“I’ve told you before to keep your mouth shut when you aren’t drinking, Baker.” There was a general laugh. “And mind your damn language, there’s a lady present.”
General agreement.
The coroner waited, dignity personified, till the room was attentive again and motioned for Hugh to continue.
“I could not meet Brook at the time arranged, as Young Thorpe wanted to see me, and we talked for a while about the changes he is planning to introduce on the land he rents from me.” The crowd groaned and laughed, and Crowther noticed a young man shrinking into the side wall as if he wished to become a thing immaterial and pass through it, blushing and looking at his feet.
Harriet leaned over to Crowther and whispered, “He’s a bright boy, and his head is full of how to make improvements to the soil. But he has no idea when his conversation becomes tiresome. I think some of his ideas have increased my income by ten pounds a year, but I avoid him unless I am feeling particularly patient.”
Hugh waited for the noise to subside.
“So I was the best part of an hour late to meet with Brook.”
“You got off lightly!” came a voice from the back, and Young Thorpe looked very hard done by.
The coroner turned to the crowd. “May I remind you, gentlemen, we are discussing a murder?”
There was some shuffling of feet and a little solemnity returned to the room. The coroner addressed Hugh again. “I would like to know, sir, why you did not invite this man to wait on you at your house.”
Hugh looked a little embarrassed, and Crowther noticed Wicksteed’s unblinking stare fixed on his back.
“I was afraid the information he might have would be delicate. That it might require some careful handling.” Hugh cleared his throat. “Much as I trust my household, I did not wish to draw attention to my search, nor to what I might learn before I had had time to consider the implications.” It was interesting that there were no murmurs of approval or doubt in the room at this point, just a steady quiet that suggested judgment could go either way.
“And when you reached the place where you were due to meet …?”
“There was no one there. I waited as long as I could, smoked a cigar, then went home. Next thing I knew, I was brought word a body had been found.”
The coroner and jury all looked very grave. Hugh glanced about him as if planning to sit down. The coroner held up his hand.
“Just one more thing, sir. Was the ring Brook brought with him very valuable?”
Hugh looked a little surprised. “I can’t say, sir. It is gold and heavy enough, I suppose. I have it here.” He felt in his pocket and tossed it across to the foreman of the jury. That man plucked it out of the air and he and his fellows bent over and peered at it with great intensity.
“What do you say, Wilton?” shouted Michaels from the middle of the room. “Your uncle owns the silversmith in Pulborough, doesn’t he?”
It seemed accepted by the crowd that this relation was enough to make Wilton, a tiny man with very greasy hair, an expert, so the ring was passed back to him and everyone waited in silence for him to pronounce.
“Two pound at least,” Wilton said with absolute authority. “Even with the coat of arms scraped off.”
Everyone nodded very wisely, and the ring was passed back to the coroner, who handed it back to Hugh with elaborate courtesy.
There was no room for the jury to retire as such, but they huddled in the furthest corner of the room for a while, and everyone agreed to appear not to look at them until they had done. Backs were turned and the crowd tried to talk as loudly as possible amongst themselves. A small boy, one of Michaels’s offspring, Crowther reckoned, squeezed through the crowd with a glass of lemonade for Mrs. Westerman. She gave him a huge smile which made him blush. As the crowd shifted around them, Harriet found the chance to put her hand out and touch Young Thorpe on the sleeve. He turned to her still looking guilty and rather shamed.
“Thorpe, I have been telling Mr. Crowther here how your ideas must have made the estate ten pounds last year.”
The young man flushed with pleasure, and his back straightened.
“Thank you for that, Mrs. Westerman. I’m sorry I delayed Mr. Thornleigh, but Wicksteed”-he spat the name out-“told me it would be a good moment to catch him. I know I can run on, but the thing I wanted to make clear to Mr. Hugh was …” he was about to embark on what Crowther feared might be a very long explanation, when Harriet put her fingers to her lips.
“I think the jury has decided now, Thorpe. Look-the coroner and foreman are in conversation.”
The young man nodded and smiled again before moving away, and Harriet turned in her chair to face the front again. Crowther leaned toward her.
“I thought you said no one takes estate business to Mr. Thornleigh?”
“I did,” she agreed, “but Young Thorpe can be persistent.”
Crowther looked at her, wondering how to describe the expression on her face. He settled on “smug,” then paid attention as the coroner began to speak.
“My thanks to everyone who has spoken, and our thanks to the jury as well. We believe that this man was killed by someone planning to steal the ring, probably following Brook from London and taking advantage of his heading off somewhere secluded. We think Mr. Hugh Thornleigh disturbed him, so he ran away before he could get it. The jury wish to say to Mr. Thornleigh that they are very sorry he did not get to hear any news from Brook about his brother.”
There was a low rumble of agreement in the room; the jury looked a little conscious.
“I have our conclusions here, and if we are all agreed I shall write them up and you can sign them, gentlemen. I won’t trouble to read the oath again: you all heard that well enough the first time, did you not?”
The jury variously nodded and waved the oath away. The coroner looked about to see he had the attention of the room, then held out a document before him, bringing his arms in and pushing them away till he had the focus quite right, then read:
“We, the jury, find as follows, that a person unknown, not having God before their eyes, but being seduced and moved by the instigation of the devil, in the woodland of Caveley Park and on the night of the first of June in the year of Our Lord 1780, delivered to Carter Brook, a stranger to this parish, a violent and fatal blow to the neck with a sharp instrument who then and there instantly died, and the said jurors upon their oath aforesaid further say, that the said person unknown, after he had committed the said felony and murder in the manner aforesaid, did fly away into the night against the peace of our said lord the king, his crown and his dignity.”
The jury all nodded very solemnly and there was a satisfied sigh of agreement around the room. “Good words,” said the bass by the door. “Almost as good as church,” said another. The coroner looked a little pink and putting down the paper, smiled up from his chair toward the tower of Michaels at the back of the crowd.
“Thirsty work, Michaels. Is the bar open?”
“Always got a drink for the king’s servants, friend. And that stands for the jury men too. The rest of you are buying your own.”
The room began to empty very quickly.
4
There was a good crowd round the open grave. News of Alexander’s death and burial had traveled from one side of the city to the other, judging by the variety of faces in the crowd. Even in such days of riot and discord, neighbor spoke to neighbor and the words flew up and out into the breeze, till it seemed one inhaled the latest news with the air itself. Alexander Adams had made good friends during his years in London, and had kept them. Almost every player from the Drury Lane Theater had attended. Graves watched them huddle together a pace or two away, as if their long association cramped under the stage of that theater had made it natural to them to bunch together even when the walls around them were removed.
Composers who had relied on Alexander to engrave and print their works had come too. Mr. Paxton came over and tried to speak to Susan, but the word
s had died in his throat, and all he could do was put a hand, briefly, on her shoulder before quickly turning away and marching off among the tombstones with his polished cane glimmering in the sun.
It was a hot and surly day. The signs of riot from the previous night were all around them, and though the streets were quiet enough there was a tension in the air, an uneasy temper to the streets. A man slept across the gutter as they arrived at the churchyard, and had to be stepped around by the bearers. He wore a surplice tied around his hat, and he cradled in his drunken sleep a torn fur fragment as if it were his only love and care. The constable of the parish, old and dirty, and careful of avoiding any attention from those who might demand his help defending their property from the mob, slunk along in their midst. He kept up a murmuring chant under his breath, “Poor Mr. Adams, poor Mr. Adams. What times we live in,” until Graves, afraid that he would prove a strain to Susan, frowned him into embarrassment and silence.
Susan still said nothing, but Graves hoped she was returning a little to herself. He had offered her his hand as they met the body at the door of the shop without thinking, and without thinking she had taken it. Jonathan held her other hand, and he would not move unless he could feel Miss Chase close to him, so, unwieldy and awkward through the narrow streets, the foursome had walked behind the coffin as principal mourners.
Any questions about the death were answered by the common intelligence of the crowd, and Graves felt each pair of eyes tracing the wound on his face when they thought they might not be noticed. He wondered if he would scar. The wound was not deep, and Miss Chase was careful to make sure he kept it clean, though he often wondered if the water of London was of much aid to cleanliness.
The priest was waiting for them by the grave. The sun was even now at its high point, and he was suffering visibly in the heat. He puffed his cheeks, and sweat poured under his wig through the canyons of his red face, but he smiled at Susan, and bent his elderly knees to address Jonathan and whisper to them both a little about how the ceremony would unfold, and tell them their papa was comfortable in heaven before taking his place at the graveside and clearing his throat.
Before he began to speak, however, two carriages bearing variously the arms of the earl of Cumberland and Viscount Carnathly drew up at the gates. The crowd noticed and murmured. Susan did not look up. Both peers were enthusiasts of music, and Alexander had corresponded with both, Graves knew, and regularly sent them samples of new work. It was a handsome compliment to send their carriages to stand sentinel at the gates.
Graves saw Susan eventually turn to look at them without emotion. Jonathan stared wide eyed at the horses. They were handsome beasts. Graves hoped they would remain long enough to let the little boy get closer and talk to the coachmen. He would give anything to put other images in that gentle, forming mind, than those he had been witness to the previous day. Graves felt he was observing all from a great distance and height. The gathered men and women solemnly shuffling through the funeral service, and the way Susan’s hand contracted around his own as the first shovelful of earth skittered onto the lid of the coffin. He noticed an acquaintance, a Grub Street hack who wrote up news for the Daily Advertiser, lurking at the back of the crowd. He looked as hungry and tired as Graves felt himself, and he could not condemn him as he quietly questioned one of Alexander’s neighbors. The news sheets must be fed, the curiosity of the nation satisfied. He looked up and caught Graves’s eye with a look of inquiry, but Graves shook his head and with a nod the man retreated again.
The priest reached his “Amens” and the crowd began to drift away from the graveside and leave the sexton to fill the hole behind them. Graves made no move himself, content to let Susan watch. He realized Miss Chase’s thoughts were following a similar pattern to his own, however, regarding Jonathan. As soon as the crowd began to shift she led him quietly toward the horses. Graves watched as the coachmen greeted him. The little boy was lifted up onto the box and allowed to hold the reins, then taken down again to pat the noses of the leading pair of the earl of Cumberland. Graves looked down at Susan, and saw she was watching her brother also. Her eyes and cheeks were wet with tears, and he could not help pulling her gently to his side. She wept awhile longer into his coat, then took a great, shuddering sigh and opened her lips.
“Mr. Graves?”
“Yes, Susan?”
“There is a box in the shop. Papa told me to look for it and keep it with me. I’m afraid I forgot it for a while.” Her voice was so dry and whispering, Graves could hardly hear her. “May we go and fetch it? I remember where it is hidden. Papa said.”
“Of course, Susan.”
They walked through the last of the mourners, each of whom muttered their condolences and lifted their hats to the little girl, till they reached Miss Chase, and as Graves told her of their mission, Susan went across to her brother. The adults watched the children negotiate-Jonathan looked around him with wide eyes, alarmed at any separation, then seemed to grow calm under his sister’s caresses and whispers. They saw her pause as if waiting for an answer, and watched Jonathan nod slowly. She then turned and came back to them, and with a composure that almost broke their hearts said, “I am ready, Mr. Graves. May we go?”
He bowed and offered her his arm.
5
Mrs. Westerman, Crowther and Rachel were the only mourners at the burial of Carter Brook. When they arrived in the churchyard the sexton and his men were already shuffling the coffin into the open ground. As they crossed from the path to the church door to the graveside, there was a brief conversation between the men, and the youngest, only a boy really, put down his spade and ran swiftly to the vestry. Crowther smiled thinly as the boy returned a moment later with the vicar on his heels, adjusting his collar and trying to look as if he had meant to be there all along.
Crowther glanced at Miss Trench. It was at her insistence they were there at all. The strange sinuous current that spread news between the households, between the sexton’s boy and the butcher’s, which then found its way into Caveley Park with the beef shanks, meant that Rachel knew that the burial would take place that evening before Harriet and Crowther had even thought of it. When they had returned from the inquest, they found their late dinner already laid out and Rachel determined they should be quick about it as they would have to turn back into the village within the hour. Harriet had protested.
“Rachel, we must have some peace! And some time to talk about what has passed.” She looked up wide-eyed at her sister from the little sofa where she had dropped. “Surely that is the best service we can render to Mr. Brook-that we discover why he died and at whose hand. You don’t think it was an unlucky thief, do you?”
Her sister’s slim frame shone with all the moral conviction that eighteen years, and only eighteen years, can give.
“No. I wish I could, but no. But you can consider later, or tomorrow, Harriet. You too, Mr. Crowther. This poor man will only be buried once, and I think someone should bear witness to that. Would you like to be put in the ground all alone and unmourned?”
“I doubt very much I’d care at that point.” Harriet saw she had lost the argument and abandoned her attempt at reasonable sweetness. She folded her arms and buried her chin in her chest. “And how are we fit to mourn him, anyway? I only met the man when he was cold.”
Rachel clenched her hands, and looked in danger of stamping her foot.
“Harry, it is the right thing to do, and you know it. You are bearing witness to his death-very well, then bear witness to his funeral. Whatever sort of a man he was, he was one of God’s creatures and deserves this courtesy from the rest of us.”
Harriet did not move-except, Crowther noted, to wrinkle her nose when God was mentioned. Rachel narrowed her eyes.
“If you do not come, I shall ask Mr. Crowther to take me alone. Really, Harry, if you are going to be thinking about death all evening, you may as well do it in the peace of a churchyard.”
That made her sister laugh at least, and so
it was agreed. Before their supper had time to settle in their stomachs they set off for the village again, this time on foot as Harriet felt the carriage would carry, along with themselves, altogether too much noticeable pomp for such a quiet visit.
Seeing the priest tumble out to the graveside, Harriet was glad her sister had bullied her, and it was a good place to think about death. She had not been surprised by the verdict of the coroner, although she wondered how many of the villagers truly believed it. It had been a very convenient conclusion, plausible enough if one could swallow the notion of robbers pursuing each other in leisurely fashion over a day’s ride for the sake of a ring. For a moment she considered the option of believing it herself. She could then put on the self-satisfied smile of a country matron, play with the baby and go about seeing only what was in front of her, like her sister. She frowned quickly, knowing the characterization was untrue and unfair, and angry with herself for thinking it. The priest caught the expression and looked momentarily confused, checking his prayer book to be sure the fiery Mrs. Westerman had not found him out in some mistake. Reassured, he read on.
Harriet looked across at her sister. She was not self-satisfied in the least, and knew more than Harriet about the pressures and secrets of life in the country. The trouble with Rachel was, she was actually good. It gave her a patience and moral certainty her sister sometimes envied, and sometimes found almost unbearable. When they had finished their prayers, Rachel gave her hand to the priest with a smile that made him look comically proud. Harriet and Crowther made their bows and the little party moved away back onto the road to Caveley, each traveling in their own thoughts to various destinations.
They had not gone far when they saw the figure of a man ahead of them. The evening was still bright enough to see, before they had approached much farther, that it was Hugh Thornleigh. Crowther felt more than saw the slight falter in Rachel’s steps, and from the corner of his eye observed her chin lift in determination. What torture it must be, he thought, to live always in the presence of disappointed love. He wondered why Harriet had not taken her sister away. Perhaps it was Rachel’s own decision to face her demons daily. It would not be Crowther’s recommendation for an easy mind, no matter what the habits of industry and religion did to ease her.
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