February 11, 1889 Morning #2
“I know the coroner was simply doing his job, but it all feels so clinical,” Liza said over lunch. The Renaldis, Miss Harris, Admiral Hoddle, and the Sherards had adjourned to Davenguard after the inquest, and Mira was grateful for the extra buffer her friends provided with Byron’s family.
“I agree,” Maureen said. “They didn’t talk about Mr. Treadway’s character or anything about him really, other than how his corpse looked. There was much more to him than that.”
“Well, it was an inquest, not a funeral,” Walker said. “They are meant to focus on the aspects of the death, not the life of the person.”
“I wonder why they weren’t able to contact his family,” Mrs. Renaldi said. “It was short notice, but surely they should have been able to send a telegram and receive a response?”
“Oh, Mr. Treadway didn’t keep close contact with his family,” Maureen said.
“He told me that they didn’t agree with him joining the army.
He didn’t even tell them that he had returned.
Though if I remember, he was from York, so even if the police did get ahold of them, they wouldn’t have been able to come in time. ”
Castel dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “York?” He glanced at his sister. “Mary, you don’t suppose he was related to your Mr. Treadway, do you?”
Mary’s face tightened. “Certainly not.”
Byron tipped his head to the side. “There can’t be that many Treadway families from York, can there?”
“If he is related, he must be a nephew or something of the sort,” Mary said.
“Well then,” Byron said, “I’m sure the police would be gratified to have some lead, even if there isn’t a direct relation.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Sherard said. “You ought to send him a letter.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “But . . .”
“Your brothers are right. We ought to help the police as best we can.” She gave Byron a pointed look. “Within reason.”
“I’ve actually heard of several different Treadways from that part of the country,” Admiral Hoddle said.
“One set in York, another in Leeds, and another in Fangfoss, if my memory serves. Why, one of the Treadways from Leeds was commander under me on the Serapis. Fine fellow, that, and a good commander. And the Serapis was a fine ship. I hated to leave her after so many decades, but one must retire at some point.”
Castel took a sip of wine. “When did you retire?”
“At the beginning of last year. I miss the sea something terrible. Sometimes I wake and can almost feel the salty breeze on my face, and then it’s gone in the same instant.
But I suppose an old salt like me will always have the sea in me.
And the stories, why, the stories and memories, they keep me well enough. ”
***
After lunch was over and Admiral Hoddle had finished a lengthy bout of storytelling, he and Miss Harris returned to Henrietta Street.
The remaining members of the party moved to the sitting room.
While everyone else settled into idle conversation, Byron paced the room in an agitated state.
After excusing herself from a discussion of sleep remedies with Aunt Eleanor, Mira met him by the window.
“Does the pacing actually help?” she teased.
He gave her a small smile. “A little. Moving helps me think.”
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
He ran a hand through his hair, keeping his voice pitched low. “I just can’t shake the feeling that something is off about this situation. The case seems straightforward enough and yet . . .”
“You think it was something more than ‘death by misadventure?’”
He tipped his head to the side. “There’s no evidence to refute that verdict.”
“You both seem rather pensive,” Castel called from where he sat. “I had meant to ask what your thoughts were on the inquest, Byron.”
Byron let out a long breath, turning towards his brother. “I don’t want to besmirch the good name of Inspector Rutledge . . .”
“But?” Mira said.
“It seems to me that a man with good eyesight, who knows the landscape well from going on hunting parties with Mr. Risewell, would remember the location of the drop-off. Furthermore, at the time he left Miss Blayse and Miss Harris, the weather was still clear. Even if he had ventured thirty feet into the freezing weather to find more suitable air to breathe, I doubt that he would have fallen.”
“He did have that injury from the war,” Walker said. “Perhaps he walked out a bit farther for the view, lost his footing, and slipped.”
“Perhaps,” Byron said, rubbing his chin. “But the coroner said nothing to indicate a past injury to the leg.”
“Could it be that the injury was fully healed but the cold aggravated it?” Liza asked.
“That could be it,” Byron said. “But there is still something strange about it all.”
“Oh, leave it alone, Ambrose,” Mary said. “Can’t you leave it to the professionals?”
Byron bristled, opening his mouth to say something, but Mira put a hand on his arm.
“I wonder if the Risewells wouldn’t mind a visit,” she said. “This has been such an ordeal for them, and I’d like to thank them for their hospitality.”
He softened, looking down at her. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“I’m sure Miss Risewell is feeling the loss particularly,” Mira continued. “We should bring her some flowers.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be up to it,” Aunt Eleanor said. “After all that excitement, I need to lie down.”
“You certainly can’t go without a chaperone,” Mary said.
Byron froze for a moment, before breaking out in a smile. “Thank you for offering, Mary. We can wait to go until after you write your letter.”
“Offering? But—”
“I shall come too,” Mrs. Sherard said. “I should also like to give the Risewells my gratitude.” She looked Mira over with one of her indecipherable expressions. “And it would be good to see how Benson and the wheelwright are faring with the repairs to the carriage.”
“But—” Mary spluttered.
“Good,” Byron said, turning to the hostess and changing the subject. “I meant to tell you earlier, Mrs. Renaldi, but lunch was a triumph. You really ought to congratulate Mrs. Pettigrew.”