The news of the inquest had excited considerable interest, and a good-sized knot of people had gathered outside the hostelry. As we entered, I heard speculation regarding many details of the case, and our identity was audibly discussed. Dr. Anselm was just taking his seat. He referred to the shocking nature of the tragedy that was to be there, and then investigated and proceeded at once to put the case before the twelve good men and true. Witnesses, he informed us, would be called to identify the deceased as Gerald Prescott, a guest of Sir Charles Considine—he mentioned the name with proper respect and reverence—at Considine Manor, where he had been staying for nearly a week. A good many of the company knew that the poor young man—with whose relatives he would desire to express his deepest sympathy—had appeared in the last ’Varsity Match at Lords’, and had been invited to Considine Manor to take part in Sir Charles Considine’s Annual Cricket Week. Nothing of any untoward incident had occurred during his stay—they had no evidence of any quarrelling or friction of any kind—yet on the Saturday morning, Prescott had been found lying on the billiard-table—in the—ahem—billiard room—foully murdered. Sensation! Done to death by strangulation, Dr. Elliott would inform them, as a highly qualified medical man, and it would be the jury’s duty to weigh this evidence and all the evidence to arrive at a fit and proper verdict. In addition to a boot-lace tied tightly round his throat, the murdered man had also been stabbed at the base of the neck, at the top of the spinal cord with a dagger! More and greater sensation! The case had also a strange complication. On the night of the murder, Lady Considine’s pearls had been stolen from the Manor. Again sensation! But owing to the masterly handling of this portion of the affair by Inspector Baddeley of the Sussex Constabulary, who had acted with lightning-like rapidity in the following up of certain data that he had gleaned, two persons had been arrested and lodged in Lewes Jail. Final and crowning sensation! The reporters present licked their lips. This was almost too good to be true. Anthony nudged me in the ribs. “He’s rendered to Baddeley the things that weren’t Baddeley’s—you see!” He grinned. “Just as I expected.”
Dr. Anselm speedily got to the real business of the morning. The room we were in was evidently the dining-room of the “Swan’s Nest,” and I attempted to picture it in its ordinary environment. It seemed grotesque to imagine people could dine here in any comfort after this inquiry was over. Then I heard “Mrs. Prescott” called.
The Coroner once again expressed his profound sympathy with her in her distress. She gave formal evidence identifying the body that she had viewed as the body of her son—Gerald Onslow Lancelot Prescott. He was twenty-two years of age—unmarried—and had just come down from Oxford. As far as she was aware deceased had no troubles or worries; he was quite sound financially and to her knowledge hadn’t an enemy in the world.
The Coroner.—“Had he any love affair?”
Mrs. Prescott.—“No. None that he had ever confided to me.”
The Coroner.—“He had come to Considine Manor simply to take part in the Cricket Week?”
Mrs. Prescott.—“That is so.”
The Coroner.—“Had you heard from him during his stay there?”
Mrs. Prescott.—“Yes—a short letter. Full of the good times he was having.”
The Coroner.—“And you know of absolutely nothing that would throw any light upon this indescribably dreadful affair?”