Le-Fevre.” At the mention of Seraphine's name, Miss Crawford could not contain an expression of lively scorn, that should certainly have discredited her intelligence, were / the coroner; but Mr. Carpenter's countenance remained impassive.
“The deceased and Mr. Sidmouth were on such terms as might encourage social intercourse?” he enquired.
“So my brother and I assumed/’ Miss Crawford replied, “from understanding that the Captain had preserved the mademoiselle from an adventure of some danger to her person, and was thus due, one would think, the deepest gratitude from all who held her welfare among their dearest concerns; but imagine our amazement, when Mr. Sidmouth betrayed himself as anything but pleased to see the Captain, and went so far as to question my brother's motives in having invited them both!”
“Miss Crawford,” the coroner probed with the faintest suggest of irritation, “what is it you would wish this panel to understand?”
The lady stared at him open-mouthed, as though dumbfounded the fellow should be so obtuse. “Why, my good sir!” she rejoined. “Is not it apparent? Mr. Sidmouth bore the Captain a grudge! The mademoiselle treated her cousin with excessive coldness—the result, I imagine, of his having caused the very misadventure which required the gallant Captain's assistance, or so I understood, from something the Captain once dropped; and that she preferred Captain Fielding to Mr. Sidmouth, caused in him an enormity of rage, the result of which we saw first in our drawing-room, and not two days later, upon the Charmouth road!”
“And how would you explain the fact of the dead man's purse having been stolen? Surely you would not suggest that a crime of passion was also one of calculation?”
“I suppose Mr. Sidmouth to have been covering his tracks, by suggesting some common footpad had killed the Captain”
“But, my dear lady,” Mr. Carpenter said smoothly, “it would appear that covering his tracks, is exacdy what Mr. Sidmouth did not do.” He paused to appreciate the full effect of his little joke, then took up his pen with an air of dismissal. “I fear this is all conjecture, Miss Crawford. It cannot put our enquiries any for warder.”
“You ridiculous man!” that lady cried. “Do not you see that Fielding was killed in a duel over the mademoiselle's honour?”
“You may stand down, madam,” the coroner replied distantly. “Mr. Geoffrey Sidmouth!”
Miss Crawford spluttered, and looked all her outrage; but she was conducted from her place nonetheless, and suffered a momentary quailing of her courage, in being forced to pass quite close to the very Mr. Sidmouth she had just maligned, as he approached the coroner's table. He gave her neither a look nor a word, being intent, it appeared, on the maintenance of his gravity, amidst the tide of chatter his passage engendered. I could not detect in the noise, however, any evidence of ill-will towards the gendeman, despite his damning appearance of guilt; and it struck me forcibly that Geoffrey Sidmouth retained his reputation among the folk of Lyme, and a measure of gratitude, however heinous his offences. A curious community, indeed, that could treat a Maggie Tibbit with such contempt, and a Geoffrey Sidmouth with unrelenting tolerance.
Mr. Carpenter gave the gendeman at his right hand a cursory glance, neither severe nor benign. “You are Mr. Geoffrey Sidmouth, of High Down Grange, are you not?”
I am.
“And what answer can you give, Mr. Sidmouth, to the conjectures so lately put forward by Miss Augusta Crawford?”
“I would suggest that the lady pay greater heed to her own affairs, and less to those of her neighbours, or she shall utterly lack for dinner partners,” he rejoined mildly, to some laughter; but from knowing Sidmouth a little, I judged him to be checking his temper only with the greatest difficulty. A muscle at his temple had commenced to pulse, in a distractingly involuntary fashion.
“And did you, sir, bear a grudge towards Captain Fielding?”
“I certainly bore him little affection.”
“That is frankness indeed, from a man so imperilled by circumstance as yourself,” Mr. Carpenter said, in some surprise.
“I make it a practise, sir, to offer honesty when such is possible.”
“When it is possible—but not, you would have us understand, on every occasion?”
“Can any man assert such consistency?”
“It is a common-enough profession.”
“But to profess honesty, and to practise it without fail, are entirely different talents. Rare is the gendeman who allies them both.”
My father leaned towards me and winked. “One for my philosopher,” he observed sofdy.
“So we may take it as setded that you harboured towards the Captain a healthy dislike. On what