Chapter 23
The inquest into the death of Marcus Toole was held shortly after midday in the taproom of Chalk Farm Tavern.
By English law, any sudden, violent, or unexplained death required an inquest, open to the public and typically convened at the largest venue in the vicinity.
Legal rather than medical in nature, inquests were the province of the local coroner, who impaneled a jury of between twelve and twenty-four “good and honest men” to view the body of the deceased, consider the evidence, listen to witnesses, and, if necessary, ask their own questions.
Sebastian reached Chalk Farm sometime after twelve to find the surrounding lanes thick with carriages from London and curious locals on foot converging on the tavern.
Leaving his curricle in Tom’s care, he was cutting through the yard toward the taproom door when Alison Cross stepped in front of him.
She was wearing a high-waisted dark blue gown with a lace-trimmed scooped neckline and had her hair tucked up beneath a surprisingly prim cap.
“Well, look at you,” said the tavern keeper, her eyes widening as she let her gaze travel over him in a way that underscored the change in his dress and appearance from the last time she had seen him.
“I guess you weren’t having me on when you said you’re not with Bow Street. Who the bloody hell are you?”
“The name’s Devlin.”
She blinked. “Well. That does explain your interest in things.”
Sebastian looked out over the crowd milling about the yard. “I don’t see your friend Sid Diamond.”
“Did you think you would?” She jerked her chin to where Lovejoy had paused just outside the tavern door, his head tilted to the side as he listened to a report from one of his constables. “With that lot here?”
“I suppose not.”
She would have turned away then, but he put out a hand, stopping her. “I’m not your enemy in this.”
She met his gaze, her jaw hardening. “Aren’t you?” she said, and pulled away.
“Sir Samuel objected vociferously to the use of a tavern for his son’s inquest,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy as he and Sebastian pushed their way into the crowded taproom.
The air smelled of the usual spilled beer, sawdust, male sweat, and tobacco mixed oddly with the stomach-churning stench of burnt flesh.
“But apart from the nearest farmer’s barn, there really wasn’t anyplace else. ”
“At least the distance from London has reduced the number of gawkers,” said Sebastian, then added, “somewhat,” as they watched the motley assemblage push and shove their way closer to the table where Toole’s blackened, grotesquely charred body lay.
The viewing of the deceased’s corpse was an important part of an inquest, so the victim was always on display for all to see.
Two sandy-haired, well-dressed gentlemen, one tall, skinny, and very young, his companion older and stouter, stood beside the victim’s remains. Watching them, Lovejoy leaned over to whisper to Sebastian, “Who is that? Do you know?”
“That is Mr. Dudley Fenton, the youngest son of the Earl of Lisle, and his brother the Reverend Matthew Fenton. Toole and his friends humiliated the younger Fenton a month or two ago—here, at Chalk Farm.”
The younger Cambridge man stood unmoving for a long moment, staring intently at what was left of his tormentor. Then, as they watched, a slow, nasty smile curled Fenton’s lips.
Lovejoy said, “He seems quite pleased by the sight of Toole’s burnt remains.”
“Given what Toole did to him, I’m not sure I blame him.”
“That bad, was it?”
“Yes.”
The brothers turned away, their place taken by Theo Bridgewood and a beefy young buck Sebastian didn’t recognize. Bridgewood stood beside his longtime friend’s corpse for only a moment, stony faced; then he and his companion also moved on.
“They weren’t very honorable young men, were they?” said Lovejoy thoughtfully.
“No.”
A sense of being stared at caused Sebastian to look up. From across the room, Sir Samuel Toole’s belligerent glare met his; then Lord Bridgewood leaned over to whisper something in the Baronet’s ear, and both men turned to watch Emmanuel Royston-Jones slip quietly into the room.
It struck Sebastian as significant that not only was Royston-Jones alone, but he made no effort to work his way over to where Theo Bridgewood and his companion were now sitting beside Bayard.
Instead, the shipping magnate’s son shifted sideways to stand with his shoulders propped against a nearby wall, his arms folded at his chest as he stared with narrowed eyes out over the raucous crowd.
His curiosity aroused, Sebastian studied the younger man’s expressionless face.
There was something missing, he decided, in the various explanations he’d been given for the estrangement that had flared between Royston-Jones and his once tight circle of friends.
And he found himself remembering what the man had said about his cousin, the young woman his friends had derided for her interest in the Druids.
The seemingly undeniable links between the ancient Celtic methods of sacrifice and the three men’s deaths suddenly made that information much more intriguing.
A flurry of activity near the taproom’s front door jerked everyone’s attention to the bustling arrival of the local coroner, a no-nonsense solicitor named Richard Callow.
A graying, sparse man in his fifties, he took the chair reserved for him, positioned a pen, inkpot, and pad of papers just so on the table before him, then nodded briskly to the constable who’d entered in his wake.
The constable cleared his throat, sucked in a deep breath, and bellowed, “Oyez, oyez, oyez! Ye good men of this county are summoned to appear this day in the presence of Mr. Marcus Toole, lyin’ dead here before you, to inquire for our Sovereign Lord the King when, how, and by what means he come to his death… .”
The jury was sworn in. Then, as the man who had discovered the victim, Bayard was called as the first witness to testify.
He was dressed somberly, his face pale, his eyes bloodshot.
He gave his evidence in subdued, halting tones, repeating essentially the same story he had told Sebastian: of the two friends leaving the tavern to climb Primrose Hill on a lark; of Toole setting about building up the bonfire while Bayard went off to relieve himself and then fell asleep.
When he awoke, said Bayard, Toole was dead and in the fire.
“How the blazes do you sleep through a gunshot, man?” interrupted one of the jurors, a roughly dressed, heavily muscled blacksmith in his forties.
Bayard stared at him sullenly, then sniffed and said, “Easily, evidently, when you’ve been imbibing blue ruin half the night.”
A titter of amusement drifted around the room, bringing a flush of angry color to the coroner’s grim face. “Silence!” bellowed Callow, casting a furious glare at the crowd. “Enough of that noise.” He nodded to Bayard. “Proceed.”
But there was little more for Bayard to tell.
Sebastian testified next, followed by Lovejoy and then Paul Gibson, who explained the nature of the victim’s injuries.
Marcus Toole’s shamefaced, nervous groom was called, as were several men who’d been in the taproom the night of the murder. But none had anything useful to add.
The jury didn’t need to leave the room to agree to return a verdict of homicide by party or parties unknown.
Sebastian was pushing his way through the crowd, headed toward Emmanuel Royston-Jones, when Theo Bridgewood stepped in front of him.
“Lord Devlin,” said Theo as his beefy companion almost ran into the back of him.
“I was hoping we might hear some explanation today of what the bloody hell happened to Toole, as well as to Keebles and Upcott. But from the sound of things, it’s all still a muddle.
Is Bow Street truly no closer to understanding any of this than they were before? ”
“Not really, I’m afraid,” said Sebastian, glancing toward the door. Royston-Jones had disappeared. He brought his attention back to the man before him. “You wouldn’t happen to know the name of Emmanuel Royston-Jones’s female cousin, would you? A young woman with an interest in Druidism?”
“Druidism?” Theo laughed. “I don’t think so.”
Theo’s heavyset, earnest-looking companion nudged his friend in the ribs with one elbow. “Reckon he means Ciana O’Leary, don’t you think?” he said, struggling with the name’s Gaelic pronunciation, Kee-ah-na.
A shadow of annoyance passed over Theo’s handsome features, then was gone. “Is that her name?” Theo shrugged. “I bow to my friend Abbott’s superior memory. What on earth do you want with the woman?”
“I’m hoping she might help me better understand the significance of Primrose Hill,” said Sebastian.
“You still think it’s significant? Despite what also happened to Keebles and Upcott? Neither of them was killed here.”
“I think it might be.”
Theo shrugged again and pulled a face, as if to say Sebastian was entitled to his theories, however ridiculous they might be. But something flared in his hazel brown eyes.
Something he was careful to hide behind quickly lowered lashes.