“What do you say, Wilton?” shouted Michaels from the middle of the room. “Your uncle owns the silversmith in Pulborough, doesn’t he?”
It seemed accepted by the crowd that this relation was enough to make Wilton, a tiny man with very greasy hair, an expert, so the ring was passed back to him and everyone waited in silence for him to pronounce.
“Two pound at least,” Wilton said with absolute authority. “Even with the coat of arms scraped off.”
Everyone nodded very wisely, and the ring was passed back to the coroner, who handed it back to Hugh with elaborate courtesy.
There was no room for the jury to retire as such, but they huddled in the furthest corner of the room for a while, and everyone agreed to appear not to look at them until they had done. Backs were turned and the crowd tried to talk as loudly as possible amongst themselves. A small boy, one of Michaels’s offspring, Crowther reckoned, squeezed through the crowd with a glass of lemonade for Mrs. Westerman. She gave him a huge smile which made him blush. As the crowd shifted around them, Harriet found the chance to put her hand out and touch Young Thorpe on the sleeve. He turned to her still looking guilty and rather shamed.
“Thorpe, I have been telling Mr. Crowther here how your ideas must have made the estate ten pounds last year.”
The young man flushed with pleasure, and his back straightened.
“Thank you for that, Mrs. Westerman. I’m sorry I delayed Mr. Thornleigh, but Wicksteed”-he spat the name out-“told me it would be a good moment to catch him. I know I can run on, but the thing I wanted to make clear to Mr. Hugh was …” he was about to embark on what Crowther feared might be a very long explanation, when Harriet put her fingers to her lips.
“I think the jury has decided now, Thorpe. Look-the coroner and foreman are in conversation.”
The young man nodded and smiled again before moving away, and Harriet turned in her chair to face the front again. Crowther leaned toward her.
“I thought you said no one takes estate business to Mr. Thornleigh?”
“I did,” she agreed, “but Young Thorpe can be persistent.”
Crowther looked at her, wondering how to describe the expression on her face. He settled on “smug,” then paid attention as the coroner began to speak.
“My thanks to everyone who has spoken, and our thanks to the jury as well. We believe that this man was killed by someone planning to steal the ring, probably following Brook from London and taking advantage of his heading off somewhere secluded. We think Mr. Hugh Thornleigh disturbed him, so he ran away before he could get it. The jury wish to say to Mr. Thornleigh that they are very sorry he did not get to hear any news from Brook about his brother.”
There was a low rumble of agreement in the room; the jury looked a little conscious.
“I have our conclusions here, and if we are all agreed I shall write them up and you can sign them, gentlemen. I won’t trouble to read the oath again: you all heard that well enough the first time, did you not?”
The jury variously nodded and waved the oath away. The coroner looked about to see he had the attention of the room, then held out a document before him, bringing his arms in and pushing them away till he had the focus quite right, then read:
“We, the jury, find as follows, that a person unknown, not having God before their eyes, but being seduced and moved by the instigation of the devil, in the woodland of Caveley Park and on the night of the first of June in the year of Our Lord 1780, delivered to Carter Brook, a stranger to this parish, a violent and fatal blow to the neck with a sharp instrument who then and there instantly died, and the said jurors upon their oath aforesaid further say, that the said person unknown, after he had committed the said felony and murder in the manner aforesaid, did fly away into the night against the peace of our said lord the king, his crown and his dignity.”
The jury all nodded very solemnly and there was a satisfied sigh of agreement around the room. “Good words,” said the bass by the door. “Almost as good as church,” said another. The coroner looked a little pink and putting down the paper, smiled up from his chair toward the tower of Michaels at the back of the crowd.
“Thirsty work, Michaels. Is the bar open?”
“Always got a drink for the king’s servants, friend. And that stands for the jury men too. The rest of you are buying your own.”
The room began to empty very quickly.
4
There was a good crowd round the open grave. News of Alexander’s death and burial had traveled from one side of the city to the other, judging by the variety of faces in the crowd. Even in such days of riot and discord, neighbor spoke to neighbor and the words flew up and out into the breeze, till it seemed one inhaled the latest news with the air itself. Alexander Adams had made good friends during his years in London, and had kept them. Almost every player from the Drury Lane Theater had attended. Graves watched them huddle together a pace or two away, as if their long association cramped under the stage of that theater had made it natural to them to bunch together even when the walls around them were removed.
Composers who had relied on Alexander to engrave and print their works had come too. Mr. Paxton came over and tried to speak to Susan, but the words had died in his throat, and all he could do was put a hand, briefly, on her shoulder before quickly turning away and marching off among the tombstones with his polished cane glimmering in the sun.
It was a hot and surly day. The signs of riot from the previous night were all around them, and though the streets were quiet enough there was a tension in the air, an uneasy temper to the streets. A man slept across the gutter as they arrived at the churchyard, and had to be stepped around by the bearers. He wore a surplice tied around his hat, and he cradled in his drunken sleep a torn fur fragment as if it were his only love and care. The constable of the parish, old and dirty, and careful of avoiding any attention from those who might demand his help defending their property from the mob, slunk along in their midst. He kept up a murmuring chant under his breath, “Poor Mr. Adams, poor Mr. Adams. What times we live in,” until Graves, afraid that he would prove a strain to Susan, frowned him into embarrassment and silence.
Susan still said nothing, but Graves hoped she was returning a little to herself. He had offered her his hand as they met the body at the door of the shop without thinking, and without thinking she had taken it. Jonathan held her other hand, and he would not move unless he could feel Miss Chase close to him, so, unwieldy and awkward through the narrow streets, the foursome had walked behind the coffin as principal mourners.
Any questions about the death were answered by the common intelligence of the crowd, and Graves felt each pair of eyes tracing the wound on his face when they thought they might not be noticed. He wondered if he would scar. The wound was not deep, and Miss Chase was careful to make sure he kept it clean, though he often wondered if the water of London was of much aid to cleanliness.
The priest was waiting for them by the grave. The sun was even now at its high point, and he was suffering visibly in the heat. He puffed his cheeks, and sweat poured under his wig through the canyons of his red face, but he smiled at Susan, and bent his elderly knees to address Jonathan and whisper to them both a little about how the ceremony would unfold, and tell them their papa was comfortable in heaven before taking his place at the graveside and clearing his throat.
Before he began to speak, however, two carriages bearing variously the arms of the earl of Cumberland and Viscount Carnathly drew up at the gates. The crowd noticed and murmured. Susan did not look up. Both peers were enthusiasts of music, and Alexander had corresponded with both, Graves knew, and regularly sent them samples of new work. It was a handsome compliment to send their carriages to stand sentinel at the gates.