by Robin Blake
‘So when did you last see … I beg your pardon, when were you last with her?’
‘Indirectly, yesterday. She was very angry about something. I sent my maid Honor down to say I had a headache and would she be so kind as to stop banging around in the hall and screeching at the dogs.’
‘Why was Mrs Brockletower angry?’
‘I don’t know. There seemed no reason, though my message must have exacerbated it.’
‘Then why did you send it down?’
She smiled like a person tickled by a harmless jest.
‘I had a headache, truthfully.’
‘So her anger had no cause in the first place?’
‘Honor wondered if it was a question of the time of the month, but I think not. It is more likely she was irritated by the building works. I never knew Dolores to be untowardly affected by her menses.’
There was the faintest stirring of my old feeling for her. She had always been fiercely candid about all matters not normally discussed between men and women. It was one of the things I had most liked about her.
‘In any case, you did not in fact speak to her yesterday?’
‘I did not.’
‘Silent meals, then?’
‘Dolores and I did not sit down together when my brother was from home. I took my meals up here.’
‘Why is that?’
‘She and I both preferred it. We are – were – of different humours, you see.’
‘So Mrs Brockletower did not communicate with you at all yesterday?’
‘No. She did not.’
‘And it was usual, this silence between you?’
‘When Ramilles is not here, yes. As I said, she and I had little to say to each other in the ordinary way.’
‘Did she not even read to you in the evening?’
Sarah gave out a faint snort of derision.
‘Read? I doubt she was able, unless it was a horse catalogue. ’
‘And on Sunday? Did she attend church?’
‘She did not. I went alone with my maid Honor.’
‘Was it usual for her to avoid church?’
‘No. My brother preferred that she go, but when he is not here …’ Sarah shrugged. ‘My sister-in-law was not the godliest of women.’
‘No,’ I said, thinking of Miriam Patten’s words. ‘So I have heard.’
At this point I stood. It was time to get along, and it did not seem that I would gain much from further questions.
‘I wish I could stay longer, Sarah, but I have much to do. If all goes well, the inquest will be tomorrow. Will you attend?’
‘Is that an enquiry, or an instruction?’
‘Let’s say a request. I may wish to call you as a witness, you know.’
She sighed.
‘Then I must be there, mustn’t I?’
As I closed the door behind me I thought that, though grief has many faces, Sarah Brockletower was not wearing any of them. The fate of her sister-in-law appeared to have touched her as little as that of a fly.
I walked the length of the landing, turning each doorhandle and peering through until I came to Dolores Brockletower’s own bedchamber. I went in. The room was neat and sparely furnished, and the bed rumpled, in the state she had left it after rising for her early ride. A nightgown lay across the bed. The commode had been used. On an upright chair was a dirty soup bowl and spoon on a tray. I sniffed the bowl and smelled chicken.
She had been isolated, reclusive, hardly known outside the household. It was true she had earned some fame in the neighbourhood for her fast and fearless riding, especially with the Yolland and Garlick Chase. But apart from these outings and Divine Service (which she attended heavily veiled), she was almost never seen in public, neither at assemblies, nor race meetings, nor paying calls for tea. Obviously, this shrinking from society engendered suspicion. I knew, not just from the words of Miriam Patten, that there were those who spoke of witchcraft, which in her birthplace, the West Indies, is (I believe) called Woo-Doo. Was all this talk a factor in her terrible death? I could think of an additional possibility. There had been speculation in the district as to why she had not yet provided a Brockletower heir, and some went so far as to say that all was not as it should be in this, the marital bed. Was that also a factor?
A few moments later I stood in the middle of the deserted hall with my back to the stair-foot. On my right was the room which I knew to be the squire’s study and library; on my left the morning room. I made towards the latter and let myself in. Here, I guessed, I would find an escritoire equipped with pen, ink and paper with which I could write the necessary letters to Preston.
Chapter Three
THE MORNING ROOM was elegant and quiet, a lady’s retreat to occupy that part of the day when the virile element is seeing to business, or in some other way having it out with the world. The male presence was, however, not entirely absent, even here. There were a couple of marble busts on their plinths, and half-a-dozen paintings on the walls, which I took a moment to examine one by one. The busts were of the Grecian sort, with eyes as blind as those of the woman I had just left. The paintings were all seascapes such as would appeal to a naval man like the squire. They showed brave men-of-war straining against the elements, their sails fat with wind and their flags streaming. Looking at these I believed I could smell the perfume of tar in the ropes and taste the salt on the breeze.
After five minutes moving from picture to picture, I wrenched myself back to the here and now. Sitting at the escritoire, I took paper and a pen and wrote a brief note to Bailiff Grimshaw, setting out what had happened and what steps I proposed taking towards an inquest. I then dashed off another shorter account, as a courtesy, to my Lord Mayor. Finally I addressed a few lines to my friend Dr Fidelis.
Luke, I have been called this morning to Garlick Hall
where I find the family and estate in sad condition.
Mrs Dolores Brockletower has been found dead in the
Fulwood, the accident (if so it was) occurring during her
morning ride. Having myself seen the body in situ I have
ordered it brought home and will be grateful if you come
at your first convenience and cast a medical eye over it
– quite unofficially at this stage, you understand. I have
not yet sworn in a jury and therefore cannot request a
formal examination. I await your reply.
Your friend,
Titus Cragg,
Coroner
I was just shaking the caster of sand over my wet writing when the door was flung open and a fantastical figure stepped through. He was dressed in country topcoat and breeches, but his wig was far more elaborately piled and curled than would customarily be seen anywhere outside London. And he was so small that it was not until he spoke that I appreciated this was not a strangely attired boy, but a man of twenty-three or twenty-four. He was extremely youthful to look at. His skin was soft, his face had the appearance of a young rabbit, even to the bulge of his eyes, and his voice was as light as a flute. Yet he spoke with the emphasis of one used to laying down decided opinions to his equals, and orders to his inferiors. It had the tone, if not the timbre, of one who enjoyed more than anything to hear himself assert something.
‘Well now!’ he shrilled, his face wearing a curiously fixed and complacent smile. ‘Is company come? I did not think there was any visitor in the house today but me.’
I stood and made the slightest of formal bows.
‘Titus Cragg, sir. Attorney-at-law.’
The fellow seemed oddly delighted with these words.
‘Ah-ha! A man of law, is it?’
His laugh was no more agreeable than his smile, half cockcrow and half cackle. But I remained equable.
‘Until the present squire inherited, I had the honour of serving this family as their attorney,’ I answered, ‘though that is nothing to do with my business here today. I presume that I am addressing Mr Barnabus Woodley the … mason in charge of
these works.’
I gestured through the window at the paraphernalia of tools, buckets and barrows beside the front of the house. Woodley pulled back his shoulders and his smile rearranged itself into a wounded pout.
‘No mason, sir. You are addressing no rough-cast artisan. The shaping and cementing of stones is left to men bred to the job, so long as they obey instructions. No, sir, you are in the presence of Barnabus Woodley of York, architect and man of philosophy, and of taste. Have you been in Italy?’
‘I have. I—’
‘It was there that Barnabus Woodley discovered his true vocation, being fortunate enough to fall in with Lord Burlington at Rome, the native place of the immortal Vitruvius, and he revealed the principles—’
I roused myself to take my turn in cutting him off. ‘With regret, Mr Woodley,’ I stated hastily, ‘I have no time to bandy reminiscences of the south.’
I am impatient with any man who speaks of himself as if he were a third person. And I had furthermore a premonition of an elaborate and tedious peroration on the Vitruvian architecture.
‘I am here as coroner of the borough,’ I went on, ‘enquiring into the unfortunate business that has deranged this house today.’
Woodley’s afflatus seemed instantly to puncture, as he subsided into a chair, semi-recumbently stretching out his legs. Even his eyes seemed to bulge a little less.
‘Yes, yes. Damn me, yes. Oh dear. The coroner. Mrs Brockletower. A fearful thing and very horrible. I have just ridden to the vicarage with the news for Mr Brockletower’s uncle, you know.’
He began hand-fanning himself, like a dancing-master after tripping a strenuous rigadoon.
‘The vicar? How did he take the news, may I ask?’
‘He is shocked but, as a man of God, not inconsolable. In his opinion she was murdered by vagabonds. The woods are alive with them. I agree with him.’
‘Well, it is my duty to try all possibilities. May I put one or two questions to you?’
‘Questions of what kind?’
He looked at me sidelong and, as his smile crept back, I saw the craftiness within it. Striding to the fire and turning, I clasped my hands behind my back and looked severely towards him. I wanted him to know I was in no mood for prevarication or levity.
‘Of an easily gratified kind, Mr Woodley,’ I said. ‘Such as, when did you last see Mrs Brockletower?’
He sniffed drily.
‘I can indeed very easily gratify you, Mr Cragg. It was yesterday forenoon. She used me rudely. I met her in the stable yard as I rode in from my lodging at the Plough Inn. She was on foot, though dressed in her riding habit, and she was far from civil.’
‘In what way?’
‘I greeted her and she swept past without a word. She cut me.’
‘Was that exceptional sort of behaviour?’
‘Certainly it was exceptional. I took the greatest exception. ’
‘But was it habitual?’
‘Well, she was always haughty towards me.’ He raised his chin and cackle-crowed again. ‘Haughty-taughty! No warmth.’
‘Did you give her any particular reason for this haughtiness? ’
‘No, I did not. She was colonial-born, you know, and she did not feel warmly towards any of the people of this land.’
‘Her husband is of this land.’
Woodley held up a finger, as if in caution.
‘So he is. Well, well.’
‘So Mrs Brockletower made many enemies.’
‘Of course she made enemies. She was of that temperament. ’
‘And you were yourself such an enemy – I mean, in the lady’s eyes?’
Quite suddenly, as if stung, Woodley jerked himself upright.
‘She was my employer’s wife, sir, and I did my best to treat her courteously, which was not easy. I know nothing about her private thoughts towards me.’
‘What brought you here to Garlick Hall?’
Woodley gestured to the window, outside of which someone had got to work with a hammer and chisel. The architect wore the type of expression a man adopts when speaking to a simpleton.
‘Have I not told you?’
‘I meant, why were you chosen and not some other?’
‘You mean apart from my superior ability and taste?’
‘Yes.’
‘We have a connection through Archbishop Lancelot Blackburne of York. That city is my home. I have done considerable works for His Grace at Bishopsthorpe, his palace, on the recommendation of Lord Burlington, you know. The archbishop is kinsman to the squire, through his mother, I believe. So it was natural enough for me to come here on the archbishop’s recommendation.’
‘That is clear enough. And you’re sure you did not see Mrs Brockletower after that moment – yesterday morning, when she cut you?’
‘I am very sure indeed. She went into the house while I gave over my horse and got about my business with the workmen.’
‘Ah! Your workmen. I must ask you about them. Was any man late for his work this morning?’
‘Not that I know of. You must ask Piltdown, my ganger. He is out there now. We are hard at it shaping my pediment.’
Suddenly, Woodley jumped from his chair and took a couple of twitching sideways strides towards the centre of the room.
‘Which is what I must go to now, sir. You must forgive me. As soon as idle and unpaid workmen tire of gossip, they wander off. I can’t afford that. There is unaccountable trouble in finding good craftsmen. And there is a great deal of work still to be done on my pediment. And, besides, we are digging the foundation of my Grecian temple.’
‘Your temple?’
He again indicated the window.
‘Yes, in the grounds, out there. My Temple of Eros. It will be a destination for promenades, and a delight to those acquainted with the Grecian and Roman taste. I must show you my plans and elevations. They are exquisitely tasteful. But in the meantime, you will excuse me if I bid you good day.’
While speaking, he had begun edging crabwise in the direction of the door. A moment later he reached it, grasped the handle and relieved the room of his presence.
I returned to the escritoire to pick up my letters, and noticed a small bound journal tucked in amongst the writing paper. I lifted it and leafed through. It was a commonplace book, in which someone – Dolores, undoubtedly – had written scraps of poetry and prose that appealed to her. I turned to the most recent inscription, which read:
The Soul of a Man and that of a Woman are made very unlike.
Imagine therefore: my pain and fear.
As the lines could not be made to scan, I concluded they were not poetry. But no author or source was given. I stood for a moment before one of the two windows facing the park, trying to place the quotation. To my annoyance I could not. Perhaps she had simply made the words up: a cry from the heart.
Peering out through the clutter of scaffolding, towards the vista of forestry and grassland, I noted how my gaze was funnelled between the banks of high close-set trees to right and left. In keeping with the perspectival illusion, known best to painters and gardeners, it was a view that tapered gently but efficiently away to disappearance in a smudge of greens and browns.
But a disappearing point is also an appearing one, and now one of the smudges resolved itself as a small train of people, making their way along the road towards the house. They were following a trundling cart, with the labourer Barkworth at the horse’s head and old Matt Thwaite sitting on the tailgate. The rest of the cart’s load lay concealed beneath a horse blanket. This was the unofficial cortège of poor Dolores Brockletower, brought down from the woods by Pearson and his people. Tagging along behind, and occasionally leaping ahead, I could see Jonah Marsden. He continued frisking about until Pearson collared the boy and, with a few cuffs about the head, made him walk with a more respectful gait.
I left the morning room and crossed the hall, noting from the clock that it was a few minutes before ten. In the stone-flagged passage that led past
the kitchen to the yard a leather-aproned drayman was rolling a great round cheese from the dairy, in the manner of a boy and a hoop. I followed him out and watched as he spun the cheese up a ramp and onto an already heavily laden cart that stood on the cobbles. Knowing his road must have been through a string of farms east of here, I stopped and asked if he had heard anything of the squire, who would be coming by the same road on his journey home from Yorkshire. But the drayman could tell me nothing.
I left him and crossed the yard to the barred gate that opened onto a path rising through the thickly wooded slope that reared behind Garlick Hall. I started up the path and in a few moments could no longer see the house or the yard for the branches and foliage, though I heard the hoof-clop of the cheeseman’s horse shifting its feet, and the clack of his master’s clogs as he rolled out another truckle. In the wood ahead of me smudges of smoke and the prattle of children drifted down from the builders’ camp. A minute later a path levelled off and I arrived at a clearing and the camp itself.
A shawled figure was sitting, like the crone of an ancient tribe, on a three-legged milking-stool beside the fire. Over the scrawny flames was slung a pot in which some foul-smelling concoction brewed and from time to time during our conversation she would lean forward and give it a vigorous stir with a stick. Swollen-bellied children chased raggedly in and out of makeshift tents and shelters, and through the surrounding trees.
The woman seemed undisturbed by my arrival.
‘Come near, come near,’ she crooned in a thin reedy voice as soon as she saw me, waving a leathery hand at the sawn stump of a tree that lay close to the fire. ‘I won’t stand, so likely you’ll want to sit.’
Looking at the woman more closely, I saw that, rather than the gammer I had thought her, she was probably of an age with myself, yet so dried, diminished and bent by poverty that she appeared twice the age. I lowered myself onto the stump.
‘What is your name?’ I asked.
‘Peg Miller. What’s yours?’
