Read Online Death at Gallows Green by Robin Paige - Free Book Online Page B

old, married, with one young daughter, Betsy, and a wife, Agnes. Oliver had served with distinction in the Suffolk parish of East Bergholt before being promoted to sergeant and posted to Gallows Green. When Edward had completed his testimony, Charles was called.
    â€œI understand, Sir Charles,” the coroner said when the oath had been administered and Charles was seated in the witness chair, “that you are a photographer.”
    â€œI am,” Charles agreed.
    â€œAnd that on the day in question you received a summons from Constable Laken to photograph the dead body of Constable Oliver at the place where it was found.”
    â€œI did,” Charles said. “If it please the Court, I have brought enlargements of the photographs with me,”
    There was a curious stir in the room as he took the prints out of his leather portfolio and offered them to the coroner. For the past twenty or so years in England, photographs had been used in an attempt to identify criminals, with very limited success. Scotland Yard had 115,000 faces in its rogues’ gallery, but the collection was in chaos because of the criminals’ tendency to give false names. No reliable means of matching a photograph to its real-life subject had yet been developed, and no other uses of the camera were officially contemplated. So it was that Charles’s photographs were little more than objects of curiosity to Coroner Harry Hodson and his twelve jurors. Even so, they were passed around and examined and wondered at, as was the triangular piece of red cloth discovered in the hedge, and Mr. McGregor’s coat, which Edward brought forward and laid on the table.
    At that point, Sir Charles was excused, and Mr. McGregor, wearing a stiff suit of dark-brown corduroy and a red-and-yellow neckerchief knotted under his ear, was summoned and sworn. His testimony was listened to with interest but proved to be of little consequence. That the triangular cloth bit had been ripped from his coat was clear, but it was, after all, his hedge and any fool knew that a man went through his own hedge a dozen times a week. Mr. McGregor’s wife’s brother’s missing pistol was mentioned but not pursued, the police surgeon having determined from the shape of the recovered bullet that it could not have come from a weapon of that type. In answer to the question of whether he had noticed anything suspicious in the neighbourhood, Mr. McGregor offered the same opinion he had offered to Charles and Edward, with a slight but significant variation.
    â€œAllus somethin’ suspicious gooin’ on,” he rasped. “Sheep gooin’ missin’, poachers, gypsies in th’ vale—”
    â€œGypsies?” the coroner asked sharply. “When was this?”
    â€œLas’ week. Two cabbages and a cauly-flow’r was took from me garden, an’ Mrs. McGregor’s apern an’ a sheet off th’ line.”
    â€œAnd you think these gypsies might have been responsible?”
    â€œ ’Twern’t rabbits,” Mr. McGregor replied smartly, and was rewarded with a laugh. But as to whether gypsies might have murdered the constable, he declined to say, nor could he offer any other helpful information. He was dismissed with thanks. Charles, thinking the inquest at an end, turned to make his way in Edward’s direction, when the coroner raised his voice once more.
    â€œSuperintendent Hacking,” he called, over the murmuring and rustle. There was a silence, and through the crowd came a stocky, distinguished-looking man in the uniform of the constabulary. He went to the witness chair, was sworn, and sat down. The man’s grey hair and mustache were luxuriant, his boots were polished, and several decorations glittered on the pocket of his impeccably pressed serge jacket. Altogether, he was an impressive-looking witness.
    Charles looked at Edward and raised his eyebrows, curious as to why a superintendent had been