“Had you in your mind any definite idea as to what might have happened to him?”
“I thought he might have been taken ill or have fallen down dead. He once told me that he would probably die quite suddenly. I believe that he suffered from some affection of the heart, but he did not like speaking about his health.”
“Are you sure that there was nothing more than this in your mind?”
“There was nothing more. I thought that his heart might have failed and that he might have wandered, in a half-conscious state, away from the main path and fallen dead in one of the thickets.”
The coroner pondered this reply for some time. I could not see why, for it was plain and straightforward enough. At length he said, very gravely and with what seemed to me unnecessary emphasis:
“I want you to be quite frank and open with us, Miss D’Arblay. Can you swear that there was no other possibility in your mind than that of sudden illness?”
She looked at him in surprise, apparently not understanding the drift of the question. As to me, I assumed that he was endeavoring delicately to ascertain whether deceased was addicted to drink.
“I have told you exactly what was in my mind,” she replied.
“Have you ever had any reason to suppose, or to entertain the possibility, that your father might take his own life?”
“Never,” she answered emphatically. “He was a happy, even-tempered man, always interested in his work, and always in good spirits. I am sure he would never have taken his own life.”
The coroner nodded with a rather curious air of satisfaction, as if he were concurring with the witness’s statement. Then he asked in the same grave, emphatic manner:
“So far as you know, had your father any enemies?”
“No,” she replied confidently. “He was a kindly, amiable man who disliked nobody, and everyone who knew him loved him.”
As she uttered this panegyric (and what prouder testimony could a daughter have given?), her eyes filled, and the coroner looked at her with deep sympathy but yet with a somewhat puzzled expression.
“You are sure,” he said gently, “that there was no one whom he might have injured—even inadvertently—or who bore him any grudge or ill-will?”
“I am sure,” she answered, “that he never injured or gave offence to anyone, and I do not believe that there was any person in the whole world who bore him anything but goodwill.”
The coroner noted this reply, and as he entered it in the depositions his face bore the same curious puzzled or doubtful expression. When he had written the answer down, he asked:
“By the way, what was the deceased’s occupation?”
“He was a sculptor by profession, but in late years he worked principally as a modeller for various trades—pottery manufacturers, picture-frame makers, carvers, and the makers of high-class wax figures for shop windows.”
“Had he any assistants or subordinates?”
“No. He worked alone. Occasionally I helped him with his moulds when he was very busy or had a very large work on hand; but usually he did everything himself. Of course, he occasionally employed models.”
“Do you know who those models were?”
“They were professional models. The men, I think, were all Italians, and some of the women were too. I believe my father kept a list of them in his address book.”
“Was he working from a model on the night of his death?”
“No. He was making the moulds for a porcelain statuette.”
“Did you ever hear that he had any kind of trouble with his models?”
“Never. He seemed always on the best of terms with them, and he used to speak of them most appreciatively.”
“What sort of persons are professional models? Should you say they are a decent, well-conducted class?”
“Yes. They are usually most respectable, hardworking people; and, of course, they are sober and decent in their habits or they would be of no use for their professional duties.”
The coroner meditated on these replies with a speculative eye on the witness. After a short pause, he began along another line.
“Did deceased ever carry about with him property of any considerable value?”
“Never, to my knowledge.”
“No jewellery, plate, or valuable material?”
“No. His work was practically all in plaster or wax. He did no goldsmith’s work and he used no precious material.”
“Did he ever have any considerable sums of money about him?”
“No. He received all his payments by cheque and he made his payments in the same way. His habit was to carry very little money on his person—usually not more than one or two pounds.”
Once more the coroner reflected profoundly. It seemed to me that he was trying to elicit some fact—I could not imagine what—and was failing utterly. At length, after another puzzled look at the witness, he turned to the jury and inquired if any of them wished to put any questions; and when they had severally shaken their heads he thanked Miss D’Arblay for the clear and straightforward way in which she had given her evidence and released her.
While the examination had been proceeding, I had allowed my eyes to wander round the room with some curiosity: for this was the first time that I had ever been present at an inquest. From the jury, the witnesses in waiting and the reporters—among whom I tried to identify Dr. Thorndyke’s stenographer—my attention was presently transferred to the spectators. There were only a few of them, but I found myself wondering why there should be any. What kind of person attends as a spectator at an ordinary inquest such as this appeared to be?
