Skin and Bone--A Mystery

by Robin Blake

  A man cannot talk whilst being shaved but, as the barber wiped the razor and picked up his scissors, so Thorneley picked up the thread of the one-sided conversation. He was oblivious that I was now sitting in one of the waiting chairs not three yards away. I nevertheless opened a book that I carried in my pocket and pretended to read.

  ‘It’s damnable, Gilly,’ Thorneley was saying, ‘damnable and damaging of that fool to get himself killed – and by a tree, of all the contemptible things! Rode smack into it – a horizontal tree branch, nothing more deadly than that, and broke his skull in the fall. And we need him, by Heaven we do. We need his money to be more exact. The whole of our scheme by his carelessness is now in danger of collapse – complete collapse! It is designed for the greatest possible benefit and future prosperity of this town, and he was the greatest investor. I suppose you want to know what it is, the scheme?’

  Gilliflower made no indication of either wanting to know, or of not wanting to. He continued cutting and shaping the hair without any comment whatsoever.

  ‘Well, Gilly, you will certainly be astounded by the size of it when you do hear – but that can’t be yet and it won’t be from my lips. They are sealed. If any details should become known there are certain people … well, I may say no more at all. No more at all.’

  Thorneley sat on, fuming and apparently wishing he could unburden himself to Gilliflower, but I guessed he was after all conscious of the presence of another in the shop – even if he didn’t know who it was – and was guarding his tongue. When he got up to have his coat brushed down he did not show surprise at the sight of me, though he glowered and gave a small snort before snatching up his wig from the head-shaped barber’s block that stood on a stand beside the chair.

  ‘Scroop had as much sense as this block,’ he muttered, ‘getting himself killed in that untowardly way.’

  * * *

  It was almost noon, with my chin smooth and my hair pomaded, when I returned to the office and found Furzey at his desk. He had not shown his face all morning, but now was sitting with his head propped by his hand and a cup of ginger infusion steaming in front of him that he had got from Matty in the kitchen. He told me he was feeling a little ‘hippish’ as he had spent the previous evening as a guest at the table of Abraham Simcox the town clerk, who was a cousin of his.

  ‘He entertained you well?’

  ‘Too well. My writing will have a shake in it today.’

  ‘What news did he have from the Town Hall?’

  ‘They talk of nothing there, he says, but the fatal accident of Abraham Scroop. Some are seeing it as God’s wrath; that Scroop over-reached himself and was struck down for it. It is the nemesis of a rag-and-bone man that over-reached.’

  I brought to mind the knowledge I had, unknown to anyone else, of the manner of Scroop’s death. The wrath I thought was that of his murderer, not of God.

  ‘His nemesis, Furzey?’ I said. ‘You grow Classical in your reference. I know that Scroop was ambitious, but how did he attract the wrath of Zeus? How did he deserve the fate of Prometheus?’

  ‘He seemed to talk as if the gods themselves were his investors in those improvement projects of his. That was overweening, as some see it.’

  ‘Do they? He kept his plans so very dark I’m not even sure what these projects were – not in detail. Something to do with the skinyard, I believe. I suppose Simcox must know.’

  Abraham Simcox was the perfect type of a town clerk. He knew the resting places of all the burgesses’ secrets – petty and great.

  Furzey said, ‘Abe has not survived in his job for more than ten years by running off at the mouth. He certainly knows about Scroop’s projects but will not divulge any details, neither for pie nor pence. He told me one thing touching you, though. I asked him particularly about the coronership of Preston, seeing that you are pining to be re-appointed.’

  ‘Am I pining?’

  ‘Oh yes. You’re like a dog looking for its own nose.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t miss the work as much as I do, Robert Furzey. So what did Simcox say? Might we be reappointed when all this nonsense is over and my lady Rickaby’s taken herself off to pastures new?’

  Furzey gravely shook his head.

  ‘No. I’ll bet on a sparrow swimming the river first, and a trout flying over it. Those are Abe’s own words by the way. No, Thwaite’s enjoying himself too much. He’s grown as fond of dead bodies as he is of pudding.’

  ‘Thwaite’s term of office is expiring. He won’t be in the job a month from now. His successor may be less enamoured of corpses.’

  ‘That isn’t the point. Their chief delight in the matter is that you are ousted. The Mayor will hang on to coronership just to keep you out. They are cock-a-hoop on it.’

  The bell at the door jangled as a boy came in, panting and bearing a letter for me sealed with the Derby crest. It was from his lordship inviting me to wait on him at Patten House at my earliest convenience. I reached immediately for my hat.

  * * *

  ‘So! Mr Cragg! We find ourselves thrown together once again, awaiting the pleasure of his lordship.’

  The speaker expressed a sigh. It was Joss Kay. I had found him seated once again in the ante-room inside the front door of Patten House, just as he had been when I’d first met him. He spoke congenially and seemed to have entirely forgotten our abrupt encounters on the Marsh and at the cockpit, so I pretended to forget them, too. I explained that this time I was here because Lord Derby had sent for me in person.

  ‘Which makes me believe that he will see me, though what it is about I am at a loss to say. But, Joss, tell me why you’re in attendance here again.’

  Kay gave another sigh.

  ‘Because my governor, the one that had agreed to pay the fee for my work, well, he’s kicked the bucket.’

  ‘You don’t mean the late Mr Abraham Scroop?’

  ‘I mean no other. I am sure he was everywhere regarded as kindness and virtue itself, but to me he has played the scoundrel by being dead before a penny of money’s been paid me for my apomecometry. Who will it come from if not from him? Grassington’s left town. Captain Strawboy hasn’t a piece of tin to his name, never mind gold, and I’ve been warned against even approaching the Corporation for money. So it must be from Lord Derby, or if not, I don’t know how I will get it.’

  ‘The fee you hope to get – what survey work is it for?’

  ‘Confidential work, as I have mentioned to you before. Highly confidential and not to be spoken of in public. Those were the terms of my employment, Mr Cragg, and I must abide by them, else I risk never being paid at all.’

  I could not pursue the matter further for now a servant came in and called me up to the presence of his master.

  Edward Stanley, 11th Earl of Derby, was sitting in his business room in a gilt chair beside a gilt desk, at which his secretary sat poised to write. On the wall behind him was his lordship’s portrait by his personal artist Hamlet Winstanley, which I had seen once before when it had then been on the artist’s easel and still in progress – but that is another story. A sheaf of papers rested between the peer’s knee and his left hand while, with his right, he held a single sheet up to the light to peruse it.

  ‘Ah, Cragg!’ he exclaimed as I came in. He tucked the paper he was reading in with the others. ‘Good of you to come express. I fear I have received a sad piece of intelligence this morning. It concerns Mr Matthews of Poulton.’

  ‘The County Coroner?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. He is dead.’

  ‘Dead? No, Sir! I was with him only on Monday.’

  ‘Well dead he is. Perhaps he was already ill when you saw him?’

  ‘Now you mention it, he was, my Lord. He complained of an ague, but said it was nothing serious.’

  ‘Yet it was a fatal ague, I’m sorry to say. I have received notice this morning. He expired yesterday having arrived home the previous night after a long ride, whereupon he was overtaken by a fiery fever and a painful shor
tness of breath.’

  ‘Lord! That is sudden news, and very sad indeed. He had been much exerting himself in the case of the late Mr Scroop that was found dead near Kirkham, which perhaps he should not have done, being unwell. He was a good man.’

  ‘I won’t disagree but, what’s more to the point, how am I to shift to find me a new County Coroner? I am very anxious to have the inquest into Mr Scroop properly conducted.’

  Fool that I was, I did not immediately catch his drift, or see why this concerned me.

  ‘Well, I may be able to give you the names of one or two suitable gentlemen, my Lord. There is Mr Perry of Garstang, who I believe is of sound judgement.’

  ‘Confound Mr Perry of Garstang, Cragg. I look to you. You’ll have to take the job.’

  ‘Me, my Lord?’

  ‘Who else, man? You’re vastly experienced in the work and, at the moment, without employment in it. Some of the burgesses of Preston won’t be pleased, of course. But it’s no concern of theirs and they couldn’t stop your appointment even if it were. The responsibility’s mine as Lord Lieutenant of the county and I’ll be damned if I won’t have my old friend Titus in the job.’

  I hesitated. It is a ticklish matter to question the decisions of a peer.

  ‘If I may remind your Lordship, the County Coroner is an elected official.’

  Derby clicked his tongue impatiently.

  ‘Yes, yes, I am aware of that. But to arrange an election is not the work of a moment. I am proposing to install you ad interim pending an election – in which you shall not only stand but, if I have anything to do with the matter, win.’

  ‘You are most kind, my Lord.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. Always thought highly of you and I know you won’t let me down.’

  I sensed my face flushing with emotion as I realized what a sudden change of fortunes this was. I performed a little bow.

  ‘I will try to be worthy of your trust, my Lord,’ I said, almost stammering.

  ‘That’s settled, then. We’ll draw up your commission right away and you can come in and be sworn tomorrow morning. Would that suit? And then you can get along with the inquest into the late Mr Scroop.’

  I am not in general possessed by affection for the nobility. They exist, after all, in a different sphere, condescending to the rest of the world only from time to time and when the fancy takes them – or more particularly when it is in their interest. But Stanley, for all his occasional hauteur, had a practical and sensible way about him and he had more than once lent me his direct support against Burgess Grimshaw, and my other enemies in the Corporation. So I had always had a certain regard for the man; now I felt ready to kiss his feet.

  Having stammered my thanks as best I could, I left the noble presence in a state of high elation, even of triumph. I was Coroner again. In the cock-fight of life I had trodden my enemies down. How I could crow now! And how crestfallen they would be!

  Full of the news, I went straight home and told Elizabeth what had happened. She let out a scream, hurled herself at me and kissed me fully on the mouth, all in front of Matty, which I doubt she had ever done before.

  ‘I really should not rejoice, my love, because a man had to die to bring this about. But I cannot help it. It is so wonderful for you. Oh! I could dance.’

  ‘It’s good to see those beautiful eyes shining,’ I said, kissing her forehead. ‘Now I must go and tell Furzey, and then Fidelis shall know.’

  I went through to the office where Furzey was bent over his writing. He showed no emotion at my news – I mean not through his face. But he laid down his pen and scrubbed his hands vigorously against each other for a moment. Whatever mustiness of the head remained from his dinner with Simcox, it had been instantly swept away.

  ‘We’ll be taking on the Scroop inquest, then?’

  ‘Yes, Furzey, without delay. On Friday I think.’

  ‘It’s an interesting one, is that.’

  ‘So it is. It is not quite what it seems.’

  And then, suddenly, my clerk favoured me with his particular notion of a smile – he tilted back his head and shut his eyes while his mouth formed a leering, twisted grimace, almost as if he were in pain.

  ‘That’s always the beauty of it, Sir,’ he said, opening his eyes again. ‘When death comes by surprise it is very likely not what Simple Simon thinks. It is very likely many spits deeper.’

  ‘And we shall dig, Furzey, be assured of that. In the meantime, go to Kirkham and find us some jurors.’

  I went out through the street door and made my way to Fidelis’s lodging, where Mrs Lorris told me her lodger was out.

  ‘Looking at a house, he is,’ she said. ‘He’s given us his notice and is intending to buy, so he says. We’ll be right sorry to lose the doctor, Mr Cragg, though, as I told Mr Lorris, we won’t miss the smells, with him making up his chemicals at all hours of the night. And we won’t be sorry to lose that rooster of his, crowing in the garden at the crack of every dawn.’

  ‘I do commiserate, Mrs L.,’ I said. ‘Dr Fidelis’s habits can be vexingly irregular at times. Would you mention when he comes in that I have news to tell him and hope to see him at the Turk’s Head as soon as he returns?’

  Chapter 26

  WHENEVER SOMETHING FORTUNATE happens to me, I like to celebrate by giving myself a new book. So, reckoning I had a good half hour before Fidelis could possibly appear, I returned to my favourite shop, Sweeting’s. Sitting in the bookseller’s place behind the counter I found a youth of perhaps seventeen, deeply absorbed in reading.

  ‘Is Mr Sweeting here?’ I asked.

  He glanced up from the page and mumbled something from which I heard only the word ‘out’. The youth seemed familiar but for a moment I couldn’t place him.

  ‘You are minding the shop, then?’

  He mumbled again.

  ‘Speak up, young man. I can’t hear you.’

  This time the mumble was a fraction louder and just comprehensible.

  ‘Yes. I’m ’prentice.’

  ‘Is that so? You must have signed recently, then.’

  He made a blushing bob of the head. I looked at him more closely.

  ‘Wait a moment, I know you. You’re Abel, Dr Harrod’s boy. I saw you with your father at the cock-fighting, did I not?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘So you’ve decided to take to the bookselling trade. A very good choice, if you are at all bookish. You will learn much from Sweeting. He is extraordinarily learned in literature. What’s that you’re reading?’

  He picked up the book and showed me the spine of the book. It was Robinson Crusoe.

  ‘Ah, what a book! You like it?’

  Abel Harrod brightened.

  ‘Oh yes, Sir, I do. I can’t give over reading it.’

  I took the book from him and turned to the title page.

  ‘This must be a new edition. I have it in the original printing, which I’ve read more than once. But I envy you the pleasure of coming to it for the first time. It is a marvel of a book.’

  We were interrupted by Sweeting, who came in dragging behind him two bulging rough-cloth sacks. These he dumped on the floor.

  ‘I’ve been to the widow Scroop’s house,’ he announced. ‘She sent for me expressly.’

  He paused. Sweeting, who was usually so composed, was breathing with a pronounced wheeze

  ‘It’s a most extraordinary thing,’ he said at last. ‘The husband’s only two days dead and she’s gone through the house and packed up his things, all of them. She means to get rid of everything of Scroop’s as quick as can be. I saw bags of his clothes and shoes lying all in a heap, and she expected me to buy and take away all his books.’

  I nodded at the sacks.

  ‘Which you did?’

  ‘Only some of them. He wasn’t much of a reader. She’s burning the rest of them, with his papers.’

  ‘Oh dear!’

  I shudder when I hear of the burning of books.

  ‘Most of them were
worth little. There were three copies of The Pilgrim’s Progress, but only one of them worth the taking. I did bring away a few plays and Bishop Andrews’s sermons, which might be saleable. Best of all, I’ve got the Cyclopaedia complete, which there is always demand for. Abel, give me a hand here.’

  Master and apprentice began to take the books out of the sacks and to pile them on a sideboard. I picked up one of the pair of fat volumes of Chambers’s dictionary – or Cyclopaedia as the author called it – and marvelled at the breadth of learning that it paraded, in alphabetical order from Abacus to Zythum. I noticed that someone – Scroop, I guessed – had inserted paper slips to mark certain articles of interest to himself and, out of curiosity, I looked through them. On each marked page a head-word had been underlined with pen and ink: clay, manure, marl, peat, soil. The paper of these slips was clean and recent: evidently Scroop had lately been taking a particular interest in agriculture.

  No sooner did I have this thought than another thought stung me.

  ‘My God!’

  I closed the book with a snap.

  ‘Did you say she was burning Scroop’s books and papers?’

  ‘So it seemed.’

  ‘Then she must be stopped, immediately! Excuse me, Sweeting, I shall return. Please will you examine all the books and keep any stray papers you may find inside them?’

  I left the shop. First I went back to the Turk’s Head to see if Fidelis had come in: he had not. I scribbled a note for him saying I would return at five o’clock and then hurried off to Water Lane, which was a walk of about twenty minutes.

  I have observed that widowhood takes women in different ways. Many like to preserve everything of the deceased as if it were in sugar, under the pretence that their spouse had never gone at all. The suits of clothes remain in the press, the buckle shoes are kept brightly polished, the last worn wig sits forever on its stand. Others, by contrast, act as if they never want to be reminded of their loss. They quickly dispose of everything reminiscent of their loved one, as if afraid of putrefaction. The latter seemed to be the case with Mrs Scroop, and in extreme form, but I should stop it if I could. A dead man’s papers give paramount evidence of his life and, when the death itself is doubtful, the Coroner must carefully examine and take them into account.