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 suicide because 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.
“Remember?” the coroner continued. “We are all sorry for your daughter’s death. Do not turn your daughter’s passing into something else. Her cause of death is God-given, not person-given. As you agreed,” he finished tightly.
Squire Inglewood’s jaw tightened, and he glared back at the coroner. Then he saw others staring at him. He turned his head and licked his lips as he relaxed his features.
Dr. Patterson, his arms crossed over his chest, scowled.
“We shall continue with witness testimony,” Mr. Davos said.
The clerk cleared his throat. “Dr. Patterson.”
The coroner nodded. “Dr. Patterson, please tell us the state of the deceased when you examined her.”
“I rappelled down the cliff side after Mr. Vernon.
Mrs. Jones was lying almost on her back side, her head pointing down the cliff.
It was evident she had only recently died, as her skin was still warm and rigor mortis had not set in.
There were no signs of a struggle on her body, no scratches or disheveled clothing, no bruises that could not be accounted for by an attack upon her person.
I believe she fell backward off the cliff.
Whether she was pushed or fell, I cannot judge.
“She broke her right hip and leg, crushed her right shoulder, broke a couple of ribs, broke her left ankle, and took a severe blow to her head from a rock her head landed on.” He turned her head so the jurors could see the wound on the side of her head. He pointed to the area.
“She bled from this spot, and there was an associated puddle of blood on the rock her head lay against. Chalk and dirt particles were in the wound, indicating a fall against the ground, not a blow to the head.
She wore a glove on her left hand, but not on her right.
The fingernails of her right hand were clean and even.
“Given her age and the extent of her injuries, I do not think she could have recovered even if someone had gone for help immediately.”
Dr. Patterson looked across at the jurors. “Upon complete examination of the body after she was brought here, I have no additional observations.”
The coroner nodded. “I concur.”
Mr. Woodbine sanded what he’d written, then stood up to call the next witness. “Sir James Branstoke.”
“Sir James, had you ever been on that meadow before?” asked the coroner.
“I’ve ridden across one side of it to take the road to the valley on the other side; however, I’ve never spent any time on the meadow, no.”
“How long have you lived in the area?” asked the coroner.
“Two years. Since I purchased the Summerworth property from the Duke of Monteith.”
The coroner nodded and waited a moment for his clerk to finish recording the last statements. “Sir James, if you would, please, describe how you discovered the deceased.”
“I was lying on the picnic blanket next to my young son when I realized he needed his mother’s attention. I picked him up and carried him across the meadow to where my wife was standing, guarding the approach to the escarpment from Miss Charlotte Aldrich, who had been running around the meadow.”
“Miss Charlotte Aldrich?” repeated Mr. Woodbine, brow furrowed.
“My one-year-old daughter,” Lord Aldrich explained.
“So not another witness,” stated Mr. Woodbine as he made further notes.
“No,” Lord Aldrich said while others in the room laughed.
James smiled and continued. “After I passed my malodorous heir to my wife, I stepped back to look down the escarpment.”
“Why?” asked the magistrate.
The coroner scowled at the magistrate.
Sir James shrugged. “Curiosity. I’d not spent time on that meadow before and wanted to see how steep the escarpment was. That is when I saw the body about forty feet down, as the magistrate described.”
“What did you do when you saw her?”
“I called Lord Aldrich to come see. At that time, we didn’t immediately know who the woman was. It was Lady Branstoke who identified the deceased as Mrs. Jones.”
“Between Aldrich and me, we decided he would ride back to the village to notify the magistrate and collect people to fetch Mrs. Jones from her position on the cliff. While he did that, our wives would pack the picnic things away and attend to the children.”
“There were no servants with you, Sir James?” asked the coroner.