The coroner from Ludlow arrived shortly before ten the following morning, riding in a ponderous, antiquated traveling carriage with peeling gilt paint, drawn by a pair of badly mismatched bays.
“His name is Magnus Fowler,” said Archie, peering out one of the Blue Boar’s front windows as a wizened, bandy-legged figure in an old-fashioned frock coat and powdered wig descended the coach’s steps and batted away the hand of the footman who offered to assist him. “They say he was mayor of Ludlow back in the eighties. But he’s been the coroner as long as I can remember. M’father used to say it doesn’t matter whether he’s presiding over the inquest of a dead child or a horribly mutilated corpse; Fowler is always as bored as he is unmoved.”
The coroner paused for a moment beside his carriage while a short, plump clerk, dressed in a worn, shiny black coat and clutching a satchel to his chest, scuttled down the steps behind him. Fowler let his gaze rove over the village green and the half-timbered houses ringing it, his nose twitching with obvious derision. Then he turned to enter the Blue Boar.
By English law, any sudden, violent, or unnatural death required an inquest. Sworn in by the county coroner, a jury of between twelve and twenty-four “good and honest men” was impaneled to view the body of the deceased, hear testimony from relevant witnesses, and present its findings. More legal than medical in form and function, the inquest was a legacy from the days of the Norman Conquest, when the Crown’s main interest had been in taxing any Saxon populations that could be found responsible for the murder of a Norman.
Inquests were always something of a public spectacle, and the Blue Boar’s taproom was crowded that morning with curious villagers as well as the summoned jurors, many of whom had ridden in from as far as Bromfield and Ludlow. Sebastian recognized Jude Lowe and the large, heavily muscled carter they’d seen two nights before with Reuben Dickie. Samuel Atwater was there, escorting both Lady Seaton, who had encountered Emma shortly before her death, and young Charles Bonaparte, who had discovered the body; both would be required to give testimony. Even Major Eugene Weston was in attendance, his hat dangling from one finger against his thigh as he stared down at Emma Chance’s beautiful, pale young face.
Because one of the most important duties of the jury was to view the corpse, Emma’s body lay on a board table in the middle of the room, her flesh waxen and just beginning to show signs of turning a mottled purple and black. Sebastian was both surprised and relieved to see that Higginbottom had had the decency to drape her with a cloth covering so that only her head, shoulders, and arms were exposed. It was not uncommon for victims at inquests to be displayed naked for all the curious to gawk at.
Magnus Fowler entered the taproom with a flourish, his sharp, bony features bland with disinterest as he glanced at the draped corpse laid out in the center of the room. “I assume this is the deceased?” he snapped to no one in particular.
“One of them,” said Archie, stepping forward. “We thought it best to leave the other body in the parlor for now.”
Fowler raised one bushy gray eyebrow. “We? And who, pray tell, are ‘we’?”
A hint of color showed high on Archie’s cheekbones. “I’m the justice of the peace, Archibald R—”
“I know who you are,” said Fowler with a dismissive wave of one hand. “Heard your father was dead. Pity.” He sniffed in a way that indicated his expression of sympathy was not directed at Archie. “I’ve a game of whist scheduled for two this afternoon and I’ve no intention of being late for it. Let’s get this business under way.” He turned to Webster Nash. “You still constable?”
Nash drew himself up as stiff and proudly officious as a sergeant at a trooping of the colors. “I am, yer honor. Constable Nash, yer honor.”
“Thank goodness someone around here knows what he’s doing,” muttered Fowler. “How many jurors?”
“Fifteen, yer honor. There were—”
“Fifteen will do,” said Fowler, going to fling himself into the somewhat battered armchair positioned behind a small table set up especially for him. “Well, let’s get started, man. What are you waiting for? And you—” He skewed around in his chair to glare at Martin McBroom. “Bring me some ale and be quick about it.”
The air filled with men’s coughing and the scraping of benches as the fifteen jurors and the assembled witnesses took their seats, while the onlookers pushed and shoved to gain the best viewing positions behind them.