Mrs. Crump confirmed this account to the best of her ability. She said: “I am head charwoman to the firm of Pym’s Publicity, Ltd. It is my duty to take the tea-waggon round the office building at about 3.30 each afternoon. That is, I start my round at about 3.15 and finish at about 3.45. I had nearly finished doing the first floor, and was returning on my way to the lift to take tea up to the top floor. That would make the time about 3.30. I was coming along the corridor and was facing the foot of the iron staircase. I saw Mr. Dean fall. He fell all in a bunch-like. It was dreadful. He did not shout out or make any exclamation in falling. He fell like a dead thing. My heart seemed to stop. I was struck so I couldn’t move for a minute or two. Then Mr. Atkins came running along to pick him up. He said: ‘He’s broke his neck,’ and I let out a scream. I couldn’t help myself, I was that upset. I think that staircase is a wicked dangerous place. I am always warning the other women against it. If you was to slip you couldn’t hardly save yourself, not if you was carrying anything. People run up and downstairs on it all day, and the edges of the steps gets that polished you wouldn’t believe, and some of them is wore down at the edges.”
The medical evidence was given by Dr. Emerson. “I reside in Queen’s Square, Bloomsbury. It is about five minutes from my house to the offices of Pym’s Publicity in Southampton Row. I received a telephone message at 3.40 p.m. and went round immediately. Deceased was dead when I arrived. I concluded that he had then been dead about 15 minutes. His neck was broken at the fourth cervical vertebra. He also had a contused wound on the right temple which had cracked the skull. Either of these injuries was sufficient to cause death. I should say he had died instantly upon falling. He had also the tibia of the left leg broken, probably through catching in the banister of the staircase. There were also, of course, a quantity of minor scratches and contusions. The wound on the head is such as might be caused through pitching upon one of the knobs on the handrail in falling. I could not say whether this or the broken vertebra was the actual cause of death, but in either case, death would be instantaneous. I agree that it is not a matter of great importance. I found no trace of any heart disease or any other disease which might suggest that deceased was subject to vertigo or fainting-fits. I observed no traces of alcoholic tendency or of addiction to drugs. I have seen the staircase, and consider that it would be very easy to slip upon it. So far as I can tell, deceased’s eyesight would appear to have been normal.”
Miss Pamela Dean, sister of deceased, gave evidence that her brother had been in good health at the time of the accident and that he had never been subject to fits or fainting. He was not short-sighted. He occasionally suffered from liverish attacks. He was a good dancer and usually very neat and nimble on his feet. He had once sprained his ankle as a boy, but so far as she knew, no permanent weakness of the joint had resulted.
Evidence was also called which showed that accidents had occurred on several previous occasions to persons descending the staircase; other witnesses expressed the opinion that the staircase was not dangerous to anybody exercising reasonable care. The jury returned a verdict of accidental death, with a rider to the effect that they thought the iron spiral should be replaced by a more solid structure.
Mr. Bredon shook his head. Then he drew the sheet of paper from the rack before him and wrote down:
1. He seemed to crumple together.
2. He did not make any attempt to save himself.
5. He did not loose his grip of the book.
4. He pitched on his head at the bottom.
5. Neck broken, skull cracked; either injury fatal.
6. Good health; good sight; good dancer.
He filled himself a pipe and sat for some time staring at this list. Then he searched in a drawer and produced a piece of notepaper, which seemed to be an unfinished letter, or the abandoned draft of one.
DEAR MR. PYM,-I think it only right that you should know that there is something going on in the office which is very undesirable, and might lead to serious-
After a little more thought, he laid this document aside and began to scribble on another sheet, erasing and rewriting busily. Presently a slow smile twitched his lips.
“I’ll swear there’s something in it,” he muttered, “something pretty big. But the job is, to handle it. One’s got to go for the money-but where’s it coming from? Not from Pym, I fancy. It doesn’t seem to be his personal show, and you can’t blackmail a whole office. I wonder, though. After all, he’d probably pay a good bit to prevent-”
He relapsed into silence and meditation.
“And what,” demanded Miss Parton, spearing another chocolate éclair, “do you think of our Mr. Bredon?”
“The Pimlico Pet?” said Miss Rossiter. “You’ll put on pounds and pounds if you eat all that sweet stuff, duckie. Well, I think he’s rather a lamb, and his shirts are simply too marvellous. He won’t be able to keep that up on Pym’s salary, bonus or no bonus. Or the silk socks either.”
“He’s been brought up silk-lined all right,” agreed Miss Parton. “One of the new poor, I expect. Lost all his money in the slump or something.”
“Either that, or his family have got tired of supporting him and pushed him out to scratch for himself,” suggested Miss Rossiter. She slimmed more strenuously than her colleague, and was less inclined to sentiment. “I sort of asked him the other day what he did before he came here, and he said, all sorts of things, and mentioned that he’d had a good bit to do with motors. I expect he’s been one of these gilded johnnies who used to sell cars on commission, and the bottom’s dropped out of that and he’s got to do a job of work-if you call copy-writing work.”
“I think he’s very clever,” said Miss Parton. “Did you see that idiotic headline he put up for Margarine yesterday: ‘IT’S A FAR, FAR BUTTER THING’? Hankie nearly sniggered himself sick. I think the Pet was pulling his leg. But what I mean is, he wouldn’t think of a silly thing like that if he hadn’t got brains.”
“He’ll make a copy-writer,” declared Miss Rossiter, firmly. She had seen so many new copy-writers come and pass like ships in the night, that she was as well able to size them up as the copy-chiefs themselves. “He’s got the flair, if you know what I mean. He’ll stay all right.”
“I hope he does,” said Miss Parton. “He’s got beautiful manners. Doesn’t chuck the stuff at you as if you were dirt like young Willis. And he pays his tea-bill like a little gentleman.”
“Early days,” said Miss Rossiter. “He’s paid one tea-bill. Gives me the pip, the way some of them make a fuss about it. There’s Garrett. He was quite rude when I went to him on Saturday. Hinted that I made money out of the teas. I suppose he thinks it’s funny. I don’t.”
“He means it for a joke.”
“No, he doesn’t. Not altogether. And he’s always grumbling. Whether it’s Chelsea buns or jam roll, there’s always something wrong with it. I said to him, ‘Mr. Garrett,’ I said, ‘if you like to give up your lunch-time every day to trying to find something that everybody will enjoy, you’re welcome to do it.’ ‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘I’m not the office-boy.’ ‘And who do you think I am,’ I said, ‘the errand-girl?’ So he told me not to lose my temper. It’s all very well, but you get very tired of it, especially this hot weather, fagging round.”
Miss Parton nodded. The teas were a perennial grievance.
“Anyhow,” she said, “friend Bredon is no trouble. A plain biscuit and a cup of tea every day. That’s his order. And he said he was quite ready to pay the same subscription as everybody else, though really he ought to be let off with sixpence. I do like a man to be generous and speak to you nicely.”