Read The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin for Free Online

his skin, blood and bones. He felt happy. He thought if he had that warmth every night, he would soon be cured of his ills.
    In the chill of the evening the cold was finding him again and he was obliged to rub his hands together for warmth, cursing the innkeeper for his meagre fire. Though he stayed to the side, trying to disappear into the shadows and merely observe, his red hair and jiggling limbs made this almost impossible. Dr Taylor, the coroner, was first to arrive. He had been appointed as coroner only a year before, and Digby wondered how the well-connected Taylor found balancing the needs of the dead with those of the expectant mothers of Mayfair. The man certainly looked tired.
    After Taylor, the members of the jury followed. Most of them didn’t care to speak to Digby, of course; they had their own concerns, and merely glanced at him before looking for someone more useful to converse with. Before long the air in the room seemed thick with self-importance. The tone of their voices rankled with him, and he could feel his good mood slipping away.
    Henry Maynard, the foreman of the jury, was one of the last in, and the first to acknowledge the watchman. He had the relaxed demeanour of a man past fifty who had nothing to prove to his fellow men. Digby liked him: Maynard was a real gentleman; unobtrusive, not flashily rigged up, and always free with his coins.
    ‘My good man,’ Maynard said, by way of a salute. Digby managed a smile, although it didn’t quite reach his pale eyes.
    ‘What’s your business here today?’ said Maynard.
    ‘It was me who found him,’ said Digby, nodding to his right, where they were bringing the body in. He said it in the same voice he always used: emotionless. But he felt cheerful about his find. He was the talk of the watch. Long would Watkin regret staying in and reading poetry.
    ‘You did?’ said Maynard. ‘I thought perhaps you were an old acquaintance of his. You were a silversmith once, were you not?’
    A deep one, that Maynard, thought Digby. He remembered everything, even the things you didn’t want him to.
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That is, apprenticed to one. But life don’t always take you the line you want to go, does it?’ In a brave attempt to change the subject, he again directed his gaze towards the bearers of the coffin. ‘I didn’t know him to speak to. Knew
of
him, of course.’
    ‘Yes, yes.’ Maynard nodded thoughtfully as though what Digby had to say was of special interest. ‘A strange character, Monsieur Renard. Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, of course, but I have a feeling half of the people here have come to be sure they’ve seen the last of him.’ He smiled, and went to greet Dr Taylor, who, as coroner, was to preside over the meeting and report back to the magistrate, who was probably at home and on his second bottle of port by now.
    Digby noticed that Dr Taylor’s face was as green as unripe fruit. It wasn’t difficult to see how uncomfortable he was; and certainly not for someone like Digby, who liked watching people. Despite Taylor’s attempt to present a stoic expression, Digby’s sharp eyes noted the sickly distress on his face as the coffin scraped on to the table, wood on wood. He saw him take his handkerchief out to wipe his forehead and then hold it, clenched tight in his fist.
    Digby decided he wasn’t going to waste pity on Taylor, not after their disagreement the night before. The man was too puffed up for his own good. Digby had been proud of himself: it wasn’t as if Renard and Taylor were his own people, for they did not live on Berkeley Square. Yet he had remembered that they were connected, for he had often seen them coming home arm-in-arm in the hours of darkness, clearly having spent the night roistering – usually Renard was shouting about cards or women. Remembering their fellowship, Digby had called another member of the watch and told him to fetch Taylor, and the doctor had thanked him for it. Yet when other