Death and the Chevalier

by Robin Blake

  Before we began, I had a short, backs-turned conference with Constable Norris.

  ‘Have any more of the clothes from these bodies been found?’

  ‘Not a stitch, Mr Cragg. There’s just the blanket thing you brought in yourself from the riverbank.’

  ‘And has no one come forward with more information, such as where the killings took place and, of course, who was responsible?’

  Norris’s honest face now looked flustered, as if I had accused him of hiding pertinent information.

  ‘I assure you, Mr Cragg, there is no further intelligence on the matter.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to say I have some bits and pieces, though whether they add up will become clear only as the inquest proceeds.’

  Norris arched his eyebrows in surprise.

  ‘What is it, Mr Cragg?’

  ‘You must pay attention to the evidence, Norris, and you may learn.’

  ‘You know who did it, sir?’

  ‘I did not say that. Please do not spread that as a rumour.’

  I left him and, as I went to my chair, the church clock could be heard striking ten. I called the room to order and went on to swear the jurors one by one to bring a true verdict and so on and so on. I then took them into the adjoining room where the corpses were arranged on trestle tables for the traditional viewing. Removing the covering sheets, I showed them the manner of severance of the two heads and they whispered together, variously expressing wonder, shock or disgust. We looked at the other wounds and noticed any signs of interest, such as the weather-beaten knees of the one compared with the lily-white knees of the other.

  In less than a minute we were filing out of the side room and back into the main hall, where the jurors took their places again on the jury bench. I called the assembly to order and explained how we would proceed. I told the jury that even though the bodies were found in different places, we must examine the two deaths together, since it was obvious from the evidence they would hear that the men were associated and had been killed at the same time and for the same reason. We would therefore start with the first finders of the headless bodies and the severed heads.

  We began as ever with the narrative of how the bodies had been discovered. A shamefaced Abraham Pilling came first. He admitted that he removed the corpse that he and others had found that night outside the Black Cat at Simmy Nook, and had taken it by cart into Farmer Ambleside’s field. He swore he had done nothing to the body – it had been naked when he’d set eyes on it and he had nothing to do with removing its clothes, nor did he know where those clothes were. I asked him why the head had not been found along with the body on the frozen windypit, and there was much laughter when he told how it had rolled off the back of his cart and gone into the ditch in the dark without his minding it. I let the constable off lightly, with only some mild words of reproof, as his former cocky manner had disappeared and he seemed thoroughly chastened, not least by being the butt of jokes.

  Luke Fidelis then told how he’d found the head lying in a ditch half a mile from Simmy Nook, after which it was the turn of the fisherman who had spotted the other body after it caught in reeds below the bridge at Ribchester. This had been on Thursday morning just as the light was breaking, with the river in full spate after the night’s heavy rain. He had first seen one of the arms just below the surface and had taken it for a dead pike, hooking it with his pole gaff in the hope of a good supper of broiled fish that night.

  ‘And did you turn Caliban and eat the arm?’ shouted someone from the room. There was more laughter. The people of Ribchester were in a humour to enjoy themselves at this unexpected entertainment.

  The mood became more serious as the last of the finders, little Margery Bruff, came forward. She was brought by her mother but could not be persuaded to speak until I granted she could sit on Mrs Bruff’s knee and whisper her answers into the ear of her mother, who then related them out loud for the benefit of the room. By this means we found out that Margery had been looking for fairies in the water meadow when she had seen what she thought was the face of a troll caught in the willow tree, which she told her sister about. I then completed the tale, describing how I’d later accompanied the child to the place and so recovered the severed head.

  Next I called Luke Fidelis to return to the stand. He summarized his own medical findings, including the significance of the wounds, and what had been in the stomachs, and went on to show how he had matched the heads to the appropriate bodies, after explaining the careful way in which the cutting-off had been done.

  ‘Do you remark anything about how the heads were severed?’ I asked. ‘With what instrument, perhaps?’

  ‘I would hazard that it was done by someone used to cutting flesh, with an appropriate instrument.’

  ‘A surgeon?’

  ‘Anyone from surgeon to experienced butcher.’

  ‘Now, doctor, in our viewing of the bodies we noticed a difference in the legs, and in particular around the area of the knees, of the two victims. Can you confirm this and tell us what it might mean?’

  ‘Yes. The older man almost certainly wore the Scotch Highland kilt – a skirt worn by the common people in that part of the world. The younger victim wore breeches, as we do. I could tell this from the weathering of the skin around the knees of the older man.’

  ‘What did it suggest to you?’

  ‘Well, it suggested two things. One is that they were Scotch and that the older man was a Highlander wearing his traditional dress – the kilt.’

  A tremor of excitement ran visibly through the audience. Everyone knew that the Pretender’s army was made up of Highlanders, and many believed that they were savage brutes.

  ‘And the other thing?’

  ‘That the two men were probably from different ranks in society. Hypothetically, they were a young master and his older servant.’

  I now stood, unfolded the tartan cloth we had found in the water meadow beside the river and held it up to be seen by all.

  ‘This is part of the Highland dress,’ I said. ‘It is a “plaid” – that is, a kind of blanket worn around the upper body. The kilt worn with it would have displayed the same pattern of colours, rightly called a tartan, and there is a different pattern of tartan for each of the Highland clans, or families. Now this plaid was found near the river where one body and one head were found on Thursday last. Its tartan is therefore a clue about the identity of the one who wore it. I wonder, does anybody present know the name of the clan that wears this particular one?’

  I looked around the room. There was a general murmuring, but none had a suggestion.

  ‘Well, Doctor Fidelis,’ I went on, ‘did your examination yield any further discoveries?’

  ‘Yes. I found a communication from the killers – a letter inside the mouth of one of the severed heads.’

  The audience gasped.

  ‘Is this the letter?’

  I held the paper up for all to see, then handed it to Fidelis, who confirmed that it was.

  ‘Then please be good enough to read it out loud.’

  In a clear voice Fidelis did so, to a room absolutely quiet and attentive apart from a baby or two, and an old man who had fallen asleep and was snoring into his beard. After he had finished, I heard a few low whistles of surprise from the audience, followed by a burst of chatter. Suppressing this, I called James Barrowclough, who came to the witness chair and took his oath with an air of puzzlement.

  ‘Did you see two strangers, one in Highland dress, on or near your land on Tuesday?’

  ‘No. And I must say I am at a loss to explain why I have been called here.’

  ‘It is because you told me that the two Scotchmen were on your land last Tuesday.’

  ‘So they were, as I myself was told, and as I told you.’

  ‘Ah! But you did not see them yourself?’

  ‘I did not tell you I had seen them.’

  ‘That is not my question.’

  ‘It is my answer. You are under the impressi
on that I admitted to having seen them. I am saying I did not. I merely told you that two strangers were seen – by my estate workers, as it happened – riding across my land.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘In the afternoon of Tuesday, I think.’

  ‘Did they visit you at the Hall?’

  ‘I have already answered that.’

  ‘I mean without you seeing them?’

  Exasperation altered his voice.

  ‘No. No, they did not, sir.’

  ‘Mr Barrowclough, are you a signatory of a covenant sworn to oppose the Pretender and his forces?’

  ‘I am, along with hundreds of others.’

  ‘And you signed the covenant because you are a passionate opponent of the cause of the House of Stuart.’

  ‘I am a passionate patriot. I do not acknowledge the claims of the Pretender; it is why I call him by that name.’

  I passed him the letter Fidelis had found.

  ‘Is this your handwriting?’

  ‘No. I write with my left hand and therefore form my letters differently.’

  ‘Perhaps you had this written by another, then, at your dictation.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Is it not the case that you learned surgical skills during your time in Holland, and that these skills came in handy when you were dealing with the two dead Scotchmen?’

  ‘Yes, I did, and no, they didn’t, and your second suggestion is an outrage.’

  I took him round the subject once more and Barrowclough, with varying degrees of irritation, parried all my questions.

  Finally, I said, ‘I put it to you one last time that these two Scotchmen came to call at your house, thinking they would find your father in residence – your father who differs from you about the legitimacy of the House of Stuart – and that when they discovered their mistake, they tried to get away but you killed them and then, using your surgical skills, cut off their heads. Is that true, Mr Barrowclough?’

  ‘No, no, no! This is a lie and slanderous. Neither did I do those things, nor shall you ever prove that I did. And I say this: those who speak loosely on this subject shall answer for their recklessness. I give my word on it.’

  We’d travelled no further from the ground he had established in replying to my first enquiries, so I relieved him and called his man, Abel Grant.

  His evidence took us no further, however. Grant knew of two riders being seen on the roads. He gave no sign of knowing anything else. Nor could he throw light on the covenanters’ letter. He was not a covenanter, and he did not recognize the handwriting. He had answered me in a controlled, smooth tone.

  ‘Is there any man or woman present who can give testimony to help us in this matter?’ I asked the room once Grant had been let go.

  I looked around the hall and waited twenty or thirty seconds. No voice was raised and no one came forward. So I rose and turned to the jury.

  ‘Gentlemen, there will be no further evidence given in this inquest. We must proceed to a verdict, but first I have a few remarks. We have here a case unique, I think, in my long experience of inquests. Two men are killed and then beheaded. The bodies and heads were left to be found in different places, and the heads had been switched so that they did not match the bodies they were found with. The two dead men, we have reason to presume, are Scotchmen acting as some sort of advance party of the army that has lately descended from Scotland openly in arms against the King. Our presumption is supported by the finding of plaid clothing typical of a Highlander which was (again presumably) washed up out of the river at the same time as human remains that had been likewise washed up not far away. It is further supported by the extraordinary note found inside the mouth of one of the heads, that had been found earlier beside another headless body on Mr Ambleside’s land. The contents of this note, purporting to be written by subscribers to a loyal covenant, has been read out to you.

  ‘What can we make of this? It is for you gentlemen to decide the nature of this killing. I would only add, by way of guidance, that killing in war is certainly exempt from the charge of criminal murder, but this exemption is usually restricted to soldiers. Can whoever did this deed be regarded as a soldier, just because they signed a covenant swearing to defend the realm? Such covenanters have never been constituted as a military force. They have typically been civilians. Meanwhile, a soldier knows his duty without signing any covenant. So you must ask, does the fact of signing this covenant excuse this act of killing?

  ‘Finally, please consider whether you believe the contents of the covenanters’ note. As we do not know who they are, it is impossible to test their truthfulness. That is all I have to say at the moment, but tell me if I can be of any further assistance in this difficult task. I now ask you now to consider your verdict.’

  It was a frowning jury that huddled together in a corner of the room to confer, while the audience debated the question amongst themselves, some of them heatedly. After ten minutes the foreman, a sensible fellow named Eastwood, came back to me.

  ‘We cannot decide the question of whether it was a justified killing, Mr Cragg. We know not a scrap about these so-called rebels for sure, bar their taste in clothing.’

  ‘They were killed, however,’ I said. ‘Your decision hangs on whether to be a covenanter gives you the right to kill a rebel.’

  He looked at me shrewdly.

  ‘We’re bamboozled about that, Mr Cragg. It’s a question for a lawyer, is that.’

  He was right, of course, and even I – as a lawyer – could not give him the answer he wanted.

  ‘Very well, I propose you set it aside,’ I said. ‘State the fact as you see it, Mr Eastwood.’

  ‘That they died by one or more unknown hands, justified or not.’

  ‘Strike out “justified or not” and that seems the only possible verdict at our present state of knowledge. If you all agree on it, I shall allow it.’

  Eastwood returned to his colleagues and I saw them nodding their heads. They returned to their bench, and the verdict was given: killed by an unknown hand or hands. I discharged them with a few words of thanks and brought the hearing to an end.

  Fidelis and I rode back on the road to Preston, with Furzey mounted uncomfortably behind me on old Jones’s rump.

  ‘You pushed Barrowclough hard,’ said Fidelis.

  ‘But not hard enough. He is holding something back, I’m sure.’

  ‘He owns to being a covenanter. He might also be a murderer.’

  ‘Or is it a hero, Luke? A defender of the realm.’

  ‘Did I not say it was a ticklish question?’ said Furzey into my ear. ‘Whether this is a criminal matter is far outside the competence of simple-minded Ribchester people.’

  ‘Which Mr Eastwood acknowledged,’ I said. ‘But it is disrespectful to call a jury simple-minded, you know.’

  Fidelis laughed.

  ‘And yet I have heard you many times curse the stupidity of the panel,’ he said.

  ‘Separately, they may be stupid, Luke, but we must always respect them as a body. My father has many times dinned into my ears that the jury is the rock on which our law stands. Without it, we are barbarians or live under tyranny.’

  ‘Yes, and not least the tyranny of lawyers. The foreman admitted only a lawyer could settle the question of murder. What does the lawyer say, then? Was it murder?’

  ‘You must ask one of more proficiency than me. But without the knowledge of who did it, I doubt even he would give a safe answer as to whether it was murder according to the criminal law. But I do know this: by the moral law, that was a beastly murderous act by someone.’

  That night I lay a long time awake. I had told myself before the inquest that I hoped for a solid verdict. I had not got one and now I couldn’t get the two dead Scotchmen out of my head: their names unknown, their deaths unaccounted for; their families far away and all unaware.

  Inconclusive inquests are the bane of my profession, but they are impossible sometimes to avoid. There is the lack of
evidence, the mendacity of witnesses, and the slippery operation of evil by which the innocent are so often struck unnaturally dead, and the guilty go free. Yes, death unappeased weighs heavy.

  EIGHT

  The next day was Sunday and in Preston they would talk of nothing but the fall of Carlisle and the impending descent of the rebel army upon us. Our vicar being a great loyalist, his sermon that morning dwelt on the evils of revolt. It told of how the Lord ordered Saul the King to rid the world of the Amalekites, starting with their king and ending with their best sheep and oxen.

  ‘But Saul disobeyed,’ said the vicar. ‘He slaughtered the Amalekites quickly enough, but spared their king and kept the livestock. Angrily, the Lord stripped Saul of his kingship saying’ – here he intoned his text in a ringing voice – ‘“For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry. Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord, he hath also rejected thee from being King.”’

  Many quailed under the vicar’s eye as it raked the congregation, not unlike the eye of the eagle into which his lectern was carved.

  ‘These words of the Book of Samuel are extraordinarily prescient, my friends. Here in our own time we have a man – the Pretender in Rome – whom the Lord has rejected not once but again and again as king of this realm. And yet now we have his son stubbornly coming back here in arms to make another rebellion against the Lord’s anointed king, His Majesty King George. I will only say this: in the hour of trial do not yourselves be tempted into rebellion. Do not fall into a sin as wicked as witchcraft. And for those of you already fallen into that sin, abandon it. For “stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry”. Abandon it, I say, and you shall be saved. Abandon it not and you shall be cast away by the Lord and suffer the dire perdition of all who are stubborn against Him.’

  Lord Derby had attended worship with his wife and son, Lord Strange. Afterwards in the melee outside the church his lordship sought me out.