Free A Dark Anatomy by Robin Blake

Wouldn’t let any other person attend her, not me, not Jerome.’
    The dressmaker leaned forward and lowered his voice almost to a whisper.
    â€˜She said it was on account of her husband, that he wouldn’t allow a male hand to touch her or take measurements, or a male eye to see such things being done to her. Only Abby, she said, could do it.’

    â€˜I suppose that is a natural, ladylike coyness.’
    â€˜Up to a certain point, it is. And there’s no doubt my girl is a very good seamstress. Also it is her regular job to assist in fitting ladies who do not bring their personal maids with them for the purpose, and Mrs Brockletower did always come alone. But I was not even allowed into the room to see the first fitting, think of that. I mean my upstairs room, which is for private consultations, fittings and the like. Mrs Brockletower always saw Abby there, behind a shut door. She really believed it was indelicate, even a form of nakedness, to parade in front of a man in an unfinished, pinned-together dress. Well, of course, it’s absurd. But she was adamant.’
    â€˜How often did Mrs Brockletower call at the shop?’
    â€˜She ordered many dresses, many. One every month or two, I should say. Perhaps eight or nine in the year. But she was fussy and the work required laborious consultation, and several visits for fitting each one. I offered that we would go out to her at Garlick Hall, but she wouldn’t have it. She came to us , that was the rule.’
    â€˜So Mrs Brockletower spent the time of her visit last Saturday with Abigail?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜How old is the girl? I forget.’
    â€˜Eighteen.’
    â€˜Old enough to give evidence, then. Is she here?’
    He shook his head.
    â€˜I sent her yesterday with a gown for fitting to a lady in Garstang. She will be home this evening.’
    â€˜Did they see each other alone?’
    â€˜Always, when she came here.’
    â€˜And did Abby ever say anything about Mrs Brockletower to you or her sisters? What she said … what humour she was in.’
    â€˜No, she was as close as one of your legal deed-boxes.’
    Ned’s information was going to require some further thought, and a conversation with Abigail as soon as possible. I remembered my question that morning to Polly Milroy: in whom did Mrs Brockletower confide? Perhaps now I had the answer. Perhaps she confided in her dressmaker, Abby Talboys.
    I returned my hat to my head and prepared to go on my way.
    â€˜So what did you yourself make of Dolores Brockletower?’ I asked as a parting shot. ‘In a general way, I mean?’
    â€˜I am a dressmaker, Titus, and I have four daughters. Is there any man in this town better acquainted with what a woman wants? But I’ll tell you the truth – I could never add that one up. A woman’s a woman across the world, is what I say, but she was a mystery.’

Chapter Six
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    T HE TURK’S HEAD coffee house, which was then kept by Noah Plumtree, stands off Church Gate, a couple of minutes’ walk from my home. That night it was middling full. At one table two men played chess, while a huddled group around another were enjoying a theological argument. As I passed them I thought I heard the phrases ‘seven sleepers’ and ‘my fundament! ’, which brought a thought of Timothy Shipkin and his Heptamerian certainties.
    Fidelis had not yet come in and I wondered if he was still operating on Mr Norris, using procedures whose details I could only, and then reluctantly, surmise. I asked for a jug of negus, a couple of pipes, a pen and paper and a copy of the Preston Journal . Then I found an empty cubicle around whose table we would be able to talk privately.
    I took the pen and made a list of possible jurors for the inquest – freeholders, copyholders and leaseholders from Garlick and Yolland and the area around the Fulwood. I would need to summon the jury