London, the inquest
The journalists gathered inside the Coroner’s Court are growing restless. Through the arched window of the courtroom the leaves of the oak trees in the Vestry of St Pancras sway against a clear blue sky. But in here, there is no fresh air.
The jury benches are empty, giving a ghostly quality to the room. There have been no jurors present since the inquest started. There seems to be no need in a case such as this, the inquest serving as little more than a rubber stamp to officiate an inevitable conclusion.
Beneath dark beams that line a gabled roof, with blood-red ceilings and matching carpets, the twelve or more reporters squashed together along the mahogany pews at the back of the room are agitated from the heat. The coroner, seemingly unfazed at the front of the room, continues to consult her notes. On the table in front of her, which is reserved for family and friends, two women sit: the older one perfectly still – the dead woman’s mother, her body closed in on itself as if in retreat from the world. The younger woman sits beside her but set slightly apart, her spine poker straight, making no effort to push back the red curls that fall around her face. Behind them the father-in-law, who wears a fedora hat, even in this heat, coughs into his sleeve. The woman next to him pulls a tissue from the pocket of her immaculate trouser suit, handing it to him and giving his elbow a comforting squeeze.
‘I’ll now call my final witness.’ The sound of the coroner’s voice silences the ripple of impatience moving along the press benches. A young woman stills the pencil she had been absent-mindedly drumming against her notepad. Harry, a few seats along, bites his lower lip, eyes fixed ahead. His fingers touch the outline of the old NUJ card hanging from a lanyard around his neck.
The summoned witness is small and sharp. He wears glasses, his nose like an upright skimming stone. The eyes of everyone in the room follow him intently as he moves towards the microphone, his manner suggesting he is savouring every moment with his captive audience.
When he reaches the stand, he pauses, adjusting his microphone before repeating the oath.
‘I solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm that the evidence I shall give will be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’
‘Thank you, Dr Blackman,’ the coroner says. ‘And will you please explain to the court your relationship to Marianne Witherall?’
‘Of course. I am a psychiatrist. I am – I was – Ms Witherall’s doctor in the final two years of her life.’
The energy in the room changes. Beneath the silence of the crowd, there is a fizz of excitement.
‘When you say you were her doctor …’
‘I was employed by the family. There was an intervention, if you will, not long after the birth of her twin daughters. David, her husband, was worried. So was her father-in-law, Clive Witherall.’
The doctor glances briefly at the older man in the hat, seated in the benches.
‘Anna – sorry, Marianne – had been suffering from postnatal depression.’
‘And you treated her for her depression, Dr Blackman?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And what did that treatment involve?’
‘It was a combination of talking therapies and medication.’
‘What sort of medication?’
‘She took an SSRI, sertraline specifically, owing to the fact that Ms Witherall was still breastfeeding at the point of commencement.’
‘It was you who prescribed the drugs?’
He pauses. ‘Not at first. It was the hospital who suggested them initially. I oversaw the increase in dosage. She’d started with 50mg per day. When that failed to have the desired effect, the daily intake was gradually increased to 200mg.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Ms Witherall wasn’t coping. She was detached. She was struggling to bond with her children. My suggestion at this time was that she ought to seek in-house treatment, but she refused. And David, her husband, was keen to support that decision.’
‘How long did you treat Ms Witherall for her depression?’
‘Just over three years, until she … Until she died.’
‘And did you prescribe any other medication during that time?’ the coroner asks.
Dr Blackman pauses, running his tongue over his top lip.
‘No.’
‘And in your professional opinion, do you believe that Ms Witherall was of a mental state that she might have taken her own life?’
Dr Blackman sighs regretfully. ‘I do.’
There is a scuffle on the press benches, the excitement too much to contain. Although whichever way, this is a story that will continue to elicit plenty of hand-rubbing on Fleet Street. Either she took her own life or she was murdered. However you look at it, the story of the beautiful fallen heiress is gold dust, and this lot will continue to pick at the remains until there is nothing left, or until they are distracted by the smell of fresh blood. Whichever comes first.
‘Thank you, Dr Blackman,’ the coroner says, crisply. ‘Please return to your seat. The court will now adjourn for a short while so I can prepare my conclusion. If the family would leave first, and wait in the family room. Members of the press, owing to your volume, please wait outside the court until you are called back.’
The journalists have barely finished their second cigarettes when the coroner’s officer calls them into the courtroom for her conclusion. Harry doesn’t join them, slipping quietly away to the corner of the adjoining gardens until he hears the crowd being summoned back in.
The coroner sits still at the front of the room, studying her hands while she waits for the final reporters to shuffle back into their seats. The woman with the red hair has her arms held protectively in front of herself. Even now, he won’t let himself say her name. Anna’s mother looks as though she has not moved since the onlookers cleared out, before piling back in again.
‘I would like to start by thanking the witnesses for their time. I am satisfied that I have reached my conclusion in reference to the circumstances of the death of Marianne Witherall. In a case of suicide, there needs to be clear evidence so that the coroner is sure beyond all reasonable doubt that the deceased intended to take their own life. This is different from other conclusions, where we just have to be sure on the balance of probabilities. Based on the presence of the note, which as we have heard was confirmed to be in Ms Witherall’s handwriting by Consultant Graphologist Hannah Birch, along with the testimony of the police officers who first attended the scene, Sarah Marshall, who found the body, the forensic officer who studied the body, and Ms Witherall’s psychiatrist, Dr Blackman, I confirm that I am fully satisfied with the conclusion that on the date in question, Ms Marianne Witherall died by suicide.’
The woman with the red hair slumps slightly, her posture softening at the news. The older woman barely flinches.
Focusing her attention on the table in front of her, the coroner continues, ‘I would like to offer, on behalf of the court, my sincerest condolences to Ms Witherall’s family, not least her mother and her daughters, Stella and Rose. The inquest is now closed.’