Murder in Stained Glass. Armstrong Margaret
it is not unique. I have mentioned the Webster-Parkman case not because I desire to influence you in any way whatever, but only to reassure you.” The coroner paused. The jury tried to look reassured, but did not succeed. He went on:
“I will now recapitulate the evidence.”
The summing up that followed was dispassionate and clear in every detail. He ended by reminding the jury that an inquest was not a trial, but merely a preliminary inquiry, and that their first duty was to decide the identity of the corpse and the cause of death. If they needed to confer they might retire.
The jury looked at each other. The foreman sent a whisper along the line. They all nodded. The foreman rose.
“We find, Your Honor,” he said, “that the bones discovered in the kiln are those of Mr. Frederick Ullathorne, and that he came to his death at the hands of some person or persons unknown.”
“Under the circumstances, your verdict is all that could be expected, gentlemen. You are excused.”
The audience stirred, everyone began to get up. The coroner raised his hand. We all sat down again.
“Before we go upon our several occasions,” he said, “it will be appropriate to record our sense of loss. A great man, Frederick Ullathorne, is dead. Snatched from life just as he had completed the noble work of art, the stained glass window yonder that has presided over our deliberations with a most solemnizing effect. Look up at that window, my friends!” Everybody looked at it. “Regard that glorious combination of color and design! It pictures the hymn ‘Benedicite,’ ‘Oh all ye works of the Lord bless ye the Lord, praise him and magnify him forever!’ There we see all creation—fish, flesh and fowl, sun and moon, angels, saints and souls—and in the center the Three Holy Children. Those of you who know your Bibles, and I trust you are all conversant with the Scriptures, will remember that these three, having refused to worship King Nebuchadnezzar, were thrown into a ‘burning fiery furnace, seven times heated, in their coats, their hosen and their hats,’ but emerged scatheless. Mr. Ullathorne has portrayed them with hands upraised in prayer, surrounded by the flames of the furnace. My friends, ‘God moves in a mysterious way.’ When the artist’s hand tinted those tongues of flame with such matchless skill, the forces of evil that were to destroy him were, in all probability, already at work. Little did Frederick Ullathorne think that, within a few short weeks, his bones would consume away in the fires of a furnace! A strange coincidence. I would that we could believe that Frederick Ullathorne had died, as Daniel’s friends were ready to die, for a noble cause. Not so. It appears to have been for some sordid reason such as robbery that a great genius was taken away at the height of his fame. You will, I am sure, all join me in offering our sincere sympathy to the bereaved son. Mr. Culver, your arm.”
The coroner sat down. There was a moment’s dead silence. Then a general movement towards the door began. The legal lights had gone into a huddle. As I passed I heard Drinkwater say:
“A farce. The old boy is senile. Wasting our time with a lot of sentimental poppycock.”
“More romance than law in that address, to my mind,” Gleason nodded. “Yet he’s considered an ornament to the bar.”
“The bar! The sooner Lucius Cornell is called to plead before the bar of heaven, the better for all of us. I tell you—”
They moved out of my hearing. Edgar said:
“Wait for me outside, Harriet. I want to speak to the district attorney.”
Phyllis and Leo and I made our way downstairs and out into the sunlight. I told them to go on home, that I would be back in time for lunch. They walked away, arm in arm.
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