The Perfect Daughter by Gillian Linscott Page B

court. The coroner frowned.
    â€˜Did you form any opinion as to what might have caused the puncture?’
    â€˜In my view, it was consistent with an injection from a hypodermic syringe.’
    â€˜An injection?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Administered by the deceased herself or by some other person?’
    â€˜Either. The position of the puncture would be consistent with self-administration.’
    The coroner looked at him steadily for a long time.
    â€˜Is there any evidence of what might have been administered?’
    â€˜Yes. On examination of the internal organs I found distinct traces of morphine.’
    Gasps around the court. Ben was staring straight ahead. The coroner had been making a note of what the pathologist was saying but stopped, pen in hand.
    â€˜You’ve given your opinion that death resulted from strangulation?’
    â€˜Yes, sir, and that remains my opinion. I had further analysis done of the internal organs which confirmed that though morphine was present, it was not in sufficient quantities to have caused death.’
    The coroner sighed, then wrote for a long time.
    â€˜Any other observations?’
    â€˜One.’ Dr White was on the last page of his notes now. He seemed reluctant to get to the end of them. The court was as quiet as the inside of an ice cave. ‘The deceased was well advanced into the first trimester of pregnancy.’
    More gasps. I happened to be looking towards Bill at the time and the dark-haired woman in the turban hat sitting next to him. She wasn’t the one who’d gasped, but the expression on her face was more than concern. It was pain.
    The coroner said, ‘By first trimester, you mean…?’
    â€˜The deceased was somewhere between two and three months pregnant, in my opinion somewhere between eight and ten weeks.’
    Like everyone I couldn’t help glancing at Ben. He gave no sign that he’d heard, none at all. They’d warned him, which was why he’d got Alexandra away. The court had been struck silent at first, but now a rustle of whispering started.
    The coroner put down his pen.
    â€˜Thank you, Dr Smith. Please call the next witness.’
    The next, and last, witness was a young police constable who’d arrived about an hour after Verona’s body was discovered. I remembered him asking me a few questions and how he’d seemed awed both by Ben’s position and the event itself. Now he gave his evidence stolidly, not looking at Ben. He’d arrived at the house where Dr Maidment was already present and had certified death. He’d spoken to Commodore North and arranged for the removal of the body to the mortuary. Later he’d made a search of the boathouse and taken possession of the following objects.
    A hemp rope, one end knotted in a noose, the other cut.
    (I’d gone running up to the house for help when I knew I couldn’t get Verona down on my own and Ben had run back with me. We’d got her into one of the rowing boats. I’d held her while Ben cut the rope with a sharp seaman’s knife. When we’d got her back on the wooden platform Ben had somehow got the noose off and flung it down.)
    A large plank of wood with hemp ropes knotted round it, some cut.
    (I remembered Ben kneeling on the planks in the boathouse, hacking at the ropes round Verona’s feet. No use, of course, but the useless things seem important when there’s nothing you can do.)
    A woman’s overcoat, with the label of a London store. The constable had found it in one of the dinghies moored to the platform, as if flung there. It was blue-grey tweed, not nautical wear. (I couldn’t remember an overcoat.) In the pocket of the coat he’d found an object. I almost missed what he was saying. I’d been thinking about Ben’s fingers trying to loosen the knots, wondering if he still hoped then that she might be alive. A collective gasp brought me back to what was