That afternoon we, Gertrude, Halsey and I, attended
the coroner’s inquest in town. Doctor
Stewart had been summoned also, it transpiring that
in that early Sunday morning, when Gertrude and I
had gone to our rooms, he had been called to view the
body. We went, the four of us, in the machine,
preferring the execrable roads to the matinee train,
with half of Casanova staring at us. And on
the way we decided to say nothing of Louise and her
interview with her stepbrother the night he died.
The girl was in trouble enough as it was.
A HINT OF SCANDAL
In giving the gist of what happened at the inquest,
I have only one excuse—to recall to the
reader the events of the night of Arnold Armstrong’s
murder. Many things had occurred which were
not brought out at the inquest and some things were
told there that were new to me. Altogether,
it was a gloomy affair, and the six men in the corner,
who constituted the coroner’s jury, were evidently
the merest puppets in the hands of that all-powerful
gentleman, the coroner.
Gertrude and I sat well back, with our veils down.
There were a number of people I knew: Barbara
Fitzhugh, in extravagant mourning—she always
went into black on the slightest provocation, because
it was becoming—and Mr. Jarvis, the man
who had come over from the Greenwood Club the night
of the murder. Mr. Harton was there, too, looking
impatient as the inquest dragged, but alive to every
particle of evidence. From a corner Mr. Jamieson
was watching the proceedings intently.
Doctor Stewart was called first. His evidence
was told briefly, and amounted to this: on the
Sunday morning previous, at a quarter before five,
he had been called to the telephone. The message
was from a Mr. Jarvis, who asked him to come at once
to Sunnyside, as there had been an accident there,
and Mr. Arnold Armstrong had been shot. He had
dressed hastily, gathered up some instruments, and
driven to Sunnyside.
He was met by Mr. Jarvis, who took him at once to
the east wing. There, just as he had fallen,
was the body of Arnold Armstrong. There was
no need of the instruments: the man was dead.
In answer to the coroner’s question—no,
the body had not been moved, save to turn it over.
It lay at the foot of the circular staircase.
Yes, he believed death had been instantaneous.
The body was still somewhat warm and rigor mortis
had not set in. It occurred late in cases of
sudden death. No, he believed the probability
of suicide might be eliminated; the wounds could have
been self-inflicted, but with difficulty, and there
had been no weapon found.
The doctor’s examination was over, but he hesitated
and cleared his throat.
“Mr. Coroner,” he said, “at the
risk of taking up valuable time, I would like to speak
of an incident that may or may not throw some light
on this matter.”
