“And the only maid who attended Mr. Oliver’s room was Mary Hinton?”
“That’s right.”
“I believe the coroner will wish to speak with her. And with Mr. George.”
If Smith does his duty, Frederick thought, but kept his doubts to himself.
He wished he had more confidence in Mr. Smith’s competence as coroner. His father never had much faith in the man. Smith had spent a great deal of time and money getting himselfelected, but his qualifications were in short supply. He was neither lawyer nor doctor nor officer of any kind. Worse yet, Frederick would be called upon to approve and pay the man’s fee and expenses, and the county rates were high enough already.
———
Reluctantly agreeing that the death was indeed suspicious, the coroner issued a warrant to impanel a jury and instructed Mr. Brixton, as local parish official, to carry it out. Brixton hurried to do so, asking Frederick’s help in coming up with a list of substantial householders to serve as jurors.
A few hours later, men from all over the parish descended on the hotel, and if Frederick was not mistaken, he saw a gleam of satisfaction in Mr. Mayhew’s eyes, the man no doubt thinking ahead to the meals and drinks he might sell, and perhaps a few rooms as well.
The twelve selected jurors were led into room three, and Frederick wished he could be privy to what was said.
Before he closed the door, Mr. Smith asked if there was anyone present in the hotel who could positively identify the victim as Ambrose Oliver. Someone who had been well-acquainted with the man even before he arrived at the abbey.
Frederick nodded. “Mr. Edgecombe, his publisher, is here.”
Smith nodded. “Summon him directly.”
Frederick felt stung by the man’s officious manner but had to admit it was a wise precaution for a man of Oliver’s celebrity.
Mr. Mayhew said, “He asked for a room last night. We’ve put him in number five. Just give me a moment.” The hotel proprietor hurried away down the passage.
Less than a minute later, Mr. Edgecombe appeared and stepped into Mr. Oliver’s room.
The door was left open, Smith perhaps assuming it would be a brief visit.
“State your name, if you please,” the coroner began.
“Thaddeus Edgecombe.”
“Your relationship to the deceased?”
“I am—was—his publisher.”
“And can you testify to this man’s identity?”
“Sadly, yes. That is Ambrose Oliver, the author.”
“How long have you known the victim?”
“My brother was better acquainted with him, but I have known him these last two years at least.”
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Edgecombe. If you will wait outside, we shall likely have more questions for you shortly.” Smith closed the door behind him.
A few minutes later, the jury and Mr. Smith filed out again.
Awfully brief, Frederick thought.
The men proceeded down to the coffee room to begin their deliberations.
That, Frederick could witness, because coroners’ inquests, often held in public houses or inns, were open to the public. He hoped Ludlow Smith would prove him wrong and perform his duty well.
12
