But under Egan its prosperity had progressively dwindled, to such an extent that for the past few years the inn had been hesitating on the edge of ruin. It seemed to keep going only by the tenacity and good sense of his twin daughters, Grace and Mary-Ann.
âPoor Egan,' said Luke as we trudged along the bankside. âI was drinking at the Ferry only last week, on my way back from visiting a patient.'
âI hadn't seen him for a month or more,' I said. âWe see his daughters, of course, because they're Elizabeth's cousins. But we gave over inviting Antony two or three years ago. It had become impossible. What condition was he in â on the day you were there?'
âSame as always; no better, no worse.'
âI don't think he'd enjoyed a waking hour of sobriety for five years.'
âIs
enjoy
the right word, Titus? I enjoy a drink. But men like that can do nothing without a drink. Drunkenness is their sobriety; their accustomed condition.'
âIf so, what is their drunkenness?'
âUnconsciousness, I think. Oblivion.'
âWell, now poor Antony has found an eternity of that.'
âWhat made his life take the turn it did? Was he always a sot?'
âNo. Once he was the model of moderation.'
âThen what happened?'
âThe son that he cherished above all other creatures deserted him, and went south, without ever writing or sending word. And then, when word came at last, it was that the boy had died. His father took to drink because he could not bear to remember it.'
By now we had left the water meadows behind and reached the ferry's landing stage, on the northern side of the river. From here we had to cross to the inn on the far bank, which meant waiting for the ferry. We could see the flat, raft-like conveyance labouring towards us, fighting the flood as two men turned the great winching wheel that hauled along the fixed rope that stretched from bank to bank. A short distance upstream, smoke was rising from the chimneys of the inn, which stood among a small cluster of houses and trees known as Middleforth Green.
The day had started at the inn as it did every day. There was no sign yet that this might not be one like any other.
The ferry reached land with a crunch and lowered its ramp. Half a dozen passengers came off, and with them a cart laden with leeks, sparrowgrass, watercress and other market vegetables. The ferryman, Robert Battersby, a fellow famous for his bad grace, tied off his ropes and came ashore with his son and crewman, Simeon, a muscular boy of seventeen. As they ambled towards the wooden hut, in which they sheltered from rain and sold tickets between crossings, I stopped them and said we required immediate transport over to the Ferry Inn. He muttered something about his timetable but I cut him short, saying it was Coroner's business and that as soon as he had transported me and Dr Fidelis, he was to return and await the arrival of a body from downriver, for bringing across after us.
When he heard this, a smile broke across young Simeon's face, and be began jiggling up and down.
âAnother one gone in, is it?' he said, his voice lifting with sudden delight. âAnother sacrifice to the water? Oh, aye. She's a cruel one is the river goddess.'
âShut it and don't be daft,' said the father savagely to the son, then turned back to me. âPay no mind, Mr Cragg. His head's full of nonsense. We'll take you now. It'll be tuppence.'
I gave him the money, and a warning.
âLet's have a little reverence when the body comes after, Mr Battersby, if you please.'