Death Devil's Bridge (6 page)

And while Bess believed that Mr. Rushton put too fine a point on most things, she fully agreed with him (and with Rachel Elam and Crazy Mick and Sally Munby and Squire Thornton) with regard to the dangers of motorcars. What if, instead of herself alone, there had been schoolchildren in the narrow lane? Or Dr. Bassett and his fat gray pony, or the vicar wobbling along on his safety bicycle, or the baker's boy with a load of loaves? They could
all
have been killed by the rampaging motorcar, and what then would have been the charge? Hardly murder, but mayhem, certainly, or massacre! Bess could scarcely wait until the day of the coroner's inquest, when Harry Hodson would call her to testify, and she fell to wondering how she might add a bit of lace to her best dress to make it fit for such a momentous event. In fact, she was so intent upon this addition to her wardrobe that she almost stepped out in the lane in front of Young Jessup, who was driving a shiny new gig.

 

Coroner Harry Hodson was a great, burly bear of a man who had for some years served as the Queen's coroner in the rural district encompassing Dedham and a dozen other small villages. He had been a country physician in the earlier part of his career, but had married a widow of substantial means and promptly retired. Harry enjoyed his office and competently upheld the oath he had taken when he assumed it: “I will diligently and truly do everything appertaining to my office after the best of my power for the doing of right and for the good of the inhabitants within the district.” But he was a peaceful man at heart, and much preferred having nothing particular to do after breakfast and lunch.

On the afternoon of Old Jessup's funeral, Coroner Hodson met with Dr. Braxton Bassett, Constable Edward Laken, and Sir Charles Sheridan at the square deal table in Dr. Bassett's consulting room at the rear of Mr. Crosby's apothecary shop. Around them were the accouterments of a village doctor: a glass-fronted case of leatherbound medical books, a grinning skull upon the windowsill, a table of chrome-plated surgical implements partially covered with a folded white cloth, a small stove topped with a steaming kettle. It was a convenient room, one oaken door leading to Mr. Crosby's apothecary, the other to Dr. Bassett's surgery. All that was needed was close at hand.

When all four men were settled in their chairs, teacups and biscuit plates before them, the coroner turned to Dr. Bassett and, in a formal tone, asked for his opinion in the matter of Old Jessup's death.

The doctor, a man of middle age, with sharp, clear eyes and regular features, cleared his throat and announced that it was his belief that Old Jessup had suffered an apoplectic stroke. “It is scarcely surprising,” he added, “since the man was much given to drink. Had he died at The Lamb, where he spent so much time, or in his garden or his bed, there would be no mystery about his death, poor old fellow, and no commotion.”

Harry Hodson shifted his bulk in his chair. “But he died in the vicinity of a motorcar,” he said, tenting his fingers under his chin. “An untoward event.”

“I have examined the motorcar and found no damage consistent with its striking a pedestrian,” Edward Laken said. “I have also questioned the driver, the lady passenger, and Lord Bradford, the owner. All three seemed genuinely surprised to learn of the incident. I do not believe they saw the old man.”

“They were guests at Bishop's Keep that evening,” offered Sir Charles. “If they had been involved in any way with a fatality, I am sure they would have spoken of it. In fact, I daresay we would have spoken of nothing else.”

Harry Hodson drained his cup. “They did not see Bess Gurton, either, but she claims to have been nearly run down by the vehicle shortly before she discovered Old Jessup's body.”

“That's neither here nor there,” said the doctor, getting up to fetch the kettle. “There was not a mark on him, Harry. Jessup died of a stroke, and that's all there is to it.”

Harry Hodson suppressed a belch. “It would be, Brax,” he said sourly, thinking of the work required to collect and impanel a jury, “if it were not for the dead man's son.”

“Yes,” said the constable. “He has made a deal of noise.” He sighed. “And the villagers—even those who did not particularly like his father—are greatly upset about the old man's death. Most believe that if the motorcar did not strike the old man, it frightened him to death.”

While the doctor filled his cup, the coroner turned to Sir Charles. “You have looked into the matter with the constable, I take it. What do you think?” Harry had had occasion to call Sir Charles to testify in an inquest into the death of a constable and had a high regard for his opinion.

“I think,” Sir Charles said gravely, “that it is a great pity—both the old fellow's death and the villagers' reaction. But I do not think that anyone is responsible, under the law.”

“You are suggesting that there might be some other sort of responsibility?” the doctor asked, sitting down once again with an expression of interest.

“We do not understand the impact of the changes that are occurring in these modern times,” Sir Charles said, “and neither, for that matter, does the law. But that, as you say, is neither here nor there. The fact is that the old man died of natural causes, and there are no eyewitnesses or physical evidence that would suggest either a motoring accident or foul play.”

If Harry had had a gavel, he would have struck it smartly on the table and declared the meeting adjourned. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “I see no need for further consideration of this matter. I shall exhort Young Jessup not to make unfounded allegations.”

The doctor chuckled. “Better you than me, Harry, old chap. I'm afraid your work is cut out for you, the way he's roaring round.” He took the lid off a tin canister. “Would anyone like another biscuit?”

 

But if the coroner had expected the victim's son—a dark-complected man in his early twenties, with dark hair and flashing eyes—to resist his exhortation, he was a good deal surprised. Young Jessup heard the doctor's opinion, the constable's report, and the coroner's conclusion, and nodded his head slowly.

“You agree, then, that there is no need to convene an inquest?” the coroner said, much relieved.

Young Jessup nodded again, briskly this time, and the business was concluded. There would be no inquest, no jury, and no allegations of murder.

Which was not, of course, the end of the matter. For what Coroner Hodson and the others could not know and would not discover for some days to come, was that Young Jessup's agreement to a finding of Death by Natural Causes had been encouraged (some might even have said that it was purchased) by the payment to his mother of a substantial sum of money. Who paid this money and what the motive might be, only Young Jessup would be able to tell. But when Harry Hodson bade the boy a cordial goodbye and congratulated himself upon bringing this disagreeable affair to such an agreeable conclusion, he was deceived.

There was more to come. Much more.

Tis not wise to change a cottage in possession for a kingdom in hope.

—English Proverb

 

 

 

I
t was a Thursday evening late in September and the sun was dropping westward. Lawrence Quibbley, on his way home from his evening's work at Bishop's Keep, thought to himself that the next few days—the weekend of the annual Harvest Fete
and
of the grand motorcar exhibition and balloon chase—looked to be fair.

As he came up the dusty path, the kitchen door opened and Amelia stepped out. “Ooh, Lawrence, look at the sunset,” she cried. “Isn't it beautiful?”

Lawrence turned to look over his shoulder, then turned back to his wife, her skin the color of a ripe peach kissed by the sun. “An' so be you, Amelia,” he said, almost shyly.

Amelia blushed and half-smiled, and then bit her lip and her eyes brimmed. “Yer supper is ready,” she said with a heavy sigh, and brushed a tear from her cheek. “Come an' eat, dear.”

Lawrence's heart wrenched. “Don't cry, Amelia,” he said, putting his arms around her. “It'll all come right i' the end, dear. Truly it will.”

“I'm sure,” Amelia said, with a sad lack of conviction. She pushed Lawrence away and returned to the task of cutting the steak-and-kidney pie she had baked in the kitchen at Bishop's Keep while she finished up her day's work. Lady Kathryn made it possible for the Quibbleys to sup together at home by giving Amelia the freedom of her evenings, except for special occasions.

To Lawrence Quibbley, it might have seemed that life held many promises. Only two short years ago he had been a junior footman at Marsden Manor, required to carry coals to the grand Marsden bedrooms, trim the many Marsden lamps, and serve as valet to any Marsden guest who was without a manservant. It was on such a temporary assignment that he had first served Sir Charles Sheridan, who had recently married the lady who employed Lawrence's wife (once her personal maid) as her housekeeper.

His wife! The word still struck Lawrence with a feeling akin to awe. He and Amelia had been married only six months, scarcely long enough for him to have become accustomed to lying in a bed warmed and scented by her lovely body, or rising to the sunshine of her morning kiss. Lawrence had never imagined himself a married man, and certainly not a married man living in such a palatial cottage, with a magnificent Daimler motorcar stored in the barn.

For such were Lawrence's living arrangements. The Quibbleys lived in Lady Kathryn's gate cottage, only a short walk from Bishop's Keep and a fifteen-minute bicycle ride from Marsden Manor. Lawrence was no longer a mere footman, but was Lord Bradford Marsden's chauffeur and mechanic. Unfortunately, Lawrence's automotive responsibilities had to be concealed from the senior Marsden, Lord Christopher, whose hostility toward motorcars was so unreasonable that the junior Marsden found it politic to deposit his Daimler (with Sir Charles's consent) in the barn at the gate cottage, where Lawrence maintained it. To complicate matters even further, Lord Bradford, as payment for an outstanding note, had arranged to loan Lawrence to Sir Charles for a time. Hence, Lawrence and Amelia lived in the rose-covered gate cottage and Lawrence divided his time almost equally between Lord Bradford's Daimler and Sir Charles's various improvement projects.

With this arrangement, Lawrence's prospects had risen substantially. Last winter, Lord Bradford had sent him to the Daimler Works in Germany, where he observed every stage of the motorcar's manufacture and assembly, from the casting of the block to the packing of the bearings. He had assembled and disassembled every part until he could do it blindfolded, learning how each part worked and why, and what one did when things went wrong, as they inevitably (and often catastrophically) did. Lawrence could look to the future with confidence, for men with such skills would be in great demand once the automobile came into its own.

But of equal advantage to Lawrence was his work at Bishop's Keep. Sir Charles, an amateur photographer of no small reputation, had shown him how to load and unload plates and cut films into dark slides and slide boxes. He learned to mix gold, silver, and uranium into developers and toners, and he spent hours under the dim light of the ruby lamp in Sir Charles's darkroom, fascinated by the photographic images that gradually appeared on negatives and prints—and then more hours washing, enameling, and varnishing prints to preserve the images.

But even that did not describe the full scope of Lawrence's duties. Sir Charles and Lady Kathryn had been married scarcely a month when Lawrence oversaw the installation of a water system. Then it was the gas plant, an outdoor coal-burning furnace that heated three long ovens and a large copper reservoir in which the gases were stored, necessitating gas pipes, valves, and lighting fixtures in the main downstairs rooms and a gas cooker in the kitchen. This was no sooner completed than two wagonloads of machinery arrived and Lawrence and Sir Charles set to work on the Otto stationary engine. In their hands the machinery came to life, the great piston popping irregularly in the enormous cylinder, the flywheel whirring, the leather belts creaking as they turned the dynamo shaft, magically producing electricity. Lawrence could be forgiven a certain smug pride in his feats. And considering Amelia's recent promotion to housekeeper in Lady Kathryn's household, Mr. and Mrs. Quibbley seemed justified in believing that life could scarcely be improved.

But a few days ago this happy situation was jeopardized. Lord Christopher Marsden, who had been away for the greater part of the year, was soon to return. Young Lord Bradford, whose relationship with his father was not of the best, planned to take up permanent residence in London and intended that Lawrence should come and bring the Daimler. “Bring Amelia, too,” he had added brusquely. “My housekeeper can put her to work, and you may have rooms in the attic.”

Lawrence had received this news with a stunned silence; Amelia with a torrent of tears. While some country folk might consider going up to London a step in the right direction, the Quibbleys knew better. Amelia was heartbroken at the thought of abandoning her new position as Lady Kathryn's housekeeper, Lawrence did not want to leave his interesting work with Sir Charles, and neither of them wished to trade their rose-covered cottage and garden for cramped rooms in a London attic.

Avoiding Amelia's tearful look, Lawrence drank his tea and ate his steak-and-kidney pie, wishing he had not told her about the summons to London. After a bout of tears, she had brightened and suggested what was, on the face of it, the simplest and best solution.

“Why don't ye ask Sir Charles to take ye on? Lord Bradford cud surely find somebody else to work on the motorcar. 'Twud be the best thing, seein' as we've the cottage.” And she had cast a fiercely possessive look around the snug kitchen, with its cheerful blue teapot and the red geranium blooming brightly at the gingham-curtained window.