Dark Waters (33 page)

As I reached my place, Furzey pushed a piece of paper, folded and sealed, towards me. It bore the mayoral seal, which I broke. I read:

Mr Cragg,

I should be obliged if you would wait on me at the Moot Hall this afternoon at four, after we have finished polling for the day. Urgent matters to discuss.

Wm. Biggs, Mayor

‘When did this come?' I asked my clerk.

‘Fifteen minutes since. What's happened? They're saying Satterthwaite's in no condition to appear.'

‘That is one way of describing it,' I said. ‘He's lying in the vestry alongside our Mr Allcroft, covered by a sheet. We'll have to manage without him.'

With a few raps on the table I brought the room to order, asked the jury foreman if all his men were present, and rose to speak.

‘As the court knows, my first witness this afternoon was to be Mr Isaac Satterthwaite. But, as many of you evidently also know, Mr Satterthwaite has suddenly and unfortunately died. So I have no choice now but to call the next and final witness on my list, who is Mr Thomas Wilson.'

‘Mr Thomas Wilson!' echoed Furzey, setting his tone at halfway between that of a drill sergeant and a light basso in the opera, and looking imperiously up and down the room.

At first in silence, and then amidst an outbreak of whispering, we waited for Wilson to stand and walk up to the chair. He never did and, when a full minute had passed, I asked Furzey to find young Barty, who I knew would not be far away.

‘Tell him to run up to the apothecary's shop and enquire after Wilson. If the man's there, he is to remind him that this inquest requires him as a witness, and that he should come here without delay – that is, now.'

We had only ten minutes to wait before Barty returned, panting for breath and on his own. He came to the back of my chair and spoke in my ear.

‘Mrs Wilson is by herself in the shop, Mr Cragg. She's not seen her man since last night when he went out to tavern. She's saying likely he's got himself drunk and he's laying up somewhere. She's in a right scrow about it, though, shouting and that. It's not my fault, I told her.'

‘Well, thank you, Barty. I regret that you were shouted at.'

I handed him his tip and rose to address the court once more.

‘It seems we must forfeit another witness,' I told them. ‘I have just heard that Mr Wilson cannot be found, for reasons I do not yet know. So, I shall proceed to sum up what we have heard, so that you, members of the jury, can retire to decide the issue as best you can. So, let me begin with what Mrs Allcroft told us. Her husband came to Preston in good health on the twenty-eighth of last month…'

I took my listeners back over how John Allcroft had put up at the Gamecock Inn. Then, recalling the words of Mrs Fitzpatrick and the others working at the inn on the twenty-ninth of April, I detailed what had happened to John Allcroft before he died. After mentioning his hotpot dinner I brought in Joe Primrose's testimony.

‘The stew has taken on some importance in this inquiry, as it was the last thing the dead man ate. Mr Primrose told us that he did not use barley but only oats to thicken the dish. Yet Dr Fidelis testified to the presence of cooked or otherwise softened barleycorns in the sample of the dinner that he collected from Mr Allcroft's room. We tried to establish how this unexpected ingredient could have got there, and it emerged that there had been a clear opportunity for some mischief to be done to it, since the food was left alone in the bedroom for a period of up to twenty minutes, awaiting Mr Allcroft's attentions. That mischief
was
done to it, somehow or another, was later demonstrated by Dr Fidelis. He told us how he fed a portion of the leftover hotpot to a rat, who died within a few minutes. I should add that the doctor invited me to observe this trial, and I can confirm that this is precisely what happened. I should also advise you that some vermin catchers have been known to mix poison with softened grains such as barley before laying it.

‘You have the following options. You may decide that some poison was introduced into the food accidentally, or that you do not know how it was put there. On the evidence we have heard there is no suggestion that Mr Allcroft took his own life, but the possibility of murder remains. Weigh that possibility carefully.'

*   *   *

‘We are very disturbed by the unfortunate killing this afternoon of Isaac Satterthwaite, Cragg. What do you have to say about it?'

Although it was still not four, I had taken the opportunity during the jury's deliberations to go up to the Moot Hall. The death of Satterthwaite had caused polling to be suspended for the day, and we now sat in the mayoral parlour.

‘What can I say, Mayor? It has only just happened.'

‘Well, I'll tell you what, we want answers to certain questions. For instance, was he killed or did he die naturally? Was it an act of man, or of God? We cannot have this uncertainty. He was on his way to vote. If he was murdered it would look like an attempt to subvert the election, as a mine dug under the very foundation of our constitution and government.'

He raised a finger, liking the phrase enough to repeat it.

‘A very mine, Cragg! And meanwhile we have another charge waiting to explode beneath us – this matter of Mr John Allcroft's inquest. It is being said everywhere that you have proved he was poisoned. There is the likelihood of public disorder. Accusations will fly around. More blood will be spilt.'

I could see Biggs's point, and I could see, too, what he wanted: early notice of the likely inquest verdict. He wanted, if possible, someone he could quickly have arrested, to show that he was in command of the situation. Not that I was going to help him out.

‘I do not quite follow you, Mayor,' I lied.

‘Well, I would have thought it was as plain as pudding, Cragg. Can you not see? Satterthwaite may not have been to our liking politically, but if he really was killed for political reasons it reflects badly on our conduct of the election. In the case of Allcroft, he was of our party. We must know if either man was murdered and, if that is the case, there will have to be measures to prevent any further deaths.'

At the root of the Mayor's nervousness was the fear of Parliament. Adverse reports might persuade honourable members in London to enquire into the result of Preston's vote, and perhaps to overturn it. Not only would a second ballot be an embarrassment, the expense would be crippling.

I said, ‘I regret, it is not yet possible for me to tell you. The jury will inform me when they have made up their minds. On Allcroft they are meeting now. Only when a verdict is reached can I inform you.'

‘And Satterthwaite?'

I admit that I was enjoying Biggs's discomfort. In place of its customary arrogance, his voice had taken on a supplicatory tone.

‘I shall hold that inquest as soon as I can,' I told him. ‘But of course I cannot know in advance what conclusion it may reach.'

Biggs spluttered but there was not much more he could say. I rose, telling him, if our business was finished, I must return to the court and await the jury.

Chapter Twenty-two

T
HEY CAME BACK
having deliberated for a little over an hour. I did not think there was much doubt they would see the death as a poisoning. What I did not know was whether they would choose ‘by means unknown' or the more dramatic ‘murder by a person or persons unknown'. The former was the more rational choice, and it seemed to me that Gerald Pikeroyd was a rational enough fellow, who would not allow the fancies of Charley Booth or the tittle-tattle of Edward Lillycrap and John Mort to dominate proceedings. On the other hand, juries in my experience will always find murder if they possibly can.

‘Mr Foreman,' I asked when they had settled themselves, ‘have you agreed on a verdict?'

Pikeroyd cleared his throat.

‘Aye, Mr Cragg, we have.'

‘Will you tell the court what it is, please?'

‘It's murder. Murder by poisoning.'

I glanced at Furzey, who was writing the verdict on yet another of his printed forms.

‘Thank you. But I need a little more information. You must tell me if you believe you know who carried out the murder. I should add that you do not have to name anyone, and you really should not do so unless you are certain you are naming the guilty party, and not just someone who might have done it.'

‘Well, we are very sorry, but we have no name for you. We don't know who was the killer.'

‘Very well. So the verdict you are entering is “murder by person or persons unknown”. Are you all agreed on it?'

‘Aye, we are all agreed.'

‘Thank you, Mr Pikeroyd, and thanks to you all. The jury is dismissed and may go. But first—'

Though the public were now beginning to stand up, talk, gather together their hats and umbrellas, I had not finished. I raised my voice to be heard.

‘But first it is my duty to add one or two remarks, ladies and gentlemen. I congratulate Mr Pikeroyd and his colleagues on the verdict, and on the way they have acted in this matter. We do not know what this poison was that killed Mr Allcroft. Nor do we know who administered it, or why. I therefore have no arrests to recommend to the mayor and magistrates, and I will confine myself to saying that deliberate poisoning is a shocking crime. It is of necessity a case of malice aforethought, it is very devious and it is very difficult to detect. Human nature being what it is, a successful murder by poisoning can attract the attention of would-be imitators. In my return to the mayor I shall therefore suggest that the corporation investigate the supply of poisons in this town, and find ways of making it more difficult to get hold of. That is all. The court is dismissed.'

I struck the table with my gavel. As the audience began to bustle about – leaving, getting ready to leave, crossing the room to exchange views with others, or simply milling about in the way a herd does, hoping for something more to happen – I noticed Ephraim Grimshaw in conversation with Susan Allcroft and a podgy young man, dressed in black, who stood by her side. Grimshaw was holding the widow's hand and patting it consolingly. He was, of course, of her party, but Grimshaw was speaking as if he were also her friend – persuasively, emphatically, with wide eyes and head jabbing forward.

I moved towards them. As soon as he saw me coming, Grimshaw let go of the lady's hand and turned his crafty eyes in my direction.

‘I call that a severe waste of time and money, Cragg,' he said. ‘You have a murder, yes, but no murderer. What is the point of an inquest, if no finger is pointed? Mrs Allcroft and young Jotham here are sadly disappointed.'

Ignoring this I turned to Mrs Allcroft, and presented her with a paper.

‘Madam, I have the honour of giving you your paper of release. If you would present this at the vestry, the body of your husband will be given to you. I have asked Peter Wintly to stand by with his cart.'

She took the release warrant with a sniff and handed it to her son, who unfolded it and scrutinized the wording as if it were a cryptogram. I bowed and, before leaving, took Grimshaw aside by the arm.

‘I cannot pluck a murderer from the air,' I murmured in his ear. ‘If you wanted conjuring you should have had your friend Shackleberry as coroner.'

*   *   *

At home I found Elizabeth in the parlour, sitting with a long-faced, wet-eyed Maggie Satterthwaite, still wearing her now incongruous brightly coloured dress. My wife, at her needlework, was chatting away on a cheerful note, while the girl sat silently, her posture rigid and her eyes fixed on the flames of the fire. I asked if word had come yet from her aunt, Mrs Sowerby, in Longridge.

‘Not yet,' said Elizabeth. ‘We expect the messenger to return by the moment.'

She stood and took my arm and steered me out of the room.

‘Is it over, the inquest?' she whispered after she had closed the door.

‘Yes.'

‘Thank the Lord. When you were attacked yesterday I felt sure some people wanted the proceedings stopped. Now they are too late, and you, I hope, are safe. What was the verdict?'

I told her and she groaned.

‘I wish it had been declared an accident. Maggie has been fretting about it being murder. She has been talking more about that than the killing of her grandfather.'

‘She doesn't need to fear,' I said. ‘There was no mention of her name in connection with the death. She is not accused.'

‘Will you go in and reassure her? She has not said it in plain words, but I think she is genuinely afraid of arrest.'

She went off to bring tea, while I re-entered the parlour. Maggie had not stirred. I drew up a chair beside her and informed her in as gentle a tone as I could that the jury had decided Allcroft was murdered.

A tremor ran through Maggie's slim frame.

‘Murder!' she said. ‘But I didn't, Mr Cragg. I didn't!'

‘No one is saying you did, Maggie.'

‘Then who? Who
are
they saying?'

‘They don't know. Nobody knows.'

She sighed, and the edge of her panic seemed less sharp.

‘That's not true. The one that did it knows.'

‘Yes, of course. But the official verdict is “by person or persons unknown”. In most cases of such findings, there is never any more action. The person or persons are never found.'

‘You mean there'll be no one arrested? No one tried and hung?'

‘Probably not, I am sorry to say.'

‘Oh!'

That last exclamation was hard to judge. I could not tell if it conveyed her interest, or its lack.

Elizabeth came in with tea, while I offered to explain to Maggie what I planned to do about her grandfather's death – when and where I would hold the inquest, and so on. But she shook her head slowly.

‘Do what you like, Mr Cragg. You cannot bring him back and any road, he was old and his time had come.'