On the following day twelve respectable inhabitants of Corby and the
neighbourhood assembled around the long dining-table at Titmarsh Court,
and decided, upon the evidence of the two doctors, that its young master
had died of natural causes.
I was present, and heard a solicitor representing the relatives put a
query to the Coroner regarding that cry in the night. But the official
coldly declared that the jury were there only to decide the cause of
death, and that, whatever the circumstances might be, they could only
weigh the medical evidence.
Doctor Petherbridge, of Northampton, assisted by the county analyst,
had, it seemed, examined the contents of the stomach and made the
Dragendorff test for strychnine, applied the Stas process for alkaloids
and the Pettenkofer test for mineral acid, as well as searching for
arsenic with the Marsh apparatus. The result in all cases had been
negative. Mr Guy Nicholson had certainly not died of poison.
After the verdict of "death from natural causes," I drove Shaw, who had
also been present, back to Lydford, and there saw poor Asta, looking wan
and pale in her deep mourning. She was seated in a low chair in her own
pretty room, full of books and flowers--an artistic, cosy little
apartment leading from the big drawing-room and upholstered in pale
blue.
The blind was down, for the sun was blazing-hot outside. But as she
took my hand I saw that her eyes had dark rings around them, and that
she had recently been crying.
I hardly know what words of sympathy and condolence I uttered as I held
her small hand in mine. Her heart, however, was too full for words, and
she burst into a flood of tears.
Shaw, unable to bear the sight of her grief, placed his hand tenderly
upon her shoulder and urged her to bear up; but she only shook her head
sadly in her profound sorrow.
I stood there, not knowing what to say; but a few moments later, when
Shaw had left the room and we were alone, I too placed my hand upon her
shoulder and strove to calm her.
"You have all my most heartfelt sympathy, Miss Seymour," I said. "I
have ventured to come here to-day to see if I could be of any service to
you."
"Ah, what service can you render me, Mr Kemball, now that poor Guy is,
alas! dead--dead!" she cried hoarsely, staring straight before her.
"The inquest was held to-day. What have they decided?"
"That the poor fellow died of natural causes. He suffered from an
unsuspected disease of the brain."
"Ah, yes," she sighed. "I expected they would say something like that.
But--" and she broke off short without concluding her sentence.
"You dined with him only a few hours before," I remarked; for I had gone
there on purpose to question her, and I hardly knew how to commence,
fearing lest, in my anxiety, I might blunder.
"Yes. Who would have thought that when I parted from him I should never
see him again?"
"You left before the Vanes, did you not?"
"Yes. My father, just before eleven, told me that he was not feeling
very well, so I ordered the car, and we came home, after a most
delightful evening. The weather was bright, and everything had been
done to perfection. On the way home Dad complained of bad pains in his
head, and I became alarmed. Indeed, when we got here he seemed so very
queer that I tried to persuade him to let me telephone for Doctor
Redwood. But he would not hear of it. He begged me to go to bed, but I
remained with him in the smoking-room until nearly three o'clock."
"Until three o'clock?" I echoed. "And you did not leave him at all?"
"No. Because he seemed so very queer. I mixed him some brandy and
water several times, and he tried to smoke, but could not."
"What was his objection against summoning the doctor?"
"Oh, he said that he would be all right presently, and that it was only
a bad headache. Long ago, when he was abroad, he had been subject to
such attacks, he said. But he had not had one for years past."
"And after three o'clock you retired to bed?"
"It was half-past three, and getting quite light, when I saw him as far
as his room. He looked fearfully pale and worn--quite unlike his usual
self. He said he had fits of extreme nervousness, and I noticed that at
times his limbs were trembling. I remarked upon it, but my comments
seemed to irritate him. So I said nothing further. At nine o'clock
next morning he came down to breakfast quite well. Then--then--just
after ten o'clock last night--Captain Cardew telephoned to him telling
him of the--the awful discovery at Titmarsh?"
Her story made one fact entirely plain--namely, that Shaw, whatever he
might be, was perfectly free from suspicion.
"Is it not curious that your father was taken ill?" I asked. "Did he
not tell the doctors?"
"No. Because long ago, when he was in South America, he was subject to
such attacks, and his illness could not have had any connection with
poor Guy's death, he said."
She spoke very gravely, her sad, tearful eyes fixed upon the blue
carpet. A slim, pathetic little figure she presented in her deep black,
which, however, only served to heighten her wonderful beauty.
I questioned her further regarding the events of that fatal night, and
convinced myself that Shaw had had no opportunity of returning to
Titmarsh Court after he had once bade good-night to poor Nicholson.
Any suspicions I had entertained had now been swept away. Her
statement, plain and straightforward, showed how solicitous she was of
the welfare of the man whom she had always looked upon as her father.
She had taken me into her confidence on the first day we had met, and
she was certainly not deceiving me.
As I stood near, watching her, I became bewildered by the strange
circumstances of the death of the man who had promised to come to me,
and in confidence make certain revelations. My feelings towards Shaw
had been mixed ones. He had been open and straightforward with me, and
had told me that he was leading a double life. Asta had treated me as a
friend; therefore I had intended to protect their secret from Nicholson
as far as possible. Nevertheless, I had been consumed by curiosity to
know what he had actually discovered--how far he had ascertained the
truth.
His meaning words to Cardew on the night of his death showed that, owing
to his discovery, he hesitated to ask Asta to become his wife. He loved
her most passionately; and when a man loves as he did, then it must be a
very serious bar which prevents him throwing prudence to the winds and
marrying the girl of his choice.
Shaw re-entered the room presently, asking me to stay to luncheon, which
I did. But the meal was, alas! a very dismal one. Asta, full of
thoughts of her dead lover, hardly spoke a word, while Shaw himself
seemed preoccupied and thoughtful.
"The Coroner was an idiot," I declared in the course of our discussion
of the events of the morning. "He would scarcely allow any mention of
poor Guy's cry of horror heard by Cardew."
"Ah, my dear Kemball," my friend replied, "in many cases inquests are
worse than useless. Coroners so often override the jury and instruct
them as to what verdict they should return. In almost every case you
will find that the jury, ignorant for the most part, though perfectly
honest in their meaning, return a verdict in accordance with the
evidence of the local doctor, who, in so many cases, happens to be the
man who attends themselves and their families. If they are ill, they
call him in and accept his dictum. They do just the same at a Coroner's
inquest. They never analyse or weigh the facts for themselves."
"Asta has just been telling me that you too were very unwell that
night," I said suddenly; and I noticed that, on hearing my words, he
glanced across at the girl in annoyance.
"Yes," he said, with a light laugh. "I didn't feel over grand--a bad
headache, just as I used to have years ago. But it was nothing. It
didn't arise from anything I ate or drank. I knew that, and for that
reason did not 'phone to Redwood. Yes," he added, "I spent a rather
poor night. Asta became quite alarmed."
"Well," I exclaimed, "what is your theory regarding the poor fellow's
death?"
"Theory! Well, after the medical evidence and the verdict of the jury,
what can one think?" he asked. "There are certainly many curious points
in the affair, and the chief one, to my mind, is the fact that he was
found locked in the room."
"That's just my point. He could not have locked himself in."
"Yet, remember that we only have the evidence of the girl Hayes that he
was locked in. In her hurry to enter the room she seems to have fumbled
at the lock, and, of course, in her alarm at the discovery, may have
been deceived, and thought the key had been turned."
I had not before regarded her statement from that point of view, and his
suggestion caused me to ponder. But next second I asked--
"If the door was not locked, then why should he have hammered to get
out?"
"But did he hammer?" queried Shaw. "Sounds in the night are always
distorted, remember."
"Please don't discuss the horrible affair further, Dad," cried Asta,
appealingly.
"My dear, I beg your pardon," he exclaimed, turning to her hastily. "I
know I ought not to have mentioned the matter. Both Kemball and myself
deeply condole with you in your grief. You never mentioned to me your
affection for Guy, but I had guessed it long ago. I told Kemball about
it, didn't I?" and he glanced across at me.
"Yes, you did," I said.
"Ah, poor Guy!" he sighed. "He was such a thorough sterling fellow, and
I had hoped, Asta, that you would marry and be happy. But, alas! the
Fates have willed it otherwise."
"I--I feel bewildered, Dad," exclaimed the girl. "I can't believe that
he is really dead," and rising suddenly, she again burst into tears, and
with uneven steps left the room.
"Poor child!" remarked Shaw in a low voice, when she had gone. "It is
indeed a terrible blow for her. I had no idea that she was so devoted
to him. She had many admirers in the neighbourhood, but he was
evidently the one to whom she was most attached. And, between
ourselves, Kemball," he added, in a low voice, his wineglass poised
between his white fingers, "he was one of the most eligible young
fellows in the whole county--eight thousand a year, as well as a
half-share in Nicholson Brothers of Sheffield. I had dreams of seeing
Asta mistress of Titmarsh Court. But, of course, I never told her so.
I believe in allowing a girl to make her own choice in life. Love
affairs, if interfered with by elders, invariably turn out badly."
And so he chatted on as we smoked our cigarettes; and as I gazed into
those small queer eyes of his, I became more and more convinced that my
suspicions of the previous day had been unfounded. He could not
possibly have had any hand in the poor fellow's untimely end.
He could not know of Guy's secret intention to make certain revelations
to me--and even if he did, he knew quite well that I was already aware
that he was leading a double life. No; when I carefully weighed over
the whole of the facts, I came to the conclusion that the man before
me--mysterious though he might be--had every motive that Guy Nicholson
should live. I do not think my intelligence was much above that of the
ordinary man, yet I felt that if he were an adventurer, as already
seemed proved, then what more natural than that he should secure
Nicholson as husband for Asta, and afterwards judiciously bleed him. It
certainly was not to his interest that the fellow should die.
The circumstances were full of suspicion, I admit; but the hard facts
certainly disproved that Harvey Shaw had had any hand in the strange
affair.
Still, what was the Something which had held poor Guy horror-stricken,
and which had produced symptoms so near akin to the affection of the
brain that the doctors had been deceived by it and the Coroner and jury
misled?
The opinion I still held was that Guy Nicholson did not die a natural
death. Therefore I intended to leave no stone unturned in my endeavour
to probe the extraordinary mystery, and to ascertain the truth of what
had actually occurred in that long old room during the silent watches of
that fateful night.