Dead Man Riding (35 page)

‘It was a name, wasn't it? He was calling somebody.'

He looked at me, hands still over his ears. I mouthed the name at him. Then he closed his eyes, but not before I'd seen my answer in them.

Chapter Twenty-two

T
HE
CORONER HAD A
BALD HEAD
and a little snub nose that gave him an oddly cheerful air, in spite of the dark suit and serious expression. When a police officer had shown me into the witnesses' waiting room he'd reassured me, ‘Don't you worry, miss. Our coroner's a kindly man.' He was right, because when it was my turn to give evidence he'd made it as easy for me as a conscientous man could do, putting his questions in an unaggressive way, assuring me several times that he knew how difficult this must be for me. Now he was summing up in a calm, almost monotonous voice for the benefit of the jury – ten respectable tradesman types almost melting from the heat in their best suits.

‘You have heard from Dr Morris that the immediate cause of Mr Beston's death was a blow to the back of the head, fracturing the skull. It is his opinion that the injury could have been caused by sharp contact with a branch or post. He considers it possible, though less likely, that it might have been caused if the deceased had struck his head on hard earth. There is evidence of broken ribs and damage to the deceased's internal organs, strongly suggesting that a horse might have rolled on him. You have also heard from the doctor that Mr Beston had been suffering for some time from a heart weakness which might have proved fatal at any time, although that was not the cause of his death.'

After I'd given my evidence I'd been shown to a seat at the end of the front row. Alan had given evidence before me and was sitting at the other end of the row. Glancing over my shoulder among a mostly male audience I saw Midge, Imogen and Meredith sitting together eyes fixed on the coroner.

‘You have heard from his great nephew, Alan Beston, that Mr Beston had seemed anxious and nervous in the days preceding his death, because of real or imagined hostility from some of his neighbours owing to certain of his political opinions. I must emphasise very strongly to you that it is not your duty to determine whether the hostility was real or imagined or to pass judgment on events which might have led to it. The only question we are concerned with is whether the belief that it existed affected Mr Beston's mental state.'

From the far end of the row Alan caught my eye and gave a little grimace that might have been apologetic. He'd been furious with me when we met on the pavement outside the coroner's court about ten minutes before the inquest was due to start.

‘Nell, where in the world have you been? We've been desperate about you.'

‘Desperate about me, or desperate in case I wasn't here to give evidence?'

He'd looked at me as if I'd slapped him, but I was in no mood to reassure him. All the time I'd been giving evidence I'd been aware of his eyes on me, willing me to say what he wanted. I said it, but not for his sake.

‘You also heard from Miss Bray, a house-guest of Mr Beston in the days before his death. She is of the firm opinion that she witnessed an attempt made by Mr Beston to take his own life by throwing himself off a galloping horse the day before he died. She also told us of his devotion to what you may regard as a somewhat barbarous piece of literature about a man who was sentenced to death by being tied to the back of a wild horse.'

A grunt of agreement from one of the jurors to that. There'd been a palpable wave of shock in the room when I told the jury about
Mazeppa
. Some of them, I could tell, felt that it wasn't the kind of thing a well-brought-up young woman should be talking about.

‘Miss Bray, as it happens, also had the misfortune to be the person who discovered Mr Beston dead. I know you will want me to offer her your sympathy for what must have been a most distressing experience for a young woman, and the courage and self-possession she has shown in giving her evidence.'

Both the jury and audience gave a murmur of agreement. I'd gone down well, I knew that. Lots of training from childhood in amateur theatricals. I hated myself.

‘She has told you that Mr Beston's hands and feet were bound to a strap round the horse's neck and to the stirrups. Whether Mr Beston could have done that himself, whether it could have been done by some other person or whether it could have been the result of some grotesque accident are questions which the police have found it impossible to resolve. Miss Bray was naturally too distressed to be expected to make observations of that kind…'

(He'd assumed that, luckily, and not asked me direct questions.)

‘… and the rest of his household, also quite naturally, would be concerned to get him off the horse, to the exclusion of other considerations.'

I looked at Alan. He was nodding his head, a few nods too many, at a danger point almost passed.

‘You have heard Mr Alan Beston's opinion that his great uncle was a man of considerable determination and force of character in spite of his age. You may ask yourselves, if he were determined to take his own life, whether he might have chosen to do it in such an unusual and one may say…'

(You could tell he wanted to use the word ‘grotesque' again, but was hesitating out of consideration for our feelings.)

‘… such a flamboyant way. I will sum up. If you consider that the medical evidence, combined with the evidence you have heard on Mr Beston's state of mind, point to the conclusion that the deceased took his own life, then your verdict must be suicide. If you form that opinion and also think that he was not capable at the time of taking a considered judgment of what he was about to do, you may add “while the balance of his mind was disturbed”.'

A couple of jurors nodded at that. Most of the neighbourhood thought the Old Man was mad in any case.

‘The other verdicts available to you are that he died as a result of an accident, that he was unlawfully killed or that there is not enough evidence to show how he died. Given there is evidence that Mr Beston was actually tied on to the horse, it would be difficult if not impossible to envisage circumstances in which this might have happened accidentally. As for unlawful killing, no evidence has been brought before this court which would lead to that conclusion. You may be aware of reports that Mr Beston had made enemies in recent months but you must put those out of your minds. Even if the reports are true, they are not in themselves enough to lead to such a verdict. If in spite of all you have heard you feel you cannot come to any conclusion then you must bring in an open verdict, but I would suggest that you don't resort to that without a very thorough discussion of the alternatives. Now gentlemen, have you any questions before you retire to consider your verdict?'

They hadn't. As they walked out a buzz of talking started and Imogen swooped down beside me. She looked terrified.

‘Nell, where were you last night?'

‘The temperance hotel by the cattle market.'

It was a grim place, with beds as thin and hard as ship's biscuits. They'd been reluctant to take me in – a woman travelling on her own – but they couldn't pretend not to have rooms free and I'd scraped together the few shillings needed.

‘Something else has happened. This morning. It's—'

Midge came pushing past people and caught her by the arm. ‘Not now. Not in here. Afterwards.'

Midge was nearly in as bad a state as Imogen. Her eyes were puffy, the hand on Imogen's arm was trembling.

‘What's happened now?'

Midge gave me a look, begging me not to ask. I saw Alan was walking towards us. Whatever else had happened, it looked as if he hadn't been told about it because the two of them went quiet.

I said to Midge, to try and calm her, ‘Nathan's all right. He sends you his very best wishes and hopes he'll be seeing you soon.'

He'd sent more than best wishes. He'd been practically incoherent with concern for her when we parted in the yard of the inn, I making for the town, he for what he hoped would be his last night out on the fells. ‘Look after her, Nell. Tell her I hated leaving her. Tell her … oh, you know what I want to tell her.'

A few days ago this would have delighted Midge but now she just nodded, biting her lip. Alan had drawn Imogen aside and was talking to her. Meredith hadn't left his seat and was sitting several rows back, head down, an island of silence in a roomful of chattering people.

‘I'm going to get Imogen outside, Nell. She needs air.'

Midge grabbed her by the elbow and practically dragged her outside, leaving Alan open-mouthed.

‘What's happening, Nell?'

I didn't know, but there'd been so much kept from me that I hardly cared about this latest example of it. He saw from my expression that he wasn't going to get an answer and went back to his seat. Midge and Imogen came back to their seats just before the jury filed in. They were clinging together and crying. A murmur of sympathy went round the room, dying away as the coroner took his place. He asked the foreman if the jury had reached their verdict.

‘Suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed.'

*   *   *

Outside the sun was shining, a cart of vegetables was grinding past, and people were coming and going with shopping baskets. I was one of the first out because of sitting at the end of a row and started walking away, not caring where I was going.

‘Nell.'

Running footsteps behind me, people turning to look.

‘Nell, Miss Bray, please wait.'

Meredith. He must have pushed past everybody to get out so quickly. He looked desperate enough for anything, hatless with tie and hair flying. I waited, in the middle of a square by some statue or fountain, I don't remember what. He caught up with me and stood, trying to get his breath.

‘You knew all the time,' I said. ‘He came to you for help.'

‘Yes. There's something you should—'

‘And you did help him. You remembered what I'd told you about
Mazeppa
and helped tie his body on the horse.'

‘Yes. But you've got to know—'

‘And it's all right now. You've got a suicide verdict so the police will lose interest and he can just go away and get on with—'

‘No!'

Then somebody behind us shouted, ‘Meredith' and Alan came rushing across the cobbles, weaving around strollers and shoppers. He practically barged into us.

‘Meredith, what's happened? Imogen can't tell me. She's practically collapsed. What is it?'

Meredith looked at Alan then at me, his eyes more miserable than anything I've ever seen.

‘Kit's shot himself.'

Chapter Twenty-three

I
MOGEN, MIDGE AND I FOUND OURSELVES STOWED
in the small parlour of a commercial travellers' hotel while Meredith and Alan went to report another death to the police. I don't remember how we got there. I had no more to do with it than a portmanteau or carpet bag has to do with where it's put. All I remember are armchairs in red plush, an aspidistra in a bronze bowl with dragons writhing round it and a marble-framed clock on the mantelpiece ticking out the minutes with a noise like a hammer hitting tin tacks. A tray of tea was brought in.

Imogen said, ‘Did Kit kill him, Nell?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did Alan know?'

‘You'll have to ask him.'

Maybe he'd be able to explain, and she understand, how you can both know and not know something at the same time if you try hard enough. The tea got cold. Alan and Meredith came back, faces still blank with shock. We got ourselves to the public house yard where the wagonette was waiting. Meredith stood at Bobbin's head and held the reins while Midge, Imogen and Alan got in. Imogen and Alan were holding hands so tightly that I wondered whether they'd ever get their fingers unlocked. Meredith looked at me, waiting for me to climb in too. I shook my head.

‘Where are you going then?'

‘Anywhere.'

‘Wait for me here. Let me explain.'

‘I know what happened. I've known since yesterday. Not quite as long as you have of course.'

‘Nell, please wait. Give me a few hours at least.'

I said nothing. He looked at me, then swung himself into the driving seat and they went.

*   *   *

I'd made no promise. I could have gone to the station and taken the next train to Carlisle, then southwards, but I didn't even have the energy to make that decision. It was market day. I left my pack somewhere or other and strolled among the stalls, trugs of eggs pillowed on straw, zinc buckets, rope halters and scrubbing brushes, a willow basket full of greengages with a silver bloom on them like a dusting of frost. By late afternoon most of the things had been sold and the stall-holders were folding their tablecloths and sunshades and loading what was left into handcarts and pony carts. I was staring at a coop of black-feathered hens, listening to the owner and a customer trying to strike a last-minute bargain over them, when I felt his presence behind me. He didn't have to touch me or say anything. I knew he was there.

‘Thank you for waiting.'

I didn't say I hadn't intended to, because I knew now that I had. In my wanderings I'd found a little park not far from the market square, shaded with horse chestnuts so we headed there. At this time of the afternoon, with most people going home for tea, we had it to ourselves.

‘Why did he do it? He must have known we'd have got a suicide verdict on the Old Man in a few hours – just as you planned it.'

We were walking side by side under the shade of the trees. If anybody had been watching they might have thought it a nice place and time of day for sweethearts.

‘I think that was why.' His voice was tired, less confident than I'd ever heard it. ‘I think in his heart he hadn't expected to get away with it. This morning it finally occurred to him that he might – and he knew he didn't want to.'