by Caro Peacock
‘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.
That put us on an equal footing, because I didn’t know either.
CHAPTER FIVE
I went home and changed into my blue cotton print dress and straw bonnet with ribbon trim, both more appropriate to the season. When I came downstairs, Tabby was loitering by the pump at the end of the yard where the cows were kept. She came running up to me, stumbling over the cobbles in her too-large boots.
‘There’s a hen got her foot caught up in some string. I can’t get her out of it.’
I followed her reluctantly back down the yard. I didn’t want cow-byre smells clinging to my clothes, and the hens were the property of Mr Colley who kept the cows and ran a milk-round. Naturally, there was no sign of him or his idle son-in-law.
‘There.’
A big red hen had got her leg tangled in a loop of old string attached to the wooden bars of the chicken coop and was flapping and clucking.
‘How in the world did she manage to do that?’ I said.
‘Dunnow.’
There was nothing for it in all humanity but to crouch down in the dust and try to free her. I put my reticule down on top of the coop.
‘Can you hold her?’ I said to Tabby.
Her brown and grimy hands enfolded the hen. The string was frayed and terribly tangled round the scaly leg. I broke a fingernail and was
set coughing by the warm dust from the hen’s feathers, but at last she was untangled.
‘It doesn’t look as if the leg’s hurt,’ I said. ‘Let her go and we’ll see.’
The hen stood for a while, not realising she was free, then shot off to join three or four others that were pecking by the manure heap. I watched her go and laughed.
‘Well, there’s nothing much wrong with her. It’s a good job you saw her before she died of thirst.’
‘You got straw on your dress now,’ Tabby said.
She kneeled down in the dust and started brushing at it with her hand.
‘No, never mind. I’ll do it.’
I picked up my reticule, adjusted my bonnet and hurried out of the yard, knowing that I’d have to walk fast now to get to Lincoln’s Inn by four.
Mayfair was crowded and in sociable mood under the blue skies. I had to weave a zig-zag course among the gentry strolling and looking into shop windows or standing in the middle of the pavement, talking in the loud voices of people who have nothing much to say but are determined the world should hear it. As I went, I tried to plan in my mind the interview with Mr Lomax. Through Disraeli, he’d offered me an intriguing and well-paid case, and I’d been minded to accept. But that had been before the discovery of Simon Handy’s body. Did I still want to accept the case? Yes. Would Mr Lomax still want me to accept it? That was another question altogether. Simon Handy’s death might have changed the situation for him too. There were things about it that the Brinkburns wanted hidden, or why had Lomax gone to so much trouble to coach the steward in his evidence? And he had coached him, I was as sure of that as if I’d heard him doing it.
I was still thinking about it when I got to High Holborn. The crowds were less fashionable there, but just as annoyingly inclined to drift along the pavements or make sudden changes of direction to watch two cab drivers arguing or avoid argumentative drunks.
‘Hey, stop! Stop, miss.’
The voice came from behind me, a husky female voice. I thought it might be a beggar or an unusually importunate posy seller, so didn’t turn round.
‘Miss, you lost this–’
I turned round and there was Tabby, red faced and panting. Her shawl had slipped, leaving her bare-headed. She was holding something in her hand.
‘Your purse, miss. You must have dropped it when you was seeing to the chicken. I’ve run all the way after you with it.’
She held it out to me. Her eyes were as appealing as Whiteley’s had been.
‘You followed me all the way here?’
‘Yes, miss. There’s still all your money in it. I haven’t opened it.’
All my money. Seven pence halfpenny, as far as I remembered. I took it from her.
‘Thank you, Tabby. I’ll see you when I get back this evening.’
Disappointment clouded her eyes. A plump woman who’d stopped to listen looked at me reproachfully. She thought I should at least give this honest girl a penny for her trouble.
‘Is that all then?’
‘All for now. I’ll see you later.’
I turned and hurried on, aware of a pair of hurt eyes at my back.
Oliver Lomax had not given me his address at Lincoln’s Inn. Was that arrogance, or did he assume I knew it from Disraeli? If arrogance, it might have been justified, because the first person I asked at Lincoln’s Inn–a clerk weighed down with bundles of papers–pointed out his staircase at once. I climbed the stairs and knocked on his door just as a clock was striking four. He was waiting in his clerk’s room to meet me and led me through to his office. It was simply furnished, but the furniture, carpet and curtains were of fine quality, with touches of comfort that suggested he might spend more time there than at home. Two leather armchairs with brocade cushions stood either side of an empty fireplace. Instead of a conventional desk he had a big mahogany table, with books and papers in tidy piles. A drawing in a simple gold frame of a Roman centurion’s head in a crested helmet was the only picture in the room. It looked to be Renaissance and expensive. A smaller table held a tray with a silver teapot and two bone china cups. He invited me to sit down at one of the upright chairs by his table.
‘Tea, Miss Lane?’
China tea, served without milk or sugar. That was the way he liked it, so that was the way his business associates would have to like it.
I sipped and put down the cup, deciding to unsettle him from the start.
‘Did the adjournment this morning surprise you?’
For a moment he let his annoyance show, but his voice was level.
‘In the circumstances, the coroner had little choice.’
‘I was surprised he thought misadventure might be a possible verdict,’ I said. ‘It would have to be a strange kind of misadventure, wouldn’t it?’
He turned the force of his slate-coloured eyes on me. The temperature seemed to drop by a few degrees.
‘Miss Lane, you know very well that this is not the question on which I wish to consult you. I’m surprised you attended the inquest.’
‘Why? I was there when they found the body. Did Mr Brinkburn tell you that?’
He gave the faintest of nods.
‘He naturally regrets having caused you to be present at such a distressing occasion.’
I doubted that. Miles Brinkburn still seemed far too shaken to indulge in conventional politenesses. I didn’t say that because I’d only intended to unsettle Mr Lomax, not antagonise him.
‘The unfortunate death of Handy is not your concern,’ he said. ‘I want to make it clear from the start that, if we do come to an understanding on the other matter, you are not to ask questions about it or take advantage of your position in any way.’
I let my eyes drop and picked up the teacup. If he wanted to interpret that as agreement, it was up to him. From the way he settled back in his chair, he did. The atmosphere became less frosty.
‘Mr Disraeli seems impressed by your talents and your discretion, Miss Lane. I’ve made inquiries in other directions that seem to confirm his good opinion…’ He paused, then added: ‘…on the whole.’
So he’d heard that I’d once refused to complete an investigation when I took a dislike to the client. I said nothing.
‘I take it that your presence here means you’re prepared to accept the commission?’
I met his eyes again.
‘To find out if Lady Brinkburn is mad or misguided?’
‘In a nutshell, yes.’ He sighed. ‘Miss Lane, you should understand that it’s almost impossibly painful for me to have to talk in this way. I’ve been a friend of Cornelius Brinkburn’s since university days. I was present at his marriage. I’ve known both sons since they were born. Only the most pressing necessity could persuade me to engage a person to spy on a gracious lady who has been my hostess several times in the past.’
The distress in his voice sounded genuine. He’d picked up a penholder and his fingers were clenched round it as tightly as if he wanted to break it.
‘But there are some situations, Miss Lane, in which we have to accept one evil to avoid a worse one. The consequences if Lady Brinkburn persists in her allegation would be unimaginable.’
I decided to swallow his implication that I was an evil, for the time being at least.
‘If I’ve been informed correctly, these rumours that Stephen Brinkburn is not his father’s son have begun quite recently,’ I said.
He nodded.
‘And their source is Lady Brinkburn?’
A pause.
‘Apparently, yes.’
‘How recently?’
‘This spring, only a couple of months ago.’
‘Before that, had she suggested the possibility to anybody?’
‘As far as I’m aware, no.’
‘You’d known her socially since they were married?’
‘Even before that. To be honest, Lord Brinkburn asked my opinion before proposing to the lady.’
‘And your opinion was…?’
‘There was a
difference of some twenty years in their ages, but when the gentleman is the elder party, that’s no great objection. Apart from that, nothing could be more suitable. Her family owned estates adjoining his family’s in the north-east. She brought a very considerable settlement with her and was an accomplished and good-natured young woman.’
‘That’s hardly the language of a passionate love match.’
‘Why should it be? It was an arrangement beneficial to both parties. In many respects, it has been a good marriage.’
‘Except that they’ve spent a lot of it living apart.’
‘It suited them both. Lady Brinkburn preferred a more secluded life and Lord Brinkburn found the Italian climate beneficial to his health.’
‘And in more than twenty years, she’d never mentioned the matter of the stranger on her honeymoon until a few months ago. Can you account for that?’
He’d abandoned his attempt to break the penholder. It was in front of him on his blotter, and he was sitting back in his chair. Now that the decision had been made–to employ me, though not to trust me completely–some of the tension seemed to have gone out of him.
‘Yes, I think I can account for it. Lord Brinkburn returned from Naples last January. Before he left Italy he wrote me what I regard as a very courageous and honourable letter. He said he’d been conscious for some time of a decline in his physical and mental faculties. He had consulted several distinguished physicians who had told him that his malady could only become worse. What had up to then been occasional alarming episodes were becoming more frequent. He was facing the prospect of a permanent derangement of the mind, probably in the quite near future, and increasing physical incapacity. While he still had his reason left, he was determined on making his own arrangements. He selected an establishment in Surrey where he knew he would be permitted to live out his days with all possible comfort and dignity, returned to England accompanied only by his valet, and took up residence there much as a gentleman might settle into a hotel.’
‘The valet being Simon Handy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did Lady Brinkburn know about this?’
‘It was my sad duty to tell her. I visited Lord Brinkburn at the establishment. It was all too clear that the doctors’ prognostications had been borne out by events and his mind was irretrievably affected.’
