On a Desert Shore

by S K Rizzolo

The coroner did not press her further. As the afternoon advanced, several servants, including the under-gardener who found the wild licorice beads and the kitchen maid who had the confrontation with Marina Garrod, gave their testimony. Both darted sidelong looks at the girl as they perched in the witness chair, but only the under-gardener seemed to relish telling his tale. Marina sat through it all, a slender and erect figure, not even reacting when the jurymen began to whisper amongst themselves and look her way.

  Though the kitchen maid emphasized that she herself had not viewed Marina’s remark in the light of a serious threat, the coroner seemed to think otherwise. “You were right to tell us,” he told the girl when she had difficulty stemming her tears. “The truth cannot harm an innocent person.”

  When it was Chase’s turn, he described how he’d secured the suspect foodstuffs and inspected the lock on the teapoy.

  In response to the coroner’s request that he detail the procedures when a case of poisoning is suspected, Chase explained: “We inquire as to whether anyone prevented a doctor being called, was unwilling to leave the victim alone with other people, or hastened the funeral. None of which occurred in this case. We also determine whether the victim voiced any accusations on his deathbed or whether anyone had quarreled with him. Finally, we investigate whether anyone tampered with the evidence—to dispose of food or drink or of the poison itself.”

  “We know something of this nature occurred because the under-gardener swore to finding Miss Garrod’s wild licorice beads,” said the coroner.

  “We know nothing of the kind. It’s true the young lady wears a bracelet made of these beads. But the beads came from a necklace that had been broken. If Abrus precatorius was the poison, someone could have collected a sample, either from the necklace or the plant itself, which is grown in the hothouse, though in that event he would have needed to bore a hole in the seeds to make it seem they had come from the ornament. At all events, until we have the results of the chemical tests, there’s no way to know whether the beads are of significance.”

  Seeing he was not believed, Chase took out his pocketbook and read out the description of Ned Honeycutt’s argument with his uncle. “So, you see,” he told the coroner, “we have other possibilities to explore. For another avenue of inquiry…” Here he reported Garrod’s request for legal counsel and cryptic deathbed comments, concluding flatly with, “I have thought from the first that money was the motive for this crime.”

  “We should consider who is named heir? That’s not much help unless we learn the terms of the will. I’m sure you would not wish to cast suspicion without proof.” But as he spoke, the coroner persisted in eyeing Marina Garrod.

  His train of thought was obvious when he next asked Chase to explain his presence in Clapham, listening with interest as Chase described the rubbish in Marina’s reticule and the Obeah charm placed above Garrod’s door. “How curious,” the coroner said. “Do we have two such pranksters at Laurentum? The gardener Higgins has already testified that Miss Garrod apologized for destroying some blooms in the night. What can you tell me of this incident?”

  “The destruction of the flowers was no prank, sir. Miss Garrod’s maid had given her too strong a dose of laudanum. She wandered in her sleep and was unaware of her actions.”

  “Unaware?” the coroner echoed. Now his apprehension was plain. He wouldn’t want to disoblige a wealthy and connected family by accusing its presumed heiress without solid reason, and yet he was worried. He would have heard the rumors about Miss Garrod’s oddities—her behavior at parties, her determined isolation, her quicksilver moods. “What did Mr. Garrod tell you about his fears for his daughter?” he went on after a frowning silence.

  This was the moment Chase had wished to avoid. At all costs he did not want to repeat the exact language Hugo Garrod had used in describing Marina’s “delusion.” But he was compelled to say at least: “Mr. Garrod did mention that the trickery had upset his daughter a good deal.”

  Curtly, the coroner told Chase to step down.

  Then it was Ned Honeycutt’s turn, and John Chase discovered he had underestimated Garrod’s nephew. Honeycutt’s explanation was simple: he’d long been a disappointment to his uncle, and he regretted his actions.

  “One wishes to turn back the clock,” Honeycutt told the jury with disarming frankness. “But that’s impossible.”

  “You show yourself a man of proper sentiment,” said the coroner. “But I must ask you, sir, had there been bad feeling between you and your uncle?”

  Honeycutt studied him a moment before he spoke. “Ah, you’ve heard about my wretched debts. My uncle recently discovered I had borrowed a sum of money on my expectations and swore he would no longer pay my allowance until I proved myself penitent. Of course, he wasn’t pleased with me. I am ashamed of myself.” The jurymen watched him, some shaking their heads in disapproval, others rapt in this narrative of sin and redemption.

  The coroner said sternly, “There’s no denying it was very wrong of you and bound to look bad in the eyes of the world. I must say your timing was atrocious.” He permitted himself a small smile. A jury member coughed.

  “It wasn’t my timing” was Honeycutt’s reply. “I’ve no doubt I have enemies, for how else did word of my debts come to my uncle’s ears?” He raised one hand and said in ringing tones, “I tell you straight out that I loved my uncle and would never harm him. Never. I’ll challenge any man who dares say otherwise.”

  It seemed to Chase that the response to this was favorable. A sigh of sympathy went around the spectators. When the sensation had subsided, the coroner said, “Can you clarify the uncertainty surrounding your uncle’s will? What did your uncle say on the subject? Had he ever threatened to disinherit you, for instance?”

  He laughed. “Any number of times, but, no, I doubt it would ever actually have come to that.”

  “But your cousin, Miss Garrod?”

  “Miss Garrod and I are not in competition for our inheritance. Any division of interests will not endure.”

  The coroner looked wise. “Ah, you expect to wed the lady?”

  “It was my uncle’s dearest wish. Today we’ve heard some thoughtless gossip about my cousin, and it’s true her health has been…delicate. Believe me when I say her condition is nothing more than can be dealt with in the bosom of her family.” He gazed at Marina and allowed his voice to soften. “You must allow that I know her better than anyone here. Who better to vouch for her than her affianced husband, the man anxious to relieve her from any unpleasant associations? I made a sacred promise on my uncle’s deathbed, and I intend to honor it.”

  ***

  As Edward Buckler listened to Ned Honeycutt’s testimony, he saw that the jurymen liked Garrod’s nephew and were swayed by the display of tenderness for his young cousin. Still, enough had been hinted in Marina Garrod’s disfavor that the court was bound to inquire further, especially in the absence of viable suspects.

  It wasn’t difficult for Buckler to appreciate the coroner’s dilemma. The coroner was anxious to manage this high-profile case without mistakes. On the one hand, he approved of Honeycutt and thought that if something were indeed wrong with the girl, the private solution of a quiet marriage would be best for all concerned. On the other hand, a prominent resident had been poisoned, and it was the coroner’s job to bring the crime home to someone if he could. Then, too, he could not have failed to observe the youth and beauty of Hugo Garrod’s daughter as she tripped forward, lifted her veil, and turned a guileless smile upon him. So lovely, so fragile a girl could not be guilty of a heinous crime. And yet the coroner was bound to inquire. Edward Buckler knew that everything must depend upon the way Marina Garrod conducted herself on the stand.

  She took the oath, arranged the folds of her dress, and awaited the first question.

  “My condolences, Miss Garrod, on your tragic loss,” said the coroner. He blinked as he took in th
e full effect of her large, liquid eyes and piquant face.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You understand we would not trouble you at this time of grief if it were not absolutely necessary, ma’am?”

  Marina clasped her hands in front of her. “But I want you to find the person who did this to my father. Ask me anything you wish.”

  The coroner sat back in his chair and studied her. At length, he said, “It’s very good of you, Miss Garrod. Well, tell me about the conversation you had with the kitchen maid. You can understand why this might be interpreted as a threat, and certainly Daisy thought you were predicting that evil would come upon the house—as it now has.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you claim Daisy lied?”

  “Merely that she misunderstood me. I found her questions impertinent, so I said what I did to quiet her.” She raised those fathomless eyes to his. “I didn’t like her vulgar curiosity about my mother.”

  A blush covered the coroner’s cheeks, making it obvious he had heard something of Marina’s history but had not expected the subject to be raised. Hesitantly, he said, “Your mother, Miss Garrod?”

  “She was a slave on my father’s plantation in Jamaica, sir. I thought everyone knew that.” A few titters were heard in the room; then everyone got very quiet.

  “I…I had heard something of that story, I do confess, ma’am. You cause me to remind the court that we also heard a hint from the gardener Higgins that your mother was some kind of native doctress, well versed in plant poisons. Forgive my rudeness.” His voice quivered as he spoke.

  “She used plants as remedies, not poisons. You should have asked Mr. Chase about that. He’ll tell you himself that my mother once saved him when he was dying of the yellow fever.”

  Chase came forward. “Miss Garrod speaks the truth about her mother. But this has nothing to do with Mr. Garrod’s death. May I suggest we move on, sir?”

  “In good time,” said the coroner, dismissing this interruption with a glance in Chase’s direction. He collected himself for a renewed attack. “So you deny, Miss Garrod, that the seeds—identical to those worn around your wrist and that were found in the boiler room near where the victims took ill—had anything to do with your father’s murder?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she replied, demure.

  This time the noise was deafening, and the bailiff had to raise his voice to quell the disorder. Chase uttered a smothered exclamation and stood in front of Marina’s chair, willing her to look at him. But she resisted him.

  Behind the coroner’s assumed gravity, excitement blazed. “Explain yourself, Miss Garrod,” he said when he could make himself heard.

  “The Abrus precatorius seeds were deliberately placed there. The person who buried them hoped suspicion would fall on me. This person did it to torment me. It is this same person who murdered my father.”

  “An extraordinary assertion. Have you any proof, ma’am?”

  She wouldn’t look at him either, as though she feared to be silenced. “No proof, sir. But it was the same with the Obeah charm left above my father’s door and the rubbish left in my reticule. There was another time that my cousin Ned didn’t mention to you when someone put what I assumed was meant to be grave dirt in his bed.”

  “Grave dirt?” he said, appalled. “What is this superstition you mention?”

  “Obeah? A spiritual practice from Africa carried out among the slaves, often by old men and women who came from that continent. More and more, it has been eradicated by the Christian missionaries.”

  “The intent of this practice?”

  “It depends. Sometimes to offer a protective charm or a fortune-telling. An Obeah man or woman may also offer herbal remedies to cure disease.”

  “You were born on the island?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  Again he stumbled a little over his words. “I’m sure you don’t…subscribe to such notions.”

  “Of course I don’t,” she replied scornfully. “They say Obeah imposes on the credulous and encourages schemes of revenge and communion with spirits. They say it leads to wicked curses that cause harm and death. Many are afraid of it still—but its power depends on the belief in its validity.”

  Surprised at the frankness of this answer, the coroner asked the next question quickly. “What do you think of it? Is it good or evil?”

  “Neither, sir. Only a human can be good or evil.”

  Chase, still hovering nearby, burst out: “Sir, this line of questioning is absurd. Miss Garrod is a gently bred Englishwoman who has been strictly reared in the Christian faith. She is very young and does not realize that she should guard her tongue. Allow me to speak to her in private.”

  Waving a disdainful hand, the coroner said, “So that you can tutor her, Mr. Chase? I think not. You must trust me to handle this witness.”

  As he listened to this exchange, Buckler had been thinking that Marina Garrod knew exactly what she was doing, though he understood why Chase was worried. His friend wore a look of unusual agitation, seeming too restless to remain in his place by the coroner’s table. Buckler himself felt a heavy foreboding. Marina had decided to challenge her accusers, but this was a risky ploy in that it could easily feed the speculation about her lunacy. Lunacy was a subject to which Buckler had devoted a great deal of thought—too much thought. It was said that diseases of the mind had increased rapidly in recent years and that this affliction was increasingly common among the young. Buckler had fought a long battle with his own melancholia, fearing it might tip over some unseen ledge into something more alarming. And he knew how easily such ideas about a person could gain currency and become settled fact.

  The coroner drummed his fingers on the table. “I must admit this testimony troubles me, since, as we’ve all heard, the seeds of an exotic plant are likely the agent that has taken the life of one person and nearly that of two others. Mr. Chase is correct in one thing. You must be careful what you say, Miss Garrod.”

  Chase said, “You’ve no right to browbeat the young lady, sir. Let her step down. She has just lost her father—”

  “We have a poisoner among us,” said the coroner, cutting him off. “Of all deaths, murder by poison is the most detestable and least preventable. How do we know but that the poisoner may strike again? It is my duty to get to the bottom of this matter.”

  Several jurymen gave wise nods at this juncture, but Chase folded his arms and assumed a belligerent stance. Abruptly, he glanced over his shoulder in Buckler’s direction. And Buckler realized with a jolt that Penelope was looking at him too, her expression very troubled. He put his hand over hers for a moment and rose to his feet to approach the coroner’s table.

  “I wonder if I may be of service in drawing out this witness, sir?” he said, bowing. “I am Edward Buckler, a barrister of the Inner Temple.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The coroner was inclined to resent this interference but unsure how to reject it. He said, “You are too good, sir. But I believe we can dispense—”

  “Let him do it,” interrupted Chase. “Mr. Buckler is well-versed in the art of examination. You could do much worse in this fix.”

  Buckler smiled. “A moving tribute, John,” he murmured. In truth, he wondered if he did right to thrust himself into these proceedings, but, obedient to his lady’s will, he had not thought to refuse. Over his shoulder he saw that Penelope was giving him a look of encouragement. Foolish woman, he thought fondly, glad to take action and lay aside the stark depression he’d been feeling ever since she’d told him their relationship must come to an end. He supposed it was worth it to interfere if he could be of use to Chase. Besides, Marina Garrod intrigued him. What was she about here? As usual in these situations, he could hear the voice of his lawyer friend Ezekiel Thorogood advising him to charge to the rescue of some unfortunate: On your feet, Buckler. Any action is better than
nothing.

  Trying to be tactful, he said, “I am more than happy to put myself at your disposal, sir.”

  As the coroner started to shake his head, Samuel Tallboys, both vicar and magistrate in this parish, called from his seat, “A capital idea. Mr. Buckler may be able to help us shed some light here. Why not make use of his considerable experience?”

  “You know this man?” asked the coroner.

  “He is a well-known Old Bailey lawyer, whose name is often in the papers. Mr. Chase had already mentioned him to me as a possible resource. Do remember that Miss Garrod is a minor under my wing. I am responsible for her, and I say let Mr. Buckler question her.”

  “He’ll demand a fee for his services. You hold the purse strings, Mr. Tallboys. You know we can’t afford it.” Though he protested, the coroner’s tone toward the much older man remained deferential.

  Buckler put in quickly, “I would be happy to do this for you at no charge, to see justice done.”

  Left with no more to say, the coroner sat back, looking sulky. Buckler turned to Marina. “First, I must tell you that you are not charged with any crime. I wish to allow you to tell your story more fully. Will you answer my questions?”

  “Willingly,” she said, her voice steady.

  “Good. Let’s begin. My friend Mr. Chase was hired to discover who has been making you the mark of a secret malice. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir. My father was worried about me.”

  “What were these tricks? Describe them, if you please.”

  “Some of my possessions would appear and reappear to make it seem I had been absent-minded. My shawl was slashed with a knife. There was the dirt put in Ned’s bed to make it look I had played a vindictive game with him—and the same rubbish put in my reticule to embarrass me. The worst of all was the light that would be seen at night in the garden. Someone would throw a handful of gravel at my window to awaken me. Sometimes I would go outside to try to catch the trickster. But I never could.”