The Doctor’s Revelations
It was in the evening of the very day on which I took up my duties at
number 61 Mecklenburgh-square that the little blue paper was delivered
summoning me to attend at the inquest on the following day.
Fortunately, Dr. Cornish’s practice was not of a highly strenuous
type, and the time of year tended to a small visiting list, so that I
had no difficulty in making the necessary arrangements. In fact, I
made them so well that I was the first to arrive at the little
building in which the inquiry was to be held and was admitted by the
caretaker to the empty room. A few minutes later, however, the
inspector made his appearance, and while I was exchanging a few words
with him the jury began to straggle in, followed by the reporters, a
few spectators and witnesses, and finally the coroner, who immediately
took his place at the head of the table and prepared to open the
proceedings.
At this moment I observed Miss D’Arblay standing hesitatingly in the
doorway and looking into the room as if reluctant to enter. I at once
rose and went to her, and as I approached she greeted me with a
friendly smile and held out her hand; and I then perceived, lurking
just outside, a tall, black-apparelled woman, whose face I recognized
as that which I had seen at the window.
“This,” said Miss D’Arblay, presenting me, “is my friend, Miss Boler,
of whom I spoke to you. This, Arabella dear, is the gentleman who was
so kind to me on that dreadful day.”
I bowed deferentially, and Miss Boler recognized my existence by a
majestic inclination, remarking that she remembered me. As the coroner
now began his preliminary address to the jury, I hastened to find
three chairs near the table, and, having inducted the ladies into two
of them, took the third myself, next to Miss D’Arblay. The coroner and
the jury now rose and went out to the adjacent mortuary to view the
body, and during their absence I stole an occasional critical glance
at my fair friend.
Marion D’Arblay was, as I have said, a strikingly handsome girl. The
fact seemed now to dawn on me afresh, as a new discovery; for the
harrowing circumstances of our former meeting had so preoccupied me
that I had given little attention to her personality. But now, as I
looked her over anxiously to see how the grievous days had dealt with
her, it was with a sort of surprised admiration that I noted the
beautiful, thoughtful face, the fine features, and the wealth of dark,
gracefully disposed hair. I was relieved, too, to see the change that
a couple of days had wrought. The wild, dazed look was gone. Though
she was pale and heavy-eyed and looked tired and infinitely sad, her
manner was calm, quiet and perfectly self-possessed.
“I am afraid,” said I, “that this is going to be rather a painful
ordeal for you.”
“Yes,” she agreed; “it is all very dreadful. But it is a dreadful
thing in any case to be bereft in a moment of the one whom one loves
best in all the world. The circumstances of the loss cannot make very
much difference. It is the loss itself that matters. The worst moment
was when the blow fell—when we found him. This inquiry and the funeral
are just the drab accompaniments that bring home the reality of what
has happened.”
“Has the inspector called on you?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “He had to, to get the particulars; and he was so
kind and delicate that I am not in the least afraid of the examination
by the coroner. Every one has been kind to me, but none so kind as you
were on that terrible morning.”
I could not see that I had done anything to call for so much
gratitude, and I was about to enter a modest disclaimer when the
coroner and the jury returned, and the inspector approached somewhat
hurriedly.
“It will be necessary,” said he, “for Miss D’Arblay to see the
body—just to identify deceased; a glance will be enough. And, as you
are a witness, Doctor, you had better go with her to the mortuary. I
will show you the way.”
Miss D’Arblay rose without any comment or apparent reluctance, and we
followed the inspector to the adjoining mortuary, where, having
admitted us, he stood outside awaiting us. The body lay on the
slate-topped table, covered with a sheet excepting the face, which was
exposed and was undisfigured by any traces of the examination. I
watched my friend a little nervously as we entered the grim chamber,
fearful that this additional trial might be too much for her
self-control. But she kept command of herself, though she wept quietly
as she stood beside the table looking down on the still, waxen-faced
figure. After standing thus for a few moments, she turned away with a
smothered sob, wiped her eyes, and walked out of the mortuary.
When we re-entered the court-room, we found our chairs moved up to the
table, and the coroner waiting to call the witnesses. As I had
expected, my name was the first on the list, and, on being called, I
took my place by the table near to the coroner and was duly sworn.
“Will you give us your name, occupation, and address?” the coroner
asked.
“My name is Stephen Gray,” I replied. “I am a medical practitioner,
and my temporary address is 61, Mecklenburgh-square, London.”
“When you say ‘your temporary address’ you mean——?”
“I am taking charge of a medical practice at that address. I shall be
there six weeks or more.”
“Then that will be your address for our purposes. Have you viewed the
body that is now lying in the mortuary, and, if so, do you recognize
it?”
“Yes. It is the body which I saw lying in a pond in Church-yard Bottom
Wood on the morning of the 16th instant—last Tuesday.”
“Can you tell us how long deceased had been dead when you first saw
the body?”
“I should say he had been dead nine or ten hours.”
“Will you relate the circumstances under which you discovered the
body?”
I gave a circumstantial account of the manner in which I made the
tragic discovery, to which not only the jury but also the spectators
listened with eager interest. When I had finished my narrative, the
coroner asked: “Did you observe anything which led you, as a medical
man, to form any opinion as to the cause of death?”
“No,” I replied. “I saw no injuries or marks of violence or anything
which was not consistent with death by drowning.”
This concluded my evidence, and when I had resumed my seat, the name
of Marion D’Arblay was called by the coroner, who directed that a
chair should be placed for the witness. When she had taken her seat,
he conveyed to her, briefly, but feelingly, his own and the jury’s
sympathy.
“It has been a terrible experience for you,” he said, “and we are most
sorry to have to trouble you in your great affliction, but you will
understand that it is unavoidable.”
“I quite understand that,” she replied, “and I wish to thank you and
the jury for your kind sympathy.”
She was then sworn, and having given her name and address, proceeded
to answer the questions addressed to her, which elicited a narrative
of the events substantially identical with that which she had given to
the inspector and which I have already recorded.
“You have told us,” said the coroner, “that when Dr. Gray spoke to
you, you were searching among the bushes. Will you tell us what was in
your mind—what you were searching for, and what induced you to make
that search?”
“I was very uneasy about my father,” she replied. “He had not been
home that night, and he had not told me that he intended to stay at
the studio—as he sometimes did when he was working very late. So, in
the morning I went to the studio in Abbey-road to see if he was there;
but the caretaker told me that he had started for home about ten
o’clock. Then I began to fear that something had happened to him, and
as he always came home by the path through the wood, I went there to
see if—if anything had happened to him.”
“Had you in your mind any definite idea as to what might have happened
to him?”
“I thought he might have been taken ill or have fallen down dead. He
once told me that he would probably die quite suddenly. I believe that
he suffered from some affection of the heart, but he did not like
speaking about his health.”
“Are you sure that there was nothing more than this in your mind?”
“There was nothing more. I thought that his heart might have failed
and that he might have wandered, in a half-conscious state, away from
the main path and fallen dead in one of the thickets.”
The coroner pondered this reply for some time. I could not see why,
for it was plain and straightforward enough. At length he said, very
gravely and with what seemed to me unnecessary emphasis:
“I want you to be quite frank and open with us, Miss D’Arblay. Can you
swear that there was no other possibility in your mind than that of
sudden illness?”
She looked at him in surprise, apparently not understanding the drift
of the question. As to me, I assumed that he was endeavoring
delicately to ascertain whether deceased was addicted to drink.
“I have told you exactly what was in my mind,” she replied.
“Have you ever had any reason to suppose, or to entertain the
possibility, that your father might take his own life?”
“Never,” she answered emphatically. “He was a happy, even-tempered
man, always interested in his work, and always in good spirits. I am
sure he would never have taken his own life.”
The coroner nodded with a rather curious air of satisfaction, as if he
were concurring with the witness’s statement. Then he asked in the
same grave, emphatic manner:
“So far as you know, had your father any enemies?”
“No,” she replied confidently. “He was a kindly, amiable man who
disliked nobody, and every one who knew him loved him.”
As she uttered this panegyric (and what prouder testimony could a
daughter have given?), her eyes filled, and the coroner looked at her
with deep sympathy but yet with a somewhat puzzled expression.
“You are sure,” he said gently, “that there was no one whom he might
have injured—even inadvertently—or who bore him any grudge or
ill-will?”
“I am sure,” she answered, “that he never injured or gave offence to
any one, and I do not believe that there was any person in the whole
world who bore him anything but goodwill.”
The coroner noted this reply, and as he entered it in the depositions
his face bore the same curious puzzled or doubtful expression. When he
had written the answer down, he asked:
“By the way, what was the deceased’s occupation?”
“He was a sculptor by profession, but in late years he worked
principally as a modeller for various trades—pottery manufacturers,
picture-frame makers, carvers, and the makers of high-class wax
figures for shop windows.”
“Had he any assistants or subordinates?”
“No. He worked alone. Occasionally I helped him with his moulds when
he was very busy or had a very large work on hand; but usually he did
everything himself. Of course, he occasionally employed models.”
“Do you know who those models were?”
“They were professional models. The men, I think, were all Italians,
and some of the women were too. I believe my father kept a list of
them in his address book.”
“Was he working from a model on the night of his death?”
“No. He was making the moulds for a porcelain statuette.”
“Did you ever hear that he had any kind of trouble with his models?”
“Never. He seemed always on the best of terms with them, and he used
to speak of them most appreciatively.”
“What sort of persons are professional models? Should you say they are
a decent, well-conducted class?”
“Yes. They are usually most respectable, hard-working people; and, of
course, they are sober and decent in their habits or they would be of
no use for their professional duties.”
The coroner meditated on these replies with a speculative eye on the
witness. After a short pause, he began along another line.
“Did deceased ever carry about with him property of any considerable
value?”
“Never, to my knowledge.”
“No jewellery, plate, or valuable material?”
“No. His work was practically all in plaster or wax. He did no
goldsmith’s work and he used no precious material.”
“Did he ever have any considerable sums of money about him?”
“No. He received all his payments by cheque and he made his payments
in the same way. His habit was to carry very little money on his
person—usually not more than one or two pounds.”
Once more the coroner reflected profoundly. It seemed to me that he
was trying to elicit some fact—I could not imagine what—and was
failing utterly. At length, after another puzzled look at the witness,
he turned to the jury and inquired if any of them wished to put any
questions; and when they had severally shaken their heads he thanked
Miss D’Arblay for the clear and straightforward way in which she had
given her evidence and released her.
While the examination had been proceeding, I had allowed my eyes to
wander round the room with some curiosity: for this was the first time
that I had ever been present at an inquest. From the jury, the
witnesses in waiting and the reporters—among whom I tried to identify
Dr. Thorndyke’s stenographer—my attention was presently transferred to
the spectators. There were only a few of them, but I found myself
wondering why there should be any. What kind of person attends as a
spectator at an ordinary inquest such as this appeared to be? The
newspaper reports of the finding of the body were quite unsensational
and promised no startling developments. Finally I decided that they
were probably local residents who had some knowledge of the deceased
and were just indulging their neighbourly curiosity.
Among them my attention was particularly attracted by a middle-aged
woman who sat near me: at least I judged her to be middle-aged, though
the rather dense black veil that she wore obscured her face to a great
extent. Apparently she was a widow, and advertised the fact by the
orthodox, old-fashioned “weeds.” But I could see that she had white
hair and wore spectacles. She held a folded newspaper on her knee,
apparently dividing her attention between the printed matter and the
proceedings of the court. She gave me the impression of having come in
to spend an idle hour, combining a somewhat perfunctory reading of the
paper with a still more perfunctory attention to the rather gruesome
entertainment that the inquest afforded.
The next witness called was the doctor who had made the official
examination of the body; on whom my bereaved friend bestowed a
listless, incurious glance and then returned to her newspaper. He was
a youngish man, though his hair was turning gray, with a quiet but
firm and confident manner and a very clear, pleasant voice. The
preliminaries having been disposed of, the coroner led off with the
question:
“You have made an examination of the body of the deceased?”
“Yes. It is that of a well-proportioned, fairly muscular man of about
sixty, quite healthy with the exception of the heart, one of the
valves of which—the mitral valve—was incompetent and allowed some
leakage of blood to take place.”
“Was the heart affection sufficient to account for the death of
deceased?”
“No. It was quite a serviceable heart. There was good
compensation—that is to say, there was extra growth of muscle to make
up for the leaky valve. So far as his heart was concerned, deceased
might have lived for another twenty years.”
“Were you able to ascertain what actually was the cause of death?”
“Yes. The cause of death was aconitine poisoning.”
At this reply a murmur of astonishment arose from the jury, and I
heard Miss D’Arblay suddenly draw in her breath. The spectators sat up
on their benches, and even the veiled lady was so far interested as to
look up from her paper.
“How had the poison been administered?” the coroner asked.
“It had been injected under the skin by means of a hypodermic
syringe.”
“Can you give an opinion as to whether the poison was administered to
deceased by himself or by some other person?”
“It could not have been injected by deceased himself,” the witness
replied. “The needle-puncture was in the back, just below the left
shoulder-blade. It is, in my opinion, physically impossible for any
one to inject into his own body with a hypodermic syringe in that
spot. And, of course, a person who was administering an injection to
himself would select the most convenient spot—such as the front of the
thigh. But apart from the question of convenience, the place in which
the needle-puncture was found was actually out of reach.” Here the
witness produced a hypodermic syringe, the action of which he
demonstrated with the aid of a glass of water; and having shown the
impossibility of applying it to the spot that he had described, passed
the syringe round for the jury’s inspection.
“Have you formed any opinion as to the purpose for which this drug was
administered in this manner?”
“I have no doubt that it was administered for the purpose of causing
the death of deceased.”
“Might it not have been administered for medicinal purposes?”
“That is quite inconceivable. Leaving out of consideration the
circumstances—the time and place where the administration occurred—the
dose excludes the possibility of medicinal purposes. It was a lethal
dose. From the tissues round the needle-puncture we recovered the
twelfth of a grain of aconitine. That alone was more than enough to
cause death. But a quantity of the poison had been absorbed, as was
shown by the fact that we recovered a recognizable trace from the
liver.”
“What is the medicinal dose of aconitine?”
“The maximum medicinal dose is about the four-hundredth of a grain,
and even that is not very safe. As a matter of fact, aconitine is very
seldom used in medical practice. It is a dangerous drug, and of no
particular value.”
“How much aconitine do you suppose was injected?”
“Not less than the tenth of a grain—that is about forty times the
maximum medicinal dose. Probably more.”
“There can, I suppose, be no doubt as to the accuracy of the facts
that you have stated—as to the nature and quantity of the poison?”
“There can be no doubt whatever. The analysis was made in my presence
by Professor Woodford, of St. Margaret’s Hospital, after I had removed
the tissues from the body in his presence. He has not been called
because, in accordance with the procedure under Coroner’s Law, I am
responsible for the analysis and the conclusions drawn from it.”
“Taking the medical facts as known to you, are you able to form an
opinion as to what took place when the poison was administered?”
“That,” the witness replied, “is a matter of inference or conjecture.
I infer that the person who administered the poison thrust the needle
violently into the back of the deceased, intending to inject the
poison into the chest. Actually, the needle struck a rib and bent up
sharply, so that the contents of the syringe were delivered just under
the skin. Then I take it that the assailant ran away—probably towards
the pond—and deceased pursued him. Very soon the poison would take
effect, and then deceased would have fallen. He may have fallen into
the pond, or more probably, was thrown in. He was alive when he fell
into the pond, as is proved by the presence of water in the lungs; but
he must then have been insensible; and in a dying condition, for there
was no water in the stomach, which proves that the swallowing reflex
had already ceased.”
“Your considered opinion, then, based on the medical facts ascertained
by you, is, I understand, that deceased died from the effects of a
poison injected into his body by some other person with homicidal
intent?”
“Yes; that is my considered opinion, and I affirm that the facts do
not admit of any other interpretation.”
The coroner looked towards the jury. “Do any of you gentlemen wish to
ask the witness any questions?” he inquired; and when the foreman had
replied that the jury were entirely satisfied with the doctor’s
explanations, he thanked the witness, who thereupon retired. The
medical witness was succeeded by the inspector, who made a short
statement respecting the effects found on the person of deceased. They
comprised a small sum of money—under two pounds—a watch, keys, and
other articles, none of them of any appreciable value, but, such as
they were, furnishing evidence that at least petty robbery had not
been the object of the attack.
When the last witness had been heard, the coroner glanced at his notes
and then proceeded to address the jury.
“There is little, gentlemen,” he began, “that I need say to you. The
facts are before you, and they seem to admit of only one
interpretation. I remind you that, by the terms of your oath, your
finding must be ‘according to the evidence.’ Now the medical evidence
is quite clear and definite. It is to the effect that deceased met his
death by poison, administered violently by some other person: that is
by homicide. Homicide is the killing of a human being, and it may or
may not be criminal. But if the homicidal act is done with the intent
to kill; if that intention has been deliberately formed—that is to
say, if the homicidal act has been premeditated; then that homicide is
wilful murder.
“Now the person who killed the deceased came to the place where the
act was done provided with a solution of a very powerful and uncommon
vegetable poison. He was also provided with a very special
appliance—to wit, a hypodermic syringe—for injecting it into the body.
The fact that he was furnished with the poison and the appliance
creates a strong enough presumption that he came to this place with
the deliberate intention of killing the deceased. That is to say, this
fact constitutes strong evidence of premeditation.
“As to the motive for this act, we are completely in the dark; nor
have we any evidence pointing to the identity of the person who
committed that act. But a coroner’s inquest is not necessarily
concerned with motives, nor is it our business to fix the act on any
particular person. We have to find how and by what means the deceased
met his death; and for that purpose we have clear and sufficient
evidence. I need say no more, but will leave you to agree upon your
finding.”
There was a brief interval of silence when the coroner had finished
speaking. The jury whispered together for a few seconds; then the
foreman announced that they had agreed upon their verdict.
“And what is your decision, gentlemen?” the coroner asked.
“We find,” was the reply, “that deceased met his death by wilful
murder, committed by some person unknown.”
The coroner bowed. “I am in entire agreement with you, gentlemen,”
said he. “No other verdict was possible, and I am sure you will join
me in the hope that the wretch who committed this dastardly crime may
be identified and in due course brought to justice.”
This brought the proceedings to an end. As the Court rose the
spectators filed out of the building and the coroner approached Miss
D’Arblay to express once more his deep sympathy with her in her tragic
bereavement. I stood apart with Miss Boler, whose rugged face was wet
with tears, but set in a grim and wrathful scowl.
“Things have taken a terrible turn,” I ventured to observe.
She shook her head and uttered a sort of low growl. “It won’t bear
thinking of,” she said gruffly. “There is no possible retribution that
would meet the case. One has thought that some of the old punishments
were cruel and barbarous, but if I could lay my hands on the villain
that did this——” She broke off, leaving the conclusion to my
imagination, and in an extraordinarily different voice said: “Come,
Miss Marion, let us get out of this awful place.”
As we walked away slowly and in silence, I looked at Miss D’Arblay,
not without anxiety. She was very pale, and the dazed expression that
her face had borne on the fatal day of the discovery had, to some
extent, reappeared. But now the signs of bewilderment and grief were
mingled with something new. The rigid face, the compressed lips, and
lowered brows spoke of a deep and abiding wrath.
Suddenly she turned to me and said, abruptly, almost harshly:
“I was wrong in what I said to you before the inquiry. You remember
that I said that the circumstances of the loss could make no
difference; but they make a whole world of difference. I had supposed
that my dear father had died as he had thought he would die; that it
was the course of Nature, which we cannot rebel against. Now I know,
from what the doctor said, that he might have lived on happily for the
full span of human life but for the malice of this unknown wretch. His
life was not lost; it was stolen—from him and from me.”
“Yes,” I said somewhat lamely. “It is a horrible affair.”
“It is beyond bearing!” she exclaimed. “If his death had been natural,
I would have tried to resign myself to it. I would have tried to put
my grief away. But to think that his happy, useful life has been
snatched from him—that he has been torn from us who loved him by the
deliberate act of this murderer—it is unendurable. It will be with me
every hour of my life until I die. And every hour I shall call on God
for justice against this wretch.”
I looked at her with a sort of admiring surprise. A quiet, gentle girl
as I believed her to be at ordinary times, now, with her flushed
cheeks, her flashing eyes and ominous brows, she reminded me of one of
the heroines of the French Revolution. Her grief seemed to be merged
in a longing for vengeance.
While she had been speaking Miss Boler had kept up a running
accompaniment in a deep, humming bass. I could not catch the words—if
there were any—but was aware only of a low, continuous bourdon. She
now said with grim decision:
“God will not let him escape. He shall pay the debt to the uttermost
farthing.” Then, with sudden fierceness, she added: “If I should ever
meet with him I could kill him with my own hand.”
After this both women relapsed into silence, which I was loth to
interrupt. The circumstances were too tragic for conversation. When we
reached their gate Miss D’Arblay held out her hand and once again
thanked me for my help and sympathy.
“I have done nothing,” said I, “that any stranger would not have done,
and I deserve no thanks. But I should like to think that you will look
on me as a friend, and if you should need any help will let me have
the privilege of being of use to you.”
“I look on you as a friend already,” she replied; “and I hope you will
come and see us sometimes—when we have settled down to our new
conditions of life.”
As Miss Boler seemed to confirm this invitation, I thanked them both
and took my leave, glad to think that I had now a recognized status as
a friend and might pursue a project which had formed in my mind even
before we had left the court-house.
The evidence of the murder, which had fallen like a thunderbolt on us
all, had a special significance for me; for I knew that Dr. Thorndyke
was behind this discovery, though to what extent I could not judge.
The medical witness was an obviously capable man, and it might be that
he would have made the discovery without assistance. But a
needle-puncture in the back is a very inconspicuous thing. Ninety-nine
doctors in a hundred would almost certainly have overlooked it,
especially in the case of a body apparently “found drowned,” and
seeming to call for no special examination beyond the search for gross
injuries. The revelation was very characteristic of Thorndyke’s
methods and principles. It illustrated in a most striking manner the
truth which he was never tired of insisting on: that it is never safe
to accept obvious appearances, and that every case, no matter how
apparently simple and commonplace, should be approached with suspicion
and scepticism and subjected to the most rigorous scrutiny. That was
precisely what had been done in this case; and thereby an obvious
suicide had been resolved into a cunningly planned and skilfully
executed murder. It was quite possible that, but for my visit to
Thorndyke, those cunning plans would have succeeded and the murderer
have secured the cover of a verdict of “Death by misadventure” or
“Suicide while temporarily insane.” At any rate, the results had
justified me in invoking Dr. Thorndyke’s aid; and the question now
arose whether it would be possible to retain him for the further
investigation of the case.
This was the project that had occurred to me as I listened to the
evidence and realized how completely the unknown murderer had covered
up his tracks. But there were difficulties. Thorndyke might consider
such an investigation outside his province. Again, the costs involved
might be on a scale entirely beyond my means. The only thing to be
done was to call on Thorndyke and hear what he had to say on the
subject, and this I determined to do on the first opportunity. And
having formed this resolution, I made my way back by the shortest
route to Mecklenburgh-square, where the evening consultations were now
nearly due.