His repressive tone of voice clearly indicated that the police were prepared for anything, as anyone of any intelligence would surely know. Several people in the room tittered nervously at this first sign of a clash of wills.
‘Very perspicacious of you, Sergeant,’ Clement shot back smoothly, confident that the other man would have no idea of the meaning of the long word he’d just used.
The Sergeant, magnificently choosing to suppose that he’d just been complimented, inclined his head graciously. ‘I then proceeded to preserve the evidence. Shortly thereafter the local doctor arrived and confirmed death.’
Clement nodded. ‘Did you find a suicide note at the scene?’
‘No sir. There were no pieces of paper visible in the barn.’
‘You searched the deceased’s pockets, I presume?’
‘Yes sir. That is standard procedure,’ the Sergeant said with a bland smile.
‘And made a list of the contents, no doubt?’ Clement said, refusing to be drawn.
‘Yes sir.’ Sergeant O’Grady allowed himself an extravagant sigh, which again made those of a more nervous disposition titter nervously. ‘We found a wallet, containing one pound, two shillings and sixpence, a handkerchief, a small set of keys, a roll of mints and a letter.’
The last item produced the now-anticipated buzz of interest in the rapt room.
Clement, who knew what the man giving evidence knew, played along, feeding him his lines in a now familiar dance. ‘To whom was this letter addressed?’
‘To the deceased.’
‘And had it been opened?’
‘It had been,’ O’Grady confirmed.
‘Presumably then, it had been read by the deceased,’ Clement said, for the jury’s benefit. Sometimes you had to make everything crystal clear for them. ‘Did you confirm the nature of the contents of the letter, and by whom it had been written?’
‘Yes sir, we did.’ O’Grady took a deep breath, knowing the sensation he was about to cause. ‘The letter was a love-letter, written to the deceased by Iris Carmody.’
Chapter 5
Clement waited patiently for the furore to calm down, before regarding the Sergeant steadily. ‘And you are sure of the veracity of this letter?’
‘Yes sir.’
Clement nodded. At this point he cast a quick glance at the section of press who were straining in their seats for more salacious information. He knew that the letter in question had been written on rose-scented stationery, had been dated less than three months ago, and had been the usual sort of missive from a pretty, young girl, mainly vowing undying love to David Finch.
But neither the police nor his office wanted these details to get into the public domain just yet. However, a few facts did need to be established here and now, as it might prove relevant to the jury’s decision when it came to bringing in a verdict. ‘I take it you subsequently made inquiries concerning this letter?’ he asked mildly, casting the public gallery a quelling glance as they began to murmur excitedly.
Within seconds the hubbub died down, and on the witness stand, Sergeant O’Grady fought to keep the smile from his face. It took a brave soul to withstand a witheringly contemptuous glance from the old vulture, and not for the first time, he had reason to be glad that Dr Ryder kept a firm control of his courtroom. Although some of his colleagues hated testifying when he was presiding, the Sergeant had long since realised that, so long as you showed the man respect, there was actually very little to fear. Well …
‘And what did you discover?’ Clement’s voice snapped the policeman back to the matter in hand.
‘We discovered that, prior to his death, the deceased and the young lady in question had been stepping out together for the past four or five months.’
‘I see.’ Clement glanced at the jury, but decided not to lead them. No doubt they were already letting their fertile imaginations loose – with some of them deciding David Finch had murdered his girlfriend and then killed himself in a fit of remorse or fear. The more generous or romantically minded might be inclined to give the young man the benefit of the doubt, and prefer to think him innocent of murder, but that he had killed himself due to a broken heart.
Since he could already see that the writing was on the wall, and he had no doubt that the jury was likely to return a verdict of suicide there was little point, at this stage, in him trying to influence them towards a more useful Open Verdict.
‘Thank you, Sergeant. I think it’s time we heard from those nearest and dearest to the deceased now.’
There was a low moan of disappointment at this, but another ferocious glance from the coroner’s steely grey eyes quickly had the spectators subsiding into a slightly resentful silence. His bushy white eyebrows smoothed out into an amiable line again.
He understood it, of course – the majority of them had come for answers and news, but the police liked to give away as little as possible.
‘I call Superintendent Keith Finch.’
At this, any residual resentment fell away and heads turned and necks craned to get their first glimpse of the dead boy’s father. Of course, the fact that he was a high-ranking police officer, and that his dead son had to be the prime suspect in the May Queen murder case only added considerable grist to their mill.
The coroner caught Duncan Gillingham’s slightly ironic glance as he watched the witness take the stand. Usually, and especially in cases of suspected suicide, the press tried to show the proper sympathies for the grieving parents, as did juries, who nearly always tried to soften the blow by bringing in the caveat ‘whilst of unsound mind’ whenever returning a suicide verdict.
But Clement noticed that the man taking the stand, by the ramrod rigidity of his spine and the tight-clenched line of his jaw,
