“What is it?” said James.
“We’ll soon find out,” said Dr Gadney.
Seventeen
The Coroner ignored the crowded press bench and the even more crowded public benches and addressed himself directly to the five men and four women in the jury box. He said: “Before we begin, I would like to emphasise one point. This is not a trial. It is an inquiry. You have been called here, primarily, to answer one question: How did Raymond Pawle, Archdeacon of this Cathedral, come by his death? Of course, there may be supplementary questions. For instance, if you found that his death was the result of an accident, you might wish to add a rider on the question of negligence. Such verdicts can be useful in preventing further accidents. On the other hand—” the Coroner was speaking more slowly now, as though he was approaching the heart of the matter “—if you think that the evidence indicates the possibility of the unlawful taking of life, it will be your duty to say so. But bear this in mind: you are under no obligation to go any further. It is unnecessary for you to name the person or persons you feel to have been responsible. In almost every case it is preferable, in my view, for you to return an open verdict. This leaves the question of guilt to be decided by the proper tribunal. That is to say, by a court of law. I hope that is understood. Very well, I will now outline the story for you.”
The Coroner rearranged his papers into an orderly pile. Dr McHarg, who was sitting at the back of the court, reflected what a salutary change of the law it had been to insist that coroners should have legal as well as medical qualifications. He remembered old Dr Maxwell, thirty years before, who had bumbled his way into a number of quite implausible situations.
“Archdeacon Pawle died just before a quarter to four on Saturday, September 28, in the vestry of this Cathedral. Two doctors were present at the moment when he died: Dr Hamish McHarg, his own medical man, and a Dr James Scotland, who happened to be in the Cathedral when the Archdeacon was taken ill and went to his assistance. Both of them will be giving evidence to you tomorrow. A post-mortem examination was held at the South Wessex Hospital. It was conducted by Dr Brian Barkworth, the resident pathologist. You will be hearing from him also, but I will tell you now that his first diagnosis, based both on the state of the deceased’s lungs and on the fact that there had already been an outbreak in the docks area, was that the Archdeacon had died of virus influenza, and certain precautions were taken to prevent the spread of what can be a very serious epidemic.”
At this point the Coroner reached the end of one page of his notes. As he turned the page, he seemed to his hearers to be moving to a new chapter.
“At the post-mortem, as a routine precaution, certain organs were removed and sent to the Home Office Research Establishment at Aldermaston. The matter was not considered to be one of great urgency and it was not until the following Monday, October 7, that the Chief Constable received their report. It was written by the director, Dr William Gadney, who considered it to be of such importance that he sent it by hand to the Chief Constable. I have asked Dr Gadney to make himself available to answer questions on his report. He has agreed to do so.”
“If he doesn’t tell us soon what was in that bloody report,” said Amanda to Penny, who was squashed in beside her, “I shall burst.” The expression on the faces around her suggested that she was not alone in this feeling.
“However,” continued the Coroner smoothly, “in order to justify the actions which the police felt obliged to take, and to set the evidence of the other witnesses into a proper context, I will read you the relevant passages. If you find some of the technical expressions confusing, I will gladly leave it to Dr Gadney to explain them to you tomorrow. Very well. He says, ‘Sections of the liver and kidneys were macerated, extracted with chloroform and analysed by thin-layer chromatography. This demonstrated the presence in them of a substantial quantity of nicotine.’”
Nicotine? A communal sigh, like the passage of wind among trees, passed through the crowded room.
“’In order to measure the nicotine, the liver extracts were then subjected to ultraviolet spectrophotometry. This gave an amount, in the liver, of five milligrams. A calculation based on this would suggest a total intake of at least sixty milligrams, which would be consistent with a fatal dose.’”
Nicotine. Chemists’ shops. Gardeners’ shops. It began to add up.
“The police placed an inquiry with the Poisons Unit at New Cross. They wished to find out how long it would take for a dose of this size to cause death. I understand that the head of the unit, Dr Daniel Leigh, may also be available to give evidence tomorrow if required. For the moment, I will summarise his answers. He said that in the case of a non-smoker, like the Archdeacon, the time might be as short as forty-five minutes. In other cases, as long as an hour and a half. If an average time was required, it could safely be taken as an hour, or perhaps an hour and a quarter.”
Died at three forty-five. Subtract seventy-five minutes. Everyone was doing the sums.
“It has, of course, been established that on that particular Saturday the Archdeacon, along with a great number of other people, was partaking of a buffet luncheon prior to the annual service and meeting of the Friends of the Cathedral. This suggested two further lines of inquiry: first, of people who were present at that luncheon; secondly, of persons who might be purveyors of nicotine in one form or another. These are the witnesses who will be called, and I ask you to listen very carefully to what they have to tell you.”
An unnecessary instruction, thought Bill Williams, easing his writing arm and flipping over a page in his notebook. They had started late and it was a quarter to twelve already. He hoped the old boy had civilized ideas about lunch intervals.
The first witness was Grant Adey. In answer to questions from the Coroner, he agreed that he was chairman of the Melchester Borough Council, that he was a member of the committee of the Friends of the Cathedral and that he had been present at the luncheon on the day in question.
“You will understand,” said the Coroner, “that we are concerned to find out what the Archdeacon ate or drank in the period immediately prior to his death. Could you tell us who was at this function and how things were organised?”
“It’s not too easy to say exactly who was there. It was very hot. The side curtains of the marquee were rolled up and a lot of people preferred to stand about outside.”
“You were expected to serve yourselves, then?”
“Right. It was a sort of upmarket bun fight.”
Amanda snorted and this made Penny giggle.
“Could you tell us about the food and drink?”
“It was laid out on tables at one end of the marquee. There was a very nice cold soup. You grabbed a bowl and helped yourself out of one of the tureens. Then there were sandwiches and pies and cold meat and things like that. And trifles and jellies to follow. Most people piled stuff up on a plate, and some of them, as I said, moved out onto the lawn with it. Actually, I managed to find a chair near one of the tables. I’m a bit too old to enjoy eating standing up with a plate in one hand and a glass in the other.”
“It requires considerable dexterity,” agreed the Coroner. “What was there to drink?”
“Wine cup and cider cup and some orange squash too, I think. They were in jugs. You helped yourself.”
“Did you happen to observe what the Archdeacon ate and drank?”
“Not really. He was up at the far end, near the coffee table.”
“When you say the far end—”
“I mean the end near the house. There was a covered way leading, I imagine, to the Deanery kitchen. That was the way fresh supplies came out from time to time.”
“And you didn’t, yourself, speak to the Archdeacon?”
“No. He seemed to be talking to one or other of the Cathedral clergy most of the time, I think. One of them was a Vicar Choral. A young man. I don’t know his name.”
The Coroner looked at his list and said, “I fancy that must be the Reverend Openshaw. We
shall be hearing from him next.”
When Adey stepped down, he was replaced by Anthony Openshaw, who agreed that he had spent much of the luncheon in conversation with the Archdeacon. He said, “You see, I’ve been put in temporary charge of the Theological College. When Canon Lister died, it came under the jurisdiction of the Archdeacon. So we had a lot to discuss.”
“I quite understand,” said the Coroner. He thought that the young clergyman looked worried and upset. More worried than was justified by having to answer a few routine questions. He wondered if he had, perhaps, been one of the few people who had been genuinely fond of the Archdeacon. He said, “Then you will be able to tell us what he ate and drank?”
“Certainly. He had some soup. He helped himself to that. And I brought him a plate of sandwiches. They were rather good sandwiches. We each ate a number of them. Then, I remember, I was silly enough to put the plate down on one of the low tables behind me and that was the last we saw of them.”
“You mean someone else took them?”
“Not someone. It was Bouncer. These were liver-sausage sandwiches and apparently he’s very partial to them. He scoffed the lot.”
“Bouncer is, I imagine, a dog?”
“My dog,” said Lady Fallingford, who was seated near the front.
The Coroner looked at her over his glasses, recognised her and said, “I hope he suffered no ill-effects?”
“Sick in a flower bed. Greedy little beast.”
“But no permanent ill-effects?”
“Right as rain by teatime.”
“In that case,” said the Coroner, who seemed unworried by the informal nature of this evidence, “I think we can acquit the sandwiches.” He returned to Openshaw. “Which of the drinks did the Archdeacon take? Wine cup, or cider cup, or orange squash?”
“It would have been against his principles to take anything alcoholic immediately before divine service. I fetched a jug of orange squash and we both drank some of it while we were talking.”
“Where did the glasses come from?”
“There were a number of empty glasses on the table. The Archdeacon secured two of them and I filled them. I also poured some out for two of the students who were standing near us.”
“And that was all that the Archdeacon had to eat or drink?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“He didn’t have any of the other meats, or the trifles or jellies?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Nothing else?”
“Well, I imagine he had a cup of coffee. We all did. But I’d moved away by then.”
“Yes,” said the Coroner thoughtfully. “Yes, we shall be coming to the coffee. That is all you can tell us from your own observation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I might—” said a small round man who was seated between Mr and Mrs Fairbrass in the front row.
“Yes, Mr Meiklejohn. You represent the family, I take it.”
“I have that honour, sir. Might I ask the witness a few questions?”
The Coroner nodded. The matter was in his discretion. Unlike some coroners, he believed in letting everyone have their say, within reasonable limits.
“I just wanted to be clear about the sandwiches. I take it you handed the plate to the Archdeacon and he selected the ones he wanted?”
Openshaw looked surprised. He said, “You mean, did I pick the sandwiches off the plate in my own fingers and give them to him? Of course I didn’t.”
“I thought it unlikely,” said Mr Meiklejohn smoothly. “I just wanted to be certain. And he himself selected the glasses from which you both drank? I think you said it was orange squash.”
“Yes.”
Mr Meiklejohn said, “Thank you,” and sat down.
Arthur Driffield replaced Openshaw and was duly sworn. He said, “I arrived early because I wanted to have a word with the Archdeacon about certain questions of Close politics that my paper was interested in. Perhaps I should explain about that—”
“I think we had better stick to the luncheon for the moment.”
“If you wish. Well, I found it difficult to get near the Archdeacon. At first he had a crowd of students round him and then he was talking to Openshaw. I wasn’t able to speak to him myself until nearly the end of the meal.”
“But you were in a position to observe him?”
“Certainly.”
“I will read over to you the last witness account of what the Archdeacon ate and drank. Do you substantiate what he told us?”
“Yes.”
“And that is really all you can tell us?”
“About the lunch party, yes. But I can give you a good deal of information about the unfortunate dispute which had arisen between the Archdeacon and—well—certain other members of the Chapter.”
The Coroner considered this, in silence, for a long ten seconds. Then he said, “Unless this evidence is directly connected with the Archdeacon’s death, I would not want to trouble the jury with it.”
When Driffield had volunteered to give evidence, it had been in order to expatiate on this aspect of the matter, as a basis for the article which he was already drafting for the next day’s edition of his paper.
But directly connected?
It was a difficult question.
In the end he said, rather sulkily, “I don’t know that you could say that it was directly connected.”
“Well, then. Oh! Mr Meiklejohn has a question for you.”
“You told us, Mr Driffield, that you arrived early at this luncheon. About what time would that have been?”
“A little before one o’clock, I suppose.”
“And since you had your eye on the Archdeacon, you would have been able to see if he had anything to eat or drink.”
“I told you. He had some soup and a few sandwiches.”
“Yes. But nothing before that?”
“No. He was talking to people, not eating.”
Mr Meiklejohn looked at the Coroner and said, “In view of the medical evidence about time limits, I thought it well to establish—”
“Your point is taken. Mrs Henn-Christie, please.”
“Poor old cluck,” said Penny. “If anyone says a rough word to her, she’ll burst into tears.”
Fortunately, the Coroner knew Mrs Henn-Christie and was able to calm her with a few formal and harmless preliminary questions. Then he said, “I believe you were talking to Dean Forrest while coffee was being served at the end of the meal.”
“I—yes—that’s right. Yes. I was near the coffee table, but I had my back to it.”
“And did you or the Dean take coffee?”
“I did. He doesn’t drink coffee, I believe. Not usually.”
“Who handed you your coffee?”
“Do you know, when that policeman was asking me questions, I told him I couldn’t remember, but, thinking it over afterward, I do recollect that it was our organist, Mr Wren.”
“Thank you. Who else was handing round cups? Can you remember?”
“I think—yes—there were two of the boys. Andrew and David. I’m afraid I don’t know their other names. And Mr Brookes, our Chapter Clerk, and Masters. He’s the junior verger. There may have been others. It isn’t easy to remember things like that.”
“I think you’ve done very well to remember all those,” said the Coroner. “You told us that when you were talking to the Dean, you had your back to the serving table, so you wouldn’t have been able to see what was going on there. However, the Dean was facing it and he ought to be able to help us. And there seems to have been a number of other people engaged in serving coffee or handing it round. But, as far as I can see, the only one who has been asked to give evidence—” he cast an eye down at his list “—is Mrs Consett.” The look which he directed at Superintendent Bracher clearly involved a question.
The Superintendent rose and said, speaking carefully, “We have met with some difficulty there, sir. A number of people have proved reluctant to answer our questi
ons.”
The Coroner thought about it. Police investigations into a crime were not his province. If some action was necessary, it was better left to the proper authorities. He said, “Well, let us see what Mrs Consett can tell us.”
Julia was clearly unhappy. The police had got hold of her before the Dean’s interdict had gone out, and she was trying to remember exactly what she had said.
“Stick to facts and avoid fancies,” her husband had advised her. Excellent advice in theory, no doubt.
She said, “There were three of us serving coffee. It was made in a very large brand new coffee machine which had been installed in the Deanery kitchen. I believe there had been some complaints last year about the quality of the coffee. Supplies of it were brought out in a big jug by Miss Pilcher and poured into smaller jugs, which we used to fill the cups.”
“When you say ‘we’, Mrs Consett?”
“There were three of us. Myself, Mrs Brookes and Miss Forrest.”
“Since they are not to give evidence, it might be helpful to the jury if you identified them for us.”
“Certainly. Mrs Brookes is the wife of our Chapter Clerk, Henry Brookes. Miss Amanda Forrest is the daughter of the Dean.”
There was a noticeable turning of heads to the place where Amanda was sitting and a murmur of comment, like a very soft background note of music. The Coroner looked up. When the room was silent again, he said, “So the coffee was distributed into three jugs.”
“Four, actually. There was a spare one which Rosa – that is, Miss Pilcher – used.”
“Don’t bother about too much formality,” said the Coroner kindly. “If it helps you to call these people by their Christian names, please do so. We’ll soon pick up who was who. So there were four of you filling up cups. Now what about handers-out?”
“There were quite a lot of them. I remember Paul Wren, our organist, and Henry Brookes. And two of the choristers, Andrew and David, were particularly helpful. But some people just came up to the table and helped themselves, and they may have passed cups to other people. It was all pretty confused.”
“I quite understand,” said the Coroner. He seemed to be drawing a plan on the paper in front of him and blocking in names around it. He added, almost as though it was an afterthought: “Did you happen to notice who handed the coffee to the Archdeacon?”
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