Untimely Death

CHAPTER XI. Inquest

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.”

The coroner looked hopelessly out of his depth.

“I don’t think I need go into all that now,” he said. “You had no occasion to see him since?”

“I had occasion all right, when Gilbert was took so ill on Sunday. I sent for him then, but the caravan was empty and the bed not slept in.”

“And that surprised you?”

Louisa shrugged her shoulders.

A voice from the back of the hall broke in on the colloquy between coroner and witness.

“There was lots of beds Jack liked a heap better’n his own,” it said. ”

The audience roared its appreciation of the simple joke. Only Louisa and the coroner, for once united, disapproved.

“That’s quite enough from you, Jim Cantle,” shouted Louisa. “When I get you outside, I’ll-”

The coroner rapped his desk. “If there is any further disturbance I shall clear the court,” he said. “Are there any questions you want to ask this witness, members of the jury?” Without waiting for their reply, he went on rapidly, “No? Thank you, madam, you may stand down. Call the next witness, please. John Mainprice.”

John Mainprice proved to be an embarrassed young hiker who had stumbled on Jack Gorman’s body on Tuesday morning just off the road across Bolter’s Tussock. He was soon disposed of, and the coroner passed on to the medical evidence.

Medicine, like law, has an esoteric vocabulary of its own, not to be comprehended by the vulgar. Medical men at least can, if they choose, put their opinions into perfectly intelligible language. This particular medical man-a cocksure young fellow with an aggravating air of omniscience-did not so choose. His evidence was couched in a technical jargon which delighted the coroner-who himself had medical qualifications-and mystified his hearers. Mallett, with the experience of countless homicidal enquiries behind him, was able to follow well enough. Jack Gorman had died from shock following multiple injuries. Of these injuries the gravest were concentrated in one area of the body. Three broken ribs-extensive bruising-gross injury to the internal organs, all described with loving anatomical particularity by the witness. The minor injuries could have been caused by falling on a hard surface, or, he added as an afterthought, being run over by the vehicle that had knocked him down. No, he did not state as a fact that the deceased had been knocked down by a motor vehicle. Any other moving object sufficiently hard and weighty could have had the same effect. Personally, he could not think of one offhand likely to be met with at this particular place. The injuries were consistent with being knocked down by a motor vehicle-perhaps that was the fairer way to put it. Death had occurred in the early hours of Tuesday morning or late on Monday night. He gathered up his papers and withdrew, exuding self-satisfaction from every pore.

The evidence of Detective Inspector Parkinson wound up the proceedings. Like that of the last witness it was technical, but it was easy enough to understand. He described in careful detail the position of the body, illustrating what he said from photographs. He had found it at a spot in the heather some three yards distant from the road itself, but less than a yard from the nearest point to which a motor car could drive. In fact, tracks showed clearly that a number of vehicles had pulled off the road at this place, one of the few level strips of roadside on the Tussock. It was a favourite spot for picnickers. Indeed, he had found beneath the body the remains of a picnic meal, wrapped in a portion of a Sunday newspaper-last Sunday’s newspaper, he added significantly. There were clear indications that the deceased had been placed in the position where he was found after death, or, at all events, after the injuries had been inflicted. Further enquiries were proceeding on the assumption that this had been done by the driver of the motor vehicle concerned. Traffic over the Tussock was particularly heavy at holiday periods, and there were a great many more investigations to be made. He respectfully asked the coroner for an adjournment sine die.

And on this inconclusive note the proceedings proper ended. To the great delight of the assembled company, however, they were succeeded by what might be fairly called proceedings improper.

A stalwart young man with a round red face arose from the middle of the hall, and said, “Mr. Coroner! Is that there all the evidence we’re going to have?”

The coroner pecked at him sharply.

“That is all the evidence that will be called to-day. You heard what the police officer said; there are further enquiries to be made.”

“Will he be enquiring where Jack was Saturday and Sunday?”

“If you have any information, Mr.-”

“Gorman, the name is. Richard Gorman, Beechanger Farm. They call me Dick.”

“If you have any information, have a talk to the Inspector, and tell him anything you know about this matter. Now, members of the jury-”

“It’s not for me to tell him anything. I don’t know anything. But I know a fiddle when I see one, and that’s what there’s been yere-a fair fiddle!”

He stalked from the room. In the momentary confusion that followed, Mallett noticed Tom Gorman, who had been sitting just behind Louisa, get up and follow him. He waited, himself, until the proceedings had been formally adjourned and then went out with the rest into the soft, damp Exmoor afternoon.

Pushing his way through the crowd, Mallett avoided various acquaintances who showed signs of wishing to speak to him. He wanted rather badly to be alone, to think over what he had seen and heard. But he was to be disappointed. As he turned into the Inn yard where he had left his car, he almost walked into Tom and Dick Gorman, deep in conversation. At the sight of him, Dick turned, and edging him into the wall, fairly forced him to a standstill.

“Ah!” said Dick. “Just the man we want, isn’t he, Tom?”

Tom said nothing, but he stood with his arms akimbo in a position to cut off Mallett’s retreat. He was a large man-not so large as Mallett by a good way, but at least thirty years younger. Dick was smaller, but compact and muscular. Mallett did not want a rough house, in any event. He said mildly,

“What can I do for you?”

“There’s a man who said he saw Jack on the Tussock on Saturday-I hear he’s staying with you,” said Dick truculently. “What’s his name, Tom?”

“Betty something,” said Tom. “Funny name for a man, but that’s what it sounded like.”

“I have some visitors,” said Mallett cautiously. “A Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew.”

“What I want to know is,” Dick persisted, “did he see Jack or not?”

“It’s no use asking me that,” said Mallett firmly. “In any case,” he turned to Tom, “you should know the answer as well as I do. You were with him on Saturday,

I understand. If your brother-”

“Not my brother,” said Tom. “Second cousin, isn’t it, Dick?”

“That’s right. And brother-in-law. I married his sister and he married mine.”

Mallett sighed. He had long since ceased trying to chart the ramifications of the Gorman clan.

“If he really believes it, why doesn’t he talk to the Inspector, as the coroner said?”

“It’s Tom ought to talk to the Inspector, not me,” Dick broke in. “He was there.”

“I didn’t see anything,” said Tom. “There wasn’t anything to see. Mr. Olding will tell you that.”

“But you don’t believe Jack was killed on Monday night, do you?” Dick’s voice had an urgency of appeal in it that astonished Mallett.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Even supposing it did turn out that Jack Gorman died on Saturday instead of Monday, what earthly difference is that going to make to either of you?”

There was no answer to his question, but the silence that succeeded it seemed charged with meaning. Tom looked at Dick and Dick at Tom and the expression on their faces told Mallett that he had stumbled on the meaning of the whole strange little episode.

“It might make a difference and it mightn’t.” Tom’s voice was quiet and reflective. “From what Mr. Bulford says, it seems that it might. That’s just the point.”

“And who may Mr. Bulford be?”

“He’s the lawyer up to Wiveliscombe. Would you like to go to Wiveliscombe to-morrow and have a word with him? I could run you up in my car-it won’t cost you a penny.”

“Why on earth should I want to talk to your lawyer -or he to me?”

“Now look here, Mr. Mallett,” said Dick persuasively. “You heard what I told that fool of a coroner just now. There’s been a fiddle over this business-or looks like there has. And if so, there’s enquiries to be made-that’s what Mr. Bulford says. You can forget about your Betty friend-he don’t count. There’s someone else behind all this and we want to know who. And we reckon you’re the chap to find out. It’s your sort of work, isn’t it? There’s fifty pounds in it for you, all for asking a few questions. Now, what do you say?”

Mallett was tugging at his moustache ends until it felt that the hair must come out at the roots-a sign, in him, of intense emotion. Had he but known it, his sensations at that moment were very much the same as those experienced by Pettigrew a few days before, at the sound of the hunting horn. Only in his case the memories evoked were far more recent, and for that reason more compelling. He could think of a dozen reasons why he should turn a deaf ear to the offer, but…

“I don’t mind going to Wiveliscombe with you tomorrow,” he said. “Mind you, I make no promises- none whatever. Is that understood?”

“That’s understood, all right, Mr. Mallett.”

“One other thing, before we go any further. If I should undertake this enquiry, and if anything should come of it, it will be no use asking me to stop halfway. I shall find out all I can. And if what I find out seems likely to disclose a criminal offence, then I go straight to the police, no matter who the criminal may turn out to be, and it will be too late to ask me to hush it up. Is that also understood?”

For the life of him, Mallett could not have said why he spoke with so much vehemence, especially as he had not even decided to accept the commission which had been offered him in such vague terms. But there was a streak of melodrama in him, and to his own ears, at least, it sounded most impressive. One at least of his hearers was impressed. Dick’s face was solemn as he answered, “Yes, sir, I accept that.”

Tom was not quite so ready with his reply, and there was a gleam of what could have been amusement in his heavy face as he said, “Surely, Mr. Mallett, surely. We’ll call for you to-morrow about ten, then?”