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Authors: Kathy Lynn Emerson
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balloon-back chairs.
There was only time for a brief survey of the room itself. Under other circumstances, Ben would have remarked upon the quality of the many water colors of birds that decorated the parlor, but this did not seem an appropriate time for compliments.
“So,” Mr. Buckley said, his sharp voice demanding Ben’s full attention. “I’m told you are a doctor.” He waved Ben into a matching chair.
Ben acknowledged that he was, indeed, a physician. He turned the chair around and sat with his arms folded on the curve of the wood. Face to face with his inquisitor, he waited for the coroner’s next question. He did not intend to volunteer anything. He was familiar with the procedure followed by Maine’s coroners but uncertain what subtle variations existed here in New York. Until he knew more, caution seemed wise.
“Your training?”
The question surprised Ben. He hadn’t expected his credentials to be challenged. “I received my medical degree from Bowdoin College and have practiced in Bangor, Maine since then.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ve been one of that city’s coroners for the last two years.”
Buckley looked unimpressed but nodded as he made a note to himself. “Having you on the spot will save me calling in another physician,” he announced.
That answered one question, Ben thought. New York coroners did not necessarily have medical training. They didn’t in Maine either, though many of those holding the position were doctors. It made the job simpler all around.
“What did you observe when you first examined the bones?” Buckley asked.
“The remains had been there for some time. They were the bones of a woman. The skull was fractured.”
Buckley looked up from his notes. “You are succinct.”
“I prefer not to speculate.”
“You have no opinion about the cause of death?”
“A blow to the head.”
“Was Miss Lyseth murdered?”
“The injury to her skull could have been the result of a fall—an accident.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“I don’t know,” Ben repeated, although he had to admit he had some doubts. Why cover up an accident? She’d clearly been stuffed into that space to hide her. If the fire that had destroyed that wing of the hotel had occurred shortly thereafter . . .
Ben’s ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Ellington. Everyone stood when she entered the parlor.
“Six potential jurors have shown up,” she announced. “I’ve put them in the casino.”
Only the smallest twitch at the corner of Buckley’s mouth betrayed him, but Ben was relieved to see this evidence that the man had a sense of humor. He disliked dealing with people who saw only the grimness and despair. Men of sour disposition, in Ben’s experience, were less likely to be open minded in considering evidence.
“Do you mean to have the inquest here?” Myron Grant demanded when his housekeeper had left. He sounded affronted.
“Would you prefer we adjourn to the Lenape Springs Villa after viewing the remains? Yes, we’ll hold it here, if I can find enough qualified jurors.”
“Everyone will turn out,” Howd predicted. “It’s a small town.”
“Exactly the problem,” Mr. Buckley grumbled, glancing at the cuckoo clock to check the time.
Ben was surprised to discover only fifteen minutes had passed since he’d left Diana.
“I cannot summon any person related to the deceased,” Buckley continued, “nor any person related to anyone suspected of causing her death.” He gave Howd Grant a pointed look. “Nor anyone who is known to be prejudiced for or against a suspect. The process could take days.”
Ben cleared his throat. “I don’t believe you have a suspect, Mr. Buckley. That means only Miss Lyseth’s relations need be eliminated from consideration.”
“Did you see this locket Mr. Howard Grant has identified as belonging to Miss Lyseth?” He held it up so that the gaslight caught the delicately etched design on the
There was only time for a brief survey of the room itself. Under other circumstances, Ben would have remarked upon the quality of the many water colors of birds that decorated the parlor, but this did not seem an appropriate time for compliments.
“So,” Mr. Buckley said, his sharp voice demanding Ben’s full attention. “I’m told you are a doctor.” He waved Ben into a matching chair.
Ben acknowledged that he was, indeed, a physician. He turned the chair around and sat with his arms folded on the curve of the wood. Face to face with his inquisitor, he waited for the coroner’s next question. He did not intend to volunteer anything. He was familiar with the procedure followed by Maine’s coroners but uncertain what subtle variations existed here in New York. Until he knew more, caution seemed wise.
“Your training?”
The question surprised Ben. He hadn’t expected his credentials to be challenged. “I received my medical degree from Bowdoin College and have practiced in Bangor, Maine since then.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ve been one of that city’s coroners for the last two years.”
Buckley looked unimpressed but nodded as he made a note to himself. “Having you on the spot will save me calling in another physician,” he announced.
That answered one question, Ben thought. New York coroners did not necessarily have medical training. They didn’t in Maine either, though many of those holding the position were doctors. It made the job simpler all around.
“What did you observe when you first examined the bones?” Buckley asked.
“The remains had been there for some time. They were the bones of a woman. The skull was fractured.”
Buckley looked up from his notes. “You are succinct.”
“I prefer not to speculate.”
“You have no opinion about the cause of death?”
“A blow to the head.”
“Was Miss Lyseth murdered?”
“The injury to her skull could have been the result of a fall—an accident.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“I don’t know,” Ben repeated, although he had to admit he had some doubts. Why cover up an accident? She’d clearly been stuffed into that space to hide her. If the fire that had destroyed that wing of the hotel had occurred shortly thereafter . . .
Ben’s ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Ellington. Everyone stood when she entered the parlor.
“Six potential jurors have shown up,” she announced. “I’ve put them in the casino.”
Only the smallest twitch at the corner of Buckley’s mouth betrayed him, but Ben was relieved to see this evidence that the man had a sense of humor. He disliked dealing with people who saw only the grimness and despair. Men of sour disposition, in Ben’s experience, were less likely to be open minded in considering evidence.
“Do you mean to have the inquest here?” Myron Grant demanded when his housekeeper had left. He sounded affronted.
“Would you prefer we adjourn to the Lenape Springs Villa after viewing the remains? Yes, we’ll hold it here, if I can find enough qualified jurors.”
“Everyone will turn out,” Howd predicted. “It’s a small town.”
“Exactly the problem,” Mr. Buckley grumbled, glancing at the cuckoo clock to check the time.
Ben was surprised to discover only fifteen minutes had passed since he’d left Diana.
“I cannot summon any person related to the deceased,” Buckley continued, “nor any person related to anyone suspected of causing her death.” He gave Howd Grant a pointed look. “Nor anyone who is known to be prejudiced for or against a suspect. The process could take days.”
Ben cleared his throat. “I don’t believe you have a suspect, Mr. Buckley. That means only Miss Lyseth’s relations need be eliminated from consideration.”
“Did you see this locket Mr. Howard Grant has identified as belonging to Miss Lyseth?” He held it up so that the gaslight caught the delicately etched design on the
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