Authors: Robin Blake
A Dark Anatomy (12 page)
What does a man do in these circumstances? She is pouring scorn on him at every opportunity. She nags, rages and calls his virility into question. And he begins to hate her.
So he turns his mind to putting her aside. But divorce is a ruinous as well as a tedious procedure, and besides would mean that he forfeit his wife's sweet sugar wealth. With these reflections his thoughts stray down a darker path. He knows her habits, knows precisely where to find her alone and vulnerable. And so events follow the path that Fidelis had plotted for me two nights before. He departs on his journey to York, dismisses his servant on the way back and rides through the night to the Fulwood, where he encounters Dolores at the hollow oak, kills her and returns home hours later, having had his horse re-shod.
I admit I had performed a volte-face about Brockletower's guilt. It was all plausible to me now, but there was a caveat: no one had seen it happen. Nothing had been heard, only gossip and idle talk. Would a jury be convinced enough to bring in the finding that I had previously been so averse to: âmurder by Ramilles Brockletower'?
A verdict of murder by person (or persons) unknown would be all that was required of my court. But now I found myself nurturing a desire to have the killer of Dolores Brockletower found and punished. She might not have been an amiable lady. But she had not deserved to die in that way. I wanted her killer brought to justice.
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FTER CLEARING THE parish church and vicarage, the road to Preston soon passed through a peninsula or outcrop of the old Fulwood. It was no longer a part of the common forest, having been annexed two generations ago by the Brockletower estate, though they had not yet cleared it for pasture or planting. Much anger and some grief had been provoked by the appropriation. The woods were a useful source of fuel and rabbits for the poor, and more than one of the squire's ricks were burnt that summer. But the Brockletowers had made good their claim with legal parliamentary measures, and (as my father gravely used to tell me) where Parliament shoots, the mark is always hit. In the meantime, it must be admitted, the people's fuel-gathering and rabbit-snaring went on as before.
FTER CLEARING THE parish church and vicarage, the road to Preston soon passed through a peninsula or outcrop of the old Fulwood. It was no longer a part of the common forest, having been annexed two generations ago by the Brockletower estate, though they had not yet cleared it for pasture or planting. Much anger and some grief had been provoked by the appropriation. The woods were a useful source of fuel and rabbits for the poor, and more than one of the squire's ricks were burnt that summer. But the Brockletowers had made good their claim with legal parliamentary measures, and (as my father gravely used to tell me) where Parliament shoots, the mark is always hit. In the meantime, it must be admitted, the people's fuel-gathering and rabbit-snaring went on as before.
No sooner had my road penetrated this contentious belt of woodland than I came up to a long timber cart, hitched to a pair of heavy horses, standing on the wide grass verge that separated the road from the trees. Two great trunks, roughly sawn to length, had already been loaded, and men were at work trimming a third. Supervising the work was the squire's woodsman Timothy Shipkin. As soon as I saw him, I recalled a small but (as I thought) important thing that I wanted to ask him.
I called out and Shipkin walked across. He had the face of a
man who could think of better things to do than bandy words with an official from the town. Yet he couldn't be faulted on the ground of superficial courtesy.
man who could think of better things to do than bandy words with an official from the town. Yet he couldn't be faulted on the ground of superficial courtesy.
âHow do, Mr Cragg?' he asked, automatically swiping his hat from his head to reveal the stiff, abundant bristles of his grey hair.
âHello, Shipkin,' I replied and, thinking I would approach my question by a round-about way, gestured at the work going on behind him. âWhat are you doing here?'
Without shifting his feet Shipkin rotated the upper half of his body until he could nod in the direction of the timber carriage.
âNothing but what you can see. Fetching some timber to make spars.'
He held the position for a moment then swung round to face me again. âThey're for that architect, as he calls himself. For the supposed temple of his.'
âAh, yes. I have heard about it. I imagine you take a disapproving view of such works â pagan temples and the like.'
He shrugged his thin shoulders.
âIt's not a building concerns me, but what folk do in it. I'm told this one is for doing nowt in, but sheltering from rain. If that's right, I am content. Rain comes from our creator, but so do the means to shelter from it.'
Surprised that Shipkin had taken a tolerant view of Barnabus Woodley's folly, I steered the subject away from architectural morality.
âWell, I'm sorry to call you from your work. Have you come directly from the Hall today?'
âI have that.'
âIs there any news about this matter, the disappearance of your mistress's body?'
âNone, sir, not when I was there. That were three hours since.'
âAnd I wonder if the man Mallender was there, the bailiff's sergeant?'
âThe one in the dirty red coat? Aye, I saw him poking about.'
âDid he make any discoveries?'
âHim, sir? He's not the capacity. If one of them heavy horses were stood behind the door of his parlour I reckon he couldn't discover it.'
I think I smiled but, feeling I should administer a mild rebuke, said, âHe is the bailiff's man, you know, so we must extend him courtesy if possible. Well now, there was one more thing I wanted to ask you. It's about your own first finding of the body of poor Mrs Brockletower. A small detail.'
âWhat's that, sir?'
âWhen I examined the spot where she lay, which I did very closely, there was a depression in the earth beside her. It seemed to be the imprint of a knee.'
Shipkin adopted a look of mild scepticism.
âA knee, you say?'
âYes, an imprint â where I imagine someone went down on one knee beside the body. To look more closely at it, I would imagine. Was it you that made it? Did you kneel beside Mrs Brockletower in that way when you first came upon her lying by the hollow tree?'
Shipkin is the only man I have ever met who frowned with his whole face. His countenance was so deeply and expressively lined that when he concentrated his thoughts, it was not just the forehead that contracted. The declivities that criss-crossed the cheeks and chin, the fissures that descended from each side of the nose, the mouth and around the bulb of the chin, and the cracks that rayed out from the corners of his eyes, would all
deepen and contort. They did so now, as he attempted to locate and root out the answer to my question from his memory.
deepen and contort. They did so now, as he attempted to locate and root out the answer to my question from his memory.
âDon't rightly remember,' he said warily at last. âAnd what would it signify if I did?'
I ignored his question. A religious enthusiast is an obstinate clown, in Mr Spectator's estimation. But that sage had never met Timothy Shipkin, who was no fool and (as I could tell from his tone of voice) already knew the precise answer to his own question. The dint in the damp earth might signify much. It might be the only indication of another person present when Dolores Brockletower fell bleeding to the earth. And, if that were the case, it was surely the mark of her murderer.
âDo you at least recall noticing this knee-print yourself?'
Again his face tightened, but after a moment he shook his head.
âI do not. Happen it was one of the others that went up after me.'
I shook my head.
âThey told me none of them went as near her as that. So, if you do at any time recall doing such a thing, please send word. It may be important evidence. Now, I will take up no more of your time and be on my way. Good day, Shipkin.'
I kicked my horse's flanks and was off again, dissatisfied that Shipkin's defensive wall had not been breached. I had covered only about two hundred yards when my mind received a kick as sharp as the one I had given the horse. I had seen in a rush the import of my metaphor of the wall. It had been produced out of my intuition that Shipkin was on the defensive, that he had something to hide. Suppose, I thought, that what he had to hide was full knowledge of the murder. And, to go one step further, that he knew the killing had not after all been done
by the squire. And, finally, suppose he knew this because Timothy Shipkin had done the deed himself.
by the squire. And, finally, suppose he knew this because Timothy Shipkin had done the deed himself.
It was a completely new and contrary hypothesis to the Greek tragedy I had previously constructed.
When acting as coroner or legal adviser, I always try outwardly to show a firmness of decision. No judge, jury, or client can have confidence in a man whose views will forever jump about like fleas on a mattress. But, when I secretly interrogate myself, this solidity deserts me. Though I tell no one except Elizabeth (from whom I hide nothing) I will often doubt my own powers of decision, dithering inwardly about which coat to wear, the black or the brown; which meat to eat, the flesh or the fowl; which wine to serve, the port or the claret. And so it was now. Having, as it seemed, fixed firmly in my mind the idea that the squire was the murderer, I was now hopping off after another suspicion.
But I could not stop myself. The theory formed itself with alarming rapidity in my brain. It enumerated the points suggesting Shipkin's guilt. First, wasn't he hostile towards Mrs Brockletower, particularly her masculine way of sitting a horse? Second, hadn't he indisputably been there at the scene of her death (though oddly going off immediately to Shot's Hill to fell a dead beech: from one death to another, you might say)? Thirdly, wasn't he a member of a millenarian group, in whose distorted opinion an act of violence against a sinner might not necessarily contradict the teachings of Our Saviour? And finally, being a forester, did he not have frequent recourse to sharp instruments, such as might be used to cut a person's throat?
Yes, I thought, there might be a case against Shipkin. But I would have to dispose of one awkward fact. The man was
a pedestrian, whereas Fidelis and I had already mutually concluded, almost
pro certo
, that the cut-throat had been mounted. How could an earthbound Shipkin have managed the business? This and other questions jingled against each together like coins in my pocket as the horse and I jogged along the road to Preston. They had not resolved themselves by the time we arrived back in Cheapside.
a pedestrian, whereas Fidelis and I had already mutually concluded, almost
pro certo
, that the cut-throat had been mounted. How could an earthbound Shipkin have managed the business? This and other questions jingled against each together like coins in my pocket as the horse and I jogged along the road to Preston. They had not resolved themselves by the time we arrived back in Cheapside.
Â
âTimothy Shipkin is no murderer,' said my wife with decision, lying against the bed pillows as pretty as ever in her lace-fringed night-cap. She looked up from her sampler to watch me as I pulled off my breeches. I had been telling her after supper what the vicar had said. The squire's desire to sever himself from his wife had astonished her, but reinforced her suspicion that Ramilles Brockletower had murdered her.
I cannot say why I had chosen this particular moment to extenuate the case against the squire by admitting, with a tiny itch of shame, of my suspicion towards Shipkin. Perhaps the act of undressing had made me more confiding, though, of course, I would have told her in the end anyway.
I struggled out of the rest of my clothes and pulled the sleeping gown over my head.
âI think he might be,' I said, diving into bed and reaching out for her. But she wriggled away from my touch.
âOw! Your hands are cold. Warm them up, Titus.'
I rolled onto my back with a sigh, and folded my hands together across my belly. Elizabeth resumed her stitching.
âTell me why you suddenly suspect poor Shipkin.'
âI met him on the way back from Yolland this afternoon. He was loading tree-trunks he'd felled in the spur of forest that the road passes through.'
âAnd?'
âHe told me Mallender has been poking around at Garlick Hall, looking for the body. Found nothing, not that I would expect him to. Shipkin didn't think much of his powers either.'
âNor do I. Nor does anyone. But go on.'
âI asked Shipkin to think back to when he'd found the body of Dolores Brockletower. I asked if he had gone down on one knee beside the body.'
âWhy would he do that? To pray?'
âNo, no, to look more closely. To inspect the neck wound. There was an impression in the ground in about the right place, and it seemed to be that of a knee. I wanted to know if it was Shipkin's knee.'
âI see. And was it?'
âHe couldn't remember, which I find unaccountable. When such a momentous thing happens as the discovery of a dead body, I would say that a person remembers every detail. Wouldn't you?'
âNot always. The shock might wipe the memory away.'
âI'm wondering if it was deliberate loss of memory, and he knows more than he says, but is trying to keep his distance.'
She frowned, pressed her lips together and made a pout. I could not tell if she was concentrating on what I was saying or on her embroidery.
âOnly yesterday,' I went on, âhe told me the woman was a consort of the Devil. If he really believes that he might think it his religious duty to hasten her on the way to hell.'
Under the bedclothes I sent my hand as an experiment across the gap between us. When I found some flesh she whacked her own hand down sharply onto the eiderdown above.
âYour hand is still cold.'
Reluctantly I took back my hand.
âWhat's your opinion of Shipkin, then?'
Letting her work rest, she lowered her head to the pillow and studied the ceiling.
âI don't think he can have done it, Titus. I've met the fellow. He's a religious man and would show the guilt, shock and remorse of any foul act he had committed. And besides, Shipkin has never been known to do any violence to anyone, not even to raise his hand.'
âThere are consummate hypocrites, my dear.'
âYes, and I never saw one that I could not see through.'
I sighed. She was right. My wife has formidable powers in reading character.
âWell I wish you
could
see it in him,' I said despairingly, âI've no particular feeling against Shipkin, in spite of his obnoxious seven sleepers. But if there must be a guilty partyâ'
could
see it in him,' I said despairingly, âI've no particular feeling against Shipkin, in spite of his obnoxious seven sleepers. But if there must be a guilty partyâ'
âI know.' Elizabeth's interjection was sharp and discomfiting. âYou would much prefer it to be him. But is a woman's style of riding really sufficient provocation to murder? I know what is behind this. It is not that you
believe
Shipkin is guilty, you only
want
him to be. And, of course, he is very convenient to your suspicion. The poor man's a born outsider. His trial and execution would leave the social order undisturbed. Not so if the squire turned out to be a wife-killer, Titus. Then our whole little society is implicated. But this is no reason to convict an innocent man in the place of a guilty one. Shame on you!'
believe
Shipkin is guilty, you only
want
him to be. And, of course, he is very convenient to your suspicion. The poor man's a born outsider. His trial and execution would leave the social order undisturbed. Not so if the squire turned out to be a wife-killer, Titus. Then our whole little society is implicated. But this is no reason to convict an innocent man in the place of a guilty one. Shame on you!'
âIt would be shame on me, of course, if he were innocent. But, you know, Shipkin may still be guilty. Though I must admit â¦'
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