Found Dead by Fred M. White

The old lady in the cotton bonnet was quite conscious of the effect she was creating. In a way, it was the hour of her life, and she was evidently going to make the most of it. She was well enough known to a great majority of the people in the town hall, indeed, there had been a Whiddon farming on the hillside beyond the Castle Rock for the last three hundred years. It was one of those old Devonshire farms, picturesque and low-gabled and, in the summer time, a favourite rendezvous for visitors who know how to appreciate an old-fashioned Devonshire tea with everything made on the premises, including the cream.

The coroner looked up and wiped his spectacles. He was expecting something sensational, as, indeed, were the rest of the spectators who had gathered there.