funeral. Although I respected his wish to establish good community relations, I had only visited Hilda Wright twice, and I did not want to intrude upon the private grief of her family. Even so, I found it impossible to refuse him. ‘Oh, and one other thing,’ Maitland continued, ‘perhaps it would be a good idea to call the coroner? I’ve already had a word with him. There’s nothing to be concerned about, he’s a sensible chap.’
I did as I was instructed and the coroner proved to be exactly as Maitland had described: a practical, efficient and eminently reasonable man. After a short but considered discussion, he said, ‘If you are satisfied that the cause of death was tuberculous peritonitis then I will issue a death certificate without recommending an inquest.’
‘Yes,’ I responded, ‘I am quite satisfied.’
‘Dr Richardson,’ he said with polite distinction, ‘you have been most helpful.’
On the morning of the funeral, Hartley dropped me off outside St James’s Church in Dunwich and said that he would wait for me at the inn. The service was a modest affair, attended by only close relatives and a handful of villagers. After the burial I sought out Mrs Baines in order to offer her my condolences, which she accepted with earnest gratitude. She even invited me back to Rose Cottage for sandwiches, but I made my excuses and, after exchanging a few mannered words with the vicar, I discreetly exited the churchyard. Hartley’s car was parked close to the inn, but when I went inside I couldn’t find him anywhere. He had warned me that he might go for a short stroll along the beach, so I was not very surprised by his absence. The landlord recognized me and I ordered another pint of the same bitter I had enjoyed on my first visit.
‘Been to the funeral?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘How did it go?’
‘All right I suppose.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking . . .’ He held the glass under the tap and it began to fill with dark liquid. ‘What did she die of?’
‘An illness called tuberculous peritonitis.’
He passed me my drink and I couldn’t help but notice the peculiarity of his expression. There was something suggestive about the cast of his features.
I tilted my head to one side, tacitly requesting clarification.
‘Is that so?’ he responded, ‘tuberculous peritonitis?’ This time I could detect a definite critical undertone.
‘Yes,’ I said, somewhat bemused. I had not expected him to challenge the accuracy of my diagnosis! ‘It is an inflammatory disease – and not that uncommon.’
He nodded and lit a cigarette.
‘I suppose the Bainses will be leaving Rose Cottage now, off to somewhere much grander.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Well, they won’t be short of a few bob. Not now.’
The landlord looked at me, eyebrows raised, as if willing me to draw some specific conclusion. Suddenly, I understood what he was implying. He observed my reaction with obvious satisfaction, smiled and added, ‘Something to consider, eh?’
I shook my head and feigning indifference replied, ‘I don’t think so.’ He was about to say something else, but I turned my back on him and walked away from the bar. I sat down and gazed into the fire. My frosty dismissal had been disingenuous, and by the time Mr Hartley appeared I was becoming quite concerned.
At our next meeting I discussed the matter with Maitland. ‘The symptoms of arsenical poisoning are easily confounded with tuberculous peritonitis and Mrs Baines always prepared the tube feed.’
Maitland stood and walked to the window. He rested his hand on a massive, antique globe, and then set it spinning. ‘My advice – for what it’s worth – is to let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘But shouldn’t I speak to the coroner again?’
‘If there’s an inquiry, you might be asked some problematic questions.’ There was an uncomfortable silence and I loosened my collar. I was expecting some sort of reprimand, but instead Maitland continued
I did as I was instructed and the coroner proved to be exactly as Maitland had described: a practical, efficient and eminently reasonable man. After a short but considered discussion, he said, ‘If you are satisfied that the cause of death was tuberculous peritonitis then I will issue a death certificate without recommending an inquest.’
‘Yes,’ I responded, ‘I am quite satisfied.’
‘Dr Richardson,’ he said with polite distinction, ‘you have been most helpful.’
On the morning of the funeral, Hartley dropped me off outside St James’s Church in Dunwich and said that he would wait for me at the inn. The service was a modest affair, attended by only close relatives and a handful of villagers. After the burial I sought out Mrs Baines in order to offer her my condolences, which she accepted with earnest gratitude. She even invited me back to Rose Cottage for sandwiches, but I made my excuses and, after exchanging a few mannered words with the vicar, I discreetly exited the churchyard. Hartley’s car was parked close to the inn, but when I went inside I couldn’t find him anywhere. He had warned me that he might go for a short stroll along the beach, so I was not very surprised by his absence. The landlord recognized me and I ordered another pint of the same bitter I had enjoyed on my first visit.
‘Been to the funeral?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘How did it go?’
‘All right I suppose.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking . . .’ He held the glass under the tap and it began to fill with dark liquid. ‘What did she die of?’
‘An illness called tuberculous peritonitis.’
He passed me my drink and I couldn’t help but notice the peculiarity of his expression. There was something suggestive about the cast of his features.
I tilted my head to one side, tacitly requesting clarification.
‘Is that so?’ he responded, ‘tuberculous peritonitis?’ This time I could detect a definite critical undertone.
‘Yes,’ I said, somewhat bemused. I had not expected him to challenge the accuracy of my diagnosis! ‘It is an inflammatory disease – and not that uncommon.’
He nodded and lit a cigarette.
‘I suppose the Bainses will be leaving Rose Cottage now, off to somewhere much grander.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Well, they won’t be short of a few bob. Not now.’
The landlord looked at me, eyebrows raised, as if willing me to draw some specific conclusion. Suddenly, I understood what he was implying. He observed my reaction with obvious satisfaction, smiled and added, ‘Something to consider, eh?’
I shook my head and feigning indifference replied, ‘I don’t think so.’ He was about to say something else, but I turned my back on him and walked away from the bar. I sat down and gazed into the fire. My frosty dismissal had been disingenuous, and by the time Mr Hartley appeared I was becoming quite concerned.
At our next meeting I discussed the matter with Maitland. ‘The symptoms of arsenical poisoning are easily confounded with tuberculous peritonitis and Mrs Baines always prepared the tube feed.’
Maitland stood and walked to the window. He rested his hand on a massive, antique globe, and then set it spinning. ‘My advice – for what it’s worth – is to let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘But shouldn’t I speak to the coroner again?’
‘If there’s an inquiry, you might be asked some problematic questions.’ There was an uncomfortable silence and I loosened my collar. I was expecting some sort of reprimand, but instead Maitland continued
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