Hemming pulled up in the midst of a dozen equipages; the miller’s waggon ground to a halt behind. Tuesday is market day in Bakewell, and Water Street was at a standstill. The solicitor craned his head over the sheep farmers and lead miners, the quarry workers and tradesmen lounging in the doorways, and cried out, “Mr. Tivey! I want the surgeon, Mr. Tivey!”

All conversation ceased. The tradesmen straightened; the farmers stared. I felt suddenly as though I were condemned to death by exposure. My cousin gave a little sigh of exasperation. And then, with a clang of iron and sparks from the blacksmith’s forge opposite, a broad-shouldered devil of a man set down his hammer.

He was not much above thirty, with powerful forearms and heavy dark brows, a living embodiment of the fabled Vulcan. He wiped blackened palms on his leather apron and studied our faces. “What’s so great a matter, George Hemming, that it warrants a summons on market day? Tha’ knows I’m not my own man of a Tuesday.”

Mr. Hemming jumped down from his gig, and the crowd parted to permit his passage. He spoke in a lowered tone to Michael Tivey, while the men standing nearest did not attempt to conceal their interest. However bent upon discretion Mr. Hemming might be, however, it appeared that Mr. Tivey did not share his inclination. He turned away from the solicitor’s urgent intelligence, and whistled appreciatively, his eyes on the shrouded burden in the miller’s waggon. “If no one claims ’im, ah’ll be wanting the body for study, mind.”

“He will certainly be claimed,” Mr. Hemming said sternly. “This is no itinerant labourer you might anatomise, Tivey. You have a gentleman in your hands.”

“That’s as may be. Tha’d best take him along to the Snake and Hind. Jacob Patter will give me the use of his scullery.”

A murmur of debate and excitement swelled around us. No one present could be in doubt as to the nature of the blacksmith’s direction; the Snake and Hind was a coaching inn at the head of Water Street, and Jacob Patter its proprietor. Mr. Tivey intended the use of the scullery as a resting place for the dead. It was there he would examine the corpse, with the curious of Bakewell struggling for a view through the chinks in the publican’s shutters. We were, I thought drily, rather remote from civilisation in the depths of Derbyshire.

“Damn Tivey and his love of sensation,” Mr. Hemming muttered. He had returned to the gig and now offered his hand. “I might have passed the matter off with credit, but for his indiscretion. Pray forgive me, Miss Austen, for deserting you at such a time. Have you courage enough to attempt the town on foot, or shall I send Mr. Cooper as escort?”

“Mr. Cooper had far better attend you to the Snake and Hind,” I replied. “The offices of a clergyman must be in greater demand there than at The Rutland Arms. I shall be quite all right, I assure you.”

My cousin did not look as though he appreciated my sacrifice.

26 August 1806, cont.

A CRUSH OF THE POPULACE MILLED ABOUT THE STREETS of Bakewell in happy confusion: farm women and domestic servants bustling with purpose and large twig baskets; young boys singing the praises of tin and soap and bristle brushes made of boar. There were cheese sellers and egg sellers and a man who held a pair of squealing piglets high for inspection; and I should have enjoyed the hurly-burly of market day, were it not for the picture of horror that still lingered in my mind. A profusion of odours mingled in the August heat — the sweat of men and of horses, the deep mustiness of sheep’s wool. Roasting sausage and spoiling hay. Bruised peaches. And the smell of butcher’s blood.

It was everywhere in the folds of my light muslin gown and the damp curls of my hair, that warm, sweet, engulfing odour from the heights of Miller’s Dale. I felt a wretched desire to be sick, and steadied myself against a hitching post.

There is a madman loose in the hills. Only this could explain the savagery visited upon the poor fellow lying among the rocks. The attack seemed very nearly inhuman, as though a wild beast had come upon the gentleman unawares, and torn him asunder.

That he was a gentleman, I had no doubt. His clothing was well-made, and near enough in style to my fashionable brothers’ to suggest that he was a person of some means. A traveller such as ourselves, perhaps. An admirer of the beauties of the Peaks. Certainly not an angler, for there had been no sign of abandoned tackle. But what traveller wandered alone through hill and dale, so far from Bakewell, and without an equipage or a mount? And where were his party — the friends who might have put a name to his broken form?

Not a traveller, then. A person long familiar with the Peaks. An excellent walker, who had come from a farm or a nearby estate in the first light of morning and mounted the path above the Wye by slow degrees, lost in heavy thought, until he achieved the heights — and a meeting that had brought his death.

“Jane!”

It was my sister Cassandra’s voice. I turned and espied her in the doorway of the confectioner’s opposite, waving a gloved hand. Her chestnut curls peeked demurely from a lace cap, and the cut of her gown was sober; for the briefest instant I might have been gazing upon the image of my mother, drawn from life a score of years ago. How old we are become, I thought, and waited for the passage of a waggon before traversing the paving stones.

“You must sample one of Mrs. Carver’s puddings,” my sister urged. “Only think — they are called Bakewell puddings, and are peculiar to the region. I have been enjoying mine this quarter-hour, but I am certain Mrs. Carver would not hesitate to bring another for yourself.”

I sank onto a stool in a corner of the close room and placed my head in my hands. “I could not bear the sight of food at present.”

“What has happened?” Cassandra enquired. “I did not look for you in Bakewell until the dinner hour, at least. Are you unwell, Jane?”

Her gentle hand was upon my shoulder. A great weariness had me in its grip, and it was enough to rest there amidst the warm smells of pastry and jam and say nothing. But Cassandra would have an answer.

“Where is my cousin?”

“With the blacksmith.”

“Has Mr. Hemming’s pony thrown a shoe?”

“The blacksmith, Cassandra, is also the surgeon. There has been … an accident.” I raised my head and looked at her; she was all anxiety.

“Mr. Cooper,” she breathed in horror.

“No.” I gripped her wrist in reassurance. “A person quite unknown to us all. A gentleman, rather young, with blond curls and the face of an angel. He had the look of a poet about him — rather as Cowper ought to look, and never could. He was murdered, Cassandra.”

“Murdered! Oh, surely not—”

“It was horrible.” I shuddered with all the force of memory. “A great wound to the temple from a lead ball, and his bowels entirely cut out. His tongue had been severed, and there was a welter of blood about the rocks. I shall never forget the cawing of those crows—”

A stifled scream alerted me to the presence of Mrs. Carver behind her counter, and to the rising tendency of my own conversation. It would not do to cause a fit of public hysterics.