“Indeed,” my mother replied, laying a hand over my own in agitation. “And yet, we were as well acquainted with Captain Fielding — though Miss Crawford would have it he was to beg for Miss Armstrong's hand, and not yours, as I had thought. Why are not we to be called?”

“I imagine we can have nothing of particular intelligence to offer the coroner,” I replied firmly, and patted my mother's cold fingers. My father harrumphed, censorious of our chatter, and at that very moment Mr. Carpenter appeared — coroner and surgeon of Lyme, and the superior of our friend Mr. Dagliesh — and strode importantly down the aisle. All rose to offer him the respect that was his due.

Joshua Carpenter was a portly gentleman of jovial countenance and a ponderous wig, of somewhat outdated fashion. He was dressed in rusty black — rusty, from its apparent long use and sad neglect — his collar was wilted, his shirt-sleeves frayed, and his coat collar bore the signs of a nuncheon recentiy consumed. When he turned and surveyed the uplifted faces of the crowd, however, I detected a gleam of amused intelligence in his eyes, and a contemptuous curl of the lip, as though he understood well that gossip, rather than justice, was the hope of nearly everyone assembled. He glanced at the twelve men of the jury — all strangers to my eyes, and drawn, it seemed, from local folk — who sat composed and cowed upon two of the inn's long benches, and nodded to the one appointed foreman.

How similar was this scene to the one I witnessed two winters past, at an inn in Hertfordshire, when another man had died all untimely! Painful memories could not but intrude as I contemplated my surroundings. And yet — how different, in the figure of Mr. Carpenter, and the mood of the crowd, and the degree of interest I felt in the outcome. For though my anxiety was roused on Geoffrey Sidmouth's behalf, and my heart 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[67], 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 gentleman known to you?”

“He were Captain Fielding,” the lad said stoutly. “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 gentleman'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 gentleman 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 seeking some support. “Why should not these hoofprints and their damning marks belong to some other person?”

“Because I knew Mr. Sidmouth to make a practise of having his blacksmith etch those initials on his mounts’ shoes.”

“I see,” Mr. Carpenter said, and sat back in his chair. That he had been apprised of this intelligence well before the proceedings, by the efficient Mr. Dobbin, I little doubted; and that his behaviour on the occasion was intended for effect, I perfectly understood. The fellow had surely missed his calling — he should better have trod the boards of Drury Lane, in the guise of Falstaff. I expected him to call Sidmouth without delay, and end the sad business; but Mr. Carpenter was nothing if not thorough. The coroner had set aside the afternoon for the canvassing of Percival Fielding's death; and he was not about to quit his glorious stage so well before dinner. He now bade Mr. Crawford stand down, and called Mr. William Dagliesh in his stead.

Poor Dagliesh took his place at his employer the coroner's right hand, and was sworn, and looked everywhere but in the eyes of his friend at the back of the room; but his moment of martyrdom was brief. The surgeon's assistant stated what Mr. Carpenter already knew — that the Captain had been dead some hours by the time they were called to examine the body; that Fielding had lost a quantity of blood, from the wound in his heart; and that he had witnessed Mr. Carpenter extract a ball from the wound itself, which he should judge to be a simple lead one such as was commonly used in a gentleman's pistol.