Chairs scraped.
The coroner strode in, somehow lifting the atmosphere simply by looking like a sergeant major in mufti, about to rally the troops. He was tall, big boned, and with so much thick brown hair that he could have donated half to his clerk without missing it.
He sat down.
Chairs scraped again.
The coroner wished us good morning. Someone near the back, imagining herself once more in the schoolroom, echoed his good morning.
The coroner looked in the direction of Mrs Finch and her supporters.
‘I extend my condolences to Mrs Finch and family of the deceased. Mrs Finch identified her husband as Joseph Finch, age forty-six. My duty today is to inquire into when and where Mr Finch came by his death. Criminal proceedings may arise from those particulars. Witnesses will be called. Interested persons may question those witnesses.’
He turned to his clerk, who passed him a sheet of paper.
Mercifully, I was not called to give my evidence. The coroner reported that Mr Finch had been missed since early morning, after he brought his pony to the brewery stables. He then went on to say that a garden party guest, who ought not to have been on the premises, unwittingly opened the door of the fermentation room, saw a figure in the room, closed the door and went to raise the alarm.
Miss Boland laid her hand on my arm in a gesture of reassurance.
‘We are able to say that Mr Finch died sometime between 6 a.m. on Saturday, 26th of April and 2.40 p.m. that afternoon when his body was found.’
A fireman was called to give evidence. ‘John Hawkins, step forward please.’
A round-shouldered man of about forty years old stepped forward. He was wearing a well-brushed suit and highly polished boots. He walked to the podium to the right of the coroner. He gave his name and occupation. ‘John Hawkins, Fireman, Masham Police Fire Brigade.’
‘Mr Hawkins, I have your statement, now will you tell this court in your own words what you told the police.’
‘I was with my fellow fireman Mick Brearley. We received the call at 2.50 p.m. Five of us attended at the brewery at 3.00 p.m. Being warned of the danger of fumes, we donned masks and protective clothing before entering the room in the basement. Fireman Simon Bentley held the door so that we could enter and exit quickly.’ He glanced towards the row where Mrs Finch sat. ‘We carried Mr Finch from that room. We were very sorry indeed that it was too late for us to save him. I believe he would have died quickly.’
The coroner asked whether the door to the fermentation room was locked.
‘No, sir, but a gentleman called Mr Beckwith was on duty, preventing access.’
‘Will you please tell the court why such a room is dangerous.’
‘Because the process of fermenting creates large amounts of CO2 gas which is heavier than air and can kill by asphyxiation. Even when the contents have been removed the danger remains until the vessel has been fully evacuated.’
‘Thank you, Mr Hawkins. I commend you and your colleagues for your prompt attendance and selfless actions.’
The coroner looked at the row of relative and friends. ‘Are there any questions for Mr Hawkins?’
That there were none surprised me. Someone ought to have asked why the building was unlocked.
Dr Miller came to the podium next. He gave his occupation as pathologist and confirmed that he had conducted a post-mortem on Mr Finch. I could tell that he was trying to present his findings in layman’s language, for the benefit of the family. He described an abrasion to Mr Finch’s left temple and concluded that he had been struck with some force. There were also abrasions to his knuckles, which may have indicated a fist fight.
At this, Mrs Finch let out a cry. ‘Never!’
Very gently, the coroner reminded her that she would have the opportunity to ask questions.
Dr Miller continued. ‘I did not find any evidence of CO2 inhalation in Mr Finch’s lungs, leading me to the conclusion that Mr Finch was already dead when taken into the place where he was found.’
There was a collective gasp in the room.
Dr Miller had more to say about the bodily injuries and how these indicated a fight having taken place.
The room was suddenly quiet. The coroner allowed the information to sink in before asking once more were there any questions. He looked at Mrs Finch. She shook her head. A woman seated behind the Lofthouses stood up.
‘Mrs Strong, Temperance Society. How much alcohol had the deceased consumed?’
There was a cry of “shame”, from the back of the room. William Lofthouse turned to look at the speaker. I guessed she may be an old adversary.
Dr Miller said, ‘I estimate that Mr Finch had drunk two pints of beer that morning.’
There being no more questions, Dr Miller was allowed to leave.
He gave me the slightest acknowledging nod as he walked towards the door. It left me with a pang for all those times in my life when I have been completely immersed in the lives of others, and then all that is gone.
The coroner glanced at his notes. Phil Jopling was called, Finch’s mate and fellow drayman.
He took a deep breath before giving his name and occupation. He clutched one hand in the other, moving slightly on the balls of his feet, as if ready to break into a run and be gone.
‘I was asked about how we worked, when we started, how our day began. Joe’s day started sooner than mine because of his pony, the pony he rescued. He’d go to the field and fetch Billy Boy and bring him to the stable to see his chums, the horses. And, yes, he’d let Billy have a share of the fodder and no one minded that because he had brought that pony along from a creature that couldn’t see for the mane in its eyes, and the blindness in its left eye, and he turned it into a beauty. We were both on duty at the stable that morning, to groom the horses, to look their best for the visitors to the garden party. When I came in at nine, Joe had been and gone. His pony wasn’t there, but I thought he could have taken it to graze. I went home for my breakfast.’
The coroner adjusted his spectacles. ‘Mr Jopling, the door to the brewery was unlocked. I understand the former night watchman is not able to be here today through illness. Who unlocked the door that morning?’
‘Joe unlocked it, sir. He was on the Saturday rota for jobs. I suppose the key would be in his pocket.’
‘Thank you, Mr Jopling. You may stand down, unless there are further questions?’
There were none.
The clerk had come to life during Phil Jopling’s statement. He hushed the murmurings in the room and with a lift to his voice called Mr William Lofthouse.
William took the stand.
The coroner began with what sounded like a reassurance. ‘Let me assure you, Mr Lofthouse, that no verdict of this court may be framed in such a way as to appear to determine any question of civil liability, is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Nor need you answer any question that may be self- incriminating.’
‘I understand.’
‘Why was a room that everyone knew to be dangerous to the point of death, not kept locked?’
The woman next to Mrs Finch said, ‘Good question.’
Lofthouse looked to Eleanor. She leaned forward ever so slightly. Had she anticipated this question and told him what to say?
‘No unauthorised person was ever let into the brewery. Everyone who worked there knew the dangers and knew the rules. It is only when the fermentation is in process that entry would be forbidden.’
‘Forbidden but not prevented?’
‘I suppose that is correct.’
The coroner made notes. So did the clerk.
‘Mr Lofthouse, there is no suggestion that the fumes from the fermentation caused Mr Finch’s death, but I shall be making recommendations in regard to that room and to safety procedures in the building.’
‘Thank you.’
It was an odd thing to say—a thanks, as if William felt he had been given some recommendation. This was too
much for Mrs Finch. I heard her words, but others did not. The coroner asked her to stand, and kindly repeat her words for the benefit of the clerk.
She stood, staring at William, addressing her question to him.
‘How does a gypsy or a horse trader, whatever we call him, know that he can hide a foul deed by dragging my husband into the fermentation room? And if he did that, why wasn’t he lying there himself—gassed?’
The coroner intervened. ‘Mr Lofthouse, bearing in mind that the man Mrs Finch refers to is in police custody for questioning, are you willing to reply to Mrs Finch?’
William took a deep breath. He looked at Yvonne Finch.
‘I am willing.’ He paused. ‘Even in large concentrations CO2 takes five minutes to kill. A person might hold his breath long enough to escape.’
There were no more questions, but one more witness.
Frank McDonald wore corduroy trousers and a collarless striped shirt. He was weather-beaten from a life outdoors, and frightened too, but reaching for every ounce of bravado in him. In answer to the coroner’s questions, he admitted taking the pony, but it was not stealing. He had let Joe Finch have it as a bargain for a shilling. Early that Saturday morning he came for it back, returning the money. He was going to a fair with his horses and wanted the pony for children’s rides, which would draw a bit of a crowd. Yes, it was true they got into a fight, McDonald said, ‘I swear on my bairns’ lives Joe Finch started it.’ He pointed to a bruise on his cheek to prove his point.
The coroner quoted the statement Frank McDonald made to the police. ‘You say you waited at a distance until Joe Finch let himself into the brewery, and then you broke the lock on the stable door and took the pony.’
‘Because ah was robbed of that fine creature for a measly shilling.’
‘What was Mr Finch’s reply when you offered to buy it back?’ the coroner asked.
The bravado fled. Frank McDonald looked at his feet. He mumbled. The coroner asked him to repeat his answer and to speak up. After a pause, McDonald cleared his throat. ‘He said he wouldn’t part with that pony for a pot of gold.’
McDonald was led away by a constable.
The coroner summed up proceedings and sent the jury to consider their verdict.
We were dismissed and told to stay within hearing of the town crier, or the church bells.
I was on the end of the row and moved to leave. I looked at Miss Boland, but she indicated she would wait.
Walking up the centre aisle, I heard a deep sniff behind me, the kind a man makes when he intends to spit. Without turning around, I knew it must be Slater Parnaby. He and I found ourselves side by side as we left the Town Hall. We walked down the steps together. He had a way of creating an invisible wall about himself, forbidding people to come too close. Something most people might be glad of. I ignored the wall.
‘What did you think to the inquest, Mr Parnaby?’
‘Bloody useless. Words, just words.’
‘Words trying to get to the truth.’
‘They’ll pin it on the gypsy, and it weren’t him.’
He swaggered, and my first impression of a lonely man came back to me. ‘What makes you sure it wasn’t Mr McDonald?’
‘A horse dealer, fool enough to kill for a one-eyed pony? Nah.’ He had a point. ‘Besides, He smells wrong.’
‘What do you mean, he smells wrong?’
‘I was near enough for a whiff of him when they fetched him from the cells. He’s not a man who wastes time changing his clobber. I’d know if he’d been in the brewery this past week. I smelled it on you though, on Saturday, and on someone else.’
‘Why didn’t you say something?’
‘Because I keep my trap shut.’
* * *
At a quarter to three, the town crier rang his bell. ‘Oyez, oyez. All ye attending the inquest into the death of Joseph Finch, be told that it will resume at three o’clock in the Town Hall. God save the King.’
The crier had already fastened the notice to the door of the Town Hall. Now he crossed to the Falcon, crying the news, and attached another notice to the pub doors.
The church bells chimed.
Mrs Finch must have had private warning of the resumption. She was climbing the stairs when I went in, her sister and mother beside her.
Phil Jopling and Mrs Jopling were behind me. She greeted me. ‘I was glad you took Mrs Finch to the hospital to see Joe.’
‘And I’m glad I could help.’
Eleanor and William arrived at the top of the stairs. I waited and went with them into the room.
They made their way to their previous seats on the front row left. I joined them, sitting beside Eleanor. She whispered, ‘I’m glad Ruth didn’t come. She doesn’t deserve to go through this. Nobody does.’
Jim Sykes nodded to me and went to sit by William.
Slowly, the room began to fill. The clerk took his place. The jury filed in.
We all rose for the coroner, scraping chairs, sitting down again, people clearing their throats.
The coroner turned to the jury. ‘Members of the jury, have you reached your verdict?’
The foreman rose. ‘We have, sir.’
‘What is your verdict?’
‘We find that Mr Joseph Finch was killed unlawfully, that his death was the result of a crime by a person or persons unknown. We do not have sufficient information to say whether that was murder or manslaughter. We extend our deepest sympathy to Mrs Finch.’
The coroner thanked the jury for their deliberations. He looked at William and Eleanor, and then at Mrs Finch. ‘Given the circumstances of Mr Finch’s death, and the short time for the police to carry out their investigations, I am adjourning this inquest until a future date. Are there any questions before we close?’
There were no questions.
For several moments people remained glued to their chairs, as if no one wanted to be the first to run away from the oppressive atmosphere in the room, or to make a rush for the door.
Outside the Town Hall, Eleanor said, ‘Will you come back to the house?’
Before Sykes could say yes, I said, ‘Mr Sykes and I have something we need to do, Eleanor. We’ll call on you later.’
When the Lofthouses had gone, Sykes asked, ‘What must we do?’
‘Give Miss Boland your arm, Mr Sykes. Take her home.’
‘Well yes of course.’ He paused. ‘What else?’
‘Miss Boland killed Joe Finch. Would you give us half an hour and then ask Mrs Finch to come? Say that Kate Shackleton has done as she asked.’
‘Hang on a minute! Since when are you working for Mrs Finch?’
‘When I brought Yvonne Finch home after she had seen her husband’s body, she asked me to find out what happened to Joe. I need Mrs Finch to be at Elm Cottage when I question Miss Boland because Mrs Finch is intrinsically connected with Joe’s death.’
Chapter Forty-Three
Miss Boland sat at her kitchen table. I had set the piano stool by her chair, so that she could put up her feet and rest her injured ankle, though it meant sitting sideways on.
She asked me to pass a bottle of dandelion wine and two glasses from the shelf. I passed the wine. She opened it and poured, saying, ‘I don’t know why I go on making this stuff. I don’t think I’ll bother this year.’
‘You might try dandelion and burdock, for a change.’
‘If I’m still here.’
‘What did you think to the inquest, Miss Boland?’
‘It was thorough.’ She took a drink of wine. ‘No, I won’t make this again.’
‘Did anything surprise you, about the inquest?’ I asked.
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Not even that Joe was dead when he found his way into the fermentation room?’
‘That might have been a mercy, from what people say about that room.’
A strange mercy, I thought.
She changed the subject. ‘I’m glad Ruth wasn’t at the inquest. Miss Crawford’s fu
neral was hard enough for her this week.’
‘I thought so, too. She and Harriet have gone to Roomer Common. Ruth wants Harriet to see where cottages once stood.’
Miss Boland smiled. ‘She has a fascination for that common. I remember going there as a child, when the cottages were still there. Ruth knows a poem about one of the cottages. She’ll probably recite it to you.’
‘But to go back to the inquest,’ I said. ‘What about the horse dealer? He looks like the main suspect.’
Miss Boland forgot she no longer liked dandelion wine. She took a great swig. ‘He would have to be mad to kill for a one-eyed pony, though of course some people are mad. Some men are born mad. Others have madness thrust upon them.’
‘True, though Mr McDonald seemed sane to me,’ I said. ‘Even George came under suspicion, simply because no one saw him on Saturday. He was being a good lad, taking care of his mother, making sure she would go with him to the cinema and see Ruth on Pathé News.’
‘I wish I’d seen the newsreel,’ Miss Boland said. ‘I couldn’t bring myself to hobble to the Town Hall for the showing.’
That did not surprise me. Saturday must have been a trying day for Miss Boland.
There was a tap on the door. Miss Boland stayed where she was. ‘Who could that be?’
I stood. ‘I’ll go see, shall I?’
It was Mrs Finch. ‘Hello, I had a message from your Mr Sykes.’
‘It’s Mrs Finch, Miss Boland.’
‘Don’t keep her on the doorstep,’ Miss Boland said. ‘Come in, Yvonne!’
Mrs Finch stepped inside. ‘Oh, Celia. Someone said you’d hurt your ankle. I would have come round, under normal circumstances.’
I poured the third glass of dandelion wine for Yvonne Finch. ‘Is there something you wanted to tell Mrs Finch, Miss Boland?’
If Miss Boland previously suspected that I knew of her guilt, she was now certain. It showed in her face. She lost that professional music teacher expression. Her face slid into the lines of age that were always waiting. Her eyes lost their gleam to fear. She said nothing.
Mrs Finch took a covered plate from her basket. ‘My mother and sister brought food, and neighbours brought food, so I hope you may want this pie.’
Murder is in the Air Page 21