Read Online The Queene’s Christmas by Karen Harper - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Karen Harper
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other possibility.”
“Granted,” he began, “some of the physical evidence at the scene of death could be attributed to a suicide. Hodge could have half undressed himself, for his breeches, doublet, and shoes were found under his worktable. The coroner informed me that, for some reason, suicides sometimes take off their shoes, and Hodge was barefooted.”
“On the other hand,” the queen put in, “his disrobing could mean he was getting ready for his new livery and therefore expected to live.”
“After all,” Ned said as if rushing to her aid, “Her Majesty’s interview with Master Stout tips the scales toward suicide.”
“I’d like to believe that, too,” the queen said, “but you are not, Ned, writing the script for the meeting as if it were some play.”
Ned frowned and shifted in his seat as Cecil went on. “Also, the man could have climbed on that stool and slipped the knotted noose around his own neck, having donned the skinned coat of the peacock and having stuck those tail feathers carefully under his armpits. However, to be fair, before I proceed, let’s listen to someone who came upon the death scene before I did.
“Jenks?” Cecil said, turning his way. “Anything to add at this point before I list the evidence to suggest we are dealing not with suicide but with assault and murder?”
“I found it hard to believe,” Jenks said, “that when that noose—made of twisted twine, more or less a thin but strong rope really, was the same sort he used to truss up birds or boars for roasting—now, what was I going to say? Oh, that I find it hard to credit, if Hodge hanged himself, that he didn’t flail around in choking to death and ruin the way those feathers stuck out, spaced just so,” he concluded with gestures.
“Another good point,” the queen said. “If he didn’t struggle, he must have wanted his own death—and to be arrayed like that.”
“Or if someone hanged him,” Cecil countered, “the culprit held his hands in place or rearranged those feathers after the final struggle. Neither I nor the coroner saw ligature marks on his wrists or arms to suggest someone had him tied while he died, then removed such ties. But wait—here is the report I had the coroner write out and sign, and it is most compelling.”
The queen noted that everyone seemed to take in a deep breath and go as still as a statue. All turned toward Cecil.
“I won’t read you all the petty details and the Latin medical phrases,” he said, “but to put it briefly, Hodge was knocked hard enough on the head to fracture his skull. The four-inch-by-eight-inch wound on the top back of his pate,” he went on, pointing at his own head, “was no doubt received before he either stepped up on that stool—or was lifted up to be hanged from a rope attached to the pulley chains.”
“He hardly took a hit like that,” Jenks said, “by bumping into one of those hanging kettles, however big some are. They all hang high.”
“And,” Meg added, “it’s not likely he got a knock on the top back of his head accidentally falling. Not and then climbed up there, like he was out of his head, for such a blow would make him dizzy at least, stun or knock him out at worst. If someone hit him, someone must have helped him up on that stool.”
“Agreed,” Harry put in, as if coming to life at last “It’s highly doubtful that the man would hit himself to make it look like an attack. If it’s not a crime of passion, it sounds like a crime of planning.”
“I fear so,” Cecil said. “He was probably hit by the man who left a boot print in the spilled cumin grit on the floor—his murderer, who helped him look as if he might have hanged himself.”
The queen listened with a heavy heart; yes, it must be a murder, one she could hardly ignore. Literally from up his sleeve, Cecil produced a second paper and unfolded it to show the sketch of the boot print she had requested.
“To size as well as shape?” she asked,
“Granted,” he began, “some of the physical evidence at the scene of death could be attributed to a suicide. Hodge could have half undressed himself, for his breeches, doublet, and shoes were found under his worktable. The coroner informed me that, for some reason, suicides sometimes take off their shoes, and Hodge was barefooted.”
“On the other hand,” the queen put in, “his disrobing could mean he was getting ready for his new livery and therefore expected to live.”
“After all,” Ned said as if rushing to her aid, “Her Majesty’s interview with Master Stout tips the scales toward suicide.”
“I’d like to believe that, too,” the queen said, “but you are not, Ned, writing the script for the meeting as if it were some play.”
Ned frowned and shifted in his seat as Cecil went on. “Also, the man could have climbed on that stool and slipped the knotted noose around his own neck, having donned the skinned coat of the peacock and having stuck those tail feathers carefully under his armpits. However, to be fair, before I proceed, let’s listen to someone who came upon the death scene before I did.
“Jenks?” Cecil said, turning his way. “Anything to add at this point before I list the evidence to suggest we are dealing not with suicide but with assault and murder?”
“I found it hard to believe,” Jenks said, “that when that noose—made of twisted twine, more or less a thin but strong rope really, was the same sort he used to truss up birds or boars for roasting—now, what was I going to say? Oh, that I find it hard to credit, if Hodge hanged himself, that he didn’t flail around in choking to death and ruin the way those feathers stuck out, spaced just so,” he concluded with gestures.
“Another good point,” the queen said. “If he didn’t struggle, he must have wanted his own death—and to be arrayed like that.”
“Or if someone hanged him,” Cecil countered, “the culprit held his hands in place or rearranged those feathers after the final struggle. Neither I nor the coroner saw ligature marks on his wrists or arms to suggest someone had him tied while he died, then removed such ties. But wait—here is the report I had the coroner write out and sign, and it is most compelling.”
The queen noted that everyone seemed to take in a deep breath and go as still as a statue. All turned toward Cecil.
“I won’t read you all the petty details and the Latin medical phrases,” he said, “but to put it briefly, Hodge was knocked hard enough on the head to fracture his skull. The four-inch-by-eight-inch wound on the top back of his pate,” he went on, pointing at his own head, “was no doubt received before he either stepped up on that stool—or was lifted up to be hanged from a rope attached to the pulley chains.”
“He hardly took a hit like that,” Jenks said, “by bumping into one of those hanging kettles, however big some are. They all hang high.”
“And,” Meg added, “it’s not likely he got a knock on the top back of his head accidentally falling. Not and then climbed up there, like he was out of his head, for such a blow would make him dizzy at least, stun or knock him out at worst. If someone hit him, someone must have helped him up on that stool.”
“Agreed,” Harry put in, as if coming to life at last “It’s highly doubtful that the man would hit himself to make it look like an attack. If it’s not a crime of passion, it sounds like a crime of planning.”
“I fear so,” Cecil said. “He was probably hit by the man who left a boot print in the spilled cumin grit on the floor—his murderer, who helped him look as if he might have hanged himself.”
The queen listened with a heavy heart; yes, it must be a murder, one she could hardly ignore. Literally from up his sleeve, Cecil produced a second paper and unfolded it to show the sketch of the boot print she had requested.
“To size as well as shape?” she asked,
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