‘Chapman, my earnest advice to you is to leave matters well alone. The girl has gone and the village is a better place without her. That, you may think, is not a very charitable thing to say, but I can assure you it’s the truth. From the time she first began to realize that she had the sort of beauty men run mad for, Eris was trouble, playing off one young fellow against the other. No one can say for certain that she’s dead; that she’s been murdered. If there was proof, it might be different. It would be different. The murderer would have to be brought to justice. But as things are, there’s nothing anyone can do about it. A Sheriff’s Officer came from Gloucester shortly after Eris was reported missing to make enquiries; but although he was naturally very suspicious of Tom Rawbone, without witnesses or a body, no arrest could be made.’
‘If Eris has run away, where might she have gone?’ I asked.
Sir Anselm scratched his head. ‘There’s her great-aunt, who lives in Gloucester. But as Theresa Lilywhite was staying with her sister when Eris vanished, it’s reasonable to suppose that the girl didn’t go there. Moreover, subsequent investigations at the great-aunt’s house proved fruitless. There are also, I understand, some distant Haycombe cousins who live near Dursley, but they are almost total strangers even to Maud. She was adamant that the girl would never have thought of them. Although, once again, I believe someone did pay them a visit, just to check, but she hadn’t been near them.’ The priest picked a sliver of fish from between his teeth and regarded it thoughtfully for a moment or two before swallowing it. ‘But it’s perfectly possible,’ he went on, ‘that Eris just ran away, not to anyone in particular, but simply to seek her fortune. To make a new life for herself. Even as we speak, she could be working as a cook-maid in the kitchens of someone’s hall or castle. Or as companion to some lonely old lady.’ Sir Anselm paused, presumably to consider this charming picture. Then his eyes met mine once more, and he sighed heavily as though acknowledging my right to be sceptical.
With great difficulty, I managed to get down the last spoonful of broth and pushed my bowl aside. Then I cleansed my palate with a draft of good ale.
‘Father,’ I said, ‘let’s assume for the sake of argument that Eris was murdered. On her way home, somewhere between Dragonswick Farm and the Lilywhite smallholding, soaked to the skin, head down against the wind and rain, she ran into … someone. Someone who, perhaps, did not at first intend to kill her, but who was so infuriated by the events of that evening that he – or she – was incapable of self-control when confronted by the cause of all the trouble. Who – again just for the sake of argument – do you think that someone could have been?’
Sir Anselm breathed deeply. ‘My son, I cannot say.’
I was about to deride his caution and timidity, when I hesitated. There had been something about his reply, some slight inflection in his voice, the merest emphasis on the word ‘cannot’, that arrested and held my attention. As if sensing my sudden suspicion, he bent down and began to make much of Hercules, who immediately jumped on to his lap and started to lick his face. I said no more, but just sat there, thinking.
The priest knew something, I was convinced of it. But what? Was it possible that the murderer had confessed his or her crime, knowing the secret to be safe if made in the sanctuary of the confessional? Had all that Sir Anselm said so far been merely a blind in order to deceive me and everyone else into thinking him as ignorant as ourselves? ‘I cannot say,’ he had said. Yet that slight stress on the word ‘cannot’ was hardly a sound enough foundation on which to build a solid theory. ‘Bricks without straw, my lad,’ I told myself severely, but it had no effect. My conviction that the priest possessed the answer to the mystery had taken root and refused to be easily dislodged.
He was deliberately allowing himself to be distracted by Hercules, so I leaned over, lifted the dog off his lap and dropped the animal to the floor. Hercules, incensed, ran to the kitchen door, scratching at it and barking to be let out. I ordered him, pretty sharply, to desist; so, recognizing the tone of voice, he retired under the table to sulk.
I stretched out a hand and gripped the priest’s wrist.
‘Father,’ I said gently, ‘when you say that you cannot say, does that mean you know no more than I do? Or does it mean … something else?’
He disengaged his arm. ‘It means just that, chapman. Don’t read more into the remark than is intended. Let us hope that wherever Eris Lilywhite is now, she has repented of her sins and is happy.’
There was a protracted silence, then I nodded.
‘Very well … But I beg you to be careful, especially if you are in possession of dangerous knowledge.’
‘All knowledge is dangerous,’ he answered tartly, ‘as Adam and Eve discovered when they ate the apple in the Garden of Eden.’
‘All right,’ I laughed. ‘Let’s change the subject … What do you know about the murder of two men who sank the well in Upper Brockhurst Hall?’
Sir Anselm stared at me blankly while his mind adjusted to this totally unexpected twist in the conversation. At length, however, he said, frowning, ‘I’ve heard the story, of course. I’ve been priest in this village for more then twenty years.’ He indulged himself with a momentary reminiscence. ‘It must be all of that, I daresay. I went through the usual progression, acolyte, subdeacon, deacon before being ordained a priest, but I eventually came to Lower Brockhurst in the same year that the Earl of Warwick, who was then Keeper of the Sea, defeated the Spanish fleet off Calais, on Trinity Sunday morning. That must be over a score of years ago, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Probably,’ I agreed. ‘But as I would only have been five or six at the time, I can’t be certain. Anyway,’ I continued, ‘you’re familiar with the story?’
‘No one can live here for twenty years and not be familiar with it. It’s one of the legends of the place, all the more enduring because the mystery of who did it has never been resolved.’ He added curiously, ‘Why do you ask? It can have nothing to do with what we’ve been talking about. Or are you hoping to solve a 130-year-old murder as well?’
I didn’t reply directly. I leaned my elbows on the table and cupped my chin in my hands. ‘Do you have any thoughts on the subject?’ I asked him.
The priest laughed dismissively. ‘My son, I have other things to occupy my attention than a murder committed all that time ago. What is the point? Even if there were the remotest chance of solving the mystery, it’s far too late. No one can be brought to justice for the crime now.’ He regarded me straitly. ‘What makes you ask? You can’t think that it has any connection with the disappearance of Eris Lilywhite, surely?’
I grimaced. ‘I must admit I’m unable to see how the two events could be linked. It’s just that I have this irrational feeling – a conviction, almost – that somehow or other they are. All nonsense, of course! A hundred and thirty years is a long time.’
‘A very long time,’ Sir Anselm agreed.
‘Where were the bodies found?’ I asked. ‘Do you know?’
He puckered his forehead. ‘In the woods not far from the Hall, I’ve always been led to believe. But whether or not that tradition is correct, I wouldn’t like to say with any certainty.’
‘But if you’re right, the men hadn’t got far before being set upon. Why do you think they were killed, Father?’
‘What a question! How do I know? But judging by what I’ve been told, robbery would not seem to be the answer. Not unless, that is, the robbers were disturbed by someone or something before they could empty the men’s purses.’
‘I suppose that is a possibility.’
But there was no point in pursuing the subject. At this distance of time, the priest could have no more notion than I, or anyone else, of the truth of the matter. So I changed the subject yet again and invited him to tell me all he knew about the Lilywhites. ‘Were you the priest here when Maud Haycombe and Gilbert Lilywhite were married?’