by Stuart Woods
“These proceedings will come to order,” said the coroner. “We meet to hear testimony on the death of Paul Phillips Manning; we are pleased to have Sir Winston with us to conduct questioning.”
Stone glanced at the woman, who sat, looking tired but somehow radiant, staring serenely at the coroner. She glanced briefly at Sir Winston. Stone wondered if she knew who he was and what was about to happen.
The coroner spoke again. “Call Mrs. Allison Manning.”
The woman rose and walked toward a folding chair set next to the coroner’s card table, between him and the jury. The scene resembled a rehearsal of a high school play set in a courtroom.
“Hold the book,” the coroner said to her, extending a Bible. “Do you swear by Almighty God that the evidence you are about to give will be the truth?”
“I do,” Allison Manning replied.
“State your full name and age for the record.”
“Allison Ames Manning; I am twenty-nine years old.”
Stone now noticed a stenographer seated near the jury, taking down the proceedings in shorthand.
Allison Manning gazed evenly at Sir Winston as he rose from his seat to his full height, which was a good six-three, and approached her.
“Mrs. Manning,” Sir Winston said gently, “may I begin by expressing my condolences on the loss of your husband?”
“Thank you,” she replied.
“Mrs. Manning, how long were you married to Paul Phillips Manning?”
“It would have been four years next month.”
“And how old was your husband at his death?”
“Forty-two.”
“And where did the two of you reside?”
“In Greenwich, Connecticut.”
“Would you be kind enough to tell us of your last months with your husband?”
Allison Manning took a deep breath and spoke in a clear, well-modulated voice. “My husband and I left Newport, Rhode Island, last May and crossed the Atlantic to Plymouth, in England, just the two of us. Paul had had the yacht built in Finland and fitted out with some extra equipment after it was delivered to Newport. From Plymouth, we cruised up the English Channel to Cowes, on the Isle of Wight, then crossed the Channel and cruised the coast of Brittany, in France. We made a long passage to Bilbao, in northern Spain, then went on to Lisbon and Gibraltar. In the Mediterranean, we cruised the Greek islands and the Balearics and then sailed out to Madeira and the Canary Islands. We called at Las Palmas and did some refitting there, then at Puerto Rico, a port on the southernmost island of the Canaries, and our last port of call before starting across the Atlantic, bound for Antigua.” She took a sip of water from a glass poured by the coroner.
“Please go on,” Sir Winston said.
Allison Manning looked a little sadder. “We sailed southwest from the Canaries down to the latitude of Antigua, then turned west. We had picked up the trade winds by then, and we were making good time. We were ten days out of Puerto Rico, over halfway to Antigua, when the incident occurred.”
“Tell us about the incident, with as much detail as you can recall.”
“It was on the early afternoon of the tenth day,” she said. “We had been in and out of squalls, then the wind dropped, and we were very nearly becalmed. The weather had been very changeable. We had been down to short sail in the squalls, using a roller-reefing headsail, which was like a big window blind, and when Paul began to unroll the sail in the light winds, the top swivel of the roller-reefing gear separated into two parts. The sail fell down with the bottom part, and the top part of the gear remained at the top of the mast, attached to the halyard. I hope I’m making this clear.”
Sir Winston turned to the jury. “Gentlemen, do you understand?”
The jury nodded as one man.
“Please go on, Mrs. Manning,” Sir Winston said.
“This wasn’t the first time this had happened,” she said, “and it meant that someone had to go up the mast and pull the top part of the swivel down to deck level so that it could be reattached to the bottom part.”
“And who went up the mast?”
“I did.”
“Was this usual? Did your husband often send you up the mast at sea?”
“No. I had done that a couple of times before, but when we were tied up alongside in port. It was easier for Paul to hoist me up the mast with a winch than for me to hoist him. He is…was a large man. On this occasion he wanted to go himself, but he had woken up not feeling well that morning and was obviously not well. He had a thing about making good time at sea, and he didn’t want to wait until he felt better, so I said I would go up the mast.”
“And how did you accomplish that?”
“Paul lowered the mainsail; I got into the bosun’s chair, which is a canvas sling, and Paul winched me to the top of the mast on the main halyard, then cleated the line while I hauled the genoa halyard down to deck level. There wasn’t much wind, but there was a sea running from the last squall, and it was pretty uncomfortable at the top of the mast. I called to Paul to lower me to the deck, and that was when I saw him, sitting on a cockpit seat, holding his arm, near the shoulder.” For the first time, her voice quavered. “His left arm.”
“What happened then?”
She seemed to struggle to keep control of herself. “I called to him again, and he looked up at me. Then he seemed to be in terrible pain, and he sort of just lay down on his side on the cockpit seat.” Tears appeared on her cheeks now. “I was very frightened. The wind began to get up again, and with no sail up, the boat was rolling very badly. I continued to call out to him in panic—panic that I was stuck at the top of the mast, and panic that he seemed to be having a heart attack, and I couldn’t help him.” Now she began to cry in earnest. Sutherland stood without speaking while she produced a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. Finally in control again, she continued. “A few minutes passed—I don’t know how long—then Paul slid off the seat onto the cockpit sole. He just lay there, facedown. It was obvious that he was unconscious; he just sort of flopped about when the boat rolled.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I just clung to the mast and cried.”
“For how long?”
“A long time. Two hours, maybe three. I wasn’t wearing a watch. Finally the sun got low in the sky; I realized that Paul wasn’t going to help me, and that I had to do something to help myself.”
“And what did you do?”
She took a deep breath and let it out. “I hugged the mast as tightly as I could, then I slipped out of the bosun’s chair and began sliding down the mast, except I slid a lot faster than I meant to. I went down very quickly until I came to rest on the crosstrees, in a sitting position. That hurt, and I was sort of stunned for a minute, so I just stopped and collected myself for a few minutes. The rolling wasn’t quite as bad, since I was farther down the mast. Finally I got up enough nerve to go the rest of the way down. I still don’t know why I didn’t fall and hurt myself.”
“Then you went to help your husband?”
“No, not immediately. I was so terrified and so exhausted from clinging to the mast that I just lay there in a heap. I think I may have even fainted for a while; I don’t know how long. When I could get up again, I made my way back to the cockpit. Paul was dead.”
Stone found that he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a rush, and everyone in the room—the coroner, the jury, and Sir Winston—turned and looked at him. “Excuse me,” he said sheepishly. He looked up and found Allison Manning staring at him. It seemed to be the first time she had been aware of his presence.
“Please go on,” Sir Winston said. “What did you do next?”
“I tried to give him cardiopulmonary resuscitation,” she said.
“Had you been trained in this technique?”
“I took a class once, at the yacht club at home.”
“Did this have any effect?”
“No. I couldn’t get a pulse at all, and Paul…I couldn’t get him to
breathe, and his body was growing quite cold by this time.”
Stone marveled at how calmly she related all this.
“And then what did you do?”
“I sat and cried for a while and let the yacht take care of herself. When I finally got a grip, I started thinking about what to do next. It was dark by then, and it seemed so strange that Paul was dead. I kept expecting him to come up from below and adjust the sails or something.”
“Did you move the body at all?”
“Not at first. Paul is…was a big man, and I’m quite small. I thought about moving him down below, to a berth, but then it occurred to me that if I did, I’d just have to get him up again, sooner or later. So I left him in the cockpit that night. I was exhausted, so I got some sleep. I couldn’t eat anything, though. The boat took care of me; the wind dropped, and she lay fairly quietly.”
“What did you finally do with the body?”
“When I woke up it was still dark, but there was about three-quarters of a moon, so the night was bright. It was clear to me that in that climate, I was going to have to bury Paul at sea. I went up into the cockpit and tried lifting the body, but I couldn’t budge it. Finally I got the main halyard around him and winched him into a sort of standing position. When I let out on the line, he fell to leeward, and I was able to get him onto the side deck and undo the halyard. Then I released the lifelines and got him overboard.”
“What did you do next?”
She swallowed hard, then continued calmly. “I said a prayer for Paul’s soul, then I began to think about sailing the boat. Dawn came; I got the mainsail up with a winch and got us headed due west, and I repaired the headsail reefing swivel with a little steel clip. We had half a dozen spares, and we had already used half of them. Paul often talked about finding some more permanent solution to the problem, but he never did. Finally I got the headsail up again. I set the self-steering gear, as Paul had taught me, and I got a sleeping bag and slept in the cockpit through the morning. It was easy sailing, and with one or two direction changes as the wind came up, I got through the day. I slept in the cockpit that night, and by the second day, I was getting used to sailing the boat.”
“So you just kept heading due west?”
“No, there was a book on board about celestial navigation; I couldn’t find the manuals for the GPS or the high-frequency radio. I had never taken any real interest in the subject before—Paul had always done the navigating—but he had shown me how to use the sextant. From the book I learned how to find our latitude, and I just tried to keep us on the right latitude the rest of the way. We finished up a little farther south than I had tried for; our landfall was at St. Marks, instead of Antigua.”
Sir Winston reached into his briefcase and brought out two books. He showed one to Allison Manning. “And you kept this logbook?”
“Yes, after Paul died I kept the log in a sort of abbreviated fashion. Paul was always very meticulous about recording everything, as you can see by reading the earlier entries.”
Sir Winston held up the other book, a leather-bound volume. “And do you recognize this book?”
She looked at it. “Yes, he bought that in Las Palmas, and he wrote in it a lot.”
“Did you ever read what he wrote in this book, Mrs. Manning?”
“No. He often made notes in such a book.”
“Mrs. Manning, are you quite able to continue? Would you like a rest?”
“No, I’m fine; I’d like to go on.”
“Good, good. Tell me, Mrs. Manning, how would you describe your relationship with your husband?”
“We had a good marriage; we were very content and happy.”
Sir Winston looked surprised. “Really? You didn’t have fights, arguments?”
“Rarely. Oh, I suppose anyone who’s married has an argument now and then, but we got along well.”
“No children?”
“No. Paul didn’t want children.”
“But you did?”
“Well, yes, but I suppose Paul was more important to me. I didn’t want to ruin our marriage by having a child unless Paul wanted one, too.”
“So you were deeply in love with your husband?”
She hesitated. “I loved him, yes,” she said finally.
“Did you treat him well?”
“Yes, I did.”
“You were a good wife at all times?”
“I tried to be,” she replied. “Excuse me, sir, but what are you getting at?”
Sir Winston opened the leather-bound book and showed her a page. “Is this your husband’s handwriting?”
“Yes, it is.” Allison Manning was looking concerned for the first time.
“Let me read you some of what your husband wrote in this book,” Sir Winston said, opening the book at a marked page. “I quote: ‘They had been on the boat together for months now, and she had been the perfect bitch.’” Sir Winston paused, looked at the jury, then continued. “‘She had always had a temper, but now she frightened him with the intensity of her anger.’” He looked at Allison Manning as if to elicit a response, but she said nothing; she looked stunned.
Sir Winston turned to another marked passage. “‘They argued one day as she was making lunch. She had a chef’s knife in her hand, and for a moment, he thought she might use it on him. He slept badly that night, waking often, expecting to feel the blade in his back.’”
Allison Manning was suddenly on her feet; her face was red and contorted with anger. “That’s not about us, dammit! It’s written in the third person, don’t you see? What are you trying to do, you bastard?”
Sir Winston feigned shock at her outburst, but before he could speak, the coroner broke in. “Please compose yourself, Mrs. Manning; Sir Winston is only doing his duty.” He looked at his watch. “I think we will stop now for lunch. We will resume in one hour. Gentlemen of the jury, please do not discuss these proceedings among yourselves during lunch.” He stood, and the jurors stood with him.
Sir Winston collected the books and his briefcase and strode quickly from the room, leaving Allison Manning standing, staring after him. Finally she collected her purse and walked slowly toward the door.
Stone, nearly as shocked as she at the turn in Sir Winston’s questioning, followed her from the building. “Mrs. Manning?” he called.
She stopped and turned. “Yes?”
“My name is Stone Barrington; I’m an American, too. My chartered boat is moored near yours.”
“Oh, yes,” she said absently. She turned to go.
“I wonder if I could speak with you for a moment?”
“What about?” she asked, looking puzzled.
“I was present at the inquest this morning, and I heard what took place. I think you may be in over your head.”
“How do you mean?”
“Do you know who this Sir Winston is?”
“No.”
“Nobody mentioned that, huh?”
“No. Just what is your interest in this, Mr. Barrington?”
“Back in New York, I’m a lawyer, and right now, I think you need a lawyer very much. Can I buy you lunch?”
Chapter
4
They walked quickly across the lawn to her boat and went down below. “Would you like some lunch?” Allison Manning asked. “I’m going to make a sandwich.”
“Thank you, yes,” Stone replied.
She went to the galley and began putting together some sandwiches. “Please tell me your name again,” she said. “It always takes me a couple of times.”
“Stone Barrington. If you’ll forgive me, we only have an hour before the inquest resumes, and we should talk quickly.”
“All right.”
“First of all, let me explain the proceedings. A coroner’s inquest is…”
“To make an official determination of the cause of death,” she said.
“The cause and the circumstances. In this case, the jury could probably return one of three verdicts: death from natural causes, death b
y homicide, or an open verdict, which means the jury doesn’t feel it has enough evidence to decide how your husband died.”
“I understand,” she said, handing him a sandwich. “Something to drink?”
“Anything diet,” Stone said and accepted a soda.
“What are the consequences of these three possible verdicts?” she asked, then took a big bite of her sandwich.
“If the determination is natural causes, the coroner will give you a death certificate, and you can get on with your life. If it’s an open verdict, maybe, but not certainly, the same. But if the verdict is death by homicide, then Sir Winston is going to be very nearly obliged to bring a charge of murder against you.”
She gulped down the bite of sandwich. “Murder? I didn’t murder Paul!”
“I don’t believe you did,” Stone said, “but Sir Winston may have a very different opinion. If you should be charged with murder, your alternatives would be to stand trial or to plead to a lesser charge for a reduced sentence or a suspended sentence, if the circumstances warranted.”
“I have no intention of pleading to any charge,” she said.
“I understand,” Stone replied. “Now we have to talk about what’s going to happen when the inquest resumes. My assumption is that Sir Winston has other kinds of evidence to present which might cast you in a bad light. I think that to adequately present your side of this, you need more time and a good local lawyer, so the best thing to do would be to ask for a recess of the inquest until such time as you are ready to present your case.”
