THE INQUEST--continued
Beatrice was both surprised and alarmed when she heard of Vivian's
abrupt departure without seeing her. It argued that he was guilty, and
feared to face her. Yet, try as she might, it was impossible for her to
believe him to be a murderer.
"Why didn't he come to see me?" she asked Dinah.
"He wanted to," replied the freckled girl. "But then he said that he
had important business to attend to, connected with you, and went up
to town the day before yesterday. I have not heard from him since, and
don't know when he is coming back."
"Business connected with me!" repeated Miss Hedge, much perplexed. "I
don't understand."
"Neither do I, dear. But don't worry. Vivian loves you, and whatever
he does will be for your benefit. I do wish you'd come to the Grange,
Beatrice, and let Mrs. Lilly look after you--she knows about herbs and
things, and you look so pale. And no wonder, seeing what a shock you
have had. I wouldn't stop in this place for anything, seeing ghosts and
spooks--ugh!" and Dinah ended her somewhat incoherent speech with a
shudder.
"I cannot come until the inquest is over," said Beatrice, rapidly
surveying the situation.
"And then?"
"Then, perhaps. It depends upon Mr. Paslow."
"Vivian, you mean," said Dinah quickly.
"I have no right to call him Vivian," replied Beatrice proudly.
"Yes, you have. Vivian told me that he had asked you to be his wife,
and that you had accepted."
"Dinah"--Beatrice looked directly at the girl "did he tell you where he
proposed?"
"Yes; under the----"
"Hush!" Miss Hedge sank her voice to a whisper as she saw a blue-coated
constable moving heavily round the garden, and gradually drawing
nearer. "Not a word. Hold your tongue about that meeting."
"But why?" asked the amazed Dinah.
"I'll tell you later," said Beatrice hurriedly; "that is, when I have
seen Vivian. Have you his address?"
"No. He went away, and said he would be back soon. Oh dear!" cried
Dinah fretfully; "there is such a lot of mystery about Vivian, and
has been for ages and ages. Sometimes he's jolly, and then he's as
dismal as a sick cow. I thought it was love, for Jerry often is the
same--silly boy. But I don't believe it is love," concluded Dinah
decidedly. "Vivian has something on his mind."
"What do you mean?"
"Something horrid. I don't know what it is, but I fear the worst."
"Don't be a fool, Dinah," said Beatrice impatiently, for she winced at
hearing her own doubts put into speech. "It's money troubles that annoy
him, and probably, now that Mr. Alpenny is dead, he has gone to see the
executors, to know how his mortgage will stand."
"As if he couldn't ask you," cried Dinah, rising and throwing her
riding-skirt over her arm. "You'll get the money, of course. It
ought to be a lot, Beatrice, for Jerry, who has had dealings with
money-lenders, says they make heaps and heaps."
"I know nothing until the will is read. Go away, dear, and come back
after poor Mr. Alpenny is buried."
"Poor Mr. Alpenny!" mocked Dinah. "Well, you are forgiving, Beatrice.
He was a nasty old man, and never did any good in his life. He is more
useful to me and Jerry dead than alive."
"Dinah!"
"Oh, I know it's horrid of me," said Miss Paslow penitently, "but we
must live--I mean Jerry and I must think about our marriage. His father
won't allow him any money, and Mrs. Snow is a cat. Our only chance of
getting married, and living in a tweeny-weeny house, with a general
servant, is for Jerry to get a rise. Now, if Jerry writes something
picturesque about this murder, he'll get the rise and----"
"Oh, go away," cried Beatrice, for this disconnected talk grated on her
over-strung nerves, "and don't tell even Jerry that I met Vivian--I
mean Mr. Paslow--under the Witches' Oak."
"I won't say anything," promised Dinah firmly; "and I suppose it was
improper for you to meet Vivian so late without a chaperone. But you
will marry Vivian, darling, won't you?" she went on coaxingly. "He
is so poor, and loves you; and then Mr. Alpenny's money--I mean your
money--can set up the family again, and----"
The patience of Beatrice was at an end. She took Dinah firmly by the
arm and led her out of the gates past the sleepy policeman, who blinked
in the sunshine like an over-fed cat. "Go and assist Jerry to write
paragraphs," she said sharply; "you are a tiresome girl."
"It's your nerves," said Dinah, not at all annoyed by this abrupt
dismissal. "I feel that way myself, when Jerry is irritating. He is
such a---- Well, I'm going. There's Tommy Tibbs holding Fly-by-Night.
Hi, Tommy, bring her here. Good-bye, darling: keep your spirits up.
I'll come and see you later. You must come to the Grange, and----"
Beatrice closed the babbling lips with a kiss, and went inside, while
Dinah argued with Tommy about the price of holding her horse for one
long hour. The policeman opened his eyes and looked at the tall,
slim young lady with approval as she went past him. He thought she
was a trifle too pale, and she had black circles under her eyes; but
otherwise he approved, and smiled graciously. Beatrice took no notice
of him, but went to her parlour, to think over the strange conduct of
Vivian Paslow.
Dinah was right He certainly had something on his mind, and did not
seem to be a free agent. Something hampered him in every way. He
had long desired to propose to her, and yet had only done so when
some cause, which he declined to explain, had been removed. Again,
he had gone up to town on hearing of Alpenny's murder, and without
ascertaining whether she had reached home, or not, on that fearful
night. He had not even left a message; and then in her pocket was his
handkerchief, dyed with the life-blood of the miser. These things were
strange and disquieting, and Beatrice resolved that before reaffirming
her decision to marry him, he would have to explain what underhand
causes were at work to make him behave so mysteriously.
No time was lost in holding the inquest on the body of Jarvis Alpenny.
The weather was hot, and it was just as well to place the remains
underground as speedily as possible. A doctor was summoned from
Hurstable to examine the body, and pronounce if possible the hour
when the murder had taken place. Then the corpse was conveyed to the
solitary inn of Hurstable, a few miles away, and there the jury looked
it over. Afterwards the Coroner summoned them into the inn parlour, and
Inspector Grove related all that had been discovered by the police.
It was not much, and threw no light on the authorship of the crime.
The deceased--so ran the official narrative--was a money-lender of
great repute, and that none of the best. He possessed a small office
in London--52 Trunk Street, Cheapside--but seldom went there, as he
preferred the quiet of the country--probably on account of his age,
which was considerable. Nevertheless, from habit apparently, Mr. Jarvis
continued to do business up to the very hour of his death. He died in
harness, as might be said; for on the table, whereunder he lay, were
letters from people--who need not be mentioned--asking for loans of
money. These he was apparently considering, when he was struck down.
"I understood, and I have seen," said the Coroner emphatically, "that
the deceased's throat was cut."
Inspector Jones assented, but pointed out that the old man was first
felled by a blow from behind, as was apparent from a wound at the back
of the head. The assassin had evidently entered stealthily, and had
taken his victim by surprise. The murder was very deliberate, as the
criminal had first stunned the old man, and then had cut his throat
in a most brutal and thorough fashion. Therefore, as the Inspector
suggested, the motive of the crime was more than mere robbery. A
robber, having stunned his victim, could have taken what he desired,
and escaped before Mr. Jarvis regained consciousness. But the death had
taken place from the throat-cutting, and not from the blow on the head.
"Has anything been taken from the room?" asked a juryman.
"You mean the railway carriage," corrected the Inspector, who was
pedantic in speech, and particular as to facts. "Yes; the safe was
opened with the keys of the deceased--probably taken by the assassin
from the dead body--and all the papers have been taken away."
"What do you mean, exactly?" asked the Coroner.
Inspector Jones held up his right hand. "I mean," he declared
emphatically, "that the safe was as bare as the palm of my hand.
All papers were removed, the drawers were emptied, and nothing was
left--absolutely nothing."
"The assassin must have carried quite a load?"
"As the safe is a large one, and probably was fairly filled, it is
extremely likely," replied the Inspector. Then he went on to state that
the fact of the death was discovered the next morning by Mrs. Snow, the
vicar's wife, who was paying a visit to Miss Hedge. The police were
called in, and everything had been done to discover the whereabouts of
the assassin, but in vain. Villagers, labourers, railway officials,
chance folk travelling in carts and motor-cars and on bicycles had
been questioned, but no suspicious character had been observed. The
assassin had stolen in upon the old man out of the night; and when his
detestable task had been executed, he had again vanished into the night
with his plunder, leaving not a footprint behind by which he could be
traced.
"Yet the night was rainy," said the Coroner sapiently.
"And the grassy sward," retorted Jones, "runs right up to the railway
carriage wherein the crime was executed. I have inquired at the Trunk
Street office, and cannot learn from the confidential clerk there
that Mr. Alpenny was threatened in any way, or feared for his life or
property. The affair is a mystery."
"And is likely to remain so, with such an ass as you at the head of
affairs," murmured the Coroner, as the Inspector, severely official,
stepped down to give place to a rosy little man.--"Well, doctor," he
asked aloud, "what do you know about this sad business?"
Dr. Herman knew very little, save from a medical standing-point He
lived in Hurstable, some miles distant from the scene of the crime,
and drove round all the surrounding district to see his patients. A
constable stopped him on the day after the crime had been committed,
and he had been asked to examine the corpse. He found that it was that
of an old man. The body was badly nourished, but healthy enough for a
man who certainly was over eighty. The blow on the head would not have
killed a man with such vitality, old as he was. Death had ensued from
the cutting of the throat. "Which was neatly done," said the doctor,
with professional approval. "I should think a very sharp instrument was
used, and a very dexterous hand had used it. No bungling about that
affair," concluded Dr. Herman.
"Humph!" said the Coroner doubtfully; "and what does that mean? Do you
insinuate that a doctor cut the throat and used a surgical instrument
to do so?"
"I insinuate nothing of the sort," said Herman hotly, for he did not
like the sneer of the Coroner; "it might have been a butcher, who is
quite as dexterous with a knife as a medical man, although not quite in
the same way."
"Pooh! pooh! We're all animals, doctor," laughed the Coroner, "and you
are all butchers, whether you are called so or not. Come, now, at what
time did Mr. Jarvis Alpenny meet his death?"
"I cannot be sure of that--I cannot commit myself to an exact opinion,"
said the little doctor doubtfully. "I should say the crime was
committed between eight and nine of the previous night But, as I say, I
cannot be quite certain."
"Between eight and nine of the previous night," wrote the Coroner, and
called the next witness.
This was Mrs. Snow, who gave her evidence with much volubility. She
had called on Miss Hedge to ask for money in order to get the spire
of Hurstable Church mended. Miss Hedge had stated that her stepfather
was from home, but she--witness--had glanced into the railway carriage
which was called the counting-house of Mr. Alpenny. There she had seen
the deceased--dead, lying in a pool of blood. At once she gave the
alarm, and Durban, the servant, burst open the door with a beam.
"The door of the carriage was locked, then?"
"Oh yes," assented Mrs. Snow. "I tried it myself. I expect the assassin
killed poor Mr. Alpenny, and after robbing the safe, went out with his
plunder, and locked the door after him. He had the keys."
"One moment," said Durban, rising in the body of the room. "My master
carried the keys--all the keys, including that of the counting-house,
on a single ring. The keys were in the safe, and----"
"We'll hear you later," said the Coroner sharply.--"Go on, Mrs. Snow."
"I have nothing further to say," said the vicar's wife, trying to
convey a sympathetic look in her eyes, "save that I am sorry for Miss
Hedge. And I may add," she continued, after a moment of hesitation,
"that Colonel Hall was murdered at Convent Grange twenty-five years
ago, in the same way."
"I remember the case," said the Coroner, who was an old resident of the
neighbourhood. "And what do you infer?"
"That the assassin of Colonel Hall and the assassin of Mr. Alpenny are
one and the same," said Mrs. Snow promptly.
"Why should you connect the two?" asked the Coroner coldly, and very
much puzzled.
"Colonel Hall and Mr. Alpenny had much to do with one another," said
Mrs. Snow, "and did some business together. That their two throats
should be cut, is a coincidence."
"Only that and nothing more, Mrs. Snow. I cannot see what the old crime
has to do with the new one."
"I am sure there is some connection," snapped the sour woman, and then
stepped down from the witness-box with a triumphant glance in the
direction of Beatrice. Why that glance, and one of such a nature, was
sent, Beatrice could not guess. But then the conduct of Mrs. Snow was
perplexing her more and more.
Durban's evidence was to the effect that he had been absent when the
crime took place. Mr. Alpenny had sent him to town with a letter, and
he had returned the next morning to find the old man dead. Mrs. Snow
had first informed him of the fact. He had burst open the door with
a beam, as it was locked, and then had discovered that Mr. Alpenny's
throat was slit from ear to ear. "And I saw," added the witness
quickly, "that the keys of the deceased, including the key of the
counting-house, were on the ring which dangled from the key used to
open the safe."
"Then you do not think that the assassin could have locked the door
after him?"
"Certainly not, seeing that the key was left behind."
"Was there not another key?"
"No. My master had the only key of the counting-house; it was one of
a most peculiar make, and there was no duplicate. Mr. Alpenny was
always careful to lock up his papers, and to keep the door of the
counting-house locked."
"Then there must be another way of getting into the counting-house."
Inspector Jones rose to assure the Coroner that the place had been
thoroughly examined. "There is no way of entering the railway carriage
which is called the counting-house, save by the door."
"But if the door was locked, and the key inside, the assassin must have
got out by another way. What about the window?"
"It's so small and so barred that a child could not get through it."
The Coroner scratched his head, and looked at Durban. "You were the
confidential servant of the deceased," he said helplessly; "perhaps you
can explain?"
"I can explain nothing," said Durban promptly, and quite at his ease;
"certainly I was Mr. Alpenny's servant, but he made no confidant of me.
I took letters to the London office, but what was in them I never knew.
I was cook and general servant--that is all."
"You were often in the counting-house?"
"I was never in the counting-house in my life, sir. Mr. Alpenny would
not allow either Miss Hedge or myself to enter."
"Humph!" said the Coroner again; "the whole mystery seems to centre
round the counting-house. Had Mr. Alpenny enemies?"
"The usual sort a money-lender is bound to have," said Durban, with a
shrug. "People sometimes came and called him names; and he told me that
many borrowers objected to the high interest he charged."
"Did the deceased ever give you to understand that his life was in
danger?"
"Never. He appeared quite happy in his own way."
"Was he expecting any one on the night he was murdered?"
"I cannot say. He sent me to town with the letter, and I was to come
back next morning--which," added the witness pointedly, "I did."
"Mr. Alpenny did not expect to be killed?"
"No. He would have taken some precautions had he thought that, as he
feared death."
After this several jurymen asked questions, and the Coroner
cross-examined the half-caste. But he could tell nothing likely to lead
to a discovery of the assassin. He simply declared that he was not in
his late master's confidence, and knew nothing: that he had gone to
town on the night of the murder, and had only learned of it through
Mrs. Snow. The Coroner and, incidentally, Inspector Jones were annoyed;
they had quite counted on a solution of the mystery when Durban was
examined. But he could tell nothing, and they saw no reason to doubt
his evidence.
Beatrice was called as the final witness, and told very much the same
story as she had related to the sergeant. Only on this occasion she
stated the time when she had returned. The Coroner asked her how she
knew that she had entered at nine, whereupon she detailed the episode
of the fallen watch. "I am sure that when I knocked it down, it stopped
at nine," she said; "at that hour I returned."
"Why did you not go in and see Mr. Alpenny?"
"In the first place, I was worn out," said the witness; "in the second,
there was no light in the window of the counting-house; and in the
third, I found the note left by Mr. Alpenny, which I handed to the
sergeant. And in the fourth place," added Beatrice, before the Coroner
could make an observation, which he seemed inclined to do, "I saw the
assassin!"
Everyone was startled, and a confused murmur filled the room. "You saw
the assassin?" said the Coroner, aghast.
"When I entered the gates of The Camp at nine o'clock. He is a tall
man, with a black patch over the left eye."
"A black patch!" cried Mrs. Snow, rising, much excited. "Colonel Hall
was also murdered by a man with a black patch. I swear it."