“Feller citizens,” he said, “as medical officer I declare these proceedings opened. Meaning no disrespect to the deceased, we want to get through as spry as possible. First we will hear witnesses. Anybody who thinks he can throw any light on this business can have a hearing. Then those as wants may view the remains. The burial will take place right afterwards, in the town buryin’-ground, our feller citizen and sheriff, Mr. Len Schlager, having volunteered the expenses.”
“That man,” said Sedgwick in Kent’s ear, “is a great deal more nervous this minute than I am.”
“Perhaps he has more cause to be,” whispered the scientist. “Here comes the first witness.”
A sheep-herder had risen in his place, and without the formality of an oath told of sighting the body at the edge of the surf at seven o’clock in the morning. Others, following, testified to the position on the beach, the lashing of the body to the grating, the wounds, and the manacles. Doctor Breed announced briefly that the deceased had come to her death by drowning, and that the skull had been crushed in, presumably, when the waves hammered the body upon the reefs.
“Then the corpse must have come from a good ways out,” said Sailor Smith; “for the reefs wouldn’t catch it at that tide.”
“Nobody knows how the dead come to Lonesome Cove,” said the sheriff in his deep voice.
There was a murmur of assent. The people felt a certain pride in the ill-omened locality.
Elder Ira Dennett was the next and last witness called. Somewhere beneath the Elder’s dry exterior lurked the instinct of the drama. Stalking to the platform, he told his story with skill and fervor. He made a telling point of the newly finished picture he had seen in Sedgwick’s studio, depicting the moonlit charge of the wave-mounted corpse. He sketched out the encounter between the artist and the dead woman vividly. As he proceeded, the glances turned upon Sedgwick darkened from suspicion to enmity. Kent was almost ready to wish that he had come armed, when Dennett, with a final fling of his arm toward the artist, stepped from the platform and resumed his seat, amid a surcharged silence.
Then Sedgwick rose. He was white; but his voice was under perfect control as he said, “I presume I have the right to be heard in my own defense?”
“Nobody’s accused you yet,” growled Schlager.