“Mother,” I interceded, as the good lady paused to draw breath, “I wonder if Miss Crawford is not to be called up by the coroner? For the care her attire has demanded, would suggest some benefit in display.”
“Indeed,” my mother replied, laying a hand over my own in agitation. “And yet, we were as well acquainted with Captain Fielding—though Miss Crawford would have it he was to beg for Miss Armstrong’s hand, and not yours, as I had thought. Why are not we to be called?”
“I imagine we can have nothing of particular intelligence to offer the coroner,” I replied firmly, and patted my mother’s cold fingers. My father harrumphed, censorious of our chatter, and at that very moment Mr. Carpenter appeared—coroner and surgeon of Lyme, and the superior of our friend Mr. Dagliesh—and strode importandy down the aisle. All rose to offer him the respect that was his due.
Joshua Carpenter was a portly gentleman of jovial countenance and a ponderous wig, of somewhat outdated fashion. He was dressed in rusty black—rusty, from its apparent long use and sad neglect—his collar was wilted, his shirtsleeves frayed, and his coat collar bore the signs of a nuncheon recentiy consumed. When he turned and surveyed the uplifted faces of the crowd, however, I detected a gleam of amused intelligence in his eyes, and a contemptuous curl of the lip, as though he understood well that gossip, rather than justice, was the hope of nearly everyone assembled. He glanced at the twelve men of the jury—all strangers to my eyes, and drawn, it seemed, from local folk—who sat composed and cowed upon two of the inn’s long benches, and nodded to the one appointed foreman.
How similar was this scene to the one I witnessed two winters past, at an inn in Hertfordshire, when another man had died all untimely! Painful memories could not but intrude as 1 contemplated my surroundings. And yet—how different, in the figure of Mr. Carpenter, and the mood of the crowd, and the degree of interest I felt in the outcome. For though my anxiety was roused on Geoffrey Sidmouth’s behalf, and my heart aflutter at the prospect of seeing once more his harsh and brooding features, I knew better this time what I should expect. I had been an innocent, and had hoped for justice, when my dear friend Isobel, Countess of Scargrave, was accused of murdering her husband; today I was unlikely to be so sanguine. Appearances should tell against the master of High Down, and I little doubted that, the inquest speedily concluded, he should be held until the next session of the local Assizes,1 and then sent to London to be tried for the murder of Captain Percival Fielding.
Unless, of course, I discovered something to his benefit betweentimes.
Mr. Carpenter called for order, and at that moment there was a rustle of consciousness and low-muttered talk from the rear of the room; turning, I perceived Mr. Dobbin, the Lyme justice, and his burly fellows, as they led Geoffrey Sidmouth into the assembly. Behind them came Seraphine, her head high above her long red cloak, and the boy Toby on his crutches; and the mutters swelled into a roar. What pity I felt for the mademoiselle, at that moment! The mixture of pride and despair that overlaid her countenance! A confusion of emotions could not but grip her, at such a time.
‘This inquest is now convened,” Mr. Carpenter declared, in a voice plummy and deep, as the Grange folk found their seats; and he called first a young fellow of rough appearance, who stated his name as Ted Nesbitt, of Smallwood Farm, not far off the Charmouth road. It was this Nesbitt—a lad of perhaps fifteen—who had discovered Captain Fielding’s body; and with many awkward pauses, and scratchings of his head, young Ted related for the assembly’s edification how he had all but stumbled upon it.
“Lying at the edge of the road, the dead gentleman was, and near hid by the tall grass, that part of the field not having been mown yet in the haymaking. I’d have passed him entire if the horse hadn’t started, and even then I took him for a lot of cast-off clothing.”
“And what did you then, Mr. Nesbitt?” the coroner enquired.
“Made sure he was dead, I did—which he were—and took off for Darby as though the Devil himsel’ were arter me.”
“Was the gendeman known to you?”
“He were Captain Fielding,” the lad said stoudy. “I’d seen him about, us being neighbours of a sort; but my folks don’t mix wit’ the quality, sir, and I can’t say as we ever exchanged more nor a hullo.”
Mr. Crawford next appeared. His bald pate shone with anxiety, his aspect was set and disturbed. He said little more than was necessary for the grim intelligence he must impart—namely, that he had attended Nesbitt to the body, and ascertained to his shock that the dead man was Percival Fielding, and that he had certainly been murdered; and that done, he had fetched Mr. Carpenter and his assistant, William Dagliesh, and the Lyme justice, Mr. Elliot Dobbin.
“Did you note anything particular about the corpse or the scene that might assist this enquiry, Mr. Crawford?” the coroner asked, with an air of complaisance.
There was an instant’s painful silence; and I observed Mr. Crawford’s eyes drift towards Geoffrey Sidmouth’s position in the rear of the room. “I did, sir,” he replied, and his jaw set firmly on the words. “There was a chaos of hoofprints in the mud about the corpse.”
“From this, we are to assume that the deceased was mounted at the time of his death, or very nearly before.”
Mr. Crawford bowed, and hesitated, and then continued with reluctance, “That is not all we are to assume, Mr. Carpenter.”
“I see,” the coroner replied slowly, his voice like cut velvet. “Then perhaps you may enlighten us, Mr. Crawford. Why should these hoofprints concern us?”
“They were of a singular kind. They bore the initials GS clearly stamped within them.”
“GS?” The slightest of frowns beetled the gendeman’s brow. “And can you conjecture, Mr. Crawford, what these letters might signify?”
Poor Crawford appeared to debate the point within himself. “I took them to mean that the horse belonged to a gentleman of my acquaintance.” “Presumably a gendeman whose initials are GS?” Mr. Carpenter suggested. “Yes” There was a fractional pause as the coroner adjusted his frayed lace cuffs. “I must ask you, Mr. Crawford, which gentleman among your acquaintance may lay claim to those letters of the alphabet?” “Geoffrey Sidmouth,” Crawford replied, his voice barely audible.
“And why should this be so?” The coroner glanced about the room as though seeking some support. “Why should not these hoofprints and their damning marks belong to some other person?”
“Because I knew Mr. Sidmouth to make a practise of having his blacksmith etch those initials on his mounts’ shoes.”
“I see,” Mr. Carpenter said, and sat back in his chair. That he had been apprised of this intelligence well before the proceedings, by the efficient Mr. Dobbin, I little doubted; and that his behaviour on the occasion was intended for effect, I perfecdy understood. The fellow had surely missed his calling—he should better have trod the boards of Drury Lane, in the guise of Falstaff. I expected him to call Sidmouth without delay, and end the sad business; but Mr. Carpenter was nothing if not thorough. The coroner had set aside the afternoon for the canvassing of Percival Fielding’s death; and he was not about to quit his glorious stage so well before dinner. He now bade Mr. Crawford stand down, and called Mr. William Dagliesh in his stead.
Poor Dagliesh took his place at his employer the coroner’s right hand, and was sworn, and looked everywhere but in the eyes of his friend at the back of the room; but his moment of martyrdom was brief. The surgeon’s assistant stated what Mr. Carpenter already knew—that the Captain had been dead some hours by the time they were called to examine the body; that Fielding had lost a quantity of blood, from the wound in his heart; and that he had witnessed Mr. Carpenter extract a ball from the wound itself, which he should judge to be a simple lead one such as was commonly used in a gentleman’s pistol.
“And could you state the approximate hour of the Captain’s death?”
“From the condition of the body, I believe we agreed that he had died sometime during the evening before
.”
“But you cannot state when?”
“I cannot.”
“Have you anything further?”
Mr. Dagliesh hesitated, and looked finally to Sidmouth; and as if emboldened by the sight of his friend, assumed a sterner countenance. “I should simply like to add, sir, that I may vouch for the behaviour of Mr. Geoffrey Sidmouth,” he said, in a voice so strengthened by his purpose it seemed to fill the room. “I believe him incapable of the despicable actions that the presence of his horse’s hoofprints might suggest; and moreover, I will freely admit that I was in his company the entirety of the night in question, and parted with him only at dawn, when Captain Fielding’s death had already been effected many hours.”
Mr. Carpenter studied his assistant’s face when the speech was done, his own expression unfathomable. “You are on intimate terms with Mr. Sidmouth, Mr. Dagliesh?” he enquired.
I am.
“The safeguarding of his person, then, is a near concern of yours?”
“Would I call myself friend, were it otherwise?”
“And have you another witness who might vouch for the gendeman’s whereabouts?”
“Is not my word enough?” Mr. Dagliesh cried, his face reddening with indignation. I closed my eyes upon the sight, remembering my own poor hopes of sincerity and goodness two winters past, when Isobel’s life hung in the balance.
The coroner smiled. “For myself, perhaps,” he said, “but I fear the jury might demand a greater proof. Could you delineate for us all your movements on the night in question?”
Mr. Dagliesh blushed, if possible more hody, and his eyes shifted again to his friend. I turned, and surveyed Mr. Sidmouth’s countenance. I read there what I can only take to have been a warning.
“Honour forbids it,” the surgeon’s assistant finally replied, “but I may assure you, sir, that our activities were such as should not disgrace a gendeman.”
A low ripple of laughter greeted this unfortunate attempt, and I saw a knowing glance pass between two members of the jury. I adjudged Mr. Dagliesh’s effort to have hurt, rather than aided, his friend. His words should be dismissed, as the desperate fabrication of a moment, and Mr. Sidmouth’s fate be sealed. But from the look that had passed between the two, I should rather say that Dagliesh was forbidden to speak to his friend’s defence, than that he lacked the means.
Mr. Carpenter released his unfortunate junior, and Dagliesh fled with relief and a dignity somewhat impaired. As he hastened down the aisle, he cast upon me a look so beseeching as to be eloquent in its silence. I felt he begged, then, for the indulgence of being believed, however little he might reveal as proof of his assertions; and for my part, I certainly unshed to grant his request. But the coroner had called Mr. Dobbin; and all my attention was claimed by the justice.
Mr. Dobbin related in a concise and easy fashion, as though in converse of the weather, the disposition of Captain Fielding’s body upon the Charmouth road, and the probable flight of his horse; the single shot to the Captain’s heart, and the presence of the aforementioned hoofprints. It was for Mr. Dobbin to add, however, that the Captain’s purse had been seized, and a white lily laid in the grass near his corpse—and undoubtedly not by chance.
At this, the coroner surveyed Mr. Dobbin shrewdly.
“Just such a flower was recently found near another body, was it not?”
“It was, sir—by the late William Tibbit, who was hanged on the Cobb last Thursday fortnight.”
“And do you think the two deaths are linked?”
“I cannot yet say, sir.”
“I see.” There was a pause, and a significant glance for the jury, most of whose members attempted to look sensible of the coroner’s meaning, and failed.
“You observed, Mr. Dobbin, the hoofprints by the body.”
“I did, sir.”
“And did they speak with as much meaning to you, as to Mr.—er—Crawford?”
“Mr. Crawford’s being at the scene empowered that gendeman to share his convictions and fears.”
“Yes, yes. And what did you then?”
“Not wishing to appear over-hasty in a matter of such gravity,” Mr. Dobbin began smoothly, “I enquired first of the local blacksmiths, of which there are three; and discovered that none of them had forged a like shoe for anyone. —Excepting, that is, Mr. Geoffrey Sidmouth.”
Mr. Carpenter reached a hand to his fleshy jowl, and caressed it reflectively. “And then?”
“I determined that Sidmouth’s horse, at least, must have been at the scene, and deemed it appropriate to enquire of his stable lad whether any mounts had been absent on the evening in question. He assured me, with some defiance”—at this, I glanced at poor Toby, and saw him starting from his chair, and wincing in pain at his ankle’s unequal attempt to bear his weight—“that the horses were well-guarded within the stables the entirety of that night.” Mr. Dobbin paused, the better to unleash his effect. “All, that is, except Mr. Sidmouth’s particular mount—a black stallion by the name of Satan. It seems Mr. Sidmouth departed High Down Grange on horseback just after supper—around eight o’clock—and returned only with the dawn. The stable boy would not, or could not, say where his master had been.”
The sensation aroused at this revelation was decidedly excessive; though I should have thought the crowd to be blessed with such particulars, by way of the intimacy of milliner’s stall and publican’s room, well before the inquest. I looked for Sidmouth, and found him unbowed in the midst of his captors; but Seraphine, in her chair beyond Mr. Dobbin’s men, appeared very unwell indeed. Her golden radiance was dimmed, her gaze unfocussed— the angel’s wings as clipped as a captive swan’s.
When the stir of interest had died away, the coroner continued. “And as a result of this information, Mr. Dobbin, ”’ he said, “you arrested Mr. Geoffrey Sidmouth, pending the outcome of this jury’s deliberation?”
“I did.”
“You may stand down.”
“I would beg to suggest, sir,” the justice interposed, “that Miss Augusta Crawford be requested to give evidence. She has information that has only lately come to my attention.”
Mr. Carpenter raised an eyebrow in Dobbin’s direction. “Indeed? Then she shall be called. Miss Augusta Crawford!”
It was as I had suspected; Miss Crawford had found a place for her tongue in the midst of the proceedings, and appeared well-satisfied with the fruits of her ingenuity, as she advanced upon the jury in a rusde of black silk. Her high cheekbones were sharp, her mouth severe—but her eyes, I thought, held a sparkle of malice as she stood in her place beside the coroner, and they were fixed upon Mademoiselle LeFevre.
“You are Miss Augusta Crawford, sister to Mr. Cholmondeley Crawford, of Darby?” the coroner began.
“I am.
“And what have you to relate that should be of service in these proceedings?”
“It is in my power to offer an account of the events that occurred at Darby the evening before the evening when Mr. Sidmouth murdered Captain Fielding,” Miss Crawford replied, with some importance of manner.
“Madam!” Mr. Carpenter ejaculated. “Mr. Sidmouth’s guilt in this matter has not yet been determined.” He turned to the foreman. “Pray disregard the lady’s words. Madam?”
“Mr. Crawford and I had several guests to dinner that evening—”
“—being Saturday last?”
“—being Saturday last; and among them were Captain Fielding, Mr. Sidmouth, and his cousin, Mademoiselle LeFevre.” At the mention of Seraphine’s name, Miss Crawford could not contain an expression of lively scorn, that should certainly have discredited her intelligence, were / the coroner; but Mr. Carpenter’s countenance remained impassive.
“The deceased and Mr. Sidmouth were on such terms as might encourage social intercourse?” he enquired.
“So my brother and I assumed/’ Miss Crawford replied, “from understanding that the Captain had preserved the mademoiselle from an adventure of some danger to her p
erson, and was thus due, one would think, the deepest gratitude from all who held her welfare among their dearest concerns; but imagine our amazement, when Mr. Sidmouth betrayed himself as anything but pleased to see the Captain, and went so far as to question my brother’s motives in having invited them both!”
“Miss Crawford,” the coroner probed with the faintest suggest of irritation, “what is it you would wish this panel to understand?”
The lady stared at him open-mouthed, as though dumbfounded the fellow should be so obtuse. “Why, my good sir!” she rejoined. “Is not it apparent? Mr. Sidmouth bore the Captain a grudge! The mademoiselle treated her cousin with excessive coldness—the result, I imagine, of his having caused the very misadventure which required the gallant Captain’s assistance, or so I understood, from something the Captain once dropped; and that she preferred Captain Fielding to Mr. Sidmouth, caused in him an enormity of rage, the result of which we saw first in our drawing-room, and not two days later, upon the Charmouth road!”
“And how would you explain the fact of the dead man’s purse having been stolen? Surely you would not suggest that a crime of passion was also one of calculation?”
“I suppose Mr. Sidmouth to have been covering his tracks, by suggesting some common footpad had killed the Captain”
“But, my dear lady,” Mr. Carpenter said smoothly, “it would appear that covering his tracks, is exacdy what Mr. Sidmouth did not do.” He paused to appreciate the full effect of his little joke, then took up his pen with an air of dismissal. “I fear this is all conjecture, Miss Crawford. It cannot put our enquiries any for warder.”
“You ridiculous man!” that lady cried. “Do not you see that Fielding was killed in a duel over the mademoiselle’s honour?”
Jane and the Man of the Cloth Page 23