Dora kneeled. ‘Derwent, we need you to stay here and take any message that arrives here for us. Can you do that? Miss Plum will keep you company. And the viscount.’
Derwent looked alarmed to have a nobleman overseeing him, but Arthur wasn’t having anything of it in any case.
‘I’m coming with you,’ he said, buttoning his jacket. ‘I would advise that you remain behind, Miss Fitz-Pennington. Such a search is not for delicate ladies.’
‘Just as well there’s not one of those here, isn’t it?’ Dora said with a hint of steel. ‘Jacob, saddle the horses. I’ll just put on my breeches.’
ChapterThirteen
Esthwaite Water
Long and lean, Esthwaite Water lay in a shallow valley. Pastures crept down to the shore, dotted with a few sparse clumps of trees. The most notable feature were three spits of land bulging out into the lake– one of which was Elter Holme. Due to the boggy ground, there were no buildings right on the water so the surface was very dark, the water like a chasm into the depths of the earth. The only lights came from Hawkshead, twinkling at the northern end, set back from the lake. As they trotted down the lane, Jacob could see lanterns dancing on the track leading out of the village. William and Hartley must have got through with their message and help was heading their way.
‘We had better check the boys identified the clothes correctly,’ said Dora.
‘I’ll rouse the householders,’ said Arthur, pointing to the hamlet of Near Sawrey. The inhabitants in this harvest season would have already gone to bed, intending to rise with the sun.
For once his brother was being helpful, throwing about his viscountly weight in their service. ‘I’d be much obliged,’ said Jacob. ‘We’ll check the holme.’
Securing their horses to a fence post, he and Dora followed the well-worn track to the lake. He held out a lantern in order that they didn’t fall into one of the many rivulets that cut across the pasture.
‘Holme? Is that a word?’ asked Dora, jumping over a stream in one stride.
‘It’s what we locals call these islets– they can be either little islands or almost islands like this one.’ He could tell she was squirrelling the word away for later use. Dora loved dialects, no doubt so she could pull off acting the part of a local in future. She had a formidable array of such stores which they called on when investigating.
The pile of clothes was neatly stacked on a flat rock near the water. Care had been taken, boots set to one side, the white garments on top to avoid being sullied. The swimmer had gone into the water in a measured manner which meant this was not a frantic impulse, a man fleeing his demons. Dora examined the jacket, finding a calling card in the pocket.
‘Erasmus Barton, though I suppose it could have been given to another man who tucked it in his coat.’ She held it out to Jacob so the lantern light fell fully on it. She got to her feet and examined the boots. ‘Maker’s mark, Hobey’s. He said he had a pair– his best boots. I’d say that was proof no mistake has been made.’
‘I agree. It’s his clothing as the boys suspected.’
She stuck her hands in her coat pockets, gazing out over the inky water. Only the thinnest slither of the waning moon was visible over the crags. Clouds hid the stars. ‘What happened, do you think? Early morning swim that went wrong? Cramp? Heart attack? No one on hand to rescue him? He was so young– it’s not fair.’
Jacob put down the lantern and pulled her into his arms. There was so much more of her when she was wearing her army great coat. It resisted his hug but she was under there somewhere, sorrowing for a man she had just met. ‘Dora, there’s something I’ve been thinking– about the missing poem. One of the most important passages in it describes Wordsworth coming across a pile of clothes when he was a lad. We are standing by the same lake.’
‘What?’ She looked up at him in confusion.
‘The manuscript. In it, Wordsworth writes how he was a schoolboy in Hawkshead grammar school and lodged in a cottage over there.’ He pointed towards Town End, a few cottages outside Hawkshead at the northern end. ‘This lake was his playground. I don’t have your recall, but when I heard Wordsworth read them the lines stuck with me. He described seeing the clothes in the twilight lying on the opposite shore, left as if someone was bathing. Then the next day people come with grappling irons and long poles.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘And after a while the dead man rises bolt upright, face ghastly.’
‘How terrifying.’
‘The odd thing is that he says he wasn’t scared because the stories he’d read had prepared him for such sights.’
‘I don’t believe him. It clearly stuck in his mind– something that seared itself into his memory.’
‘My point is that if you felt you had done Wordsworth– and the world– a huge harm by losing his greatest work, would you not punish yourself in a way that honours the poem?’
‘You think it suicide? I can’t believe that. Barton wasn’t the type– he was too ordinary.’
‘Ordinary people kill themselves, Dora, not the extraordinary. The odd ones go on happily in their wild fantastical way.’ Jacob had always considered suicide could be a rational choicein extremis.
‘Granted, but he was too balanced. You don’t go from playing with the Coleridge boys one day to drowning yourself the next.’
‘Don’t you?’
