L'Aimant – Chapter 50
Summary:
A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.
Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.
Chapter 50: The inquest into Fielding's death.
Disclaimer:
The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.
Author's Notes:
I'm calling this chapter Kind Hearts and Coroners.
…
dancesabove polished this, like the gun-barrel in The Last Contract. And then I had to go and mess with things again. So any mistakes are mine.
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
... Georgie wandered back to hang her hat and coat up on the coat-stand, then took herself into the dining room. She shuffled through the dresser drawer in search of writing paper. Furnished at last with a fresh sheet and a fountain pen, she seated herself at the far end of the dining table, away from Christopher's papers, and began to write:
My darling, desk-bound Squadron Leader,
Here I am again, the proverbial gooseberry while your father and Samantha are upstairs showing each other their appreciation. But actually, that's a good sign, considering the insane state of the entire household two weeks ago. I thought I was about to lose the pair of them—to say nothing of my own reason, so I suppose I shouldn't niggle on to you about it.
The other argument for why I shouldn't niggle is because your dear papa is living proof the Foyles are still firing on all cylinders in middle age. Which strikes me as good news. Although I don't particularly want to wait till middle-age for my next taste of married love, thank you very much.
When are you getting a bit of time off, you utter nuisance? You've spoiled me for a life of chastity, you know. Send a visiting order p.d.q. or I shan't answer for the consequences.
Your eager, ever-loving, celibate-and-stuck-in-Hastings,
Georgie
xxx
P.S. I didn't really mean to make that dig about 'consequences'. Just send the invitation though. Honestly, it's so quiet upstairs, I know there's something going on. xXx times a thousand.
Chapter 50
Friday, 9th March, 1945
Her Worship Mrs Iris Minchin-Smythe JP picked her way cautiously up the polished wooden steps that led to the bench and seated herself in the oak and leather upright armchair to the coroner's left. Smoothing her sober lovat-green tweed skirt over her knees, she settled her spectacles on her nose, and with a moue of concentration, perused the documents arrayed before her on the slope of the lectern. Bright crimson lipstick bled into the incipient creases on her upper lip, and next to a wedding ring worn thin with age, a diamond the size of a large pea sparkled on her engagement finger.
Looking up from the witness-list before her, Mrs Minchin-Smythe peered over the elevated wooden rampart and surveyed the theatre of the morning's hearing, Courtroom B. Methodically, she assessed its occupants.
On the left side of the courtroom sat a blonde young woman in an asymmetric red hat. Most fetching shade of crimson, opined Iris with approval. In quiet conversation with the young woman, his body angled in towards her, was a smartly-suited gentleman, his attention fixed upon her as they spoke in muted tones. Iris squinted to recall the face. Ah, Mr Foyle. Of course. Their paths had crossed before on numerous occasions.
Iris pressed on with her visual inventory of the attendees: one dark-haired child-woman in a khaki uniform, seated a little way along the wooden form from Mr Foyle; on the right of the courtroom, that serious-faced detective sergeant Iris had met in January, following the Pelham Beach murder... Murdoch? Mulgrave? She peered down at her list. Ah. Milner. Mister Milner was possessed of a disconcertingly direct stare. Delivering a swift lesson in precedence, Mrs Minchin-Smythe met and held his gaze until the young man lowered his eyes.
Beside the Milner fellow sat two uniformed policeman, one of whom—the younger of the two—was showing signs of nerves by chewing at his fingernails. Iris tutted to herself in disapproval. If he had been her boy, she would have nipped that habit in the bud—tied mittens on his hands until the silly child desisted. The things young men got up to with their hands, mused Iris, did not bear too close examination.
Finally her gaze alighted on a shock of white hair, seated at the far end of the third row from the front.
Guy Grindley.
Iris promptly lowered her gaze, feeling a flush creep up her cheeks. When, after a moment, she risked a second look, she saw Grindley raise his left hand in front of his chest and send her a discreet three-fingered wave between his thumb and little finger. Iris affected to ignore him, lowering her lids as if absorbed in her notes. Her pen tapped the bench in involuntary irritation. When would that man take himself in hand and get a haircut? He was looking positively wild these days.
Iris waited what she deemed to be a safe amount of time for Grindley to give up trying to catch her eye, then resumed her assessment of those present for the hearing. At the rear of the court, behind Mr Foyle, she spied a young man in a cheap suit, whom she pigeonholed immediately as a reporter with the air of 'local rag' about him. He was brandishing a shorthand notebook, and had crammed his press-pass carelessly behind the ribbon of his battered trilby in a manner reminiscent of the ticket reading '10/6' in the Mad Hatter's questionable headwear.
Iris raised her chin, the better to project her rich, patrician tones. "Young man! You! Lurking at the back, there!"
The young reporter's head shot up.
"You are not at the races," supplied Iris instructionally. "You are in court. Be so good as to remove your..."—she struggled not to tag a 'so-called' to the epithet—"your hat."
Heads turned as one upon the spectacle of the young man's discomfiture. Fire crept up the reporter's cheeks, and the hat duly found its way onto the empty seat beside him.
However, Mr Foyle's attention (Iris noticed, as he was directly in her eyeline) remained resolutely fixed on the young woman next to him. He was still conversing with her softly.
Who was the girl? Iris scanned her list. No women's names were mentioned there. She counted up the people in the room and matched them nominally to those listed... Sergeant Brooke, yes; Constable Davis, yes. The dark-haired pretty girl was clearly a gopher of sorts to Foyle, and could therefore be dismissed as immaterial. According to the inventory of expected attendees, there appeared to be a body missing—a live one.
Iris beckoned the usher and enquired sotto voce:
"Where might Mr... er-um..." she scanned her notes again, "Anselm? Where might he be?"
"Nowhere in the precincts, Your Worship," replied the court official in his best respectful whisper.
With a gesture of exasperation, Iris leant back in her chair. "Well, clearly we cannot proceed without him.
"Arnold," she addressed the figure next to her, who was engaged in preparatory reading of his own, "were you aware we're missing our key witness?"
Pulled from retirement because his country needed him (and you didn't let the Jerry bounders get you down), Arnold Jeffreys, a local solicitor of some standing who shared the duties of County Coroner for Sussex East with a retired QC from Eastbourne, was normally a stalwart type. Today, though, he found himself in less ebullient form than normal, by virtue of having been struck down with a cold.
Now he roused himself and made to answer, but instead found himself plunged into a coughing fit. He covered his mouth hastily with a voluminous paisley handkerchief until the hacking fit subsided. Then he dabbed his eyes dry before stuffing the rumpled square into the flat pleat pocket of his Norfolk jacket. A hand ran round his scratchy throat in irritation as he caught his breath, and at last he answered huskily, "No, Iris, I was not. Well, dash it. Nothing for it, then."
Clearing his throat, and injecting as much volume as his dicky throat could muster, he addressed the court.
"We shall postpone commencement of this hearing for twenty minutes, during which"—he waved a libertarian hand towards those assembled—"you may continue to converse, or leave the courtroom if you wish.
"If Mister..." Arnold hesitated, and Iris whispered in his ear. He resumed, "If Mister Anselm does not show himself when that time has elapsed, we shall be obliged to adjourn this hearing until Monday. I have other cases to conduct today."
The expectant atmosphere relaxed across the courtroom, and Arnold turned again to his companion.
"Appreciate your coming in today at such short notice, Iris." He let loose with another rasping cough and fumbled for his handkerchief. "You wouldn't happen to have a lozenge about you? My bloody throat is killing me."
"Oh, my dear chap..." Iris delved into her handbag, rummaged for a moment, then produced a tin of Victory Vs. "These will sort you out."
She prised open the lid and pushed the tin along the bench.
"By God, you're a treasure!" Arnold promptly crammed three of the flat, oblong buff-coloured lozenges into his mouth, only to receive a sharp smack on the hand from his benefactress.
"You are not supposed to eat these like sweeties," hissed Iris, confiscating the tin. "And suck, don't chew. They're full of chloroform and ether."
She placed the tin to her left, beyond Jeffreys' reach. "That's your lot for now. We can't have you nodding off on the bench."
Jeffreys sat back, gratefully sucking to release the soothing vapours.
"Be a blessing if I did," he croaked. "My throat feels like a baboon's bloody armpit."
"Really, Arnold. Language." Iris cast an embarrassed glance across the court, to find Grindley's gaze fixed steadily upon her, his eyes dancing in apparent enjoyment at the goings-on behind the oak parapet of the centre lectern. Annoyed at being the object of the man's amusement, Iris sent him a narrow-eyed glare and dipped her head behind the lectern to continue preparation for the hearing.
Since the loss of her husband, Iris Minchin-Smythe had grown inordinately keen on tidiness and order, and now, as she perused her notes, she instinctively reached her free hand to fidget with and rearrange the various accoutrements on the wooden surface in front of her. In doing so, her fingers came upon an abandoned coil of used string, nestling behind a beaker filled with pens. For a second Iris forgot herself, her eyes lit up, and she plucked the whorl of fibre from its niche. Discreetly she re-housed the fortuitous find inside her handbag, congratulating herself that every little bit helps, and making mental plans for a cane-and-string support frame for her runner beans.
...
Down in the body of the courtroom, Foyle felt for Sam's right hand and enclosed it in his own.
"I wish you'd taken my advice and stayed at home today."
"I told you, Christopher, I want to say my thanks to Mr Anselm."
Foyle stroked his thumb across the back of her hand, cherishing the delicate fan of bones.
"I could have said them for you."
"Face to face. It matters to me."
Foyle frowned. "Just as you wish, Love. But I could've brought him to the house afterwards..."
"Is there any guarantee he'd come? Bit independent, isn't he? When he isn't 'under orders from above'." Sam looked at her husband meaningfully.
The flash of a downturned smile from Christopher confirmed that her insights in the matter were correct.
"Hmm. Just don't want you upset." He drew her hand across his lap, and traced a circle in the palm. "Been through enough."
A shiver ran through Sam. She gently withdrew her fingers.
"Don't do that here," she whispered, leaning into him. "It isn't good for me."
Some moments later, the general buzz of conversation inside the courtroom stalled as the double doors swung open to reveal a tall figure in a wide-brimmed trilby and trench coat:
Anselm.
With a brief flicker of an amused smile at Georgie, who'd immediately turned and bounced in her seat to send him an enthusiastic wave, Anselm stepped into the courtroom. Grasping his hat by the centre dent, he removed and parked it flat against his chest, steeling his eyes to scan the room for an official to address.
Within seconds the usher had beetled down the aisle to meet him, and the men exchanged some quietly solemn words before the official peeled away in order to approach the bench.
Some gesturing later (and in deference to the coroner's bad throat), Mrs Minchin-Smythe was deputised to take the lead.
She raised her chin. "You are... John Anselm, as I understand?"
"I am, Your Worship." Anselm strode confidently down the aisle between the public seating, halting in the well of the court before the oak parapet where Iris sat.
"The reason for your tardiness, Mr Anselm?"
"Flat tyre, Madam. I've driven down from London this morning."
"You drive a car?"
"I drive somebody else's, Madam. Part of my job."
"I see. I trust that you were able to deploy your—ah..." Iris flapped a hand to signal her vague acquaintance with the terminology— "replacement wheel without too much difficulty?"
"Yes, thank you, Madam."
"Splendid. Please be seated." Iris turned to Arnold. "Shall we proceed then, Mr Jeffreys?"
"Be a brick and kick things off, Old Thing," came the hoarsely whispered response.
Iris signalled to the clerk of court for the official announcement.
"All rise!
"This is the inquest into the death of Alick Fielding of 18, Cranwell Crescent, Hythe, recorded this 21st day of February, Nineteen Hundred and Forty-Five. Coroner's court is now in session, Mr Arnold Jeffreys, His Majesty's Coroner, Sussex East, presiding with Her Worship, Mrs Iris Minchin-Smythe, JP.
"This court is hereby called to order for commencement of the hearing. Please be seated."
Frowning down at her notes, Iris made a pen mark next to Foyle's name. She leant in to whisper a question to the coroner, who nodded in return.
Mrs Minchin-Smythe now aimed her question towards the public seating to her left.
"Detective Chief Syu-perintendent Foyle?"
Foyle rose. "Present, Your Worship."
"Your name, though prominent on my list, is not, I note, as designated chief investigating officer?" Her intonation climbed to mark her confusion.
"That is correct, Madam. The acting officer in charge is DS Milner."
"I see." The brightly-painted lips pursed briefly, reminiscent of the bellows of a crimson concertina. The eyes above them stretched inquiringly.
"What, then, is your..." Her pronunciation of the word marked Iris as a relic of a bygone age, "in-vole-vment with the case?"
Foyle manage a polite, pained smile. "I am the victim's husband, Madam."
"Indeed?" With a look of open puzzlement, Iris hastily referred to her notes. "The victim, however, appears to be... male?"
With a patient tilt of the head, Foyle angled his upper body forwards as if to physically aim his point.
"The—ah—victim's victim, Madam." Foyle cast a worried half-glance at Samantha, who looked up and sent him a reassuring smile.
Jeffreys, more prepared, and more conversant with the facts of the case than his companion, promptly registered that a little damage-limitation was required, and leaning across behind a cupped hand, vouchsafed an explanation into Iris' ear. Some shuffling of papers followed, and a brief consultation between the two presiding persons achieved some welcome clarity.
Assault upon and attempted... rape... of a twenty-six-year-old woman... mouthed Iris to herself, assimilating facts traced by the coroner's finger on the document before her. Removing her spectacles, she glanced up quickly, and realigned her understanding of the situation.
"Indeed. Thank you, Mr Foyle, for clarifying," Iris' tone verged on apology, but she nevertheless took the opportunity to make a closer inspection of the young woman in the fetching crimson hat. Terrible business. In spite of herself, she also made a rapid reassessment of the gentleman before her, and one eyebrow rose involuntarily. Twenty-six?
"Thank you, Detective Chief Syu-perintendent."
"Your Worship." Foyle nodded once and resumed his seat to a consoling squeeze of the knee from Sam.
"Are any members of Mr Fielding's family present here today?"
The question, aimed towards the public seating, and posed as a formality, provoked precisely the reaction Iris had expected: None.
After a decent interval, the clerk of court turned in his seat to face the bench.
"Your Worship, an aunt was informed, but has elected not to attend this hearing."
"Ah. Thank you, Mr Loomis."
"Madam."
Arnold cleared his throat once more and took a sip of water. Preliminaries completed, this was his cue to make the introductory address.
"Thank you, Mrs Minchin-Smythe."
He frowned across the courtroom, shifting in his seat. The soreness in his throat had now spread to his ears, which rendered mildly irritating the obligation to present a formal outline of proceedings to an audience of persons, most of whom were perfectly well schooled in the objectives of an inquest. And this explained the weary, almost sing-song note in his voice as he addressed the room.
"It behoves me to describe for you the purpose of this inquest: namely, what these proceedings are, and what they are not. My function as His Majesty's Coroner is one of investigation and inquiry. It is not one of judgement, in the sense of apportionment of blame. These proceedings are conducted with the sole aim of establishing the circumstance and manner of Alick Fielding's death. This hearing is non-adversarial, by which I mean that it will entertain neither allegations nor pleadings in respect of the death, from any parties present, nor by documentary submission."
He paused and squinted at his audience. "Questions for the bench?"
At the rear of the court, the young reporter stirred and licked his pencil, but when the invitation met with silence, he settled back into his seat.
Jeffreys continued. "An inquest is indicated in this case because of the violent circumstances of death. Furthermore, the death of Alick Fielding has been judged medically to have arisen from a traumatism—that is, a sudden physical injury. Since the identity of the deceased is not in question, Alick Fielding's body having been identified at the scene of death and formally confirmed since then, the function of this hearing is therefore confined to the remaining question of how the deceased met his end.
"The law specifically precludes me from expressing an opinion on culpability for death. I am confined, as coroner, to pronouncement on the manner and the cause of death. Nor must the wording of my verdict prejudice the issue of criminal or civil liability.
"If you are called as a witness, you will be examined, on oath, on matters relevant to determining the specific facts pertaining to the death of Alick Fielding. It is not the business of this hearing to deviate from these material issues."
He paused again. "Questions for the bench?"
The young reporter seated at the rear craned his neck hopefully, but after a short while, settled back in resignation, stifling a yawn.
"Very well," resumed Jeffreys. "I call Misterrr..." he consulted the paper before him as Iris's finger hovered next to the name. "Yes, indeed. Mr Anselm."
Anselm made his way to the witness box, pausing en route to nod to his former boss, a look of warmth stealing across his features as Samantha's eyes rose up to watch him pass. But that was momentary. By the time Anselm was sworn in, his face was its normal unreactive mask. Bidden to describe the circumstances of his presence on the beach the morning of the incident, he duly regurgitated details of his early morning run, and what he'd witnessed happening between the fishing huts that morning.
As the young man gave his evidence, Iris found her eyes drawn to the DCS and the young woman she now knew to be his wife. Young Mrs Foyle sat in stiff composure, gazing fixedly into her lap, but the man, his face turned upon his wife, ran such a gamut of pained concern and restrained emotion that Iris had to look away again, feeling her gaze suddenly to be an intrusion.
The few minutes consumed by Anselm's account of his involvement felt like an interminable age to Foyle. And every word of it rang in his head as a relentless catalogue of his own failings as a husband and protector. All Iain Stewart's sage counsel to him faded, as he heard once more the raw truth of the sickening assault on Sam, which he had not been at hand to prevent. But even as the bruising facts swelled in his mind and wove an iron band around the muscles of his heart, Sam's hand was in his own, her lips turning to decant soft words of reassurance in his ear.
"Remember, Darling. This is done with. We're beyond his reach now. See? I'm here. And whole."
The strong squeeze of her fingers around his, and her gaze, laced with a brave smile, served then to vent the building pressure in his head, and calm his quickened breathing.
"And thank God," he whispered back.
Then Anselm's evidence was at a close, and he stood ramrod straight inside the witness box, his gaze unblinking, fixed upon the county crest above the bench.
The coroner leant back and tapped his pen against his open hand, sending his witness an incisive look.
"Do you have military training, Mr Anselm?"
"Sir. I do."
"In what branch of the military?"
"Army, Sir."
"And yet you are... not currently on active service?"
Anselm's eyes descended to the coroner. He reached inside his jacket pocket.
"I have a letter, Sir, explaining my position. In the event you feel it is material to this hearing."
Jeffreys ran a hand across his chin. Though curious about the young man, he was not entirely certain of his ground on this. A brief internal struggle saw his curiosity get the better of him, and he signalled to the clerk of court to convey the letter Anselm now was tendering, over to the bench.
Jeffreys read the note and nodded slowly at the content; then he handed it back to the clerk, to be returned to Anselm.
"Ex-army man, myself," he remarked. "And did your training encompass hand-to-hand combat?"
"It did, Sir, yes."
"Therefore, would it be reasonable to assume that you have had occasion to utilise these 'skills' in the field?"
"It would, Sir. For restraint, and for despatch." Anselm's delivery of the sentence was without a flinch.
Jeffreys digested that before asking, "Alick Fielding was previously unknown to you?"
"Yes, Sir. And still is, actually. There was no time to make his acquaintance."
A snigger from the public seating broke the silence, drawing a glare from Jeffreys and an elbow into Davis' ribs from Brooke.
The coroner's eyes narrowed, returning to his witness.
"I'll thank you not to be flippant, Mr Anselm."
"Wasn't my intention, Sir." The hell it wasn't, but Anselm reasoned that, as long as he kept a straight face, the old fart couldn't pin it on him. In any case, contempt of Alick Fielding couldn't be a crime in any court.
"What ran through your mind as you restrained him?"
"Determined not to let him go, Sir. Or," he added for good measure, "to let him get his hands on the knife."
Indeed, the knife had come to light upon later examination of the body. Anselm hadn't seen it at the time, but there was no harm in mentioning it now.
"Which you had seen?"
"Caught sight of it in his belt, Sir. Yes."
"And he struggled, you say."
"Twisted under the restraint, Sir. 'Fraid it broke his neck for him."
"So your contention is that his neck broke as a result of his twisting in your grip?"
"Not exactly, Sir. He seemed a little awkward on his feet. He lost his footing."
Anselm crossed his fingers underneath his other hand behind the wooden barrier of the witness box. Oh, Fielding had lost his footing all right, when Anselm had yanked him backwards, and kicked his feet from under him. "And since I wasn't letting go, I'm thinking the momentum of the fall must've snapped his neck."
"Medical report states dropped arches," whispered Iris, who had been rapidly familiarising herself with the content of Guy's court submission.
"Examining doctor?" Jeffreys cast around the court for Grindley.
Grindley stood. "Present, Sir."
"Dr Grindley. State of the man's feet?"
"Flat as pancakes. Awkward gait would have resulted. But he was very powerful in the upper body. Wouldn't have fancied arm-wrestling him." The doctor grinned. "Well, in his friskier days, that is."
Iris's felt her diaphragm leap in preparation to emit a sharp laugh, and promptly disappeared from sight, ostensibly to hunt for something in her handbag.
Jeffreys scowled, beginning to suspect the hearing had acquired an air of levity.
"I'll thank you not to use this court as an arena for your wit, Doctor," he spat, only for his voice to crack and spiral into a coughing fit.
Iris whacked him firmly on the back, and handed him a glass of water.
It took a moment for the coroner to regain his composure, but when he did, the incisive look had crept back into his eyes. "And Fielding's neck was also muscular?"
Anselm's eyebrow twitched the smallest fraction of an inch. Perhaps he'd underestimated this old fart.
It came as some relief when Grindley shook his head. "Not 'specially, Sir. If anything, I'd say his neck was rather weak."
...
The hearing wore on. Milner's evidence had introduced the complicating fact that Fielding's body had been found three metres from Samantha, which resulted in the coroner recalling Anselm to the stand.
"So, you're saying that you... threw him?" Jeffreys waited for the young man's explanation.
Anselm shrugged. "Yes, Sir. I threw him. Wasn't any time to mess about. I had an injured young woman to attend to, and… wull, the comfort of the perpetrator wasn't high up on my list."
"You threw, rather than dragged him?"
"Yes, Sir." Anselm bobbed obligingly behind the witness stand to re-enact events. "Bent my knees, caught him under the armpits, and tossed him to one side. I could do a demonstration, if you like... just need a volunteer."
His gaze swept across the room and landed on Davis, who shrank down in his seat in an attempt to disappear.
"Ah?—no, that won't be necessary." Jeffreys rubbed his nose and frowned. "Er, thank you, Mr Anselm."
Brooke was up next, called upon to explain why it was that the corpse came to be trussed in handcuffs by the time the doctor had arrived on the scene.
"Well, Sir," offered Brooke brightly, "we weren't about to take no chances with him. He looked quiet enough, but nobody could be bothered keeping watch on him. We were all so worried about Miss Stew— about Mrs Foyle, Sir. So I thought, 'might as well', you know, in case..."
"Did you feel for a pulse? Attempt resuscitation? Chest pressure? Arm lifts?"
Brooke wrinkled his nose in barely disguised disgust.
"Like I said, Sir. We were more concerned with Mrs Foyle."
Grindley's formal evidence when called focussed on the post-mortem findings, specifically his opinion on the detail of the broken neck, but in due course the coroner's attention turned to the other injuries found on the body.
"The left hand was scratched and badly bitten. Do you have any comment to make on this?"
Sam tensed and looked up sharply, expecting to be called.
"Apart from... that it probably made him nastier?" tried Grindley.
At Jeffreys' scowl, he softened and offered, "Not material to the death. Material to the attack on Mrs Foyle, but not to Fielding's death."
Aware that Sam's posture had stiffened, Foyle placed a firm hand on her knee and whispered, "Nunno. Rrreally doubt he'll put you through it, Sweetheart."
And indeed he turned out to be right, for Jeffreys merely glanced in their direction, then returned his attention to the witness.
With the doctor's evidence at an end, there was little business left, in Jeffreys' view, but to throw the matter open to the floor.
"My questions in this matter are concluded. At this point, it is usual to ask whether any person present has additional evidence to contribute."
There was a short pause; then, much to Christopher's surprise, Sam stood up from her seat.
"Mrs... Foyle?"
"Yes, that's right, Sir." Sam clutched her handbag, swivelling to her left, and looking past Christopher to where the other men sat.
"You have some evidence to contribute?"
"Not as such, Sir. I was sort of... out for the count while it was all going on... but, um, I should like to express my deepest thanks to Mr Anselm for his actions that morning." Sam turned to face John Anselm, who was seated at an angle on a bench, all on his own, his long legs crossed and torso leaning in relaxed pose against the side-panel that gave onto the aisle. He immediately sat up, and smiled down at his knees, his brows contracting in a rare show of self-consciousness.
The coroner nodded kindly. Touching though this was, it was not germane to proceedings. But he had no desire to offend this brave young woman.
"I am sure you would, Mrs Foyle, and this court will not stand in the way of your doing so much longer. May I say how pleased we are to see you looking so well after your ordeal?"
A chorus of 'hear-hears' rose from the public seating.
With that, Arnold Jeffreys stacked his notes and called a recess to consider his verdict.
...
"You know," Jeffreys remarked to Iris, as he reached for the doorknob and prepared to usher her back into the chamber, "I shouldn't be surprised at all if that young man had snapped his neck deliberately."
"I know," said Iris. "But happily, there's not a shred of evidence to prove it."
They filed into the courtroom to a call of "All rise!" from the usher.
Settled at the bench, the coroner primed his throat with a swig of water and began:
"We have heard testimony that Alick Fielding's attack on Mrs Foyle was interrupted by Mr Anselm's timely intervention. All the evidence points to the deceased having met his death as a direct result of the ensuing struggle.
"As I stated at the outset of this hearing, it is my duty to record a verdict on the circumstance of death. From evidence heard, I adjudge that Alick Fielding met his death by the combined agencies of Mr Anselm's restraint of him, and of Fielding's own determination to escape restraint.
"Insofar as Alick Fielding was perpetrating violence when he was discovered in the act of..." Jeffreys' eyes flicked sideways, "harming Mrs Foyle, the motive behind Mr Anselm's restraint of the deceased is not in doubt. I find that Mr Anselm's decision to restrain Alick Fielding stemmed from a requirement to prevent further harm befalling Mrs Foyle, and I am satisfied that there was no other motive.
"It is also my duty to assess degree of force used, in the context of degree of threat. The question therefore remains as to the extent of the force employed by Mr Anselm, and whether that extent was called for in the circumstance. By Dr Grindley's testimony, the upper body strength of Alick Fielding would have rendered him difficult to control using anything but considerable force. It is reasonable therefore to adjudge the force used by Mr Anselm as commensurate with the level of threat, particularly in view of the fact that the deceased was in possession of a knife and reached for it whilst under restraint. I therefore adjudge the force applied by Mr Anselm not to have been excessive, and find no evidence of intent by Mr Anselm to do more than restrain a violent attacker.
"We have further heard that Alick Fielding lost his footing on the shingle beach. As we learn from the post mortem findings, the deceased was afflicted with flat feet; also, the surface of the beach was wet, uneven and unstable. With a firm measure of restraint in force, the deceased's loss of footing served as an aggravating factor and a contributory cause of death.
"I find that death occurred from trauma to the spinal cord when the cervical vertebra snapped as a combined result of Alick Fielding's weight being entirely borne by the neck when he twisted himself and lost his footing. I find that Mr Anselm's grip on Alick Fielding was stronger than it might in normal circumstance have been, by virtue of his military training in hand-to-hand combat. The great difference in heights between Mr Anselm and Alick Fielding resulted in the deceased effectively snapping his own neck when he lost his footing."
As if reminded by the subject matter of his own raw throat, Jeffreys paused and ran a hand across his neck, from ear to ear. Then he took a second swig of water, lubricating his pipes for the punchline.
"The verdict of this court is therefore death by misadventure. Thank you for your attendance here today."
"All rise!" The usher swung into action, walking briskly down the centre aisle to throw open the double doors that gave onto the corridor.
As the courtroom emptied, Jeffreys rearranged his papers and lowered his voice. "Another lozenge, would you mind, dear girl? If I keel over now, no one is going to notice."
Iris sent him an ironical look, and saw that he was smiling in turn. "Keep the tin," she said, planting it in his hand. "I do believe you've earned it."
"Lunch?" inquired Jeffreys, hopefully.
Iris' glance drifted across Courtroom B, and lingered on the lone, white-haired figure, still seated third row from the front.
"I need to, er..." her eyes sank to her papers. "No, not today. You trot along without me."
...
Glancing behind him to ensure they were alone, Guy strolled over to the bench, and leant across it, grinning.
"I've got a present for you, Iris."
"Nonsense, Guy." Her eyes flickered up to his, then returned to her papers. "You have nothing that could possibly be of interest to me."
Grindley reached into his pocket and withdrew a small bundle, which he pushed towards her.
Her features softened and her hand closed round the neatly-bundled hank of string.
"My runner beans are entirely grateful to you. I suppose you have in mind a favour in return?"
Guy brought his arms to rest upon the chest-high bench and parked his chin atop it. "Cook me dinner, Iris. It's been a while since I had my legs under your table."
Iris cast him a stern glance over her spectacles, then stood and shuffled her papers into some order. "I'm busy, I'm afraid, Guy..."
"Ah," he said, watching her intently, and rubbed his nose, and waited.
"...busy until tomorrow night." She bent to gather up her briefcase, pleasantly aware of his devilish gaze and insolent expectations. "Half past seven. Bring your bacon ration."
"They do say," observed Guy, eyes tracking her every move with impertinent familiarity, "that the war is winding down. I'm almost tempted to hang up my stethoscope; come and help you water your... sweet peas. And things."
Iris shot him an admonitory look that unsuccessfully masked indulgence.
"Last thing I want under my feet, in my old age, is another..." she gave his hair a pointed look, "unkempt old duffer to replace the last one, making my house look untidy and stomping on my seedlings."
Chin in the air, she gathered her belongings to her chest and made for the double doors at the rear of the courtroom.
Grindley dogged her steps, bending forwards as he walked so that his lips drew level with her ear.
"Don't linger on my account, Iris," he teased, enjoying the rustle of tweed skirt-pleat against seamed stocking. "In point of fact, I've things to do, myself. A visit to the barber's..." His tongue poked at the inside of his cheek. "I'm going to have it curled and parted down the middle."
Iris quickened her pace and left him standing. "Turn up at my house looking like that," she called behind her, "and you'll feel my skill with the garden shears."
Guy settled his hat onto his head and, grinning in the mist of Elizabeth Arden's Blue Grass that hovered in Iris' wake, sauntered out of the panelled courtroom behind her.
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
My legal expertise is nil.
Editor's note: Coulda fooled me!
...
Until the late Seventies, they were still putting chloroform in Victory Vs. Then they stopped. The spoilsports.
...
More soon.
GiuC