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Authors: Robin Blake

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I pulled from my pocket the paper on which I had drafted the names of possible jurors, and handed it to the bailiff. He took it reverently, as some men take Communion in church. He was picking up some of the threads of his earlier self-importance.
‘I intend to hold the inquest tomorrow,' I went on. ‘Be so kind as to submit the names of those you have summoned, under my authority, to Mr Furzey at my office. Let it be by close of business today.'
And so we left Mallender, passed under the arch and into the yard of Garlick Hall.
Mrs Marsden came out to greet us.
‘Good-day, Coroner … Doctor,' she said with a coy, almost imperceptible curtsey in Fidelis's direction.
‘The squire has returned at last, I am told,' I said. ‘I must speak with him. But first I am afraid poor Dr Fidelis has missed his breakfast. Can you oblige with some small tit-bits to subdue his pangs?'
‘I don't want to be any trouble,' Fidelis added apologetically.
‘You are not, Doctor. I can offer cold roast beef and cabbage and some of our own Garlick Hall cheese with a good spoonful of old Mother Thwaite's pickle.'
I left them to negotiate the details of his breakfast and went inside by the yard door to find Leather, who, I hoped, would bring me to his master. Official dignitaries may normally expect to use a front door, but it seemed absurd to go back and round the house just to play the dumb-show of dignity.
 
‘I call it damned impertinence.'
The squire and I were in the library, on the west side of the house. It had a handsome bay window, which looked out over a lawn in the middle of which stood a magnificent mature walnut tree. Brockletower, a curly-haired man with a snubby, apparently boneless nose and fleshy, mobile mouth, was to say the least not pleased to see me.
‘A man returns from an excursion on business to find his wife is murdered. And instead of being allowed an interval – a
decent
interval – to accustom himself to the idea of being a widower, some damned lawyer or other comes along asking importunate questions. Well, ask as you like, I shall not answer.'
‘That is your absolute right, Mr Brockletower,' I replied. ‘I can't at present compel you, or place you under oath, or anything like. It will be different at the inquest, however. The law perforce requires—'
He swung round, his features distorted with anger.
‘Damn you, sir, I
am
the law!' He jabbed himself ferociously in the chest with his forefinger. ‘I am a magistrate in this county. I am a Member of Parliament.'
‘You are, to be sure,' I agreed. ‘But this is not a county or a parliamentary matter, Mr Brockletower. It is Corporation business, as it has to do with the death of a person in the Fulwood Forest, which falls inside the boundaries of the borough. I respect and feel sorry for your loss, but I must be firm here. I have the honour to be coroner of the town and in all questions of sudden, violent death, it is I who am the principal agent of the law. Furthermore, as of course you know, the law expects that I summon an inquest jury with all dispatch and provide witnesses sufficient to account for the unfortunate demise.'
I was careful to speak with emphasis, but without hostility. For a few moments Brockletower continued to look at me like a bulldog in blood, but he could not deny I was telling the truth. By the time I had finished he'd lowered himself into a chair and covered his face with his hands. I waited and observed, wondering if tears would presently begin seeping between his fingers. There was no sign of them. Brockletower was not one to cry before another man.
‘Very well,' he said, raising his head. ‘Ask your confounded questions, and be quick about it.'
‘I cannot promise to be quick, but I shall try to be concise. What was the business that took you to York?'
‘I intended to visit Mr Thornton of Hambleton near York to view his running horses.'
‘Why?'
‘I have a fancy to own some for myself.'
‘And did you in fact make any purchases, of horses?'
‘I did not. There was no suitable animal for sale.'
‘I think you also viewed a house with a view to taking a lease on it?'
‘I did. In the city of York.'
‘Were you planning to take up residence there?'
A look of annoyance passed like the shadow of a cloud across the squire's face.
‘Surely you know about the August week of races at York, Cragg. It is at the same time as the Assizes. Coincidentally there is a season in the city, when the Assembly Rooms attract all men and ladies of fashion. The Duchess of Marlborough herself attends. Men go to York in August to do business and sport of all kinds and I intended to do the same.'
‘Did you also, on the occasion of this visit, call on the Archbishop of York?'
‘I did.'
‘May I ask why that was?'
‘Archbishop Blackburne's late wife was a family connection of my own late mother. It was only as a courtesy that I called.'
‘I understand that during your journey back you sent your servant Cowp directly home from Skipton, while you diverted to Settle to look at another horse?'
‘I did.'
‘And did you go to Settle?'
‘Yes.'
‘Passing the night in Settle and returning yesterday?'
‘Yes.'
‘And had you concluded any business?'
‘I had not. The man I went to see was unexpectedly from
home. It was sixteen miles out of my way for nothing. I stayed the night and came back through Bowland.'
‘Did you depart from the direct route in any way?'
‘No.'
‘I understand you learned of Mrs Brockletower's death on your way. Where and when did you receive this intelligence?'
‘At one of the villages, Slaidburn. I had stopped at an inn to refresh myself. I could not believe the news, of course.'
‘Yet after that you rode hard to reach here as soon as was practicable.'
‘Naturally.'
‘Can you think of a reason why anyone would want to kill Mrs Brockletower?'
‘No, of course not. As I've just said, this … this murder is incredible.'
‘Or could someone have wanted to injure you, perhaps, through her?'
‘Injure me, by doing
that
? Talk sense, man.'
‘She is from a family in the West Indies, I believe. Planters.'
‘Yes.'
‘Is there, to your knowledge, any member of her family, or any West Indies connection of hers whatsoever, at present visiting this country, or resident here?'
‘I do not think so.'
‘Do you know if she has quarrelled with anyone recently?'
‘I do not know so.'
‘Have
you
quarrelled with her?'
‘Damn your eyes, no I have not!'
The conversation was yielding nothing beside much repetition of the word ‘not'. Perhaps my questions were too bland. I decided to risk a more piquant one.
‘I won't keep you much longer, sir, but there is just one last
point. It has come to my attention that Mrs Brockletower maintained that you recently sought her out during one of her early morning rides, to surprise her in the forest. Is this true, sir?'
Brockletower's response to my question was clench-fisted, immediate and fierce.
‘That is tantamount to an accusation that I—No, sir, this idea is utterly –
utterly
– false and a damned lie. It is close to being an actionable calumny, sir.'
‘But why would Mrs Brockletower invent such a story?'
Brockletower jabbed the air with his finger.
‘How would I know? But invent it she did!'
Whereupon he strode to the door, seized the handle and pulled it open.
‘You may leave me now, Mr Cragg! Good day.'
 
I found Fidelis seated at the table in the servants' hall, with pewter plate and tankard before him, both empty. He was leaning back in his chair, gossiping pleasantly with the housekeeper.
‘Ah, Titus,' he said, turning to me as I entered. ‘I have breakfasted excellently, thanks to the hospitality of kindly Mrs Marsden.'
The woman beamed delightedly.
‘And he is a credit to his appetite. You, Mr Cragg, have a loving wife to ensure you are well fed,' she went on, as if needing to explain herself. ‘Alone in the world, the doctor has no such advantage.'
I had seen it before, this impulse of women towards my friend. Solitariness gave him some indeterminate quality that made them want to pamper him, usually by filling his stomach.
‘I am glad he has given satisfaction as well as received it,' I
said. ‘Now it's time we paid a visit to the Ice-house. May I take the key from the hook-board?'
Carrying a candle-lantern each to help us see the corpse more clearly, we strolled down the passage, past the sound of churns clanking in the dairy, and out into the yard.
‘The squire was agitated?' Fidelis asked.
‘Yes. He accused me of accusing him.'
‘And had you?'
‘No. I only asked if it was true that he had played the trick on his wife in the forest, the one mentioned by the maid Polly Milroy. He denies doing any such thing. And what he says of his movements yesterday, and the day before, tallies with his man's prediction. He stayed at Settle, then came back by way of Bowland. He heard rumour of his wife's death along the way. His story needs testing. I intend to write to the landlord of the inn where he says he stayed.'
Fidelis stayed me with a hand on my arm.
‘By all means do that, but perhaps I can make it unnecessary. I myself have business in York that I must see to soon. I might set off tomorrow, and can ask along the way about the squire's movements.'
I hesitated. My curiosity was aroused, but I wondered if I should go where it led me. It may have been an extra-legal curiosity, outside what is proper to a coroner's duty.
‘That is kind of you, Luke. But tomorrow I intend to hold the inquest, which cannot be delayed. Your news will come several days too late, I fear.'
‘No, no! It need not. Here is what to do. Convene the inquest, swear in the jury and bring them to view the body. Ask them to approve a post-mortem and then adjourn pending my return home.'
‘I will think about it, but I don't know that they will think a
post-mortem needed. And if they do, I can hardly delay for as many days as it will take you to go to York and come back.'
We walked on towards the Ice-house, passing through the gated passage between the stable block and the coach house and entering the orchard. The trees were coming into blossom and the Ice-house itself was framed by fragrant clouds of white and pink which swayed in the air above the intense green of the spring grass. When we reached the door of the building I unlocked and stood aside for Fidelis to precede me. For a moment he paused and breathed in deeply, as if preparing to savour the smell of death. I, on the other hand, felt queasy.
Then he pushed through and, as he did so, the candle in my lantern guttered. I paused to prevent it from snuffing out entirely so that by the time I was ready to enter the short passage between the first and second doors Fidelis had already gone inside. As I approached the second door, which had sprung shut behind the doctor, I was startled to have it jerked open before my face. Fidelis held the door wide and gestured inside, his face with an interrogative expression. The work bench was still there, in the centre of the cold room where I had dragged it, with Luke's burning lantern standing on it. Everything else was just as we had left it the previous afternoon, except for one extraordinary lack.
‘See for yourself,' said Fidelis, waving me in. ‘The body is not here, Titus. The late Dolores Brockletower has entirely disappeared.'
 
 
I
STEPPED FORWARD AND LOOKED. There was no doubt about it. Except for the lamp that Fidelis had placed upon it, the improvised bier was bare.
I stooped and peered under the bench, finding the horse blanket that had previously covered the body. Pulling this out I bundled it and dropped it back on the table, then turned to poke into the corners, and the dark spaces beneath and behind the ice-filled baskets on their racks. I looked (with no rational motive) at the vaulted ceiling, as if the corpse might have floated upwards and evaporated through the skylights. All this time Fidelis watched me silently, making no move to join me in my futile search.
‘I don't know what to say,' I whispered at last.
I was conscious of my head yawing from side to side, like a tortoise. My disbelief made me stupid.
‘To lose a corpse, Luke! It is unthinkable.'
But for Luke Fidelis nothing was ever entirely unthinkable.
‘Is it possible she was not dead at all?' he suggested, gently. ‘Remember, I haven't … no doctor has seen her. If the throat wound was in reality rather a superficial one, she might have been in some unconscious state—'
‘No, Luke,' I broke in. ‘That rabbit won't run. The gash was
deep and gaping. I saw the quantity of blood on the ground where she was lying. She cannot possibly have lived after such a loss of blood.'
There was another silence, and I thought of the place beneath the hollow oak where the pat of congealed blood had been, before being taken by some secretive night-feeder of the forest.
‘Yes, you must be right,' said Fidelis at last, with a reluctant sigh. He shook his head at the frustration of trying to account for the unaccountable. ‘And if she had woken up and found herself alive, someone would have known of it.'
‘Some person must have removed the body to another place,' I said. ‘But to do that without informing me is … well, I'd say it is against the law. Come. We must go back to the house and enquire.'
We emerged into the open air. Near a woodpile at the far corner of the orchard was Timothy Shipkin, sharpening an axe on a circular grindstone. He was furiously working the treadle that spun the stone, spouting a fountain of sparks around his feet. I motioned for Fidelis to stay where he was and hurried across to the woodsman.
‘The body of Mrs Brockletower has been moved from the Ice-house, Shipkin,' I told him. ‘Do you know anything about this?'
The woodsman lifted the axe head from the stone and stopped his treadling. He squinted at me as if the sun shone into his eyes, though in fact the day continued grey.
‘Moved, did you say?'
‘Yes. It's not there – not in the Ice-house. You work much here in the orchard. So I repeat, do you know anything about this?'
Shipkin, testing the edge of the axe with his thumb, spoke quietly.
‘Know, sir? I know nothing, only I believe something.'
‘And that is?'
‘That she is gone. Gone out of the Ice-house. I observed you in full daylight yesterday taking her inside, but I do believe she's not in the Ice-house no more. See, it is only what I expected.'
‘You expected this? How so?'
‘I expected that she would walk again.'
I sensed Fidelis coming up behind me to join us and turned to him.
‘Shipkin tells me he expected Mrs Brockletower to walk out of the Ice-house,' I told him. Fidelis blinked twice and addressed the woodsman directly.
‘Well, Shipkin, Mr Cragg and I have considered this, you know. But she was dead, absolutely dead. She could not possibly have walked out.'
‘And the door was locked, man,' I added, as a supplementary point. ‘Who do you suppose unlocked the door?'
Shipkin bared his teeth.
‘Unlocked? There is no need for unlocking, sir, when you walk with the Devil.'
Fidelis and I exchanged startled glances, and I turned a stern face on Shipkin, raising my finger in warning.
‘That is impious and nothing but hobble-de-hoy,' I reproved him. ‘Do not repeat it, Timothy Shipkin, or you will make trouble for yourself, and others.'
‘I must say what I believe, sir. If belief makes trouble, that would be the concern of a higher power. I say as I said all along, from the moment I found her: it was the Devil killed her and now the Devil has taken her to live with him.'
He put his foot to the treadle and, as we retreated, the scream of steel on stone was heard again. I noticed Fidelis looking around as we walked towards the orchard gate. Everything
appeared normal. The ground was covered with recently fallen blossom, over which a variety of hens and bantams stalked restlessly in search of their food. Against the rear wall of the buildings that flanked the orchard gate were stacked boarding, stones and tools used by Woodley's men, the stacks covered in sailcloth to keep them dry. A man in a labourer's clothing was at work, unfastening one of the covers in order to get at the wooden boards they protected. He was an extraordinary figure, a giant standing perhaps six foot four inches, with a huge round belly, shoulders like hams, and a prodigious bald head. In my curiosity I called out to him.
‘Good day!'
The giant looked up, and it was clear at once he was an idiot. His lower lip lolled, his small, fat-enfolded eyes rolled, and the only sounds he emitted were inarticulate hee-haws.
‘A freak of nature!' I whispered as we passed through a barred gate and returned to the cobbled yard. ‘I believe I have met his mother.'
‘I notice the bodily superabundance is compensated by a want of intellect,' replied Fidelis. ‘It is pleasing to find nature balancing itself.'
In the kitchen, we found Mrs Marsden supervising the jugging of a hare. I told her of our latest encounter.
‘Oh, that poor fellow!' she said, picking up the skinned hare and holding it experimentally at arm's length. ‘They call him Solomon. They like a joke. That's two pounds and two or three bits, Maggie.'
She handed the hare back to the girl she was working with.
‘Now, gentlemen, is there anything I can do or get for you?'
‘May we go into your parlour?' I asked confidentially. ‘There is a matter, which is difficult to discuss here.'
She went to the sink and rinsed her hands.
‘By all means. And you shall take a glass while you do it.'
We hung up the key to the Ice-house on the hook-board on our way to the parlour. When we were sitting beside the unlit grate with welcome bumpers of Madeira wine in our hands, I asked her if anyone had taken the key off its hook – the squire, say – since I had put it back the previous day.
‘Might have, sir, but not that I know of.'
‘Not the squire?'
‘If he went up there, which would be natural, he said nothing to me. Why do you ask?'
I told her what we had seen, or rather
not
seen, a few minutes earlier in the Ice-house.
‘Well, sirs,' she said, blowing out her cheeks and plumping into the chair by her writing table. ‘This is most alarming. We must ask Squire if he ordered the body to be moved, though if that is the case he did not inform me of it. Happen he did not think the Ice-house a suitable coffin-house. Shall I send him word that you would like to speak with him about this?'
Less than three minutes after she had left the room the squire himself strode into it, his face sullen with anger.
‘What the Devil's the meaning of this?' he said coldly. ‘They tell me my wife is not where you laid her yesterday.'
‘She is not, sir,' I admitted.
‘Then where is she?'
‘At present, I am sorry to say, I don't know.'
He stood in the centre of the room for a few moments, scowling and tapping his foot on the floor.
‘You must know one thing, at least, Mr Coroner. You are an officer of the crown and this is rank incompetence.'
I maintained my composure.
‘I thought the body had been moved from the Ice-house with your authority.'
‘Of course it wasn't! Why would I do that?'
‘You might have thought the place unsuitable.'
The squire looked oddly uncertain, wavering between passive injury and active outrage. I have seen the same manner many times in witnesses at trial and wondered for a moment if he were acting a part.
‘I didn't consider the matter.'
‘But may I ask, sir: did you not go up to the Ice-house last night, after you arrived home? Or this morning, after you rose?'
‘No, I did not go there. Not at all.'
‘Not even to pay your respects, sir?' I ventured, looking him directly in the eyes. ‘As would be so natural in a husband in receipt of such shocking news.'
Brockletower faltered under what I hoped was my searching gaze.
‘I couldn't see her … I mean, I didn't
wish
to see my wife in that condition. I have sent to my uncle for the parish coffin to enclose her, until I can have a suitable one made. She should not be exposed to the air. She should not be looked upon.'
‘Regrettably there will be no immediate use for the parish coffin,' I said. ‘Unless the body is found.'
‘And, I would think, no use for you either, Mr Cragg,' he said. ‘I hope you can find other business to pursue in the meantime. Be so kind as to take yourself off, with your medical friend, and leave me to locate my wife's corpse. And when I have done so I shall inform you accordingly.'
A coroner who has lost a body is like a ploughman lacking his plough, a castrato cut off from his song. As we rode back to town, I confessed to Fidelis that the legal situation now was delicate.
‘An inquest can only be called on a body. The real, physical corpse must be there to be viewed by the jury. In its absence, I
must suspend preparations for the hearing. And yet, I
was
summoned to a doubtful death, I
have
seen the body, I
know
there has been a murder. As coroner my moral and legal obligations to investigate still press on me. Without the body I feel utterly at a loss.'
We walked our horses thoughtfully and silently for the next few minutes, and then suddenly Fidelis spoke up.
‘I feel a certain loss myself.'
I was surprised.
‘You, Luke? How so? You have not even seen the body yet. And I don't think you were Mrs Brockletower's medical attendant.'
‘Of course I wasn't. She didn't have one, they say. I am not sure that is significant, by the way. She was young and healthy, and had no need of medicine. In any event the reason for my feeling of loss is purely philosophical. I was looking forward to performing the post-mortem. There were certain aspects of Dolores Brockletower which intrigued me.'
I was dismayed and gave voice to it.
‘Intrigued? Come come, Fidelis. A post-mortem is not designed for the satisfaction of idle curiosity. It is a judicial procedure of the utmost solemnity.'
Fidelis laughed.
‘Have you never looked forward to the cross-examination of a witness in court, merely because she was a pretty young woman and you might see her blush?'
‘You are being frivolous. And I'm surprised to hear you consider Mrs Brockletower in the light of prettiness.'
‘That is not what I meant. Only that extraneous factors often add spice to the humdrum professional round. It is rare enough that one gets the opportunity to anatomize a member of the gentry. Most subjects are of the common sort. But I
would have enjoyed examining that woman in particular as she seemed from the outside such an unusual specimen, physically and in spirit.'
I did not like the trend of the conversation.
‘You speak of anatomy? The word makes me shudder, especially in respect to persons of position in society.'
‘Well, the Empress of Russia's gall-bladder is no different from yours, or mine, or that of this town's night-soil gatherer. And the physician or surgeon that is not intimate with the appearance and arrangement of the inner organs is of little use.'
‘But, surely, the knowledge of medicines is the main thing, Luke. The immense body of treatments performed successfully in the past. The proven cures.'
Fidelis let out a brief and sardonic laugh.
‘Proven cures? Most of what we doctors do are not cures at all, Titus. I'll tell you a professional secret, but you must not divulge it. Our nostrums and receipts are useless. Worse, many of them actually kill rather than cure, and even if they do
happen
to bring relief, we don't know why. As a doctor, I say civilization will not make progress until first of all contingency is distinguishable from causation, and accident from purpose.'

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