court was to establish the identity of the deceased.
‘Mr Brinkburn, please,’ the coroner said.
Miles glanced at the grey-haired man and got a nod from him, as if his orders mattered more than the coroner’s. He got to his feet steadily enough and walked to the front of the court.
‘Mr Brinkburn, have you viewed the body of the deceased?’ the coroner said.
Miles nodded.
‘Answer yes or no, please.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you able to identify him?’
‘Handy. Simon Handy.’
‘In what capacity was Mr Handy known to you?’
Miles swallowed, glanced towards the grey-haired man and away again.
‘He was a family servant.’
‘At what address?’
‘Brinkburn Hall, in Buckinghamshire.’
‘How long had he been employed there?’
‘Only for a few months, but before that he’d been my father’s servant for twenty years or more. Then my father didn’t need him any more, so…’
His voice trailed away. The coroner may have been aware why Lord Brinkburn was no longer in a position to employ servants, because he didn’t press the point.
‘How recently before his decease had you seen him?’
‘Back…back sometime in the spring, I think. The last time I was home anyway.’
‘Were you present when his body was discovered?’
Another nod. Another reminder that the question must be answered in words.
‘Yes. Yes, I was.’
It took the coroner some time to get an account of what had happened in Pratt’s workroom out of Miles Brinkburn. It added nothing to what I knew from being there.
‘Do you know of any reason why Mr Handy should have been inside the crate?’ the coroner said.
‘No, of course not. I’d told Whiteley to have the armour packed up and sent to Pratt’s. Handy shouldn’t have had anything to do with it.’
‘Whiteley being?’
‘Our steward.’
After a few more questions the coroner thanked him and asked the jurors if they had any questions. They hadn’t, so Miles was allowed to stand down. He walked back to his seat, blowing out his cheeks with relief, said something to the grey-haired man as he sat down and got a brief nod in reply.
The next witness was the intelligent policeman. He described how he’d been called to Pratt’s premises and what he’d found there, without adding anything to what I knew already. Then it was the turn of a doctor employed by the police to give evidence on the cause of death. Translated into layman’s terms for the benefit of the jury, Handy had died from being struck several times on the back of the head by a heavy object. The injuries to the skull had been such that death must have been almost instantaneous. The doctor’s opinion was that he’d almost certainly been dead before he was put into the crate. There was a perceptible feeling of relief in the court. The coroner asked the doctor if he’d been able to establish when Handy had died.
‘Not with any degree of certainty. I examined the corpse the day before yesterday, soon after it was brought to the mortuary. By that point, rigor mortis had entirely passed off. From the state of the internal organs, it’s likely that the deceased had been dead for something between twenty-four and forty-eight hours.’
The coroner made a note, writing slowly.
‘You said that death would have been almost instantaneous?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘In your opinion, is there any possibility that the deceased might have climbed inside the crate after receiving the blows to the head?’
The doctor hesitated.
‘In my opinion, it is extremely unlikely. The brain is a peculiar organ. There are cases on record of people performing actions which seem to imply some form of consciousness after receiving what subsequently prove to have been fatal blows.’
‘So it can’t be ruled out entirely?’
‘Not entirely, although I repeat it would be very unlikely. For one thing, head injuries of that nature bleed profusely. The crate and its contents would have become so suffused with blood that anybody attempting to move it would have noticed.’
The coroner sat forward.
‘So you are saying that the bleeding must have taken place elsewhere, before the deceased was put into the crate?’
‘In my opinion, yes.’
The doctor was followed by the steward from Brinkburn Hall, Wilberforce Whiteley. He was a middle-aged man who seemed to be made up of circles, like a child’s drawing; a rounded figure, neat little paunch bulging out of his waistcoat, round head with sleek brown hair combed carefully over the bald patch, slightly protuberant brown eyes that reminded me of a guinea-pig’s. He held himself stiffly upright, showing his nervousness by blinking often and quickly. The coroner asked him how long he’d been employed as a steward by the family.
‘Twenty-six years, sir.’
He spoke with a country accent.
‘Were you well acquainted with the deceased?’
‘He joined us quite recently, sir. Before that, I only saw him when his lordship came to visit us.’
‘And how often was that?’
‘Once a year, sir.’
The coroner raised his eyebrows. I noticed that Mr Whiteley glanced towards the grey-haired man after answering.
‘Are you able to tell the court anything of the way in which he met his death?’
‘No, sir. I didn’t even know he was dead until we got word from London.’
‘Had he not been missed from his employment?’
‘The housekeeper told me he hadn’t been seen all day Monday and Tuesday morning, but that wasn’t entirely out of the way with Handy.’
His tone of voice made it clear that he hadn’t thought highly of the man.
‘He was accustomed to absent himself from his employment?’
‘From time to time, yes, sir.’
The coroner made another note.
‘Is it a fact that you were instructed to pack up a suit of armour and
