The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin Freeman
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water; and the sides are not too steep to climb up easily, especially with the grass and rushes on the bank to lay hold of.”
“You say there were no signs of disturbance on the bank. Were there any in the ditch itself?
“None that I could see. But, of course, signs of disturbance soon disappear in water. The duck-weed drifts about as the wind drives it, and there are creatures moving about on the bottom. I noticed that deceased had some weed grasped in one hand.”
This concluded the sergeant’s evidence, and as he retired, the name of Dr. Albert Parton was called. The new witness was a young man of grave and professional aspect, who gave his evidence with an extreme regard for clearness and accuracy.
“I have made an examination of the body of the deceased,” he began, after the usual preliminaries. “It is that of a healthy man of about forty-five. I first saw it about two hours after it was found. It had then been dead from twelve to fifteen hours. Later I made a complete examination. I found no injuries, marks of violence or any definite bruises, and no signs of disease.”
“Did you ascertain the cause of death?” the coroner asked.
“Yes. The cause of death was drowning.”
“You are quite sure of that?”
“Quite sure. The lungs contained a quantity of water and duck-weed, and there was more than a quart of water mixed with duck-weed and water-weed in the stomach. That is a clear proof of death by drowning. The water in the lungs was the immediate cause of death, by making breathing impossible, and as the water and weed in the stomach must have been swallowed, they furnish conclusive evidence that deceased was alive when he fell into the water.”
“The water and weed could not have got into the stomach after death?
“No, that is quite impossible. They must have been swallowed when the head of the deceased was just below the surface; and the water must have been drawn into the lungs by spasmodic efforts to breathe when the mouth was under water.”
“Did you find any signs indicating that deceased might have been intoxicated?”
“No. I examined the water from the stomach very carefully with that question in view, but there was no trace of alcohol—or, indeed, of anything else. It was simple ditch-water. As the point is important I have preserved it, and—” here the witness produced a paper parcel which he unfastened, revealing a large glass jar containing about a quart of water plentifully sprinkled with duck-weed. This he presented to the coroner, who waved it away hastily and indicated the jury; to whom it was then offered and summarily rejected with emphatic head-shakes. Finally it came to rest on the table by the place where I was sitting with my colleague, Dr. Thorndyke, and our client, Mr. Wilfred Pedley. I glanced at it with faint interest, noting how the duck-weed plants had risen to the surface and floated, each with its tassel of roots hanging down into the water, and how a couple of tiny, flat shells, like miniature ammonites, had sunk and lay on the bottom of the jar. Thorndyke also glanced at it; indeed, he did more than glance, for he drew the jar towards him and examined its contents in the systematic way in which it was his habit to examine everything. Meanwhile the coroner asked: “Did you find anything abnormal or unusual, or anything that could throw light on how deceased came to be in the water?”
“Nothing whatever,” was the reply. “I found simply that deceased met his death by drowning.”
Here, as the witness seemed to have finished his evidence, Thorndyke interposed.
“The witness states, sir, there were no definite bruises. Does he mean that there were any marks that might have been bruises?”
The coroner glanced at Dr. Parton, who replied: “There was a faint mark on the outside of the right arm, just above the elbow, which had somewhat the appearance of a bruise, as if the deceased had been struck with a stick. But it was very indistinct. I shouldn’t like to swear that it was a bruise at all.”
This concluded the doctor’s evidence, and when he had retired, the name of our client, Wilfred Pedley, was called. He rose, and having taken the oath and given his name and address, deposed: “I have viewed the body of deceased. It is that of my brother, Cyrus Pedley, who is forty-three years of age. The last time I saw deceased alive was on Tuesday morning, the day before the body was found.”
“Did you notice anything unusual in his manner or state of mind?”
The witness hesitated but at length replied: “Yes. He seemed anxious and depressed. He had been in low spirits for some time past, but on this occasion he seemed more so than usual.”
“Had you any reason to suspect that he might contemplate taking his life?”
“No,” the witness replied, emphatically, “and I do not believe that he would, under any circumstances, have contemplated suicide.”
“Have you any special reason for that belief?”
“Yes. Deceased was a highly conscientious man and he was in my debt. He had occasion to borrow two thousand pounds from me, and the debt was secured by an insurance on his life. If he had committed suicide that insurance would be invalidated and the debt would remain unpaid. From my knowledge of him, I feel certain that he would not have done such a thing.”
The coroner nodded gravely, and then asked: “What was deceased’s occupation?”
“He was employed in some way by the Foreign Office, I don’t know in what capacity. I know very little about his affairs.”
“Do you know if he had any money worries or any troubles or embarrassments of any kind?”
“I have never heard of any; but deceased was a very reticent man. He lived alone in his flat, taking his meals at his club, and no one knew—at least, I did not—how he spent his time or what was the state of his finances. He was not married, and I am his only near relative.”
“And as to deceased’s habits. Was he ever addicted to taking more stimulants than was good for him?
“Never,” the witness replied emphatically. “He was a most temperate and abstemious man.”
“Was he subject to fits of any kind, or fainting attacks?”
“I have never heard that he was.”
“Can you account for his being in this solitary place at this time—apparently about eight o’clock at night?”
“I cannot. It is a complete mystery to me. I know of no one with whom either of us was acquainted in this district. I had never heard of the place until I got the summons to the inquest.”
This was the sum of our client’s evidence, and, so far, things did not look very favourable from our point of view—we were retained on the insurance question, to rebut, if possible, the suggestion of suicide. How ever, the coroner was a discreet man, and having regard to the obscurity of the case—and perhaps to the interests involved—summed up in favour of an open verdict; and the jury, taking a similar view, found that deceased met his death by drowning, but under what circumstances there was no evidence to show.
“Well,” I said, as the court rose, “that leaves it to the insurance people to make out a case of suicide if they can. I think you are fairly safe, Mr. Pedley. There is no positive evidence.”
“No,” our client replied. “But it isn’t only the money I am thinking of. It would be some consolation to me for the loss of my poor brother if I had some idea how he met with his death, and could feel sure that it was an unavoidable misadventure. And for my own satisfaction—leaving the insurance out of the question—I should like to have definite proof that it was not suicide.”
He looked half-questioningly at Thorndyke, who nodded gravely. “Yes,” the latter agreed, “the suggestion of suicide ought to be disposed of if possible, both for legal and sentimental reasons. How far away is the mortuary?”
“A couple of minutes’ walk,” replied Mr. Pedley. “Did you wish to inspect the body?”
“If