Take No Farewell - Retail (17 page)

‘Excuse me. I’m looking for Albert Banyard, the head gardener. Do you know where I might find him?’

‘Best try the kitchen garden, sir.’ He pointed towards it. ‘That’s where I last saw ’im.’

I marched on up the drive, deliberately refraining from looking towards the house as I passed. The kitchen garden lay beyond it, in a slight hollow, sheltered by a ten-foot-high perimeter wall and screened from the house by a yew hedge. Along the back of the northern wall of the garden was a range of low-roofed brick buildings. In one of these I found a crock boy who directed me to the fruit house. This was a small thatched structure set in the lee of the hedge. As I approached, I could see a figure at work inside who looked very like the man I remembered: squat, powerfully built and perpetually flat-capped. He did not look up when I entered, but went on peering and prodding at the apples and pears laid out on shelves around the walls. It was indeed Banyard, his hair white where it had formerly been grey, but otherwise unaltered by the years. My dealings with him had been few, but they had left me with the impression of a cheerless, solitary individual unlikely to welcome any interruption, far less the questioning I had in mind.

‘Mr Banyard?’

He glanced at me and nodded. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

‘Perhaps you don’t recognize me. I’m Geoffrey—’

‘Staddon. Architec’. ’Course I reco’nize you.’

‘Ah, splendid. Well—’

‘What brings you ’ere, though? That’s what I’m wonderin’.’

‘It’s a little difficult to explain. Could we … talk somewhere?’

‘What about?’

‘Er …’ There seemed no point in prevarication. ‘Mrs Caswell’s trial.’

‘Ar. Thought it might be.’ He scratched his stubbly chin. ‘These days, no party wants to talk to me ’bout anythin’
else.’
He deliberated for a few moments, then said: ‘All right, Mr Staddon. Come through to my office.’

Banyard’s office was one of the buildings set against the kitchen-garden wall. It contained little beyond a counter top scattered with scribbled notes, flowerpots and fragments of earth. Beneath this was a stool which Banyard pulled out and sat on before lighting his pipe and giving me his attention. As I stumbled through my explanation, his expression revealed not the slightest hint of his reaction.

‘The reports I’ve read seem so extraordinary that I felt compelled to verify them. I find it hard to believe Mrs Caswell could be a poisoner. Perhaps you do as well.’

‘Can’t say as I’ve considered it.’

‘Not considered it?’

‘Bain’t my place to.’

‘But surely … Don’t you feel in any way responsible for what’s happened?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because your weed-killer was the source of the poison.’

‘So they tell me.’

‘Don’t you believe them?’

‘Can’t say as I do. Mind, I can’t say as I disbelieve ’em neither.’

I took a deep breath. There was nothing to be gained by becoming exasperated. ‘Where did you store the weed-killer, Mr Banyard?’

‘Same place as I store it now.’

‘And that is?’

‘You might as well see for yourself.’ He led me out through the door and into the next shed. This was a more crowded replica of his office, with old sacking and broken flowerpots stacked on and beneath the counter top and hoes, rakes, shovels, brooms and spades propped around the walls. A wheelbarrow took up most of the floor space and standing in it were four large tins, one of which was labelled
Weed Out
. ‘That’s a new ’un,’ he said. ‘The police took t’other one away.’

‘What do you use it for?’

‘Weed-killin’, sir. What do you think I use it for? Mr Caswell’s very particular ’bout weeds. ’E don’t like ’em. ’Cordingly, neither does I. Take the flagstones ’neath the pergoly. Your pergoly, I should say. Well’ – he touched the tin with the toe of his boot – ‘this shifts the weeds from ’tween ’em good an’ proper.’

‘I see. At the hearing, you said Mrs Caswell took more of an interest in the garden than Mr Caswell.’

‘So she does.’

‘But the weed-killer was Mr Caswell’s suggestion?’

‘It weren’t nobody’s suggestion. It were my solution to a problem.’

‘A problem identified by Mr Caswell.’

‘
Mentioned
by Mr Caswell, ar.’

‘And when did he first … mention it?’

‘I don’t rightly recall. Last spring, maybe. Last winter, p’raps.’

‘Comparatively recently at all events.’

‘Well, I don’t—’

‘Excuse me!’ Somebody had spoken from close behind. When we turned round, it was to find Danby the butler staring at us. As soon as he recognized me, his face relaxed into a smile. ‘Mr Staddon. It’s you, sir, of all people.’

‘What brings you down ’ere, Mr Danby?’ asked Banyard suspiciously. ‘This is a long way from your pantry. You’ll be pickin’ up somethin’ nasty on the soles o’ your fine shoes if you’re not careful.’

Danby ignored him. ‘You were seen arriving, Mr Staddon, but nobody knew who you were. Perhaps you’ll come with me. I’m sure Mr Banyard won’t mind.’

Whatever view Banyard took of the matter was not about to be disclosed, since Danby turned decisively on his heel and I felt obliged to follow him. The weakness of my position was at once apparent to me, for how was I to explain my presence at Clouds Frome without revealing intentions of which Danby’s master would most certainly disapprove?
As
we passed through the gate in the yew-hedge and started along the path towards the house, I said, ‘Perhaps I should have let you know I was here,’ and instantly regretted my words.

‘Perhaps you should, sir. Mr Caswell is away from home at present. As for Mrs Caswell, I take it you are aware of the recent sad turn of events affecting the household?’

‘Yes. As a matter of fact—’

‘I am under strict instruction to discourage visitors. We have been pestered by the yellow press, as you may imagine, and others of a morbidly curious frame of mind.’

‘You thought I was one of those?’

‘What else was I to think, sir? I could not help overhearing your conversation with Banyard. You seemed to be questioning him about matters pertaining to the murder.’

‘I can’t deny I was.’ We halted at the courtyard entrance and faced each other. He did not seem about to invite me in. ‘The fact is, Danby, that I was so horrified by what the newspapers reported that I decided to see what I could learn for myself. The accusations against Mrs Caswell are quite monstrous, as I’m sure you’ll agree.’

‘They are acutely distressing, sir. But, as I’m sure
you
will agree, such enquiries are best left to the appropriate authorities. If there’s any message you wish to leave, I’ll happily communicate it to Mr Caswell upon his return. Or, should you wish to write to him, I can furnish you with his address in France. Otherwise, there’s really nothing—’

‘There’s no need. I’m well aware of his address. Major Turnbull’s villa at Cap Ferrat, isn’t it?’

Danby frowned. ‘Do I take it, sir, that you knew Mr Caswell was away when you came here? If so—’

‘When’s he due back?’

At this, Danby permitted himself a sniff of affronted dignity. ‘I really am not at liberty to discuss Mr Caswell’s plans, sir. How, may I ask, did you—’

‘He’s taken Gleasure with him, I know. And Cathel Simpson’s been dismissed, I believe.’

‘Since Mrs Caswell is no longer in residence, a lady’s maid is surplus to the household’s requirements.’

‘For the moment.’

‘As you say, sir.’

‘It’s convenient, though, isn’t it?’

‘In what way, sir?’

‘Never mind.’ I was becoming impatient and sensed I would betray myself if I prolonged the discussion. ‘I’ll say good morning, Danby. There’s no message. And I shan’t be writing.’ With that, I turned and set off down the drive.

Before I had even reached the high road, shame had taken the place of anger. I should not have gone straight to Banyard. I should not have antagonized Danby. I should not have allowed petulance to distort my judgement. As matters stood, I was now extremely unlikely to be able to talk to either Noyce, the footman, or Mabel Glynn, the kitchenmaid. All hope of gleaning anything useful from them had been dashed. Banyard might be willing to talk to me again, but to what end? Nothing he seemed disposed to reveal promised to add anything to his testimony.

At the end of the drive, I turned towards Mordiford rather than Stoke Edith, concluding that a long walk back to Hereford was a fitting treatment for my dissatisfaction. I had made a poor start to my efforts on Jacinta’s behalf and the knowledge burned within me. Perhaps, I thought, if this was the best I was capable of, I should abandon my endeavours altogether.

Why I halted at Mordiford Church I do not know, but, on an impulse, I went in through the lych-gate and embarked on a circuit of the graveyard, recalling as I went the summer Sunday when the Caswells had assembled there, with me amongst them as an honoured guest. By the farthest wall, beyond which a sheep-grazed field sloped down towards the river, I paused to light a cigarette. As I struck the match, my attention was taken by a headstone erected a yard or so the wrong side of the graveyard wall and fenced off from the sheep with barbed wire. It occupied a small, triangular patch
of
land at the corner of the field, nearly hallowed, as it were, but not quite. I walked along until I was exactly opposite it and leaned across the wall to read the inscription. In it I found the answer to a question that had been troubling me. And found still more troubling questions to take its place.

ELIZABETH MARIGOLD THAXTER

DIED 20TH JULY 1911,

AGED TWENTY-TWO YEARS.

‘FAREWELL LIZZIE’

The address of a sidesman was recorded in the church porch. It was one of a terrace of small cottages just beyond the Full Moon Inn. There, hoeing his vegetable patch, I found the obliging old fellow, who was happy to indulge my curiosity.

‘She’s buried in unsanctified ground, sir. As I recall, kinsfolk bought that patch o’ land from Farmer Apperley so she’d be as near the church as the law could permit.’

‘Why couldn’t she be buried in the churchyard?’ Already, I had guessed the answer, but I needed it to be confirmed.

‘She were a suicide, sir. ‘Anged ’erself, in the orchard up at Clouds Frome.’

So it was true. Three days after I had found her crying in her room and left my cowardly message in her keeping, Lizzie Thaxter had hanged herself.

‘Lady’s maid to Mrs Caswell, were Lizzie Thaxter,’ the sidesman continued. ‘Pretty little thing. Odd ’ow things turn out, ain’t it?’

‘In what sense?’

‘Well, as things stand, the mistress is like to go the same way as ’er maid.’ He shook his head dolefully. ‘She’s for the rope, they do say. And that means an unsanctified grave. Just like Lizzie.’

I left Mordiford in a daze, walking slowly westwards along the low, flat road across the flood plain towards Hereford. More than ever, now I had learned of Lizzie’s fate, my actions
of
twelve years before rose to denounce me. How could I have been so selfish, so reckless of the consequences of what I did?

Absorbed in such gloomy reflections, I scarcely noticed the traffic that passed me on the road. To either side lay flat, featureless pastureland and behind, I well knew, the gables and high chimneys of Clouds Frome could be distinguished beneath the wooded slopes of Backbury Hill. But I chose not to look back. I kept my eyes trained firmly on the road ahead, as if by this one paltry device I could hold my conscience at arm’s length.

I came to the next village, Hampton Bishop, and noted from a finger-post that it was another three miles to Hereford. On the western outskirts of the village lay a quaintly named inn, the Bunch of Carrots. The sight of it reminded me how welcome a drink would be and I was about to halt and enter the bar when the door was opened from the inside and a raggedly dressed customer, clearly inebriated for all that it was only just past noon, was pushed out into the yard by the landlord. I did not catch what was said. Various oaths and insults were exchanged before the door closed again and the drunkard turned away, looking towards me as he did so. Then he stopped in his tracks and gaped at me. As did I at him.

He was wearing a very old and frayed tweed suit, boots laced with coarse string and a collarless shirt that might once have been white. He had the beard and hair of a true tramp, grey, matted and threaded with strands of the haystack where he had evidently passed the previous night. His skin was dark and lined, stretched thinly over prominent brow, jaw and cheekbones. His eyes were close-set and wary, his shoulders hunched beneath a patched and bulging knapsack. It took me, I suppose, ten seconds to recognize him and convince myself that I was not mistaken. By the twitches and shifts of his own expression, I would judge that it took him about the same. He was Ivor Doak.

Neither of us spoke. I was dumbstruck. Doak had not gone
to
Australia. If he had, he would surely never have returned. As for the passage-money I had paid, had he drunk it away, or been cheated of it? It was scarcely credible that Hermione had not given it to him, for if so—

Suddenly, with a swift snatch of breath, Doak whirled round and sprinted away. On the far side of the yard was a wire fence and, beyond it, the grassy bank of a dyke protecting the village from the nearby river. As Doak reached the fence and made to climb over it, I found my voice and called after him, but he did not so much as glance back. He jumped down on the other side and ran up the slope, then turned away from the road and made off along the top of the dyke. Only then, and far too late, did I follow.

By the time I reached the top of the dyke, Doak was fifty yards ahead and running hard. Pursuit was useless. I retraced my steps to the yard and entered the inn, where the customers were few and the landlord, once I had complimented him on his ale, was happy to answer my questions.

‘Yes, sir, that was Ivor Doak. Once a landowner in ’is own right, they do say, though nought but a vagabond now. ’E sometimes ’as drinkin’ money, though the Lord knows where he gets it from, but ’e ’as this nasty ’abit o’ spendin’ it all, then orderin’ one more drink and guzzlin’ it ’afore ’e lets on as ’is pockets are empty. That’s when I generally ’as to show ’im the door. As for travellin’, I’d be surprised if ’e’s ever bin as far as Glo’ster, let ’lone Austra’ia. I’ve kep’ the Bunch since the year afore the war an’ ’e’s always bin roun’ an’ about in that time, more’s the pity. I can’t rightly give you an address, ’cos ’e don’t ’ave one, less you count the ’edgerows in summer and the doorsteps of ’Ereford in winter. A gen’leman, ’e’d ’ave you believe, but def’nitely a gen’leman o’ the road. That’s our Ivor.’