A Dark Anatomy

by Robin Blake

  ‘See, I was always Mrs Brockletower’s choice for a dress-fitter. She said she didn’t like my father fussing around and mumbling at her with a mouthful of pins. She said dressing a woman was a woman’s business, and that was that. She liked coming here, though. In the end she was visiting us such a lot that she was not just a customer. She seemed more like a sister – to me, anyway. And don’t say: as if I didn’t have enough sisters already. I am the eldest and have not the consolation of an older one. So I welcomed it when Mrs Brockletower called me her dearest little Abby, and petted and kissed me when we were alone, and said I was her only friend.’

  ‘Are those the words she used – her only friend?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, and she would tell me things, too, private things about her and the squire.’

  She saw that I wanted to interrupt her again, and held up her hand to stop me.

  ‘No, sir, let me go on. I will answer your questions after, if I can.’

  I nodded and composed myself to listen to the remainder of her tale.

  ‘It was like this. I have a beau, sir, and Mrs Brockletower used to want to know all about him and what happened between us when we walked out alone together. Intimate things, you know, the sort of things that no respectable girl could repeat without blushing. But she coaxed such things out of me and she did make me blush a great deal, but in return (as she said) she would tell me similar intimate matters about the squire and how it was between them. Not that I asked, you understand. Only that she seemed to want to requite my tales about G—, about my young man, with tales of her own. To make things equal between us, that’s how she put it.

  ‘So that’s how I learned that Mr and Mrs Brockletower had become unhappy in their marriage since arriving in England. In the West Indies, when he was a naval officer, they had been happy and now here in Lancashire she could not forget what she had lost. She said it was like her happiness and pleasure in her husband had slipped from her hands. Now he was cold towards her, and she to him, without wanting or meaning to be. I was sorry for her. She had a rough side to her, as everyone knows, but I could also see the sweet side.

  ‘About four months ago something happened. It was partly because of Mrs Brockletower’s questions about me and my young man, and me wanting to have something new to tell her. Anyway I was walking with him in the fields down near the river one Sunday afternoon, and we came to a barn, and he took me inside, and we … we lay down in the straw. I didn’t mean it to happen, sir, not for a moment. But it did and now I think in a way Mrs Brockletower had inflamed me, with her questions and that. She had kept pressing to know if I was still …’

  ‘Still what, child?’

  She answered in a whisper I could only just catch.

  ‘A maid, sir.’

  After another moment’s pause she cleared her throat, squared her shoulders and continued more audibly.

  ‘She would taunt me shockingly, sir. “Don’t tell me you are still intact,” she would say, not believing me when I said I was. And so, after that particular Sunday, I was able to tell her I was no longer, she seemed delighted, laughing and praising me for doing this thing that, in my heart, I knew I ought to be ashamed of. But I got over my shame, and the young man and I still took our Sunday afternoon walks, and that haybarn still saw quite a lot of us, until … well, it happened.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You must be able to guess, sir.’

  ‘I think I can, but you must tell me.’

  Again her voice diminished to almost nothing.

  ‘I was with child.’

  Having been sufficiently prepared for this news I showed no surprise, though I tut-tutted and dear-deared a little, before I asked her when this had happened.

  ‘At the start of March, sir. That was when I began to feel the changes, like.’

  ‘I see. Go on with your tale, Abby.’

  ‘Well, first I told my young man, and his response was spiteful. That’s the only way I can describe it. He said he would not marry me and would deny everything, and leave the town for London, or the colonies, if need be. I was so terribly afraid of what would happen to me. So I turned to Mrs Brockletower and asked her for advice when she next came to the shop. And she was right good to me, and promised that she would help me. And she did, and all, or would have done. She had thought of a way. But now she is gone and I’ve got no hope.’

  She began sniffling.

  ‘How was she intending to help you, Abigail?’ I put in gently.

  ‘She said she would arrange everything.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She said she would give me money and a place to go where I could … have the baby. And then after a while she said she would take the baby to Garlick Hall, and bring it up as her own.’

  I had maintained an unshockable front up to this point but suddenly surprise burst through.

  ‘Good God, child! Is that what she proposed to do? Adopt? Truthfully?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. She told me that she was certain she herself could never have children, but that Mr Brockletower wanted an heir, which was part of the reason for the difficulties between them, you see. So this appeared to her as the perfect answer, for everybody.’

  I found myself speaking rather severely.

  ‘I don’t think she was speaking for everybody. The perfect solution for you, young lady, would be marriage, as I am sure you are aware. Everything else is more or less an imperfect solution. Have you not spoken to your father about all this?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘And what about the young man? Can he not be induced to do his duty?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, sir. I do not love him and I no longer want him. I would refuse him even if he trailed behind me all day on his knees.’

  I sat and pondered for a moment.

  ‘Let me get something clear,’ I went on. ‘Before Mrs Brockletower spoke to you about whether or not you were a maid, you had done nothing untoward in that regard. Is that right?’

  ‘No sir, I had not.’

  ‘So Mrs Brockletower can be said to have encouraged you, even incited you to, er, misbehave with your young man. Would you agree?’

  ‘Well, yes, sir, I suppose she did that.’

  ‘And she had already gone to considerable lengths to gain your friendship, your confidence.’

  ‘She was very friendly, sir. I believe we were friends.’

  ‘Now tell me one more thing. You are explaining all this to me. Not your father, or the vicar of the parish, or anyone else who might reasonably be expected to direct you rightly in the matter. Why? Is it because you want my help, or because you want to help me?’

  ‘Because you came to call on me the other day, sir. I asked why and my sister told me it was because you were enquiring about Mrs Brockletower’s death. I wanted to help find out why she is gone. I want to know who did it, and why. To get justice for her, that would be something. Me, I cannot be helped, not now. I am past help.’

  She started crying properly now, pressing her hands to her face so that the tears leaked through between the fingers. I thought it time to speak sternly to her.

  ‘Nonsense, Abigail. No one is ever beyond help, unless one is to believe the theology of John Calvin, which I personally do not, and nor should you. Now, I want you to promise me you will tell your father about your condition. If you like, I will speak to him also. But I want you to tell him first. The poor man needs to believe his eldest daughter trusts and loves him enough to confide in him. Will you do that?’

  Abigail raised her head and wiped the back of one hand across her mouth and nostrils, and then did the same with the other, sniffing loudly as she did so. It seemed her courage was returning.

  ‘All right, sir, I will do as you say. I will tell him today. If he should strike me dead, do not be surprised.’

  I allowed myself to smile.

  ‘Your father is not a man of violence. He will be distressed, of course, but he knows these mistakes have been made before, and have
been resolved before.’

  And so I left her, and went back down to the shop, where I found Ned carefully cutting a length of cloth.

  ‘You will be glad to hear,’ I said, ‘that Abigail is of a mind to speak to you now. It is an unhappy tale, but you had better hear it from her own mouth. Don’t be hard on her, will you?’

  ‘Hard on her? I shall only be happy that she can trust me with what’s getting at her.’

  I nodded at what he was doing.

  ‘So you found your cuts at last?’

  He held his scissors up with the blades separated to form an X. ‘No, we didn’t find them. I had to buy new.’

  I left him and returned to the office. Furzey greeted me with a sardonic smirk.

  ‘Don’t put your feet up just yet, Mr Cragg. Now Captain Fairhurst’s sent a note round to say he will be at your disposal in the Magpie and Stump tavern at one in the afternoon. That would be about now.’

  I found the captain in civilian clothes and drinking wine. He was accompanied by another man who wore the uniform of a sergeant and was sipping from a tankard of beer. The pair sat at their table with what looked like a sketch-map open in front of them, conferring together.

  To drink familiarly with one’s sergeant may seem an unsoldierly thing to be doing, and to my eye Fairhurst seemed an unsoldierly figure. He had bow-shoulders, gap-teeth, and a squint that gave his round and dimpled face the superficial appearance of a gargoyle, partly comic, partly malign. He introduced his companion as Sergeant Sutch.

  ‘My sergeant is fittingly named, Mr Cragg,’ Fairhurst told me with a momentary giggle. ‘Can you guess in what way?’

  I paused and looked the sergeant over. He was a grey-haired and weatherbeaten figure who seemed by comparision with the officer, every inch what he was supposed to be: upright, commandingly tall and very squarely built. But I had to confess I could not see in what sense his name was so suitable.

  ‘Because he will lead his men in “sutch” of the missing corpse – you see?’

  Fairhurst leant forward slightly and let out another guffaw, accompanied this time by a stuttering fart, which I clearly heard and would shortly smell. I simulated a smile, noticing at the same time that not a muscle of the sergeant’s face had moved.

  ‘Well, never mind that, to business,’ Fairhurst went on as if nothing had happened. ‘We must discuss the details, but first: what will you drink?’

  I took a seat and said I would join him in some wine. I then asked if he had received the Earl of Derby’s warrant.

  ‘Yes, I have it here, I warrant you.’

  This occasioned more detonations, of laughter and of wind, as he drew from his pocket a folded paper carrying Lord Derby’s seal. He gave it me and I looked it over while he spoke to the potboy, ordering wine and more beer for the sergeant. In the warrant his lordship requested and required Ramilles Brockletower Esq of Garlick Hall to render every assistance to the military detachment under the command of Captain Frederick Fairhurst in their efforts to find the missing body of Mrs Brockletower. The warrant encompassed searches of the house, outhouses and grounds of Garlick Hall, and of any other of his lands and property whatsoever, as might be required by Captain Fairhurst in furtherance of his task. It was properly and correctly drawn up and undoubtedly had the force of law. I passed it back to the captain.

  ‘This seems satisfactory, Captain. Tell me how you propose to proceed.’

  ‘Sergeant Sutch should tell you.’

  The sergeant took a judicious draught of beer, laid down the tankard, wiped his mouth with his hand and looked at me with a steady, confident, almost mocking gaze.

  ‘First may I say, sir, how gratified I am – ah-hem, we are – that you have chosen to employ trained men in this matter. You can never do better than a soldier for a search. A band of estate workers, to take an instance of those who might otherwise be deployed, understand nothing of thoroughness. To begin with, half of them is going to be women. They go about it in a way I can best describe as being like a flock of farmyard chickens, pecking around without system or sense. They think of a likely place and go to look there, and when they find it empty they do nothing until they think of some other likely place, and then they scurry off to look into that. And so on, sir, aimlessly.’

  He was speaking with such gravity, purpose and rhythm that I had nothing to say, but could only nod my head inanely in time with his sentences.

  ‘Now, the trained man,’ he went on lifting a finger, ‘that is to say the soldier, gets down to the job under principles.’

  He solemnly lowered his finger to the paper on the table in front of him.

  ‘So tomorrow, under principles, as I say, I shall take twenty men, sir, and they shall fairly put a comb through the grounds of that estate. We shall form a line, with each man representing one of the teeth of that comb, and draw the line across the ground that we wish to search. In that way nothing whatever is missed.’

  His finger rapped the paper on the table.

  ‘This is a rough plan of the area, which I myself drew up after making a reconnaissance this afternoon. I have divided the ground into sections, an inner ring here, consisting of four areas nearest to the house, and another ring consisting of these nine outer areas. We shall clear them one by one in number order, to make sure we miss nothing.’

  ‘Admirable,’ I commented, with absolute sincerity. ‘As you say, it is good to go by a system.’

  ‘It is essential.’

  ‘Yes, of course, essential. But what about the house?’

  ‘A search of a residence requires a different method and is inclined to create greater disturbance. I therefore propose, with your agreement, to omit the house until after we have finished in the gardens and park. That way, if we find what we’re looking for outside, the disturbance will not be necessary inside.’

  ‘Very good. Very good indeed, Sergeant,’ said Fairhurst ardently.

  I agreed. Sergeant Sutch seemed an altogether exemplary figure and I turned to his captain and told him as much.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ cried Fairhurst, clutching Sutch’s shoulder. ‘I call him Sergeant Argent, that is to say, worth his weight in silver. Of course, I would say gold, but that would spoil the conceit, you know.’

  I raised the glass to my lips and drank the wine down quickly. Then, before the captain could conjure any more conceits, I stood up.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you are at liberty to execute the warrant when you like – tomorrow, perhaps, Sergeant Sutch?’

  ‘Ay, tomorrow,’ said the man. ‘We’ll march down there at first light. Don’t worry, sir. If she’s there, we’ll find her.’

  After thanking him, I put down my glass, made my excuses and left.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘I SAW THAT Mr Woodley in Market Street this morning,’ said Elizabeth. ‘What a strange type of man he looks. More a boy than a man.’

  We were talking in bed that same night, curled together in a comfortable embrace. I had already told her the story of my day, of the revelation by Abigail Talboys, and my encounter with the clumsy persiflage of Captain Fairhurst.

  ‘Woodley has bulging eyes, like a baby,’ I observed. ‘But, though he may look boyish, he walks like a dancing master.’

  She laughed merrily.

  ‘I can hardly believe he has the job of putting up big houses for rich people to live in. I would never employ a babyface like that to give me a roof over my head, Titus. I wouldn’t feel safe after.’

  ‘He’s no younger than you are – twenty-five, twenty-six? And you, I perceive, are no child.’

  Since my hand was caressing her right breast at the time, I was very much engaged in verifying my last statement.

  ‘But he is unnaturally young-looking – just like a china doll.’

  ‘He’s got more brains than a doll. He’s clever. Though in my opinion he’s also a bluffer.’

  ‘A bluffer? Is he not what he seems, then? Is he not really an architect?’

  ‘Oh yes, he is
an architect. Anyone can call himself an architect, it seems. One day there may be an inn for architecture as there is now for lawyers. But it is probably far off.’

  ‘He’s a liar, then? There’s bluffers that are powerful liars, I think, and others that are not liars, but such fools to themselves that they persuade everyone else of the same foolishness.’

  ‘Woodley’s the second kind. He may be a fool—’

  ‘A fool with brains!’ she broke in.

  ‘Yes, which is the most unfathomable kind of fool. But he believes absolutely in himself. On the other hand there is something fantastical about him. He reminds me of a genie who should be in a bottle but got out. What was he doing when you saw him?’

  ‘Coming out through the arched entrance of Molyneux Square.’

  ‘Was he indeed? I wonder why he would go there.’

  ‘He had an abstracted, thoughtful look about him, that is all I can say.’

  She raised herself up on an elbow and kissed me.

  ‘And now, I must sleep. Tomorrow I am taking some food around the Moor cottages. We have Mr Broome’s cart ordered for seven o’clock. We’ll be loading a hundred loaves and a whole barrel of pickled herring to give away.’

  I returned her kiss fondly.

  ‘Good night, then, my sweet miracle worker,’ I said, turning to snuff out the bedside candle.

  In the morning I rode back, in spring sunshine, to Garlick Hall, wishing to see how far Sergeant Sutch’s men had progressed. I found them, a dozen fusiliers, tramping up and down a part of the garden which sloped away on the south-east side of the house, between it and the Savage Brook which flowed past at a distance of less than a hundred yards. Standing at a right angle to the house was a long hothouse built of glass, with a chimney emitting a continuous thin stream of smoke from the boiler.

  The soldiers carried ash poles and were poking the ground in the flower borders and beneath the shrubs and hedges. Above them by the house itself I found the sergeant with the squire’s gardener, an aggrieved, animated, wiry little fellow by the name of Benjamin Lowry.