A Dark Anatomy (23 page)

Authors: Robin Blake

BOOK: A Dark Anatomy

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âAre we not to see down to her buff?'

The question came tremulously from Adam Pimlott. In his twisting face, I could see lewdness struggling with fear, or nausea. I shook my head firmly.

âIt will be sufficient for you now to see the neck wound.'

But Pimlott persisted.

âBut Mr Coroner, sir, I heard it's the custom to behold the body naked.'

âSo it is, usually. But in this it would not be right, as you must agree. She is a gentlewoman.'

I looked to Pennyfold to lead them away from this unseemliness and he did not disappoint.

âAye,' he said, with a firm nod of his head. âIt would be an indignity.'

âThen let us examine her neck, which you can see plain.'

Her flesh felt ghastly cold and a little pulpy as I placed my index finger on the chin and prodded it to one side. This exposed the slash in her neck, which was clogged with congealed blood exactly as if it had been roughly caulked with pitch. None of the assembly was inclined to inspect this very closely, though it brought a new round of gasps when I turned the chin the other way and showed how the wound had completed a near half-circuit of the neck.

âThe gash is a handspan in length, as you see,' I observed. âAre we agreed?'

And, dumbly, they nodded their heads.

Once that part of the viewing was over the jury became more at ease, as I could tell by the way their conversation over poor Dolores's remains began to dissipate into irrelevance.

âShe got a beautiful pair of boots, she has,' observed Abel Plint at the opposite end of her from myself. As a cobbler, he was professionally interested.

âCourse she has,' murmured Horatio Gumble, a smallholder who also leased land, discontentedly, from the Brockletower estate. âNever owt but the best for her, and all likely paid for out of my rents.'

âGot a beautiful two of something else an'all,' said young Anthony Maybridge, with a suppressed snigger.

âWonder when Squire last laid his hand on them things,' remarked Thomas Thorne. âNot recently, I'm thinking.'

âNot in the last week, leastways, or so I hope,' added Maybridge.

There were the noises of simulated vomiting and cries of âLeave off!' from one or two of the younger jurors.

âNot for a bit longer than that, though,' said Thorne, his voice swollen with insinuation. âSquire's far too fond of that girlish builder chap, so I've heard.'

âShall we change the â¦?' I began.

âOver at Plough all hours,' Thorne went on unstoppably. âSo William Wigglesworth told us the other day.'

âYes, I were there. He said he were in and out of that Woodley's room the last few weeks like the man was his lady-friend. '

âHis
catamite
, you mean?' added George Pennyfold.

One of the jurors, Peter Gardner, did not know the term.

âHis what, George?'

âHis bardash is that, you clown.'

âWell whatever you might call it,' said Maybridge sagely, âSquire's headed for hell-fire on
that
road.'

âThey do say there's many like it in the navy,' said Gardner.

âThe question,' said the blacksmith, âis not exactly what
passed between Squire and Woodley, is it? Did she suspect? That's the point. That poor woman â did she think she knew something?'

Although I had begun to feel scandalized at the turn the discussion was taking, this last rumination by Pennyfold made me realize that something important was being said, and that I must take notice. There was talk already of Ramilles Brockletower's hidden life. And if secrets are whispered about, even if they are only common scandal, they must be looked at with care and judgement, or the inquest will lose public credit. Behind all nefarious deeds, all crimes and acts of desperation, there are secrets, which both sustain and explain them. It is an essential part of every inquest's business to examine rumours and secrets.

Also, it brought back to my mind the drunken confidence imparted to me by Ramilles's uncle, the vicar, in the Yolland churchyard, and the reputation Woodley had gained in Lichfield and York. I silently warned myself that if additional suspicions of deviant behaviour were now to surround this case, they would have to be considered by us. On the other hand, they would require the extremest care in handling. Ramilles Brockletower himself, I reminded myself, would be present to hear them.

Then I looked at Pennyfold and thought what a just question he had asked!
Did
she know? Or even suspect? And if she did, where did that leave us? With a violently jealous wife â a wronged woman â a broken heart â a vengeful, outraged spirit?

âDiabolic!'

The word had been growled by Tom Avery, one of the reserve jurors. He went on in the style of a chapel preacher.

âThat is a dark deed done by Satan and his minions constantly amongst themselves, and theyâ'

âTom!'

I held up my hand in warning, but he was not to be easily quelled.

âNo, Mr Cragg, I must speak out because you must understand. Hell commissions the filthy practice on earthâ'

âIt isn't your place, Tom Avery.'

ââ to
weaken
our manhood and destroy God's law. I insist upon it!'

I slapped hard on the part of the bench that was nearest my right hand.

âTom, no! It is I that insist. You must not speak. You are a reserve juror. You are here to follow our deliberations with care, but not to take any part in them. You will only do so if called upon to join the empanelled jury.'

âBut when I hear of abominations I mustâ'

I shook my finger at him.

âYou must not. You must be silent. That is the law. Now hush.'

Tom Avery subsided but his outburst had its effect on the others and they began a discussion of their own about the rumours that had been circulating. These centred frankly on Dolores and lycanthropy and I found the common lore on this matter, of men into wolves and vice versa, remarkably well informed. At least, they agreed broadly with the account I had read on the previous Saturday evening in Verstegan's book.

âDevil gave her an ointment, so they say, when she were a girl. She brought it with her from the Indies.'

This thought came from Gregory Matchet, and soon he and Horatio Gumble were exciting each other by it.

âYes, and she kept it secret in a brass pot, under her bed no doubt,' Gumble babbled, âand then when she fell out of happiness with Squire she took to smearing it on herselfâ'

âSmearing it all over her body,' said Matchet with a certain lascivious relish.

âAnd then out and roam the woods at night, she did.'

âTo cheer herself up.'

âAye and as a wolf she must have killed that fellow they found dead in the Fulwood last year.'

Although I usually try not to interfere with a jury's conversation, however absurd, I could not let this pass.

âGentlemen! Horatio, Gregory, I'm telling you, don't be daft. I held the inquest on that fellow in the woods, and he was killed by a bolt of lightning hitting the tree he had sheltered under during a storm.'

âHappen such a werewolf has fiery breath,' argued Gumble. âScorched him she did. Same outcome as a lightning strike, that.'

The idea appealed to the jury as a whole and there were burbles of agreement from around the table. But these were interrupted by a sudden savage shout from George Pennyfold.

âMy arse! This woman here may have been anguished, but she wasn't possessed by Satan, nor any other devil. And as for this diabolical ointment, where is it? Has anyone seen it? Or this brass pot she kept under her bed? Where's that? It isn't there. Now, come out. We can do no more here and this cold is crippling your common sense.'

The last remark may have been true. The rainwater that had earlier soaked our clothes had become infused with the chill rising from the blocks of ice around us, and we were all trembling. Our lively discussion had warded off the knowledge of it but, no sooner were we reminded, than we began to feel it. There were a few mutterings against the foreman's words, and against werewolves and diabolic possession, but the jury seemed suddenly to wish for nothing more than to leave the Ice-house and never if possible come back.

I seized the opportunity this presented to me.

âBefore we go out,' I said, âthere is one more piece of business. I respectfully request the jury to commission a post-mortem examination by Dr Fidelis, who waits outside for the purpose.'

âAn examination? Why? What's he going to find?' put in Gumble, with a degree of wounded truculence.

âHappen, traces of that ointment you and Gregory are so determined she had on her, eh?'

This was Pennyfold. I ignored him.

âThe doctor will look for any suspicious pathology,' I explained. âBy that I mean traces and signs in the body that may help us in our inquest's task this afternoon. If he can set about it without delay, he will have his testimony ready for us before the end of the day. Is it agreed? Raise your hands.'

Dispirited by the cold, they all did so, and after refolding the canvas around Mrs Brockletower's body, we trooped out of the Ice-house.

Chapter Twenty-three

W
HILE WE HAD been occupied in the Ice-house, the prevailing leaden clouds had begun to break up, revealing patches of blue sky. Rain still scudded over us in bursts, but the blue patches were fast increasing and we knew we would be dried by sunshine on our walk back to the Plough Inn. Meanwhile, Luke Fidelis had arrived with his medical bag and was standing in conversation with the two militiamen. I took him aside and told him the medical examination had been approved.

âThen I'll begin immediately.'

âHow long shall you be?'

âThat depends on what I find. There may be nothing, which sometimes takes longer. But a couple of hours will see it done, in any case.'

Standing in front of the Ice-house in the middle of the rising slope of Squire Brockletower's orchard, one could look down at the yard of Garlick Hall and see the face of the clock that surmounted the gateway's turret. It was only just gone half past ten.

âI shall expect you before one o'clock, then.'

But Fidelis detained me with a touch on my arm.

âI was followed here from the village by Oswald Mallender.
At this moment he's down in the house, warming his arse at the kitchen range.'

âHe was admitted?'

Fidelis shrugged.

âThere's only the senior parlourmaid in charge. He will have bullied his way in.'

âDid you speak to him?'

âNo. He kept his distance from me.'

Mallender could only have one thing in mind: obstruction. He was bent on it, he enjoyed it, and he was made for it.

âKeep it that way,' I said. âHave nothing to do with him. Fix your mind on what you have to do.'

âI ought to have your written warrant for the examination. With Mallender about â¦'

His request was just and I should have anticipated it.

âYes, of course. But I have no writing materials here, and besides it will be better if Furzey drafts the note, I think. I will send it by runner as soon as we get back to the inquest.'

I turned and set off after the jurors, who were already halfway down the orchard. I had covered only ten yards when it struck me that Fidelis ought to send word if he were in any way delayed beyond the specified time. So I turned and, as I did so, an unexpected figure popped out from behind the Ice-house and joined the physician.

âWho â¦?'

But no sooner had the question formed than I recognized him. I hastened back to my friend, who smiled apologetically.

âA little ruse, Titus,' he said. âI was not sure you would permit me an assistant in the operation, so I intended that he remain out of sight until you left. However, now you have seen him, may I introduce young George, an artist of considerable promise?'

I looked the boy up and down as he blushed a deep crimson.

âAn assistant, you say?'

âJust for the day. For this procedure. He doesn't expect any payment.'

I blew out my cheeks, thinking.

âIt is not quite regular and I am wondering if he is a little young. Fifteen, isn't he?'

âHe is uncommonly tough. His strength and sense will be of much help to me, and he can learn much for himself at the same time. You will become a patron of the arts by agreeing to this.'

I turned to the tyro himself.

âWhat do
you
say, boy? Are you not afraid to deal with a dead body like this?'

George shuffled his feet. âNo, sir. The dead can do me no harm.'

So I agreed to his being taken on, and went on my way, hastening to catch up with my jurors. Traversing the yard, and passing the Hall's kitchen window, I looked in to see Oswald Mallender there. He was sitting on a bench by the fireside gulping down a bowl of steaming pottage, while his own damp clothing steamed likewise in the warmth.

On arriving back at the public room of the Plough Inn, we found that several of those present, including the bailiff, Squire Brockletower and Sarah, had crossed the yard and entered the inn in search, like Mallender at Garlick, of the warmth of a fire. For the majority who remained, William Wigglesworth had served hot punch at a farthing a glass, with buttered spice-bread. The offer had been taken up with enthusiasm and we found the hall filled with loud conversation and laughter. An improvised concert had begun with a trio of musicians, using my table as a
stage, playing lively jigs on a fiddle, bagpipe and tabor. Below them the front rows of chairs had been pushed out of the way and a gaggle of girls were dancing. Encircled by hooting hand-clapping youths, they whirled and stamped in shocking abandon. Among them I noticed several Garlick Hall servants.

Tom Avery was even more dismayed by the sight than I. Unable to decide between covering his eyes or his ears, he found a middle way by clapping one hand to his right eye and the other to his left ear. At the same time he jigged up and down on the balls of his feet out of sheer indignation, an action that could hardly be distinguished from the dance itself.

I looked for Furzey. Never one to lie fallow, he had brought some writing from the office and I saw him sitting in his place at the table, apparently absorbed in work. His foot, however, was moving up and down, keeping time with the tune. I strode forward and roared for the musicians and dancers to stop.

âThis is a court of inquest, and by heaven you shall respect it, or be answerable.'

I had bellowed these words as loudly as I could and no doubt, as Elizabeth said to me with much laughter when I told her about it later, my face turned the colour of a boiled beetroot. But the words had immediate effect. The music faltered into silence while the revellers stood still, some of them hanging their heads. Then I swept through their midst, pushing them this way and that with my arms to reach the table.

âFurzey,' I said sharply, âwhy did you not stop this disgraceful exhibition?'

As the musicians, their instruments tucked in umbrage under their arms, began to clamber reluctantly off the table, Furzey laid down his pen and stretched his back and arms.

âBecause I was enjoying it,' he said with a frank and simple smile.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Elizabeth once told me that Furzey was my jester. Or, put another way, that he performed the function of the slave whispering into the ear of the triumphant Roman general, reminding him to come down to earth.

Sometimes, it was hard to be grateful for this service.

âLet's just get on with the business,' I said, seizing a clean sheet of paper and handing it to him. âPlease draft a warrant for Dr Fidelis authorizing a post-mortem examination on Mrs Brockletower's body.'

I waited while he did it, then sealed and signed the warrant and crooked my finger at young Jonah Marsden, in the public seats, to come out to me.

âRun with this to the Ice-house at Garlick Hall,' I told the boy. âGive it straight into Dr Fidelis's hands, and nobody else's, mind!'

When he had gone I held out my hand to Furzey.

âWe must proceed. Have you the list of witnesses?'

From the bundle of papers before him my clerk extracted a sheet on which he had noted those whom I intended to call, listed in order. With this in my hand I shooed away the musical trio, supervised the restitution of the witnesses' chairs in neat rows, sent word into the inn that the inquest was about to resume, and rang my bell for order.

It took a little longer, and several more shakes of the bell, before everyone was seated, the doors were banged shut and we were ready to get started again.

My father, as learned an antiquary as he was in the law, taught me that the English inquest and the coroner who presides over it, are very ancient institutions, with origins fogged by time. The proceedings therefore rest not on codices and legal precedents
but on real remembered events. So, as far as possible, I liked to design my inquests as a teller shapes a tale. To put that another way, an inquest is a kind of play whose theme should catch and hold the attention of the jury and the public from the very start. The proper way is not to plunge straight in with the ultimate question â who killed Cock Robin? The inquest starts with the circumstance prompting the question: that Cock Robin has been found as a corpse, in such-and-such a place and manner. It starts, in other words, with the testimony of Cock Robin's first-finder.

Accordingly, Timothy Shipkin now stepped onto the stand, and was sworn. For a man with no particular position in society, he cut a confident, even an imposing figure as he took the oath. The audience was so rapt that the scrape of Furzey's pen could be clearly heard as I led Shipkin through his movements after dawn on the Tuesday of the previous week. Although it was not my business to try to prove the man a liar, the court needed above all to be sure that he was telling the truth. But probe as I might into how the body was disposed, whether he moved or interfered with it, whether there was any knife or razor to be seen beside the body, or signs of anyone else at the scene, his account in the courtroom tallied precisely with what he had already told me of these questions. He was a model of steadiness in all he spoke.

The jury and public nodded their heads as one when Shipkin described himself doing something they approved of, but broke out into murmurs of dismay when something untoward came up, as when he described the victim's wounded neck.

In retrospect I wish I had not asked my last question. I put it to him with a wish to clear the air, but it had the opposite effect.

âBefore letting you go, there is just one more matter,
Mr Shipkin. You are aware, are you not, of the talk in this neighbourhood of some
supernatural
element in these events?'

The witness's sharp-set eyes glowed, as if by fire shining through ice.

âAye, that's right.'

âAnd that the subsequent disappearance of the body of Mrs Brockletower gave a certain credibility to the idea?'

âSome said so.'

âWere you one of those yourself?'

âYou know I were, Coroner. I told you it.'

âSo you did. But now that the corpse is found being carried away by a man, not a devil, do you not modify your ideas?'

For a few moments he looked at me, and then turned his flashing eyes towards the jury.

âI stand by them,' he said. âI say the woman was killed by the demon Asmodeus, seven times destroyer of wedlock, as the Book of Tobit tells us. She was brought away from her resting place by a man right enough, but a strange one, touched in his body and his head by the diabolic influence of Asmodeus. So I think.'

He turned back to me and repeated defiantly, âSo I think.' Shipkin's invocation of Asmodeus had sent a ripple of excitement through the jury, and the entire room. I saw the reserve juror, Tom Avery, cast a glance sideways at his neighbour, meaning he'd known this from the start. But the murmuring was not all of the same kind. Perhaps half of those present, no doubt the less educated and less rational portion, were with Tom Avery, both thrilled and terrified by Shipkin's claim. The others I guessed were as sceptical as I. The squire, seething rather than sceptical, was pursing his lips as if ready to empty his lungs through them.

âThat is not a fact, Mr Shipkin,' I said as resoundingly as I could. âIt is an opinion, and one based on an apocryphal tale.'

I turned to the jury and raked them with a warning look.

âTherefore it is not evidence. You jurors must discount it. Mr Furzey, you will note that in the record, if you please.'

The scratch of Furzey's writing was lost under one or two cries of dissent from the back of the room. Taking no heed, I excused Shipkin and he left the stand. Next up was William Pearson.

The head groom of Garlick Hall began by describing what had happened early on that Tuesday morning: how he had prepared Mrs Brockletower's riding horse, Molly, how she had ridden off alone, and how (roughly an hour later) the horse had returned without her, with blood on her mane and neck. He had ordered searches by all men that could be found in the yard and house, including Timothy Shipkin, who had been in the kitchen. He said he knew the direction in which the lady might have headed and asked should he walk up there? Pearson told him to do so. Forty-five minutes later Shipkin returned with the news that he had found the mistress's body under the old oak, whereupon Mrs Marsden wrote a letter to me, which was sent by hand of her grandson, while Pearson sent a small group of estate and house servants to the woods to watch over the body until my arrival.

Bethany Marsden sat down next in the chair and confirmed Pearson's evidence in every respect. When I asked about Mrs Brockletower's demeanour in the days before her death, she repeated what I myself had heard when questioning the servants on the day of the event itself. Her mistress had been fractious, vexed, peremptory and preoccupied. When I asked why, she could only pull a perplexed face. She did not know.

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