Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

27 December 1802, cont.

THE EVIDENCE REGARDING THE DEATH OF FREDERICK, LORD Scargrave, was to be first presented, and the London physician, Dr. Philip Pettigrew, took his seat by the coroner's side. He looked even younger in the light of day than he had appeared by the late Earl's bedside; a broad-shouldered man, of short stature, his eyes cool and grey behind gold spectacles. Placing his hand upon the Bible, he was duly sworn, and gazed out upon the assembled countryfolk with admirable equanimity. To my dismay, I observed Fanny Delahoussaye smile prettily at him, when his eyes chanced to fall her way. In a flagrant disregard for mourning, she had insisted upon donning a new bonnet of peacock blue, with matching feathers.

Mr. Eliahu Bott gave a dry little cough and picked up his quill. “You are Dr. Philip Pettigrew, of Sloane Street, London?”

“I am.”

Thereafter followed a tedious recitation of the good man's apprenticeships and learning, surprisingly lengthy in one who appeared little more than two-and-thirty; his intimate familiarity with gastric complaints, poisons, and ailments of the bowels; and the history of his relations with the late Earl.

“I was called to attend Lord Scargrave some three years past, in a matter of dyspepsia brought on by the consumption of rich foods, while the Earl was resident for the Season in London. His lordship's complaint being one of frequent recurrence, I became a familiar at his bedside in ensuing months, and was naturally called into Hertfordshire when the ailment took hold more than a fortnight ago.”

“Your physick, it would seem, did little to cure your patient.” Mr. Bott peered severely at Dr. Pettigrew.

“Even the wisest counsel is useless when it is unheeded,” Dr. Pettigrew said, in a tone of reproof. “The Earl was fond of fine food and drink, and little accustomed to having his habits of indulgence checked.”

“And how would you describe Lord Scargrave's condition prior to his death on the twelfth of December last?”

“He was severely ill — so severely ill that all help was past by the time I arrived just before dawn. His lordship was bloated and possessed of difficulty in breathing; his vomiting had then occurred some hours without cease; and as is usual in such cases, a dizzyness had come on that prevented him from sitting or standing upright.”

“And yet you believed his lordship to be suffering merely another attack of dyspepsia?”

The doctor adjusted his spectacles with great dignity. “I thought that Lord Scargrave had achieved the final result of careless indulgence — acute gastritis brought on by steady abuse of the digestive tract. That he was brought to sickbed following a celebratory ball for his bride, and that following a three months’ holiday, made it likely that all dietary strictures had been cast off for some time; and so I bled him, and hoped for the best.”

Mr. Bott's quill paused in mid-air. “And what was the result?”

“His lordship departed this life a mere half-hour after the bleeding.”

There was a murmur at this from the assembled folk, rising behind us like the first hint of thunder on a warm summer's eve.

The coroner's reproachful gaze shifted from his witness to the audience, and he snorted with disapproval. “You may stand down, Dr. Pettigrew.”

Next to be called was the Countess herself, deathly pale and faint of voice. Arrayed in outmoded black sarcenet, with her red hair drawn severely behind her ears, Isobel looked the very picture of distressed widowhood; and a hope rose within me that even Mr. Bott might view her with pity, and go gently in his questions. She was sworn, stated her name and place of birth as the Barbadoes, and was questioned as to her familiarity with her husband's dietary habits.

“Had his lordship experienced such an indisposition at any time during your travels?”

“On several occasions in Paris, and again in Vienna,” Isobel replied, her voice quavering.

“Harlots and debauch!” someone cried from the gallery.

Mr Bott glared at the crowd and struck the table with a small mallet provided for this purpose. “Silence!” His head, so like a sparrow's, turned sharply towards the Countess. “And these would have been on what dates, my lady?”

Isobel reflected, her gaze distracted. “In early September and again at mid-November, I should say, sir.”

“But this was not an ailment the Earl combated daily.” Mr. Bott's hand moved swiftly over his parchment.

“It was not during the period of our marriage, assuredly.”

“Did you consider your husband to be in good health when you married him, my lady?”

“The Earl was a vigourous man of excellent aspect.” Isobel spoke in so low an accent as to be almost inaudible. “I anticipated a long and fruitful life in his company.” Her eyes drifted to where Fitzroy Payne sat, splendidly elegant in dark coat and breeches; I saw him smile encouragement, and hoped that the jury did not observe the exchange.

“Though he was a gentleman some” — at this, Mr. Bott peered narrowly at a paper before his nose — ”six-and-twenty years your senior?”

“Married him for his fortune, she did,” came another voice from behind me.

Tom Hearst started to his feet and looked about the room, his indignation on his face. To my relief, I saw his brother George reach a restraining hand to his elbow, and with unconcealed reluctance the Lieutenant regained his seat.

“Silence!” Sir William Reynolds bellowed, his aspect furious. The muttering died away, and the coroner returned to Isobel. “Pray reply to the question, my lady.”

Isobel drew breath. She looked down at her clasped hands. “My husband's energy was high and his appearance youthful, despite his years. I did not anticipate his passing so soon.”

Mr. Bott sniffed, and peered at Isobel with sharp eyes. “Do you recall, my lady,” he said slowly, “what the late Earl of Scargrave consumed the evening of his death?”

“He partook of the repast laid for the ball, as did all our guests. It included such victuals as roast beef, a variety of vegetables, roast goose and pudding, pasties and oysters; for drink we had a spiced mulled punch and claret.” At this, my friend sought my eyes, her own filled with doubt. “I cannot think what else.”

“And how many guests did you entertain that evening, my lady?”

“Some hundred from London and the surrounding country.”

Mr. Bott paused before the next question, and looked significantly at the jury. “And you will swear, my lady, that all partook of the same food as the Earl?”

“I must believe it to be probable,” Isobel replied. “I myself was handed a dish by my husband; and that he had fetched mine in the same span as fetching his own, I know to be true.”

“And did your husband betray any sign of indisposition while the ball held sway?”

The Countess hesitated, and Mr. Bott leaned forward expectantly. “He was in excellent form and spirits for some hours,” Isobel told him, “but was overcome after midnight by severe dyspepsia, having drunk down a glass of claret in toasting my health.” Her voice faltered, and I keenly felt all her distress. “We bore him to his rooms. I bade our guests farewell.”

Fanny Delahoussaye's attention was clearly wandering, like a child's in the midst of the vicar's lengthy sermon; her blond head drifted around the room, seeking an object worthy of her interest, until recalled to dignity by a pinch from her mother.

“And did his lordship then request anything further?” Mr. Bott continued.

“He asked for a milk toddy and sweetmeats, in hopes that it might settle his stomach.”