“Get me to those two who were talking at the door, Jeremy, if you can.
“Certainly, sir — if I can.” I pushed on through the assembly, solemnly repeating, “Make way, make way, please, for the magistrate.” It was a chant that worked well in London; in Bath, however, its use had a rather unexpected result.
“What do you mean, make way for the magistrate?” came a petulant voice from just beyond. “I’m the magistrate in the City of Bath.”
At that, Sir John let forth a great booming laugh, and all those before us did turn and regard us with great curiosity. “Now, see what you’ve done, lad,” said he, chiding me in sport. “You’ve got me in a jurisdictional dispute with your ‘Make way, make way!’ “
What remained of the crowd melted away ahead of us. I believe Sir John’s laugh intimidated far more than my demand to be let through. At last, none stood between us and the men at the door. One of them stepped forward and looked intently upon us. He was a plump man, red-faced and possessed of an officious manner.
“I would hazard,” said he, “that you are Sir John Fielding.” He, it was, as I suspected, who claimed respect as the Magistrate of Bath: The voice was certainly the same.
“That I am,” said Sir John. He took a fixed position, leaning upon his stick.
“I had heard you were in Bath. Are you on holiday?”
“You might say so. I do, however, have some business with the Widow Paltrow, who lives in this house.” He paused but an instant. “Whom, by the bye, do I have the pleasure of addressing? You have the advantage of me.”
The Magistrate of Bath came forward a step or two and extended his hand, grasping Sir John’s and giving it the requisite squeeze. “Forgive me. The name,” he grunted, “is Thaddeus Bester, and I am, as I said, the magistrate of our little city. As for your business with the Missus Paltrow, I fear you will be unable to complete it, for it is her death is the cause for us to be here.”
“Her death, you say? To what do you attribute it?”
“It’s not me does the attributing. This gentleman with me is Dr. Thomas Diggs, who has just been appointed city coroner by the Corporation.”
“Well, if that be an introduction …,” said Sir John, and thrust his hand forward, exploring the air around him for the medico’s hand; at last, he found it, and the two men muttered their salutations as they did barely touch hands. “Then, tell me, Doctor, to what do you attribute her death?”
“Misadventure, plain and simple.”
“You say that with great assurance. Could you describe the nature of her misadventure? Supply a few details?”
“Of course. First of all, you must keep in mind her age. She was well over seventy — nearer eighty, I would say.”
“Perhaps. Over seventy I’ll grant you, and no more.”
“Had you been earlier to visit her?” asked Dr. Diggs.
“Jeremy and I looked in on her just yesterday.”
“Very well, then you know how steep are the stairs that lead to her door.”
“That I would also grant.”
“Then, of course, it follows, does it not?”
“What follows?” growled Sir John. “Be more specific.”
“She was an old woman,” said the coroner, his voice rising steadily, “and none too sure on her feet. She made a misstep on the stairs, took a tumble, and broke her neck. “
Magistrate Bester nodded in vigorous agreement with his townsman. “It happens just so with such ancient parties as her,” said he. “It’s a sad end for them, but really quite a common one — and not a bad way to go, all in all. Beats some terrible wasting disease, if you ask me.”
“Oh, perhaps, perhaps, “ said Sir John, “but have you considered the possibility that perhaps she did not fall, that indeed she may have been pushed?”
“How could one tell, after all?” queried the coroner.
“Well, you might examine the carpet on the stairs and see if there was a place loose enough to cause such a fall. I recall no such place, but that proves nothing. But was she really so clumsy that she would simply lose her footing on a flight of stairs which she had traveled up and down hundreds of times in the past? Tell me, did either one of you gentlemen know the deceased?”
“Well,” said Mr. Bester, “I can’t say as I had the pleasure.”
Dr. Diggs shook his head, then muttered a simple no.
“Then, it seems,” said Sir John, “that of the four of us, only one is in a position to comment upon the likelihood of Mrs. Paltrow making such a fatal misstep. What would you say, Jeremy? Would the widow have been clumsy to such a degree?”
I thought about it for a moment or two, then answered quite honestly, “No, sir, on the contrary. As I recall, she was quite surefooted. “
Neither the Coroner nor the Magistrate of Bath was eager to accept the word of Sir John’s sixteen-year-old helper as definitive in this matter. That much was evident from the expressions — doubt on the first and anger on the second — which they wore upon their faces. Yet only the second gave voice to his feelings.
“This is all very well, Sir John,” said Mr. Bester, “but what you’re suggesting is murder. . homicide. That sort of thing isn’t done here in Bath. You come out expecting to find the same sort of lawlessness here that you meet every day in London. That just isn’t the way of it. We have lords and ladies, nobles and gentlemen, the very best of society, and these just ain’t the kind to commit murder. Occasionally, we’ll have a duel that ends fatally for one of the two involved, which is against the law, of course, but you can’t call it murder.”
“Nor could I call Margaret Paltrow’s death the result of a duel.” Sir John paused and resumed in a different tone, not in the least aggressive, nor sarcastic. He sounded, for all the world, like the voice of pure reason: “See here, gentlemen, since you are so certain that the poor widow died as the result of a mishap, you should not mind if my helper and I were to view the premises of the widow and perhaps make a cursory inspection of her corpus. I promise to say no more to you of murder.”
The two seemed surprised by the request. They looked at one another and frowned.
“I take it she has not yet been moved? I was told that there are constables guarding the door.”
“No, “ said Mr. Bester, “she’s not been moved. Seeing it’s you, Sir John Fielding, we’ll allow you and your young friend inside. You may look at whatever you like, but you may not remove anything. Her son has claimed the body.”
“I suppose that all her belongings should go to him, too,” said Dr. Diggs.
“Just one more thing,” said Sir John. “When was the body found?”
“This morning, fairly early, about eight o’clock,” said the Magistrate of Bath. “That was her son, as well. Said he’d come by to take his mother to breakfast, but when he found her at the bottom of the stairs, her body was cold to the touch. He came right to me, however, and reported the death. I can find no fault with him there.”
“What time did you arrive, Doctor?”
“About an hour ago. By that time, the rigor of death had already taken hold of her body.”
“So that she would have been dead a good many hours.”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“As long ago as last evening?”
“All right, as long ago as that, perhaps.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Come along, Jeremy. Let’s take a look inside.”
I led the way, with Sir John following, his hand grasping my shoulder. The two constables, who stood one at each side of the double door, gave us sober-faced nods as we approached, though not a word passed from their lips. One did politely bend and pull open the door that we might make entry. It so happened, however, that in the space thus presented to view, the top of the victim’s head was revealed. There was not much to be seen — a cotton dust cap with a few gray curls beneath, nothing more. But the crowd in the street, seeing no more than this, did suddenly stir and begin a general murmur. I informed Sir John of the cause and cautioned him where best to plant his foot so as not to disturb the body. In this way, we made it safely inside. I pulled the street door shut behind us, and we did both breathe a bit easier.