Six

I
The inquest was held three days later. It was all done as decorously as pos-sible, but there was a large attendance and, as Joanna observed, the beadybonnets were wagging.

The time of Mrs. Symmington’s death was put at between three and fouro’clock. She was alone in the house, Symmington was at his office, themaids were having their day out, Elsie Holland and the children were outwalking and Megan had gone for a bicycle ride.

The letter must have come by the afternoon post. Mrs. Symmingtonmust have taken it out of the box, read it—and then in a state of agitationshe had gone to the potting shed, fetched some of the cyanide kept therefor taking wasps’ nests, dissolved it in water and drunk it after writingthose last agitated words, “I can’t go on….”

Owen Griffith gave medical evidence and stressed the view he had out-lined to us of Mrs. Symmington’s nervous condition and poor stamina. Thecoroner was suave and discreet. He spoke with bitter condemnation ofpeople who write those despicable things, anonymous letters. Whoeverhad written that wicked and lying letter was morally guilty of murder, hesaid. He hoped the police would soon discover the culprit and take actionagainst him or her. Such a dastardly and malicious piece of spite deservedto be punished with the utmost rigour of the law. Directed by him, the jurybrought in the inevitable verdict. Suicide whilst temporarily insane.

The coroner had done his best — Owen Griffith also, but afterwards,jammed in the crowd of eager village women, I heard the same hatefulsibilant whisper I had begun to know so well, “No smoke without fire,that’s what I say!” “Must ’a been something in it for certain sure. Shewouldn’t never have done it otherwise….”

Just for a moment I hated Lymstock and its narrow boundaries, and itsgossiping whispering women.