"WHICH OF US IS MAD?"
The morning after the interview between Mrs. Davenport and Tom Blake
in Jermyn Street, there were paragraphs about Mr. Davenport's death
in the daily papers. These paragraphs were almost colourless, and
barely suggested any cause for uneasiness. They all wound up by
saying that the inquest would be held next day.
That afternoon Richard Pringle called on chance at the house in
Jermyn Street, and found Mrs. Davenport at home. She received
him in a dreamy, half-conscious way, and answered listlessly the
common-place questions he put to her. Before seeing her he had made
up his mind not to refer to the scene which had taken place between
them yesterday. He was firmly convinced she would not give him her
full confidence, and that to seek to get at the bottom of the affair
would be only to court obstruction. From her manner he assumed she
wished nothing to be said of what had taken place in the Paultons'
drawing-room at Dulwich. He began by trying to prepare her for the
inquest. She shuddered slightly when he used that word, and yet
seemed but indifferently alive to the importance of the situation.
She answered in monosyllables, and contented herself mostly with
merely bowing her head in token that she attended to what he said.
No material advantage could be gained by speaking of the former
interview between them. He had drawn his own conclusions from it, and
it was abundantly clear to him she wished that interview ignored. Now
that he was once more under the spell of her presence, he felt his
interest in her case rekindle, and the charm of her beauty
reasserting itself.
One thing, however, must be spoken of. It was absolutely necessary he
should say something of the note he had written her last evening. He
waited for a pause, or rather caused a pause in the conversation, for
she volunteered nothing.
"Having found this Jermyn Street address in the pocket-book of Mr.
Davenport, I sent a few lines to you yesterday evening in the hope
they might reach you. Did you get them?"
This question seemed to arouse her attention. She clasped her hands
in her lap, and, turning her face fully towards him, answered:
"Yes; I got your note and the extract from the pocket-book also."
She seemed perfectly cool and collected.
"It would be well if you would tell me anything you know about that
entry on the leaf of the pocket-book. It has a terrible significance
in the case."
Her calmness now astonished him. He had the evening before been
prepared for an explosion. He had expected to find her completely
broken down, or in a state of high nervous excitement to-day. Up to
this she had been listless; now she was attentive and mute. Her face
looked paler than yesterday, but he could not say whether this was
owing to its own loss of colour or to the effect of the white cap or
the crape round her throat. He waited a moment with a view to giving
weight to his next question. It was:
"With regard to the memorandum made by Mr. Davenport, is there
anything you would like to say to me? In the face of that memorandum,
you of course know that Mr. Blake's presence will be essential at
the--inquiry."
"I suppose so," she said, unmoved. She replied to the latter part of
his speech first. "With regard to the entry in his pocket-book, it is
right you should know that my late husband was at one time subject to
hallucinations, delusions."
"And you think this writing of his may have been the result of a
delusion or hallucination?"
"It is quite possible; I can explain it in no other way."
"Oh, this is a great relief! I did not know he was subject to
hallucinations. This is a most important fact. What was the nature of
the delusion under which he suffered?"
Up to this point Pringle had felt in despair. Now his interest and
courage rose.
"He fancied people had formed a conspiracy against him, and that
their design was to rob him first and then murder him."
Her enunciation was particularly distinct, her face impassible.
"This is most vital," he said. "Indeed it may explain much that now
sorely needs explanation. You no doubt often had the opportunity of
seeing him labouring under these ailments?"
"No--never. He has not had an attack since we were married."
"Well, we must only do the best we can. Do you know if there is
anything like insanity in his family?"
Pringle felt no little disappointment that she could not personally
testify to the disease; but he was resolved to make the most of it.
"I am not aware that there is anything which could be called insanity
in the family. His brother is decidedly odd, and Mr. Davenport was
odd at times. For instance, as I told you, he would never bring old
servants into a new house. There were other little traits--some
theories he had about betting on horses, and which I do not
understand, but which I have been told were at least fanciful."
Pringle's curiosity was aroused. Outside his profession the thing in
which he took most interest was horse-racing.
"I am not sure that it can be of any consequence; but if you could
remember it, I should like to know what that peculiarity in betting
was."
"I am not quite sure," she said; "but I have an indistinct
recollection he made it a rule never to bet on any horse the name of
which began with a letter lower down in the alphabet than 'N.'"
"Ah!" said the young solicitor, in a tone of surprise and reflection.
He resolved to look this matter up when he got back to the office. He
was still curious. "And may I ask if you know whether he found the
system a good one? If he found it to fail oftener than to succeed,
and still kept to it, one might put the persistency down to mental
obliquity."
Although he said this in a confident tone, the words were no sooner
uttered than he began to doubt their justice, for he had known many
men who adhered to a system which had nine times out of ten betrayed
them.
"I cannot tell you. I do not know."
"If he betted heavily, you would have been likely to hear whether he
won or lost. Of course when I say heavily, I don't mean that he ran
any danger of crippling himself. But he must have been elated when he
won and dejected when he lost?"
"No. He did not bet heavily. He never seemed to care whether he won
or lost. It was the system which he prized, and not the wager."
Young Pringle thought this was a sure sign of a disordered mind; but
he kept the opinion to himself, as he considered it more a matter of
private than professional interest. He said:
"I suppose Mr. Davenport could not have been in financial
embarrassment owing to any betting transactions?"
"I am certain he was not."
"Or from any other cause?"
"I am sure he was not."
"This may be of the greatest value. I beg of you to believe I am
asking this question solely with a view to your interest."
He paused and looked earnestly at her for permission to go on.
She bowed.
"Have you any reason to think that the unfortunate event which has
occurred might have been brought about by his own act?"
She moved her hands nervously in her lap.
"I am not sure that I understand you."
"There is nothing in your mind which could lead you to suppose he has
committed suicide?"
She shuddered visibly and answered in a constrained whisper:
"Nothing--nothing whatever."
"Well, Mrs. Davenport, it will be absolutely necessary for us, in the
face of the memorandum made on the leaf of his pocket-book, to have
some theory of what took place. Can you suggest any theory?"
He spoke gravely, impressively. His personal interest in her was
again growing stronger than his professional interest in what he now
regarded as her defence. He swore to himself that he would use not
only all his skill as an advocate, but all his faculties as a man to
extricate this beautiful woman from the horrible position in which he
found her, and to assuage as much as might be the pains she would
have to endure. Under the overwhelming spell of her rich comeliness,
and in front of the evidence afforded by her presence here this
afternoon, he reproached himself bitterly for the suspicion he had
uttered the day before as to her fleeing from the country. It was
brutal of him to think of such a thing then, and still more brutal of
him to speak his thoughts.
She did not reply to his last question at once. She looked at him
steadily, without flinching, but remained silent.
He spoke again, this time earnestly, almost passionately:
"Mrs. Davenport, if you give me any theory to go on, I promise you,
upon my word of honour as a man, to make the most I can of it. I'll
leave no stone unturned to put things in their best light. I'll work
without ceasing; I'll do nothing else, think of nothing else until I
see you through this ordeal. I will not ask you again for any
confidence you wish to withhold from me. But if out of justice to
yourself you will not, out of justice to me you _must_ give me
something to go on. You _must_ give me at least a theory."
He spoke to her eagerly, fiercely, and held out his hands towards her
in supplication.
She dropped her eyes a moment as if to collect her thoughts, and then
looking straight into his face once more, said with a slight tremor
in her voice:
"I have a theory; but I am afraid it is not one that will meet with
your approval."
"If it is the best you can give me, trust me to do the best that can
be done with it. But, for heaven's sake, give me the best one you
can. Give me a chance. All I want is a chance to show you my
devotion--to your interests."
He felt he was being carried away by the irresistible magic of her
eyes. He paused after the word "devotion," and spoke the final phrase
of his speech in a less fervent tone, to modify by matter and manner
what had gone before.
"There is," she said, unclasping and then clasping her hands again,
"but one theory possible in the case. As I told you a moment ago, Mr.
Davenport was at one period of his life subject to delusions----"
"Pardon me," interrupted Pringle; "you said awhile ago that you had
no experience of your own as to this infirmity. I assume we shall be
able to produce evidence to prove that?"
"Undoubtedly there will be evidence."
"May I ask from whom we are to expect this evidence? Mr. Davenport's
brother? He knows all about it, I suppose?"
"No, not Mr. Davenport's brother. I am not sure that Mr. Edward
Davenport ever knew anything about it."
"That is unfortunate, since, so far as I understand, Mr. Edward
Davenport is the late Mr. Davenport's only surviving relative."
"He is. But at the time when Mr. Davenport had those seizures he was
abroad, on the Continent. For many years of his life Mr. Davenport
did not live in the United Kingdoms. When I first knew him he had
just come home after travelling for a long time in America and
Europe. Although I am not quite sure, I think up to a very short time
before I met him he had been out of the country most of his life. He
was not very communicative about the past, or indeed on any subject.
It was while he was staying for a time in Florence he had these
attacks of hallucination----"
"And the evidence we can command is that of an eye-witness?" broke in
Pringle.
"Certainly."
"The inquest will be to-morrow. May I not have the name of the
witness? There is no time to be lost. In fact, this evidence, this
extremely important evidence, comes very late. I am sorry I did not
hear of it before. But we must do the best we can with it."
He spoke in a voice of deep concern.
"There was a reason why you did not hear of this evidence earlier.
You asked me to give you my theory, Had I not better do so before
going into other matters?"
She raised her clasped hands slightly from her lap in faint protest.
"I beg your pardon for interrupting you. By all means let me have the
theory first. My anxiety betrayed me into asking questions which
ought to have been deferred."
He was filled with admiration of this woman who could keep so closely
to the point, and with shame for himself for his unthrifty straying
from it.
"As you are no doubt aware, chloroform affects different people in
different ways. A little of it will kill some people; a large
quantity will scarcely affect others. Many under its influence become
delirious and rave. At certain periods, while under the power of
chloroform, one may be relieved of pain, conscious of surrounding
things, capable of moving, and yet delirious. The theory I would
suggest is that Mr. Davenport inhaled some chloroform to ease a spasm
of asthma, that he became delirious, that he had a return of his old
hallucination, then wrote what was found on the leaf torn from the
book, and while endeavouring to administer a second dose to himself,
spilled the contents of the bottle over his beard and chest."
Her words came in as calm and measured a way as though she were
speaking on an abstract subject to an indifferent audience.
As she went on, Pringle's admiration gave way to amazement. A
scientific witness could not be more unmoved. Was it possible this
superb woman opposite him had been explaining to him in these cold,
measured accents her way of accounting for the death of a husband who
had been alive and without any immediate danger of death a couple of
days ago, and who had since died a death which was, to say the least
of it, provocative of inquiry?
He leaned back in his chair, sighed thoughtfully, and knit his brows.
He cleared his throat once or twice to speak, but remained silent. He
felt dull and heavy, as though something oppressed his chest.
"That is my theory--the only possible theory," she said, leaning
forward and looking quietly into his face, without any change in the
expression of her own.
He shook himself slightly, looked perplexed, not satisfied. At last
he spoke:
"And what evidence have we in support of this supposition?"
She leaned back in her chair and whispered, "None."
He started, sat up, and looked at her keenly. He drew down his brows
over his eyes as though the light hurt him.
"I am afraid," said he, "such a theory would not stand without most
substantial testimony. No jury would give a satisfactory verdict on a
mere statement such as that, for, you see, there are the last words
written by the deceased." Until this moment he had not used that
cold, formless word "deceased" to her. But he felt now that he was
regarding the matter in a purely professional way, and that so was
she. In a moment he continued, laying impressively significant
emphasis on his words: "How are we to explain the fact of Mr. Blake's
name appearing on that piece of paper?"
"Mr. Blake," she said, half-closing her eyes as though she was weary,
"was the last person he saw before his death, and, when the delirium
came upon him, he naturally introduced the name of Mr. Blake as being
that of the person most immediate to his memory."
"What!" cried Pringle, starting up off his chair and leaning towards
her, "Do we admit he was there?"
He could scarcely contain himself for astonishment. He looked at her
as though he expected to find her transformed into the person of
Blake himself.
"Undoubtedly," she said, opening her eyes slowly and looking up at
him. "Mr. Blake was there a little while before Mr. Davenport died."
Pringle groaned, ran his fingers excitedly through his hair, and
began pacing the room up and down hastily.
After a dozen turns, he stopped in front of her chair.
"When did you learn that your late husband had had hallucinations?"
"Last night."
"Last night only! Who told you?"
"Mr. Blake."
"Mr. Blake!--Mr. Blake! And who saw your husband when he was
suffering from these hallucinations?"
"Mr. Blake."
"And is he the witness we have as to the hallucinations?"
"Yes."
"Merciful heavens! Which of us is mad? Where did you meet this
Blake?"
"I wrote to him to come here, and he came."
"_You wrote him to come here!_ Heaven help you--heaven help you! It
is you who are mad."
And he hastened out of the room.