Writing isn't easy and the hardest battle is always with yourself. The standards you set for yourself are something you frequently fall short of, and it can be a really dispiriting experience. Overcoming that disappointment needs determination to see things through, otherwise nothing can be achieved. I speak not as someone who consistently overcomes that hurdle, but as someone who needs to keep working on that stubbornness.
In the House of Reason
Part Three
The following morning found me back in a cab. I had telegraphed my office first thing, in the village’s tiny Post Office, to tell them I would not be returning as planned that day and asking the local register office for copies of papers from the funeral. I had dictated my message with Father Nichol in tow, refusing to give me a moment’s peace.
After his statement, we had sat up until late. It could not be described as a companionable time. He had failed to produce a drink until I developed a hacking cough from the dryness of my throat. Even then, he was more interested in his own bottle than he was in the teapot he produced, without a strainer. At times he would ramble. He spoke of his time in a seminary school in Ireland, how he had followed in the footsteps of saints, and of a time in Rome when he visited the catacombs of martyred early Christians. It was difficult to follow, and the impression I was left with was of a man who felt himself holy through his own justifications, not necessarily through his actions. This was a man for whom presentation and gesture was more important than quiet action and fellowship.
I spoke little. Partly, this was because I had little to speak of. My business is a private matter for the most part, dealing with the deceased and the bereaved. I have to discuss matters with other professionals, speak with doctors, sometimes take statements, but until I deliver my verdict in a court of law by business is private; it is of the business of others I speak, and that is confidential until it is required to be disclosed. I have few personal matters of my own to speak of; no wife, no family, just a quite, professional job that relies on discretion.
When we retired it was almost midnight. I heard the church bells strike several times while we sat and he talked in his seemingly never-ending stream of consciousness; we must have been within a hundred yards of the church itself. I asked about his time in the parish of St Luke’s, and about his congregation, but Father Nichol was vague and more concerned with the theory of Catholicism than its practise. I know more now of saints and their martyrdom than I ever wished to know. As he said, I am a man of reason and logic. I have little time for ingrained superstition.
Father Nichol remained with me the whole following morning, even after my visit to the village Post Office. He cut a frenetic figure on the footpath, sometimes waving hands as he expounded on a theory, his head sometimes darting this way and that as he saw members of his congregation or people he knew. More than once, people crossed the road rather than come into close proximity to Father Nichol. My mind continued to make notes on him, his character, his veracity. He pushed people away. Perhaps it should be no surprise now to find that he had estranged one person who may have been his friend, if not his parishioner.
The cab seemed to travel all the more slowly for the company I had. It wound through the country lanes for three miles, a distance I would have otherwise walked but for the fact I did not know where I was going and I wanted to spend as little time with the priest as I could. At least at the end of the journey I would have a chance to escape from him, for a time at least.
Halfhill House was still a fairly new building, its columned facade covered with vines and climbing roses. A gravel drive gave blessed relief from the ruts and potholes of the road that had jolted and jarred my poor back for the last half-hour. It was clear that we were not expected; there was no welcome for us as I knocked on the front door, and it was some time before a crack appeared and a sliver of a woman’s face appeared.
“Is the master of the house at home?” I asked, removing my hat and holding it to my chest politely. “We need to speak with him.”
The woman’s eye looked over my shoulder, to where Father Nichol was hanging back. “Mr Goodall won’t entertain the father.” There was an apology in her voice, but it was quite clearly intended for me and not for the priest.
I nodded, understanding. “I heard there had been a disagreement, but unfortunately I must speak with William Goodall. I am the Winchester coroner, and I have come to investigate the cause of his father’s death.”
“The master won’t be happy.” The reluctance in the woman’s voice came with the sound of a chain sliding from its mooring. The door opened more widely to show a young woman in a maid’s pinafore, most of her dark hair hidden under a cap. “I will give him a call, but I warn you that he’s studying papers and won’t like to be disturbed. So far as he’s concerned, all this sorry business came to an end with his father’s funeral, God rest his soul.”
I chanced a look at Father Nichol as we crossed the threshold. He wore an expression of incredulity, as though the woman had blasphemed and not offered a blessing. It was another useful piece of information about the priest.
We were not kept waiting for long, which was something of a pity. A man’s entrance hall said a lot about that man, or at least his family. This was a family of fairly new money. Old families had portraits and landscapes from centuries before dotted around the place. Here, there was a fairly new portrait of an older gentleman, moustached and severe in a red uniform. Medals adorned the breast of the man in the portrait; I assumed he was old Mr Goodall in his military days. Other than that, the entrance hall was bare, hardly a reflection of an opulent and ancient past.
The man who greeted me bore more than a passing resemblance to the man in the portrait, and proved my assumptions correct. The son was narrower in the shoulders than the father, but there was no mistaking the moustache and facial features as being anything other than descended from the man in the portrait. His handshake was perfunctory. He wore a twitch on his lips that his facial hair could not quite disguise. He came across as being just as stern as his father, perhaps without the discipline a military life provided. There were unmistakeable signs of hurriedly getting dressed about his person, such as the way his shirt was creased.
“William Goodall,” he said shortly, pushing the door open behind him to admit me to the inner sanctum of Halfhill House. “I hear you are a coroner. Let me tell you now, there is nothing more to discuss. He,” young Goodall added, throwing his spare hand out to block Father Nichol’s passage, “goes no further. He is not welcome in this house.” Goodall’s eyes flashed dangerously.
“I have no desire to enter your house of reason, as you put it,” Father Nichol said airily. “I merely wished to play my part in the investigation. For the good of Olivia.”
Goodall’s hand shot out and pushed the little priest back. “Don’t mention my sister.”
Watching the interplay between the two men was interesting. There was more going on than Father Nichol had mentioned in his statement. There were lingering, hostile looks passing between them. Goodall’s hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles white. In spite of myself, I felt a little sorry for the priest; surely he had done nothing to justify this young man’s hate? Father Nichol’s description of Goodall as an angry young man came back to me, and I found myself agreeing with the sentiment.
I was guided into young Goodall’s study. Compared to Father Nichol’s front room, it was Spartan. Empty bookshelves loomed over the small, clear desk. Goodall took his seat behind the desk; I sat in front of him. It was not dissimilar to sitting before a headmaster at school, only here the young man being asked the questions was behind the desk and not before it. From the way Goodall sat, leaning back, his legs crossed, I could sense his impatience for the interview to be over.
“I am Doctor Kincaid, and I have come about your father,” I said. I had come across many reluctant witnesses in my time; a slow, easy start was always better than opening hostilities. I was not their enemy. “Father Nichol wrote to me, asking for me to investigate his death. He feels it was caused by… unnatural events.” The pause was not deliberate or for effect.
“Doctor Kincaid.” Goodall sounded like he was tasting my name before spitting it out, finding it unpalatable. “I am sorry we have met in these circumstances. But there is nothing to investigate. My father became an old man. He died from maladies associated with his age. I see no reason to bring this up again.”
“A respected member of the community felt otherwise,” I said.
“Respected member of the community?” Goodall leaned forward, uncrossing his legs. “In his time here Father Nichol has been nothing but a stain on the village. My father entertained and encouraged him when he should not have done. That encouragement has given the good father an impression of himself that simply is not true.”
“You have been here throughout Father Nichol’s ministry?” I asked calmly. “I had been given to understand that you lived in London, with your family.”
There was a moment’s hesitation before Goodall answered. “It is true that I have not been physically present. Nichol arrived some years ago, I forget how long. He was disliked by many to start with because of his faith. I see no reason to dislike a man because of his faith myself,” he added. “He may be misguided. He may be wrong, but then so might I be and it is how a man composes himself that is his measure, far more than his beliefs. Had he composed himself differently, then I might have a very different view.”
I weighed up the next question carefully; for all this was interesting, it was hardly what I had come for and I had to get to the bottom of old Mr Goodall’s death. It would not to do alienate the old man’s son before he had said anything about his father. “How do you know all this?”
“I speak to people. People write to me. Unlike Nichol, I am a respected member of the local community. Just because I am away in London does not mean I do not have correspondents here.”
I reached into my bag and produced my pen and paper again. “I’m sorry I had to ask. It is my job to get to the bottom of this and weigh the evidence before I give my verdict. As this is an active investigation, I must treat you as I would any other witness. I must also ask who your correspondents are.”
“I’d prefer not to say. Is this all a matter of public record? I’d rather not have that strange man launching a vendetta against people I care for because I have been indiscreet with my statement.”
“My verdict is a matter of record. What is done with witness statements and my notes is up to my discretion. It depends on the relevance to the investigation and what may be in the public interest. Gossip is quite possibly not of relevance.”
“I see.” Goodall sat back again. “Let’s get this over with. I have no desire to be stuck discussing my father’s death all over again. It’s hardly something I relish.”
“I understand.” I licked the nib of my pen and tasted the copper hint of ink. “Can I have your full name for the record?”
“William Joseph Goodall.”
I pretended not to see Goodall’s eyes roll in irritation as we went through the formalities of date of birth, address and occupation. Challenging him would not put him in a good humour. He was the kind of man who, if indulged a little, would be more forthcoming when the more challenging questions arose. However, I hesitated on the final question. “Relationship to the deceased?”
“I’m his damn son, man.” Goodall’s outburst reminded me again of Father Nichol’s assertion that the new lord of the manor was an angry young man. “Do you need to ask these questions, or are you just testing my patience? I do have things to do.” He pointed at the bookcases. “They’re not empty because I like the look of empty shelves. This house needs stripping and its contents taking to London before it’s sold. There is some urgency to that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, adopting a conciliatory tone. “Unfortunately we must follow certain forms, for appearance’s sake. I know full well your relationship to your father, but I need to ask as a part of this interview.”
Goodall snorted derisively. “Can we get on with it?”
“Certainly.” I paused for a second, framing my first question. “How was your relationship with your father?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It establishes the quality of the information we can take from you,” I said, careful to keep any irritation from my voice. “If you were distant, we cannot discount your evidence but we may have to look elsewhere. If you were close, we may seek some confirmation of what you say, through letters or such.”
“We were fairly close, as close as you can be through letters.” A dark smile crossed his features. “There, I’ve given up one of my correspondents. It’s fortunate that Father Nichol cannot harass him beyond the grave, isn’t it?”
I chose to ignore the comment. “How often did you write to each other?”
“Once a week or so.”
“You kept the letters?”
“In London. There is a drawer in my desk there full of letters from home, from both my father and my sister.”
“I may ask you for them at a later date in the investigation if needed,” I said. “Please understand that my request will in fact be a legal requirement. We simply like to be polite in how we ask for documentation.”
“There’s nothing in those letters that’s objectionable,” Goodall said. “Although they are… personal. I prefer people not to look through them.”
“I understand. If we need to, we will handle them with sensitivity. When you say the letters were personal, what did they contain?”
Goodall hesitated for a moment, hardly long enough for someone unused to taking statements and gathering evidence to notice, but with my experience long enough to know how carefully he was weighing up what he was going to say. “News from here, mostly. My father would write about politics often. He also wrote about the church and what was happening there.”
The church. I made a note to return to the subject. “And your sister?” I prompted.
“More personal matters.”
“I do not wish to press, but I must.”
“Personal matters are personal, Doctor. Especially for a woman. I don’t want my sister being a part of any of this. She was upset enough as it was and she’s just starting to rebuild her confidence from her grief.” Goodall glared at me as he spoke.
“I’m afraid I must also take a statement from her,” I said quietly. “It would be for the best if I could hear what you had to say and what she had to say in full, then we can lay this sorry business to rest.”
“You may not.” Goodall slammed a fist onto his desk. “She is my sister, and I am her legal guardian. If I choose that she does not give a statement to you, it is my right and my prerogative.”
“Mr Goodall, this is a legal investigation,” I said evenly. “It would not help you to block my path through this investigation. I could only deliver a verdict that was not a reflection on the facts of the matter.”
“We have a verdict!”
“That is true, but after taking statements it has become my job to dig deeper. It may be that the original conclusions were correct.” I met Goodall’s blazing stare with my own level gaze. “However, until all the evidence has been taken I cannot make that conclusion. If somebody acts to obstruct the investigation then I have the full force of the law behind me, and I may draw conclusions that are not liked. Those conclusions will be final.”
Goodall considered me for a moment. “I fail to see how those letters are of relevance to why and how my father died,” he finally said. The anger was not gone.
“Inquiries such as this need more than the medical evidence, especially with the suggestions that have been made,” I said.
“What has that crackpot said to you?” Goodall’s voice had gone dangerously low.
“With this being an active investigation, I’m not at liberty to tell you,” I said smoothly. This was a familiar statement. “Anything I tell you could affect the evidence that you give to me, and prejudice the conclusions that I come to.”
“I tell you, you can’t trust a word the man says,” said Goodall.
“You have suggested as much. Tell me everything I need to know and I’ll be able to draw conclusions.”
Goodall took two deep breaths, calming himself. He nodded to himself, slowly. “If I tell you the full story, will you not interview my sister?”
“I cannot make a guarantee, but any evidence I get from her I will handle with discretion,” I promised. “That will have to be good enough.”
“That…” Goodall breathed again, bringing himself fully under control. The anger, so obvious moments before, dissolved. Lines on his face became shallower, his features much less drawn. The faint pink tinge in his cheeks subsided. “That will have to be good enough, I suppose. I will tell you.”
After his statement, we had sat up until late. It could not be described as a companionable time. He had failed to produce a drink until I developed a hacking cough from the dryness of my throat. Even then, he was more interested in his own bottle than he was in the teapot he produced, without a strainer. At times he would ramble. He spoke of his time in a seminary school in Ireland, how he had followed in the footsteps of saints, and of a time in Rome when he visited the catacombs of martyred early Christians. It was difficult to follow, and the impression I was left with was of a man who felt himself holy through his own justifications, not necessarily through his actions. This was a man for whom presentation and gesture was more important than quiet action and fellowship.
I spoke little. Partly, this was because I had little to speak of. My business is a private matter for the most part, dealing with the deceased and the bereaved. I have to discuss matters with other professionals, speak with doctors, sometimes take statements, but until I deliver my verdict in a court of law by business is private; it is of the business of others I speak, and that is confidential until it is required to be disclosed. I have few personal matters of my own to speak of; no wife, no family, just a quite, professional job that relies on discretion.
When we retired it was almost midnight. I heard the church bells strike several times while we sat and he talked in his seemingly never-ending stream of consciousness; we must have been within a hundred yards of the church itself. I asked about his time in the parish of St Luke’s, and about his congregation, but Father Nichol was vague and more concerned with the theory of Catholicism than its practise. I know more now of saints and their martyrdom than I ever wished to know. As he said, I am a man of reason and logic. I have little time for ingrained superstition.
Father Nichol remained with me the whole following morning, even after my visit to the village Post Office. He cut a frenetic figure on the footpath, sometimes waving hands as he expounded on a theory, his head sometimes darting this way and that as he saw members of his congregation or people he knew. More than once, people crossed the road rather than come into close proximity to Father Nichol. My mind continued to make notes on him, his character, his veracity. He pushed people away. Perhaps it should be no surprise now to find that he had estranged one person who may have been his friend, if not his parishioner.
The cab seemed to travel all the more slowly for the company I had. It wound through the country lanes for three miles, a distance I would have otherwise walked but for the fact I did not know where I was going and I wanted to spend as little time with the priest as I could. At least at the end of the journey I would have a chance to escape from him, for a time at least.
Halfhill House was still a fairly new building, its columned facade covered with vines and climbing roses. A gravel drive gave blessed relief from the ruts and potholes of the road that had jolted and jarred my poor back for the last half-hour. It was clear that we were not expected; there was no welcome for us as I knocked on the front door, and it was some time before a crack appeared and a sliver of a woman’s face appeared.
“Is the master of the house at home?” I asked, removing my hat and holding it to my chest politely. “We need to speak with him.”
The woman’s eye looked over my shoulder, to where Father Nichol was hanging back. “Mr Goodall won’t entertain the father.” There was an apology in her voice, but it was quite clearly intended for me and not for the priest.
I nodded, understanding. “I heard there had been a disagreement, but unfortunately I must speak with William Goodall. I am the Winchester coroner, and I have come to investigate the cause of his father’s death.”
“The master won’t be happy.” The reluctance in the woman’s voice came with the sound of a chain sliding from its mooring. The door opened more widely to show a young woman in a maid’s pinafore, most of her dark hair hidden under a cap. “I will give him a call, but I warn you that he’s studying papers and won’t like to be disturbed. So far as he’s concerned, all this sorry business came to an end with his father’s funeral, God rest his soul.”
I chanced a look at Father Nichol as we crossed the threshold. He wore an expression of incredulity, as though the woman had blasphemed and not offered a blessing. It was another useful piece of information about the priest.
We were not kept waiting for long, which was something of a pity. A man’s entrance hall said a lot about that man, or at least his family. This was a family of fairly new money. Old families had portraits and landscapes from centuries before dotted around the place. Here, there was a fairly new portrait of an older gentleman, moustached and severe in a red uniform. Medals adorned the breast of the man in the portrait; I assumed he was old Mr Goodall in his military days. Other than that, the entrance hall was bare, hardly a reflection of an opulent and ancient past.
The man who greeted me bore more than a passing resemblance to the man in the portrait, and proved my assumptions correct. The son was narrower in the shoulders than the father, but there was no mistaking the moustache and facial features as being anything other than descended from the man in the portrait. His handshake was perfunctory. He wore a twitch on his lips that his facial hair could not quite disguise. He came across as being just as stern as his father, perhaps without the discipline a military life provided. There were unmistakeable signs of hurriedly getting dressed about his person, such as the way his shirt was creased.
“William Goodall,” he said shortly, pushing the door open behind him to admit me to the inner sanctum of Halfhill House. “I hear you are a coroner. Let me tell you now, there is nothing more to discuss. He,” young Goodall added, throwing his spare hand out to block Father Nichol’s passage, “goes no further. He is not welcome in this house.” Goodall’s eyes flashed dangerously.
“I have no desire to enter your house of reason, as you put it,” Father Nichol said airily. “I merely wished to play my part in the investigation. For the good of Olivia.”
Goodall’s hand shot out and pushed the little priest back. “Don’t mention my sister.”
Watching the interplay between the two men was interesting. There was more going on than Father Nichol had mentioned in his statement. There were lingering, hostile looks passing between them. Goodall’s hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles white. In spite of myself, I felt a little sorry for the priest; surely he had done nothing to justify this young man’s hate? Father Nichol’s description of Goodall as an angry young man came back to me, and I found myself agreeing with the sentiment.
I was guided into young Goodall’s study. Compared to Father Nichol’s front room, it was Spartan. Empty bookshelves loomed over the small, clear desk. Goodall took his seat behind the desk; I sat in front of him. It was not dissimilar to sitting before a headmaster at school, only here the young man being asked the questions was behind the desk and not before it. From the way Goodall sat, leaning back, his legs crossed, I could sense his impatience for the interview to be over.
“I am Doctor Kincaid, and I have come about your father,” I said. I had come across many reluctant witnesses in my time; a slow, easy start was always better than opening hostilities. I was not their enemy. “Father Nichol wrote to me, asking for me to investigate his death. He feels it was caused by… unnatural events.” The pause was not deliberate or for effect.
“Doctor Kincaid.” Goodall sounded like he was tasting my name before spitting it out, finding it unpalatable. “I am sorry we have met in these circumstances. But there is nothing to investigate. My father became an old man. He died from maladies associated with his age. I see no reason to bring this up again.”
“A respected member of the community felt otherwise,” I said.
“Respected member of the community?” Goodall leaned forward, uncrossing his legs. “In his time here Father Nichol has been nothing but a stain on the village. My father entertained and encouraged him when he should not have done. That encouragement has given the good father an impression of himself that simply is not true.”
“You have been here throughout Father Nichol’s ministry?” I asked calmly. “I had been given to understand that you lived in London, with your family.”
There was a moment’s hesitation before Goodall answered. “It is true that I have not been physically present. Nichol arrived some years ago, I forget how long. He was disliked by many to start with because of his faith. I see no reason to dislike a man because of his faith myself,” he added. “He may be misguided. He may be wrong, but then so might I be and it is how a man composes himself that is his measure, far more than his beliefs. Had he composed himself differently, then I might have a very different view.”
I weighed up the next question carefully; for all this was interesting, it was hardly what I had come for and I had to get to the bottom of old Mr Goodall’s death. It would not to do alienate the old man’s son before he had said anything about his father. “How do you know all this?”
“I speak to people. People write to me. Unlike Nichol, I am a respected member of the local community. Just because I am away in London does not mean I do not have correspondents here.”
I reached into my bag and produced my pen and paper again. “I’m sorry I had to ask. It is my job to get to the bottom of this and weigh the evidence before I give my verdict. As this is an active investigation, I must treat you as I would any other witness. I must also ask who your correspondents are.”
“I’d prefer not to say. Is this all a matter of public record? I’d rather not have that strange man launching a vendetta against people I care for because I have been indiscreet with my statement.”
“My verdict is a matter of record. What is done with witness statements and my notes is up to my discretion. It depends on the relevance to the investigation and what may be in the public interest. Gossip is quite possibly not of relevance.”
“I see.” Goodall sat back again. “Let’s get this over with. I have no desire to be stuck discussing my father’s death all over again. It’s hardly something I relish.”
“I understand.” I licked the nib of my pen and tasted the copper hint of ink. “Can I have your full name for the record?”
“William Joseph Goodall.”
I pretended not to see Goodall’s eyes roll in irritation as we went through the formalities of date of birth, address and occupation. Challenging him would not put him in a good humour. He was the kind of man who, if indulged a little, would be more forthcoming when the more challenging questions arose. However, I hesitated on the final question. “Relationship to the deceased?”
“I’m his damn son, man.” Goodall’s outburst reminded me again of Father Nichol’s assertion that the new lord of the manor was an angry young man. “Do you need to ask these questions, or are you just testing my patience? I do have things to do.” He pointed at the bookcases. “They’re not empty because I like the look of empty shelves. This house needs stripping and its contents taking to London before it’s sold. There is some urgency to that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, adopting a conciliatory tone. “Unfortunately we must follow certain forms, for appearance’s sake. I know full well your relationship to your father, but I need to ask as a part of this interview.”
Goodall snorted derisively. “Can we get on with it?”
“Certainly.” I paused for a second, framing my first question. “How was your relationship with your father?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It establishes the quality of the information we can take from you,” I said, careful to keep any irritation from my voice. “If you were distant, we cannot discount your evidence but we may have to look elsewhere. If you were close, we may seek some confirmation of what you say, through letters or such.”
“We were fairly close, as close as you can be through letters.” A dark smile crossed his features. “There, I’ve given up one of my correspondents. It’s fortunate that Father Nichol cannot harass him beyond the grave, isn’t it?”
I chose to ignore the comment. “How often did you write to each other?”
“Once a week or so.”
“You kept the letters?”
“In London. There is a drawer in my desk there full of letters from home, from both my father and my sister.”
“I may ask you for them at a later date in the investigation if needed,” I said. “Please understand that my request will in fact be a legal requirement. We simply like to be polite in how we ask for documentation.”
“There’s nothing in those letters that’s objectionable,” Goodall said. “Although they are… personal. I prefer people not to look through them.”
“I understand. If we need to, we will handle them with sensitivity. When you say the letters were personal, what did they contain?”
Goodall hesitated for a moment, hardly long enough for someone unused to taking statements and gathering evidence to notice, but with my experience long enough to know how carefully he was weighing up what he was going to say. “News from here, mostly. My father would write about politics often. He also wrote about the church and what was happening there.”
The church. I made a note to return to the subject. “And your sister?” I prompted.
“More personal matters.”
“I do not wish to press, but I must.”
“Personal matters are personal, Doctor. Especially for a woman. I don’t want my sister being a part of any of this. She was upset enough as it was and she’s just starting to rebuild her confidence from her grief.” Goodall glared at me as he spoke.
“I’m afraid I must also take a statement from her,” I said quietly. “It would be for the best if I could hear what you had to say and what she had to say in full, then we can lay this sorry business to rest.”
“You may not.” Goodall slammed a fist onto his desk. “She is my sister, and I am her legal guardian. If I choose that she does not give a statement to you, it is my right and my prerogative.”
“Mr Goodall, this is a legal investigation,” I said evenly. “It would not help you to block my path through this investigation. I could only deliver a verdict that was not a reflection on the facts of the matter.”
“We have a verdict!”
“That is true, but after taking statements it has become my job to dig deeper. It may be that the original conclusions were correct.” I met Goodall’s blazing stare with my own level gaze. “However, until all the evidence has been taken I cannot make that conclusion. If somebody acts to obstruct the investigation then I have the full force of the law behind me, and I may draw conclusions that are not liked. Those conclusions will be final.”
Goodall considered me for a moment. “I fail to see how those letters are of relevance to why and how my father died,” he finally said. The anger was not gone.
“Inquiries such as this need more than the medical evidence, especially with the suggestions that have been made,” I said.
“What has that crackpot said to you?” Goodall’s voice had gone dangerously low.
“With this being an active investigation, I’m not at liberty to tell you,” I said smoothly. This was a familiar statement. “Anything I tell you could affect the evidence that you give to me, and prejudice the conclusions that I come to.”
“I tell you, you can’t trust a word the man says,” said Goodall.
“You have suggested as much. Tell me everything I need to know and I’ll be able to draw conclusions.”
Goodall took two deep breaths, calming himself. He nodded to himself, slowly. “If I tell you the full story, will you not interview my sister?”
“I cannot make a guarantee, but any evidence I get from her I will handle with discretion,” I promised. “That will have to be good enough.”
“That…” Goodall breathed again, bringing himself fully under control. The anger, so obvious moments before, dissolved. Lines on his face became shallower, his features much less drawn. The faint pink tinge in his cheeks subsided. “That will have to be good enough, I suppose. I will tell you.”
To be continued...
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