Mr Cannon scowled and seemed about to issue an interdict. There looked up at his left shoulder the gentle moon-face of Sergeant William Malley, Coroner’s Officer, with whispered counsel.
“The boy’s auntie, sir. Very cut up.”
Mr Cannon turned his attention to the inspector once more.
“Shortly before midnight on Saturday,” Purbright resumed, “an ambulance was called to the Market Place, where a young man was lying injured—possibly already dead—having fallen from the fair ride I have been describing. He was identified as Robert Digby Tring, aged 23, a pet-food processing technician—is that right, sergeant?”
“That’s how the job’s described, sir.”
“Thank you. And he lived with other members of the family, including his grandmother, at 18 Abdication Avenue. He wasn’t married, I gather—or was he?”
“No, sir. Not married. You’re probably confusing him with Joseph.”
Purbright said “Ah”, looked in silence at his notes for a moment or two, then asked the coroner if he would like the first witness called.
Mr Cannon was not sure that he cared for the tradition of informality at Flaxborough inquests that allowed the sort of side conversation between Purbright and Malley into which they had just drifted. But nor was he confident of his ability to manage affairs on his own. These local people were unpredictable; they could be truculent. Moreover there was someone present in court on that particular occasion of whom the coroner stood in too much awe to risk throwing his weight about.
“Very well, inspector,” said Mr Cannon.
There came to the table over which the coroner presided a man of about 30 with black hair and deep sideburns, a mahogany complexion and a loping, careless walk.
Purbright invited him to the chair which Malley had drawn out for him.
“Your name is Patrick Harold Tring?” inquked the coroner, glancing up from the deposition he had taken from the top of the pile.
“Aye.”
“You are aged 32 years, a storekeeper, and you reside at 18 Abdication Avenue, Flaxborough?”
“Aye.”
“And you identify the body you were shown last Sunday morning in the mortuary of Flaxborough General Hospital as that of your brother, Robert Digby Tring?”
“Digger. Aye. It was.”
“How old was he, Mr Tring?”
Tring indicated Purbright with his head. “Like the policeman said. Twenty-three.”
“And he resided with you and the other members of the family?”
“Aye. We all sort of muck in together like. With Gran. I already told him.” This time it was Sergeant Malley at whom Tring nodded.
“Yes, well, I have to hear it from your own lips, Mr Tring,” the coroner explained. He paused. “By Gran, I presume you mean your grandmother, do you?”
The possibility that there might be anyone in Flaxborough unacquainted with the redoubtable Grandma Tring struck the witness as so bizarre that for several seconds he could only stare at Mr Cannon. Then he looked down the room at the knot of people whence the earlier interjection had come and grinned clannishly.
“Well, I don’t mean my soddin’ uncle, do I?”
This earned squawks of commendation from kin and the very acidly expressed news from Mr Cannon that Mr Tring was in a courtroom and not upon the stage of a music hall.
“Your brother was not married?”
“No.”
“So far as you know, he was in good health?”
There was nothing, averred Mr Tring, the matter with Digger.
“That is all I have to ask you,” said the coroner, “but these other gentlemen may wish to put questions to you.” He indicated Purbright and, further off, a sleek, silvery-grey man whose very presence looked as if it was going to cost somebody a lot of money even if he made no further contribution to the proceedings.
The inspector said there was nothing else the police wished to ask this witness. Mr Cannon turned to the silver-grey man and offered him a deferential smile.
Mr Raymond Plant-Huntleigh, Q.C., accepted the smile and sent a much more splendid one back. He rose with athletic grace.
“You appear, Mr Plant-Huntleigh, I understand, on behalf of the Fair and Pleasure Garden Proprietors’ Protection Association,” said the coroner.
“That is my privilege, sir.”
“Pray proceed.”
The barrister gazed upon Mr Tring with a sort of grieved affection. “May I express the deep sympathy of my clients and, indeed, of myself, with the family of this young man, so tragically deprived of life at a time when it must have been full of promise.”
Mr Tring rubbed his jaw. “Yes, well...” He shuffled. “That’s all right. I mean, it’s not your fault, is it?”
“I commend your generosity in a time of sorrow,” said Mr Plant-Huntleigh. He watched Mr Cannon’s pen making its slow addenda to the typed deposition.
Purbright said something to Sergeant Malley, who squeezed nearer the coroner and murmured in his ear. Mr Cannon seemed a little annoyed, but he nodded and addressed the witness.
“Is the family legally represented?” he asked.
“D’you mean have I got a solicitor? No—well, I mean it’s not as if I was up in court for something, is it?”
“You are entitled to be represented, nevertheless. However, I shall give you what guidance I can in the event of your being asked any question you might feel doubtful about.” Mr Cannon glanced at the inspector. “All right, Mr Purbright?” Purbright made a small bow.
The barrister appeared to be in the most cordial agreement with Mr Cannon’s undertaking. He beamed upon Tring and said: “Let us revert very briefly to the matter of your brother’s state of health. Nothing the matter with Digger, I believe you said. Hale and hearty young chap, was he?”
“You could say that, yeah.”
“And full of high spirits on occasion, eh?”
“Well, he was only young, wasn’t he?”
“Indeed he was, alas. Indeed he was.” Mr Plant-Huntleigh guessed—rightly—that cross-examination was no novelty to Mr Tring. He took a little longer to lead up to his next question.
“You have heard, I have no doubt, the time-honoured phrase ‘All the fun of the fair’ ”, he said. “Fairs are places for fun, for enjoyment—enjoyment, it may be, of a somewhat boisterous kind sometimes. Nothing wrong with that, of course. Now do you agree that your brother would not hesitate to join in such enjoyment? To enter into the spirit of the occasion?”
“Dunno. Depends, doesn’t it?”
“On what, Mr Tring?”