“Whatever your motives, sir, you have my thanks.”
The door opened and the maid stepped into the room.
“Ma’am, the squire is here.”
“Very good, Dido.”
As the squire bustled in he beamed at Harriet with such openhearted pleasure that Crowther’s thin frame was almost thrown back by the force of it.
Squire Bridges was a well-built man, perhaps some ten years older than Crowther, and could never have been mistaken for anything in his life other than an English country gentleman of the old school. He had the red complexion and solid girth of a man who enjoyed vigorous exercise and noisy dinners. Indeed, his personality seemed altogether too solid and massive for the gentle confines of the salon-it seemed to strain at the walls, questing amongst the furniture to spread as much goodwill as possible. Crowther felt immediately tired, looking at him.
The squire flung himself toward them with his hands outstretched.
“Dear Mrs. Westerman, what a pleasure to see you! An ornament to the morning! And looking as ever the picture of health! I must take a proper look at you, my dear. For you know, Mrs. Bridges will not let me rest till she has extracted every particular of your appearance from me, as well as all the news! And Miss Rachel is three times more beautiful this month than last-we just exchanged our good days in your hallway. We do not meet often enough, my dear. I feel it, and my wife feels it, and tells me so!”
Harriet stepped forward with a laugh and shook the squire’s hand with great friendliness.
“I am very well, as you see, sir. You may deliver good reports of us all. Stephen is blooming, the baby strong and the latest news of Commodore Westerman full of fine winds and good officers! That is to say, he speaks well of those under his command.”
The squire’s attention sharpened a little. “He has some doubts over Rodney, perhaps?” Harriet said nothing. “Well, we shall see, we shall see.” Then he looked enquiringly toward Crowther, who had slunk into whatever thin shadows the room could afford as if he feared the squire would eat him.
“Squire, this is Mr. Crowther who took the Laraby house last summer. Mr. Crowther, our local justice and good friend to all, Squire Bridges.”
They made their bows, the squire’s face lightening still further with the anticipation of a new acquaintance.
“An honor, sir. I have heard of your reputation as a man of science and am glad to know you. Very glad indeed.” He peered eagerly into Crowther’s face for a moment. Then, turning back to his hostess he became in a moment all serious concern. “Now Mrs. Westerman, tell me of this sad business. All I know is a body was found in your woods this morning.”
Harriet proceeded to share with him all they knew of how the man had died and Hugh’s conviction that it was not his brother. The squire’s face grew gradually more somber, and as she continued, he could not refrain from exclaiming under his breath, “Oh, a sad business! How shocking!”
Harriet finished and the squire was quiet a few moments. Then: “I am at a loss, Mrs. Westerman. We can, of course, inquire in the villages to see if any stranger has been seen over the last two nights, and if anything might have given rise to reasonable suspicion. This is beyond all my experience, I am afraid. Dear madam, we are old friends so I shall not scruple to announce myself deeply uneasy. Inquiries must be made, indeed. The ring is a confusing factor; it darkens matters, darkens them considerably. Did the family have any knowledge of Alexander’s whereabouts over these past years?”
“I have heard of none.”
“There have been rumors,” the squire said, “mostly centered on London. I have not heard the matter discussed at the Hall. Well, the coroner and his jury must be summoned. May I borrow one of your lads to show me the spot, and I shall view the body, of course, and dash off a note or two. A sad business indeed.” He turned to Crowther. “And are you willing, sir, to make the necessary examinations of the body? We would be most grateful.” Crowther bowed.
The squire beamed. “Of course, of course. Capital. Good fellow.”
“And who is the coroner?” Harriet asked.
The squire spoke as much to the fireplace as to either of his companions, and scratched absently behind his wig as he did so.
“Oh, a mean little man from near Grasserton. He took on the duties to add luster to his lawyering. He’ll hold his session tomorrow afternoon at the Bear and Crown, I imagine. I’ll have to ask you to attend, my dear. And no doubt one of the jurors will write it all up for the London papers-they always do, these days. So sorry.”
Harriet put her hand on the squire’s sleeve.
“No matter, sir. Will you be able to dine with us when we have finished examining the body?” If Harriet noticed the flick of the squire’s eyes at the suggestion that she would be examining the body with Crowther, she gave no sign of it. “I believe Mrs. Heathcote intends for us to be at table at four. If Mrs. Bridges can spare you, of course.”
The squire immediately brightened again. “Why! If I get sufficiently detailed news for her of yourself and your doings, she will gladly spare me most of the evening! I will go to the coroner and arrange for the jury to be summoned.”
Harriet touched the bell, and Dido appeared to lead him away.
The squire turned to Crowther. “Your servant, sir,” he said, and left the room with a bow.
6
While the squire began to marshal the limited resources of the law-himself, the coroner and a constable chosen by the local parishioners as the person least likely to give them any trouble-Harriet led Crowther out of the house and toward the body. They turned in at a collection of outbuildings, and passing by the current generous stables, Harriet took him to a smaller building in the corner of the yard which had housed the horses of Caveley Park in earlier times. It was a large open space, the north and south walls each partitioned into three empty stalls, and with a large unglazed window to the east with the shutters thrown back. The raw beams rose, ghostly, into the shadow of the roof’s incline, and the stone flags under their feet were patterned by the heavy sunlight from the window and door. Motes of dust and straw shifted in the air. Odd pieces of tackle still hung from huge iron nails driven between the stalls, and the air smelled of lavender and old leather. In the central space in front of them a long table had been set, used normally in the yard for holiday and harvest feasts, Crowther supposed. Now the body was laid out on it, decently covered in a white linen sheet. It looked like an offering. There were cloths, a wide bowl and ewer on a bench under the window.
Crowther placed a hand to his brow and exhaled. When he opened his eyes again, he found Harriet’s gaze on him, her head tilted to one side.
“Forgive me, but you look very tired, Mr. Crowther.”
“I am, Mrs. Westerman. It is my habit to work at night, and keep to my bed in the morning when not viewing the slaughtered gentry of the neighborhood.” He wove his hands together and stretched his fingers, making them crack, then continued in a practical tone, “Now, this will not be a full dissection. This is not the weather, the body must be viewed by the coroner’s men in the morning, and I think we can be certain as to how this man died. We will confine ourselves to externals and examine his leg for any old injury.” Harriet drew herself very straight and nodded. Crowther suspected she was fighting the impulse to salute.
He had removed his coat and was turning to hang it on a convenient nail when he noticed his own tools, wrapped in their soft leather roll on the bench beside the ewer and bowl.
“How came these here?”
“William picked them up from your people as he came back through the village. Had you not required them, they would have been returned before you had noticed they were gone.”