Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?

‘I can only say that all the injuries present are fully explained by the body striking the rocks fifty or sixty feet below.’

‘There remains the question of suicide?’

‘That is, of course, perfectly possible. Whether the deceased walked over the edge or threw himself over is a matter on which I can say nothing.’

Robert Jones was called next.

Bobby explained that he had been playing golf with the doctor and had sliced his ball towards the sea. A mist was rising at the time and it was difficult to see. He thought he heard a cry, and for a moment wondered if his ball could have hit anybody coming along the footpath. He had decided, however, that it could not possibly have travelled so far.

‘Did you find the ball?’

‘Yes, it was about a hundred yards short of the footpath.’

He then described how they had driven from the next tee and how he himself had driven into the chasm.

Here the coroner stopped him since his evidence would have been a repetition of the doctor’s. He questioned him closely, however, as to the cry he had heard or thought he heard.

‘It was just a cry.’

‘A cry for help?’

‘Oh, no. Just a sort of shout, you know. In fact I wasn’t quite sure I heard it.’

‘A startled kind of cry?’

‘That’s more like it,’ said Bobby gratefully. ‘Sort of noise a fellow might let out if a ball hit him unexpectedly.’

‘Or if he took a step into nothingness when he thought he was on a path?’

‘Yes.’

Then, having explained that the man actually died about five minutes after the doctor left to get help, Bobby’s ordeal came to an end.

The coroner was by now anxious to get on with a perfectly straightforward business.

Mrs Leo Cayman was called.

Bobby gave a gasp of acute disappointment. Where was the face of the photo that had tumbled from the dead man’s pocket? Photographers, thought Bobby disgustedly, were the worst kind of liars. The photo obviously must have been taken some years ago, but even then it was hard to believe that that charming wide-eyed beauty could have become this brazen-looking woman with plucked eyebrows and obviously dyed hair. Time, thought Bobby suddenly, was a very frightening thing. What would Frankie, for instance, look like in twenty years’ time? He gave a little shiver.

Meanwhile, Amelia Cayman, of 17 St Leonard’s Gardens, Paddington, was giving evidence.

Deceased was her only brother, Alexander Pritchard. She had last seen her brother the day before the tragedy when he had announced his intention of going for a walking tour in Wales. Her brother had recently returned from the East.

‘Did he seem in a happy and normal state of mind?’

‘Oh, quite. Alex was always cheerful.’

‘So far as you know, he had nothing on his mind?’

‘Oh! I’m sure he hadn’t. He was looking forward to his trip.’

‘There have been no money troubles – or other troubles of any kind in his life recently?’

‘Well, really I couldn’t say as to that,’ said Mrs Cayman. ‘You see, he’d only just come back, and before that I hadn’t seen him for ten years and he was never one much for writing. But he took me out to theatres and lunches in London and gave me one or two presents, so I don’t think he could have been short of money, and he was in such good spirits that I don’t think there could have been anything else.’

‘What was your brother’s profession, Mrs Cayman?’

The lady seemed slightly embarrassed.

‘Well, I can’t say I rightly know. Prospecting – that’s what he called it. He was very seldom in England.’

‘You know of no reason which should cause him to take his own life?’

‘Oh, no; and I can’t believe that he did such a thing. It must have been an accident.’

‘How do you explain the fact that your brother had no luggage with him – not even a knapsack?’

‘He didn’t like carrying a knapsack. He meant to post parcels alternate days. He posted one the day before he left with his night things and a pair of socks, only he addressed it to Derbyshire instead of Denbighshire, so it only got here today.’

‘Ah! That clears up a somewhat curious point.’

Mrs Cayman went on to explain how she had been communicated with through the photographers whose name was on the photo her brother had carried. She had come down with her husband to Marchbolt and had at once recognized the body as that of her brother.

As she said the last words she sniffed audibly and began to cry.

The coroner said a few soothing words and dismissed her.

Then he addressed the jury. Their task was to state how this man came by his death. Fortunately, the matter appeared to be quite simple. There was no suggestion that Mr Pritchard had been worried or depressed or in a state of mind where he would be likely to take his own life. On the contrary, he had been in good health and spirits and had been looking forward to his holiday. It was unfortunately the case that when a sea mist was rising the path along the cliff was a dangerous one and possibly they might agree with him that it was time something was done about it.

The jury’s verdict was prompt.

‘We find that the deceased came to his death by misadventure and we wish to add a rider that in our opinion the Town Council should immediately take steps to put a fence or rail on the sea side of the path where it skirts the chasm.’

The coroner nodded approval.

The inquest was over.

Chapter 5 Mr and Mrs Cayman (#ulink_facdd4ec-f72d-512a-a844-e5b1cdd81b89)

On arriving back at the Vicarage about half an hour later, Bobby found that his connection with the death of Alex Pritchard was not yet quite over. He was informed that Mr and Mrs Cayman had called to see him and were in the study with his father. Bobby made his way there and found his father bravely making suitable conversation without, apparently, much enjoying his task.

‘Ah!’ he said with some slight relief. ‘Here is Bobby.’ Mr Cayman rose and advanced towards the young man with outstretched hand. Mr Cayman was a big florid man with a would-be hearty manner and a cold and somewhat shifty eye that rather belied the manner. As for Mrs Cayman, though she might be considered attractive in a bold, coarse fashion, she had little now in common with that early photograph of herself, and no trace of that wistful expression remained. In fact, Bobby reflected, if she had not recognized her own photograph, it seemed doubtful if anyone else would have done so.

‘I came down with the wife,’ said Mr Cayman, enclosing Bobby’s hand in a firm and painful grip. ‘Had to stand by, you know; Amelia’s naturally upset.’

Mrs Cayman sniffed.

‘We came round to see you,’ continued Mr Cayman. ‘You see, my poor wife’s brother died, practically speaking, in your arms. Naturally, she wanted to know all you could tell her of his last moments.’