MR. DAVENPORT'S ACCOUNT OF THE MATTER.
Shortly after Mrs. Davenport left Carlingford House, Half Moon Lane,
that afternoon, a supplementary luncheon was announced, and the four
men went into the dining-room.
Mr. Paulton had already lunched with the family, but he wished to be
with the others; so he sat down at the table with them, and broke a
biscuit and half-filled a glass with sherry. Jerry O'Brien and
Pringle were in no humour for trifling with food; they were both
downright hungry. Alfred ate mechanically, and was much pre-occupied.
The talk, therefore, for a quarter of an hour, was slight,
fragmentary, as though by some agreement: no one referred to what had
just occurred in the library, or to anything else connected with
Crescent House. Young Pringle felt that although there must be and
are extremely interesting tragedies in the world, luncheon, when one
is hungry, was a matter not to be neglected. He had more than once in
a criminal court eaten sandwiches and drunk sherry in the interval
for luncheon, with the moral certainty that his client, who had been
temporarily removed from the dock, would be sentenced to death before
the Court rose, and hanged before that day four weeks.
Here were a cold rabbit pie, cold ham, and excellent sherry,
well-baked, fine white bread, and nicknacks, and no particular reason
for hurry--no fear of hearing "Silence" called out while one was but
half-finished. The day was dull, but there was an ample fire burning
brightly in the grate, the chair was soft and well-designed, so why
should he bother himself for another quarter of an hour?
It was very easy for him to hold his tongue and to assure himself
that he need not bother himself just now about Mrs. Davenport and her
unpleasant predicament; but her predicament would not be banished,
and every now and then some incident of either the drawing-room or
library interview would rush into his mind with all the unexpected
suddenness of that unwelcome cry of "Silence!" in the middle of
luncheon at a criminal trial.
Upon the whole, that luncheon was not as calm or as successful as
young Pringle meant it to be. He had never seen any one at all like
Mrs. Davenport before, and he could make little or nothing of her. He
now began to think that he had talked flippantly when he said she was
certainly about to leave the country. Reviewing all he had seen and
heard, he came to the conclusion that the safest thing for him to
assume at present was--nothing. At length he spoke, addressing Alfred
and Jerry O'Brien:
"Although Mrs. Davenport did not say anything to the effect when
leaving, I suppose I had better act for her--until I hear something
to the contrary."
Jerry O'Brien glanced at Alfred, and saw what he wished to say, but
held back from speaking, because of the trouble his hasty action of
the night before had brought about. Therefore Jerry made himself
spokesman for his friend.
"Of course, Pringle, you go on acting for her, on her behalf. She has
left this house finally now, and is not likely to cause any new
unpleasantness here. Whether Mrs. Davenport is to blame or not, she
can't be left alone and unaided in such a strait as this. What do you
say, Mr. Paulton?"
"I am quite of your opinion, O'Brien. Now that she is out of the
house I would be disposed to do anything I could for her. It's
different now from what it was an hour ago. Go on, Mr. Pringle; and I
most sincerely hope she may come out of the inquiry without the
shadow of blame."
"I sincerely hope so," said Pringle, rising. Luncheon was over by
this time. "Now, the first thing I should like, is to have a look at
the place--at this Crescent House, as you call it."
Alfred and O'Brien got up, and in a few minutes the three found
themselves in the hall of that house. The police were already there.
Pringle told the officers who he was and then proceeded to make
inquiries. The following was the state of affairs at that time:
The inspector had been there about an hour. He had made an elaborate,
but not exhaustive search in the room. The body was in the position
it had been found in. An empty two-ounce bottle had been discovered
on the floor. This was the bottle. It was labelled chloroform, smelt
of chloroform, and had no cork in it. A cork which fitted it, and
which also smelt, although faintly, of chloroform, had been found on
the table close by the body.
In the pockets of the deceased had been discovered a number of
letters, a small sum of money, and a pocket-book. This was the
pocket-book. It was thin, and covered with Russia leather; it was
old, and had been but little used. It contained several addresses,
and on the first leaf was written a date of eleven years ago. It was
more than likely this date corresponded with that on which the book
became the property of deceased.
Most of the memoranda in that book could have no bearing on the
present case, as most of them had evidently been made long ago. The
last entry but one was dated in what was believed to be the
handwriting of the deceased. It was made more than two years ago.
After this last entry but one, a leaf was missing. A leaf had
evidently been torn out--and clumsily torn out, too--for a jagged
portion of the leaf remained behind.
Then came the last entry of all. This was also apparently in the
handwriting of deceased. The writing was in pencil, and very shaky,
and for a long time could not be deciphered. It was headed "Crescent
House." The domicile fixed the date, for the night before was the
only occasion on which Mr. Davenport crossed the threshold of that
house. He had not even seen the house before renting it, but took it
on the representation of an agent. The words on this page were:
"_Pretended death. Blake gone. He emptied chloroform on me--held me
down. Can't stir. Dying_."
After reading this the three men stood aghast for a while. They
looked at one another. They looked at the inspector. The inspector
shook his head.
"There's hangman's work here," he said; and he was about to turn
away, when a sudden thought struck Pringle. He said to the inspector:
"I beg your pardon. Does that pocket-book contain any London address
of Mr. Davenport?"
"I don't know," said the inspector; "and I am afraid I have already
shown you too much."
"I'd be very much obliged to you if you'd see. I represent Mrs.
Davenport in this matter, and at the moment I don't know where to
find her. She omitted to give me her address when she left me this
afternoon. I want to write to her, and if you find any London address
of Mr. Davenport, I'll chance directing my letter there. That can do
no harm to any one."
The inspector hesitated, but at length opened the pocket-book, and
after a search, said:
"There's an address here at Jermyn Street; but it's six years old."
"Never mind," said Pringle; "I'll risk it. What is it?"
The inspector read it out, and Pringle took it down.
Pringle, Alfred Paulton, and Jerry O'Brien were about to leave the
room, when the first turned to the inspector, and said:
"By-the-way, you did not find the page that has been torn out of the
pocket-book?"
"No," said the inspector, nodding his head significantly; "but
there's evidence enough on what we _did_ find to hang a score of
men."
The three then walked to Herne Hill railway station, and took tickets
for Ludgate. At the latter place Pringle left the two friends and
went back to his office.
Here he sat down and wrote the following letter:
"Lincoln's Inn Fields, E.C.
"Feb. --, 18--.
"Dear Madam,
"By accident I got this address, and will chance writing you here in
the hope this note may reach you.
"I have been to Crescent House. A pocket-book of the late Mr.
Davenport has been found. It contains the following entry in the
handwriting of deceased: 'Pretended death. Blake gone. He emptied the
chloroform on me--held me down. Can't stir. Dying.'
"Awaiting your further instructions,
"I am, dear Madam,
"Yours faithfully,
"Richard Pringle."
This was the note which Mrs. Davenport handed Thomas Blake as she
stood over him in her fresh widow's weeds the night after her
husband's death.