Cyril Hare - Untimely Death aka He Should Have Died Hereafter

“What made him change his mind like that? It seems out of character.”

“I’ve only gossip to go on for this, but I fancy it’s reliable. You may have noticed that Joliffe is not exactly uninterested in money. Well about this time the rumour began to go round that Jack had pretty substantial expectations under the will of some aged Gorman or another. I told you there was supposed to be money in the family somewhere, you may remember.”

“I think I know where. But go on.”

“Joliffe was prepared to forgive a good deal in a son-in-law with expectations, and it was a wonderful chance for Jack, if he could have kept straight. But you might as well have tried to straighten a corkscrew. The job lasted just a year, and at the end of that time old Joliffe had his accounts specially audited. That was the end of Master Jack’s career in the butchery trade. It was the end of his marriage too, to all intents. For when he went, Edna decided to stay with her father, and I for one don’t blame her.”

“She didn’t mean to stay any longer than she had to,” said Pettigrew. “She was going back to her husband as soon as he came into his money.”

“I don’t know where you got that from, sir. But even if it’s true, she might have had to wait a very long time.”

“I got it from two unimpeachable sources-first from the two little girls and then from Mr. Joliffe himself. As for the money, that’s just the irony of it-Jack Gorman came into his inheritance last Sunday.”

“Did he now?” said Mallett. “That seems a remarkably convenient arrangement.”

Next day the weather broke. Pettigrew looked out of his bedroom window on to a wide, watery landscape. The moors that had bounded his view the day before had disappeared in mist, and across the middle distance the rain was being driven in almost horizontal lines by the violent west wind. It was the kind of scene that was part and parcel of his Exmoor memories. Up to that moment there had been something lacking in the evocation of the past, and now he realized what it was. The continued fine weather had been against the order of nature. This was the real thing.

“I shall go for a walk this morning,” he announced at breakfast, and nothing that Eleanor could say could stop him. He ridiculed the idea of catching cold. The wind, though strong, was from the west, and therefore warm. The air was soft and mild. Nobody ever took harm from merely getting wet. In any case he had a perfectly good mackintosh. Exercise was an essential if he was going to have any appetite for lunch. And so on.

What Pettigrew expected to get out of his walk he did not know. What in fact he got, as anybody could have told him he would, was a heavy cold. He disguised the fact as long as was humanly possible, but in the end it had to be accepted. For the second time in a week he was housebound, and this time it could not be suggested that it was anything but his own fault.

What made his position particularly annoying to Pettigrew was that he was unable to fulfil the promise he had made to himself of attending the inquest on Jack Gorman. Mallett therefore went unaccompanied. Although he was far too civil a man to hint such a thing Mallett was distinctly relieved to be alone on this occasion. Purely as an observer, he was genuinely interested in what he instinctively felt to be an unusual case. He had no theories about it, and went with an entirely open mind. The presence of a companion with an altogether fantastic theory would be merely upsetting. Reflecting on Pettigrew’s story, Mallett shook his head sadly as he went out to his garage through the still pouring rain. He had the utmost respect for his old friend, but decidedly he was not the man he once had been.

The inquest was held in the long room behind the Staghunter’s Arms, the room in which, in default of a village hall, most of the local meetings, celebrations and functions took place. It was already nearly full when Mallett arrived. There were a great many familiar faces, including almost all of the local branches of the Gorman clan. Not quite all, however. The widow of the deceased was absent. So was her father. On the other hand, there was present in the front row a stout lady in deep mourning who was unknown to Mallett. From her complacent manner and the air of gracious condescension with which from time to time she addressed the lesser Gormans around and behind her, it was clear that she was, in her own eyes at least, an important personage.

By the time fixed for the opening of the inquest the room was as full as it could hold. The air vibrated with the deep bass of West Country talk. The temperature rose steadily. A quarter of an hour later in a sudden silence the coroner entered and took his seat. He was a stranger to the gathering-almost a foreigner, in fact. It was credibly reported that he lived as far away as the other side of Taunton. That was one offence in the eyes of his audience. His unpunctuality was another. His failure to apologize for it was a third. Fortunately, perhaps, for him, the coroner was unconscious of the waves of disapproval projected at him from the body of the hall. He was a small, spare man with the beak and eye of a farmyard fowl and a fowl’s trick of dipping his head from time to time as though to peck up some grain of information.

A jury was sworn in and the coroner without further preamble observed, “I shall first call evidence of identification. Louisa Gorman, will you come into the box?”

The stout lady in black rose with massive dignity. She contrived to give the air of walking in procession as she covered the short distance to the improvised witness box. It was clear that this was her big moment and that she meant to make the most of it. She gave her address as Tracy Grange, Minster Tracy.

“And have you this morning seen the body of a man and do you identify that body as that of John Richard Gorman?”

“That was him all right.”

The coroner noted her answer, and for an instant it seemed that Louisa’s big moment was going to be over almost before it had began. But then the coroner took a peck at his desk ;fixed her with his beady eye and asked,

“Let me see, madam, what relation were you to the deceased? Were you his sister?”

“Sister? Of course not! Do I look like his sister?” Louisa appealed with a knowing look to her audience of Gormans, and she and they joined together in open derision at the outsider’s ignorance.

“Very well, madam. There is no occasion for incivility. What relation were you?”

“We were cousins, if you want to know.”

“And he lived with you at Minster Tracy?”

“He certainly did not.” Louisa tossed her head in scorn. “I live at the big house at Minster. He lived in a caravan on our land.”

“By himself?”

“That’s right. He’d been on his own since his wife threw him out.”

“You let him put his caravan there?”

“I didn’t-’twasn’t my land. Gilbert did-my brother.”

“And when did you last see the deceased?”

“Who, Jack? That would be Friday afternoon.”

“Last Friday? You have not seen him since?”

Louisa reflected.

“It was two days before Gilbert was took,” she said. “And that was Sunday. Yes, it was Friday I saw him.”

“How came he to see you on that day?”

“He came on his flat feet. He used to have a motor bike, but the hire-purchase took it back.”

“I mean-why did he come to see you?”

“It was my brother Gilbert he came to see, and he came to borrow money. That was all he ever came for. He had some story about being behind with his payments to the Court for that girl’s baby, but it’s my belief he wanted it for a horse to go out with the hounds from Satcherly Way on Saturday. I told him Gilbert was ill, but he would see him. After all, blood’s thicker’n water, and Jack was going to get Tracy when Gilbert died. It’s that makes everything so awkward now.”