aflutter at the prospect of seeing once more his harsh and brooding features, I knew better this time what I should expect. I had been an innocent, and had hoped for justice, when my dear friend Isobel, Countess of Scargrave, was accused of murdering her husband; today I was unlikely to be so sanguine. Appearances should tell against the master of High Down, and I little doubted that, the inquest speedily concluded, he should be held until the next session of the local Assizes,1 and then sent to London to be tried for the murder of Captain Percival Fielding.
Unless, of course, I discovered something to his benefit betweentimes.
Mr. Carpenter called for order, and at that moment there was a rustle of consciousness and low-muttered talk from the rear of the room; turning, I perceived Mr. Dobbin, the Lyme justice, and his burly fellows, as they led Geoffrey Sidmouth into the assembly. Behind them came Seraphine, her head high above her long red cloak, and the boy Toby on his crutches; and the mutters swelled into a roar. What pity I felt for the mademoiselle, at that moment! The mixture of pride and despair that overlaid her countenance! A confusion of emotions could not but grip her, at such a time.
‘This inquest is now convened,” Mr. Carpenter declared, in a voice plummy and deep, as the Grange folk found their seats; and he called first a young fellow of rough appearance, who stated his name as Ted Nesbitt, of Smallwood Farm, not far off the Charmouth road. It was this Nesbitt—a lad of perhaps fifteen—who had discovered Captain Fielding's body; and with many awkward pauses, and scratchings of his head, young Ted related for the assembly's edification how he had all but stumbled upon it.
“Lying at the edge of the road, the dead gentleman was, and near hid by the tall grass, that part of the field not having been mown yet in the hay-making. I'd have passed him entire if the horse hadn't started, and even then I took him for a lot of cast-off clothing.”
“And what did you then, Mr. Nesbitt?” the coroner enquired.
“Made sure he was dead, I did—which he were—and took off for Darby as though the Devil himsel’ were arter me.”
“Was the gendeman known to you?”
“He were Captain Fielding,” the lad said stoudy. “I'd seen him about, us being neighbours of a sort; but my folks don't mix wit’ the quality, sir, and I can't say as we ever exchanged more nor a hullo.”
Mr. Crawford next appeared. His bald pate shone with anxiety, his aspect was set and disturbed. He said little more than was necessary for the grim intelligence he must impart—namely, that he had attended Nesbitt to the body, and ascertained to his shock that the dead man was Percival Fielding, and that he had certainly been murdered; and that done, he had fetched Mr. Carpenter and his assistant, William Dagliesh, and the Lyme justice, Mr. Elliot Dobbin.
“Did you note anything particular about the corpse or the scene that might assist this enquiry, Mr. Crawford?” the coroner asked, with an air of complaisance.
There was an instant's painful silence; and I observed Mr. Crawford's eyes drift towards Geoffrey Sidmouth's position in the rear of the room. “I did, sir,” he replied, and his jaw set firmly on the words. “There was a chaos of hoofprints in the mud about the corpse.”
“From this, we are to assume that the deceased was mounted at the time of his death, or very nearly before.”
Mr. Crawford bowed, and hesitated, and then continued with reluctance, “That is not all we are to assume, Mr. Carpenter.”
“I see,” the coroner replied slowly, his voice like cut velvet. “Then perhaps you may enlighten us, Mr. Crawford. Why should these hoofprints concern us?”
“They were of a singular kind. They bore the initials GS clearly stamped within them.”
“GS?” The slightest of frowns beetled the gendeman's brow. “And can you conjecture, Mr. Crawford, what these letters might signify?”
Poor Crawford appeared to debate the point within himself. “I took them to mean that the horse belonged to a gentleman of my acquaintance.” “Presumably a gen-deman whose initials are GS?” Mr. Carpenter suggested. “Yes” There was a fractional pause as the coroner adjusted his frayed lace cuffs. “I must ask you, Mr. Crawford, which gentleman among your acquaintance may lay claim to those letters of the alphabet?” “Geoffrey Sidmouth,” Crawford replied, his voice barely audible.
“And why should this be so?” The coroner glanced about the room as though