A Dark Anatomy (22 page)

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Authors: Robin Blake

BOOK: A Dark Anatomy
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T
HE CRIES OF dismay seemed to have no effect on the squire, who resolutely stayed in his library, but it caused the servants to run out, the women clapping their cheeks and the men blaspheming in shock. Taking command, Sutch supervised the lowering of the body.
‘I thought I saw someone in the corner of my eye, in the woods,' he explained, ‘spying on the work. Dodged behind a tree, he did, when I looked at him directly. So I went in and flushed him out of cover.'
‘An unfortunate ending, Sergeant, but you could not have foreseen it,' I told him.
With his great bulk stretched out in front of us, there was no doubt Solomon was dead and, feeling that the matter was in good hands, I asked one of the grooms to bring round my horse. There was nothing further I could do here, and I still had Mrs Brockletower's inquest to arrange for the next day.
As I waited, one of the labouring men approached me and plucked at my sleeve. He wanted to know if Solomon could be laid in the ground as soon as they had had his wake, this being customary among them. I considered for a moment. Solomon had lost his life violently and suddenly, and under normal circumstances that would require an inquest. But in this case I
was certain one was not needed. The hanging had happened before the eyes of half-a-dozen witnesses, and no one would disagree about its nature: quite evidently accidental. Most importantly one of those witnesses was myself. As coroner, I would be able to assert the cause of death to the Mayor and borough officers and, since those gentlemen would not find it very palatable to lay out cash for an inquiry into an explicable death, they would be satisfied. I told the man to go ahead and bury Solomon as soon as he wished.
 
‘I wonder about Peg Miller, the woman whose acquaintance I made at the builders' camp,' I said to Elizabeth as we sat down to our meal that evening of leek soup thickened with potatoes, followed by boiled mutton. ‘She is Solomon's mother. He is being waked at this moment, but I wonder how the death has affected her.'
‘As it would any mother, Titus. She must be distracted and inconsolable.'
‘Oh, I'm not so sure. There is something peculiarly philosophical about Peg. I believe she possesses what Mr Spectator calls equality of mind. Do you know the passage?'
She laughed.
‘You and your Mr Spectator! I sometimes think I am married to both of you, and am a bigamist.'
She meant the gibe friendly, so I went on.
‘But it's a famous essay. He states that Equality of Mind is the capacity not to over-value our earthly existence. You see it enables us to understand instead that life on earth is only ‘the circulation of little mean actions'. I am sure such opinions are by no means more rare amongst the common people than in refined society. Solomon cannot be said to have been much
favoured by nature. Perhaps his mother could conceive that, in the life to come, Solomon might be happier and more useful than he had ever been in this, and that his passing could therefore be borne with fortitude.'
‘Oh, Titus! You sound as if you were in court. Think. He was a human being, this poor Solomon. He had the feelings of a man, and a soul of his own too. The woman bore and breeched him, and loved him no doubt as passionately as any mother. She would not consider her son in that light. No woman thinks her son mean or useless.'
‘Old Mrs Brockletower did, of Ramilles. He told me so himself this very day. He said she never did love him as well as she loved his older brother. He also says his wife was equally cold towards him.'
‘Did he say that? It is a remarkable admission from a proud man. And to someone he does not know well.'
‘He wanted something of me. He was trying to elicit my pity. He did everything short of going down on his knees begging me not to have his wife's body opened and medically examined.'
‘What? Is that what you intend? Examined by Dr Fidelis?'
‘Yes.'
‘Well, I would say Mr Brockletower's feeling is natural. I also would object. He does not want her cut open. It is a violation, and horrible, and against religion. The buried body should be all of a piece, so that it may rise again entire at the end of the world.'
I sighed and shook my head.
‘I do not think Ramilles Brockletower is a very religious man,' I said. ‘I do not think he believes quite the same things as you, my dear.'
‘Shall you examine him at tomorrow's inquest? If so, you will be able to find out.'
 
The next morning it rained. Now, it may strike the reader as superfluous to say that this has a dampening effect. But the encroachment of damp is not only a question of sodden hats and wigs, bespattered stockings and flooded shoes. It is also the human spirit and its finer natural capacities that become cold and soused on a wet day. So, when I set out for the Plough Inn, under a continuous and perfectly uniform downpour from a muddy sky, I immediately found myself worrying about my jury and how well they would apply themselves to the task.
But I need not have. At some inquests, where little of interest or importance is for consideration, there may be difficulties in assembling a quorum of jurors, let alone in keeping them awake. A vagabond had died in the Fulwood a year previously, and few of the freeholders I summoned cared strongly enough about the case to heed the call. I was obliged to make do with a panel of only seven somnolent freemen. But just find a box of silver in a ploughed field and folk will fight for the right to decide if it be treasure trove. A murdered squire's wife is as fascinating as a silver hoard, so there was little danger of apathy. I was not surprised to find that, out of the sixteen I had originally slated, fourteen men reported eagerly for duty, each one burning, in spite of the damp day, with the fire of curiosity in their bellies. I assigned two of these as reserves, and promptly empanelled the remaining dozen.
The landlord had prepared his public room for the occasion. My place was a chair with a high ladder-back at one end of the room, behind a good-sized oak refectory table. This was provided with a pen, penknife, ink, sand-shaker, quantity of paper, jug of water, drinking-glass and the brass hand-bell with which
I mark the various stages of a hearing. I did not have the table to myself. On my right sat Furzey, who had his own writing materials and would act as clerk. On my left, ranged in two rows of seats along the side-wall of the room, were the jury seats, which were directly faced, on the opposite wall, by a single carver chair for the use of the witnesses. Finally in the main body of the room the public seats were arranged facing me in rows, as for an audience at the theatre. The first two rows would be reserved for witnesses and behind these, separated by the space of two vacant rows, the public's own seating was arranged.
I took my place without ceremony and surveyed the already packed hall. Under the drumming of rain on the roof, it was buzzing like a beehive. I saw Bailiff Grimshaw, his waistcoat flashing red silk and silver braid. Near him was the great bulk of Sergeant Mallender, the man's enormous buttocks distributed across two seats, and with small rivers of water flowing off him to the floor beneath. I saw Bethany Marsden sitting companionably with her grandson, Jonah, who'd originally run to me with the news of Dolores Brockletower's death. I saw many of the other servants from Garlick Hall, numbers of respectable town and village people and, at the very back, behind the last row of chairs, the standing room, reserved for the lower orders. In the midst of the smocked and straw-hatted flock stood Widow Patten, the crone from Gamull who had informed me on that first day that Dolores Brockletower's death was the Devil's work. I felt glad to see she had taken up my invitation to attend, and (so I hoped) witness the confounding of her superstition with rational explanation.
Giving a vigorous shake to my hand-bell, I called silence and turned towards the jury. I gave my usual homily about the weightiness of their task, and then proceeded straight to the swearing. One by one they stood and read the oath from
Furzey's printed card, which they passed reverently from hand to hand. Then I told them to elect a foreman and, as they whispered about this amongst themselves, I sat back in my chair.
After a brief interval of attentive quiet, the audience had resumed its low-pitched drone. I immediately noticed Sarah Brockletower arriving on her brother's arm. He was talking to her urgently. They made their way by degrees up the hall, ignoring all attempts to speak with them, and settled in the front row of the witness seats. Sarah looked calm, though pale. The squire was agitated.
The jury finished its deliberation quickly enough, and George Pennyfold came over to tell me he had been elected their spokesman. I was glad of the choice. I thought him dependable.
Once that was settled, our next duty was to view the body. I announced to the room that the fifteen of us – myself, the jurors and the reserves – would have to walk over to Garlick Hall, making the best of the rain. I would then reconvene and begin to take witness evidence. I asked those giving testimony not, in the meantime, to go far away as I expected we would return for the resumption within the hour.
And as the jurors filed out of the hall, bundling themselves into coats and cloaks, I noticed our landlord standing importantly just outside the door. I took him by the elbow and drew him away from the crowd.
‘Mr Wigglesworth, you have heard the news of your former guest, Mr Woodley?'
Wigglesworth nodded.
‘I have that, Coroner. He was up at dawn the day before yesterday and took a crust for his breakfast away with him in his riding coat pocket. I never saw him again. Owed me almost six pound, he did.'
‘I suppose you may ask the squire for the money,' I said. ‘If you dare.'
I now saw Luke Fidelis striding towards the inquest room, having clearly just arrived from town.
‘Luke!' I called.
He came over to me.
‘When we leave, follow ten minutes behind,' I said quietly. ‘You shall operate straight after the viewing.'
 
At some point during our walk, along the long straight lane known – oddly, since it is quite level – as Cow Hill, the jurors threw off the chilling effect of the rain and began nervously to make light of the business, and to laugh jauntily amongst themselves. It was in this spirit of quite inappropriate jolliness, bred no doubt from nervousness as to what they would soon be faced with, that the jury arrived outside the Ice-house, where two rain-bedraggled militiamen were still on guard. We huddled together to light the lanterns we had brought with us. It was George Pennyfold that led the jury in, with lantern held high, while I acted as sheepdog, herding and chivvying them past the soldiers and through the narrow passageway that led within.
I doubt that any of the jurors had stepped into such a place before, and as they did so their previous levity was instantly punctured. The lamplight slewed and sliced through the gloom as the lanterns swung in their hands. They huffed and blew and pulled their wet coats more tightly around them. The space was narrow and, by the time we were all inside, completely congested.
In an inquest, the viewing is a serious, almost a sacramental business, and I like to imbue it with appropriate solemnity. The narrowness of the space obliged me to shove my way past the
jurors but, having done so, I was able to take my place at the corpse's head, and to rearrange the other twelve in a suitable pattern. Foreman Pennyfold stood on my right, with four others lined up beside him, while five more were ranged on my left, and the remaining two jurors proper occupied the far end. The reserves stood just behind, at their shoulders.
‘You are here soberly to inspect the body,' I said in a low, even, warning tone. ‘This is in order to fulfil the law and to inform your later deliberations as to the cause of death. You must take note of anything that might lead us safely to a conclusion on that.'
So saying, I gently drew apart the lips of the canvas enclosure to reveal the dead woman's greasy, discoloured face, and the jury gave a collective shudder and caught their breath. That we are forever in the presence of death is a familiar idea, but unless you are a Dr Fidelis, or a fighting man like Sutch, the matter may be largely an abstraction. To confront a murdered corpse in a dark, freezing cellar is quite another thing. The jury was unsettled, though they had different ways of showing it.
‘I feel sick.'
‘Woe to her that is filthy and polluted.'
‘She stinks, anyway.'
‘Let's see her throat, where it were cut.'
‘And then let's get out of here.'
A murmur of assent to this suggestion rippled through the room, and some of the jurors pressed handkerchiefs to their noses.
‘No,' I insisted, ‘we cannot and must not leave until you have all seen the body entire.'
I indicated that jurors further down the table should help me to open the covering and reveal the corpse's whole length. They did this gingerly, as if it might at any moment explode.
But when it was done, Dolores Brockletower lay in her riding habit of black tunic and voluminous red skirt, spread before our eyes.

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