For Deader or Worse

by Sheri Cobb South

  Julia frowned. “I fail to see what that has to do with anything.”

  “Nevertheless, you will answer the question, if you please.”

  You don’t have to answer any question you don’t want to, he had told her. While she had no desire to hold him up to public ridicule, she was sure her husband would tell her not to create suspicion where no need for it existed.

  “My husband is London bred, Mr. Hughes,” she said. “He has had little opportunity for riding.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pickett. I was unaware that there were no horses in London.”

  A smattering of laughter greeted this remark, and Julia controlled her temper with an effort. “I should have said, rather, that Mr. Pickett has had little time for leisure, being occupied instead with keeping the King’s peace.”

  “In other words, he has to work for his bread, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” she conceded. “Much like yourself, Mr. Hughes.” But he is worth a dozen of you, she added mentally.

  “Very well, then, let us have this Bow Street Runner of yours up here and see what he has to say. You may step down, ma’am.” He turned to face the crowd. “Mr. John Pickett, you will please take the stand.”

  Chapter Ten

  Which Brings the Inquest to a Conclusion

  As Pickett rose and approached the chair vacated by his wife, he felt a subtle shift in the general atmosphere of the tavern. Everyone present seemed to sit up straighter, a few even leaning forward in their seats as if fearful of missing a single word. Pickett was not quite certain whether they were interested in the evidence he was about to give, or simply curious for a good look at the plebeian specimen who had married the squire’s daughter. Curiously enough, now that every eye in Norwood Green was upon him, he found it bothered him not at all. He knew himself to be more experienced in the workings of the law than anyone present (with the possible exception of the coroner himself, but Pickett suspected the Old Bailey in London saw depths of depravity that a lawyer in the rural Assizes never dreamed of) and likewise more qualified to offer testimony. The knowledge gave him confidence and, had he but known it, his demeanor as he approached the makeshift witness stand was such that more than one young woman was forced to acknowledge with a pang of envy that perhaps Julia Runyon had not disgraced herself so very badly, after all. His eyes found hers as they met in passing, and he gave her the quickest of winks before seating himself in the chair that was still warm from her—

  He wrenched his mind away from ideas wholly inappropriate for a court of law, and fixed his gaze on the coroner, who scowled at Pickett as if he could read his thoughts.

  “You will state for the jury your name and direction, please,” Mr. Hughes commanded.

  “John Pickett of Drury Lane, London.”

  “You are, as your wife claims, employed by the Bow Street Public Office?”

  Pickett nodded. “I am.”

  “For how long, if you please?”

  “In my present position, almost a year and a half. In total, five years.”

  Mr. Hughes scowled again, regarding Pickett with suspicion. “You seem very young for such a position, if I may say so. How old are you?”

  Pickett suppressed a pang of annoyance at yet another reference to his age, or lack thereof. “I will be five-and-twenty next week.” He saw his wife’s eyebrows lift slightly, and realized she had not known of his approaching natal day.

  “A young man of promise, it would seem,” observed the coroner.

  “Or fortunate in my mentor,” Pickett suggested.

  “Tell me, if you will, of your own part in Sunday’s excursion. I understand you declined to race with your wife and father-in-law.”

  “It is a wise man who knows his own limitations,” Pickett said with a hint of a smile.

  The coroner nodded. “Just so. Describe for the jury your arrival on the scene.”

  “By the time I reached the tree that had been designated as the finish line, Sir Thaddeus had already dismounted, and was bending over what appeared from a distance to be a rock. I could tell at once that something had happened to distress my wife, and before I could ask her what was the matter, Sir Thaddeus informed me that his groom, Tom, was dead. Since I am not without experience in such matters, I took it upon myself to examine the body.”

  “You will describe your findings, if you please.”

  “Certainly.” Pickett cast an apologetic glance at the groom’s widow. It was perhaps a good thing that the infant on her lap had begun to whimper and squirm, distracting the woman from the grisly testimony he was obliged to give. “The body of Tom Pratt lay face-up in a pool of blood. His throat had been cut almost from ear to ear. I took the liberty of touching the man’s wound, and found the blood dry. I saw no sign of a weapon, and so with Sir Thaddeus’s assistance, I moved the body in order to look underneath it.”

  “And did you find anything beneath the body?”

  Pickett shook his head. “No, sir, nothing.”

  The littlest Pratt began to cry in earnest. There was a stirring in the little assembly, and somewhat to Pickett’s surprise, Lady Runyon stood and addressed a few whispered words to the widow, then took the child from her and carried the infant from the tavern, bouncing it in her arms and cooing consolingly.

  “Now, Mr. Pickett,” the coroner said, once the distraction was removed, “what did you do next?”

  “I took the liberty of searching the man’s pockets.”

  The coroner, it seemed, could not approve this course of action. “You appear to have taken a great many liberties, Mr. Pickett,” he said, frowning.

  “If there is a man in Norwood Green better qualified to do so, pray point him out to me, and I will beg his pardon.”

  “Yes, well, what’s done cannot be undone, I suppose,” Mr. Hughes grumbled. “Having made this search, you might as well tell us what, if anything, you found.”

  “I found a number of coins in his pocket, including guinea pieces totaling more than ten pounds.”

  A murmur of speculation greeted this pronouncement, as everyone in Norwood Green apparently had his or her own idea as to how Tom Pratt might have come by such a sum.

  “Was there anything else?” the coroner asked.

  Pickett shook his head. “No, although I looked quite thoroughly.”

  “I have the impression you had something particular in mind. What, exactly, were you searching for?”

  “After Sir Thaddeus confirmed my own suspicions that a groom would be unlikely to carry so much money on his person, I looked for some explanation: a bill of sale, a blackmail note—”

  It seemed the vicar’s son was not the only one who could set the cat amongst the pigeons, Pickett reflected as pandemonium broke out. Unfortunately, this attempt to force the blackmail victim (if victim there were) into betraying himself by some manifestation of fear or guilt appeared doomed to failure. Most of the faces in the crowd seemed to register expressions of scandalized glee. His wife looked back at him with a worried question in her eyes while her father, seated beside her, scowled at this implied slur upon his household. Lord Buckleigh appeared bored with the whole procedure, while Lady Buckleigh followed the proceedings with a gaze more courteous than rapt, as she might regard a matter of local interest that in no way concerned herself. Major Pennington looked straight ahead, his brow puckered thoughtfully.

  “A blackmail note?” Mr. Hughes echoed sharply, raising his voice to be heard over the hubbub. “Did you have any reason to suppose that Tom Pratt was blackmailing anyone?”

  “When a man turns up dead with an unexplained amount of money upon his person, the possibility must always be considered,” Pickett pointed out reasonably.

  “Just answer the question, if you please,” the coroner chided.

  Pickett sighed. “No, Mr. Hughes, I had no reason to believe Tom Pratt was blackmailing anyone. How could I? I didn’t know the man.”

  “That will be enough, Mr. Pickett,” the coroner said, scowling. “You
may return to your seat.”

  As Pickett rose from the witness’s chair, a smattering of applause broke out and a few people even slipped out of the tavern, eager to be the first to spread the news that Tom Pratt had been up to some sort of skullduggery. It appeared the crowd was pleased with Pickett’s performance, even though he suspected the coroner did not share their opinion.

  “Will Mr. Robert McAdams please take the stand?” called Mr. Hughes.

  The tall, white-haired man in the front row came forward.

  “Mr. McAdams,” the coroner said, after the oath was administered, “you will state your credentials for the jury, if you please.”

  “Other than the fact that I have treated all of them, and their families as well, at some point or other?” the new witness said with a hint of a smile. Seeing that the coroner was not amused, he continued in a more serious vein, “Very well, Mr. Hughes. I studied both anatomy and surgery at the University of Edinburgh, and trained in medicine under the eminent physician Mr. Geoffrey Woodford. I have practiced medicine and surgery in Norwood Green for more than thirty years.”

  “And you examined the body of Tom Pratt after it was fetched back to his house, is that correct?”

  The physician nodded. “It is.”

  “Tell us, if you will, the results of that examination.”

  “Certainly. It was very clear to me that Tom Pratt died from a catastrophic blood loss following the laceration of the jugular vein.”

  The coroner nodded, as this was exactly what he had expected to hear. “And, in your professional opinion, is it possible that he could have inflicted such an injury himself?”

  Mr. McAdams frowned. “Committed suicide, you mean? Impossible! Given the length and depth of the wound, any man making such an attempt would be dead, or at least unconscious, before he could finish the job.”

  “Did your examination yield any evidence of a struggle?”

  The physician was silent for a long moment. “Not a struggle, no, but there were certain signs that may be interpreted to lend credence to the theory of willful murder.”

  “You will describe these signs for the jury, if you please.”

  “A shock of the victim’s hair—”

  “Mr. McAdams, it has not yet been established that Mr. Pratt was anyone’s ‘victim.’ Refrain, if you will, from naming him thus.”

  “Very well, Mr. Hughes,” the doctor said, acknowledging this command with a nod. “A shock of Mr. Pratt’s hair stood up from his scalp, and when I examined his head for any sign of injury, I discovered that a small but significant amount of hair around it had been broken off, sometimes pulled out by the roots.”

  “Let me remind you that Mr. Pratt was in his thirties. A great many men begin to lose hair at that age.”

  “I am well aware of that, Mr. Hughes, for I was once numbered among them. But the hair loss that accompanies aging usually follows a particular pattern, thinning at the crown and receding from the forehead and temples. That pattern was entirely missing in this case.”

  “Very well, we will accept that Tom Pratt was not going prematurely bald. But have you considered that he might have been driven to tear his own hair out? After all, the man had five children.”

  A smattering of laughter greeted this suggestion, and all eyes shifted to Martha Pratt, who seemed to find nothing humorous in it.

  Mr. McAdams sighed. “I suppose he might have done the damage himself. Or another might have stood behind him, seized his hair, and pulled, thus jerking his head back and giving better access to his throat.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. McAdams, but since the purpose of this inquest is not idle speculation, we will hear no more of it. You may step down.”

  The physician did so, to the obvious disappointment of the crowd, who had enjoyed his evidence almost as much as they had Pickett’s. The next person called to give evidence was the dead man’s widow, who issued sternly whispered instructions to her children before taking the chair vacated by the doctor.

  “Your name, please?” the coroner requested.

  “Martha Watkins Pratt,” was the barely audible answer.

  “You were married to the deceased for how long?”

  “Eleven years come June.”

  “State for the jury, as well as you can remember, your husband’s movements on Sunday.”

  “That I can’t do, sir, for I never seen him on Sunday.”

  The coroner frowned. “Very well, then, what did he do on Saturday?”

  “He went to work for Sir Thaddeus, same as always,” she said, nodding in the direction of her late husband’s employer. “He didn’t come home after, but that weren’t unusual, it being a Saturday. I reckoned he’d gone to the Pig and Whistle, but then he never come home that night at all.”

  “Was it unusual for him to remain out all night?”

  “Oh yes, he always come home soon or late—in spite of certain folks tryin’ to get him to stay,” she added with a darkling glance at Sadie.

  “I see,” Mr. Hughes said, nodding. “Mrs. Pratt, did your husband have any enemies that you were aware of?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir.”

  “And what of this money that was found in his pockets? Have you any idea of its source?”

  “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “Its source,” the coroner repeated. “Do you know where he came by it?”

  “No. I knew he’d come into money of a sudden, but he didn’t say from where. I reckoned Sir Thaddeus must’ve give him a rise in wages. Right excited about it, he were. He even bought me this here bonnet without my even asking for it,” she added, apparently feeling some explanation was required for her wearing such festive headgear on so solemn an occasion.

  A murmur of feminine approval greeted this pronouncement, and one woman went so far as to poke her husband in the ribs and deliver a whispered scold. Pickett suspected the man would be shopping for a bonnet in the near future.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pratt, and may I say how sorry I am for your loss,” the coroner concluded.

  He allowed the widow to return to her seat, and called Sadie, the tavern maid, to take her place.

  “You will please state your name for the jury.”

  “Sarah Cooper, sir, but everyone calls me Sadie.”

  “You work at the Pig and Whistle?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Aye, but she earns more on her back!” called a masculine voice from the crowd, to much raucous laughter.

  Mr. Hughes addressed the assembly in stentorious tones that would not have disgraced the Old Bailey. “Let me remind all of you that a man is dead. It is the purpose of this inquest to discover why. If you are incapable of conducting yourself in a manner befitting the occasion, I must ask you to leave.”

  As no one wanted to miss out on the most excitement Norwood Green had seen in years, a hush fell over the taproom.

  “Now, Miss Cooper, I want you to recall, if you will, the night of Saturday last. Was Mr. Pratt among the customers at the Pig and Whistle that night?”

  “Aye, he were,” she said, nodding.

  “Was there anything unusual in his behavior?”

  “Aye, it were unusual, all right! He were buying drinks all ’round like he was King Midas himself.”

  “I see. And did he offer any explanation for this uncharacteristic generosity?”

  “He said he’d come into money, and all his worries was over, but he didn’t say how.”

  “What time did he leave that night?”

  “Eleven o’clock. I remember particular, on account of he kept saying he had to meet someone at midnight. I thought it was an odd time to be making plans, myself.”

  “Odd, indeed,” the coroner agreed. “Was he drunk?”

  Her brow puckered in thought. “Not falling down drunk, only about half seas over.”

  “Dutch courage, perhaps?”

  She shook her head, setting her ebony curls bouncing. “No, for he didn’t seem afeared at all.”

  “Than
k you, Miss Cooper. You may step down.”

  Once Sadie had returned to her seat, the coroner addressed the jury. “Let me remind you that this is not a trial. No one is being accused of murdering Tom Pratt, nor are you to make any speculations as to who might have done so. You will render a verdict of natural causes, accident or misadventure, suicide, or unlawful killing.”

  The seven men of the jury shuffled out of the taproom and into the adjoining private parlor, where they did not deliberate for long. Scarcely ten minutes had passed before the door to the parlor opened and the jury filed back into the room.

  “Have you reached a decision?” Mr. Hughes asked.

  The seven nodded, and one, a shopkeeper apparently designated the spokesman, said, “We have, sir. We find Tom Pratt the victim of unlawful killing by person or persons unknown.”

  Chapter Eleven

  In Which Mr. and Mrs. Pickett

  Pursue Separate Lines of Inquiry

  “I must say, it all sounds rather disappointing,” Lady Runyon said with a sigh as they set out across the village green. She had not returned to the inquest since taking charge of the youngest Pratt child, and it had been left for her husband and daughter to fill her in on the testimony she had missed, as well as the jury’s verdict. “It seems to me that we know no more than we did before. What will happen now?”

  Sir Thaddeus rubbed the side of his nose as he considered the question. “With all those children to feed, it’s unlikely poor Martha Pratt can afford the expense of an investigation. I suppose it will all depend on Buckleigh, and I’m afraid the death of a groom won’t hold that much interest for him, he being just returned from his honeymoon. I daresay the whole thing will be forgotten in a fortnight.”

  “Er, perhaps not,” Pickett said.

  Sir Thaddeus bent a sharp look on his son-in-law. “What do you mean?”

  “I told his lordship that I should be pleased to look into Tom Pratt’s death. He seemed to have no objection, so ...” He shrugged his shoulders.