“And could you state the approximate hour of the Captain's death?”

“From the condition of the body, I believe we agreed that he had died sometime during the evening before.”

“But you cannot state when?”

“I cannot.”

“Have you anything further?”

Mr. Dagliesh hesitated, and looked finally to Sidmouth; and as if emboldened by the sight of his friend, assumed a sterner countenance. “I should simply like to add, sir, that I may vouch for the behaviour of Mr. Geoffrey Sidmouth,” he said, in a voice so strengthened by his purpose it seemed to fill the room. “I believe him incapable of the despicable actions that the presence of his horse's hoofprints might suggest; and moreover, I will freely admit that I was in his company the entirety of the night in question, and parted with him only at dawn, when Captain Fielding's death had already been effected many hours.”

Mr. Carpenter studied his assistant's face when the speech was done, his own expression unfathomable. “You are on intimate terms with Mr. Sidmouth, Mr. Dagliesh?” he enquired.

“I am.”

“The safeguarding of his person, then, is a near concern of yours?”

“Would I call myself friend, were it otherwise?”

“And have you another witness who might vouch for the gentleman's whereabouts?”

“Is not my word enough?” Mr. Dagliesh cried, his face reddening with indignation. I closed my eyes upon the sight, remembering my own poor hopes of sincerity and goodness two winters past, when Isobel's life hung in the balance.

The coroner smiled. “For myself, perhaps,” he said, “but I fear the jury might demand a greater proof. Could you delineate for us all your movements on the night in question?”

Mr. Dagliesh blushed, if possible more hotly, and his eyes shifted again to his friend. I turned, and surveyed Mr. Sidmouth's countenance. I read there what I can only take to have been a warning.

“Honour forbids it,” the surgeon's assistant finally replied, “but I may assure you, sir, that our activities were such as should not disgrace a gentleman.”

A low ripple of laughter greeted this unfortunate attempt, and I saw a knowing glance pass between two members of the jury. I adjudged Mr. Dagliesh's effort to have hurt, rather than aided, his friend. His words should be dismissed, as the desperate fabrication of a moment, and Mr. Sidmouth's fate be sealed. But from the look that had passed between the two, I should rather say that Dagliesh was forbidden to speak to his friend's defence, than that he lacked the means.

Mr. Carpenter released his unfortunate junior, and Dagliesh fled with relief and a dignity somewhat impaired. As he hastened down the aisle, he cast upon me a look so beseeching as to be eloquent in its silence. I felt he begged, then, for the indulgence of being believed, however little he might reveal as proof of his assertions; and for my part, I certainly unshed to grant his request. But the coroner had called Mr. Dobbin; and all my attention was claimed by the justice.

Mr. Dobbin related in a concise and easy fashion, as though in converse of the weather, the disposition of Captain Fielding's body upon the Charmouth road, and the probable flight of his horse; the single shot to the Captain's heart, and the presence of the aforementioned hoofprints. It was for Mr. Dobbin to add, however, that the Captain's purse had been seized, and a white lily laid in the grass near his corpse — and undoubtedly not by chance.

At this, the coroner surveyed Mr. Dobbin shrewdly.

“Just such a flower was recently found near another body, was it not?”

“It was, sir — by the late William Tibbit, who was hanged on the Cobb last Thursday fortnight.”

“And do you think the two deaths are linked?”

“I cannot yet say, sir.”

“I see.” There was a pause, and a significant glance for the jury, most of whose members attempted to look sensible of the coroner's meaning, and failed.

“You observed, Mr. Dobbin, the hoofprints by the body.”

“I did, sir.”

“And did they speak with as much meaning to you, as to Mr. — er — Crawford?”

“Mr. Crawford's being at the scene empowered that gendeman to share his convictions and fears.”

“Yes, yes. And what did you then?”

“Not wishing to appear over-hasty in a matter of such gravity,” Mr. Dobbin began smoothly, “I enquired first of the local blacksmiths, of which there are three; and discovered that none of them had forged a like shoe for anyone. — Excepting, that is, Mr. Geoffrey Sidmouth.”

Mr. Carpenter reached a hand to his fleshy jowl, and caressed it reflectively. “And then?”

“I determined that Sidmouth's horse, at least, must have been at the scene, and deemed it appropriate to enquire of his stable lad whether any mounts had been absent on the evening in question. He assured me, with some defiance” — at this, I glanced at poor Toby, and saw him starting from his chair, and wincing in pain at his ankle's unequal attempt to bear his weight — “that the horses were well-guarded within the stables the entirety of that night.” Mr. Dobbin paused, the better to unleash his effect. “All, that is, except Mr. Sidmouth's particular mount — a black stallion by the name of Satan. It seems Mr. Sidmouth departed High Down Grange on horseback just after supper — around eight o'clock — and returned only with the dawn. The stable boy would not, or could not, say where his master had been.”

The sensation aroused at this revelation was decidedly excessive; though I should have thought the crowd to be blessed with such particulars, by way of the intimacy of milliner's stall and publican's room, well before the inquest. I looked for Sidmouth, and found him unbowed in the midst of his captors; but Seraphine, in her chair beyond Mr. Dobbin's men, appeared very unwell indeed. Her golden radiance was dimmed, her gaze unfocussed — the angel's wings as clipped as a captive swan's.

When the stir of interest had died away, the coroner continued. “And as a result of this information, Mr. Dobbin, ”’ he said, “you arrested Mr. Geoffrey Sidmouth, pending the outcome of this jury's deliberation?”

“I did.”

“You may stand down.”

“I would beg to suggest, sir,” the justice interposed, “that Miss Augusta Crawford be requested to give evidence. She has information that has only lately come to my attention.”

Mr. Carpenter raised an eyebrow in Dobbin's direction. “Indeed? Then she shall be called. Miss Augusta Crawford!”

It was as I had suspected; Miss Crawford had found a place for her tongue in the midst of the proceedings, and appeared well-satisfied with the fruits of her ingenuity, as she advanced upon the jury in a rustle of black silk. Her high cheekbones were sharp, her mouth severe — but her eyes, I thought, held a sparkle of malice as she stood in her place beside the coroner, and they were fixed upon Mademoiselle LeFevre.

“You are Miss Augusta Crawford, sister to Mr. Cholmondeley Crawford, of Darby?” the coroner began.

“I am.”

“And what have you to relate that should be of service in these proceedings?”

“It is in my power to offer an account of the events that occurred at Darby the evening before the evening when Mr. Sidmouth murdered Captain Fielding,” Miss Crawford replied, with some importance of manner.

“Madam!” Mr. Carpenter ejaculated. “Mr. Sidmouth's guilt in this matter has not yet been determined.” He turned to the foreman. “Pray disregard the lady's words. Madam?”

“Mr. Crawford and I had several guests to dinner that evening—”

“—being Saturday last?”

“—being Saturday last; and among them were Captain Fielding, Mr. Sidmouth, and his cousin, Mademoiselle 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.