Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Canterbury Tale

That Edward was uneasy in his present rôle as magistrate, I discerned from the moment of entering his equipage. What he most wished from the Coroner’s Panel was indecision; a want of verdict should buy Edward time. He was determined to take care with his researches before condemning any of his acquaintance for murder—but the panel would probably be less nice, and more hasty, in their judgement. How to prevent those clear-eyed fellows from fixing too readily upon Captain MacCallister was Edward’s ticklish problem.

All discourse on the subject was impeded, however, by the fact that George Moore rode with us. The quarrel with Stephen Lushington might have put the Back Bencher to flight; but it was not for Mr. George Moore, celebrated ecclesiastic, to withdraw from Godmersham. A full ten days he had fixed for his visit, and a full ten days he should remain, however unsuitable the present circumstances might prove for his entertainment. He could not regard my attendance at the inquest with approbation, and as his disgust took the form of a sober lecture on the proper place of ladies in the Divine Scheme for England and the world, I was out of all charity with him. Edward, too, seemed little inclined to support the pomposities of his old friend. He spent the better part of the eight-mile journey in gazing out the carriage window, lost in thought.

The inquest was to be at ten o’clock, in the publick room of the Little Inn, an ancient tavern that sits in Sun Street, hard by Canterbury Cathedral. The affair of Curzon Fiske’s death had achieved no very great publicity in the town, the murder having occurred but lately and in the country. I was not surprized, therefore, to see faces I recognised lining the benches arranged before the coroner, magistrate, and panel. Mr. Wildman was there, and his son James Beckford, as well as their guests the MacCallisters, and Julian Thane. Mrs. Thane, to my astonishment, was absent—she must have been laid low with a stomach complaint, to have denied herself the pleasure of abusing Canterbury’s worthiest citizens.

Of the few strangers, I suspected some were relations and friends of the empanelled jury, come to observe their honourable service. Adelaide MacCallister and I were the only ladies present.

George Moore consented, at least, to share my bench—tho’ from the expression on his countenance, he preferred to let no one suspect we were acquainted. He nodded distantly to Adelaide, who was arrayed in unbride-like black; if she acknowledged this pious salute, or her former acquaintance with Moore, I could not say; a veil disguised her features.

Julian Thane, with his rogue’s dark curl falling negligently over his brow, exerted himself enough to cross the room and greet us. I offered my hand—how often may I expect a handsome young rake to kiss it in future?—and he bent low with a grin.

“I trust you are well, Miss Austen?”

“Perfectly, I assure you.”

“The atmosphere of an inquest agrees with you?”

“I am not so missish as to faint, sir, from an excessive exposure to the Law.”

“Miss Knight, however, declined the pleasure.”

“Miss Knight had a prior engagement—she was to ride today with Mr. John Plumptre, I believe.”

Mr. John Plumptre, met with a similar intelligence regarding his fellow man, should have darkened and turned away with a glower; but Julian Thane merely pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “And I had hoped her to be an undiscovered flower, blooming in retirement. Such a sad romp as Miss Knight turns out to be! Invariably in request, throughout the neighbourhood! I shall have to challenge her to a course of jumps when I am next at leisure—there is a prime hunter in Wildman’s stables ideally suited to a lady. And I have no doubt Miss Knight shall prove pluck to the backbone.”

He bowed and returned to his sister. Just so does Defiance meet the threat of Damnation.

Andrew MacCallister, for his part, looked as cool and grim as tho’ he rode into battle. He wore his dress uniform, of the 7th Light Dragoons, and must impress even the ignorant with his appearance of command.

There was a bustle to the rear; I turned, and observed Edward and Dr. Bredloe, who made their way up the centre aisle; and behind them came the panel of men who should decide how Curzon Fiske died.

They were an assortment of tradesmen and farmers from the surrounding environs—but whether knowledgeable or ignorant, malicious or kindly-disposed, who could say? A collection of strangers, for the most part, bound by a single duty; individuals forced to work in harness for the space of the proceeding. And I was reminded, of a sudden, of the Canterbury Tales —that collection of Chaucer’s Pilgrims, unknown to one another until their meeting in a tavern, bound for the space of their journey by the stories they chose to tell. If one could but hear the thoughts of these twelve men, as they weighed what Dr. Bredloe and Edward might say! Of a sudden I felt anxious, as I had not felt before; the security of an Adelaide MacCallister or her Captain, even of a Julian Thane, seemed too important to hand over unconditionally to these unknowns.

Dr. Bredloe convened the proceeding in his driest manner. The panel’s first duty was to view the corpse, which lay in a closet to one side of the publick room; having submitted to the task, they returned to their benches in a subdued fashion, and were allowed a moment to collect themselves. Dr. Bredloe stated that Deceased’s wife, Mrs. Adelaide Fiske, had identified the corpse as her husband; he must have required her to do so, before ever the inquest began. I felt George Moore stiffen beside me; he had expected to testify to Fiske’s identity, and indeed, had attended the inquest for no other purpose. Was he indignant at having his rôle usurped? Or relieved? Some profound emotion had turned him rigid. I fancied it had more to do with Adelaide, than himself; and wondered very much if he still carried a tendre for her, after seven years.

But my nephew Edward was recounting the discovery of the body by the party of gentlemen and their beaters; he looked very young as he stood before the coroner, conscious of his father’s eyes upon him. Dr. Bredloe thanked the boy, and allowed him to stand down; then addressed the state of the corpse, the nature of the wound, and the probable manner in which it had been received. The constable next displayed the pistol, and James Beckford Wildman was called upon to identify it as his own, in a voice that trembled only slightly.

Naturally, a murmur went up at this from the assembled audience; there were some in the crowd, curious onlookers, who knew nothing of facts that all at Chilham must have mastered. Edward gazed steadily at young James, and asked him in a clear voice when he had last seen his pistol.

“I cannot say with any certainty, Your Honour. I know it to have been in my possession on Tuesday last, when I engaged in some target shooting; I later cleaned the gun, and replaced it with its companion, in its case; but as the case is left in my father’s gun room, where any might find it, I cannot tell when it disappeared.”

“But you did not, yourself, take the gun out for the purpose of firing it at Curzon Fiske the following night, or early Thursday morning?”

Young Wildman paled, but his chin lifted a little and his gaze did not falter. “I did not, Your Honour.”

“You have heard Constable Blewett say that it was found on a tombstone in St. Lawrence churchyard?”

“I have. I do not know how it came there.”

“Mr. Wildman, were you at all acquainted with Curzon Fiske?”

“He was the husband of my second cousin, and as such, was often entertained at our home. He left the Kingdom some three years ago, however, for India, and we believed that he had died out there.”