‘Which, by the way, Knotte is convinced really came from Wordsworth. Leyburn was only the agent on his behalf to keep it secret.’
Moss frowned. ‘It does make a mad kind of sense. The only problem is that I’ve never considered Knotte a man of physical prowess; he’s not the kind who would feel able to hit someone over the head with crooks and skates and be sure that he would put down his adversary. He is clumsy, falls out of boats, drops things, struggles to keep up when we go on longer walks. I could see him fumbling the attempt and being caught. There is something hapless about him.’
Dora had to agree, but then she remembered the creepy feeling she got from him when he was with her at the sheepfold. ‘Is it not possible that he has another side to his character? He’s the ineffectual shepherd poet who weeps over a pile of clothes and can’t help search, but can when roused become something quite different, someone whose personality is split in two?’
‘Indeed, it is possible,’ said Jacob. ‘I’ve known patients like that, wives shackled to someone who can be charming in society and cruel at home.’
‘If we agree that he could be our man, then that leads to the most important question. How do we prove it?’ asked Moss.
‘Actually,’ said Dora, ‘I think the most important is “how do we stop him killing again?”’
ChapterTwenty-Three
Moss offered to escort Dora part of the way home while Jacob rode into Grasmere to return the manuscript. They agreed that none of them should be alone, not with Knotte at large, especially if he was a lot stronger than he pretended. Mounted on Nero, Jacob thought he should be able to catch up with them before they reached Rydal Mount, and then he could go the rest of the way home with Dora. Both men had a silent understanding that it was Dora they were protecting, not that they would tell her that.
Acutely aware of the precious cargo in his bag and wanting to get rid of the responsibility as soon as possible, Jacob found Dorothy Wordsworth weeding in the garden among the beans in the vegetable patch. Their red flowers glowed against the dark green leaves clambering up the poles, promise of the crop to come. A white butterfly fluttered over the cabbages. The dark yew trees with their scarlet berries and the church tower loomed behind, so even in the sunshine the garden felt overshadowed. Dorothy brushed off her hands when she heard him approach.
‘Dr Sandys!’
‘Where is everyone?’ he asked.
‘William’s taken the children for a walk to the waterfall. Mary is resting. I heard that there was trouble at Town End?’
‘One of the summer visitors hit his head,’ said Jacob, deciding the less said the better. ‘He’s resting but it’s serious, so I’ve sent for his family.’
‘These boys– always so reckless. Would you like tea?’
‘No, thank you. I just came to return this to you.’ He opened the flap of the canvas bag and he gently drew out his priceless charge.
Her face lit up. ‘You found them! Oh, Mr Barton will be pleased. The man was most cut up about losing them. I must send him a message.’
Another subject he wanted to avoid. ‘He’s not at the cottage– we’re not sure where he’s gone. In fact, that was where I found them. Someone must’ve put them back while he was away, so we may never find out who borrowed them without permission.’ He handed her the canvas bag which she hugged to her chest. She did not need to know that someone had been using the poem as a prompt for murder. The great work of Wordsworth should not be sullied by making that association public. ‘It’s not a very satisfactory end to our search but a happy ending for the notebooks.’
‘The important thing is we have them back. I’ll leave them on William’s desk. He was mentioning to me at dinner that he wants to look at some of the passages again– you can imagine that gave me a horrible moment. Always tinkering, my brother, after the perfect poem, and not the one merely good enough for publication.’
‘He is a perfectionist,’ agreed Jacob. ‘I’d better take my leave. I’m still playing host to my brother, Miss Fitz-Pennington and her friend.’
Dorothy shooed him out of her garden with a good-natured smile, one burden off her shoulders. ‘Then you’d better hurry. I fear our little matter has made you a terrible host.’
Taking satisfaction from the knowledge that he had done something good for the future of literature, Jacob mounted his horse with lighter heart. He rode past the inn and noticed Langhorne sitting with the Rush Bearing Queen on his lap. The man appeared to be taking solace for the shock of his friend’s injury in her bosoms. Langhorne was a stag in musk– Jacob despised that kind. There had been plenty of them in the army, often among the officer class. However, the girl wasn’t alone, so if his chosen doe did not welcome his attentions then she had those around to drive off her wooer. Riding on, he saw Lieutenant Crawford and Captain Cooper on guard outside Wright’s cottage. They saluted Jacob as he passed.
‘Any news?’ he asked.
‘No change,’ said Cooper. ‘The nurse is keeping us apprised but says we aren’t needed inside.’
Which meant Jacob’s orders were being followed to the letter.
‘Very good. Send for me if there are any developments, otherwise I’ll return tomorrow.’ He noted that there was no sign of Knotte. It would be better if they knew where he was but there were too few of them with too much to do to follow him and not be spotted. He wished he had some of their London employees with them to share the work of investigation.
When Jacob caught up with Dora and Moss, they had been joined by the Coleridge boys as they walked on the tree-shaded path by Grasmere. If he hadn’t known what was going on, it would’ve made an idyllic sight: the lady and gentleman strolling against the backdrop of the sparkling water, the lads carrying fishing rods and wearing old clothes fit for a holiday. It was good to see that the boys had recovered from the shock of Mr Barton’s strange vanishing. Youngsters were surprisingly resilient like that. Jacob dismounted and fell into step with them.
‘I was just telling Hartley and Derwent to keep clear of Mr Knotte, as well as the others,’ said Dora, giving him a significant look.
‘What about him?’ asked Hartley, jerking a thumb at the silent Moss. ‘Is he safe?’
Moss gave him a toothy grin. ‘No one is safe, lad. Not even Miss Fitz-Pennington here.’
‘Especially not Miss Fitz-Pennington,’ muttered Jacob, giving her a sly smile.
