Dark Waters

by Robin Blake

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now, I must ask you to think carefully, because my next is an important question. Was your husband in good health when he left home?’

  ‘Yes, of course he was.’

  ‘Are you quite sure of that?’

  ‘He was laughing and singing and waving his hat as he rode away. Do you not think that is a sign of health?’

  The audience tittered. It was made up of no more than thirty inquisitive townspeople, who included, as I noted, the ever-present Miss Colley.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Allcroft,’ I said. ‘You may get down.’

  Next I called Mrs Fitzpatrick, and picked up the story where Mrs Allcroft had left off.

  ‘Do you recall Mr Allcroft’s arrival at the inn?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. We had the room ready that his son had been in the week before to secure.’

  ‘We have heard Mrs Allcroft describe his state when leaving home. Would you say he was in as rude health when he arrived here?’

  ‘He was a pleasant, courteous gentleman.’

  ‘With respect, that does not answer my question.’

  ‘Yes, it does. He was agreeable company, which a sick man never is. That’s why I don’t think Mr Allcroft was sick when he first came.’

  I accepted this with a nod.

  ‘So when did he fall sick?’

  ‘Next day, the afternoon.’

  ‘After his hotpot dinner, which he had taken in his room?’

  ‘There was nothing wrong with his hotpot. I’ve told you that before, Mr Cragg.’

  ‘So you have, Mrs Fitzpatrick. But is the chronology right?’

  ‘The time, sir? Yes, afternoon was when he felt poorly. He had been out but he returned to the inn and took to his bed. He was vomiting and worse.’

  ‘When did you become aware of this?’

  ‘Our kitchen boy was passing his door. He heard him groaning and made report to me.’

  ‘You mean Peterkin, who is here to give his evidence this morning?’

  ‘Yes. It was early in the evening. I went up to investigate and opened the door.’

  ‘It wasn’t locked?’

  ‘It wouldn’t lock, sir. The key had been lost some weeks since. A guest rode away with it in his pocket.’

  ‘So you went in, and…?’

  ‘Oh, it was a horrible sight. He was rolling around on his bed and clutching his stomach and making horrible complaining noises. And the air in the room was, well, it made my own stomach turn over, I can tell you.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing except open the windows and go down to Dr Fidelis who I’d seen come in with yourself. As you know, I asked him to take a look at Mr Allcroft.’

  ‘Do you have anything to add concerning your guest falling so suddenly sick?’

  ‘No, sir, I can’t account for it except I swear there was nothing wrong with the hotpot.’

  I let her go, asked Joe Primrose to take the stand and, after he was sworn in, raised the question of the hotpot.

  ‘This is a dish of high repute in town, is it not?’

  Primrose’s ever-cheerful face beamed.

  ‘Yes, Mr Cragg, it is that.’

  ‘How do you make it?’

  ‘Good long stewing, sir, in the cool oven, that’s my secret.’

  ‘I mean, what do you put into it?’

  Primrose counted the items off on his fingers – shin of mutton, kidney of same, carrots, potatoes, onion, sage and oatmeal.

  I stopped him there.

  ‘Is oatmeal the only cereal you use in your hotpot?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘No other grain?’

  ‘I’ve known other grains to be put in, sir, but oatmeal will thicken just as well as anything, and it’s what I prefer.’

  I asked him about how Allcroft’s dinner had been served, and he described how he had plated and covered it and given it to Maggie on a tray with a jug of beer.

  ‘Is that the last you saw of it, when Maggie Satterthwaite took it from the kitchen?’

  ‘Yes, we were that busy, I thought no more about it after.’

  ‘And you served other portions of the same stew on that day?’

  ‘I did, many another.’

  ‘Did you hear of any other diner becoming sick afterwards?’

  ‘I did not. Not a single complaint.’

  I let Primrose down, and called Maggie. She came to the stand looking pretty, in bright clothes, freshly laundered: every inch the May Queen. I asked her to describe what happened when she’d carried Allcroft’s meal to his room.

  ‘The room was empty, and very messy. I put down the tray on his table and did a little to put the room to rights. But it would’ve taken too long to do it proper, so I gave up and went down to look for him. But I was called to another customer so I asked Peterkin to go and find Mr Allcroft and tell him his dinner was ready for him.’

  ‘Had you interfered with the dinner in any way, between taking it from Mr Primrose and leaving it behind in the room?’

  ‘No, I never even looked at it.’

  ‘So you didn’t see anything go into it – some contamination, I mean?’

  ‘Some what, sir?’

  ‘Some impurity, that shouldn’t be there.’

  ‘No, there were nowt like that. The stew plate were topped with a cover, to keep the food warm and flies out. Like I said, I never even lifted it.’

  Now Peterkin stepped up and like any good kitchen boy proved himself pert and wholly unafraid of adults. He gave his evidence in a clear piping voice: that on Maggie’s bidding he had sought out Mr Allcroft in the coffee room; that he had been deep in discussion with a few other gentlemen; that he said he would go up shortly; and that he had then continued his discussion, waving Peterkin away.

  ‘Did anyone else in the room hear what you and Mr Allcroft said to each other?’

  ‘They might’ve sir, easy. I don’t know they did, though.’

  ‘And did you later see Mr Allcroft go upstairs?’

  ‘No, sir. But I went in the coffee room twenty minutes later, and he was gone then.’

  So far the room had listened closely enough to the succession of witnesses, but there had been little to excite their interest. That was about to change.

  ‘I call Dr Luke Fidelis,’ I said.

  There was a rustle of clothing as the female members of the audience craned to catch a good sight of the handsome doctor. Fidelis took his place in the chair with composure, and once Furzey had administered the oath, adopted a slightly forward-leaning posture, as one completely attentive to his interlocutor.

  I asked him to describe the squalid condition in which he had found Allcroft that night and, having heard him out, asked what he had thought the matter with the patient might be.

  ‘I considered in the first place it was most likely some contagion, as there was fever present, with vomiting, loose bowels and intense thirst. But these were also consonant with poisoning, so that was the other possibility I considered.’

  ‘Just so that we are all clear, what do you mean by contagion and by poisoning?’

  ‘By contagion I mean a disease passed by touch from one person to another.’

  ‘Only by touch?’

  ‘That is the strict meaning of the word. It has been used by some learned doctors for diseases that are transmitted through the air by means of steams or effluvia arising from a person already sick.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor. Will you tell us, then, what poisoning is?’

  ‘Poisoning is the ingestion of something noxious, to the point of sickness and perhaps death.’

  ‘Must it be given deliberately to harm?’

  ‘No, not necessarily. There is a general misapprehension that poisoning is the same as murder, or attempted murder. It is not. It can be by accident, and may even occur without the agency of a deliberate human hand – as, for instance, when a bucket of white lime falls into a well.’

  ‘I see. Now, in the case of Mr Allcr
oft, did you resolve the issue?’

  ‘Eventually I did.’

  ‘On what side: that of contagion, or poison?’

  ‘Poison, either from the hotpot he had eaten for his dinner, or the beer he had drunk.’

  On hearing this word pronounced the audience buzzed with comment. Suddenly what had seemed a rather humdrum inquiry was turning into a possibly sensational one.

  ‘And how exactly did you resolve it?’

  ‘With the help of a healthy rat called Athene.’

  For a moment the audience and jury were struck silent, not knowing what to make of this. Then a sniggering and whispering was heard around the room. Was the doctor jesting?

  ‘That sounds most unusual,’ I said. ‘Please tell us more.’

  Fidelis recounted in detail how he had reserved samples of the food and beer Allcroft had taken for his dinner; how he had then conducted the experiment on Athene, first by giving her the beer and then the stew; and how the rat had expired on the spot after eating the stew.

  ‘And what did you conclude from this trial?’

  ‘That the beer was good, but the stew was poisoned.’

  This bald statement brought a collective gasp from the public section of the audience. I raised my hand to subdue the murmuring that followed.

  ‘Poisoned with what?’

  ‘There’s a number of vegetable and mineral poisons that it could be. What I can say is that anyone who ate it, even a few mouthfuls, would have fallen violently ill and, depending on the quantity swallowed, might have died.’

  ‘Which you suggest was the case with Mr Allcroft?’

  ‘Yes, if he ate his dinner.’

  ‘You quite rule out contagion?’

  ‘What happened to the rat does that for me.’

  ‘And did you examine the stew itself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you find anything unusual?’

  ‘I found it contained barleycorns.’

  ‘Barleycorns?’

  ‘Yes.’

  For the benefit of the court, which was now hanging on Fidelis’s every word, I pretended to be puzzled.

  ‘Barleycorns are not poisonous. Did you not find any poison?’

  ‘I did not. To separate the poisonous ingredient from the rest of the ingredients, not least the gravy with which it must have combined, is beyond my powers, or those of any man so far as I know. However I do recognize a barleycorn when I see one.’

  ‘But why did you find these barleycorns a surprising ingredient?’

  ‘At the time I did not. But now that I have heard Mr Primrose’s testimony, denying that his hotpot stew contained any grains other than oatmeal, I am surprised that I found some.’

  No one, except myself and Fidelis, understood where this was leading, though by this stage everyone in the room wanted to know.

  I released Fidelis and immediately recalled Primrose.

  ‘Mr Primrose, consider yourself still under oath. Can you account for the presence of this barley that Dr Fidelis found in your hotpot?’

  Primrose was looking confused. His usual laughing demeanour was replaced by a guarded expression, a suspicion that he was about to be accused of some dark misdeed, though he couldn’t be sure what it might be.

  ‘No, Mr Cragg, I can’t. As I said before, I don’t use it in stew. But there wouldn’t be any harm, would there? I mean, if there was barley in it? It’s a healthy food, is barley.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Primrose, as far as I know it is. But do you use it for anything else in your kitchen? I mean, do you keep a stock of it?’

  ‘I do from time to time, yes, but it is a dear enough grain and we would never use it much.’

  ‘So might some barleycorns, let’s say from your excellent storeroom – which as you know I have seen – have got into the stewpot accidentally?’

  ‘I don’t see how. And I would have noticed. I was serving it out all dinner time. I would have noticed.’

  ‘Very well. Let us merely note at this stage how we have heard that the stew eaten by Mr Allcroft contained barleycorns, and that this was unusual. Now, I wish to call Mr Isaac Satterthwaite. Is he present?’

  I looked around the room for the witness. There was no Isaac Satterthwaite. Looking at my watch I saw that it was twenty-five past eleven and realized that, if the vote was going according to timetable, he would be on his way to the polling hall with his tally. I whispered to Furzey.

  ‘How long does it take a tally to go through polling?’

  Furzey shrugged.

  ‘An hour maybe. It depends if there are challenges from the recording officer. The Tory voters get through quicker, because the mayor gives them the nod. The Whigs, of course, are questioned like gypsies.’

  I turned back to the court and rapped the table with my gavel.

  ‘Mr Satterthwaite is, I believe, attending to his duties as a voter in the present election. I understand he will be available later. I shall therefore reconvene this hearing at two o’clock, when I hope we can hear him. Jurors, in the meantime keep your wits about you. Have your dinners, but no strong drink, and no idle gossip please. Adjourned.’

  I gavelled the table again and Furzey intoned the order to rise. The court stood and, as I made my way out of the room, I could hear some of the remarks being made in the audience, as they strained to understand why I was calling the rat catcher to give evidence. There were murmurs suggesting I must be up to something.

  But as I passed I heard Miss Colley confidently assert, ‘Mr Cragg knows what he is doing, you may depend upon it.’

  That was heartening. Unfortunately, I did not yet know what others were doing, and in that lay the downfall of my plans.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  AS I LEFT the inn, I found the air had thickened and, just then, a growl of thunder rolled around the sky like a loose cannon-ball on a moving deck. I was on my way to see how things stood in the voting, and to make sure that Satterthwaite would be able to give his evidence in the afternoon. At the Moot Hall I found that his tally had not yet appeared before the mayor, so I went on towards Porter’s. I had made only a few yards along Fisher Gate when I was stopped by Nick Oldswick. He had heard report of the testimony given during the morning, and was agitated about it.

  ‘Cragg, is it true John Allcroft was poisoned? The word is flying round town that the Whigs had Allcroft killed to stop his votes from registering – that would have made a dozen votes lost for Fazackerley and Shuttleworth. I call it an outrage.’

  I did my best to damp this speculation down, saying the jury had yet to decide if there was anything deliberate about Allcroft’s death and even if there was, the motive would still need settling.

  ‘Fiddlesticks,’ he cried. ‘Everybody knows why Allcroft came here. He thought Sir Henry Hoghton a scoundrel, which is an opinion I see no reason to disagree with. And I never thought I’d see the day that a man should die because of his vote. These Whigs are blackguards.’

  I walked on through a light drizzle of rain to Porter’s, where I found the place still boiling with people, and plenty of beer being swilled in both the larger and smaller rooms. But on inspection I saw there was more coherence in the room than chaos. The large smoking room was subdivided much like a sheep market into little folds, in each of which was a group of men. They wore the usual party favours, rosettes and the like, and were being served drink from a tray carried by a serving girl. Each little flock had its sheep-dog, the tally captain, who worried around them, keeping them in a group, lecturing them when they looked as if they would get out of hand, leading them in songs and rousing toasts: ‘Pretender to Perdition!’ ‘Up With the Land Tax!’ A trumpet band was playing to the room on a raised platform. They had by now learned the music of ‘Rule Britannia!’, for it was being performed as I walked in. Someone had enterprisingly had the words printed on a broad-sheet, copies of which were distributed around the room. With these to hand, the sing-along was deafening and joyous.

  I stepped onto a bench to get a better
view. Almost at once I saw the tall, white-haired figure of Isaac Satterthwaite. The rat catcher was being a very active collie to his flock. He patrolled the perimeter of their fold continually, having words in their ears as he passed, and occasionally stopping to address them as a group. I could see his determination that every man should go through the polling bar as efficiently as sheep through the tick bath. He was determined, that is, that every vote he had would be cast, at the very least; whether or not all would be allowed by the mayor was another matter.

  I was considering how best to approach him when a loud call for attention cut through the general noise. It came from Denis Destercore, who had mounted the orchestra dais, shushed the musicians and now faced the room with his watch in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other.

  ‘Mr Satterthwaite! Bring forward your men, if you please.’

  The rat catcher’s voting detail pushed through the throng and out into the street. I followed them.

  The rain was falling a shade more steadily as they formed up in the street. The change of weather had not yet chased people indoors and excited groups of onlookers still swarmed all over Fisher Gate. But the tally would be making plenty of noise to clear their path, being led all the way up the slope to Moot Hall by a bugler and a drummer. On the other hand any such martial music would likely attract the enemy, so a posse of young men was to march alongside the group with cudgels, to repel any attack. This protection was certainly desirable. Several of Satterthwaite’s men were either old or sickly, one had a wooden leg and one was being carried by four of the able-bodied ones in a chair.

  The drummer began to beat a marching time, the bugler joined in, and they were off. Keeping pace, I saw a few obstructors being pushed intemperately out of the way. Walking immediately behind the drummer, Satterthwaite was visibly the leader; his head constantly moved this way and that, alive to any threat. As we passed Lorris’s house, I glanced up. Fidelis had returned home and I saw him leaning on the sill of his open window to watch. I was about to give him a wave when my attention was drawn back to the street. For now an animal roar was heard from a side alley and a band of five or six men broke cover to rush at the voters, waving heavy sticks.

  As battle was joined, a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, and a crash of thunder followed. Now the men were cudgel to cudgel: heads and bodies were clubbed, ribs were cracked, noses and scalps bled. With his protective screen engaged in this way, Satterthwaite ran past the faltering bugler and drummer, and turned to face his voters, hammering one fist again and again into its opposite palm, yelling at them purple faced to keep going. They responded with a defiant cheer and were on the move again. It was obvious as he bustled them along that their captain’s only thought was for the objective, which was now less than 50 yards away. As an old soldier, perhaps he ought to have known better than to press on without protection; perhaps he ought to have sensed that the first attack was only a diversion, designed to crack off the flanking defenders like a shell and expose the soft inner body to the tip of someone’s sword.