Imogen Robertson - Instruments of Darkness

Crowther remained on his feet. He was carrying a cane, and knocked its end against the stone flags so the sound echoed around the room like a gunshot.

“What of her wrists?” he said sharply. “What of the rope burns on her wrists? Did that strike none of you as strange? The injury to her scalp?”

The noise in the room swelled into a roar.

“Hear him!”

Crowther addressed the jury. “Was there a surgeon there when you looked at the body?” The coroner waved his hands at the crowd, many of whom were now standing and looming forward. Harriet saw one of the farmers she knew cross himself.

“There was no time to bring in another surgeon, Mr. Crowther, and we considered you perhaps, a little, ahem, close to the events.”

“Damn shame!” cried someone.

“Sneaking business if you ask me,” snarled another voice.

Harriet noted that Michaels made no movement to calm the crowd on this occasion.

“Tell us of these marks! Who killed her?” another voice demanded.

One of the jurors shuffled forward a step and said into the crowd, “We didn’t see her wrists-she had long sleeves on. And her hair was all tidy enough.”

“It wasn’t when we saw it,” Crowther said loudly. “I suggest you go and look again, if this inquest is not to be a complete farce.”

The juryman looked around at his fellows, and seeing them nod, asked a little shyly: “Perhaps you could come and show us, Mr. Crowther?”

But before he could reply, the keening voice of the coroner cut across them.

“Enough, Edward Hedges! Your role as a juryman does not include addressing the audience gathered here.”

More mutters and low curses from the crowd. Mr. Hedges turned to the coroner with a look of outraged innocence.

“I only said-”

“Enough, I say! Mr. Crowther, will you please sit down. The court does not recognize you.”

“Then bugger the court!” came a shout from the middle of the crowd. There was a laugh, and even Harriet smiled. She put out her hand and took Rachel’s, holding it firmly in her lap. The squire took a step forward; he was very red in the face.

“Mr. Crowther! By what rights do you lecture us on our business?”

Michaels drew himself straight. Crowther turned to the squire, and looked at him down his long nose.

“I am trained in anatomy and natural philosophy. I may be of recent residence in this village, but I am and remain a concerned subject of the king. Any knowledge I can offer the jury is freely given. It does not seem that they have been given much assistance in their examinations.”

The crowd cheered him. The squire looked at him for a long moment and waited till they grew quiet again; his face looked almost black, the coloring on his fleshy cheeks was so high.

“And are those qualifications you hold in the name of Crowther, or your real name?”

Harriet looked up at him suddenly before she could control herself. Rachel’s hand trembled under her own. Crowther felt the skin on his neck grow cold. It was inevitable; he had known it must come to this. He was exposed, but he wondered if the squire was quite the tactician he had thought. He had played his trump early. Even as he waited in those long, silent moments for the words to come to him, he wondered what the squire feared so much that he would lay down his one good card so early.

Crowther looked about him. Michaels regarded him steadily, the various faces, young and old of the village, observed him with cautious attention.

When he was a very young child his brother would make him perform little plays with him for his father’s household. His brother had loved it, loved and hungered for the attention of those ranks of faces in front of him. He himself had always wished to shrink, would hurry through his words in an attempt to retreat to the safety of the wings, shouting out his text in a rush. His brother would put a hand on his sleeve as they rehearsed and counsel him, “Go quietly, brother. Make them lean forward to hear you. Command their attention, don’t bludgeon them with your speeches.” Crowther wondered if his teaching would serve him now. He let his eyes travel slowly across the crowd then looked down at his cane. Then he spoke.

“You force me to recall what I would choose to forget. But I shall answer you, here, and give my history. We shall let these people judge if I am fit to comment.” The crowd seemed to whisper and sigh. “I was born the second son of the baron of Keswick.” He paused, and a baritone in the back of the room spoke distinctly.

“A northerner. Well, any man might wish to hide that.”

The man was shushed, though a quiet smile seemed to travel through the room like a breeze. It caught on Crowther’s thin lips and lifted them a little. Only the squire seemed immune, his thick frame tense and held solid. Harriet looked across to where Hugh and Wicksteed were sitting. Hugh was looking at his shoes, but Wicksteed had turned and was watching with an expression of polite amusement. The smile left Crowther’s face and he looked down at the dusty gray flags at his feet as he continued.

“My father was murdered almost twenty years ago, and my brother hanged for the crime.”

He remembered Harriet’s performance at the last inquest, her fluttering modesty that had called up all the protective instincts of the village. He kept his eyes low and his voice soft. He could feel the crowd straining forward toward him. You were right, brother, he thought.

“I did not wish the title, so I renounced it and have since devoted my time to study throughout the intervening years. I have hidden from the past in my books and in the society of the most learned of men. I have come to know many mysteries of the human body, which is a miracle we each carry with us every day. If I can add but a little to our knowledge of ourselves I will die a happy man.” He could feel the warmth of sympathy in the room. How people love a good tragedy, he thought. Pity and fear ebbed round him, warm waters in which to drown. “Crowther is a name from my mother’s family. I have every right to it. Legal and moral.” He lifted his eyes, and let his voice take on its usual dry edge. “But whatever my name or your …” he paused… “insinuations, tell me what they have to do with the fact that Nurse Bray was tied around the wrists and hit over the skull before she was hanged.”

He let his voice grow in volume and pitch; it lifted the crowd to an outraged howl of agreement. The attention of the room, hostile and indigant, turned to the squire. He was still too angry to feel the mood of the room, and sneered.

“Perhaps your experiences have clouded your mind, Mr. Crowther. Given such a pitiable past, you could be forgiven for seeing murder everywhere.”

Crowther felt a spasm of tiredness and irritation. Damn these people. He wanted only to leave here and be among strangers again. The crowd looked at him, wavering. Harriet put down her sister’s hand and stood.

“And mine, Mr. Bridges? What experiences have clouded my mind? I saw the same marks as Mr. Crowther described.” She felt herself blush. “And, sir, I think it a shabby thing to force a man to admit his tragedies in public. If Mr. Crowther wished to keep his past confidential,” she paused, “well, he has the same right to his privacy as any freeborn Englishman!”

The noise in the room broke and swelled in approval. Even the squire could feel the push of it against his sides, and began to look about him, realizing too late perhaps that he had misplayed the business.

Michaels leaned back comfortably against the wall with a small smile.

“Go and look at the nurse again!” Harriet saw out of the corner of her eye Hannah cup her hands to her mouth.

“Justice! In the name of the king!” shouted others.