by Robin Blake
‘Squire’s away from home to Lancaster, Mr Cragg. The bailiff’s sergeant is somewhere about. He’s supposed to be on Corporation business but spends most of his time in the kitchen drinking Mrs Marsden’s port wine. I’ve sent young Jonah to get him.’
‘What can he do?’
Pearson smiled and showed me the palms of his hands.
‘Not a bloody thing! Nor me, nor you. These are soldiers, trained to fight, while those builders are rough-necked incomers, and very half-witted. Also one of them’s been assaulted. They likely won’t back off till one lies dead, with a bayonet in his chest.’
Timothy Shipkin standing beside him gave out, not exactly a laugh, but a kind of triumphant yip.
‘The churning of milk bringeth forth butter, as Scripture sayeth.’
Pearson ignored him.
‘Not you, nor I, nor that dolt Mallender can change these men’s minds, Mr Cragg,’ he said. ‘Happen the bayonet will.’
I looked around in desperation at what was looking increasingly like two armies in miniature squaring up to do very unequal battle. The soldiers were forming a line, making ready to march forward and sweep the nuisance aside by force. I could not comprehend the immediate necessity of this. I called out impotently for them to stop and consider, to wait for reason to reassert itself over anger and discontent. No one was listening. The soldiers continued to ready themselves, while the group of builders, each of them armed with some sharp or heavy tool, murmured amongst themselves, seeming to be bracing against the shock of an attack. I saw in their midst the towering figure of Solomon, the idiot I had spoken to when Fidelis and I were leaving the orchard on the day Mrs Brockletower’s corpse went missing, and whose mother I’d met at the camp. He was hoisting above his head a great iron-headed sledgehammer. It seemed cracked heads and worse injuries were in prospect; or something even worse than injuries.
And then quite suddenly everything changed. Two figures appeared silently, serenely, between the contending groups, walking slowly and without fear. One was the dog, Jonathan, I had last seen dozing in front of Sarah Brockletower’s fire. The other was Sarah herself.
Chapter Eighteen
SARAH AND JONATHAN advanced to a point about halfway between soldiers and builders. No sooner had the two groups of men registered her presence than they fell silent, then began shifting their feet and exchanging uneasy comments, murmuring to each other out of the corners of their mouths. The dog sat on its haunches and lolled its tongue.
I was still near the house with Pearson and the others. Now, in sudden panic, I set off, half-running down towards Sarah, wanting to haul her, physically if necessary, out of harm’s way. But I pulled up before I had covered half the distance between us. I realized she had not strayed by chance into the middle of this rencontre, but had placed herself there with a purpose. What was more, I thought, she was of strong enough character to succeed in that purpose, which was of course to make the peace.
Turning her head this way and that, Sarah tried to assemble the various sounds she was hearing, to make a picture in her mind of what she could not see. One of these sounds was the approaching tread of Sergeant Sutch. He came towards her in a bustling manner, then inclined his head and spoke quietly into her ear, causing her to turn towards him.
Now I could see her face. It looked paper-white, and pinched. Seeing her in daylight I realized that Sarah’s extreme pallor was not face-powder, or even the effect of spending most of her time out of the daylight. She was looking sickly-pale and exhausted. Her voice in the other hand was clear and sharp and audible to all.
‘No, I shall not move away. Is it you in charge of the soldiers?’
Again the sergeant spoke inaudibly. Sarah’s reply was loud, scornful and audible to us all.
‘You mention the King, sir? And the Lord Lieutenant? I may be stone blind, but I think neither gentleman is with us now. In my brother’s temporary absence I am the proper authority in this place. And I demand that you stand your men down. I will have no violence. These workmen of Mr Woodley, though they do not live permanently on the estate, are employed on my brother’s business and they shall not be threatened.’
Sutch hesitated, looking short of ammunition with which to reply to Sarah’s withering fusillade. At the same moment we heard a scattering of stones and Jonah Marsden came at speed around the far corner of the house, and careered across the gravelled forecourt like a skidding ninepin. Behind him was the sweating figure of Oswald Mallender in hot but not very close pursuit. Having caught sight of the soldiers and workmen confronting one another, he began shouting, and waving his arms.
There was no sense in coupling Mallender’s arrival with the reassertion of reason. At the sight of him the soldiers gave a cheer more of satire than encouragement. I strolled forward quickly enough to reach Sarah and Sutch before Mallender did. I put my hand on Sarah’s shoulder – the first time I had touched her for almost twenty years.
‘Sarah, it is Titus,’ I said. ‘You are safe, now. The danger is past, I do believe.’
Though her face was as strained and pallid as ever, Sarah laughed.
‘Danger, Titus? But I saw no danger! That is the advantage I have over you. I am glad you are here nevertheless. Tell me, who is this arriving at such full cry?’
In speaking these words she raised her voice in order that the approaching Mallender would hear them. He faltered in his advance and then, not quite knowing what to make of Sarah’s presence, adopted the strategy of ignoring her and of striding across to harangue the workmen instead.
‘You men! You are in breach of the peace. The bailiff’s peace. The Lord Lieutenant’s peace. You must give over, you know. Give over and … and disperse.’
A jeer followed by general laughter came from the men. Mallender turned and came back to where Sarah and I were standing. Immediately a figure broke from the crowd behind and stalked after him. It was the ganger, Piltdown.
‘Let’s put an end to this, now,’ I said as he approached. ‘It’s time to parley the dispute. Mr Piltdown, what is your objection to the soldiers entering your Temple of Eros?’
‘It is not in safe condition. Columns might fall. Foundations sink. The whole lot collapse.’
‘You are intending to stabilize it before completion of the work?’
‘What would be the use of the place otherwise?’
‘Then complete that work of stabilization,’ I said simply. ‘Then it can be searched.’
Not liking the sound of this, Mallender butted in.
‘The bailiff’s orders are—’
But Sutch overrode him.
‘They might bury anything hidden underneath with rubble and mortar. We couldn’t allow that, Mr Cragg.’
‘Precisely so,’ huffed Mallender. ‘It might be just what the bailiff has asked me to seek.’
‘Under supervision, then,’ I went on. ‘Suppose Sergeant Sutch posts one reliable man to watch the proceedings, and make sure nothing is buried in cement.’
Mallender looked as if he would object further, and Sutch looked doubtful, but instead of hearing them I turned back to Piltdown.
‘You would not object to the presence of just a single soldier on the site to see that all is above suspicion?’
Piltdown mumbled the concession that he supposed this would be better than to have the whole platoon crawling over the site, but he’d have to ask Woodley. Sutch knew his freedom of action was limited, and he now found it further curtailed with the appearance of Captain Fairhurst riding at a rotund trot towards us. Ignorant of the battle that had so nearly been fought, he sprang from his horse and joined us, smiling globu-larly and rubbing his hands together in a businesslike way. I told him immediately of the imbroglio over the searching of the Temple of Eros, and the joke that must have been ready on his lips immediately died there. Pop-eyed and deprived for the moment of words, he swung his face in turn towards me, Sarah, Sutch and Piltdown, and back to me. I then put to him my idea for a resolution of the dispute, to which
he listened attentively. After a moment’s thought, and a vigorous rub of the hand to his jaw and jowl, he subscribed to the plan.
‘I see no reason against it,’ the captain decided. ‘As long as a lookout is posted who has a sharp pair of eyes in … in his …’
His head yawed tortoise-like once more.
‘In his head,’ he completed.
‘Good! Excellent! Let it be so!’ cried Sarah, who had been listening carefully to these exchanges. ‘Mr Piltdown and Sergeant Sutch – you must shake hands on it at once.’
‘Just one moment, Miss Brockletower,’ said Mallender, stepping forward with his arm and fat hand extended, as if to carve a way back into the dispute. ‘I hold the bailiff’s commission, and I would advert you that we are not—’
‘Oh, I doubt the bailiff can hold sway here, Constable. Are we not on a gentleman’s property? Are they shaking hands, Titus?’
‘Yes, Sarah,’ I told her a moment later, ‘they are shaking.’
And so, though with no great warmth on either side, they were.
‘Good work, Titus,’ whispered Sarah as she took my arm to walk away. ‘That was a parley you can be proud of.’
‘Not me, Sarah,’ I said, with feeling. ‘I only drew up the treaty. It was you who prevented the war.’
‘Is it possible that it is really there?’ asked my wife, straightening her bonnet and picking up her basket. We were preparing to go together to our garden to stock up the vegetable larder.
Immediately after Sarah Brockletower’s successful démarche at Garlick Hall I had returned to town for discussions with my client, Mr Septimus Patch, about certain complicated entailments to his will. For a while, therefore, my mind was entirely unoccupied with the affairs of Garlick Hall – a considerable relief – and I did not go through to the domestic side of the house until near four o’clock. It was then that Elizabeth proposed we walk out together to gather leeks and carrots.
Opening the front door, I sought clarification.
‘That what is where?’
‘That the missing body is hid in this temple?’
‘For all I know, my love.’
We left the house and struck out across Market Place. This funnels at its north-western corner into Friar Gate, and we were soon walking along that street, which curves in a shallow S-shape as far as the town Bar, where it continues as the Fylde road. Our garden lay to the left of this road, one of three thoroughfares that fork away from the Bar across undulating terrain towards the north and west of the town.
‘Well, in my opinion, to hide the body like that is a barbarous thing! And why, in heaven’s name?’
We were passing Talboys’s shop and I caught a glimpse of the dressmaker at the counter speaking earnestly with a customer, scissors in his hand and a tape-measure draped around his neck. I reminded myself I had not yet told Furzey to place Abigail on our witness list for the inquest.
‘I didn’t say it was there. I said—’
‘But, if it is, everything is explained, Titus. The workmen blocked the soldiers from entering the temple because they knew it contained exactly what the soldiers were seeking.’
‘Yes, but I was given a perfectly plausible—’
‘Titus, they were ready to fight the soldiers.’
We had left Talboys’s behind us and were making good progress down the gentle slope of Friar Gate.
‘Even if they were,’ I replied, ‘which I doubt, the likelihood is they only wanted to prevent their work on the temple being undone.’
‘Building works undone! Is that a cause to give your life for? Is it something to make you face muskets with those spikes stuck on their nozzles?’
‘Bayonets,’ I said mildly. ‘Fixed to their muzzles.’
‘It would have been carnage. Blood running on Squire Brockletower’s lawn. Wounds beyond the skill of any surgeon, even of Dr Fidelis. And more work for the coroner directly after.’
‘As a matter of fact that is just what Timothy Shipkin foresaw while it was happening in front of our eyes. “The churning of milk bringeth forth butter” is what he said.’
‘Butter? That’s an odd remark. What has butter to do with it?’
‘Well, it’s from the Book of Proverbs.’
Elizabeth gave me a slightly wounded look.
‘Oh, Titus! You know very well that I have not been brought up to know the Old Testament as well as you, or Timothy Shipkin.’
So I completed the quotation for her.
‘“And the wringing of the nose bringeth forth blood. So the forcing of wrath bringeth forth strife.” So Timothy was right, in his way. Someone was indeed forcing wrath, but I think it was Sergeant Sutch and his men with their method of searching. The building men had seen the damage soldiers do when they go over a place; they’d been over their camp, after all. And any damage to the temple would have to be put right before Woodley paid out any wages. Then, one of them was struck by a soldier, and not as a joke. Their ire was up against the militia, but they knew the limits of their power. No, if you ask me, this was no more than a case of chained dogs barking.’
‘Well, you were on the spot, Titus. But I do wonder if they were about to let slip their chains.’
‘That would mean they were all party to the conspiracy. And for what reason? Do you think they murdered her too? What have they to do with this affair? Why would they steal and then conceal a body?’
‘Why, to sell it later to an anatomist.’
We were getting close to the limit of the town now, the Friar Gate Bar, near which stood the remains of the Friary itself, which had been adapted as our House of Correction.
‘Perhaps we should talk of other things now,’ I protested, marvelling at my Elizabeth’s readiness to discuss any matter without blushing.
‘No, Titus, if you please, let us talk of this. Did you yourself not believe that selling to an anatomist is the likely motive for the body’s first removal from the Ice-house at the Hall?’
‘I am led to believe, if that were the case, it would not have been buried or concealed, but handed on immediately. Freshness, you know. I really cannot go into detail. But, anyway, besides this fact, I am not aware of any ready purchasers for that sort of merchandise in this town, or anywhere around here.’
‘Yes, you are!’ she retorted fiercely. ‘Dr Dapperwick is a notorious anatomist.’
I had already given Elizabeth an account of Thursday’s visit to Jonathan Dapperwick.
‘Dapperwick is too reclusive,’ I stated. ‘And too crippled in the hands. He could not profit by this.’
‘Then this young assistant of his, the one that he mentioned to you. We do not know who he is, or where he comes from, or anything about him.’
I considered the matter. There was something in what Elizabeth was saying. This young anatomist just might be hot-headed enough to take such a risk. It was impossible to make a judgement until we knew his identity. But it deserved further investigation, I was thinking. Tomorrow, possibly.
We were now through the Bar and had walked up a slight rise past the bowling green, and the windmill, which commands the approach to the town from that direction, and made another fifty yards along the road before arriving at our garden’s gate. I opened the padlock with one of the keys attached to my watch chain and pushed it open. Like all the gardens hereabouts, the half-acre plot was enclosed by high wattle fencing and supported not only vegetable beds and fruit trees but a couple of beehives, a small flock of hens and a dovecote. As always when I came here I looked upon it with satisfaction – a place in which the flow of time became pleasantly sluggish, and the cares of business dissolved like mist in sun.
We got about our business, I to lifting the leeks and Elizabeth the carrots. But after a few minutes, with her basket full enough, she wandered up to inspect the beehives and see how busy their inhabitants were in the spring sunshine. A moment later I heard her scream.
‘Titus! Over here! Titus!’
I got up from my knees and ran towards her. S
he was looking down at the ground behind the hives. A man lay spread out there on his back, with his arms by his sides but his head at a grotesque angle. His eyes stared, and his purple tongue stuck out.
It was the architect Barnabus Woodley.
Chapter Nineteen
BEFORE I COULD stop her, Elizabeth was on her knees beside him, loosening the stock and the shirt at the throat. There was much dirt on the front of the shirt.
‘Please God, let him be alive,’ she prayed. ‘Let him live.’
I moved to her side and knelt in the same way, touching the back of my hand to Woodley’s brow. It was cold as marble.
‘We are much too late. He’s been dead for hours.’
She clapped her hands to her cheeks.
‘It’s Mr Woodley, isn’t it? Oh dear! Oh dear God! Is there really nothing to be done?’
She was in distress, almost crying. I touched her elbow.
‘No, nothing. Come away.’
I drew her to her feet and began walking with her as quickly as she would allow me towards the gate.
‘But why? Why here?’ she protested. ‘Why in our garden? What was he doing here?’
These were the same questions I was asking myself.
‘I don’t know, yet. But I shall find out.’
We reached the gate and went out into the road. I turned her towards me and held her by the upper arms. Her eyes were wide and filling with tears.
‘Don’t cry,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing we can do for Woodley now, except be just to him in death. Go back at once and tell Furzey what’s happened. I’m staying here. We cannot leave the body alone. Furzey will notify the bailiff’s clerk and then help will come. Woodley has to be removed to some suitable place. The House of Correction would do. Tell Furzey to suggest it. Now go!’
When she had gone I went back and stood beside the body, trying to make up my mind about it. One’s response to a death depends on one’s relation to the deceased. Woodley and I had been the next thing to strangers. We had met, but in an entirely superficial encounter, as if making the opening moves in a chess game. They had not revealed Woodley to me as a person, but only as a rather strange type, and one I had not liked very much. But now the sight of his corpse, inside its blue coat, prodded my conscience. The remarkable wig was missing, revealing a head of brown hair pulled into a pigtail at the nape. Poor histrionic Woodley. If the world’s a stage, he had fallen through the trapdoor in mid-performance.
