It was hardly surprising, after this, that Mavis had retreated from the kitchen, leaving her henchwoman mistress of the field.
The Deputy Coroner was a chubby little man with white hair, pink cheeks, and a general air of cosiness. It was plain to Inspector Harbottle, resigning himself, that he would conduct the inquest at unnecessary length, and entirely to his own satisfaction.
From the point of view of the audience, as Hemingway said in his assistant's ear, Mavis Warrenby was the biggest draw. Whether she was conscious of the stir her appearance created it was impossible to guess, for she conducted herself just as a heroine should, bravely, modestly, and with enough sensibility to win not only the sympathy of the mob, but also that of the Coroner, who handled her with the greatest tenderness, assuring her several times that he appreciated how painful it must be for her to be obliged to give her evidence.
She was followed by young Mr. Haswell, who had been so much revolted by a performance which he freely described, in a whisper, to Abby, as ham, that when the Coroner, by way of putting things on the friendly footing he apparently desired, repeated his remark about the painful aspect of having to describe what he had seen in the garden of Fox House, he replied with the utmost cordiality: “Oh, no, not a bit, sir! I don't mind!”
He then told the court, with admirable brevity, just how he had found the dead man, and what his own actions had been. Chief Inspector Hemingway provided everyone with a mild thrill by rising to his feet and putting a question to him.
“When you went into the study, to use the telephone, did you touch anything on the desk?”
“No, only the telephone,” Charles replied. “I took care not to. There was a mess of papers and things all over it.”
“Did you see anything to make you think someone might have looked for anything on, or in, the desk?”
“No,” Charles said unhesitatingly. “When I said, a mess, I meant only the sort of muddle of papers you'd expect, if a man had been working there. It looked to me, from the way the chair had been pushed back, and the fountain-pen left lying on the blotter, as though Mr. Warrenby had left the room rather suddenly, and meant to return.”
“Now, what do you mean by that?” asked the Coroner chattily.