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Four
The Inquest was held in the Cornmarket.
The coroner, Mr. Pebmarsh, was a small fussy man with glasses and a considerable sense of his
own importance.
Beside him sat the large bulk of Superintendent Spence. In an unobtrusive seat was a small
foreign-looking man with a large black moustache. The Cloade family: the Jeremy Cloades, the
Lionel Cloades, Rowley Cloade, Mrs. Marchmont and Lynn—they were all there. Major Porter sat
by himself, fidgeting and ill at ease. David and Rosaleen arrived last. They sat by themselves.
The coroner cleared his throat and glancing round the jury of nine local worthies, started
proceedings.
Constable Peacock—
Sergeant Vane….
Dr. Lionel Cloade….
“You were attending a patient professionally at the Stag, when Gladys Aitkin came to you.
What did she say?”
“She informed me that the occupant of No. 5 was lying on the floor dead.”
“In consequence you went up to No. 5?”
“I did.”
“Will you describe what you found there?”
Dr. Cloade described. Body of a man…face downwards…head injuries…back of skull…fire
tongs.
“You were of opinion, that the injuries were inflicted with the tongs in question?”
“Some of them unquestionably were.”
“And that several blows had been struck?”
“Yes. I did not make a detailed examination as I considered that the police should be called
before the body was touched or its position altered.”
“Very proper. The man was dead?”
“Yes. He had been dead for some hours.”
“How long in your opinion had he been dead?”
“I should hesitate to be very definite about that. At least eleven hours—quite possibly thirteen
or fourteen—let us say between 7:30 and 10:30 p.m. the preceding evening.”
“Thank you, Dr. Cloade.”
Then came the police surgeon—giving a full and technical description of the wounds. There
was an abrasion and swelling on the lower jaw and five or six blows had been struck on the base
of the skull, some of which had been delivered after death.
“It was an assault of great savagery?”
“Exactly.”
“Would great strength have been needed to inflict these blows?”
“N-no, not exactly strength. The tongs, grasped by the pincers end, could be easily swung
without much exertion. The heavy steel ball which forms the head of the tongs makes them a
formidable weapon. Quite a delicate person could have inflicted the injuries if, that is to say, they
were struck in a frenzy of excitement.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Details as to the condition of the body followed—well nourished, healthy, age about forty-five.
No signs of illness or disease—heart, lungs, etc., all good.
Beatrice Lippincott gave evidence of the arrival of the deceased. He had registered as Enoch
Arden, Cape Town.
“Did deceased produce a ration book?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you ask him for one?”
“Not at first. I did not know how long he was staying.”
“But you did eventually ask him?”
“Yes, sir. He arrived on the Friday and on Saturday I said if he was staying more than five
days would he please let me have his ration book.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He said he would give it to me.”
“But he did not actually do so?”
“No.”
“He did not say that he had lost it? Or had not got one?”
“Oh, no. He just said, ‘I’ll look it out and bring it along.’”
“Miss Lippincott, did you, on the night of Saturday, overhear a certain conversation?”
With a good deal of elaborate explanation as to the necessity she was under of visiting No. 4,
Beatrice Lippincott told her tale. The coroner guided her astutely.
“Thank you. Did you mention this conversation you had overheard to anybody?”
“Yes, I told Mr. Rowley Cloade.”
“Why did you tell Mr. Cloade?”
“I thought he ought to know.” Beatrice flushed.
A tall thin man (Mr. Gaythorne) rose and asked permission to put a question.
“In the course of the conversation between the deceased and Mr. David Hunter did the
deceased at any time mention definitely that he himself was Robert Underhay?”
“No—no—he didn’t.”
“In fact he spoke of ‘Robert Underhay’ as though Robert Underhay was quite another
person?”
“Yes—yes, he did.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coroner, that was all I wanted to get clear.”
Beatrice Lippincott stood down and Rowley Cloade was called.
He confirmed that Beatrice had repeated the story to him and then gave his account of his
interview with the deceased.
“His last words to you were, ‘I don’t think you’ll prove that without my cooperation?’
‘That’—being the fact that Robert Underhay was still alive.”
“That’s what he said, yes. And he laughed.”
“He laughed, did he? What did you take those words to mean?”
“Well—I just thought he was trying to get me to make him an offer, but afterwards I got
thinking—”
“Yes, Mr. Cloade—but what you thought afterwards is hardly relevant. Shall we put it that as
a result of that interview you set about trying to find some person who was acquainted with the
late Robert Underhay? And that, with certain help, you were successful.”
Rowley nodded.
“That’s right.”
“What time was it when you left the deceased?”
“As nearly as I can tell it was five minutes to nine.”
“What made you fix on that time?”
“As I went along the street I heard the nine o’clock chimes through an open window.”
“Did the deceased mention at what time he was expecting this client?”
“He said ‘At any minute.’”
“He did not mention any name?”
“No.”
“David Hunter!”
There was just a faint soft buzz as the inhabitants of Warmsley Vale craned their necks to look
at the tall thin bitter-looking young man who stood defiantly facing the coroner.
The preliminaries went rapidly. The coroner continued:
“You went to see the deceased on Saturday evening?”
“Yes. I received a letter from him asking for assistance and stating he had known my sister’s
first husband in Africa.”
“You have got that letter?”
“No, I don’t keep letters.”
“You have heard the account given by Beatrice Lippincott of your conversation with the
deceased. Is that a true account?”
“Quite untrue. The deceased spoke of knowing my late brother-in-law, complained of his own
bad luck and of having come down in the world, and begged for some financial assistance which,
as is usual, he was quite confident of being able to repay.”
“Did he tell you that Robert Underhay was still alive?”
David smiled:
“Certainly not. He said, ‘If Robert were still alive I know he would help me.’”
“That is quite different from what Beatrice Lippincott tells us.”
“Eavesdroppers,” said David, “usually hear only a portion of what goes on and frequently
get the whole thing wrong owing to supplying the missing details from their own fertile
imaginations.”
Beatrice flounced angrily and exclaimed, “Well, I never—” The coroner said repressively,
“Silence, please.”
“Now, Mr. Hunter, did you visit the deceased again on the night of Tuesday—”
“No, I did not.”
“You have heard Mr. Rowley Cloade say that the deceased expected a visitor?”
“He may have expected a visitor. If so, I was not that visitor. I’d given him a fiver before. I
thought that was quite enough for him. There was no proof that he’d ever known Robert
Underhay. My sister, since she inherited a large income from her husband, has been the target of
every begging letter writer and every sponger in the neighbourhood.”
Quietly he let his eyes pass over the assembled Cloades.
“Mr. Hunter, will you tell us where you were on the evening of Tuesday?”
“Find out!” said David.
“Mr. Hunter!” The coroner rapped the table. “That is a most foolish and ill-advised thing to
say.”
“Why should I tell you where I was, and what I was doing? Time enough for that when you
accuse me of murdering the man.”
“If you persist in that attitude it may come to that sooner than you think. Do you recognize
this, Mr. Hunter?”
Leaning forward, David took the gold cigarette lighter into his hand. His face was puzzled.
Handing it back, he said slowly: “Yes, it’s mine.”
“When did you have it last?”
“I missed it—” He paused.
“Yes, Mr. Hunter?” The coroner’s voice was suave.
Gaythorne fidgeted, seemed about to speak. But David was too quick for him.
“I had it last Friday—Friday morning. I don’t remember seeing it since.”
Mr. Gaythorne rose.
“With your permission, Mr. Coroner. You visited the deceased Saturday evening. Might you
not have left the lighter there then?”
“I might have, I suppose,” David said slowly. “I certainly don’t remember seeing it after
Friday—” He added: “Where was it found?”
The coroner said:
“We shall go into that later. You can stand down now, Mr. Hunter.”
David moved slowly back to his seat. He bent his head and whispered to Rosaleen Cloade.
“Major Porter.”
Hemming and hawing a little, Major Porter took the stand. He stood there, an erect soldierly
figure, as though on parade. Only the way he moistened his lips showed the intense nervousness
from which he was suffering.
“You are George Douglas Porter, late Major of the Royal African Rifles?”
“Yes.”
“How well did you know Robert Underhay?”
In a parade-ground voice Major Porter barked out places and dates.
“You have viewed the body of the deceased?”
“Yes.”
“Can you identify that body?”
“Yes. It is the body of Robert Underhay.”
A buzz of excitement went round the court.
“You state that positively and without the least doubt?”
“I do.”
“There is no possibility of your being mistaken?”
“None.”
“Thank you, Major Porter. Mrs. Gordon Cloade.”
Rosaleen rose. She passed Major Porter. He looked at her with some curiosity. She did not even
glance at him.
“Mrs. Cloade, you were taken by the police to see the body of the deceased?”
She shivered.
“Yes.”
“You stated definitely that it was the body of a man completely unknown to you?”
“Yes.”
“In view of the statement just made by Major Porter would you like to withdraw or amend
your own statement?”
“No.”
“You still assert definitely that the body was not that of your husband, Robert Underhay?”
“It was not my husband’s body. It was a man I had never seen in my life.”
“Come now, Mrs. Cloade, Major Porter has definitely recognized it as the body of his friend
Robert Underhay.”
Rosaleen said expressionlessly:
“Major Porter is mistaken.”
“You are not under oath in this court, Mrs. Cloade. But it is likely that you will be under oath
in another court shortly. Are you prepared then to swear that the body is not that of Robert
Underhay but of an unknown stranger?”
“I am prepared to swear that it is not the body of my husband but of a man quite unknown to
me.”
Her voice was clear and unfaltering. Her eyes met the coroner unshrinkingly.
He murmured: “You can stand down.”
Then, removing his pince-nez, he addressed the jury.
They were there to discover how this man came to his death. As to that, there could be little
question. There could be no idea of accident or suicide. Nor could there be any suggestion of
manslaughter. There remained only one verdict—wilful murder. As to the identity of the dead
man, that was not clearly established.
They had heard one witness, a man of upright character and probity whose word could be relied
upon, say that the body was that of a former friend of his, Robert Underhay. On the other hand
Robert Underhay’s death from fever in Africa had been established apparently to the satisfaction
of the local authorities and no question had then been raised. In contradiction of Major Porter’s
statement, Robert Underhay’s widow, now Mrs. Gordon Cloade, stated positively that the body
was not that of Robert Underhay. These were diametrically opposite statements. Passing from the
question of identity they would have to decide if there was any evidence to show whose hand had
murdered the deceased. They might think that the evidence pointed to a certain person, but a good
deal of evidence was needed before a case could be made out — evidence and motive and
opportunity. The person must have been seen by someone in the vicinity of the crime at the
appropriate time. If there was not such evidence the best verdict was that of Wilful Murder
without sufficient evidence to show by whose hand. Such a verdict would leave the police free to
pursue the necessary inquiries.
He then dismissed them to consider their verdict.
They took three quarters of an hour.
They returned a verdict of Wilful Murder against David Hunter.
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