women wrote, ‘Lord Cottesmore’s daughter wore a well-cut coat and skirt with one of the new stocks,’ and noted down the phrase, ‘Society Women at Inquest.’
‘James Ryder.’
‘You are James Bell Ryder, and your address is 17 Blainberry Avenue, NW?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is your business or profession?’
‘I am managing director of the Ellis Vale Cement Co.’
‘Will you kindly examine this blowpipe.’ (A pause.) ‘Have you ever seen this before?’
‘No.’
‘You did not see any such thing in anybody’s hand on board the Prometheus?’
‘No.’
‘You were sitting in seat No. 4, immediately in front of the deceased?’
‘What if I was?’
‘Please do not take that tone with me. You were sitting in seat No. 4. From that seat you had a view of practically everyone in the compartment.’
‘No, I hadn’t. I couldn’t see any of the people on my side of the thing. The seats have got high backs.’
‘But if one of those people had stepped out into the gangway—into such a position as to be able to aim the blowpipe at the deceased—you would have seen them then?’
‘Certainly.’
‘And you saw no such thing?’
‘No.’
‘Did any of the people in front of you move from their seats?’
‘Well, the man two seats ahead of me got up and went to the toilet compartment.’
‘That was in a direction away from you and from the deceased?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he come down the car towards you at all?’
‘No, he went straight back to his seat.’
‘Was he carrying anything in his hand?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Quite.’
‘Did anyone else move from his seat?’
‘The chap in front of me. He came the other way, past me to the back of the car.’
‘I protest,’ squeaked Mr Clancy, springing up from his seat in court. ‘That was earlier—much earlier—about one o’clock.’
‘Kindly sit down,’ said the coroner. ‘You will be heard presently. Proceed, Mr Ryder. Did you notice if this gentleman had anything in his hands?’
‘I think he had a fountain-pen. When he came back he had an orange book in his hand.’
‘Is he the only person who came down the car in your direction? Did you yourself leave your seat?’
‘Yes, I went to the toilet compartment—and I didn’t have any blowpipe in my hand either.’
‘You are adopting a highly improper tone. Stand down.’
Mr Norman Gale, dentist, gave evidence of a negative character. Then the indignant Mr Clancy took the stand.
Mr Clancy was news of a minor kind, several degrees inferior to a Peeress.
‘Mystery Story Writer gives Evidence. Well-known author admits purchase of deadly weapon. Sensation in court.’
But the sensation was perhaps a little premature.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Clancy shrilly. ‘I did purchase a blowpipe, and what is more, I have brought it with me today. I protest strongly against the inference that the blowpipe with which the crime was committed was my blowpipe. Here is my blowpipe.’
And he produced the blowpipe with a triumphant flourish.
The reporters wrote, ‘Second blowpipe in court.’
The coroner dealt severely with Mr Clancy. He was told that he was here to assist justice, not to rebut totally imaginary charges against himself. Then he was questioned about the occurrences on the Prometheus, but with very little result. Mr Clancy, as he explained at totally unnecessary length, had been too bemused with the eccentricities of foreign train services and the difficulties of the twenty-four hour times to have noticed anything at all going on round about him. The whole car might have been shooting snake-venomed darts out of blowpipes for all Mr Clancy would have noticed of the matter.
Miss Jane Grey, hairdresser’s assistant, created no flutter among journalistic pens.
The two Frenchmen followed.
M. Armand Dupont deposed that he was on his way to London, where he was to deliver a lecture before the Royal Asiatic Society. He and his son had been very interested in a technical discussion and had noticed very little of what went on round them. He had not noticed the deceased until his attention was attracted by the stir of excitement caused by the discovery of her death.
‘Did you know this Madame Morisot or Madame Giselle by sight?’
‘No, Monsieur, I had never seen her before.’
‘But she is a well-known figure in Paris, is she not?’
Old M. Dupont shrugged his shoulders.
‘Not to me. In any case, I am not very much in Paris these days.’
‘You have lately returned from the East, I understand?’
‘That is so, Monsieur—from Persia.’
‘You and your son have travelled a good deal in out-of-the-way parts of the world?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You have journeyed in wild places?’
‘That, yes.’
‘Have you ever come across a race of people that used snake venom as an arrow poison?’
This had to be translated, and when M. Dupont understood the question he shook his head vigorously.
‘Never—never have I come across anything like that.’
His son followed him. His evidence was a repetition of his father’s. He had noticed nothing. He had thought it possible that the deceased had been stung by a wasp, because he had himself been annoyed by one and had finally killed it.
The Duponts were the last witnesses.
The
