A Breach of Promise - Anne Perry [145]
Why had she not trusted him? What had he said, or not said, so that she had taken this terrible step rather than tell him the truth? Had she thought him ruthless, dishonorable, without compassion or understanding? Why? He was not any of those things. No one had ever accused him … except of being a little pompous, possibly; ambitious; even at times cold—which was quite unjustified. He was not cold, simply not overimpulsive. He was not prejudiced—not in the slightest. Even Hester, with all her ideas, had never said he was prejudiced. And heaven knows, she would have said it had it crossed her mind!
The doctor’s evidence was finished. It informed them of nothing new.
The police told of being called over the matter, as was necessary. Melville had apparently been alone all evening. There was no sign whatsoever of anyone else’s having entered her rooms.
“Was there any evidence of Miss Melville’s having eaten or drunk anything since returning home that evening?” the coroner asked.
“We saw nothing, sir,” the policeman replied unhappily. “It seemed the young lady had no resident servant. There was nothing out of place. No food had been prepared and there was no crockery or glasses showing as been used.”
“Did you search for any container for pills or powders, Sergeant?” the coroner pressed.
“Yes sir, an’ we found nothing except a paper for a headache powder screwed up in the wastepaper basket in the bedroom. We looked very careful, sir. Fair turned the place inside out.”
“I see. Thank you. You also looked for bottles, I presume? Even clean ones which might have been used and then washed out?”
“Yes sir. No empty packets, bottles, vials, papers, nothing. And we took away and had tested what was still in use. All harmless domestic stuff as you’d find in most people’s homes.”
“Very diligent. Have you any idea where Miss Melville obtained the poison which killed her, or where she administered it to herself?”
“No, sir, we have not.”
“Thank you. That is all. You may step down.”
Rathbone looked around again as the sergeant left and the police surgeon was called. Monk sat lost in gloom. He looked about as miserable and angry as Rathbone felt. There was a certain companionship in their silence. Neither of them had the slightest desire to try to express his thoughts in words. It was a vague comfort for Rathbone to know that he was not alone in his struggle to find meaning in this, in his profound unhappiness and sense of having been helpless and inadequate all the way along.
The police surgeon gave evidence as to his surprise at discovering the deceased was a woman and not a man as she had at first appeared. But she was in every physical way quite normal—indeed, dressed appropriately she would have been a handsome woman, even beautiful, in her own way. He said it quietly and with great sadness.
There was a hush in the room as he spoke. Someone coughed. Someone else stifled a nervous giggle and was instantly glared at. People seemed to be both embarrassed and moved by a deep sense of loss and the finality of death.
“And the cause of Miss Melville’s death?” the coroner asked.
“Belladonna poisoning, sir,” the surgeon answered without hesitation.
“Can you be certain of that?”
“Absolutely. I found traces of belladonna in the deceased’s internal organs. And on examination of the body, every sign led me to consider it as a probable cause of death.”
“What were the signs?”
“Widely dilated pupils, exceedingly dry skin, great dryness in the mouth, redness in the face. On examination of the body in autopsy I also found retention of urine and, of course, failure of the heart consistent with the