In the further room, under Mr Amblesby’s baleful eye, the doctor and the mother gave their evidence.
To the doctor, it was a familiar formality. His concise, velvet-voiced account of cranial fracture and laceration of the brain consistent with the deceased’s having been involved in a collision between two road vehicles, made the boy’s death sound a proper and even laudable consummation. Mr Amblesby, at any rate, was content. He delved noisily into a leather pouch and counted out the doctor’s fee in silver. The doctor picked up the coins and slipped them into a fob pocket: he would be on the lookout, the action seemed to say, for blind beggars as soon as he reached the street. Then, with a small bow to the coroner and a murmured good morning to Malley, he glided from the court.
The mother’s testimony—a matter of formal identification—was compressed into a single sentence. The body now lying at Flaxborough General Hospital had been viewed by her and was that of her son, Percy Thomas Hallam, aged eighteen years, an assistant storekeeper, who resided with her at five, George Street, Flaxborough.
And that, for the moment, should have been that. An adjournment for seven days. Malley waited for the old man to mutter his formula.
But Mr Amblesby remained staring at the woman crossly. His mouth fell open a little in preparation for the dance of the dentures. Malley saw and was alarmed. He reached over to touch the woman’s shoulder and said: “That’s all for just now, Mrs Hallam.”
The dentures came forward and rose, then rattled back. “Have you been writing letters to me?” Mr Amblesby asked.
Utterly confused, the woman looked at Malley and wonderingly shook her head.
“I’m asking you, not the sergeant,” said the coroner.
Malley bent low to speak in Mr Amblesby’s ear. “There hasn’t been any letter, sir. You mustn’t question the lady like that.”
The coroner flapped a dismissive hand. He did not take his eyes off Mrs Hallam.
“I asked you whether you had written to me. You must know, woman.”
“I haven’t written to anybody, sir.” The tips of gloved fingers moved back and forth, just touching her mouth. The glove was of black cotton and quite new.
“Eh?” said Mr Amblesby.
Malley again intervened, his words loud and measured, as to someone deaf or feeble-minded.
“She says she hasn’t written to anybody, sir. Not to anybody. There hasn’t been a letter, sir.”
Mr Amblesby sat quite still, hunched in the centre of the big, claw-footed chair. He went on looking at Mrs Hallam. She began to weep quietly.
Suddenly the coroner flapped at her a dry, brown-mottled hand and thrust the other into the side pocket of his coat. He hauled out his handkerchief and draped it over his knees. A faint whiff of kipper reached Malley. After more groping, the old man held aloft a grey envelope. It had been slit open neatly, in lawyer’s style.
“Now tell me the truth. Did you send me this?”
“No, sir. I don’t know anything about it.”
Malley sighed, shaking his head. He firmly took the letter out of the old man’s hand. He turned the envelope about, examining it, then withdrew and unfolded a sheet of grey notepaper. He stepped out of Mr Amblesby’s reach and began to read.
The coroner watched. He looked pleased, as though relishing the effect of a prepared surprise. The tip of his tongue, very wet and of the same colour as a sheep’s, curled over his upper lip.
Malley read the letter through twice. It was typed and unsigned. The type was of the slightly florid kind, italic characters matching up to form script, peculiar to certain portable machines.
My Dear Friend:
This is an urgent appeal. I am in great danger. The person whose loyal and faithful companion I have been— and to whom even now my life is dedicated—intends to have me done away with. I can scarcely believe his change of heart, but I have heard the plan discussed and must believe it, however unwillingly. They think I do not understand. Of course I understand! I can sense when I am in the way. And I know that murder is going to be the reward for my uncomplaining loyalty. A poison pellet in my food...a quick injection...perhaps to be held helpless under water by a loved hand until I drown...one or other of these dreadful fates will overtake me if you, dear friend, do not bring aid. Soon I shall send you details of how you can help. I cannot—for reasons you will understand—sign this letter, but I enclose my photograph in the hope that your heart may be touched.
Malley turned the letter over, then looked inside the envelope. There was no photograph. He put letter and envelope on the table before the coroner.
“I think somebody’s been pulling your leg, sir.”
Mr Amblesby’s tongue disappeared; so did his look of triumph.
“Eh?”
“Whatever put it into your head”—Malley set about fussily tidying the papers, pen and inkwell in front of Mr Amblesby—“that this had anything to do with Mrs Hallam? You must try not to get things mixed up, sit.” He turned. “Just sign your deposition, Mrs Hallam, then you can get along home.”
The woman wrote her name with great concentration, as if frightened of spoiling something valuable but not her own. Halfway through, she stopped and took off her glove. She wiped her hand on her black, thick coat, then completed the signature.
The sergeant took her to the door. Outside, he spoke to her for some moments. She was silent and quite without curiosity. Malley told her to go home and make herself a cup of tea. He knew she probably would not have thought of it herself.
Malley found Mr Amblesby peevishly pulling the knob of a cupboard.
“Where did you put my coat, sergeant?”
