Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Stillroom Maid

The remaining women formed a loose knot at the head of the room, barely a yard removed from the Coroner’s panel. The eldest — a crone whose crazed, unfocused stare betrayed her blindness — was undoubtedly Betty Arnold, the maid’s mother. The girl to her right was disposed to maintain a determined weeping, and I utterly failed to glimpse her face, it being smothered by a large checked handkerchief throughout the proceeding. The young woman to the left kept her hand firmly on the old woman’s elbow and stared malevolently at Mr. Tivey, her face like stone and her cold eyes unblinking. What was she, then? Friend of the bosom or sister to Tess Arnold? Her profile was fine, and I thought I traced a semblance of the dead girl’s features — until she turned, and I saw that her face was utterly disfigured by a wine-coloured stain that mottled one cheek.

“Pray allow Mr. Charles Danforth to approach the panel,” Mr. Tivey intoned.

I turned my head, in company with every other person in the chamber — and watched as Tess Arnold’s employer made his slow progress towards the coroner. He was perhaps five- or six-and-thirty, a man not above medium height, with powerful shoulders encased in a well-cut green coat of superfine; his hair was chestnut, and his features regular. An expression of pain was writ upon his brow, however; and he walked with the aid of a stout length of oak. The widower Charles Danforth — handsome, rich, and the object of either a curse or a singular run of bad luck in his personal affairs — was also lame.

“Tha’rt Mr. Charles Danforth of Penfolds Hall?” Mr. Tivey enquired.

“I am.” The voice was surprising in its depth — a rich voice of decided timbre, the voice of politics or of God; but there was a languor about the man that suggested illness or deep sorrow. Little of a worldly nature was capable of stirring Charles Danforth’s passion.

“And Tha’ held the maid Tess Arnold in thy employ?”

“I did. She was raised on the estate during my father’s time, and entered into service at the age of twelve.”

“That would be ten years ago, Mr. Danforth?”

“Closer to twelve or thirteen, I imagine.”

“And did she give satisfaction?”

“So far as I could tell,” he replied indifferently. “Mrs. Danforth — my late wife — and the housekeeper were responsible for the management of servants’ affairs, as I was often absent on business a good part of the year.”

“Very well. Would Tha’ describe for the panel what Tha’ did on Monday evening?”

“I dined early, and at home,” he said slowly, “and retired around ten o’clock.”

“What does Tha’ regard as early, Mr. Danforth?”

The gentleman gave the barest suggestion of a shrug. “Five o’clock.”

“And between the hours of five o’clock and ten o’clock Tha’ stopped at home, alone?”

“Certainly not. Monday is the night upon which it is customary for the Masonic lodge to meet”—a low rumble, as of great guns fired upon a distant front, moved through the room—“and it was for this reason I dined early.”

“Tha’ went to the Freemasons’ meeting?” If words may be said to pounce, then Michael Tivey’s all but seized hold of Mr. Danforth’s neck. The gentleman appeared impervious to the sensation his words must cause.

“Of course. I should judge that I left the Hall on horseback at six o’clock, and reached the Lodge — it is on the Buxton road, perhaps three miles out of Buxton itself — around half-past the hour.”

“Very well,” Mr. Tivey said expansively. “Mr. Danforth admits to forming one of that insidious cabal; he admits to entering the Lodge. I will not ask him what he did there — I know he is sworn never to divulge the workings of his brother Masons. But perhaps he will tell the panel when he quitted that fearsome place.”

“Fearsome?” Mr. Danforth repeated. “Whatever are you saying, man? That stretch of road into Buxton is in better repair than most. I should judge that I turned towards home no later than nine o’clock, because I wound my watch before retiring; and saw then that it was nigh on ten.”

“Ten o’clock,” Mr. Tivey repeated. “And was Tha’ quite alone for the rest of the evening, Mr. Danforth?”

“I was,” he replied, “my brother — Mr. Andrew Danforth — having dined that evening at Chatsworth House, in the company of a large party. I could not say when he returned to Penfolds — well after midnight, I should think. Mrs. Haskell will know the hour.”

“Mrs. Haskell is housekeeper up t’a Hall?”

“She is.”

“Very well. Tha’ has stated for the panel that Tha’ retired at ten o’clock, or near enough. When did Tha’ rise?”

“Rise?” said Mr. Danforth hesitantly. “At what hour of the morning, would you mean — or … or that night?”

Michael Tivey’s small eyes narrowed. “Tha’ wert abroad during the night?”

Mr. Danforth shifted in the hard wooden chair. “I often have difficulty sleeping.”

“And on Monday night, Mr. Danforth?”

“I attempted to find repose for several hours. At length I abandoned the effort, got up and dressed, and took a turn out-of-doors. I find that a walk will often relieve an unquiet mind.”

“And does Tha’ possess an unquiet mind, Mr. Danforth?”

“I am in mourning, Tivey,” the gentleman retorted. “For no less than my whole family. If a man is at peace in such dreadful circumstances, then he can possess no heart!”

I felt a surge of pain and sympathy for Charles Danforth at this burst of feeling; but from the aspect of my neighbours in the Snake and Hind, few others were animated by a like sensation.

“Tha’ admits to having walked out of thy house,” Mr. Tivey said insidiously. “Where did thy ramble take Tha’?”

For the first time, Charles Danforth seemed to apprehend his danger. He hesitated. “I cannot say. When wandering in that fashion, all sense of time and place may be lost.”

“Did Tha’ bide within the bounds o’ Penfolds?”

“Possibly. Possibly not.”

“I see.” Mr. Tivey stared balefully at his witness, and then gazed out at the assembled folk of Bakewell with an air of significance. “Mr. Danforth says as he were abroad in the middle of the night, but cannot state where he may have been.” He reached for a canvas-wrapped bundle. “Is the gentleman able to identify these?”

Charles Danforth stared at the black coat and pantaloons the coroner held forth. He half rose from his chair, reached for his stick, and bent to the inspection with an air of disbelief.

“Those are mine,” he said. “I should recognise the tailor’s mark anywhere. How did they fall into your hands, Tivey?”

Every man and woman in the room could have answered that question. Was it possible Mr. Danforth was so ignorant of events?

“They were found on the body of Tess Arnold Tuesday morning,” the Coroner replied. “Let the panel observe that Deceased was attired in Mr. Charles Danforth’s clothing at the time of her death.”

“But that is impossible!” Mr. Danforth cried. He fell heavily back into the witness chair. “What would Tess want with my things?”

“Tha’ did not make a … gift … to the young woman?”

“Of my clothes? Certainly not!” The scorn in Charles Danforth’s voice was scalding, and his features were distorted, of a sudden, with a spasm of fury. My first estimation of the gentleman had been in error. This gross invasion of his privacy, it seemed, had brought the dragon to life.

“And Tha’ canst think of no reason why the maid should have taken them?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Did any sort of relations — for good or ill — subsist between thyself and the stillroom maid?”