Then the little sheet put up a record circulation.
The editor congratulated himself on the headlines. Years afterwards, when strangers came into the office, he would take down the file and point them out with pride. The first word. “Murder,” was set in woodblock type an inch and a half deep: “And Inquest,” in the German decorative capitals usually used for illuminated texts by printers of religious literature.
The actual evidence adduced at the inquest was meagre.
George, the deck-hand, was examined by the Coroner at great length. The court went into the minutest details regarding the finding of the body, even bringing out the witness’s private opinions about the matter—what he thought and what he felt at the time and afterwards.
The Sergeant was sworn. He corroborated George in respect to the fishing; detailed the appearance of the corpse—to which the audience listened lovingly—told how he had left the body tied up by the wharf until daylight, removed same with the assistance of a constable to a shed, and summoned the doctor.
The doctor was an heroic figure at the inquest. It was with difficulty that the crowded court refrained from cheering when he stepped into the witness-box. With the greatest urbanity the presiding J.P., who was acting Coroner, requested him to explain the technical terms he used in his evidence. The doctor bowed—a perfectly splendid bow it was generally admitted—and courteously gave the common English of the thing to his audience.
A sigh of satisfaction went round when he swore positively that it would be impossible for deceased to have inflicted upon himself the wounds as detailed.
The district had not had such a sensation for years. The identity of the deceased would have remained a matter of absolute doubt had it not been for an accident. A religious crank, whose name was casually “Joe,” happened to arrive in the place on the morning of the discovery.
Numbers of people had been taken to the shed by the police.