“Mr. Hemming! I call Mr. George Hemming!”
The stir of speculation throughout the room was considerable. Lacking a gavel, Mr. Tivey hammered upon the table with the flat of his broad palm. “Very well—then I call Mr. Edward Cooper, clergyman of Hams tall Ridware!”
My cousin opened his mouth and began to sing.
He made his way in stately procession to the head of the airless room, his eyes uplifted to the rafters, and his face beatified. The lowness of the public room’s ceiling rather spoiled the effect; but his strains carried into every available corner in a most gratifying way. I thought I should sink under the misery of Mr. Cooper’s example, but that I was a stranger to most of the observers present. He took his place in the witness’s chair, and gazed solemnly at the assembly as he concluded his first verse. I felt sure that he intended to go on with a second—he filled his lungs with air—but Mr. Tivey swooped down to administer the oath, and forestalled another chorus of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”
In answer to the Coroner’s questions, Mr. Cooper related how he had retrieved the body in the company of the miller and his friend Mr. Hemming, and how our party had conveyed its sad burden into Bakewell. He made no mention of Mr. Hemming’s extreme reluctance to do so, and from this, I determined that my cousin was anxious on his friend’s behalf as well. Mr. Tivey addressed some further questions, regarding time elapsed between my discovery of the body, and its conveyance into Water Street; and then dismissed Mr. Cooper, who retreated to his seat in fulsome song.
Mr. Tivey pounded upon his table.
My cousin bowed his head in supplication, but happily ceased his caroling.
Black brows drawn down over his harshly-graven features, Mr. Tivey paused to compose his thoughts.
“As the surgeon called in attendance upon Deceased,” he informed the jury, “I proceeded to examine the corpse. It is well known by now that my first discovery was an interesting one—namely, that Deceased was not a young gentleman of unknown origin, but a maidservant by the name of Tess Arnold—” At this, a murmur arose from the assembled townsfolk, more of satisfaction at having previously possessed the remarkable intelligence than any surprise at its publication. Mr. Tivey stared balefully at the crowd. He refused to speak further until the comment had subsided.
“The maid Arnold belonged to Penfolds Hall, the estate of Mr. Charles Danforth, near Tideswell. It will be observed that Tideswell is little over a mile north of Miller’s Dale, an easy enough distance for an accomplished walker.
“Deceased had suffered grievous harm. As the previous witnesses have described, her tongue was cut out and her entrails torn from her body. It is my opinion, however, that these dreadful wounds were inflicted after death.”
This had the power to surprise me; and it spurred a further wave of murmuring in Jacob Patter’s inn. Few in Bakewell had known the Coroner’s judgement, it would seem. Mr. Tivey’s dark eyes glittered with satisfaction.
“The blood observed to be congealed in such amounts did not flow directly from the mouth or abdomen—although the marks of blood were on them—but from the wound to the head created by the lead ball. The shot, I believe, was fired from a fowling piece at some remove from Deceased. From the condition of the body when I viewed it at one o’clock Tuesday, I should judge the girl was killed the previous night—but when exactly she was killed, who can say? Certainly not Michael Tivey.”
That Tess Arnold should have died from the firing of a gun some distance from herself, while climbing about the rocks above Miller’s Dale in the utter dark, defied belief. I had comforted myself with the notion that only a madman could have destroyed the maid—but no madman had aimed the piece that killed her. Only a most accomplished marksman could effect such a shot; the calculation and coolness necessary for the deed’s success, argued premeditation. And once the girl was dead—why cut out her tongue and bowels? Here was a tangle, indeed.
The Coroner sat back with a grin, very well pleased by his own performance. The recital was calculated to excite the townspeople in Jacob Patter’s public house; it was for this that they had come. They were mostly common folk, of the sort that might have claimed Tess Arnold’s station; and they were mostly men. Their faces were burnt brown by the sun, and their nankeen breeches, though generally clean, were worn and mended in places. They had greeted the witnesses’ accounts with a stolid gravity—but Mr. Tivey’s gruesome testimony must be apprehended and exclaimed over.
The few women in the room must draw my interest, from the singularity of their presence. They were four in number: the first, a respectable-looking individual with a tight mouth, shrewd eyes, and a gown of dark grey, worn less in respect of Deceased, I surmised, than as a matter of custom. She sat apart from the other three, with her gloved hands laced tightly through the strings of her reticule; her posture was exceedingly upright. She looked neither to right nor left, but kept her eyes fixed upon Mr. Tivey at his table.
The remaining women formed a loose knot at the head of the room, barely a yard removed from the Coroner’s panel. The eldest—a crone whose crazed, unfocused stare betrayed her blindness—was undoubtedly Betty Arnold, the maid’s mother. The girl to her right was disposed to maintain a determined weeping, and I utterly failed to glimpse her face, it being smothered by a large checked handkerchief throughout the proceeding. The young woman to the left kept her hand firmly on the old woman’s elbow and stared malevolently at Mr. Tivey, her face like stone and her cold eyes unblinking. What was she, then? Friend of the bosom or sister to Tess Arnold? Her profile was fine, and I thought I traced a semblance of the dead girl’s features—until she turned, and I saw that her face was utterly disfigured by a wine-coloured stain that mottled one cheek.
“Pray allow Mr. Charles Danforth to approach the panel,” Mr. Tivey intoned.
I turned my head, in company with every other person in the chamber—and watched as Tess Arnold’s employer made his slow progress towards the coroner. He was perhaps five-or six-and-thirty, a man not above medium height, with powerful shoulders encased in a well-cut green coat of superfine; his hair was chestnut, and his features regular. An expression of pain was writ upon his brow, however; and he walked with the aid of a stout length of oak. The widower Charles Danforth—handsome, rich, and the object of either a curse or a singular run of bad luck in his personal affairs—was also lame.
“Tha’rt Mr. Charles Danforth of Penfolds Hall?” Mr. Tivey enquired.
“I am.” The voice was surprising in its depth—a rich voice of decided timbre, the voice of politics or of God; but there was a languor about the man that suggested illness or deep sorrow. Little of a worldly nature was capable of stirring Charles Danforth’s passion.
“And Tha’ held the maid Tess Arnold in thy employ?”
“I did. She was raised on the estate during my father’s time, and entered into service at the age of twelve.”
“That would be ten years ago, Mr. Danforth?”
“Closer to twelve or thirteen, I imagine.”
“And did she give satisfaction?”
“So far as I could tell,” he replied indifferently. “Mrs. Danforth—my late wife—and the housekeeper were responsible for the management of servants’ affairs, as I was often absent on business a good part of the year.”
“Very well. Would Tha’ describe for the panel what Tha’ did on Monday evening?”
“I dined early, and at home,” he said slowly, “and retired around ten o’clock.”
“What does Tha’ regard as early, Mr. Danforth?”
The gentleman gave the barest suggestion of a shrug. “Five o’clock.”
“And between the hours of five o’clock and ten o’clock Tha’ stopped at home, alone?”
“Certainly not. Monday is the night upon which it is customary for the Masonic lodge to meet”—a low rumble, as of great guns fired upon a distant front, moved through the room—“and it was for this reason I dined early.”
“Tha’ went to the Freemasons
’ meeting?” If words may be said to pounce, then Michael Tivey’s all but seized hold of Mr. Danforth’s neck. The gentleman appeared impervious to the sensation his words must cause.
“Of course. I should judge that I left the Hall on horseback at six o’clock, and reached the Lodge—it is on the Buxton road, perhaps three miles out of Buxton itself—around half-past the hour.”
“Very well,” Mr. Tivey said expansively. “Mr. Danforth admits to forming one of that insidious cabal; he admits to entering the Lodge. I will not ask him what he did there—I know he is sworn never to divulge the workings of his brother Masons. But perhaps he will tell the panel when he quitted that fearsome place.”
“Fearsome?” Mr. Danforth repeated. “Whatever are you saying, man? That stretch of road into Buxton is in better repair than most. I should judge that I turned towards home no later than nine o’clock, because I wound my watch before retiring; and saw then that it was nigh on ten.”
“Ten o’clock,” Mr. Tivey repeated. “And was Tha’ quite alone for the rest of the evening, Mr. Danforth?”
“I was,” he replied, “my brother—Mr. Andrew Danforth—having dined that evening at Chatsworth House, in the company of a large party. I could not say when he returned to Penfolds—well after midnight, I should think. Mrs. Haskell will know the hour.”
“Mrs. Haskell is housekeeper up t’a Hall?”
“She is.”
“Very well. Tha’ has stated for the panel that Tha’ retired at ten o’clock, or near enough. When did Tha’ rise?”
“Rise?” said Mr. Danforth hesitantly. “At what hour of the morning, would you mean—or … or that night?”
Michael Tivey’s small eyes narrowed. “Tha’ wert abroad during the night?”
Mr. Danforth shifted in the hard wooden chair. “I often have difficulty sleeping.”
“And on Monday night, Mr. Danforth?”
“I attempted to find repose for several hours. At length I abandoned the effort, got up and dressed, and took a turn out-of-doors. I find that a walk will often relieve an unquiet mind.”
“And does Tha’ possess an unquiet mind, Mr. Danforth?”
“I am in mourning, Tivey,” the gentleman retorted. “For no less than my whole family. If a man is at peace in such dreadful circumstances, then he can possess no heart!”
I felt a surge of pain and sympathy for Charles Danforth at this burst of feeling; but from the aspect of my neighbours in the Snake and Hind, few others were animated by a like sensation.
“Tha’ admits to having walked out of thy house,” Mr. Tivey said insidiously. “Where did thy ramble take Tha’?”
For the first time, Charles Danforth seemed to apprehend his danger. He hesitated. “I cannot say. When wandering in that fashion, all sense of time and place may be lost.”
“Did Tha’ bide within the bounds o’ Penfolds?”
“Possibly. Possibly not.”
“I see.” Mr. Tivey stared balefully at his witness, and then gazed out at the assembled folk of Bakewell with an air of significance. “Mr. Danforth says as he were abroad in the middle of the night, but cannot state where he may have been.” He reached for a canvas-wrapped bundle. “Is the gentleman able to identify these?”
Charles Danforth stared at the black coat and pantaloons the coroner held forth. He half rose from his chair, reached for his stick, and bent to the inspection with an air of disbelief.
“Those are mine,” he said. “I should recognise the tailor’s mark anywhere. How did they fall into your hands, Tivey?”
Every man and woman in the room could have answered that question. Was it possible Mr. Danforth was so ignorant of events?
“They were found on the body of Tess Arnold Tuesday morning,” the Coroner replied. “Let the panel observe that Deceased was attired in Mr. Charles Danforth’s clothing at the time of her death.”
“But that is impossible!” Mr. Danforth cried. He fell heavily back into the witness chair. “What would Tess want with my things?”
“Tha’ did not make a … gift … to the young woman?”
“Of my clothes? Certainly not!” The scorn in Charles Danforth’s voice was scalding, and his features were distorted, of a sudden, with a spasm of fury. My first estimation of the gentleman had been in error. This gross invasion of his privacy, it seemed, had brought the dragon to life.
“And Tha’ canst think of no reason why the maid should have taken them?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Did any sort of relations—for good or ill—subsist between thyself and the stillroom maid?”
A mottled band of colour swept over Charles Danforth’s handsome countenance. “What in God’s name would you suggest, Tivey? I should call you out for that!”
“Pray answer the question, Mr. Danforth,” the Coroner replied coolly.
“I never looked at the girl, nor considered of her existence,” the gentleman replied angrily.
“Very well.” The Coroner spoke easily—as though Charles Danforth had supplied all the reply that was necessary. “Thank’ee, Mr. Danforth. Tha’ may step down.”
Charles Danforth thrust himself to his feet with the aid of his stick, and made a stately passage through the assembled townsfolk. He did not look to the right or the left, and the expression of dignity on his countenance should have wrung the heart of the coldest person; but the people of Bakewell showed him no pity. Not a few of them crossed themselves hurriedly as he passed, or made the sign against the evil eye. The gentleman chose not to observe this; and I wondered if it was a practise long familiar of old.
He did not wait for the conclusion of the panel, but left the inn immediately, the broad oak door slamming harshly in his wake. This little display of petulance, I fear, did not recommend him to the assembled crowd; and his conduct on the night of Tess Arnold’s death—blameless though it may in fact have been—laid him open to the worst sort of public conjecture. It was a great pity that Charles Danforth could summon not a single witness to his cause; and I wondered, as I considered of the evidence Mr. Tivey would build against him, what George Hemming had urged his client to say. What words had passed between the two men during their consultation yesterday, that Charles Danforth should seem so ill-prepared for the Coroner’s questions?
I followed the man in thought as he made his way from Bakewell—in a closed carriage, perhaps, to defy the gaze of the curious. What emotions roiled in that melancholy breast? And whither was he bound, while his neighbours canvassed his troubled mind, his midnight rambles, his well-tailored clothes and their curious theft?
“Coroner calls Mrs. Augusta Haskell!”
The matron in grey rose with dignity and proceeded towards the panel. The girl with the disfigured face—Tess Arnold’s sister?—followed Mrs. Haskell’s progress with an expression of purest hatred on her stony countenance.
“Tha’rt Mrs. Augusta Haskell?”
“I am, Michael Tivey, as tha’ve known since Tha’ wert in leading strings.”
Mr. Tivey made no gesture of acknowledgement to this sally.
“And Tha’ keeps house up t’a Hall?”
“These three-and-twenty year.”
“Deceased was employed by Tha’?”
“She were.”
“In what position?”
“Stillroom maid.” Mrs. Haskell shifted in her seat and allowed her eyes to drift over the three women grouped at the front of the room; a curious lapse, I thought, in her iron self-command. She looked almost uneasy.
“And could’ee relate for the panel what Tha’ told Sir James Villiers on Tuesday, ma’am?”
“I said as how I’d dismissed Tess Arnold without a character,” she declared, “and good riddance to a bad seed.”
A slight murmur, as the wind sighing through the trees, made its way through the inquest chamber. Of indignation or surprise, I could not tell.
“Though Tess Arnold had been in thy employ some years?” Mr. Tivey persisted.
“Twelve year
or more. Ever since she were twelve year old.”
“And though she had been raised as a child on the Penfolds estate?”
“I did what I had to do,” Mrs. Haskell returned defiantly, “and I’ll not be beggin’ pardon of anybody.”
“And because of it, our Tess were murdered,” came another voice—chill, bereft, and filled with suppressed violence. The stony-eyed girl rose to her feet and pointed a trembling hand directly at the Penfolds housekeeper. “Because of thy unfeeling heart and malicious soul, Augusta Haskell, my sister were cast out of her home and sent abroad in the dead of night, without even the clothes she earned upon her back. She were cast out, and died a brutal death alone and far from aid. Because of Tha’! May her unquiet ghost haunt thy sleep, Augusta Haskell, and cry vengeance for what Tha’ did! May Tha’ never find another night’s peace, until the end of thy days!”
The girl’s cry fell in the midst of total silence, and the manner in which she uttered it gave her imprecation all the weight of a curse. I felt a cold finger trail along my spine, and sensed a greater power than Sir James Villiers’s take command of the chamber.
Augusta Haskell’s countenance turned ghastly and her lips went blue. She pressed a gloved hand to her bosom. “My heart—oh, Lord, my heart—”
And then her eyes rolled Heavenward, and she slumped insensible to the floor.
The furor that then ensued was indescribable. Mr. Tivey might pound with his hand in vain, for the hubbub went on unceasing; several of the empanelled jury rushed to Mrs. Haskell’s aid; and still others moved to adjure the Arnold girl. But I judged that they were a little afraid of her—and when she stared defiantly at one man, and moved to guide her mother towards the door, the wall of townsfolk fell back. A parting was made, and a fearful silence fell, broken only by the sound of the third woman’s weeping. The three passed like a cabal of Furies from the room. An air of menace—or was it grief?—moved with them, and stirred the dust long after they were gone.
Jane and the Stillroom Maid Page 7
