Traitors Gate - Anne Perry [38]
“You realized he was either ill or dead?” the coroner pressed.
“Yes sir. I sent for the manager, sir, and he sent for the doctor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Guyler. That’s all. Thank you for coming.”
Guyler departed with relief, and the club manager took his place. He was a large, solid man with an agreeable face and a walleye which was most disconcerting. It was never possible to be certain whether he was looking at one or not. He testified to having been called by the steward and finding that Sir Arthur was indeed dead. He had sent for the doctor who was usually called upon if any of the gentlemen were taken unwell, which regrettably did happen from time to time. The average age of the membership was at least fifty-five, and many were a great deal older. The doctor had confirmed death without hesitation.
The coroner thanked the manager and permitted him to depart.
“This is pointless!” Matthew said between his teeth. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. “It’s all perfectly predictable and meaningless. They’re going to get away with it, Thomas! Death by accidental overdose of an old man who didn’t know what he was doing or saying!”
“Did you expect anything different here?” Pitt asked as quietly as he could.
“No.” There was defeat in Matthew’s voice.
Pitt had known it would hurt, but he was unprepared for how hard he found it to watch Matthew’s distress. He wanted to comfort him, but there was nothing he could say.
The next witness was the doctor, who was professional and matter-of-fact. Possibly it was his way of dealing with the shock and finality of death. Pitt saw the dislike on Matthew’s face, but it was born of emotion rather than reason, and this was not the time for an explanation which was irrelevant. It had nothing to do with what he was feeling.
The coroner thanked the doctor, dismissed him and then called the first of the members of the club who had been in the room during that afternoon. He was an elderly man with enormous white side-whiskers and a polished dome of a head.
“General Anstruther,” the coroner said earnestly, “would you be good enough, sir, to tell us what you observed on that particular occasion, and if you consider it relevant, anything that you were aware of regarding Sir Arthur’s health and state of mind.”
Matthew looked up sharply. The coroner glanced at him. Matthew’s face tightened but he said nothing.
General Anstruther cleared his throat loudly and began.
“Decent chap, Arthur Desmond. Always thought so. Getting older, of course, like the rest of us. Forgetting things. Happens.”
“That afternoon, General,” the coroner prompted. “How was his demeanor? Was he …” He hesitated. “Distrait?”
“Ah …” Anstruther hesitated, looking deeply uncomfortable.
Matthew sat rigid, his eyes unwaveringly on Anstruther’s face.
“Is this really necessary?” Anstruther demanded, glaring at the coroner. “The fellow’s dead, damn it! What more do we need? Bury him and remember him kindly. He was a good man.”
“No doubt, sir,” the coroner said quietly. “That is not in any sense in question. But we do need to ascertain exactly how he died. The law requires that of us. The circumstances are unusual. The Morton Club wishes to clear its name of any question of carelessness or impropriety.”
“Good God!” Anstruther blew through his nose. “Who’s suggesting such a thing? Absolute nonsense. Poor Desmond was not well and a trifle confused. He took too much laudanum along with brandy. Simple accident. No more to be said.”
Matthew jerked up. “He was not confused!” he said aloud.
Everyone in the room turned towards him, surprised and more than a little embarrassed. One did not show emotion of such a sort, especially not here. It was not done.
“We sympathize with you, Sir Matthew,” the coroner said clearly. “But please contain yourself, sir. I shall not allow any statements to pass without requiring they be substantiated.” He turned back to the witness stand. “Now, General Anstruther,