The inquest into the death of Crispin was at the end of July, on a Thursday.
One of the first witnesses was a policeman who was first on scene after the body was discovered. McTavish had actually found the body and had seen the suicide note. The policeman read the note to the court:
I know I wasn’t honest with you. I betrayed you. I thought you were just another good-time girl like the rest. But you were pure, and fresh, and honest, and deserved to be treated with respect. I didn’t realise how important you were to me until it was too late. But since you walked out on me, my life has spiralled downhill.
If you would have given me a second chance, I would have changed my life – for you, but you wouldn’t, though I begged you.
Living without you has become unbearable. Living has become unbearable.
You will go to Heaven. I will go to Hell.
Goodbye Rusty.
I was called as the next witness. Gently, the coroner questioned me about my relationship with Crispin. Why had I walked out on him? My responses were little more than whispers and twice I was asked to speak up. I repeated what I had told the police about George’s involvement. I was asked when I had last seen Crispin. It was easy: I hadn’t seen him since I walked out on him.
“The note said Crispin had begged you to take him back,” the coroner asked. He was not in the least aggressive asking his questions and I felt a little more confident than when speaking to the police. “What form did that begging take?”
All I could think of, I replied, were the two valentine cards. And then I had to explain what was said in then, what I did with the card. “I cut them up; into little pieces,” I answered. “I wanted nothing more to do with him.”
After a few more questions, I was able to leave the witness box. After ascertaining I was unlikely to be called again, I left the coroners office.
The paper that evening was much more circumspect. It limited itself to reporting the facts. It was almost sympathetic. Much was made of the fact that I had refused to prostitute myself. After my evidence, the paper reported, a medical expert was called. She reported that there was enough heroin in Crispin’s body to kill three men. There was also an anaesthetic which would have made him drowsy. It was the existence of the anaesthetic that raised suspicions about the death not being the simple suicide. If he had wanted to commit suicide why inject himself with the anaesthetic first? He would have been unconscious before he could inject the heroin. And if he injected the heroin first, why administer the anaesthetic at all?
The coroner’s verdict was murder by person or persons unknown.
After I had read the newspaper report twice, I found that I was sorry for Crispin. Not sorry for leaving him as I had and not sorry that I had ignored his attempts to win me back. But I was sorry that he had become involved with George. Somehow, I felt that deep inside, he was, perhaps, a better person that the image he had portrayed. And I felt sorry that he had been murdered. No one deserves that.