‘There are pike here?’ The man looked over the water dubiously.
‘If you know where to fish. I see your friends are trolling with a running line. In my experience you will have more success at night.’
‘A complete angler indeed,’ the gentleman said with a smirk, probably thinking Jacob a fishing bore. There were plenty of those to be met in the local taprooms eager to share stories of mythical catches. ‘Do you live nearby, sir?’
‘I do– when not in town. Dr Jacob Sandys– from Levens originally.’
A second man dropped his rod and scrambled to join his friend. ‘Oh, gosh, he’s the son of the late viscount, brother to the new one. Sir.’ He bowed low. ‘Luke Knotte, also native to these parts. And this fellow is Andrew Langhorne of Barrow. And my friend doing an impression of one of the seven sleepers is Thomas Wright of Colebrookdale.’ Langhorne slyly kicked a chap who was snoozing with his straw hat over his eyes.
‘Wha—’ said the unfortunate Wright.
‘We have visitors,’ said Knotte, his manner fidgety. He didn’t hold Jacob’s gaze and barely looked at Dora, his awkwardness unsettling.
‘Including a pretty one,’ said the unrepentant Langhorne, flashing a debonair smile at Dora.
That one needed watching, thought Jacob, as Dora did a most un-Dora like simper in response.
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said Jacob. ‘My brothers, including the viscount, are in fact visiting me at present.’
‘By golles, really?’ Knotte seemed overly excited by the news, but then viscounts were as rare as a four-leafed clover in the valley.
‘I have a little cottage in Loughrigg Tarn– perhaps you know it? Miss Fitz-Pennington is one of my party.’ If he mixed Dora in with the viscount and entourage, he hoped she would be less remarkable.
‘Yes, yes, know it well. I’ve always considered it a perfect spot for a cottage,’ said Knotte, talking thirteen to the dozen. ‘One could say I grew up there. In and out of the tarn.’
‘Didn’t we swim there last week?’ asked Wright blearily, rubbing his temples. The gentleman had signs of one who regrets the night before.
‘And your friends in the boat?’ asked Jacob.
‘They are guests at Rydal Hall– Captain Cooper, Lieutenant Crawford and Mr Moss,’ said Knotte. ‘They came for the ball but they’re staying on for the Rush Bearing ceremony this Sunday. Hi there!’ He waved at the fishing party.
Langhorne whistled. ‘You lot! Time to swap over.’
With so many of the suspects before them, Jacob mentally sorted the gentlemen into two groups. These three on the shore were the ones that Wordsworth had mentioned as being among his admirers. The three afloat were on the list Barton had provided– the ones he’d told Dora mocked his admiration of the poet. The gentlemen on shore would covet, the others disdain, a manuscript.
‘I believe you know Mr Barton?’
Knotte gave a squeak but shut up at a look from Langhorne.
‘Forgive him: he’s very excitable,’ drawled Langhorne. ‘We do know Barton– an old university pal– went up in ’07 with me and Knotte here. If you’re looking for him, I’m afraid the blighter stood us up,’ said Langhorne. ‘He was supposed to be bringing a second boat.’
‘Is he a friend of yours too, sir?’ asked Knotte. His wide grey eyes darted from boat, to Jacob, to Dora, like a squirrel bounding from twig to twig. The other two were like dogs Jacob had owned, happy to lie in a patch of sunlight.
‘We’ve met a few times at social occasions,’ said Jacob. ‘We have a mutual friend in Mr Wordsworth.’
‘Isn’t he marvellous?’ said Knotte.
‘I think he is,’ agreed Jacob.
‘Whereas those barbarians thinkMarmionthe best poem of the last decade. Fools!’ scoffed Langhorne raising his voice so the approaching boat could hear. ‘Scott is nothing but an entertainer– not even worth quoting.’
The incoming boat boo-ed that remark.
‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive,’ said Dora.
The occupants of the boat cheered. ‘She knows her Scott!’ declared one.
Langhorne clapped his chest. ‘Oh, you wound me! A fair damsel quotingMarmionin the land of Wordsworth. There should be a law against it. I will allow him that one line– the rest is bunkum.’
