‘It seems to me an extraordinary thing,’ the coroner remarked when he had noted these details, ‘that a fire of such magnitude could take place without being seen. I quite understand that the Hollow is deep enough to hide the actual flames, but there must have been a tremendous glare reflected from the sky which would have been visible for miles round. How do you account for that, Sergeant, or can you account for it?’
‘As a matter of fact, sir, it was noticed by at least three people, and I have one of them here in case you would like to call him. But I agree with you, sir, that it is very strange that it was not more generally observed. All I can suggest is that it was a clear night with a quarter moon, and there wouldn’t, therefore, be such a glare as if it had been quite dark or if there had been clouds to reflect the glow. Then, as you know, sir, this is a quiet district, and it would be only by chance that anyone would be awake or looking out at the time.’
‘Who were the three who saw it?’
‘First, sir, there was James Stokes, a tramp. He was sleeping in one of Mr Herbert Reid’s outhouses at Low Tolworth, about a mile and a half to the west across the moor. He said nothing about it at the time because he thought it wasn’t his business and he didn’t want his whereabouts inquired into. But he mentioned it in Thirsby in the morning and it came to my ears, though not before the baker had reported. I have Stokes here, if you wish to call him. Then, sir, it was seen by Mrs Eliza Steele, a labourer’s wife living just outside the town on the Hellifield Road. Her husband was ill and she was sitting up attending to him. She did nothing about it because she was busy with her husband and the glare looked far away. She said she thought those nearer it would do all that was possible. The third party, or rather parties, were the two Miss Lockes, elderly ladies who live alone about a mile on the road to Cold Pickerby. Miss Julia saw the glare and awoke her sister Miss Elmina, but they thought the same as Mrs Steele, that they were not called on to do anything, as they would only get to the town to find that everyone knew about it and that the brigade had gone out.’
‘I can understand that attitude,’ the coroner admitted. ‘It is a pity, however, that no one noticed it in time to give a warning, though indeed it is doubtful whether a warning would have been of any use. I will hear the man Stokes.’
But the tramp had little to say, and nothing which threw any light on the subject of the inquiry. He had seen a glow through the door of the outhouse and had looked out. From the direction of Starvel great masses of smoke were belching up, with a bright flickering glare and occasional jets of fire. The night was calm, and even at the distance of a mile and a half he could hear the roaring and crackling of the flames. That was about four in the morning.
Ruth’s feelings were harrowed by these recitals, which seemed to bring home the tragedy to her in all its grim starkness. But she had not time to dwell on the terrible pictures, as after the tramp had signed his deposition and stepped down from the box, her own name was called.
With her heart beating rapidly she left her seat and entered the little pulpit-like enclosure. There she stood while the sergeant repeated a phrase about truth, and then, having given her name, she was told to sit down. The coroner bent towards her.
‘I am sorry, Miss Averill,’ he said kindly, ‘to have to ask you to attend and give evidence in this tragic inquiry, but I promise you I shall not keep you longer than I can help. Now, Sergeant.’
In spite of this reassuring beginning, Ruth soon began to think Sergeant Kent’s questions would never cease.
Half the things he asked seemed to have no connection whatever with the tragedy. She stated that she was the late Simon Averill’s niece, the daughter of his brother Theodore, that she was aged twenty, and that she had come to Starvel when she was four. She told of her schooldays in Leeds, saying that it was now over a year since she had returned to Starvel and that she had lived there ever since.
Her uncle had recently been in very poor health. She thought his heart was affected. At all events, to save climbing the stairs he had had a room on the first floor fitted up as a bed-sitting room. For the last year he had not been downstairs and some days he did not get up. Recently he had been particularly feeble, and she told of his condition when she saw him two mornings before the tragedy. Then she described her visit to York, mentioning Mrs Palmer-Gore’s invitation and the episode of the ten pounds.
There seemed no end to Sergeant Kent’s inquisition. He switched over next to the subject of the house and elicited the facts that her uncle’s and the Ropers’ beds were situated in the extremities of the southern and western wings respectively.
‘You heard the last witness describe where the bodies were found,’ he went on. ‘Would I be correct in saying that if Mr Averill and the Ropers had been in bed when the fire took place their bodies would have been found in just those positions?’
Ruth assented, and then the sergeant asked how the house was lighted. There was oil, Ruth told him, oil for the lamps other than Mr Averill’s and for the cooker which was used sometimes instead of the range. There was also petrol. Her uncle’s sight was bad and he used a petrol lamp. The oil and petrol were kept in a cellar. This cellar was under the main building, and if a fire were to start there, in her opinion the whole house would become involved. The lamps were attended to by Roper, who had always been most careful in handling them.
‘Now Miss Averill,’ the sergeant became more impressive than ever, ‘I think you said that during the last fourteen months, when you were living at Starvel, Roper and his wife were in charge of the house?’
‘Yes, they were there when I came back from school.’
‘Now, tell me, during all that time have you ever known either of them the worse for drink?’
‘Oh, no,’ Ruth answered, surprised at the question. ‘No, never.’
‘You have never even noticed the smell of drink from either of them?’ the sergeant persisted.
‘No.’ Ruth hesitated. ‘At least—that is—’
‘Yes?’ went on the sergeant encouragingly.
‘Once or twice Roper has smelt of whisky, but he was never the least bit the worse of it.’
‘But you have smelt it. Was that recently?’
‘Yes, but Roper explained about it. He said he felt a cold coming on and had taken some whisky in the hope of getting rid of it.’
‘Quite so. And how long ago was that?’
‘A couple of times within the last fortnight, perhaps once or twice before that.’ But to Ruth her answer did not seem quite fair, and she added: ‘But he was as sober as you and I are. I never saw him the least bit drunk.’
‘I follow you,’ the sergeant answered, and began to ask questions about Mrs Roper. Here Ruth could truthfully say that she had never even smelled drink, and she insisted on giving each of the deceased an excellent character.
The sergeant next attempted to draw from her an opinion as to how the fire might have originated. Did Mr Averill read late in bed? Might he have knocked over his petrol lamp? Could he have fallen in the fire? Did he take a nightcap of whisky? And so forth. But Ruth had no ideas on the subject. Any accident might have happened, of course, but she didn’t think any that he had suggested were likely. As to her uncle taking drink, he was a strict teetotaller.
This ended Ruth’s examination. None of the jurors wished to ask her any questions, and after her evidence had been read over to her and she had signed it, she was allowed to return to her seat with the Oxleys.
Dr Emerson was the next witness. He deposed that he had examined the remains disinterred from the debris. It was, of course, quite impossible to identify them, but so far as he could form an opinion of the body found in the southern wing it was that of an elderly, tall, slightly built man and the others were those of a man and a woman of medium height and middle age. These would correspond to Mr Averill and the Ropers respectively, and so far as he was concerned he had no doubt whatever that the bodies in question were theirs.
Questioned