Reconvening in the coffee room, Mr. Smith requested refreshments for himself and the jury, which Mr. Mayhew happily supplied. More expenses for Frederick to pay.
Once settled, Mr. Smith began, “As a reminder, gentlemen, we are here to establish the identity of the victim, as well as the time, place, cause, and manner of death—whether natural, accident, suicide, unlawful killing, or willful murder. We have identified the victim and the place is obvious. Now to establish the time of death.”
Mr. Edgecombe was officially sworn in, and the coroner continued his examination.
“When did you last see Mr. Oliver alive?”
“Yesterday. We were supposed to have dinner together, but when I went up to his room, he said he couldn’t stop; he’d come up with a book idea at last. I was so foolishly, stupidly relieved....”
“And the time?” Smith asked.
“Oh. Sorry. That was shortly after seven. He asked me to send up a tray. I agreed and went down to my dinner, sure I would learn more about this new idea soon, perhaps even reada chapter or two.” He shook his head. “Now my hopes have been dashed and the future of the company too.”
“Is your firm a large concern?”
“No. Just me and a clerk now my brother is gone. William was Mr. Oliver’s first publisher. Sadly, he died more than a year ago.”
Questions spun through Frederick’s mind, and he wrote them in his notebook. How had his brother died? Natural causes? He must have been fairly young.
“I see. And was Mr. Oliver in good health?”
The publisher shrugged. “As far as I know. He ate and drank too much, as was plain to see, but he never mentioned consulting a physician.”
“And what were you and he doing here at Swanford Abbey?”
“His idea. Said he needed dedicated time and solitude to focus. To devise a clever plot. Promised me he would finally overcome his stagnation and write the successful novel he’s long promised me.”
“Did Mr. Oliver have any family?”
Edgecombe shook his head. “He was an only child, and his parents are long gone. Perhaps a few distant cousins, but no close relatives as far as I know.”
“And his heir?”
“No idea. And I don’t see how it matters as all anyone will inherit are his debts.”
“Had Mr. Oliver any enemies?”
Edgecombe huffed. “The man was adored by strangers and despised by those who knew him best.”
“Why?”
“I suppose it’s not the done thing to speak ill of the dead. But Oliver was not an easy man to get on with—vain and selfish, not to mention a philanderer. But I was only his publisher. I did not meddle in his private affairs.”
“Was he meeting anyone here at the hotel?”
The man looked down, then peered up through smudged spectacles. “Besides me? Not that I was aware of.”
Frederick noted the hesitation, even if Smith did not.
“And was that the last time you saw him?”
Edgecombe shook his head. “I briefly went back to his room after dinner. Just to ... tell him something.”
Tell him what?Frederick wondered.
Smith asked, “And what time was this?”
“I suppose between nine and half past. I was tempted to press for more details about the book but didn’t want to interrupt him for long. I decided to wait till morning. I took a room here instead of making the trip back and retired early.”
