Every Second Thursday

Even if it had occurred to him he wouldn’t have considered it a very practical proposition. After Miss Jordan left – what then? Was he to see that every pill and tablet in the house was locked up, that only Mr Foster or Miss Driscoll had the key?

No reasonable medical colleague could quarrel with that attitude, the coroner reflected as the doctor left the stand. He well knew the fusses, wheedlings, complaints, of which these verge-of-middle-age females were capable; no family doctor could stand up to them for long.

And if Tredgold had withheld the tablets – the shops were full of aspirins and half a dozen other pills and concoctions that could be lethal if taken in a large enough dose. There were such things as razor-blades, knives, guns, high windows and road traffic. Over the years the coroner had encountered all the ways in which determined persons can end their own existence.

Alma Driscoll gave evidence next. A niece of old Matt Bateman, Chief Inspector Kelsey had discovered. Bateman was, as it were, known to the local force. There had been a police constable stationed in Abberley village until a few years ago and in those days Matt’s rural activities resulted from time to time in little chats between the constable and Matt. But Matt had never actually appeared in court on any charge.

Alma had taken great pains with her appearance for this public occasion. After a good deal of thought she had regretfully decided that it was only fitting she should wear a hat.

But in order not to obscure the full glory of her auburn hair, freshly washed and set, gleaming under the courtroom lights – for the afternoon continued dull and rainy – she had put on her smallest piece of headgear. This was her wedding and christening hat, no more than a few ribbons and flowers with a bloom of veiling. It gave her appearance a light-hearted holiday air.

The coroner questioned her in some detail about Mrs Foster’s state of mind, in particular during the weeks immediately before her death.

Well, yes, Alma had to admit, Mrs Foster was more moody than usual during that time, more given to sudden fits of ill-temper.

Yes, the sciatica did seem to pull her down, but then it always did; Alma had got used to this, expected it, wasn’t upset by it, paid it little attention.

And she had got used to Mrs Foster’s outbursts and tricky temperament. Mrs Foster was a highly-strung lady, Alma knew how to manage her well enough, didn’t let it bother her overmuch. It was all a matter of knowing how to handle people. She had a good situation at Lynwood, took such things in her stride, counted herself lucky to have such a good home.

But yes, looking back, she would agree that it was very likely that Mrs Foster had been rather more depressed than Alma had realized.

She hesitated, then braced her shoulders and glanced up at the coroner with an air of being about to say something she felt must be said.

‘The way I look at it now, and with all due respect to all concerned—’ She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her coat and began to twist it between her fingers. ‘I think we’d all got into the habit of treating the poor lady as if she was exaggerating – me as well as everybody else.’ She gave a quick dab at her eyes. ‘As if she was making half of it up.’

She began to make a little crying sound, but talked on through it. ‘We all behaved as if she wasn’t really in all that much pain, we never took it seriously.’ She began to cry in earnest.

The coroner leaned forward, told her not to distress herself, asked if she would like a glass of water but she shook her head. ‘Just because she was a bit spoiled,’ she said in a little rush. ‘I’m sure now she suffered a lot more than any of us thought.’