Skin and Bone--A Mystery

by Robin Blake

  He opened the box and reverently brought the object out. It looked like some kind of spyglass with brass fittings mounted inside a polished mahogany box. He began earnestly to explain its working. After twenty minutes, with azimuths, altazimuths and alidades spinning around in my barely comprehending head, I looked at my watch and saw I had been waiting almost three hours without satisfaction.

  Presently a note came down, addressed to Mr Kay. He put away his instrument and perused it.

  ‘I am being fobbed off, again!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘How are you fobbed off?’

  ‘I am referred to another. I must it seems apply not in person to Lord Derby, as I have been told all along, but to this underling. Oh well! It is only to be expected in dealing with lords. You never know how long they will keep you waiting, or how long it will take them to make up their mind.’

  I got to my feet.

  ‘Well, I have no more time for this today myself. I doubt his Lordship will see me so late. Would you therefore do me the honour of taking some refreshment at my house? It is close by, and no man can live by currants alone, you know.’

  He said he would and, after I had informed the clerk I would return, we quit the premises.

  * * *

  The clouds had passed and now shafts of sunshine made the puddles gleam under our feet. On reaching the church I saw a small gathering of townspeople around the entrance of Moot Hall. To my surprise they were being addressed by Furzey, and with considerable vehemence. He jabbed the air with his finger and flexed his knees so that he appeared to be bouncing up and down. He did not see me as we joined the back of the group, which at this point numbered no more than a score of people.

  That Furzey was addressing a meeting did not altogether surprise me, as he was very earnest in his politics – they were of the Whig persuasion – and he had been known to play the demagogue before. I was, however, taken aback to realize that this time he was talking about me.

  ‘I say it is not just, friends. The Coroner is a man of conscience and probity. He has ever done right by this town, and now he is being done grave wrong by the Mayor and the Corporation.’

  One or two in the crowd murmured in a grumbling way, though whether saying yeah or nay I could not tell. Furzey now pulled a paper from his pocket and held it high in the air.

  ‘I have here a petition drawn up by myself. I hope you will sign it, and all men and women of this town that have reason to thank Mr Titus Cragg and who say no to his being put out of office on this trumpery of a charge. I shall proceed to the reading of it: To His Worship the Mayor, we the undersigned…’

  He paused to clear his throat, then continued in a ringing voice.

  ‘We, the undersigned, following your worship’s finding against Mr Titus Cragg in Court Leet, do demand the rescinding of the dismissal of Mr Cragg from the position of Coroner of this borough of Preston, and his immediate reinstatement. We hold that the said charge against him of molestation was made upon a false, unfounded and vexatious accusation of which he is wholly innocent, free of blame and untainted by guilt, being only at the time carrying out his duty of preserving the life, limb and safety of another.’

  He looked up from the paper for signs of support. But the little assembly remained more or less impassive.

  ‘There I have left off, ladies and gentlemen. As Mr Cragg’s clerk I am well versed in the ways of the law, and of legal language, and you will appreciate that I could have written more.’

  ‘Aye,’ called out one of the audience. ‘More rubbish.’

  Furzey ignored him.

  ‘But as any lawyer’s clerk will tell you, brevity in petitions is a great virtue, for the party petitioned might find the matter tedious or lose the thread of the argument.’

  ‘It’s tedious already,’ called out the heckler. ‘And we’ve lost it.’

  ‘Hold your tongue!’ said a bonneted woman, turning to confront the objector. ‘Are you not ashamed?’

  I saw that under the bonnet was an indignant Miss Colley. The fellow pointed at Furzey.

  ‘He’s only trying to save his own job,’ he said. ‘And that’s all this is.’

  ‘He is not!’ she squeaked. ‘He’s speaking up for dear blameless Mr Cragg who has been foully traduced.’

  ‘And besides,’ Furzey now went on, raising his voice further, ‘keeping it brief leaves more room on the page for your signatures, does it not?’

  ‘Not mine, any road. Not for you, Robert Furzey, or any blackguard Whig traitor.’

  This remark, which came from another quarter, was also contradicted, and soon the meeting – which had noticeably grown in number as it took on the character of public entertainment – was jostling and exchanging choice insults. I made my way to the front and stood beside Furzey.

  ‘What are you doing, man?’ I said in his ear. ‘Am I to become a political football to be kicked up and down the street?’

  Furzey made a show of astonishment at my words.

  ‘I do this to defend your name, Mr Cragg. The Corporation must know the will of the people.’

  ‘That is absurd. We will talk about this later. Enough now!’

  I turned to the meeting.

  ‘I thank you all,’ I said. ‘I am hopeful there will be no need for your signatures. Please be so kind as to disperse.’

  They began to do so, still arguing amongst themselves. I looked for Joss Kay and saw that he had wandered a little way down the street to peruse the window of Arthur Holdsworth’s print shop. As I strode towards him, Miss Colley caught up with me.

  ‘You can have my poor signature, and gladly, Mr Cragg,’ she assured me.

  ‘It would hearten me, Miss Colley. But I shall allow this petition to go no further.’

  ‘Well, I am right sorry for you. It’s a disgrace and I am sure no one else could make a better Coroner.’

  I bowed, saying I was grateful for her concern and support. I re-joined Kay. The enterprising Holdsworth had set out a show of cock-fighting prints in honour of the coming Michaelmas Main. If he had any interest in what had just occurred in the street Kay gave not the slightest sign of it.

  ‘There is a prime bird indeed,’ he said, gesturing at a portrait of Derby’s Old Dander, a famous fighter of a past era. ‘As fine a specimen as ever you will see.’

  I was encouraged that he seemed to be cheering up.

  ‘You take an interest in the fancy?’

  ‘Oh no, I find it barbarous. But even in unworthy pursuits there is always the spirit of improvement – in this case through rational breeding. I take an interest in that.’

  * * *

  Having eaten a plate of potatoes and cold salmon, and taken several glasses of my port wine, Joss Kay shed the last vestiges of the lassitude that had enwrapped him in Lord Derby’s ante-room. Indeed, so energetic was his talk that my wife and I had to concentrate our attention with a degree of tenacity to follow him. He discoursed entirely on improvement, in all its forms.

  ‘Improvement is my religion,’ he explained. ‘I do not say the Bible is untrue; I say it is old. I do not say its counsel is useless; I say it is unimproved, and there is nothing on God’s earth that cannot be improved by God-given human ingenuity. You will agree that the way things are done is determined by the way they have always been done. But will you agree that this weight of tradition is a dead weight? Will you agree that the traditional way is a circular way in a dark forest? We must pursue the direct way in order to pass out of the forest of ignorance and into the light of improvement. There are few things in any house that cannot be improved. In yours, for instance—’

  ‘We have an improver at work here in Preston,’ I interrupted. I felt I had better put my oar in now, or nod off, as I sometimes do during sermons.

  ‘Lord Derby, I hope,’ said he.

  ‘Well, his lordship, too, I suppose, but I mean Captain Strawboy. Do you know him?’

  ‘He is the very man to whom I have been referred. What improvements does he say he is engaged in?�
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  ‘Among other things I understand they include re-opening our cold bath as a spa, and reforming the manufacture of leather. He has money put at his disposal by some of our merchants as well as the promise of money from Lord Grassington in return, of course, for a share in the profits.’

  ‘Improved leather-making, is it? I look forward to meeting him. I myself have twice been employed by large tanners.’

  ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘Helping to improve the process. Building new tanneries. Designing tan-pits. The difficult thing is to construct them so that they don’t leak, or drain away. The other matter is the smell. The position of the prevailing wind must be seriously considered before establishing a new leather works. But there is also hope of manufacturing less odorously with new methods, and making it faster and more profitable.’

  Suppressing a yawn, I furrowed my brow and leaned forward.

  ‘Can you do that with our tannery here in Preston?’

  ‘Oh yes, no doubt of it. Where the right spirit rises, it sweeps obstacles away like cobwebs.’

  ‘How would you do it?’ asked Elizabeth.

  He gave her a look of surprise.

  ‘By improvement of course. That is what I have been saying, Mrs Cragg. The spirit of improvement. Tannering has always been a long and tedious business – but it is done that way because it always has been done that way. It is circular and does not progress. Thank you Mr Cragg, just another glass would be very agreeable. So we must work to make tannering less tedious and sweeter smelling, which we can only do by understanding it. We know that oak bark and alum salts will preserve skins, but what other barks and other salts will do the job better and more cheaply? What machinery can be made to assist the tanners in their long labours, or to abbreviate those labours? When we answer those questions – as surely we will – the old tanneries will be swept away. Out with the old, and in with improvement, that is the whole burden of my belief. I hold that there is no walk of our life that cannot be made infinitely better by improvement and by sweeping away the old. In this house, for instance.’

  And so began a lengthy discourse on better soaps, hotter cooking ovens, brighter candles and many other household items that were in need of improvement. But he rose from his chair at last and patted his belly.

  ‘Well! What a happy evening,’ he said. ‘I have enjoyed your food and wine and you have enjoyed hearing of the benefits of improvement. Everyone is satisfied. But now I must bid you good-night.’

  * * *

  Later that night Elizabeth sat before the looking glass in our bedroom and I unpinned her hair while telling her of Furzey’s unwanted attempt to raise a petition about my case.

  ‘He is a loyal servant,’ she said. ‘We are all threatened by this.’

  Furzey is loyal to me, but he is more loyal to himself.’

  ‘That is natural.’

  ‘Anyway, I am not taking issue with his loyalty. It is his method. He proposes to bring the will of the people to bear and make the Mayor turn his decision around in that way.’

  ‘The general opinion may be to our advantage.’

  ‘Opinion is not the same as will. But anyway what is the general opinion on this matter, or any other? I doubt there is such a thing as a general opinion, let alone a general will. Or, if there is, I don’t see how it can ever be known. And even if they did know it, the burgesses would not care.’

  ‘That is true. They manage without it and always have.’

  ‘So, Furzey’s idea of a petition will only make matters worse. It will harden our enemies against us. I cannot condone it.’

  ‘But what can you do? You must do something.’

  ‘A personal petition to Lord Derby – that is what I am intending at the moment. Except that he doesn’t give me an interview. There’s nothing for it. I’ll have to speak with him at the Assembly Rooms tomorrow night.’

  She turned in her chair.

  ‘You cannot, my love! It is business, and the Assembly is pleasure. He will take it as an affront.’

  ‘If I choose my moment carefully, I may get a word. Now, I must take Suez out before I sleep.’

  It was midnight and most of the town were in their beds as I gave the dog a run around Market Place, as was my habit. Just as we were crossing the entrance to Friar Gate I noticed Luke Fidelis making his way up the otherwise empty street towards me. He was walking with a certain unsteadiness and carrying an enclosed wicker basket. He hailed me.

  ‘Titus! A man on whom one may rely. A man of substance. And my very dear friend. Well met.’

  He stood before me swaying slightly, his eyes narrowed as if he were having trouble focusing them. As with many young men without wives, it was not infrequent for Fidelis to became the worse for wine. But tonight he was unusually well cut, his face flushed and his wits disguised.

  ‘Luke, you are drunk.’

  ‘Yes. I will not pretend otherwise. I’ve spent the whole evening in the company of cock-fighting men. Splendid fellows. Huge capacity for drink.’

  ‘You have spoken with Jonathan O’Rorke, then?’

  ‘O’Rorke? Oh yes, with him and with Lord Strange and Captain Strawboy, and all of ’em. Highly informative evening. And I’ve come away somewhat enhanced. I have a proud new property.’

  He indicated the basket. Something moved and rustled inside it.

  ‘What sort of property?’ I asked.

  He tapped the basket with his finger.

  ‘I seem to have won myself a fighting cock.’

  Chapter 17

  I HAVE NEVER MUCH liked cock fighting. Luke on the other hand is passionate for it.

  ‘Why do you care for the game?’ I asked him once.

  ‘Because it is elemental,’ he said. ‘You cannot bribe a gamecock. All he wants is to fight and have the pit to himself. You can never persuade him to back away: he will fight or he will die. There is nothing more simple and magnificent I think.’

  ‘I would rather play bowls. It is usually less bloody.’

  Preston had its own cockpit off Church Gate, not far from Lord Derby’s house. There was fighting every month or so, but these were mostly training bouts or matches for betting. The big prizefights – the mains, with silver trophies and awards of money for the winners – were held at Preston just three times a year: at Shrovetide, during the July races and at harvest end, on the twenty-ninth of September, Michaelmas. I have heard it said that in the old days, on farms where the corn had been safely cut, a cock would be imprisoned inside the last stook of corn, which was then set fire to. The ashes of that fire were kept until next season, when it was mixed with the seed corn before planting. This, I suppose, is why cocks are still linked to the Michaelmas season.

  Fidelis had gone, as he said he would, to the Pride of the Pit Inn, where he found a rout of customers plunged in noisy conversation about the birds: of the cut of combs and the looseness of wattles, of the protuberance of spurs and the sleekness of sickle feathers. Disputes broke out over diet, grooming and keeping. Coarsely expressed views were aired on how often a bird should be exercised, and how long it should be allowed to roost.

  Most of this talk was concerned with particular cocks. There was much exchange of news about wagers struck on the forthcoming contests, and of which birds are the betting favourites, and which the rag-tags. Public favouritism in betting is thought to be the most reliable guide to identifying likely winners. Second only to the gambling is the condition of the cocks themselves. A bird is rarely fancied that does not stand out in his physical appearance, with a clear eye, plump breast and gleaming feathers. Any sign that he begins to moult, or any loss of appetite, will damn him to defeat in the fancy’s eyes. My friend took part in these debates as hotly as anyone and at the same time drank deep.

  He was standing beside O’Rorke, as they listened as a gamester detailed at exorbitant length the martial qualities of his favourite bird. After a minute of this, Fidelis drew the Irishman a little to one side and gestured towards Captain Str
awboy. Sprawled on a wooden settle at the end of the room, with his captain’s tunic unbuttoned and a pot of wine in his fist, he was hailing each serving girl as she passed in front of him. Some would stop and banter, and every so often one would put down her jug of punch, or her plateful of pies, and sit for a moment on his knee to be kissed and fondled.

  ‘The Captain is playing Lothario with a will tonight, is he not?’ Fidelis observed. ‘No maid within reach is safe.’

  ‘That’s the Captain for you,’ agreed O’Rorke, ‘with a jug or two of brandy inside him he’s a terror.’

  ‘I’m told you have a way with the ladies yourself.’

  O’Rorke was drunk enough by now not to be offended. He took a pull from his tankard.

  ‘I see a lot of girls, yes I do. I plant a few cabbages here and there.’

  He laughed at his own heroics. Fidelis prodded him further.

  ‘Kathy Brock, for instance?’

  ‘Oh, Kathy? Do you know her? Well yes, I did niggle a bit with her, as we worked for the same family, and a very saucy piece she was, too. But that was last year. She’s taken to prudery since, and won’t be enticed no more.’

  ‘What about these other cabbages you’ve been planting?’

  ‘There’s three or four, if you want to know. There’s a girl in Ashton who doesn’t mind showing her bubbies to a fellow in the haybarn. There’s a butcher’s daughter I know an’ all who’ll oblige if you give her enough sweet talk. Some of them do it because they want a man’s attention. Others just for the tickle of it. It’s all the same to me, as long as I can do it whenever I fancy.’

  ‘What about your master’s daughters? I’ll warrant you’ve had a grab at them?’

  He dropped his voice.

  ‘You’re joking. Too young for me. I did try to kiss Harriet once, after she’d just turned fifteen. She acted very odd. She didn’t slap me in the face. She didn’t tell me she’d have me dismissed if I forgot my place again. She didn’t act the little tartar. She certainly didn’t make out that she wanted it, like. She just froze. Rigid in her lips and her body. It’s a funny thing though. Most little ladies are glad of a man’s interest – a man’s, not a boy’s – but none of those Scroop lasses are, not in the slightest. They are all mortally afraid of nature, so they are, or that’s what I think. A mite different from their mother and father, I will say. They’re at it like rabbits, seeing as how much they’re always breeding. But those girls … no. A man knows when one’s got interest in it. Those ones’d rather jump off a cliff.’