When Ruth Averill awoke next morning she found that the overwhelming
sense of sick horror which had weighed her down on the previous
evening had lightened. She had been worn out in body from the shock
and the nervous strain, but sleep had restored her physical
well-being, and her mind reacted to her body. She was young, she was
in perfect health, and—she was in love.
While her feelings of compassion for the trio who had lost their lives
in so terrible a way were in no whit lessened, she would have been
less than human had she not begun to look upon the tragedy as it
affected herself. And here at once was something exciting and a little
terrifying. What would happen to her now? She had hated her life at
Starvel; would the life that lay before her be better or worse?
Scarcely worse, she thought; any change must surely be for the better.
She had intended while at York to make some inquiries about earning
her own living so that she might leave Starvel. Now this was no longer
a matter of choice; in some way she must learn to support herself.
Vaguely she wondered if any of her uncle’s money would come to her.
But she dismissed the idea as too good to be true. Perhaps with luck
there might be enough to keep her until she could train for some post,
but even about this she could not be certain. However, Mr. Oxley was
kind and clever. She need not worry overmuch. He would advise her.
While making up her mind to rise and face what the day might bring
forth, Ruth was greatly comforted by a visit from Mrs. Oxley. That
lady presently knocked to inquire if her charge were awake, and she
was so kind and understanding and kissed her in such a motherly way
that Ruth felt a glow of warmth in her heart. Mrs. Oxley brought with
her a tiny tray with the daintiest little tea service and the thinnest
of bread and butter, and while Ruth enjoyed this unheard-of luxury the
elder woman sat on the bed and proceeded to feed the girl’s mind with
healing news. She mentioned, casually and yet with such a wealth of
detail, that Mr. Whymper had called on the previous evening to inquire
for Miss Averill. With really praiseworthy ingenuity she spun out the
subject for nearly ten minutes, then she went on to tell something of
almost—though of course not quite—equal importance. Mr. Oxley had
wished her to say, in the strictest confidence—no one at this stage
was supposed to know anything about it—but in order to relieve Ruth’s
mind, he thought he might tell her—that she was not to worry as to her
future. He had drawn up old Mr. Averill’s will and there would be some
money. Mr. Oxley had not said how much, but Mrs. Oxley was sure there
would be enough. At all events Ruth was not to worry. And now,
breakfast would be ready in half an hour and there was plenty of hot
water in the bathroom.
During the morning Ruth went down into the little town and engaged in
the melancholy business of buying mourning. Mr. Oxley had lent her
twenty pounds, explaining that she could repay him when she got her
own money. This prospect of money coming to her made Ruth feel excited
and important, and she could not refrain from daydreaming about all
the wonderful things she would do when she received it. It was well
for her indeed that she had something so absorbing to take her mind
off the ghastliness of the tragedy which surrounded her. In fact, if
only Pierce Whymper had come to see her again, she would have been
really happy. But, as she afterwards learned, the young architect was
out of town on business all that morning.
During Sergeant Kent’s call on the evening after the tragedy he had
warned Ruth that she would be required to give evidence at the
inquest. Now he came round to say that this was to be held in the
courthouse at three o’clock that afternoon, and that she must be sure
to be there in good time. The girl was naturally nervous at the
prospect of giving evidence, which she had always heard was a terrible
ordeal. But Mrs. Oxley reassured her in her kindly way, explaining
that she had nothing to do but answer the questions she was asked, and
promising that Mr. Oxley would see that nothing untoward befell her.
Shortly before the hour, therefore, the little party approached the
courthouse. The building was already crowded, but Mr. Oxley’s position
as the leading solicitor of the town and Ruth’s as one of the most
important witnesses procured them an immediate entrance and places on
the seats usually reserved for counsel. As Ruth looked round the small
old-fashioned building she saw many familiar faces. There, surrounded
by policemen and looking weighed down with importance and
responsibility, was Sergeant Kent. He was moving restlessly about,
whispering to various persons and consulting at times a sheaf of
papers he held in his hand. Some of the policemen she recognised also.
There was the young smiling one with the light blue eyes whom she had
met so many times when shopping in the town, and his companion with
the long drooping nose and the hollow cheeks. In the seat behind was
Mr. Snelgrove, the butcher, and Mr. Pullar, of the shoe shop. That
tall very thin man with the little moustache and the bald head was Mr.
Tarkington, the bank manager, and the slight, medium-sized man beside
him was Mr. Bloxham, the clerk whom he used to send out to Starvel
with Mr. Averill’s money. The venerable-looking old gentleman with the
short white beard who was just pushing to the front was Dr. Emerson.
And there—how could she have failed to see him before?—there, at the
back of the court, was Pierce Whymper. He looked anxious and troubled,
and though when she caught his eye and smiled, he smiled back, there
was a something of embarrassment or reserve in his manner that seemed
to her strange and disquieting. And just beside him—but a sudden
shuffle took place about her, and looking in front of her, she saw
that a stout thick-set man with a square face and a walrus moustache
had entered from some invisible side door and was taking his seat in
the judge’s chair.
“Dr. Lonsdale, the coroner,” Mr. Oxley whispered, and Ruth nodded. She
was surprised to find that the affair began so tamely. She had
expected an elaborate and picturesque ritual, but nothing of the kind
took place. The coroner opened his bag, and taking out some papers,
began to turn them over. Other persons sitting round the table before
her also took out papers and shuffled them, while Sergeant Kent,
turning round, shouted out “Robert Judd!” so suddenly and loudly that
Ruth jumped. Some one at the back of the court answered “Here!” and
was promptly ordered to come forward and enter the jury box. Other
names were called—to some of which there was no reply—until all the
places in the box were occupied. Then all stood up and stared vacantly
at Kent while he murmured something about “justly try and true
deliverance make,” after which every one sat down again.
“Have the jury viewed the remains?” asked the coroner, and Kent,
answering, “They’re going to do it now, sir,” shepherded his charges
out of the box and away through a door just behind it. Every one began
conversing in low tones except the coroner, who kept on steadily
writing. Presently the jury trooped in again and the proceedings began
in real earnest.
“Call Peter Spence!” Sergeant Kent shouted.
“Peter Spence!” repeated two or three policemen, and a stout redfaced
man pushed to the front, and entering the witness box, was sworn.
Spence told his story in great detail. In answer to the sergeant’s
questions he explained that he drove a breadcart belonging to Messrs.
Hinkston of Thirsby, and that for over twelve years he had, three
times a week, delivered bread at Starvel. He remembered the day before
yesterday. On that day, about eleven in the morning when he was
approaching Starvel to deliver bread, he had observed a cloud of smoke
in the sky. On crossing the lip of the Hollow he happened to look down
at the house. He was amazed to notice that the roof, which formerly
showed up above the surrounding trees, had totally disappeared. He
drove on quickly to the place, and then he saw that the house had been
burnt down. Only the walls were standing. There was no one about. He
hurried into Thirsby, and reported the matter to Sergeant Kent.
Simple as these facts were, their recital was a lengthy business.
After each question a pause ensued while the coroner wrote a précis of
the man’s reply. Finally Dr. Lonsdale, after vainly inviting the jury
to ask the witness any questions, read over what he had written. Peter
Spence, having agreed that it was a correct transcript of his
evidence, was asked to sign the document, and then allowed to step
down.
The next witness was a lugubrious looking man in gray tweeds. He
deposed that his name was Abel Hesketh, and that he was Town Officer
of Thirsby. He also acted as chief of the fire brigade. On the
Thursday in question he received a telephone message from Sergeant
Kent, informing him that Starvel had been burnt down. He inquired if
he should get the brigade out, but the sergeant answered that it would
be of no use, the damage being already done. Sergeant Kent asked him
to go with him to see the place. He did so, and he would describe what
he saw. The entire buildings at Starvel were gutted except a detached
outhouse at the opposite side of the yard. He had never seen such
complete destruction. Nothing that could be burnt was left. Between
the walls the débris was still a red-hot glowing mass. In answer to
the coroner, he thought it quite impossible to say either where or how
the fire had originated. There was no wind that night and the
outbreak, once started, would creep through the entire building.
Hesketh went on to say that the very heavy rain which fell on the
following night had cooled down the red-hot interior, enabling his men
to search the ruins. They had come on the charred remains of three
human beings. Yes, he could say just where the remains were found. The
house was in the shape of the inverted letter “┓” with the shorter
wing pointing to the west and the longer to the south. At the
extremity of the shorter wing—in the north-western corner—were two
bodies. The third body was about ten feet from the end of the southern
wing. All the bodies were unrecognisable, but he assumed they were
those of the three inmates of the house.
After the bodies had been removed he continued his investigations, but
he found nothing of interest except a safe, which was in the southern
wing, not far from the single body. It was locked, and he had set it
up on a pile of débris so that the expert that he understood Sergeant
Kent was getting to open it should be able more conveniently to carry
out the work.
Sergeant Kent corroborated the evidence of the last two witnesses in
so far as their testimony concerned himself, and added that an expert
from Hellifield had that morning opened the safe. In it he had found
£1952 in sovereigns and a mass of burnt papers.
“It seems to me an extraordinary thing,” the coroner remarked when he
had noted these details, “that a fire of such magnitude could take
place without being seen. I quite understand that the Hollow is deep
enough to hide the actual flames, but there must have been a
tremendous glare reflected from the sky which would have been visible
for miles round. How do you account for that, sergeant, or can you
account for it?”
“As a matter of fact, sir, it was noticed by at least three people,
and I have one of them here in case you would like to call him. But I
agree with you, sir, that it is very strange that it was not more
generally observed. All I can suggest is that it was a clear night
with a quarter moon, and there wouldn’t, therefore, be such a glare as
if it had been quite dark or if there had been clouds to reflect the
glow. Then, as you know, sir, this is a quiet district, and it would
be only by chance that any one would be awake or looking out at the
time.”
“Who were the three who saw it?”
“First, sir, there was James Stokes, a tramp. He was sleeping in one
of Mr. Herbert Reid’s outhouses at Low Tolworth, about a mile and a
half to the west across the moor. He said nothing about it at the time
because he thought it wasn’t his business and he didn’t want his
whereabouts inquired into. But he mentioned it in Thirsby in the
morning and it came to my ears, though not before the baker had
reported. I have Stokes here, if you wish to call him. Then, sir, it
was seen by Mrs. Eliza Steele, a labourer’s wife living just outside
the town on the Hellifield Road. Her husband was ill and she was
sitting up attending to him. She did nothing about it because she was
busy with her husband and the glare looked far away. She said she
thought those nearer it would do all that was possible. The third
party, or rather parties, were the two Miss Lockes, elderly ladies who
live alone about a mile on the road to Cold Pickerby. Miss Julia saw
the glare and awoke her sister Miss Elmina, but they thought the same
as Mrs. Steele, that they were not called on to do anything, as they
would only get to the town to find that everyone knew about it and
that the brigade had gone out.”
“I can understand that attitude,” the coroner admitted. “It is a pity,
however, that no one noticed it in time to give a warning, though
indeed it is doubtful whether a warning would have been of any use. I
will hear the man Stokes.”
But the tramp had little to say, and nothing which threw any light on
the subject of the inquiry. He had seen a glow through the door of the
outhouse and had looked out. From the direction of Starvel great
masses of smoke were belching up, with a bright flickering glare and
occasional jets of fire. The night was calm and even at the distance
of a mile and a half he could hear the roaring and crackling of the
flames. That was about four in the morning.
Ruth’s feelings were harrowed by these recitals, which seemed to bring
home the tragedy to her in all its grim starkness. But she had not
time to dwell on the terrible pictures, as after the tramp had signed
his deposition and stepped down from the box, her own name was called.
With her heart beating rapidly she left her seat and entered the
little pulpit-like enclosure. There she stood while the sergeant
repeated a phrase about truth, and then, having given her name, she
was told to sit down. The coroner bent towards her.
“I am sorry, Miss Averill,” he said kindly, “to have to ask you to
attend and give evidence in this tragic inquiry, but I promise you I
shall not keep you longer than I can help. Now, sergeant.”
In spite of this reassuring beginning, Ruth soon began to think
Sergeant Kent’s questions would never cease.
Half the things he asked seemed to have no connection whatever with
the tragedy. She stated that she was the late Simon Averill’s niece,
the daughter of his brother Theodore, that she was aged twenty, and
that she had come to Starvel when she was four. She told of her
schooldays in Leeds, saying that it was now over a year since she had
returned to Starvel and that she had lived there ever since.
Her uncle had recently been in very poor health. She thought his heart
was affected. At all events, to save climbing the stairs he had had a
room on the first floor fitted up as a bed-sitting room. For the last
year he had not been downstairs and some days he did not get up.
Recently he had been particularly feeble, and she told of his
condition when she saw him two mornings before the tragedy. Then she
described her visit to York, mentioning Mrs. Palmer-Gore’s invitation
and the episode of the ten pounds.
There seemed no end to Sergeant Kent’s inquisition. He switched over
next to the subject of the house and elicited the facts that her
uncle’s and the Ropers’ beds were situated in the extremities of the
southern and western wings respectively.
“You heard the last witness describe where the bodies were found,” he
went on. “Would I be correct in saying that if Mr. Averill and the
Ropers had been in bed when the fire took place their bodies would
have been found in just those positions?”
Ruth assented, and then the sergeant asked how the house was lighted.
There was oil, Ruth told him, oil for the lamps other than Mr.
Averill’s and for the cooker which was used sometimes instead of the
range. There was also petrol. Her uncle’s sight was bad and he used a
petrol lamp. The oil and petrol were kept in a cellar. This cellar was
under the main building, and if a fire were to start there, in her
opinion the whole house would become involved. The lamps were attended
to by Roper, who had always been most careful in handling them.
“Now, Miss Averill,” the sergeant became more impressive than ever, “I
think you said that during the last fourteen months, when you were
living at Starvel, Roper and his wife were in charge of the house?”
“Yes, they were there when I came back from school.”
“Now, tell me, during all that time have you ever known either of them
the worse for drink?”
“Oh, no,” Ruth answered, surprised at the question. “No, never.”
“You have never even noticed the smell of drink from either of them?”
the sergeant persisted.
“No.” Ruth hesitated. “At least—that is—”
“Yes?” went on the sergeant encouragingly.
“Once or twice Roper has smelt of whisky, but he was never the least
bit the worse of it.”
“But you have smelt it. Was that recently?”
“Yes, but Roper explained about it. He said he felt a cold coming on
and had taken some whisky in the hope of getting rid of it.”
“Quite so. And how long ago was that?”
“A couple of times within the last fortnight, perhaps once or twice
before that.” But to Ruth her answer did not seem quite fair, and she
added: “But he was as sober as you and I are. I never saw him the
least bit drunk.”
“I follow you,” the sergeant answered, and began to ask questions
about Mrs. Roper. Here Ruth could truthfully say that she had never
even smelled drink, and she insisted on giving each of the deceased an
excellent character.
The sergeant next attempted to draw from her an opinion as to how the
fire might have originated. Did Mr. Averill read late in bed? Might he
have knocked over his petrol lamp? Could he have fallen in the fire?
Did he take a nightcap of whisky? And so forth. But Ruth had no ideas
on the subject. Any accident might have happened, of course, but she
didn’t think any that he had suggested were likely. As to her uncle
taking drink, he was a strict teetotaller.
This ended Ruth’s examination. None of the jurors wished to ask her
any questions, and after her evidence had been read over to her and
she had signed it, she was allowed to return to her seat with the
Oxleys.
Dr. Emerson was the next witness. He deposed that he had examined the
remains disinterred from the débris. It was, of course, quite
impossible to identify them, but so far as he could form an opinion of
the body found in the southern wing it was that of an elderly, tall,
slightly built man and the others were those of a man and a woman of
medium height and middle age. These would correspond to Mr. Averill
and the Ropers respectively, and so far as he was concerned he had no
doubt whatever that the bodies in question were theirs.
Questioned as to the conditions obtaining at Starvel before the fire,
Dr. Emerson said that for the last four years he had not attended Mr.
Averill. At his advancing age he found it too much to visit outlying
patients, and Dr. Philpot had taken over almost all of them.
“Is Dr. Philpot here?” the coroner asked.
“Dr. Philpot is suffering from influenza at present,” Dr. Emerson
returned, though it was to Sergeant Kent that the question had been
addressed. “I saw him this morning. He wished to attend, but I
persuaded him not to run the risk. It would have been most unwise. He
had a temperature of over 101.”
“I’m sorry to hear he is laid up. But I don’t suppose he could have
helped us. I should have liked to ask him about Mr. Averill’s
condition and so forth, but it doesn’t really matter.”
“Well,” Dr. Emerson returned, “I can tell you a little about that, if
I should be in order in mentioning it. I attended him for some eight
years, during the last two of which he aged very considerably, growing
slowly and steadily weaker. Without going into details I may say that
he had an incurable complaint which must eventually have killed him.
Four years ago he was already feeble, and since then he can only have
become gradually worse.”
“Thank you, Dr. Emerson, that was what I wanted to know. Would you say
that his condition rendered him liable to sudden weakness during which
he might have dropped his lamp or had some similar accident?”
“I should say so decidedly.”
A Miss Judith Carr was next called. She proved to be a rather
loudly-dressed young woman whom Ruth had not seen before. She was
pretty in a coarse way, and entered the witness-box and took her seat
with evident self-confidence.
Her name, she admitted heartily, was Judith Carr, and she was barmaid
at the Thirsdale Arms, the largest hotel in Thirsby. She knew Mr.
Roper, the attendant at Starvel. He occasionally called for a drink,
usually taking one or at most two small whiskies. She remembered the
evening of the fire. That evening about seven o’clock Mr. Roper had
come into the bar. He seemed to have had some drink, but was not
drunk. He asked for a small Scotch, and believing he was sober enough
she had given it to him. He had taken it quickly and gone out.
The last witness was a young man with bright red hair who answered to
the name of George Mellowes. He was, he said, a farmer living at
Ivybridge, a hamlet lying some miles beyond Starvel. On the day before
the tragedy he had been over in Thirsby on business, and he had left
the town in his gig shortly after seven to drive home. He had not
passed beyond the lights of the town when he had overtaken Mr. Roper,
whom he knew. Roper was staggering, and it was not difficult to see
that he was drunk. The deceased was by no means incapable, but he had
undoubtedly taken too much. Mellowes had stopped and offered him a
lift, and Roper had thanked him and with some difficulty had climbed
into the gig. He had talked in a maudlin way during the drive.
Mellowes had gone a little out of his way and had set the other down
at the gate of Starvel. Roper had opened the gate without difficulty,
and had set off towards the house, walking fairly straight. Mellowes
had then driven home. That was close on to eight, and there was no
sign of a fire.
When Mellowes had signed his deposition and returned to his seat, the
coroner made a little speech to the jury. He said that every one must
feel appalled at the terrible tragedy which had happened so near to
them all. The police had been unable to find relatives of any of the
deceased other than Miss Averill, who had given evidence that day, and
he took that opportunity of conveying to her their respectful sympathy
in her loss. He would remind the jury that their duty on this occasion
was threefold: first, to state the identity of the deceased if they
were reasonably convinced by the evidence on this point; second, to
find the cause of death in each case, and third, to state whether, in
their opinion, blame attached to any person or persons, and if so, to
whom. He did not think their task would be difficult. On neither of
the first two points was there any doubt. He had only one observation
to make with regard to the third point—the fixing of responsibility
for the catastrophe. It had been shown that the manservant, John
Roper, had been to some extent under the influence of drink on the
evening in question. The suggestion, of course, was that some careless
act of Roper’s might have caused the fire. Now, while he approved the
action of the police in bringing out this matter—they could not have
done anything else—he must point out to the jury that there was no
evidence that Mr. Roper’s condition had had anything to do with the
fire. If anything, the evidence tended in the opposite direction. The
position of the remains suggested that the three unfortunate people
had been burnt in their beds, and if this was so it seemed to involve
the presumption that they had been suffocated by the smoke while
asleep. If the jury accepted this view they would see that it ruled
out the possibility of any accident with lamps, or by falling in the
fire or by igniting petrol or paraffin oil. The argument was, of
course, not conclusive, but he thought it tended as he had said. In
any case he should be sorry that a slur should be cast on the memory
of Mr. Roper, to whose zeal and efficiency different witnesses had
testified, unless that slur were really deserved. It was, of course,
for the jury to decide, but he suggested that they might find that
Simon Ralph Averill, John Roper and Flora Roper had lost their lives
in a fire at Starvel on the night of the fifteenth of September, the
cause of which there was no evidence to show.
Without leaving the box the jury found as the coroner directed, the
verdict was entered on the records and signed, and the inquest was
over.