by Robin Blake
Now Furzey laid down his pen and bit his lip, thinking.
‘If there were people so devoted to Sir Harry’s cause that they would kill for him, I think we must discriminate the cause from those people, and incriminate only the people. I speak up for the reputation of politics in general but also for the good of the Whig party which, as you know, I myself support.’
I sighed deeply.
‘I am beginning to think you are right. It is a little late to open an inquest, but I can legitimately say that after Dr Fidelis’s trick with the rat we have sufficient evidence in our hands. What we do not have is a body. And without that we can’t proceed.’
Furzey shrugged.
‘The body is there, sir. All we have to do is—’
‘Yes, yes, I know.’
‘Shall I draw up the order, then, sir?’
‘Yes, Furzey. Reluctantly, but yes, I think you had better. And I shall go out to Gregson and inform Mrs Allcroft. But first, I really should pen a note to the mayor, to tell him again he’s wasting his time looking for the two mountebanks in Preston.’
* * *
It turned out there was no need for me to send for my saddle horse. As I passed through the kitchen to get my riding boots from the boot room, Matty, who had been out early, told me she had seen Susan Allcroft in the town. So I dispatched Barty to run to her brother’s shop on Fisher Gate asking for her. He was directed from there to Talboys the dressmaker’s, where he found her, and she sent word – in a starchily worded note – that she would come in half an hour. Thirty minutes later, she was standing before me in the inner office, carrying a number of packages.
‘Madam,’ I began, ‘I am afraid I have a duty to perform that is disagreeable to me, and must be repugnant to you. Won’t you sit down?’
So she sat, distributing her purchases on either side of the chair.
‘I have a deal of messages to run, sir, and would be obliged if you would come to the point.’
She had lost none of her sharpness.
‘It concerns your husband’s sad death. As you know I was with Dr Fidelis for a time while he tended Mr Allcroft’s last hours.’
‘Tended? Sat idly by, more like. Doctors!’
I let the jibe go by without comment. ‘Have you reflected at all on the cause of his death?’
‘Why should I? It was from falling poorly, a sudden violent sickness. Some people said he’d eaten putrid meat.’
‘Would you not like to know for sure?’
‘We are not always meant to know. So the Psalm says, “Blessed is the man that maketh the Lord his trust”.’
‘But it is important to know. If it was the case that he had a natural seizure, or the dropsy, or had eaten bad food, I would say, very well, read the prayers, ring the bell and bury him.’
‘So we have done.’
‘I know, but, as I warned you the other day, if there are any grounds to believe Mr Allcroft’s death was not natural – any grounds at all – it is my duty to hold inquest over him. And I consider I now do have such grounds.’
‘You may have grounds, Mr Cragg, but my husband’s in the ground. He lies in the churchyard in our village. You’re too late.’
‘No, madam, as I also indicated to you, that is not quite the case.’
She flinched backward in revulsion.
‘No – you’re not going to—? You can’t—?’
‘Exhume him? Yes, I can, Mrs Allcroft, and I am going to.’
She started fanning herself furiously.
‘Oh, heavens! Oh, dear! His funeral service has been read. His passing bell, his hymns at the graveside, his shroud and flowers, his deep grave filled in and headstone ordered. Oh, no! I cannot have it all again. I forbid his disturbance. I am his widow and I will not allow it.’
‘I’m afraid it is not for you, even as his widow. The final authority on exhumation is with me alone. I do it very rarely and always reluctantly. But every now and then it is necessary.’
Now Mrs Allcroft was crying. This is not a very unusual event in a lawyer’s office and so it was Furzey’s idea to keep a stock of handkerchiefs laundered, folded and ready for such cases. He had even had his brother-in-law, a cabinetmaker, knock up a box of the right dimensions to hold them, with the words ‘Daughters of Jerusalem’ inlaid in the lid. I now reached across my desk, lifted it and whisked out a handkerchief, which I offered.
‘When will you do it?’ she asked between snivels.
‘Tomorrow, in the twilight. I will send a copy of the exhumation order to the parish sexton. He will do the digging and we will send a cart to collect the coffin. I assume he was buried in a coffin.’
‘Of course! What do you take us for?’
The handkerchief was in strong use now, wrapped around Susan Allcroft’s finger and dabbing at the flood from her eyes.
‘What will you do with him?’ she asked through thick snivels. ‘Where will you take him?’
‘Back here to town. He must be inquested where he died.’
This initiated another wave of weeping.
‘All this way? Who is going to pay the cart, the sexton, and all?’
‘Coroner’s expenses, madam. I often find it difficult to extract them, but the corporation usually pays up in the end.’
I reached for one of the ready-printed sheets of paper and, dipping my pen, rapidly wrote out a witness attendance order in her name. When it was signed and sealed, I handed it to her and made sure she tucked it into her purse.
‘The inquest will be on Wednesday morning, at ten o’clock, in the Gamecock Inn, Stoney Gate. We will need your evidence, Mrs Allcroft.’
I gathered up her purchases and steered her, still weeping, towards the door.
‘Sometimes this process is of benefit, you know,’ I said. ‘As his widow you will feel that Mr Allcroft’s death has been properly and respectfully examined, and not merely forgotten about.’
I had a feeling my words had not been heard, smothered as they were by another volley of sobs from beneath the handkerchief. But then came a change. In the outer office Susan Allcroft sniffed deeply one last time, straightened her back and handed me the wet ball of linen.
‘You may try to steal my husband’s body, sir,’ she said in a voice that was now quite level. ‘But I shall be ready for you. I’ll not allow it, not for a moment.’
I tried to pitch my voice exactly halfway between gentleness and severity.
‘I fear you cannot prevent me, madam. It is my clear duty, and that duty gives me authority. You must see reason.’
‘Reason!’ she fired back. ‘How can I see reason where there is none?’
She stalked out. Furzey, who had given the appearance throughout this exchange of deaf application to his work, looked up.
‘She means it,’ he said.
‘She is probably going to Rudgwick’s to ask if she can stop me. They will tell her she cannot.’
‘So we must hope,’ said Furzey.
He was teasing. He knew the coronial law better than I did.
Chapter Eighteen
I HAD SETTLED DOWN to make my usual two pre-inquest lists, one being jurors and the other witnesses, when Furzey came in and dropped a printed bill on the desk under my nose. He withdrew without further comment.
I picked it up. It was headed, CONTESTED PARLIAMENTARY ELECTION AT PRESTON. NOTICE OF RULES AND PROCEDURES, and the authority at the bottom was that of Mayor Biggs. Below his name in small print it said that Oswald Mallender was charged with posting this bill on all public billboards, and in other prominent places such as large trees and wooden posts, and with handing copies in at the offices of attorneys and notaries.
I went back to the top and read the whole document. The electoral process was to start at midday when, by tradition, the mayor would cast the first votes, which he did before his deputy returning officer, one of the two bailiffs. Having revealed which two out of the four candidates he favoured (that they would be the Tories would be a surprise to no one) he would
then take his place on the returning bench and begin to record the votes of the other twenty-three members of the corporation – a leisurely business as the self-importance of the burgesses meant that each of them swore the full oath – something that less exalted voters were required to do only if challenged.
This ceremonial would conclude the opening day of the election. The real business of recording the popular vote began on Tuesday. They would vote in tallies of twelve, raised by the parties themselves and based on the streets of the town. So for our own street, Cheapside, there would be Tory and Whig tallies, and one for those much fewer in number who chose, like me, not to declare their vote in advance. Organizing these tallies was a complicated business. Each had a tally captain – the role Allcroft had taken at the head of Gregson’s tally of Tories – and his job was to marshal his men and ensure they marched to the polling hall in a single cohort at the assigned time. If any man did not do so, his right to vote could be taken from him. The bill in my hand gave the timetable for the voting of each tally, with Tories and Whigs taking turn and turn about. There were more than fifty tallies, which meant voting would not finish until the afternoon of Thursday.
During this time the disorder of the town could only be expected to increase. The march to the polling hall was a splendid event, a triumphal parade with flags, cockades, ribbons, and a trumpeter, if not a small band, to parade behind. This progress could be perilous. Opposing voters booed and threw missiles, while supporters cheered the voters on, and fights between the two groups were normal. It was the tally captain’s most important job to prevent his own men from breaking ranks and joining in the fracas, in case they missed their appointment with the mayor and were not counted. But this, of course, was the sole aim of the opposing camp, using any means of provocation at their disposal.
I laid the paper down. Yes, it would be exciting. But many windows would be broken, and heads too, and for what? So that two men could go up to London and become the quintessence of pomposity.
* * *
At dinner my quandary over Luke Fidelis, and how to mend our quarrel, was at the front of my mind.
‘What shall I do?’ I asked Elizabeth. ‘I must do something. Write to him? Present myself at his door? I feel I must pass on Miss Plumb’s confidence, however belatedly, and despite his having now found it out for himself.’
‘But he has quarrelled with you, Titus, and this will make it worse. He will be hurt that you kept the matter from him.’
‘But I know he is distressed. Estrangement from his friends cannot but make this worse.’
‘You must be careful. It can do no harm to write, but I don’t think you should go to him in person. He is already angry with you. There’s no knowing how much angrier he will be when he hears you did not divulge this message from Miss Plumb. Something irreparable might be said. So send him your white dove, and make your confession, but otherwise be patient and wait till he changes.’
I went to my office to compose the letter:
Dear Luke,
Elizabeth says that of course you are right, and my understanding is very faulty. However my conscience, vexingly, is in good order and it prompts me to confess that I have kept something from you that I should have told. It concerns Miss Plumb and though my silence about it until now may anger you yet more, I must tell you nevertheless, or it will always lie between us.
How should I put this? A narrative approach was the best, so I wrote down how Lysistrata had stopped me on the stair on Saturday and requested an interview; that she wanted me to pass on a message to Fidelis in confidence; that the message was that she knew he had grown fond of her; and finally that she could not be his because she was the mistress of another. I put a line through ‘the mistress of’ and substituted ‘pledged to’. After further thought I crossed the substitution out and reinserted ‘mistress’. After all, I was writing man to man.
I did not keep all this from you maliciously, for I thought it would only cause you unnecessary pain, being already rather distressed about her. I see that I was wrong in this, as you are not a child. I wish I had told you what I knew, for in that case the lady’s disappearance on Saturday, and her evident connection with a certain Lord on Sunday, might have been a lesser shock to you. Please accept this as a heartfelt apology and a mea culpa. I trust our friendship is not damaged by it.
Yours affctly, T.C.
I read it through and thought it would serve, so I made a fair copy. Then, just before I sealed the letter, I picked up my pen and added a postscript:
I am having Allcroft dug up. Come and see the corpse.
I handed the letter to the Lorrises’ servant girl on my way past the house, for I was now going back to Middleforth Green.
My thoughts were confused and I would have to straighten them out in time for the inquest. As Elizabeth had told me, my task was to uncover the truth about Allcroft’s poisoning. But how could I do it without causing a riot?
The Ferry Inn was connected in my mind with the start of all this. When you have a tangled ball of string, it is good policy to get hold of the beginning of the string. In the present case, this was the death of Antony Egan – an event that at first seemed unconnected with anything else. By the time Allcroft died, something that tied the two men together had already fallen into my hand: both men were on Destercore’s list of Tories.
After writing my note to Fidelis, I had been rifling my desk drawer for sealing wax when I noticed Furzey’s copy of the list. I took it out. Thorough man that he was, Furzey had reproduced everything from the original paper – the queries, crossings-out and also the curious small dots that preceded some of the names. I looked at these dotted names again, trying to decipher the dots’ meaning. Allcroft was dotted. So, I noticed, was Nick Oldswick, who himself had had a couple of narrow escapes in the past few days. The dots seemed to make these marked men. But what were they marked for?
I studied Uncle Egan’s name. I could not see a dot. The other dots were placed a couple of eighths of an inch before the names they marked, and in Uncle Egan’s case the cancelling line began at the same point. If there had been a dot, it would have been covered by the cancellation.
I picked up the paper and went through to Furzey. I put it down under his eye.
‘When you copied this, did you copy also the dots in exactly the position where they occurred in the original?’
‘Yes, of course. An exact copy, is what you said.’
‘And Uncle Egan’s cancellation line?’
‘Yes, exact again.’
‘Could there have been one of these dots against Uncle Egan’s name, which the line of ink concealed?’
Furzey thought for several seconds, studying the place where Antony Egan’s name was inked out.
‘Of course there could. Anyone can see that by looking.’
‘So in the original, was there such a dot?’
Furzey picked up the copy of the list and handed it back to me.
‘How would I know?’ he said. ‘Ink blots out ink. It was a thick line. You could see the tops and the bottoms of the letters, so you could read the name that was cancelled. But these dots are smaller than the width of the cancelling line, you see? So, if it had been there, it would’ve been totally blotted out.’
As I now walked briskly down the track that led to the Middleforth ferry, I was thinking about marked men. If a man found a list of men, with some of them marked, and then two or more of the marked men died in suspicious ways, the inference would be obvious. But I only had one dead man who was definitely marked; I had a second who was dead and might have been marked; and I had a third, Nick Oldswick, who was marked and might – just might – have been threatened with murder, but was not dead. I knew that if Oldswick turned up dead, or if Egan turned out to have been marked on Destercore’s list, then I would have good reason to treat the list as material evidence in an inquest. But evidence of what? Murder, certainly. And likely as not a conspiracy to murder. And suspicion of such a conspiracy would probab
ly land Destercore in the dock at the next assizes in Lancaster Castle, on trial for his life.
But it was all too woolly, with too much unknown. There was no certain need to consider Oldswick as a possible victim. His assailant lurking behind the abandoned cart in Friar Gate might have been an unconnected threat, or an exaggerated one, for the clockmaker’s own fancies had always been a greater danger to him than other men. And what was the meaning of the marked men on the list? Yes, it was a tangle. I wished that Luke Fidelis were with me to help straighten it out.
* * *
‘My sister is up in town, Cousin,’ Mary-Ann told me when I arrived at the Ferry Inn. ‘But I am at your disposal.’
We were alone in the parlour, with teacups, pot and caddy at the ready between us.
‘Thank you. I am about to inquest a gentleman who died on Thursday last at the Gamecock Inn. Mr John Allcroft of Gregson. Did you know him?’
‘No, Cousin. I never met him.’
‘You heard he had died?
‘Yes.’
‘And before that, had you heard of him?’
‘Yes, I heard my father speak of him.’
‘Your father knew him? That is what I have come here to ask you! You are quite sure?’
Mary-Ann’s eyes stared at me without blinking.
‘No, I don’t know that he knew him. He may have. But I heard him speak of Mr Allcroft.’
‘When was this?’
‘Quite recently.’
‘In what connection?’
‘It was about the voting. I believe it was a few days after we heard that there would be a vote. Dad said something like, “I hear Mr Allcroft of Gregson is vigorous in his action against these Whigs.” Whig Pigs is what he called them, if you will pardon the expression.’
I did so with a smile and asked, ‘Did your father say anything more about Mr Allcroft?’
‘Just that he was going to do as Mr Allcroft had done at Gregson and Hoghton, and get a gang together from here and Bamber Bridge. They were supposed to go across in a party and vote for the Tories, come election time. A full tally, he called it. I didn’t take much notice at the time.’
