Chapter XII

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.”