Cheating the Hangman (6 page)

To my horror, although I had not actually touched the poor corpse, whiff of mortality seemed to have lingered on my hands. The smell … The vile, vile smell …

A servant padded in with a tray of wine, cold meats and fruit.

The thought of touching food with my tainted skin made the bile surge into my gorge. Breathing deeply, I managed to control myself. If the servant was alarmed he was too well trained to show it. I think he was glad to bolt from the room to fetch the soap and water I requested.

When at last I could persuade myself to try it, the food was surprisingly welcome, even if I could do no more than pick at a few morsels. Still left to my own devices, I was fortunate to find, tucked away on an obscure shelf, a fine old Bible. So I was able to while away the rest of the time in a mixture of heartfelt prayer and invaluable wisdom. Then, as Hasbury’s butler announced that Dr Hansard had arrived and was already addressing the work party the steward had organised, I made my reluctant feet take me to them. The men were on foot, apart from two on a cart, which carried the wooden planks favoured by Edmund to transport a cadaver and a heavy tarpaulin with which to cover it decently. There was no immediate sign of Titus. Then I saw him walking contentedly beside the groom bringing him from the stables, unaware that I was about
to direct him towards a place he clearly loathed.

Hansard brought his horse into step alongside us as we led the way back to the woods, asking questions not about the corpse but about my conspicuously absent host who had made no effort to wish me good day. This was not the moment for jocular speculation about barques of frailty but I was sure his interest was piqued by the rumours.

He nodded with apparent approval as I dismounted some two hundred yards from my still fluttering handkerchief, and did likewise. But he directed the men on the cart to approach as close as their horse would let them. We all moved forward, our silence more apprehensive, I suspected, than reverent.

We reached the clearing.

‘Dear God, man,’ Edmund exploded, coming to abrupt halt. ‘No one told me the man had been crucified.’

No one argued when my dear friend decreed that he would not ask them to move the poor corpse any further than he had to in order to examine it, lest the rough lanes jolted it so much it disintegrated. The head gamekeeper, a man who seemed to be the unofficial leader of Lord Hasbury’s men, suggested a woodman’s shelter not far from the ice house, and was sure that Lord Wychbold would have no objection to some ice deemed not good enough for the kitchen being used to keep the cadaver cool as long as possible. I despatched one of his team to speak to Wychbold’s steward, faintly surprised that neither he nor his representative had already arrived to see what we were doing on his land.

All these suggestions met with Edmund’s undoubted approval. Goodness knew how he could bear the task, but he would examine the corpse, which he assured me had been dead before its final humiliation. Then he would record its injuries in the hope of obtaining some hint as to the means of death and thus perhaps the assailant. ‘I wish to God I could ask Maria’s help in recording all the details of the body, but
it would create scandal amongst the villagers and even the gentry, to which I will not expose her,’ he declared. ‘Dare not.’

I could not argue. Instead, writhing with embarrassment, I said, ‘I cannot draw, but I could act as your amanuensis.’

He responded with kind amusement: ‘And how many times have you cast up your accounts since discovering the crime? But I know that you want action to rid your mind of what you have seen. I believe Doctor Toone to be staying near Stratford. I would value his opinion greatly, but would prefer not to entrust the task of explaining the situation to a mere servant.’ He shot a shrewd look at me.

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to fetch him – provided his paschal potations have left him fit to sit on a horse,’ I declared. In fact, the nasty schoolboy lurking within me would have enjoyed holding his head under the pump to sober him up – a belated revenge for all the times Gussie Toone had plunged my head into altogether viler liquids. But now he was Augustus, a most distinguished physician by choice, not financial necessity, and I was Tobias, an ordained clergyman, enjoined to forgive. It was time for us to put away the follies of childhood. He was now only ever known as Toone to his intimates, and as Doctor Toone by those he treated for fashionable ailments.

Hansard glanced at the ice the men had accumulated and at his watch. ‘If you can persuade him to undertake a moonlit drive, it would be well for our investigation. Burns, who has a countryman’s nose for such things, promises a crisp frost, but a bright warm day tomorrow, alas.’

Toone might already smell strongly of wine but he was sober enough to send immediately to the stables for his
curricle. I made his excuses to his hosts while he made swift preparations for the journey. Within minutes he had run downstairs again, and was shrugging on his driving coat, a garment with so many fashionable capes I thought he must be mistaking Warwickshire for Hyde Park.

At times like this, Binns, his deceptively sour-faced groom, acted as his valet. He had already stowed his master’s medical and personal bags ready for Toone to take the ribbons. He drove a beautiful matched pair of greys, as elegant as the archdeacon’s. Titus and I became his escort, an arrangement that had the advantage of precluding conversation I might prefer Binns not to overhear, however discreet he might be.

Mrs Hansard had left instructions with her housekeeper that we travellers must be provided with a late supper; the guest bedchamber would no doubt be warm – the night had turned as cold as Burns had predicted – and the bed aired. The room I had come to regard as mine would be equally welcoming. But what was clearly not welcome to our visitor was the news that I had suppressed for the duration of the journey – that Mrs Hansard would not be venturing forth to make notes and sketch any salient detail as an aide-memoire.

‘You joke me! As an artist of such subjects – I do not presume to judge what I am sure are delightful paintings meant for a drawing room – she is unsurpassed!’

‘Indeed. But it would be entirely ineligible for her to be seen anywhere near the corpse. Imagine, Toone, a lady in such circumstances. Sketching a naked man’s body!’

‘I suppose you have never heard of Madame Kauffman? Or Miss Moser?’

‘And I presume that you have conveniently forgotten that when Zoffany painted the members of the Royal Academy surrounding the nude male, the two ladies were present only by means of their portraits on the wall?’

‘All arrant poppycock.’

‘Not to lowly members of country society, I fear, Toone.’ I sat down again, hoping he would do likewise. Dropping my voice, I added, ‘And Hansard has a particular care for Maria’s reputation, given that however much of a lady she undoubtedly is, she was not nobly born.’

‘And what care you for noble birth? You, who are a marquis of somewhere or other, call yourself plain Mister! Or less plain Doctor. You at least appear to have learnt something from the events in France in the last century. As for the others – pouf! Damn them!’

‘They are the people amongst whom I live, Toone. I may not always share their opinions any more than Edmund and Maria do – but we have to respect them, whilst, one hopes, leading them to hold more enlightened views.’

‘Hmph. Meanwhile, I lack an artist. Are there any drawing masters in the area, sick of teaching damsels to draw daffodils, who might assist?’

I spread my hands. ‘Apparently a poet is to hand.’

Toone laughed, as I hoped he would. ‘So he could write a sonnet on blowflies and maggots. I wish him joy of his rhymes. In all seriousness, Tobias, I need someone to record what I find – and I collect that your skill with the pencil is no greater than mine?’

‘Not one jot. And my stomach is a great deal more delicate.’

It occurred to me as I retired to my chamber that perhaps My Lord Wychbold might, as a scholar, have need of someone who could copy for him items of interest. Even one of Lord Hasbury’s guests at Orebury House might be accompanied by a secretary numbering sketching amongst his skills. Accordingly, as soon as I had completed a speedy toilette the following morning – which had dawned with skies as blue and clear as Burns had predicted, the sun already melting the dusting of frost on the south lawn – I put the idea to Edmund, alone in the south-facing breakfast room. Maria entered as I was speaking, and exchanged a wry smile with her husband.

‘You may gather that this subject has already been the topic of some animated discussion, my dear friend,’ she said, giving me her hand to kiss. ‘And I think your suggestion may come closest to resolve it, assuming it has a happy outcome. Write your notes while I ask Burns for fresh coffee, and he shall see they are despatched instanter.’

Edmund spread his hands in mock surrender, as I excused myself to make free of the writing materials in his library. There was still no sign of Toone when I returned, to find Maria already pouring coffee. Now that Lent was over and we had celebrated the joy of the Resurrection, tempered somewhat, of course, by a less blessed corpse, I was happy to carve myself a generous slice of home-cured ham and, when I caught Edmund’s laughing eye, a second.

Even allowing for his hasty journey and the lateness of the hour when he had sought his bed, Toone’s delayed appearance at the breakfast table was beyond the line of pleasing. His host and hostess were on the verge of quitting
it, to embark on their daily duties, as was I. However, he was all handsome apologies, turning the fact that he had overslept to a compliment to his excellent bed and the gentleness of the housemaid’s knock when she had first brought his hot water. Apparently he had slept through her first call, and only awoken when she brought a second can half an hour later.

My plan to find him an artist was met with gruff cynicism, as he applied himself to a plate of roast beef liberally spread with mustard. However, he soon had to eat not only his meat but his words, as Burns announced that he had shown a visitor into the library.

‘A gentleman concerning Dr Campion’s note, sir.’

Hansard excused himself from the table immediately, inviting me, as the instigator of the idea, to accompany him.

Our visitor was on his feet, his back to the room, as he surveyed the delightful springtime garden, which the room overlooked. To his left lay the shrubbery that Maria was restoring to its former glory: some of the bushes were laden with pink or white blossom, others bursting with buds of the most vivid green. It must indeed have delighted an artist’s eye.

It dawned on me, giving rise to very mixed emotions, that although I had never been introduced to the young man, I might not be unacquainted with him. With his elegant riding apparel, the coat assuredly by Weston, and dishevelled hair à la Brutus, could this be the very person I had seen riding swiftly away from Eliza Fowler’s dreadful cottage? At the time I feared he might be the cause of Molly’s downfall: could I now be about to address him? And how might I frame any accusation? Perhaps I should
wait to see what had brought him here: perhaps my note had quickened a guilty conscience.

But there seemed to be nothing about him except a gentlemanly openness. Turning to face us and making his bow, in his buckskins and mirror-bright boots he confirmed my impression of a fashionable young man, but by no means a fribble, so I was tempted to dismiss the notion that he was Mr Julius Longstaff, the effeminate poet, whose hair was in any case alleged to be flowing. It was hard to estimate his age. His figure was slender enough to suggest padding in the shoulders of that coat, and his voice boyishly light.

‘Will Snowdon at your service, Dr Hansard,’ he declared, offering Edmund his hand. ‘And at yours, Dr Campion. I hear, gentlemen, that the skills of an artist are required. Might I offer you mine?’ he added with a polite smile. ‘I assure you that I had the very best of drawing masters when I was young, and have seen enough accidents on the hunting field not to swoon at the sight of gore. I am staying with a distant cousin, who lives in general a retired life, so you need not fear any indiscreet gossip emanating from my lips.’

As one, Edmund and I bowed.

But Edmund raised a warning finger. ‘I must warn you, Snowdon, that the corpse we have is not … freshly injured. Decomposition has set in. It is currently packed in ice, but even so …’

‘If I shoot the cat, gentlemen, I will do even that with discretion. But I thank you for your warning. I understand a warm day is likely. Presumably the sooner we embark on this enterprise the better. My horse is waiting.’

I marvelled at such assurance in one so young. ‘Will you be able to make notes as well as draw what Dr Toone requests?’

Hansard laughed. ‘Worry not, Tobias. I will do that.’

Should I speak to Snowdon now, in front of Edmund? But that would be to embarrass him and to divert attention from the urgent matter in hand. I would – must! – question him later, and in private.

Edmund sensed that something was troubling me, and patted my shoulder. ‘You return to your parish duties, Tobias – which will soon include conducting a burial service, of course.’

Indeed, nothing sounded more pleasing than giving young Robert another riding lesson and then visiting my parishioners. Having shaken both warmly by the hand, I returned to the breakfast room to bid a temporary farewell to Toone and Maria, accepting with alacrity her invitation to return to sup with them later.

‘While Dr Toone is here, and while you all have so much work to do, we will keep town hours,’ she said. ‘So we will look for you at six this evening.’

I was about to leave when there came a thunderous knocking at the front door. In silence we listened as Burns admitted someone.

There was an immediate soft scratch on the door. ‘It’s from Orebury House, ma’am,’ Burns declared. ‘One of Lord Hasbury’s guests has been taken ill and His Lordship desires Dr Hansard’s immediate attendance.’

Maria raised an expressive eyebrow. ‘My dear Burns, you must learn to give messages more accurately. I believe I heard not
desires
but
demands
, did I not?’ Her smile
forgave Burns, but not the man cooling his heels in the hallway. She turned to me. ‘So, Tobias, it looks as if your secretarial skills may be needed after all.’

Despite the beauty of the day, the experience was as vile as I had feared. Toone, who had borrowed one of Hansard’s hacks, did his best to ameliorate the stench, soaking thick wads of linen in some sort of herbal decoction, in which lavender predominated. With these he bade us cover our mouths and noses. Neither of us assistants demurred, though Snowdon surprised me by recollecting an Arabian souk where visitors to a leatherworks had been offered sprigs of mint to crush against their noses. Next Toone swathed us in garments not unlike the surplice with which I had forced myself to cover the remains of the man now before us. Then he began to examine, Snowdon to sketch and me to write. His carrying voice meant I was spared close contact, but Snowdon must needs be in immediate attendance; to speak the truth, I doubt if any older man could have dealt with the situation with more efficiency and less emotion.

Toone dictated many and detailed notes. In short, he confirmed Hansard’s opinion that the crucifixion had taken place after death – neither the hands nor the feet had bled. Probably the blows to the back of the skull, which I had been fortunate enough not to see, had killed him. The attack on his face had probably been simply to prevent anyone identifying him. But the killers had been unable to obliterate some clues. The man, who Toone put in his forties or fifties, was decidedly well fed, with soft muscles and hands clearly unused to any sort of manual labour.

‘A gentleman?’ Snowdon ventured. ‘At very least, not a labourer.’

Toone shot an ironic glance at me. ‘It depends on how one defines a gentleman. Given the fact that he has been emasculated and the relevant organs thrust into his mouth, we might hazard that someone considers him guilty of ungentlemanly behaviour.’