On the 14th the Directors and their legal advisers met for the reading
of the report, with closed doors. These were the terms in which the
Commissioners related the results of their inquiry:
“_Private and confidential_.
“We have the honour to inform our Directors that we arrived in Venice
on December 6, 1860. On the same day we proceeded to the palace
inhabited by Lord Montbarry at the time of his last illness and death.
“We were received with all possible courtesy by Lady Montbarry’s
brother, Baron Rivar. ‘My sister was her husband’s only attendant
throughout his illness,’ the Baron informed us. ‘She is overwhelmed by
grief and fatigue—or she would have been here to receive you
personally. What are your wishes, gentlemen? and what can I do for you
in her ladyship’s place?’
“In accordance with our instructions, we answered that the death and
burial of Lord Montbarry abroad made it desirable to obtain more
complete information relating to his illness, and to the circumstances
which had attended it, than could be conveyed in writing. We explained
that the law provided for the lapse of a certain interval of time
before the payment of the sum assured, and we expressed our wish to
conduct the inquiry with the most respectful consideration for her
ladyship’s feelings, and for the convenience of any other members of
the family inhabiting the house.
“To this the Baron replied, ‘I am the only member of the family living
here, and I and the palace are entirely at your disposal.’ From first
to last we found this gentleman perfectly straightforward, and most
amiably willing to assist us.
“With the one exception of her ladyship’s room, we went over the whole
of the palace the same day. It is an immense place only partially
furnished. The first floor and part of the second floor were the
portions of it that had been inhabited by Lord Montbarry and the
members of the household. We saw the bedchamber, at one extremity of
the palace, in which his lordship died, and the small room
communicating with it, which he used as a study. Next to this was a
large apartment or hall, the doors of which he habitually kept locked,
his object being (as we were informed) to pursue his studies
uninterruptedly in perfect solitude. On the other side of the large
hall were the bedchamber occupied by her ladyship, and the
dressing-room in which the maid slept previous to her departure for
England. Beyond these were the dining and reception rooms, opening into
an antechamber, which gave access to the grand staircase of the palace.
“The only inhabited rooms on the second floor were the sitting-room and
bedroom occupied by Baron Rivar, and another room at some distance from
it, which had been the bedroom of the courier Ferrari.
“The rooms on the third floor and on the basement were completely
unfurnished, and in a condition of great neglect. We inquired if there
was anything to be seen below the basement—and we were at once informed
that there were vaults beneath, which we were at perfect liberty to
visit.
“We went down, so as to leave no part of the palace unexplored. The
vaults were, it was believed, used as dungeons in the old times—say,
some centuries since. Air and light were only partially admitted to
these dismal places by two long shafts of winding construction, which
communicated with the back yard of the palace, and the openings of
which, high above the ground, were protected by iron gratings. The
stone stairs leading down into the vaults could be closed at will by a
heavy trap-door in the back hall, which we found open. The Baron
himself led the way down the stairs. We remarked that it might be
awkward if that trap-door fell down and closed the opening behind us.
The Baron smiled at the idea. ‘Don’t be alarmed, gentlemen,’ he said;
‘the door is safe. I had an interest in seeing to it myself, when we
first inhabited the palace. My favourite study is the study of
experimental chemistry—and my workshop, since we have been in Venice,
is down here.’
“These last words explained a curious smell in the vaults, which we
noticed the moment we entered them. We can only describe the smell by
saying that it was of a twofold sort—faintly aromatic, as it were, in
its first effect, but with some after-odour very sickening in our
nostrils. The Baron’s furnaces and retorts, and other things, were all
there to speak for themselves, together with some packages of
chemicals, having the name and address of the person who had supplied
them plainly visible on their labels. ‘Not a pleasant place for study,’
Baron Rivar observed, ‘but my sister is timid. She has a horror of
chemical smells and explosions—and she has banished me to these lower
regions, so that my experiments may neither be smelt nor heard.’ He
held out his hands, on which we had noticed that he wore gloves in the
house. ‘Accidents will happen sometimes,’ he said, ‘no matter how
careful a man may be. I burnt my hands severely in trying a new
combination the other day, and they are only recovering now.’
“We mention these otherwise unimportant incidents, in order to show
that our exploration of the palace was not impeded by any attempt at
concealment. We were even admitted to her ladyship’s own room—on a
subsequent occasion, when she went out to take the air. Our
instructions recommended us to examine his lordship’s residence,
because the extreme privacy of his life at Venice, and the remarkable
departure of the only two servants in the house, might have some
suspicious connection with the nature of his death. We found nothing to
justify suspicion.
“As to his lordship’s retired way of life, we have conversed on the
subject with the consul and the banker—the only two strangers who held
any communication with him. He called once at the bank to obtain money
on his letter of credit, and excused himself from accepting an
invitation to visit the banker at his private residence, on the ground
of delicate health. His lordship wrote to the same effect on sending
his card to the consul, to excuse himself from personally returning
that gentleman’s visit to the palace. We have seen the letter, and we
beg to offer the following copy of it. ‘Many years passed in India have
injured my constitution. I have ceased to go into society; the one
occupation of my life now is the study of Oriental literature. The air
of Italy is better for me than the air of England, or I should never
have left home. Pray accept the apologies of a student and an invalid.
The active part of my life is at an end.’ The self-seclusion of his
lordship seems to us to be explained in these brief lines. We have not,
however, on that account spared our inquiries in other directions.
Nothing to excite a suspicion of anything wrong has come to our
knowledge.
“As to the departure of the lady’s maid, we have seen the woman’s
receipt for her wages, in which it is expressly stated that she left
Lady Montbarry’s service because she disliked the Continent, and wished
to get back to her own country. This is not an uncommon result of
taking English servants to foreign parts. Lady Montbarry has informed
us that she abstained from engaging another maid in consequence of the
extreme dislike which his lordship expressed to having strangers in the
house, in the state of his health at that time.
“The disappearance of the courier Ferrari is, in itself, unquestionably
a suspicious circumstance. Neither her ladyship nor the Baron can
explain it; and no investigation that we could make has thrown the
smallest light on this event, or has justified us in associating it,
directly or indirectly, with the object of our inquiry. We have even
gone the length of examining the portmanteau which Ferrari left behind
him. It contains nothing but clothes and linen—no money, and not even a
scrap of paper in the pockets of the clothes. The portmanteau remains
in charge of the police.
“We have also found opportunities of speaking privately to the old
woman who attends to the rooms occupied by her ladyship and the Baron.
She was recommended to fill this situation by the keeper of the
restaurant who has supplied the meals to the family throughout the
period of their residence at the palace. Her character is most
favourably spoken of. Unfortunately, her limited intelligence makes her
of no value as a witness. We were patient and careful in questioning
her, and we found her perfectly willing to answer us; but we could
elicit nothing which is worth including in the present report.
“On the second day of our inquiries, we had the honour of an interview
with Lady Montbarry. Her ladyship looked miserably worn and ill, and
seemed to be quite at a loss to understand what we wanted with her.
Baron Rivar, who introduced us, explained the nature of our errand in
Venice, and took pains to assure her that it was a purely formal duty
on which we were engaged. Having satisfied her ladyship on this point,
he discreetly left the room.
“The questions which we addressed to Lady Montbarry related mainly, of
course, to his lordship’s illness. The answers, given with great
nervousness of manner, but without the slightest appearance of reserve,
informed us of the facts that follow:
“Lord Montbarry had been out of order for some time past—nervous and
irritable. He first complained of having taken cold on November 13
last; he passed a wakeful and feverish night, and remained in bed the
next day. Her ladyship proposed sending for medical advice. He refused
to allow her to do this, saying that he could quite easily be his own
doctor in such a trifling matter as a cold. Some hot lemonade was made
at his request, with a view to producing perspiration. Lady Montbarry’s
maid having left her at that time, the courier Ferrari (then the only
servant in the house) went out to buy the lemons. Her ladyship made the
drink with her own hands. It was successful in producing
perspiration—and Lord Montbarry had some hours of sleep afterwards.
Later in the day, having need of Ferrari’s services, Lady Montbarry
rang for him. The bell was not answered. Baron Rivar searched for the
man, in the palace and out of it, in vain. From that time forth not a
trace of Ferrari could be discovered. This happened on November 14.
“On the night of the 14th, the feverish symptoms accompanying his
lordship’s cold returned. They were in part perhaps attributable to the
annoyance and alarm caused by Ferrari’s mysterious disappearance. It
had been impossible to conceal the circumstance, as his lordship rang
repeatedly for the courier; insisting that the man should relieve Lady
Montbarry and the Baron by taking their places during the night at his
bedside.
“On the 15th (the day on which the old woman first came to do the
housework), his lordship complained of sore throat, and of a feeling of
oppression on the chest. On this day, and again on the 16th, her
ladyship and the Baron entreated him to see a doctor. He still refused.
‘I don’t want strange faces about me; my cold will run its course, in
spite of the doctor,’—that was his answer. On the 17th he was so much
worse that it was decided to send for medical help whether he liked it
or not. Baron Rivar, after inquiry at the consul’s, secured the
services of Doctor Bruno, well known as an eminent physician in Venice;
with the additional recommendation of having resided in England, and
having made himself acquainted with English forms of medical practice.
“Thus far our account of his lordship’s illness has been derived from
statements made by Lady Montbarry. The narrative will now be most fitly
continued in the language of the doctor’s own report, herewith
subjoined.
“‘My medical diary informs me that I first saw the English Lord
Montbarry, on November 17. He was suffering from a sharp attack of
bronchitis. Some precious time had been lost, through his obstinate
objection to the presence of a medical man at his bedside. Generally
speaking, he appeared to be in a delicate state of health. His nervous
system was out of order—he was at once timid and contradictory. When I
spoke to him in English, he answered in Italian; and when I tried him
in Italian, he went back to English. It mattered little—the malady had
already made such progress that he could only speak a few words at a
time, and those in a whisper.
“‘I at once applied the necessary remedies. Copies of my prescriptions
(with translation into English) accompany the present statement, and
are left to speak for themselves.
“‘For the next three days I was in constant attendance on my patient.
He answered to the remedies employed—improving slowly, but decidedly. I
could conscientiously assure Lady Montbarry that no danger was to be
apprehended thus far. She was indeed a most devoted wife. I vainly
endeavoured to induce her to accept the services of a competent nurse;
she would allow nobody to attend on her husband but herself. Night and
day this estimable woman was at his bedside. In her brief intervals of
repose, her brother watched the sick man in her place. This brother
was, I must say, very good company, in the intervals when we had time
for a little talk. He dabbled in chemistry, down in the horrid
under-water vaults of the palace; and he wanted to show me some of his
experiments. I have enough of chemistry in writing prescriptions—and I
declined. He took it quite good-humouredly.
“‘I am straying away from my subject. Let me return to the sick lord.
“‘Up to the 20th, then, things went well enough. I was quite unprepared
for the disastrous change that showed itself, when I paid Lord
Montbarry my morning visit on the 21st. He had relapsed, and seriously
relapsed. Examining him to discover the cause, I found symptoms of
pneumonia—that is to say, in unmedical language, inflammation of the
substance of the lungs. He breathed with difficulty, and was only
partially able to relieve himself by coughing. I made the strictest
inquiries, and was assured that his medicine had been administered as
carefully as usual, and that he had not been exposed to any changes of
temperature. It was with great reluctance that I added to Lady
Montbarry’s distress; but I felt bound, when she suggested a
consultation with another physician, to own that I too thought there
was really need for it.
“‘Her ladyship instructed me to spare no expense, and to get the best
medical opinion in Italy. The best opinion was happily within our
reach. The first and foremost of Italian physicians is Torello of
Padua. I sent a special messenger for the great man. He arrived on the
evening of the 21st, and confirmed my opinion that pneumonia had set
in, and that our patient’s life was in danger. I told him what my
treatment of the case had been, and he approved of it in every
particular. He made some valuable suggestions, and (at Lady Montbarry’s
express request) he consented to defer his return to Padua until the
following morning.
“‘We both saw the patient at intervals in the course of the night. The
disease, steadily advancing, set our utmost resistance at defiance. In
the morning Doctor Torello took his leave. “I can be of no further
use,” he said to me. “The man is past all help—and he ought to know
it.”
“‘Later in the day I warned my lord, as gently as I could, that his
time had come. I am informed that there are serious reasons for my
stating what passed between us on this occasion, in detail, and without
any reserve. I comply with the request.
“‘Lord Montbarry received the intelligence of his approaching death
with becoming composure, but with a certain doubt. He signed to me to
put my ear to his mouth. He whispered faintly, “Are you sure?” It was
no time to deceive him; I said, “Positively sure.” He waited a little,
gasping for breath, and then he whispered again, “Feel under my
pillow.” I found under his pillow a letter, sealed and stamped, ready
for the post. His next words were just audible and no more—“Post it
yourself.” I answered, of course, that I would do so—and I did post the
letter with my own hand. I looked at the address. It was directed to a
lady in London. The street I cannot remember. The name I can perfectly
recall: it was an Italian name—“Mrs. Ferrari.”
“‘That night my lord nearly died of asphyxia. I got him through it for
the time; and his eyes showed that he understood me when I told him,
the next morning, that I had posted the letter. This was his last
effort of consciousness. When I saw him again he was sunk in apathy. He
lingered in a state of insensibility, supported by stimulants, until
the 25th, and died (unconscious to the last) on the evening of that
day.
“‘As to the cause of his death, it seems (if I may be excused for
saying so) simply absurd to ask the question. Bronchitis, terminating
in pneumonia—there is no more doubt that this, and this only, was the
malady of which he expired, than that two and two make four. Doctor
Torello’s own note of the case is added here to a duplicate of my
certificate, in order (as I am informed) to satisfy some English
offices in which his lordship’s life was insured. The English offices
must have been founded by that celebrated saint and doubter, mentioned
in the New Testament, whose name was Thomas!’
“Doctor Bruno’s evidence ends here.
“Reverting for a moment to our inquiries addressed to Lady Montbarry,
we have to report that she can give us no information on the subject of
the letter which the doctor posted at Lord Montbarry’s request. When
his lordship wrote it? what it contained? why he kept it a secret from
Lady Montbarry (and from the Baron also); and why he should write at
all to the wife of his courier? these are questions to which we find it
simply impossible to obtain any replies. It seems even useless to say
that the matter is open to suspicion. Suspicion implies conjecture of
some kind—and the letter under my lord’s pillow baffles all conjecture.
Application to Mrs. Ferrari may perhaps clear up the mystery. Her
residence in London will be easily discovered at the Italian Couriers’
Office, Golden Square.
“Having arrived at the close of the present report, we have now to draw
your attention to the conclusion which is justified by the results of
our investigation.
“The plain question before our Directors and ourselves appears to be
this: Has the inquiry revealed any extraordinary circumstances which
render the death of Lord Montbarry open to suspicion? The inquiry has
revealed extraordinary circumstances beyond all doubt—such as the
disappearance of Ferrari, the remarkable absence of the customary
establishment of servants in the house, and the mysterious letter which
his lordship asked the doctor to post. But where is the proof that any
one of these circumstances is associated—suspiciously and directly
associated—with the only event which concerns us, the event of Lord
Montbarry’s death? In the absence of any such proof, and in the face of
the evidence of two eminent physicians, it is impossible to dispute the
statement on the certificate that his lordship died a natural death. We
are bound, therefore, to report, that there are no valid grounds for
refusing the payment of the sum for which the late Lord Montbarry’s
life was assured.
“We shall send these lines to you by the post of to-morrow, December
10; leaving time to receive your further instructions (if any), in
reply to our telegram of this evening announcing the conclusion of the
inquiry.”