DARK SURMISES.
In the old house at the lower end of the town there is surprise and
agitation, and a flutter of excitement which throws all the machinery
of life out of gear. Hester leaves her dishes unwashed, and sits down
in her disorderly kitchen to talk over Mr. Trenchard’s death with
the charwoman. They talk immensely, though they know hardly anything
about the dread event, save such jetsam and flotsam of intelligence,
chiefly false, as has been cast up on the shore of the High Street.
But they evolve a great deal out of their inner consciousness. They
speculate upon that ever-interesting subject, the will, and argue for
and against Sibyl’s appointment as sole heiress.
‘It will be an unjust will if he’s left everything to her,’ says
Hester, vindictively.
‘Ah, but she was the favourite, you see,’ pleads the charwoman,
tilting her bonnet on to her eyebrows in her animation, ‘and so
pretty, and such winning ways with her. I shouldn’t wonder if all
the money was left to her.’
‘Then I hope she’ll remember my poor old master, and all he’s done
for her and her sisters,’ says Hester. ‘They might all have gone to
the workhouse if it hadn’t been for him. Mr. Trenchard was across the
seas and couldn’t help ’em, and many a good meal Dr. Faunthorpe’s
gone without to bring up three hearty-eating girls.’
‘I dare say Miss Faunthorpe will take her uncle to live with her
at Lancaster Lodge,’ says the charwoman. ‘Such a lovely place! I
went in one evening that there was a dinner party, to help the
kitchenmaid wash up. Why, the very scullery’s ekal to some people’s
drawring-rooms!’
‘Dr. Faunthorpe ain’t going to live there, you may depend,’ replies
Hester, decisively. ‘He don’t want none of your finery. He likes his
own house and his independence, and his water cake and bit of smoked
bacon for breakfast.’
‘It’s odd Miss Faunthorpe being out this morning, when her sister
went up,’ speculates the charwoman.
‘Yes, that’s odd. It’s my belief she was always against this Mr.
Pilgrim, and her uncle had forced the marriage upon her, and she went
off this morning to some of her fine friends to get out of the way.
Them Cardonnels, perhaps, that she and Miss Marion was visiting at
Christmas.’
‘Ah, they do say she might have married Sir Wilford Cardonnel if
she’d liked,’ says the charwoman.
‘Of course she could,’ answers Hester, glad to exalt the family she
has served so faithfully. ‘Only she’s as full of fancies as an egg’s
full of meat, and she wouldn’t have him.’
While this discussion goes on in the kitchen, Marion and Jenny sit
in the parlour, occupied by all-absorbing thoughts of the dead man’s
will and their own mourning. They have not liked Stephen Trenchard
well enough to feel any regret for his loss; nay, his death is an
event to which they have looked forward as a turning-point--the
beginning of brighter days--in their own lives. He is dead, and a
painful interval of suspense must be endured before they can know
what he has done for them. They are hopeful meanwhile, and wildly
speculative--especially Jenny, whose ideas ramble among thousands
and tens of thousands as they have never rambled before, save in the
agreeable mazes of an arithmetic book.
‘You see he had such oceans of money,’ argues Jenny. ‘He could afford
to make Sibyl a great heiress, and to leave us twenty thousand
apiece quite easily. And the interest of twenty thousand pounds is
a thousand a year. Uncle Robert told me so. Fancy you and me with a
thousand a year each! No stocking-darning, no turning and twisting
our winter dresses to make them do for spring. I shall go into long
skirts immediately.’
‘That will be a boon to the rest of humanity, for they’ll hide your
legs,’ replies Marion.
‘Shall you have crape tucks or flounces on your black silk?’ inquires
Jenny, recurring to that inexhaustible topic, the mourning.
‘Whichever is the last fashion. Miss Eylett shall make our mourning,
and she always has the newest style.’
‘But we ought to have dresses ready for the day of the funeral,’
says Jenny. ‘And how can we get them before the will is read? We
don’t know whether we’re heiresses or beggars.’
‘Carmichael’s people will let us have anything we want,’ replies
Marion. ‘Depend upon it they’ll give us any amount of credit now
uncle Trenchard is dead. They know we must come in for some of his
money.’
As the day goes on the fever of curiosity and wonder which has
seized upon Redcastle is intensified, for the flame is fed by new
revelations of a startling character. First there is the news of
Sibyl’s disappearance; and then it becomes known somehow that there
is to be a post-mortem examination, followed by a coroner’s inquest.
This is really interesting, and would distinguish the deceased from
the common ruck even if he had not been a millionaire. The two local
papers are in a flutter of excitement, and rival reporters hang about
Lancaster Lodge and question the respectable Podmore, whose large
pale face--in shape and expression somewhat resembling the station
clock--assumes a troubled and bewildered look.
From the coroner’s house Dr. Mitsand goes on to his brother
practitioner, Dr. Faunthorpe. That meek little man has just returned
from a long round in his dilapidated chaise, and has ‘run in,’ as
he calls it, to get a little bit of dinner. Regularly to dine is a
luxury unknown to the parish doctor. The cloth is laid in the homely
parlour, the remains of joint or stew are kept in the oven, with
a potato or two simmering in greasy gravy, and the doctor takes
his repast hurriedly and alone an hour or two after the appointed
dinner-hour.
He has just seated himself at his savoury mess, when Hester enters
mysteriously and announces Dr. Mitsand.
‘I’ve shown him into the best parlour,’ she says, whereupon Dr.
Faunthorpe, faint with hunger, reluctantly lays down his knife and
fork, and goes to receive his guest.
‘What can he want with me?’ he thinks.
Dr. Mitsand explains himself briefly.
‘The coroner has ordered me to make a post-mortem examination,
assisted by Mr. Pollintory--you know Pollintory, of course; and
I thought you ought to be present, as a near connection of the
deceased,’ he concludes.
‘I am surprised that a post-mortem should be thought necessary,’ says
Dr. Faunthorpe, fluttered by this intelligence. ‘There was nothing
mysterious in my brother-in-law’s death, I hope. He had been ailing
for some time.’
‘He had; but his death was not the less unexpected. It is always best
to err on the side of caution. By the way, may I ask if you use much
prussic acid in your practice?’
The question startles the meek little doctor, and he looks at the
inquirer with a perplexed expression of countenance.
‘I have used it occasionally, but not often.’
‘You keep some in your surgery, no doubt?’
‘Yes, I have a little of the diluted acid.’
‘You are careful to keep it out of harm’s way, I suppose. It is not
within any one’s reach?’ inquires Dr. Mitsand.
‘I keep that and all poisons on a top shelf, in blue bottles. They
could not possibly be used in mistake for anything else, if that is
what you mean.’
‘I am glad of that.’
‘But what has this to do with Mr. Trenchard’s death?’ asks Dr.
Faunthorpe, with a troubled look.
‘Only this much. From the indications presented by the body after
death--a livid hue--the nails purple--the hands so firmly clenched
that the women who laid out the dead have not been able to place them
in a peaceful attitude--and from the odour of the room where he lies,
I have too much reason to fear that Mr. Trenchard died poisoned by
prussic acid. This calls for immediate investigation.’
‘Great Heaven, yes!’ cries Dr. Faunthorpe, white with horror. ‘But
how do you imagine the poison administered? Whom can you suspect?’
‘I suspect no one as yet. The least painful supposition is that he
took the poison himself.’
‘Why should he do that? What motive had he for committing suicide? Or
what motive could any one have had for murdering him?’
‘Hard to imagine a motive in either case. Unless it were possible
that some one who expected to profit by his death was tempted to
hasten that death by poison.’
‘Dr. Mitsand,’ exclaims Robert Faunthorpe, tremulous with indignant
horror, ‘are you aware that my eldest niece is the person who had
most expectation to be a gainer by her uncle Trenchard’s death?’
‘I know that.’
‘And you come to ask me whether I keep any form of prussic acid in my
surgery--you suspect that the poison by which Mr. Trenchard died--or
by which you suppose him to have died--was taken from this house?’
‘I tell you that I suspect nothing, Dr. Faunthorpe. But until the law
has taken this painful business into its own hands, it is my duty to
act in the interests of law and right. Mr. Trenchard was in my care.
He dies, as I believe, foully murdered. Your niece disappears on the
day of his death.’
‘She runs away to escape a marriage which we may fairly suppose had
been forced upon her by Mr. Trenchard.’
‘That is one view of the case--and I hope the right one. Yet her
absence cannot fail to prejudice the minds of those who have to
investigate this matter. If you have any idea where she is, I should
recommend you to communicate with her, and urge her immediate return.’
‘I have no idea. She had no friends before she was adopted by her
rich uncle. She may have gone to some of her new friends, but they
are unknown to me. I don’t know where to look for her, or how to
communicate with her.’
‘It is a most unhappy case, Dr. Faunthorpe, but you and I must do our
duty.’
‘My poor Sibyl--my poor unhappy girl--to be the subject of such a
horrible suspicion!’ cries Dr. Faunthorpe, helplessly.
He sits alone for some time after Dr. Mitsand has left him, sits
hopeless and stricken. It is not that he believes his niece guilty of
this hideous crime--this almost impossible wickedness,--but that the
mere suspicion should have fallen upon her is a calamity that bows
him to the dust.
At four o’clock that bright summer afternoon the three medical men
meet at Lancaster Lodge for their dismal work. Podmore, with his
large round face, still white and horror-stricken, admits them into
the dusky silence of the hall. Joel Pilgrim comes out of the study
to receive them, very calm and business-like in manner, and leads the
way to the room where the dead man lies. At the door he leaves them,
and goes quietly downstairs to his retreat in the study, where he
sits reading the paper--or making believe to read it.
In the room upstairs the dismal work is performed in silence.
To Mr. Pollintory, the skilful analyst, it is no more than an
every-day matter of business. A jar is sealed in the presence of the
three medical men, and this vessel Mr. Pollintory is to take back to
Krampston with him, there to perform his analysis, and apply tests
scientific and physiological, in the retirement of his own laboratory.
But in the minds of those three men analysis is hardly needed to
establish the one fatal fact that Stephen Trenchard has been poisoned
by prussic acid. In the appearances which add to the awfulness of
death, in the odour which exhales from that lifeless form, there is
evidence enough of a technical kind to convince a whole college of
physicians.
The doctors go quietly downstairs when their work is done, and again
Mr. Pilgrim appears at the study door.
‘Well, gentlemen?’ he exclaims interrogatively, ‘What is your
verdict? Do you find the cause of death in the heart or brain?’
‘In neither,’ replies Dr. Mitsand.
‘What then?’
‘I had rather not state my opinion till I am called upon at the
inquest to-morrow.’
‘Humph,’ mutters Joel. ‘You doctors like to be mysterious. It is a
trick of the trade. But pray walk in, gentlemen, you will take some
refreshment after your painful task, I hope.’
Dr. Mitsand and his colleagues decline this proffered entertainment.
‘I should like to ask a few questions of the butler before we go,’
says Dr. Mitsand. ‘I believe it was he who last saw Mr. Trenchard
alive.’
‘To the best of my knowledge it was so,’ answers Joel, scraping his
smooth chin thoughtfully, ‘But Podmore is a very stupid fellow, and
this sad event seems to have thrown him quite off his balance.
The man has no self-possession whatever. You’ll not get a succinct
account from him.’
‘I don’t want an account. I only want an answer to a question or
two,’ replies Dr. Mitsand. ‘Be kind enough to ring for him, Mr.
Pilgrim.’
Joel obeys. Poor little Dr. Faunthorpe sits in a corner meanwhile,
pale as a sheet of letter-paper, and full of vague apprehensions.
That Stephen Trenchard has either destroyed himself or been foully
murdered there can be no doubt. Which is it? And why is Sibyl absent?
Podmore appears in answer to the bell, and by his aspect fully
justifies Joel’s account of him. He looks from one of the doctors to
the other with a countenance full of apprehension.
‘You gave Mr. Trenchard his medicine at four o’clock this morning?’
inquires Dr. Mitsand.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you find him in his usual health?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You noticed nothing particular in his manner?’
‘No, sir--unless----’
‘Speak out, pray.’
‘He might have been a little more irritable than usual, perhaps. He
had been rather irritable for some time past. Mr. Pilgrim may have
noticed it.’
Joel nods acquiescence.
‘As if he had something on his mind,’ suggests Dr. Mitsand.
‘Well, yes, sir. You might take it that way.’
‘Who removed the glasses and bottles from Mr. Trenchard’s room this
morning? Was it one of the women-servants?’
‘No, sir. Mr. Pilgrim told me to see to clearing the room. The
women-servants were timid about going in.’
‘What did you do with the glass in which your master was in the habit
of taking potash water?’
‘I took it down to the pantry with the rest of the things, sir, and
washed it with my other glasses.’
‘You are sure you washed it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you think you could find me that particular glass?’
‘I might perhaps, sir. It was a large soda water glass. There’s a
dozen of the same pattern in the pantry. They’re kept on the same
shelf; but I think I should know the one Mr. Trenchard used last from
the position of it.’
‘Bring it then,’ says Joel, authoritatively.
Podmore shuffles out, and returns presently with the glass. Dr.
Mitsand takes it to the window, and examines it with his back to Joel
and the rest.
‘You wash your glasses in very hot water, I think,’ he says to
Podmore.
‘Pretty hot, sir. And I use a bit of soda to keep them bright.’
‘I see. Was there a table with glasses and bottles on it within reach
of your master’s hand as he lay in bed?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Nonsense, Podmore!’ cries Joel, quickly. ‘You forget the little
table which Mr. Trenchard had placed close to his bed a few days ago,
in order that he might help himself to a bottle of potash water if he
wanted it without ringing for you.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ stammers Podmore. ‘Yes, I forgot the little
table; my master had it put handy to his hand, as you may say. But
it didn’t use to be there, and it slipped my memory.’
‘And was it from that table you took this soda water glass?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That will do,’ says Dr. Mitsand, and Podmore shuffles out again,
escaping gladly as a soul released from torment.
‘If I could understand any motive for such an act,’ says Dr. Mitsand,
as he and his colleagues go along the shrubberied drive between
Lancaster Lodge and its gates, ‘I should be inclined to believe that
that man poisoned his master. I never saw a more craven hound. We
shall see if he comes in for an annuity, or a handsome legacy, under
his master’s will.’