Authors: Robin Blake

A Dark Anatomy (27 page)

BOOK: A Dark Anatomy

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âShe gave me that to read. Marked one passage specially for me, and I know why. She did it to goad me, torment me.'

I reached and picked up the book. It was volume III of the collected
Tatler
, a duodecimo edition, smaller than my own octavo, and in a binding not at all as well kept, but rubbed, scratched and broken at the hinges. There was a ribbon in its pages, and I opened it at the place, already feeling sure which passage I would find. And there it was: the story of Mr Eustace.

âA paltry little tale,' commented Brockletower, âof paltry people, with paltry concerns. I am ashamed she should think us comparable.'

âAre you not, then? The circumstances seemed similar to your wife, I think.'

âNo, no, they were not a bit similar. Did you know I am hereabouts called “Black Ram”. You remember
The Moor of Venice
?'

â
Othello
? Strange you should refer to that. Only the other day Iâ'

âNow
that's
similar. You know what the Black Ram did to the White Ewe?'

He laughed derisively.

âThat would be funny if it wasn't so damned sad. My wife would have me her own Othello, in every way but the colour of my skin.' He pulled up his sleeve, and briefly showed me his wrist and forearm. âBut I doubt Venice valued his wife more than mine was valued in the Jamaican circles in which I found her.'

There was a moment's silence.

Wanting him to continue, I prompted, âHow was that?'

âThink, man, think! It was impossible to calculate her worth out there! A barocco pearl! Nothing like it had ever been seen before. Looked as a woman, and fucked as a man. You don't hear of that very often.'

I remained attentive. The man was out of his mind, but not incoherent.

âI stole it from them, their pearl. I had known her but a few days, a few days, when suddenly I found that I would risk everything for her. Of course it was criminal to be married, but only if people knew about her. I thought no one would ever find us out. Her father gave me his blessing, naturally: he was more than glad to be rid of her. But look what she's done now â made it all public, planned my ruin. Woodley saw that. He told me. But his idea of saving me â¦ that disgusted me as much as
she'd
come to disgust me. A gallows or a mollyhouse. Bad, bad choice.'

âHow did she plan to ruin you?'

He jabbed his finger at the book, which still lay open in my hand.

âAs his wife ruined the feeble Eustace. My wife wanted the same thing as happened to her, you see: to die at my hand. By that time her barren, monstrous life, her
self
, was as horrible to her as it was to me. I told her I did not like her enough to kill her and hang for it. I offered instead to send her back to Jamaica but she told me she would rather die than go back. And now she
is
dead, and I am condemned, though I did not kill her. I have read the story she found in that book, you see, and I know how it must finish. But unlike the other man, the husband in the book, I did not kill my wife, though she wanted the world to believe that I did.'

He was standing now with the table between us. His hands slid down and over the polished case that lay in front of him, his fingers fiddling with the catches. Suddenly he snapped them, flipped the lid up and showed me what the box contained. Nestling together muzzle-to-handle in a bed of red silk lay a pair of duelling pistols.

âOne of these,' he went on, âis the means by which you, sir, are going to do away with me. You have initiated this business with your meddling and snooping. I know this because I have been with my uncle today. The old fool's tongue has been running away, and told you of things that must be concealed. So now it is for you to complete the task. And, as you do it, this other piece will be the simultaneous instrument of your own death, at my hands. Just like the story. Come on, man, both are loaded. Let us duel, let us die point-blank. Take your weapon and begin.'

I backed away, thinking what little use it would be to argue with him. He was crazy.

âWhy did you kill Woodley?' I asked, in desperation to keep him talking. âAnd why bring him to my garden?'

Brockletower's restless movement stopped, and he frowned, as if struggling to remember the details.

âHe knew, you see, about that creature. Foolishly I had made him my confidant. I had reached a point when I had to confide, and I thought he was my friend. He stole the body when I asked him to, and arranged to hide it. But then he wanted money, the villain. So I met him on the road from Lancaster in the night, pretending I had been there for the money, and would pay him. I paid him, all right. I had the means with me: crude, and not gentlemanly, but efficient, silent and swift. The night was dark and no one saw.'

âAnd my garden?'

âWhy not your garden? I feared the gallows. I wanted you to bear the burden instead of me. So I took him there at night.'

âWhy would I want to kill Woodley?'

âHow would I know? Because he was loathsome and a cheating extortioner. Because of some quarrel between you.'

In one movement, he seized both guns from the box, one by
the conventional grip and the other â evidently the one meant for my use â by its barrel. He sidled around the table and advanced towards me, his own pistol pointing to the floor while he thrust the other's handle in my direction.

âTake it, damn you! Don't back away! It's time to finish this.'

I cast a wild look towards the door. I remembered it was locked and the key in Brockletower's pocket â so no way out there. A sideways glance towards the nearest of the two casements informed me that it was a few inches open. I considered it as a means of escape for a moment, before dismissing it. I would not be halfway across the sill before Brockletower fired, killing me almost certainly with a bullet in the back even before I had bounced off the cobbles.

I had never fought a duel either with pistol or sword and was altogether ignorant of the martial arts. I agree with Mr Spectator in scoffing at the duel because it is a system designed exclusively to kill men of courage and honour, whilst preserving the lives of cowards.

I did, however, know that duels are staged only when each contestant is accompanied by a friend to hold his coat. I grasped this fact as a means of playing for time.

âIf we are to duel,' I said, âwe shall need seconds. Mine shall be Doctor Fidelis, who was with me below in the saloon. Permit me to go down and fetch him. At the same time you must nominate a friend of your own.'

He glowered.

âFriend? Is it not yet clear to you, Mr Coroner? I have none.'

âBut think,' I said hurriedly. âWithout seconds, we cannot honourably fight. As a naval man you must appreciate how such things are arranged in civilized society.'

He was brought up short by this argument and the hand
that had thrust forward the reversed pistol dropped to his side. I considered immediately hurling myself at him but when his left hand went down, his right (as if counterbalanced) came up, this one holding the second pistol in the firing position. I was looking down its barrel.

âIf you will not duel with me,' he said, his voice choking with emotion, âthen you give me no choice. I must kill you in cold blood, and then afterwards myself.'

âBut think of your sister,' I protested. âYou know the legal penalties of suicide. She would be left destitute.'

He waved the firearm in a circle threateningly, and then showed me the one in his other hand.

âI shall do it with your weapon, sir, so that when we are discovered, they will assume death was by mutual shots, and that you killed me. That scheming creature, supposed by many to have been my wife, tried to do the same to me, you know: to have the world believe I killed her. Frightened to be put into unconsecrated ground. Feared being buried at the crossroads, with a peg malleted through her shrivelled heart.'

I had no time to reflect on these interesting words, for now Brockletower's resolve suddenly hardened. He straightened his arm and aimed the pistol directly at my face. The muzzle was three feet from me so that I found myself looking along the top of the barrel, past the cocking-hammer and his cuff, then straight along the arm to his eye, which was narrowed and concentrated on its target. I saw his thumb come up and hook itself over the hammer as, with a dry and, it seemed, unnaturally loud click, he cocked the piece. Breathing heavily, I took a reflexive step back, and then another, until I could go no further. My back was to the wall. I was now expecting to die in a matter of seconds as, like a lunging fencer, Brockletower came in pursuit
by stamping smartly towards me once, and then again, to reestablish the yard of distance between his gun and my face.

But he was concentrating all his attention on me, and not on where he was placing his feet. He had also forgotten the bunch of pens he'd spilled a few minutes earlier so that, when his feet landed on them, he was unprepared for their roller-like effect. His feet slipped uncontrollably away from each other so that, with no time to adjust his balance, he teetered, his arms jerking and his head snapping up. A moment later he went flailing to the floor and, as he did so, the back of his head struck the corner of the table. At the same instant his finger pulled the trigger and the gun exploded with a deafening crack, the ball smacking into the ceiling. As the squire landed, the undischarged piece broke from his other hand and spun across the boards.

He lay still, stunned and bleeding from the head, with a look of staring incredulity on his face. I collected my wits, then scooped up the dropped pistol, and cocked it. I was still trembling and my heart thumped, though my fear was relieved. For a moment I was on the edge of killing him, until reason prevailed. I released the hammer and stooped to pick the key from Brockletower's breeches' pocket. With this I opened the door, stepped out and relocked. From the top of the stair I saw the landlord and a group of his customers looking O-mouthed up at me, brought from their pleasures by the sound of the shot. They spied the pistol in my hand and shrank back with a collective gasp.

âAre you well, sir?' called Noah Plumtree in an awed and trembling voice. âWe heard the shot. What has happened? Have you killed him?'

âI am well,' I replied, âbut Mr Brockletower is not. He is injured, though not by gunfire. He took leave of his senses and tried to shoot me, but accidentally fell. He struck his head and
fired into the air. Go fetch a watchman to guard him until he is taken up. He's insane and will have to be arrested.'

Fidelis shouldered his way through the bodies jamming the doorway until he was standing at the stair-foot.

âInjured, is he?' he called out. âI'm coming up, Titus.'

He took the stairs two at a time. Half a dozen others made to follow him, but I stopped them.

âMr Plumtree!' I called, âsee to it that no one else comes up to the room.'

I unlocked the door and pushed it a few inches open.

âMr Brockletower,' I called through the crack. âI have brought the doctor to see to your wound.'

I pushed the door wide and we went in, looking around. The curtain billowed away from the casement, which was wide open, and the candlelight flashed and flickered in the draught. Of the squire, the only signs in the room were the open pistol-case still lying on the table and, on the floor beside it, a small pool of blood.

Chapter Twenty-seven

I
LEANED OUT OF the window, with Luke beside me. A horse, hard-ridden, was clattering away towards Church Gate. I withdrew my head.

âHe has gone. Back to Garlick, probably.'

âIf, as you say, he's lost his reason, perhaps he should be pursued. He might endanger the people there.'

âHe is out of his wits, all right. He admitted just now that he is Woodley's murderer. We shall send word to his sister through Mrs Marsden, explaining what's happened, and warning them to be on their guard. There are still Lord Derby's soldiers on hand, if need be.'

I stooped to the floor to pick up one of the pens that, a few minutes earlier, had saved my life. Gently Luke took it from my fingers.

âYour hands are shaking, Titus. You are still shocked. Let me write for you.'

Luke drew up a chair and sat down at the table. An inkpot, a stick of sealing wax and a sheaf of paper lay ready for use, and on the top sheet he immediately noticed a faint line of indentation.

âSomeone wrote on the previous top sheet.'

He looked under the table and saw a waste-paper basket.
He reached inside and fetched out one crumpled sheet, which he flattened on the tabletop.

There was just one half-line of writing, in a scrawled hand. I leaned forward to read it.
Ephraim, I cannot sustain this. My way of life
âThat was all.

âThe squire wrote this before he sent for me. I wonder what it was he could not sustain?'

âFinishing the letter, anyway.'

âMaybe he abandoned this and drafted another,' I proposed.

âNo. The indentation means this was the last sheet used. Now, at the time of writing, he expected to die shortly. This would have been his last statement.'

âBut why was he addressing himself to the bailiff?'

âWe must ask the bailiff, though I do not think he will help us.'

Luke flipped open the inkpot, squared up the paper and briskly wrote a note to Sarah Brockletower, which he sealed and handed to me. Then he rose and walked slowly around the room, noting everything he saw. He carefully examined one corner of the oak table.

âThis is where he struck his head, isn't it?'

âYes.'

âI can see the blood.'

Going downstairs, we found the Parkin brothers, Grimshaw's constables. Ignoring their knowing smirks, I stood them down, saying the danger was over. Then I gave the note Luke had written, with a shilling, to Noah Plumtree, who had a postboy on hand to ride with it express to Garlick Hall.

I felt a mixture of emotions. Though tingling with shock after my confrontation with death, I was at the same time profoundly tired. More surprisingly I felt hungry. I crossed the
saloon to the table that Luke and I had occupied, picked up my cold, uneaten chop from where it lay in a congealed pool of fat, and walked with it to the door.

âI'm going home,' I told Fidelis, tearing off a chunk of meat with my mouth and chewing rapidly. âThis has been a long day.'

He walked with me up Turk's Head Court and towards the Guild Hall and Cheapside. It was a gentle evening, the air still as the light slipped into gloaming. Approaching my door I looked back in to Market Place, now empty but for the stallholders' detritus, a few pedestrians criss-crossing its open space, and a figure I recognized sitting beside the water-fountain. I took Fidelis by the arm and guided him to follow me.

âBefore I go in, there's someone over there I want you to meet.'

Peg Miller was crouching on the fountain steps, with a tin cup in front of her to collect alms. The cup was empty.

âMistress Miller,' I said. âI hope you remember me.'

She tilted her shrewd face towards me.

âYou are the crowner.'

âI am. May I present my friend, Dr Fidelis?'

She responded to him with a lady-like inclination of the head. I noticed some of her clothing was also that of a lady, in particular a riding jacket, which rather hung about her, as it was several sizes too big. As were the good boots on her feet. I went on.

âI thought you and yours had left the vicinity. You struck camp at the Hall.'

âMr Brockletower ordered us off Tuesday. He sent up his bulldog, Pearson. Mr Woodley'd already gone, and now I hear he's killed. I'm not sorry, except for there's never a penny of money for us, though they owed a month's wages. This is why I am waiting here, to see my Lord Mayor. I want justice.'

âJustice?'

âFor my boy Sol that we buried back at Garlick Hall.'

âHe has
escaped
justice, Peg. He was caught absconding with a body under inquest, which is a serious offence, you know. But now, after this accident, no one can touch him.'

âTrue, he has escaped. But I want justice against them that used him. And then I want payment of what is due for my man's work the past month.'

âYour man â Tom Piltdown?'

âYes, him that
was
my man I should say. I've broke with him now, because I know what he did.'

âWhat did he do?'

âMr Woodley knew. Now you shall have to ask Squire.'

Fidelis dropped to his haunches, so that his face was level with Peg's.

âWas Tom the father of Solomon?' he asked.

She turned her head to the side and spat.

âNever. I might have wished it. I been with him five year, and with Sol's father it were more like five minutes. I never even knew his name. And, if Tom were that lad's father, happen he'd have been kinder to him.'

âWas he unkind to Solomon, then?'

âI'll say no more till I see the Mayor.'

I took out my purse.

âDon't count on him seeing you,' I said, peering inside. âAnd look out for a fat man in uniform called Mallender and his two ferrets, the Parkin brothers, whom he will surely set on you if he finds you here begging openly. But meanwhile I hope you will eat something.'

I dropped a crown into the cup.

âYou're most welcome,' she said with simple grandeur.

âI see at any rate you have good clothes on your back, and
boots on your feet,' observed Fidelis, as he felt in his pocket and contributed a further shilling.

Peg Miller looked down and smoothed a crease in her jacket.

âThese are the dead woman's clobber,' she said.

âMrs Brockletower's?'

âSquire cleared out her wardrobe. Wanted rid of it. Sent a big roll of clothes and shoes up to the camp for us women to share around. The sizes are all too big for me, but clean and strong at least. The younger girls wanted her fine stuff â the ball gowns that look like they've never been worn, fancy undergarments, stockings. Silly. I like to keep warm, me.'

The conversation with Peg Miller had the effect of calming me. Going home I sat down in my fireside chair and told Elizabeth how I had met the Squire of Garlick Hall in the Turk's Head, and that he had tried to kill me. I was perfectly even-headed and able to make light of it: I had had a momentary brush with danger. That was all. A bad dream, and now over.

Nevertheless my wife rushed to the kitchen and brought me a cup of wine with a few hartshorn drops in it.

âIt'll help the shock, Titus,' she said, sinking to the floor by my chair and resting her arms on my knees. âDrink a bit and then I want to hear every detail of what happened.'

So I told her, ending with an account of my encounter in Market Place.

âI was wrong about Peg,' I admitted.

âHow wrong, Titus?'

âI was wrong when I said she would be philosophical about her Solomon's death. She is not. She is angry and she has come to haunt the town, wanting justice.'

âThat's what I thought she would be like. A mother. But what kind of justice can she get?'

âNone. No one will listen. There is no justice for people like her; not for those that haven't a threshold to cross at nightfall. '

âNor for many of those that have.'

âMaybe not. But there's another reason also. When he died, Solomon Miller had himself been wanted for the crime of stealing a corpse. It hung over him as heavy and deadly as the block of stone that actually hanged him.'

âHe was not really guilty, though. He was a simpleton and put up to it.'

âThat's true. The immediate instigator was Tom Piltdown, the ganger who lived with Peg. She's broken with him now, because she says he took advantage of her idiot boy. But don't think the likes of Ephraim Grimshaw are going to pursue a charge like that. Piltdown is gone. The trail of accusation reaches above his head to Woodley â who's gone too â and then as far as the squire. Grimshaw regards himself as hand-in-glove with the gentry. He won't agree to cudgel Brockletower on Peg Miller's say-so, you can be sure of that.'

âWell, from what you say, the squire has done a good job of self-cudgelling. He killed Woodley and admitted it. Now he's running.'

I lifted my glass and drained it, then yawned deeply.

âRunning? I wonder if he can. He is desperate but he is also injured. I say he will be found, but the question is, what will he do when they have him at bay?'

The hartshorn drops did their work. I slept well, and dreamlessly, and awoke early, feeling refreshed and ready for the resumed inquest at Yolland. Over breakfast I determined in my mind how to proceed. Brockletower's madness the previous night was more than a brainstorm or temporary aberration.
There was no chance he would be able to continue his evidence. So I would call Sarah, his sister, and Fidelis as witnesses. Fidelis would tell just what he had found in his examination post-mortem. Whatever happened I reckoned it was going to be a day of revelations.

For once Fidelis was at my door before I was ready to leave, carrying his medical bag. He took me aside and felt my pulse, then examined my eyes. I told him I was quite well and felt no after-effects from the evening before. After laughing at my belief in the hartshorn, he seemed satisfied, and we rode away together. I explained how I would conduct the business, and then we reverted to the subject of my frightening interview with Brockletower in the Turk's Head.

âAt one point, he was raving about Shakespeare's
Moor of Venice
. Thought he was Othello himself, and Dolores was Desdemona.'

âAnd was there a Jago in the plot?'

âHe implied it was Woodley, which I too have suspected.'

âHave you? Maybe the real Jago was inside himself: at some point that part of him turned against the very thing about Dolores that before had fascinated him. Her monstrousness. It was all very well in alien Jamaica, but just try to domesticate it here, in Lancashire, and the case is hopeless.'

Fidelis gave a single, heartless laugh.

âI think, in the first instance, his intentions towards her were not criminal,' I said. âHe raged against humanity more hotly than Dean Swift, but he didn't want to kill his wife. He wanted her back in the West Indies, and out of his way.'

âSo we already know he didn't kill her personally, and now you're saying he didn't order her killing either.'

âI am certain he did not. She had come to fear him as much as he hated her but her fear was more bitter than his hatred.'

âThat is part of the reason she left the words from the
Tatler
story in her commonplace book about the souls of men and women being different. “Imagine therefore: my pain and fear”. It must have been bad for her, Titus. A war in her nature â half man, half woman. That is why she wanted us to imagine her pain and fear.'

âYet there is more to it than that,' I said. âShe gave her husband the Eustace story to read. Brockletower believes she wanted him to kill her just as Eustace did in the story. She wanted not only to die, but him to kill her and pay for it with his own life. This is the darkest of the secrets we've uncovered. But since Brockletower did not kill her, even that doesn't tell us how she died.'

âAnd you are heading in a straight line for the finding of murder by person or persons unknown.'

âSo it looks. That's better than self-murder, but an empty assertion all the same. I wish we could avoid it.'

We arrived at Gamull where, like a wraith fated to haunt me whenever I passed through, I saw the wizened, hag-like form of Miriam Patten standing in the road.

âStop!' she croaked.

âAre you not coming over to the inquest today, Miriam?' I asked. âI saw you there yesterday.'

BOOK: A Dark Anatomy

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