A Corpse in Shining Armour

by Caro Peacock

  Robert and the foreman lifted her out of the boat, on to a wide plank that some of the other men had brought. Her body wasn’t quite bone dry, as the workman had said. When they lifted her, heavy drops of water fell on to the landing stage from her cloak. There were a few inches of water in the bottom of the boat. I remembered looking down at it moored to the landing stage at the hall, and Robert saying it would need baling out. The water must have soaked into her cloak while she was lying there. Almost against my will, my mind started moving again. They thought she was asleep at first, the foreman had said. A deep laudanum sleep.

  Might she have taken an overdose, wandered down to her boat in the night or early morning and fallen into that last sleep, so deeply that she didn’t notice the water seeping into her clothes? Had the boat somehow become unmoored by accident? Two days after I first met her, when we were on no more than conventionally polite terms, she’d talked about her boat. I sometimes lie on cushions in my little boat moored to the landing stage, look up at the sky and imagine I’m floating along like the Lady of Shalott. There was another possibility. If, in her fear and confusion, she’d decided to end her own life, it would have been typical of the romantic and dramatic streak in her nature to do it that way. I checked that nobody was looking at me, then felt under the seat and in the prow of the boat, anywhere that a bottle might have rolled. Nothing.

  Back on land, they’d loaded her into the pony cart. One of the men drove, with the foreman, Robert Carmichael and myself forming a makeshift cortège on foot behind. Robert led his horse and said nothing to either of us. A workman must have gone on to the inn by the old bridge to warn them, because as soon as we got there the innkeeper came out and directed his ostlers to carry her into an outbuilding on the far side of the yard. I think from its long chimney and the lingering smell of malt that it might have been their brewhouse, but I’m sure they intended no disrespect. The innkeeper was kind, too, and offered me the use of one of his private parlours, ‘…if you’d like somewhere quiet to wait, miss?’ I accepted gratefully because my legs were still shaking but thought: ‘Wait for what?’ They all assumed, from my shock at the sight of her body, that I was something to do with the family. Robert Carmichael disappeared into another room. I knew there would be a host of formalities. The coroner would have to be informed and there’d be formal identification and the opening of an inquest before her body could be carried home.

  The parlour where I sat had a window giving on to the stable yard. The curtains were drawn across and I was too dispirited to open them, but the sound of hooves and wheels gave me an idea of what was happening. A rider went out of the yard at a canter, with shouted instruction from the innkeeper to ask for a constable. Then a stagecoach ground in over the cobbles, and driver and ostlers talked about it while they were changing the horses. I caught a word or two over the sounds of stamping hooves and jingling harness.

  ‘…no blood, no nothing, just as if she’d gone to sleep…’

  ‘Perhaps her heart gave out.’

  ‘In a boat on her own, a lady like her?’

  ‘No telling what they’ll do.’

  The coach rolled on its way towards London. By lunchtime, Lady Brinkburn’s death would be the talk of the capital. Amos Legge would probably be one of the first to hear about it. I wished he were here.

  Later there was a knock at the door and Robert Carmichael walked in. He’d made an attempt to brush the dust of riding from his clothes and tidy his hair, and seemed reasonably self-possessed at first glance, but taut as a piano wire. There was no point in conventional sympathy. I put to him something that had occurred to me while I was waiting.

  ‘Did you find her dead and put her in the boat?’ I said.

  ‘Why should I do that?’

  There was no surprise or anger in his voice, only a faint puzzlement.

  ‘As a last romantic gesture, perhaps. That’s how she saw herself all her life, isn’t it? The victim in her tower, the lady under a curse. Perhaps you thought a last journey down the river in her boat was a fitting end to the story.’

  A flash of anger in his eyes.

  ‘A fitting end–is that what you think it is? Lying there in a brewhouse, waiting for a cart to take her to the public mortuary and a jury of tradesmen and shopkeepers to view her body. Is that what anybody who loved her would have wanted?’

  His voice dropped so low on the last sentence that I had to strain to hear it. The shock and grief seemed genuine, and yet I suspected he’d been trying to shape my view of events ever since he’d listened to my conversation with Lady Brinkburn from the top of the steps in the library. A man who knows secrets is powerful. Did he enjoy that power, and could his protectiveness of Sophia hide something darker? I still didn’t know the identity of the man who’d rowed to our cottage by night, with a message calculated to scare her, had I chosen to deliver it. He wouldn’t be the first man who’d tried to keep a woman afraid so that he could act as her protector.

  ‘So was it laudanum?’ I said.

  ‘It makes no sense. There wasn’t enough to kill her. I swear to you, yesterday afternoon there was no more than a quarter of a glassful in the bottle. I know because I made her show me.’

  Made her? What gave him that right? I was going to say that a quarter of a glassful sounded a large dose, until I remembered that I’d seen her drink three times that amount and still not sleep through the night.

  ‘Could she have got more from elsewhere?’

  ‘It’s delivered from the chemist shop in town. Another delivery was due tomorrow. She was worried about running out. I’m convinced that was all she had.’

  ‘Might she have sent Betty to town for some?’

  ‘Betty wouldn’t have done it without telling me.’

  ‘Did she have to ask your permission to do errands for her mistress?’

  ‘It wasn’t a normal state of affairs. Betty was as worried as I was.’

  ‘When did you know Sophia was missing?’

  ‘When Betty took her coffee up this morning. Lovelace was there on his own, whining for his mistress.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘I told you, yesterday afternoon.’

  He hadn’t told me, but I let that pass.

  ‘How was she then?’

  ‘Distraught. Keyed-up.’

  ‘Was that because of the argument with Stephen?’

  He said sharply, ‘How did you know about that? She couldn’t have told you.’

  ‘No, because you kept me from seeing her yesterday. Why was that?’

  ‘It was her idea.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  We stared at each other.

  ‘Miss Lane, what have I done to make you so angry with me?’ he said.

  His voice was quiet and puzzled, as if he really couldn’t see.

  ‘Don’t people usually become angry when they’re lied to? You’ve been concealing things all along, and you’re still doing it now.’

  ‘Do you think I enjoy that? If they were only my secrets, all the world could have them and welcome. But they’re not.’

  I was tempted to admit the truth, that I was as angry with myself as with him. Together, we’d failed to protect her. But that would come too close to giving sympathy, or even asking for it.

  ‘I suppose there will have to be some story for the inquest,’ I said, deliberately harsh. ‘Have you sent a message to Mr Lomax yet? He’ll have to coach Mr Whiteley in his part like last time. Or will you be taking on the role?’

  He made a surprised movement, then looked away.

  ‘So you did know about that,’ I said.

  He didn’t reply, just stood there looking down at the floor. When he spoke again, it was with a question of his own.

  ‘Even if you don’t trust me, would you do something for me, if I asked you?’

  ‘What?’

  It was an ungracious response, but I thought he was trying to lead me into another swamp of secrecy.

  ‘W
ould you go to the hall and tell Whiteley what’s happened?’

  He must have seen the surprise on my face, for he explained:

  ‘I have to stay here. I want to have her brought home, if they’ll let me. And I must send messages to Stephen and Miles the fastest way I can find. I don’t want them to hear this from anybody else.’

  I didn’t tell him that it was probably too late for that anyway. It struck me that he was talking more like a senior member of the family than their librarian, and I wondered how Miles and Stephen would react to that.

  ‘All the staff knew when I left was that there’d been an accident. I promised poor Whiteley I’d send news to him as soon as I found out what had happened,’ he said. ‘He’ll have to break the news to the others. Please ask him to tell Betty alone, before the rest. She was devoted to Sophia. Then I’d be grateful if you’d look through Sophia’s rooms and see if she left a note of any kind. The coroner is sure to want to know that, don’t you think?’

  The more he talked, the more surprised I felt. I’d accused him outright of trying to conceal things, but here he was giving me free range of the house and its staff before he had the opportunity to talk to any of them. Was he trying to prove to me that he had nothing to hide? If so, he was playing a dangerous game.

  ‘If you really want me to, yes, I’ll do it,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  But his face was grim.

  ‘What makes you think she may have left a note?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think she left a note, but if you look for it, nobody can say I found one and destroyed it, can they?’

  He looked at me as if waiting for an answer. I didn’t give him one.

  Another knock on the door, then the innkeeper’s voice.

  ‘Mr Carmichael–the constable’s here, sir.’

  ‘I’ll get the landlord to arrange a gig to take you to the hall,’ Carmichael said to me as he went out. ‘Thank you, Miss Lane.’

  I’d have preferred to walk, but not in my dishevelled state, so I accepted the offer of the gig and got the driver to call at the cottage, where I changed my clothes and tidied myself. When we arrived at the hall drive, Mr Whiteley was waiting by the gate. He looked surprised and apprehensive as I got down. I told him that Mr Carmichael had sent me, and delivered the news in the most humane way I could manage. Big, slow tears ran down his face. He let them fall unashamedly, like a weary child.

  ‘So it’s come to that,’ he kept saying. ‘It’s come to that.’

  I didn’t ask him what he meant, thinking it would be inhumane to question him so soon after the news. I told the gig to drive away so that we could walk together, allowing him a chance to recover himself before facing the rest of the staff. To my surprise, he wanted to talk.

  ‘Him dead and now her dead. You spend all your life trying to hold things together, then it all comes apart in a few days.’

  I thought the Brinkburn family had been coming apart for much longer than a few days, but only said that three deaths in such a short time were hard for any household to take. He stared at me through his tears.

  ‘Three?’

  ‘There was Simon Handy too.’

  ‘Him!’ His tone swept Handy aside. ‘He never belonged here. You’d think it was him coming brought all the bad luck.’

  We walked in silence for a while. He took out a big handkerchief and mopped his face dry.

  ‘Was it her heart gave out?’

  I’d told him only that Lady Brinkburn had been found dead in her boat near the railway bridge.

  ‘I don’t know. Did she suffer from heart trouble?’

  ‘Not that I knew of, but what else would it be? If she wanted the boat out, she could have told me and I’d have got one of the boys to row her as usual, no matter how early in the morning it was. She had no call to do it herself.’

  Again, the grief and puzzlement seemed genuine, and yet I’d heard the man lie. Not very skilfully, it was true, but I knew he could do well enough when coached. But then, who would have had the opportunity to coach him this time?

  Since he wanted to talk, as many people do in shock, I asked when he’d last seen Lady Brinkburn.

  ‘I saw her walking on the lawn yesterday evening with her little dog, like she usually did.’

  ‘Not after that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you hear anything out of the way last night or in the early hours of the morning?’

  A grim set came to his mouth and he looked sideways at me.

  ‘No. I locked up last night like I usually do, and after that I didn’t see or hear anything out of the way. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not lying, not now. I’ve done with all that, and I don’t care what anybody says. I don’t care about my position either, now she’s gone. I’ll see things as right as I can for her sake, then I’ll give notice and go to my pigs.’

  ‘Pigs?’

  ‘I own a cottage and three acres from money I’ve put by over the years. Nothing grand, nothing I didn’t work for and earn above-board. I like pigs. They don’t ask anything from you beyond what’s reasonable.’

  We were nearly at the front door. I could see faces peering out from the window curtains, then drawing back. Staff discipline was already breaking down. He was on the defensive now, so there was nothing to lose.

  ‘Just one thing,’ I said. ‘Who besides you has keys to the outside doors?’

  He sighed. ‘Mrs Bream has a key to the kitchen door, in case the scullery maid needs to take rubbish out early. That’s all.’

  ‘None of the family?’

  ‘Certainly, the family has keys. Her ladyship has one…had one…in case she takes a fancy to go out early.’

  ‘And Mr Stephen and Mr Miles?’

  ‘Of course. If they happened to come down from London late one night, they’d want to get in without waking everybody up.’

  ‘Did that happen often?’

  ‘Not lately, no.’

  We went up the steps. He paused with his hand on the door, as if reluctant to go inside.

  ‘Mr Carmichael said to ask you to break the news to Betty first,’ I said.

  Another sigh from him. I guessed he was fearful of women’s tears.

  ‘Would you like me to do that?’

  ‘If you would, miss. It might come better from a lady.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d ask her to come out here,’ I said, pointing to a garden bench in the shade at the side of the house. ‘I can tell her while you’re talking to the others inside.’

  ‘Very well, miss.’

  He squared his shoulders, pushed the door open and walked in. I waited on the bench, looking across the lawn to the line of yellow irises fringing the river.

  After a minute or two, Betty came along the gravel path. She was pale and already crying. I patted the bench. She hesitated and sat down on the edge of it, as if she had no right to be there.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ I said. ‘Lady Brinkburn is dead.’

  She put her hands over her eyes and started rocking to and fro on the edge of the seat. When I moved closer and slid my arm round her shoulder, she leaned against me and sobbed without reserve. We stayed like that for some time before she pushed herself upright.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m the one who’s sorry, to have to tell you. Do you want me to call Mrs Bream?’

  I thought the housekeeper might be better at comforting her than a near-stranger like me, but she shook her head.

  ‘Her ladyship liked you.’

  I was surprised.

  ‘She said so?’

  ‘After that first time when you came to tea. She said you were the sort of woman she could trust.’

  It hit me hard. At that meeting, Lady Brinkburn couldn’t have trusted me in the least. I was a hired investigator, sent to discredit her.

  ‘Did she drown, ma’am?’

  Betty asked the question in a small voice, looking down at the gravel. I could have turned the question bac
k on her as I’d done with Whiteley, but decided against it.

  ‘No. It isn’t certain yet, but it looks as if she’d drunk too much laudanum.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She sounded sad, but not surprised.

  ‘You knew she was in the habit of taking laudanum?’

  ‘To help her sleep, yes.’

  ‘You were concerned she was taking too much?’

  ‘Yes, we were, ma’am.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Mr Carmichael and me.’

  She seemed open and trusting. The garden and house were silent, as if the shock had stunned them. Distant Sunday bells sounded from across the river. I thought about it for a while, then decided to repay trust for trust, hoping I wasn’t making a mistake.

  ‘Did Mr Whiteley tell you anything about where we found Lady Brinkburn?’

  ‘No. Only that there’d been an accident and she was dead.’

  ‘She was in her boat, on her own. It had drifted down the river. Nobody seems to know how it happened. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?’

  Her mouth had dropped open in surprise. She closed it, then nodded permission. I knew I was taking advantage, but the questions would have to come at some time.

  ‘Did she say anything to you about intending to go out in the boat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What time did you last see her?’

  ‘Half past seven yesterday evening, or thereabouts, when I went up to collect her supper things. She said she wouldn’t be needing me after that.’

  ‘Was that unusual?’

  ‘No, ma’am. Quite often, when she didn’t need me in the evenings, she’d let me know so I didn’t have to listen for the bell all the time. She was always kind about things like that. Always so kind.’

  The tears started again. I put my hand over hers and waited until she was calmer.

  ‘Were you there when she drank her laudanum last night?’

  ‘No. She usually took it just as she was getting into bed.’

  ‘When you saw her yesterday evening, did there seem anything at all unusual about her manner?’

  She thought about it.

  ‘She was sad. Sadder than usual, and mortally tired.’