‘I declare this court open in the King’s name,’ said Mr Mortimer in a deep, impressive voice. The sergeant stood as though hypnotised by the formula. The coroner turned on him suddenly. ‘Now, sergeant,’ he boomed, ‘look alive! We don’t want to stay here all day. Get the jury sworn!’ He dived once more into his papers, yawned, rubbed his hands, glanced behind him at the symbolical buffalo, and then suddenly decided to clean his nails with a pen-knife. Meanwhile, with Testaments lifted in their right hands, the jurymen, one by one in different inflections of the border tongue, repeated the oath which the sergeant administered to them. ‘_I swear by Almighty God_.’ . . . I swear by Almighty God.’ ‘_That I will well and duly inquire_.’ . . . ‘That I will well and duly inquire.’ It was like the chorus that one may hear any morning of the week outside the windows of a country board-school. From time to time the coroner looked up impatiently from his manicure, and the sergeant increased his pace. ‘Finished?’ said Mr Mortimer at last. ‘Yes, sir. All correct,’ said the sergeant. ‘Now, gentlemen, you must choose a foreman. Only be quick about it. We’re late.’ In point of fact the jury had been waiting for him for more than an hour, but the question of choosing a foreman did not detain them for long, since Mrs Malpas’s enemy, Williams of the Pentre, had already virtually chosen himself. ‘Very good . . . very good!’ said the coroner. ‘Take them to view the body, sergeant.’ They filed out behind the policeman, opening their ranks at the door to admit the doctor from Lesswardine, who apologised for his lateness and shook hands with the coroner. ‘You’ve done the post-mortem?’ said the latter. ‘Yes, that’s what kept me.’ ‘And found what you expected?’ ‘Yes . . . fractured base. I had no doubt about it.’ ‘Cheap two-guineas’ worth. You’d better take your money now to save time. Sign for it here.’ The doctor pocketed the sovereigns and placed the florin aside, according to the unwritten law that obtains in such cases, for the sergeant. ‘Sad affair,’ said the coroner, with a yawn. ‘Good man, Bastard. One of the old sort. Conscientious. No brains. Ideal policeman. What the devil are those fellers doing? I’ve promised to call for tea at the Delahays.’ ‘I was hoping,’ said the doctor, ‘that you’d come back with me. My wife . . .’ ‘No, thanks. . . Very kind of you all the same.’ ‘We don’t often see you this way.’ ‘No. Not since Condover’s suicide. I believe his son-in-law’s mixed up in this affair?’ ‘Yes. . . . He’s over there in the corner. It’s the usual thing, I think. A brawl in an alehouse. Alcohol.’ The coroner nodded his head dolefully. His cellar was the best in Ludlow.