Page 24 of Linenfold (The Alice Chronicles #4)

T he coroner’s jurymen re-gather in the hall next morning and await Sir Malcolm. It is Oliver Sanderson who puts his head round the kitchen door some while later. ‘Have you had word of the coroner’s being delayed?’

Alice smiles. ‘That would be a rarity, for Sir Malcolm to tell me what is going on. Would you like me to send someone to see what the matter is?’

‘No, don’t put yourself out. I expect he’ll be here any time soon.’

Curiosity has a powerful nudge to its elbow.

Within two minutes, Alice summons Angus.

‘Just make your way up to Poyle exactly as you did yesterday,’ she tells him.

‘See if Sir Malcolm is prevented from coming and tell him the jury would be glad of his instructions.’ With Angus departed, ‘Rose? Do you take more ale to the gentlemen in the hall while they wait.’ That will keep them from going to seek Sir Malcolm themselves, and give Angus time to find out what is going on up at Poyle.

Angus can barely have sighted Poyle when there is a hammering on the front door. One of the jurymen reaches it before her, ushering Sir Malcolm in. A few minutes later Master Corvin enters the kitchen. ‘Sir Malcolm says I am to bring you to the hall, Mistress Jerrard.’

As yesterday, the coroner has seated himself at the head of the table. ‘I want to see these Frenchwomen.’ No by-your-leave , no enquiry after Louise’s wellbeing, it is not the coroner’s way.

Nothing useful transpires from his questioning, which establishes only that Louise was the first to retreat to their chamber that night.

Why is Louise so fearful, Alice asks herself as she translates English to French and back.

Perhaps in a quiet moment she can draw Honorine aside.

Would it help to know? Would it be prying?

She does her best to soften Sir Malcolm’s bullying impatience, his display of irritation.

With a straight look, Honorine answers questions put to her, but subdued Louise hangs her head and whispers her responses, sometimes so low that Alice has to ask her to repeat.

Neither of them heard anything that night.

Honorine barred the door when they went to bed.

They both slept well, Honorine says, happy to think there was a hired coach coming that Milord told them would have them in Spitalfields very soon.

Sir Malcolm sits rolling bored eyes until, ‘Yes, yes, tell Mam’selle thank you, we have heard quite enough.’

Back in the kitchen, with Maureen out in Guildford on commissions, Honorine tactfully busies herself adding brands to the fire and sweeping up the ash.

Then she and Louise sit down by the hearth in a murmuring exchange.

The coroner summons each of the four menservants of Lord Hardcastle’s entourage.

Alice catches tones of vehement denial as each man pleads his case, insists on his innocence.

Jackson, the first, comes out tight-lipped, with desperately worried frown.

‘I had nothing to do with it, nothing!’ he mutters as he passes Alice to return to the men’s loft. The other three emerge from the hall in like degrees of distress and denial.

After several minutes of discussion behind the closed hall door the coroner’s court breaks up and the jurymen start to trickle through the kitchen to collect their mounts and leave.

Sir Malcolm pauses at the door to tell Alice, ‘No one is to leave here until I say. I hold you responsible.’

‘How long will that be, sir?’

‘You heard me. Until I say.’

‘But Sir Malcolm, what is your verdict?’ she persists.

‘The verdict will be announced when I am ready,’ he tells her. ‘Meanwhile, you may expect the sheriff’s bailiffs.’

‘Is someone under arrest?’

‘Did I say so? They will be stationed here within the house. You will give them all cooperation. They will remain here until I dismiss them.’

‘And will I charge their meals and accommodation to yourself, Sir Malcolm?’

He turns away and the jury file through after him, Oliver Sanderson the last. He waits until the door has closed and then looks at Alice.

‘He won’t give me the verdict,’ she tells him. ‘What am I to do? Is there a killer in the house?’

‘For what it’s worth, and without much evidence, most of them think it’s one of His Lordship’s four men,’ Sanderson tells her. ‘No one offered to say which. At present that’s not to be noised abroad because Wipley himself is pouring cold water on the whole idea of murder.’

‘What! His Lordship clearly had his face pushed into the mud!’

‘I’m not sure why Wipley takes that line,’ Sanderson says. ‘He insists Hardcastle had some sort of seizure that prevented him being able to rise, and he rolled around and got muddied in his frenzy.’

‘That raises too many questions,’ she objects. ‘When did he have this seizure? Why did he get up anyway? How did he manage to bury his face up to the ears in the mud?’

Sanderson spreads his hands. ‘Wipley doesn’t concern himself overmuch with questions whose answers do not serve his view.’

‘Don’t your fellow jurors have anything better to suggest?’

Sanderson gives her a bleak look. ‘I’m sorry to say it, but no. The others want to get back to their businesses and aren’t inclined to spend more time on the murder of a man they didn’t know.’

The door opens, Maureen stomps in, trickling complaints of ill-usage and sharp dealing from stall traders in town. No chance of further confidences with Oliver Sanderson.

Why is Sir Malcolm backing away from this affair?

If all the jurors bar one stand with him in a verdict of misadventure, she thinks, must I leave it there?

Lord Hardcastle died under my roof. I feel duty bound to find out who killed him.

And the first thing I want to know is, when I was so careful to make sure the house was secure, how did someone get in?

Were they already in hiding until the small hours?

One thing leads to another, and she is almost suspecting her own household when Angus reappears. He waits just inside the woodshed as she sees Oliver Sanderson and the last of the jury away. ‘You saw Sir Malcolm?’ she asks him.

‘I saw him, yes, mistress, on my way up there. He was with a gentleman, a mighty fine gentleman. Riding down the hill from Poyle together they were. I took off my hat to wish him good day, but he went on past, talking with the fine gentleman. When they got down to the road, they shook hands and the fine gentleman turned for London and Sir Malcolm crossed to come straight here.’

‘So you didn’t have a chance to speak with him?’

‘No mistress. He were too busy attending the fine gentleman.’ Typical, she thinks. A guest calls on Sir Malcolm and instead of sending a message that he is delayed, the coroner leaves the jury he has summoned to kick their heels. ‘I hope I did right, mistress?’ Angus says.

‘Quite right, Angus, thankyou. I’m sorry you had a wasted journey.’

‘Not wasted, mistress,’ Angus answers, brightening. ‘I passed Master Tillotson’s man Len on my way up, and now I know where Tillotsons is, too.’ After a lifetime of ignorance, Angus clearly feels a sense of pride in his discovery. She cannot help smiling.

‘Excellent, Angus.’ His slow speech, his blameless well-meaning, stand out in sharp contrast when she nears the kitchen where raised voices declare a battle royal between Rose and Maureen. From the hearthside, the two Frenchwomen gaze with bemused expressions at the war of words.

‘… only a hussy would do that.’

‘… to help Mollie out because you’re always shouting at her.’

‘You thought you could get out of doing your share in the kitchen!’

‘You could get off your arse sometimes, Maureen, and—’

‘You deliberately went up to a man’s chamber!’

‘I went to take his boots.’

‘Master Sewell this, Master Sewell that. Putting yourself forward, you shameless—!’

‘What about you? I saw you, smiling at him, fiddling with your hair!’

‘If I was mistress instead of her ladyship, you’d be out on the streets to fend for yourself!’

‘You’re just jealous because he takes no notice of you. And you can forget making eyes at John Pearce too, he fancies Honorine!’

‘Would you like to tell me,’ Alice says, coming into the kitchen, raising her voice over theirs, ‘what this is all about?’

Red-faced, Rose points. ‘She accuses me of wrongdoing for taking Master Sewell’s boots up yesterday morning. She’s no right to call me to account, the sloven. She can’t even cook a decent meal. I could do a much better—’

‘Thank you, Rose. And now, Maureen? I assume “her ladyship” is a fond term for myself?’

‘It’s respectful,’ Maureen says defensively.

‘It’s the very opposite as a matter of fact, but we’ll let that pass. What is your plaint?’

Maureen jabs a finger in Rose’s direction. ‘She’s not fit to be in this house. Setting her cap at all and sundry. Master Sewell’s the latest in a long line.’

‘She can’t cook! She’s jealous because she knows I could do ten times better!’

‘She’s after anything in breeches!’ Maureen persists. ‘She’ll come to a bad end and—’

‘Know this, Maureen!’ Alice declares. ‘I have already discussed with Rose her delivery of our guests’ shoes upstairs and I am satisfied with her explanation. As regards your own conduct, I suppose your lash-fluttering and offers of ale were simply acts of disinterested hospitality?’

‘I was never disinterested. I was very interested in being hospitable!’

‘Dispassionate hospitality, then.’

‘I wasn’t passionate either!’

Mentally, Alice rolls her eyes. ‘That is certainly true, Maureen.’

‘ She’s the passionate one,’ Maureen taunts, pointing at Rose. ‘ She’s the one who did his boots twice! Go on, deny it if you will!’

‘Well, so what? It’s nothing to do with you.’

‘Boot-licker!’

‘Slug-a-bed!’

‘I will have no name-calling in this house!’ Alice commands. ‘Now, Rose, tell me, why did you clean Master Sewell’s boots twice?’

‘They were muddy again. I couldn’t take them up in that condition, so I cleaned them afresh.’