Skin and Bone--A Mystery

by Robin Blake

  Back at the inn’s parlour, while eating the excellent mutton pie provided for me, I turned the pages of the Bible as far as Hosea. I had not read more than a few lines when I knew I would have to recall Mrs Scroop immediately to the chair.

  * * *

  The crowd may have been disappointed to discover they were not going to have an early verdict, but they were compensated by the chance of hearing more from Helena Scroop. They were all agog.

  ‘You have heard Dr Fidelis’s evidence that your husband – in his opinion – was murdered somewhere in this locality, and later moved to the place where he was found. You will understand that in cases where murder is suspected a coroner must ask hard questions and bring to light unpleasant matters.’

  She looked at me with unmixed hostility, but said nothing.

  ‘It is my duty therefore to tell you I now know the source of the words your husband chose to put on your late child’s tomb, and I know why he chose to call him posthumously by the singular name Loammi. The import of these words and this name are also very clear to me, but may be very shocking to you and to many of those here present. I therefore ask you to prepare yourself.’

  There was no talking in the room as I opened the Bible. Every rustle of the pages I turned could be heard.

  ‘I now read from the Book of Hosea, Chapter 1. “And the Lord said unto Hosea, Go, take unto thee a wife of whoredom and children of whoredoms: for the land hath committed great whoredom, departing from the Lord.”’

  I looked up to see if these words had any effect on the witness. She merely looked stonily ahead. I went on.

  ‘“So he went and took Gomer, the daughter of Diblain.”’

  I looked up from the book again.

  ‘I omit a passage in which his wife gives birth to a son, a daughter and finally another son. About this last child the text continues. “Then said God, call his name Loammi for ye are not my people and I will not be your God. Plead with your mother, plead: for she is not my wife, neither am I her husband, let her therefore put away her whoredoms out of her sight and her adulteries from between her breasts.”’

  The room had gone so quiet you might have heard a leaf hit the ground.

  ‘Mrs Scroop, we know of your husband’s murder. We have also been told that his secret improvement project for Preston might have attracted the enmity of some in the town. But now we find that the words on your son’s memorial had nothing to do with his business. Instead they had to do with you.’

  ‘Not with me!’

  ‘But it is in plain view. With these words your husband is accusing you of misconduct. He says to you “put away your whoredoms and your adulteries”. He even seems to say that you are not his wife, and that you and your children are not God’s people. Can you give this inquest any explanation for these accusations?’

  She sat with her left hand clamped tightly around her right wrist, as if to restrain it.

  ‘My husband and I were lawfully married, Sir.’

  ‘But it is common speech that an adulterous spouse is not a true spouse, is it not?’

  The witness merely tightened her lips and said nothing. I persisted.

  ‘Mrs Scroop, the court must hear from you on this matter, however painful and awkward the truth may be. I put it to you that you had formed an attachment with another man, that you conceived a child and that Mr Scroop discovered he was not or may not have been the father of that child— Good God! The child! I hadn’t thought of it until now. It must be examined!’

  I had spoken these words out loud, just as they had come to me, in a confusion of mental associations. I asked the court for a moment’s grace, and had an urgent whispered conference with Furzey.

  ‘There may have been a third murder!’ I said. ‘Draw up an exhumation order – now! The name is Loammi Scroop and the burial place is St Michael’s churchyard. Dr Fidelis must examine the child, and do it today!’

  I then turned back to the witness and cautioned her to remain in or near the courtroom for further questioning if necessary. Then to the astonishment of all I adjourned the hearing for two hours.

  * * *

  An exhumation is a serious matter and cannot be obtained without the Coroner’s signature being endorsed by a member of the bench. Fortunately I was able to enlist to the cause a gentleman of the town, Mr Marmaduke Flitcroft, and so within half an hour I was standing by the little grave of Loammi Scroop, together with Magistrate Flitcroft, the vicar the Reverend Phillips in surplice and stole, the parish sexton with spade, Luke Fidelis holding his medical bag and most of the audience from the inquest.

  While Mr Phillips read aloud from the Psalms, the sexton forced his heart-shaped blade into the loose soil that covered the grave, laying each spadeful carefully aside before driving it powerfully in again. Every eye that could get a view was fixed on that spade. Some were perched precariously on nearby headstones. Others had climbed to the top of the church tower so that they could see it all from above.

  In only a few minutes the spade struck wood with a hollow thump. Sixty seconds later the child-sized coffin was in sight. Excavating around the edge, the sexton loosened it, and breathing in grunts eased it out of the slot where it had nestled. Straightening his back, he looked between Phillips and myself for his instructions. The vicar moistened his dry lips with his tongue.

  ‘Shall we take it into the church – for privacy, you know – the vestry, perhaps?’

  I looked around at all the people expecting to view the result of the exhumation and made up my mind not to disappoint them.

  ‘No, let everyone see. Bring the box over to that tomb there.’

  I pointed to a nearby grave, which was covered by a wide stone slab. The sexton placed his burden there and then produced a short crowbar.

  ‘All right, Sir?’

  I nodded and he slipped the sharpened end of the tool under the lid. The strained nails creaked, creaked more loudly, and then popped. The lid came loose, but instead of lifting it the sexton swept the loose earth from it and stepped away. I came forward.

  ‘Is everyone ready?’

  Everyone was. I grasped the lid, raised it and peered underneath. The first thing I noticed is that there was no smell.

  The elongated shape wrapped in some rough dowlas or cheese-cloth was easily lifted out. It had the shape and firmness of a short bolster, and was roughly stitched at each end. I picked a hole in the cloth, which I enlarged by driving a finger into it. When I took my finger out a dribble of wet sand dropped from the hole.

  I looked up. Phillips, who usually looked ashen-faced, had turned even paler upon realising that he had lately read the funeral rites of a sandbag.

  * * *

  I stormed back to the inquest room and rang my bell furiously. The empty coffin had charged me full of rage and demonic determination to reach the truth. But I was looking at rows of empty benches.

  ‘This inquest is in session again,’ I shouted. ‘Where’s the jury? Furzey! Find that Foreman and tell him to herd the men back in here.’

  When at last the bewildered jurymen had returned to their places, and the audience settled itself, I was able to continue my examination of the widow. I prefer my manner towards witnesses to be one of courteous, infinitely patient enquiry; but now I could not prevent acidity from creeping across my tongue.

  ‘Mrs Scroop, you have deceived us. You have deceived the vicar of this parish. You have deceived the world. Now you must tell us the meaning of this outrage. Where is the body that all supposed had been buried in that grave? Where is your son, Mrs Scroop?’

  Helena Scroop held herself rigid and unyieldingly composed. She looked straight ahead of her – or rather she did not look at all but affected oblivion to the room, and to me. She was physically present yet she had withdrawn her attention from the proceedings. I repeated the question in a thunderous voice, but with the same result.

  ‘Oh! If she won’t tell, then I will!’

  It was a high-pitched voice from the middle of the room, a
nd it belonged to Harriet Scroop. Dressed as neatly and sombrely as her mother, but with her face betraying considerably more emotion, she came out of the crowd and approached my table, where she immediately snatched up the Bible.

  ‘I swear by Almighty God to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. There, I have sworn, Mr Coroner. Ask me your questions.’

  The procedure was not quite orthodox, but I agreed with a tilt of my head towards the witness chair.

  ‘Very well, Miss Scroop, will you take your place in the chair?’

  The chair, however, was still occupied by her stony-faced mother, who showed no sign of moving.

  ‘No,’ said Harriet. ‘I will stand.’

  ‘If you prefer. Now, please will you tell us about your baby brother. What happened to him? Where is he?’

  Harriet did not hesitate. To general astonishment, she plunged into one of the strangest family stories I have ever uncovered.

  ‘There is no baby brother,’ she declared. ‘There never has been.’

  At this point her mother leapt from the chair.

  ‘No! Harriet, no! You will bring ruin down on yourself!’

  ‘I am ruined already, mother. There’s no escaping it.’

  Helena Scroop started to cry. She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and nose, but kept her eyes fixed on the empty air in front of her. Some kind soul from the audience came forward and led her away.

  I said, ‘Please go on, Miss Scroop. You said there never was a baby brother.’

  Harriet now sat down in the vacated chair. She seemed as composed as ever.

  ‘My mother was not expecting a child, you see, she merely made a pretence of it.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘To protect me. It was me that was with child, Sir.’

  I quelled the burst of surprised cries from the audience and, gently now, asked Harriet to say more.

  ‘We managed to keep it secret, though I came to think my maid Kathy Brock suspected it. Once she left our house it was easier. I did not go out except to church, where I wore a wide cloak, and so my condition was not revealed even towards the end. Meanwhile, my mother let it be known she herself was expecting another child. Our intention was that when I eventually gave birth she would tell the world the baby was hers.’

  ‘Did something go wrong, then?’

  ‘Yes. My mother was away visiting her brother in Hull when my baby started to come. It was born two weeks early.’

  ‘But what happened to it, Harriet?’

  ‘It died.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was … disposed of.’

  ‘In the tan-pit at the skin-yard, not far from your home?’

  ‘I … I don’t know. It wasn’t me that did it.’

  ‘Who was it, then? Who, Harriet?’

  She did not reply, but stood blinking away the tears in her eyes. I tried another approach.

  ‘Was it the father of your child who took this action? Tell us his name. Who seduced you?’

  ‘It was … oh, well, what does it matter? It was the footman who worked for us. O’Rorke. It was him that was responsible.’

  I was astounded. She had spoken quite clearly yet I wanted her to repeat herself.

  ‘Jon O’Rorke? Is that who you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see. And did O’Rorke take the baby away from you when it was born?’

  ‘Yes. I never saw it again.’

  ‘And what happened to O’Rorke? ‘

  ‘My father dismissed him. I had told him nothing of O’Rorke’s part in the matter, but he suspected him and that was enough.’

  ‘Were you fond of O’Rorke?’

  ‘No, I was not.’

  ‘So why – forgive me – did you yield to his persuasions?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I did.’

  ‘Did your father know about your transgression?’

  ‘He realized in the end that I had been dishonoured. But only because of your enquiries at the time, Mr Cragg. From those he worked the truth out for himself.’

  ‘My enquiries were interrupted by a serious fire. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘No, Sir. I was not present.’

  ‘Could your father have had a hand in it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So, meanwhile, your mother had come back from Hull still masquerading as pregnant.’

  ‘Yes. When she returned she had to go through the motions of birth. We pretended that the child was a boy, and very feeble, to explain why no one heard him cry. Then after a few days we said that he had died.’

  ‘Was your father party to this deception?’

  ‘No he knew nothing about it. He only thought about business and hardly cared about babies.’

  ‘Did he not ask to see the baby in death?’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘So whose idea was it to make the parcel of sand to lie in the coffin and simulate the body?’

  ‘That was me. I made it.’

  ‘And it fooled your father.’

  ‘It fooled everybody.’

  ‘Did it fool your family doctor, who is also your good friend? Did it fool Dr Harrod?’

  Harriet seemed to flinch at the mention of the doctor’s name.

  ‘Dr Harrod? No. He knew nothing about any of this.’

  ‘But he once told me that he had himself delivered this fictional child. Why would he do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I cannot say.’

  ‘Very well. May I turn to the headstone inscription your father chose for young Loammi? How do you interpret it?’

  ‘I think it means he was even more angry with me than I knew.’

  ‘But there is something I don’t understand. His anger led him to choose the Bible quotation “Plead with your mother, plead”. I have read the relevant passage out, and its import is not only to accuse you. It accuses your mother also, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I can only think that is because of her deception – of our deception. He held us both equally responsible for it – for the whole thing, really.’

  ‘Harriet, one more question. Do you know who killed your father?’

  ‘No, Sir, I don’t. I only know that I myself had nothing to do with it.’

  I looked into the room, searching for Dr Harrod. He appeared to have lied – but he might have been mistaken – about the time he’d been with Chimpton, and on this supposed lie rested Fidelis’s theory – his latest theory, mind you, contradicting his earlier theories – that Harrod was in fact the killer of both the tan-pit baby and Abraham Scroop. Harrod had certainly lied to me about delivering the non-existent Scroop son, and that was before its supposed death. I realized I ought not to give my summary of evidence before I had him back in the witness chair to answer for himself.

  ‘Would Dr Harrod please come back to the chair?’ I asked.

  But Harrod was no longer in the hall. When I repeated my request someone stated that he had been urgently called away to a patient in Clitheroe, which was a day’s ride away. I realized I would have to make the best I could of it without him.

  Chapter 31

  MY INQUEST MAY have uncovered a number of dark facts about Abraham Scroop, his family and his business, but the name of his killer had not emerged. In my summary, therefore, I set the scene and gave a careful account of the testimony, with strong emphasis on Fidelis’s view that Scroop had been fatally attacked through his ear, possibly while he lay incapacitated on the ground. After that – and here I considered was the point of difficulty – I attempted to divert the jury away from any rash accusatory verdict, such as ‘murder by Jon O’Rorke’ or ‘by Joss Kay’.

  I pointed out that O’Rorke had left Preston by boat on Sunday and that evidence against Joss Kay was lacking. The fact that Mr Kay had been taken into custody must not mislead us.

  ‘You have to weigh the evidence,’ I said, ‘just as you would expect the tobacconist to weigh your snuff when you buy it. Remem
ber that you may always include the word “murder” in your return without naming any individual murderer. That would then leave matter to be dealt with by the magistrates.’

  It was an untidy conclusion and I didn’t very much like it. I knew how perverse the magistrates could be. They might yet pursue O’Rorke, or even the hapless Kay, though they would not go after one of their own – Harrod, for example, in spite of his lies and evasions.

  The old doctor had escaped scrutiny at the inquest and it was my own fault. I’d had a liking for the man or I might have taxed him when I’d had the chance about his movements on the morning Scroop died. Admittedly I had no real grounds to do so, merely Fidelis’s surmises about the visit to Chimpton, and some unreliable gossip about Harrod and Mrs Scroop. It is true that an inquest is in essence a forum for guessing and gossip, yet one of the Coroner’s most important jobs is to keep this from straying into tittle-tattle. I could well see how Harrod might be guilty; but based on what the inquest had heard in evidence I could not safely venture his name as a possible culprit.

  After the first twenty minutes of their deliberation, the jury foreman came to see me.

  ‘Just a small matter, Sir. We don’t like this doctor, see? Very suspicious of him, we are. We wonder what you think of him yourself.’

  ‘Well he is a close friend of the Scroop family, you know. He must know more than he is saying, but perhaps he does not say it to protect Mrs Scroop and the girls as much as he can. I must say I would like very much to have questioned him further before we finished. I couldn’t, of course, as he had left the court.’

  ‘Left the court? No he hadn’t. He was there at the end, I saw him.’

  ‘You saw Dr Harrod? But didn’t you hear me call for him? He’d gone.’

  ‘No, no! Not Dr Harrod, Sir. He’s a very pleasant gentleman. It’s that other doctor, the know-it-all who thinks Mr Scroop was murdered through his ear, or something like that: he’s the one we don’t trust.’