Page 53 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #3)
Dr Pinchbeck was as good as his word. He helped a nervous Job through his evidence that Lord Cordwell had gone out that day after pigeons.
He took evidence from Harry Beck and the constable.
Colonel Havering gave evidence that his neighbour often went out alone, shooting for the pot; and further that he himself had tripped on occasion going over that particular stile, as it was narrow and one’s boot could get caught under the rung as one swung one’s leg over.
Dr Pinchbeck concluded that the death was due to a tragic accident, and added that he hoped everyone would respect the feelings of the grieving widow, who now had two young children to bring up alone. The body was therefore released for burial and the funeral could go ahead.
The vicar must have heard loose gossip about Cordwell’s death because, when interviewed by Giles, he referred as often as possible to ‘this tragic accident ’, mentioned many times what a good and Christian man Cordwell had been, and assured Giles that a full burial service and the family plot awaited the Lord’s faithful servant.
He went on to say he personally would ensure that the choir and organist were in attendance and that the bell-ringers would do their part.
A small honorarium to the organist was usual, likewise to the gravediggers.
Beer and pies at the Frome Arms after the service were the traditional thanks to the choir and bell-ringers.
Giles, fortunately, had cash with him, and gave the vicar enough to cover everything, plus a donation to the church, which he felt was tacitly expected.
The vicar’s good will, he gathered, came not from any feeling of sympathy towards Linda, but from a liking for Gerald Cordwell personally – he had been popular in the neighbourhood, the vicar told him, and would be missed.
Giles had paid the wages of Mrs Clegg and her son; had settled with the local grocer, baker and butcher so that funeral baked meats could be ordered; and had hired two local girls as temporary housemaids to clean rooms to a sufficient standard for the funeral reception and to wait on the guests.
Colonel Havering and his sister had been immensely kind and placed anything they had, from servants to flowers from the gardens, at Linda’s service.
Giles had to talk to them and thank them, because Linda had retreated into a surly gloom and would take no part in any planning.
The dowager left Rachel in London to be chaperoned by Caroline, and travelled down to Ashmore, so that Richard could escort her and Alice on the long journey to Dorset. Kitty was excused attendance because of her condition, but to Maud’s surprise, Sebastian made himself one of the party.
‘There is no need,’ she said. ‘It is not to be a large affair.’ She hesitated, and added in a lower voice, ‘It is not a circumstance to which one wishes to draw attention.’
‘I’m the nearest thing to a father Linda has left,’ Sebastian said. ‘And I liked the chap. Poor Cordwell. He had a hard row to hoe.’
Gerald Cordwell, he thought, had been a light, pleasant sort of person who would have done well in easier circumstances.
He’d have been a diligent landlord, a popular host, a useful member of the House, and would probably have kept a better check on Linda if he hadn’t been worn down by penury.
Indeed, Linda would have been a nicer person if there had been enough money.
But it took more character than either of them had to make a go of things under such disadvantages.
The day before the funeral, he encountered Dory walking along an upstairs corridor with an armful of linen. Her eyes flew to his face, but then she lowered them, flattened herself against the wall and curtseyed slightly. That was what maids were supposed to do when encountering Upstairs people.
He stopped. ‘Dory, don’t,’ he said gently.
‘Don’t treat me like that.’ She bit her lip, but did not look up.
‘Please talk to me,’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t embarrass you, but I miss talking to you so much.
Can’t we just be – civilised?’ At the last moment he did not say ‘friends’, because he had already had the answer to that question.
He had heard from Mr Bland once, that he was on the trail of Jack Hubert, and hoped to track him down eventually.
It reminded him again, forcibly, that he had not decided what to do about Hubert when he was found – for, indeed, what could be done?
But he thrust that away to the back of his mind.
For the moment, he just ached for the sound of her voice, for one kind look.
She did glance up, briefly and piercingly into his face. Then she looked away, and said, in an almost normal voice, ‘Mr Crooks said you were going to the funeral tomorrow. Is that right?’
‘Yes. Felt I ought to pay my respects. He didn’t have the happiest of lives.’
‘Living in a grand house surrounded by his own land, you mean? That would be hard.’
‘There’s more than one sort of hard,’ Sebastian said. ‘He inherited his father’s debts, and had to struggle to keep the bailiffs out of that grand house, while watching it gradually falling to bits. And it couldn’t have been easy, being married to my niece,’ he added.
A faint quirk of a smile touched her lips. ‘You mustn’t say such things to me, sir. It’s not proper.’
‘I know you won’t repeat it. And must it be “sir”?’
‘It’s easier for me,’ she said bluntly. She sighed. ‘At least he was married. And had two children. For some, that would be a blessing.’
He wanted to say to her then, ‘I’m doing something about it!
Just be patient a while longer!’ But what, what, what could he do?
As long as Hubert lived, she could not marry him.
If he could somehow ensure Hubert would never come after her, and somehow convince her that he wouldn’t, would she consent to live with him unmarried?
He could sell the house in Henley and they could go somewhere no-one knew them, and live quietly, out of the public gaze.
He had sufficient income to make them comfortable, and to provide for her after he had gone.
Would she accept that? Or would she feel lessened even by the suggestion?
He didn’t know. But at present he couldn’t even put it to her.
He must confront Jack Hubert first, and he hadn’t the least idea how that was to be done, what arguments might work with him.
Unlike Christian, he must tackle Apollyon before he could rest and refresh himself at the House of the Palace Beautiful.
For now, all he could say was, ‘I’m sorry.’ He meant it, on so many levels.
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said quickly, putting out a hand as if to touch him, but snatching it back before he could take it.
She hesitated, and then said quietly, ‘You’ve given me so much already.
More than you know. Don’t be unhappy – sir.
’ And she hurried away along the passage before he could say anything more.
It was a day of heartbreaking beauty, blue and gold, sweetly warm.
The trees towered in their summer glory, stirred by soft airs; the gentle rounded hills of Dorset were freckled with browsing sheep; the hedges were busy with birds.
It seemed all wrong to Alice to be burying someone on such a day (her father’s funeral had taken place in proper January weather, with bare dripping trees and weeping skies.) At the graveside, she looked up at the perfect sky and thought how sad it would be to leave the world in June, the loveliest month.
Then she found it was possible after all to weep for her brother-in-law, whom she had known so little.
At the graveside Linda, stiff-backed and unapproachable in her well-worn blacks and heavy veil, was simply enduring, waiting for it to be over.
But as the coffin was lowered, she suddenly remembered that Cordwell’s father had also died in a shooting accident.
Once, early in the marriage, when they had still exchanged intimacies, Gerald had confided to her that he sometimes suspected his father had deliberately shot himself because of his debts.
Gerald’s mother had still been alive then, and Linda had asked her about it.
She had said that it had definitely been an accident.
It had been witnessed: he had been out shooting with friends, had stepped backwards to take a shot, tripped, and the shot had gone wild.
Linda had never discussed it again with Gerald.
Now she was wondering if the suspicion had remained with him all his life, buried at the back of his mind.
Had he, at the end, seen it as an example, as the proper thing to do?
Oh, Gerald, you fool! She had a sudden overwhelming sense of his loneliness, and for the first and last time, tears prickled her eyes.
Afterwards, back at Holme Manor, Cordwell proved to have had many more friends than Linda had suspected, for all his neighbours came, and spoke warmly of him.
The Cordwells were an old family and had been at Holme Manor for hundreds of years, and for most of that time it had been a prosperous place.
They had done much good locally, opening a village school, building alms houses, and endowing the church.
St Mary’s, Frome Monkton, was tiny, and of Saxon plainness, but it boasted four very fine stained-glass windows that had been donated by Gerald’s grandfather; around the walls there were many marble and alabaster plaques and memorials to Cordwells of former ages, going back to the mediaeval; and two tattered flags hanging from the beams on the decani side reminded the congregation of Cordwells who had given their lives for their country at Sebastopol and Waterloo.