AN OPEN VERDICT
Next day the body of the unfortunate man was removed to the Dukesfield
morgue, and twenty-four hours later the coroner held an inquiry
in the coffee-room of the Lancaster Hotel. Public interest was greatly
roused over the matter, and the ubiquitous reporters of the great
"dailies"--amongst them Harry Cass--attended, note-book in hand, to
supply their readers with sensational details. A rumour--first set
afloat by the babbling tongue of Mrs. Basket--was prevalent that Mrs.
Moxton had killed her husband with a carving-knife. It was known from
the same source that she had lived a lonely life since taking up her
abode in Myrtle Villa, that Moxton had neglected her shamefully, that
he had left her nightly by herself, and had even denied her the
comfort and company of a servant. Hence it was openly declared that
cruel treatment and contemptuous desertion had driven Mrs. Moxton to
commit the crime. But this theory found no favour in the sight of Dr.
Ellis, and he avowed himself the champion of the pretty widow.
"If she were guilty she would not have announced the crime as she
did," he argued with Cass. "It would have been easy for her to let the
corpse lie on the path all night, and pretend ignorance when it was
discovered by the milkman. Also, if she struck the blow she had a
whole night at her disposal to vanish into the unknown."
"Flight would have proved her guilt, Bob. Besides, she would have been
tracked down on that tacit confession of her crime."
"I don't agree with you. Nothing is known of the Moxtons, as they kept
very much to themselves. Hardly anyone saw her or knew her by sight.
She could have disappeared like a drop of water into the ocean of
London, without leaving a trace for the most cunning detective to
follow. Instead of doing this--her wisest plan if she killed her
husband--she stays and faces the matter out in all innocence."
Cass produced a newspaper from his pocket. "I can suggest a theory for
her remaining. Here"--he pointed to a paragraph in the death
column--"three days ago, Edgar Allan Moxton, the great picture-dealer
of Bond Street, died, leaving a large fortune behind him. Now this
dead man, as I judge from the similarity of Christian and surname, is
probably the son of Moxton. If so, he, had he lived, would, no doubt,
inherit the money. As he is dead, Mrs. Moxton, the widow, may do so. A
fortune is worth running some risk for, Bob."
But the faith of Ellis was not to be shaken.
"The similarity of names may be a mere coincidence, such as occurs
more frequently in real life than in fiction. Also, even if you can
prove the relationship, it does not show that Mrs. Moxton is waiting
for the fortune, or that she is even aware of the death. Give her the
benefit of the doubt, Harry."
"I give her much more than the jury will do, Ellis. Public opinion is
against her."
"Bah! what do the tinker and tailor and candlestick maker know of the
matter?"
"They may not know much now, but they will soon be primed with
sufficient evidence to give a verdict. The jury is chosen from the
class you mention so contemptuously."
Dr. Ellis knew this very well, and knew, moreover, that rumour spoke
ill of the widow. Therefore, it was with some doubt whether she would
have a fair hearing that he attended the inquest. By the time he
arrived the hotel was so crowded that the people overflowed into the
road. The young man pushed his way into the public room and found that
the proceedings had already commenced. He glanced round for Mrs.
Moxton, and saw her seated near the coroner, clothed in black, closely
veiled, and listening attentively to Drake's evidence.
The inspector's testimony was brief and meagre, for the police had, as
yet, discovered nothing. He described the finding of the body, the
futile search for the weapon with which the murder had been committed,
and the failure of his attempt to learn where the deceased had so
regularly spent his nights. Nevertheless, the identity of the
dead man had been established, for he was the son of a Bond Street
picture-dealer, Edgar Allan Moxton. Strange to say, father and son had
died within a few hours of one another, the former in the morning from
natural causes, the latter shortly before midnight by violence.
Finally, Drake stated that hitherto the police had found no clue
likely to lead to the identification and capture of the murderer.
"Which shows that the police don't suspect Mrs. Moxton," murmured
Ellis to Cass.
The doctor himself was the next witness, and deposed as to his summons
by Mrs. Moxton, and his examination of the corpse. Deceased had died
from the stab of a broad-bladed knife which had pierced the left lung.
The blow must have been struck by a strong arm, he averred, since the
blade had penetrated through an overcoat, inside coat, waistcoat and
shirt.
"Could a woman have struck such a blow?" asked one of the jury.
"An exceptionally strong woman might have done so," responded Ellis.
All eyes were turned on the trim, slight figure of Mrs. Moxton, and
there was a general feeling that the doctor's answer exonerated her
from having personally committed the murder. She was of too frail and
delicate a physique to have struck home the knife with so sure and
deadly an aim. Yet she might have put the weapon into another's hand,
for it seemed incredible that she should be ignorant of the tragedy
which took place within a few yards of her. When Mrs. Moxton's name
was called out, and she stood up to give evidence, those present drew
a long breath and waited eagerly for her to speak. Hitherto public
curiosity had been languid; now the appearance of the principal
witness stimulated it to fever heat. From the dead man's widow, if
from anyone, the truth of this strange tragedy should come.
Mrs. Moxton threw back her veil when she took the oath, and revealed a
pretty face, somewhat marred by sleeplessness and weeping. She was
colourless, red-eyed and low-voiced, but gathering courage as she
proceeded, told her tale with great simplicity and apparent truth. The
evidence she gave may be condensed as follows:--
"My name is Laura Moxton. I married my husband, Edgar, twelve months
ago. He was the son of Mr. Moxton, of Bond Street, and the heir to
great wealth. When he met me I was earning my living by typewriting,
and although I refused twice to marry him he insisted that I should do
so. At last I yielded and became his wife, whereupon his father cut
him off with a shilling. Edgar had some money inherited from his
mother, and with this we went to Monte Carlo, where he tried to
increase his fortune by gambling. However, he was unlucky, and we
returned to London in eight months poorer than when we left. For the
sake of economy my husband took Myrtle Villa, as he obtained it at a
low rental on account of the unfinished state of the road. For the
same reason we dispensed with a servant and hired the furniture. I did
all the housework, and for want of money rarely went outside the
house. My husband was unkind and neglectful, and accused me of being
the cause of the quarrel with his father which had cost him his
inheritance. It is now three months since we took Myrtle Villa. My
husband, for the first week, remained indoors at night; afterwards he
went out regularly. I did not know what he did with himself, or where
he went, as he always refused to tell me, and his temper became so
morose that I was afraid to insist upon his confidence. He always
dressed himself carefully in evening dress, and usually wore a light
overcoat. As a rule, he returned shortly after midnight. Sometimes I
waited up for him, at other times I went to bed. I was often afraid
during the long evenings in the house, as it was so lonely and so near
the waste lands where the brickworks stand. On the night of the murder
my husband went out as usual. It was August 16th. I waited for his
return and shut myself up in the bedroom at the back of the house.
About eleven I grew tired of waiting and prepared to go to bed. I know
it was eleven as I wound up my watch at that hour. I was brushing my
hair when I thought I heard a cry, but as the wind was blowing
strongly I fancied I was mistaken. Still, the belief was so strong
that, after doing up my hair, I took the candle and went to the door.
The light showed me someone lying on the path, halfway to the gate I
also heard a moan. At once I ran down, shading the candle light in the
hollow of my hand. For the moment there was a lull in the wind, and
the light burnt long enough to show me that my husband was lying
wounded on the path. Then the wind extinguished the light. I took my
husband in my arms. He moaned feebly, but could not speak. Then he
gave a gasp and died. I was dreadfully afraid, and without waiting to
get my hat or cloak, I ran for Dr. Ellis. I saw no one; I heard no
one; and I do not know who killed my husband."
"In what position was he lying when you came upon him?"
"On his back. As the light of my candle fell for a moment on his face,
I recognised him at once."
"How did you know he was wounded, seeing that the wound was in his
back?"
"I saw blood on his shirt-front and coat. Also, his face was so white
and he moaned so much that I guessed he was hurt. When I took him in
my arms I felt on my fingers the blood flowing from his back."
"Had your husband enemies?"
"I do not know. He introduced me to no one he knew. I lived a lonely
life. All the time I was at Myrtle Villa I saw no one but my husband."
"Did you know any of his friends abroad?"
"No. He introduced me to no one."
"Did he ever speak of anyone as having a grudge against him?"
"No. He spoke of himself and his father, but of no one else."
"Did he know that his father was dead when he left the house on August
16th?"
"Not to my knowledge. He said nothing to me. Until I heard Mr. Drake's
evidence I did not know myself that Mr. Moxton, senior, was dead."
"Did your husband receive any letter on the day of his death?"
"No. He never received letters, nor did he take in a newspaper. We
lived quite isolated from the world. I did not like my position, but I
feared to complain, on account of my husband's temper."
"Was your husband's temper such as would provoke enmity?"
"I think so: he had a very bad temper."
"Did he drink much?"
"Yes, he drank a great deal of brandy, and was very morose when
intoxicated. When I saw him like that, I used to shut myself in the
back bedroom."
"Did your husband treat you cruelly?"
"He neglected me and spoke harshly to me, but he never struck me."
"What were your feelings towards him?"
"I loved him when we married, for then he was kind and good.
Afterwards I had no feeling towards him save one of terror."
"On one occasion it is reported that you came to meet a telegraph boy
with a carving-knife. Is that true?"
"Perfectly true. But I did not know who was at the door. It was
growing dark, and the house was very lonely. I took the knife in case
it might be a tramp."
"Did you usually carry the knife to protect yourself?"
"Oh, no! On that occasion I was in the kitchen, and snatched it from
the table when the knock came to the door."
"You never went to the door with it on any other occasion?"
"Certainly not. No one else ever came after dark. The tradespeople
called always in the daytime. Then I was not afraid."
"For whom was the telegram?"
"For my husband. I did not open it, but left it on the table in the
dining-room. He got it when he came home that night."
"Did he tell you what it was about?"
"No. He never mentioned the subject."
"Do you know anything about the marks in blood on the arm?"
"No. I was shown them by Doctor Ellis, but I do not know what they
mean, or, indeed, what they are."
"Do they not look to you like secret writing? Like a cryptogram?"
"I don't know anything about secret writing. They look like blood
smears to me. I do not understand them."
"Have you any idea why deceased wrote them on his arm?"
"Not the least in the world."
"Did you ever see your husband use a cypher of that kind?"
"Never. I never saw him use a cypher of any sort."
"Did you ever notice marks like them before?"
"No. I know nothing about them."
"Can you throw any light at all on this murder?"
"None whatever. I was amazed to find my husband dying."
"He said no word--no name?"
"He did nothing but moan, and died in a few moments."
This examination, which lasted some considerable time, concluded all
available evidence for the time being. On the meagre intelligence to
be gleaned from it the jury framed their verdict, and stated that the
deceased, Edgar Moxton, had been murdered by some person or persons
unknown.