A Corpse in Shining Armour (7 page)

‘Mr Brinkburn, please,’ the coroner said.

Miles glanced at the grey-haired man and got a nod from him, as if his orders mattered more than the coroner’s. He got to
his feet steadily enough and walked to the front of the court.

‘Mr Brinkburn, have you viewed the body of the deceased?’ the coroner said.

Miles nodded.

‘Answer yes or no, please.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you able to identify him?’

‘Handy. Simon Handy.’

‘In what capacity was Mr Handy known to you?’

Miles swallowed, glanced towards the grey-haired man and away again.

‘He was a family servant.’

‘At what address?’

‘Brinkburn Hall, in Buckinghamshire.’

‘How long had he been employed there?’

‘Only for a few months, but before that he’d been my father’s servant for twenty years or more. Then my father didn’t need
him any more, so…’

His voice trailed away. The coroner may have been aware why Lord Brinkburn was no longer in a position to employ servants,
because he didn’t press the point.

‘How recently before his decease had you seen him?’

‘Back…back sometime in the spring, I think. The last time I was home anyway.’

‘Were you present when his body was discovered?’

Another nod. Another reminder that the question must be answered in words.

‘Yes. Yes, I was.’

It took the coroner some time to get an account of what had happened in Pratt’s workroom out of Miles Brinkburn. It added
nothing to what I knew from being there.

‘Do you know of any reason why Mr Handy should have been inside the crate?’ the coroner said.

‘No, of course not. I’d told Whiteley to have the armour packed up and sent to Pratt’s. Handy shouldn’t have had anything
to do with it.’

‘Whiteley being?’

‘Our steward.’

After a few more questions the coroner thanked him and asked the jurors if they had any questions. They hadn’t, so Miles was
allowed to stand down. He walked back to his seat, blowing out his cheeks with relief, said something to the grey-haired man
as he sat down and got a brief nod in reply.

The next witness was the intelligent policeman. He described how he’d been called to Pratt’s premises and what he’d found
there, without adding anything to what I knew already. Then it was the turn of a doctor employed by the police to give evidence
on the cause of death. Translated into layman’s terms for the benefit of the jury, Handy had died from being struck several
times on the back of the head by a heavy object. The injuries to the skull had been such that death must have been almost
instantaneous. The doctor’s opinion was that he’d almost certainly been dead before he was put into the crate. There was a
perceptible feeling of relief in the court. The coroner asked the doctor if he’d been able to establish when Handy had died.

‘Not with any degree of certainty. I examined the corpse the day before yesterday, soon after it was brought to the mortuary.
By that point, rigor mortis had entirely passed off. From the state of the internal organs, it’s likely that the deceased
had been dead for something between twenty-four and forty-eight hours.’

The coroner made a note, writing slowly.

‘You said that death would have been almost instantaneous?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In your opinion, is there any possibility that the deceased might have climbed inside the crate after receiving the blows
to the head?’

The doctor hesitated.

‘In my opinion, it is extremely unlikely. The brain is a peculiar organ. There are cases on record of people performing actions
which seem to imply some form of consciousness after receiving what subsequently prove to have been fatal blows.’

‘So it can’t be ruled out entirely?’

‘Not entirely, although I repeat it would be very unlikely. For one thing, head injuries of that nature bleed profusely. The
crate and its contents would have become so suffused with blood that anybody attempting to move it would have noticed.’

The coroner sat forward.

‘So you are saying that the bleeding must have taken place elsewhere, before the deceased was put into the crate?’

‘In my opinion, yes.’

The doctor was followed by the steward from Brinkburn Hall, Wilberforce Whiteley. He was a middle-aged man who seemed to be
made up of circles, like a child’s drawing; a rounded figure, neat little paunch bulging out of his waistcoat, round head
with sleek brown hair combed carefully over the bald patch, slightly protuberant brown eyes that reminded me of a guinea-pig’s.
He held himself stiffly upright, showing his nervousness by blinking often and quickly. The coroner asked him how long he’d
been employed as a steward by the family.

‘Twenty-six years, sir.’

He spoke with a country accent.

‘Were you well acquainted with the deceased?’

‘He joined us quite recently, sir. Before that, I only saw him when his lordship came to visit us.’

‘And how often was that?’

‘Once a year, sir.’

The coroner raised his eyebrows. I noticed that Mr Whiteley glanced towards the grey-haired man after answering.

‘Are you able to tell the court anything of the way in which he met his death?’

‘No, sir. I didn’t even know he was dead until we got word from London.’

‘Had he not been missed from his employment?’

‘The housekeeper told me he hadn’t been seen all day Monday and Tuesday morning, but that wasn’t entirely out of the way with
Handy.’

His tone of voice made it clear that he hadn’t thought highly of the man.

‘He was accustomed to absent himself from his employment?’

‘From time to time, yes, sir.’

The coroner made another note.

‘Is it a fact that you were instructed to pack up a suit of armour and send it to Pratt’s in Bond Street?’

‘Yes, sir. Sir Gilbert Brinkburn’s armour. I received a note from Mr Miles saying I was to have it crated up and sent off
as soon as possible. I asked her ladyship and she was entirely agreeable, so I started seeing to it that same day.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘I received the note last Saturday morning. As soon as her ladyship gave permission, I had the armour dusted and moved from
the gallery to the old dairy for packing. We had to wait for crates to be got down from the attic and wood-shavings brought
from the carpenter’s shop, so by the time we finished packing and nailing them down it was too late to send that day. There
was no point in sending the armour up on Sunday, with the shop not open, so I gave instructions that our carter was to come
first thing on Monday morning and collect the crates.

‘And did that happen?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did you check the crates when they were loaded on to the vehicle on Monday morning?’

‘No, sir.’

The coroner looked surprised.

‘Wasn’t that part of your duties?’

‘The carter came early, sir, and I was engaged elsewhere on the estate. My instructions to him were quite clear, so there
was no great need to be there.’

‘So nobody counted the crates when they were loaded and realised there was one extra?’

‘It seems not, sir.’

‘You said the armour was packed in the old dairy. Where is that in relation to the house?’

‘A hundred yards or so away, on the far side of the back courtyard.’

‘Why choose to pack the armour there?’

‘We don’t use it as a dairy any more, now we get our milk and butter from the farm, so it was just convenient, sir.’

‘Was it locked overnight while the armour was in it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Wasn’t that somewhat lax? I assume ancient armour has some considerable value?’

Whiteley glanced across at the grey-haired man again and hesitated.

‘I suppose we didn’t see the need for it, sir.’

‘So anybody could have gained access to the crates during Saturday night and all through Sunday?’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘When did you last see those crates?’

‘Just after eight o’clock on the Sunday evening.’

Whiteley seemed sure of his ground again. The coroner looked at him over his glasses.

‘Had you gone to check that they were safe?’

‘Not exactly, sir.’

‘What do you mean? Either you did or you didn’t.’

‘The fact is, sir, I looked out of my window and saw Handy leaning against the outside wall of the old dairy. Knowing him,
I thought he might be thinking of getting up to some mischief with the armour, so I went out and asked him what he was doing.
He said he’d only come out to smoke his pipe and wasn’t doing anybody any harm. In my opinion, he’d been drinking. I said
he could go and smoke his pipe elsewhere, so he took himself off.’

‘Did you see where he went?’

‘Towards the vegetable garden. To be honest, I didn’t take a lot of interest. I looked through the window at the crates. Everything
seemed to be in order, so I didn’t think much more about it.’

‘You said you feared he might be thinking of getting up to some mischief with the armour. Why was that?’

‘He was a bit of a one for practical jokes, sir. I wouldn’t have put it past him to get it out and dress up in it.’

‘But as far as you could tell, he didn’t?’

‘No, sir. It was still in there, all nailed up.’

‘Did you see him again?’

‘No, sir.’

‘As far as you know, did anybody else in the household see him again?’

‘No, sir.’

‘So to the best of your knowledge, Sunday evening just after eight o’clock was the last time anybody in the household saw
Handy alive?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you’re sure of the time?’

‘To within five or ten minutes, sir. It was just before the servants sit down to their supper. We have it at quarter past
eight, on account of her ladyship dining early.’

The coroner seemed to go on writing for a long time, occasionally glancing across at Whiteley, who stood staring ahead, face
flushed. When the coroner had finished writing, he asked Whiteley a few more questions. Had he been aware of any disturbance
on Sunday night or early Monday morning? Had anybody in the household reported anything out of the way to him? The answer
was no to both questions. The coroner wanted to know if the deceased had any enemies.

‘Not enemies as such, sir. But the other servants were none too friendly.’

‘Why was that?’

‘They thought he gave himself airs on account of working for his lordship so long.’

‘Did anybody ever make threats against him?’

‘Oh no, sir.’

Finally Whiteley was allowed to stand down and he took a seat in the front row. There was a long silence. The coroner nodded
to his clerk to come forward and the two of them conferred for some time. The clerk sat down and the coroner addressed the
jurors.

‘As you may have gathered, it is an unsatisfactory situation with regard to the evidence. There would seem to be several possible
verdicts open to you: death as a result of accident or misadventure, or by manslaughter, unlawful killing or murder by person
or persons unknown. As things stand, there is not enough information available to you to reach a conclusion. The chief officer
of the Metropolitan Police, in whose area the body was discovered, may well wish to order further investigations. These may
take some time, so I am adjourning this inquest
sine die
. In the meantime, I direct that the body of the deceased should be released to his next of kin for burial. Thank you for
your patience, gentlemen.’

The coroner and his clerk walked out. The jurors, taken aback by the sudden ending of the case, started asking each other
if that meant they were free to go. They decided they were and filed out with a disappointed air. Jimmy Cuffs had already
gone. The adjournment was good news for him and the rest of the press, for it would mean two stories instead of one. After
a word with the grey-haired man, Miles Brinkburn left the courtroom, still looking dazed. There were only three of us left
now: Mr Whiteley, the grey-haired man and myself. I sat quietly unnoticed in my corner as Mr Whiteley walked over to the grey-haired
man.

‘Did it go as you expected, Mr Lomax?’

Whiteley’s voice was low and respectful. So, as I’d guessed, the grey-haired man was the lawyer that Miles had summoned from
his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn: the man who would know what to do. I was certain, too, that I was looking at the man Disraeli
had described as the Brinkburns’ family friend as well as their legal adviser. Mr Whiteley wanted his good opinion. That was
clear from the way he stood looking up with his round brown eyes, like a spaniel waiting for a biscuit. He was rewarded with
a curt nod and a few words.

‘Probably as well as could be expected.’

‘Do you think my evidence was satisfactory, Mr Lomax?’

‘You did the best you could, Mr Whiteley.’

When the steward saw that this morsel of biscuit was all he could expect, he wished the other man farewell and walked slowly
to the door.

Before Mr Lomax could follow him, I stood up and called his name. He turned. I don’t think he’d been aware of me. I pushed
back my bonnet to give myself a less funereal look.

‘Will you allow me to introduce myself, Mr Lomax. My name’s Liberty Lane. I think Mr Disraeli may have mentioned me.’

There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He took his time in replying, weighing me up.

‘I had expected you to be older,’ he said.

‘A fault which the years will correct. I believe we might have things to discuss.’

Another pause as his eyes locked on mine. The intentness of his look would have been offensive in a normal social situation,
but this wasn’t one, and neither of us was pretending otherwise.

‘Can you come to my chambers at four o’clock this afternoon, Miss Lane?’

It stopped just short of being a command.

‘Very well.’

I turned and walked out. Had Miles Brinkburn told him that I’d been present when Handy’s body was discovered? From the way
Mr Lomax looked at me, I suspected that he had. He’d been asking himself whether I was the solution to one of the Brinkburn
family’s problems or a part of another.