Jane and the Canterbury Tale

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Excessively wise of Edward, was it not?

“I cannot say that I agree with Mr. Knight’s decision to disclose what we have discovered in the past hour, before I have empanelled my jury,” Dr. Bredloe continued, with a beetling of his brow, “but my opinion is neither here nor there—Mr. Knight stands before us as First Magistrate for Canterbury. He assures me that you are familiar with the procedures of an inquest, and have in fact appeared before a Coroner’s Panel yourself in the past?”

“On more than one occasion, I confess.” I dropped my eyes demurely to my folded hands; it cannot be becoming to betray too intimate a knowledge of murder.

“Excellent. Then I would beg that you examine the items laid out on the Pembroke table, just over there.”

With a glance of enquiry for Edward, I rose and crossed to the table, where a motley assembly of effects was displayed.

These included a blood-stained leather wallet, much worn, and a quantity of banknotes—what my young nephews should call a “roll of soft.” It was a remarkably large roll of soft, indeed, such as should open Edward’s and George’s eyes—and that it had been allowed to remain in Curzon Fiske’s possession once his life was snuffed out, confirmed my suspicions that no mere footpad had despatched the dubious pilgrim.

Set beside this was a square of paper, with the words St. Lawrence Church writ upon it in black ink that had bled and faded from the damp; worse still, the paper itself was turned rusty red in places from what I felt sure was Fiske’s blood. He had been shot, after all, in the chest—and this note must have been secured within his coat. Some other markings there were on the paper—a figure that might have been the hour of an appointed meeting, or perhaps the initials of Fiske’s correspondent—but these were so obscured by the crimson stains as to be unintelligible. It was the final item, however—which sat innocently enough on the Pembroke table—that caused my breath to catch in my throat. I lifted it delicately between my thumb and forefinger: a single, dark brown bean. It had the texture of wood and the lightness of a thrush’s feather.

“Edward,” I said. “Do you recognise this?”

“Not well enough to name the thing—but I may say that it appears to be similar to the beans secured in the silken pouch, received by Adelaide MacCallister last night at the ball,” he returned calmly.

“Eh?” Dr. Bredloe enquired. “What’s that you say?”

Edward offered a succinct account of the wedding celebrations at Chilham Castle, the appearance of the footman, and the curious gift he had offered the bride.

“And you observed that the pouch’s contents discomposed her?” Dr. Bredloe asked keenly.

“I thought her close to swooning,” I admitted.

“—As tho’ she knew what the offering foretold,” the coroner suggested. “The return of an unwanted husband from the dead. Aye, it’s a nasty business altogether—a bride turned bigamist on her wedding day; a brave young officer foresworn through no dishonourable intent of his own; and a man murdered, to set all to rights.”

“We cannot surmise so much, until we have spoken to the parties concerned,” I protested, and held aloft the bean. “Where exactly was this discovered, sir?”

“In the depths of Curzon Fiske’s breast pocket,” Dr. Bredloe replied. “It was tucked into that piece of paper you may observe on the table.”

—The bloodied paper, with the words St. Lawrence Church penned upon it. Death had made an assignation with Curzon Fiske, and sent the bean as surety.

It was possible that Fiske himself had delivered the silken pouch to the door of Chilham Castle. A common enough fellow, the footman had described him; and so, indeed, Fiske had appeared in his deceptive pilgrim’s clothes. Were the beans a talisman between Adelaide MacCallister and the man who had abandoned her? —A message she had interpreted immediately upon opening the embroidered pouch, and spilling out its contents? Had Fiske waited in the Castle’s shadows until all the wedding guests departed, and received as reward a folded missive, with a few words scrawled hurriedly upon it, and a bean returned as a token of faith?

One would have to compare the writing on the note to Adelaide MacCallister’s hand—or perhaps, I thought more feverishly still, her new husband’s.…

I apprehended that Dr. Bredloe was still speaking.

“… a plant common to the Subcontinent and its surrounding regions, extending even as far as China, I believe, of which the fruit offers both medicinal and dietary advantages.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The tamarind,” he said testily. “That is a tamarind seed, Miss Austen—the tree’s fruit, which is quite large and bitter in its unripe stages, contains numerous seeds of that kind. Natives of India use the tamarind in sauces and chutneys. The seeds, when dried, may serve as counters in children’s games, or for more mature forms of gambling.”

“Gambling.” I considered the proclivities of Curzon Fiske. “Might this seed be considered in the nature of a warning—and its acceptance from the bearer, an assumption of risk?”

Dr. Bredloe smiled. “How the ladies do rush to invention! I should never undertake to conjecture the meaning of the tamarind seed; it may be enough to say that like the unfortunate Mr. Fiske, it travelled from India to England.”

“And thus connoted the Exotic’s return,” Edward mused. “I collect that you are familiar with that part of the world, Bredloe?”

“Through the realm of literature only,” the doctor answered wistfully. “I should dearly love to see a tiger, however, before I die—and an elephant! Only conceive of such an animal, like a house moving on four legs! My first passion, Mr. Knight, is natural philosophy—and indeed I hoped to form a part of Sir Joseph Banks’s scientific expedition to Botany Bay in my youth, for the collection of specimens unknown to Europe; but personal affairs intervened, and in the end I never embarked. The expedition sailed without me; and so it has been, ever since.”

“There is still time to wander, surely?” Edward smiled.

“Before I die? I confess I cherish that hope. But so long as present duties call—I must be content with species known to England, for a little while longer.”

“—And all the varied forms of evil to be found among them,” I murmured. “Tell me, Dr. Bredloe, do you know what sort of gun killed Mr. Fiske, and how long he might have lain on the side-path from the Pilgrim’s Way?”

“As to the latter point—” The coroner shrugged. “It was a chill night and a wet one. You observed, no doubt, the stiffening of the corpse. We men of science refer to the phenomenon as rigor mortis —and it has not yet begun to pass off, in Mr. Fiske’s case. In the relative warmth of the scullery, however, we may expect it soon to do so. The wound had ceased to bleed long hours before I examined Mr. Fiske; and if pressed, I should say that life had been extinct some hours. You may attest to the time of the corpse’s discovery?”

Again, the coroner scrutinised me keenly.

“I was walking towards Temple Grove near eleven o’clock when Miss Knight came upon me with the news. I suspect the discovery was made mere moments earlier.”

“Then let us put the murderous event in the vicinity of midnight,” Dr. Bredloe said with satisfaction. “A more exact time must be impossible, solely from the evidence at hand.”

“And the gun?” Edward pressed.

“I could not recover the ball that tore through the fellow’s heart.” The coroner looked all his regret. “It exited by way of his back, and is no doubt lying somewhere on the ground or among the trees hard by St. Lawrence’s.”

“We shall certainly attempt to recover it,” Edward said thoughtfully. “There are men enough about this place to go over the ground with necessary thoroughness.”

“I would beg, sir, that you refrain from employing any of the young gentlemen who formed the shooting- party, or even your beaters, in the task.” Dr. Bredloe bowed to my brother, by way of softening the sting of his words. “It would look exceedingly odd to the empanelled jury—which, as you know, are generally simple fellows enough—if one of those who discovered the Deceased was also so unlucky as to find the ball that killed him. I have known a surfeit of knowledge to hang a man.”

“Would you have it whispered I used my position—my authority in the Law—to shield my sons and their acquaintance?” Edward demanded stiffly.

“Not at all, sir! But neither would I have it said you failed to keep a proper distance, when murder was done