Jane and the Canterbury Tale

Chapter Sixteen Revelations of an Inquest

Saturday, 23 October 1813

I prevailed upon my brother to allow me to attend the inquest, tho’ he assured me there must be no occasion for me to give evidence. Others—my nephews among them—had first discovered the dead man, and borne him into the house; Mr. George Moore had identified the corpse as Curzon Fiske. The coroner himself had examined the body before empanelling his jury. In sum, the evidence must have been a tidy parcel, neatly disposed of—but for the testimony that should inevitably be sworn, concerning Captain MacCallister’s nocturnal ride.

That Edward was uneasy in his present rôle as magistrate, I discerned from the moment of entering his equipage. What he most wished from the Coroner’s Panel was indecision; a want of verdict should buy Edward time. He was determined to take care with his researches before condemning any of his acquaintance for murder—but the panel would probably be less nice, and more hasty, in their judgement. How to prevent those clear-eyed fellows from fixing too readily upon Captain MacCallister was Edward’s ticklish problem.

All discourse on the subject was impeded, however, by the fact that George Moore rode with us. The quarrel with Stephen Lushington might have put the Back Bencher to flight; but it was not for Mr. George Moore, celebrated ecclesiastic, to withdraw from Godmersham. A full ten days he had fixed for his visit, and a full ten days he should remain, however unsuitable the present circumstances might prove for his entertainment. He could not regard my attendance at the inquest with approbation, and as his disgust took the form of a sober lecture on the proper place of ladies in the Divine Scheme for England and the world, I was out of all charity with him. Edward, too, seemed little inclined to support the pomposities of his old friend. He spent the better part of the eight-mile journey in gazing out the carriage window, lost in thought.

The inquest was to be at ten o’clock, in the publick room of the Little Inn, an ancient tavern that sits in Sun Street, hard by Canterbury Cathedral. The affair of Curzon Fiske’s death had achieved no very great publicity in the town, the murder having occurred but lately and in the country. I was not surprized, therefore, to see faces I recognised lining the benches arranged before the coroner, magistrate, and panel. Mr. Wildman was there, and his son James Beckford, as well as their guests the MacCallisters, and Julian Thane. Mrs. Thane, to my astonishment, was absent—she must have been laid low with a stomach complaint, to have denied herself the pleasure of abusing Canterbury’s worthiest citizens.

Of the few strangers, I suspected some were relations and friends of the empanelled jury, come to observe their honourable service. Adelaide MacCallister and I were the only ladies present.

George Moore consented, at least, to share my bench—tho’ from the expression on his countenance, he preferred to let no one suspect we were acquainted. He nodded distantly to Adelaide, who was arrayed in unbride-like black; if she acknowledged this pious salute, or her former acquaintance with Moore, I could not say; a veil disguised her features.

Julian Thane, with his rogue’s dark curl falling negligently over his brow, exerted himself enough to cross the room and greet us. I offered my hand—how often may I expect a handsome young rake to kiss it in future?—and he bent low with a grin.

“I trust you are well, Miss Austen?”

“Perfectly, I assure you.”

“The atmosphere of an inquest agrees with you?”

“I am not so missish as to faint, sir, from an excessive exposure to the Law.”

“Miss Knight, however, declined the pleasure.”

“Miss Knight had a prior engagement—she was to ride today with Mr. John Plumptre, I believe.”

Mr. John Plumptre, met with a similar intelligence regarding his fellow man, should have darkened and turned away with a glower; but Julian Thane merely pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “And I had hoped her to be an undiscovered flower, blooming in retirement. Such a sad romp as Miss Knight turns out to be! Invariably in request, throughout the neighbourhood! I shall have to challenge her to a course of jumps when I am next at leisure—there is a prime hunter in Wildman’s stables ideally suited to a lady. And I have no doubt Miss Knight shall prove pluck to the backbone.”

He bowed and returned to his sister. Just so does Defiance meet the threat of Damnation.

Andrew MacCallister, for his part, looked as cool and grim as tho’ he rode into battle. He wore his dress uniform, of the 7th Light Dragoons, and must impress even the ignorant with his appearance of command.

There was a bustle to the rear; I turned, and observed Edward and Dr. Bredloe, who made their way up the centre aisle; and behind them came the panel of men who should decide how Curzon Fiske died.

They were an assortment of tradesmen and farmers from the surrounding environs—but whether knowledgeable or ignorant, malicious or kindly-disposed, who could say? A collection of strangers, for the most part, bound by a single duty; individuals forced to work in harness for the space of the proceeding. And I was reminded, of a sudden, of the Canterbury Tales—that collection of Chaucer’s Pilgrims, unknown to one another until their meeting in a tavern, bound for the space of their journey by the stories they chose to tell. If one could but hear the thoughts of these twelve men, as they weighed what Dr. Bredloe and Edward might say! Of a sudden I felt anxious, as I had not felt before; the security of an Adelaide MacCallister or her Captain, even of a Julian Thane, seemed too important to hand over unconditionally to these unknowns.

Dr. Bredloe convened the proceeding in his driest manner. The panel’s first duty was to view the corpse, which lay in a closet to one side of the publick room; having submitted to the task, they returned to their benches in a subdued fashion, and were allowed a moment to collect themselves. Dr. Bredloe stated that Deceased’s wife, Mrs. Adelaide Fiske, had identified the corpse as her husband; he must have required her to do so, before ever the inquest began. I felt George Moore stiffen beside me; he had expected to testify to Fiske’s identity, and indeed, had attended the inquest for no other purpose. Was he indignant at having his rôle usurped? Or relieved? Some profound emotion had turned him rigid. I fancied it had more to do with Adelaide, than himself; and wondered very much if he still carried a tendre for her, after seven years.

But my nephew Edward was recounting the discovery of the body by the party of gentlemen and their beaters; he looked very young as he stood before the coroner, conscious of his father’s eyes upon him. Dr. Bredloe thanked the boy, and allowed him to stand down; then addressed the state of the corpse, the nature of the wound, and the probable manner in which it had been received. The constable next displayed the pistol, and James Beckford Wildman was called upon to identify it as his own, in a voice that trembled only slightly.

Naturally, a murmur went up at this from the assembled audience; there were some in the crowd, curious onlookers, who knew nothing of facts that all at Chilham must have mastered. Edward gazed steadily at young James, and asked him in a clear voice when he had last seen his pistol.

“I cannot say with any certainty, Your Honour. I know it to have been in my possession on Tuesday last, when I engaged in some target shooting; I later cleaned the gun, and replaced it with its companion, in its case; but as the case is left in my father’s gun room, where any might find it, I cannot tell when it disappeared.”

“But you did not, yourself, take the gun out for the purpose of firing it at Curzon Fiske the following night, or early Thursday morning?”

Young Wildman paled, but his chin lifted a little and his gaze did not falter. “I did not, Your Honour.”

“You have heard Constable Blewett say that it was found on a tombstone in St. Lawrence churchyard?”

“I have. I do not know how it came there.”

“Mr. Wildman, were you at all acquainted with Curzon Fiske?”

“He was the husband of my second cousin, and as such, was often entertained at our home. He left the Kingdom some three years ago, however, for India, and we believed that he had died out there.”

“When did you receive word of Mr. Fiske’s death?”

“Some eighteen months since—in April of last year.”

“And you received no subsequent word of his survival? You did not expect to find him on the Pilgrim’s Way Thursday morning?”

“I did not—and indeed, Fiske was so altered, I should never have recognised him.”

Dr. Bredloe intervened at this point, with a polite smile for Edward. “Tell me, Mr. Wildman—how would ye describe your relations with Mr. Fiske when he was alive, and living in England?”

For the first time, James Wildman’s eyes dropped; he seemed, for an instant, uncertain what he should say. Then he shrugged slightly, and a wistful smile flickered across his lips. “I had barely achieved my majority when Curzon quitted Kent for the last time. As a boy, I thought him quite the most engaging fellow I had ever met—Top o’the Trees, a Go Amongst the Goes. He cut such a dash, you understand, that he was a great favourite with all of us when we were young.”

“So you parted on terms of cordiality?”

Wildman hesitated; and almost imperceptibly, his gaze slid towards myself.

Impossible. He could have no reason for staring at me.

And then I understood: it was George Moore’s counsel he sought.

Moore was rigid, again, beside me, and his gloved hands were clenched in his lap. Did I imagine it? Or did he shake his head ever so slightly as James Wildman studied his countenance?

“We parted on terms of complete indifference,” Wildman answered woodenly.

“No quarrel?” Dr. Bredloe persisted. “No reason to hate the man, when you discovered he was back in Kent?”

“I did not discover him back in Kent. I discovered his corpse,” the young man said evenly.

Dr. Bredloe studied Wildman for an uncomfortable and inscrutable instant; then released him to his father.

There was a pause in the proceedings at this point, so that the jury might partake of refreshment; the panel were led into a separate parlour for this interval, while the rest of us rose and stretched our limbs.

“Pray make my apologies to Mr. Knight,” George Moore said abruptly as he quitted our bench. “I have an errand that cannot wait, in the Cathedral Close. I believe I have seen enough of the deplorable business here; I shall return in an hour’s time, in the hope that it shall be concluded, and that we might all return to Godmersham together.”

I curtseyed to the clergyman without a word; he lifted his hat; and I was left to wonder what had so discomposed him—or what trial he believed himself to have survived.

The final wager, a voice whispered in my brain; the fatal game of whist, on the night before Fiske fled to India three years ago. What had been the stakes? And what the outcome? Why the charge of cheating, left unanswered? George Moore was determined, certainly, that James Wildman should give no hint of the discord that had divided Fiske from his oldest acquaintance.

Dr. Bredloe opened the parlour door, and the panel filed once more to their seats, presumably refreshed.

As the proceedings recommenced, two more strangers made their way into the Little Inn’s publick room: a tall, bearded man respectably dressed, with the look of a solicitor or steward about him; and a bowlegged, shabbily-dressed fellow I recognised at once for a seaman, from long acquaintance with the type during my years of residence in Southampton. His skin was much weathered and tanned, his grey hair was long and tied in a queue, his whiskers grizzled, and his canvas trousers stained with salt. I had occasion to remark upon these details, because the sailor chose to seat himself next to me, the place having been vacated by George Moore; he nodded and grinned as he sat, displaying numerous gaps in a wretched mouthful of teeth.

The bearded gentleman took no seat at all, but stood near the far wall, his earnest gaze fixed on my brother. For of course, Edward had begun to speak.

Now, I thought, must come the inquest’s most dangerous passage: the revelation of Captain MacCallister’s summons by the dead man, and his nocturnal walk. Julian Thane, I noticed, was so unaffected by the prospect as to be paring his nails with a pocketknife. His sister’s hand, however, was clenched tightly on MacCallister’s arm; a woman of less courage should have quitted the room entirely.

But my brother surprized me.

He spoke briefly in Dr. Bredloe’s ear. The coroner immediately nodded and turned to the panel, with a precise account of the possessions discovered in Curzon Fiske’s coat. The roll of banknotes was displayed, in the amount of nearly five hundred pounds; the scrap of paper with the blurred script was shewn to each man, with the proper interval required for each to attempt to read it; and finally, the tamarind seed—which Dr. Bredloe affirmed was from a plant native to India—was held aloft. The coroner explained, at Edward’s prompting, that the scrap of paper had been wrapped around the seed—as tho’ the tamarind were a token of good faith. The paper, he suggested, had established a meeting, for the only legible words upon it were St. Lawrence Church.

At which instant, my brother thanked the coroner and begged permission to call one Barnabus Twitch before the panel.

Of a sudden, there he was: the Wildmans’ imperturbable butler. He was dressed as he had been the previous day, in his livery and wig; he bowed to Dr. Bredloe, and took his oath at Edward’s behest.

“Your master, Mr. Wildman of Chilham Castle, gave a ball on Wednesday last,” Edward observed.

“He did, sir.”

“And during the festivities, a stranger appeared at the Castle door, I think?”

“That is so.” Twitch inclined his head. “A manservant—Joseph by name—attended the door, as I was otherwise engaged; but being uncertain what reception the man was due, Joseph sought my advice.”

“And why did he do so?” Edward asked.

Twitch blinked with the placidity of a cow. “Joseph was confused by the person’s aspect and appearance. He spoke with the accent of the Quality, Your Honour, but his clothing did not suggest an elevated station.”

“And this fellow was unknown to you?”

“I had never seen him before in my life.”

“What was his errand at Chilham Castle?”

“He wished to present a gift to the bri—the widow of Deceased.”

“Do you know what that gift was?”

“A purse of silk, as it were a kind of reticule, embroidered all about with gold threads.”

“It sounds like an exotic object. Did you accept it from him?”

“I did, sir—and give it to Joseph to present to the lady.”

“Do you know what the purse contained?”

Twitch smiled. “I saw it opened myself. At the time I had no word for what was in it, but I know now they was tamarind seeds.”

A second murmur rose from the crowd; they were so far diverted from the matter of murder at this point, being adrift on an exotic sea, that I doubted they should ever find their way back.

“You have heard, I think, that a tamarind seed was found in Deceased’s coat, wrapped inside a note that established a meeting on the Pilgrim’s Way.”

“Yes, Your Honour.”

Edward glanced at the coroner’s panel. “I put it to the men of the jury that this seed we speak of, which must be considered a rare and unusual item in England, is unlikely to have come from a different source than the seeds in the silken pouch.”

Edward allowed the panel an instant to absorb the implications of his thought, but I wondered very much what he was about. Did he intend to condemn Adelaide, whose hands had opened the stranger’s gift? Would he next imply that her hand had written the note, and tucked the seed inside it? I could not risk a glance in the lady’s direction; I feared to see her sensibility, or her husband’s indignation.

The sailor beside me was agog with interest, leaning forward intently with his elbows resting on his patched knees. He must have taken shore leave from one of the Kentish ports—Deal, perhaps, or Dover—and wandered into Canterbury with an eye for publick spectacle. As a source of entertainment, an inquest could hardly equal a Tyburn hanging; but beggars could not be choosers, after all.

Edward was speaking again; I must attend.

“Were you at all acquainted with Deceased in previous years?” he asked Twitch.

“Mr. Fiske? Aye—I’ve known him, to look at, these seven years or more.”

“Would you kindly step into the closet with Dr. Bredloe, and inform us whether Deceased is the person who delivered the silk purse to Chilham Castle? We might then explain the seed discovered in his pocket.”

Ah. Edward hoped to keep Adelaide entirely out of it.

Twitch opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed it with resignation. He was led into the compartment where Curzon Fiske lay.

The seaman rose and began to make his way towards the centre aisle; we had not succeeded in securing his interest for so much as a quarter-hour.

“That’s Mr. Fiske, well enough,” Twitch declared as he emerged from the closet, “tho’ I’d not have known him straight off, with that beard.”

“And was it he,” Edward asked, with palpable satisfaction, “who rang the bell at Chilham Castle Wednesday night, and asked that the purse of tamarind seeds be presented to the lady?”

“No, Your Honour, it was not.” Twitch shook his head emphatically. “But I can tell you who did.”

He lifted his arm and pointed directly at my seaman, who had almost achieved the publick room’s door.