“I knew afterwards. I was told. But Mark didn’t read it out at breakfast.”
“You gathered, however, that it was an unwelcome letter?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Would you say that Mark was frightened by it?”
“Not frightened. Sort of bitter—and resigned. Sort of ‘Oh, Lord, here we are again!’ ”
There was a titter here and there. The Coroner smiled, and tried to pretend that he hadn’t.
“Thank you, Mr. Beverley.”
The next witness was summoned by the name of Andrew Amos, and Antony looked up with interest, wondering who he was.
“He lives at the inner lodge,” whispered Bill to him.
All that Amos had to say was that a stranger had passed by his lodge at a little before three that afternoon, and had spoken to him. He had seen the body and recognized it as the man.
“What did he say?”
“ ‘Is this right for the Red House?’ or something like that, sir.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘This is the Red House. Who do you want to see?’ He was a bit rough-looking, you know, sir, and I didn’t know what he was doing there.”
“Well?”
“Well, sir, he said, ‘Is Mister Mark Ablett at home?’ It doesn’t sound much put like that, sir, but I didn’t care about the way he said it. So I got in front of him like, and said, ‘What do you want, eh?’ and he gave a sort of chuckle and said, ‘I want to see my dear brother Mark.’ Well, then I took a closer look at him, and I see that p’raps he might be his brother, so I said, ‘If you’ll follow the drive, sir, you’ll come to the house. Of course I can’t say if Mr. Ablett’s at home.’ And he gave a sort of nasty laugh again, and said, ‘Fine place Mister Mark Ablett’s got here. Plenty of money to spend, eh?’ Well, then I had another look at him, sir, because gentlemen don’t talk like that, and if he was Mr. Ablett’s brother—but before I could make up my mind, he laughed and went on. That’s all I can tell you, sir.”
Andrew Amos stepped down and moved away to the back of the room, nor did Antony take his eyes off him until he was assured that Amos intended to remain there until the inquest was over.
“Who’s Amos talking to now?” he whispered to Bill.
“Parsons. One of the gardeners. He’s at the outside lodge on the Stanton road. They’re all here today. Sort of holiday for ’em.”
“I wonder if he’s giving evidence too,” thought Antony. He was. He followed Amos. He had been at work on the lawn in front of the house, and had seen Robert Ablett arrive. He didn’t hear the shot—not to notice. He was a little hard of hearing. He had seen a gentleman arrive about five minutes after Mr. Robert.
“Can you see him in court now?” asked the Coroner. Parsons looked round slowly. Antony caught his eye and smiled.
“That’s him,” said Parsons, pointing.
Everybody looked at Antony.
“That was about five minutes afterwards?”
“About that, sir.”
“Did anybody come out of the house before this gentleman’s arrival?”
“No, sir. That is to say I didn’t see ’em.”
Stevens followed. She gave her evidence much as she had given it to the Inspector. Nothing new was brought out by her examination. Then came Elsie. As the reporters scribbled down what she had overheard, they added in brackets “Sensation” for the first time that afternoon.
“How soon after you had heard this did the shot come?” asked the Coroner.
“Almost at once, sir.”
“A minute?”
“I couldn’t really say, sir. It was so quick.”
“Were you still in the hall?”
“Oh, no, sir. I was just outside Mrs. Stevens’ room. The housekeeper, sir.”
“You didn’t think of going back to the hall to see what had happened?”
“Oh, no, sir. I just went in to Mrs. Stevens, and she said, ‘Oh, what was that?’ frightened-like. And I said, ‘That was in the house, Mrs. Stevens, that was.’ Just like something going off, it was.”
“Thank you,” said the Coroner.
There was another emotional disturbance in the room as Cayley went into the witness-box; not “Sensation” this time, but an eager and, as it seemed to Antony, sympathetic interest. Now they were getting to grips with the drama.
He gave his evidence carefully, unemotionally—the lies with the same slow deliberation as the truth. Antony watched him intently, wondering what it was about him which had this odd sort of attractiveness. For Antony, who knew that he was lying, and lying (as he believed) not for Mark’s sake but his own, yet could not help sharing some of that general sympathy with him.
“Was Mark ever in possession of a revolver?” asked the Coroner.
“Not to my knowledge. I think I should have known if he had been.”
“You were alone with him all that morning. Did he talk about this visit of Robert’s at all?”
“I didn’t see very much of him in the morning. I was at work in my room, and outside, and so on. We lunched together and he talked of it then a little.”
“In what terms?”
“Well—” he hesitated, and then went on. “I can’t think of a better word than ‘peevishly.’ Occasionally he said, ‘What do you think he wants?’ or ‘Why couldn’t he have stayed where he was?’ or ‘I don’t like the tone of his letter. Do you think he means trouble?’ He talked rather in that kind of way.”
“Did he express his surprise that his brother should be in England?”
“I think he was always afraid that he would turn up one day.”
“Yes. … You didn’t hear any conversation between the brothers when they were in the office together?”
“No. I happened to go into the library just after Mark had gone in, and I was there all the time.”
“Was the library door open?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did you see or hear the last witness at all?”
“No.”
“If anybody had come out of the office while you were in the library, would you have heard it?”
“I think so. Unless they had come out very quietly on purpose.”
“Would you call Mark
