BEFORE THE CORONER.
AT the table where Christian Harefield had sat at meat on Sunday
evening, with his daughter and his daughter’s companion, sat the
coroner, in the gathering dusk of Monday afternoon, with his jurymen in
a row of heavy oaken chairs on either side of him--looking very much as
if they were sitting at a new Barmecide’s dinner--to inquire into the
cause or causes of Christian Harefield’s death.
The inquest had been called for three o’clock, but it was nearly four,
and the proceedings were but just beginning. There had been the usual
delays--one or two jurymen late--a good deal of blundering in calling
over the names--some small disputations about nothing particular--a
general muddling away of time. And now the sky outside the heavy
mullioned casements was deepening from gray to dun, the red glow of
the fire was shining redder upon the oak panelling as the outside
world darkened, the ticking of the clock on the chimney-piece sounded
obtrusively above the half-whispered conversation, and the falling of a
cinder on the hearth seemed as startling as the report of a gun.
Mr. Scratchell sat at a corner of the table, note-book in hand, to
watch the proceedings as Miss Harefield’s legal adviser. He had
appointed himself to that post, and no one had disputed his right to
it. Beatrix had asked for no legal advice. She knew that her father
was dead, suddenly, mysteriously, awfully, but no instinct of her mind
impelled her to seek comfort, counsel, or succour from Mr. Scratchell,
or to throw herself into the sanctuary of English law.
The coroner was Dr. Judson, of Great Yafford, a medical man much
respected in his district, and a coroner who indulged in the
eccentricity of thinking for himself.
The proceedings were opened by the examination of Mr. Namby, who gave
his opinion very decidedly upon the cause of death. He had no doubt
upon this point. The deceased gentleman had died from an overdose of
opium. He described those indications which led him to believe this,
and Dr. Judson, who knew Taylor’s Medical Jurisprudence by heart, knew
that the witness was right.
Peacock, the butler, the last person who had seen Mr. Harefield alive,
was the first witness examined, after the medical evidence had been
heard, and the jury had withdrawn to view the body.
He described the visit of the foreign gentleman, and his departure. He
was not able to recall the gentleman’s name, although he had glanced at
his card before he carried it to Mr. Harefield. The name was a foreign
one, and had slipped out of his memory directly after he read it.
Coroner. How long was he with your master?
Peacock. It might be from an hour to an hour and a half. We were just
beginning our suppers in the servants’ hall when the bell rang, and
I opened the door to the strange gentleman. We hadn’t finished many
minutes when Mr. Harefield rung his bell for me to let the strange
gentleman out.
Coroner. Do you usually take an hour and a half at your supper?
Peacock. We might take as much on a Sunday night.
Coroner (with grim facetiousness, reflecting that this is how his
servants make such an impression on the butcher’s bill). Oh, I see, on
Sunday night you eat a little extra. The better the day the better the
deed. Then, as you are in the habit of sitting an hour and a half at
your supper, you conclude that the stranger was with Mr. Harefield as
long as that.
Peacock. I should say about that time.
Coroner. How often did you see Mr. Harefield after the stranger left?
Peacock. I went into the room twice--once with some fresh logs, once
with coals.
Coroner. Did you observe anything peculiar in your master’s manner?
Peacock. No, sir. When I went in the first time he was sitting before
the fire, a little moody-like, staring straight before him; but he was
moody in his ways most times. When I went in with the coals, he was
sitting there still--like a statue. I asked him if there was anything
more wanted, and he said, ‘No, Peacock, nothing more.’ That was his
general reply. I couldn’t see any difference in his voice or manner.
Coroner. Were you with Miss Harefield this morning when she discovered
her father’s death?
Peacock. I was just outside the door when she went in and found him
lying dead upon the sofa.
Coroner. In which room was he found?
Peacock. In Mrs. Harefield’s sitting-room. It hadn’t entered into my
head--or into the housekeeper’s head--to look for him in that room, for
the room was never used. Mr. Harefield kept the key, and it was kept
locked at all times, like a tomb.
Coroner. Who suggested looking into that room?
Peacock. Miss Harefield. ‘Let us go into every room in the house,’ she
said, ‘my mother’s rooms first of all.’
Coroner. Did she give any reason for making that suggestion?
Peacock. Yes--she named her reason. The strange gentleman was an old
friend of her mother’s, Miss Harefield thought, and that might have set
her father thinking of old times, and carried his thoughts back to his
wife’s rooms. That is what I understood her to mean.
Coroner. Then Miss Harefield led the way to the room in which her
father was found?
Peacock. She did.
Coroner. And he was quite dead when you found him?
Peacock. Quite dead. When Mr. Namby saw my master he said he must have
been dead some hours. He was stone cold--icy cold. Mr. Namby said icy
coldness of the body was one of the signs of poisoning by opium.
Coroner. You need not tell us what Mr. Namby said. Mr. Namby has told
us his opinion. Have you any knowledge of your master taking opium, for
any purpose whatever?
Peacock. I have never known him to do such a thing.
Coroner. What! not an occasional dose to deaden pain?
Peacock. I have never heard him complain of pain.
Coroner. But have you never had cause to suspect him of taking opium?
He was a man of reserved and lonely habits. Have you never seen him in
a stupefied, dreamy state, such as you may have heard of or read of as
peculiar to opium eaters?
Peacock. Never.
Coroner. Have you ever seen any bottle containing opium, or any bottle
labelled opium, or laudanum, in his rooms?
Peacock. Never.
Coroner. Have you ever seen anything in your late master’s manner
indicating a disturbed state of mind--the sort of thing which is
usually called not being quite right in one’s mind?
Peacock. No, sir. My late master was not a cheerful man. He was a
gentleman who preferred to live alone. He had always lived shut up in
his own rooms since his wife’s death. I believe he took her death very
much to heart. He has never talked about his troubles to me, or to any
one in the house, but I believe that was his trouble.
The next witness was Isabella Scratchell. She had been present at
the discovery of Mr. Harefield’s death. She had dined with him on the
previous evening, and would naturally be an independent witness, and a
more unbiassed judge of his demeanour and mental condition than either
his old servants or his daughter.
Bella gave her evidence with a graceful timidity and a gentle firmness
which charmed her hearers. She felt that it was her first public
appearance, and that the eyes of Little Yafford--or possibly of a much
wider world than Little Yafford--were upon her. She stood at the end of
the long table, with her clear blue eyes fixed respectfully upon the
coroner, her little white hands clasped, her head slightly bent. Even
her father’s cold eye perceived that there was grace and prettiness in
this familiar face and figure.
‘A girl like that ought to get a husband able to support her,’ thought
Mr. Scratchell, who regarded marriage as an institution devised for
taking daughters off a father’s hands, and throwing the onus of
maintaining them upon an obliging stranger.
Coroner. You dined with Mr. Harefield yesterday evening, I believe?
Bella. Yes.
Coroner. What impression did his manner make upon you?
Bella. I felt very sorry for Beatrix--for Miss Harefield.
Coroner. Why?
Bella. It was so sad to see a father and daughter so unloving. Or I
should say sad to see a daughter so little loved.
Coroner. Then you conclude the want of affection was on Mr. Harefield’s
side?
Bella (after a moment of hesitation). Yes.
Coroner. Do you mean that Mr. Harefield was absolutely harsh in his
treatment of his daughter?
Bella. Both harsh and cold. I should have felt it painfully had I been
Miss Harefield. Indeed, I know she did feel it.
Coroner. She has told you so?
Bella. Indirectly. She has told me of unhappiness between her and her
father.
Coroner. What kind of unhappiness?
Bella. I had rather not enter into that. I have no right to betray Miss
Harefield’s confidence.
Coroner. You are bound to answer any questions bearing upon the subject
of this inquiry. I want particularly to know the state of feeling
between Mr. Harefield and his daughter. Now what was the unhappiness of
which you have spoken?
Bella (with her eyes wandering piteously round the stolid faces of the
jury, and at last seeking counsel in the looks of her father). Am I
really obliged to answer this question?
Scratchell. Yes, yes, girl, you’d better answer.
Bella. The unhappiness was about a gentleman to whom Miss Harefield is
deeply attached. Mr. Harefield forbade her to see this gentleman, or to
hold any communication with him.
Coroner. And that had been the cause of ill-feeling between the father
and daughter?
Bella. I have never said ill-feeling. I only say that Mr. Harefield’s
manner to his daughter was morose and unkind.
Coroner. Did you perceive anything approaching to eccentricity or
mental disturbance in his manner last evening?
Bella. Nothing.
Coroner. Should you consider him a man likely to commit suicide?
Bella. I should say not. He was always reserved and gloomy.
Coroner. But not more so yesterday evening than usual?
Bella. No more than usual.
Coroner. How did Miss Harefield seem impressed by the discovery of her
father’s death?
Bella. She seemed stunned.
Coroner. She said very little, I conclude?
Bella. She said nothing. The awfulness of the discovery seemed to turn
her to stone.
The next and last witness was one in whom even those stolid jurymen
felt a keen interest. The next witness was Beatrix Harefield, who came
into the room slowly, leaning upon Mrs. Dulcimer, a living image of
horror and amazement.
Some one, seeing how feebly she moved from the door to the table,
brought her a chair; or, in the richer phraseology of the reporters,
she was ‘accommodated with a seat.’ She sat, looking straight at the
distant coroner, seen dimly by the light of tall wax candles in old
silver candelabra, at the end of an avenue of jurymen.
Beatrix was questioned as to the finding of her father’s body. Her
replies were at first hardly audible, but voice and manner grew firmer
as she went on.
Coroner. What induced you to suggest that your mother’s sitting-room
should be the first place to be searched?
Beatrix. Because I fancied my father’s thoughts would dwell upon my
mother last night.
Coroner. Why?
Beatrix. The gentleman who came here--after an absence of many
years--was a countryman and friend of my mother’s. That would carry my
father’s thoughts back.
Coroner. Can you tell me the name of this gentleman? His evidence would
be important as to the state of your father’s mind yesterday evening.
Beatrix. I have heard him called Antonio.
Coroner. That was his Christian name, no doubt. Have you never heard
his surname?
Beatrix. Never, to my knowledge. I was a child when he used to visit
here. I have heard my father and mother both speak of him as Antonio.
Coroner. Was your father in the habit of going into that locked up room
of your mother’s?
Beatrix. I know he went there sometimes.
Coroner. How do you know that?
Beatrix. I found the key left in the door once. No one could have left
it there but my father.
Coroner. The room was kept locked, I understand. The members of the
household were not allowed to go in.
Beatrix. It was kept locked from every one for ten years.
Coroner. Have you never been in the room during that time?
Beatrix. Once only. The day I found the key in the door. I went in and
looked at my mother’s room.
Coroner. Have you any reason to suppose that your father was in the
habit of taking opium?
Beatrix. I have no reason to suppose so. We lived very much apart, but
from what I saw of his mode of life, I do not think my father ever took
opium.
Coroner. You have never heard him complain of pain of any
kind--rheumatism or neuralgia, for instance--which might have induced
him to seek relief from opiates?
Beatrix. Never.
Coroner. Do you know whether there was any laudanum in the house at the
time of your father’s death?
Beatrix (with evident agitation, and after a noticeable pause). No,
there was no laudanum in the house at the time of my father’s death.
Coroner. Are you sure of that?
Beatrix. Quite sure. I have suffered from sleeplessness for many weeks.
Last week I bought a little laudanum, and have been taking it nightly
in small doses. I took rather a larger dose than usual last night and
emptied the bottle.
The jury, who had been getting a little absent-minded during what they
considered a somewhat wire-drawn interrogation, became suddenly on the
alert. Four and twenty eyes were fixed inquisitively upon the pale face
of the witness. A gentleman who stood in the shadow of the doorway
watching the proceedings grew a shade paler than he had been before.
Coroner. Did any one know of your taking this laudanum?
Beatrix. No one.
Coroner. Was it recommended by your medical adviser?
Beatrix. No. I asked Mr. Namby to give me opiates, but he refused.
Coroner. And, unknown to every one, you bought laudanum, and took it in
nightly doses?
Beatrix. Yes. The sleepless nights were so miserable. I think I should
have gone mad if they had continued much longer.
Coroner. Was there any cause for these sleepless nights?
Beatrix (faltering, and with a distressed look). I had been unhappy
lately.
Coroner. There was a love affair, was there not, which your father
disapproved?
Beatrix. Yes.
Coroner. Was there ill-feeling between you and your father about this
love affair?
Beatrix. Not exactly ill-feeling. I thought that my father acted
unkindly.
Coroner. There was no quarrel between you?
Beatrix. No. I submitted to my father’s will, but he knew that when I
came of age I should fulfil the engagement of which he disapproved.
Coroner. In other words, you defied him?
Beatrix. No. I only told him that I should be faithful to the man I
loved.
Coroner. No matter how objectionable that person might be to your
father?
Beatrix. He had no cause to object. He ought to have been proud that I
had won the love of so good a man.
Coroner. Perhaps a young lady is not always the best judge upon that
point. Now, will you tell me where you got this laudanum?
Beatrix. At Great Yafford.
Coroner. At which chemist’s?
Beatrix. I got it from several chemists. The chemist I first went to
would give me only a very small quantity. I went on to another chemist
and got a little more.
Coroner. That was very ingenious. How many chemists did you go to in
this manner?
Beatrix. I believe I went to five or six shops.
Coroner. Getting a little laudanum at each. How much did you get
altogether?
Beatrix. When I emptied all the bottles into one there was a small
bottle full.
Coroner. I should like to see the bottle. Let it be sent for.
Beatrix. It is in the little Indian cabinet on the writing-table in my
bedroom.
The bottle was fetched at the coroner’s desire. It was an ounce bottle,
quite empty, labelled in the usual manner.
Coroner. Was this bottle never out of your hands after you brought it
home?
Beatrix. Never. Till last night I kept it locked in my dressing-case.
Coroner. You are sure of that?
Beatrix. I am quite sure.
This ended Beatrix Harefield’s examination. After this the coroner
adjourned the inquiry for a week, with a view to obtaining further
evidence. He made a strong point of the desirability of obtaining
the evidence of the strange visitor who had been closeted with Mr.
Harefield for an hour and a half on the night before his death.