Finally the coroner said that he did not think he should be doing his duty if he did not mark the feeling he had with respect to the conduct of the police-constable John Whyley.
The gentleman in question glowed, for he felt that he had suddenly become a prominent personage, with chevrons upon his arm to denote his rise in rank. Then he froze, and his face assumed a terribly blank expression, for the coroner went on to say that never in the whole course of his experience, which now extended over a quarter of a century, had he been cognisant of such utterly crass stupidity as that of this policeman—a man who, in his opinion, ought to be dismissed from the force.
John Whyley wished a wicked wish after the jury had been dismissed, and orders given for the burial of the Mephistophelean-looking man, lying so stiff and ghastly in the parish shell—and John Whyley’s wish was that it had been the coroner instead of Doctor Chartley who had got “that one—two on the nob.”
Chapter Eleven.
Mr Poynter polishes his Hat.
James Poynter rang four times at Dr Chartley’s door-bell, and rapped as many at the great grinning knocker tied in flannel, before he heard the chain put up and the lock shot back, to display the smudgy unwholesome countenance of Elizabeth Gundry, who always blinked like a night-bird when forced to leave her dark kitchen.
“There, hang it, woman, open the door!” cried Poynter. “Do you take me for a thief?”
“No, sir, I didn’t know it was you; but I am so scared, sir, and they ain’t found Bob yet.”