‘I think we must interview Barton’s friends– the names and addresses on that list. I was hoping you would undertake this element.’
‘Naturally.’ He wouldn’t send Dora off on her own to talk to a herd of young bucks on holiday– that was a recipe for disaster.
‘I spoke to Mr Coleridge’s boys.’ She recounted the amusing interview the day before, the reason why they had been on her list and the grounds for eliminating them.
‘They were probably horrified that you suspected them of studying during the summer,’ chuckled Jacob. ‘After our condolence call on the Wordsworths, we’ll walk back on the other side of the lake to Rydal Hall. If you wouldn’t mind talking to the servants to see if they’ve noticed anything like the lost manuscript in the visitors’ rooms, I’ll see if I can track down those three myself.’
‘I can do that.’
‘On the way home, I’ll also tell you about a new enquiry Alex has taken on. He has asked for our assistance.’
Dora wrinkled her brow. ‘But we can’t leave for London just yet.’
‘It has a local aspect.’ They entered the village of Grasmere, the tall square tower of the church and the houses gathered around it like chicks under a hen’s wings.
‘Oh, in that case. What’s it about?’
‘Murder.’
The vicarage attempted to be cheerful with its fresh whitewash, but it was hemmed in by the graveyard, dark yew trees and dreary damp gardens. It wasn’t a healthy spot, thought Jacob, sitting too low in the valley. It was also right on the road so that any privacy was destroyed by the passing of carts, carriages and the curious. No wonder the curtains on the front were drawn.
‘Ready?’ asked Jacob, squeezing Dora’s hand for a final time.
‘As I’ll ever be. Is my bonnet straight?’
He adjusted it, not because it was astray but because he wanted to touch her. ‘There. Perfect.’ He tapped gently on the door. A baby was crying inside but it was quickly hushed.
The door opened and Dorothy stood in the entrance, looking much more careworn than her usual spritely self.
‘Oh, you came. Dr Sandys, I’m happy to see you again. And Miss Fitz-Pennington.’ She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. ‘Do you have news?’
Dora leaned closer. ‘We are making progress, but no news yet.’
‘We’ve come to offer our condolences,’ Jacob said in a louder voice, noticing someone crossing the corridor behind Dorothy.
The lady turned, catching sight of the door closing. ‘I fear my brother would not like to meet anyone new at present, Miss Fitz-Pennington.’
‘I quite understand,’ agreed Dora. ‘I have no wish to intrude.’
‘But Dr Sandys, I think he would welcome a visit. It has been so very hard for him– to leave a house with five healthy children and to come home to find dear Catherine already buried. And Mary…’ Dorothy’s voice broke and she swiped a wrist across her eyes. ‘She can’t get out of bed– doesn’t eat.’
Dora reached out and pressed the lady’s forearm. ‘Come. Let’s go into the kitchen and you can tell me all about it.’
Dorothy let out a sob then collected herself. ‘I’m making pies, hoping to tempt their appetites.’
‘Then let us make them together.’ Dora steered the lady towards the kitchen. ‘I’ve no doubt Dr Sandys knows his way to Mr Wordsworth’s study.’
The ladies closed the door behind them and Jacob went to the study entrance. He tapped. How many grieving parents had he had to call on in his career? Too many.
‘Wordsworth? It’s me– Sandys.’
A gruff voice bade him enter. The poet’s room was little more than a cabin with two inadequate bookshelves. Wordsworth, by no means a large man, was crammed at his desk, papers and notebooks stacked neatly but in teetering piles. Silvering hair receding far up his brow, he’d smoothed the little that was left over the crown. Aquiline nose, hooded, deep-set eyes, he had the look of a Roman philosopher, a Cicero or Plotinus. Only a white neckerchief relieved the unrelenting black of his clothing.
‘Sandys, thank you for calling in.’ Wordsworth stood and held out a hand. It was cool to the touch, a little waxy. Jacob associated that feeling with patients who were in shock.
‘Wordsworth, I am so very sorry to hear about Catherine. A light has gone out in our little community.’
The poet nodded but, evidently, he didn’t dare speak on that subject. Jacob sensed that would open the floodgates. ‘My sister mentioned you too are bereaved?’
