Джорджетт Хейер - Detection Unlimited

Hemingway, scanning the audience, made no reply. Half Bellingham might be present, but Thornden was scantily represented. Neither the Ainstables nor the Lindales had apparently thought it worth while to attend the inquest; and of Gavin Plenmeller there was no sign. Major and Mrs. Midgeholme were seated beside Mr. Drybeck; and Mr. Haswell had found a place not far from them. Possibly he had come to hear his son give evidence.

Charles, who was suffering from a strong sense of ill-usage, had brought Mavis, Abby, and Miss Patterdale from Thornden, in his dashing sports car. So incensed was he with Abby for electing to accompany Mavis on her shopping expedition on the previous afternoon, rather than to have run down to the coast with him, as had been (he insisted) arranged, that he had invited Miss Patterdale to occupy the front seat in his car, and had even gone so far as to say that he didn't know why Abby wanted to attend the inquest at all. But Mavis, who (he savagely whispered to Miss Patterdale) had got herself up to look like a French widow, said gently that she had asked Abby to go with her, so there was nothing more to be said about that. Abby had then made a very rude grimace at him, an unendearing gesture which had had the extraordinary effect upon him of confirming him in his resolve to marry her, even if he had to drag her to the altar to do it.

When he shepherded his party into the court-room, those who had come into Bellingham on the omnibus were already ensconced in front-row seats. Besides Mr. Drybeck and the Midgeholmes, these included Mr. Biggleswade, and the late Mr. Warrenby's cook-general, a sharp-eyed damsel with tow-coloured hair cut in the style adopted by her favourite film-star. Gladys, a good cook and a hard worker, was known to be a Treasure, but she was also one of those who believed in sticking up for her rights. Not even her late employer had ever been permitted to encroach on these; and since he was well aware of the difficulty of getting servants to live in quiet villages, and set a high value on Gladys's culinary skill, he had been content, after one attempt to subjugate her, to rate Mavis for being unable to manage the household better. Gladys considered it to be her unquestionable right to attend the inquest; and when Mavis had shown reluctance to grant her leave off in the middle of the morning, she had spoken so ominously about the Unsettled state of her feelings ever since Mr. Warrenby's death, that Mavis had hastily retracted her first refusal. An attempt on her part to convince Gladys that nice girls did not wish to attend sensational inquests failed entirely.

“Well, it's only natural, isn't it?” had said Gladys.

“I don't think it is, Gladys. I'd give anything not to have to go.”

“You'll enjoy it all right once you get there, miss,” had replied Gladys, briskly stacking the breakfast-china in a cupboard.”

“'Tisn't as though Mr. Warrenby was any loss.”

“He is a great loss to me,” had said Mavis, in a repressive tone.

“Well, it's quite proper you should say that, miss,” had been the paralysing response. “It wouldn't hardly be decent not to, being as he's left you all his money. But I know what I know, and many's the time I've wondered why ever you put up with him and his nasty, bullying ways.”

It was hardly surprising, after this, that Mavis had retreated from the kitchen, leaving her henchwoman mistress of the field.

The Deputy Coroner was a chubby little man with white hair, pink cheeks, and a general air of cosiness. It was plain to Inspector Harbottle, resigning himself, that he would conduct the inquest at unnecessary length, and entirely to his own satisfaction.

From the point of view of the audience, as Hemingway said in his assistant's ear, Mavis Warrenby was the biggest draw. Whether she was conscious of the stir her appearance created it was impossible to guess, for she conducted herself just as a heroine should, bravely, modestly, and with enough sensibility to win not only the sympathy of the mob, but also that of the Coroner, who handled her with the greatest tenderness, assuring her several times that he appreciated how painful it must be for her to be obliged to give her evidence.

She was followed by young Mr. Haswell, who had been so much revolted by a performance which he freely described, in a whisper, to Abby, as ham, that when the Coroner, by way of putting things on the friendly footing he apparently desired, repeated his remark about the painful aspect of having to describe what he had seen in the garden of Fox House, he replied with the utmost cordiality: “Oh, no, not a bit, sir! I don't mind!”

He then told the court, with admirable brevity, just how he had found the dead man, and what his own actions had been. Chief Inspector Hemingway provided everyone with a mild thrill by rising to his feet and putting a question to him.

“When you went into the study, to use the telephone, did you touch anything on the desk?”

“No, only the telephone,” Charles replied. “I took care not to. There was a mess of papers and things all over it.”

“Did you see anything to make you think someone might have looked for anything on, or in, the desk?”

“No,” Charles said unhesitatingly. “When I said, a mess, I meant only the sort of muddle of papers you'd expect, if a man had been working there. It looked to me, from the way the chair had been pushed back, and the fountain-pen left lying on the blotter, as though Mr. Warrenby had left the room rather suddenly, and meant to return.”

“Now, what do you mean by that?” asked the Coroner chattily.

Charles glanced at him. “Well—just that, sir. It was a blazing hot day, and that room had had the sun on it for hours. It was pretty hot still when I was in it. I thought, from what I've told you, and from the fact that Mr. Warrenby was wearing morocco slippers, and had a clip of papers at his feet, that he'd strolled out for a breath of air. That's all.”

The Chief Inspector sat down, and the Coroner told Charles that he might leave the box. Dr. Warcop was summoned to take his place.

The Chief Inspector leaned across his assistant to speak to Sergeant Carsethorn. “Who's the blonde sitting three seats from the end of the row behind us, next to a fat girl in blue?”

The Sergeant turned his head, and was able to identify the blonde as Gladys Mitcham, cook-general at Fox House. Hemingway nodded, and sat back. Inspector Harbottle asked softly: “What is it, Chief?”

“Something young Haswell said made her sit up. Looked as though, for two pins, she'd have chipped in,” replied Hemingway briefly.

“Are you going to ask for an adjournment?”

“Soon as the doctors have had their innings. The police surgeon won't keep us long: he's all right. This old dodderer will hold the stage for as long as he's allowed to, from the look of him.”

This prophecy was soon found to have been correct. Dr. Warcop proved to be the worst kind of medical witness, and he seemed to be labouring under the delusion that he was addressing a class of students. Since he had been prevented by an emergency call from one of his more valued patients from assisting at the autopsy, even the Coroner, himself a talkative man, felt that his evidence might have been compressed into a very few sentences. He was extremely pompous, and when asked by the Chief Inspector if he could state the approximate time of the murdered man's death, he explained at great length and with many scientific terms, why it was impossible for him—or, he dared to add, for anyone—to pronounce with certainty on this point. He then perceived that his colleague, Dr. Rotherhope, was gazing abstractedly at the ceiling, a smile of dreamy pleasure on his face, and he said with meaning emphasis that he had had many years of experience, and had learnt the danger of asserting as incontrovertible facts statements which, in his humble opinion, were open to doubt. He was prepared to enlarge on this theme, but was balked by the Chief Inspector, who cut in neatly when he paused to draw breath, said: “Thank you, doctor,” and sat down.