Traitors Gate - Anne Perry [37]
“And Sir Arthur remained in his usual spirits the whole time?” the coroner asked with a tiny frown.
“Yes sir, far as I could tell.”
“Indeed. And what time did you serve the last brandy, do you recall?”
“’alf past six, sir.”
“You are very precise.”
“Yes sir. On account of a gentleman that asked me to call ’im to remind ’im of a dinner engagement ’e ‘ad, so I knew ezzact.”
There was no sound in the room.
“And the next time you saw Sir Arthur?”
“Well, I passed by ’im a few times, on me other errands like, but I took no notice ’cause ’e looked like ’e were asleep. O’ course I wish now I’d a’ done summink….” He looked wretched, eyes downcast, face flushed.
“You are not responsible,” the coroner said gently, the bonhomie gone from his expression. “Even had you known he was unwell and called a doctor, by the time anyone arrived there was probably little he could have done to save him.”
This time there was a stirring in the room. Beside Pitt, Matthew shifted in his seat.
The steward looked at the coroner with a lift of hope.
“’e were one of the nicest gentlemen,” he said dolefully.
“I’m sure.” The coroner was noncommittal. “What time was it when you spoke to Sir Arthur, Mr. Guyler, and realized that he was dead?”
Guyler drew a deep breath. “Well first I passed him an’ thought ’e were asleep, like I said. Gentlemen who ‘as drunk a lot o’ brandy of an afternoon does fall asleep sometimes, an’ is quite ‘ard to rouse.”
“I’m sure. What time, Mr. Guyler?”
“About ’alf past seven. I thought as if ’e wanted dinner it were time I booked a place for ’im.”
“And what did you do?”
For a quarter of an hour no one in the court had moved or made any but the slightest of noises, merely a squeak of benches as the weight altered, or a creak and rustle of skirts from one of the two or three women present. Now there was a slow sighing of breath.
“I spoke to ’im, and ’e didn’t answer,” Guyler replied, staring straight ahead, painfully conscious of all eyes upon him. The court official at the table was taking rapid notes of everything he said. “So I spoke again, louder. ’e still didn’t move, and I realized …” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked very nervous as the memory of death became sharper to him. He was frightened of it. It was something he chose never to think of in the normal course of things.
The coroner waited patiently. He had watched emotions like Guyler’s chase across thousands of faces.
Pitt watched with a continuing sense of remoteness. Grief boiled up inside him; grief, a sudden overwhelming isolation as if he had been cut adrift from a safety he had been familiar with all his life. It was Arthur Desmond they were discussing so dispassionately. It was ridiculous to feel that they should have cared, should have spoken in hushed or tearful voices as if they understood the love, and yet he did feel it, even while his mind knew the absurdity.
He did not dare look at Matthew. He wanted to be done, to walk as quickly as he could, with the clear wind in his face, and the rain. The elements would keep him company as people could not.
But he must remain. Both duty and compassion required it.
“In the end I shook ’im.” Guyler lifted his chin. “Just gentle like. ’e looked a terrible color, and I couldn’t ’ear ’im at all. Gentlemen who is fallen asleep after the brandy very often breathe ‘ard and deep….”
“You mean they snore?”
“Well—yes sir.”
There was a titter of laughter somewhere on the public benches, immediately suppressed.
“Why doesn’t he get to what matters?” Matthew said fiercely beside Pitt.
“He will do,” Pitt answered in a whisper.
“It was then I knew something was wrong,” Guyler went on. He stared around the courtroom,