Skin and Bone--A Mystery

by Robin Blake

  I had passed no house, or hovel among the trees, and there continued to be none in sight until I came to a dip in the turning road. Here, at the bottom, and a little apart from the path, stood the tumbledown home of the woman I sought – Crazy Daisy, which was the only name I knew for her.

  My visit was a direct consequence of my conversation over snuff and Arabian coffee with Luke Fidelis. Daisy’s name had been mentioned as someone that had recently been near the skin-yard. She was a midwife – and she also had a name for her strange dealings. These three facts about Daisy created a strong pull in her direction.

  I hammered on the cottage door-post. It was shaky, and decay was creeping into it from the ground upwards. After a while the old woman came out to me – a bent and wizened creature whose age looked anything between fifty and seventy. Only her bright and piercing eyes did not look aged.

  ‘You’ve come for a potion.’

  It was not a question.

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘There’s one I’ve just made up: mace, comfrey, bullrush root, and more. Come in, come in, and see!’

  I’ve been inside hundreds of cottages like Daisy’s in the course of my work. Downstairs there was just one room, with earth for its floor. The walls were mud and lath and the only sturdy part was the stone chimney, at the bottom of which a reluctant fire smouldered in the hearth. In a corner a sagging stair led upwards.

  She shuffled across to a table on which stood a small boiling cauldron, and a few earthenware bottles.

  ‘You’re wanting to cut a stiffer pen, am I right?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘There’s nowt wrong with a stiffer pen. Every girl wants one as well as men. Don’t be blushing over it.’

  ‘I am not blushing, Daisy. And I don’t require a stiffer pen.’

  ‘Most of the gents coming here are after a stiffer pen, or else a cure for the gout.’

  ‘It’s not that either. I would like you to tell me something.’

  ‘Telling? Oh, time was I could do telling. Don’t meddle with it now. Cost me dear did telling.’

  ‘It’s to do with your work as a midwife.’

  ‘Midwife now? Yes, I do a little midwifing, if you can call it that. Folk come to me when they’re in straits.’

  ‘Well, that’s exactly my meaning too. People that come to you in trouble, hoping you will help them. Women. Girls.’

  She shot me a wary glance.

  ‘What’re you asking me for? I hope you’re not thinking I’ve done owt that’s wrong.’

  I took a more masterly tone.

  ‘As I am sure you already know, Daisy, I am the Coroner of Preston. I am making enquiries pertaining to that position.’

  My words had the opposite of their intended effect.

  ‘And I am the Queen of Sheba,’ she told me. ‘I am keeping my mouth shut, also pertaining.’

  At that very moment of impasse came the sound of a man’s voice approaching the cottage door.

  ‘Mother!’

  A moment later he appeared framed in silhouette by the doorway itself.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘Coroner from Preston,’ said Daisy, ‘with questions that I’m not answering.’

  I stood and faced the man, and it was only then that we recognized each other.

  ‘Why, it’s Jass Spungeon, isn’t it?’ I exclaimed.

  He darted forward, snatching the hat from his head and extending his hand.

  ‘And you are one of the gentlemen I met near Wigan Lane. The very kind gentlemen. Coroner, are you?’

  ‘I am that. I had no idea you were Daisy’s son. How is Henrietta, after her adventures in Wigan? She bears up, I hope.’

  We shook hands.

  ‘She’s tip-top, Sir. And glad not to be a side of bacon. Is it to do with her that you’ve come?’

  ‘No,’ broke in his mother. ‘He’s come wanting your old ma to confess to crimes.’

  Jass looked uncertain.

  ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘It’s true I am looking into the case of a baby that was found dead near the wharf across the river. But I only come to your mother because she has much skill and experience of childbirth and such things. I am wanting her advice, or her suggestion.’

  Jass turned to the old woman.

  ‘Then please give it, Ma. This is an honourable gentleman. If he says he’s not come to make criminals of us, you can be sure of it.’

  ‘My only hope is to gain a little enlightenment, Daisy,’ I added. ‘Your son is at liberty to witness our talk, and see fair play.’

  She sniffed, by which I understood she had agreed, if only to a qualified extent.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘A person at the skin-yard mentioned you and—’

  ‘Skin-yard? Don’t say she’s got another one.’

  ‘Who? You mean Kathy? Kathy Brock.’

  ‘I don’t say I mind her name. About a year back this one came to me, a lass towing a lad behind her. Said she lived at skin-yard. Asked me for a potion that would lose her the babby. All the pregnant ones do, unless they’re married and want to know the sex of their child. She wasn’t married, but right determined she was to take summat away with her in a bottle.’

  ‘And did you give her something?’

  Again that look. Daisy was not as crazy as she appeared to be.

  ‘I gave her a mixture to purge her stomach. Nowt wrong with that.’

  ‘What about the lad that was with her?’

  ‘A ginger-top he was. A lot of airs, he gave himself, but under it all he was fretting. I said to myself, he’s a servant in a fine house and she’s told him she’ll tell all and make him lose his place, unless he pays me for the potion. And that he did, mister. Not enough, but he did pay. No, I didn’t know him by name.’

  ‘I must ask this, forgive me. The girl who came to you from the skin-yard, that was last year. Do you know anything about the baby that’s just been found? Did any girl come to you wanting to be rid of it? The same girl, perhaps?’

  Daisy bunched her lips and shook her head.

  ‘No. There’s been no one like that come to me.’

  Though I was not sure I could believe her, I sensed that it was her final word and that our interview was over.

  After thanking her sincerely, I walked with Jass out as far as the road.

  ‘My mother is right clever with herbs, Sir,’ he said. ‘So folk do come up here time to time asking for all sorts – charms, mixtures. But she’d not do owt wrong. She’d not kill a babby in the womb.’

  ‘I would not accuse her of any such thing, Jass. The baby was not killed by abortion, so there is no accusation against either of you. But, though you may not see it, your mother has been a great help, and for the time being any road I won’t trouble her more.’

  I raised my hat and retreated down the path. The sky was still dark and menaced rain, but my mind was much less clouded than it had been coming up.

  * * *

  ‘When you were visiting the Scroops, did you see the manservant?’ I asked Elizabeth on reaching home. ‘His name is Jon.’

  ‘Yes, I did. The redhead. It was him that showed me into the parlour. Now drink this.’

  She placed a glass of Nantz and hot water in my hands. I had been drenched by a short but violent deluge crossing the river on Battersby’s ferry and had been firmly marched to the fireside to dry out.

  ‘What did you make of him?’ I said, taking a sip of the brandy.

  ‘He’s Irish, about twenty – and thinks he is the cock of the walk, the way he looks at a woman.’

  ‘I didn’t see that when I was there.’

  ‘Men don’t.’

  And, very slightly, she blushed. It was enough for me. By following Fidelis’s first suggested course of action, I had unexpectedly achieved the second. Cherchez l’homme he had told me, and now what did I have in view? A servant from a fine house, with red hair and an eye for a woman.

 
On my return to the office, the clock was striking five. I sent Furzey out to fetch the urchin Barty, who often ran messages and errands for us.

  ‘Barty,’ I said when he arrived. ‘There’s a red-headed young man named Jon who works at the Scroops’s house on Water Lane. I fancy he also lives in the house, but I want a word with him away from there, do you see?’

  ‘You don’t want them Scroops knowing you’re talking to him, right Sir?’

  He was a boy with a mind sharp as a razor.

  ‘Exactly right. And I am quite sure there must be an alehouse he goes to. I want you to find out which it is and then, if you can bring me intelligence of when I might find him there, you shall have sixpence.’

  An hour and a half later Barty returned.

  ‘I found out his whole name’s Jon O’Rorke, Mr Cragg. I watched the house and saw him leave. I followed him to the Pride of the Pit, but I never went in.’

  ‘How long ago did he go in?’

  ‘Just a few minutes.’

  ‘Then I had better get over there.’

  * * *

  The Pride of the Pit Inn used to go by another name until the present keeper came in. He had a special interest in cocking, and even gave his yard over to the fancy, allowing those that could not have cock-pens at home to keep their birds there. Inside it was not crowded or loud with talk, so that it took only a moment to be certain that Jon O’Rorke was not there. I cursed inwardly, thinking the fellow must have quit the place while Barty was bringing me news of his whereabouts. I asked the landlord if he knew where O’Rorke had gone.

  ‘He’s in the yard, at the coops. He’s seeing to his birds.’

  ‘His birds?’

  ‘Of course. He’s fighting two in the Michaelmas Main. He’s got preparations to make.’

  I ventured out of the back door of the inn and into a cobbled yard, which was lined on all sides with narrow coops in four tiers, with a hut in the centre. I recognized the red-headed young man kneeling to bring a bird out from one of the bottom coops and greeted him. Turning his head, he did not look very pleased to see me.

  ‘You are tending your fighting birds, Mr O’Rorke?’

  He grunted.

  ‘As you see.’

  ‘And they are due to perform in the Michaelmas Main of Cocks, I believe.’

  ‘They might be.’

  He extracted the bird and carried it by the feet, head down, into the hut. The cock, a lean, sleek bird, twisted his head this way and that, the eyes fiercely protesting against the affront to his dignity. O’Rorke placed him on a table and attempted to shut the door on me. As politely as I could I planted my foot in the way.

  ‘And do you have good hopes for their success?’

  Still holding the bird down on the table he turned on me with a look of anger.

  ‘That is private information, Mister. If you were a cocking man you would know not to ask. Now, if you don’t mind…’

  There was on the table a pot containing some sort of liquid preparation. O’Rorke picked up a broad painting brush and dipped it, then began painting the cock’s feathers. The bird became immediately content, closing his eyes and croodling in appreciation of the attention he was receiving.

  ‘Mr O’Rorke, I have not come here on cock-fighting business, but a legal matter.’

  He grunted and carried on working.

  ‘I can see however that the moment is not convenient, as you are preoccupied. Perhaps you would be good enough to call on me at my office in Cheapside as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, in fact. Your employer will possibly send you to town with some messages, and you can call in then. May I add that I mean in no way to cause you trouble?’

  I left him then, passing back through the inn where I stopped and ordered a glass of wine. The landlord, Charles Foster by name, put it down in front of me.

  ‘You have business with that boy?’ he asked.

  I said that I had, but gave no particulars. Foster laughed as he picked up a cloth and a glass and began polishing it.

  ‘He has two interests, has Jon O’Rorke,’ he said. ‘His cocks, and his cock, as you might say. You’ll be hard put to get him to expand on any other business.’

  This sounded promising.

  ‘I take your meaning, Mr Foster. Something of a Lothario, is he?’

  Foster favoured me with a sight of his gappy teeth.

  ‘Put it like this: I wouldn’t leave a daughter of mine alone with him. But he’s a capital trainer of birds, I will say that.’

  ‘I’m sure he’d be interested in money also,’ I said, casually. ‘If he happened to have some coming to him.’

  I drank my wine and wished Foster good day. He had not answered my suggestion, but I’d seen a flash of curiosity in his face – curiosity enough to make him acquaint Jon O’Rorke of the hint I had dropped. It might just be enough to bring the lad trotting obediently along to Cheapside in the morning.

  * * *

  On Thursday morning I had no sooner sat down behind my desk than Furzey appeared bearing a letter sealed with the imprint of the Corporation. He placed it with a perceptible flourish in front of me.

  ‘This came in last night, Sir. For you.’

  He spoke these words in a funereal tone.

  I said, ‘Do you know what is in it?’

  ‘I do not. But I can guess.’

  ‘And what is your guess, Furzey?’

  ‘Retribution. From Lady Rickaby.’

  Waving him from the room with a sigh, I broke the seal and unfolded the paper. It was in the best legal hand of the town clerk.

  To Titus Cragg Esq. Coroner. Sir, I beg to inform you that on the order of His Worship the Mayor you are required to attend at the Court Leet next Friday morning the twenty-second instant, there to answer charges of lewdness prejudicial to the good order of the borough and to the honour of the office you hold. Be advised that the case will be heard and judgement is liable to be made notwithstanding your absence.

  I groaned. Furzey had been right. But the question now was whether it would be better to try to head off the charge before Friday, or to simply go to court and defend myself. It would be best if the matter could be snuffed out in advance, and never publicly aired, but I had only twenty-four hours before the hearing and could not see much prospect of changing Thwaite’s shuttered mind in so short a time.

  My thoughts were interrupted by voices in the outer office, and a moment later, to my great satisfaction, Furzey showed Jon O’Rorke in to me. It was shortly after ten. Warily he accepted my offer of a seat but sat alertly on its edge.

  ‘I was told this is something I may take advantage from.’

  ‘I don’t know why you were told that,’ I lied. ‘I’m afraid you are mistaken. I am looking into the death of a baby – the one they found dead in one of the tan-pits at the skin-yard. You have heard of this?’

  More wary than ever, he said that he had.

  ‘How long have you been a servant of the Scroop family?’

  ‘Two years and a bit.’

  ‘And in that time was Kathy Brock also employed in the house?’

  ‘Yes. What’s this got to do with me?’

  I noticed a note of belligerence edging his tone.

  ‘I think you know. You and Kathy walked out together, isn’t that right?’

  ‘I’ll not deny it.’

  ‘And do you see Kathy still? Do you still walk out together?’

  ‘I don’t know that it’s your business, but I’ll tell you as there’s nothing to hide. Not now, we don’t. Not since she left the job.’

  ‘And before that, did you know each other well?’

  A slight smile curled across his lips.

  ‘You might say that.’

  ‘Did you have knowledge of her in the, er, biblical sense?’

  ‘You mean did I fuck her?’

  ‘In a word.’

  ‘I’ll not say I did, or I didn’t.’

  ‘I shall be candid with you, Mr O’Rorke, as so far you have not qu
ite been with me. From the very start suspicion in this case fell on Kathy. Her mother has given evidence that the girl had been with child last year. She aborted – naturally or otherwise – long before the baby could live, but in the meantime it appears that Kathy went together with yourself to old Daisy Spungeon to ask for a mixture.’

  ‘It wasn’t what you think.’

  ‘Don’t be perturbed. I am not concerned in the least with that visit, except that it may point in a certain direction. I am only interested in the child that was found last week, and in the identity of its mother. And its father, of course, who would lead to its mother.’

  ‘Not if she’s been with a lot of men, I’d say.’

  ‘Let me be blunt. You say you have not walked out with Kathy since she left the employment of Mr Scroop. Who then are you walking out with? And is that girl the mother of the dead child that was found?’

  His eyes would not stay fixed on my face. They darted around the room, at the window, then back to me; at the walls, the door and Furzey, sitting and taking his notes, then back to me. Jon O’Rorke was feeling trapped, but he would not reply. I tried another approach.

  ‘Let me ask you something else. Have you any children of your own?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever been present at the birth of a child?’

  ‘No, course not. What do you want to know that for? You’re trying to trip me into saying I had something to do with this child.’

  He got up, bristling now with righteousness.

  ‘I’ll not stay here and be tripped up by you like some ladeen mooching off school. I’m leaving, and I’d be obliged if you would keep your distance in the future, Mr Coroner.’

  With that, he was gone.

  Chapter 14

  THE FIRE HAD occurred just a week ago but, as I approached the Skeleton Inn, I saw that demolition had already begun. Men were crawling ant-like around the ruined structure and every few minutes a shout would ring out and a basket of roof tiles would be swung to the ground, or a blackened beam let fall with a loud bump.