Lamentation

‘Yes. She was sitting there when she had her seizure. Edward and Isabel seldom visited, you know, and never together. And the mistress didn’t encourage them. It saddened me to see how they were with each other when they came here for the inspection. And that strange Will — ’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps I should not have told you all this. What good can it do? It was so many years ago. Whatever happened, it cannot be mended.’

Philip stood pondering, fingering his bearded chin. Vowell gave a despairing little laugh. ‘What will happen, sir? Shall I remain as caretaker of this empty house till I die? I don’t like being here alone.’ He added in a rush, ‘At night sometimes, when the wood creaks — ’

I felt sorry for the old man. I looked at Philip. ‘I think we have learned all we need, Brother Coleswyn.’

‘Yes, we have.’ Philip looked at Vowell. ‘You should have spoken before.’

I said, ‘He is right that it can do no good to rake it all up now. Not a matter of a possible murder, so many decades ago, with no evidence to reopen the case.’

Philip stood silent, thinking.

‘What will you do, sir?’ Vowell asked him tremulously.

He shook his head. ‘I do not know.’

We stood outside in the stables, with the horses. I said, ‘It may be that the children, or one of them, put Master Cotterstoke into the water. Clearly Goodman Vowell thinks so.’

‘And their mother. It seems clear now: she made that Will to start a new quarrel. It was revenge.’

‘But there is still no new evidence to overturn the coroner’s verdict.’

‘I think that is what happened, though.’

‘So do I. Two children, grieving for the father, believing they might be disinherited by their mother’s new husband — ’

‘Quite wrongly,’ Philip said severely.

‘They did not know that. Perhaps it started with little tricks, then they encouraged each other to go further, and as they spoke constantly of the rejection and betrayal each felt, maybe they drove each other to — a sort of madness.’

‘Who put him in the water?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Whoever did it was a murderer.’

‘This all remains speculation,’ I said emphatically. ‘Likely, but not certain. Master Cotterstoke’s drowning could still have been an accident. And the old man is right. Who could benefit from this being exposed, after forty years? And remember, you have a duty of confidentiality to your client. You can only break it if you think he is about to commit a crime, and that is hardly likely.’

Philip set his mouth hard. ‘It is a matter of justice. I shall question Edward directly. And if he cannot satisfy my doubts, I shall cease acting for him and report the circumstances to our vicar. You are right about the lack of evidence, but if it is true he must still be brought to see the state of his soul. How could a man who had done such a thing ever be one of the Elect? Our vicar must know.’

‘And Isabel? There is no point taking this tale to Dyrick. He wouldn’t care. I know him.’

Philip looked at me. ‘You would have me let sleeping dogs lie?’

I thought for a moment, then said, ‘I think so. In this case.’

Philip shook his head decisively. ‘No. Murder cannot go unpunished.’

Chapter Forty-one

Next day I went again to ask Treasurer Rowland for a copy of his letter to Isabel Slanning, and to see whether she had replied. I had done much thinking about what old Vowell had told Philip and me. It seemed all too possible that, forty years before, Isabel or Edward, or both, had killed their stepfather. Again I remembered Isabel’s words to me, weeks ago, about her brother: If you knew the terrible things my brother has done. But what could be achieved by confronting them now, without new evidence? I knew Philip would be seeing Edward, perhaps had done so already. I had an uneasy feeling that the consequences of that old tragedy might ripple out anew.

My uneasiness was not assuaged when Rowland’s clerk told me the Treasurer would not be available for appointments until Monday. It struck me that there was something a little furtive in the clerk’s manner. I made an appointment for that day; it was three days hence, but it was at least a firm commitment.

LATER THAT MORNING I was working in chambers, researching a precedent in a yearbook so that when the new term started next month I should have everything prepared. There was a knock at the door and John Skelly entered. His eyes behind his thick spectacles had a reproachful look, as often this last month. Not only had I frequently been out of the office, leaving the work to fall behind, but I knew he was conscious that Barak and Nicholas and I shared some secret he knew nothing about. It was better he did not, and safer for him, a married man with three children. But I knew he must feel excluded. I must talk to him, thank him for the extra work he had done for me, give him a bonus.

I smiled. ‘What is it, John?’

‘There is a visitor for you, sir. Master Okedene. The printer who came before.’