back.
While most of the attention was on them, two men walked in and sat down on the end of my row, with eight chairs between us.
The elder one looked to be in his early fifties and had an air of distinction that set him apart from anybody else in the
room. He was slim and upright, with a firm profile, iron-grey hair and clean-shaven face. His black jacket and trousers were
finely tailored, his shoes crafted by a master boot-maker to flatter long and narrow feet. The younger man was Miles Brinkburn.
He too was carefully dressed in black, but in contrast to his companion he looked uncertain and ill at ease, all his vitality
and confidence gone. The coroner told the jury that the first business of the 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
While most of the attention was on them, two men walked in and sat down on the end of my row, with eight chairs between us.
The elder one looked to be in his early fifties and had an air of distinction that set him apart from anybody else in the
room. He was slim and upright, with a firm profile, iron-grey hair and clean-shaven face. His black jacket and trousers were
finely tailored, his shoes crafted by a master boot-maker to flatter long and narrow feet. The younger man was Miles Brinkburn.
He too was carefully dressed in black, but in contrast to his companion he looked uncertain and ill at ease, all his vitality
and confidence gone. The coroner told the jury that the first business of the 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
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