A Dark Anatomy

by Robin Blake

  ‘Yes, and discovering those parallels naturally made her fear for her own safety.’

  ‘So it appears,’ I agreed. ‘And how right she was!’

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE SILENCE OF night lay across the town. All I could hear was the coming and going of the night-soil man. But it was not his cart’s squeaking axle that kept me awake. I could not sleep because of the Brockletower inquest, of thinking exclusively about it, even when I wanted to think of other things, even when I was exhausted. I dreaded, most of all, an open verdict, or ‘murder by person or persons unknown’. Her killer must be known, I said to myself, over and over. And it was my task to know him.

  My hope (and simultaneous fear) of quickly assigning guilt to Ramilles Brockletower was probably dashed, for Luke’s enquiries showed he had a formidable alibi. The distance between Settle and Preston was surely too great for him to have done the deed with his own hand, and on his own horse. So much for my speculation about the fresh shoe I detected on Brockletower’s horse at the Plough Inn. He might have got to Fulwood by riding furiously on another, very fast and fresh horse. But it seemed unlikely that he could have exchanged horses in secret. And how did he dispose of his first horse in the meantime? Were we all, in some way, bamboozled?

  I lay with these thoughts revolving in my brain like wind-spinners until I heard St John’s clock striking three. I sat up in bed, rubbing my temples to ease the torrent of thought, then got up and walked around the house in my nightgown, ending by lighting a candle in the library and taking down once more volume III of the Tatler. I re-read Isaac Bickerstaff’s reflections on the struggle between reason and passion and how the man Eustace had allowed his passion to master him and make him kill his wife. I looked with particular care at the passage from which Dolores had taken her commonplace inscription: There is a sort of sex in souls … and the soul of a man and that of a woman are made very unlike, according to the employments for which they are designed. The virtues have respectively a masculine and a feminine cast. What we call in men Wisdom, is in women Prudence . . .

  It seemed doubtful theology to me. Can there really be a gender to sins and virtues? I prefer Mr Spectator’s argument, that it is the temptations that differ in men and women, while the sins they call forth are of an intermediate sex. I replaced the Tatler and brought down the Spectator, to enjoy again that essay and its measured cadences. But at once I found a jar in the first sentence. ‘Women in their judgements are much more gay and joyous than men.’ That was not true of Squire Bannister and his lady, at any rate: they had been as dour and misanthropic as each other. Perhaps this very mismatch of husband and wife was the reason she wrote of her pain and fear.

  What, if anything, was Woodley’s role in all this? Sarah had implied he was the Jago of it, the false witness, the seed of evil planted in the family. In Shakespeare, Jago murders by proxy of his master: in this case, had he done it with his own hand?

  By now I had grown thoroughly cold but I did not mind, as I find to return to bed chilled is a sovereign cure for insomnia. I found the bed beautifully heated indeed by the body of my sleeping wife and so dozed off as her warmth seeped into me. By ten in the morning I had a note from Captain Fairhurst, received not half an hour before. He wrote that the search had resumed today, as only five of the seven outer areas of Garlick Hall could be combed on Saturday, before it became dark. Nothing had been found, but the captain declared himself an optimist. ‘Operations were suspended for the Sabbath,’ he wrote, ‘but I feel it in my gut that we will find something today.’ My own feeling was that, if we relied for guidance on Captain Fairhurst’s gut, little of fragrance would emerge.

  I turned over once again my thoughts of last night. I’d believed them at the time, with the hypnotic certainty one forms in the middle of insomnia. If Woodley was a Jago, he had poisoned the squire’s mind. Or had I merely constructed from these strange events a kind of story of the sort seen in plays, romances and novels?

  At breakfast Elizabeth immediately noticed my distraction, and my yawns, and said my eyes were sunken into my face, so tonight I must drink an infusion of fennel and borage in milk and brandy to soothe my sleep. She promised herself to prepare the posset for me.

  At half past ten Furzey called out to say the post had come with another letter from Luke Fidelis in Yorkshire. I opened it with eagerness, hoping it would contain something, or anything, that might make solid the airy speculations of the night.

  And I was very happy to find that it did.

  Sir, I have the honour of continuing the account of my enquiries here in Yorkshire into the activities of Ramilles Brockletower during his recent visit.

  At my inn on Micklegate I fell in with a man of trustworthy, respectable appearance named Abraham Cooper, who told me his brother-in-law works as a confidential clerk at Bishopsthorpe, the palace of the Archbishops of York, writing letters and memoranda for His Grace. You will remember that we have been wondering just what business Squire Brockletower had with the archbishop. I am happy to say that I am now in a position to tell you what it was.

  You will be aware that, because of his Lancashire connections, the archbishop owns estates in our county. So, I made out that I was a tenant of the archbishop myself, here to do business about my tenancy. I indicated that a private conversation with this relation of his might be of considerable value to me. Mr Cooper was agreeable and invited me to his house, where we found the brother-in-law playing a game of backgammon beside the fire with his sister, Cooper’s wife. The brother-in-law was introduced to me as Peter Sumption. After a few minutes’ idle chatter, Cooper told Sumption that I was interested in Bishopsthorpe. I took up the story, saying that I was Ramilles Brockletower’s neighbour, and knew that he had paid a visit to the archbishop last week. And I admitted further, pretending to be shamefaced, that I was consumed by curiosity to know what business it was that Mr Brockletower had with the archbishop, in case it was on the matter of a boundary dispute between myself and Brockletower.

  Sumption looked suddenly like a conspirator, winking and nudging me cunningly. ‘I am a trusted servant, sir,’ he said. ‘And I must be faithful to that trust. Unless, that is, by a stroke of ill-fortune, I am left with no choice but to be unfaithful to it.’

  He spoke in an insinuating way that unmistakably invited me to follow him up. I said, ‘And how might that come about?’

  He held up a finger. ‘There is a way, to be sure, in which we might try the case, whether it is to be fortune or ill-fortune, faithful or unfaithful.’

  ‘What way is that?’

  He gestured at the gaming table. ‘Why, with a game of backgammon, sir. My stake shall be my trust as the archbishop’s servant, and yours a small matter of three guineas.’

  Puzzled by this turn in the conversation I asked him what he meant.

  ‘Well, sir, if I win the game, I am three guineas the richer and you none the wiser. On the other hand, if you win, I shall tell you all you wish to know in return for nothing. How’s that for a wager?’

  I turned quizzically to my host, thinking, what den of thieves have I fallen into? Cooper just shrugged. ‘Peter do love to play gammon with a stranger,’ he said with a laugh, then adding more seriously, ‘Give him his game and, if you lose, you must pay up. But beat him square, and he’ll keep his word. He always do, in spite of everything. And,’ (added in a whisper behind his hand) ‘he ain’t such a player as he thinks he is.’

  So I put my three guineas down and we played.

  My host was right. Sumption was not at all the hand at backgammon that he considered himself. Ten minutes later I was in an unassailable lead, having packed my fourth house with my men while he had a couple of his own sitting on the bar, unable to get back on the board. I won by a gammon and, with an oath, he leaned back and began stuffing a pipe in readiness to keep his side of the bargain. But he swore that he would never repeat any of what he had to say outside of that room, or to any official person, and he would deny it if put to him. I to
ld him to go on, for I would never reveal him as the source of the information, on my word as a gentleman.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, sitting back in his chair and applying fire to his pipe. He seemed to trust me completely, though I believe whether he did or not hardly mattered. Sumption was, as I was about to discover, a man who never felt so alive as when holding forth to an audience. He cleared his throat. ‘The meeting between Ramilles Brockletower and Archbishop Blackburne …’ He cleared his throat again, more forcefully. ‘It happened within my actual hearing, my writing office being in a small room with a door giving into the archbishop’s audience chamber, you understand. I could not help overhearing, and what I overheard I think you will find of unusual interest. Indeed, it shocked me. Mr Brockletower had come to the archbishop to enquire about a divorce from his wife, sir, no less! He felt this to be an absolute necessity as their differences were irreconcilable. Well, when he heard this my lord laughed uproariously and said show him a couple in the country not in the same condition, but Mr Brockletower persisted, saying he was desperate, that his wife was barren, and the Brockletower estates wanted an heir of his own blood, and much of the same.

  ‘My lord the archbishop then grew serious, speaking very gravely to Mr Brockletower, who by the way is, I believe, a kinsman of some sort. He warned him that divorce was not to be undertaken lightly and was anyway quite impossible without an Act of Parliament. It was not within his power to do anything but recommend the members and Lords to pass such an act if it were laid before them. But recommendation alone would not be enough to secure the divorce, oh no! Three further conditions must be fulfilled before such a procedure could be successful. The first was money, a golden stream of it, with lawyers and writers and messengers and stationery all to be paid for at parliamentary rates, not to mention the money expended on, ahem!, getting the votes themselves, if you see what I mean. Some of the richest men in the land have had their fortunes drained, utterly drained, by these procedures, leaving them with nothing but copper coin to count.

  ‘The second attribute was time, for it might take a year or more before such a measure found room in the parliamentary calendar. And finally there had to be due cause. Criminal conversation on the part of the one you are suing was the most promising of these. In other words, adultery, he said, booming out the word, adultery by his wife, with another party. Her shame must be proved, with witnesses, beyond doubt. So, he asked Mr Brockletower, had there been any such criminal conversation, and Mr Brockletower blurted it right out that yes, he suspected so.

  ‘I heard very little more because at this moment the servant came in and announced dinner, so my lord took Mr Brockletower into his dining room for a meal which was likely to be a long and rich affair, judging by the archbishop’s girth. The last thing I heard him say was that he wanted to know all the details of Mr Brockletower’s family life, and Mr Brockletower assured him he would tell all. The archbishop laughed loudly and said he was all agog.’

  Now these exchanges look black for the squire of Garlick Hall, except for the fact that Sumption will never admit to a court that he heard them. That Brockletower was considering divorce comes as a complete surprise. But I am also struck by the behaviour of the archbishop. He seemed vastly amused by the whole conversation. Nothing offends or shocks him, though he is primate of York!

  Now that I have passed an hour or two in the coffee houses of the city, I realize that Archbishop Blackburne is far from being conscientious in his enforcement of the law of God. But there is more. I have heard something of Barnabus Woodley, who as you may know has been resident in this city. I have heard particulars about him that I will not write in this letter, but communicate to you when we next meet in person. With God willing, this should be on Tuesday, towards evening, or perhaps Wednesday morning. Meanwhile, I am, sir, your affectionate servant, Luke Fidelis.

  I had no time to think about the letter because now another note came by hand of a soldier, this time from Garlick Hall and written by Sergeant Sutch. He asked that I ride out there at once, the ‘once’ underlined.

  I rode off under warm sunshine, going by way of the North Moor, where the annual races are held. The open country gave my old cob the chance to run in his ponderous way, so that only twenty-five minutes had passed by the time we plunged down the lane leading directly to the gates of Brockletower’s wood-enclosed park. Five minutes later I was dismounting in front of the house itself.

  I was feeling happy because, though Sutch’s message contained no hint of what I might expect at the Hall, I was sure that he must have recovered Mrs Brockletower’s body. If so, my inquest could at last resume and I would sleep better tonight.

  But I was premature: there had been no such find. Instead the soldiers were gathered in a group confronting a similar number of workmen, not estate workers, but the men engaged in Woodley’s building works. The workmen were standing at the edge of the trees, at the start of an ornamental walk. They were plainly intent on blocking the soldiers’ way along the walk. At that moment I realized what this walk was: the one up which Sarah’s dog had run, the one that led to Woodley’s garden temple.

  I walked across the lawn and stepped between the two groups of men.

  ‘What is this?’ I said to the man standing in front of the builders, who I supposed was their foreman. He merely swore and spat, so I swivelled back to face the troops. I could not see Captain Fairhurst anywhere.

  ‘What is the reason for this stand-off, Mr Sutch?’ I asked.

  ‘We are trying to inspect the temple, sir,’ Sutch replied, coming towards me. ‘It is the only place we haven’t searched. The builders have been keeping us away from it, they have even threatened us with breaking our heads if we come near. So I thought it wise to put off searching it until we have exhausted other possibilities. But now we have searched every other part of these grounds and can be put off looking into this temple no longer. Yet these men are still preventing us. Captain Fairhurst is not here; nor is the squire. That is why I sent for you.’

  I swivelled back to face the murmuring knot of builders.

  ‘Are you?’ I challenged. ‘Are you obstructing the king’s men?’

  Piltdown, the ganger, a wiry, deeply weather-beaten fellow in a protective leather apron and carrying a wooden mallet, spoke angrily from the front.

  ‘One of us has been beaten by the soldiers. He’s bruised and got a black eye. And that was after they stormed through our living quarters, pulled down all the tents, and frighted the women and childer.’

  ‘Nevertheless, a little restraint would—’

  ‘Restraint be damned. My men are very vexed that these soldiers should come and rough up freeborn Englishmen, and destroy their shelters. Now we are waiting for Mr Woodley. I have sent word to him. His orders were no one is to disturb the work in progress at the temple – no one, whoever they be. And if we allow them to go there, and there is damage, we shan’t be paid a farthing while it’s repaired. That’s usual.’

  ‘Why should the works be damaged? The soldiers only want to look.’

  Piltdown spat again.

  ‘Mortar is wet. Stonework’s not secure. And I’ve seen the ruin them soldiers do. They went through our camp like a twisting-storm. So until Mr Woodley comes and says otherwise, we cannot allow them in to knock pieces off the temple.’

  ‘These troops have the Lord Lieutenant’s warrant,’ I said mildly. ‘You cannot prevent their search, you know, not lawfully. ’

  ‘We are just awaiting our own orders,’ he repeated stubbornly. ‘Mr Woodley has told us if anyone damages the temple we must all answer for it. It is Mr Woodley, not us, mind, doing the preventing.’

  The man was clearly a born troublemaker. I decided on a firmer tone.

  ‘And my cat reads Horace, Mr Piltdown! Come come, man. Mr Woodley is not here. As far as I can see, it is you who are in the way. Clear off out of it, and let the soldiers do their duty in the Lord Lieutenant’s name.’

  My words had no beneficial effect. Inst
ead, quite suddenly, a clod of earth came flying from the midst of the gang and over my head. It landed in front of the soldiers with a wet thump, accompanied by derisive hoots from the builders.

  Now I heard a bustle among the soldiers behind me and turned again. Aggravated by this sally, Sutch had lost patience. He now ordered his men to pick up their weapons and, with a rapid run of trick-track sounds, they began fixing bayonets. I had a summary vision of the horror that might be about to unfold.

  ‘Sergeant!’ I called out. I was aware that my voice was cracking with anxiety. ‘Sergeant Sutch! Have great care. We do not want violence here.’

  ‘It will not be violence, sir, but merely the exercise of power.’

  ‘That is sophistry!’

  ‘As you prefer, Mr Cragg. But whatever the case, we must force home the Lord Lieutenant’s will in this.’

  ‘I am told a man of yours beat one of them. Is that true?’

  ‘A slight quarrel. We searched the workmen’s camp. A few tents were unavoidably pulled down. Some dirty names were called and the one that called them received a rap on the nose. He deserved it.’

  ‘Well, Sergeant, be that as it may, I still think—’

  But Sutch was in no mood to hear what I still thought. He brushed past me and took a step or two towards the builders and let fly a parade-ground bellow.

  ‘Listen here! I call on you for the last time in the King’s name to move aside, so we may do His Majesty’s business of making a search of the building site behind you, known as the Garden Temple.’

  I flicked a glance towards the scaffolded front of the house. A group of estate servants had gathered at its near corner to watch the goings-on. Seeing William Pearson among them, I ran over at the double to join him.

  ‘Where’s the squire?’ I gasped. ‘If ever he was needed, it’s now. Someone must calm this confrontation. They will not listen to me.’