Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Canterbury Tale

There was no sign of Adelaide MacCallister.

“Pray bring the fellow forward,” Edward commanded.

Thane dragged the seaman before the empty benches where the panel had formerly sat, and glanced round in perplexity.

“Dr. Bredloe!” Edward called towards the rear of the room. “What do you wish? Your panel is closeted with their ale!”

The coroner sighed, and forced his way through the throng. In a matter of seconds the panel returned, several wiping their mouths on their shirtsleeves, and took up their places.

“Now, then, my lad, what is your name?” Dr. Bredloe demanded of the seaman.

The wizened old man surveyed the coroner imperiously. “I hardly think I am your lad , Dr. Bredloe—if indeed I have your name correctly. My own is Sir Davie Myrrh, late of Ceylon.” And he performed a bow that should have graced the portals of Almack’s.

There, however, ended the seaman’s effort at cooperation. Sir Davie refused entirely to answer any questions put to him, until, he said, he should have taken counsel of his solicitor; and being required to name that gentleman, offered the direction of an intimate of Temple Bar, London. Dr. Bredloe lifted a quizzical brow at my brother, and raised his hands as tho’ incapable of further decision; and after a brief, private colloquy, coroner and magistrate appeared to be mutually satisfied. Dr. Bredloe turned his attention to his panel.

“Men of the jury,” he said, “the Magistrate has requested an adjournment of this proceeding, so that the present confusion might be thoroughly penetrated. Do you agree to such an adjournment, with the inquest to be resumed at a later date, under the Magistrate’s advising?”

There was an uneasy silence. One member of the panel—a man of middle years, with the stalwart looks of those who spend their days in the fields, lifted his hand hesitantly to his forelock. “Begging yer pardon, Crowner, but what about the corpus? Adjourn howsoever long you like, but there’ll be a stink.”

“Having entered into the record my examination of Deceased,” Dr. Bredloe said, “and having required the panel to view Deceased’s remains, there can be no bar at present to Christian burial. Proper interment need not wait on the resumption of the inquest—provided the Magistrate concurs.”

The Magistrate concurred.

In addition, he ordered his constable to take Sir Davie Myrrh, late of Ceylon, into custody on the suspicion of murder; and so the seaman was led away to Canterbury gaol.

“It is altogether an impenetrable business,” George Moore observed, as our carriage rattled along the road to Godmersham. His countenance was considerably lighter than it had been on our journey out to Canterbury; either his errands in the Cathedral Close, or his estimation of the inquest, had cheered his humour. We were forced to a tête-à-tête, Edward having determined to follow his new-found oddity to Westgate, where the gaol was housed, in order to interrogate him more closely. He should not have been doing his magisterial duty otherwise; but deemed it unlikely the man should relent, and speak without his lawyer. The mystery of Sir Davie Myrrh would have, perforce, to await that fellow’s arrival—an event that could not occur before Monday at the earliest.

I glanced through the carriage window; we had covered but two miles of the distance to Godmersham, and a tedious interval lay before us. Mr. Moore had drawn a small leatherbound volume from his coat, and was preparing to immerse himself in its pages; Aeschylus’s Prometheus , I observed. I pursed my lips, unwilling for my curiosity to alienate the gentleman further, and bring down a rain of strictures upon my head—but I might never have so perfect an opportunity to question him again.

“Such matters are always impenetrable,” I began, “when the parties involved are less than frank.”

“You would refer to that deluded seaman, I presume.”

Mr. Moore had been treated to a summary of the business from Julian Thane, having missed the episode himself.

“Yes—the seaman, naturally … and poor James Wildman, of course. One could perfectly discern that he did not wish to speak frankly of Curzon Fiske. I must suppose that partiality for his cousin Adelaide sealed his lips; but there is a history, there, begging to be told.”

“I suspect you know little of the matter, Miss Austen, being a stranger to Kent, and most of the people in it.”

It was a snub; a decided snub; Mr. Moore meant to quell my pretensions as thoroughly as tho’ I had been Miss Clewes, and throwing out lures to Jupiter Finch-Hatton. But my gambit succeeded in this: the clergyman closed his book.

I regarded him coolly. “The history of Fiske’s final wager will have to be canvassed, of course, however unpleasant the exercise must prove. Your calm good sense will be invaluable to my brother, Mr. Moore—for you were one of the party at Chilham Castle, were you not, when all the gentlemen played at whist for pound points, and Mr. Lushington accused the dead man of cheating?”

“The events of that night can have nothing to do with Fiske’s death, Miss Austen.”

“The man was murdered , Mr. Moore,” I returned in exasperation. “A violent act does not arise in a vacuum; it requires profound emotion to spur it on—hatred, for example, or a desire for vengeance. Add to this that Fiske was killed by a pistol belonging to Chilham Castle, in the very neighbourhood he fled three years before, and the likelihood increases that the two episodes are linked.”

“By one of the whist players, you would suggest. You forget, I think, that we all presumed Fiske to be dead—and were dancing at his wife’s wedding when he died.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “The fact of his murder proclaims that one among you knew that he was alive. Perhaps Fiske corresponded with an old acquaintance.”

Mr. Moore’s eyes narrowed. “Is the exchange of letters now enough to hang a man?”

“Certainly not. One would have to detect in such letters a spur to violence. Or perhaps another discovered an innocent correspondence, and was moved to murder on the strength of his secret knowledge—that Fiske lived, and was returned to Kent. This can all be merest speculation; but I am persuaded you will perceive the value to the Magistrate of a clear narrative of events: The fatal whist-party, the accusation of cheating, and Fiske’s flight. That should do much to throw light on the murder, and I can think of no one better suited to supplying such a narrative than yourself, Mr. Moore. You will know how to divide emotion from fact, and offer an account untinged by personal emnity.”

The sharpness of Mr. Moore’s looks increased; his brows drew down, and his lips compressed.

“You flatter me, Miss Austen.”

“Do I, sir?” I affected surprize. “Then my portrait of your character must be flawed in its chief points. It has been my habit to regard you as prizing a profound understanding above all else.”

“That is self-evident.” He drew himself up. “But what right you assume to question me regarding that abhorrent occasion—or advise me on my present course of action—I fail to apprehend.”

I offered a bewildered gaze. “Have I done so? I intended merely to suggest that Edward must be distinctly indebted to your assistance. However, if you mean to persist in being private about the affair, Mr. Moore, I must assume that you regard it with uneasiness.”

“On that question I may put your mind at rest, Miss Austen,” he retorted with obvious dislike. “There is nothing in my life, I am thankful to say, that I regard with uneasiness; I am so much in the habit of interrogating my conscience, and acting according to its dictates, that I am a stranger to moral ambiguity. I would advise a thorough canvassing of your conscience in future as a useful aid to conduct.”