by C. S. Harris
“You need to sleep,” she said, resting her hand on his shoulder.
He slipped an arm beneath her and drew her closer to his warm, hard body. “I will.”
“When will you sleep? After you’ve caught this killer?”
“I’m flattered you think I’m going to catch him.”
“You will,” she said, and saw him smile in the darkness. “Will they bury Emma Chance tomorrow, do you think?” she asked. “After the inquest?”
“Probably. And Pierce as well.” Once Pierce’s family received notification of his death, they might choose to move the body later, come winter. But he needed to be buried now.
Hero raised herself on her elbow so she could see him better. “I’ve been thinking about what Archie Rawlins told you—that the chambermaids at the Feathers said Emma Chance had received a number of deliveries from dressmakers and milliners while she was there.”
Devlin speared his fingers through the fall of her hair, drawing it back from her face as he cradled her head. “And?”
“You said the gray gown she was wearing when she was killed looked new, and her gray traveling dress certainly was. So if she did all that shopping, it means she probably bought them both in Ludlow right before she came here. She had only one gown—a muslin she’d dyed black—that wasn’t new.”
“Yes,” said Devlin, still obviously not quite certain where she was going with this.
“I suppose it’s possible she decided to change from full to half mourning right before she came here. But I’ve also been thinking about what Higginbottom said—that she was still a maid, and seemed younger than she claimed to be. So what if she did all that shopping in Ludlow because she wasn’t actually a widow in mourning? What if she was in fact a maiden in her early twenties? What if she claimed to be a widow nearing thirty because it made what she was doing—embarking on a sketching trip around Shropshire with only her abigail—seem slightly less scandalous?”
Hero watched his eyes widen. “Lady Devlin, you are brilliant.”
She smiled. “No. I’m simply all too familiar with the constraints under which gentlewomen in our society must labor. And the ways we sometimes devise to get around them.”
She saw the flare of some nameless emotion in his eyes. Then he drew her back down into his arms and held her tight against him.
After a moment, he said, “If you’re right—and I think you very well may be—then the question becomes, Did she concoct the hoax because she wanted to go on a sketching expedition through Shropshire? Or was the sketching story only another part of the deception?”
Hero snuggled her head against his shoulder. “You’re thinking she was here because of Lucien Bonaparte, aren’t you?”
“Yes. The problem is, who sent her—and why?”
Chapter 26
Friday, 6 August
The coroner from Ludlow arrived shortly before ten the following morning, riding in a ponderous, antiquated traveling carriage with peeling gilt paint, drawn by a pair of badly mismatched bays.
“His name is Magnus Fowler,” said Archie, peering out one of the Blue Boar’s front windows as a wizened, bandy-legged figure in an old-fashioned frock coat and powdered wig descended the coach’s steps and batted away the hand of the footman who offered to assist him. “They say he was mayor of Ludlow back in the eighties. But he’s been the coroner as long as I can remember. M’father used to say it doesn’t matter whether he’s presiding over the inquest of a dead child or a horribly mutilated corpse; Fowler is always as bored as he is unmoved.”
The coroner paused for a moment beside his carriage while a short, plump clerk, dressed in a worn, shiny black coat and clutching a satchel to his chest, scuttled down the steps behind him. Fowler let his gaze rove over the village green and the half-timbered houses ringing it, his nose twitching with obvious derision. Then he turned to enter the Blue Boar.
By English law, any sudden, violent, or unnatural death required an inquest. Sworn in by the county coroner, a jury of between twelve and twenty-four “good and honest men” was impaneled to view the body of the deceased, hear testimony from relevant witnesses, and present its findings. More legal than medical in form and function, the inquest was a legacy from the days of the Norman Conquest, when the Crown’s main interest had been in taxing any Saxon populations that could be found responsible for the murder of a Norman.
Inquests were always something of a public spectacle, and the Blue Boar’s taproom was crowded that morning with curious villagers as well as the summoned jurors, many of whom had ridden in from as far as Bromfield and Ludlow. Sebastian recognized Jude Lowe and the large, heavily muscled carter they’d seen two nights before with Reuben Dickie. Samuel Atwater was there, escorting both Lady Seaton, who had encountered Emma shortly before her death, and young Charles Bonaparte, who had discovered the body; both would be required to give testimony. Even Major Eugene Weston was in attendance, his hat dangling from one finger against his thigh as he stared down at Emma Chance’s beautiful, pale young face.
Because one of the most important duties of the jury was to view the corpse, Emma’s body lay on a board table in the middle of the room, her flesh waxen and just beginning to show signs of turning a mottled purple and black. Sebastian was both surprised and relieved to see that Higginbottom had had the decency to drape her with a cloth covering so that only her head, shoulders, and arms were exposed. It was not uncommon for victims at inquests to be displayed naked for all the curious to gawk at.
Magnus Fowler entered the taproom with a flourish, his sharp, bony features bland with disinterest as he glanced at the draped corpse laid out in the center of the room. “I assume this is the deceased?” he snapped to no one in particular.
“One of them,” said Archie, stepping forward. “We thought it best to leave the other body in the parlor for now.”
Fowler raised one bushy gray eyebrow. “We? And who, pray tell, are ‘we’?”
A hint of color showed high on Archie’s cheekbones. “I’m the justice of the peace, Archibald R—”
“I know who you are,” said Fowler with a dismissive wave of one hand. “Heard your father was dead. Pity.” He sniffed in a way that indicated his expression of sympathy was not directed at Archie. “I’ve a game of whist scheduled for two this afternoon and I’ve no intention of being late for it. Let’s get this business under way.” He turned to Webster Nash. “You still constable?”
Nash drew himself up as stiff and proudly officious as a sergeant at a trooping of the colors. “I am, yer honor. Constable Nash, yer honor.”
“Thank goodness someone around here knows what he’s doing,” muttered Fowler. “How many jurors?”
“Fifteen, yer honor. There were—”
“Fifteen will do,” said Fowler, going to fling himself into the somewhat battered armchair positioned behind a small table set up especially for him. “Well, let’s get started, man. What are you waiting for? And you—” He skewed around in his chair to glare at Martin McBroom. “Bring me some ale and be quick about it.”
The air filled with men’s coughing and the scraping of benches as the fifteen jurors and the assembled witnesses took their seats, while the onlookers pushed and shoved to gain the best viewing positions behind them.
Constable Nash cleared his throat and announced in a booming voice, “Oyez, oyez, oyez! Ye good men of this county are summoned to appear this day in the presence of Emma Chance lying dead here before ye to inquire for our Sovereign Lord the King, when, how, and by what means she came to her death.” He paused to audibly suck in air. “Answer to yer names as ye shall be called.”
The names of the jurors were duly called, with the first named being appointed foreman. All solemnly swore their oaths with a hand on the Bible, while Magnus Fowler took out a pocketknife and began paring his nails.
“What’d you say the dead woman’s name was?” he asked wi
thout looking up.
“Emma Chance, yer honor. Relic of one Captain Stephen Chance.”
“Do we know how and when she died?”
“She was found dead Tuesday morning. But Dr. Higginbottom did a postmortem, yer honor.”
“Then swear him in, man. We haven’t all day.”
Higginbottom shuffled forward to take his seat with such painful slowness that Sebastian suspected the irascible doctor of doing it deliberately to spite the impatient coroner.
“Well?” snapped Fowler. “How did she die?”
“Death was caused by the exclusion of air from the lungs,” said Higginbottom. He paused. “In other words, she was smothered.”
A faint murmuring spread through the assembled crowd. A good portion of the villagers were obviously still expecting the verdict to be felo-de-se, or suicide.
Higginbottom waited for the muttering to die down, then said, “Both heart and lungs appeared normal on examination. The only marks of any significance on the body are a slight bruise under the chin, an even smaller discoloration on the left cheek, and a faint mark on the right arm.”
The coroner stared at him from beneath his brows. “Are you trying to tell me that a woman can be smothered without it leaving more than the faintest traces?”
“If the assailant knows what he’s doing, yes.”
“Huh.” Fowler glanced over at his clerk, who was scribbling furiously at the other end of the table. “And when did you say she died?”
“Sometime Monday afternoon or evening.”
“Anything else?”
A faintly amused light crept into the old doctor’s eyes, but he simply shook his head and said, “No.”
“Go away, then,” snapped the coroner. He waved one hand at the jury. “You will now inspect the body—but be quick about it.”
With more coughing and scraping of benches, the fifteen members of the jury rose to file past the displayed corpse. Some stared at it long and hard, trying to find the bruises reported by the doctor; others gave the dead woman barely a glance before returning to their seats.
The abigail, Peg Fletcher, was called next to testify that Mrs. Chance had gone off sketching sometime after midday and never returned. Lady Seaton testified with great dignity to having encountered the victim at the priory at approximately two o’clock. Then the miller’s wife was sworn in.
A merry-faced, husky woman in her late forties with a massive bosom and soft brown hair wrapped around her head in plaits, she reported seeing the lady walking toward the river shortly after five that afternoon.
Magnum Fowler—who to all appearances had by this point fallen asleep—opened one eye and said, “Do you possess a watch?”
Alice Gibbs laughed. “Oh, no, sir. Where would the likes of me get a watch? And what would I do with it if I had one?”
“Then how did you know it was five o’clock?”
It was an acute question. But Alice simply laughed again and said, “Why, I’d just been talkin’ to the village schoolmaster and we heard the church bells strikin’ the hour. He said he hadn’t realized it was so late. That’s how I come to remember the time.”
“Huh. That will be all, then.” Fowler turned to the constable. “Where did you say the deceased was found?”
“In the water meadows to the west of the village, yer honor.”
“By whom?”
“Young Master Charles Bonaparte, yer honor.”
“He’s here?”
“He is.”
“Call him as witness.”
There was a stir as Charles was ushered forward. The jurors from Ludlow and Bromfield—most of whom had never been privileged to set eyes on a real, live Bonaparte—gawked openly at this diminutive relative of the Great Beast.
Alexandrine Bonaparte had obviously gone out of her way to make her rambunctious offspring presentable, for he was dressed in neat nankeens and a spotless frilled shirt, and clutched to his chest a brimmed round hat of straw with a wide ribbon band. He looked vaguely intimidated by the formality of the proceedings but also, boy-like, secretly proud of the role he’d been called on to play in this exciting drama. He swore his oath in a firm voice that carried not a hint of his parents’ Corsican or French accents.
“I frequently go down to the water meadows at dawn,” he said when asked what he was doing by the river that morning. “It’s a fine place to watch for birds. I’m very interested in birds, you see.”
Sebastian found himself sitting forward on his bench, his gaze on the boy’s smooth, sun-browned face. They’d been wondering why Emma Chance’s killer had staged her suicide at that particular spot. Now Sebastian found himself wondering whether it was possible the murderer had known young Bonaparte planned to visit the river that morning. Had he hoped the boy would be the one to stumble upon the body?
The idea seemed both preposterous and yet, somehow, possible. But who would do such a thing? And why?
“At first, I thought she was simply having a rest,” Charles was saying, “It seemed a bit strange, given the hour, but, well, people sometimes do strange things. I said good morning to her, but she didn’t answer. And then I saw an ant crawl across her face, and that’s when I realized she might be dead. So I ventured to take a closer look, and when I touched her hand, she was cold. So I ran to the Grange and told Squire Rawlins.”
Nash glanced over at Fowler, but the coroner had no more questions. The boy was released.
Archie took the witness stand last, to describe in detail the position of the dead woman’s body at the time of discovery.
“Any indication the corpse had been moved after death?” asked Fowler.
“There was, yes, sir. The paths to that part of the river were still muddy from a recent rain, you see, even though the roads had all dried. Yet there was no mud on her half boots. So she must have been killed someplace else and brought there.”
“But you’ve no idea where precisely she was killed?”
“No, sir.”
Fowler sank his chin into his cravat and scowled at the young magistrate. “And that’s it? You’ve no more witnesses? No suspect to be held in gaol to answer for the offense?”
A muscle bunched along the side of Archie’s jaw. “No, sir.”
The coroner gave a loud, derisive snort and nodded his dismissal.
“Well,” said the coroner, adopting a loud, formal tone and pressing himself back in his seat with his hands wrapped around the chair’s threadbare arms. “It is obvious we’re dealing with a homicide. But the question is, homicide in which degree? In light of the medical testimony given, a verdict of felo-de-se must be ruled out. Yet that still leaves murder, manslaughter, justifiable homicide, and homicide by misadventure. Without more evidence”—here he paused to cast a withering glance at Archie Rawlins—“we’ve no way of knowing if the homicide was committed with malice and forethought, or accidently by one simply endeavoring to keep the victim quiet, or in some other way entirely which eludes us. Of course,” he added, his gaze now fixed on the jury, “I am giving you my own personal judgment and not directing you, for the finding and verdict of this inquest are yours; my duty is simply to take and record it. But under the circumstances, I see no reason to order a recess. Mr. Foreman, how do you find Emma Chance came to her death and by what means?”
The foreman’s eyes widened. After an instant’s startled silence, the jurors took to murmuring amongst themselves. Then the foreman pushed awkwardly to his feet and said, “We find the lady came to her death by being smothered, yer honor—like the good doctor says. But by whom or with what intent, we’ve no notion.”
Fowler nodded. “The clerk will draw up your verdict in legal form for you to sign.” He flicked his bent hands before him in a kind of sweeping motion. “Now, Constable; get this body out of here and bring in the next one. And you’ll need to reswear the jury too, so be quick about i
t.”
The inquest into the death of Hannibal Pierce preceded much as had Emma Chance’s, except that, due to the nature of his fatal wound, the major’s body was displayed in all its naked, well-muscled, bloody glory. Because his cause of death was obvious and known to all, Archie had spared the purses of the county’s ratepayers by declining to order a postmortem. Sebastian gave his testimony as witness to the shooting. The information about Pierce’s ties to Charles, Lord Jarvis, he kept to himself.
He was followed by those who had rushed to the scene after Pierce was shot. Then, when the constable tried to call Higginbottom again, the coroner glared at the doctor and hissed, “Sit down. We don’t need your testimony. Any fool can see how he died.”
Magnus Fowler loudly cleared his throat. “Now. Once again we see laid here before us a victim of homicide. Again, felo-de-se must be ruled out, and, one supposes, justifiable homicide. Nevertheless, that still leaves manslaughter and homicide by misadventure, as well as murder, so one cannot say with certainty that this act was committed by one lacking the fear of God before his eyes or being moved and seduced by the instigation of the devil.” He glared at the foreman and snapped, “Verdict?”
The jury quickly returned a verdict of homicide by shooting, by party or parties unknown. Magnus Fowler flipped open his pocket watch and frowned down at it. “I will, of course, sign warrants to the effect that inquisitions have been held this day in view of the bodies now lying dead in your parish, so that they may be lawfully buried.” He snapped his watch closed and looked up. “But the open nature of these findings is disturbing. And for a village of this size to experience not one but two inexplicable homicides in as many days is as outrageous as it is intolerable.” He rose to his feet and nodded toward the still frantically writing clerk. “The jurors and all witnesses must sign before they are allowed to leave. And you, innkeeper”—he glanced at Martin McBroom—“I’ll have dinner served in your best private parlor. Immediately.”