Free Blue Murder by Harriet Rutland Page A

Macalistair’s junior partner, as you probably know, but Macalistair always attended Mrs. Hardstaffe himself. She wouldn’t have anyone else to advise her. But Dr. Macalistair happened to be away over the week-end, I answered Miss Hardstaffe’s call, pronounced death extinct, and performed the post-mortem.”
    Superintendent Cheam leaned across from his own little cardtable, and whispered. The Coroner nodded, and was heard to say, “We’ll call him later.”
    Dr. Lowell was waved away, and Leda called.
    As she rose to her feet and seemed to steady herself for the ordeal, Arnold pressed her hand in sudden sympathy, an action which she seemed not to notice.
    The Coroner regarded her without sympathy.
    This was Emily Hardstaffe’s daughter. A hard woman, competent, capable, and—to complete the alliteration, and only, he hoped, for that reason—callous. He’d like to bet that she’d led her poor mother the very devil of a life since her coming-of-age. And that had been a good many more years ago than Leda would care to admit.
    Recollecting her as a pert, not unattractive, little girl, he reflected that, for her, the faery tale had been turned topsy-turvy: she was the Swan who had turned into the Ugly Duckling!
    But he was not here to sit in judgment upon Emily’s daughter. He could at least be thankful that she was not the kind of woman to faint or have hysterics.
    â€œDr. Lowell has told us that you telephoned him on Sunday morning. I take it, then, that you were the first one to find—er—Mrs. Hardstaffe.’’
    â€œYes,” replied Leda. 
    Admirable witness, thought the coroner.
    She’s really marvellous, admired Arnold. Takes it all in her stride!
    â€œWill you tell me about it—just in your own words?”
    â€œCertainly,” came Leda’s calm words. “It was all very simple. We—that is, my father, mother, any guests we happen to have, and I—always breakfast together. Since rationing started, we’ve given up early cups of tea, so the maids don’t go into the bedrooms before were up. We all rely on ourselves to wake on time: we’re never called, like many people. On Sunday morning, Mother didn’t come down at the usual time, and I thought it strange at once, because I’ve never known her late for a meal before.”
    I’ll bet you haven’t! thought Arnold grimly, as he pictured the scene: Mr. Hardstaffe, pulling out his watch, growing more testy every minute, and finally allowing his temper to flare out at the unfortunate culprit. Only, this time, the culprit had not appeared—would never do so again.
    â€œAfter about ten minutes, my father and I felt uneasy,” continued Leda, “so I went to find out why she did not come down.” She paused, and for a second showed some sign of emotion. “She was quite dead. I went down to tell Daddy, and then rang up the doctor.”
    â€œIt must have been a great shock,” said the coroner.
    â€œYes. I thought at first that it was heart failure, but although Mother was always complaining about her health, I knew she was really as strong as a horse.”
    Poor Emily!
    The Coroner restrained himself from any comment. He must, above all things, remain impartial, and remember that he was now the mouthpiece of Justice. 
    â€œI don’t mean to sound unkind,” said Leda hurriedly, as though she had sensed his antagonism, “but I once asked Dr. Macalistair if she had a weak heart, because if she had I knew she must be protected from all shocks, and he said that there was nothing wrong with it.”
    â€œI see. You’ve heard the evidence, now, that Mrs. Hardstaffe died from morphia poisoning. Have you any idea how she could have taken such a large dose?”
    â€œWhy, of course I have,” replied Leda. “It’s quite obvious that she took too many sleeping powders—the doctor had sent her a fresh