“That’s because she was all alone on that big boat.”
“You mean she sailed it all the way across the Atlantic?”
“Well, not all the way,” Thomas said. “Her husband was along for part of the time.”
“Is foul play suspected?”
“On this island, foul play is always suspected,” Thomas replied. “That lady is going to have to convince a number of people”—he pointed at Sir Winston Sutherland—“that man first among them, that she is as innocent as a newborn lamb.”
“And how difficult is that likely to be?” Stone asked.
“It could be very difficult indeed,” Thomas said. “There’s going to be a coroner’s jury over at the town meeting house tomorrow morning. Word is, Sir Winston is asking the questions.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Usually the coroner does it.”
Stone looked over at Sir Winston Sutherland, who was digging into a bowl of something. “What’s he eating?” he asked.
“Conch chowder.”
“Well, I suppose you have to be careful of any man with enough daring to eat conch chowder in a white linen suit.”
“Oh,” Thomas said, “there’s more reason than that to be careful of Sir Winston.”
When Stone got back to his boat, late, there were lights on in the big blue yacht. He was tempted to call on the lady to offer his condolences, but he was a little drunker than he liked to be when he introduced himself to a beautiful woman.
Chapter
3
Stone, a little worse for the wear, entered the Markstown Meeting Hall at ten o’clock the following morning, just as the coroner, a wizened little black man with snow white hair, was about to call the proceedings to order. A jury of five black men and one white sat on folding chairs along one side of the hall; the coroner sat on a folding chair at a card table at the front of the room, and the woman from the blue yacht sat in the front row of chairs, dressed in a trim black dress that set off her tan. The dress was not quite demure enough for mourning, but it bespoke a certain dignity. Stone took a seat in the front row, across the aisle from her, just as Sir Winston Sutherland made his entrance, carrying a large satchel briefcase and dressed in a double-breasted blue suit with chalk stripes. He looked very official.
“These proceedings will come to order,” said the coroner. “We meet to hear testimony on the death of Paul Phillips Manning; we are pleased to have Sir Winston with us to conduct questioning.”
Stone glanced at the woman, who sat, looking tired but somehow radiant, staring serenely at the coroner. She glanced briefly at Sir Winston. Stone wondered if she knew who he was and what was about to happen.
The coroner spoke again. “Call Mrs. Allison Manning.”
The woman rose and walked toward a folding chair set next to the coroner’s card table, between him and the jury. The scene resembled a rehearsal of a high school play set in a courtroom.
“Hold the book,” the coroner said to her, extending a Bible. “Do you swear by Almighty God that the evidence you are about to give will be the truth?”
“I do,” Allison Manning replied.
“State your full name and age for the record.”
“Allison Ames Manning; I am twenty-nine years old.”
Stone now noticed a stenographer seated near the jury, taking down the proceedings in shorthand.
Allison Manning gazed evenly at Sir Winston as he rose from his seat to his full height, which was a good six-three, and approached her.
“Mrs. Manning,” Sir Winston said gently, “may I begin by expressing my condolences on the loss of your husband?”
“Thank you,” she replied.
“Mrs. Manning, how long were you married to Paul Phillips Manning?”