Chapter 15
Igave up, retreated to the dining room, and rang for pen, ink, and paper along with my noonday repast.
Writing the list as I sipped coffee and ate bread and butter was disheartening. I started with those from my past who were now in Brighton—Major Forbes and Marguerite Gibbons. Forbes had disliked me intensely, certain I had helped destroy Isherwood’s marriage. It was highly unlikely he’d murder Isherwood himself to hurt me, but Forbes had always been a bit mad, in my opinion.
It was possible Marguerite nursed resentment with me for telling her to go back to England instead of taking care of her for the remainder of the war. Her new husband, though he seemed a genial fellow, might not be happy that I’d been his wife’s lover, plus he wouldn’t have any warm feelings toward Isherwood for divorcing her in the first place.
There were other men in the army I’d angered. I’d countermanded bad orders, shouting at colonels who were ready to take my men straight into slaughter. Colonel Brandon, my mentor, had been often been furious with me, for many reasons, enough so that he’d once tried to send me to my death.
I wished I could discount Brandon, but I slowly wrote his name. He and I had reconciled somewhat after I’d cleared him of murder, and still more after I’d married Donata, but Brandon knew how to nurse a grudge.
Then there were Donata’s cousins, as Denis had mentioned, who’d wished to marry her and keep her son’s money and estates in the family. Peter’s guardian would have great influence over him and control much of the funds until the lad’s majority.
Donata’s most odious cousin, Stanton St. John, had fled to the Continent after his last attempt to rule Peter, but he might have secretly returned. Stanton certainly hated me enough to cause my utter ruin.
I’d also helped bring murderers to trial in the past few years. If any had survived their conviction—perhaps returning after being transported—I could picture them taking their revenge. Or, if they had not survived, their families doing so.
It was a depressingly long list. I finished writing, sanded the sheet, folded and sealed it, and took it to Brewster.
“This is all I could think of.” I held out the paper to him. “Mr. Denis might be able to add more, including himself.”
Brewster rose, his bulk filling the small hallway. “You heard ’im. If His Nibs wanted you dead, you’d be gone before you knew it.”
“How cheering,” I said. “Tell him I said good morning.”
Brewster had the gall to grin. “Right you are, guv. Don’t stray a step without me.”
“I can’t obey that command. I must attend the inquest, which begins in a few minutes.”
Brewster heaved a sigh. “Go on, then. I’ll deliver this and run after you.”
He departed. I left word with Bartholomew to tell Donata where I’d gone, then fetched my hat and walked swiftly to the magistrate’s court at the Old Ship.
A room had been cleared in the back for the proceedings. Gentlemen filled the chamber, including Quimby and Sir Reginald Pyne, the magistrate I’d fetched when I’d found Josh’s body. A number of Quakers were present as well, both men and women, their plain, dark clothes blending with the everyday suits of fishermen and tradesmen.
Clive Bickley was there, supported on one side by Miss Farrow and on the other by a young woman in Quaker garb. The other Friends stood around him, holding themselves apart but in no way drawing curiosity. Dissenters had been in Brighton long enough to be an ordinary part of the scenery. None of the Quakers looked at me.
A stooped gentleman with an air of authority—the coroner, I gathered—took a seat behind a table and gave the room a stern look.
The room was full, with not enough seats. The jury, a group of gentlemen in the corner, jammed against each other on benches. I ended up standing along the back wall with others who’d crowded in. Brighton saw its share of death by drowning, but by now I imagined the word had leaked that Joshua had been murdered, an altogether different prospect.
The coroner cleared his throat, and the muttered conversation in the room ceased. The coroner rumbled through a preamble, naming the court, the date, and the case.
The coroner called a surgeon to give his evidence first. This surgeon, a portly man with pince-nez on his nose, consulted his notes. “I examined the body and found that death was caused by strangulation. Two bones in the neck were broken and the trachea crushed. There was no water in the lungs.”
The gatherers murmured and shuffled until the coroner glared them to silence.
“Thank you, sir. You may step down.” The coroner made a note on one of the papers in front of him. “I call Sir Reginald Pyne.”
The magistrate rose and made his slow way to the front of the room. He swore his oath to speak the truth and drew himself up to his full height.
“Yesterday afternoon, a gentleman came to me and said he’d found a body in a boat. I went along with him to the shore near Charles Street and saw that he’d pulled the boat up on the shingle. Inside was the body of a young man, pinned to the gunwale on the bottom by the seat and a few boards. That young man turned out to be Joshua Bickley, one of the Society of Friends.”
All eyes turned to Mr. Bickley, who dropped his gaze. The young woman at his side held tighter to his arm, and Miss Farrow patted his shoulder.
The coroner nodded his dismissal to the magistrate. “Call Captain …” He lifted a paper to examine it in better light. “… Lacey.”
I limped to the front amid stares. An officer in a cavalry uniform frowned at me, and I looked him over, trying to place him. He was familiar, but the association did not come to me at the moment.
