Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

‘If they do, sir,’ replied Mottershead with a lopsided grin, ‘I wink and do this.’ He rubbed his finger and thumb together in the sign for money. ‘They think I’m a thief and leave me be. It suits me that way.’ Copestick’s murder seemed to have affected him rather less than it had Williamson. In his line of work, he would have become accustomed to violent death.

‘John Winter,’ went on Williamson, ‘performed much the same service as Mottershead but at a different level. Coffee houses and barbers’ shops were his milieu.’

‘So now we have four deaths,’ Thomas observed. ‘Sir Montford Babb, whom nobody seems to care much about, Matthew Smith, John Winter and Henry Copestick – all employees of yours, sir. It seems your concern was justified.’

‘It is not a matter of caring, Thomas. I simply cannot see a connection between Babb’s death and those of the others. Babb did not work for me in any capacity. He was an elderly man who kept his own company.’

‘Yet, like Smith, he was found with his throat cut in Pudding Lane.’

‘A coincidence, nothing more. Smith, Winter and Copestick were connected. Babb was not.’

Sensing that Mr Williamson was in no mood for further discussion, Thomas let it go.

When their carriage pulled up outside the coroner’s office, Mottershead jumped out and rapped on the door with his stick. It was opened by an ancient clerk who peered suspiciously at them. ‘Mr Joseph Williamson to see Mr Seymour Manners on a matter of urgent business,’ said Mottershead, standing up to his full five feet.

The clerk looked down his nose at Thomas. ‘And this gentleman?’

‘Mr Hill is a senior member of my staff,’ replied Williamson, ‘and must be admitted with me. Mr Mottershead will remain with the carriage until our business is concluded.’

‘Very well, gentlemen. I will see if the coroner will admit you. Kindly wait here.’

After five minutes on the doorstep, Williamson had had enough. ‘Hand me your stick, Mottershead, if you please. We’ll see if we can wake the drunken oaf.’ Taking the stick, he hammered so hard on the door that Thomas thought he might break it.

The door opened and the clerk appeared again. ‘The coroner is engaged, but asks you to wait inside.’ He held the door open for them. Thomas and Williamson entered, leaving Mottershead to keep an eye on the carriage. They were shown into a small antechamber.

‘Engaged, my liver,’ muttered Williamson. ‘Lying in a drunken heap, more likely.’

It was twenty minutes before the door opened and the coroner appeared. Seymour Manners had packed eighty years’ worth of drinking into his fifty years on earth and it showed. Thomas assessed him from the top down – medium height, straggly hair to his shoulders, bulbous nose, broken veins, red eyes, black teeth, protruding stomach, stork’s legs and a limp – and knew at once that Williamson’s opinion of the man was justified. What was more, he smelt like an alehouse.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ croaked the coroner. ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting. My stomach is troublesome today. How may I be of service?’

‘We understand that you are holding the body of Henry Copestick. We wish to see it. That is, if you haven’t already had it cut into small pieces.’ Williamson’s voice was brimming with distaste.

‘And why, pray, would you wish to do that?’ Manners’ eyes narrowed.

‘Henry Copestick worked for me.’

‘Did he now? And what exactly did he do, sir?’

‘That is none of your concern, Manners.’

‘It is, sir, if you wish to see the body. I cannot allow just anyone to come in off the street and insist on seeing a body.’

‘I am not just anyone, Manners,’ thundered Williamson, ‘I am employed by the secretary of state and, as such, I have every right to examine the body of a member of my staff found in the river.’

‘And by whom was this right bestowed? I know of no law granting it.’

Williamson’s temper snapped. ‘Enough, Manners. We will see the body now or you will shortly be explaining yourself to the king. His Majesty will wish to know why you obstructed one of his officers and why you reeked of drink during working hours.’

Manners shrugged. ‘If you are so anxious to see the body of a drowned man, sir, I will permit it. It is intact. Follow me.’

He led them down a passage towards the back of the building and across a small courtyard, where he unlocked the door to what might once have been a storehouse. Inside, Henry Copestick was lying on a low table, only his face showing from under a dirty sheet that covered his body. They approached it gingerly. Manners turned back the sheet. Copestick’s clothes had been removed and no doubt the pockets had been checked for anything valuable. The body was pale and bloated, its eyes had gone and there was no mistaking that it had spent some time in the river. Thomas swallowed hard and took out his handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose. Williamson swore under his breath.

‘Here he is, gentlemen,’ said Manners smugly. ‘Quite comfortable and waiting for a decent burial.’

Thomas squirmed at his tone. Despite the state of the body, he could tell that Copestick had been a handsome man, well made and by the look of him more than capable of taking care of himself.

‘Thank you, Manners,’ said Williamson. ‘You may leave us to carry out our inspection.’ Manners stifled a protest, left the room and shut the door.

There had been no incisions, so Manners had not bothered to check for signs of drowning. They walked slowly around the table, looking for anything unusual. ‘He must have been a strong man,’ observed Thomas. ‘He would not have been easily overcome.’

‘He was. And he seldom drank. I cannot think that he would have fallen into the river.’

‘What are these?’ asked Thomas, pointing to a row of puncture wounds on his arms.

Joseph peered at the wounds. ‘It’s hard to say. If they were made by a weapon it was an unusual one.’ They turned Copestick on to his front. The hair on the back of his head was thick and matted. When Thomas carefully parted it they could see a deep lacerated wound stretching from his crown to the nape of his neck. The dead man had been hit from behind with a heavy, rough-edged weapon and would have been dead before entering the water.

‘Even Manners must have seen this,’ said Williamson. ‘Let’s see what he’s got to say about it. Fetch him in, Thomas, please.’

Manners was waiting in the courtyard. ‘You noticed this, of course, Manners?’ asked Williamson, indicating the wound.

‘Naturally. I inspect all bodies brought to me.’

‘And what did you make of it?’

‘The wound is consistent with the deceased having hit his head on a rock or other sharp object when falling into the river. It probably killed him. If it didn’t, he quickly drowned.’

Thomas and Williamson both stared at Manners. Could he be serious? This wound could only have been made by a blow with a sharp, heavy weapon. It was not made by a rock. ‘Is that your opinion?’ demanded Williamson.

‘It is, sir. I saw no reason to suspect a crime.’

‘Did you examine the wounds on his arms?’

‘Of course. I could make nothing of them.’

‘And what of his clothing? Did it show any traces of a struggle?’

‘None. The clothing has been disposed of.’

There was no point in continuing the discussion. Manners was wholly incompetent.

‘Then we shall bid you good day,’ said Williamson brusquely, and marched back across the courtyard and down the passage to the front door. Thomas followed him. Mottershead was waiting with the carriage and opened the door for them.

‘Why in the name of all that’s holy is that man still a coroner?’ exploded Williamson as soon as they were on their way. ‘He should have been removed years ago.’