‘Perhaps– or it could be a taunt: you wrote about action, but I took it.’
Dowsed by an overhanging fern when Nero strayed too close to the verge, Jacob brushed droplets from his breeches. These were useful questions, but they needed to start finding out some facts to send them in the right direction.
‘I think we have several things to do tomorrow,’ he said. ‘The first is we must go to Grasmere and ask the vicar to write to Mrs Barton to see if he has turned up at home.’
‘Agreed. We should also find out who wasn’t accounted for at the time of Leyburn’s murder.’
‘I would wager Moss knows by now. I think I’ll ask him right out.’
‘And there may be some who can account for where they were when Barton went missing– that would help narrow the field.’
‘On the subject of our suspects, what do you say to searching the belongings of our shepherd poet? I believe we agree that he would be the most likely to take the poem seriously.’
‘I’d say we should do that but he’s homeless. Where is he keeping his belongings? Should we search Barton’s cottage?’
‘It would be a place to start. We should go back there when we know Knotte is away. You or I must detain him in conversation to allow the other time for the search. And the final thing on my list for tomorrow is that we must talk to someone who knows the poem better than I do and see if we can make the connection to Leyburn’s murder.’
‘Who would that be?’
‘The man that wrote it.’
Dora nodded. ‘Of course. Horse’s mouth.’
‘He does have a rather equine profile.’
She laughed. ‘Let’s look for a chance at the Rush Bearing. But how are we going to ask about the poem without alerting Mr Wordsworth to the theft? We’ve been engaged on the basis that he isn’t disturbed, and I would hate to break my word to Miss Wordsworth.’
Jacob smiled. ‘Never fear, darling. There is one thing I know about her brother and that is he is never backward in coming forward when someone wants to talk about his poetry with him.’
ChapterNineteen
St Oswald’s Church, Grasmere
Asunny day of rain-washed blue skies greeted the annual Rush Bearing. The girls had dressed in white to collect the rushes from the hills and now they bore them back in handwoven garlands and bundles for spreading on the floor of the nave. The older parishioners lined the path to the square-towered church, applauding as the fresh greenery was brought in. Dora could see that the leader of the procession, the one styled Queen of the Rush Bearing, was enjoying the flattery of being chosen as the comeliest lass of the valley. She had a woven crown of rushes on her golden head and carried a bullrush sceptre. Dora hoped the lascivious glint in the eyes of some of the watching gentlemen did not mean her reign ended in ignominy. They’d have to keep watch on Langhorne because he seemed very partial to the ladies and a local lass might misunderstand the interest of a well-spoken stranger.
As the girls passed into the darkness of the church, the congregation followed. Dora trailed behind, watching wryly as Lady Alice snagged Jacob’s arm. Her doctor was looking very fine today in his Sunday best, wild locks tamed with comb and water, top hat tucked under his arm. He could appear so civilised and yet Dora liked it most when she could persuade him to throw propriety to the winds and show the man beneath.
She fanned herself with a posy of rushes a girl had pressed upon her. These were not Sunday thoughts. Remembering the discussion of the day before, his profession of love and her distrust of accepting it, she felt a cascade of the same emotions that had so disturbed her. She’d claimed she wouldn’t be jealous, that she would let him go without a fight, but she was only human, and she’d been lying to him and herself. Was her reaction guided by an ingrained fear that she would fall short, and she was instinctively trying to avoid hurt by anticipating that he would throw her over? She wasn’t normally so feeble, having withstood rejection before. As for her rival, she did feel envious of Lady Alice, or at least those aspects of the lady’s world that made her the obvious pick for Jacob. She too would enjoy a life of travel and adventure, but it wasn’t open to someone like Dora who had no fortune, not unless the travel could be turned into a money-making venture that would cover the costs of the journey. Need she consider that a closed door? Where was her inventiveness? Perhaps their investigations might lead them abroad one day?
The more she mused on that, the more exciting a prospect it seemed– that was if Jacob stuck with the business and didn’t decide it was a passing fad as his brother predicted. She wondered whether Jacob had been someone of short-lived enthusiasms before he met her. Should a brother who had known him since birth be heeded? No: her view of Arthur was that he didn’t see what was in front of him but what he wished to believe. What was the evidence for Jacob’s flightiness? Jacob had spent seven or eight years in the military then left; he’d studied as a medic, then left that profession too. That was neither short nor long. Did she have any proof his current interest would not survive any longer?
She entered the cool of the church and placed her posy at the altar along with the other offerings of the local maidens. The rushes scattered on the floor brought a fresh green smell into the church, crackling and rustling under boots and shoes. With a respectful nod to the cross, she retreated to a pew next to Luke Knotte, her thoughts still occupied with her uncertainty. Looked at another way, eight years in the army was a decent period of service, particularly as it involved at least two tours in different countries. She understood why he’d stepped back from medicine– it had been like asking a drunkard to continue to serve as an innkeeper. He knew himself well enough to put the temptation of opium out of easy reach. Jacob himself saw a consistency in his current choice with his problem-solving mind moving from people’s illnesses to diagnosing the criminal diseases of society.
‘I’m getting myself all twisted up like one of those garlands,’ she muttered.
‘What was that, Miss Fitz-Pennington?’ enquired the attentive Knotte.
‘I was saying how nicely twisted are the garlands the girls made,’ she improvised.
‘Indeed. A charming rural custom. Ah, look, the poor Wordsworths have decided to join us this morning.’
The family were out in force. William supported his frail-looking wife on his arm as Dorothy marshalled the children in line. Another lady carried the youngest.
Knotte stood up as they passed and bowed his head, hand on his breast, as if they were a cortège for a coffin. Dora looked at her nails, a little embarrassed for him as the gesture seemed ill-judged in a celebration like the Rush Bearing.
The clergyman entered from the vestry accompanied by two other ordained gentlemen, rather excessive for a small parish church.
‘Who are they?’ she whispered once Knotte had taken his seat.
