Gertrude and I sat well back, with our veils down. There were a
number of people I knew: Barbara Fitzhugh, in extravagant
mourning--she always went into black on the slightest
provocation, because it was becoming--and Mr. Jarvis, the man who
had come over from the Greenwood Club the night of the
murder. Mr. Harton was there, too, looking impatient
as the inquest dragged, but alive to every particle of evidence.
From a corner Mr. Jamieson was watching the proceedings intently.
Doctor Stewart was called first. His evidence was told briefly,
and amounted to this: on the Sunday morning previous, at a
quarter before five, he had been called to the telephone. The
message was from a Mr. Jarvis, who asked him to come at once to
Sunnyside, as there had been an accident there, and Mr. Arnold
Armstrong had been shot. He had dressed hastily, gathered up
some instruments, and driven to Sunnyside.
He was met by Mr. Jarvis, who took him at once to the east wing.
There, just as he had fallen, was the body of Arnold Armstrong.
There was no need of the instruments: the man was dead. In
answer to the coroner's question--no, the body had not been
moved, save to turn it over. It lay at the foot of the circular
staircase. Yes, he believed death had been instantaneous. The
body was still somewhat warm and rigor mortis had not set in.
It occurred late in cases of sudden death. No, he believed the
probability of suicide might be eliminated; the wounds could have
been self-inflicted, but with difficulty, and there had been
no weapon found.
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