CHAPTER X.The InquestThe inquest on the exhumed body of Sir Garth Fratten was held at Scotland Yard, as any unnecessary movement was considered undesirable in view of the stage of decomposition that had been reached. For a similar reason it was arranged to hold the first stage of the inquest at once, without waiting for the collection of further evidence. After the inspection of the body by the jury, evidence as to identity, cause of death, and other preliminaries, an adjournment could be obtained and the body decently re-buried.As can be imagined, the news of the prospective inquest was received with intense interest, and even excitement, by the press and public. The applications for the few available seats ran into hundreds, and for every curious spectator who found a place in the body of the court, twenty were turned away. When the Coroner, Mr. Mendel Queriton, took his seat at eleven o’clock on Wednesday 6th November, the room was packed to suffocation—so much so, indeed, that the jury, filing back from their unpleasant duty, demanded and obtained a wholesale opening of windows.After the preliminary formalities, the first witness to be called was Sir Horace Spavage. Sir Horace identified the body and gave evidence as to the cause of death. He explained the nature of the disease, using very much the same terms and similes as he had done to Poole, but the detective noticed that the distinguished physician did not now display the same confidence and impatience as he had done on the first occasion.“Knows he’s skating on thin ice,” thought Poole.Having listened to what Sir Horace had to say, the Coroner caused to be handed to him a narrow sheet of paper, on which were visible both printed and written words.“That, Sir Horace, is the certificate of death signed by you immediately after Sir Garth Fratten’s death?”“It is.”“In it you certify that death was due to natural causes arising from the rupture of a thorasic aneurism?”“I do.”“You still hold that view?”“Certainly. I know of no facts which would cause me to alter my opinion.”“That death was due to natural causes?”Sir Horace inclined his head.“Did you examine the body?”“Naturally. I exposed the chest and percussed it, and finding it dull, knew that the aneurism had burst and that the chest was full of blood. It was exactly as I had expected—I may say that it was inevitable.”“You found no signs of violence?”“Certainly not.”“Did you examine his back?”“I did not. Why should I?”“You knew there had been an accident.”“The gentleman who had been with Sir Garth, Mr.—er—Hessel, certainly told me that there had been some slightcontretemps—that someone had stumbled into Sir Garth and upset him; I should not have described it as an accident.”“Do you mean by that that it was intentional?”“Certainly not. I mean that it was too slight to be described as an accident. Still, I will accept the word, if you like.”The Coroner bowed.“And in spite of all this you did not consider it necessary to hold a post-mortem or to ask for an inquest?”“I did not. As I have already said, I had known for a considerable time that Sir Garth had been suffering from an aneurism of dangerous size that was liable to rupture at any time in the event of shock or sudden violent physical exertion. When I was summoned and found that the aneurism had burst and that there was a history of shock—that this slight—er—accident had occurred, I had no hesitation in signing this certificate.”“And you still hold that view?”“Certainly. As I have said, no fresh facts have been brought to my notice which might cause me to alter it.”“Possibly, Sir Horace, the course of this inquiry may cause you to reconsider the correctness of your action. That is all, thank you; you may stand down.”Sir Horace glared at his tormentor, but, finding nothing to say, stood down.Ryland Fratten was now called. After identifying the body and answering a few formal questions about himself and his father he was, at a sign from the Coroner, about to stand down when Chief Inspector Barrod rose to his feet.“May I ask this witness some questions, sir, please?”The Coroner looked rather surprised, but signified his consent. He had been given to understand that the police did not intend to press the inquiry beyond preliminaries at the present hearing—certainly not as regards their suspect. Still, presumably Chief Inspector Barrod knew what he was about.The fact was that Barrod, after watching Ryland Fratten give evidence, had formed the opinion that this was just the type of young and attractive gentleman whom his rather inexperienced colleague—of a similar type himself—might find it difficult to tackle successfully. It will be remembered that the Chief Inspector, while appreciating Poole’s education and qualifications, did not set great store by them—even thought them rather dangerous. He decided, therefore, to take this opportunity to examine Fratten himself.“You are your late father’s heir, Mr. Fratten?”“I was one of his heirs.”“Quite so. You and your sister—your half-sister, that is—Miss Inez Fratten, are joint residuary legatees?”“Yes.”“You each inherit a very large sum of money?”“I suppose it is.”“How much?”“I don’t know.”“But approximately how much? You must know that.”“It is very difficult to say, till all the accounts are in and probate granted. My solicitor would be able to tell you better.”Mr. Menticle half rose from his chair near the Coroner’s table, but Barrod signed to him to sit down.“I am asking you, please, Mr. Fratten. Roughly, now; somewhere about a quarter of a million, eh?”There was a gasp from the crowded court; it sounded a vast sum.“Roughly, perhaps it is.”“Thank you. Now would you mind telling me, what were your relations with your father?”Ryland seemed to draw back into himself. He was clearly distressed by the question; but he answered it.“They were not good, I’m afraid,” he said in a low voice. “I was a pretty rotten son. I got into debt and displeased my father in other ways. He had very little use for me.”“You had a serious quarrel a week or so before your father’s death?”At this point Mr. Menticle, who had been showing increasing signs of indignation, scribbled on a piece of paper and had it passed to the Coroner. The latter read it and nodded to him, but, possibly because the Chief Inspector had shifted on to fresh and less dangerous ground, took no immediate action.Barrod questioned Fratten as to his knowledge of the nature of his father’s disease, as Poole had done, but this time eliciting a quite straightforward reply. He did not touch on the question of the new will. Finally:“There is just one formal question I must put to you, Mr. Fratten. Where were you personally at the time of your father’s death?”Ryland Fratten’s hesitation was barely noticeable before he answered.“As a matter of fact I was in St. James’s Park,” he said.A glint shone in the Chief Inspector’s eyes.“What were you doing?”Mr. Menticle sprang to his feet.“Mr. Coroner!” he exclaimed.The Coroner held up his hand.“You need not answer that question unless you like, Mr. Fratten,” he said. “I do not know where this examination is trending, but I think it probable that you would be wise to consult your solicitor, and to be represented by him.”Fratten gave him a smile of gratitude.“Thank you, sir,” he said. “It isn’t really a case of a solicitor. I am not afraid of incriminating myself, but I do rather dislike exposing myself to ridicule. I was waiting in St. James’s Park, at the Buckingham Palace end of the Birdcage Walk, to be picked up by a girl.”“Picked up by a girl! Do you mean . . . ?”“I mean,” interrupted Fratten, blushing hotly, “that a girl—a lady—had arranged to pick me up there in her car.”Barrod held him for nearly a minute under his stare.“And who, sir, was this—er—lady?”“I can’t tell you.”“Do you mean you can’t or you won’t?”“I can’t tell you,” Fratten repeated.Barrod opened his mouth as if to renew his interrogation, but, apparently changing his mind, resumed his seat, with a sardonic expression.“That’s all, sir,” he said, rising and bowing to the Coroner.Mr. Menticle had boldly walked across to Ryland’s side and engaged him in a whispered conversation. The Coroner indulged him by writing up his notes. Having finished his colloquy, Mr. Menticle turned to the Coroner.“Mr. Fratten has asked me to represent him, sir,” he said. “I trust I have your permission.”The Coroner looked at him, a curious expression on his face.“It occurs to me, Mr. Menticle,” he said, “that such a course may give rise to some difficulty. I understand that you are yourself to give evidence before this inquiry. Under the circumstances would it not, perhaps, be better . . .” he left the sentence unfinished.Mr. Menticle turned slowly red and then deathly white.“I . . . I had forgotten, sir,” he stammered. Pulling himself together he turned to his client and after a further consultation, asked leave to have Mr. Raymond Cullen called to represent Mr. Fratten in his place.“Very well,” said the Coroner, “let it be so. We will adjourn now for the luncheon interval.”When the Court re-opened, a clean-shaven and acute-looking young man was seen to be sitting next to Ryland Fratten—evidently Mr. Raymond Cullen. Hardly had the Coroner taken his seat when a small, quaintly-dressed woman rose from her seat at the back of the Court.“Mr. Coroner,” she said, in a high, penetrating voice. “I want to give evidence in this case. I saw the whole thing. A brutal outrage it was, a . . .”“Order, order,” called the Coroner’s Officer, glaring fiercely at the interrupter.“If you wish to give evidence, madam,” said the Coroner, “you should communicate with the police, or with my Officer, in the proper manner. In the meantime, I will call the witnesses as I require them. Dr. Percy Vyle.”Dr. Vyle, the police-surgeon who had been present at the exhumation, described his share in the proceedings at Brooklands. He explained the nature of the marks which he had discovered and his reasons for believing them to have been caused by a blow before death. In his opinion the blow had been a severe one, caused not by the flat of a hand or even a doubled fist, but rather by a blunt instrument, such as the knob of a stick. In answer to a question by Mr. Cullen he had no hesitation in saying that the blow could not have been delivered after death—the appearance of the bruise was not consistent with post-mortem injury.Dr. Vyle was succeeded by Inspector Poole, who corroborated the surgeon’s account of the exhumation. After him came distinguished Home Office experts enlarging, at an enlarged fee, upon what had already been said about the bruising on the dead man’s back. Cullen’s questions beat upon this weight of official testimony with as much effect as rain upon a steam-engine.There followed the important testimony of Mr. Leopold Hessel. The banker repeated the account of his last walk with his friend that he had given to Poole. He said nothing, and was not asked, about the subject of the conversation that had so engrossed them, but otherwise Poole could notice no discrepancy. Hessel repeated his assertion that he did not see how a blow could have been struck without his being aware of it, though he admitted that he could not be absolutely positive. Still, there had been a number of other witnesses present and none of them had given any signs of having seen violence used.“I did!” exclaimed the same shrill voice from the back of the room. “I told you at the time that I saw—a murderous attack—a gang of . . .”“Order, there,” roared the Coroner’s Officer.“Remove that person,” exclaimed the Coroner himself sharply.The quaint little figure was led from the room by a large policeman, protesting loudly.Proceeding, Mr. Hessel told of how his friend had pulled himself together, seemed to be really quite recovered, how they walked on slowly, arm-in-arm, and then of the sudden collapse and, as was now known, almost instantaneous death of Sir Garth.“And he said nothing before he died?” asked the Coroner.“Nothing. He seemed to gasp—more than once, as if he was choking. And then he collapsed, almost pulling me down with him. He never spoke.”Mr. Hessel himself spoke in a quiet, restrained voice, but it was evident that he was deeply affected.“You are—you were Sir Garth’s closest friend, were you not, Mr. Hessel?”“In a sense, I suppose I was. He was very good to me.”“You are his sole executor?”“Yes.”“And he left particular instructions that his papers were to be committed to your charge?”“That is so.”“Have you been through them?”“Cursorily only.”“From what you have seen or from what you know, have you formed any opinion as to who could have wished to bring about his death?”“Absolutely no. Even now, even after what all these expert medical witnesses have said, I find it difficult to believe that Sir Garth was murdered, or even that there was an attack upon him. I know it must sound unreasonable in the face of such testimony, but I simply cannot bring myself to believe it.”The Coroner gave an almost unnoticeable shrug of the shoulders.“Fortunately the unpleasant duty of finding a verdict on that point does not fall to your lot, Mr. Hessel,” he said. “I have no more to ask you.”It was now late in the afternoon and the lights had been lit some time. Mr. Queriton glanced at his watch.“There is time to take one more witness,” he said, “and that will be the last—we will then adjourn—Mr. Septimus Menticle.”The lawyer looked anything but at his ease as he took his stand. As his examination proceeded, however, his face gradually cleared. He was asked about the will—the effective will, for which probate was now being applied. He gave its outline from memory and handed a copy of it to the Coroner, who, after a brief glance, passed it on to the jury. He gave a rough estimate of the figures concerned and explained the difficulty of stating them accurately at the moment. He was not—to his intense relief—asked about the new will, the will that was never signed; probably it was only an agony deferred but he was human enough to be thankful for the reprieve. It looked as if his evidence, and the day’s work itself, were finished when the Coroner, blotting his notes, put a careless question, apparently as an afterthought.“Practically,” he said, putting his papers together, “Sir Garth’s two children divide the estate, so that, had he died intestate, the result would have been approximately the same?”Mr. Menticle did not answer. The Coroner looked up.“Eh?” he said, “that is so, is it not?”Mr. Menticle hesitated.“Am I obliged,” he asked, “to answer hypothetical questions?”“You are obliged to answer the questions I put to you,” said Mr. Queriton sharply.The lawyer slowly nodded his head.“In that case,” he said, “the answer is in the negative.”“What? They would not have divided it? Why not?”“The whole—or practically the whole—would have gone to Miss Inez Fratten. Mr. Ryland Fratten is not Sir Garth Fratten’s son.”
The inquest on the exhumed body of Sir Garth Fratten was held at Scotland Yard, as any unnecessary movement was considered undesirable in view of the stage of decomposition that had been reached. For a similar reason it was arranged to hold the first stage of the inquest at once, without waiting for the collection of further evidence. After the inspection of the body by the jury, evidence as to identity, cause of death, and other preliminaries, an adjournment could be obtained and the body decently re-buried.
As can be imagined, the news of the prospective inquest was received with intense interest, and even excitement, by the press and public. The applications for the few available seats ran into hundreds, and for every curious spectator who found a place in the body of the court, twenty were turned away. When the Coroner, Mr. Mendel Queriton, took his seat at eleven o’clock on Wednesday 6th November, the room was packed to suffocation—so much so, indeed, that the jury, filing back from their unpleasant duty, demanded and obtained a wholesale opening of windows.
After the preliminary formalities, the first witness to be called was Sir Horace Spavage. Sir Horace identified the body and gave evidence as to the cause of death. He explained the nature of the disease, using very much the same terms and similes as he had done to Poole, but the detective noticed that the distinguished physician did not now display the same confidence and impatience as he had done on the first occasion.
“Knows he’s skating on thin ice,” thought Poole.
Having listened to what Sir Horace had to say, the Coroner caused to be handed to him a narrow sheet of paper, on which were visible both printed and written words.
“That, Sir Horace, is the certificate of death signed by you immediately after Sir Garth Fratten’s death?”
“It is.”
“In it you certify that death was due to natural causes arising from the rupture of a thorasic aneurism?”
“I do.”
“You still hold that view?”
“Certainly. I know of no facts which would cause me to alter my opinion.”
“That death was due to natural causes?”
Sir Horace inclined his head.
“Did you examine the body?”
“Naturally. I exposed the chest and percussed it, and finding it dull, knew that the aneurism had burst and that the chest was full of blood. It was exactly as I had expected—I may say that it was inevitable.”
“You found no signs of violence?”
“Certainly not.”
“Did you examine his back?”
“I did not. Why should I?”
“You knew there had been an accident.”
“The gentleman who had been with Sir Garth, Mr.—er—Hessel, certainly told me that there had been some slightcontretemps—that someone had stumbled into Sir Garth and upset him; I should not have described it as an accident.”
“Do you mean by that that it was intentional?”
“Certainly not. I mean that it was too slight to be described as an accident. Still, I will accept the word, if you like.”
The Coroner bowed.
“And in spite of all this you did not consider it necessary to hold a post-mortem or to ask for an inquest?”
“I did not. As I have already said, I had known for a considerable time that Sir Garth had been suffering from an aneurism of dangerous size that was liable to rupture at any time in the event of shock or sudden violent physical exertion. When I was summoned and found that the aneurism had burst and that there was a history of shock—that this slight—er—accident had occurred, I had no hesitation in signing this certificate.”
“And you still hold that view?”
“Certainly. As I have said, no fresh facts have been brought to my notice which might cause me to alter it.”
“Possibly, Sir Horace, the course of this inquiry may cause you to reconsider the correctness of your action. That is all, thank you; you may stand down.”
Sir Horace glared at his tormentor, but, finding nothing to say, stood down.
Ryland Fratten was now called. After identifying the body and answering a few formal questions about himself and his father he was, at a sign from the Coroner, about to stand down when Chief Inspector Barrod rose to his feet.
“May I ask this witness some questions, sir, please?”
The Coroner looked rather surprised, but signified his consent. He had been given to understand that the police did not intend to press the inquiry beyond preliminaries at the present hearing—certainly not as regards their suspect. Still, presumably Chief Inspector Barrod knew what he was about.
The fact was that Barrod, after watching Ryland Fratten give evidence, had formed the opinion that this was just the type of young and attractive gentleman whom his rather inexperienced colleague—of a similar type himself—might find it difficult to tackle successfully. It will be remembered that the Chief Inspector, while appreciating Poole’s education and qualifications, did not set great store by them—even thought them rather dangerous. He decided, therefore, to take this opportunity to examine Fratten himself.
“You are your late father’s heir, Mr. Fratten?”
“I was one of his heirs.”
“Quite so. You and your sister—your half-sister, that is—Miss Inez Fratten, are joint residuary legatees?”
“Yes.”
“You each inherit a very large sum of money?”
“I suppose it is.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“But approximately how much? You must know that.”
“It is very difficult to say, till all the accounts are in and probate granted. My solicitor would be able to tell you better.”
Mr. Menticle half rose from his chair near the Coroner’s table, but Barrod signed to him to sit down.
“I am asking you, please, Mr. Fratten. Roughly, now; somewhere about a quarter of a million, eh?”
There was a gasp from the crowded court; it sounded a vast sum.
“Roughly, perhaps it is.”
“Thank you. Now would you mind telling me, what were your relations with your father?”
Ryland seemed to draw back into himself. He was clearly distressed by the question; but he answered it.
“They were not good, I’m afraid,” he said in a low voice. “I was a pretty rotten son. I got into debt and displeased my father in other ways. He had very little use for me.”
“You had a serious quarrel a week or so before your father’s death?”
At this point Mr. Menticle, who had been showing increasing signs of indignation, scribbled on a piece of paper and had it passed to the Coroner. The latter read it and nodded to him, but, possibly because the Chief Inspector had shifted on to fresh and less dangerous ground, took no immediate action.
Barrod questioned Fratten as to his knowledge of the nature of his father’s disease, as Poole had done, but this time eliciting a quite straightforward reply. He did not touch on the question of the new will. Finally:
“There is just one formal question I must put to you, Mr. Fratten. Where were you personally at the time of your father’s death?”
Ryland Fratten’s hesitation was barely noticeable before he answered.
“As a matter of fact I was in St. James’s Park,” he said.
A glint shone in the Chief Inspector’s eyes.
“What were you doing?”
Mr. Menticle sprang to his feet.
“Mr. Coroner!” he exclaimed.
The Coroner held up his hand.
“You need not answer that question unless you like, Mr. Fratten,” he said. “I do not know where this examination is trending, but I think it probable that you would be wise to consult your solicitor, and to be represented by him.”
Fratten gave him a smile of gratitude.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “It isn’t really a case of a solicitor. I am not afraid of incriminating myself, but I do rather dislike exposing myself to ridicule. I was waiting in St. James’s Park, at the Buckingham Palace end of the Birdcage Walk, to be picked up by a girl.”
“Picked up by a girl! Do you mean . . . ?”
“I mean,” interrupted Fratten, blushing hotly, “that a girl—a lady—had arranged to pick me up there in her car.”
Barrod held him for nearly a minute under his stare.
“And who, sir, was this—er—lady?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Do you mean you can’t or you won’t?”
“I can’t tell you,” Fratten repeated.
Barrod opened his mouth as if to renew his interrogation, but, apparently changing his mind, resumed his seat, with a sardonic expression.
“That’s all, sir,” he said, rising and bowing to the Coroner.
Mr. Menticle had boldly walked across to Ryland’s side and engaged him in a whispered conversation. The Coroner indulged him by writing up his notes. Having finished his colloquy, Mr. Menticle turned to the Coroner.
“Mr. Fratten has asked me to represent him, sir,” he said. “I trust I have your permission.”
The Coroner looked at him, a curious expression on his face.
“It occurs to me, Mr. Menticle,” he said, “that such a course may give rise to some difficulty. I understand that you are yourself to give evidence before this inquiry. Under the circumstances would it not, perhaps, be better . . .” he left the sentence unfinished.
Mr. Menticle turned slowly red and then deathly white.
“I . . . I had forgotten, sir,” he stammered. Pulling himself together he turned to his client and after a further consultation, asked leave to have Mr. Raymond Cullen called to represent Mr. Fratten in his place.
“Very well,” said the Coroner, “let it be so. We will adjourn now for the luncheon interval.”
When the Court re-opened, a clean-shaven and acute-looking young man was seen to be sitting next to Ryland Fratten—evidently Mr. Raymond Cullen. Hardly had the Coroner taken his seat when a small, quaintly-dressed woman rose from her seat at the back of the Court.
“Mr. Coroner,” she said, in a high, penetrating voice. “I want to give evidence in this case. I saw the whole thing. A brutal outrage it was, a . . .”
“Order, order,” called the Coroner’s Officer, glaring fiercely at the interrupter.
“If you wish to give evidence, madam,” said the Coroner, “you should communicate with the police, or with my Officer, in the proper manner. In the meantime, I will call the witnesses as I require them. Dr. Percy Vyle.”
Dr. Vyle, the police-surgeon who had been present at the exhumation, described his share in the proceedings at Brooklands. He explained the nature of the marks which he had discovered and his reasons for believing them to have been caused by a blow before death. In his opinion the blow had been a severe one, caused not by the flat of a hand or even a doubled fist, but rather by a blunt instrument, such as the knob of a stick. In answer to a question by Mr. Cullen he had no hesitation in saying that the blow could not have been delivered after death—the appearance of the bruise was not consistent with post-mortem injury.
Dr. Vyle was succeeded by Inspector Poole, who corroborated the surgeon’s account of the exhumation. After him came distinguished Home Office experts enlarging, at an enlarged fee, upon what had already been said about the bruising on the dead man’s back. Cullen’s questions beat upon this weight of official testimony with as much effect as rain upon a steam-engine.
There followed the important testimony of Mr. Leopold Hessel. The banker repeated the account of his last walk with his friend that he had given to Poole. He said nothing, and was not asked, about the subject of the conversation that had so engrossed them, but otherwise Poole could notice no discrepancy. Hessel repeated his assertion that he did not see how a blow could have been struck without his being aware of it, though he admitted that he could not be absolutely positive. Still, there had been a number of other witnesses present and none of them had given any signs of having seen violence used.
“I did!” exclaimed the same shrill voice from the back of the room. “I told you at the time that I saw—a murderous attack—a gang of . . .”
“Order, there,” roared the Coroner’s Officer.
“Remove that person,” exclaimed the Coroner himself sharply.
The quaint little figure was led from the room by a large policeman, protesting loudly.
Proceeding, Mr. Hessel told of how his friend had pulled himself together, seemed to be really quite recovered, how they walked on slowly, arm-in-arm, and then of the sudden collapse and, as was now known, almost instantaneous death of Sir Garth.
“And he said nothing before he died?” asked the Coroner.
“Nothing. He seemed to gasp—more than once, as if he was choking. And then he collapsed, almost pulling me down with him. He never spoke.”
Mr. Hessel himself spoke in a quiet, restrained voice, but it was evident that he was deeply affected.
“You are—you were Sir Garth’s closest friend, were you not, Mr. Hessel?”
“In a sense, I suppose I was. He was very good to me.”
“You are his sole executor?”
“Yes.”
“And he left particular instructions that his papers were to be committed to your charge?”
“That is so.”
“Have you been through them?”
“Cursorily only.”
“From what you have seen or from what you know, have you formed any opinion as to who could have wished to bring about his death?”
“Absolutely no. Even now, even after what all these expert medical witnesses have said, I find it difficult to believe that Sir Garth was murdered, or even that there was an attack upon him. I know it must sound unreasonable in the face of such testimony, but I simply cannot bring myself to believe it.”
The Coroner gave an almost unnoticeable shrug of the shoulders.
“Fortunately the unpleasant duty of finding a verdict on that point does not fall to your lot, Mr. Hessel,” he said. “I have no more to ask you.”
It was now late in the afternoon and the lights had been lit some time. Mr. Queriton glanced at his watch.
“There is time to take one more witness,” he said, “and that will be the last—we will then adjourn—Mr. Septimus Menticle.”
The lawyer looked anything but at his ease as he took his stand. As his examination proceeded, however, his face gradually cleared. He was asked about the will—the effective will, for which probate was now being applied. He gave its outline from memory and handed a copy of it to the Coroner, who, after a brief glance, passed it on to the jury. He gave a rough estimate of the figures concerned and explained the difficulty of stating them accurately at the moment. He was not—to his intense relief—asked about the new will, the will that was never signed; probably it was only an agony deferred but he was human enough to be thankful for the reprieve. It looked as if his evidence, and the day’s work itself, were finished when the Coroner, blotting his notes, put a careless question, apparently as an afterthought.
“Practically,” he said, putting his papers together, “Sir Garth’s two children divide the estate, so that, had he died intestate, the result would have been approximately the same?”
Mr. Menticle did not answer. The Coroner looked up.
“Eh?” he said, “that is so, is it not?”
Mr. Menticle hesitated.
“Am I obliged,” he asked, “to answer hypothetical questions?”
“You are obliged to answer the questions I put to you,” said Mr. Queriton sharply.
The lawyer slowly nodded his head.
“In that case,” he said, “the answer is in the negative.”
“What? They would not have divided it? Why not?”
“The whole—or practically the whole—would have gone to Miss Inez Fratten. Mr. Ryland Fratten is not Sir Garth Fratten’s son.”