by Robin Blake
‘That’s true on the face of it, Titus. But the circumstances are less persuasive. We would have to suppose a horse was taken out of the Garlick Hall stables at night, ridden up to the woods at six where the deed was done, and returned again, with only the murderer knowing about it. The grooms would certainly have missed such a horse. William Pearson, as head groom, would undoubtedly have been concerned and made enquiries. And you would probably now have a clear suspicion as to the name of the felon. As it is, only the squire, his wife and Tom Cowp were out on mounts from the Garlick Hall stable.’
I had no answer to this, and so attempted none.
We reached the arched yard-gate of Garlick Hall five minutes later, after cantering the furlong between ford and house. A conspicuous fellow in a scarlet coat and cockaded tricorn hat, with a gilded staff on which he leaned, was waiting on foot in the lane outside. I could see from a hundred yards that it was Oswald Mallender, the Sergeant of Preston and a gigantic figure rather too burly for his clothes, whose buttons and braid strained to contain him. He stepped into our path as we approached and held up a pudgy, officious hand.
‘Mr Grimshaw’s compliments, Coroner. I have been sent over to assist.’
In my experience of him, Mallender’s face and bearing only had two characteristic expressions, self-satisfaction and affronted dignity, which he wore according to prevailing circumstances. The first of these was now to the fore and, as usual, I found it nettled me greatly.
‘Why are you lurking out here, Sergeant Mallender?’ I asked sharply. ‘Does not Mrs Marsden tolerate you in her kitchen?’
At once his face flipped over from smirk to pout.
‘I have been in,’ he said sullenly. ‘I have asked to speak to Squire Brockletower, which was put to him, and for no reason that I can tell it vexed him. You may find this hard to believe, but he gave orders at once that I be put out of the house – put out, mind you.’
I glanced at Fidelis, who looked as if he were suppressing a fit of laughter.
‘So it is the squire who won’t tolerate you,’ I said, turning back to the sergeant. ‘Well, that is quite right, if you’ve been impertinent enough to attempt to place yourself face to face with him. It is not for you, Mallender, to confront witnesses in any inquiry, unless directed by the coroner – me!’
The bailiff took a firmer grasp on his staff and made himself as tall as he could.
‘I hold the commission of the bailiff,’ he stated sonorously.
I looked Mallender up and down. His official coat, though impressive from a distance, was less awe-inspiring when viewed close to, having a grubby, threadbare appearance. The nap of the velvet collar was dirty and worn and there were visible moon-shaped stains under the armpits. Grimshaw it seemed was happy to spend lavishly on his own wardrobe, but not on that of his subordinates.
‘Did you not just tell me,’ I asked, ‘that Mr Grimshaw sent you to assist the coroner? He did not mean you to play coroner yourself. I myself shall see the squire presently and for that I shan’t require a sergeant’s support. However I do, as it happens, have a use for you. You can go around and begin summoning the jury for my inquest. Here is a list.’
I pulled from my pocket the paper on which I had drafted the names of possible jurors, and handed it to the bailiff. He took it reverently, as some men take Communion in church. He was picking up some of the threads of his earlier self-importance.
‘I intend to hold the inquest tomorrow,’ I went on. ‘Be so kind as to submit the names of those you have summoned, under my authority, to Mr Furzey at my office. Let it be by close of business today.’
And so we left Mallender, passed under the arch and into the yard of Garlick Hall.
Mrs Marsden came out to greet us.
‘Good-day, Coroner … Doctor,’ she said with a coy, almost imperceptible curtsey in Fidelis’s direction.
‘The squire has returned at last, I am told,’ I said. ‘I must speak with him. But first I am afraid poor Dr Fidelis has missed his breakfast. Can you oblige with some small tit-bits to subdue his pangs?’
‘I don’t want to be any trouble,’ Fidelis added apologetically.
‘You are not, Doctor. I can offer cold roast beef and cabbage and some of our own Garlick Hall cheese with a good spoonful of old Mother Thwaite’s pickle.’
I left them to negotiate the details of his breakfast and went inside by the yard door to find Leather, who, I hoped, would bring me to his master. Official dignitaries may normally expect to use a front door, but it seemed absurd to go back and round the house just to play the dumb-show of dignity.
‘I call it damned impertinence.’
The squire and I were in the library, on the west side of the house. It had a handsome bay window, which looked out over a lawn in the middle of which stood a magnificent mature walnut tree. Brockletower, a curly-haired man with a snubby, apparently boneless nose and fleshy, mobile mouth, was to say the least not pleased to see me.
‘A man returns from an excursion on business to find his wife is murdered. And instead of being allowed an interval – a decent interval – to accustom himself to the idea of being a widower, some damned lawyer or other comes along asking importunate questions. Well, ask as you like, I shall not answer.’
‘That is your absolute right, Mr Brockletower,’ I replied. ‘I can’t at present compel you, or place you under oath, or anything like. It will be different at the inquest, however. The law perforce requires—’
He swung round, his features distorted with anger.
‘Damn you, sir, I am the law!’ He jabbed himself ferociously in the chest with his forefinger. ‘I am a magistrate in this county. I am a Member of Parliament.’
‘You are, to be sure,’ I agreed. ‘But this is not a county or a parliamentary matter, Mr Brockletower. It is Corporation business, as it has to do with the death of a person in the Fulwood Forest, which falls inside the boundaries of the borough. I respect and feel sorry for your loss, but I must be firm here. I have the honour to be coroner of the town and in all questions of sudden, violent death, it is I who am the principal agent of the law. Furthermore, as of course you know, the law expects that I summon an inquest jury with all dispatch and provide witnesses sufficient to account for the unfortunate demise.’
I was careful to speak with emphasis, but without hostility. For a few moments Brockletower continued to look at me like a bulldog in blood, but he could not deny I was telling the truth. By the time I had finished he’d lowered himself into a chair and covered his face with his hands. I waited and observed, wondering if tears would presently begin seeping between his fingers. There was no sign of them. Brockletower was not one to cry before another man.
‘Very well,’ he said, raising his head. ‘Ask your confounded questions, and be quick about it.’
‘I cannot promise to be quick, but I shall try to be concise. What was the business that took you to York?’
‘I intended to visit Mr Thornton of Hambleton near York to view his running horses.’
‘Why?’
‘I have a fancy to own some for myself.’
‘And did you in fact make any purchases, of horses?’
‘I did not. There was no suitable animal for sale.’
‘I think you also viewed a house with a view to taking a lease on it?’
‘I did. In the city of York.’
‘Were you planning to take up residence there?’
A look of annoyance passed like the shadow of a cloud across the squire’s face.
‘Surely you know about the August week of races at York, Cragg. It is at the same time as the Assizes. Coincidentally there is a season in the city, when the Assembly Rooms attract all men and ladies of fashion. The Duchess of Marlborough herself attends. Men go to York in August to do business and sport of all kinds and I intended to do the same.’
‘Did you also, on the occasion of this visit, call on the Archbishop of York?’
‘I did.’
‘May I ask why that was?’
‘Archbishop Blackburne’s late wife was a family connection of my own late mother. It was only as a courtesy that I called.’
‘I understand that during your journey back you sent your servant Cowp directly home from Skipton, while you diverted to Settle to look at another horse?’
‘I did.’
‘And did you go to Settle?’
‘Yes.’
‘Passing the night in Settle and returning yesterday?’
‘Yes.’
‘And had you concluded any business?’
‘I had not. The man I went to see was unexpectedly from home. It was sixteen miles out of my way for nothing. I stayed the night and came back through Bowland.’
‘Did you depart from the direct route in any way?’
‘No.’
‘I understand you learned of Mrs Brockletower’s death on your way. Where and when did you receive this intelligence?’
‘At one of the villages, Slaidburn. I had stopped at an inn to refresh myself. I could not believe the news, of course.’
‘Yet after that you rode hard to reach here as soon as was practicable.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Can you think of a reason why anyone would want to kill Mrs Brockletower?’
‘No, of course not. As I’ve just said, this … this murder is incredible.’
‘Or could someone have wanted to injure you, perhaps, through her?’
‘Injure me, by doing that? Talk sense, man.’
‘She is from a family in the West Indies, I believe. Planters.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there, to your knowledge, any member of her family, or any West Indies connection of hers whatsoever, at present visiting this country, or resident here?’
‘I do not think so.’
‘Do you know if she has quarrelled with anyone recently?’
‘I do not know so.’
‘Have you quarrelled with her?’
‘Damn your eyes, no I have not!’
The conversation was yielding nothing beside much repetition of the word ‘not’. Perhaps my questions were too bland. I decided to risk a more piquant one.
‘I won’t keep you much longer, sir, but there is just one last point. It has come to my attention that Mrs Brockletower maintained that you recently sought her out during one of her early morning rides, to surprise her in the forest. Is this true, sir?’
Brockletower’s response to my question was clench-fisted, immediate and fierce.
‘That is tantamount to an accusation that I—No, sir, this idea is utterly – utterly – false and a damned lie. It is close to being an actionable calumny, sir.’
‘But why would Mrs Brockletower invent such a story?’
Brockletower jabbed the air with his finger.
‘How would I know? But invent it she did!’
Whereupon he strode to the door, seized the handle and pulled it open.
‘You may leave me now, Mr Cragg! Good day.’
I found Fidelis seated at the table in the servants’ hall, with pewter plate and tankard before him, both empty. He was leaning back in his chair, gossiping pleasantly with the housekeeper.
‘Ah, Titus,’ he said, turning to me as I entered. ‘I have breakfasted excellently, thanks to the hospitality of kindly Mrs Marsden.’
The woman beamed delightedly.
‘And he is a credit to his appetite. You, Mr Cragg, have a loving wife to ensure you are well fed,’ she went on, as if needing to explain herself. ‘Alone in the world, the doctor has no such advantage.’
I had seen it before, this impulse of women towards my friend. Solitariness gave him some indeterminate quality that made them want to pamper him, usually by filling his stomach.
‘I am glad he has given satisfaction as well as received it,’ I said. ‘Now it’s time we paid a visit to the Ice-house. May I take the key from the hook-board?’
Carrying a candle-lantern each to help us see the corpse more clearly, we strolled down the passage, past the sound of churns clanking in the dairy, and out into the yard.
‘The squire was agitated?’ Fidelis asked.
‘Yes. He accused me of accusing him.’
‘And had you?’
‘No. I only asked if it was true that he had played the trick on his wife in the forest, the one mentioned by the maid Polly Milroy. He denies doing any such thing. And what he says of his movements yesterday, and the day before, tallies with his man’s prediction. He stayed at Settle, then came back by way of Bowland. He heard rumour of his wife’s death along the way. His story needs testing. I intend to write to the landlord of the inn where he says he stayed.’
Fidelis stayed me with a hand on my arm.
‘By all means do that, but perhaps I can make it unnecessary. I myself have business in York that I must see to soon. I might set off tomorrow, and can ask along the way about the squire’s movements.’
I hesitated. My curiosity was aroused, but I wondered if I should go where it led me. It may have been an extra-legal curiosity, outside what is proper to a coroner’s duty.
‘That is kind of you, Luke. But tomorrow I intend to hold the inquest, which cannot be delayed. Your news will come several days too late, I fear.’
‘No, no! It need not. Here is what to do. Convene the inquest, swear in the jury and bring them to view the body. Ask them to approve a post-mortem and then adjourn pending my return home.’
‘I will think about it, but I don’t know that they will think a post-mortem needed. And if they do, I can hardly delay for as many days as it will take you to go to York and come back.’
We walked on towards the Ice-house, passing through the gated passage between the stable block and the coach house and entering the orchard. The trees were coming into blossom and the Ice-house itself was framed by fragrant clouds of white and pink which swayed in the air above the intense green of the spring grass. When we reached the door of the building I unlocked and stood aside for Fidelis to precede me. For a moment he paused and breathed in deeply, as if preparing to savour the smell of death. I, on the other hand, felt queasy.
Then he pushed through and, as he did so, the candle in my lantern guttered. I paused to prevent it from snuffing out entirely so that by the time I was ready to enter the short passage between the first and second doors Fidelis had already gone inside. As I approached the second door, which had sprung shut behind the doctor, I was startled to have it jerked open before my face. Fidelis held the door wide and gestured inside, his face with an interrogative expression. The work bench was still there, in the centre of the cold room where I had dragged it, with Luke’s burning lantern standing on it. Everything else was just as we had left it the previous afternoon, except for one extraordinary lack.
‘See for yourself,’ said Fidelis, waving me in. ‘The body is not here, Titus. The late Dolores Brockletower has entirely disappeared.’
Chapter Eight
I STEPPED FORWARD AND LOOKED. There was no doubt about it. Except for the lamp that Fidelis had placed upon it, the improvised bier was bare.
I stooped and peered under the bench, finding the horse blanket that had previously covered the body. Pulling this out I bundled it and dropped it back on the table, then turned to poke into the corners, and the dark spaces beneath and behind the ice-filled baskets on their racks. I looked (with no rational motive) at the vaulted ceiling, as if the corpse might have floated upwards and evaporated through the skylights. All this time Fidelis watched me silently, making no move to join me in my futile search.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ I whispered at last.
I was conscious of my head yawing from side to side, like a tortoise. My disbelief made me stupid.
‘To lose a corpse, Luke! It is unthinkable.’
But for Luke Fidelis nothing was ever entirely unthinkable.
‘Is it possible she was not dead at all?’ he suggested, gently. ‘Remember, I haven’t … no doctor has seen her. If the throat wound was
in reality rather a superficial one, she might have been in some unconscious state—’
‘No, Luke,’ I broke in. ‘That rabbit won’t run. The gash was deep and gaping. I saw the quantity of blood on the ground where she was lying. She cannot possibly have lived after such a loss of blood.’
There was another silence, and I thought of the place beneath the hollow oak where the pat of congealed blood had been, before being taken by some secretive night-feeder of the forest.
‘Yes, you must be right,’ said Fidelis at last, with a reluctant sigh. He shook his head at the frustration of trying to account for the unaccountable. ‘And if she had woken up and found herself alive, someone would have known of it.’
‘Some person must have removed the body to another place,’ I said. ‘But to do that without informing me is … well, I’d say it is against the law. Come. We must go back to the house and enquire.’
We emerged into the open air. Near a woodpile at the far corner of the orchard was Timothy Shipkin, sharpening an axe on a circular grindstone. He was furiously working the treadle that spun the stone, spouting a fountain of sparks around his feet. I motioned for Fidelis to stay where he was and hurried across to the woodsman.
‘The body of Mrs Brockletower has been moved from the Ice-house, Shipkin,’ I told him. ‘Do you know anything about this?’
The woodsman lifted the axe head from the stone and stopped his treadling. He squinted at me as if the sun shone into his eyes, though in fact the day continued grey.
‘Moved, did you say?’
‘Yes. It’s not there – not in the Ice-house. You work much here in the orchard. So I repeat, do you know anything about this?’
Shipkin, testing the edge of the axe with his thumb, spoke quietly.
‘Know, sir? I know nothing, only I believe something.’
‘And that is?’
‘That she is gone. Gone out of the Ice-house. I observed you in full daylight yesterday taking her inside, but I do believe she’s not in the Ice-house no more. See, it is only what I expected.’
‘You expected this? How so?’