Evidence was called, and questions asked. Harriet spoke of finding the body on her morning walk, her inspiration to fetch Crowther as well as the squire, and her sending to Hugh—and of Hugh’s resolution that the body was not that of his brother. That gentleman had shifted in his chair a full quarter turn to look at her as she spoke. His expression was still sullen.
Harriet’s short narrative was received respectfully. The foreman of the jury thanked her on behalf of them all for her actions and courtesy in coming to speak with them. Crowther watched her as she spoke and noted an uncharacteristic shrinking in her demeanor, a tendency to look up at the coroner and foreman from under her long eyelashes, hiding the green flash of her eyes, a mute appeal to the gentlemen to treat her kindly. They responded happily and there was an air of manly solicitude almost palpable in the air when she took her seat again. Only Hugh and Wicksteed did not, it seemed, take a proprietorial delight in looking at her.
As she sat down, Harriet shot Crowther a look of apology. He found he was impressed by the performance and could see the advantages and cover a little feminine reticence in such a company might give her, but he fancied she hated being anything other than what she naturally was, and pitied her that it was necessary. He wondered if women would ever be able to be themselves if they fell into such tricks, but having never known the dangers to which a frank woman might expose herself, he was disinclined to judge. His ruminations were broken by the sound of the coroner calling his name.
Crowther was also listened to with respect, though he failed to win any affection from the room. He spoke of the wound, the likely time of the death and his investigations to try the soundness of the body’s lower limbs. He had to be stopped from time to time to convert his naturally Latinate, scholarly language into something more easily digestible to the jury, and when he reported Hugh’s remark that Alexander had had a bad leg due to a youthful injury, he was a little surprised to hear corroborating shouts from some of the men in the room of, “True, true!” and, “He did indeed, since he was seven!” and, “His horse tripped in the warren on Blackamore Hill!” and, in a deep bass from somewhere near the door, “Landed on him!” It was as if the village had agreed to be a chorus to the court, and Crowther had an uncomfortable sense of fellow feeling with the players at Drury Lane.
It seemed from the tone of questions and responses that the general opinion in the room was that of Lady Thornleigh: that this stranger had come among them looking for a reward for finding the ring and had been destroyed by some business that had followed him from town. Therefore it was not surprising that when the coroner called Joshua Cartwright forward, he did so with the air of a magician summoning a particularly large and impressive rabbit from under his shirt.
Joshua did have something of a rabbity air when he spoke, and had to be encouraged by the crowd to speak up from time to time. He agreed that the body was that of a man he knew, Carter Brook, whom he had asked on Hugh’s behalf to try and discover any trace of his elder brother, Viscount Hardew.
The room was amazed, and the whispering rose and fell like a passing shower of rain. Some questions were asked as to Brook’s family and situation, and Joshua shared with the jury, with the room at large at least, that to the best of his knowledge Brook had no family. He then engaged, as if by way of apology for bringing such a character into the neighborhood, to write to Brook’s landlady and let her know of what had passed, and inform her that she was free to dispose of the dead man’s belongings and rent the room again. The coroner agreed this was sensible, and offered Cartwright the opportunity to copy down his conclusions at the end of the day’s business, and include any passages he thought fitting in the correspondence.
The chorus expressed satisfaction in a series of grunts and nods which spread from the observers to the jury and back again, reinforced like the ripples present on a small pond. More and more people were looking, and looking for longer, at the back of Hugh’s head, however, and there was a general sigh of relief when he kicked back his chair and stood up. He addressed himself purely to the coroner, but Crowther could tell by the flushed profile he presented that he was deeply aware of all the other eyes in the room.
“I wanted to know where my brother was, and assure him, whatever his situation, that I would be glad to know him again.” The room grumbled in an accepting sort of way. “Good, good,” said the bass from the doorway. “There’s our good captain,” said another. The coroner looked seriously at the watchers and they quietened down. Crowther kept his eyes on Hugh, seeing a flick of pain cross his face at hearing his military title spoken aloud.
“Carter Brook wrote to me, saying he had information to give and that it was convenient for him to deliver it in person. I asked him to bring some proof of my brother, as I have been disappointed by false trails in the past.”
Whatever Hugh’s misdemeanors, it seemed the village were still disposed to approve of him, as again the anonymous voices in the crowd chorused, “True, true,” and, “Cruel thing, cruel thing to lose a brother.” One thin voice lost among the jackets to the rear piped up. “But a bloody careless thing to lose a son.” Hugh flushed a deeper red, though still did not turn, and Michaels swung his massive head toward the last speaker.
“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 intensi
ty.
“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 words 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.”
Instruments of Darkness Page 12
