STEPHEN TRENCHARD SURPRISES HIS FRIENDS.
Redcastle is profoundly excited next morning by the inquest which
is held in the large room--a ballroom or a dining hall on festive
occasions--at the ‘Coach and Horses’ Hotel. Whispers of foul play
have floated in the air since the _post-mortem_ examination at
Lancaster Lodge. Sibyl’s disappearance has become known, and people
look at one another ominously as they mention her name. Mr. Pilgrim’s
behaviour in this time of trial is the admiration of everybody, the
enthusiasm beginning with the firm of upholsterers and undertakers
whom he entrusts with the conduct of Mr. Trenchard’s obsequies, and
gradually permeating the town till every one is loud in his praise.
His coolness, his clearness of head, his decent grief for his
departed friend, his thoughtful consideration for Sibyl, in quest of
whom he has sent far and wide,--all these things entitle him to the
admiration of the town, and Redcastle does not stint its praise.
Never has the coroner sat in so crowded a court as this which he
gravely contemplates to-day. Mrs. Stormont has borrowed her cook’s
bonnet, and put on her thickest veil, fondly feeling herself
disguised by these means, when every turn of her head and every angle
of her figure are as well known in Redcastle as the town pump. Mrs.
Groshen is also present and thickly veiled. The two matrons have been
accommodated with chairs in a quiet corner near the reporters’ table,
and they put their heads together, and sigh dismally, and talk of the
awfulness of life and death, and the mysterious depths of wickedness
in the human heart, pending the commencement of the proceedings.
The first evidence is entirely medical. Dr. Mitsand describes those
appearances in the corpse which led him to conclude that Stephen
Trenchard had been poisoned. Mr. Pollintory deposes to the finding
of the poison in his analysis of the contents of the stomach. Dr.
Mitsand describes the discovery of a phial which has contained the
diluted acid in a basket in the room usually occupied by Sibyl
Faunthorpe.
Joel Pilgrim is examined as to the discovery of the death at nine
o’clock on the previous morning. He is questioned as to those
appearances which at once impressed Dr. Mitsand, and he owns that in
the agitation consequent on the sad event he had overlooked these
indications.
‘You saw nothing particular in the appearance of the corpse?’
inquires the coroner.
‘I was too agitated to observe.’
‘Yet you must have perceived the livid hue which struck Dr. Mitsand.’
‘I may have perceived that. My impression was that death had been
caused by an apoplectic stroke.’
‘And that, in your mind, would account for the livid tinge?’
‘It would.’
‘Did you observe the eyes?’
‘I was too agitated to observe details.’
‘But you must have seen the expression of the eyes. Were they bright
and glassy--staring--the pupils dilated?’
‘I cannot say. I sent for the women to lay out the corpse
immediately. The whole thing was too painful, too sudden, to allow of
my observing particulars.’
He is questioned as to Sibyl’s disappearance.
‘Can you give any reason for the young lady being absent at such a
time?’
‘I cannot.’
‘She was to have been married to you yesterday morning?’
‘She was.’
‘Had she given her free consent to the marriage?’
‘She had.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ interposes a gentleman sitting at the table.
‘I think these questions are quite irrelevant to the object of the
inquest. The jury have only to determine the cause of death. Miss
Faunthorpe’s conduct is outside the question.’
Robert Faunthorpe has engaged a Krampston solicitor to watch the
proceedings in his niece’s interest. He has done his utmost for her
in this, having an idea that the genius of Krampston is infinitely
superior to that of Redcastle, and that a Krampston lawyer must be a
man of much experience and acumen.
Podmore, the butler, is examined as to his last visit to his master’s
room, and the state in which he left the deceased. His answers to the
coroner’s questions closely resemble those he made to Dr. Mitsand
yesterday afternoon, but there is a thickness in his speech which
offends that functionary.
‘That will do, sir. This is very shameful, sir, positively
disgusting. You are intoxicated.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ falters Podmore, dissolving in tears. ‘You
blas’ my ch--ck--ar--racter, sir. I haven’t touched--drop--spiriss
this morr’ng. It’s my feelings.’
‘Go away, sir. You are drunk. I won’t hear another word.’
Dr. Faunthorpe is now examined as to the abstraction of a portion of
prussic acid contained in the bottle in his surgery, but the coroner
can obtain no positive statement from him as to the quantity which
ought to have been in the bottle.
‘Come, Dr. Faunthorpe, you must have some approximate idea as to the
quantity of acid in your possession. Your books would show you when
you last bought any. If your memory is so much at fault we shall have
to ask to see your books.’
‘It is three years at least since I bought any. I may not have kept
the wholesale chemist’s bill. I have no record.’
‘Oh, come, you must remember something about it. If you so rarely
employ the acid in your medicines you must have the quantity you
purchased nearly intact. Now what is the smallest quantity you have
ever bought?’
‘I think, about two ounces.’
‘You have never bought above two ounces?’
‘I do not think so.’
‘Come, Dr. Faunthorpe, you are too scientific a man to think about a
fact. You must know.’
And finally the coroner wrings from the reluctant witness the
admission that he ordered two ounces of the diluted acid with other
drugs three years ago. That he used it once as a sedative in a case
of violent sickness, that he cannot remember having used it since. He
admits the finding of a bottle in his surgery last night, with only
one ounce or less than one ounce of the poison. The bottle is now in
the possession of the authorities.
The Krampston solicitor objects to these questions, as having no
bearing on the main issue, which is simply to ascertain the cause
of death, but his objections are not entertained. The coroner of
Redcastle conducts his inquest with a lofty hand, and is as arbitrary
as any of his mediæval predecessors.
Jane Faunthorpe is not called, much to the doctor’s relief. Yet he
feels that even as matters stand there is a dark cloud hanging over
the head of the absent Sibyl.
‘Perhaps it would be better for her never to return,’ he thinks.
He has sent a messenger to The How, and has sent in other directions
without avail. He can discover no trace of Sibyl. Yet Mr. Judbury is
already in possession of some information upon this subject. He knows
the hour at which she left Redcastle, the train by which she went,
the clothes she wore, the bag she carried. His next duty will be to
discover whither she has gone.
The jury go to Lancaster Lodge to view the body. The medical evidence
having settled the cause of death, this is little more than a
formula, which it is indeed in many cases where investigation should
be thorough.
After this, although the cause of death is sufficiently clear,
the coroner suggests the adjournment of the inquiry until further
evidence can be brought forward.
There is some little discussion between the coroner and one of the
jury as to a convenient date for the adjourned inquiry, and Mr.
Judbury, who has been present throughout the proceedings, has a few
words to say upon this subject. Finally the inquest is adjourned to
this day week. The funeral arrangements meanwhile may proceed.
‘And the will may be read,’ thinks Dr. Faunthorpe, ‘and we shall know
if Sibyl is the heiress. God grant she may appear without delay, and
make her innocence manifest to every one.’
He goes back to his daily round of duty sorely dejected in spirit.
There is none of his parish patients, hard as may be their struggle
for existence, who carries so heavy a heart this day as he who
ministers to their wants. There is no rheumatism or sciatica that
gripes its victim with a sharper pang than the agony which tears
Robert Faunthorpe’s breast when he thinks that in the minds of all
his townsfolk Sibyl lies under suspicion of murder.
Meanwhile Messrs. Kabriole, the upholsterers and undertakers,
are in their glory. The massive oaken coffin, glittering with
brazen furniture, is in hand,--merrily rings the joiner’s hammer
on the stout oak. The best velvet pall is brought forth from its
resting-place, aired and brushed. The big Flemish horses have
their manes combed and their fetlocks clipped, and receive all the
embellishment that skilful grooming can bestow. The sable plumes are
shaken out, the inky cloaks unfolded, and there is quite an agreeable
excitement in Messrs. Kabriole’s back shop.
‘I shan’t be sorry to get our account in,’ says Kabriole the elder to
his Son and Co. ‘There’s a heavy amount outstanding. Mr. Trenchard
was like many of your millionaires, slow in parting with his money.’
‘I should have asked him for it, father, if I was you,’ suggests the
son.
‘Yes, and have lost a first-rate customer,’ replies the senior,
severely. ‘Gentlemen in that position mustn’t be pressed for money.
The most one can do is to send in one’s account at Christmas.’
‘You might have had a bill to make up, or something.’
‘I does that with my pettifogging customers, Joe, never with a man of
Mr. Trenchard’s standing. It’s too ’ollow.’
‘Well, the money will come handy in a lump,’ remarks the son.
‘Of course it will, Joe; and you must bear in mind that I charges
five per cent. interest all along--and the interest gets posted up
every quarter, and carries interest on the back of it. It’s like
putting one’s money in the bank--and safer.’
‘Well, you’re a good ’un, father. There’s no getting the right side
of you.’
‘I’ve got an ’ed for business, Joe,’ answers the parent,
complacently. ‘I was born so.’
The days go by, but bring no tidings of Sibyl. The day of the
funeral comes, a quiet funeral, but splendid. All that wealth can do
to disguise the awfulness of death--or to add to it--with funeral
pomp, has been done here. Mr. Kabriole watches the sable train leave
his premises with a thrill of pride. Every item of that gorgeous
_cortége_ is already entered in his ledger. He feels that the
metropolis could hardly beat this display.
‘Drat your reformed funerals--with their rubbishing open cars,
reminding folks of Lord Mayor’s Day, or Ashley’s Theayter!’ exclaims
the upholsterer, who has served his time to a London firm. ‘Give me
the good old style--the legitimate, as your playgoers say of the
draymer.’
Dr. Faunthorpe, Mr. Pilgrim, Dr. Mitsand, and Colonel Stormont
are the only mourners, and occupy two mourning coaches. Poor Dr.
Faunthorpe weeps silently behind his handkerchief--not for the dead,
for whom he cares but little, but for the living, over whom clouds
lower so heavily. He feels very much as if he were going in solemn
state to his own execution. Except these tears there is but little
show of grief. Dr. Mitsand and Colonel Stormont talk of the mystery
of the dead man’s end, but do not commit themselves to any opinion on
the subject. Joel Pilgrim is silent as death itself.
A good many private carriages testify to the respect in which
Stephen Trenchard has been held by his fellow-townsmen. Sir Wilford
Cardonnel’s family chariot follows with high stepping bays, and the
coachman and footman in their last new liveries.
Solemnly toll the minster bells as the procession wends its slow and
pompous way down the street. Shutters are up before almost all the
shop windows--blinds are down in many places--a respectful crowd
gazes in reverential silence at the spectacle.
The town of Redcastle bears witness that it has lost a benefactor.
However solemnly performed, that service of the Church which remits
dust to dust is not a long one, nor is Stephen Trenchard’s funeral
protracted by any desperate burst of grief from the mourners.
Decently, reverently, are all ceremonies performed. The mourners
linger for a moment or so looking down at the coffin, rather as if
they expected to see the departed spread his wings and soar visibly
to a better world. Finding his ashes quiescent they sigh, shake their
heads despondently, and move away, scrape the clay off their boots
upon an adjacent plebeian tombstone, and walk slowly back to their
carriages.
‘Now for the will,’ says Colonel Stormont, cheerily, as they drive
away from the churchyard.
There is something of the nature of a lottery in that will. There may
be small prizes even for outsiders. Mourning rings, silver tankards,
lapis-lazuli snuff-boxes, carved ivory, or other spoil of Ind.
‘Most mysterious disappearance of that girl,’ exclaims the colonel,
after a pause. ‘What motive could she have for running away,
unless----’
‘Unless she had poisoned her uncle,’ says Dr. Mitsand, interpreting
the colonel’s awful look. ‘If she were guilty of that crime I think
she would be here to-day. If she were capable of such an act she
would be capable of holding her ground afterwards.’
‘They can’t always stand it, you know,’ argues Colonel Stormont,
speaking of the murderous profession generally. ‘They lose their
heads and bolt after the thing is done. I suppose it looks so much
worse to them when it is done than it did from the other side. They
are a pluckless set for the most part, I think.’
‘It was not in that girl to commit a murder,’ says Dr. Mitsand,
with conviction. ‘The circumstantial evidence is strong against
her, I admit--her disappearance--the poison taken from her uncle’s
surgery--her expectation of Mr. Trenchard’s fortune. But if she had
poisoned him in order to get possession of his money, it stands to
reason she would have stayed to receive her inheritance. She would
have known that to fly was almost to admit her guilt.’
‘She may have been seized with a panic when the thing was done.’
‘She would have stayed, colonel,’ persists the doctor. ‘She might
have been stricken with fear, but she would have held her ground.
She is too clever to commit such a blunder as flight if she had been
guilty.’
‘How do you account for her absence, then?’
‘Easily enough. Her uncle was forcing her into a hateful marriage,
and she had not moral courage enough to oppose her will to his, so
she let matters go on to the very last, and then ran away. A foolish
thing to do, no doubt, but human.’
‘But why should she have taken that prussic acid from her uncle’s
surgery, as it is pretty evident she did take it, though the fact
hasn’t come out yet?’
‘She may have armed herself with that as the means of suicide--a last
resource if all other modes of escape failed her. We have no evidence
that the prussic acid which killed Stephen Trenchard was the poison
taken from Dr. Faunthorpe’s surgery.’
‘You have the evidence of the empty bottle?’
‘She may have thrown the stuff away, fearing to keep anything so
dangerous in her possession. If she were guilty, she would hardly
have left that bottle in her work-basket.’
‘Humph,’ mutters the colonel. ‘You take an indulgent view of the
case.’
‘I admit that at the first I was staggered by the facts, and inclined
to suspect Miss Faunthorpe; but reflection has led me to form another
opinion.’
‘Gad, sir, and I should be glad if I could believe her innocent,’
says the colonel, energetically. ‘She has eaten my bread and
salt; I have liked and admired her; and even’--with ineffable
condescension--‘thought of her as a wife for my eldest son. I believe
that poor boy adores her. It would be horrid to think her guilty. But
these things ought to be looked straight in the face, Dr. Mitsand,
if we don’t want the whole fabric of society shaken. We mustn’t be
prussic-acid-ed into our graves in a quiet little town like this,
and the poisoner go scot free. No, sir; I wish the good old law for
the punishment of poisoners was still in force. We want our _Chambre
Ardente_, sir, for these scoundrels.’
They are at the gates of Lancaster Lodge by this time. The mourning
coaches drive up to the hall door, where stands Podmore, quite sober
on this occasion, and fully awake to the dignity of his position.
He ushers the mourners to the drawing-room, where the sunlight is
subdued by half-closed venetian shutters, through which shines the
sunny vista of lawn and flower-beds. The crimson satin couches and
ottomans are ranged in solemn order. A silver tray of decanters and
glasses is placed unobtrusively on a side table. There is a small
writing-table in front of an open window, with a chair set beside it,
evidently prepared for the family lawyer, thinks Colonel Stormont, as
he takes a glass of old Madeira from the obsequious Podmore.
No family lawyer appears, however. The four gentlemen refresh
themselves gravely at the side table, assisted by Podmore. Very
bitter is the taste of the Amontillado to Dr. Faunthorpe, but his
parched lips need to be moistened in some wise. The moment is at
hand when the dealings of the dead to the living will be known. Will
justice have been done to all his nieces, or will favours be heaped
upon that one of them whom in secret he, Robert Faunthorpe, has loved
the best?
Joel Pilgrim takes a second glass of sherry, clears his throat, and
goes to the little table by the window.
‘I believe, gentlemen,’ he begins, and the three mourners turn
towards him, full of eager curiosity, ‘that in cases where there is
a will to be read this is about the time at which the ceremonial is
gone through. Now my good friend Stephen Trenchard has left no will.’
There is a look of amazement in the countenances of his three
hearers. Dr. Faunthorpe feels the room going round bewilderingly, and
tries feebly to remember how the law of inheritance stands in the
case of nieces whose uncle dies intestate.
‘Do you mean to say that Mr. Trenchard, a man of business, has died
intestate?’ exclaims Colonel Stormont, with indignant incredulity.
‘He has died intestate for the best of all reasons,’ answers Joel,
coolly, as he unlocks a drawer in the writing-table. ‘He had nothing
to bequeath!’
‘Come, sir, you are laughing at us,’ cries the colonel.
‘He was too sincere to indulge in the mockery of a will, and, in that
self-restraint, was a model to mankind in general, who seem to take
delight in disposing of imaginary effects,’ replies Joel, in an easy
conversational tone. ‘He made no will, but during his late illness he
entrusted me with a little paper which it was his wish that I should
read to any of his friends and relatives who should be present on
this sad occasion. With your permission, gentlemen, I shall proceed
to do so.’
‘Make haste about it, sir,’ cries the colonel. ‘I can see that we
have all been outrageously humbugged.’
‘You are not the first, colonel, who has taken the appearance for the
reality,’ replies Joel, politely.
He unfolds a sheet of letter-paper covered with Stephen Trenchard’s
neat penmanship, and reads thus:--
‘Having reason to believe that I may die insolvent, I refrain
from the empty formula of a last will and testament. I have
nothing to bequeath except those accommodation bills drawn upon
Providence, which good men call blessings.
‘The business which I conducted for thirty years in India was on
the verge of insolvency when I retired from it, though the house
of Trenchard and Co. stood high in the opinion of the commercial
world, and its paper was as easily negotiated as that of the
Bank of England. I had sunk my capital in the business, and I
consider that I was guilty of no fraud in withdrawing from it
about a third of the amount of that original capital, although I
knew that in so doing I must precipitate the ultimate failure.
I transferred my speculative trade to a man adroit enough to
navigate the leaky vessel for a few more voyages upon the
commercial sea, and I was enabled to make my retreat from India
with ten thousand pounds and high repute; for, although I was
known to have been engaged in some doubtful adventures, and to
have been somewhat unscrupulous in my traffic, I was believed to
be enormously rich.
‘I was sixty-six years of age when I made up my mind to retire
from the excitements and agitations of a hazardous trade, and to
enjoy the lotus-eater’s calm repose for the rest of my days. I
calculated that the ten thousand pounds that I was able to draw
would, with a judicious use of my credit, last out my life, and
enable me to glide in comfort to the grave. It pleased me to
return to that native town which I had left as a penniless lad,
and which, when I was honest and industrious, refused me daily
bread. With a few thousands at my banker’s, and the reputation
of unlimited resources, I was able to command all that the town
could give. Redcastle laid its riches at my feet. I had but to
pay the rent of my house, the wages of my servants, and to give
a cheque on account now and then to my tradespeople. Every year
left me a little deeper in their debt.
‘I fear that I may have excited false hope in the mind of my very
dear niece, Sibyl Faunthorpe. I regret the possibility of this,
but I cannot be blamed for any baseless ideas which she may have
entertained on the subject of my supposed fortune. I have never
made any statement calculated to mislead her. I have neither
directly nor indirectly fostered expectations of an inheritance
from me. My dear Sibyl has been the companion and solace of my
retirement, and she has enjoyed all those luxuries and comforts
with which I have smoothed the pathway of my declining years.
Should there be any balance, or residue of the money now in my
banker’s hands, at the time of my death, after the payment of my
just debts, I hereby give the same to my friend and successor in
commerce, Joel Pilgrim; but as I apprehend that my moneys in hand
will hardly suffice to pay my outstanding accounts, I have not
taken the trouble to put this bequest in the form of a will.
‘STEPHEN TRENCHARD,
‘May 20th. 187--.’