INVESTIGATION.
The inquest was held the day following the death. A somewhat hurried
arrangement; but in these small local places the convenience of the
coroner has to be studied. It happened that the county coroner was
coming to Alnwick that day to hold an inquest on a poor old man who
had been accidentally killed; and the Alnwick parish officials,
represented chiefly by the beadle, decided that the second inquest
should take place as soon as the first was over.
It did so. The first was held at the workhouse, and was over and done
with in half-an-hour; the second was held at a public-house nearer the
Hall: the Carleton Arms. The same jury sworn for the other inquest,
attended for this one; and the witnesses were hurriedly collected
without any formal process of summons-serving.
It was universally believed that the ill-fated little child had taken
the lighted church, in defiance of the nurse's injunction and had then
fastened the door to prevent her surprising him in his disobedience.
Honour's conviction alone protested against this; in silence, not
openly; she was weary of arguing against the stream. That he had taken
the church in his hands, she feared was too probable, but not that he
had fastened the door to conceal his disobedience. A more open,
honourable nature than his, child never possessed: he was always the
first to tell candidly of a fault; and she thought he would rather
have thrown wide the door that Honour might see him at his
disobedience, than close it against her. This, however, was not the
popular view of the case: _that_ was, that the child had taken the
dangerous toy in his hand, had slipped the button, not to be caught,
and then by some means set himself on fire; the remote distance at
which all the inmates of the Hall happened to be, just then,
preventing them from hearing his cries.
The fastening of the dressing-room door, which was spoken of by
Honour, who was the principal witness, gave rise to some discussion.
Nothing could be clearer or more positive than her sworn testimony
that the dressing-room door was not fastened when she went downstairs,
and that it was fastened when she came up--bolted on the outer side.
The puzzle was, who had fastened it? No person whatever had been in
the rooms, so far as could be learned. Witnesses were examined on this
point, but nothing was elicited that could throw any light on the
affair. It was Honour's word against facts--facts so far as they
seemed to be known. The housemaid, whose duty it was to attend to Mrs.
St. John's rooms, proved that she had not been into them since the
morning. From the time of putting them to rights after breakfast, she
was not in the habit of again entering them until about seven o'clock
in the evening, after Mrs. St. John had dressed for dinner; neither
did she on this unfortunate day. The other servants said they had not
been upstairs at all: some wine had been given to them, and they were
making themselves comfortable below. Honour was with them, talking,
but not Prance. Prance was not downstairs, so far as the servants
knew, after she left the housekeeper's room at the conclusion of
dinner. Prance herself was called as a witness, and accounted for her
time. Had gone into the dining-room whilst her mistress was at dessert
with Master George, she said, Honour having then taken Master St. John
upstairs. Had stayed there some little time. Her mistress had given
her a glass of wine. She (witness) said that she had already taken a
glass downstairs, but her mistress answered that she could no doubt
take another. She did so, drinking to the two young gentlemen's
health. After that, went upstairs to her room; stayed there some time,
doing a bit of work for herself, and putting up Master George's
morning things, which she had not had time to see to after dressing
him to dine with his mamma. Yes, she said in answer to a question from
the coroner, this room was very near the dressing-room; Mrs. St.
John's bedroom only dividing them; but could swear most positively
that she did not go into the dressing-room. She entered no room
whatever except this, her own.
A juryman interrupted with a question. Where was deceased at this
time?
With Honour in the nursery, the witness answered. It was then that the
paper toy, spoken to, was being finished and lighted up--as the Hall
had learnt subsequently. Afterwards, witness continued, pursuing her
evidence, she had gone downstairs into the onion-room, as it was
called, a place where herbs were kept; had stayed there some time,
getting an herb she wanted, and plucking its leaves from the stalks.
Then--
Another juryman interrupted, a worthy grocer and oilman, with whom the
Hall dealt. What might witness have wanted with the herb?
The witness replied, with exemplary patience and the impressive manner
that always characterized her, that she occasionally took a decoction
of this herb medicinally. The cook was in the habit of preparing it
for her, but when it was left entirely to that functionary, as much
stalk as leaf was put in, and the decoction suffered in consequence;
therefore she liked to pluck it herself.
Very good, the juryman answered She could go on with her evidence.
After preparing the proper quantity of herb, had taken it to the
scullery and laid it on what was called the cook's shelf. Did not see
any of the servants except the under-housemaid, who was lighting up
the lower passages, but heard their voices in conversation. Could not
tell whether the under-housemaid saw her; thought not. Went then into
the dining-room, to ask if she should not take Master George, as it
was getting the hour for the nursery tea. Did not take Master George.
He was asleep in the large chair. Waited some time, hoping he would
wake; but he did not. At last got tired of waiting, and left the
dining-room, Master George still asleep, with his feet on his mamma's
lap. Went straight upstairs then, and was about to get a light in her
own room, when she heard alarming cries from Honour. Could only see
the outline of her form as she flew along the corridor to the grand
staircase. The upper part of the house had not been lighted up, only
the lower, and a very faint reflection came upstairs. The cries were
alarming, full of terror. Witness was frightened, and it was not a
little thing that frightened her. Ran down after Honour, and saw Mrs.
St. John come out of the dining-room, frightened also at the cries.
For the next few minutes could not give a precise account of what
happened. The chief thing she remembered was running back with others
to the nursery. Poor little Master George also went. He stole up
unnoticed in the confusion, and saw what was left of his brother
burning, or, rather, smouldering. That was all she knew.
Mrs. St. John was not called as a witness. Having been shut up--as was
understood--the whole of the time in the dining-room with little
George, her evidence could not be of importance, and the jury had
respect to her feelings and did not call her. It was announced to the
jury that she freely acknowledged having gone from her dressing-room
into the nursery in the morning, and that it was very possible she had
omitted to fasten the door afterwards. That, however, was of no
consequence: the door had been left open as Honour had proved: by whom
did not matter.
All the evidence was taken, and a discussion ensued in regard to the
point not cleared up, the fastening of this door. Half the jury,
including Mr. Pym, inclined to the view that it had not been bolted at
all, only shut; but that Honour's state of haste and agitation had
prevented her getting the door open at the first moment, and caused
her to fancy that it was fastened. The other half of the jury
including the coroner, thought that when the unfortunate little child
had pushed-to the door in obedience to Honour, the bolt had shot into
the groove with the movement: and this appeared the more reasonable
solution. In vain Honour protested that neither was correct: that the
door _was_ bolted, and that it _could not_ have bolted itself when the
child closed it; he shut it very gently, and she must have heard the
movement had there been any. She might as well have talked to the
wind: and to her excessive surprise Mr. Pym approached her with a
stern whisper and a warning look.
"I wouldn't say any more about this, Honour."
Will it be believed that Mrs. Darling only heard of this calamity when
the jury were sitting? Living some distance on the other side of
Alnwick, news did not at all times penetrate quickly to her house. At
any rate, _this_ had not done so: reversing for once the popular
saying that ill news travels fast. Mrs. St. John had omitted to send
to her--perhaps it was excusable in the dreadful confusion--and it was
a positive fact that the inquest was being held before the tidings
were carried to Mrs. Darling.
She might not have heard it even then, but that she happened to send a
servant into the village to execute a commission, and the maid brought
back the news. As is usual in such cases, she ran open-mouthed with it
to her mistress. Mrs. Darling, who had been feeling very poorly ever
since the previous day, and was saying to herself that if no better on
the following one she should send for Mr. Pym, was lying on the sofa,
when the door abruptly opened, and the servant burst in with the news,
her very haste rendering her incoherent. Mrs. Darling started from the
sofa in terror, only half comprehending.
"_What_ do you say has happened, Cole?"
"One of the little boys is killed," spoke up the servant eagerly. "Oh,
ma'am, it's true! He was killed last night, and they are already
holding the inquest on him. It was the heir, Master Benja."
Almost as one turned to stone, stood Mrs. Darling. If ever woman
looked in awful fear, it was she. She could not speak at first: she
only gazed at the maid-servant, her lips apart, her eyes wild.
"Killed! Master Benja!" she gasped.
"He was burnt to death," cried the woman, with sobs of emotion. "I
don't know the rights of it, though the place is full of nothing else;
some said one thing and some another. Any way, the fault was Honour's.
She left him alone with a lighted candle, and he set himself on fire.
There is a tale that somebody fastened the doors upon him to let him
burn; but you know, ma'am, it can't be true. Not a bit of business is
doing at Alnwick, and most of the shops have a shutter or two up. The
inquest is on now, at the Carleton Arms."
With a prolonged shudder, Mrs. Darling seemed to come to herself. "How
is it that I was not sent for?" she asked: and though the servant took
the question to herself, and answered that she did not know, it was
evident that it was not put to her.
All her indisposition forgotten, her bodily pain no longer felt in the
greater mental pain, Mrs. Darling put on her cloak and bonnet and went
out. The maid remonstrated that she was not fit to walk; wished her to
at least wait until a fly could be sent for: she was as one who heard
not. Striking into the field-path, by which means she avoided the
gossiping village--and she was in no mood for it then, Mrs. Darling
emerged from the fields almost close to Alnwick Hall, just below the
Carleton Arms. Had there been any way to avoid passing the inn, Mrs.
Darling had surely chosen it: but there was none. As she came within
view of it, and saw the idlers congregated around it in small groups,
a sick feeling of dread took possession of her, and she shuddered as
she had done in her own drawing-room. Dread of what? Perhaps Mrs.
Darling could not precisely have defined what: but she did think it
would be a mercy had the earth opened and let her through to the
opposite side of the globe, away from all trouble and care.
Not a word did she speak to any one, not a question ask. She drew her
veil over her face, pulled her cloak more closely around her, and was
hastening on, looking neither to the right nor to the left, when she
nearly ran against Mr. Pym the surgeon, who had just strolled outside
from the heat and bustle of the crowded inquest-room.
"Is it you, Mrs. Darling?"
"What _is_ all this?" was the rejoinder of Mrs. Darling, throwing back
her veil for a moment, and then seeming to recollect herself, and
putting it down again. "Is Benja really dead?"
"Really dead!" echoed Mr. Pym. "He has been dead since yesterday
evening. Had you not heard of it?"
"I never heard a word until half-an-hour ago. What was it? How was it
done?"
"Honour left him alone in the nursery with some paper toy that had a
candle in it. When she got back he was burnt to death."
Mr. Pym was speaking strangely, in a cold, hard sort of manner; and,
instead of looking at Mrs. Darling, his eyes were directed straight
over her head.
"Then it was an accident," said Mrs. Darling, after a pause.
"That will no doubt be the verdict of the jury."
The two stood in silence. Mr. Pym with his far-away gaze, Mrs. Darling
stealing surreptitious glances at him through her veil. Presently she
spoke, scarcely above a whisper.
"What tale is it that people have got hold of, about the child being
locked in the room?"
"Ah," said Mr. Pym, "that's Honour's tale. She says that when she left
the boy, to go downstairs, the nursery doors were unbolted; that when
she returned, both were fastened. _Her_ theory is, implied if not
avowed, that the doors had been deliberately closed upon the burning
child."
Mrs. Darling turned her face away. She was as little given as any one
to betraying signs of emotion, but the eyes, for all they were not
looking at her, saw that the face was turning livid.
"It can't be true," she whispered.
"As I tell Honour. Are you going to the Hall? Most of its inmates are
here, at the inquest."
"Charlotte is not here!" exclaimed Mrs. Darling, turning to him in
what looked like alarm.
"No. The jury dispense with her evidence."
"Is--is--little Benja here?"
Mr. Pym shook his head. "The coroner and jury went up to look at the
remains, and adjourned here. It is a dreadful thing; _very_ dreadful."
At the emphasized word, a sound, that was as much like a groan as
anything, escaped Mrs. Darling's lips. The surgeon turned towards the
inn door, she continued her way. Striking into the avenue amongst the
fine old park trees, she threw back her veil where no eye was on her,
gasping as it seemed for air in the twilight of the coming night.
A servant answered her summons, and she walked straight through the
hall to a small sitting-room, where the man said he believed his
mistress was. She went in gently, not to disturb her: but Mrs. St.
John was standing still in the midst of the room in an attitude of
breathless expectation; of what looked like terrified expectation; and
unless the darkness of the evening deceived her, Mrs. Darling had
never seen her face so intensely pale, or with that haggard look upon
it.
"Charlotte!"
"Is it you, mamma? I thought you were ill."
"I was ill; ill for me, who never ail anything. But
this--this---- What's that?"
Mrs. Darling sprang aside. A heap of something covered over on the
sofa had startled her. Surely her nerves were unstrung tonight!
"It's Georgy," answered Mrs. St. John. "He has been ill since
yesterday. Hush! don't wake him."
She took off her cloak and untied her bonnet, and sat down by the fire
near her daughter. Mrs. St. John did not speak.
"Charlotte, I have been dreadfully shocked. You should not have
allowed me to hear of this by accident. How did it happen?"
"You must ask Honour that."
"Was no one with him? Could no one hear his cries?"
"It seems not."
"Will you not give me the details, Charlotte?"
"I only know them from hearsay."
"But you--were--in the house at the time?"
"I was in the dining-room."
Mrs. St. John was evidently not inclined to be communicative. She sat
looking at the fire, and Mrs. Darling stole surreptitious glances at
her face, as she had recently done at Mr. Pym's; not that the face was
very discernible in the increasing gloom of the November evening.
"Do give me the particulars, Charlotte!"
"I can't, I tell you, mamma. I only know them myself from hearsay. I
was shut up in the dining-room with Georgy, and knew nothing until
startled by Honour's cries."
"You were shut up in the dining-room!"
"Just as you found me shut up in this room now. Georgy was asleep, and
I had his feet on my lap. I wish you wouldn't ask me about it. It is
not a pleasant thing to talk of. I am sorry now for having beaten
him."
"You beat him?--Benja?"
"He was naughty after dinner. He had a new watch, and would not lend
it to Georgy, and they got quarrelling. He beat Georgy, and I beat
_him_. I am sorry for it now."
"But it was not then that he was burnt!" exclaimed Mrs. Darling,
scarcely understanding.
"No. Honour took him away, and I stayed in the dining room with
Georgy."
"Did the accident happen immediately?"
"Not for a long while. Two hours, perhaps, I don't know how long
exactly. I had been to sleep. It was daylight when he went away, and
it was dark when we heard the screams."
"And you, my poor child, had never moved from the dining-room!"
"Don't I say so, mamma!" came the answer, a shade of peevishness at
being questioned in the otherwise impassive tone. "I had kept Georgy
with me."
Mrs. Darling drew a long sigh: it seemed like a relief from some
nightmare. "How came Honour to leave him with a lighted candle?" she
exclaimed in anger.
"Mamma, I _wish_ you would not ask me these things! I don't care to
talk of them."
For some minutes there was silence, but Mrs. Darling was an impulsive
woman, and it was almost impossible for her to think of any fresh
point without breaking out with a question. She did so now; suddenly,
abruptly.
"Is it true that the doors were fastened?"
"Who told you they were?" exclaimed Mrs. St. John.
"Mr. Pym. I saw him as I came up here."
"Mr. Pym told you the doors were fastened?" repeated Mrs. St. John,
fixing her strange eyes upon her mother.
"Yes. At least---- What he said was, that Honour asserts they were
fastened."
"Ay, _that's_ true. But no one believes her. Mr. Pym does not believe
her; he told her she must be careful what she said. Prance thinks
Honour was so flurried at the time, that her recollection is not
clear."
Again there was a pause. Mrs. St. John sat as before, gazing at
the fire, her haggard face--yes, it certainly was unnaturally
haggard--bent on her hand. Mrs. Darling seemed buried in perplexity,
and her fingers unconsciously smoothed down her bonnet-strings. Georgy
stirred in his sleep, and they both looked at the sofa; but he did not
awake, and both were silent for a moment.
"Is the inquest over, do you know?" asked Mrs. St. John.
"It was not when I came past. Charlotte, have you written to Castle
Wafer?"
"I have not written to any one. Surely there's time enough!"
"My dear, I did not mean to anger you. I---- What's this? They must be
coming back from the inquest!"
The noise of many steps outside had called forth the interruption.
Mrs. St. John rose from her seat and stood in the middle of the room,
facing the door; waiting defiantly, as it seemed, to confront any who
might enter. It was just the same position, the same look that had
surprised Mrs. Darling when she arrived. The butler came in.
"The verdict is 'Accidental Death,'" he said. "Appended to which was a
severe censure on Honour Tritton for leaving the child alone with so
dangerous a toy. And ma'am," he emphatically added to his mistress,
"she deserves it: and she seems to think so."
The mistress of Alnwick sat down again. Mrs. Darling caught up her
cloak and went out of the room, her curiosity on the rack for the sad
details withheld by her daughter.
Honour did seem to think she deserved the censure, as the butler had
observed. Fully, fully had her repentant heart echoed the condemnation
of the jury. A never-dying remorse had taken up its abode within her.
Mrs. Darling came upon her on the staircase. The girl's face looked
flushed, her eyes glistening; and there was a wildness in their
expression that spoke of incipient fever, had any been at leisure to
note the signs, or been capable of understanding them.
"Oh Honour! what an awful thing this is!" breathed Mrs. Darling.
"It's more than awful," answered Honour. "I suppose I shall get over
it sometime, if I live: I don't know. Perhaps God will be pleased to
take me."
She spoke almost with the unnatural calmness of her mistress. That
alone would have told of something mentally wrong, or becoming so.
"Honour--indeed I don't wish to reproach you, for I'm sure your pain
must be too great to need it; but I must speak--_how_ could you leave
the child alone with that lighted candle?"
"Will you see him?--what's left of him?" was the rejoinder. And
without waiting for reply, Honour went into the nursery. Something was
resting there on trestles with a sheet thrown over it. Whether it was
a coffin, whether it was not, Mrs. Darling did not stay to inquire.
She arrested Honour's hand.
"No," she said. "I don't know that I could bear the sight."
Honour dropped the corner of the sheet again. "Well," she said, "he is
there; my darling treasure that was dearer to me than anything in
life. They were beating him black and blue in the dining-room, and I
brought him out, and I finished the paper toy to soothe and comfort
his poor little sobbing heart, and I did leave him alone with it, the
candle lighted inside it. If I ever forget my folly, or cease to mourn
for it in repentance, I hope God will forget me. But, I am not the
sole author of his death; Mrs. Darling, I am _not_. Those who came and
fastened the doors upon him, and so let him burn, are more guilty of
it than me."
"Hush, Honour! You were mistaken. The doors could not have been so
fastened."
Honour laid her hand upon the sheet again, touching what was beneath
it.
"Mrs. Darling, don't _you_ be deceived. Some do not believe what I
say, and some are wishing to hush the matter up. I swear that it was
as I assert: I swear it by _this_, all that's left of him. They say
Benja must have buttoned the one door himself; let it go so: I don't
think he did, but let it go so: but he could not have bolted the other
on the outside. They are hushing the matter up; and I must do the
same: I am only one against many."
"Who is hushing it up?" asked Mrs. Darling, from between her white
lips.
"Mr. Pym, for one. I say nothing about others, I am only one amongst
them. From this time I shall drop the matter, and speak of it no more:
but I should like you to remember what I say, and to believe me. It is
the truth. Heaven knows it is. The doors were fastened upon him, and
he was left there--in a living tomb--to burn to death. When the facts
come to light, as they will sometime, if there's justice in the world,
we shall learn the truth. At present I don't pretend to understand
it."
Mrs. Darling felt frightened at the girl's words, at her resolute
manner (her impassiveness had now changed to passion), at her hectic
cheeks and wild eyes--all the symptoms of threatening fever or
insanity. She quitted the room, retaining a last glimpse of Honour's
throwing herself beside the trestles in a burst of anguish, and sought
Prance. Scarcely able to speak from an agitation which she vainly
endeavoured to suppress, Mrs. Darling commanded Prance to furnish her
with the particulars, to the minutest detail.
Prance obeyed without the slightest hesitation, her account differing
in no wise from the one she had just given to the coroner and jury.
Mrs. Darling questioned her as to the alleged fastening of the doors:
Prance maintained that the one door, at any rate, had been fastened in
Honour's fancy only. It was possible, nay probable, that the poor
little boy had himself fastened the one; but as to the other, nothing
but Honour's haste (as she, Prance, believed) had prevented her
opening it. "The fact is," concluded Prance, "Honour was half
paralyzed with fear at the time, through smelling the burning; and she
has been as one mad ever since."
"And your mistress was shut up, I hear, in the dining-room all the
time with little George."
"Oh yes," said Prance, "and the servants were shut up downstairs.
Nobody could have gone near the room. If that door was fastened, why,
the bolt must have slipped as well as the latch when the child closed
it," added Prance. "The coroner and jury thought so."
Mrs. Darling sighed in very perplexity. She could not get over
Honour's positive and solemn assertion; but it seemed equally
impossible to believe any one had been near the door to bolt it. This
last suggestion, that the bolt had slipped, was a welcome one, and
Mrs. Darling would have given half her remaining lifetime to have been
able fully to believe in it.
There went forth another announcement in the local papers, Mrs.
Darling wording it.
"Died, on St. Martin's Eve, at Alnwick Hall, on his fifth birthday,
Benjamin Carleton St. John, eldest son and heir of the late George
Carleton St. John, Esquire."