An Open Verdict by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

AT the table where Christian Harefield had sat at meat on Sunday evening, with his daughter and his daughter's companion, sat the coroner, in the gathering dusk of Monday afternoon, with his jurymen in a row of heavy oaken chairs on either side of him -- looking very much as if they were sitting at a new Barmecide's dinner -- to inquire into the cause or causes of Christian Harefield's death.

The inquest had been called for three o'clock, but it was nearly four, and the proceedings were but just beginning. There had been the usual delays -- one or two jurymen late -- a good deal of blundering in calling over the names -- some small disputations about nothing particular -- a general muddling away of time. And now the sky outside the heavy mullioned casements was deepening from gray to dun, the red glow of the fire was shining redder upon the oak panelling as the outside world darkened, the ticking of the clock on the chimney-piece sounded obtrusively above the half-whispered conversation, and the falling of a cinder on the hearth seemed as startling as the report of a gun.