‘Well, I’m speechless,’ admitted Dora. Knotte sounded like he should be under the care of an asylum for the sake of the Wordsworth family. She wanted to ask him about Leyburn but she was acutely aware that now was not the time to risk such a difficult subject, on a steep hillside alone with him. They had other questions, though, that she might venture to ask, ones that were less inflammatory. ‘Tell me, Mr Knotte, do you spend all you time here in the Lakes, near your… er… father?’
‘Naturally not. I’m no country bumpkin if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I wasn’t– truly.’ No, she had been thinking that he might be a killer.
‘I am seeking a publisher for my first collection of verses. Friends have given me some printers to try– in Liverpool and elsewhere.’
‘In London too?’
‘Certainly. It is the obvious place for an aspiring writer to attempt to make his start, would you not agree?’
‘Any luck recently?’
‘I’m hoping Mr Murray might take them on. He’s not rejected them yet and he was very encouraging when I met him.’
Was Byron’s publisher going to take a gamble on the Cumberland Shepherd? ‘How long has he made you wait for an answer?’
‘Oh, not long. I’m sure he gets many manuscripts submitted so I don’t take it as a sign one way or another.’
She couldn’t press for a more exact answer but that gave them a place to check in London. If Knotte had taken his work in person, then Alex could ask at John Murray’s publishing house if anyone remembered seeing him there in July.
They emerged from the trees level with the slate roofs of the houses below. People were within call, so she felt a little safer.
‘Mr Knotte, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why have you confided this story about your true father to me? You barely know me.’
‘It’s simple.’ Knotte handed her over a stile to reach the track.
‘It is?’
‘You asked. I’m proud of the connection. I’ll tell the same to anyone who troubles to enquire about my origins. And when I’m published, I’ll make sure the world knows.’
That sounded a grim prospect for the poet’s family, a blow they could do without. Wordsworth could deny the connection, of course, but gossip had a way of muddying a reputation.
They were about to cross the road in the little hamlet of Town End to take the lane into Grasmere when a shout from a few houses away caught their attention. Dora spun and saw Moss running towards them, waving his hat.
‘Quick, Knotte, run and fetch Dr Sandys, or Mr Scambler if he’s not available.’ When Knotte showed no signs of moving, Moss shoved him. ‘Hurry man: Wright’s life depends on it!’
‘What!’ blurted Knotte.
‘Bring a doctor to his cottage– now, at once!’
With another push, Knotte broke out of his shock and ran for the village. Dora knew full well that Jacob was likely either still at Barton’s cottage or on his way back, but she could hardly tell Knotte Jacob was away to search where he was thought to be staying.
‘Try Mr Scambler first!’ she called after Knotte. She saw a woman watching them out of her cottage window. ‘Mistress, Dr Sandys should be riding this way soon– bring him in.’ She gave a quick description of what Jacob was wearing and his horse.
‘I’ll do it, an’ I will,’ said the neighbour. ‘But what’s got thee all maffled?’
‘All I know is that Mr Wright needs the doctor urgently.’
Dora hurried to catch up with Moss.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked Moss, following him to the open door of a cottage on the roadside.
‘I went to check on Wright because he didn’t come to the procession.’ His story came out in a rush as they ran. ‘I went round the back and I could see he was lying on the far side of the bed, on the floor. Stupidly, I thought he’d passed out drunk– it wouldn’t be the first time. I then grew concerned that he might choke on his own vomit so decided I had to get in. It was all locked up, which surprised me?—’
‘Why not break a pane?’ If she’d been in his shoes, she would’ve put a brick through a window.
‘And find he was just snoring on the rug? Perhaps I should’ve done so but I wasn’t sure enough of my suspicions. I wasted precious minutes tracking down the farmer who owns the cottage– he was up the damn fell with his sheep– but he told me where to find the spare key.’ Moss hurried through the cottage into the backroom. ‘Can you help me lift him?’
