‘The poem is much more than a bundle of notebooks,’ said Dora indignantly.
‘Please!’ snorted Moss.
‘You should listen to her. These killings are all reflections of episodes in the poem.’ Jacob went on to show the lines in the notebooks that implicated the crook and the staged suicide on Esthwaite Water.
‘You found the quotation!’ said Dora, pleased that the loose end had been tied off.
‘I didn’t; Wordsworth did. He knew it the moment I gave the hint. He is able to quote from his own poetry at the merest nudge. Naturally I made no mention of why I asked. I think no one has been telling the family any news that would add to their grief, therefore he doesn’t know about Leyburn or Barton.’
‘You think the crook used to kill Sir Richard Leyburn was inspired by this?’ asked Moss doubtfully.
‘Do you have a better explanation?’
‘And the ice skate?’
‘One of his most beautiful images of winter in the Lakes. Here.’ Jacob passed him the first of the notebooks. ‘Be careful with that. He describes retiring from the throng of boy-skaters on the lake, going to a bay alone and skating across the reflection of a star in the ice.’
That gave the bloody star a horrible new significance.
‘That’s not an instruction to commit a murder,’ said Moss, scowling at the passage. ‘I suppose it is rather good– for Wordsworth.’
‘None of the references are violent. The poet is a man of ideas not action.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Dora.
‘Hindsight. What has he done with his life so far? He didn’t fight with the French when he had the chance in 1793, he didn’t publish anything that would see him charged with treason in the late 1790s; no, his battle has been one fought with poetry. He thinks if he finds the right formulation of words, he can reform society and save us from ourselves.’
Moss and Dora looked at Jacob, then quickly at each other, before both burst into laughter.
‘What?’ said Jacob, clearly a little irritated.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dora, knowing Jacob was a sincere admirer of the man, ‘but that is too much for any writer to expect. He must have an enormous sense of self-importance.’
‘Or he is completely out of touch with reality,’ added Moss.
Jacob grimaced. ‘Probably both. I suppose it is an overly ambitious goal but better than many an aim in life. He might do some good even when he falls short. And he still writes very fine verse, flaws and all.’
‘Not everyone agrees with you.’ Moss couldn’t miss the chance to snipe.
‘Let’s agree to differ,’ said Dora quickly. ‘It’s fine, humane stuff, and it makes me extremely angry that someone is perverting it for their own murderous ends.’
Moss handed back the notebook. ‘He’s not published these poems?’
‘I think a few lines here and there,’ said Jacob, ‘but the vast majority remains unknown to but a few.’
‘Then the person who is making these references to the work is one of a small number, like yourself?’
‘I hope you’re not looking at me?’
Moss held his eye just a little longer than was polite, before saying. ‘No, I think not, though you also have local connections and are known to have radical views on society. You were in London or had only just left– we weren’t sure of the timings– when Leyburn was murdered.’
‘Seriously? The government has been investigating me?’
‘I couldn’t possibly say.’
Jacob sighed. ‘And I can’t say I’m surprised. When Dora and I had state secrets in our hands during the Hellfire investigation, it did occur to me that there would be those in government who might not believe we destroyed them.’
‘What! Do you think they looked into me too?’ asked Dora, appalled at the idea that her life had been raked over.
