“Charles Danforth?” my cousin enquired. “I suppose he is greatly disturbed by this dreadful affair.”

“As you would be, too, my good Cooper,” the solicitor replied grimly, “if all your neighbours were calling you murderer and fiend. Miss Jane Austen had better counsel what she may of Truth in Danforth’s ear.”

“DO YOU BELIEVE THAT MR. HEMMING FEARS FOR HIS client, Jane?” Cassandra mused as we made our way back towards The Rutland Arms, “and that an immediate suspicion of Charles Danforth’s guilt urged him to profess ignorance of the maid’s identity?”

“It is possible, I suppose—”

“It is utterly impossible,” my cousin broke in, with remarkable heat. “George Hemming is a highly respectable man! He holds the trust of a considerable number of the Great! He is a gentleman of reputation and no little decency—”

“And his behaviour is in every way calculated to ruin him,” I replied. “Do you believe it likely, Cassandra, that the loyalty of a solicitor to a client should extend so far as perjury?”

“As to that — he has not exactly perjured himself as yet,” she replied. “He has only offered falsehoods to his friends. We must await the outcome of the Inquest, and then observe how far Mr. Hemming’s allegiance — or his guilt — shall drive him.”

“Guilt! Perjury!” cried Mr. Cooper in consternation. “When I consider the abominable fashion in which you have served my esteemed friend, Jane, I cannot find it in me to regret that we shall leave this place as soon as may be!”

“There must be something greater at issue,” I told my sister; “something more personal than allegiance to a client, or even a valued friend. A man should not compromise his honour so lightly.”

“You have disgraced me before one of my oldest fellows,” Mr. Cooper continued hotly, “and you have conducted yourself in a manner that must lay you open to accusations of vulgarity and impertinence.”

“I cannot think that Mr. Tivey is the sort to treat a gentleman’s honour with respect,” observed Cassandra thoughtfully. Her gaze was arrested by a scene played out at the foot of Matlock Street, some hundred feet distant: a crowd of common folk, both men and women, were gathered before the town’s well. A single figure was mounted on the well-head; even at this distance I could discern the massive forearms, the darkly-knit brows. Michael Tivey would harangue his fellows about the vicious propensities of the Masonic lodge. To what purpose? Had he named Charles Danforth the maid’s murderer? What cause had Tivey to so hound a gentleman, when nothing could yet be known of Tess Arnold’s enemies, or the reasons for her death? And with so strong a conviction towards the guilt of another — how could Tivey remain, in conscience, Coroner for the Inquest?

“But why I should find your behaviour astonishing now,” my cousin cried, “is worthy of question. You have never comported yourself with the modest humility becoming to one of your sex and station, Jane. I may only count myself fortunate that I did not chuse to throw you in the way of Sir George Mumps, my esteemed patron, who must find you unlike his idea of a gently-bred female in every particular.”

“My dear Cousin!” Cassandra cried, in a shocked accent. “Consider the violence of your expressions, before it is too late! Our dear Jane has operated from the best intentions in the world.”

“She is an insufferable busybody,” my cousin retorted, “and will never get a husband if she does not mend her ways. George Hemming seemed so disposed to admire her, too — I thought it very promising that he carried her with us for the angling party. And now it will all come to naught. When I consider of the chances you have thrown away, Jane, I despair of the future of matrimony!”

Thursday

28 August 1806

“AND THA’ DETERMINED TO WALK UP INTO THE HILLS above Miller’s Dale, Miss Austen, quite alone and with no other object than healthful exercise? Was that entirely wise?”

Mr. Tivey, the blacksmith-cum-surgeon-cum-coroner of Bakewell, threw me a stern look as he posed this question before his empanelled jury of twelve men; but I was not the sort of lady to suffer a diminution of composure on his account.

“As to the wisdom of my course, Mr. Tivey, I cannot say — but it is customary to walk through the dales of Derbyshire while embarked on a pleasure tour of the county. Thousands of ladies, I am sure, have done so before this.”

“Tha’ did not expect, then, to encounter Deceased in the course of thy rambles?”

“If you would enquire whether I mounted the path with Deceased as my object — then no, sir, I did not. The discovery of the maid’s body came as quite a shock.”

“Could Tha’ describe for the jury thy actions upon first perceiving Deceased?”

I looked at the Coroner’s panel assembled on their benches. A stalwart lot — small farmers and landowners by the looks of them, and careful to preserve their countenances free of expression.

“A murder of crows first attracted my interest,” I replied, “and upon attaining the place where the corpse was laid, I perceived that the person was quite dead.”

“How did Deceased lie?”

“At the foot of a crag, some distance upwards along the path.”

“And how did the body appear?”

He offered the question easily enough; but I could not avoid a hesitation — an indrawn breath — a desire to drop my eyes. Thoughts of the most distressing nature would obtrude.

“Miss Austen?”

I lifted my gaze to meet Mr. Tivey’s. “It appeared to be the corpse of a young gentleman, savagely murdered. A lead ball had lodged in the center of the forehead; and the bowels had been quite cut out, as had the person’s tongue. A great welter of blood had stained the corpse’s clothes and the surrounding rocks.”

“Would Tha’ judge the blood to have been freshly-spilt?”

“I cannot say. It appeared quite congealed and dried.”

“Did Tha’ touch the body in anyway?”

“I did not, sir.”

“Did Tha’ observe the marks of a horse, or perhaps of another person, anywhere on the path?”

“I did not, sir.”

“Pray describe for us the condition of the ground.”

“It was quite dry and dusty, as should not be unusual in August; the path was hard-packed, and the grasses withered.”

“So Tha’ should have been unlikely to discern either the marks of Deceased’s passage, or those of any other person in the vicinity?”

“I cannot say. Certainly I did not discern such marks.”

“Did Deceased appear to have discarded any belongings? A trunk or a bundle of some sort?”

“Not that I could discover.”

Mr. Tivey peered at me from under his brows. “Very well. Miss Austen, what did Tha’ next do?”

“I ran back along the path in search of aid. I summoned the gentlemen of my party — Mr. George Hemming of Bakewell, and my cousin Mr. Edward Cooper, who were fishing along the Wye — and urged them to make all possible haste towards the crag, and the unfortunate person lying there.”

“Very well, Miss Austen. Tha’ may retire.”

I rose from the witness chair and made my way back through the assembled throng in the Snake and Hind’s main room. The eyes of the curious roamed over my person; but I was accustomed to impertinence — it could not be avoided in the course of an Inquest. I was no longer an anonymous pleasure-seeker bent upon a summer of idleness; I was a local Sensation. I found a seat at the rear of the room, and prepared to observe all that ensued.