Rose's Last Summer [= The Lively Corpse]

6

The following morning, Thursday, at 9 A.M., a coroner’s inquest was held to determine the cause of death of Rose Elizabeth French, a human being.

Mrs. Cushman, the landlady, dressed elegantly for the occasion in flowered chiffon, identified the body. The pathologist, Dr. Severn, read his detailed report of the autopsy to the jury, and Ortega, in a hushed voice, described how he set out to plant the larkspur Tuesday morning and found Rose instead, lying in the sun beside the lily pool.

The Sheriff, Angell, doubled as coroner. “Did you touch her, Mr. Ortega?”

“No sir. I couldn’t touch her, I had this flat of larkspur in my hands. It was heavy; I had my hands full.”

“Yes, yes. What did you do?”

“I run up to the house and told the man what I found. That man.” Ortega pointed at Willett, who was sitting in the second row. Everybody turned and stared at Willett curiously, and he tried to appear less visible by slumping in his seat. Noticing this, one of the jurors made a mental resolution to watch Willett like a hawk for further signs of guilt.

“Now I’d like you to think back to Monday,” Angell said. “My reasons for this will become clear in a moment.”

A male juror raised his hand and announced that he would like the reasons to be made clear right away, inasmuch as he was having trouble following the witnesses who wouldn’t speak plain English a man could understand. He sat down, with a reproachful glance at Dr. Severn.

Angell faced the juror. “Dr. Severn established the time of Miss French’s death as being eleven o’clock Monday morning at the earliest and one o’clock in the afternoon at the latest. Since she was not found until Tuesday morning, I want the jury to know why.”

“I know why,” Ortega cried with an air of triumph.

“All right, Mr. Ortega, tell us.”

“On Mondays I don’t work for that man” — he indicated Willett again — “Just on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. On Monday and Wednesday I work for Mrs. Pond. She grows cymbidium orchids.”

“Then you were not in the garden at 2201 Ventura Drive on Monday at all?”

“No sir.”

“Describe this garden to the jury, will you, Mr. Ortega?”

Ortega merely looked baffled.

“How large is it, for instance?”

“It’s not so large but there’s always work to be done.”

“Has it a fence around it? A hedge?”

“Oh sure, you got to have a fence and a hedge.”

“Why?”

“Well, the road goes right past at the back, the road to the beach and the highway. People would be tramping all over if you didn’t have a fence and a hedge.”

“What kind of hedge?”

“Eugenia. Very old, very big. In the fall my mother makes jam from the berries.”

“That’s very interesting,” Angell said, and one or two of the jurors laughed. “Is it possible for an average person to see over or through this, hedge?”

“No sir, not without a ladder.”

“Is there any break in this hedge, say from the road at the back?”

“Yes sir, where the gate is. There’s a little iron gate back there.”

“Is it kept locked?”

“No sir, I never saw it locked.”

“Then it’s quite possible that Miss French was walking along this back road, carrying her suitcase and heading perhaps to the highway, perhaps to the railroad station — and that she saw this garden, decided that it would be a good place to rest, and came in through the little iron gate. Would you say that was possible, Mr. Ortega?”

“Golly, I don’t know. If you say it’s possible, it’s possible.”

“All right, Mr. Ortega. Thank you.” Angell consulted his notes. “Mr. Willett Goodfield, will you please step into the box?”

Willett gave his name, address, occupation, and explained that he was living in La Mesa temporarily for the sake of his mother’s health.

“Yesterday’s events must have been quite a shock to her,” Angell said.

This approach was a great surprise to Willett. He had expected to be bullied, or, at the very least, roughly cross-examined, and this unforeseen friendliness threw him into such a state of confusion that he didn’t know what to say.

“Were you acquainted with the deceased, Mr. Goodfield?”

“I was — not. No sir, I was not.”

“Probably you were familiar with her name, however?”

“She was very well known at one time. But I didn’t recognize her as Rose French when I went out with the gardener and found her. I had no idea what — who she was. It’s been a dozen years or more since I’ve seen one of her pictures.”

“Tell me, Mr. Goodfield, the extent of your household.”

“There’s my mother, my wife, myself and one maid. We’re living very simply.”

“You were all in the house at 2201 Ventura Drive on Monday?”

“Yes sir.”

“All day?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did you go out into the garden at any time?”

“No sir. My mother is bedridden, and my wife and I and the maid are still trying to get settled in the house.”

“You recall the spot where Miss French was found. Is this spot visible from any of the windows in the house?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never tried to look out at one particular spot from one particular window. Never had reason to.”

“That will be all, thanks, Mr. Goodfield. Please don’t leave the room until the evidence is completed in case you are recalled to the stand. Captain Greer, you’re next.”

Greer told the jury that he was James Rudyard Greer, he had been a policeman for twelve years, and a resident of La Mesa for over twenty. On Tuesday, May 22nd, at 8:16 A.M., he received a telephone call from Willett Goodfield, 2201 Ventura Drive, stating that a dead woman had been discovered on his premises. Greer then proceeded to that address in a prowl car along with Sergeant Fiske and Patrolman Halderman, arriving at approximately 8:30. The dead woman was identified by means of the contents of her suitcase and handbag.

“You have a list of these contents, Captain?”

“Yes, I have a list and the contents themselves.”

“Show the court, please.”

The handbag and suitcase were brought out and emptied on the long mahogany table, and the members of the jury filed past one by one. Some hurried, some delayed, some were nervous; but they were all curious. When they returned to the box, fifteen minutes later, they wore an air of subdued excitement. Greer, watching them, knew they were anxious to get home to tell their relatives and friends and neighbors about their experience.

Silence settled on the courtroom like snow.

“Tell me, Captain, what is the significance of these half- dozen penny postcards addressed to Mr. Frank Clyde?”

“Mr. Clyde is in court, sir. I suggest you ask him.”

“All right, we’ll recall you later, Captain. Will Mr. Clyde please step up?”

Frank was an experienced witness at commitment trials in Superior Court. This inquest was different; it was informal, there were no lawyers involved, and no arguments back and forth about points of law.

After the routine identification, Frank told the jury that he had known Rose French for over a year.

“She considered you a friend, Mr. Clyde?”

“I believe she did, toward the end anyway.”

“When did you hear from her last?”

“On Monday afternoon she telephoned me to say that she had found a job as housekeeper to an old friend and was leaving town. I asked her to keep in touch with me now and then, and she agreed.”

“That was on Monday afternoon at what time?”

“I thought it was around three.”

“You realize that your thinking contradicts the facts as presented by Dr. Severn?”

“I realize that, but — well, I might be mistaken, I suppose. I receive a lot of calls and there are always people in my office.”

“Have you usually a good time sense?”

“Not particularly, but—”

“Do you wear a watch?”

“I have a pocket watch.”

“Is there a wall or desk clock in your office?”

“No sir.”

“Without consulting your watch, what time would you say it is now?”

“I suppose it’s about a quarter to eleven.”

“It’s exactly seven minutes after ten.”

Frank glanced at Greer. Greer merely shrugged his shoulders and looked up at the ceiling.

“You admit,” Angell said, “that you could have been mistaken about the time of that phone call?”

“I could have been, but I don’t think I—”

“That will be all, thank you, Mr. Clyde.”

Frank stepped down from the box without argument. He knew — and Greer knew — that the verdict would be what Angell wanted it to be.

At three in the afternoon the jury made its decision. The deceased, Rose Elizabeth French, had, after overexertion, died of natural causes, a heart attack.

On hearing the verdict, Mrs. Cushman, who had conducted herself with dignity and decorum for the whole day, burst into tears, and had to be escorted out into the corridor by Frank.

“With the evidence they had, no other verdict was possible,” Frank said.

“It isn’t the verdict that bothers me.” Mrs. Cushman wiped her eyes on her flowered chiffon sleeve. “It’s her poor heart, and her with never a word of complaint, and me badgering her the way I did sometimes.”

“Don’t let it get you down.”

“And the way I spoke sharply to her about not keeping her room neat like Miss Henderson’s, and her all the time ready to drop dead from a heart attack. I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Cheer up. Rose considered you her best friend.”

“She did? Honest?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“I’m not so sure. You know what she called me? An old bat, that’s what. When I think of all I done for that woman and her turning around and calling me an old bat, it makes my blood boil.”

“You were very kind to Rose.”

“You bet I was.”

“No one could have been a better friend.”

“No one else would of been such a fool.”

“Let me drive you home.”

“All right.” Mrs. Cushman glanced vaguely around the corridor as if she was trying to locate the guilty conscience she had temporarily mislaid. Frank knew what she was looking for but made no attempt to help her find it.

“I got a feeling,” Mrs. Cushman said, frowning, “I got a feeling I forgot something. I better go back in and take a look around.”

She went back in and examined the bench she had been sitting on, and the floor around it, but she didn’t find anything except a discarded copy of the Los Angeles Times. She took that instead.