CHAPTER 5
THE INQUEST
The inquest was to be held in the basement of the Mortlake Brewery. They went in through an outside basement entry on the east side of the brewery, where casks and barrels of beer and ale were taken out of the building for loading into wagons for delivery. Halfway down the wide stone steps, Cecilia smelled the damp walls and felt the cold basement air, first around her ankles, then further up her body as she continued down. She drew her shawl closer around her shoulders. Ahead was a wide corridor lined on either side with brewery barrels and other barrels, including a large tun at the end and other, smaller-sized casks.
The walls were brick-covered, with a lime-wash that appeared creamy yellow in the light of the overhead gas lanterns held near the ceiling by chains on pulleys tied off by iron cleats mounted on the wall.
She and James followed those before them down the corridor to a room off to the right. The arched opening led to a square room. Placed in the middle of the room was a six-foot-long trestle table covered with a white cloth on which the body of Mrs. Jones had been placed, covered with another white cloth. Cecilia unconsciously raised her hand to her heart on seeing Mrs. Jones’shrouded form. She told herself before they came that she could not cry. That admonition to herself might be harder to adhere to than she thought.
Before them in the room, standing at the head of the table, were the magistrate, the coroner—who Cecilia knew to be Mr. Wilfred Davos—the coroner’s clerk, and Dr. Patterson.
Other people were crowding into the room, sorting themselves out into the jurors, the witnesses, and the curious. Cecilia, along with James and Lord Aldrich, found themselves standing near the head of the table by Dr. Patterson. The curious stood close together at the back of the room and included the Earl of Mortlake and his son, Viscount Kendell. Looking about, Cecilia observed that she was the only woman present.
“I call this inquest to order,” said the coroner, Mr. Wilfred Davos. “Mr. Woodbine, please read the summation.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Davos,” Mr. Woodbine said, his clogged, reedy voice clearing, then continuing. “This is the inquest into the death of Mrs. Miranda Jones, wife of Vicar Mr. Septimus Jones. A resident of Mertonhaugh for twenty-two years.”
“Magistrate Squire Inglewood, if you would start with how you came to know about this death and a description of the scene when you arrived,” declared Mr. Davos.
“Lord Aldrich came to me to report that Mrs. Jones’ body was seen at the base of a cliff off the Haughton Meadow. His arrival nearly coincided with Vicar Jones coming to relate that his wife did not come home last night, and not an hour previously, her horse had turned up riderless at the Mortlake stables. I notified Dr. Patterson and invited him to accompany us to collect the body. Lord Aldrich contacted Mr. Haydon Veron for the use of his wagon. I requested the vicar stay behind.”
“Why did you do that?” the coroner asked.
Precisely my question!Cecilia said to herself.Such a lack of feeling.
“I did not want any emotionality at the site of a suspicious death. It can cloud an investigation,” he answered crisply.
Cecilia raised her eyebrows and slid a glance at her husband. He had his arms crossed over his chest and frowned.
“To continue, if I might, at the meadow, I discovered Lady Branstoke and Lady Aldrich with their young children. They had been on the meadow for a picnic. Sir James Branstoke had climbed down the escarpment to examine the body and was climbing back up when we arrived at the scene.”
Cecilia watched him rock back on his heels and draw himself up as he drew a breath to continue his testimony. He was planning something, she was sure of it.
“Mrs. Jones lay some forty to fifty feet down the escarpment on Haughton Meadow off the road that leads from Mertonhaugh to the dry valley,” he continued. “From where I stood at the top of the cliff, it was clear she was deceased. When the others brought her up, there were no signs of any marks on her body other than what she’d received from falling.”
“To be clear,” interrupted the coroner again, “you did not participate in retrieving Mrs. Jones from where she’d fallen?”
The magistrate raised his chin. “No. I deemed it more important to look around for any other signs of someone being in the area.”
“And did you find any?” the coroner continued.
“No.”
“But surely you would have at least seen evidence of the Branstokes and the Aldriches being in the meadow?”
“Well, yes, of course,” Inglewood said irritably.
“How did you conclude no one else had been on the meadow?”
“I looked for trampled grass and saw none. It is my considered conclusion that the woman committed suicidebecause of her culpability in the death of my daughter, Georgia Inglewood.”
The room exploded with an equal measure of agreement and protest. Voices shouted above each other to get their viewpoints heard.
“Silence! Silence!” demanded the coroner, pounding on the desk before him. “Silence, I say.
“Squire Inglewood, you are being impertinent and should know that in your position. We are not at any point to declare with any certainty the cause of death. And with regards to your daughter, it was determined to be iliac passion, isn’t that correct?” he said strongly.
Cecilia arched her brows, for to her eye, his expression and posture looked heavy with silent communication. She turned her head slightly to glance at her husband. With a slight dip of his chin, he acknowledged he saw something as well.
