The Black Seraphim (23 page)

“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 questions.”

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?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Thank you.”

Mr Meiklejohn seemed to be hesitating. Then he bobbed to his feet and said, “Realising the importance of this point, can you give no indication of which of your helpers you’ve mentioned might have taken the coffee to the Archdeacon?”

“It mightn’t have been one of the people I mentioned at all. It might have been anyone.” She added, with a touch of impatience, “If you’re filling thirty or forty coffee cups in a hurry, you haven’t much time to notice things like that.”

“I think that’s an entirely reasonable answer,” said the Coroner, in a tone of voice which indicated to Mr Meiklejohn, who was no fool, that if he asked any more questions, he was going to be sat on. “Thank you, Mrs Consett. I see from my list that we are now entering a rather different field of inquiry and I think it is an appropriate moment to adjourn for luncheon. We’ll then take the police evidence. Back at half past two, please. And a word of warning to you.” He turned to the jury. “There’s no objection, of course, to your discussing this among yourselves, but you’re not to talk to anyone else. I’m sure you understand the reason for that.”

Over a beer at the Lion, Philip Rosewarn said to Bill Williams, “I took time off to be there. As I’m getting the sack anyway, it didn’t seem to matter. A bit slow so far, but it all seems to be pointing in one direction.”

“Rolfe’s very sound,” said Bill. “He won’t let anyone talk out of turn. He’s playing for an open verdict.”

“But he can’t actually stop the jury from naming someone.”

“You can never stop a jury from making fools of themselves,” agreed Bill. “Do you think we’ve got time for the second pint?”

“Now, Superintendent,” said the Coroner. “What can you tell us about this matter?”

“Not as much as I should like to,” said Bracher. “We understood from our experts that the only probable time and place that the deceased could have taken this fatal dose was at the lunch party, and it soon became clear also that the most vital item, so far as he was concerned, was the coffee.”

“I think that follows from what we have heard.”

“Yes, sir. Unfortunately, it transpired that all the people who happened to be near the coffee table, or actually assisting in the service of the coffee, were residents of the Close.”

“Why do you say ‘unfortunately’, Superintendent?”

Bracher hesitated. He was, as he knew, on treacherous ground. But there were things which had to be said.

“It was like this, sir. To start with, we did get some co-operation. Mr Openshaw, Mrs Henn-Christie and Mrs Consett all answered our questions. And one witness gave us some information, but subsequently withdrew it.”

“Could we have names, please?”

“This was the junior verger, Leonard Masters.”

“Why did he wish to withdraw his evidence?”

“He said that when he spoke to us, he had not been aware of the Dean’s instructions.”

The Coroner paused in his note taking for a long moment and said, “You’ll have to explain that.”

“I was told, sir – but this is, of course, at second hand – that the Dean had issued some general advice, or instruction, to the Cathedral employees and to residents in the Close that they were not to answer inquiries by the police.”

“You say second hand. Has the Dean confirmed this?”

“No, sir. He has not made himself available for questioning.”

“But he was not, of course, aware of the laboratory findings.”

Bracher said, quite sharply, “I don’t think that was any excuse.”

“I’m not prepared to comment on that. Perhaps you’d let us know what further steps you took.”

“I gave instructions that inquiries should be made at all chemists’ shops in Melchester and at all gardening shops which sold nicotine-based sprays and weedkillers. I wished to ascertain whether anyone who had been present at the lunch party had recently made such a purchase.”