Wilson sent an appraising glance round the occupants of the big room
at the Guild House, which the Church, in the person of the Vicar,
had presently resigned to the State, in the person of Dr. Evershed.
It was a good thing, he thought, that the room was a fair size;
for at least half the township seemed to be in attendance, and he
had even heard rumours of a special country bus service being run
from surrounding villages. Well, the enterprising bus owner would
presumably get his money’s worth, if nobody else did, Wilson thought,
commiserating in his heart the Essex citizens packed in a dusty room
on a hot July afternoon in the expectation of a sensation which he
had done his best to deny them.
In the seats of honour, and probably much more conspicuous than they
desired to be, was a party obviously from the Grange. Sylvia Meston,
who had by this time acquired black clothes, in which she looked no
less effective than she did in white, was in the middle, and beside
her was Godfrey Loring in his rôle of protector. Riotous living had
dealt less kindly with him than with his cousin; at thirty-five the
marks of over-indulgence in food and drink, to say nothing of less
simple pleasures, were plain upon his face, though he was still
strong and athletic in build. He appeared to feel the physical
and moral atmosphere of the courtroom considerably, and every now
and then mopped his face and scowled round. Sylvia, on the other
hand, looked as cool as a cucumber. For the most part she kept her
eyes down; occasionally they swept the room with a look of defiant
amusement.
Beyond Godfrey sat an extremely lean man, with a skin burnt to
mahogany, and brilliant blue eyes under dark overhanging brows. He
looked forty or over, and Wilson stared at him for some time with
a vague feeling of familiarity, before he could remember where he
had seen those features before. Then the front page of the _Daily
Express_, with a streamer headline, suddenly presented itself to his
consciousness, and he nodded with satisfaction. This was Mackenzie,
the Zambesi explorer. “Back again so soon!” Wilson thought. “This
does look like flies to a honeypot.” And he noticed in confirmation
that the burning blue eyes were fixed on Sylvia’s hands. On her other
side sat a man he could not place at all, a florid fellow in tweeds,
with a humorous twist to his mouth and a slightly grizzled head.
Wilson placed him as not quite a gentleman born, but could make no
further conjecture, though the man was clearly not a stranger, for
he smiled and nodded to one or two people in the room, including
Brandreth, who was sitting well back on the right. There were one
or two other nondescripts who might or might not have come from
the Grange, but no one else who interested Wilson. Wallace Burden
was not to be seen. Warden was there, looking very miserable, and
Strake, looking very pleased, besides Wason, and what appeared to be
the entire contents of the tap-rooms of Steeple Tollesbury. Having
completed his survey, Wilson sat back in his corner and devoted his
time of waiting to wondering what the apple-cheeked Mr. Brandreth had
in his mind.
A little stir announced the arrival of the jury, rather pale and
subdued, after their viewing of the body. The proceedings went
exactly as Wilson had hoped. After the evidence of identity, the
laconic Bill and the more loquacious Jarge deposed to the finding of
the body, and Sergeant Linton then proceeded to give purely formal
evidence as to his own proceedings. No questions were put, but as
he retired there was a little stir of disappointment, and one man
emitted a sound which might have been the beginning of a protest.
“If there is any disturbance,” Dr. Evershed said, looking fiercely
down his spectacles, “I shall clear the court. This is not a public
entertainment.” At this threat a funereal silence fell on the
assembly.
Amory Kershaw, M.D., was next called, and Wilson, who had not seen
him before, looked at him with interest. He was a sallow, thin-faced
man of about forty-five, with blue chin, long nervous hands, and
an ill-tempered expression. He was clearly ill at ease as he came
forward, and stood for a second or two licking his lips and staring
round the court--presumably looking for Prendergast. Once he had
started, however, he gave his evidence clearly and impressively
enough.
He had examined the body first on the barge, and had noticed the
broken neck. But he had made no thorough investigation at that stage.
This had been done by himself and his colleague in the mortuary,
where they had observed a contused mark on the back of deceased’s
head, which appeared to offer an explanation of the broken neck.
Deceased had evidently hit his head in falling into the water, death
being thus due, not to drowning, but to the breaking of the neck in
consequence of a fall. Kershaw glanced round, as Wilson thought, a
trifle defiantly, as he made this assertion.
“Are you and your colleague in agreement on this point?” Dr. Evershed
asked.
“We are.”
At this point the inevitable juryman raised his voice to inquire
“whether the doctor thought it was an accident or something wrong
about it.” The coroner passed the question and looked at Kershaw, who
replied that while it was not strictly his business, he would say
that the state of the body was perfectly compatible with death by
misadventure. His colleague was not in court, but was in agreement
with him.
“Any further questions?” asked Dr. Evershed sharply. “Then I declare
the inquest adjourned for a fortnight,” he went on, almost without a
pause. There was a quick buzz of surprise and annoyance, under cover
of which Wilson attempted to make his escape, but was displeased to
find his way blocked by an indignant shopkeeper, who was explaining
to all and sundry that it was too bad a man should be led to leave
his shop all afternoon, and promise Sue Bradley half a crown for
minding it, and then not hear half what he could have heard if he’d
stayed at home. “Disgraceful, I call it,” he said.
“They’re deep ones, the police are,” said a woman. “They didn’t want
to say nothin’ wi’ that thar hussy listening. You mark my words,
there’ll be more to hear and see afore we’re much older.”
At last Wilson succeeded in forcing his way out to the open air; but
at the door, much to his annoyance, he collided with Brandreth, who
greeted him with a cheerful smile.
“Allow me to congratulate you on your stage management,” he said.
“You did that admirably--I suppose it was you? You’ve spoilt
everybody’s afternoon and given them only their own tales to eat.
Where’s the doctor?”
“He had to go over to Colchester,” said Wilson, who did not want
to appear to shake the man off too obviously. “I notice Mr. Burden
didn’t put in an appearance either.”
Brandreth chuckled. “Oh, he’s defaulted. Departed this morning, I
don’t know where. I gather this sort of publicity isn’t exactly what
he courts. Sylvia, I may add, is quite annoyed with him.”
“Oh! Who was that taking his place?” Wilson asked, as he turned off
down the High Street towards the river--“the man sitting next to Mrs.
Meston, I mean.”
“That?” said Brandreth. “Oh, that was Nicholas Hanborough.”