“Then of course, Major Vernon. It is yours – for as long as you need it,” she said, with a charming smile.
“You are very good, Miss Pritchard, and I am extremely grateful. It will be back in your hands within two hours, I promise.”
He tucked it under his arm, and fled to his sister’s house. Fortunately he found her alone.
“Show me Rhodes,” he said, handing her the book.
“Why on earth...?”
“Just show me,” he said.
She flipped through the pages and then stopped.
“Voila!” she said, and handed him back the book.
Giles studied it for a long moment, fixing the disfigured harlequin’s face of the corpse into his mind as he did so, trying to compare them on each point. The shape of the face was certainly markedly similar, but he wondered if his memory was not playing tricks in an effort to get a positive identification. There was always a danger of falling into such traps. But there did seem to be a possibility that this was the man.
“So?” said Sally breaking his silence. “What is all this about?”
He glanced at his watch.
“Have you an hour to spare?”
“Now?”
“Yes, now. Sal, darling, I want you to come down to The Unicorn. I’m afraid I have an extremely unpleasant job for you. I need you to try to identify a body.”
Chapter Seven
Felix had just removed the dead man’s stomach, when there was a hammering at the door.
“Dr Carswell, sir, you have a visitor.”
He gently laid the stomach into one of the large basins he had appropriated from the kitchens, wiped his hands on his apron and went to unbolt the door.
“This had better be important!” he said, opening the door to the constable. “Or else I’ll...” He stopped in his tracks.
Crossing the courtyard, dressed in riding clothes and leading a magnificent bay mare, was Lord Rothborough. Behind him stood a groom, holding two more equally showy specimens of horseflesh.
“Ah, there you are,” Rothborough said, marching forward. “Excellent!”
“The Major said I wasn’t to let anyone in,” said the Constable. “But that’s...”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to take his lordship in there,” said Felix, coming out and closing the door quickly behind him. To a layman the place would look like a charnel house. He paused for a moment, seeking reserves of civility before he turned back to the Marquis.
“Good morning,” he managed to say to Lord Rothborough but he did not manage more than a very slight incline of his head, instead of the deferential bow that he was sure was expected at him. He held up his blood-stained hands. “I’m sorry, I’m at my work just now.” He knew his appearance would not please Rothborough, for he stood there with his shirtsleeves rolled up above his elbow, wearing a filthy green apron.
“Good God, boy, what are you doing?” said Rothborough.
“A post mortem.”
“A post mortem,” he said. “Is that so?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Rothborough exhaled noisily, shaking his head.
“Here, Jackson, take this,” Lord Rothborough said, shaking the reins at the groom, who came forward and took the horse from him.
Relieved of the horse, Rothborough continued softly but with steel in his voice.
“This is not a profession for a gentleman. I don’t care what you tell me, whatever people say, I will not accept that it can be. You look like a damned butcher!”
“For a man of my station,” Felix said, “it’s a perfectly honest trade – and what I look like, I really don’t much care.”
“I am well aware of that. But I am beginning to get a little tired of all this false humility. You are not a boy any more. You are taking your place in the world, and these things you consider trifles are important.”
“To you, sir, not to me,” Felix said, defiantly. “This is more important, don’t you think?” he said, thrusting out his blood-stained hands. Rothborough scowled and waved him away.
“Hacking up cadavers?” he said. “I think not.” He sighed again. “And how I am expected to give a good report of this to your parents, I do not know –”
“There is no obligation on your part to write to them. In fact, I would infinitely prefer it if you did not. A letter from you, sir, will pain them,” Felix exclaimed, now thoroughly provoked, “as well you know!”
“Who, pray, are you to tell me to whom I shall write?” Rothborough said, with sudden cutting cold in his voice. “Who? My God, if we were strangers, your insolence would be breathtaking, but given our relationship, it is… After all I have done for you, for all the pains I have taken on your behalf – look, I have this horse for you, do you see? I have picked her out myself and brought here that you might have the convenience of a good horse –”
“No, no,” said Felix, “you have only brought me a horse so that I must be grateful to you for it and so I shall not shame you in your country on some ratty old nag. But whatever I ride, I will shame you because of who I am. You will have to live with that, my Lord, you cannot make a silk purse out of me. I am your bast–”
“Hold your tongue, sir!” roared Lord Rothborough and raised his riding crop towards Felix, who stepped smartly to the left. The blow landed on the door to the temporary mortuary and the Marquis cracked it down again on the wood to vent his frustration.
Then throwing down the whip, he gave Felix such a look that he felt that he had been hit – the pain of his frustrated affections, which Felix understood all too well.
They looked at each other for only a moment, and then Rothborough turned briskly away, bending down to retrieve his whip. Felix knew he would be in disgrace for many weeks for this, but he also knew he would not treat for peace and humiliate himself with apologies. He stared down at his dirty, battered hands, refusing to be ashamed.
“My Lord, we are honoured again!” Major Vernon’s voice, clear and calm, rang out across the courtyard. He was holding a large blue sketchbook and he had Mrs Fforde with him. She was wrapped in a great plaid cloak and looked as if she might be the wife of a Highland chieftain.
“Major Vernon, a word if I may?” Lord Rothborough said with an angry glance at Felix. “If Mrs Fforde would permit me?”
“Do not trouble yourself, my Lord,” said Mrs Fforde. “I have business with Mr Carswell.”
“Is this strictly necessary, Vernon?” Felix heard Rothborough saying.
“Absolutely.”
“But the manner of it...”
Vernon drew him to one side and began to talk to him so quietly that Felix could not hear what he was saying. Besides, Mrs Fforde now addressed him.
“My brother tells me I must look at Mr Harlequin.”
“Are you sure you can bear it?” Felix said.
“I only need look at the face,” she said.
“That’s bad enough.”
“Yes, but I am prepared for it. He has explained it all to me.”
“It isn’t fit for a layman at the moment, let alone a lady,” Felix said. “I shall have to go and arrange things in there. But I shan’t be long, and then you can get it over with as quickly as possible. You will want to keep your smelling salts to hand.”
He went inside, very glad to close the door on Lord Rothborough.
***
It was the smell that appeared to offend Sally the most. She covered her mouth and nose with her handkerchief. It struck Giles forcibly too; it had developed somewhat since the morning.
“Oh, it could be much worse,” Carswell said. “The cold weather has preserved him very nicely,” he said, turning back the sheet. “There we are, ma’am, may I present Mr Harlequin.”
“You would offend your patron a great deal less if you did this without such obvious relish,” Giles could not help saying. He felt his ears were still burning from Lord Rothborough’s onslaught.
“He is not my patron,” said Carswell petulantly, looking even more
like Rothborough when he scowled. “He is just –”
“An extremely important man to whom you owe an apology,” Giles said.
“Why, what did he say to you?”
Sally coughed into her handkerchief.
“Gentlemen!” she said with a splutter. “Please, remember where you are!” and she gestured at the body in front of her.
“I’m sorry,” said Giles, now more annoyed with himself for forgetting himself to such an extent, and worse still for forgetting her. He glared at Carswell.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Carswell said.
Sally managed half a smile and then looked away.
“Oh, it is unbearable, really...” she said. “What on earth – why?”
“Do you recognise him?”
“It is Mr Rhodes. I can see that plain as anything, despite the mess. Dear Lord, have mercy upon him,” she said starting towards the door. “Poor man, how he must have suffered.”
“Possibly less than it seems,” said Carswell. “I’m pretty sure of it now. Those wounds definitely didn’t kill him. They were inflicted post mortem. I think we might be looking at a poisoning. There’s no other obvious cause of death. It’s really rather fascinating.”
“Come, Sal, I’ll take you home,” Giles said, suddenly disgusted and exhausted. “I have to go and see the Dean and tell him his daughter’s fiancé is dead. How long until you are finished here, Carswell? I want this man put somewhere decent as soon as possible. He’s had quite enough indignity heaped upon him.”
Chapter Eight
After he had seen Sally to her door, Giles went into the Minster, with a vague intention of praying. However, he found he was unable to get into a properly humble state of mind with which to address his Creator, and so he sat in the vast emptiness under its golden stony sky and looked through the pages of Sophie Pritchard’s sketchbook. Most particularly he looked at her drawings of her lover. The relationship was obvious. They were the best executed, most finely detailed drawings in the book. If anyone had wanted a sketch by which to identify an anonymous corpse they could not have done better, but how could such a purpose ever have entered the poor girl’s mind, as she sat, inscribing every last tendril of her beloved’s hair?
She was going to be shipwrecked, and there was going to be no avoiding it. The only consolation that Giles could think of for her was that at least they were not married and therefore still more intimate. Although her feelings might have been fully engaged, they would not have actually spent much time together. They had not yet been joined in the bond that a common life forges. She had not experienced the joy of that, and therefore could not feel the loss of it. And then without wanting to, he thought of Laura and how she had once been. The ghost of their brief happiness rose up and tormented him.
He bent and buried his face in his hands, unable for a moment to bear the vividness of the pain which this brought him. He had been a fool to think of coming here. There was no consoling God, just a capricious entity who that day seemed oddly like Lord Rothborough.
He snapped shut the book, snatched up his hat, and strode out of the Minster. The sooner it was done, the better.
But the Dean was not at home and all he could do was hand the book to the servant and send his compliments upstairs. He would go to College Street instead and talk to Rhodes’ landlady.
***
“Charming rooms, ma’am,” Giles said. “Has Mr Rhodes been with you long?”
“Since he came to Northminster, about eight months ago now,” said Mrs Parker.
“And how do you find him?”
“A quiet gentleman. Very steady. Exactly what I would expect from a man of the cloth. I’ve had some gentlemen that were very disappointing, but Mr Rhodes, no.”
“No complaints about money?”
“No, sir,” she said, looking shocked. “He always paid on time.”
Giles was looking at the handsome bespoke bindings of the many theological texts ranged on the shelves – they were a great luxury. He could not afford to have his books bound so elegantly.
He wondered how to get Mrs Parker out of the room so that he could rifle through the desk drawers, but she stood very still, her hands folded modestly in front of her, as if guarding Mr Rhodes’ reputation and by implication her own.
“And no creditors bothering you?”
“No, sir, never.”
“And does he have many visitors?”
“Very few. He is very little trouble, always. Most considerate.”
“Has he written to you since he left?”
“No, sir. But why would he?”
“To tell you when he was coming back, perhaps?”
“We arranged it before he went and Mr Rhodes is always as good as his word, and as I say, very regular in his habits. He said he would be back on Thursday and that is when I expect him.”
“Has he been in any sort of difficulty? Has there been anything about him that has made him uneasy?”
“These are strange questions, sir,” Mrs Parker said. “I don’t understand why. Is Mr Rhodes in trouble of some sort? How can he be?”
“I’m afraid I cannot explain why at this moment, Mrs Parker. But if you can search your memory, and think of anything that seems out of place about Mr Rhodes recently, you will be doing us all a great service.”
“Well, now you mention it, there is something. There was a man,” Mrs Parker said after a moment, “who came here several times the week before he left. Another Mr Rhodes – a kind of a cousin, I think, though not a close one judging by how things went between them. That was surprising.”
“How did things go on between them?” said Giles, drawing up his own chair.
“Shouting. There was shouting. The Mr Rhodes that called was not in a respectable state. Margaret, who opened the door to you, sir, she told me he was in his cups both times, that he stank of it in fact. She wasn’t sure she should have let him in, but it seemed it was difficult to stop him.”
“Did you see this man?”
“No, I was in the back parlour downstairs. And the second time I was not there – I had gone to drink tea at Mrs Fairley’s, but Margaret told me he had come again and it had sounded like a fight upstairs.”
Giles then went down to the kitchen and spoke to Margaret herself. She was scraping a great pile of carrots.
“A great big man – dressed like a gentleman, but he didn’t have nice manners, not at all. Not like Mr Rhodes. He was a rough sort.”
“And you told Mrs Parker it sounded like a fight.”
“Well, he was cursing and there was all this crashing about. I stood on the landing and listened, I was so fearful about it,” she said. “And then he stormed out down the stairs and slammed the front door enough to shake the place. I went in and asked Mr Rhodes if everything was all right.”
“How did he seem?”
“He’d got a bloody nose. He was sitting there, looking stunned. I gave him a drink and cleaned him up. He was shocked.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He said it was a tragedy. That he was heartbroken that a man like that had so ruined himself and that he was lost to everything. That he could only pray that God’s hand would guide him to repentance. He was quite cut up. He asked me to remember his poor cousin Jack in my prayers, which of course I did. But as I said, he did seem like the sort of fellow who was well past being prayed for, if you know what I mean, sir.”
“And that was the last you saw of this Mr Rhodes?”
“Yes, he did not come again.”
“Did Mr Rhodes go to see him, perhaps?”
“I don’t know. He was putting up at The Three Crowns so I doubt it. I know he did say that the first time he came. ‘If you want to talk I’m at The Three Crowns’ – that’s what he said, and I thought, that’d be about right for that sort of man. And our Mr Rhodes would never go to a place like that.”
“And if you heard that, what else did you hear of their quarrel?”
“Nothing clearly. I only
heard that because he yelled it out when he was coming downstairs the first time.”
“And that second time, the room, was it disordered? Anything broken apart from Mr Rhodes’ nose?”
“A few papers thrown about, that’s all. And his nose wasn’t broke. It was just as straight as ever in the morning. When I brought in his tea he was having a good peer in the glass at it and I said to him, I did, ‘don’t you worry, sir, all the young ladies will still think you handsome.’”
“Ah, young ladies,” said Giles. “What do you know about those?”
“Well,” said Margaret, “I do know a little something.” She glanced at the kitchen door. “Not a word to the mistress, though?”
“No, of course not.”
“She’s very fond of him, you see.” Margaret gave a slight snicker.
“So, the young lady in question?”
“A friend of mine, Martha Hull, is in service with Mr and Mrs Warden in Martinsmount Square and she’s seen him going and coming many times, easy as you please with their neighbours, the Cleys, and they’ve a girl of nineteen, very pretty and all boarding school finished and all that, and with six hundred a year,” she finished in a dramatic, awestruck whisper. Then she picked up her knife and deftly started to slice a carrot. “And the mistress will be very sad about it. She won’t think a Miss Cley good enough by half.”
“Does your mistress know of any other young ladies?” Giles said, thinking of poor Sophie Pritchard.
“Oh no, she would want him for herself,” said Margaret and then laughed guiltily. “But I shouldn’t say that, should I? She’s old enough to be his mother. But he has that way about him. Charm the birds from the trees, if he cared to.”
Chapter Nine
The Three Crowns was a large coaching inn on the south side of the City, outside the walls and on the London Road. It had been rebuilt ten or so years ago in a notably flashy Italianate style by its enterprising proprietor who also managed the grandstand at the race course. However glamorous it was, it was also notorious.
Giles asked the waiter where he might find Mr Rhodes.
“He’s in the coffee room, sir,” he said. “This way, if you please.”
The Butchered Man Page 6
