my cousin. She has agreed to show you around while Heron and I do what we must.’
The woman clicked her tongue and the grey moved forward. Interest, apprehension and a certain amusement
mingled in the steady gaze she settled on Blakiston. ‘Shall we begin, Mister Blakiston?’
He held slightly back to allow her to go first. ‘Come, sir,’ she said. ‘If you do not ride beside me, how am I to answer your questions about what you see?’
‘You observe,’ said Grace Hodgson after they had ridden for fifteen minutes, ‘but you do not speak. Have you nothing to say about what you see?’
‘The home farm is neatly kept. Sir Edward’s Agent has nothing to learn from me about modern farming methods.’
‘Nor you from him?’
‘That I should not like to say. But there must be one thousand acres of park land here.’
‘Hoppyland Hall is indeed a beautiful home in which to live.’
‘I do not question that. What I wonder is how such beauty is sustained.’
‘I do not comprehend you.’
‘My understanding is that there are three more farms attached to the estate here. With the home farm, perhaps twelve hundred acres in all.’
‘I really have no idea...’
‘What I fail to see, Ma’am, is how twelve hundred acres of farmland may pay for almost their own extent of parkland. See how many men he has working on the park. Trimming trees. Mowing in that meadow by the water, now that the wild flowers are gone. Cleaning and weeding among the shrubs.’
‘Is is not a most fine-looking lake, Mister Blakiston?’
‘Beautiful indeed. And the men who keep it so are half starved, and in rags.’
‘But, Mister Blakiston, that is the way of the world and God’s will. If it were not, things would be differently ordered.’
Blakiston opened his mouth as though about to speak, and then closed it again.
They rode in silence for a while. Then Grace said, ‘You are not from these parts, sir.’
‘No, Ma’am, I am not.’
