“That’s for suicide, and that’s against suicide, and the more you think
about it the more you’ll be obliged to think about it. Then there’s
another thing to think about and talk about: murder.”
This time his audience was really startled; Nan gave a cry, and
Calthorpe saw that she had grown pale, and that deep lines had appeared
at either corner of her mouth. He made a movement to go and sit beside
her, but at the same time Linnet Morgan shifted into a chair just behind
her, and whispered to her over her shoulder, so Calthorpe remained where
he was. Mr. Medhurst got up and pointedly left the building. The coroner
coughed and said, “Really, Dene, you know....”
“I thought you told me, sir,” said Silas in his most insolent manner,
“that this would cease to be a coroner’s court after the verdict had
been returned?” The coroner made no answer to this, but began turning
over his papers in order to conceal his annoyance, and after waiting a
minute Silas continued, “Murder.... No one will deny that there’s as
much courage in murder as in suicide. Oh, not in the actual fact, I
grant—many of you would say there’s no courage, but only a sort of
brutal cowardice, in murdering a man unawares, or worse still in
murdering a woman,—no courage needed to push a woman under a train!—no,
there’s no courage in the actual fact, but what about the forethought of
it? the first idea, the scheming and the planning, the daily watching of
the chosen victim, hey? you must come to a grand pitch of hatred before
you can look at warm living limbs and think ‘I’ll turn you to the cold
of death!’ Life’s great; I’ve a great respect for life. Life’s rich and
warm and manifold, and lies outside the bestowal of man. That’s why I’ve
so high a regard for life: there’s wealth in it, that we can’t bestow
the same as we can take away. That’s why I say there’s courage in murder
just as there is in suicide,—courage in assuming that liability.
“And consider the afterwards,—the courage in keeping silent afterwards.
The man would be living with a secret that took him by the arm as he
walked down the street, whispering in his ear, and that snatched bits
off his fork at meal-time as he lifted the fork to his mouth,—a playful
familiar secret. It’d jolt his elbow at the first sign of forgetfulness.
It’d come out with him on Sundays, jaunty.... He’d know that by a word
he could turn his invisible mate into a visible thing for every man to
see. The deed wouldn’t be finished with the moment the deed was done. Oh
no! Crime would be easy enough to the man who had no memory. But memory
has long wiry fingers to prod us under the ribs....
“Soberly,” he continued changing his voice, “let us think: it would be
simple for any one to murder my wife. They could do it in my presence;
I’m blind; I should be none the wiser. Let us suppose that, after she
left me at the shops that day, some one had seized on her and dragged
her away towards the level crossing; she could have held out her arms
towards me for rescue, but I should have known nothing—nothing! That’s
all perfectly plausible. But who should have had a sufficient grudge
against my wife? I’m going through the names....”
A real protest was about to be raised against this hideous
entertainment, when a commotion arose:—Nan Dene had fainted.