THE ELDER PRINGLE SPEAKS.
When Richard Pringle reached the street, he set off at a rapid walk
for Lincoln's Inn Fields. His thoughts and feelings were too much
disturbed for reasoning. The dialogue of the past hour hurried
through his brain in an incoherent, inconsequential mass. In the
intense excitement of the last few minutes, he had told her she was
mad, and he almost believed it. He had known from the previous day
that Blake had been at Crescent House on the night of Mr. Davenport's
death. He had most plainly, most impressively given her to understand
that he knew it. She must have seen plainly then he attached most
disastrous importance to that visit of her former lover. Since then
the leaf torn out of the pocket-book had been discovered. On that
leaf appeared a deliberate accusation of murder in the handwriting of
the dead man against Blake. That, in all reason, was sufficiently
serious; but worse followed. She had the day after her husband's
death asked this man Blake to visit her!
From Blake she had, Pringle felt not the least doubt, adopted that
elaborate and childish theory of the fatal event. Blake had told her
in that interview a thing neither she nor his brother had ever known
before--namely, that the deceased man had at one time, and to Blake's
personal knowledge, suffered from mental aberration of a kind which
would exactly explain away that damnatory writing on the paper--if
any one could believe Blake's story! The whole affair was simply
monstrous. If he viewed the matter from a purely professional point
of view, he would have been heartily sorry he ever connected himself
with it. But he could not regard the case solely as a matter between
client and solicitor. He was under the spell of this woman, and he
could not, if he would, and he would not if he could, escape. Only
one thing was clear to his mind now, and that took the form of
muttered words:
"_There will be business for the hangman in this affair_."
When he arrived at the office he found his father in, and having
locked the door of the private room, he communicated to the old man
the substance of the interview which had just been brought to a
close.
His father listened to the recital with the most circumstantial
patience. When the son had finished his tale, and wound up with the
opinion that some one was going to swing for the matter, the father,
to the son's unspeakable astonishment, looked up cheerfully, and
said:
"I am not at all sure of that, Dick--not at all."
"Bless my soul, father, where do you see the way out of it?"
"I can't say," said the elder man, "that I see my way out of it; but
I am sure _they_ do. Just run over the facts briefly: This woman was
formerly in love with Blake; Blake is bought off by old Davenport,
and Davenport marries the beauty. After years, the married couple
come to London, and put up by themselves in a detached house. That
night the old lover visits the house, and shortly after he leaves,
the wife raises an alarm, and the husband is found dead. The doctor
called in is not fully satisfied, and hints that the man has been
killed by chloroform--a drug frequently used by deceased. The widow
finds shelter in a neighbour's house. While there, she is given to
understand by her attorney that it is supposed her old lover was in
the house within a short time of the death, and that death is
believed to have arisen from choloroform, not asthma. Upon this she
displays great emotion, and declines to give any further information.
She leaves the neighbour's house that afternoon, and goes to a house
in which she stayed about six years ago when in London with her
husband. From that house she sends for her old lover, and has an
interview with him. Meantime a document is found in the handwriting
of deceased, saying her old lover has poisoned him (deceased). Her
solicitor sends a copy of this document to her. Next day solicitor
calls upon her, and finds her quite calm. She explains her theory of
her husband's death, and attributes the document mentioned to
hallucination, from which she alleges deceased suffered earlier in
life, and that death was the result of accidentally spilling the
chloroform by deceased. That's the case, as far as I can make it out.
Am I right, Dick?"
"Yes, sir--quite right."
"At the first glance it's a strong case."
"Did you ever, short of eye-witnesses, see a stronger?"
"I've seen a lot of cases in my time--a lot of cases. Wait a bit,
Dick, until we have another look at it. A motive lies on the very
surface; nothing could be plainer than the motive implied by the
case. It is: the old lover poisons the husband in order that the
woman may be free to marry him. A money motive may turn up later on;
if we may find that the widow is rich. Dick, I am getting to be an
old man now, and I give you one piece of advice, lest I may forget
it: _Always_ suspect a case where the motive is glaringly obvious.
Now, the two survivors in this affair are people of good education,
good position and intelligence, are they not?"
"Most assuredly, sir."
"Neither of the two is an idiot?"
"I am greatly afraid, father, that the lady's reason is affected."
"Observe, Dick, I did not ask you whether both are sane or mad. But
is either of them an _idiot_--_a drivelling idiot_--whom you would
not leave alone in a room where there was a fire or a razor?"
"No, no! They are both, as far as I know--I never saw him--rational
on the surface, anyway. But I fear the strain has been too much for
Mrs. Davenport."
"Never mind about that. She may for my purpose be as mad as she
likes, so long as she is not a drivelling idiot. Now, supposing
either of them had committed the crime of murder in this case, do you
suppose that until drivelling idiocy had been fully established in
one or the other, either of them would behave in such a childish way
as you describe? Why, it would shame any Bedlamite in Europe for rank
silliness! The man who tried to cool a red-hot poker in a barrel of
gunpowder would be only a little rash compared with either of these
two, if, as you seem to suppose, either is responsible for the dead
man's death."
The younger man's face brightened.
"Then you think, sir, there is still good reason to hope?"
"I am sure there is no reason to do anything else. This Mrs.
Davenport, at your first interview, trusts you fully up to a certain
point, and then suddenly refuses to give you any more confidence. At
your second interview she gives you all, and more than all, the
confidence you require. What has wrought that change? She has seen
the old lover. She is acting upon his advice. She has given you a
great deal of confidence, but she has not told you everything. She is
keeping back the most important piece of all."
"What is that?"
"The line of his and her defence. He will, of course, be
professionally represented at the inquest. There will be some one
there for him, anyhow. I am firmly convinced he has an unanswerable
and startling defence. If I were you I should take every precaution I
could for the protection of my client; but I feel fully assured _he_
will clear up the whole case. Now run away. I've got in another
batch of those Millington deeds, and I want to get through them by
dinner-time. Will you be home to dinner?"
"I don't think so, sir. I'll run out to Dulwich and see if there is
anything new."
When young Pringle found himself at Dulwich he went to Carlingford
House; for he knew that the folk there, especially Alfred, would be
anxious to hear the news, and this analysis of the case by his father
had put him in good heart.
The day was fine and mild for the season. As he entered the garden of
Carlingford House, he saw, through a tall wicket gateway, two elderly
men walking in the grounds at the rear. One of these he recognised as
Mr. Paulton; the other was a stranger to him.
He passed through the wicket gateway into the back garden. Just as he
did so the two men faced fully round, and Mr. Paulton cried out, as
he hastened towards the solicitor:
"Mr. Pringle, you are the very man we want. We were this minute
talking of you. Mr. Davenport, this is Mr. Pringle, who has kindly
consented, at our request, to act in this unhappy affair as solicitor
for Mrs. Davenport."
"Sir," said the dead man's brother, bowing low, "I am very glad to
make your acquaintance. I hope you find yourself in the enjoyment of
good health."
"I am quite well, thank you," said Pringle, somewhat taken aback by
the old-fashioned formality of the other.
The man who stood in front of him was a square-made, thick-set,
low-sized man of close on sixty years of age. His hair was black and
long and lank, profusely oiled, and hung down on the collar of his
coat and shoulders. He did not wear beard, whiskers, or moustaches.
His complexion was a lifeless sallow; his skin wrinkled, his nose
aquiline, and narrow at the top; his mouth weak and uncertain, with
thin, bloodless lips; his gait half-mincing, half-pompous; his voice
half-suave, half-raucous. His eyes were large and prominent, and of a
filmy, hazel colour. As Pringle looked at the new-comer, he thought:
"If he weren't so broad, he'd look like a dyspeptic mummy."
"I have just finished telling Mr. Davenport all I heard about this
sad affair, and I suppose you, Mr. Pringle, can now add something to
where I left off? Mr. Davenport is most anxious to know everything."
Young Pringle had then for the second time to go over the main
features of what had taken place since he was at Dulwich last. Of
course he was much more reticent than he had been with his father,
and repeated nothing of what had passed between Mrs. Davenport and
himself. It was Jerry O'Brien who had first introduced Blake's name
into the case. Mr. Paulton had told Mr. Davenport all he knew,
without adopting the precaution of finding out how the brother of the
dead man felt towards the widow.
Pringle had therefore no hesitation in saying that he had seen Mrs.
Davenport, and that she, of course, would be present at the inquest
to-morrow. He also said he had heard Thomas Blake would be present.
He told Mr. Davenport that if he wished to call upon the widow, her
address was at his disposal.
Mr. Davenport drew himself up hurriedly, and looking furiously at
Pringle from head to foot, as though the solicitor was the cause of
all the misfortunes, cried, while his lips, hands, and legs were
trembling:
"_I--I go near her!_ Are you mad, young sir? Have you taken leave of
your senses, or are you jeering at me? I go near my brother's
murderess! Do you take me for a conspirator too? Do you think I am
another Blake? I pity you, sir. An attorney, quotha! A man of your
trade ought to have some little discrimination. You are for her,
young sir! Look you: If justice can be had on this earth, by any and
all means in my power these two shall hang side by side on the same
gibbet, and keep the company of each other on the road to hell, and
in hell everlastingly;" and, foaming at the mouth, he dashed away
from the astonished pair and rushed into the house.
The inquest was to be held next day at noon.