A Dark Anatomy

by Robin Blake

  ‘Let’s just get on with the business,’ I said, seizing a clean sheet of paper and handing it to him. ‘Please draft a warrant for Dr Fidelis authorizing a post-mortem examination on Mrs Brockletower’s body.’

  I waited while he did it, then sealed and signed the warrant and crooked my finger at young Jonah Marsden, in the public seats, to come out to me.

  ‘Run with this to the Ice-house at Garlick Hall,’ I told the boy. ‘Give it straight into Dr Fidelis’s hands, and nobody else’s, mind!’

  When he had gone I held out my hand to Furzey.

  ‘We must proceed. Have you the list of witnesses?’

  From the bundle of papers before him my clerk extracted a sheet on which he had noted those whom I intended to call, listed in order. With this in my hand I shooed away the musical trio, supervised the restitution of the witnesses’ chairs in neat rows, sent word into the inn that the inquest was about to resume, and rang my bell for order.

  It took a little longer, and several more shakes of the bell, before everyone was seated, the doors were banged shut and we were ready to get started again.

  My father, as learned an antiquary as he was in the law, taught me that the English inquest and the coroner who presides over it, are very ancient institutions, with origins fogged by time. The proceedings therefore rest not on codices and legal precedents but on real remembered events. So, as far as possible, I liked to design my inquests as a teller shapes a tale. To put that another way, an inquest is a kind of play whose theme should catch and hold the attention of the jury and the public from the very start. The proper way is not to plunge straight in with the ultimate question – who killed Cock Robin? The inquest starts with the circumstance prompting the question: that Cock Robin has been found as a corpse, in such-and-such a place and manner. It starts, in other words, with the testimony of Cock Robin’s first-finder.

  Accordingly, Timothy Shipkin now stepped onto the stand, and was sworn. For a man with no particular position in society, he cut a confident, even an imposing figure as he took the oath. The audience was so rapt that the scrape of Furzey’s pen could be clearly heard as I led Shipkin through his movements after dawn on the Tuesday of the previous week. Although it was not my business to try to prove the man a liar, the court needed above all to be sure that he was telling the truth. But probe as I might into how the body was disposed, whether he moved or interfered with it, whether there was any knife or razor to be seen beside the body, or signs of anyone else at the scene, his account in the courtroom tallied precisely with what he had already told me of these questions. He was a model of steadiness in all he spoke.

  The jury and public nodded their heads as one when Shipkin described himself doing something they approved of, but broke out into murmurs of dismay when something untoward came up, as when he described the victim’s wounded neck.

  In retrospect I wish I had not asked my last question. I put it to him with a wish to clear the air, but it had the opposite effect.

  ‘Before letting you go, there is just one more matter, Mr Shipkin. You are aware, are you not, of the talk in this neighbourhood of some supernatural element in these events?’

  The witness’s sharp-set eyes glowed, as if by fire shining through ice.

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’

  ‘And that the subsequent disappearance of the body of Mrs Brockletower gave a certain credibility to the idea?’

  ‘Some said so.’

  ‘Were you one of those yourself?’

  ‘You know I were, Coroner. I told you it.’

  ‘So you did. But now that the corpse is found being carried away by a man, not a devil, do you not modify your ideas?’

  For a few moments he looked at me, and then turned his flashing eyes towards the jury.

  ‘I stand by them,’ he said. ‘I say the woman was killed by the demon Asmodeus, seven times destroyer of wedlock, as the Book of Tobit tells us. She was brought away from her resting place by a man right enough, but a strange one, touched in his body and his head by the diabolic influence of Asmodeus. So I think.’

  He turned back to me and repeated defiantly, ‘So I think.’ Shipkin’s invocation of Asmodeus had sent a ripple of excitement through the jury, and the entire room. I saw the reserve juror, Tom Avery, cast a glance sideways at his neighbour, meaning he’d known this from the start. But the murmuring was not all of the same kind. Perhaps half of those present, no doubt the less educated and less rational portion, were with Tom Avery, both thrilled and terrified by Shipkin’s claim. The others I guessed were as sceptical as I. The squire, seething rather than sceptical, was pursing his lips as if ready to empty his lungs through them.

  ‘That is not a fact, Mr Shipkin,’ I said as resoundingly as I could. ‘It is an opinion, and one based on an apocryphal tale.’

  I turned to the jury and raked them with a warning look.

  ‘Therefore it is not evidence. You jurors must discount it. Mr Furzey, you will note that in the record, if you please.’

  The scratch of Furzey’s writing was lost under one or two cries of dissent from the back of the room. Taking no heed, I excused Shipkin and he left the stand. Next up was William Pearson.

  The head groom of Garlick Hall began by describing what had happened early on that Tuesday morning: how he had prepared Mrs Brockletower’s riding horse, Molly, how she had ridden off alone, and how (roughly an hour later) the horse had returned without her, with blood on her mane and neck. He had ordered searches by all men that could be found in the yard and house, including Timothy Shipkin, who had been in the kitchen. He said he knew the direction in which the lady might have headed and asked should he walk up there? Pearson told him to do so. Forty-five minutes later Shipkin returned with the news that he had found the mistress’s body under the old oak, whereupon Mrs Marsden wrote a letter to me, which was sent by hand of her grandson, while Pearson sent a small group of estate and house servants to the woods to watch over the body until my arrival.

  Bethany Marsden sat down next in the chair and confirmed Pearson’s evidence in every respect. When I asked about Mrs Brockletower’s demeanour in the days before her death, she repeated what I myself had heard when questioning the servants on the day of the event itself. Her mistress had been fractious, vexed, peremptory and preoccupied. When I asked why, she could only pull a perplexed face. She did not know.

  I released her, dipped my pen in ink and ran a line through her name on the paper. Some noise in the hall distracted me and I looked up to see Mallender’s unwieldy form making its way towards two unoccupied chairs. Meanwhile, I consulted my witness list. The next name was that of Woodley, but of course he would now be the subject of his own investigation.

  Then came the squire. I looked up at him, sitting rigidly and silent beside his sister in the front rank of chairs. By contrast, he had been anything but immobile during the evidence of the two witnesses heard so far, fiddling and shifting restlessly about, his face set in a scowl. Knowing this would not be an easy passage of evidence, I braced myself and said, ‘Mr Brockletower. Come forward, if you please, sir.’

  At this there was a collective sigh of satisfaction from the audience. This was the evidence, above all, that they had come to hear. This was the prurient peep into the life of the wealthy and powerful that they craved. For the next few minutes not a sound would come from them as they followed every nuance, every jot and tittle of the proceedings.

  Brockletower took the oath in the acid manner of a schoolmaster reading a list of his pupils’ misdemeanours.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Brockletower,’ I said. ‘Now, please would you tell us when you last saw Mrs Brockletower?’

  ‘Morning of the 10th of March, Monday. I was leaving for York. She was preparing for her usual early morning ride.’

  ‘How long did you plan to be away?’

  ‘I intended to be back by the 17th, Monday.’

  ‘But you did not in fact return until the 18th?’

  ‘No. I made an unplanned visit
to Settle on the way back, after sending my man home ahead of me.’

  ‘What was your business in York?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘But it is this court’s business. Was it to look at horses?’

  ‘You already appear to know, so why do you ask? Yes, it was.’

  ‘Only that?’

  ‘Only that.’

  ‘Not to meet the Archbishop of York?’

  He looked startled.

  ‘How did you—?’

  ‘You did meet Archbishop Blackburne, did you not?’

  ‘Yes. Paid a call. Nothing unusual there. He’s my relative. A matter of courtesy.’

  ‘Very well. Coming back to your wife for a moment, you have heard Mrs Marsden say that she was ill-tempered on that day, the day you were to return. Can you think why that may have been?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘One would think she would be happy rather than angry on that day of all days … the day on which her husband was due to return home, after a week’s absence.’

  ‘Would one? You speak for yourself.’

  I took a deep breath. There was nothing for it but to plunge.

  ‘I must put it to you plainly, sir. Was your wife unhappy in her marriage, Mr Brockletower? Were you unhappy?’

  The effect of my question was everything an expectant audience could hope for. The Squire of Garlick’s face suddenly flushed with blood. He rose to his feet in a paroxysm of anger and brandished his fist.

  ‘That’s an insolent question, by God! It is beyond all propriety. It is the question of a damned blaggard.’

  He held the stance, with his fist upraised. The room had fallen utterly silent, as if even to breathe would be enough to staunch the flow of the drama.

  ‘Regretfully, I can only repeat it, Mr Brockletower,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that the real reason you went to York?’

  ‘Of course it was not!’ Brockletower thundered.

  ‘Was not your journey in reality to seek the archbishop’s advice?’

  ‘Advice? Advice? About what, sir?’

  ‘About—’

  I never finished my sentence. At that moment the door of the room burst open and Fidelis’s temporary assistant, the young painter George, burst in at a run. The door bounced off the wall and the bang brought the entire room out of its trance. Everyone craned round to see the cause of the disturbance, whispering and exclaiming in frustration.

  ‘Message!’ George gasped. ‘Message for the coroner!’

  He looked up and down the room, his cheeks strawberry red from exertion. He must have run all the way from Garlick. As soon as he spotted me he began striding down the room between the audience and the wall, his boots booming on the bare floorboards. Reaching the table he held out a folded paper on which I recognized the handwriting of Luke Fidelis.

  ‘You must come, Coroner,’ he panted. ‘You must come at once, Doctor says.’

  I took the note from his fingers. In the side of my vision I saw that Ramilles Brockletower had slumped back into the witness chair. He pressed his face into his hands and gave a groan as, slowly and deliberately, I began unfolding the paper.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I READ:

  Dear Titus,

  Something utterly unforeseen has appeared, and

  everything is changed. I urge you to adjourn and come

  to the Ice-house. Adjourn until tomorrow at the earliest

  because this extraordinary turn will require some

  consideration. And come alone, except for George.

  But come quickly! Luke.

  I made no attempt to complete the suggestion I’d been putting to the squire in the witness-chair, but immediately stood up with Fidelis’s paper in my hand and addressed the court. A contingency, I announced, had occurred that regrettably forced an adjournment until the next day. There was a brief flutter of comment. I ordered the jury to return at nine and (with faint hope of their compliance) to discuss the matter with no one in the meantime; the squire and other unheard witnesses I asked also to return; the public I cordially invited back; and Furzey I directed to lock the room as soon as it was vacated. Then I gave a final ring of my bell, abandoned my place, and strode out rapidly with young George scurrying along behind.

  Everyone present had been awed at this sudden histrionic suspension of the inquest. As I rode out of the inn’s stable yard five minutes later, with the apprentice painter sitting up behind, hardly anyone noticed our departure, so vigorously were they debating events as they spilled out of Wigglesworth’s room and into the sunshine. So we headed off, neither questioned nor pursued.

  ‘So what is this, George? What has happened?’ I asked as we cleared the village and took the road to Garlick Hall.

  ‘Doctor Fidelis says I’m not to tell, sir, but to let him.’

  ‘I must be patient, then.’

  But the way in which I dug my heels into the horse’s flanks was anything but patient.

  Luke Fidelis was slight and, with his thin face and wispy fair hair, not a commanding figure in a physical way. But at this moment, standing in his bulky leather apron before the steps that led down to the door of the half-submerged Ice-house, he looked as grim and substantial as a slaughterman. Beneath his cool greeting I discerned enigmatic, inner puzzlement.

  ‘What in heaven’s name is this, Luke?’ I called as I sprang to earth. ‘Where are the guards? I hope you are not going to tell me we have lost Mrs Brockletower for a second time.’

  I meant this to be jocular. His reply brought me up short.

  ‘I wanted the guards out of the way. They are down at the house drinking beer. And as for Mrs Brockletower, we have, in a way, lost her.’

  ‘Lost her? Luke, what has happened? Is the body gone?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No. It lies where you last saw it.’

  ‘Thank heaven. Don’t joke with me.’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Then tell me what you mean.’

  Fidelis shook his head.

  ‘I won’t tell you. I’ll show you. Come inside.’

  We filed down the strait sunken passage between the two doors. It was no longer a novelty for me to enter the Ice-house, but I still felt the chill invading my soul as well as my clothing and skin.

  I saw in the lamplight that the table was covered with the same horse blanket we had used when first bringing the litter and its burden here a week ago. The litter had been taken away. So had the long canvas holdall that Solomon had used to transport the corpse. But in a pile, roughly folded on top of an ice basket, I saw the red skirt, black bodice and assorted white underclothes that Dolores Brockletower wore, in a pile topped by the boots that Abel Plint had so admired. I found the sight of Dolores’s clothing affecting in a way that was hardly rational. I glanced back at the table and realized that now the contours and outline of the thing beneath it were even more sharply and evidently those of a human being.

  Luke took up his position on one flank of the table and motioned me to stand opposite, with the boy artist at the foot.

  ‘Be prepared, Titus,’ he warned, taking hold of the edge of the blanket that lay above the head. ‘This is something I cannot explain.’

  Slowly he drew down the blanket, first showing the mottled and glacial face. He gestured at it, as if in question.

  ‘This is her face,’ I whispered. ‘Dolores Brockletower.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Luke replied. ‘But wait.’

  He continued to draw the blanket down, past the neck, wounded and black-gashed, the shoulders, and the breasts. These had perhaps lost some of their tone post-mortem, for they sagged to this side and that, and were mottled and marbled by decomposition. Making no comment, Luke continued to draw the covering away from the ribs, navel-knot and belly, where, for just a moment, Fidelis rested. I contemplated the torso. There was no jagged, roughly sewn wound from breastbone to abdomen, such as had always previously appeared when such examinations were ordered.<
br />
  ‘You are playing with me, Luke,’ I whispered again. ‘How can you have found anything? She is not cut open yet.’

  Fidelis smiled thinly.

  ‘You say “she”. Who is “she”?’

  ‘This dead woman, of course!’

  ‘A dead woman? Judge for yourself!’

  With something of an actor’s flourish he swept the blanket entirely away, whirling it up and casting it aside in one movement to reveal the remains of Dolores Brockletower lying before us on the table, stark naked from head to foot.

  ‘Good God in heaven!’ I cried.

  I looked down in disbelief, and then up at the torso, and again down below. How shall I put this? At the fork of the legs was not what belongs to any woman. What we saw there was small and perhaps ill-formed. But it was, beyond dispute, that of a man.

  It was indeed an extraordinary, unforeseen turn, and unforeseen is the raw head and bloody bones of legal epithets. Every lawyer knows this: random events are the sworn enemy of diligent casework. The higher your stack of precedents, the more vulnerable it is to toppling by the salvoes of chance.

  ‘You are the doctor, and the natural philosopher,’ I said a few minutes later in the open air. ‘So what is it we have just seen in there – a male, or a female?’

  After the astonishing revelation of the Ice-house we did not linger, but came out immediately, being careful to lock the door behind us. I posed my question while sitting with my friend on a fallen branch that lay in a pool of sunlight between fruit trees. The spot was a little higher up the sloping orchard looking down over the Ice-house towards the yards, outbuildings and rear facade of Garlick Hall. I was grateful to be warmed by the sun after the severe jarring I had just received.

  I would have been gladder still of the comfort of an answer to my question, but for once my friend was at a loss.

  ‘I simply cannot say,’ admitted Fidelis. ‘I am helpless. I have seen many deformities in my time, but never one like this. A woman who is at the same time a man, a man that is also a woman. That is natural madness.’