‘Detective inspector, I understand that you made extensive enquiries into this matter over the course of the next few days?’
Crippen related how his officers had interviewed all the family members and neighbours within a reasonable distance, without making any progress.
‘Enquiries were also made in Brecon, at the flat where the deceased lived, as well as with the army authorities in relation to Littleman’s past history,’ he added.
As Arthur had also had a pre-inquest chat with the coroner, he avoided mentioning the revelations about the victim’s amorous relations with the two women in the family. At this point, Betsan and Rhian sat immobile in the court, hardly daring to breathe, even though Crippen had explained to them that the coroner had decided that in view of subsequent events he saw no reason to parade embarrassing family matters for the delectation of the press.
Charles Matthews then led the detective through the finding of Mostyn Evans’ body in the same barn and the obvious supposition that he had killed himself.
This time it was Jeff Morton who was to identify the body. He was called to nervously relate how he had heard a distant shotgun discharge and gone to investigate.
‘One look was enough to know who it was. And I recognized the four-ten as belonging to Uncle Mostyn,’ he said. ‘So I shut the door and ran back to ring the police.’
Both he and his cousin Aubrey testified that they had no idea of Mostyn’s actions and that he had not given the slightest indication of committing suicide, so the coroner then recalled Richard Pryor, again reminding him that he was still on oath.
The pathologist gave a brief summary of his findings, describing death as having been caused virtually instantaneously by a shotgun wound to the throat which had penetrated the brain.
‘Mr Evans also suffered from an advanced cancer of the prostate gland, which had already spread into his bones,’ he added.
Matthews followed up his report with a few additional questions. ‘Doctor, is there any doubt in your mind that this gunshot was self-inflicted?’
Richard shook his head, feeling on safe ground given that a suicide note had been left.
‘None at all, sir. The position of the wound was one of the prime “sites of election” for suicide. The gun had been resting against the skin, leaving a partial muzzle impression. I measured the length of the weapon from muzzle to trigger and it could easily have been fired by the deceased.’
The coroner turned over a sheet of paper on his desk and nodded. ‘I see that only the fingerprints of Mostyn Evans were found on the shotgun.’
Richard Pryor finished his report by confirming that the body contained no alcohol or drugs and that the time that Jeff Morton heard the gunshot was consistent with the time-of-death examination that he himself had made on arriving at the farm later that afternoon.
Once again, the family’s solicitor had no questions, and Richard went back to sit with Angela and Siân.
The coroner then applied himself to the jury, peering at them over his glasses. ‘The only remaining evidence is what you might well consider the most important and revealing,’ he began, holding up a couple of pages of pale blue notepaper.
‘This letter was found on the ground near the body, addressed to me. I have no intention of making it public, as it contains very personal family issues which I see no reason to divulge, as the rest of the very full description of the circumstances seem to me to be more than adequate for the purposes of this inquest.’
There was again a low buzz around the court, and one of the reporters hurriedly turned over a page of his notebook in preparation for his scoop of the month.
‘In this letter, Mr Mostyn Evans acknowledges that he had a terminal illness, which, incidentally, he had concealed from his family. He then admits that he had killed Thomas Littleman on the night before the body was discovered, the motive being a personal dispute about which I do not propose to elaborate. Suffice it to say that Mostyn Evans knew that he had only a short time to live due to his fatal illness and decided that he would settle his dispute with Littleman and then kill himself.’
Again the coroner peered intently at his jury as if defying them to challenge his decision. ‘Of course, if this was a murder trial in the Assize Court, every scrap of information would have to be presented in the cause of justice. But again I emphasize that this is an inquest, not a trial. We are here to determine who, where, when and by what means these two men came to their deaths – and I feel you have ample evidence before you to come to a conclusion.’
After delivering this homily, he briefly summarized the evidence they had heard about the two deaths and then charged the jury with providing verdicts on each victim, offering them the choices of natural causes, accident, suicide or unlawful killing.
The result was never in doubt, and within minutes, after a muttered consultation between the ten stalwart Breconians, the beefy butcher rose and provided Charles Matthews with what he wanted.
After expressing his sympathy to the families from Ty Croes and thanking the jury and witnesses for their help, Billy Brown asked the court to rise and the coroner gathered up his papers and left through the door at the side of the bench.
Outside, Arthur Crippen and Detective Sergeant Nichols were standing talking with the two couples from the farm, but broke away for a moment to say goodbye to the Garth House team.
‘Thanks for your help, doctors, you did a grand job for us,’ said Crippen. ‘If the opportunity to use you again comes up, we’ll look forward to seeing you!’
As they walked towards the gates, the coroner’s officer also thanked them and recommended the Wellington Hotel if they wanted some lunch. This was a large Georgian building just up from the Shire Hall, one of the focal points of the small town. As it was now noon, Richard steered his colleagues towards it and treated them to a celebratory meal.
As they sat over their oxtail soup in the old-fashioned dining room, Angela asked Siân what she thought of her first visit to a court.
‘Great, it’s all so medieval!’ she enthused. ‘That business of the coroner’s officer chanting the “Oyez” bit! Do they always do that?’
Richard grinned. ‘It’s dying out, but often in the country courts the coroner’s officer likes to have his say. Wait until you go to the Assizes, then you’ll see scarlet robes, wigs and velvet breeches!’
‘Can I come to the Gloucester trial when you go, doctor?’ she asked, almost like a child wanting to visit a funfair.
‘I think Moira has booked a visit there, but I might have to go for more than one day, so be good and I’ll see what I can do!’
Over their gammon steaks with egg and pineapple, a treat that had only come back on the menu in the last couple of years, Angela remarked on the skilful way in which the coroner had avoided the embarrassing background to Littleman’s death.
‘I’ll bet the jury were bursting to know what was in that suicide letter,’ she said. ‘There’ll be some tongues wagging in the neighbourhood tonight, all with their theories about what was really going on at that farm.’
Richard speared a chip with his fork. ‘I think he cut a few legal corners this morning – but who’s to stop him? Coroners are almost a law unto themselves, especially out here in the sticks. Unless a family challenges his verdict and takes it to a Divisional Court for appeal, what he says, goes.’
‘Well, this family certainly won’t object,’ said Angela. ‘No doubt they’re desperately relieved that their dirty washing hasn’t been hung out in public.’
After apple tart with custard for dessert and a cup of coffee, Richard paid the bill and they walked back to their car. He drove leisurely back through the sunlit countryside, Angela noticing that on the main roads traffic was noticeably greater than it had been a few years earlier, now that new cars were freely available after their scarcity during the immediate postwar period.