‘Sad affair,’ said the coroner, with a yawn. ‘Good man, Bastard. One of the old sort. Conscientious. No brains. Ideal policeman. What the devil are those fellers doing? I’ve promised to call for tea at the Delahays.’
‘I was hoping,’ said the doctor, ‘that you’d come back with me. My wife . . .’
‘No, thanks. . . Very kind of you all the same.’
‘We don’t often see you this way.’
‘No. Not since Condover’s suicide. I believe his son-in-law’s mixed up in this affair?’
‘Yes. . . . He’s over there in the corner. It’s the usual thing, I think. A brawl in an alehouse. Alcohol.’
The coroner nodded his head dolefully. His cellar was the best in Ludlow.
The jurors returned, and with a final glance at the buffalo’s head, as though he expected it to tell him the time, Mr Mortimer began business. First the sergeant identified the body of his subordinate. Standing rigidly at attention he rattled off the oath at a terrific speed, running his evidence on to the end of it without a stop. He could soon show the coroner how to do it. Mr Mortimer never raised his eyes from his papers.
‘I may say, sir . . .’ began the sergeant impressively.
‘You may say what you like, sergeant, when you’re asked for it,’ snapped the coroner. ‘That’s enough.’