The Perfect Daughter by Gillian Linscott

heard chairs scraping, the low boom of a man’s voice, probably the coroner’s. I knew enough about the procedure to guess what was going on – first the formal opening, name of the deceased and date of her death. The coroner would already have been to view the body, probably days earlier. Then the swearing-in of the jury, followed by evidence of formal identification. Ben would do that and normally it wouldn’t take long, but the coroner might decide to question him about Verona’s state of mind. After that, it would be the discovery of the body. My turn. The two medical men had finished their talk now and were staring straight ahead, trying not to catch my eye. It was a warm day, with sunshine and the sounds of a town going about its business coming through the open window. I wondered if there was anybody back at the house to look after Alexandra, wished I could do something for her but knew I was the last person in the world she’d want to see.
    â€˜Miss Bray.’
    The coroner’s officer. I followed him along a corridor, through a door, was sworn in. The coroner was an ordinary conscientious-looking man with a bald patch. The jury were ten respectable tradesmen in their Sunday best, middle-aged mostly, showing no hostility in the way they stared at me. Not yet. Ben was sitting to one side of the front row. He stared too, beyond me, as if at something far out to sea. The room was full, five rows of people. The coroner asked questions about how I came to find Verona, making it easy. I was family after all. Naturally I’d be visiting Alexandra, taking a stroll to the boathouse. We came to finding her hanging, pulling in the body with a boathook. The coroner took a long time writing it down.
    To make sure my eyes wouldn’t come into contact with Ben’s, I looked towards the back of the room – and found myself staring at Bill Musgrave. The last man I’d have expected to see. He should have been in court or in his chambers in Manchester, not travelling hundreds of miles to inquests that had nothing to do with him in Devon. He gave a kind of twisted smile that might have been encouragement, sympathy or even an apology for surprising me. I looked away, trying to give my mind a chance to catch up. There was a woman sitting next to him, small, in her thirties, with glossy dark hair and big beautiful eyes. She was staring at me, lips apart, very intently. I’d never seen her in my life before. It was almost a relief when the coroner stopped writing and started asking questions again, but the relief didn’t last long. He wanted to know when I’d last seen Verona alive. I told him about probably seeing her outside Buckingham Palace a week before I found her body, on 21 May. In what circumstances? So, of course, it all came out about the deputation. The coroner managed to keep the disapproval off his face although not out of his voice. A few of the jurors looked downright hostile. In the next pause for writing I couldn’t help looking at Bill. He was worried. Had he come all this way to try to protect me, for goodness sake? I wished I could tell him that I was a lot more used to this than he was.
    The coroner wanted to know whether I’d seen much of Verona in London. Just twice, I said. Had I formed any judgment about her state of mind? I’d expected this and had my reply ready.
    â€˜As far as I could tell, she was starting to settle down in London, making friends.’
    Scratch, scratch, his pen went. Bill was still looking worried. The dark-haired woman next to him was looking even more intent, as if this part of the story mattered a lot to her. But why should it? If she’d been friends or family, she’d have been sitting up at the front near Ben. Press? Just possibly. Her jacket and turban-style hat were more fashionable than you’d expect at a seaside town inquest.
    â€˜Would you have expected her to confide in you if she’d had problems