“I am.” The voice was surprising in its depth — a rich voice of decided timbre, the voice of politics or of God; but there was a languor about the man that suggested illness or deep sorrow. Little of a worldly nature was capable of stirring Charles Danforth’s passion.
“And Tha’ held the maid Tess Arnold in thy employ?”
“I did. She was raised on the estate during my father’s time, and entered into service at the age of twelve.”
“That would be ten years ago, Mr. Danforth?”
“Closer to twelve or thirteen, I imagine.”
“And did she give satisfaction?”
“So far as I could tell,” he replied indifferently. “Mrs. Danforth — my late wife — and the housekeeper were responsible for the management of servants’ affairs, as I was often absent on business a good part of the year.”
“Very well. Would Tha’ describe for the panel what Tha’ did on Monday evening?”
“I dined early, and at home,” he said slowly, “and retired around ten o’clock.”
“What does Tha’ regard as early, Mr. Danforth?”
The gentleman gave the barest suggestion of a shrug. “Five o’clock.”
“And between the hours of five o’clock and ten o’clock Tha’ stopped at home, alone?”
“Certainly not. Monday is the night upon which it is customary for the Masonic lodge to meet”—a low rumble, as of great guns fired upon a distant front, moved through the room—“and it was for this reason I dined early.”
“Tha’ went to the Freemasons’ meeting?” If words may be said to pounce, then Michael Tivey’s all but seized hold of Mr. Danforth’s neck. The gentleman appeared impervious to the sensation his words must cause.
“Of course. I should judge that I left the Hall on horseback at six o’clock, and reached the Lodge — it is on the Buxton road, perhaps three miles out of Buxton itself — around half-past the hour.”
“Very well,” Mr. Tivey said expansively. “Mr. Danforth admits to forming one of that insidious cabal; he admits to entering the Lodge. I will not ask him what he did there — I know he is sworn never to divulge the workings of his brother Masons. But perhaps he will tell the panel when he quitted that fearsome place.”
“Fearsome?” Mr. Danforth repeated. “Whatever are you saying, man? That stretch of road into Buxton is in better repair than most. I should judge that I turned towards home no later than nine o’clock, because I wound my watch before retiring; and saw then that it was nigh on ten.”
“Ten o’clock,” Mr. Tivey repeated. “And was Tha’ quite alone for the rest of the evening, Mr. Danforth?”
“I was,” he replied, “my brother — Mr. Andrew Danforth — having dined that evening at Chatsworth House, in the company of a large party. I could not say when he returned to Penfolds — well after midnight, I should think. Mrs. Haskell will know the hour.”
“Mrs. Haskell is housekeeper up t’a Hall?”
“She is.”
“Very well. Tha’ has stated for the panel that Tha’ retired at ten o’clock, or near enough. When did Tha’ rise?”
“Rise?” said Mr. Danforth hesitantly. “At what hour of the morning, would you mean — or … or that night?”
Michael Tivey’s small eyes narrowed. “Tha’ wert abroad during the night?”
Mr. Danforth shifted in the hard wooden chair. “I often have difficulty sleeping.”
“And on Monday night, Mr. Danforth?”
“I attempted to find repose for several hours. At length I abandoned the effort, got up and dressed, and took a turn out-of-doors. I find that a walk will often relieve an unquiet mind.”
“And does Tha’ possess an unquiet mind, Mr. Danforth?”
“I am in mourning, Tivey,” the gentleman retorted. “For no less than my whole family. If a man is at peace in such dreadful circumstances, then he can possess no heart!”
I felt a surge of pain and sympathy for Charles Danforth at this burst of feeling; but from the aspect of my neighbours in the Snake and Hind, few others were animated by a like sensation.
“Tha’ admits to having walked out of thy house,” Mr. Tivey said insidiously. “Where did thy ramble take Tha’?”
For the first time, Charles Danforth seemed to apprehend his danger. He hesitated. “I cannot say. When wandering in that fashion, all sense of time and place may be lost.”
“Did Tha’ bide within the bounds o’ Penfolds?”
“Possibly. Possibly not.”
“I see.” Mr. Tivey stared balefully at his witness, and then gazed out at the assembled folk of Bakewell with an air of significance. “Mr. Danforth says as he were abroad in the middle of the night, but cannot state where he may have been.” He reached for a canvas-wrapped bundle. “Is the gentleman able to identify these?”
Charles Danforth stared at the black coat and pantaloons the coroner held forth. He half rose from his chair, reached for his stick, and bent to the inspection with an air of disbelief.
“Those are mine,” he said. “I should recognise the tailor’s mark anywhere. How did they fall into your hands, Tivey?”
Every man and woman in the room could have answered that question. Was it possible Mr. Danforth was so ignorant of events?
“They were found on the body of Tess Arnold Tuesday morning,” the Coroner replied. “Let the panel observe that Deceased was attired in Mr. Charles Danforth’s clothing at the time of her death.”
“But that is impossible!” Mr. Danforth cried. He fell heavily back into the witness chair. “What would Tess want with my things?”
“Tha’ did not make a … gift … to the young woman?”
“Of my clothes? Certainly not!” The scorn in Charles Danforth’s voice was scalding, and his features were distorted, of a sudden, with a spasm of fury. My first estimation of the gentleman had been in error. This gross invasion of his privacy, it seemed, had brought the dragon to life.
“And Tha’ canst think of no reason why the maid should have taken them?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Did any sort of relations — for good or ill — subsist between thyself and the stillroom maid?”
A mottled band of colour swept over Charles Danforth’s handsome countenance. “What in God’s name would you suggest, Tivey? I should call you out for that!”
“Pray answer the question, Mr. Danforth,” the Coroner replied coolly.
“I never looked at the girl, nor considered of her existence,” the gentleman replied angrily.
“Very well.” The Coroner spoke easily — as though Charles Danforth had supplied all the reply that was necessary. “Thank’ee, Mr. Danforth. Tha’ may step down.”
Charles Danforth thrust himself to his feet with the aid of his stick, and made a stately passage through the assembled townsfolk. He did not look to the right or the left, and the expression of dignity on his countenance should have wrung the heart of the coldest person; but the people of Bakewell showed him no pity. Not a few of them crossed themselves hurriedly as he passed, or made the sign against the evil eye. The gentleman chose not to observe this; and I wondered if it was a practise long familiar of old.
He did not wait for the conclusion of the panel, but left the inn immediately, the broad oak door slamming harshly in his wake. This little display of petulance, I fear, did not recommend him to the assembled crowd; and his conduct on the night of Tess Arnold’s death — blameless though it may in fact have been — laid him open to the worst sort of public conjecture. It was a great pity that Charles Danforth could summon not a single witness to his cause; and I wondered, as I considered of the evidence Mr. Tivey would build against him, what George Hemming had urged his client to say. What words had passed between the two men during their consultation yesterday, that Charles Danforth should seem so ill-prepared for the Coroner’s questions?
I followed the man in thought as he made his way from Bakewell — in a closed carriage, perhaps, to defy the gaze of the curious. What emotio
ns roiled in that melancholy breast? And whither was he bound, while his neighbours canvassed his troubled mind, his midnight rambles, his well-tailored clothes and their curious theft?
“Coroner calls Mrs. Augusta Haskell!”
The matron in grey rose with dignity and proceeded towards the panel. The girl with the disfigured face — Tess Arnold’s sister? — followed Mrs. Haskell’s progress with an expression of purest hatred on her stony countenance.
“Tha’rt Mrs. Augusta Haskell?”
“I am, Michael Tivey, as tha’ve known since Tha’ wert in leading strings.”
Mr. Tivey made no gesture of acknowledgement to this sally.
“And Tha’ keeps house up t’a Hall?”
“These three-and-twenty year.”
“Deceased was employed by Tha’?”
“She were.”
“In what position?”
“Stillroom maid.” Mrs. Haskell shifted in her seat and allowed her eyes to drift over the three women grouped at the front of the room; a curious lapse, I thought, in her iron self-command. She looked almost uneasy.
“And could’ee relate for the panel what Tha’ told Sir James Villiers on Tuesday, ma’am?”
“I said as how I’d dismissed Tess Arnold without a character,” she declared, “and good riddance to a bad seed.”
A slight murmur, as the wind sighing through the trees, made its way through the inquest chamber. Of indignation or surprise, I could not tell.
“Though Tess Arnold had been in thy employ some years?” Mr. Tivey persisted.
“Twelve year or more. Ever since she were twelve year old.”
“And though she had been raised as a child on the Penfolds estate?”
“I did what I had to do,” Mrs. Haskell returned defiantly, “and I’ll not be beggin’ pardon of anybody.”
“And because of it, our Tess were murdered,” came another voice — chill, bereft, and filled with suppressed violence. The stony-eyed girl rose to her feet and pointed a trembling hand directly at the Penfolds housekeeper. “Because of thy unfeeling heart and malicious soul, Augusta Haskell, my sister were cast out of her home and sent abroad in the dead of night, without even the clothes she earned upon her back. She were cast out, and died a brutal death alone and far from aid. Because of Tha’! May her unquiet ghost haunt thy sleep, Augusta Haskell, and cry vengeance for what Tha’ did! May Tha’ never find another night’s peace, until the end of thy days!”
The girl’s cry fell in the midst of total silence, and the manner in which she uttered it gave her imprecation all the weight of a curse. I felt a cold finger trail along my spine, and sensed a greater power than Sir James Villiers’s take command of the chamber.
Augusta Haskell’s countenance turned ghastly and her lips went blue. She pressed a gloved hand to her bosom. “My heart — oh, Lord, my heart—”
And then her eyes rolled Heavenward, and she slumped insensible to the floor.
The furor that then ensued was indescribable. Mr. Tivey might pound with his hand in vain, for the hubbub went on unceasing; several of the empanelled jury rushed to Mrs. Haskell’s aid; and still others moved to adjure the Arnold girl. But I judged that they were a little afraid of her — and when she stared defiantly at one man, and moved to guide her mother towards the door, the wall of townsfolk fell back. A parting was made, and a fearful silence fell, broken only by the sound of the third woman’s weeping. The three passed like a cabal of Furies from the room. An air of menace — or was it grief? — moved with them, and stirred the dust long after they were gone.
The Coroner’s Inquest was adjourned, for pursuit of further information, and the crowd of the curious gladly filed outside into fresh air and sunlight.
I was perhaps one of the few who noticed that Mrs. Haskell had been prevented, by the depth of her fear and a strategic swoon, from publicly disclosing the cause of the stillroom maid’s dismissal.
For Swooning Fits
Rub to powder three grains of Cochineal, and mix thoroughly with a little sugar. Add a spoonful of burnt wine, and take the dose immediately. Follow with a glass of the same burnt wine afterwards.
— From the Stillroom Book
of Tess Arnold,
Penfolds Hall, Derbyshire, 1802–1806
Chapter 7
Old Friends Well Met
28 August 1806, cont.
“YOU ACQUITTED YOURSELF WELL, MISS AUSTEN.” Sir James Villiers appeared before me in all the splendour of yellow pantaloons and a striped waistcoat, his fair hair carefully disarranged. “And without the display of nerves or sensibility so many young ladies should have thought necessary! I feel myself moved to offer you refreshment. Shall we adjourn to Mr. Patter’s front parlour, and send the maidservant in search of victuals? I should like to discuss the particulars of this extraordinary case.”
“Though I am as much a friend to an innkeeper’s larder as any man,” interposed my cousin Mr. Cooper, “I confess, Sir James, that we cannot quit these premises too soon for my taste.” Mr. Cooper’s first experience of a Coroner’s Inquest had been an unhappy one; his brown eyes were deeply shadowed, and an unaccustomed frowziness distinguished his sparse hair. “I cannot feel easy in Miss Austen’s association with this unfortunate affair. I must beg to remove myself and my party from Derbyshire at the nearest opportunity, Sir James, and cannot apprehend why you believe it in your power to thwart my wishes—”
“My dear Mr. Cooper,” exclaimed Sir James, “pray do not let us quarrel! Circumstances at present are disagreeable enough. I suggest you find comfort in a spot of angling, and throw off the cares of this sordid world in fresh air and exercise. Your friend Mr. Hemming will undoubtedly oblige you — if he can be found.”
“Fishing!” Mr. Cooper cried indignantly. “You would have me to fish, when the whole world is run mad? I should rather spend an interval on my knees in the parish church. I am sure that someone should consider of his God.”
“Very well,” returned Sir James briskly, “then I may recommend most highly the offices of Mr. Dean, the rector of All Saints, should you desire a companion in your spiritual ablutions. But I am most anxious for Miss Austen — she appears in danger of swooning” — this was purest fabrication on the Justice’s part, although the closeness of the crowded room at such a season was considerable — “and I cannot think it wise for her to forgo a nuncheon. You will find Mr. Dean at The Elms, Mr. Cooper — a lovely little stone cottage directly across from the churchyard. He is sure to be at home, and happy to welcome a fellow man of the cloth. Do not neglect the Vernon Chapel in the South Transept. The tombs are quite fine. Come along, Miss Austen!”
And so I was led, without chance of argument, towards the neat front parlour of Jacob Patter, publican, while my cousin stared after, open-mouthed.
THE TABLE HAD BEEN LAID WITH A CLEAN WHITE cloth and a tray of victuals — cold roasted capon, fresh Derbyshire cheese of the blue-veined variety, and the cherished Bakewell puddings of my sister’s preference. Next to these stood a pitcher of ale and one that proved to be filled with ginger beer. Sir James drew forth my chair and I settled myself with a sigh.
“You are very good to think of my comfort, Sir James,” I told him. “I am afraid my cousin is not at present equal to consideration of anything but his own misery. He must be overwhelmed by present events, and cannot offer an accurate picture of his true character.”
“We are not all the masters of every circumstance that life presents,” Sir James replied equably. “I am sure that Mr. Cooper is a very good sort of man, in his own neighbourhood and his own church particularly.”
“Among the people of Hamstall Ridware I believe my cousin is esteemed and valued,” I replied. “His character is unblemished and his conduct entirely respectable. If he is unequal to the present horror, so much the better. I should not like to meet a man who could view Tess Arnold’s corpse with equanimity.”
“Could I despatch him to his rectory without comment tomorrow, I should do so,” th
e Justice declared, “and all his party with him. But I fear the kindness would not be worth the talk it should occasion in the town. I must beg you to remain a little in Derbyshire, Miss Austen, until the present affair is concluded.”
“Would this necessity have arisen, Sir James, if Mr. George Hemming had not disappeared? You spoke just now as though you had sought the gentleman, and found him from home.”
“He was certainly not in evidence at the Inquest,” Sir James replied, “and having sent a messenger to his establishment in Carding Street, and having found Mr. Hemming away — I am not entirely certain what to think. He might have chosen a more suitable hour for his absence.”
“You do not know any real ill of him, however?”
“As to that — I do not think I should open my mind even to you, Miss Austen. I have a dangerous tendency to disclose far more than is safe, under the influence of so subtle a lady.”
“Flattery, Sir James, must satisfy me for the present,” I told him archly. “Mr. Hemming’s nature — his power for good or ill — shall remain a mystery, and my cousin shall bear all the weight of his disgrace, by standing firm in Mr. Hemming’s stead. Mr. Cooper must endure his purgatory, whatever the just horror his noble patron may feel; and offer up his suffering to God.” As my cousin had yet to cast his suffering in lyrics, I saw no reason to dread the event. “I am sure that upon reflection, Mr. Cooper will comprehend the necessity of your prohibition.”
“I fear that he has arrived at a very unnatural conclusion — that he is himself under present suspicion of effecting Tess Arnold’s death.”
“And so should he be.” I accepted a serving of capon from the Justice and met his gaze unflinchingly. “So must we all. From your particular acquaintance with events, Sir James, you may determine only this: that the maidservant, Tess Arnold, met her death at midnight in a place peculiarly remote from her home, and in clothes that are determined to have belonged to her employer. She died as the result of a prodigious shot, fired at some remove from her corpse’s resting place. You never met my cousin before Tuesday; and as he and some part of his party were the first to discover the dreadful scene, we might reasonably have done so to appear in innocence before your eyes. You know nothing whatsoever of Mr. Cooper — or if it comes to that, myself. He might be a desperate cutthroat in the guise of a clergyman, and I his paramour. We might have quitted The Rutland Arms in stealth at ten o’clock of a Monday evening, with the intention of seeing murder done. I leave it to your considerable understanding to devise a motive for our doing so.”
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