THE CORONER, MR. BOTT, HAD ASSEMBLED HIS JURY IN THE largest space the Cock and Bull could boast. It was the main tavern-room, redolent of the smoked hams that hung from its rafters and the yeasty aftermath of spilt been The floor had been scrubbed for the occasion, and all but one of the tables rolled into an anteroom; behind the last, the twelve men were ranged in an awkward rank upon rank — small holders in their Sunday best, unable to meet Isobel's eyes when she entered on the arm of Lieutenant Hearst; the master of the pub himself, his large wattle tucked into a collar several sizes too small; the local apothecary, Mr. Smollet, red of face and stern of expression; and Squire Fulsome, from Long Farm, resplendent in a red silk waistcoat (a Christmas present from his little Judy), whom Bott had appointed foreman.

Facing this hodge-podge assembly were rows of chairs, posed as for an Evangelical revival[31], the majority of them firmly held by the good folk of the village. At our appearance a few moments before the appointed hour of one o'clock, only the row designated for the Scargrave family remained at liberty; and I felt myself quail when the mass of heads turned as if with one force, and stared balefully upon our entrance. However, summoning my courage, I followed Isobel to the front of the room, the gentlemen falling in behind, but had not proceeded two paces before a very fat and gap-toothed woman, her large head burdened with an atrocious hat of turquoise and madder rose, thrust herself forward from the assembly with hand extended towards the Countess.

“There she be!” she screeched, her knotty red fingers trembling, “the ‘arlot and Jezebel of Scargrave! The woman as has blood stained deep into ‘er skin! The murderess and whore the good Earl took in, to ‘is peril! Pore Margie suffered to the death for the telling of it, but ‘er life is not in vain! May God's vengeance be swift and ‘ard for the cunning woman as has forgot ‘is ways!”

Isobel stopped as though turned to stone. Her remarkable eyes were bewildered and one hand went to her throat — her first gesture in moments of anxiety. As the woman's tirade waned, my friend began to sway, and I saw that she should faint. Fitzroy Payne sprang into the crowd with an unaccustomed energy, bent upon seizing the harridan and forcing her from the room; but he was restrained at the last by Tom Hearst.

“Leave Lizzy Scratch to her gin, Fitzroy,” the Lieutenant cautioned; “she is a witness Sir William would call, and must remain.”

For his part, Sir William spoke severely to the woman, who looked somewhat cowed by his words, and thereafter confined herself to muttering over the steaming drink she held between two fingerless mitts. Supported by the magistrate, Isobel moved on, myself in her wake, and gained the dubious safety of a hard wooden chair.

There was a curious discomfort attached to a position so far forward from the remainder of the assembly; one felt as though the eyes of the entire town were boring into the back of one's head with virulent animosity. But it could not be helped; we had arrived, and must suffer our two hours upon the block.

Chapter 12

Convincing the Coroner

27 December 1802, cont.

THE EVIDENCE REGARDING THE DEATH OF FREDERICK, LORD Scargrave, was to be first presented, and the London physician, Dr. Philip Pettigrew, took his seat by the coroner's side. He looked even younger in the light of day than he had appeared by the late Earl's bedside; a broad-shouldered man, of short stature, his eyes cool and grey behind gold spectacles. Placing his hand upon the Bible, he was duly sworn, and gazed out upon the assembled countryfolk with admirable equanimity. To my dismay, I observed Fanny Delahoussaye smile prettily at him, when his eyes chanced to fall her way. In a flagrant disregard for mourning, she had insisted upon donning a new bonnet of peacock blue, with matching feathers.

Mr. Eliahu Bott gave a dry little cough and picked up his quill. “You are Dr. Philip Pettigrew, of Sloane Street, London?”

“I am.”

Thereafter followed a tedious recitation of the good man's apprenticeships and learning, surprisingly lengthy in one who appeared little more than two-and-thirty; his intimate familiarity with gastric complaints, poisons, and ailments of the bowels; and the history of his relations with the late Earl.

“I was called to attend Lord Scargrave some three years past, in a matter of dyspepsia brought on by the consumption of rich foods, while the Earl was resident for the Season in London. His lordship's complaint being one of frequent recurrence, I became a familiar at his bedside in ensuing months, and was naturally called into Hertfordshire when the ailment took hold more than a fortnight ago.”

“Your physick, it would seem, did little to cure your patient.” Mr. Bott peered severely at Dr. Pettigrew.

“Even the wisest counsel is useless when it is unheeded,” Dr. Pettigrew said, in a tone of reproof. “The Earl was fond of fine food and drink, and little accustomed to having his habits of indulgence checked.”

“And how would you describe Lord Scargrave's condition prior to his death on the twelfth of December last?”

“He was severely ill — so severely ill that all help was past by the time I arrived just before dawn. His lordship was bloated and possessed of difficulty in breathing; his vomiting had then occurred some hours without cease; and as is usual in such cases, a dizzyness had come on that prevented him from sitting or standing upright.”

“And yet you believed his lordship to be suffering merely another attack of dyspepsia?”

The doctor adjusted his spectacles with great dignity. “I thought that Lord Scargrave had achieved the final result of careless indulgence — acute gastritis brought on by steady abuse of the digestive tract. That he was brought to sickbed following a celebratory ball for his bride, and that following a three months’ holiday, made it likely that all dietary strictures had been cast off for some time; and so I bled him, and hoped for the best.”

Mr. Bott's quill paused in mid-air. “And what was the result?”

“His lordship departed this life a mere half-hour after the bleeding.”

There was a murmur at this from the assembled folk, rising behind us like the first hint of thunder on a warm summer's eve.

The coroner's reproachful gaze shifted from his witness to the audience, and he snorted with disapproval. “You may stand down, Dr. Pettigrew.”

Next to be called was the Countess herself, deathly pale and faint of voice. Arrayed in outmoded black sarcenet, with her red hair drawn severely behind her ears, Isobel looked the very picture of distressed widowhood; and a hope rose within me that even Mr. Bott might view her with pity, and go gently in his questions. She was sworn, stated her name and place of birth as the Barbadoes, and was questioned as to her familiarity with her husband's dietary habits.

“Had his lordship experienced such an indisposition at any time during your travels?”

“On several occasions in Paris, and again in Vienna,” Isobel replied, her voice quavering.

“Harlots and debauch!” someone cried from the gallery.

Mr Bott glared at the crowd and struck the table with a small mallet provided for this purpose. “Silence!” His head, so like a sparrow's, turned sharply towards the Countess. “And these would have been on what dates, my lady?”

Isobel reflected, her gaze distracted. “In early September and again at mid-November, I should say, sir.”

“But this was not an ailment the Earl combated daily.” Mr. Bott's hand moved swiftly over his parchment.

“It was not during the period of our marriage, assuredly.”