THE QUESTION OF why Scroop was murdered occupied Fidelis and me for much of our ride to Preston. On the way from Poulton Tom Matthews had ordered a cart to come up behind him for the corpse, since it had to be brought back into Kirkham, where the County Coroner’s inquest would be held. We had helped load it and then, as twilight gave way to darkness, said good-bye to Matthews, both of us promising any help that we could give to his inquiry, including inquest testimony if necessary. When I shook hands with Matthews, the lamplight gleamed in his pinkly tinged, rheumy eyes and I could see that his face was lightly sheened with sweat. As he rode off alongside the squeaking wheel of the cart, I heard a hollow, wheezy cough tearing the breath from him.
‘It is certain this is not the work of a footpad – are we agreed on that?’ Fidelis was saying as we rode off in the opposite direction, towards the scattered cottages of Ashton.
‘A footpad would have made himself scarce very quickly. He certainly would not have stayed for hours and then moved the corpse.’
‘And besides all that, no money was taken. No, the one who killed Abraham Scroop did so out of malice.’
‘It may have been simply a quarrel that ended in blows, one of them fatal. It may not have been planned by the killer, whoever it was. But naturally, he still wanted to conceal his crime, and that must have meant making us believe that Scroop died in the late morning, when in fact the deed must have been done earlier, and quite likely in a different place. Why?’
‘There is no mystery about the placement of the body, Titus. He wanted to make it look like an accident and to do that he needed to leave it near that overhanging branch. The contrived timing was another matter. I am guessing that he did it to ensure his safety – to be able to plead an alibi should he happen to be questioned.’
We reached the crossroads on the edge of Preston where the skin-yard stood. Its great gates were closed as usual, but now the porter-door was also shut tight. Yet we clearly heard sounds of laughter and singing from within, and someone playing wildly on the fiddle. There were also flames visible, leaping high enough in the air to be seen over the top of the surrounding wall. A large bonfire had been lit.
‘They have something to celebrate, it seems,’ Fidelis remarked in a tone of dark innuendo.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Luke,’ I said. ‘But I also know those people, and I don’t think they would resort to murder.’
‘You can’t deny they had a motive, though. They’d heard Abraham Scroop threatening to destroy them and their livelihood. They can only have hated him for that.’
I didn’t deny it. The skinners certainly hated Scroop, as I had heard with my own ears. But I remained reluctant to call them killers. Sometimes I think of how fortunate animals are. They never impute evil motives – or any motives at all – to other creatures. This imagining of others’ thoughts is something to which we humans alone are condemned, and which frequently and fatally divides us. It is particularly so when we imagine what is not true, as we do so often, not just from being mistaken, but because we are not impartial when we look around us. I am too partial to find malice or fault in one that I love – in Elizabeth, for example – but I am quick to see it in someone I detest, even though my detestation might originally have been stirred by nothing more menacing than the shape of a nose, or a grating voice.
The truth was that I liked the skinners. I liked their spirit and the way they conducted their affairs according to their own lights, without bowing to any man outside their own circle. They had a certain fibre to them, a steadfastness, and I could not see them doing evil.
‘I agree they hated Scroop,’ I said. ‘But anyone can resort to violence, and not only from hatred, but also from fear. And the skinners were surely not the only ones to hate or fear Scroop. He was a powerful man.’
‘Well, one thing is sure,’ said Fidelis, ‘all Preston will be agog at his death. And something tells me that, as soon as they know this was an assassination, most will point their fingers at the skin-yard.’
‘Then I suggest you and I say nothing about murder, Luke. Let them believe it was an accident for the time being. It is for Matthews, and not us, to make the case for murder, and he must see for himself in which direction the fingers are pointing.’
‘How do you think Matthews will do in this?’
‘Matthews has long experience and is no fool. He will do very well.’
* * *
As expected, the death was being discussed that night and all the next day, in all the taverns, shops and coffee shops, and at every street corner and market stall. The first intelligence had come from Harrod, and the others that had ridden back with him, so the story being told everywhere was that Scroop had killed himself by the mischance of being struck from his horse by the oak branch as he attempted to ride beneath it.
Besides providing something to gossip about, Scroop’s untimely end was being taken as a matter of serious consequence in some quarters of the town. I heard this myself on entering Gilliflower’s barber shop on Wednesday morning, where I found Recorder Thorneley in the chair ahead of me.
There was no man in Preston more discreet, and none with more temptations to be indiscreet, than old John Gilliflower. In all his years of dewhiskering and hair cutting he had been privy to every kind of secret. He never solicited them – indeed Gilliflower never initiated a conversation at all, but merely carried on cutting, trimming and shaving, apparently regardless as his customers rattled on about their woes and opinions. All he did was interject an occasional soothing ‘Sooks!’, or an ‘Is-that-so?’, to punctuate the monologue.
A man cannot talk whilst being shaved but, as the barber wiped the razor and picked up his scissors, so Thorneley picked up the thread of the one-sided conversation. He was oblivious that I was now sitting in one of the waiting chairs not three yards away. I nevertheless opened a book that I carried in my pocket and pretended to read.
‘It’s damnable, Gilly,’ Thorneley was saying, ‘damnable and damaging of that fool to get himself killed – and by a tree, of all the contemptible things! Rode smack into it – a horizontal tree branch, nothing more deadly than that, and broke his skull in the fall. And we need him, by Heaven we do. We need his money to be more exact. The whole of our scheme by his carelessness is now in danger of collapse – complete collapse! It is designed for the greatest possible benefit and future prosperity of this town, and he was the greatest investor. I suppose you want to know what it is, the scheme?’
Gilliflower made no indication of either wanting to know, or of not wanting to. He continued cutting and shaping the hair without any comment whatsoever.
‘Well, Gilly, you will certainly be astounded by the size of it when you do hear – but that can’t be yet and it won’t be from my lips. They are sealed. If any details should become known there are certain people … well, I may say no more at all. No more at all.’
Thorneley sat on, fuming and apparently wishing he could unburden himself to Gilliflower, but I guessed he was after all conscious of the presence of another in the shop – even if he didn’t know who it was – and was guarding his tongue. When he got up to have his coat brushed down he did not show surprise at the sight of me, though he glowered and gave a small snort before snatching up his wig from the head-shaped barber’s block that stood on a stand beside the chair.
‘Scroop had as much sense as this block,’ he muttered, ‘getting himself killed in that untowardly way.’
* * *
It was almost noon, with my chin smooth and my hair pomaded, when I returned to the office and found Furzey at his desk. He had not shown his face all morning, but now was sitting with his head propped by his hand and a cup of ginger infusion steaming in front of him that he had got from Matty in the kitchen. He told me he was feeling a little ‘hippish’ as he had spent the previous evening as a guest at the table of Abraham Simcox the town clerk, who was a cousin of his.
‘He entertained you well?’
‘Too well. My writing will have a shake in it today.’
‘What news did he have from the Town Hall?’
‘They talk of nothing there, he says, but the fatal accident of Abraham Scroop. Some are seeing it as God’s wrath; that Scroop over-reached himself and was struck down for it. It is the nemesis of a rag-and-bone man that over-reached.’
I brought to mind the knowledge I had, unknown to anyone else, of the manner of Scroop’s death. The wrath I thought was that of his murderer, not of God.
‘His nemesis, Furzey?’ I said. ‘You grow Classical in your reference. I know that Scroop was ambitious, but how did he attract the wrath of Zeus? How did he deserve the fate of Prometheus?’
‘He seemed to talk as if the gods themselves were his investors in those improvement projects of his. That was overweening, as some see it.’
‘Do they? He kept his plans so very dark I’m not even sure what these projects were – not in detail. Something to do with the skinyard, I believe. I suppose Simcox must know.’
Abraham Simcox was the perfect type of a town clerk. He knew the resting places of all the burgesses’ secrets – petty and great.
Furzey said, ‘Abe has not survived in his job for more than ten years by running off at the mouth. He certainly knows about Scroop’s projects but will not divulge any details, neither for pie nor pence. He told me one thing touching you, though. I asked him particularly about the coronership of Preston, seeing that you are pining to be re-appointed.’
‘Am I pining?’
‘Oh yes. You’re like a dog looking for its own nose.’
‘Don’t tell me you don’t miss the work as much as I do, Robert Furzey. So what did Simcox say? Might we be reappointed when all this nonsense is over and my lady Rickaby’s taken herself off to pastures new?’
Furzey gravely shook his head.
‘No. I’ll bet on a sparrow swimming the river first, and a trout flying over it. Those are Abe’s own words by the way. No, Thwaite’s enjoying himself too much. He’s grown as fond of dead bodies as he is of pudding.’
‘Thwaite’s term of office is expiring. He won’t be in the job a month from now. His successor may be less enamoured of corpses.’
‘That isn’t the point. Their chief delight in the matter is that you are ousted. The Mayor will hang on to coronership just to keep you out. They are cock-a-hoop on it.’
The bell at the door jangled as a boy came in, panting and bearing a letter for me sealed with the Derby crest. It was from his lordship inviting me to wait on him at Patten House at my earliest convenience. I reached immediately for my hat.
* * *
‘So! Mr Cragg! We find ourselves thrown together once again, awaiting the pleasure of his lordship.’
The speaker expressed a sigh. It was Joss Kay. I had found him seated once again in the ante-room inside the front door of Patten House, just as he had been when I’d first met him. He spoke congenially and seemed to have entirely forgotten our abrupt encounters on the Marsh and at the cockpit, so I pretended to forget them, too. I explained that this time I was here because Lord Derby had sent for me in person.
‘Which makes me believe that he will see me, though what it is about I am at a loss to say. But, Joss, tell me why you’re in attendance here again.’
Kay gave another sigh.
‘Because my governor, the one that had agreed to pay the fee for my work, well, he’s kicked the bucket.’
‘You don’t mean the late Mr Abraham Scroop?’
‘I mean no other. I am sure he was everywhere regarded as kindness and virtue itself, but to me he has played the scoundrel by being dead before a penny of money’s been paid me for my apomecometry. Who will it come from if not from him? Grassington’s left town. Captain Strawboy hasn’t a piece of tin to his name, never mind gold, and I’ve been warned against even approaching the Corporation for money. So it must be from Lord Derby, or if not, I don’t know how I will get it.’
‘The fee you hope to get – what survey work is it for?’
‘Confidential work, as I have mentioned to you before. Highly confidential and not to be spoken of in public. Those were the terms of my employment, Mr Cragg, and I must abide by them, else I risk never being paid at all.’
I could not pursue the matter further for now a servant came in and called me up to the presence of his master.
Edward Stanley, 11th Earl of Derby, was sitting in his business room in a gilt chair beside a gilt desk, at which his secretary sat poised to write. On the wall behind him was his lordship’s portrait by his personal artist Hamlet Winstanley, which I had seen once before when it had then been on the artist’s easel and still in progress – but that is another story. A sheaf of papers rested between the peer’s knee and his left hand while, with his right, he held a single sheet up to the light to peruse it.
‘Ah, Cragg!’ he exclaimed as I came in. He tucked the paper he was reading in with the others. ‘Good of you to come express. I fear I have received a sad piece of intelligence this morning. It concerns Mr Matthews of Poulton.’
‘The County Coroner?’ I said.
‘Yes. He is dead.’
‘Dead? No, Sir! I was with him only on Monday.’
‘Well dead he is. Perhaps he was already ill when you saw him?’
‘Now you mention it, he was, my Lord. He complained of an ague, but said it was nothing serious.’
‘Yet it was a fatal ague, I’m sorry to say. I have received notice this morning. He expired yesterday having arrived home the previous night after a long ride, whereupon he was overtaken by a fiery fever and a painful shortness of breath.’
‘Lord! That is sudden news, and very sad indeed. He had been much exerting himself in the case of the late Mr Scroop that was found dead near Kirkham, which perhaps he should not have done, being unwell. He was a good man.’
‘I won’t disagree but, what’s more to the point, how am I to shift to find me a new County Coroner? I am very anxious to have the inquest into Mr Scroop properly conducted.’
Fool that I was, I did not immediately catch his drift, or see why this concerned me.
‘Well, I may be able to give you the names of one or two suitable gentlemen, my Lord. There is Mr Perry of Garstang, who I believe is of sound judgement.’
‘Confound Mr Perry of Garstang, Cragg. I look to you. You’ll have to take the job.’
‘Me, my Lord?’
‘Who else, man? You’re vastly experienced in the work and, at the moment, without employment in it. Some of the burgesses of Preston won’t be pleased, of course. But it’s no concern of theirs and they couldn’t stop your appointment even if it were. The responsibility’s mine as Lord Lieutenant of the county and I’ll be damned if I won’t have my old friend Titus in the job.’
I hesitated. It is a ticklish matter to question the decisions of a peer.
‘If I may remind your Lordship, the County Coroner is an elected official.’
Derby clicked his tongue impatiently.
‘Yes, yes, I am aware of that. But to arrange an election is not the work of a moment. I am proposing to install you ad interim pending an election – in which you shall not only stand but, if I have anything to do with the matter, win.’
‘You are most kind, my Lord.’
‘Not a bit of it. Always thought highly of you and I know you won’t let me down.’
I sensed my face flushing with emotion as I realized what a sudden change of fortunes this was. I performed a little bow.
‘I will try to be worthy of your trust, my Lord,’ I said, almost stammering.
‘That’s settled, then. We’ll draw up your commission right away and you can come in and be sworn tomorrow morning. Would that suit? And then you can get along with the inquest into the late Mr Scroop.’
I am not in general possessed by affection for the nobility. They exist, after all, in a different sphere, condescending to the rest of the world only from time to time and when the fancy takes them – or more particularly when it is in their interest. But Stanley, for all his occasional hauteur, had a practical and sensible way about him and he had more than once lent me his direct support against Burgess Grimshaw, and my other enemies in the Corporation. So I had always had a certain regard for the man; now I felt ready to kiss his feet.
Having stammered my thanks as best I could, I left the noble presence in a state of high elation, even of triumph. I was Coroner again. In the cock-fight of life I had trodden my enemies down. How I could crow now! And how crestfallen they would be!
Full of the news, I went straight home and told Elizabeth what had happened. She let out a scream, hurled herself at me and kissed me fully on the mouth, all in front of Matty, which I doubt she had ever done before.
‘I really should not rejoice, my love, because a man had to die to bring this about. But I cannot help it. It is so wonderful for you. Oh! I could dance.’
‘It’s good to see those beautiful eyes shining,’ I said, kissing her forehead. ‘Now I must go and tell Furzey, and then Fidelis shall know.’
I went through to the office where Furzey was bent over his writing. He showed no emotion at my news – I mean not through his face. But he laid down his pen and scrubbed his hands vigorously against each other for a moment. Whatever mustiness of the head remained from his dinner with Simcox, it had been instantly swept away.
‘We’ll be taking on the Scroop inquest, then?’
‘Yes, Furzey, without delay. On Friday I think.’
‘It’s an interesting one, is that.’
‘So it is. It is not quite what it seems.’
And then, suddenly, my clerk favoured me with his particular notion of a smile – he tilted back his head and shut his eyes while his mouth formed a leering, twisted grimace, almost as if he were in pain.
‘That’s always the beauty of it, Sir,’ he said, opening his eyes again. ‘When death comes by surprise it is very likely not what Simple Simon thinks. It is very likely many spits deeper.’
‘And we shall dig, Furzey, be assured of that. In the meantime, go to Kirkham and find us some jurors.’
I went out through the street door and made my way to Fidelis’s lodging, where Mrs Lorris told me her lodger was out.
‘Looking at a house, he is,’ she said. ‘He’s given us his notice and is intending to buy, so he says. We’ll be right sorry to lose the doctor, Mr Cragg, though, as I told Mr Lorris, we won’t miss the smells, with him making up his chemicals at all hours of the night. And we won’t be sorry to lose that rooster of his, crowing in the garden at the crack of every dawn.’
‘I do commiserate, Mrs L.,’ I said. ‘Dr Fidelis’s habits can be vexingly irregular at times. Would you mention when he comes in that I have news to tell him and hope to see him at the Turk’s Head as soon as he returns?’