“Noa. I’ll be spared that job. Martin is a witness, more’s t’ pity. Good-night, Mr. Pattison. It’ll hu’t none if y’ are minded te offer up a prayer for betther weather.”
But the prayers of many just men did not avail to save Elmsdale that night. After a brief respite, the storm came on again with gusty malevolence. Black despair sat by many a fireside, and in no place was its grim visage seen more plainly than in the bedroom where George Pickering died.
Dr. MacGregor watched the fitful flickering of the strong man’s life, until, at last, he led the afflicted wife from the room and consigned her to the care of her weeping sister and the hardly less sorrowful landlady.
At the foot of the stairs were waiting P. C. Benson and the reporter of the Messenger.
“It is all over,” said the doctor. “He died at a quarter past ten.”
“The same hour that he was—wounded,” commented the reporter. “What was the precise cause of death?”
“Failure of the heart’s action. It was a merciful release. Otherwise, he might have survived for days and suffered greatly.”
The policeman adjusted his cape and lowered his chin-strap.
“I mun start for Nottonby,” he said. “T’ inquest’ll likely be oppenned o’ Satherday at two o’clock, doctor.”
“Yes. By the way, Benson, you can tell Mr. Jonas that the county analyst and I are ready with our evidence. There is no need for an adjournment, unless the police require it.”