BEFORE THE CORONER.
The coroner and jury assembled at an unusually early hour, for the
convenience of Mr. Kene, who wished to be present. It had been thought
that the only brother of the deceased, a clergyman, would have come
down; but he had not arrived. After viewing the body, which lay still
at Mrs. Jones's, the proceedings commenced. Medical testimony was
given as to the cause of death--a pistol-shot that had penetrated the
heart. The surgeon, Mr. Hurst, who had been called in at the first
discovery on Tuesday morning, stated that to the best of his belief,
death (which must have been instantaneous) had taken place early the
previous evening, he should say about seven or eight o'clock. And this
view was confirmed in rather a singular manner. Upon examining the
quantity of oil in the lamp, which Mrs. Jones had herself filled, it
was seen that it could not have burnt very much more than an hour:
thus leaving it to be inferred that the deceased had put it out before
committing the rash deed, and that it must have been done shortly
after Mr. Bede Greatorex left him.
Alletha Rye was called. She spoke to the fact of finding Mr. Ollivera,
dead; and electrified the court, when questioned as to why she had
gone to the sitting-room, seeing that it was an entirely unusual thing
for her to do, by saying that she went in to see whether Mr. Ollivera
was there dead, or not. In the quietest, most composed manner
possible, she related her singular dream, saying it had sent her to
the room.
"Surely," said the coroner, "you did not expect to see Mr. Ollivera
dead?"
"I cannot say I did! I went rather to convince myself that he was
_not_ there dead," was the witness's answer. "But the dream had been
so vivid that I could not shake it from my mind; it made me uneasy,
although my better reason did not put any faith in it whatever that it
could be true. That is why I went to the room. And Mr. Ollivera lay
dead in his chair, exactly as I had seen him in my dream."
The coroner, a practical man, did not know what to make of this
statement: such evidence had never been tendered him before, and he
eyed the witness keenly. To see her stand there in her black robes,
tall, upright, of really dignified demeanour, with her fair features
and good looks--but there were dark circles round her eyes today, and
the soft colour had left her cheeks--to hear her tell of this in her
sensible, calm accents, was something marvellous.
"Were you at home on Monday night?" asked the coroner. And it may as
well be remarked that some of the questions put by him during the
inquest, miscellaneous queries that did not appear to be quite in
order, or have much to do with the point in question, had very
probably their origin in the various rumours that had reached him, and
in the doubt breathed into his ears by Mr. Kene. The coroner did not
in the least agree with Mr. Kene; rather pitied the barrister as a
visionary, for allowing himself to glance at such a doubt; but he was
fond of diving to the bottom of things. Living in the same town,
knowing all the jury personally, in the habit of exchanging a word of
news with Mrs. Jones whenever he met her, the coroner may have been
excused if the proceedings were slightly irregular, involving some
gossip as well as law.
"No," replied the witness. "Except that I ran in for a few minutes. I
had been at work that afternoon at a neighbour's, helping her to make
a gown. I went in home to get a pattern."
"What time was that?"
"I cannot be particular as to the exact time. It must have been nearly
eight."
"Did you see the deceased then?"
"No. I did not see any one except the servant. She was standing at the
open street door. When I had been upstairs to get what I wanted I went
out again."
"Did you hear any noise as you passed Mr. Ollivera's rooms?"
"Not any. I do not know anything more of the details, sir, than I have
told you."
The next witness called was Mr. Bede Greatorex. He gave his evidence
clearly, but at portions of it was evidently under the influence of
some natural emotion, which he contrived to suppress. A man does not
like to show such.
"My name is Bede Greatorex. I am the son of Mr. Greatorex, the
well-known London solicitor, and second partner in the firm Greatorex
and Greatorex. The deceased, John Ollivera, was my cousin, his father
and my mother having been brother and sister. A matter of business
arose connected with a cause to be tried in the Nisi Prius Court, in
which Mr. Ollivera was to be the leading counsel, and my father
despatched me down on Monday to communicate with him. I arrived by the
six o'clock evening train, and was with him before half-past six. We
held a business conference together; I stayed about an hour with him,
and then went back to my hotel. I never afterwards saw him alive."
"I must put a few questions to you with your permission, Mr.
Greatorex, for the satisfaction of the jury," observed the coroner.
"Put as many as you like, sir; I will answer them to the best of my
ability," was the reply.
"First of all--what was the exact hour at which you reached Mr.
Ollivera's rooms?"
"I should think it must have been about twenty minute after six. The
train got in to time, six o'clock; I took a fly to the Star and
Garter, and from thence walked at once to Mr. Ollivera's lodgings, the
people at the hotel directing me. The whole could not have taken above
twenty minutes."
"And how long did you remain with him?"
"An hour: perhaps rather more. I should think I left him about
half-past seven. I was back at the hotel by quarter to eight, having
walked slowly, looking at the different features of the streets as I
passed. I had never been in the town before."
"Well, now, Mr. Greatorex, what was the manner of the deceased while
you were with him? Did you perceive anything unusual?"
"Nothing at all. He was just as he always was, and very glad to see
me. We"--the witness paused to swallow his emotion--"we had ever been
the best of friends and companions. I thought him a little quiet,
dull. As he sat, he bent his forehead on his hand and complained of
headache, saying it had been close in court that day."
("True enough," murmured Mr. Kene.)
"The news you brought down to him was not bad news?" questioned the
coroner.
"Quite the contrary. It was good: favourable to our cause."
"Did you see him write the note found on his table, or any portion of
it?"
"When the servant showed me into the room, he appeared to be writing a
note. As he sat down after shaking hands with me, he put the blotting
paper over what he had written. He did not take it off again, or write
at all while I remained."
"Was it the same note, think you, that was afterwards found?"
"I should think it likely. I noticed that some few lines only were
written. About"--the witness paused a moment--"about the same quantity
as in the first portion of the note."
"Did he put the blotting paper over it to prevent you seeing it, do
you suppose, Mr. Greatorex?"
"I do not know. I thought he was only afraid it might get blotted. The
ink was wet."
"Did any one come in while you were with him?"
"No. I wished him goodnight, intending to see him in the morning, and
was shown out by some young man."
"Do you know to whom that note was written?"
"I have not the slightest idea. Neither do I know to what it alludes."
"Then--your theory, I presume, is--that he added that blotted
concluding line after your departure? In fact, just when he was on the
point of committing the rash act?"
"I do not see what else can be believed. The pen lay across the words
when found, as if thrown there after writing them, and appeared to
have caused the blots."
"Did he say anything to you about any appointment he had kept that
afternoon?"
"Not anything."
"And now about the pistol, Mr. Greatorex. Did you see one on the
table!"
"Yes."
"Did it not strike you as singular that it should be there?"
"Not at all. Mr. Ollivera never travelled anywhere without a pistol;
it was a fancy he had. Some years ago, when in a remote part of Spain,
he was attacked in his chamber at night, robbed, and rather seriously
hurt; since then he has when travelling taken a pistol with him. I
asked him what brought it on the table, and he said he had been
putting a drop of oil on the lock.
"Did you know that it was loaded?"
"I did not. I really did not think much about it one way or the other.
We were busy over the business on which I came down: and I knew as I
have said, that he used to carry a pistol with him when travelling."
"Then--in point of fact, Mr. Greatorex, you can throw no positive
light on this affair for us?"
The witness shook his head. "I wish I could. I have told you all I
know."
"Do you think there can be any reasonable doubt--any doubt
whatever--that he committed suicide?"
"I fear there can be none," replied Mr. Greatorex, in a low tone, and
he shivered perceptibly as he gave it. It was a crime which Bede
Greatorex had always held in shrinking, pitying abhorrence.
"One question more, and then we will release you and thank you for the
clear manner in which you have given your evidence," said the coroner.
"Did you see cause to suspect in that last interview that his mind was
otherwise than in a sane state?"
"Oh no; certainly not."
"It was calm and clear as usual, for all you saw?"
"Quite so."
"Stay. There is one other point. Was the deceased in any kind of
embarrassment, so far as your cognizance goes, pecuniary, or else?"
"I feel quite sure that he was in no pecuniary embarrassment
whatever," returned the witness warmly, anxious to do justice to his
cousin's memory. "As to any other kind of embarrassment, I cannot
speak. I am aware of none; and I think he was one of the least likely
men to get into any."
That was all. Mr. Greatorex bowed to the coroner and gave place to
another witness. A little dark woman in black, with an old-fashioned
black chip bonnet on, and silver threads beginning to mix with her
black hair; but her eyebrows were very black still. Certainly no two
women could present a greater contrast in appearance than she and Miss
Rye, although they were sisters.
"Your name is Julia Jones," began the coroner's man, who knew Mrs.
Jones intimately in private life.
"Yes, it _is_ Julia Jones," emphatically replied the lady, in a tart
voice, and with an accent on the "Jones," as if the name grated on her
tongue. And Mrs. Jones was sworn.
After some preliminary evidence, touching Mr. Ollivera's previous
visits to her, and the length of time he had stayed, which she entered
upon of her own accord and was not checked, Mrs. Jones was asked what
she knew of the calamity. How it was first brought to her knowledge.
"The first was through my sister, Alletha Rye shrieking out from the
first-floor landing below, a little before seven o'clock on Tuesday
morning," responded Mrs. Jones, in the same tart tone; which was, in
fact, habitual to her. "I was in my bedroom, the front room on the
second floor, dressed up to my petticoat, and out I flew, thinking she
must be on fire. She said something about Mr. Ollivera, and I ran
down, and saw him lying in the chair. Jones's nephew, in his waistcoat
and shirtsleeves, and his face all in a lather, for he was shaving,
got into the room when I did."
"When did you see the deceased last, Mrs. Jones?" was the next
question put, after the witness had described the appearance of the
room, the pistol on the carpet, the blotted note on the table, the
quantity of oil in the lamp, and so forth.
"When did I see him last? why on the Monday afternoon, when he came in
from court," responded Mrs. Jones. "I was crossing the hall at the
foot of the stairs, between the parlour and the shop, as he came in.
He looked tired, and I said so; and he answered that he had been about
all day, in the court and elsewhere, and _was_ tired. That's when I
saw him last: never after, till I saw him in his chair, dead."
"You heard nothing of his movements on that evening?"
"I wasn't likely to hear it, seeing I went out as soon as the shop was
shut. Before it, in fact, for I left Jones's nephew to put up the
shutters. Old Jenkins is dying, as all the parish knows, and I went to
sit with him and take him some beef-tea. Jones's nephew, he went out
too, to his debating club, as he calls it. And precious debating it
must be," continued Mrs. Jones, with additional tartness, "if the
debaters are all as green and soft as he! Alletha Rye, she was at work
at Mrs. Wilson's: and so, as ill-luck had it, all the house was out."
"Except your servant, Susan Marks," observed one of the jury. "She was
left at home to keep house, we hear."
"And in a very pretty manner she did keep it!" retorted Mrs. Jones, as
if she had taken a pint of vinegar to set her teeth on edge; when
Susan Marks, at the back, gave a kind of groan, and burst into fresh
tears. "Up the street here, down the street there, over the way at the
doors yonder, staring, and gossiping, and gampusing--that's how _she_
kept it. And on an assize night, of all nights in the year, to be
airing her cap in the street, when barristers and other loose
characters are about!"
The gratuitous compliment paid to the barristers raised a laugh, in
spite of the sad inquiry the court had met upon. Mrs. Jones's epithet
sounded, however, worse to others than to herself.
"And she could tell me, when I got in just before eleven, that Mr.
Ollivera had gone to bed!" resumed that lady, in intense aggravation:
"which, of course, I believed, and we all went up to our rooms,
suspecting nothing. Let me ever catch her out at the street door
again! home she'll go to Upton Snodsbury."
Groans from the back, in the vicinity of Susan Marks.
"Had you known previously, Mrs. Jones, that Mr. Ollivera was in the
habit of bringing with him a loaded pistol?"
"Yes; for he told me. One day last October, when I was up dusting his
drawing-room, he had got it out of the case. I said I should not like
to have such a weapon near me, and he laughed at that. He used to keep
it on the chest of drawers in his bedroom: that is, the case; and I
suppose the thing itself was inside."
"Your husband was not at home when this unfortunate event happened,
Mrs. Jones?"
"No, he was _not_," assented Mrs. Jones; and it was as if she had
swallowed a whole gallon of vinegar now. "He has been off to Wales
last week and this, and is as likely as not to be there next."
Another question or two, not of much import, and Mrs. Jones gave
place to her husband's nephew. He was known in the town for a steady,
well-conducted young man, quite trustworthy. He had not very much to
tell.
"My name is Alfred Jones," he said, "and I live with my uncle, Richard
Jones, as assistant in the shop----"
"----Which wouldn't want any assistant at all, if Jones stayed at home
and stuck to his duties," put in Mrs. Jones's sharp voice from the
back. Upon which she was admonished to hold her tongue: and the
witness continued.
"On Monday night, I put up the shutters at seven, as usual in the
winter season; I changed my coat, washed my hands, and went to the
debating club in Goose Lane. Soon after I got there I found I had
forgotten a book that I ought to have taken back to the club's
library. The time for my keeping it was up, and as we are fined
twopence if we keep a book over time, I went back to get it. It was
then half-past seven. The street door was open, and Susan, the
servant, was standing at it outside. As I ran up the stairs, the book
being in my bedroom at the top of the house, I heard the drawing-room
door open just after I passed it; I turned my head, and saw a
gentleman come out. He----"
"Did you know him, witness?"
"No, sir, he was a stranger to me. I know him now for Mr. Greatorex.
He was talking to Mr. Ollivera. They were making an appointment for
the next morning."
"Did you hear what was said?"
"Yes, sir. As I looked round at the gentleman he was turning his head
back to the room, and said, 'Yes, you may rely upon my coming early;
I'll be here before nine o'clock. Goodnight, John.' Those were, I
think, the exact words, sir."
"Did you see Mr. Ollivera?"
"No, sir, he did not come out, and the gentleman only pushed the door
back a little while he spoke. If it had been wide open I couldn't have
seen in; I was too far, some two or three steps up the stairs. I
turned back then to attend Mr. Greatorex to the street door. After
that I ran up for my book, and left the house again. I was not two
minutes in it altogether."
"Did you see Mr. Ollivera as you came down?"
"No, sir. The drawing-room door was closed, as Mr. Greatorex had left
it. I never saw or heard of Mr. Ollivera again until Miss Rye's
screams brought me down the next morning. That is all I know."
"At what hour did you go home on Monday evening?"
"It was close upon eleven, sir. We generally disperse at half-past ten
but we stayed late that night. Mrs. Jones and Miss Rye had not long
come in, and were in the sitting-room."
The next witness called was Susan Marks. The young woman, what with
her own heinous offences on the eventful night, the dreadful calamity
itself, and the reproaches of her mistress, had been in a state of
tears ever since, fresh bursts breaking forth at the most unseasonable
times.
Susan Marks, aged nineteen, native of Upton Snodsbury, cook and
servant-of-all-work to Mrs. Jones. Such was the young woman's report
of herself, as well as could be heard for her sobs and tears. She was
attired neatly and well; in a print mourning gown and straw bonnet
trimmed with black; her face, that would otherwise have been fresh and
clear, had small patches of red upon it, the result of the many tears
and of perpetual rubbing.
"Now, young woman," said the coroner briskly, as if he thought time
was being lost, "what have you to tell us of the events of Monday
night?"
"Nothing, sir," replied the young woman, in a fresh burst of grief
that could be called nothing less than a howl. "I never see Mr.
Ollivera at all after I showed the gentleman up to him."
"Well, let us hear about that. What time was it?"
"It was past six, sir; I don't know how much. I had washed up Mr.
Ollivera's dinner things, and was putting the plates and dishes on the
dresser shelves, when Mr. Ollivera's bell rang. It was for his lamp,
which I lighted and took in: he always wanted it afore daylight was
well over when he was busy. He seemed in a hurry, and drew down
the window-blinds himself. I lighted the gas-burner outside the
drawing-room door, and went back to the kitchen. No sooner was I
there--leastways it couldn't have been five minutes--when there came a
ring at the street door bell. I went to answer it, and saw a tall
gentleman, who asked for Mr. Ollivera, and I showed him upstairs to
the drawing-room."
"Who was that gentleman?"
"It was Mr. Greatorex. But I didn't know him then, sir. I thought it
was a barrister; he didn't give no name."
"Did you see Mr. Ollivera when you took this gentleman up?"
"Yes, sir. He was sitting with his back towards us, writing at the
table, and I see the things on it. I hadn't noticed them much when I
took the lamp in. I see the papers put together tidy, which had been
all about when he was at his dinner. I think he was very busy that
evening," urged the witness, as if the fact might plead an excuse for
what afterwards took place: "when I removed the dinner things he told
me to put the sherry wine away on the sideboard; sometimes if he
wanted to drink any, he'd have it left on the table."
"Did he seem glad to see Mr. Greatorex?"
"Yes, sir, very. They shook hands, and Mr. Greatorex began telling him
what he had come down about, and said his father had sent him in place
of telegrumming. I asked Mr. Ollivera what time he'd like to have tea,
but he said he didn't know whether he should take any, he might be
going out; if he wanted it, he'd ring. How was I to think, after that,
that I ought to have went up to him, to see how he might be getting
on, which missis has been a going on at me ever since for not doing?"
demanded the witness with a stream of tears.
"Come, come! there, wipe your face," said one of the jury, with gruff
kindness. And the questions went on, and the witness's replies.
It was about an hour that Mr. Greatorex stayed, she thought She saw
him come out at the street door, and go away. Well, yes, she _was_ a
yard or two off, at a neighbour's door, next house but one. After
missis went out and the shop was shut, and Alfred Jones went out, and
there wasn't nobody indoors to want her, she thought it no harm to
stand at the street door a bit: and if she did go a step or two away
from it, she never took her eyes off the door, and no person could go
in or out without her seeing them and that she'd swear. She saw Mr.
Greatorex come out and walk away up High Street; and she never heard
no sound in the house whatsoever.
"Did any one go in?" the coroner asked.
"No, sir, not a soul--barring Alfred Jones and Miss Rye Alfred Jones
came back after he first went out, saying that he had forgot
something, and he went upstairs to fetch it. He wasn't there no time;
and it was while he was up there that Mr. Greatorex came down and
left. Soon after that, Miss Rye, she come in, and went upstairs, and
was there ever so long."
"What do you call 'ever so long'?"
"Well, sir, I'm sure she was there a quarter of an hour," returned the
witness, in a quick, positive sort of tone, as if the fact of Miss
Rye's being there so long displeased her. "I ought to know; and me
a-standing inside the doorsill, afraid to move off it for fear she
should come out."
"Were you alone?"
"Well, yes, sir, I was. Mary, the housemaid at the big linendraper's
next door but one, can bear me out that I was, for she was there all
the time, talking to me."
Perhaps the coroner thought the answer savoured of Hibernianism, for
something like a smile crossed his face.
"And you heard no sound whatever upstairs all the evening, Susan
Marks? You saw no one, except the persons mentioned, go in or come
out; no stranger?"
"I never heard no sound, and never saw no stranger at all," said the
witness, earnestly. "I never even saw Godfrey Pitman leave. But I
b'lieve he was away earlier."
The concluding assertion fell with some surprise on the room; there
ensued a pause, and the coroner lifted his head sharply. Godfrey
Pitman? Who was Godfrey Pitman?
"Who is Godfrey Pitman, witness?"
"It was the lodger at the top of the house, sir. He had the front
bedroom there--and a fine dance it was to carry his meals up. Missis
gave him the offer of eating them in the little room off the kitchen,
but I suppose he was too proud to come down. Anyway, he _didn't_
come."
"Is he lodging there now?"
"Oh no, sir, he was only there a week and a day, and left on the
Monday. He was a traveller in the spectacles line, he told me, passing
through the town; which he likewise wore himself sometimes. Well, sir,
I never see him go at all, and he didn't never give me a shilling for
having waited on him and carried his trays up all them stairs."
The girl had told apparently what she knew, and the coroner requested
Mrs. Jones to come in again. He questioned her about the lodger.
"It was a person of the name of Pitman," she answered, readily. "He
was only passing through the town, and occupied the room for a week."
"Who was he?" asked the coroner. "Did you know him?"
"I didn't know him from Adam," answered Mrs. Jones, tartly; "I didn't
know anything about him. I called him Alletha Rye's lodger, not mine,
for it was she who picked him up. He may have told her all about
himself, for aught I can say: she seemed to take a desperate fancy to
him, and mended his travelling bag. He didn't tell me. Not but what he
seemed a civil, respectable man."
"When did he leave you, Mrs. Jones?"
"On Monday, about half-past four, when he took the five o'clock train
for Birmingham. He came to the inner shop door as he was going out,
and thanked me for my kindness, as he called it, in taking him in at a
pitch; he said it was not what every one would do for a stranger.
Neither is it."
"You are sure he left you at that hour?"
"Have I got the use of my eyes and senses?" demanded Mrs. Jones.
"Sure! I walked to the side door after him, and saw him go up the
street towards the railway with his blue bag. Of course I am sure. It
was as I crossed the hall, on my way back, that Mr. Ollivera came in,
and I spoke to him as I have told you."
It was therefore placed beyond doubt that the lodger, Mr. Pitman,
could have no part or act in what took place in the house later. The
coroner would have dismissed the subject summarily, but that one of
the jury, a man who liked to hear himself talk, expressed an opinion
that it might be satisfactory if they questioned Miss Rye. With a
gesture of impatience the coroner called for her.
She came in, was asked what she knew of Mr. Pitman, and stood before
them in silence, her face a little bent, her forefinger, encased in
its well-fitting black kid glove, pressed lightly on her lip, her
clear blue eye looking out straight before her. It was as if she were
trying to recall something to her memory.
"I recollect now," she said, after a minute "I could not remember what
took me up by the railway station where I met him. It was on last
Sunday week, in the afternoon. Mrs. Hillman, who lives up there, was
ill, and I had been to see her. As I was leaving her house, towards
dusk, a few passengers were coming down from the station. I stood on
the doorstep until they should have passed; and one of them, who had a
blue bag in his hand, like those that lawyers' clerks carry, stopped
and asked me if I had a room in my house that I could let him occupy
for a week. I supposed he took the house where I stood for mine. He
went on to say he was a traveller and stranger, had never before been
to the town, felt very poorly, and would very much wish to be spared
the bustle of an hotel. I knew that my sister, Mrs. Jones had a
bedroom ready for letting," continued Miss Rye, "and I thought she
might not object to oblige him; he spoke quite as a gentleman, and I
felt rather sorry for him, for he looked haggard and ill. That is how
it happened."
"And your sister admitted him, and he stayed the week?" cried the
juror.
"Strictly speaking, I admitted him; for when we reached home I found
Mrs. Jones had gone to sit with old Jenkins for the rest of the day.
So I took it upon myself to do so. On Saturday last Mr. Pitman said he
would, with our permission, remain a day over the week, and leave on
Monday.
"And did he pay the rent, Miss Rye?" asked the juror, who perhaps had
a doubt on the point.
"He paid the first week's rent as soon as he was admitted to the
house, and gave a sovereign towards the purchase of his provisions,"
was the answer. "What remained he settled for on the Monday, previous
to his departure by the five o'clock train for Birmingham."
"Who was he, witness? Where did he come from?"
"I really cannot tell much about him," was Miss Rye's reply. "I
understood him to say he was a traveller; his name, as he wrote it
down for us, was Godfrey Pitman. He was laid up with a bad cold and
relaxed throat all the time he stayed, and borrowed some books of me
to read."
There appeared to be no further scope for the exercise of the juror's
powers; no possible loophole for bringing this departed Mr. Godfrey
Pitman into connection with the death of Mr. Ollivera; and Miss Rye
was allowed to depart.
Little more evidence was to be gleaned. Mr. Kene, tendering evidence,
spoke of his long intimacy with the deceased, and of their last
interview, when he was just the same that he ever had been: calm,
cheerful, earnest-purposed. He could not understand, he added,
how it was possible for Mr. Ollivera to have laid violent hands on
himself--unless, indeed, the headache, of which he had complained, had
proceeded from some derangement of the functions of the brain, and
induced temporary insanity.
But this suggested theory was wholly incompatible with the letter that
had been found, and with Mr. Bede Greatorex's testimony of the sane
mind of the deceased when he quitted him. The jury shook their heads:
keen-eyed Mr. Butterby, looking on unobtrusively from a remote nook of
the room, shook his.
The inquest drew to a close; the one fatal element in the evidence
being the letter found on the table. The coroner and jury debated upon
their verdict with closed doors, and only re-admitted the public when
they had decided: It did not take them long.
"Felo-de-se."
In accordance with the customary usage, a mandate was issued for a
night interment, without Christian rites; and the undertaker promised
to be ready for that same night.
The crowd filed out of the room, talking eagerly. That it was
undoubtedly a case of self-murder, and that in the most unhappy sense
of the word, none doubted. No, not one: even Mr. Kene began to waver.
As they were dispersing hither and thither along the street, there
came hastily up a young man in the garb of a clergyman. It was the
Reverend Henry William Ollivera, brother of the deceased gentleman. He
had just arrived by train. In as few words as possible, his cousin,
Frank Greatorex, and Mr. Kene imparted to him some hasty particulars
of the unhappy event.
"He never did it," said the clergyman, solemnly. "Bede"--for at that
moment Bede Greatorex joined the speakers--"how could you suffer them
to bring in a verdict so horrible?"
But Mr. Ollivera had not heard the full details yet. By common
consent, as it were, they had not at first told him of the letter.
Bede would not tell it now. Let the worst come out to him by degrees
thought he.
"I am going up to town," said Bede Greatorex. "If----"
"And not stay for tonight?" interrupted one of them, in an accent that
savoured of reproach.
"Nay, I must consider my father," was the grave reply of Bede. "He is
in suspense all this while, waiting for news."
So they parted. Bede Greatorex hastened to catch the departing train
for London. And the others remained to see the last of the ill-fated
John Ollivera.
He was carried out of Mr. Jones's in the bright moonlight, soon after
eleven o'clock had struck. Whether intentionally, as best befitting
the scanty ceremony to be performed, or whether in accidental
forgetfulness the undertaker had failed to provide a covering for the
coffin. And Mrs. Jones, with sundry sharp and stinging words of
reprimand to the man, as it was in the nature of Mrs. Jones's tongue
to give, brought down a long woollen black scarf-shawl, and helped to
spread it over the coffin with her own hands.
Thus the procession started, preceded by many curious gazers, followed
by more, Alletha Rye stealing on amidst the latter number; and so went
on to the place of interment.
You have seen what took place there.