Theft of Life by Imogen Robertson Page A

whispered. ‘Will you come tomorrow after you have seen Mr Hinckley as usual?’
    ‘You know I shall.’
    She shook her head. ‘I wish I could persuade you to come to church instead.’
    ‘I am in the shop six days a week; the last I divide between Mr Hinckley and yourself. I am certain God approves of my plan.’
    She tried not to smile back at him, but patted the sleeve of his coat and he felt his skin glow there with her touch.
    Francis tucked the manuscript under his arm, bowed to Mrs Service and returned to the shop. The boy was reading and the girl was playing through various sheets of music on the little clavichord. As far as Francis could judge, she was doing so with taste and accuracy. Walter was making her laugh. Francis put the manuscript on the pile of other such documents in his office and returned to his work.

I.7
    T HE BODY WAS REMOVED to a cramped outhouse before Crowther was allowed to start his examination. The gentlemen of the cloth knew enough of dissection to realise the work would leave unpleasant traces. They formed a little funeral procession for the executed planter. One of the vergers took the lead, a lantern in his hand and clutching a bundle of moulded candles which had been made to light the Cathedral itself, scurrying ahead to fill the shabby little building to the side of the Chapter House with light. The corpse of Mr Trimnell, shrouded in fresh white linen from the household store, rested on a plank, carried by two of the servants. Crowther came behind them carrying a leather case which Harriet knew contained the scalpels and saws, scissors and tweezers, all neatly packed in velvet, which he used for his work. He must have collected it from his own house in Grosvenor Street on the way to St Paul’s. Harriet followed him, walking slowly at the coroner’s side like a mourner.
    The body was set down on a long oak dining table too ancient and crooked for the clergy to eat off and now used – it seemed by the tools and wood-shavings around the place – as a work-bench. The candles and lantern were placed at Crowther’s direction and the servants left to fetch water and spare linens. The coroner, a Mr Bartholomew, remained in the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking out half the light, and shifted his weight from side to side. Feeling in the way, he made the decision to leave and turned away, but Crowther called him back.
    ‘One moment, Mr Bartholomew,’ he said, carefully folding the linen back from the body and setting it aside. Harriet watched as the man was uncovered once more. Someone had folded his hands across his chest, and the ropes William had mentioned around his wrists had been removed. Mr Trimnell looked like a divine who had died peacefully in his bed, dreaming of salvation. The skin showing round the open neck of his shift was livid. Harriet knew enough now about the process of death to know this was probably the result of the blood beginning to settle in his tissues as he lay prone in the churchyard. There was no obvious sign of violence.
    Crowther bent over the corpse and sniffed, then looked up at Bartholomew. ‘The body has been washed,’ he said.
    Mr Bartholomew looked down at the earth floor. ‘Ah.’
    Crowther felt the fabric of the shift between his hands. ‘And I very much doubt this is his shift. It seems to have been plucked from the washing line an hour ago.’ He turned to Mrs Westerman. ‘Madam, if I am unfortunate enough to suffer a violent death, will you kindly make certain the clergy of St Paul’s do not conspire to destroy all the evidence before some competent individual appears to examine it?’
    ‘I shall, Crowther,’ she said sweetly.
    ‘I apologise, Mr Crowther,’ Bartholomew said. ‘The ignorance of the population in general has made my work difficult on many occasions. I understand you are to publish a book?’ Crowther nodded. ‘I am glad. It will be of great use to me and men like me. We are mostly lawyers, you know, and the medical