by Robin Blake
We had ridden for a while behind the jurors’ carriage, when Luke asked airily, ‘How did you know we would find those blades in the hollow tree, by the way? I am rather crestfallen that I did not reach the solution before you.’
‘I knew she had asked for a line. And her dressmaker had lost a pair of scissors on the day she had been in the shop. Perhaps these things, and the discarded horseshoe they found near her body, might have led me earlier to the discovery. But none of it made sense until this morning. I saw the woodsman’s lifting machine, and remembered the death of poor Solomon.’
‘Ah yes, I see. All instances of Archimedes’s mathematics. Pulleys. The association of ideas really is the father of all genius, isn’t it?’
‘Well, we know she killed herself. The question now is, do I publicize exactly why she did it? Do we need to tell her very particular secret?’
‘What harm does it do? The unhappy couple are both dead.’
‘There may be harm to this little commonwealth, of which we are all members. Its survival requires order and stability, Luke, in its general mind as well as in its body. Some truths can make folk doubt the divine order, and shake their faith in the future. Knowing this anomaly has been in our midst … well, it is – or it might be – destabilizing.’
‘But truth must be told, Titus, surely!’
My friend sounded shocked.
‘There are many truths in a single circumstance,’ I said firmly. ‘I am of the opinion that not all of them must be told. The strictly material truth shall out. Let’s confine ourselves to that, and just leave aside the matter of Dolores’s … ambiguous anatomy. Do you agree?’
Luke was silent. He was pulling at a moral knot, trying to loosen it. Finally he said, in a wounded voice, ‘I could publish this as a paper to the Royal Society. It could make my name in London.’
‘London is a fine place,’ I conceded, ‘but it is not where we live.’
He reflected a little longer and then sighed deeply.
‘Very well. I shall find another way to conquer London.’
‘Thank you, Luke. Only four remain who know about this matter: you, me, George and Dapperwick. Dapperwick never goes anywhere or sees anyone, and is thought to be half crazy. But what about George? Will he keep his word never to speak of this?’
‘George is a paragon of discretion, Titus. And he does not come often to this town.’
‘Where you and I shall keep the truth between ourselves. That’s good, because I intend to call you at the inquest to explain in your most lucid terms what we found inside the tree, and what it means.’
‘That Dolores Brockletower killed herself because she was mad for a child, but did it in this peculiar way by being afraid of condemnation as a suicide.’
‘Yes and further – and I rely on you for this – that Ramilles Brockletower died by accident. It must be so, Luke, for his sister Sarah’s sake.’
‘And for the sakes of Grimshaw’s cousins,’ he added drily.
‘That can’t be helped,’ I said.
Back at the Plough’s public room, there was none of the previous day’s jollifying. What had happened was too enormous, with implications for every other family in the area. Grimshaw was there again, as we had felt sure he would be. So was Sarah.
There were only two more pieces of evidence to hear. The first was that of Abigail Talboys, and she came to the witness chair looking calm and resolute. She gave her evidence in a firm clear voice, according to the terms we had agreed. Without mention of her pregnancy, she stated as a fact that Mrs Brockletower had repeatedly lamented her childlessness, and even mentioned adoption, during their private fittings at the shop on Friar Gate. I thanked her and let her step down, before calling Luke Fidelis.
‘She bled to death after receiving a slashing injury to the throat,’ he replied.
‘Was there any indication of how this was done?’
‘It must have been by a sharp blade, drawn from left to right, like this.’
He mimed with his finger the movement of the blade just as young Jonah had done in my parlour on that first morning.
‘Was it done by human agency?’
‘Undoubtedly. It could not have been brought about otherwise. ’
‘And were there any other conclusions about this unfortunate death that your medical knowledge leads you to?’
Luke shook his head.
‘No. Not from medical knowledge. But from discoveries made inside the hollow tree beside which she fell, I can say without doubt that she died by her own hand.’
The public gave a collective gasp, exchanging shocked glances.
‘Will you explain, please, Dr Fidelis?’ I asked.
So he did, carefully taking the court through Dolores Brockletower’s preparations, and then her execution of the plan she had made.
‘This will seem to many an extraordinary and elaborate procedure, ’ I remarked. ‘Can you think of any motive for a person to follow it?’
‘I can think of two. One would be to cast suspicion upon someone else. If no weapon is found beside the body the investigators would naturally think of an attack by another party. Another motive would be to prevent an inquest – this inquest for example – from bringing in a verdict of suicide.’
I turned then to the matter of Squire Brockletower, inviting the doctor to give his opinion as to the squire’s death. He thought that death had been accidental, a seizure of the brain following directly and causally from the earlier injury to his head, causing him to fall from his horse and discharge the pistol in his pocket. That it had happened at the same place where Dolores had died was a coincidence, though, as he put it, ‘I cannot discount the possibility that, when he visited the place of his wife’s demise, a sudden excess of emotion tipped his damaged brain into seizure.’
So I let him down and turned to the jury, summarizing all the events and relating my own experience in the room at the Turk’s Head. Having seen the bodies, and having heard this and all the other evidence, I told them they must now put their heads together and consider verdicts on the two deaths before them.
‘You may be led to the conclusion,’ I warned, ‘that they died by their own hands. Or you may think it was by the hands of another. If by those of another, and you cannot name the owner of those hands, you should say it was done by a person or persons unknown. If you think it was done by their own hands, I ask you to consider very carefully whether they were in their right mind. There is a very large difference in the consequences, not just for the mortal remains of the deceased but for the prospects of their surviving relatives, between on the one hand a verdict of premeditated self-murder, and on the other of suicide whilst insane.’
I glanced meaningfully towards Sarah, fully intending that the jury noticed the direction of my gaze. She was sitting forward in her chair, her face tilted upwards, as she listened attentively to my words.
‘Go now to the room Mr Wigglesworth has prepared for you. I have asked him to provide some refreshments there, but do not allow the pleasures of eating and drinking to delay or interfere with your verdicts.’
With the twelve principal jurymen gathered in conclave inside the inn parlour, the public audience in the hall began their own speculations upon the issue. This debate, which started like the whisper of wind in the reeds, swelled by imperceptible increments until, after ten minutes, it had become a zoological roar. I did not interfere, preferring to dictate to Furzey some notes towards my inquest report, sketching in the general background to the case such as would have to be included irrespective of the final verdicts – though I was confident that I knew what these would be.
After thirty minutes, as I was still dictating, the room suddenly quietened, and then fell completely silent. George Pennyfold had come in and was asking to speak with me. I took him into a corner and we whispered together, while the entire public watched us, trying to discern from our movements and posture what was being said.
‘We have agreed on the squire,’ Pennyfold mur
mured into my ear. ‘But we are split over his wife.’
‘You must be unanimous,’ I told him. ‘You must somehow find a safe verdict on which you can all agree.’
‘I don’t know how we may do that,’ he complained. ‘Our differences are great.’
‘You must exercise leadership, George. You are foreman. Marshal the arguments, persuade the doubters. I can’t help you further, except on legalities. Otherwise I’ve done my part and it’s for you and your fellows alone to decide the question. But no one here wants a prolonged wrangle, and certainly not a hung jury. So remember: leadership’s the word!’
He nodded his head, walked back the length of the room and out to rejoin the others in the parlour. I thought Pennyfold a sensible, opinionated man whose opinions would coincide with my own. I also considered an initially divided jury was good: it seemed more likely that, when they did settle on something, it would be an ameliorative verdict – the very kind I was hoping for.
When, forty minutes later, they came back at last and arrayed themselves in the jury seats, their faces told me they had done something momentous.
‘Well? Have you agreed?’ I asked George.
Pennyfold stood up.
‘We have.’
At this moment the foreman looked peculiarly imperious. His nostrils were flared, his back erect, as he looked around the room like an actor surveying his audience, or a general his army.
‘In that case, will you first give me your verdict on the death of Ramilles Brockletower?’
Pennyfold briefly cleared his throat and spoke, his voice resounding from every corner of the room.
‘Our verdict is accidental death. We think the pistol discharged itself as he struck the ground, and fatally wounded him.’
Good, I thought. Very good. And, by its approving murmurs, it seemed the public agreed with me. I checked that Furzey had recorded the verdict and went on.
‘And now your decision on Dolores Brockletower, please.’
The foreman cleared his throat again, more thoroughly this time, and intoned.
‘We are of the opinion, sir, that she committed self-murder, after long premeditation and in full possession of her reason.’
As a wave of comment washed around the room, I am not sure if my jaw did not drop a fraction, or if my eyes did not shut for a second longer than would be natural in a blink. It was clear anyway that I had misread George Pennyfold. If he had exercised his leadership as strongly as I hoped, it could not have been in the cause of my private hopes. Dolores Brockletower had been condemned for felo de se without mitigation, and there was nothing I could do about it.
The public was immediately twittering like starlings in reaction. Sarah showed no emotion, but the bailiff was looking this way and that, unsure of what the verdicts meant for the prospects of his cousin. I rose to my feet and waited for silence. Then I said the words that I had to say.
‘Thank you, foreman and your fellow jurymen. In view of these two verdicts I pronounce that Ramilles Brockletower be eligible for Christian burial. His property is not forfeit to the crown. However, Dolores Brockletower has been found a rational self-murderess and I must accordingly declare that her personal fortune, whatsoever it be, shall not form part of Mr Brockletower’s estate, but pass instead to the crown. I further direct that she be buried in unconsecrated ground, in the manner prescribed by the law. As for you, I enjoin you to speak in no way, to any person whatsoever, of your deliberations this afternoon. And so you are dismissed and this inquest is closed.’
In twos and threes the jury rose, yawning and stretching and looking about them for their relatives and friends among the public, amongst whom the starling discourse had fiercely resumed. I hurried from my place and caught George Pennyfold by the arm.
‘What on earth persuaded you she killed herself in reason, and with forethought?’ I asked, drawing him away from the others.
‘I didn’t want it, Mr Cragg,’ he said. ‘I agree with you that suicide is rarely a rational act, and that the punishments it draws are not in proportion. Like you I would have preferred a verdict of accident, or madness, to avoid what must follow a finding of self-murder. But we witnessed your discoveries inside the tree. We know what she did.’
‘But still you could have found her mad, surely.’
Pennyfold shook his head.
‘No. There was clear forethought, and undoubted reason. Mrs Brockletower was not mad for want of a child, but angry with her husband. And your discovery showed she had coldly calculated and prepared a means of killing herself that would, as she hoped, incriminate him.’
‘So you saw her as perverted, but not insane?’
‘Yes. And to have behaved with unmixed wickedness. I’m right sorry, Coroner, but that is how we all saw it in the end.’
I patted his arm consolingly. There was little point in reproaching him.
‘Don’t be. Go on, back to your forge. There must be many a horseshoe waiting to be bent.’
‘So!’ exclaimed Elizabeth, ‘Dolores Brockletower killed herself just to trap her husband! She hated him so much she wanted to see him hang.’
We were sitting side by side in bed, my wife’s head resting on my shoulder, and I had just told her of the jury’s decision, and of our discoveries inside the hollow tree earlier that morning.
‘It’s what the jury concluded,’ I confirmed. ‘Of course, she could only see that outcome from a seat in the hottest room in hell.’
‘It is mad indeed to wish for one’s own damnation, Titus, in whatever cause.’
‘I wish the jury had found her mad,’ I said. ‘That would have allowed her a Christian burial and saved her fortune for the family. But the plans she hatched were in such detail that the jury was convinced of her rationality.’
‘She was jealous of the architect Woodley, you say. I do not think jealousy is rational, Titus. It made Othello mad in the play.’
‘I agree, but I’m not sure it was only jealousy that drove her. A storm of competing furies raged in her mind. One of them came from her childlessness, too, I believe.’
Elizabeth looked at me, with sudden concern. I put my hand gently up and stroked her cheek.
‘Do not distress yourself, my love. The Brockletowers’ case was not at all like … like anybody else’s. You see, Luke Fidelis made a discovery about Dolores that means she always knew she could not conceive. By marrying him she embarked on a course of wicked deception – or was it merely a desperate contrivance to escape from her bad life in Jamaica? I wonder about that.’
‘What do you mean, her bad life?’
And so, because there could be no secrets between us, I told my wife about Luke Fidelis’s post-mortem discovery, and the outburst of her husband in his library, when he described to me the circumstances of their meeting. Elizabeth sat up. Her hands went to her face. Her eyes widened in disbelief.
‘Dolores was not a woman?’ she gasped.
‘Not entirely, no.’
‘She was a man?’
‘Not quite that, either. She was hermaphrodite, according to Dr Dapperwick – half man, half woman. He is an authority in such things.’
‘Such things? Are there such things? Oh Lord, a monster, a foul mistake of nature. Poor Dolores, poor thing. How she must have suffered!’
We fell silent for a while, Elizabeth sitting still as a funerary monument, staring at the counterpane. Then she roused herself again.
‘So what is Sarah Brockletower’s position now, Titus?’
‘She loses Dolores’s fortune, settled on her by the father in Jamaica. But I have had Furzey check on the quiet with the clerk at Rudgewick & Tench, and by the squire’s will, she has a life interest in Garlick Hall, but without any responsibility for her brother’s debts. They will be in the care of the bailiff’s wretched cousin in Lancaster.’
‘I’m glad of it,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It doesn’t matter that the sugar fortune is lost. My father would say it is tainted money, anyway, because it is earned by the slave
system, which he always says is unjust. But now, at least, she will continue to have a home. Yes, I know she once meant something to you, Titus, and it does you credit that you still care for her future well-being.’
How many women would have such clear-headed charity? I told her I loved her for it, adding, ‘But the whole thing leaves me with a very melancholy duty to perform, which will be hard to bear.’
‘I hope it is not something very unpleasant.’
‘I’m afraid it is. That is why these days there are so few verdicts of self-murder.’
And when I told her what had to be done, she crossed herself three times.
‘The angels and saints preserve us against such barbarism!’
‘We must hope they will. But there is nothing the saints can do for Dolores Brockletower, at all events. It is too late.’
And so I kissed her, then reached over and snuffed out the light.
Chapter Thirty-one
AS WE MADE our way along the Moor Road, with the axle of the cart that bore the coffin squealing and its rusty wheel hoops grinding over the stony sections, we glimpsed Robert Crowther standing up ahead on a rise in the ground. His form was silhouetted against the full moon, with hands on his spade, and head bowed. No doubt he was only resting, but he looked like a sentry mourning at the corner of a royal catafalque. As we came up to him we saw that he had chosen a spot at which a bridle-path intersects with the road, making a crossroads of a kind, for the unmarked resting place of Dolores Brockletower. I pulled out my watch and, tilting the face to catch the moonlight, read the time: a quarter before midnight.
‘How do, Coroner?’ said Crowther, tipping but not removing his hat.
I gave him how-do in return and dismounted.
‘The digging is finished?’ I asked.
‘Aye. Once I got through the heather roots it made easy work. Just the one big stone to shift.’
We had set out from Market Place twenty minutes earlier, with me riding a few yards in the lead of Dolores’s pitiful cortège. This was made up of the decayed Corporation cart, with its equally old horses, and similarly decrepit driver, whose name was Wintly; Sergeant Sutch and a fusilier from Lord Derby’s regiment in military support; and, bringing up the rear, the hangman, Stonecross from Lancaster, who had ridden down during the day to perform his duty. Waiting for them to catch me up, I stood beside Crowther and we looked together down into the grave, a deep, black, wet slot that even this moon, high and round, could not penetrate. I had a sudden apprehension of a bottomless hole which, if one fell in, would tumble you all the way to hell.
