Death in the Clouds. Agatha Christie
The inquest on Marie Morisot was held four days later. The sensational manner of her death had aroused great public interest, and the coroner’s court was crowded.
The first witness called was a tall elderly Frenchman with a grey beard—Maître Alexandre Thibault. He spoke English slowly and precisely with a slight accent, but quite idiomatically.
After the preliminary questions the coroner asked, ‘You have viewed the body of the deceased. Do you recognize it?’
‘I do. It is that of my client, Marie Angélique Morisot.’
‘That is the name on the deceased’s passport. Was she known to the public by another name?’
‘Yes, that of Madame Giselle.’
A stir of excitement went around. Reporters sat with pencils poised. The coroner said, ‘Will you tell us exactly who this Madame Morisot—or Madame Giselle—was?’
‘Madame Giselle—to give her her professional name, the name under which she did business—was one of the best-known moneylenders in Paris.’
‘She carried on her business—where?’
‘At the Rue Joliette, No. 3. That was also her private residence.’
‘I understand that she journeyed to England fairly frequently. Did her business extend to this country?’
‘Yes. Many of her clients were English people. She was very well known amongst a certain section of English society.’
‘How would you describe that section of society?’
‘Her clientèle was mostly among the upper and professional classes, in cases where it was important that the utmost discretion should be observed.’
‘She had the reputation of being discreet?’
‘Extremely discreet.’
‘May I ask if you have an intimate knowledge of—er—her various business transactions?’
‘No. I dealt with her legal business, but Madame Giselle was a first-class woman of business, thoroughly capable of attending to her own affairs in the most competent manner. She kept the control of her business entirely in her own hands. She was, if I may say so, a woman of very original character, and a well-known public figure.’
‘To the best of your knowledge, was she a rich woman at the time of her death?’
‘She was an extremely wealthy woman.’
‘Had she, to your knowledge, any enemies?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
Maître Thibault then stepped down and Henry Mitchell was called.
The coroner said, ‘Your name is Henry Charles Mitchell and you reside at 11 Shoeblack Lane, Wandsworth?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You are in the employment of Universal Airlines, Ltd?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You are the senior steward on the air liner Prometheus?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘On Tuesday last, the eighteenth, you were on duty on the Prometheus on the twelve o’clock service from Paris to Croydon. The deceased travelled by that service. Had you ever seen the deceased before?’
‘Yes, sir. I was on the 8.45 am service six months ago and I noticed her travelling by that once or twice.’
‘Did you know her name?’
‘Well, it must have been on my list, sir, but I didn’t notice it special, so to speak.’
‘Have you ever heard the name of Madame Giselle?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Please describe the occurrences of Tuesday last in your own way.’
‘I’d served the luncheons, sir, and was coming round with the bills. The deceased was, as I thought, asleep. I decided not to wake her until about five minutes before we got in. When I tried to do so I discovered that she was dead or seriously ill. I discovered that there was a doctor on board. He said—’
‘We shall have Dr Bryant’s evidence presently. Will you take a look at this?’
The blowpipe was handed to Mitchell, who took it gingerly.
‘Have you ever seen that before?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You are certain that you did not see it in the hands of any of the passengers?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Albert Davis.’
The younger steward took the stand.
‘You are Albert Davis of 23 Barcome Street, Croydon. You are employed by Universal Airlines, Ltd?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You were on duty on the Prometheus as second steward on Tuesday last?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What was the first that you knew of the tragedy?’
‘Mr Mitchell, sir, told me that he was afraid something had happened to one of the passengers.’
‘Have you ever seen this before?’
The blowpipe was handed to Davis.
‘No, sir.’
‘You did not observe it in the hands of any of the passengers?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did anything at all happen on the journey that you think might throw light on this affair?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Very good. You may stand down.’
‘Dr Roger Bryant.’
Dr Bryant gave his name and address and described himself as a specialist in ear and throat diseases.
‘Will you tell us in your own words, Dr Bryant, exactly what happened on Tuesday last, the eighteenth?’
‘Just before getting into Croydon I was approached by the chief steward. He asked me if I was a doctor. On my replying in the affirmative, he told me that one of the passengers had been taken ill. I rose and went with him. The woman in question was lying slumped down in her seat. She had been dead some time.’
‘What length of time in your opinion, Dr Bryant?’
‘I should say at least half an hour. Between half an hour and an hour would be my estimate.’
‘Did you form any theory as to the cause of death?’
‘No. It would have been impossible to say without a detailed examination.’
‘But you noticed a small puncture on the side of the neck?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you… Dr James Whistler.’
Dr Whistler was a thin, scraggy little man.
‘You are the police surgeon for this district?’
‘I am.’
‘Will you give your evidence in your own words?’
‘Shortly after three o’clock on Tuesday last, the eighteenth, I received a summons to Croydon aerodrome. There I was shown