"Mr Guy Nicholson, son of the late Mr Nathaniel Nicholson, the
well-known ironmaster of Sheffield, and for twenty-five years Member for
South Cheshire, was yesterday morning found dead under somewhat
remarkable circumstances. It appears that he entertained some guests at
dinner at his house, Titmarsh Court, near Corby, Northamptonshire, and
the last of his friends to depart left about midnight. About two
o'clock in the morning a friend who was staying in the house, and whose
room was directly over the library, was awakened by a man's piercing
shrieks, as though of horror. He listened, and heard a loud thumping
sound below. Then all was quiet. It being the first time he had been a
guest there, he did not alarm the household, but after lying awake for
over an hour dropped off to sleep again. In the morning, however, the
maid who went to clean the library found the door locked on the outside,
as usual, but, on entering, was horrified to discover her master lying
upon the carpet, he had been dead some hours. Considerable mystery
attaches to the affair, which has created a great sensation in the
neighbourhood, where the young man was well-known and highly popular."
What could actually have happened!
I read and re-read that paragraph. Then I rang up Stokes, my chauffeur,
on the telephone, and we were soon tearing along the Northampton Road.
Within a couple of hours we turned into the big lodge-gates of Titmarsh
Court, which I found was a fine old place, upon which huge sums must
have been spent by Guy's father in the way of improvements. It was a
splendid specimen of the old, moated manor-house, situated in
well-timbered grounds and approached by a long shady avenue of
chestnuts, which met overhead.
A young man-servant opened the door, and was inclined to be
uncommunicative, until suddenly I caught sight of Shaw's grey car
standing against the garage, and inquired for him.
In a few moments he came forward, sedate and grave, and somewhat
surprised, I think, at my presence there.
"This is really a most terrible thing, my dear Kemball," he exclaimed,
his face pale. "I only knew of it late last night. The police and
doctors seem to have kept the affair secret as long as they could."
"I saw it in the paper, and came over at once," I said. "What is your
opinion?" I asked eagerly. "Is foul play suspected?"
"I really don't know," was his vague answer, as he stood in the wide,
old-fashioned hall. "It's a terrible thing, however. Poor Asta! she is
overcome with grief, poor girl."
"Ah yes?" I sighed. "She was very fond of him; I realised that the
other day."
Together we walked into a handsomely furnished sitting-room--the
morning-room I supposed it to be--and there I was introduced to a fussy
elderly man in tweeds named Redwood, the local doctor from Corby. He
was a bluff, red-faced, clean-shaven man, a good type of the fox-hunting
doctor of the grass-country.
"Well, Mr Shaw," he exclaimed briskly, "Doctor Petherbridge, from
Northampton, and myself have made a post-mortem, and we have come to the
conclusion that death was due to natural causes--inflammation of the
brain. We have made most minute examination, but can discover no trace
whatever of foul play."
"Nor of suicide--by poison, for instance?" asked Shaw, leaning with his
back against the table, while the sun shone brightly across the pale
blue carpet.
"Certainly not. We have had that in mind, but fail to find any trace
whatsoever, though Petherbridge is taking the contents of the stomach
into Northampton for analysis, in order to thoroughly satisfy
ourselves. Our conclusions are, however, that probably while seated in
his armchair in the library reading his paper, as was his habit before
going to bed, he was suddenly attacked, shrieked with pain, and quickly
collapsed. Such fatal seizures are by no means uncommon."
"But, doctor, the papers say that a noise of hammering was heard," I
remarked.
"Captain Cardew, who heard the shriek, is not actually certain about the
hammering, it seems," replied Shaw. "The poor fellow was in the best of
spirits and quite well when Asta and I left him about a quarter-past
eleven. We dined here with some people named Sweetman, the Vanes from
Oundle, and Mr Justice Michelmore, who is staying with them. The judge
was talking with him on the steps when we left."
"Nobody who partook of the dinner felt any unusual symptoms, or one
might suspect ptomaine poisoning," remarked the doctor from Northampton,
a short, grey-headed little man, who had at that moment entered the
room. "My distinct opinion is that, though the affair appears most
mysterious, yet it is due to perfectly natural causes."
"And I suppose that is the evidence you will give before the Coroner
to-morrow, eh?" Shaw asked.
"Precisely. I shall have a searching analysis of the stomach, of
course. Indeed, I'm just off to Northampton for that purpose. But I do
not anticipate finding anything. Young Nicholson was not the kind of
fellow to take his own life."
"No," I said; "he certainly did not strike me as having any tendencies
towards suicide. Yet, from what the papers say, the affair is most
mysterious."
"Oh, the papers!" laughed Shaw, derisively. "They're always
sensational. A good story means hundreds of pounds to them. But," he
added, "I must be off, Kemball. I was just going when you came. I have
to be on the Bench this morning at twelve."
"Please express my most sincere condolence with Miss Seymour," I said.
"You and I will meet again soon, no doubt."
"My dear fellow, just come over whenever you like. Better ring me on
the 'phone to see if we are at home, for we're often out in the car this
fine weather."
And, taking my hand, the man who in his dual life was a county
magistrate, and was about to sit and administer justice from the Bench,
gripped my hand and went out, followed by the Northampton doctor, who a
moment later I saw with two large glass jam-jars in his hand. Yet
almost directly after I heard a low, peculiar whistle emanating from an
adjoining room. Shaw was whistling to himself--even though the house
was a house of mourning!
Left alone with Doctor Redwood I began to question him, explaining that
I was a friend of the man now dead.
"Well," he said, "I can't tell you very much, Mr Kemball. Captain
Cardew, who was Nicholson's guest, is in the library. At least I left
him there a little time ago; let's go and find him."
So he conducted me along a well-carpeted corridor where the doors, I
noticed, were of polished mahogany, and opening one, I found myself in a
long, low, old-fashioned room, lined with brown-backed books from the
floor to the panelled ceiling. At the table a tall, fair-haired,
military-looking young man was seated writing letters.
I introduced myself, whereupon he rose, and expressed his readiness to
answer any questions, as I was poor Guy's friend, the doctor, having
some matters to attend to with his colleague, leaving us alone. When he
had gone I closed the door. Then, turning to the dead man's guest, I
said in a low voice--"I wonder, Captain Cardew, if I might speak to you
in absolute confidence?"
"Certainly," he said; "we are mutual friends of poor Guy's."
"Well," I exclaimed; "first, will you tell me, frankly, your private
opinion of this terrible affair? Has there been foul play?"