The morning of the inquest broke beautifully fine and sunny. I looked out of my bedroom window and felt that the duty that lay ahead of us meant putting such a glorious day to poor use. The inquest was to be held at the “Swan’s Nest”—the most pretentious hostelry that Considine boasted. I shaved, washed and dressed with an ill grace that morning, for I could remember attending an inquest before—it had bored me beyond expression.

Sir Charles opened the matter at breakfast. “Baddeley tells me they are bringing Marshall in from Lewes for to-day’s affair. I was, I confess, somewhat surprised at the news—I had scarcely anticipated such a step. I suppose they know their own business best.”

“Who is the coroner for this district, Sir Charles?” asked Anthony.

“A Dr. Anselm. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him once or twice before ... being a magistrate,” replied our host.

“It wouldn’t astonish me to see a verdict of ‘Wilful murder’ against ‘Spider’ Webb,” said Jack Considine—“despite what he and this pretty wife of his say about it. What’s your opinion, Bathurst?”
205

Anthony walked across to the sideboard and helped himself to a healthy portion of cold pie.

“Depends entirely upon what Baddeley wants,” he responded. “If he’s keen on that particular verdict he’ll probably play his cards to get it. Personally, I’m not so sure that he is.” He went back to the table.

“What makes you think that, Bathurst?” asked Captain Arkwright.

“Oh—I’m not suggesting anything against Baddeley, in any shape or form—but the police have advantages in these matters—they’re playing on their own ground as it were.” He laughed. “I’m assured in my own mind that it is so—I’ve watched events pretty closely and often noticed it—still, this Inspector has impressed me throughout as an upright, honest and quite efficient person so we can’t tell.” He walked back to his seat. Then continued, “And of course, there’s always the possibility that he may have something up his sleeve. Personally—I shall expect it.”

“Well, Baddeley isn’t the only one to have that,” I ventured blazingly indiscreet.

Anthony shook a warning finger at me. “Bill—Bill——” The breakfast company immediately became all attention.

“What’s this, Bill?” demanded Sir Charles. “Who among us has any special knowledge? Bathurst hasn’t made any other discoveries, has he?”
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Anthony flung another warning glance in my direction then replied to Sir Charles. “You flatter me, Sir Charles,” he said laughingly, “and you make altogether too much of my Webb escapade—Bill is getting as bad as the rest of you—that’s all there is to it.”

I thought that Sir Charles looked somewhat relieved. Lady Considine evidently had a similar impression for she leaned across and patted him on the sleeve. “Don’t you worry too much about it, Charles,” she said quietly; “let’s get this unpleasant business over to-day—then perhaps we may be allowed to forget. If Inspector Baddeley arrests the murderer—well and good—if he fails to——” she shrugged her shoulders. The breakfast party broke up.

“Both the cars are going down to the village—there will be room in them for all,” announced our host.

We murmured our thanks. “What do you say to a stroll down, Bill?” said Anthony. “Plenty of time, and it will stretch our legs.”

“I’m with you,” I responded. I was secretly pleased at the opportunity—I imagined that he wanted to tell me something or desired to discuss some aspect of the case with me. I was disappointed. He was quiet. We swung along some distance before I broke the ice.

“What did you make of that letter business?” I asked, watching his expression intently.

“In what relation?”
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“To Prescott—to the murder.” I was nettled. What relation did he imagine I meant?

“Oh, that! None at all!”

I stared incredulously, even more nettled than before. “Sorry to hear that—I had hoped that I had discovered something moderately important.”

“So you did, Bill. But its importance was not exactly in reference to the actual murder.”

“What on earth do you——”

“Its importance is a matter of accumulation—its real relation is to the boot-lace and the Barker I.O.U.”

I shook my head hopelessly. “What can Mary’s letter have to do with those other things—you said yourself we didn’t know to whom the letter was written—besides, we have Mary’s word that she never wrote to Prescott in her life—surely you believe her—you can’t doubt her?”

“Not for a moment, Bill.”

“Well, then”—I became emphatic—“there must be——”

“You’ll see what I’m getting at all in good time. Don’t be impatient—besides, here we are at ‘The Swan’s Nest.’”
208

The news of the inquest had excited considerable interest, and a good-sized knot of people had gathered outside the hostelry. As we entered, I heard speculation regarding many details of the case, and our identity was audibly discussed. Dr. Anselm was just taking his seat. He referred to the shocking nature of the tragedy that was to be there, and then investigated and proceeded at once to put the case before the twelve good men and true. Witnesses, he informed us, would be called to identify the deceased as Gerald Prescott, a guest of Sir Charles Considine—he mentioned the name with proper respect and reverence—at Considine Manor, where he had been staying for nearly a week. A good many of the company knew that the poor young man—with whose relatives he would desire to express his deepest sympathy—had appeared in the last ’Varsity Match at Lords’, and had been invited to Considine Manor to take part in Sir Charles Considine’s Annual Cricket Week. Nothing of any untoward incident had occurred during his stay—they had no evidence of any quarrelling or friction of any kind—yet on the Saturday morning, Prescott had been found lying on the billiard-table—in the—ahem—billiard room—foully murdered. Sensation! Done to death by strangulation, Dr. Elliott would inform them, as a highly qualified medical man, and it would be the jury’s duty to weigh this evidence and all the evidence to arrive at a fit and proper verdict. In addition to a boot-lace tied tightly round his throat, the murdered man had also been stabbed at the base of the neck, at the top of the spinal cord with a dagger! More and greater sensation! The case had also a strange complication. On the night of the murder, Lady Considine’s pearls had been stolen from the Manor. Again sensation! But owing to the masterly handling of this portion of the affair by Inspector Baddeley of the Sussex Constabulary, who had acted with lightning-like rapidity in the following up of certain data that he had gleaned, two persons had been arrested and lodged in Lewes Jail. Final and crowning sensation! The reporters present licked their lips. This was almost too good to be true. Anthony nudged me in the ribs. “He’s rendered to Baddeley the things that weren’t Baddeley’s—you see!” He grinned. “Just as I expected.”
209

Dr. Anselm speedily got to the real business of the morning. The room we were in was evidently the dining-room of the “Swan’s Nest,” and I attempted to picture it in its ordinary environment. It seemed grotesque to imagine people could dine here in any comfort after this inquiry was over. Then I heard “Mrs. Prescott” called.

The Coroner once again expressed his profound sympathy with her in her distress. She gave formal evidence identifying the body that she had viewed as the body of her son—Gerald Onslow Lancelot Prescott. He was twenty-two years of age—unmarried—and had just come down from Oxford. As far as she was aware deceased had no troubles or worries; he was quite sound financially and to her knowledge hadn’t an enemy in the world.

The Coroner.—“Had he any love affair?”

Mrs. Prescott.—“No. None that he had ever confided to me.”

The Coroner.—“He had come to Considine Manor simply to take part in the Cricket Week?”

Mrs. Prescott.—“That is so.”
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The Coroner.—“Had you heard from him during his stay there?”

Mrs. Prescott.—“Yes—a short letter. Full of the good times he was having.”

The Coroner.—“And you know of absolutely nothing that would throw any light upon this indescribably dreadful affair?”

Mrs. Prescott.—“Nothing! Nothing at all!”

The Coroner thanked her and the next witness was summoned. If summoned can correctly describe the procedure.

“Constance Webb!”

From between two sturdy members of the Sussex County Police came she whom we had known as Marshall. Still sensation!

The reporters bent to their tasks with redoubled energy—sweetened by the thoughts of circulations to come. A low hum buzzed round the room at the appearance of this new witness. Anthony clutched at my arm.

“Look,” he muttered. Inspector Baddeley had come round to the side of Dr. Anselm and was whispering something to him. I saw the Coroner nod his head three or four times in seeming acquiescence. Baddeley appeared to be explaining something, for I saw the doctor give a final approving movement of the head, and then turn and address the witness.

“What’s afoot?” I interrogated.

“I think I know,” answered Anthony. &ldq............