“What colour was the medicine?”
Wallingford hesitated a moment or two as if suspecting a trap. Then he replied, doggedly: “I don’t know. I told you I didn’t notice it.”
“You said that you didn’t notice it at all and didn’t know that it had come. Now you say that you observed that only one dose had been taken from it and that you inferred that it was the new bottle. Which of those statements is the true one?”
“They are both true,” Wallingford protested in a whining tone. “I meant that I didn’t notice the medicine particularly and that I didn’t know when it came.”
“That is not what you said,” the coroner rejoined. “However, we will let that pass. Is there anything more that you wish to ask this witness, gentlemen? If not, we will release him and take the evidence of Mr. Mayfield.”
I think the jury would have liked to bait Wallingford but apparently could not think of any suitable questions. But they watched him malevolently as he added his—probably quite illegible—signature to his depositions and followed him with their eyes as he tottered shakily back to his seat. Immediately afterwards my name was called and I took my place at the table, not without a slight degree of nervousness; for, though I was well enough used to examinations, it was in the capacity of examiner, not of witness, and I was fully alive to the possibility of certain pitfalls which the coroner might, if he were wide enough awake, dig for me. However, when I had been sworn and had given my particulars (Rupert Mayfield, 35, Barrister-at-Law, of No. 64 Fig Tree Court, Inner Temple) the coroner’s conciliatory manner led me to hope that it would be all plain sailing.
“How long have you known deceased?” was the first question.
“About two and a half years,” I replied.
“You are one of the executors of his will, Mrs. Monkhouse has told us.”
“Yes.”