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Authors: Bruce Alexander
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the first time I considered Lord Goodhope in some sense as a person and not simply as a dead man. What, I wondered, could lead one in such fortunate circumstances to do such positive and final harm to his person? Thus puzzling, I joined the others.
“Mind the chair on your right,” said Sir John, chuckling to himself as we set off down the hall. “It seems to cause difficulty to some.”
We arrived at the door to the sitting room. The butler, Potter, was nowhere to be seen, and so Sir John directed Mr. Bailey to knock. “But softlv, man.” he added, “softly. please.”
Lady Goodhope appeared in response. “You have finished?” she asked.
“We have, m’ladv. The room was given a thorough inspection, as was the fatal wound to Lord Goodhope. He died, as you yourself must have surmised, by pistol shot. It went directly into the brain. Death would have been instantaneous, and as nearly as can be judged in such matters, without pain.”
“I see.”
“No note of explanation was immediately seen, though one ma\ turn up. I thought it improper under the circumstances to go rummaging through his desk. If one should be found. I must ask that you communicate its contents to me. Barring that, I would sincerely advise you to look to Lord Goodhope’s accounts. Have them examined by someone you can trust. I can provide a name, if you wish.”
“Yes, thank you, but what are you saying, Sir John?” She seemed honestly not to understand.
“Why, that Lord Goodhope’s wound was self-inflicted, that he died a suicide. And I assure you that in most such cases the root cause for such drastic action is some financial problem.”
“May I assure you of one thing?” She seemed absolutely calm, completely in control of herself.
“Of course. What is it?”
“My husband—my late husband, that is—would never have committed suicide, no matter what his problems.” Her words were pronounced with intimidating certainty.
“But,” objected Sir John, “the door was bolted. You saw what effort your men had to put in breaking it down. There is no other door. All the windows were locked. The weapon with which he dispatched himself was there at his feet. How could it be anything but suicide?”
“I don’t dispute your findings, but I reject your conclusion.”
“Then you theorize murder?”
“I have no theories,” she said simply. “As I told you, I was in that room only briefly. I doubt that I shall enter it again. But I simply know that he would not have destroyed himself.”
For the first time since I had met him. Sir John Fielding was speechless. He sputtered a bit. There was a “Why…” and a “Well … ,” neither of which led to any proper end. His hands made uncertain movements.
Lady Goodhope, who had conducted their interview in the doorway of the sitting room, then inclined her head slightly and took a step back. “Thank you for coming. Sir John. I’m grateful for your efforts. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I wish to be alone. Goodbye.” Saying that, she turned and shut the door.
Sir John continued to sputter. He fumed. One could very nearly see steam rising from beneath his periwig.
As if by magic. Potter then appeared, handed Sir John his tricorn, and opened the double door wide for us. There was the hint of a smile on his face. Mr. Bailey and I exchanged looks, something between apprehension and confusion passed between us.
It was not until we were out on the walk before the waiting carriage that Sir John finally found words; and when they came, they came in a torrent. Without cursing them, he called down God’s judgment on all womankind. He remarked in particular upon their baseless certainty, their refusal to face cold facts, the indifference of educated women to simple logic, et cetera. And he ended with a verbal flourish that I myself have since had occasion to quote: “If God had truly meant women to be our helpmates, as scripture informs us, then He should have provided them with brains
“Mind the chair on your right,” said Sir John, chuckling to himself as we set off down the hall. “It seems to cause difficulty to some.”
We arrived at the door to the sitting room. The butler, Potter, was nowhere to be seen, and so Sir John directed Mr. Bailey to knock. “But softlv, man.” he added, “softly. please.”
Lady Goodhope appeared in response. “You have finished?” she asked.
“We have, m’ladv. The room was given a thorough inspection, as was the fatal wound to Lord Goodhope. He died, as you yourself must have surmised, by pistol shot. It went directly into the brain. Death would have been instantaneous, and as nearly as can be judged in such matters, without pain.”
“I see.”
“No note of explanation was immediately seen, though one ma\ turn up. I thought it improper under the circumstances to go rummaging through his desk. If one should be found. I must ask that you communicate its contents to me. Barring that, I would sincerely advise you to look to Lord Goodhope’s accounts. Have them examined by someone you can trust. I can provide a name, if you wish.”
“Yes, thank you, but what are you saying, Sir John?” She seemed honestly not to understand.
“Why, that Lord Goodhope’s wound was self-inflicted, that he died a suicide. And I assure you that in most such cases the root cause for such drastic action is some financial problem.”
“May I assure you of one thing?” She seemed absolutely calm, completely in control of herself.
“Of course. What is it?”
“My husband—my late husband, that is—would never have committed suicide, no matter what his problems.” Her words were pronounced with intimidating certainty.
“But,” objected Sir John, “the door was bolted. You saw what effort your men had to put in breaking it down. There is no other door. All the windows were locked. The weapon with which he dispatched himself was there at his feet. How could it be anything but suicide?”
“I don’t dispute your findings, but I reject your conclusion.”
“Then you theorize murder?”
“I have no theories,” she said simply. “As I told you, I was in that room only briefly. I doubt that I shall enter it again. But I simply know that he would not have destroyed himself.”
For the first time since I had met him. Sir John Fielding was speechless. He sputtered a bit. There was a “Why…” and a “Well … ,” neither of which led to any proper end. His hands made uncertain movements.
Lady Goodhope, who had conducted their interview in the doorway of the sitting room, then inclined her head slightly and took a step back. “Thank you for coming. Sir John. I’m grateful for your efforts. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I wish to be alone. Goodbye.” Saying that, she turned and shut the door.
Sir John continued to sputter. He fumed. One could very nearly see steam rising from beneath his periwig.
As if by magic. Potter then appeared, handed Sir John his tricorn, and opened the double door wide for us. There was the hint of a smile on his face. Mr. Bailey and I exchanged looks, something between apprehension and confusion passed between us.
It was not until we were out on the walk before the waiting carriage that Sir John finally found words; and when they came, they came in a torrent. Without cursing them, he called down God’s judgment on all womankind. He remarked in particular upon their baseless certainty, their refusal to face cold facts, the indifference of educated women to simple logic, et cetera. And he ended with a verbal flourish that I myself have since had occasion to quote: “If God had truly meant women to be our helpmates, as scripture informs us, then He should have provided them with brains
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