by Alis Hawkins
‘He is, yes. But not everybody is. I don’t want the rumours to cause trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
He shrugged but we both knew what he meant. The death of a child provokes people.
‘All right. I’ll speak to the coroner. To Mr Probert-Lloyd. Just one thing. Who was the doctor who was giving her laudanum?’
Matthias cracked his knuckles again. ‘Dr Reckitt from Cilgerran.’
Harry
By mid-afternoon, Arthur had been gone a little while and Reckitt had not yet returned, leaving me to navigate my father’s short periods of wakefulness as best I could alone. Our conversation was, necessarily, largely one-sided but it did allow me to comprehend both that my father was feeling somewhat restored and that he did not wish me to remain perpetually at his bedside.
‘Out,’ he had insisted, at one point, with an accompanying movement of his good arm towards the door. ‘Work.’
I had demurred, saying that it was Sunday and that, anyway, I wished to see him a good deal better before I left him. But another visit to the close-stool closet had taught me that, at the very least, I would have to leave him in order to make arrangements for his intimate care.
Arthur Philips had offered to return the following day, and I was fairly confident that he could be persuaded to sit for an hour or two and read to my father.
Meanwhile, I paced.
How did women endure this, day in, day out? How did they manage the demands of others and subjugate their own needs to those of their family – husband, children, elderly parents? Before knowing Lydia, I had not given it a thought, but our correspondence had opened my eyes somewhat.
‘I think you will agree,’ she had written in one letter, ‘that I, more than most, am capable of giving an opinion as to the relative position of women and men, and I know that women are not constitutionally inferior to men. I believe that society has merely discovered it to be expedient to incarcerate the gentlewoman in her home, to enfeeble her body by her dress and to deprive her of an education for her mind.’
Mrs Griffiths had, predictably, bridled against such notions, but when I had pointed out to her that – with the keys to the house and an almost unlimited license to spend my father’s money on behalf of the household – she had considerably more power and freedom than Lydia enjoyed as a governess, she admitted that perhaps Miss Howell was speaking from a position of greater knowledge.
‘Even a small farmer’s wife or a farm servant has more freedom than a so-called gentlewoman,’ Lydia had suggested. ‘The farmer does not say that his wife is too weak to go out and work in the fields with him; he requires it because he needs her labour. The employer does not keep the girls on his farm from hard physical labour out of deference to their sex but works them as hard as he may for their board and lodging. But society’s conception of the gentlewoman is of a being somehow both superior to her working sisters and, simultaneously, inferior by reason of her frail body and easily-overwrought mind which cannot be allowed to consider abstract thought but is good only for gossip and for social pleasantries at the dinner table.’
Though, when we had met in Ipswich, Lydia had given me to understand that she had entered into employment as a governess with some relief, I wondered whether, with the passage of time, she regretted giving up the freedoms she had enjoyed in her previous life.
I was beginning to long for a real conversation with Lydia, a conversation that did not have to be censored in accordance with Mrs Griffiths’s sensibilities and that was not forced to proceed in three-day jerks, obliging me to recall my own words a week after they had been written.
However, given the circumstances in which she had left Cardiganshire, the chances of Lydia Howell returning here seemed remote.
As the trees outside the window turned black against the sky, John arrived and, judging my father to be sufficiently recovered to withstand my absence for an hour, we sat in the library.
I was astonished at how much he had discovered. For me, time appeared to have slowed to a snail’s pace and my accomplishments that day consisted of antagonising Prendergast, one of my father’s oldest friends, and making an ally – if not a friend – of Reckitt, a man generally regarded as a pariah.
John, meanwhile, had so much to tell me that darkness had fallen by the time he had imparted all his news. Not even my conversation with Arthur Philips enabled me to surprise him with new information; he already knew that my cousin James had been in debt to Teff Harris.
‘James Philips could have been working with Hughes in double-selling the coal,’ he suggested, ‘as a way of paying off his debt. If so, perhaps Hughes tried to blackmail him. It’d be the end of Philips as a businessman if people found out he was involved in fraud.’
I did not want to disagree too much in case John thought I was closing family ranks so I gave his suggestion due consideration; even so, it did not strike me as particularly likely. ‘Seeing James Philips as a suspect involves two or even three assumptions,’ I pointed out. ‘Firstly, that he was involved with the coal scam. Secondly, that Hughes was blackmailing him. And, thirdly, that he decided that murder was a good way out of both problems.’
‘All right, but Teff Harris has less motive. We know he doesn’t gamble, so, if he did kill Hughes, that wasn’t the reason.’
‘That’s if we believe Mrs Harris,’ I said.
‘If you’d met Mrs Harris,’ he said, simply, ‘you’d believe her. She’s … remarkable.’
I hid a smile. ‘I suppose that’s why Hughes was making a nuisance of himself over her.’
‘And Obadaiah Vaughan.’ John perked up again as he remembered something else he had to tell me. ‘He’s been spying on her since she’s been back. I think that’s what he does. Spies on Banc yr Eithin to watch for her. I think it was Vaughan who wrote that anonymous letter. Remember – I said it was the hand of somebody who was used to writing but who probably didn’t use a pen every day, for his living. That’s Dai’r Bardd to a ‘t’.’
‘So,’ I said, ‘Vaughan spies on both husband and wife. Then he writes the note implicating Teff Harris, hoping that he’s guilty and the police will remove him, leaving the way to Ruth open.’
‘Or he points the finger at Teff after killing Hughes himself.’
‘You think he’d see an innocent man hang?’
‘If he murdered Hughes, he’s not going to care about that, is he?’
‘There are too many motives for Hughes’s murder,’ I complained. ‘Women, embezzlement, gambling.’ I got up to ring the bell at the side of the fireplace. ‘Let’s have something to eat.’
‘At least we’ve got a better guess about when Hughes died, now,’ John said after Clara, one of the maids, had been and gone again in search of tea and cake. ‘The same time as that last-but-one lime load was dumped on the beach.’
‘You think whatever Shoni Jones saw through his telescope included Hughes’s murder?’
‘Well, he turned up at Captain Coleman’s to claim Hughes’s papers before the body went to the workhouse, so he must’ve seen something. How else would he’ve known Hughes wasn’t coming for his stuff himself? Unless he killed him, of course.’
I nodded. ‘What was your informant’s reaction to Hughes not being on the beach to meet them the second time?’
‘He didn’t give a reaction. We didn’t really talk about that last load of lime. Just the one that Hughes met.’
My mind was slotting things into place. ‘Somebody took Hughes’s body out of the kiln and put it on the last delivery of lime for Teff to find. Who was going to benefit from his death being discovered?’
John pulled in a considering breath. ‘The partners in the emigration company – because of the life insurance – and the cousin, as his heir.’
‘And we know that the cousin watched something happen on the beach. And that he had Jenkyn Hughes’s signet ring. I think you need to find this sailor again and ask him whether Shoni Jones was on the boat the second time and whether he
stayed on the beach after the lime was unloaded.’
John sighed. ‘I’ll try. But he’s not an easy man to talk to. There’s something else I need to tell you about, as well,’ he said. ‘Nothing to do with Hughes but it’s still a coroner’s matter. Do you have responsibility for other deaths, too?’
At that moment, there was a knock at the door followed by Clara carrying a large tray. Once she’d set it down and been assured that John could pour tea quite adequately, she took a poker to the fire to stir it up, shook some more culm on and left.
In between eating bara brith and drinking tea, John told me about the illegal burial of the child and Reckitt’s involvement in the case.
‘Matthias raised the possibility that the father hastened the child’s death so that he could persuade his wife to emigrate,’ he concluded. ‘Says people are a bit worked up about it.’
‘Reckitt’ll be here soon. He can give us his opinion on whether the child really was at death’s door or whether the death was sudden,’ I said. ‘I’d trust his judgment on medical matters.’
John
Not long after Harry’d been upstairs to see his father, Reckitt turned up.
‘How is the patient?’ he asked after we’d done all the good evenings.
‘He managed a sentence,’ Harry told him. ‘Or perhaps I should say a phrase – When’s dinner?’
‘Considering that, yesterday, he had an absent swallow reflex, he’s making a remarkable recovery,’ Reckitt said. ‘Nevertheless, I’d recommend giving him nothing too challenging – no meat. Perhaps a broth with some soft potato.’
I stared at him. He was still flushed from the cold ride over but otherwise he looked like he always did, as if he couldn’t care less. I couldn’t work him out. Giving advice about broth and soft potatoes seemed out of character.
Mind you, everything about Reckitt’s behaviour seemed out of character that evening. There was none of the odd jumpiness we’d seen in Cilgerran. He looked at ease, more comfortable in Harry’s home than he’d been in his own. Maybe it was more what he was used to. Glanteifi mansion might be a bit shabby but you could’ve fitted the whole of Reckitt’s little house into the library where we were sitting.
After a bit more discussion about his father, Harry cocked his head in the way he did when he was trying to watch somebody’s reaction. ‘Reckitt, John has been approached with another potential inquest case. It’s one I believe you’re familiar with.’
Reckitt leaned back from the fire to look at him. ‘What case is that?’
Harry didn’t reply and I realised he wanted me to do the talking.
‘A child,’ I said. ‘By the name of Elizabeth Abel.’
Suddenly, Reckitt was bolt upright. ‘Abel’s child has died?’
I was flustered by the look on his face. ‘Yes,’ I managed.
‘When?’
I looked over at Harry. Maybe he saw my head move or maybe he just took his lead from the sound of me desperately saying nothing. ‘Tell us what you know of the family, Reckitt.’
Ten minutes later, things were a lot clearer. Ben Matthias had told me that David Abel and his wife’d been arguing about the emigration bond he’d bought, but it looked as if that wasn’t all they’d been arguing about.
According to Reckitt, they’d brought their seven-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, to see him when she began falling down in fits and complaining of headaches and ‘things in front of her eyes’. Reckitt had suspected some disease of the brain – an infection or one of his famous lumps. He’d given the parents laudanum for the child’s pain and told them that he’d come and see them in a week.
The week passed. Elizabeth’d had no more seizures but the headaches seemed to be worsening. Reckitt prescribed more laudanum.
‘Before six weeks had gone by, I was convinced that the child had a tumour on her brain. There’d been no head injury and, in the absence of any infection, a tumour was the obvious explanation.’
Elizabeth’s condition had grown steadily worse. She became more unsteady on her feet and lost the power of sight. Now, as well as the headaches, she had fits of vomiting.
‘By the New Year the child was consuming laudanum several times daily. It was clear to me that she would not recover.’ Reckitt might’ve been giving a report on livestock prices. No compassion for the Abels at all.
I remembered my mother being almost beside herself when my little sister Sali-Ann had the whooping cough. I couldn’t imagine what she’d’ve been like if Sali-Ann had died.
‘It’s been suggested,’ Harry said slowly, ‘that there was disagreement between Abel and his wife about a proposed emigration to America. That Able might even have hastened the child’s death so that her illness would not prevent them going.’
Reckitt wrinkled his nose as if he’d smelled dogshit on his boot. ‘Absolute nonsense. Abel had no need to resort to such a thing. The emigrant ship isn’t sailing until April and I’d been quite honest with Abel and his wife – there was virtually no possibility that the child would live past February.’
I looked over at Harry. He was sitting opposite Reckitt and the fire cast a pink glow over his face. It made him look young, in spite of his beard.
‘With the child suffering from a tumour on the brain,’ he said, eyes on the fire so he could see Reckitt in his peripheral vision, ‘you must have been interested in her condition. In performing an autopsy.’
I tensed, waiting for Reckitt to be offended, but he just nodded as if what Harry’d said was the most normal thing in the world. As if dead children were cut up every day to satisfy doctors’ curiosity. ‘I was. I remain so. In fact, David Abel and I have an agreement on that front.’
That explained why Reckitt’d sounded so shocked to hear that Elizabeth Able was dead. He’d’ve been expecting to hear from her father. I swallowed. The thought of a child ending up like Hughes on that table at Tresaith beach made me feel sick.
‘Any agreement’s been broken, I’m afraid,’ Harry said. ‘The child has been buried.’
He didn’t mention how desperately hasty the burial had been. Sparing Reckitt’s feelings, or just not wanting him to know?
Reckitt was on his feet, now. If there’d been a dog to hand, he’d’ve kicked it. ‘Damn and blast the man!’ He took a step towards the door then he stopped and looked around at Harry and at me. You could almost see him getting a grip on himself. Whatever he’d agreed with Abel, there was no law that could compel a man to allow his child be dissected.
The doctor stood there, hands in fists at his side. Perhaps he wasn’t so different from before.
Suddenly, all I could see was my sister. Eight years old she’d been when I went off to be a gwas bach – almost the same age as Elizabeth Abel – and annoying like all little sisters are. I remembered her fine dark hair that would never stay back in a ribbon. And her big brown eyes. And her little pinching fingers.
‘Don’t you think it’s a terrible thing?’ I heard my own voice as if somebody else was speaking, somebody who was only just holding his temper. ‘To propose cutting up a child while her parents have barely begun mourning her?’ A thousand times worse, I wanted to shout in Reckitt’s stupid, fat face, than dissecting the poor friendless sods who die in the workhouse.
Reckitt frowned. ‘No, Mr Davies, I do not. You, in common with the vast majority of people, evidently find the dissection of cadavers abhorrent. But I believe that abhorrence to be misplaced. We are living in a scientific age and parliament recognised that more than a decade ago when they made provision for anatomists.’
‘Yes. I know.’ My hands were shaking. ‘The Anatomy Act. I don’t suppose anybody asks the paupers, either, do they?’
My words didn’t touch him. He just looked at me, steadily. ‘I believe you are allowing emotion to obscure reason. The dissection of cadavers is of enormous importance to the study of pathology. How can we hope to treat diseases until we know their symptoms and their course?’
‘That’s not relevant here, though,
is it?’ I wanted to be calm and rational like him but it was difficult when I also wanted to punch his stupid face. ‘You can’t treat a lump in the head. It’s impossible!’
‘Not at all!’ Reckitt sat down again, leaned towards me. ‘So much is possible now that couldn’t be contemplated even five years ago. In ten years time, you will be astonished at what may be accomplished. Have you heard of ether? Chloroform?’
‘Of course I have!’ Did he think I never opened a newspaper?
‘In ten years time, painless surgery will be performed everywhere! Patients choosing to die rather than go under the knife will be a thing of the past!’
I’d heard religious zealots before but never a scientific one. ‘If that’s the case, why do you need to cut up dead people? You can just open up people who’re sick and see what needs to be done.’
I was expecting him to put me in my place but he seemed to take no offence at all, just shook his head like a dog shaking off water. ‘I can see how a lay person might make that mistake. But all procedures that open the body have their dangers. Many patients die of infection following surgery and it’s impossible to predict whether anaesthesia will have any effect on that. No, Mr Davies, if we are to perform surgery as effectively as possible it’s essential that we are allowed to perform autopsy examinations in order to see exactly what each specific disease process entails.’
