Some Die Eloquent by Catherine Aird Page B

again.
    â€˜But irrelevant.’ The coroner would not be gainsaid.
    â€˜Really, sir?’
    â€˜Post mortems,’ declared the coroner, ‘do not always confirm the certified cause of death.’
    Sloan could well believe this. People could be ill with one thing and die from another. Easily. And doctors could be wrong. Even more easily.
    â€˜Mind you,’ said the coroner, unexpectedly reverting to his own profession, ‘Counsel’s opinion isn’t always perfect either.’
    Sloan cleared his throat and made a valiant attempt to get back to the business in hand. ‘The Superintendent says …’
    â€˜But the system’s better than it was.’
    Sloan said he was glad to hear it.
    â€˜Not so simple, though.’
    â€˜Nothing,’ said Sloan with unfeigned heartiness, ‘is as simple as it used to be.’
    The coroner adjusted his pince-nez again. ‘Before they had Dabbe and his fancy scientific outfit …’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜They used to have a couple of old women.’
    â€˜Did they, sir?’ Sloan shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He hadn’t come here on a busy day to be lectured on ancient customs. He was a police officer and he’d come about a sudden death.
    â€˜They called them Searchers.’
    â€˜Really, sir?’ It was Sloan’s invariable practice to allow other people to give him information – however recondite – without let or hindrance. Or interruption.
    â€˜Two of them,’ said the coroner gratuitously, ‘used to totter along to the graveside and view the dead before burial.’
    â€˜Did they, sir?’ He himself felt no necessity to bring the Bow Street Runners into the conversation.
    â€˜They made up their minds what the cause of death was.’
    â€˜It was one way of doing it, sir, I suppose.’
    â€˜None of this stainless-steel nonsense,’ said the coroner, dismissing several thousand pounds’ worth of highly sophisticated forensic pathology equipment with a wave of the hand.
    â€˜No.’ That would have saved the taxpayers a packet, though Sloan did not say so.
    â€˜Then they’d pop round and tell the Parish Clerk.’
    â€˜No red tape,’ observed Sloan, aware that some remark was expected of him.
    â€˜He kept a stroke record,’ said the coroner.
    â€˜Saved a lot of paper work,’ agreed Sloan, entering into the spirit of the thing in spite of himself.
    â€˜And before you could say “Jack Robinson”,’ said the coroner, ‘you had your Bill of Mortality.’
    â€˜Not,’ remarked Sloan, ‘quite as accurate as the Registrar General’s Statistics but good enough.’
    The coroner re-adjusted his pince-nez and looked thoughtful. ‘No three-ring Civil Servant circus either, of course.’
    â€˜And so,’ said Sloan, making a game attempt to get back to the matter in hand, ‘you’ll just notify the Registrar General that Miss Wansdyke died from the complications of diabetes?’
    â€˜I shall say,’ said the coroner cautiously, ‘that the pathologist so advises me and that I deem an inquest not necessary in all the circumstances that have been presented to me. I may, of course,’ he added unconvincingly, ‘be in error.’
    Mr Chestley might have considered this last possibility a little more seriously had he been present when Sloan got back to the police station.
    Detective-Constable Crosby rang in just after he reached his desk.
    â€˜You’ve done what, Crosby?’ demanded Sloan martially. ‘Say that again!’
    â€˜Found her dog, sir.’
    â€˜You’re sure it’s hers?’
    â€˜Long legs and short hair, sir, like you and Dr Dabbe said. An Airedale.’
    â€˜Answering to the name of Isolde?’ said Sloan. It was not a name he for one would care to go around the streets of Berebury late at night calling out aloud, but even so