‘Perhaps I can begin with a brief recitation,’ the Coroner said, ‘of the facts as I know them. Who do we have here? Ah, yes, Mr and Mrs Joyce, thank you so much for coming along. There was no one else to identify the deceased, very obliging of Mr Joyce in the circumstances. Could we agree on the salient facts? Is there anyone here representing the deceased? No?
‘I must remind you that my duty is to pronounce upon the cause of death, rather than why. I have no comment to make on the circumstances of the death or the penultimate reasons why it occurred when it did, only what caused it. Which disease took its own moment to strike, if you get my drift. The fact that Mr R Boyd appears to have precipitated his own demise is not my business, or the business of this court. Here are the facts and the pathology.
‘Mr Richard Boyd and an accomplice who remains at Her Majesty’s pleasure, embarked upon burglary in a self-storage unit whilst it was closed to the public.’
There was a pause to consider the enormity of this. He made it sound like public sodomy and Thomas wanted to giggle.
‘It would appear that they had prevailed upon the manager to give them keys to several individual units and it would also appear that they argued as robbers do, although in what order they argued and struck one another is subject to conjecture and criminal proceedings. Mr Boyd’s accomplice was found in one unit, with a blood-alcohol level off the stratosphere, the deceased was found in another. They appear to have injured one another in a series of fights. Mr Boyd, the deceased, had superficial injuries to his skull. Two of the digits on his right hand were broken.
‘Alerted to the burglary, Mr and Mrs Joyce (well-respected proprietors of WJ Storage), attended the premises.
‘The deceased was comatose when tended by the ambulance service. He died, at a moment that cannot be exactly specified as yet, of systemic heart disease. Post-mortem analysis revealed long-standing heart problems. He could have died at any time.
‘The cause of death was heart failure. There are possible ancillary causes; the condition is historically exacerbated by abuse of steroids, substance abuse, abuse by anything, including electric shocks, nicotine, cannabinol derivatives, you know what, but essentially he died from a genetic disease of the heart. Possibly precipitated by shock: with similar, post-mortem symptoms as those found in suffocation, such as petechiae under the skin, but the man was a walking time bomb. Ours is not to reason why. Blocked ventricles kill in time.
‘We can surmise that a better way of life may have assisted the deceased to live longer, but then again, it might not have.’
Praise be, Thomas said to himself. He was already thinking of the shop he had passed while walking through the unfamiliar town en route to here. An antique shop with interesting porcelain displayed in the window, including a small, silver jug, not quite his style, but definitely appealing.
Inquest adjourned for six weeks.
They stood outside, arm in arm, she with an embroidered hankie pressed against her face. Elderly parents, he noted, must have been well on in years before they acquired their kids.
‘Oof, Mr Noble, I thought he was going to ask questions, I really did. Like what Hen did to him first. Like how I took her away to go and phone and everything and left him with Father. Poor lad, silly boy.’
The sun came out and illuminated Ellen Joyce’s pale face. Such a deceptive glint in her eye, almost triumphant. Father patted her elbow and that had the effect of quietening her without him making any request. Father, Thomas noted, at least knew not to trust any lawyer with indiscreet words or admission, especially when the lawyer was your own. They smiled at one another. Yes, Thomas thought, they really are nice people. I would not cross either of them. They would cut me up in little pieces and put me in bags and store me away until everyone had forgotten about me if I crossed them. He shook them by the hand and promised to speak soon. Father’s handshake was remarkably strong for a man of his age, but then he had been lifting and carrying and burying things for half a lifetime.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Father said, echoing the Coroner. ‘It’ll be all right, you know. Half the police force store stuff with me. And he wasn’t much of a loss, was he?’
Walking back through the town in search of the shop, Thomas reflected that his reasons for attending this formality of an inquest were perfectly sound. He was protecting the interests of his clients and Peter Friel would not have been good for this occasion. The facts would have worried him. He would have managed to feel sorry for Rick Boyd and he would have questioned the manner of his dying. Peter’s great imagination would have gone into overdrive; he was like that. He would want to know the truth of it while Thomas himself definitely did not. If it was Hen Joyce or her father or her mother or all of them together who had smothered that bastard with stored rubbish, he definitely did not want to know. There were remembered fragments of Mrs Joyce’s statement that could easily be forgotten. He seemed to be having a fit, he was very cold. My daughter and I ran back to the office leaving my husband to try and keep him warm.
On balance, Thomas decided it was definitely Dad. A dutiful man doing his duty, saving society the expense of another trial and saving his daughter from ever having to give evidence again. Such a practical man, hated clutter, would do anything for his daughters, wasn’t going to take any more risks. Thomas found the shop he had seen before and secured for himself the purchase of a small silver jug. A sweet thing with a fat little belly embossed with flowers, standing solidly on three slender legs. Not Georgian; an excellent copy. Thomas loved a good fake, but what a mistake it was to think you ever got a bargain out of town.
One more inquest to go. What a shame the Joyces would not get a hundred per cent of the estate.
‘This is definitely the best,’ Hen said, ‘as well as the oldest.’
‘What is it?’
‘A Delphos gown, designed by Fortuny, early nineteen hundred. He made a lot of dresses, invented all sorts of new ways of dyeing and printing textiles, but this sort of gown was a hallmark, I suppose. Often made in black, much rarer in red, like this. It’s a featherweight multi-pleated silk sheath which just flows over any shape, so light it would float away if it wasn’t weighted with tiny Venetian glass beads at the side and the shoulders and the hem. You’d have to kick it gently as you walked. Sarah Bernhardt and Isadora Duncan probably wore one of these. It’s a miracle. Looks simple, is anything but. Like that skirt. A woman assumes exceptional importance when wearing this dress.’
‘Not for everyday use,’ Peter said. ‘Might go to her head.’
‘No, but durable if well kept. There’s no strain on the seams, no strain in wearing it, so it doesn’t wear out. I reckon if she wore this she might have covered it up with that Hardy Amies cape. Dark blue, floor-length, rather severe and wintry. Or this Trigere cashmere evening cape, it’s sort of shadowy grey, floating warmth, could almost double as an elegant dressing gown. But look at this slip of a thing, isn’t it clever? The sort of garment you keep for ever and wear again and again in all sorts of different ways.’
‘Looks nothing to me. An underslip? A black petticoat?’
‘Wash your mouth out, you philistine. An underdress, more like. It’s Hartnell, heavy crêpe de Chine, with a simple highwaisted bodice, V-shaped over the bust and thin straps over the shoulders. The skirt’s made of panels, giving it shape and the hem’s extra deep and heavy, to keep it all in place. It never rides up, the creases hang out, the hem gives it the weight and sort of releases it to do its own business. She packed this up with the gowns she could wear with it, one gown over another. There’s one in cream lace, up to the neck with three-quarter sleeves, don’t know what vintage, greatly discreet. Then there’s this wraparound dress, Ossie Clark, 1970s. See? Diaphanous material over a soft, solid base. Wonderful soft ruffles at the neck, edged in satin with satin ties and flared sleeves. Hardy Amies and Ossie Clark. Quite a mix of generations. She had no brand loyalty, that Marianne Shearer. She liked the best and she liked it useful. The fewer fastenings the better. There’s a beaded black flapper dress, House of Adair, it’s got no zips or hooks, just glass bugle beads and seed beads in silver, gold and fuchsia, quite fragile really, already repaired, I reckon she might have danced in that. Or someone did.’