A Dark Anatomy (30 page)

Read A Dark Anatomy Online

Authors: Robin Blake

BOOK: A Dark Anatomy
9.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
 
 
P
EARSON, AS IT HAPPENED, had received a message from the bailiff at Garlick Hall. He was to await Grimshaw, and be at his disposal, for the bailiff wanted to see for himself the spot where Ramilles Brockletower met his death. But before I could hear these details from Pearson himself, Grimshaw's finger was pointing, and his complaint was directed at me.
‘I am surprised at you, Cragg, surprised beyond measure. Is this the way to conduct Coroner's business, traipsing off in the woods with your jury? One would think they were here for a picnic or some other diversion. And then you expect the borough to meet your fee.'
I shrugged. My inquest fee was always the same, a paltry thirteen shillings and fourpence, fixed by statute in 1487. Every inquest in the land was subsidized out of the coroner's own pocket: only men with successful legal practices, or private means, could afford to do the work.
‘I expect only what the law allows me,' I said. ‘But you will be glad to know that our business in this place is concluded.'
Grimshaw's curiosity was aroused.
‘With what consequence? You must tell me!'
‘I fear these are matters for the court and the jury in the first instance, Mr Grimshaw. But if you care to attend the
inquest's conclusion, you will find them out with the rest of the public. Now, Pearson, are you ready to take Mr Brockletower home?'
It gave me great satisfaction to see how Grimshaw fumed, while I made arrangements with Pearson for the return of the squire to his former home. He was still fuming as Pearson and the corpse went one way, down towards the Hall, while Luke and I took the jury up through the forest to the track, where their conveyance waited. Not knowing immediately what to do, the bailiff hesitated, then spurred his horse up the slope, going past us at speed.
‘He won't lower himself to ride along with us,' murmured Luke. ‘But I would bet he's straight back to Yolland for the end of the hearing.'
‘Yes,' I said. ‘He's thinking about those daughters of his cousin in Lancaster. Their prospects of inheriting Garlick Hall lie in this jury's hands.'
We had ridden for a while behind the jurors' carriage, when Luke asked airily, ‘How did you know we would find those blades in the hollow tree, by the way? I am rather crestfallen that I did not reach the solution before you.'
‘I knew she had asked for a line. And her dressmaker had lost a pair of scissors on the day she had been in the shop. Perhaps these things, and the discarded horseshoe they found near her body, might have led me earlier to the discovery. But none of it made sense until this morning. I saw the woodsman's lifting machine, and remembered the death of poor Solomon.'
‘Ah yes, I see. All instances of Archimedes's mathematics. Pulleys. The association of ideas really is the father of all genius, isn't it?'
‘Well, we know she killed herself. The question now is, do I
publicize exactly
why
she did it? Do we need to tell her very particular secret?'
‘What harm does it do? The unhappy couple are both dead.'
‘There may be harm to this little commonwealth, of which we are all members. Its survival requires order and stability, Luke, in its general mind as well as in its body. Some truths can make folk doubt the divine order, and shake their faith in the future. Knowing this
anomaly
has been in our midst … well, it is – or it might be – destabilizing.'
‘But truth must be told, Titus, surely!'
My friend sounded shocked.
‘There are many truths in a single circumstance,' I said firmly. ‘I am of the opinion that not all of them must be told. The strictly material truth shall out. Let's confine ourselves to that, and just leave aside the matter of Dolores's … ambiguous anatomy. Do you agree?'
Luke was silent. He was pulling at a moral knot, trying to loosen it. Finally he said, in a wounded voice, ‘I could publish this as a paper to the Royal Society. It could make my name in London.'
‘London is a fine place,' I conceded, ‘but it is not where we live.'
He reflected a little longer and then sighed deeply.
‘Very well. I shall find another way to conquer London.'
‘Thank you, Luke. Only four remain who know about this matter: you, me, George and Dapperwick. Dapperwick never goes anywhere or sees anyone, and is thought to be half crazy. But what about George? Will he keep his word never to speak of this?'
‘George is a paragon of discretion, Titus. And he does not come often to this town.'
‘Where you and I shall keep the truth between ourselves. That's good, because I intend to call you at the inquest to explain in your most lucid terms what we found inside the tree, and what it means.'
‘That Dolores Brockletower killed herself because she was mad for a child, but did it in this peculiar way by being afraid of condemnation as a suicide.'
‘Yes and further – and I rely on you for this – that Ramilles Brockletower died by accident. It must be so, Luke, for his sister Sarah's sake.'
‘And for the sakes of Grimshaw's cousins,' he added drily.
‘That can't be helped,' I said.
 
Back at the Plough's public room, there was none of the previous day's jollifying. What had happened was too enormous, with implications for every other family in the area. Grimshaw was there again, as we had felt sure he would be. So was Sarah.
There were only two more pieces of evidence to hear. The first was that of Abigail Talboys, and she came to the witness chair looking calm and resolute. She gave her evidence in a firm clear voice, according to the terms we had agreed. Without mention of her pregnancy, she stated as a fact that Mrs Brockletower had repeatedly lamented her childlessness, and even mentioned adoption, during their private fittings at the shop on Friar Gate. I thanked her and let her step down, before calling Luke Fidelis.
‘She bled to death after receiving a slashing injury to the throat,' he replied.
‘Was there any indication of how this was done?'
‘It must have been by a sharp blade, drawn from left to right, like this.'
He mimed with his finger the movement of the blade just as young Jonah had done in my parlour on that first morning.
‘Was it done by human agency?'
‘Undoubtedly. It could not have been brought about otherwise. '
‘And were there any other conclusions about this unfortunate death that your medical knowledge leads you to?'
Luke shook his head.
‘No. Not from medical knowledge. But from discoveries made inside the hollow tree beside which she fell, I can say without doubt that she died by her own hand.'
The public gave a collective gasp, exchanging shocked glances.
‘Will you explain, please, Dr Fidelis?' I asked.
So he did, carefully taking the court through Dolores Brockletower's preparations, and then her execution of the plan she had made.
‘This will seem to many an extraordinary and elaborate procedure, ' I remarked. ‘Can you think of any motive for a person to follow it?'
‘I can think of two. One would be to cast suspicion upon someone else. If no weapon is found beside the body the investigators would naturally think of an attack by another party. Another motive would be to prevent an inquest –
this
inquest for example – from bringing in a verdict of suicide.'
I turned then to the matter of Squire Brockletower, inviting the doctor to give his opinion as to the squire's death. He thought that death had been accidental, a seizure of the brain following directly and causally from the earlier injury to his head, causing him to fall from his horse and discharge the pistol in his pocket. That it had happened at the same place where Dolores had died was a coincidence, though, as he put it, ‘I cannot discount the possibility that, when he visited the place of
his wife's demise, a sudden excess of emotion tipped his damaged brain into seizure.'
So I let him down and turned to the jury, summarizing all the events and relating my own experience in the room at the Turk's Head. Having seen the bodies, and having heard this and all the other evidence, I told them they must now put their heads together and consider verdicts on the two deaths before them.
‘You may be led to the conclusion,' I warned, ‘that they died by their own hands. Or you may think it was by the hands of another. If by those of another, and you cannot name the owner of those hands, you should say it was done by a person or persons unknown. If you think it was done by their own hands, I ask you to consider very carefully whether they were in their right mind. There is a very large difference in the consequences, not just for the mortal remains of the deceased but for the prospects of their surviving relatives, between on the one hand a verdict of premeditated self-murder, and on the other of suicide whilst insane.'
I glanced meaningfully towards Sarah, fully intending that the jury noticed the direction of my gaze. She was sitting forward in her chair, her face tilted upwards, as she listened attentively to my words.
‘Go now to the room Mr Wigglesworth has prepared for you. I have asked him to provide some refreshments there, but do not allow the pleasures of eating and drinking to delay or interfere with your verdicts.'
 
With the twelve principal jurymen gathered in conclave inside the inn parlour, the public audience in the hall began their own speculations upon the issue. This debate, which started like the whisper of wind in the reeds, swelled by imperceptible increments
until, after ten minutes, it had become a zoological roar. I did not interfere, preferring to dictate to Furzey some notes towards my inquest report, sketching in the general background to the case such as would have to be included irrespective of the final verdicts – though I was confident that I knew what these would be.
After thirty minutes, as I was still dictating, the room suddenly quietened, and then fell completely silent. George Pennyfold had come in and was asking to speak with me. I took him into a corner and we whispered together, while the entire public watched us, trying to discern from our movements and posture what was being said.
‘We have agreed on the squire,' Pennyfold murmured into my ear. ‘But we are split over his wife.'
‘You must be unanimous,' I told him. ‘You must somehow find a safe verdict on which you can all agree.'
‘I don't know how we may do that,' he complained. ‘Our differences are great.'
‘You must exercise leadership, George. You are foreman. Marshal the arguments, persuade the doubters. I can't help you further, except on legalities. Otherwise I've done my part and it's for you and your fellows alone to decide the question. But no one here wants a prolonged wrangle, and certainly not a hung jury. So remember: leadership's the word!'
He nodded his head, walked back the length of the room and out to rejoin the others in the parlour. I thought Pennyfold a sensible, opinionated man whose opinions would coincide with my own. I also considered an initially divided jury was good: it seemed more likely that, when they did settle on something, it would be an ameliorative verdict – the very kind I was hoping for.
When, forty minutes later, they came back at last and
arrayed themselves in the jury seats, their faces told me they had done something momentous.
‘Well? Have you agreed?' I asked George.
Pennyfold stood up.
‘We have.'
At this moment the foreman looked peculiarly imperious. His nostrils were flared, his back erect, as he looked around the room like an actor surveying his audience, or a general his army.
‘In that case, will you first give me your verdict on the death of Ramilles Brockletower?'
Pennyfold briefly cleared his throat and spoke, his voice resounding from every corner of the room.
‘Our verdict is accidental death. We think the pistol discharged itself as he struck the ground, and fatally wounded him.'
Good, I thought. Very good. And, by its approving murmurs, it seemed the public agreed with me. I checked that Furzey had recorded the verdict and went on.
‘And now your decision on Dolores Brockletower, please.'
The foreman cleared his throat again, more thoroughly this time, and intoned.
‘We are of the opinion, sir, that she committed self-murder, after long premeditation and in full possession of her reason.'
As a wave of comment washed around the room, I am not sure if my jaw did not drop a fraction, or if my eyes did not shut for a second longer than would be natural in a blink. It was clear anyway that I had misread George Pennyfold. If he had exercised his leadership as strongly as I hoped, it could not have been in the cause of my private hopes. Dolores Brockletower had been condemned for
felo de se
without mitigation, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Other books

Change of Plans by C.L. Blackwell
Witch Bane by Tim Marquitz
Blood Lust by Jamie Salsibury
The Next Decade by George Friedman
Hair of the Wolf by Peter J. Wacks
Texts from Jane Eyre by Mallory Ortberg
Last Stand Ranch by Jenna Night