The coaxing, almost wheedling tone, and the entreaty in her eyes, looking so earnestly into mine, nearly conquered my reserve. But not quite. Once more I temporized.
“Well, Madeline, we all realize that what Dimsdale has written on the certificate is little more than a guess, and quite possibly wrong; and even Detling couldn’t get much farther.”
“Yes, I realize that. But I didn’t think that inquests were held just to find out whether the doctors’ opinions were correct or not.”
Of course she was perfectly right; and I now perceived that her thoughts had been travelling along the same lines as my own. An inquest would not be held merely to clear up an obscure diagnosis. There was certainly something more behind this affair than Dimsdale’s failure to recognize the exact nature of the illness. There was only one simple explanation of the coroner’s action, and I gave it—with a strong suspicion that it was not the right one.
“They are not, as a rule, excepting in hospitals. But this is a special case. Amos Monkhouse was obviously dissatisfied with Dimsdale, and with Barbara, too. He may have challenged the death certificate and asked for an inquest. The coroner would be hardly likely to refuse, especially if there were a hint of negligence or malpractice.”
“Did Mr. Amos say anything to you that makes you think he may have challenged the certificate?”
“He said very little to me at all,” I replied, rather casuistically and suppressing the fact that Amos had explicitly accepted the actual circumstances and deprecated any kind of recrimination.
“I can hardly believe that he would have done it,” said Madeline, “just to punish Barbara and Dr. Dimsdale. It would be so vindictive, especially for a clergyman.”
“Clergymen are very human sometimes,” I rejoined; and, as, rather to my relief, we now came in sight of Madeline’s destination, I adverted to the interview which she seemed to dread so much. “There is no occasion for you to go into details with the secretary,” I said. “In fact you can’t. The exact cause of death was not clear to the doctors and it has been considered advisable to hold an inquest. That is all you know, and it is enough. You are summoned as a witness and you are legally bound to attend, so you are asking no favour. Cut the interview dead short, and when you have done with it, try, like a sensible girl, to forget the inquest for the present. I shall come over to-morrow and then we can reconstitute the history of the case, so that we may go into the witness-box, or its equivalent, with a clear idea of what we have to tell. And now, good-bye, or rather au revoir!”
“Good-bye, Rupert.” She took my proffered hand and held it as she thanked me for walking with her. “Do you know, Rupert,” she added, “there is something strangely comforting and reassuring about you. We all feel it. You seem to carry an atmosphere of quiet strength and security. I don’t wonder that Barbara is so fond of you. Not,” she concluded, “that she holds a monopoly.”