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Authors: Robin Blake

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‘What?'
‘Well, there is one circumstantial reason to support Shipkin being what he says he is. The man does not ride, whereas there's
every reason to believe the assassin was on horseback. Fidelis is of the same opinion.'
Elizabeth picked up her sampler, laid it on the bedside cabinet, then subsided into her pillow again.
‘That settles it, Titus,' she said brightly. ‘If Dr Fidelis says Shipkin is telling the truth, and if I say the same, it must be the case. So pursue the squire, and leave the woodman alone.'
She turned on her side towards me and laid the back of her fingers against my cheek.
‘Now,' she murmured, ‘is there any likelihood of your hands being warm at last?'
 
 
O
N THE FOURTH morning after the death of Dolores Brockletower, I was awoken by a gunshot. No – I can only have been partially awoken, since I immediately heard another shot, and then a third. I understood that they came from the gun of Ramilles Brockletower, and then I saw him standing up to his waist in the rising morning mist, firing again and again into the woods. His target was the shrouded figure of his wife as she flitted between the trees, like a hunted nymph desperate of her life. Then I opened my eyes and saw the casement window swinging in and out, being hammered against its frame by a squall of wind and rain.
I yawned and rubbed my face. Mrs Brockletower as a nymph! That's the dream-world for you. A wrinkled mirror distorting what it reflects.
Elizabeth, an even earlier riser than myself, had already quit the bed. I groped for my watch on the bedside cabinet and found the time was half past six. Then I too sprang up, crossed to the window and pulled the delinquent casement shut. The weather was grey, gusty and rain-sodden. I turned and hurriedly pulled on my clothes. It was an indoors day in prospect.
As I breakfasted I considered what I had to do this day. I was still concerned, above all, about the missing body of
Mrs Brockletower, since I had no faith in Oswald Mallender's ability to find it. The man might have been adequate for hauling naughty boys home by the ear to be thrashed by their fathers, or chasing washerwomen off the riverbank when they strayed too close to the salmon traps. But this was a challenge far beyond the scope of his feeble intellect. I doubted that he had even glimpsed the possibility of Dolores Brockletower's remains having been purloined for sale to the anatomy trade.
I myself was beginning to warm to this particular idea. True, it changed the philosophical status of the body's disappearance. Instead of being a necessary consequence of the particular facts of the murder (whatever they may be) it became, under this hypothesis, a random contingency. But it was nevertheless appealingly simple, requiring just two elements to make it run: someone on the lookout for a body, and a simultaneous widely advertised death. The questor would then have had the simple task of going to Garlick Hall at night and helping himself, with only one complicating obstacle: how a stranger could turn the lock of the Ice-house. But I was hopeful that this would not prove insurmountable.
The balancing possibility was that, in hopes of avoiding an inquest, the body had been removed by the murderer himself. It was equally plausible and a lot more desirable philosophically, since the solution to the one crime automatically became the key to the other. Mallender's wits were perhaps just quick enough to grasp this. Had he got as far as suspecting the squire? I doubted it and, if I was right, his ‘poking around' at Garlick Hall under Ramilles Brockletower's own supervision was more likely to lead him astray than to put a discovery in his path.
I therefore decided that, after allowing Grimshaw and Mallender a free hand for twenty-four hours, and nothing coming out of it, it would be as well to pay Mayor Blackburne a
call. I needed to enlist the support of a higher authority before renewing my own assault on the problem.
Nathaniel Blackburne was from a family widespread in the county and beyond – one of his distant relatives was Lancelot, the present Archbishop of York – and had been born one of the fourteen children of Jack Blackburne of Dutton, a country manor standing twelve miles to the east of town. Tall and handsome, though now approaching sixty, Nat had lived in our town as long as I could remember and risen to the mayoralty after amassing a fortune in the cheese trade. It had been one of his drays that I had met at Garlick Hall on the morning of Dolores Brockletower's death.
On the whole, Mayor Blackburne's tenure had been a beneficial one. The town certainly appeared to have increased in wealth, and he had showed a deep mastery of civic politics, not least in his handling of Grimshaw. The Mayor could not have prevented the bailiff's election – the Grimshaws controlled too many votes for that – but if the bailiff's ambition was a strong and fiery tincture, the Mayor kept its bottle-stop firmly in his own hands. Grimshaw was allowed his showy parades and personal adornment, but the Mayor made sure to confine him to a subsidiary role. It was the sort of control a father has over a son that he cannot disown, yet does not trust.
Blackburne's other care was the politics of a wider sphere: he had the county to deal with. This represented a greater power than any he faced inside Preston, and it continually sought to obtain advantage over the town, imposing on us and squeezing us of revenue.
Having crossed Cheapside and entered the venerable timbered structure of the Moot Hall, I found it was this external view of the Brockletower killing that most preoccupied the Mayor at that moment. And, by this, he meant primarily how it
was regarded by the Lord Lieutenant, Edward Stanley, eleventh Earl of Derby.
‘You had better know,' he told me in his chambers when I informed him of the reason for my visit, ‘that Lord Derby is following all this with the closest attention. The very closest. Imagine what he must think. The wife of our MP, sitting in his interest, murdered in this horrible way! His lordship is no fool. He realizes that young Brockletower's whole future is in the balance. And if he is forced out of Parliament, his lordship would have an expensive by-election to fight.'
‘Has Lord Derby already found Mr Brockletower guilty of killing his wife, then?'
‘No, no, don't be absurd, Cragg. He is the fairest of men, but he is thinking ahead. He is thinking:
what if
? That is how we should all think. Tell me, in your opinion, is it conceivable that Ram Brockletower could have done this thing? I cannot think it so. Surely it was a stranger, some wandering footpad or other.'
‘Do you mean, could Mr Brockletower have done it in himself? Or are you concerned with circumstantial probability?'
‘Oh, I don't doubt he
might
have done such a thing. He suffers grievously from anger, and I never thought that his West Indian marriage was anything but precipitate and unfortunate. But under the circumstances, how could he be the murderer? Wasn't he away from home in Yorkshire at the time?'
‘I'm afraid I cannot speak of the circumstances, even to you. It is better if nothing comes out until we have found the victim's body and can hold an inquest.'
‘As you wish. Finding the body is of the first importance.'
‘Mr Grimshaw insists its loss was a matter of carelessness. Let me assure you, Mr Mayor, it was not. It was an act of wickedness hard to anticipate or prevent. So we must find the body, and the person who removed it.'
‘The bailiff is inclined to jump to rash conclusions from time to time. But you have my confidence in this, Titus. What can I do to help?'
‘We need a proper search by a disciplined body of men at Garlick Hall. Mr Grimshaw has thought fit only to send a one-man search party: his fellow Mallender. Mallender is large, but not large enough. In my opinion we need a troop of soldiers.'
The Mayor looked dubious.
‘Well, much as I desire to help you, it's not for me to say. Only the Lord Lieutenant can call out troops and whether he would agree to do so for something like this I can't say. You'll have to go and ask him yourself which, fortunately, you won't find too difficult. You will find him at home at Patten House.'
 
I went back to the office, meaning to write a note to be sent round to Patten House asking for an interview with the earl. But I was forestalled by Furzey, who stumped into my room brandishing a letter for my immediate attention. It had been delivered half an hour before, and bore the Lord Lieutenant's seal. His lordship had anticipated me.
To Titus Cragg Esq., Coroner of Preston, Good Sir, I
would be obliged if you would attend me at my house
here in Preston at your earliest convenience. Derby.
Within the boundaries of the County Palatine, a summons from Lord Derby has the force of a Command Royal. He enjoys prestige, magnificence and wealth. He is not contradicted and his summonses are acted upon precipitately.
Of all the Earls of Derby, this one was Preston's own. Patten House, a fine tall structure, wooden-framed but topped by a battlemented tower, stands right in the centre of town. It came
to his lordship through his mother, who was a Patten, and he lived there when he was only Edward Stanley, before he inherited the title from his cousin, the tenth earl. With the title came big houses at Knowsley towards Liverpool, and Lathom Castle at Ormskirk and a London house too. But Patten House remained his favourite town house in Lancashire and he returned here to conduct his estate business, and that of the vaster estate of Lancashire, which he held in his charge. He came to be sociable, too.
Patten House is known to anyone who has seen Preston, since it is by a margin the largest and best private residence we have. It stands on the north side of Church Gate, on the other side from the church, but a little to the east, and back from the road. So one approaches it through a noble gate and porterhouse on the street and is then funnelled along a path walled on each side to form a ‘chimney', which leads to the main door.
Just within that door, on the left, was a small writing office, in which his lordship's man of business and a clerk held sway. I greeted them and passed the time of day until a young footman appeared to lead me wordlessly across the flagged hall and up the wide blackened-oak staircase to the first floor. We strode across an anteroom and the servant swung open the door before announcing me with sonorous self-importance.
I found Lord Derby sitting stiffly in an armchair near a large old-fashioned leaded bow window. His legs were crossed, his face half turned towards the light and his chin lifted. He wore his everyday buff coat but at the same time a formal wig, an odd look. Opposite him stood an easel supporting a small stretched canvas on which a portrait painter was at work. Standing at his elbow, and holding his palette, was a bored-looking youth whom I estimated to be seventeen.
‘Come in, Titus,' called the earl without altering the
position of his head. ‘Take a seat. This is Mr Winstanley. You do not object to our talking in his presence? He endeavours to complete me phizzog before I go to London at the end of the week.'
I said what we had to discuss was in its nature confidential, and would it not be better if we were alone? The earl cheerfully agreed and sent the painter and his boy to wait in the anteroom. Winstanley made no verbal objection though he was clearly put out at being put out.
Lord Derby then rose, stretched, removed his wig and strolled around the easel to examine Winstanley's work. I joined him. The sitter was fifty, and looked it, but Winstanley, without sacrificing verisimilitude, had cunningly contrived to make him ten years younger. I did not mention this, but I did ask why only the visible flesh of the head, neck and face appeared, of which the latter was cut off along the forehead at the wig line. The effect was disconcertingly fragmentary.
‘I cannot say,' Lord Derby replied, as if the matter was of little importance to him. ‘We must presume Mr Winstanley knows his business. He works the face from life because, he says, it is the only important aspect of a portrait. For the rest, he scuttles back into his studio and in due course one sees the finished canvas. Do you think the face is like?'
I had to think quickly to answer this possibly forked question.
‘In this incomplete state the final effect is difficult to judge, my lord. But it appears very lifelike.'
His lordship gave me a shrewd look and returned to his chair. I sat a little uncomfortably on the narrow window seat.
‘Well,' he said with a sigh, ‘one does not have one's portrait done to gratify oneself. It is a dynastic duty. All my ancestors are lined up along the walls of Knowsley, so I must take my
place amongst them, what? Now! To business. I am very concerned about this affair concerning the wife of my old friend Brockletower's son – now, of course, his
late
wife. What do you know about how she died?'
I had known the earl for several years when he was no more than a comfortably situated baronet. We had even provided him with some legal services from time to time. So I felt no restraint in giving him an account of the last three days, though I made sure to concentrate on the facts rather than my private interpretations of them. But his lordship immediately arrived at similar conclusions without any prompting from me.
‘Of course young Brockletower must fall under suspicion in this,' he said when I had finished. ‘It seems quite possible for him to have ridden to the Fulwood and killed his lady when he was supposed to be out in Yorkshire. As to why he should have done so I would not venture an opinion. Knew his father pretty well, of course, but this boy's a stranger to me. Met him a few times at Parliament, and we've conversed once or twice at assemblies here. He's said to be a shade hot-headed. What do you think of the case, Titus? I value your acumen highly, you know.'
His manner was condescending, of course. But we lawyers are accustomed to that from our noble clients.

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