The Tale of Holly How (16 page)

21

The Interview

It was raining lightly when William Heelis led his horse around to the rear of the Sawrey Hotel and turned it over to the stable boy, who put it into a loose box with Dr. Butters’s gray mare, next to Captain Woodcock’s teal blue Rolls-Royce. Two of the village boys were standing beside the motorcar, staring at it with a half-frightened admiration, whilst their collie dog circled it, growling. Wherever it went, Woodcock’s automobile created a stir.

The motorcar was a sign of changing times, Heelis thought to himself with a sigh as he went into the hotel to meet the other school trustees. He would much rather drive a horse, but as a solicitor in Hawkshead, he already knew of several men who were planning to purchase automobiles. This might be a distant corner of England, but like it or not, the future was about to come roaring at top speed down the road and into the most remote village of the Lake District.

The trustees had chosen the Sawrey Hotel as a place to interview Dr. Gainwell because it was directly across the road from the school building. Afterward, they could take him for a tour, which would certainly be brief, since there was precious little to be seen. The thirty pupils were housed in two wooden-floored, high-ceilinged rooms that had once served as a chapel, with a lobby for coats and boots and a separate anteroom where the two teachers had their tea. As Heelis went up the main stairs of the hotel, he wondered again why a man of Gainwell’s experience and educational standing would be interested in such an out of the way place. But perhaps it was only his connection with Lady Longford that had brought him here, and he was not truly interested in becoming head teacher at Sawrey School.

At least, this was what Will Heelis hoped, for it was his opinion—his
settled
opinion—that Margaret Nash ought to have the position. And after the gossip he had heard at the Tower Bank Arms a little while ago, he thought that the sooner the place was offered, the better, for all concerned. He rapped on the door of the large sitting room at the top of the stairs—often used for meetings of various clubs and groups—and went in.

Dr. Butters and Miles Woodcock were already there. The doctor was standing with his back to the window that looked out onto the main road, a cup of tea in one hand, the other hand in the pocket of his tweed suit. Captain Miles Woodcock, Justice of the Peace for Sawrey district, was sitting in a cretonne-covered armchair, both feet stretched out in front of him, his fingers tented under his chin. He got to his feet and came forward as Will entered the room.

“Hullo, Heelis,” he said. “Glad you could be here this afternoon.”

“I’m not sure I’m glad,” Will said frankly, shaking Woodcock’s hand. He smiled in greeting at the doctor, who was one of the most respected men in the district, the one people turned to in time of trouble. “Good to see you, Butters.” He hesitated, then came out with his opinion straightforwardly, as was his usual manner. “To tell God’s honest truth, gentlemen, I’m ready to name Margaret Nash and let her get on with the job. And the devil take this Gainwell fellow.”

“The devil might not have him.” Woodcock nodded at a tea tray on the table next to the window. “Help yourself to tea, Will. I had it sent up, feeling that we might need it.” As Will poured a cup and stirred in sugar, the captain added, “As we all know, Gainwell is Lady Longford’s candidate. If we turn him down and appoint our Miss Nash, we’ll never hear the last of it—nor will Miss Nash, unfortunately. Her ladyship is capable of stirring up all sorts of trouble.”

“It won’t be the first time Lady Longford has posed a problem,” the doctor remarked, turning from the window.

“Right,” Will agreed. “That business about refusing to accept responsibility for her granddaughter, as a recent instance.
Tyrannical
is the word that comes to mind.”

“Ah, yes. You were involved in that,” said the captain, resuming his chair.

“As her solicitor, it was my job to remind her of her familial duty,” Will said. “What good old Lord Longford would have wanted, etcetera etcetera. The vicar, as her spiritual adviser, put in a strong word from the moral angle, and between the two of us, we brought her around to our point of view.” Will sat down across from the captain, putting his cup on the small table beside him. “I’m not sure we did the girl a good turn, though. She must be lonely, and no doubt she’s bullied by her grandmother’s companion. I’ve seen that type before. Meek as you please to the mistress, and a tyrant to the rest of the household.”

“And to make matters worse,” the doctor said, “the old lady’s ill. I’ve been asked to stop in several times in the last three weeks.” He pushed out his lips, frowning. “It’s puzzling, I must say. She’s better, then she’s worse. Some sort of enteric infection, it seems. Responds to treatment for a few days, then flares up again. Her present physical condition is not likely to sweeten her disposition, I fear.”

“All the worse for us,” the captain said wryly. He paused for a moment and then said, almost reluctantly, “Changing the subject, Will, I suppose you’ve heard about Ben Hornby.”

Will took out his pipe. “Another prickly character. What’s old Hornby done now?”

“Then you haven’t heard.” The captain was somber. “He’s come to grief, I’m afraid. His body was found at the foot of a rock outcrop on Holly How yesterday afternoon, by our intrepid Miss Potter.”

“Good God!” Will exclaimed in stunned surprise. “Old Hornby, dead? I’m sorry to hear that, I really am. How’d it happen? And what the devil was Miss Potter doing up at Holly How?” Although why he should be surprised, he didn’t know. The lady seemed to enjoy tramping about the countryside and turning up in unexpected places. Only a few days before, he’d encountered her when he went up to the little lake behind Oatmeal Crag to do a spot of fishing. She was there, sketching mushrooms or something of the sort, and they’d had a pleasant conversation.

“She’d gone with Jennings to fetch some sheep she’d bought,” the captain replied. “She’s restocking that farm of hers, you know. As to how Hornby came to fall, that’s not entirely clear.” He glanced at the doctor. “The coroner has agreed to an inquest. Butters thinks there might have been foul play.”

“Foul play!” Will exclaimed.

“He was whacked across the shoulders with a stick or something of the sort,” the doctor said. “The corpse is sporting a substantial bruise.”

“That’s a sad business,” Will said. He tamped tobacco into his pipe and lit it. “Mind you, Hornby was a difficult chap. I’ve certainly had my share of disagreements with him over the years. But he was a steady fellow,” he added, pulling on his pipe, “and always went by the rules—much to the irritation of some.”

Having been a solicitor for nearly a decade, Will had had the opportunity to disagree with a great many people. The trick, of course, was to remain on friendly terms with as many as possible, even with those who were arrayed on the opposite side of a particularly thorny legal issue. Will made it a practice to be amiable and even-handed with all, no matter which side they were on, and over the years, the habit had usually paid off in goodwill.

“ ‘The irritation of some,’ ” the captain mused thoughtfully. “I say, Heelis, I find that remark intriguing. Who do you think might have had it in for the old fellow?”

“That’s hard to say,” Will replied. “There was that business with Toby Teathor last winter. Remember? Ben had him up before the magistrate for stealing cider.”

“That’s true,” said the doctor. “Ben had a fierce row or two with fell-walkers, as well. They left his gates open. And then, of course, there’s Isaac Chance. Now that Ben’s gone, there’s nothing standing between him and Holly How Farm. Lady Longford will be glad to let him have it.”

“I’ve always believed that Chance had something to do with that barn burning,” the captain said, “but there was no evidence on which he could be charged. And the cows—no proof there, either.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket. “However, in this case, we have this.”

He held out a clay pipe, of the sort that country people in England had smoked for centuries. In the last half-century, as briar pipes became more readily available and people took to smoking cheaper cigarettes, clay pipes had begun to be seen as old-fashioned and countrified. Now, they were chiefly smoked by older people, both men and women.

Will took the pipe and turned it in his fingers. “So Hornby was smoking whilst he tramped around on Holly How. I don’t see what that proves.”

“He didn’t smoke,” the doctor said. He put down his teacup and ran his hand through his graying hair. “That’s the thing, you see, Will. He gave up smoking some years ago, on my advice. And when Ben Hornby made up his mind to do a thing, you know, he did it. Stubborn as the day is long.”

“Ah,” Will said again. He frowned. “I don’t suppose there was anything overtly odd about his death. Any sign of a struggle, I mean, at the point where he fell.”

Miles shook his head. “I had a look around and didn’t see anything. I certainly would like to talk with the owner of that pipe. You’ve noticed the initials on it, I suppose. H. S.”

“Yes. Highly revealing, one might think, if one happened to be a Scotland Yard detective.” Will grinned. “H. S., you know, stands for Hiram Swift.”

“I didn’t know,” the captain said, adding eagerly, “Hiram Swift, eh? You’re sure of that? Never heard of the man. Is he from this area?”

Will chuckled. “Not a person, worse luck for you, Miles. Hiram Swift is the name of a pottery not far from Ambleside.”

“There you are, Woodcock,” the doctor broke in with a dry laugh. “That’s your answer.”

“Hiram Swift has been making brick and tile—and tobacco pipes—for a half century or better,” Will went on. “The clay pipes are mostly smoked by country people, I should think. Some claim they’re superior, although I can’t say, being a briar man myself.” He put the pipe to his nose and sniffed. “You might come closer to tracking the owner of this one if you focused on the tobacco, though.”

The captain whistled. “A regular Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you? What’s so distinctive about that tobacco?”

“You don’t recognize it?” Will asked, in mock surprise. “Why, I’m astonished. It’s Brown Twist, you know, manufactured by Samuel Gawith, right across the lake, in Kendal. Brown Number Four, if my nose doesn’t fool me, cherry flavored.” He sniffed again, deeply. “Yes, cherry, without a doubt. I’m partial to rum,” he added, handing the pipe back.

“Well, I’d say that narrows down the field a goodish bit,” the captain replied with an ironic chuckle. “I’m looking for a country man who favors Hiram Swift clay pipes and Brown Number Four, with a cherry—”

He was interrupted by a light rap on the door. It opened, and Samuel Sackett came in. “Ah, Vicar,” all three men said together, and stood.

“Oh, don’t get up, don’t get up,” said the vicar hurriedly, taking off his hat and hanging it on the rack beside the door. He was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with thinning gray hair and a gentle, scholarly demeanor. “Ah, tea,” he said, brightening. “Jolly thoughtful of you, Captain. No, no, I’ll help myself—please don’t bother.”

“Any sign of our candidate along the way?” the captain inquired.

“As a matter of fact,” the vicar replied, taking his cup to a chair and sitting down with a sigh, “I glimpsed Lady Longford’s phaeton driving down the road just as I came into the hotel. Dr. Gainwell should be with us shortly.” He shook his head, blinking rapidly. “A difficult business, this, I’m afraid. I spoke to her ladyship this morning, as you suggested, Captain. I fear that I accomplished very little, however, other than possibly antagonizing her. She appears quite determined that her man be offered the position.”

“Unfortunate,” the captain said.

“Indeed. And even more unfortunately, Miss Nash seems to have been informed that the offer has already been made and accepted.” The vicar heaved a heavy sigh. “It is said in the village that she and her sister are preparing to leave for the south of England. The Braithwaites are said to be hoping to take their cottage.”

“Leaving for the south of England!” Will exclaimed.

“I have never seen such a village for gossip,” the captain said, looking grim. “I doubt very much that Miss Nash would contemplate taking another position without saying anything to us. But I should very much regret it if she and her sister felt any discomfort on our account.” He went to the window and lifted the curtain. “Well, there’s our candidate.” He paused and added, with wry admiration, “My word, just look at the cut of that coat, will you? Saville Row, without a doubt. What an elegant chap he is!”

Will went to the window and looked over Woodcock’s shoulder. The man climbing out of the phaeton looked to be in his late thirties, thin and fair-haired and very well dressed.

The vicar joined them. “And credentials as impeccable as the cut of his coat,” he said gloomily. “I have the letters with me, should you care to review them. One is from the director of the London Missionary Society, attesting to Dr. Gainwell’s outstanding achievements as a missionary. The other is from Dr. Palmer, a man of great reputation in the field of native peoples’ education. Both are laudatory.” He took a sheaf of papers out of his coat pocket and regarded them with distaste. “Exceptionally so, I’m afraid.”