The Catastrophe
Viewed by the cheerful light of the morning sun as it streamed in
through my bedroom window, the phantoms of the previous night dwindled
to mere scare-crows. On the panic-stricken state in which I had fled
from Mr. Otway’s chambers I was now disposed to look back with faint
amusement. Even the words which I had spoken into Mr. Otway’s ears as
he slept had no longer any terrifying significance, though I had to
admit that they were not susceptible of any satisfactory
interpretation. They had been spoken under the influence of an impulse
which I could not account for, and did not care to examine too
closely, but which I vaguely connected with my excursions into
psychical research--a subject which I decided to avoid as far as
possible in the future.
As to Mr. Otway, if his account of his family was correct, it seemed
quite probable that, sooner or later, he would make away with himself,
though, seeing that he was now well past middle life, the propensity
could hardly be as strong as he had represented it. On the other hand,
he was now being subjected to a very excessive nervous strain, and was
undoubtedly letting his mind run on the subject of suicide. If the
blackmailers continued to keep up an increasing pressure, as they
seemed inclined to do, the breaking-point might be reached quite soon.
And I could not disguise from myself that the catastrophe, if and when
it occurred, would not present itself to me as a personal misfortune.
With this I dismissed Mr. Otway and his affairs, and let my thoughts
roam into more attractive regions. For this was the day of days. In a
matter of a few hours my separation from Jasper would be at an end. We
should be united, never again to part.
As I rose and dressed, this was the burden of my thoughts. The weeks
of separation and loneliness were gone, and the hours that lay between
the present and that final meeting were running out apace like the
grains of sand in an hourglass that is nearly spent. I hurried over
breakfast that I might the sooner escape to be alone with my
happiness; and most of the morning I spent in the workshop, arranging
my apparatus so that it might easily be packed, in case I should not
come back to superintend the removal myself. The candlestick, which
was finished and successful beyond my expectations, I took upstairs to
place in my trunk that I might give it to Jasper this very day. And
then I paid a visit to my friend Peggy, whom I found in her workshop
chirruping gaily and very busy making a complicated set of plaster
moulds from the dissected wax model of her masterpiece. But I did not
stay long with her, for the making of piece-moulds is an engrossing
occupation and one better followed in solitude.
As I entered the house from the garden I encountered our little
housemaid with a telegram in her hand.
“This has just come for you, ma’am,” said she, holding it out towards
me. “The boy is waiting to see if there is any answer.”
I suppose that to most persons unaccustomed to receiving telegrams,
the appearance of the peremptory, orange-tinted envelope is a little
portentous. Especially so was it to me at that moment, with the crisis
of my life so near at hand; and my heart beat tumultuously as I tore
open the envelope and unfolded the flimsy paper. It bore but a brief
message; but when I had read that message, the joy of life, the
half-timorous happiness that had come to me with the morning sunlight,
went out in a moment, like a wind-blown taper, and left me desolate.
“Cancel appointment for to-day and do not come to the club. Letter
follows. Jasper.”
That was all. There was really nothing very alarming in it. But to me
it came as a dreadful anti-climax, strung up, as I was, to the highest
pitch of nervous tension. With a trembling hand I refolded the paper,
and, having told the maid that there was no answer, ran up to my room
and bolted myself in.
It was a terrible blow. Only now, by the bitterness of the
disappointment, did I realise the heart-hunger that I had endured, the
intense yearning for the moment in which my beloved companion would be
restored to me. And then, beyond this sudden collapse of my happiness,
almost in the moment of its realisation, was the mystery, the
suspense, the uncertainty. What could it be that had happened? Had
Jasper’s condition suddenly grown worse? That could hardly be, for he
was practically well--at least, he had so regarded himself--and
moreover there was that cryptic reference to the club. Why must I not
go to the club?
There was something very mysterious in that prohibition.
The more I reflected on the matter the more puzzling did it appear. On
the other hand, the very mystery in which the affair was shrouded was
itself a relief. For, of course, I never for one moment had the
faintest doubt of Jasper’s loyalty, nor could I entertain the
possibility of his having changed his views on the subject of our
marriage. Something had occurred to hinder it; but Jasper was my own
and I was his, and that being so, the hindrance, whatever it might be,
could be but temporary.
So I comforted myself and made believe that all was well, though when
by chance my eye lighted on the trunk, packed and even provided with a
blank label, I could hardly keep back the tears. At lunch I let Miss
Polton know that my visit was postponed, and immediately after the
meal I prepared to go out and seek relief in a long, sharp walk. By
the time I returned, the letter from Jasper would probably have
arrived and I should know how matters stood.
I had put on my outdoor clothes and was just about to start, when,
opening the drawer in which I kept my wrist-bag, I suddenly remembered
my loss of the night before. The bag contained, not only my purse, but
my card-case and one or two other things I could not conveniently do
without. The prohibition to go to the club could hardly, I reflected,
extend to Lyon’s Inn Chambers, though they were in the same
neighbourhood. At any rate, I wanted the bag, and in my restless state
a journey with a defined purpose offered more relief than an aimless
walk through the streets.
During the short journey from Mark Lane to the Temple I turned over
and over again the words of the telegram without obtaining any glimmer
of enlightenment. If I had been less sure of Jasper, I should have
been intensely wretched; but now, as the shock subsided, my optimism
revived and I found myself looking forward to Jasper’s letter with a
confident expectation of reassuring news.
Emerging from the Temple Station, I walked up Arundel Street, and,
crossing the Strand, presently passed through Half-Moon Alley and cast
a glance of friendly recognition at the old gilded sign, so pleasantly
associated with the scarlet parasol that hung outside the
umbrella-maker’s shop in Bookseller’s Row. The two signs recalled the
old delightful explorations with Jasper, and put me in quite a
cheerful frame of mind, which lasted until I found myself once more
ascending the bare and rather sordid stone stairs of Lyon’s Inn
Chambers. Then there came a marked change. As I walked up the cold,
gloomy staircase a feeling of depression settled on me. I passed the
grimy lantern that had looked on my head-long, terror-stricken flight,
and some of the forgotten qualms came back. I breathed again the close
air of that unpleasant bedroom; I saw again the unwieldy figure in the
bed, with its pasty face and puffy eyelids; and even the
sinister-looking peg on the wall came forth with uncomfortable
vividness from the recesses of memory. By the time I reached the
landing, my distaste for the place had grown so strong that I was half
inclined to turn back and complete the transaction by means of a
letter.
This weakness, however, I overcame by an effort of will and resolutely
rang the bell. There was a short interval and then the door opened,
revealing the figure of Mrs. Gregg, who, according to her custom,
stood and stared stonily at me without uttering a word.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gregg,” said I. “When I went away last night I
left my wrist-bag behind.”
“Ye did,” she answered; “and ye left the bedroom door open and the gas
full on. I found it so this morning.”
“I am very sorry,” I said.
“’Tis no matter,” she rejoined, impassively, and continued to stare at
me in a most singular and embarrassing fashion.
“Could I have my bag, please, Mrs. Gregg?” I asked.
“Ye could,” she replied; but still she made no move, nor any
suggestion that I should enter; and still she continued to look at me
with the strangest, most enigmatical expression.
“I hope,” said I, by way of relieving the extraordinarily
uncomfortable situation, “that Mr. Otway is better to-day.”
“Do ye?” said she; and then, after a pause, “Maybe ye’d wish to see
him?”
“I don’t think I will disturb him, thank you,” I replied.
“Ye need have no fear,” said she. “Ye’ll no disturb him.”
“Well, I don’t think I have time to see him to-day. I just called to
get my bag.”
“And is that all ye’ve come for?” she demanded, glowering at me in the
most astonishing manner.
“What else should I have come for?” I asked.
She thrust her head forward and replied in a low, mysterious tone:
“I thought maybe ye’d come to ask where your husband is.”
“I don’t understand you, Mrs. Gregg. Is Mr. Otway not at home?”
“He is not,” she replied; and as I made no comment, she asked: “Shall
I tell you where he is?”
“It really isn’t any business of mine, Mrs. Gregg,” said I.
“Is it not?” she demanded. “Will it no interest ye if I tell ye that
your husband is in St. Clement’s Mortuary?”
“In the mortuary!” I gasped.
“Aye, in the mortuary.” She glared at me in silence for a few moments,
and then, suddenly grasping my arm, exclaimed: “Woman! do ye ken yon
peg on the bedroom wall? Aye, ye may well turn pale. Ye’d ha’ turned
paler if ye’d seen what I saw by the gaslight this morn hangin’ from
yon peg.”
I gazed at her for a few moments in speechless horror, until she
seemed to sway and shimmer before my eyes. Then, for the first and
only time in my life, I must have fainted, for I remember no more
until I found myself lying on the floor of the lobby, with Mrs. Gregg
kneeling beside me slapping my face with a wet towel.
I rose with difficulty, feeling very weak and shaken. Mrs. Gregg
silently handed me my bag and preceded me towards the door, where,
with her hand on the latch, she turned and faced me.
“Weel, mistress,” said she, “’tis a fit ending, seeing how it began.
Ye’ve been a poor wife, but ye’ll make a bonny widow, though I doubt
it will stay long at that.”
To this insolent and brutal speech I made no reply. I was completely
broken, physically and mentally. I tottered out on to the landing and
slowly descended the stairs, holding on to the iron hand-rail, my
horror of the place urging me to hasten away, my trembling limbs and
lingering faintness bidding me go warily. As I walked unsteadily up
Holywell Street, a newspaper boy, running down the narrow
thoroughfare, halted and held out a paper.
“Here y’are, Miss, sooicide in Lyon’s Inn. The housekeeper’s story.”
I hurried past him with averted face, but out in the Strand there were
others, shouting aloud the dreadful tidings or displaying posters on
which the hideous fact was set forth in enormous type. And it seemed
as if each and all of them were specially addressing themselves to me.
I returned down Arundel Street, instinctively making for the station,
but as I approached it a fresh group of newsboys made me swerve to the
left and pursue my way along the Embankment on foot.
As I walked on, and the air and exercise helped me to recover
physically from the shock, I began to collect my faculties. At first I
had been utterly bewildered and overborne by a sense of horror and
guilt. I had sent this wretched man to his death. I had ordained the
means, the manner and the time of his death, and it had duly befallen
according to my directions. Morally--and perhaps even legally--it
amounted to murder. I had willed, I had suggested; and that which I
had willed and suggested had come to pass. That was what had flashed
into my mind in the very moment in which Mrs. Gregg had made her
dreadful communication.
But now, as I walked on, I began to argue the case in my own favour.
In the first place, I told myself, it was not certain that the act of
the dead man had any connection with the willing or the suggestion. It
might have been a mere coincidence. I tried to dwell on this view; but
it would not do. The coincidence was too complete to be explained away
by any such casuistry. I could not in this way escape the
responsibility for Mr. Otway’s death.
Then I considered the question of intention. I told myself--truthfully
enough--that I had not consciously willed that Mr. Otway should kill
himself. I had not even been conscious of any intention to suggest to
him that he should kill himself. But though I did make some sort of
point in my own defence, it was extremely unconvincing. I had allowed
my mind to dwell with hardly-disguised satisfaction on the possibility
of his suicide (in a particular manner at a particular time), and
between that and actual willing the distinction was not very obvious.
And then there were those words, spoken to him in his sleep. It was
not conscious, deliberate suggestion; but what was it? The impulse to
speak those words was apparently evolved from the subconscious. But
does no moral responsibility attach to subconscious intentions?
So I argued, back and forth, round and about; but always came back to
the same conclusion. Mr. Otway was dead; and it was my act that sent
him to his death. Locked up in my own breast this dreadful secret
might remain; but it was my companion for life. There was no escape
from it.
But would it remain locked up in my own breast? That was another
question that began to loom up with a very real menace. How much did
Mrs. Gregg know? She might easily have overheard our conversation and
even those final, fatal words. And if she had, would she understand
their significance? Now that I came to consider the circumstances,
there was something rather alarming in the manner of this inscrutable
woman; something threatening and accusatory which I had vaguely felt
at the time. And as I reflected on this and the possibilities that it
suggested, a fear of something more substantial than my own accusing
conscience began to creep around my heart.
When I arrived home, Jasper’s letter was awaiting me. But it contained
nothing new. He had seen the posters, had bought an early paper and
had immediately sent off the telegram. His tone was that of
matter-of-fact satisfaction. The legal impediment to our marriage had
now been removed. No declarations were necessary now. We could marry
like other people. We were free.
That was the burden of the letter. All our troubles were at an end.
Until everything was settled, we had better avoid meeting. But when
the chapter was closed with all due formalities we could sing “_Nunc
dimittis_,” and thenceforth live only for one another.
I laid the letter down. All that it said was true. The picture that my
imagination had drawn under the guidance of desire as I had sat
looking into the shadowy corner of the bedroom in Lyon’s Inn had
become a reality. The fetters that I had forged and put on that fatal
morning in the little church at Maidstone, had fallen off and given me
back my freedom.
And even as I told myself this, some voice from within seemed to
whisper a _caveat_, and my heart was sensible of a chill of fear.
BOOK III--CRIME
Chapter XXIII.
The Dead Hand
The entry of Mr. Otway into my life inaugurated a long succession of
disasters. The very first words that I heard him speak shattered the
peace of a lifetime. Thenceforward, like the Ancient Mariner, I was
haunted by a malign influence which seemed to exhale continuously from
his ill-omened personality. And even now that he was dead that
malignant spirit was not at rest. His very corpse, lying in the
mortuary, was a centre whence radiated sinister influences that crept
into my secret soul and enveloped me from without. During his life Mr.
Otway had been my evil genius; and death had but transformed him into
a malicious _poltergeist_.
His first, tentative appearance in this character was made on the very
evening of my second visit to Lyon’s Inn Chambers, when the coroner’s
officer called at Wellclose Square to serve the subpœna for the
inquest. The announcement of his arrival caused me some qualms of
vague alarm, which I knew in my heart to be nothing but the stirring
of my own conscience. For the purpose of this inquest was to find an
answer to the question, “How did Lewis Otway come by his death?” And
that question I could have answered in four words--Silent Willing and
Suggestion. But I had no intention of answering that question; and
hence, as I entered the room into which the officer had been shown, I
was consciously on the defensive.
I had, however, no occasion to be. The officer was a civil, fatherly
man in a constable’s uniform, sympathetic, deferential and not at all
inquisitive.
“I have called, ma’am,” he began, “on a very sad errand. I don’t know
whether you have heard the dreadful news----”
“Of Mr. Otway’s death?” said I.
“Ah! then you have heard. That is a relief. Well, I have called to let
you know that the inquest is arranged for the day after to-morrow, at
3 p.m. in the room adjoining the mortuary.” He gave me a few explicit
directions as to how to find the latter and then added: “If there is
any information that you could give us that would guide us in starting
the inquiry, we should be glad. Or the names of any witnesses that we
ought to subpœna.”
I reflected. The threatening letters must necessarily be referred to
at the inquest. I should have to mention them myself, even if Mrs.
Gregg knew nothing of them.
“I happen to know,” I replied, “that Mr. Otway had received a number
of anonymous letters and that he was greatly worried about them.”
“Blackmailing letters?” he asked.
“I don’t think any demands for money were made,” I replied.
“Do you know what was their nature? Were they threatening letters?”
“Yes, indirectly. The two or three that I saw had reference to the
death of my father, who died very suddenly and who was alone with Mr.
Otway at the time. They suggested a suspicion that Mr. Otway was
responsible for my father’s death.”
The officer looked at me quickly and then became deeply reflective.
“Will it be possible to produce those letters at the inquest?” he
asked, after a cogitative pause.
“They are not in my possession,” I answered; “but if the coroner will
make an order for their production I will endeavour to have it carried
out.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said he; and then, as an afterthought, added: “If
you could make it convenient to call at the coroner’s office
to-morrow, say at about two o’clock, I could give you the order and
perhaps help you to carry it out.”
The latter suggestion appealed to me strongly and I fell in with it at
once. Thereupon the officer picked up his helmet with an air of
satisfaction, and, having handed me the subpœna, moved towards the
door. I accompanied him along the hall and let him out; and as I
wished him good evening and launched him down the steps, another
figure emerged from the darkness and passed him on the way up.
“Does Mrs. Otway live here?” the new-comer enquired. I glanced at him
with faint suspicion, for the exact coincidence in time of his arrival
with the officer’s departure suggested a connection between the two
events.
“I am Mrs. Otway,” said I.
“Oh, indeed! Could I have a few words with you on a matter of some
importance? I will not detain you more than a few minutes.”
I hesitated, eyeing my new visitor dubiously. But there were no
reasonable grounds for a refusal; and I eventually ushered him into
the little parlour that the officer had just left, and indicated the
vacant chair.
“The matter concerning which I have taken the liberty of calling on
you, Mrs. Otway,” said he, “is connected with--er--with the painful
occurrence--er--at Lyon’s Inn Chambers. A most deplorable affair. Most
distressing for you--most distressing! Pray accept my sincere
sympathy.”
“Thank you, Mr.----”
“Hyams is my name--you may have heard your late husband speak of me.
We have been acquainted a good many years.”
“He has never spoken of you to me, Mr. Hyams. But what can I do for
you?”
“Well, I can put my business in a nut-shell. Your husband, at the time
of his death, had certain valuable property of mine in his possession.
I should like to get that property back without delay.”
He had certainly wasted no time. Unsentimental as was my own attitude
I felt this haste to be almost indecent.
“I should think you will have no difficulty,” said I, “if you apply in
the proper quarter.”
“That is what I am doing,” he retorted. “You are his widow. His
property is in your hands.”
“Not at all,” I replied. “Pending probate of the will, the property is
vested in his executors.”
He looked at me in not unnatural astonishment. I suppose the
phraseology that I had acquired from my father was unusual for a
woman.
“Who are the executors?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“But,” said he, “I suppose you have seen the will.”
“No, I don’t know that there is a will. I am only assuming the
existence of one from my knowledge of Mr. Otway’s business like
habits.”
“But this is very unsatisfactory,” said Mr. Hyams. “There is portable
property of mine worth several thousand pounds lying in his chambers
for anyone to pick up, and those chambers in charge of a woman who
probably has access to his keys. It really isn’t business, you know.”
“What is the nature of the property?” I asked.
“It is a collection of very valuable stones, the whole lot contained
in a little box that anyone could carry away in his pocket.”
“Then,” said I, “the probability is that he has deposited the box with
his bankers.”
“Who are his bankers?” he asked.
“I really don’t know.”
“You don’t know!” he exclaimed. “But you must have seen his cheques. I
presume he made you an allowance?”
“I accepted no allowance from him and I have never seen one of his
cheques.”
Mr. Hyams looked at me with undisguised incredulity. “A most
extraordinary state of affairs,” he commented. “Can you give me the
address of his lawyers?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Hyams, that I cannot. I don’t even know if he has a
lawyer. I know nothing whatever about Mr. Otway’s affairs.”
Mr. Hyams’ countenance took on an expression that was very much the
reverse of pleasant. “I suppose, Mrs. Otway,” said he, “you realise
that you are talking to a man of business and that you are telling a
rather unlikely story.”
“I realise it very clearly, Mr. Hyams,” I replied, “and I realise also
the difficulty of your position. What I recommend you to do is to go
to Lyon’s Inn and see the housekeeper, Mrs. Gregg. She has been with
Mr. Otway many years and can probably tell you all that you want to
know.”
Mr. Hyams shut his mouth tightly, rose deliberately and picked up his
hat.
“Then,” said he, “the position, as I understand it, is this: You don’t
know whether there is or is not a will; you don’t know the name of
your husband’s bankers; you don’t know who his lawyer is; you don’t
know anything about his affairs; and you disclaim any responsibility
in regard to property that was in his custody when he died.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “that is the position; a very unsatisfactory one for
you, I must admit. Perhaps I may be able to help you later, when I
know more about Mr. Otway’s affairs. Will you leave me your address?”
He was on the point of refusing, but prudence triumphed over anger and
he laid on the table a card on which I read the name, “David Hyams,
Dealer in precious stones,” and the address, “501, Hatton Garden.”
“If I learn anything fresh I will write to you,” I said; whereupon he
thanked me curtly and gruffly and walked towards the door with
pursed-up lips and a lowering, truculent expression and took his
departure without another word.
When he was gone I reflected at some length on the significance of his
visit. The interview had brought home to me very vividly my anomalous
position. Mr. Otway had been a total stranger to me. Of his past, of
his recent habits and mode of life, his friends, his occupation--if he
had any--his family and social status, I knew nothing. My father had
referred to him as a retired solicitor and as a collector of, or
dealer in, precious stones. Vaguely, I had conceived him as a man of
some means--perhaps a rich man. But I knew nothing of him and had
given him and his affairs barely a thought. He was a stranger who had
come into my life for but a moment, and had straightway gone out
again, leaving a trail of desolation to show where he had been.
That was the real position. But to strangers, to the world at large,
it would seem incredible. I was Mr. Otway’s widow. I had been his
wife--in law if not in fact. And the world would hold me to the legal
relationship. The dead man, lying in the mortuary, seemed about to
make good the claims that the living man had been forced to abandon.
My status as a wife had been a mere fiction: my status as a widow was
an undeniable reality.
The clear perception of the extent to which I was involved in the dead
man’s affairs gave my visit to the coroner’s office a new importance.
For now, while seeking information for official use at the inquest, I
must gather what knowledge I could for my own guidance under cover of
the coroner’s order. The address of the office--in Blackmoor Street,
Drury Lane--was printed on the subpœna, and there, after a few
enquiries, I made my appearance punctually on the following day.
My friend of the previous evening--whose name I discovered to be
Smallwood--was in the office, looking over some documents with the aid
of a pair of spectacles, which gave him a curiously unconstabulary
aspect. He rose when I entered, and, opening a drawer, took out a
sheet of paper.
“This is what you asked for, Mrs. Otway,” said he (upon which a young
man at a desk looked up quickly), “the coroner’s request for the
production of the letters that you told me about. Can I give you any
other assistance?”
“If you could accompany me to the chambers and be present during the
search for the letters, I should be glad,” I replied. “You see,” I
added, seeing that he looked somewhat surprised, “I am almost a
stranger to the housekeeper, I know nothing about the household or Mr.
Otway’s arrangements, and I shall be accountable to the executors, if
there are any, for any interference with the papers or their removal.
I should very much prefer to have a reliable witness.”
He saw the position at once, and, greatly to my relief, agreed to come
with me, or rather to follow me in a few minutes. Thereupon I left the
office and walking at a leisurely pace into Drury Lane presently made
my way into the Strand by way of May-pole Alley and turned eastward
towards Lyon’s Inn Chambers.
At the entrance I lingered for a minute or two and then slowly
ascended the stairs to Mr. Otway’s landing, growing more and more
uncomfortable with every step. For the bare stone staircase set my
memory working very unpleasantly, recalling again my headlong flight
and the terrible episode that had preceded it--that episode that I
would so gladly have sponged out of my recollection for ever.
I stood at the door with my hand on the bell, listening for Mr.
Smallwood’s steps on the stair, and so might have remained until he
arrived; but suddenly the door opened and Mrs. Gregg confronted me.
Apparently she had some means of observing a visitor from within.
“What are ye standing there for?” she demanded. “Why did ye not ring?”
“I was just about to ring when you opened the door,” I replied.
She smiled sourly and looked at me in that strange, inscrutable
fashion of hers that I found so disconcerting.
“And what might your business be?” she demanded.
“I have come about some letters of Mr. Otway’s--some anonymous letters
that he has received from time to time. Perhaps you know about them?”
“You mean, perhaps I have been in the habit of reading his letters.
Weel, mistress, I have not. I know nothing about his letters.”
“Perhaps you can show me where his letters were kept.”
“Indeed, I’ll do no such thing. What! Do you think I’ll have you
scratching up in his chambers and pawing over his letters and papers
and him not under-ground yet?”
At this moment I caught the welcome sound of footsteps on the stairs.
Mrs. Gregg listened suspiciously, and as Mr. Smallwood came into sight
there was a visible change in her demeanour.
“What does he want, I wonder?” she said.
“He has come to receive the letters and to be present at the search
for them,” I replied, producing the coroner’s order. She glanced at
the paper, and, as Mr. Smallwood stepped up to the door, she motioned
us to enter.
“Come in,” she said, gruffly. “’Tis no affair of mine, but I’ll no
hinder ye.”
We were just about to enter when footsteps were again audible on the
stairs, and we waited to see who this other visitor might be. Somewhat
to my surprise it turned out to be Mr. Hyams, who certainly seemed to
have a genius for coincidences.
“Now this is quite a lucky chance,” said he, doing himself, as I
suspected, less than justice. “I didn’t expect to find you here, Mrs.
Otway. I presume you are just having a look round.”
“I have come to search for some documents that have to be put in
evidence,” said I. “The coroner has asked for them.”
“Well,” said Mr. Hyams, “you might, at the same time, see if you can
find any trace of my property.”
“What property is that?” demanded Mrs. Gregg.
“A parcel of stones--a very valuable collection--that Mr. Otway had
from me on approval.”
Mrs. Gregg snorted. “Man,” said she, “ye’re talkin’ like a fool. Do
you suppose Lewis Otway would have left a valuable parcel of stones
lying about in his rooms like a packet of snuff? Ye’ll find no stones
here.”
“That may or may not be,” said Mr. Hyams. “At any rate, I’ll stay and
see if anything turns up.”
During this dialogue we had gradually moved from the lobby down the
corridor and now entered the living-room. As we crossed it I looked
curiously at the large cupboard and wondered idly what I could have
found so alarming in its appearance on the night of my visit. But if
the living-room had, by the light of day, lost its disturbing
qualities, it was otherwise with the bedroom. I opened the door with
trepidation, and as I did so and was confronted by the disordered bed,
the horror of the place began to come back to me. Nevertheless, I
entered the room with a firm step and with my eyes on the bedside
table, which appeared to be in the same condition as when I had last
seen it. I had just noted this when I felt my arm grasped, and turning
quickly found Mrs. Gregg at my side. Her eyes were fixed on me and
with her disengaged hand she was pointing towards the corner by the
bed-head. Involuntarily my gaze followed the direction in which she
was pointing and lighted on the fatal peg, which now bore a loop of
the red bell-rope with two free ends. Of course I had known it was
there, but yet the sight of it made me turn sick and faint, and I must
have shown this in the sudden pallor of my face; for when, controlling
myself by an intense effort, I turned to speak to her she was looking
at me with a leer of triumph.
“Can we have Mr. Otway’s keys?” I asked.
“Ye’ll find them in the right dressing-table drawer,” she answered.
“I’m no party to this, but I’ll no hinder ye.”
Mr. Smallwood opened the drawer and produced a bunch of keys which he
handed to me. I looked them over and selecting the most likely-looking
ones, tried them, one after the other, on the deed-box. The fourth key
fitted the lock, and when I had turned it and raised the lid of the
box, the letter which Mr. Otway had shown me lay in full view. I took
it out and laid it on the table and then proceeded to lift out the
remaining contents of the box. There was not much to remove: a
cheque-book, a pass-book, a small journal, a memorandum-book, a bundle
of share-certificates, a canvas bag containing money, and at the
bottom of the box, a foolscap envelope endorsed, “Anonymous Letters.”
I opened the unsealed envelope and drew out the letters which I
glanced through one by one. There were seven in all, of which I had
already seen three. When I had looked at them I returned them to the
envelope, adding the last letter, and then began to replace the other
things in the box.
“I see a cheque-book there, Mrs. Otway,” said Mr. Hyams, who had
followed my proceedings with intense interest. “May I make a note of
the banker’s address?”
I handed him the cheque-book and continued to replace the contents of
the box. When I had finished I paused with the box open, waiting for
him to return the cheque-book; and at this moment I became aware, with
a start of surprise, that an addition had been made to our party.
The new-comer was a short, stout, middle-aged man, obviously a Jew of
the swarthy, aquiline type, with a very large nose and rather
prominent dark eyes. He stood in the open doorway of the bedroom
watching us with a slightly unpleasant smile. As he noted my surprised
look, his smile became broader and more unpleasant.
“Make yourselves at home, ladies and gentlemen,” said he. “These are
public premises--at least I assume they are as I found the door open.”
Mr. Hyams looked round with a start--as, indeed, did the others.
“May I ask who you are, sir?” he enquired.
“You may,” was the suave reply. “My name is Isaacs--of the firm of
Isaacs and Cohen, solicitors. I am one of the executors of Mr. Lewis
Otway’s will. And having regard to my responsibilities in that
capacity, I may, perhaps, venture to enquire as to the nature of these
proceedings. You, sir, appear to be in possession of the testator’s
cheque-book. Did you happen to require the loan of a fountain pen?”
Mr. Hyams turned very red and hastily laid down the cheque-book.
“That,” he exclaimed angrily, “is perfectly unwarranted. I was simply
making a note of the banker’s address.”
“With what object?”
“With the object of enquiring whether certain property of mine, which
was in Mr. Otway’s custody, had been deposited in the bank.”
“What is the nature and value of this property?” asked Mr. Isaacs.
“It is a collection of precious stones of the approximate value of
four thousand pounds.”
“Then,” said Mr. Isaacs, “I can give you the information you want. No
property, other than documents, has been deposited at the bank.”
“In that case,” said Mr. Hyams, “the stones must be in these rooms.”
“It is quite probable,” Mr. Isaacs agreed.
“Is there any objection to ascertaining, now, whether they are here?”
“Yes, there is,” replied Mr. Isaacs. “The will has not been proved and
no letters of administration have been issued. Pending probate of the
will I propose to take possession of these premises and seal all
receptacles that may contain valuable property. I shall interfere with
nothing until I have letters of administration.”
“And how soon will that be?” asked Mr. Hyams.
“Seven days must elapse before the will can be proved. Under the
circumstances there may be some further delay. And now I should like
to know what has been taking place. You, for instance, madam----”
“I am Mrs. Lewis Otway,” said I, “and I have come here by the
coroner’s direction, to look for some letters that are to be put in
evidence.”
“Have you found them?”
“Yes,” I answered, “they are here; and, as you are an executor, I had
better hand them to you, and you can deliver them to the coroner’s
officer if you think fit.”
I handed him the envelope and the coroner’s letter, which he read, and
then asked: “Did you have to make a very extensive search?”
“No, she didn’t,” said Mrs. Gregg. “She kenned fine where to look for
them and she found them at the first cast.”
On this I noticed that Mr. Hyams cast a quick, suspicious glance at me
and I thought it wise to explain.
“I looked first in this box because I had seen Mr. Otway put one of
these letters into it.”
“Quite so,” said Mr. Isaacs. “Very natural.” But obvious as the
explanation was, I could see that it had left Mr. Hyams unconvinced.
I now returned the cheque-book to the deed-box, locked the latter and
handed the keys to Mr. Isaacs; who delivered the anonymous letters to
the coroner’s officer and took his receipt for them on a slip of
paper. My business being now at an end, I offered my card to Mr.
Isaacs, took his in return, and departed in company with Mr.
Smallwood.
“A queer business, this, ma’am,” the officer remarked as we descended
the stairs. “Regular mix up. Seem to be a lot of Sheenies in it.”
“Sheenies?” I repeated, interrogatively. “What are Sheenies?”
“Jews, ma’am,” he replied, apparently a little surprised at my
ignorance. “It’s just a popular name, you know.”
I reflected on Mr. Smallwood’s remark, which seemed hardly justified
by the facts--two Jews only having appeared in the case, so far as I
knew. And yet I seemed to be aware of a sort of Semitic atmosphere
surrounding Mr. Otway. There were, for instance, the Campbells; and
then Mrs. Gregg, although a Scotswoman, might easily, but for her
strong Scottish accent, have passed for a Jewess; while Mr. Otway,
himself, had been distinctly Semitic in appearance.
At the entry, where we separated, Mr. Smallwood halted to give me a
final injunction.
“You had better be in good time to-morrow, ma’am,” said he, “because
it will be necessary for you to view the body so that you can give
evidence as to the identity of the deceased.”
I thanked him for the reminder, but would much rather have been
without it. For the prospect filled me with a vague alarm, and now the
mental picture of the sleeping man, which had haunted me by night and
by day, began to be replaced by one more dreadful, and one which I
felt that my visit to the mortuary would attach to me for ever.
Chapter XXIV.
The Gathering Clouds
The distaste which I felt for my errand did not prevent me from
following Mr. Smallwood’s advice on the subject of punctuality. It was
some minutes short of half-past two when I turned into the mean,
little street off Drury Lane in which the mortuary was situated. I had
found the place without much difficulty and had still less in finding
the mortuary itself, for, as I entered the street I observed a
procession of about a dozen men passing in through a narrow gateway,
watched attentively by a small crowd of loiterers. Assuming the former
to be the jury, I walked slowly past on the opposite side and
continued for the length of the short street. I had just turned to
retrace my steps when the men filed out of the gateway and proceeded
to enter a building a few yards up the street, and immediately
afterwards Mr. Smallwood appeared at the gate. He saw me at once and
waited for me to approach.
“I am glad you have come in good time, ma’am,” said he. “The jury have
just been in to view the body and the coroner will like to open the
inquest punctually. This is the way.”
He preceded me down a narrow passage, at the end of which he pushed
open a door. Following him I entered the mortuary, a bare,
stone-floored hall containing two large slate-topped tables, one of
which was occupied by a recumbent figure covered by a sheet. Mr.
Smallwood removed his helmet and together we advanced slowly towards
the awesome, shrouded form, lying so still and lonely in its grim
surroundings. Very quietly, the officer picked up the two upper
corners of the sheet and drew it back, retiring then a couple of paces
as if to avoid intruding on my meeting with the dead.
Strung up as I was, the first impression was less dreadful than I had
anticipated. The face was pale and waxen, but it was placid in
expression and more peaceful than I had ever seen it in life. The
hunted, terrified look was gone and had given place to an air of
repose, almost of dignity. For a few moments I was sensible of a
feeling of relief; but then my glance fell upon a contorted length of
crimson rope that lay on the slate table, and instinctively my eye
turned to the uncovered throat. And as I noted the shallow groove
under the chin, faintly marked with an impression of the strands of
the rope, the shocking reality came home to me with overwhelming
horror. Before my eyes arose that awful shape upon the bedroom wall
and the hardly less dreadful image of the sleeping man unconsciously
receiving the message of his doom.
With a new horror--an incredulous horror of myself--I looked on the
pale, placid face and seemed to read in it a gentle reproach. He had
gone to his death at my bidding. He had stood unsteadily on the brink
of the abyss, and I had pushed him over.
It seemed incredible. There had been no conscious intention; no guilty
premeditation. I would have told myself that there was no connection
other than mere coincidence. But there the plain, undeniable facts
were. Unconsciously--or subconsciously--my will had created that
premonitory shape upon the wall; the terrible words had formed
themselves and issued from my lips. And straightway the thing that my
thoughts and words had foreshadowed had come to pass. This waxen-faced
effigy that lay on the stone table, as its living counterpart had lain
that night in the bed, was its fulfilment, its realisation.
“Better not stay too long, ma’am,” said Mr. Smallwood. And as he spoke
I became suddenly aware that I had reached the limits of endurance. My
knees began to tremble and I breathed the tainted air with difficulty.
“Better come away now,” continued Mr. Smallwood. “It’s been rather too
much for you. Good afternoon, Mrs. Gregg.”
I looked up quickly and perceived Mrs. Gregg, who must have come in
without making a sound, standing at the foot of the table watching me
intently. That penetrating stare and the singular, enigmatical
expression would have been disturbing at any time. But now I was
conscious of actual fear. As I tottered unsteadily along the passage
to the street, the menace of that watchful, inscrutable gaze followed
me. How much did this woman know? What had she heard? And if she had
overheard those last words of mine, how much had she understood of
their import? These were weighty questions, the answers to which I
should doubtless hear within an hour or two.
When I was ushered by Mr. Smallwood into the room in which the inquest
was to be held, the court was already assembled and ready to begin.
The jurymen sat along one side of a long table and one or two
reporters occupied a part of the other, while a row of chairs
accommodated the witnesses and persons interested in the case,
including Mr. Isaacs, Mr. Hyams, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, and a youngish
man of a markedly Jewish type whom I did not recognise. I took my seat
at the end of the row, and Mrs. Gregg, who had followed us in, seated
herself near the middle.
As I took my seat the coroner addressed one of the reporters:
“Let me see, what paper do you represent?”
“I am not a pressman, sir,” was the reply. “I am commissioned to make
a report for Dr. Thorndyke.”
“Dr. Thorndyke! But what is his connection with the case? I know
nothing about him.”
“I only know that he has asked me to make a verbatim report of the
evidence.”
“Hm,” grunted the coroner. “I’m not sure that it is quite in order for
private individuals to send their reporters to an inquest.”
“It is an open court, sir,” the reporter observed.
“I know. But still--however, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Well,
gentlemen, I think we are ready to begin. The witnesses are all
present and it is on the stroke of three. I need not occupy your time
with any preliminary statement. It seems quite a straightforward case
and you will get the facts from the evidence of the witnesses. We are
here, as you know, to inquire into the circumstances of the death of
Lewis Otway, whose body you have just viewed, which occurred either on
the night of the 18th instant or the morning of the 19th. The body was
found hanging from a peg in his bedroom by his housekeeper, Mrs.
Gregg, and it will be best to take her evidence first.”
Mrs. Gregg was accordingly called, and having taken a position near
the head of the table, was sworn and proceeded to give her evidence.
“My name is Rachel Gregg, age 51. I was housekeeper to the deceased,
Lewis Otway.”
“How long,” asked the coroner, “had you known the deceased?”
“Thirty-three years.”
“What was deceased’s occupation?”
“He was a retired solicitor; but he was a connoisseur in precious
stones, and, I think, dealt in them to some extent.”
“Was he in financial difficulties of any kind, so far as you know?”
“No. I believe he was quite a well-to-do man.”
“Had you any reason to suspect him of an intention to take his life?”
“Yes. He used to say that he expected, if ever he had any trouble,
that he would hang himself. The tendency to suicide was in the family.
His only brother hanged himself, his mother hanged herself and his
mother’s father hanged himself.”
“But that was only a tendency that might not have affected him. Had
you any reason to expect that he actually might commit suicide? Was
there anything in his manner, in the state of his mind or in his
circumstances that led you to believe that he might take his life?”
“Not until recently. He always used to be quite cheerful in a quiet
way until he got married. After that he was never the same. His
marriage seemed to bring all sorts of trouble into his life.”
“Tell us exactly how this change came about.”
“His marriage took place about eight months ago--on the 25th of last
April when he was living at Maidstone. It was quite sudden. I knew
nothing of it until the day before, when he told me he was going to
marry a Miss Helen Vardon, and that the marriage was to take place
secretly because the lady’s father had refused his consent. On the
morning of the marriage I saw Mr. Otway go out, and soon afterwards I
went out myself to do some shopping. When I came back I found the new
Mrs. Otway in the study and her father, Mr. Vardon, lying dead on the
floor. Mr. Otway had gone to fetch a doctor. It appeared that Mr.
Vardon had called directly after the newly-married couple had arrived
home from the church and that there had been a quarrel and Mr. Vardon
had fallen down dead. I understand that Mr. Vardon was alone with Mr.
Otway at the time.
“Soon after I arrived, Mrs. Otway left the house and went back to her
own home, and Mr. Otway told me that she refused to live with him. At
any rate, she never did live with him, and she never came near him
until the night of his death.”
“Do you know if the deceased agreed to this separation?”
“Apparently she made him agree. But it was a great trouble to him, and
I know that he tried more than once to get her to live with him.”
“Do you know what was the cause of the separation?”
“No. Mr. Otway never mentioned it to me.”
“You say that the separation was a great trouble to the deceased. Did
it obviously affect his spirits?”
“Yes; he was very depressed after his wife went away, and he never
recovered. He seemed to get more and more low-spirited.”
“Do you know of any other reasons than the separation from his wife
why he should have been depressed in spirits?”
“Yes. Mr. Vardon’s sudden death was a great shock to him. He felt that
he had been partly the cause of it, by quarrelling with Mr. Vardon.
Then there was a great deal of talk in Maidstone about the affair and
people blamed Mr. Otway for what had happened; and later rumours began
to get about that there had been foul play--that Mr. Otway had
actually killed Mr. Vardon. These rumours got on his nerves so badly
that he gave up his house at Maidstone and moved to London.”
“You have spoken of a quarrel between deceased and Mr. Vardon. Do you
know what the quarrel was about?”
“I believe it was about the secret marriage, but I was not in the
house at the time.”
“Were there any other causes for the mental depression which you say
the deceased suffered from?”
“I think so, but I can’t say for certain. There were some letters that
came about once a month which seemed to worry him a good deal. I used
to see him reading them and looking very anxious and depressed; and
after a time he began to get very nervous and fidgety and couldn’t
sleep at nights unless he took a dose of veronal. And I noticed that
he was smoking much more than he used to, and taking much more
whisky.”
“Did you ever see any of the letters that you have spoken of?”
“I never read one, but I saw the outsides and I noticed that they all
bore the post-mark of East London.”
Here the coroner drew from the large envelope six of the letters which
I had found in the deed-box, and handed them, in their envelopes, to
Mrs. Gregg.
“Do you recognise any of these letters?”
Mrs. Gregg turned the envelopes over in her hand, looked closely at
the post-marks and replied, as she returned them:
“Yes; these look like the letters that I spoke of.”
The coroner laid the letters on the table, and after a few moment’s
reflection said: “Now, Mrs. Gregg, we want you to tell us what you
know of the circumstances of Mr. Otway’s death. You spoke of a visit
from Mrs. Otway.”
“Yes. She came to Lyon’s Inn Chambers on Wednesday night, about
half-past six and told me that Mr. Otway had written to her asking her
to come. As Mr. Otway was then expecting another visitor, I asked her
to call again about eight, which she agreed to do. Mr. Otway had been
rather poorly for the last few days--very nervous and despondent, and
had been sleeping badly--and for three days had kept to his bed. I
told him that Mrs. Otway was coming at eight o’clock and he then said
that he had some private business to talk over with her and that I
need not sit up. I gave him his supper at half-past seven and just
after I had cleared it away Mrs. Otway came. I showed her into the
bedroom and went to the kitchen to finish up my work. At half-past
nine I went to bed--a little earlier than usual because I thought they
would like the place quiet for their talk. At a quarter to seven on
Thursday morning I got up, and as soon as I was dressed, went into the
living-room to tidy it up. Then, to my great surprise, I saw that the
door of the bedroom, which opens out of the living-room, was wide open
and that the gas in the bedroom was full on.
“Thinking that Mr. Otway might be worse, I called out to him to ask if
he wanted anything; but there was no answer. I could see the bed from
where I was and could see that he was not in it; so I called to him
again, and as there was still no answer, I went into the bedroom. At
first I thought he was not there; but suddenly I saw him in a corner
of the room that was in deep shadow. He seemed to be standing against
the wall, with his arms hanging down straight and his head on one
side; but when I went nearer I saw that he was hanging from a large
peg and that his feet were three or four inches off the floor. He had
hanged himself with a length of bell-rope that he had cut off with his
razor--at least that was what it looked like, for the razor was lying
open on the bed. I picked up the razor and ran to him and cut the loop
of rope, and as he fell, I let him down on the floor as gently as I
could. He seemed to be quite dead and his skin felt cold, so I ran out
to fetch a doctor. Just outside the buildings I met a policeman and
told him what had happened, and he told me to go back to the chambers
and wait, which I did. A few minutes later he arrived at the chambers
with a doctor, who examined the body and said that Mr. Otway had been
dead some hours.”
“Did you see any means by which deceased could have raised himself to
the peg from which he was hanging?”
“Yes. There was an overturned chair lying on the floor nearly
underneath him. It looked as if he had stood on it to fix the loop of
rope and then kicked it away. Mrs. Otway’s bag was lying on the floor
by the side of the chair.”
“Mrs. Otway’s bag! What bag was that?”
“A little wrist-bag such as ladies use to carry their purses and
handkerchiefs. She called for it the same day and I gave it to her.
She had not heard what had happened, and when I told her she fell down
in a dead faint.”
The coroner reflected for a while with wrinkled brows, and I caught
the eyes of one or two of the jurymen regarding me furtively. After a
somewhat lengthy pause, the coroner asked:
“Do you know what time Mrs. Otway left the chambers?”
“I heard the outer door slam about half an hour after I had gone to
bed. That would be about ten o’clock.”
“Did you see Mrs. Otway or deceased after you let her in?”
“No. I did not go into the bedroom again. I went into the living-room
twice and could hear them talking.”
“Could you hear what they were talking about?”
“I could hear a few words now and then. When I went into the
living-room the first time they seemed to be talking about suicide. I
heard Mr. Otway say something about a peg on the wall.”
“And when you went in the second time?”
“They seemed still to be talking about suicide. I heard Mrs. Otway ask
deceased what drove his brother to hang himself.”
“You heard nothing suggesting a quarrel or disagreement?”
“No. They seemed to be talking in quite a friendly way.”
“Do you know what kind of terms they were on?”
“No. I never saw them together before except for a few minutes on the
wedding day.”
“You spoke of a visitor who came to deceased earlier in the evening.
Who was that visitor?”
“A Mrs. Campbell. Her husband is a jeweller and curio-dealer whom
deceased had known for a good many years, and used to have business
dealings with. I understand she came on business and she only stayed
about ten minutes.”
“Is that all you know about the case?”
“Yes, I think I have told you all I know about it.”
The coroner glanced at the jury. “Do any of you, gentlemen, wish to
ask the witness any questions?” he enquired.
Apparently none of them did, and when the coroner had complimented
Mrs. Gregg on the clear manner in which she had given her evidence,
she was dismissed.
There was a short interval in which the coroner read over his notes
and the jury conferred together in low undertones. Then the coroner
observed: “We had better dispose of the police and medical evidence as
they are merely formal and will not take much time. We will begin with
the constable.”
The policeman was then called and briefly corroborated Mrs. Gregg’s
evidence. When he had finished, the doctor, whom he had brought to the
chambers, took his place, and having been duly sworn deposed as
follows:
“My name is John Shelburn. I am a member of the Royal College of
Surgeons and a Licentiate of the Royal College of Physicians, and am
acting as _locum tenens_ for the police surgeon of Saint Clement
Danes. At seven twenty-eight a.m., on Thursday, the 19th of October, I
was summoned by the last witness to accompany him to Lyon’s Inn
Chambers, where a man was reported to have hanged himself. I went with
the constable to a set of chambers, over the door of which was painted
the name of Mr. Lewis Otway. I went into the bedroom where the gas was
alight, the blinds down and the curtains drawn. There, lying on the
floor near the wall, I found the dead body of a tall, heavily built
man, about fifty or fifty-five years of age, dressed in a suit of
pyjamas. The surface of the body was cold and _rigor mortis_ was well
established. I should say the man had been dead about eight hours.
Around the neck was a double loop of red bell-rope and a portion of
the same was hanging from a large peg on the wall about seven feet
from the floor. The rope had apparently been cut down for the purpose
as a portion was still attached to the bell-wire and the severed
tassel lay on the bed, on which were impressions of feet, as if
someone had stood on the bed to cut it off. The length of rope had
been joined at the ends with the kind of knot known as a ‘granny’ and
formed into what is known as a weaver’s loop, which had been passed
over the head and the standing part of the rope hitched over the peg.
This would form a running loop, like this”--here the witness produced
a piece of thick string and demonstrated the arrangement on his thumb
and the knob of a chair-back.
“I released the double loop from the neck and found a shallow groove
on the throat corresponding to the rope. The countenance of the
deceased was calm--as it usually is in cases of hanging--and there
were no signs of violence or anything remarkable about the body. A
chair, on which the deceased had apparently stood to adjust the rope
on the peg, was lying close by and near to it on the floor was a
lady’s hand-bag. The rope had been cut with some sharp
instrument--probably a razor, as I was informed by the housekeeper. I
looked round the room but saw nothing of any significance excepting a
half-empty whisky decanter and a nearly-full bottle of veronal tablets
on a table by the bed.”
“Can you tell us at what time death took place?”
“Only approximately. I have said that the man appeared to have been
dead about eight hours. That would give us eleven o’clock on the night
of the 18th as the time at which death occurred. But I will not bind
myself to that time exactly. It might have been an hour earlier or
later.”
“After hearing your evidence and that of the other witnesses which you
have also heard, it is a mere formality to ask your opinion as to the
cause of death.”
“Yes. The cause of death was obviously suicidal hanging.”
This concluded the surgeon’s evidence, and when he had been dismissed,
the coroner turned to the jury.
“We have now, gentlemen,” said he, “established the fact of death and
its immediate cause. Our next investigation will seek to establish the
contributory circumstances--the more remote causes. We have
ascertained that this unfortunate man committed suicide. The question
that we now have to consider is, Why did he commit suicide? Possibly
the evidence of his widow may help us to answer that question. Helen
Otway.”
As I rose to take my place at the table I was dimly aware of a certain
ill-defined movement on the part of the jury and the spectators such
as one may notice in a church at the conclusion of a sermon. But in
the present case the cause was evidently a concentration rather than a
relaxation of attention. Clearly, my evidence was anticipated with
considerable interest.
“Your name is----?”
“Helen Otway. My age is twenty-four and I live at 69, Wellclose
Square.”
“Have you viewed and do you identify the body now lying in St.
Clement’s mortuary?”
“Yes; it is the body of Lewis Otway, my late husband.”
“When did you last see the deceased alive?”
“On the night of Wednesday, the 18th of October.”
“Tell us, please, what took place on that occasion.”
“I went to see deceased in consequence of a letter that I had received
from him asking me to do so. I arrived at about half-past six and was
informed by Mrs. Gregg that deceased was expecting another visitor.”
“Did you know who that other visitor was?”
“No; but as I went down the stairs I met Mrs. Campbell coming up and
assumed that she was the visitor.”
“You know Mrs. Campbell, then?”
“Only by sight. I have seen her in her husband’s shop. Mrs. Gregg
asked me to call again at eight, and I agreed to do so, and did so. I
was then admitted by Mrs. Gregg, who conducted me to the bedroom and
left me there, shutting the door as she went out. I did not see her
again that night. Deceased was in bed and had by his side a table on
which were a spirit decanter, a siphon of soda water, a box of
cigarettes, a bottle of veronal tablets and a deed-box.”
“Did you notice anything peculiar in his appearance?”
“No. He was not looking well, but he seemed less ill than I had
expected from his letter; which conveyed the impression that he was in
a dangerous condition.”
“Have you got that letter?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I have it here.” As I spoke, I drew the letter from
my pocket and handed it to the coroner, who glanced through it and
then laid it down with some other papers.
“We will consider this letter,” said he, “with the others that you
have handed to me, later. Will you now tell us what passed between you
and the deceased?”
“At first we talked about an anonymous letter that he had received a
day or two previously. He showed me the letter, and when I had read
it, he locked it in the deed-box.”
“We will deal with the anonymous letters presently. What else did you
talk about?”
“Deceased repeated the statement that he had made in the letter, that
he did not expect to live much longer. I asked him if he had any
reason for saying this and he then told me that there was a strong
family predisposition to suicide; that his brother, his mother and his
mother’s father had all hanged themselves, and that since he had
received the anonymous letters he had been conscious of an impulse to
make away with himself in the same manner.”
“Had you not known previously of this family tendency?”
“No. He had never mentioned it before, and I knew nothing of his
family.”
“Did deceased speak as if he actually intended to make away with
himself?”
“No, but he spoke of an impulse which he found it difficult to resist;
and he mentioned that a large peg on the bedroom wall seemed to
fascinate him and to make the impulse stronger. I advised him to have
it taken away.”
“Previous to this conversation, had you ever thought it possible that
the deceased might commit suicide?”
“No; the possibility never entered my mind.”
The coroner considered these replies and made a few further notes;
then he proceeded to open a fresh subject.
“Now, Mrs. Otway, with regard to your relations with deceased. Were
you on friendly terms with him?”
“Not particularly. We were practically strangers.”
“A witness has stated that you refused to live with deceased and that
you never had lived with him. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is quite true.”
“Had you quarrelled with deceased?”
“No, there was no quarrel. Our marriage was a business transaction and
immediately after the ceremony I discovered that my consent had been
obtained, as I considered, by misrepresentation.”
“We don’t want to be inquisitive, Mrs. Otway, but we wish to
understand the position. Could you give us a few more particulars?”
“Do you wish me to describe the circumstances of my marriage and the
separation from my husband?”
“If you please.”
“My marriage with Mr. Lewis Otway took place under the following
circumstances: I accidentally overheard a portion of a conversation
between Mr. Otway and my father from which I gathered that Mr. Otway
claimed the immediate payment of five thousand pounds held by my
father--who was a solicitor--in trust. It appeared from the
conversation that my father was unable immediately to produce the
money, and Mr. Otway threatened to take criminal proceedings for
misappropriation of trust funds. To this my father made no very
definite reply. Then Mr. Otway offered to abstain from any proceedings
and to allow the claim to remain in abeyance on condition that a
marriage should take place between him and me. This my father refused
very emphatically and angrily, and Mr. Otway left our house.
“Being greatly alarmed on my father’s account, I communicated with Mr.
Otway and informed him that I was prepared to accept his offer on the
terms stated--namely, that he should release my father from the
immediate claim and secure him from any proceedings in connection with
it. Mr. Otway accepted the conditions, and as it was certain that my
father would strongly object, we agreed not to inform him until after
the marriage had taken place.
“In accordance with this arrangement we were married privately on the
25th April of the present year and we went together from the church to
Mr. Otway’s house. I had left a letter for my father informing him of
what had been done, and very shortly after our return from the church
he came to the house. From an upper window I saw him enter the garden
and I was very much alarmed at his appearance. I had heard that he
suffered from a complaint of the heart and had been warned against
undue excitement and exertion, and I could see that he was extremely
excited and was looking very ill. Mr. Otway let him in and, in answer
to a question, admitted that the marriage had taken place. Then I
heard my father ask Mr. Otway if he had told me about a letter that
he--my father--had sent, and when Mr. Otway gave an evasive reply my
father called him a scoundrel and accused him of having tricked and
swindled me.
“I heard no more of what was said, as the two men went into the study
and shut the door; but a minute or two later I heard a heavy fall,
and, running down to the study, found my father lying on the floor and
already dead. There was a small wound on his temple and Mr. Otway, who
was stooping over the body, held my father’s walking-stick--a thick
Malacca cane with a loaded silver knob--in his hand. He stated that my
father had threatened him with the stick and that he had taken it away
from him and that during the struggle my father had fallen insensible,
striking his head on the corner of the mantel-piece as he fell.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I think, at the moment, I did not. But on reflection, remembering how
ill my father had looked, I had no doubt he was speaking the truth.”
“Was there an inquest on your father’s death?”
“Yes. The jury found, in accordance with the medical evidence, that
death was due to heart failure caused by excitement and anger.”
“And after this you refused to live with deceased?”
“Yes. I asked him about my father’s letter and he said he had not seen
it. I went with him to the letter-box and there we found it. The
postmark showed that it had come by the first post and my father’s
address was on the outside of the envelope. There were no other
letters in the box. I had no doubt that Mr. Otway had seen the letter
and put it back in the box.”
“Was that why you refused to live with him?”
“Partly. The letter stated that my father was able to meet his
liabilities and gave a date on which payment would be made.
Consequently the threatened proceedings against my father were
impossible and Mr. Otway had obtained my consent by false pretences.
But further, Mr. Otway’s action had been the cause of my father’s
death, and this alone would have made it impossible for me to live
with him as his wife.”
“Did deceased agree to the separation?”
“Yes. He saw that the position was impossible; but he hoped that the
separation might be only temporary--that we might become reconciled at
some future time.”
“Did you consider this possible?”
“No. I held him accountable for my father’s death and could never have
overcome my repugnance to him.”
The coroner noted down this answer and having glanced over his notes
reflectively, looked up at the jury.
“Do any of you, gentlemen, wish to put any questions on this subject?”
he asked.
The jurymen looked at one another and looked at me; and one of them
remarked that, “This young lady seems to have rather easy-going ideas
about the responsibilities of marriage.”
“That,” said the Coroner, “is hardly our concern. The next matter that
we have to consider is that of certain letters received by the
deceased from some unknown person or persons. There are seven of them
and they seem by the postmarks to have been sent at intervals of about
three weeks and to have been posted somewhere in the East end of
London. We will begin with the first.” He handed a letter to me and
asked: “Have you seen that letter before?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Deceased showed it to me one day last June when I
met him by appointment at his request. He seemed to be extremely
worried about it.”
The coroner took the letter from me and read it aloud.
“‘Mr. Lewis Otway,
“‘The undersigned is writing to put you on your guard because Somebody
knows something about how Mr. Vardon came by his death and that
somebody is not a friend, so you had better keep a sharp look-out for
your enemy and see what they mean to do. I can’t tell you any more at
present.
“‘A Well Wisher.’”
“Do you know,” the coroner asked, “who wrote that letter?”
“No, I do not.”
“Have you no idea at all? Is there no one whom you suspect?”
“I have not the least idea who sent that letter.”
“You say that deceased was extremely worried about it. Do you know why
he was worried?”
“I understand that there had been rumours in Maidstone that Mr. Otway
had killed my father. Those rumours seemed to have preyed upon his
mind and made him unreasonably nervous.”
The coroner nodded gravely and opened another letter and as he read
aloud the well-remembered phrases I realised that I should need all
the courage and self-possession at my command.
“‘The writer of this warns you once more,’” the letter ran, “‘to look
for trouble. The person that I spoke of knows that something was held
back at the inquest at least they say so and that they know why your
wife won’t live with you and that she knows all about it too and that
someone knows more than you think anybody knows. This is a friendly
warning.
“‘From a Well Wisher.’”
The coroner looked keenly at me as he finished reading.
“Can you explain the meaning of this letter?” he asked. “It refers to
something that was held back at the inquest. Was anything held back,
so far as you know?”
“I remember that there was one omission in the evidence. Mr. Otway
made no mention of my father’s stick.”
“Was it not mentioned at the inquest at all?”
“No.”
“Did you not give evidence?”
“Yes; but I was merely asked if I confirmed Mr. Otway’s evidence,
which I did.”
“You confirmed Mr. Otway’s evidence! But that evidence was not
correct. The duty of a witness is to state the whole truth; whereas
Mr. Otway had withheld a highly material fact. How was it that you did
not supply this very important fact?”
“It did not appear to me to be of any importance. The medical evidence
showed that death was due to heart failure.”
“Medical evidence!” the coroner exclaimed, testily. “There is too much
of this medical evidence superstition in these courts. People speak as
if doctors were infallible. It was your duty as a witness to state all
that you knew, not to decide what was or was not of importance. And I
cannot understand how you came to hold such an opinion. You found your
father lying dead with a wound on his head and a man standing over him
with a loaded stick, and you considered this fact of no consequence?”
“I see now that I ought to have mentioned it.”
“What was the verdict?”
“The verdict was in accordance with the medical evidence--Death from
natural causes.”
“Did the medical witness or witnesses know that Mr. Otway had had a
loaded stick in his hand?”
“No.”
“Did anybody besides yourself and Mr. Otway know about the loaded
stick?”
“Mrs. Gregg came into the room when Mr. Otway had gone for a doctor.
She saw the stick in a corner and picked it up to examine it. She
asked whose it was and remarked on its weight.”
“Did she know it had been in Mr. Otway’s hand at the time of your
father’s death?”
“I have no reason to suppose that she knew.”
“Well,” said the coroner, “it is a most extraordinary affair. You
heard Mr. Otway give his evidence, you knew that that evidence was
incomplete, and yet, though the dead man was your own father and you
have declared an unconquerable repugnance to Mr. Otway, you allowed
this garbled evidence to pass unchallenged. It is an amazing affair.
However,” he continued turning to the jury, “that is not our concern.
But what is our concern, for the purposes of this inquiry, is that we
now begin to see daylight. We can now understand the extraordinary
effect these letters seem to have had on the man whose death we are
investigating. Lewis Otway, when he gave his evidence at the inquest,
suppressed a most important and damaging fact, which he believed to be
known only to himself and his wife. Thereby he obtained a verdict of
Death from Natural Causes, which exonerated him from all blame. Had
all the facts been known, the verdict might have been very different.
“Now the receipt of these letters must have destroyed his sense of
security. Apparently someone else--and that someone evidently an
enemy--knew of this damaging fact, and knew of the further damaging
fact that it had been suppressed at the inquest. In effect, these
letters held out a threat of a charge of murder, or at least,
manslaughter. It is no wonder that they alarmed him. But we had better
take the rest of the evidence. There is this letter of deceased to his
wife, which I will read. It is dated the 17th of October, and this is
what it says:
“‘My dear Helen,
“‘I have not troubled you for quite a long time with my miserable
affairs--which are to some extent your affairs too. But they are going
from bad to worse, and now I feel that I am coming to the limits of
endurance. I cannot bear this much longer. My health is shattered, my
peace of mind is wrecked and my brain threatens to give way. Death
would be a boon, a relief, and I feel that it is not far off. I cannot
go on like this. Those wretches leave me no peace. Hardly a week
passes but I get some new menace; and now--but I can’t tell you in a
letter. It is too horrible. Come to me, Helen, for the love of God! I
am in torment. Have pity on me, even though you have never forgiven
me. I cannot come to you, for I am now unable to leave my bed. I am a
wreck, a ruin. Come to me just this once, and if you cannot help me,
at least give me the comfort of your sympathy. You will not be
troubled by me much longer.
“‘Your distracted husband,
“‘Lewis Otway.’”
When the coroner finished reading the letter (which evidently made a
deep impression on the jury) he looked at me gravely.
“Before passing to the next letter, I must ask one or two questions
about this one. What did you understand from the phrases ‘I feel that
it (death) is not far off. I cannot go on like this. You will not be
troubled by me much longer.’ Did they not suggest to you an intention
to commit suicide?”
“No. I understood them as referring to his state of health.”
“If you had known of the family tendency to suicide, how would you
have understood these passages?”
“I should have suspected that he contemplated suicide.”
“But you say you were not aware of this tendency?”
“No, I was not.”
“He refers to his ‘miserable affairs--which are to some extent your
affairs too.’ What did you understand him to mean by that?”
“I understood him to refer to the fact that I was partly responsible
for the omission of certain details in the evidence at the inquest.”
“When you received this pitiful letter, what did you do?”
“I went to him the same day to find out what the trouble was. He then
showed me an anonymous letter that he had received.”
“Is this the one?” the coroner asked, handing it to me; and when I had
glanced at it and identified it, he proceeded to read it to the jury.
“‘Mr. Lewis Otway,
“‘Some funny questions are being asked. What about Mr. Vardon’s
stick?--the loaded stick with the silver knob to hide the lead
loading? Where is it? Somebody says they know where it is and who’s
got it. And they say there is a bruise on the silver-top, and they say
something about a smear of blood and a grey hair sticking to it. Do
you know anything about that? If you don’t you’d better find out.
Because I think you will hear from that somebody before you are many
weeks older or else from the police.
“‘A Well Wisher.’”
As he laid down the letter, the coroner looked at me curiously.
“There are one or two important questions, Mrs. Otway,” said he, “that
arise out of this letter. The first is, What has become of this
stick?”
“I don’t know what has become of it. I saw Mrs. Gregg replace it in
the corner by the writing table and I never saw it again. The deceased
asked me the same question when he showed me the letter; but I
reminded him that I did not take the stick with me when I left his
house, and that I never went to the house again.”
“It never occurred to you to ask what had become of your father’s
stick?”
“No. I always assumed that it was in Mr. Otway’s possession.”
“You have told us that Mrs. Gregg had seen the stick in Mr. Otway’s
house. Had anyone else seen it there?”
“I don’t know of anyone else having seen it; but, of course, it may
have been seen there by other persons. I know nothing of what went on
in that house. I never entered it after my father’s death.”
“With the exception of Mr. Otway and yourself, did anyone know that
you had seen that stick in Mr. Otway’s hand on the occasion of your
father’s death?”
“So far as I am aware, no one else knew.”
“There is a statement in that letter referring to a bruise on the
silver knob and a smear of blood with a grey hair sticking to it. Is
it possible, so far as you know, that that statement might be true?”
“I cannot say that it is impossible.”
“After your father’s death, did you examine the stick?”
“No. I saw it in Mrs. Gregg’s hands, but I did not look at it
closely.”
At this point a police superintendent who had been sitting near to the
coroner’s table, rose, and, approaching the table, stooped over it and
spoke to the coroner in a low voice. The latter listened attentively
and nodded once or twice, and when the superintendent had returned to
his seat he addressed me.
“I think that will do, Mrs. Otway--for the present, at any rate. We
may have to ask you one or two questions later. Do any of the jury
wish to ask anything before the witness sits down?”
As none of the jury responded, I returned to my seat, and the coroner
then recalled Mrs. Gregg.
“You have heard the last witness state that she saw you take up Mr.
Vardon’s stick. What made you examine that stick?”
“I did not examine it. I noticed it standing in the corner and saw
that it was a strange stick--that it was not Mr. Otway’s. I took it
out of the corner to look at it and then noticed that it was heavily
loaded at the top.”
“Can you say whether there was or was not a bruise or a blood smear on
the knob?”
“I cannot. I did not look closely at the knob. I just picked the stick
up, felt its weight and put it back in the corner.”
“Did you know that Mr. Otway had had that stick in his hand when Mr.
Vardon fell dead?”
“No. I never heard of that until to-day.”
“Could anyone other than Mrs. Otway have known, so far as you are able
to say?”
“I can’t say. I should think not. I did not get back to the house
until it was all over. But I thought, and believe, that there was no
one in the house but those three--Mrs. Otway and her husband and her
father.”
“Do you know what became of that stick?”
“I do not. I put it back in the corner and never saw it again. It was
not in the corner when I tidied up the room the next day.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gregg. That will do.”
Having dismissed the witness, the coroner turned to the jury.
“I had hoped, gentlemen,” said he, “to finish the case to-day, but, as
you have seen, its apparent simplicity was rather illusory. Some
rather curious issues have arisen which will have to be considered in
detail. Moreover, there appears to be a suspicion that property of
very great value has been removed from the premises--at least, it
seems to be missing. Under these circumstances, the police authorities
ask for an adjournment to enable them to make some enquiries; and I am
sure you will agree with me that this, and certain other matters,
should be cleared up before a verdict is returned. I therefore propose
to adjourn this enquiry for fourteen days.”
The court rose, and I rose with it. As I stood up and turned towards
the door I saw Jasper standing at the back of the hall. He made no
sign, nor did I; and as soon as our eyes had met, he turned and walked
out. I did not attempt to follow, for I understood at once that he did
not consider it desirable that we should recognise one another in that
place. Moreover, I was detained for a minute or two by the coroner,
who informed me, with a curious dry civility, that he wished me to
attend at the adjourned meeting of the court, as further evidence from
me might be required; and after him, by Mr. Isaacs, who, as executor,
was responsible for the funeral arrangements and who promised to
inform me when the date had been fixed.
As I emerged from the gateway I glanced up the street with a
wistfulness which I would hardly acknowledge to myself. But, of
course, Jasper was already out of sight. Feeling very lonely, weary
and exhausted, I walked slowly down Drury Lane considering what I
should do next. And suddenly there came on me a longing for the quiet
and comfort of the club. It was quite near; and once there I could
wash, refresh and rest in peace, alone, or at least among civilised
people. And it was even possible that Jasper might be there.
At this thought I must have unconsciously quickened my pace, for a few
minutes later found me passing through the entrance hall, telling
myself that, of course, Jasper would not have come there. Nevertheless
as I opened the door of the large room my eye instantly sought the
familiar table in the corner; and when I saw Jasper sitting by it with
a watchful gaze fixed on the door, my weariness and loneliness seemed
to drop from me like a garment.
Chapter XXV.
Suspense: and a Discovery
“I had hoped,” said Jasper, as we met by the table, “that you would
come on here. I had to take the chance. I suppose you understood why I
made myself scarce as soon as you had seen me?”
“I assumed that you thought it better that we should not be seen
together just at present.”
“It is more than unadvisable,” said he. “It is vitally important. We
will talk about that letter--but not here. There is a lot that I have
to say to you, but we had better have our talk where we cannot be
seen, or possibly overheard. I propose that I run off now--nobody has
seen us here yet--and wait for you at my chambers. You just have a
wash to freshen you up and come along at once. Don’t stop for tea; I
will have some ready for you. And you had better come by the least
frequented way. Go down to the Embankment, up Middle Temple Lane,
along Crown Office Row, cross King’s Bench Walk to Mitre Court, come
out into Fleet Street by Mitre Court Passage, cross to Fetter Lane and
into Clifford’s Inn by the postern gate.”
“All this sounds very secret and mysterious,” said I.
“It is necessary,” he replied. “We mustn’t be seen together if we can
help it. Remember the jury and other interested parties are local men,
and might easily run against us in the public thoroughfares. So I will
run off now and you will come along as soon as you can.”
To this arrangement I agreed, although the precautions seemed to me
somewhat excessive, and he hurried away while I went in quest of hot
water and the other means of ablution.
The process of purification did not take long, for the temptation to
linger luxuriously over the ceremonial of the toilet was combated by
curiosity and anxiety to rejoin Jasper. In a few minutes I emerged,
greatly refreshed and sensible of a very healthy appetite, and set
forth by the prescribed route towards Clifford’s Inn, reflecting
earnestly as I went on Jasper’s rather mysterious attitude. I did not
have to ply the knocker, for as I reached the landing I found Jasper
standing at his open door.
“Now,” said he, when I had entered and he had softly closed both the
massive “oak” and the inner door, “we are secure from observers and
eavesdroppers, and we can pow-wow at any length we please.”
“You are very secret and portentous,” I remarked. “What is it all
about?”
“The secrecy and portentosity,” he replied, “are possibly by-products
of a legal training. We will discuss that presently. Meanwhile, the
need of the moment is to provide nourishment for a starving angel.”
He placed an easy chair for me by the fire, and then retired to the
little kitchen, from which issued a gentle clink of crockery very
grateful to my ear. Presently he emerged with a tray on which were a
teapot and two covers, and having deposited it on a small table,
placed the latter by my chair and removed the covers with a flourish.
“There is only one cup and one plate,” said I, noting that the
“nourishment” had been provided on a scale of opulence appropriate to
masculine conceptions of appetite.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Jasper. “How many cups and plates do you
generally use?”
“Go and get another plate and cup and saucer,” I commanded, severely.
When he had made the necessary addition to the table appointments, he
drew up a second armchair, and, as he poured out the tea, he said,
gravely: “We have had a long probation, Helen, dearest--at least, it
seems so to me; and it is not over yet. But this little interlude
should hearten us for what remains. To me it is a glimpse into a
future of perfect happiness and comradeship. Do you realise, Helen,
that we are now a normal, engaged couple, free to marry when we
choose?”
Of course I had realised that we were free; but as I thought of the
shrouded figure that even now reposed under its sheet in the mortuary,
I doubted whether the word “normal” was fully applicable.
“It is perfect peace and happiness to be here with you, Jasper,” I
replied; “but I think I shall feel more normal when we can meet
without all this secrecy. And even now I don’t quite understand it.
Why is it so important that we should not be seen together?”
“That is fairly obvious, I think,” he replied. “I am going to be very
frank with you, Helen, because I have complete confidence in your
courage and strength of character. There is no use in blinking the
fact that you are in a difficult position. That coroner man thinks you
wrote those anonymous letters; and he suspects that you knew about
Otway’s suicidal tendencies.”
“But I distinctly said I did not.”
“Yes, but, you see, the person who wrote those letters is not a person
whose statements would carry any weight; and he thinks you are that
person. He thinks you have tried deliberately to drive Otway to
suicide, and he will be looking for a motive. There is a fairly
obvious motive already, as you were encumbered with a husband whom you
didn’t want; but if you add another husband whom you did and do want,
the motive for getting rid of the unwanted one becomes much more
definite. That is the kind of motive he will be on the look-out for.
Hence the necessity for the utmost caution on our part. If a witness
could be produced who could depose to having seen us together, it
might be possible for him to put some inconvenient questions.”
“Could he not question me on the subject apart from any such witness?”
“I don’t think it would be admissible for the coroner to suggest the
existence of a lover if he had no facts. And that brings us to the
point that I was going to raise. You ought to be represented either by
counsel or by a solicitor; preferably by counsel, as a barrister is
more agile--more accustomed to deal with the sudden exigencies that
arise in court.”
“You seem to suggest that I am charged with having brought about Mr.
Otway’s death.”
“I wouldn’t use the word ‘charged’ as I don’t know that there is any
such offence recognised by law. Morally, to cause a man to commit
suicide would be much the same as to murder him, but I can’t say
off-hand what the legal position would be. My impression is that it
would not be an offence that could be dealt with by law unless the
causation were direct, as in the case where two persons agree to
commit suicide together and one of them survives.”
I listened to this exposition with a sinking heart. Jasper’s intention
was to reassure me. But if only he had known what I knew! If only he
could have looked into my heart and seen the secret guilt that was
hidden there! And, after all, was it so secret? Was it so securely
hidden? Was the still, small voice of my own conscience the only
accusing voice that I should hear? As I asked myself the question,
uncomfortable memories of the mysterious sounds that had seemed to
issue from the locked cupboard arose and whispered a new menace.
“I am putting the matter bluntly,” Jasper continued, “as the position
has to be faced, and I am confident that you have the courage and
resolution to face it. The coroner holds you accountable for Otway’s
death. He thinks you made a deliberate plan and carried it out to the
bitter end. That is his line, and we have got to show that he is
wrong, if we can, and in any case prevent him from misdirecting the
jury. You must certainly be represented by counsel.”
“What could my counsel do?” I asked.
“His principal function would be to prevent the coroner or the jury
from putting improper questions--questions that do not properly arise
out of the evidence, such as the one we spoke of just now. Of course,
I could represent you, but it would not be advisable under the
circumstances; and besides, I have had no experience of actual
practice. Do you know any barrister whom you could ask?”
“The only barrister I know is Dr. Thorndyke, but I couldn’t ask him to
attend a coroner’s court.”
“I don’t know that you couldn’t. Of course, he is a great man. But the
case is quite in his line, and I know that he doesn’t mind where he
appears if the case interests him.”
“You know him then, too?”
“Only by repute. All lawyers know him as the leading authority on
medical evidence. His position is unique, for he is a first-class
criminal lawyer and a first-class medical specialist. You couldn’t
have a better man for your representative. I advise you to see him or
write to him without delay. Does he know anything about your affairs?”
“Yes, I consulted him a month or two ago, about these very letters and
told him about my reservations at the inquest. He promised to make a
few inquiries, but I have not heard from him on the subject, so I
suppose his inquiries led to no result.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” said Jasper. “At any rate, as he knows
something of the case, and is by far the best counsel you could get,
the obvious thing is to communicate with him at once.”
Of course, Jasper was quite right--in so far as he knew the facts. For
he was assuming that I had nothing to conceal excepting my bargain
with Mr. Otway and my relations with himself. He knew nothing of the
dreadful events that befel on the night preceding Mr. Otway’s death;
of the silent willing and suggestion that my own conscience called
murder, and that any jury would have called murder if they had known
of it. But it was vivid enough in my mind; and I had hardly spoken Dr.
Thorndyke’s name before I realised that I dare not ask for his help.
My own experience fully endorsed my father’s estimate of his powers.
He missed nothing. Hidden significances that no one else guessed at
were to him as the writing of an open book. With no knowledge of the
facts, he had instantly perceived that Mr. Otway’s evidence was false,
and that I was withholding something of importance. And so I felt it
would be now. If he came into the case, my hideous secret would be a
secret no longer. I dare not run the risk.
“I must think it over,” said I. “It seems rather a liberty to ask a
man of his position to watch the evidence at an inquest.”
“He can but refuse,” said Jasper; “and don’t think it over for too
long, or you may miss your chance. He is a busy man.”
I made some sort of non-committal reply and changed the subject. Full
as we were of the events of the moment, there were other matters that
were more pleasant to discuss. For Mr. Otway’s death had made a
radical change in our prospects and plans for the future, and these we
talked over with interest and pleasure but little dimmed by the dark
clouds that hung overhead at the moment, until the chimes of St.
Dunstan’s, hard by, announced that it was nine o’clock and time for me
to go.
“I suppose,” said Jasper, as he bade me farewell, “we had better not
meet again until this affair is over. It is only a fortnight, and
after that we shall be free. Meanwhile, we can write as often as we
please.”
I agreed to this the more readily as I saw that another meeting with
Jasper would make it difficult for me to escape from his demand that I
should invoke Dr. Thorndyke’s help. Nevertheless, as I took my way
through Clifford’s Inn Passage into Fleet Street, I found myself
looking forward somewhat gloomily to the lonely and anxious fortnight
that lay ahead.
For several days nothing out of the ordinary occurred. My friends at
Wellclose Square, who knew approximately what my position was, were
quietly sympathetic, but never referred to the matter; excepting the
incorrigible Titmouse, who frankly congratulated me on my
newly-acquired freedom.
“It’s horrid for you, Sibyl,” said she, “but still it is all for the
best; though he might have managed it a little more decently--level
crossing, you know, or ‘found drowned,’ or something of that sort.”
“You are a callous little wretch, Peggy,” said I.
“I don’t care,” she replied, defiantly. “You know it’s true. I am
awfully sorry for you now. It must be perfectly beastly to have to
answer all those impertinent questions, and have your answers printed
in the newspapers. But it will soon be over, and then you can forget
it and have a good time. I shall dance at your wedding before I am six
months older.”
I had to pretend to be shocked, but the Titmouse’s optimism did me
good. For there was a bright side to the picture, and it was just as
well to gather encouragement by an occasional glance at it.
About ten days after the first sitting of the inquest I received a
letter from Mr. Isaacs. He had already written to me briefly to inform
me that the funeral had been postponed by the coroner’s direction
until after the adjourned inquest, but had then said nothing about the
will. The present letter supplied the omission, and its contents
surprised me very much. It appeared that the will had been proved and
that I was the principal beneficiary. “The testator,” said Mr. Isaacs,
“has bequeathed to you the bulk of his personalty--upwards of eight
thousand pounds--and the lease of the premises in Lyon’s Inn Chambers,
together with the furniture and effects contained therein. You are
also constituted the residuary legatee. The chambers have now been
evacuated by Mrs. Gregg, and are at your disposal. They are at present
locked up, and the keys are in my possession pending your instructions
and advice as to whether you intend to occupy the premises, to let
them or to dispose of the lease. A copy of the will can be seen at my
office, and, of course, the original can be examined at Somerset
House.”
The provisions of this will caused me, as I have said, considerable
surprise. I had regarded myself as having no pecuniary claim on Mr.
Otway, and had not considered myself as concerned in his will at all.
Now it was evident that, selfish as he had been during his life, he
had been anxious at least to make some atonement after his death for
the injury he had done me; and the fact did not tend to make my sense
of guilt less acute.
Before I had replied to Mr. Isaacs’ letter I received two other
communications. One was from Jasper; and though it was written in a
tone of quiet cheerfulness, its contents filled me with alarm. It
appeared that Jasper, becoming uneasy at my continued neglect to take
any measures to secure a counsel to represent me, had called on Dr.
Thorndyke with the object of retaining him. “We have had rather bad
luck,” he continued, “though I don’t suppose it will matter. Dr.
Thorndyke would have been pleased to represent you, but unfortunately
he has been commissioned at the last moment by the Home Office to make
an independent investigation of the case. He gave me the name of a
suitable counsel--a rising junior named Cawley--with whom I have made
the necessary arrangements. So your interests will be looked after,
and we can trust Thorndyke to clear up the obscurities of the case.”
The other letter was from Dr. Thorndyke himself, and confirmed
Jasper’s account. “Your friend, Mr. Davenant,” it said, “called on me
to-day to ask me to watch the proceedings of the inquest on your
behalf, which I would have done with great pleasure if I had been at
liberty. But I had just received instructions from the Home Office to
look into the case and give evidence at the adjourned inquest; so I
referred your friend to Mr. Cawley, who is an excellent counsel and
will be able to do all that is necessary.
“Mr. Davenant expressed great disappointment that I should be, as he
expressed it, ‘retained by the other side.’ But I pointed out to him
that there is no ‘other side.’ I am not a ‘witness advocate.’ My
evidence would be the same whichever side employed me. I never
undertake to represent a particular interest, but merely to obtain
what facts I can and give those facts impartially in my evidence; and
I always make it clear to clients that they employ me at their own
risk--at the risk that the facts elicited may be unfavourable to them.
So, although I am not retained by you, I shall act precisely as if I
were. I shall find out all I can, and tell the court all I know. This
will, presumably, be entirely in your interest.
“And now I am going to ask a favour of you. I wish to examine and make
a plan of the premises at Lyon’s Inn Chambers, and I understand that
the tenancy of the Chambers is now vested in you. Will you be so kind
as to lend me the keys and authorise me to make this survey? If you
will, I shall be able to make my evidence more complete.”
If Jasper’s letter had alarmed me, Dr. Thorndyke’s positively
terrified me. The cool, relentless impartiality, the unhuman
indifference to everything but the actual truth that the letter
conveyed appalled me; and I even seemed to read a direct menace in its
tone. If I had employed him, I should have done so at my own risk; so
he seemed to hint. His intention was to “find out all he could and
tell the court all he knew.” How much would he find out? How much did
he know already? He had a verbatim report of the evidence so far. He
had Mrs. Gregg’s statement that “they seemed to be talking about
suicide.” He would know all about suggestion and silent willing. Was
it possible that he already knew that I had sent that wretched man on
his last journey? When I recalled all that my father had said of his
amazing powers of inference; when I remembered how unerringly he had
detected the reservations in Mr. Otway’s evidence and mine; I could
not but feel that my chance of keeping my guilty secret was
infinitesimal. The probability was that it was discovered already.
As to his request, obviously I had no choice but to grant it; and I
was on the point of writing to Mr. Isaacs to instruct him to hand the
keys to Dr. Thorndyke when it occurred to me that it might be well to
avoid unnecessarily taking the former gentleman into my confidence. I
knew nothing about Mr. Isaacs, and was not particularly prepossessed
by him; nor did I know the object of the proposed survey of the
premises; concerning which indeed I was somewhat mystified and rather
uncomfortable. Eventually I decided to call at Mr. Isaacs’ office for
the keys and deliver them myself to Dr. Thorndyke.
Accordingly I wrote a short note to the latter informing him of my
intentions, and on the following morning betook myself to Mr. Isaacs’
office, which was situate in New Inn. I could see that my visit was
somewhat unexpected, and evidently aroused the solicitor’s curiosity.
“You will see,” said he, “that the keys are all labelled, and I have
made a rough inventory of the furniture and effects. Perhaps you would
like me to come with you and check it.”
“Thank you,” said I, “but I don’t think I will check the inventory
to-day. We will postpone that until I take formal possession. At
present I am merely going to take a look at the premises.”
When I said this, I had, of course, no intention of going to the
chambers at all, but as I walked down Wych Street with the keys in my
bag, I reflected that, as I had said I was going, I had better go.
Moreover, it was possible that the arrangement of the place had been
disturbed and that some things might need to be replaced; for I
assumed that Dr. Thorndyke would wish to see the premises as they were
on the night of the tragedy. And then I was not without some curiosity
concerning this place which had been the scene of events so momentous
to me.
At the bottom of Wych Street I turned round by the “Rising Sun” and
walked along Holywell Street to the entrance of Lyon’s Inn Chambers;
and as I, once again, ascended the gloomy stone stairs, the sinister
atmosphere of the place enveloped me as it had done on previous
occasions, and induced a vague sensation of fear. When I reached the
landing and stood at the ill-omened portal, the feeling had grown so
pronounced that I hesitated for a while to enter the chambers. At
length I summoned up courage to insert the key, and as the massive
door swung open I stepped into the lobby.
But my nervousness by no means wore off. Leaving the outer door ajar,
I walked quickly down the corridor, peered into the kitchen and the
little, empty room that had presumably been occupied by Mrs.
Gregg--apparently the furniture had belonged to her--crossed the
living-room and entered the bedroom. Here nothing seemed to have been
changed. Even the great peg--on which, of course, my eye lit
instantly--still bore the end of crimson rope; the bed had been
stripped, but the bedside table stood intact even to the bottle of
veronal tablets. I looked about me quickly and nervously, noting the
arrangement of the furniture and comparing it with my recollections of
that unforgettable night; and when I had decided that it was
unaltered, I turned to go.
As I crossed the living-room, the large, wardrobe-like cupboard
attracted my attention, and I recalled the mysterious sounds that had
seemed to issue from it. Was it possible, I wondered, that Mrs. Gregg
could have been concealed in it that night and have overheard those
last incriminating words of mine. She had not referred to them in her
evidence, but the inquiry was not finished yet. I resolved to settle
the question whether it was physically possible for her to have been
concealed in the cupboard, and having tried the door and found it
locked, I turned the keys over one by one until I found one labelled
“cupboard in living-room.” It was a rather unusual type of key, with a
solid stem instead of the more usual barrel, and when I had inserted
it and opened the door, I noticed that the key-hole passed right
through the lock, so that the door could be locked from the inside as
well as the outside. The cupboard itself was fitted like a wardrobe
with a single shelf just above my eye level, beneath which a short
woman like Mrs. Gregg could have easily stood upright. Thus the
construction of the cupboard and the peculiar form of the lock made it
at least possible that an eavesdropper might have been concealed that
night; and that was all that I could say.
Before shutting the door I stood on tip-toe to see if there was
anything on the shelf. In the semi-darkness of the interior I could
see some kind of metallic object, and reaching in, took hold of it. As
I drew it into the light of day I gave a gasp of astonishment. It was
my father’s stick.
I took it down and turned it over curiously in my hands, marvelling
how it should have got into this receptacle; and as I turned it over,
there came into view a flattened dent on the silver knob covered by a
thick smear of blood to which two hairs had stuck. I looked at the
hairs closely, but could come to no opinion as to whether or not they
were my father’s. One of these was white and the other a brownish
grey. My father’s hair had been iron grey as a whole, but I could not
judge what the appearance of individual hairs might have been. If
these were really his, then the man who had gone to his account was my
father’s murderer. It was a dreadful thought, but yet not without a
certain compensation. As I looked at this relic of that day of wrath I
felt my heart hardening. If the message that it bore was a true
message, then I need have no more compunction for what I had done. If
I had known with certainty that Mr. Otway had killed my father, those
words which had slipped from me subconsciously would have been
consciously uttered with full and deliberate intent and without a
qualm.
I stood for a while with the stick in my hand considering what I
should do with it. That its mysterious reappearance would create a
complication I plainly foresaw, but to take it away and conceal it
would be not only dishonest but very unsafe; for it was almost certain
that someone knew of its existence. It must have been seen when the
inventory was taken. Eventually I replaced it on the shelf and locked
the cupboard; and having put the keys back in my bag made my way to
the door, which had been standing ajar all this time.
As I walked slowly to the Temple, I turned over in my mind the
significance of this strange discovery. Someone must have known of the
presence of this stick in the chambers, and that someone was either
Mr. Otway or Mrs. Gregg. But both had declared positively that they
had never seen it; and it was difficult to imagine why either of them
should have kept it hidden away and disclaimed all knowledge of it. I
could make nothing of the problem. Only one thing was clear to me. I
must let Dr. Thorndyke know of my discovery; for it did not
incriminate me in any way and might give him a clue to some of the
elements of the mystery, the unravelment of which would be to my
advantage.
The door of Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers was opened by Mr. Polton, who
greeted me with a friendly smile, all creases and wrinkles.
“I’m sorry to say that the Doctor is not at home, ma’am,” said he;
“and he will be sorry, too. He would have liked to see you, I am
sure.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Polton,” said I. “I have only called to leave
these keys. But I should like to leave a message. Will you ask him not
to disturb things more than he can help, as the inventory has not been
checked yet; and will you tell him that the stick is in the large
cupboard in the living-room? You won’t forget, will you?”
“I shan’t _forget_,” he replied, with a slight emphasis on the last
word, “but I never trust my memory in important matters. Would you
mind writing the Doctor a little note?”
He produced writing materials and placed a chair by the table, and I
sat down and briefly put my message into writing. When I had given him
the note--which he set in a conspicuous place on the mantel-piece--he
looked at me as if he had something to say, and I waited to hear what
it was.
“I’ve got an old verge watch to pieces upstairs,” he said at length.
“I don’t know whether you would care to have a look at the movement.
It’s worth looking at. If you want to know what workmanship is, you
should look at the inside of a good, old watch.”
I was not, at the moment, much interested in watches or workmanship,
but I could not resist his companionable enthusiasm--to say nothing of
the implied compliment. So we went up together to the workshop, where
he exhibited with a craftsman’s delight the delicate wheels, the
engraved plates and the little chased pillars, and even brought out a
microscope that I might appreciate the finish bestowed on the links of
a fusee-chain that was hardly thicker than a horse-hair.
As the day of the adjourned inquest drew near, my anxiety--intensified
by the consciousness of my guilty secret--grew more acute. My position
was, as Jasper had said, a difficult one in any case. But the really
alarming element in it was the introduction of Dr. Thorndyke into the
case. The suggestion factor in the suicide would probably remain
unsuspected by the coroner and the jury. But would it escape Dr.
Thorndyke’s almost superhuman penetration? I could not believe that it
would, for the hint of it was plain in Mrs. Gregg’s evidence. And if
it were detected, it would be revealed. Of that I had not the shadow
of a doubt. Dr. Thorndyke was a kindly, even a genial man; but he was
Justice personified. He would investigate the case with relentless
accuracy and completeness; and he would tell the truth to the last
word. Of that I felt certain. If he held my fate in his hands I was
lost.
Of the view of the case taken by outsiders I had an unpleasant
illustration the day before the adjourned sitting. It was furnished by
an article in an evening paper that I had taken up to my room to read.
Glancing over its pages, my eyes was caught by the words “Lyon’s Inn,”
and I read as follows:
“The new Lyon’s Inn seems to be emulating the reputation of the old.
Within that ancient precinct occurred the famous Weare murder,
forgotten of the present generation, but immortalised in those rather
brutal verses of Tom Hood’s:
“‘They cut his throat from ear to ear,
His brains they battered in;
His name was Mr. William Weare,
He lived in Lyon’s Inn.’
“The drama of Lyon’s Inn Chambers, however, is not a murder--at least
we hope not. It is at present regarded as a suicide. But there are
some queer features in the case. There is, for instance, a handsome
young wife, who, it seems, flatly refused to live with her elderly
husband from the very wedding day; there is a series of unaccountable
anonymous letters; and there is a rumour of a hoard of precious gems
spirited away from the chambers, apparently on the very night when Mr.
Lewis Otway hanged himself from a peg on his bedroom wall. So the
adjourned inquest, which opens at 11 a.m. to-morrow, may elicit some
curious revelations.”
As I laid the paper down, a cold hand seemed to settle on my heart.
The writer had exaggerated nothing. He had not even stated all the
accusing facts. But even so, put quite impartially, the article
exhibited me as the central figure of the tragedy, as the visible
agent of the sinister events that had befallen in those ill-omened
chambers. And could I say that it misstated the case? Of the anonymous
letters, indeed, and the stolen gems--if stolen they were--I knew
nothing. But the central fact of the case was Mr. Otway’s death. For
that the coroner held me accountable. And, though he misjudged the
evidence as to the means, I could not but admit that the coroner was
right. The coming inquiry was, in effect, the trial of Helen Otway.
Chapter XXVI.
The Adjourned Inquiry