When asked to explain this descent into the vernacular, the good Bends explained that he meant drunk as a wheelbarrow.
“Did you not observe one equipage, at least, to pull up before No. 45, Berkeley Square, and discharge its occupants?” Mr. Whitpeace enquired.
“That’d be his lordship’s residence,” Bends said, with an eye cast shiftily at Castlereagh. “Happen I did see his lordship’s coach at a stand afore No. 45.”
“At what time was this?”
“Nigh on one o’clock, by the bells. They rang out but a notion afore the coach came clattering over the stones and pulled-to.”
“And did you observe anyone to quit the coach?”
“I saw her ladyship step down from the carriage, and a gentleman I took to be his lordship,” Bends said carefully.
“Took to be his lordship? Are you suggesting Lady Castlereagh was accompanied into her house in the small hours of morning by a gentleman not her husband?” Mr. Whitpeace enquired smoothly.
The foreman, Samuel Hays, let out a hoot of laughter; and Lord Castlereagh half-rose from his chair, as tho’ to fling a protest — or perhaps a glove— in the offending blacksmith’s face. A hand from Charles Malverley, however, eased his lordship back into his chair; tho’ I observed his entire form to stiffen with outrage.
“I can tell a lady from a hundred paces,” Bends volunteered affably, “from her way o’ dressing the hair and carrying herself — and Lady Castlereagh is allus so outlandish in her modes, I’d never mistake. Known for it, she is — makes a point of drawing notice to herself. It’s her way o’ cutting a dash, I reckon.”
If Castlereagh was not already purple with indignation, I should be greatly surprised; for it is true that Emily, Lady Castlereagh, is known for her outré habits and eccentricities of dress; but as she is perhaps the foremost political hostess of our day, much is forgiven her. The quiet propriety and elegance that characterise her husband’s habit are not for Lady Castlereagh; she prefers to shock.
“Let us say that you observed a gentleman we may presume to be Lord Castlereagh enter his lordship’s abode in company with his lady,” Mr. Whitpeace said evenly, “at a little after one o’clock in the morning. And did you observe anyone to quit the Castlereagh residence later during your rounds?”
“I cannot say as I did.”
“Did you observe a second equipage to pull up before No. 45, Berkeley Square, at any later hour?”
“I did not,” Bends said quaveringly, “and how that pore lady came to be a-laying there at the foot of his lordship’s steps, with her throat cut and her great dark eyes beseeching of the heavens—”
“Joshua Bends!” the coroner said with great decision, “If you cannot confine your remarks to the questions put, I shall not allow you to offer testimony! Pray tell us what else you observed during the course of your rounds, in the interval between the Castlereaghs’ arrival home, and your discovery of Deceased.”
In a series of verbal perambulations, the aged charley related how he had discouraged a woman of the streets from plying her trade on the corner of Charles Street; how he had watched Mr. St. John Westbrook weave his inebriated course from Lord Sutherland’s private card party to his lodgings in the Albany; how he had walked round the square at three o’clock by St. George’s bells, and heard what he took to be a pair of lovers in extremis in a closed carriage, pulled up in the mews behind No. 43; and how, having taken a catnap between the hours of three and four, he set out after the sounding of the church bells with his lantern raised, to call out the weather and the o’clock, among the shuttered houses of Berkeley Square.
“What direction did you then take?” Mr. Whitpeace enquired.
“Towards Covent Garden — me meaning to nip over for a can of ale and a bit of bread and cheese, like, as is my custom, afore the breaking of the day. A man can get a bite and sup in Covent Garden all night long, if he’s so inclined, what with the carts coming in from the country and the folk setting up for market day. I allus have my bread and cheese after St. George’s tolls four o’clock, I do, me being bred up in the country and used to them hours.”
Joshua Bends stared defiantly in the direction of the magistrate, as tho’ he expected a reprimand from Sir Nathaniel; but the fact of a charley’s playing truant in search of sustenance was as nothing to the grosser crimes with which such men are usually charged — everything from the taking of bribes, to the abetting of thieves and the corruption of young women. Sir Nathaniel made no sign he had noted a dereliction of duty.
“You walked to Covent Garden at four of the clock,” Mr. Whitpeace observed, “and cannot have been returned to the square much before five.”
“Heard the tolling of the bells, I did,” Bends retorted triumphantly, “and went about my rounds to call the weather.”
“In what direction?”
“Clockwise, Yer Worship. Walked right round the square, I did, on the pavings that runs alongside they great houses. And there she were lying, like a heap of old clothes.”
A murmur of unease ran through the room, and Lord Castlereagh shifted in his chair.
“Where, exactly, did Deceased lie?” Mr. Whitpeace asked.
“Across the paving, slantwise, in front of No. 45,” Bends replied. “His lordship’s house.”
“Was Deceased lying on her face, or on her back?”
“Her back. I went to her, o’ course, and felt for her life — but as soon as I knelt down beside her I knew it was no use. The blood was that thick on the ground—”
“Was it liquid?” Mr. Whitpeace demanded. “Or congealed?”
Bends stared, uncomprehending.
“Was it thick upon your hands,” the coroner amplified, “or akin to water? Speak, man.”
“Her neck was wet, but not so wet as to be like water.” The charley glanced about the publick room, as tho’ in search of aid.
“She had not, then, died in the last few seconds.”
Bends shrugged.
“Did you observe any sort of weapon near the Princess?”
“No-o,” Bends said falteringly, “but for the piece of china.”
Thomas Whitpeace leaned towards the charley avidly. “What sort of china?”
“It looked like the lid of a dish. Or maybe a lady’s box,” Bends offered, “such as she might keep treasures in. About the size of a loaf of bread, it was. I’ve never seen the like afore, except in the windows of they shops on Jermyn Street. Very fine, with gilt edging and all manner of birds painted on top.”
“Where did you find this … lid?”
“Smashed on the ground beside the lady.”
“Smashed? How, then, did you know it for a lid?”
“It was broken in three great pieces, and when the Runner come, he fitted ’em together and showed me what it was. One of the pieces had blood along the edge.”
I glanced at Henry. His countenance was very pale: imagining the scene, as I had done, of the Princess Tscholikova standing in the night, and dragging the jagged edge of porcelain across her luminous white neck. A lady’s box, such as she might keep treasures in. The emerald brooch, gryphon and eagle, rose before my mind’s eye.
“There was no sign of jewels scattered about the pavement?” the coroner demanded sternly.
“Yer Honour!” Bends cried. “As God is my witness—”
Count Kronsky rose smoothly from his place. “Prince Pirov would assure the coroner that his sister’s jewels are in his possession.”
“Very well,” Mr. Whitpeace said. “What did you then, Joshua Bends?”
“Set up a hollerin’ fit to bust.”
“And the result?”
“The lights went up in No. 45. Fair deal o’ candles they must’ve lit — sparing no expence even for the serving folk. That’s a gentleman’s household, that is.”