‘Aye, there was, your worship. There was an object lying under the body. It’s that there object in the black bag before you, your worship. We carried the body up to the church, and woke up the vicar, then I went to tell you and you told me to search the neighbourhood for any strangers or news of anyone behaving suspiciously, and that I did. That night I didn’t find anyone, but the next day I came across this traveller in the inn and he said he’d been out for a walk and had seen something odd. So I brought him to see you, Sir James.’
‘Thank you, Dare. You may stand down and call the next witness.’
The local doctor came to the stand and explained in lengthy and gruesome detail that the deceased had been killed by one bullet to the heart and showed no other signs of injury.
Tamsyn found she was watching the proceedings, slow and rustic and ponderous, as though they were a rather bad play. She ought to feel something, fear, or curiosity at least, but all she felt was numb.
Beside her Cris whispered, ‘Now we come to the interesting witness.’
A thin man with a very ordinary, instantly forgettable face, took the oath and stood clutching his hat and staring stolidly at the coroner. He had brown hair pulled back in an old-fashioned queue, brown eyes, a brown suit of decent, but plain clothes.
‘State your name and occupation and business in this parish.’
‘Paul Goode, solicitor’s clerk of Gray’s Inn Road, London.’ Tamsyn felt a sudden prickle of interest. The accent was southern, the man a total stranger. ‘I was sent by my employer, Mr Ebenezer Howard, on a business enquiry, which took me further down the coast from here. I was making my way back and stayed overnight at this inn, your worship. I’d been hoping to get to Barnstaple, but the roads defeated my old horse, so I rested us both up.’
‘Tell us what you might that will throw light on this business, Mr Goode.’
‘I went for a walk after my supper, sir. I wasn’t sleepy. It was a nice moonlit night and the seaside is a novelty for a city man like myself. I wasn’t sure where to go, but I saw a man walking down the track that I discovered later led to the beach and I followed, assuming if he was going down it, it must head somewhere. I got a stone in my shoe, so I sat down on the bank and took it off and someone else passed me. I followed along, rather cautiously, sir, because I thought maybe I would be interrupting a tryst and that would be a bit embarrassing.’
‘A tryst?’ Sir James looked at him over his spectacles and Tamsyn thought he was tense now, like a weasel about to leap on its prey. ‘An odd word to choose, Mr Goode, for a possible meeting between two men. You may stand down, but do not leave the room.’
‘Why doesn’t he hear all the man’s evidence?’ Tamsyn whispered to Cris.
‘No idea. He’s stage-managing the whole performance.’
‘Call Mrs Tamsyn Perowne to the stand.’
Cris rose with her, his hand under her arm until she turned with a smile and shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Once she was no longer waiting it was easier. She took the stand, repeated the oath, folded her hands on the rail in front of her and turned the calmest face she could manage on Sir James.
‘You are Mrs Tamsyn Perowne, widow of Jory Perowne, leader of the Silver Hand gang of smugglers.’
‘I am Jory Perowne’s widow,’ she agreed. ‘But I have never heard his relationship with that gang confirmed in a court of law.’
‘You knew the victim of this murderous attack?’
‘I had met Lieutenant Ritchie on one occasion. He came to Barbary Combe House and introduced himself. A brief conversation on the front lawn was the extent of our encounter. I have not seen him before or after that.’
‘And did he issue a warning to you?’
‘He told us that a gang of smugglers was operating. I took that to be a caution in case they proved violent.’
‘Did you, indeed? A curious construction to put on it, considering your late husband’s business.’ When she merely stood impassive and waited for the next question he snapped, ‘And who is this us you speak of?’
‘Myself, my relative Miss Holt, with whom I live, her companion, Miss Pritchard, our staff and two gentlemen who are our guests. You met them the day before yesterday. Mr Defoe and Mr Stone are sitting in the front row now.’
‘Did your husband wear a charm around his neck?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘A silver hand on a silver chain.’
‘And is it unique?’
She had expected a question about the whereabouts of Jory’s charm, but she answered immediately, knowing that hesitation would only create a bad impression. ‘I owned one also. A replica with an engraved message that was a gift from my husband.’
‘And where is it now?’
‘I have no idea. It appears to have been stolen from the locked chest it was kept in.’