with the trappings of loss. Condolences to the family.” He looked around the room and saw Matthew. Pitt wondered whether he had already met him, or if he were simply skilled enough to recognize bereavement at a glance. “Shall we proceed? Good, good. Let us hear the first witness to this sorry event. Mr. Usher, send for him, if you please.”
The usher obediently called for the club steward, who was, as Pitt had surmised, the man with the less expensive coat, and whose general embarrassment was now acute. He was overwhelmed, afraid of making a mistake. His manners were self-conscious, as were his clothes and his voice. He was awed by all the majesty of the law, even at this level, and by the finality of death. He mounted the witness stand with his eyes wide and his face pale.
“No need to be afraid, my man,” the coroner said benignly. “No need at all. You didn’t do anything wrong, did you? Didn’t kill the poor creature?” He smiled.
The steward was appalled. For half a second, a blood-chilling second, he thought the coroner was serious.
“N-no sir!”
“Good,” the coroner said with satisfaction. “Then compose yourself, tell us the truth, and all will be well. Who are you and what do you do? What have you to tell us about all this. Speak up!”
“M-my name is Horace Guyler, my lord. I am a steward at the Morton Club for Gentlemen. It was me as found poor Sir Arthur. I mean, o’course we all knew where ’e was, but …”
“I take your meaning perfectly,” the coroner encouraged. “It was you who discovered he was dead. And I am not a ‘my lord.’ That is for the judges. I am merely a coroner. ‘Sir’ will do very well when you address me. Proceed. Perhaps you had better begin with Sir Arthur’s arrival at the club. What time was that? When did you first see him? What was his appearance, his manner? Answer one at a time.”
Horace Guyler was confused. He had already forgotten the first question, and the second.
“Sir Arthur’s arrival,” the coroner prompted.
“Ah. Yes sir. Well, ’e came in just after luncheon, which would be about quarter past three, sir, or thereabouts. ’e looked perfectly well to me at the time, which of course I realize now, but ’e must a’ bin awful poorly. I mean, awful distressed in ’isself, about summink.”
“You must not tell us what you realize now, Mr. Guyler, only what you observed at the time. What did Sir Arthur say to you? What did he do? What was his manner? Can you recall? It is only five days ago.”
“As far as I remember, sir, ’e simply wished me a good day, same as always. ’e were always a very courteous gentleman. Not like some. And then he went through to the green room, sat down and read a newspaper to ’isself.
There was a vague stirring in the room, murmurs of approval.
“Did he order anything to drink, Mr. Guyler?”
“Not straightaway, sir. About ’alf an hour later ’e ordered a large brandy. Best Napoleon brandy, ’e wanted.”
“So you took it to him?”
“Oh yes sir, o’ course I did,” Guyler admitted unhappily. “O’ course, I didn’t know that then ’e was real upset and not ’isself. ’e seemed perfectly ’isself to me. Didn’t seem upset at all. Just sat there reading ‘is paper and muttering to ’isself now and then at pieces as ’e didn’t agree with.”
“Was he angry or depressed about it?”
“No sir.” Guyler shook his head. “Just reading, like a lot o’ gentlemen. ’e took it serious, o’ course. But then gentlemen does. The more important the gentleman, the more serious ’e takes it. And Sir Arthur used to be in the Foreign Office.”
The coroner looked grave. “Any subject in particular that you are aware of?”
“No sir. I weren’t that close to ’im. I had a lot of other gentlemen to serve, sir.”
“Naturally. And Sir Arthur had only the one brandy?”
Guyler looked unhappy. “No sir. I’m afraid ’e had a considerable number. I can’t recall ezzac’ly ’ow many, but at least six or seven. Best part of one o’ them ’alf bottles. I didn’t know ’e weren’t ’isself, or I’d never ’ave sent them!” He looked wretched, as if it really were somehow his responsibility, even though he was a club employee and might well have jeopardized his position had he refused to serve a member as he wished.
“And Sir Arthur remained in his usual spirits the whole time?” the coroner asked with a tiny frown.
“Yes sir, far as I could tell.”
“Indeed. And what time did you serve the last brandy, do you recall?”
“’alf past six, sir.”
“You are very precise.”
“Yes sir. On account of a gentleman that asked me to call ’im to remind ’im of a dinner engagement ’e ‘ad, so I knew ezzact.”
There was no sound in the room.
“And the next time you saw Sir Arthur?”
“Well, I passed by ’im a few times, on me other errands like, but I took no notice ’cause ’e looked like ’e were asleep. O’ course I wish now I’d a’ done summink….” He looked wretched, eyes downcast, face flushed.
“You are not responsible,” the coroner said gently, the bonhomie gone from his expression. “Even had you known he was unwell and called a doctor, by the time anyone arrived there was probably little he could have done to save him.”
This time there was a stirring in the room. Beside Pitt, Matthew shifted in his seat.
The steward looked at the coroner with a lift of hope.
“’e were one of the nicest gentlemen,” he said dolefully.
“I’m sure.” The coroner was noncommittal. “What time was it when you spoke to Sir Arthur, Mr. Guyler, and realized that he was dead?”
Guyler drew a deep breath. “Well first I passed him an’ thought ’e were asleep, like I said. Gentlemen who ‘as drunk a lot o’ brandy of an afternoon does fall asleep sometimes, an’ is quite ‘ard to rouse.”
“I’m sure. What time, Mr. Guyler?”
“About ’alf past seven. I thought as if ’e wanted dinner it were time I booked a place for ’im.”
“And what did you do?”
For a quarter of an hour no one in the court had moved or made any but the slightest of noises, merely a squeak of benches as the weight altered, or a creak and rustle of skirts from one of the two or three women present. Now there was a slow sighing of breath.
“I spoke to ’im, and ’e didn’t answer,” Guyler replied, staring straight ahead, painfully conscious of all eyes upon him. The court official at the table was taking rapid notes of everything he said. “So I spoke again, louder. ’e still didn’t move, and I realized …” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked very nervous as the memory of death became sharper to him. He was frightened of it. It was something he chose never to think of in the normal course of things.
The coroner waited patiently. He had watched emotions like Guyler’s chase across thousands of faces.
Pitt watched with a continuing sense of remoteness. Grief boiled up inside him; grief, a sudden overwhelming isolation as if he had been cut adrift from a safety he had been familiar with all his life. It was Arthur Desmond they were discussing so dispassionately. It was ridiculous to feel that they should have cared, should have spoken in hushed or tearful voices as if they understood the love, and yet he did feel it, even while his mind knew the absurdity.
He did not dare look at Matthew. He wanted to be done, to walk as quickly as he could, with the clear wind in his face, and the rain. The elements would keep him company as people could not.
But he must remain. Both duty and compassion required it.
“In the end I shook ’im.” Guyler lifted his chin. “Just gentle like. ’e looked a terrible color, and I couldn’t ’ear ’im at all. Gentlemen who is fallen asleep after the brandy very often breathe ‘ard and deep….”
“You mean they snore?”
“Well-yes sir.”
There was a titter of laughter somewhere on the public benches, immediately suppressed.
“Why doesn’t he get to what matters?” Matthew said fiercely beside Pitt.
“He will do,” Pitt answered in a whisper.
