“It would take a great deal of restoration, and a cottage like that is a listed building. I could not see us getting planning permission. It has quite a history. Our man found out about it when he was doing his research. During the Civil War, that is Roundheads and Cavaliers, a certain Cavalier, Sir Geoffrey Lamont, fled the Battle of Worcester and took refuge there. It was rumoured he was carrying a fortune in jewels and gold with him. He did not know that his host, Simon Lovesey, had become a Cromwell sympathizer, and Lovesey betrayed him. Sir Geoffrey was hanged on Tower Hill.”
“And what happened to his fortune?” asked Agatha.
“Nobody seems to know. Shortly after betraying him, Lovesey died of consumption, which was what they called tuberculosis in those days.”
They helped themselves to coffee and talked about the price of houses until Mr. Perry said he had an appointment in a few minutes and so they took their leave.
“Do you think there is buried treasure?” asked Agatha excitedly as they drove back.
“Not for a moment.”
“Oh, you! No romance in your soul. I’d like to search.”
“Well, you can’t. I am not breaking into Ivy Cottage.”
“We might not need to break in. Look, when we go to the funeral, Harry’s bound to have laid on some sort of reception at the house.”
“So?”
“So we join the other mourners and I get the key out of the front door and take it to a locksmiths, nip back and replace the original.”
“I think there’s an easier way,” said Paul. “I’m sure Harry will put the house up for sale as soon as the funeral is over. All we need to do is to wait a few days, find out which estate agent, and say we want to look the house over. In the meantime, it might be an idea to find out more about the history of the house. But don’t go dreaming of buried treasure. If there had been anything, it would have been found ages ago. There might be a secret way into the house.”
“Let’s go and see Mrs. Bloxby and find out if there’s a historical society which might have details about Ivy Cottage,” said Agatha.
“There’s a historical society in Towdey,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Do you know Towdey?”
“I know it’s quite near Hebberdon,” said Agatha, “but I’ve never actually been there.”
“It’s quite big, a bit like Blockley. Used to be a mill town in the eighteenth century. I don’t know who runs the society, but you could drive over there and ask.”
“We’ll do that,” said Agatha. “I suppose we’d best go to the inquest tomorrow. Bound to be a verdict of accidental death.”
But Agatha and Paul were in for a surprise.
The following morning found them both sitting at the back of the coroner’s court in Mircester.
“There’s a jury,” exclaimed Paul.
“Don’t they always have one?” asked Agatha.
“Not always. The coroner summoned a jury, and the very inquest means the police aren’t satisfied about the cause of death.”
“But I thought they always had an inquest when there’s a sudden death and the deceased hadn’t visited their doctor recently.”
“Shhh! Here’s the coroner.”
Agatha stifled a giggle. The coroner looked as if he were dead. He was a tall thin man with a cadaverous face and stooped shoulders. His skin was yellowish and he gave a brief smile to the jury that looked more like a rictus.
The first witness was the policeman who had arrived on the scene at the same time as the ambulance. He said he found the deceased lying at the bottom of the staircase with her head at an awkward angle. She was in her night-clothes. The ambulance arrived at the same time. The body was examined for signs of life. None were found. Mrs. Witherspoon’s daughter had found her mother lying at the foot of the stairs and had summoned the emergency services.
Had the policeman suspected foul play? No, he said. The daughter, Miss Witherspoon, had said her mother suffered from high blood pressure and had probably had a seizure. Mrs. Witherspoon’s doctor, Dr. Firb, had been summoned, but had refused to sign the death certificate.
The next on the witness stand was Dr. Firb. He said that he had refused to sign a death certificate, preferring to wait for the police pathologist’s report. “Did you think the death suspicious?” asked the coroner.
“Not really,” said Dr. Firb. “But the circumstances seemed odd. She was admittedly an elderly lady suffering from high blood pressure, but she was very good about monitoring her blood pressure and taking her pills, and remarkably fit. I could see no signs of a stroke. Her neck appeared to have been broken. I assumed that was because of the fall but I wanted to be sure.”
There were various other questions regarding the late Mrs. Witherspoon’s mental and physical health which the doctor answered at great length while Agatha stifled a yawn. The coroner’s court was hot and dusty. The long Palladian windows looked as if they had not been washed since the eighteenth century and only weak shafts of sunlight penetrated the grime.
Agatha’s eyes began to droop. Soon she was asleep and only woke when Paul nudged her in the ribs an hour later and muttered, “You’re snoring.”
“Eh, what?” said Agatha loudly.
All eyes turned on her and she blushed. Carol Witherspoon was weeping on the stand.
“I do not want to prolong your ordeal,” said the coroner gently. “I understand you went over to see your mother as usual?”
Carol scrubbed her eyes fiercely with a damp handkerchief.
“Yes, I did,” she said loudly. She glared around the courtroom until her red-rimmed eyes focused on her brother, Harry. “And it’s more than he ever did!”
“To whom are you referring?”
“My brother. Harry. Never bothered about her, hardly ever went to see her and she leaves the lot to him! Well, I tell you this. He probably killed her!”
“I understand you are overwrought, Miss Witherspoon, but I would advise you to be careful with what you say.”
A lone reporter from a local paper, who had been yawning on the press bench, straightened up eagerly and began to scribble furiously.
“I’m saying it all looks odd to me,” howled Carol, now beside herself with rage. “His business is on the rocks. Have you found out about that?”
“Remove the witness,” said the coroner.
A policewoman led the enraged Carol away from the witness stand.
“You’ve missed the best bits,” hissed Paul.
The coroner addressed the jury. “You will disregard the accusations of the last witness. You have heard the various reports. It appears that Mrs. Witherspoon, despite her age, was fit and well up until the time of her death. Before that, she had felt herself threatened by mysterious hauntings. The pathologist has stated that the deceased died of a broken neck. This might appear that Mrs. Witherspoon died of a fatal fall down the stairs of her home, Ivy Cottage, in Hebberdon. Nonetheless, there was a black bruise on the front of her neck, commensurate with a sharp blow to that region of the body. The forensic report states that there were no fingerprints on the banister. The steps were thickly carpeted. Had Mrs. Witherspoon fallen, she would surely have clutched at the banisters at some point to try to break her fall. Neither could the forensic team find any marks anywhere on the staircase which might match the fatal wound on her neck. You may retire to consider your verdict.”
The jury took only fifteen minutes to come to their decision. “Murder by person or persons unknown.”
Agatha looked around the court for Harry Witherspoon, but he had disappeared.
“He can’t sell the house now,” whispered Paul. “Not until they find out who did it.”
Back in Carsely, Agatha said, “It’s all so obvious.”
