Page 30 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

The coroner was a medical man, tall and bony, in the sort of good tweed suit that had been bought to last a lifetime.

His thin hair was eked carefully over his scalp; his bony beak of a nose supported gold-rimmed pince-nez at the top and a drop of moisture at the bottom – the room in the back of the Mermaid Hotel, which had been requisitioned for the inquest, was clammily cold.

His red, bony hands rested on top of his papers, except when they wielded a large white handkerchief, as he listened in attentive silence to the police constable’s account, read out in a monotone from a notebook.

Then the police surgeon gave his account. ‘Deceased had suffered a severe blow to the cranium causing a fracture of the right temporal bone and severe intracranial haemorrhage.’

‘Would this blow have been fatal?’

‘It would have led to unconsciousness and death,’ the surgeon said, looking surprised. ‘In my opinion.’

The coroner looked impatient. ‘I am not questioning your expertise, sir. I am merely trying to establish whether there was some other or additional cause of death, or whether the blow itself was sufficient.’

‘The blow was the cause of death. In my opinion.’

‘And how was such a blow acquired?’

‘That is beyond my knowledge, sir. I was at the scene only some time after death.’

More impatience. ‘Was the damage to the cranium consistent with deceased hitting his head on the lamppost by which he was lying?’

‘Yes, sir. In my opinion.’

The coroner glanced at his watch, and instead of returning it to his pocket he placed it on the desk beside his glass of water. Sebastian thought this a good sign: he wanted to get the business done and perhaps would not ask too many questions.

The next witness, a large, red-faced man who gave his name as Bryson and his occupation as carter, said that he had just come out of the Three Tuns on the corner of Hog Lane and saw ‘that posh gent over there’ talking to Shoddy Jack outside his shop.

‘By Shoddy Jack, you mean deceased? How do you know him?’’ the coroner asked.

‘Bless you, sir, everybody at the Tuns knows him,’ Bryson said. ‘In there every day. I seen him a-dun-a-many times.’

The coroner looked as if he didn’t much like being blessed by the likes of Bryson. ‘What were you doing in a public house at that time of the morning?’

‘Delivering beer, sir,’ the carter replied smartly, with a look that said, You don’t catch me that way .

The coroner sniffed. ‘Continue,’ he said. ‘You saw them talking. What then?’

‘I see Jack grab the gent by his coat, and the gent shoves him away. Then Jack gets out a knife. He goes for the gent, the gent shoves him back again, then he clouts him with his stick – the gent does – and Jack falls backwards and cracks his head on the lamppost. That musta done for him, for he doesn’t get up again. ’

‘Very well. You may sit down.’

Then it was Sebastian’s turn. There was a murmur of interest as he stood up.

In steady tones he said he had paused outside the shop to look at the clothes in the window, and deceased had come to the door and demanded to know what he wanted.

Then he had grabbed hold of him in a threatening manner.

He had managed to disengage himself, and deceased had come at him with a knife, wounding him.

‘You sustained a wound?’ the coroner asked.

‘Yes, sir. A long cut across my ribs and midriff. It required six stitches.’

‘Very well. Continue.’

‘He came at me again, and I struck at him with my cane. He staggered, took a step backwards, caught his heel on the kerb and fell, striking his head against the lamppost.’

‘When you struck him, you believed he was intending to do you more harm?’

‘I am certain of it.’

‘So you struck him to defend yourself?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did you strike him upon the head?’

‘No, sir. The blow fell on his shoulder.’

‘Very well. What was your relationship with deceased?’

‘None, sir,’ Sebastian said carefully and truthfully. ‘I had never seen him before in my life.’

‘If that is the case, why do you suppose he attacked you?’

This was trickier. ‘I cannot explain it, sir, except to say that he was evidently drunk.’

The foreman of the jury stood up. ‘We would like to know, if you please, what the gentleman and deceased talked about.’

The coroner sighed at the delay. He said to Sebastian, ‘You hear. The jury wish to know what you talked about.’

Sebastian was on eggshells now. ‘He asked me what I wanted. Then he demanded to know how I knew his wife. I said I didn’t know her. Then he attacked me.’

‘Did you, in fact, know his wife?’’

‘No, sir. I can only think he mistook me for someone else.’

‘That sounds likely. You may sit down.’

A witness, a nervous older woman, gave testimony that Jack Hubbard was a ‘great drinker’ and ‘often drunk out of his senses’. His wife Mary also was frequently drunk. She was ‘a bad sort’.

The tapman from the Three Tuns said that he had sold a jug of flesh and blood to deceased’s wife that morning about an hour before the incident. He further explained, on request, that flesh and blood was a popular local alcoholic beverage of porter mixed with gin. The coroner seemed to wince.

Another witness, a tiny old woman, very excited, shrill, and lacking teeth, said that Shoddy Jack was ‘like a mad beast’ in his cups, and used to beat his wife Mary when he’d ‘had a few’.

‘I see him pull his knife out,’ she confided eagerly.

‘It was me what shouted out and warned that feller – the gennleman there. Then Mary comes out and starts a-creatin’, only some fellers held her back, or she’d likely have jined in. ’

‘What you think she might have done is not evidence,’ the coroner said sternly. ‘Is the wife present?’

The police inspector bobbed up to say that the woman, known variously as Mary Hughes, Mary or May Hubbard and Mary or Molly Welch, who lived with deceased as his wife, had been taken up dead drunk and disorderly in the early hours of that day and was still in the cells, not yet fit to be released.

‘Very well,’ said the coroner. ‘Anyone else have anything more to say?’

The inspector rose again, and said, ‘Sir, I feel Mr Tallant has not been sufficiently open about his presence in Hog Lane that morning. He has not accounted for why he was there at all. He claims he was wandering without any particular purpose, but I have a witness who says he asked the way to Hog Lane, and paid some boys a penny to guide him there.’

‘Very well, we’ll hear this witness.’

The inspector looked glum. ‘I interviewed her, sir, but she was unwilling to appear in person unless subpoenaed. If I might request an adjournment . . .’

The coroner glanced at his watch again and said, with diminished patience, ‘Oh, surely there’s no need for that.

The essentials of the business seem clear enough to me.

Mr Tallant!’ Sebastian stood up. ‘Please state for the inspector’s satisfaction what was your purpose in going to Hog Lane on the morning in question. ’

‘I confess it was idle curiosity, sir. I had heard of it as a place of ill repute and wanted to see it for myself.’

‘A reprehensible curiosity, and no doubt you feel you have been sufficiently punished for it. Yes, what is it?’

A man in a worn suit had stood up, and said, ‘My lord, I protest!’

‘I am not a judge, and this is not a court of law. You address me as sir.’

‘Well, sir, I protest about the gennleman calling it a place of ill repute. Us that live in Hog Lane are decent folk trying to make a honest living. I have an ironmongery shop, sir, and if people get to talking about ill repute and suchlike, what’ll happen to my business?

My wife’s already in a state of nerves over having a dead body prac’ly right outside our premises. ’

‘What would you have me do?’ the coroner barked impatiently.

‘I would like it stated official, sir,’ the ironmonger went on determinedly, ‘that Hog Lane is a decent place.’

There was a murmur of agreement from several others in the room.

‘Yes, yes, very well.’ The coroner waved him to sit down. ‘Mr Tallant, let us be clear, had you any knowledge of or dealings with deceased before that day?’

This was the moment Sebastian had dreaded, but he had his answer ready, and it was the truth. ‘I had never met or seen the man before in my life,’ he said, with all the sincerity he could muster.

‘Well, Inspector?’ said the coroner. ‘That’s plain enough for you, isn’t it?’

The inspector rose again. ‘Sir, I find it difficult to believe that deceased would attack a complete stranger at knifepoint for no reason at all.’

The coroner’s patience snapped. ‘I do not find it at all difficult to believe that an habitual drunk, known to be violent in his cups, should behave irrationally and violently. Those who engage in drunken brawls require only occasion, not provocation. Alcohol is rightly called “the demon drink” and its pernicious influence is the curse of the lower classes. It is quite clear that Mr Tallant was attacked with a knife – and wounded – and was merely defending himself, and that deceased tripped and fell and struck his head accidentally upon the lamppost. Does the jury need to retire?’

There was some shuffling, exchanged glances, and heads put together for some urgent whispering. Then the foreman stood up. ‘No sir.’

‘And what is your verdict?’

‘That deceased came by his death by accident, sir, due to hitting his head on the lamppost.’ He was given some strong, nudging looks. ‘And we would like to add, sir, as there is too much drink taken around the Lanes and we should like to see the pubs closed earlier at night so as to cut it down.’

‘That’s not a matter within my competence,’ the coroner said irritably, and closed the proceedings.

Sebastian held himself deliberately still, aware the inspector was looking at him and frowning. He should not see him slump with relief.