back to the roses. He looked at them with embarrassment and seemed to feel that some explanation was required.
‘I gave evidence at the inquest,’ he said abruptly. ‘I feel …’ He hesitated; he was a man inclined by nature and by thedemands of his profession to choose his words with care, ‘… connected. It is – in part at least – on account of my testimony that she is … excluded from the churchyard.’
‘And you are grieved at the result of your testimony?’
He sighed and put up his hand to lean against a low bough of the yew tree. ‘Yes, I did not foresee this.’
‘It could have made no difference if you had,’ said Dido gently. ‘You were under oath and so had no choice but to tell exactly what you knew.’
He raised his eyes to hers with a very grateful smile. ‘That is true,’ he said.
It was too fair an opportunity to miss. ‘If it were possible, you would be glad to see the verdict changed?’ she ventured.
‘I doubt that it is possible.’
‘Perhaps Mr Wishart cannot be persuaded,’ she said. ‘I know very little of coroner’s courts. It may be that, once it is written down, a verdict is beyond the reach of reason. But this …’ she glanced down at the grave. ‘This is the decision of a clergyman. And it may be that, if we could supply sufficient reasons, Mr Portinscale might amend his verdict.’
She had certainly gained Mr Paynter’s attention. He eyed her keenly. ‘I should,’ he said, ‘be very glad to be of service to Mrs Harman-Foote.’ He spoke simply but with great feeling – as if he was particularly anxious to please the lady – and Dido could not but be reminded of that note he had left upon the hall table …
‘Then perhaps,’ she suggested, still eyeing him suspiciously, ‘you might be so kind as to walk up to the abbey with me – so that we may consult together.’
He looked surprised but, when she turned away, he fell into step beside her and listened very attentively as she told him of her promise to find the cause of Miss Fenn’s death.
‘It is an admirable enterprise,’ he said solemnly. ‘But I do not see how I can assist you.’
‘Well,’ she began carefully, ‘a great deal must depend upon this journal which your uncle kept.’
‘Yes.’
She stole another look at his brooding face, but still could make out nothing of his expression. They rounded the end of the church and emerged, blinking a little, into the autumn sunshine.
‘Miss Fenn’s consultations with your uncle,’ she ventured, ‘when did they begin?’
‘Two years, three months and one week before she died,’ he answered promptly.
‘And were they frequent?’
‘Tolerably frequent. He seems – and I have only his journal to inform me – but he seems to have visited her once every week.’ He checked himself, held up a finger, and proceeded with exactness. ‘ Usually a week passed between his visits. Once it was just six days. On …’ he thought a moment, ‘on two occasions, it was eight days.’
‘Your memory is very precise.’
He looked at her in some surprise. ‘I was required to state these facts in a court of law,’ he said. ‘Naturally I would wish them to be correct.’
‘Yes, of course. And her complaint was always one of melancholy?’
‘Usually it was melancholy: on one occasion he has written “depression of the spirits”. Though that may beno more than a variation of expression. Even to a medical man there is little to distinguish the two conditions.’
‘And had Miss Fenn asked your uncle to visit her during the last few days before she died?’
‘No. No, she had not,’ he said gravely. ‘It had been …’ He paused under the lychgate as he again sought the exact memory, ‘… twenty-six days since he last attended her.’ He pushed open the gate and began to take his leave of her.
‘But I thought you were walking up to the great house, Mr Paynter.’
‘I am,’ he said hurriedly, ‘but I find there is something I have
‘I gave evidence at the inquest,’ he said abruptly. ‘I feel …’ He hesitated; he was a man inclined by nature and by thedemands of his profession to choose his words with care, ‘… connected. It is – in part at least – on account of my testimony that she is … excluded from the churchyard.’
‘And you are grieved at the result of your testimony?’
He sighed and put up his hand to lean against a low bough of the yew tree. ‘Yes, I did not foresee this.’
‘It could have made no difference if you had,’ said Dido gently. ‘You were under oath and so had no choice but to tell exactly what you knew.’
He raised his eyes to hers with a very grateful smile. ‘That is true,’ he said.
It was too fair an opportunity to miss. ‘If it were possible, you would be glad to see the verdict changed?’ she ventured.
‘I doubt that it is possible.’
‘Perhaps Mr Wishart cannot be persuaded,’ she said. ‘I know very little of coroner’s courts. It may be that, once it is written down, a verdict is beyond the reach of reason. But this …’ she glanced down at the grave. ‘This is the decision of a clergyman. And it may be that, if we could supply sufficient reasons, Mr Portinscale might amend his verdict.’
She had certainly gained Mr Paynter’s attention. He eyed her keenly. ‘I should,’ he said, ‘be very glad to be of service to Mrs Harman-Foote.’ He spoke simply but with great feeling – as if he was particularly anxious to please the lady – and Dido could not but be reminded of that note he had left upon the hall table …
‘Then perhaps,’ she suggested, still eyeing him suspiciously, ‘you might be so kind as to walk up to the abbey with me – so that we may consult together.’
He looked surprised but, when she turned away, he fell into step beside her and listened very attentively as she told him of her promise to find the cause of Miss Fenn’s death.
‘It is an admirable enterprise,’ he said solemnly. ‘But I do not see how I can assist you.’
‘Well,’ she began carefully, ‘a great deal must depend upon this journal which your uncle kept.’
‘Yes.’
She stole another look at his brooding face, but still could make out nothing of his expression. They rounded the end of the church and emerged, blinking a little, into the autumn sunshine.
‘Miss Fenn’s consultations with your uncle,’ she ventured, ‘when did they begin?’
‘Two years, three months and one week before she died,’ he answered promptly.
‘And were they frequent?’
‘Tolerably frequent. He seems – and I have only his journal to inform me – but he seems to have visited her once every week.’ He checked himself, held up a finger, and proceeded with exactness. ‘ Usually a week passed between his visits. Once it was just six days. On …’ he thought a moment, ‘on two occasions, it was eight days.’
‘Your memory is very precise.’
He looked at her in some surprise. ‘I was required to state these facts in a court of law,’ he said. ‘Naturally I would wish them to be correct.’
‘Yes, of course. And her complaint was always one of melancholy?’
‘Usually it was melancholy: on one occasion he has written “depression of the spirits”. Though that may beno more than a variation of expression. Even to a medical man there is little to distinguish the two conditions.’
‘And had Miss Fenn asked your uncle to visit her during the last few days before she died?’
‘No. No, she had not,’ he said gravely. ‘It had been …’ He paused under the lychgate as he again sought the exact memory, ‘… twenty-six days since he last attended her.’ He pushed open the gate and began to take his leave of her.
‘But I thought you were walking up to the great house, Mr Paynter.’
‘I am,’ he said hurriedly, ‘but I find there is something I have
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