The second sitting of the inquest was a much more portentous affair

than the first. The large room, or hall, in which it was held was

nearly full when I entered, and it was evident that a considerable

proportion of the occupants were spectators, attracted hither, no

doubt, by the picturesque comments of the newspapers. But besides

these were a number of persons connected with the inquiry. Behind the

coroner’s chair sat a group of police officers. Mr. Isaacs and Mr.

Hyams were again present; the witnesses now included Mr. and Mrs.

Campbell and a youngish man of a pronouncedly Hebrew type, who sat

next to them. The side of the long table allotted to the press was

filled by reporters--among whom I noticed the gentleman employed by

Dr. Thorndyke, and there was one or two men whom I judged to be

lawyers representing the various parties interested.

My own counsel, Mr. Cawley, a shrewd-looking man of about thirty-five,

introduced himself to me as I took the seat reserved for me, and gave

me a few words of advice.

“I think,” said he, “I have had all the necessary instructions from

Mr. Davenant, who, I see, is here.” (I had had an instantaneous

glimpse of him as I entered the room.) “His impression is that the

coroner is disposed to put a certain amount of blame on you for your

husband’s death. If that is so, you will have to be rather careful

about answering questions, especially any questions that the jury may

put. Don’t be in a hurry to answer any doubtful questions. Give me

time to object if they seem inclined to go beyond the evidence.”

I promised to bear his advice in mind, and then asked:

“Do you know if Dr. Thorndyke is giving evidence to-day?”

“I presume he is,” was the reply; “but I notice that he is not present

and that his reporter is.”

At this point the coroner laid down the papers which he had been

looking over, and opened the proceedings with a short address to the

jury.

“The adjournment of this inquiry, gentlemen,” said he, “which was

decided upon a fortnight ago, is amply justified by the mass of new

facts which are now available. These new facts bear chiefly on the

property which, as you heard at the last sitting, was believed to be

missing; but in other directions they throw a very curious light on

the case. The first witness will be Superintendent Miller, of the

Criminal Investigation Department.”

As his name was spoken, the officer rose and took his place by the

table. He took the oath, and disposed of the preliminaries with

professional facility, and then waited gravely for the coroner’s next

question.

“You had some knowledge of the deceased, Lewis Otway, and his affairs,

I understand?” said the coroner.

“Yes. I have known of his existence for more than twenty years.”

“Will you tell us what you know of him?”

“I first made his acquaintance about twenty-three years ago. He was

then practising as a solicitor--chiefly as a police-court

advocate--and was known by his real name, Lewis Levy, which he

subsequently changed to Otway. After a time, he began to engage in

business as a money-lender, and it was at this time that he took the

name of Otway. Presently he began to combine with money-lending a

certain amount of trafficking in precious stones, and it was then that

the police began to keep a somewhat close watch on him, with the idea

that he might be also acting as a receiver. We never really had

anything against him, but we always had the impression that he did

some business as a middleman, or disposer of stolen jewels.

“When I first knew him, he had living with him a young woman, named

Rachel Goldstein. She was nominally his housekeeper, but there were

two children--a boy named Morris, and a girl named Judith--whom he

admitted to be his. When he changed his name to Otway, Rachel

Goldstein took the name of Gregg, and used to pass as a Scotchwoman.

The children lived with their parents until they grew up, when Otway

(or Levy) provided for them in a way that made the police watch still

more closely. Judith married a David Samuels, who traded under the

name of Campbell as a dealer in works of art, especially goldsmith’s

work and jewellery; and Morris Goldstein started as a dealer in

antiques, with a shop in Hand Court, and some workshops in Mansell

Street, Whitechapel, where most of the antiques were made.

“Now both these men were practical working jewellers. It was believed

that Otway financed them both, and it was known that he was the lessee

of the premises that they occupied. Moreover, as soon as they were

established in business, Otway gradually abandoned the money-lending,

and occupied himself almost exclusively in dealing in gem stones. He

was an exceedingly good judge of stones, and was quite successful as a

legitimate dealer; but the police had an impression that he did a

considerable amount of business that was not legitimate. I want it to

be quite clear that I am not making any accusations; I am referring

merely to an impression that the police had; it may have been quite a

mistaken impression, but I mention it because the matter bears

directly on this enquiry.

“The idea of the police, then, was that Otway dealt to a considerable

extent in stolen property. We supposed that he obtained this

property--precious stones, without the mounts--not from the thieves,

but from the receivers, and that he disposed of them with the aid of

his son and son-in-law. Both those men did a fairly large trade in

high-class jewellery. They did not touch commercial goods, but dealt

exclusively in work produced individually by skilled goldsmiths and

jewellers, some of whom they kept regularly employed. They also did a

good deal of repairing and re-setting, and their transactions were

always with private customers, not with the trade.

“Our idea of the way it was worked was this: We thought that when

Otway had got a collection of stolen stones he would pass on some of

them to these two men. They would then commission their craftsmen to

make some articles of jewellery, and would provide them with stones

which had been bought from the regular dealers, and the purchase of

which could be proved if necessary. Then, when the jewels were

delivered--or even after they had been sold to a private

buyer--Campbell or Goldstein would take the purchased stones out of

their settings and replace them by stolen stones. And a similar method

could have been employed when jewels were brought for alteration,

repair or re-setting. This kind of substitution would be very

difficult to trace, for it is not easy to identify particular stones

and prove that they are not the ones referred to in the dealers’

receipts. As a matter of fact we never did trace any stolen gems

excepting on a single occasion; and then the evidence was not good

enough for us to risk a prosecution.

“And now we come to the case that concerns this enquiry. About a year

ago there was a burglary at the premises of Messrs. Middleburg, of New

Bond Street, the well-known jewellers, and, among other things, a

collection of valuable stones, worth about five thousand pounds, was

carried off. It was a small collection, but all the stones were

individually of considerable value, and several of them were

remarkable, either in respect of size or other peculiarities. The

collection has never been traced, and none of the stones has

reappeared either here or abroad; and the police have reason to

believe that the whole collection is still in this country.

“When these stones disappeared so completely, the police formed the

opinion that they had passed into the possession of Otway, and that he

was holding them up until an opportunity occurred to issue them one by

one. At this time he was living at Maidstone--he had been there a year

or two, but he had kept his old chambers at Lyon’s Inn, and often

stayed in them for a week or more at a time. Last May or June he left

Maidstone and came back to his old chambers, and we then began to keep

a closer watch on him.

“About a couple of months ago he bought--or rather took on

approval--from Mr. Hyams, of Hatton Garden, a collection of stones of

which I have seen the list. These stones were carefully selected by

Otway, and the remarkable thing about them is that, taken as a whole,

they are singularly like the stolen collection. Among the stolen

stones, for instance, there were two large tourmalines, one green and

one deep blue, both table stones with step-cut backs; four emeralds,

two step-cut and two cut _en cabochon_; two large chrysoberyls, one

brilliant-cut, green, and one _en cabochon_, yellow; one pale-blue

diamond; and one pale-pink. Now, the collection taken from Mr. Hyams

includes tourmalines, emeralds, chrysoberyls, and diamonds, of almost

exactly the same size, colour and cutting; and there are many other

passable duplicates of the stolen stones.

“When I became aware of this transaction I inferred that Otway was

making arrangements to release the stolen stones, and I caused a still

closer watch to be kept on him; but up to the present not one of the

missing stones has been discovered. Now I understand that the Hyams

collection has disappeared; and if that is so, it seems probable that

the person who has taken it is also in possession of the stolen

collection. But that, of course, is only a guess.”

“Quite so!” said the coroner, “and it is a matter that is more in your

province than in ours. Is there anything more that you have to tell us

that is relevant to the enquiry?”

“No, I think that is all.”

“You will be remaining here, in case we want to refer to you again?”

“Yes; I want to hear Dr. Thorndyke’s evidence, and, of course, I want

to hear the verdict.”

“I am afraid you may have a long time to wait, for I have had a

telegram from Dr. Thorndyke saying that he has been detained at

Maidstone, and has missed his train. It is a great nuisance for us

all. However, we will go on with the evidence. The next witness will

be Mr. Samuel Isaacs.”

As the superintendent retired to his seat and Mr. Isaacs approached

the table, I reflected rapidly on what I had just heard. Dr. Thorndyke

had apparently been down to Maidstone. Was his visit connected with

the present enquiry? And if so, what was it that he had been

investigating? The locality suggested some kind of research in which I

was concerned, but at the nature of that research I could make no

guess whatever. However, there was no time to speculate on the

subject, for Mr. Isaacs had been sworn, and was ready to begin his

evidence.

“You were solicitor to the deceased, I understand, Mr. Isaacs?”

“Yes; I am one of the executors of his will.”

“In that capacity have you heard of any property said to be missing

from the chambers which he occupied?”

“I have. Mr. Hyams has made a claim to have restored to him a parcel

of precious stones, valued at about four thousand pounds, which, he

states, was his property, and which he asserts the deceased had in his

possession.”

“Have you examined the premises with a view to discovering that

property?”

“Yes, I have examined the premises very thoroughly, and have made a

complete inventory of all the effects of the deceased. I have gone

through the contents of the safe and all other receptacles, and have

checked the property which he had deposited at his bank. I have made a

most exhaustive search, but have failed to find any trace of the

parcel referred to, or of any precious stones whatever.”

“Is it possible that you may have overlooked the parcel?”

“I should say it is impossible. My opinion is that the parcel is not

on the premises, and it certainly is not at the bank.”

The coroner and a legal-looking gentleman at the table both noted down

this reply. Then the former said: “You are, no doubt, in a position to

tell us what was the state of the deceased man’s affairs. Was there

any kind of financial embarrassment?”

“I should say, certainly not. The gross value of the estate--which is

entirely personal--is a little over seventeen thousand pounds; and the

liabilities, so far as they are known to me, are quite trivial.”

“Can you tell us roughly, what are the main provisions of the will,

that is, if it has been proved?”

“It has been proved. The principal beneficiary is the widow, who

receives eight thousand pounds, and the lease of the chambers in

Lyon’s Inn, with the furniture and effects, and is made residuary

legatee. Rachel Gregg--or Goldstein--receives one thousand, and Morris

and Judith, each, two thousand pounds, and the lease of the premises

in which they respectively carry on their business. There are a few

small legacies--less than a thousand pounds in the aggregate; so that

there will probably be a residue of about three thousand pounds, which

will go to the widow.”

“What is the date of this will?”

“It is dated the 10th June last.”

“Do you know whether the provisions of the will were known to the

widow, or the other beneficiaries?”

“I do not know. They were not disclosed by me until probate had been

granted.”

“Thank you,” said the coroner. “I think we need not trouble you any

further, unless the jury wish to ask any questions.”

The jury did not; but the legal-looking gentleman at the table did,

and springing up like a Jack-in-the-box, he addressed the coroner.

“As representing Mr. Hyams, sir,” said he, “I should like to ask the

witness whether, in the event of the missing gems not coming to light,

their loss would be chargeable to the estate?”

The countenance of Mr. Isaacs hereupon assumed that peculiar

expression known to students of sculpture as “the archaic smile.”

“You are asking me to admit liability,” he replied; “I can’t do that,

you know. There is a recognised procedure in these cases, with which I

have no doubt you are acquainted.”

The questioner sat down with a jerk, and Mr. Cawley stood up.

“May I ask the witness, sir, whether, in the event of this loss being

adjudged to be chargeable to the estate, that loss would affect

equally all the beneficiaries?”

“No,” replied Mr. Isaacs, “it would not. It would fall, in the first

place, on the residuary legatee. It would only affect the estate as a

whole in so far as the amount of the charge exceeded that of the

residue.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Cawley. “There is one other question that I

should like to ask. The present will is dated the 10th of last June.

Did the execution of that will involve the revocation of a

previously-existing will?”

“Yes, it did. After his marriage deceased re-acknowledged the existing

will by a fresh signature and attestation, but he revoked this will

when he made the new one.”

“Could you tell us who were the beneficiaries under that will?”

Mr. Isaacs fixed a thoughtful (and somewhat beady) eye on the

coroner’s pewter ink-pot, and cogitated for a few moments.

“Is it necessary, sir, for me to answer that question?” he asked at

length, looking up at the coroner.

“Is the point material?” the latter asked, looking at Mr. Cawley.

“I submit, sir, that it may become highly important,” was the reply.

The coroner reflected with his eyes fixed on Mr. Cawley. Then he

nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I think you are right. We must ask you to

answer the question, Mr. Isaacs.”

Mr. Isaacs bowed. “The beneficiaries under that will were Rachel

Goldstein, Morris Goldstein, and Judith Samuels.”

“In what proportions was the property devised?”

“The bulk of the personalty was divided between Morris and Judith.

Rachel Goldstein--or Gregg--received two thousand pounds, but she was

also the residuary legatee.”

“And the value of the estate?”

“I can’t tell you that. I only know what it is now.”

Mr. Cawley sat down, and Mr. Isaacs retired to his seat. Then the

coroner pronounced the name of Mr. Hyams, and its owner took his place

by the table.

“We have heard, Mr. Hyams,” said the coroner, “of certain property of

yours which was in the deceased man’s custody. Will you give us a few

particulars of the transaction. When, for instance, did it come into

the possession of the deceased?”

“Two months ago--on the tenth of August, when the deceased called at

my office, and asked me to let him have a selection of stones for a

special purpose. He said that he had an opportunity of disposing of a

number of pieces of jewellery to a wealthy American gentleman, and

that he had discovered an extremely clever artist whom he proposed to

commission to make them. They were to be important pieces, chiefly

pendants, brooches, and bracelets. The stones were to be exceptional

in size and quality, and he wanted an assortment for Mr. Campbell--who

was conducting the transaction--to show the intending purchaser. He

had a list in his pocket-book, which he referred to as he made his

selection from my stock. The stones which he selected were rather

unusual--the sort of stones that appeal to collectors and

connoisseurs, rather than ordinary wearers of jewels. And some of them

were very valuable; one ruby alone that he took was worth fifteen

hundred pounds. The total value of the parcel that he carried away

with him was four thousand two hundred pounds.”

“I understand that he did not pay you for them?”

“No; he was not proposing to keep them all. They were a selection to

show to the customer. I made out a full list, and he signed a receipt

at the foot of it. I had known deceased for many years, and had often

had similar dealings with him.”

“And did he never return these stones, or any part of the collection?”

“No. From the time that he left my office with the stones in his

pocket I never saw him or heard from him again.”

This was the sum of Mr. Hyams’ evidence; and when he had retired the

name of Judith Samuels was called. The new witness took her place at

the table, and, after the usual preliminaries, proceeded to give her

evidence.

“I am the wife of David Samuels who trades under the name of Donald

Campbell. He is a dealer in works of art, principally goldsmith’s work

and jewellery. He is a practical jeweller himself, but most of the

alterations and repairs are put out. The new work that he sells, or

which is commissioned by customers, is executed for him by independent

goldsmiths, not by workmen employed by him.”

“You visited the deceased on the night preceding his death, I

understand, is that so?”

“Yes. I came to his chambers about half-past six, and left about seven

o’clock.”

“Did you notice anything unusual in his manner or appearance?”

“He was not looking very well, and he seemed rather depressed but he

brightened up as we talked. He was very much interested in the

business which I had come to discuss.”

“What was the nature of that business?”

“It was connected with a collection of stones that he had got on

approval from Mr. Hyams to carry out a commission that he expected to

get from a very wealthy American gentleman, to whom he had an

introduction. He did not disclose the name of the gentleman, but it

was understood that if he secured the commission, my husband should

conduct the negotiations, and get the work executed.”

“Did you gather that he had the stones in his possession?”

“Yes; he showed them to me. They were in a small wooden box, the

different kinds of stones wrapped up separately in little paper

packets. He took the box from a deed-box on the table by his bed-side,

and put it back there when he had shown me the stones.”

“Did you make any arrangements as to the disposal of these stones?”

“No final arrangements. He advised that we should get some of our

artist goldsmiths to submit designs for the customer to see; and he

suggested that my husband should ask Mrs. Otway to design and execute

a pendant to take some of the finest stones.”

“Mrs. Otway!” exclaimed the coroner. “What Mrs. Otway do you refer

to?”

“I mean Helen Otway, the wife of the deceased.”

“Are we to understand that Mrs. Otway is a designer of jewellery?”

“She is not only a designer; she is a practical goldsmith, and a very

clever one too. My husband admires her work exceedingly and has paid

her some very high prices. He paid her, for instance, twenty-five

guineas for a set of silver tea-spoons.”

The looks of astonishment that the coroner, the jury, and the

press-men bestowed on me might, in other circumstances, have flattered

my vanity. Now, I could see that Mrs. Campbell, without (so far as I

knew) departing one single jot from the truth, was enveloping me in

the most hideous entanglements.

After a pause--filled in with strenuous note-taking--the coroner again

addressed the witness. “It has been given in evidence that the

deceased had received a number of anonymous letters. Do you know

anything about these letters?”

“I know nothing beyond what I heard when the evidence was given.”

“Have you any means of judging who wrote these letters?”

“I have heard the evidence, and I can make a pretty good guess who

wrote them.”

“That is not quite what I mean. Have you any information about them

other than what you gathered from the evidence?”

“No; I never heard of them until then.”

This concluded Mrs. Campbell’s evidence. When she had retired Mrs.

Gregg was recalled and questioned concerning the missing stones.

“Did you know that deceased had these stones in his possession?”

“Yes. He showed them to me on one occasion, and I often saw him

looking at them. He was very fond of precious stones. He used to set

them out on a small square of black velvet, and try them in different

lights, and look at them through a magnifying glass.”

“When did you last see these stones?”

“After Mrs. Campbell--that is the last witness--had left, and just

before Mrs. Otway arrived. Deceased was then sitting up in bed looking

at a large green stone. I reminded him that Mrs. Otway was due at

eight, and he then put the stones back in their box, and put the box

away in the deed-box that was on the table.”

“When did you first learn that the stones were missing?”

“The day after the discovery that the deceased had committed suicide,

when Mrs. Otway came to the chambers with Mr. Hyams and the coroner’s

officer. She came to search for the anonymous letters, and she went

straight to the deed-box, and there they were. But the stones were not

there. I saw her take all the things out of the deed-box for Mr. Hyams

to see and there were no stones there.”

“Thank you,” said the coroner. “That will do. We must now, gentlemen,

see if Mrs. Otway can give us any further information.”

I once more took my place at the table and was again sensible of a

generally heightened curiosity on the part of the jury and the

spectators.

“We may as well dispose of the question of the missing stones,” said

the coroner; “for though it does not affect our enquiry directly but

is rather the business of the police, it seems to have an important,

indirect bearing. You have heard, Mrs. Otway, the evidence of Judith

Samuels, and Rachel Goldstein--or Gregg. Can you throw any light on

the disappearance of these stones?”

“No, I cannot.”

“Did you know that deceased had these valuable stones in his

possession?”

“No; I never heard of the stones until Mr. Hyams called on me on the

evening of the day on which Mr. Otway’s death was discovered.”

“Do you know, or have you any idea, where those stones are now?”

“I do not know, and I have no idea where they are.”

“Did you know that deceased was a dealer in precious stones?”

“No; my father told me that deceased collected gem-stones, and that he

sometimes had dealings in them. But I supposed that he was merely a

collector, not a professional dealer.”

“How long had you known deceased when you married him?”

“I had known of his existence about a year, but I had hardly ever

spoken to him. He was virtually a stranger to me.”

“Had you never heard of the suicidal tendency in his family?”

“Never until the night preceding his death, when he told me.”

“It has been stated that you are a practical goldsmith, and that you

have executed work for Mr. Samuels, or Campbell. Is that true?”

“I work as a goldsmith and I have sold some of my productions to Mr.

Campbell; but I have never been employed by him. I work as an

independent artist.”

“Has he ever supplied you with precious stones?”

“No. I purchase my own materials.”

“Have you ever done any alterations or resettings for him?”

“No. I have done no work of any kind for him, or anyone else. I work

on my own account, and sell what I make.”

The coroner nodded, and glanced over his notes. After a pause he

asked: “At what time on the night of your visit to deceased did you

leave his chambers?”

“A little before ten o’clock.”

“What was the condition of deceased when you left? Did he seem

particularly depressed or worried?”

“He was asleep when I left.”

“Asleep!” exclaimed the coroner, “How long had he been asleep?”

“Not very long; perhaps a quarter of an hour. When he took his usual

dose of veronal he asked me to stay with him until he went to sleep,

and I did so.”

“I see that the housekeeper states that when she entered the

living-room in the morning, the bedroom door was wide open, and the

gas full on. What was the condition of affairs when you left?”

“The gas was full on, and I did not shut the bedroom door. I was not

aware that the housekeeper had gone to bed and assumed that she would

look in on deceased and make what arrangements were usual for the

night.”

“But if you had turned down the gas, and shut the bedroom door, that

would have prevented the housekeeper from going to deceased.”

“No. It did not appear to matter either way.”

“When you went away, did you leave your hand-bag behind?”

“Yes, I had hung it on the back of my chair, and when I got up to go,

I forgot about it.”

“When did you discover that you had left it behind?”

“I first remembered it when I hailed a cab at the corner of Holywell

Street to take me home.”

“Why did you not then go back for it?”

“I did not like to disturb Mrs. Gregg and deceased, as it was so

late.”

“Was your purse in the bag?”

“Yes; but that was of no consequence. I knew there would be someone

sitting up who could pay the cabman.”

“The housekeeper has told us that you came to fetch the bag on the

following day.”

“Yes, in the afternoon, about three. It was then that I first heard of

Mr. Otway’s death.”

“The housekeeper states that, when she told you what had happened, you

fell down in a dead faint. Is that so?”

“Yes. It gave me a great shock, especially as Mrs. Gregg told me the

bad news so very abruptly.”

“Were you expecting to hear that the deceased had committed suicide?”

“No; the subject was not in my mind.”

“Is that not rather remarkable, having regard to your conversation

with deceased on the previous night?”

“I don’t think so. That conversation had certainly given me the

impression that there was a danger that deceased might be driven to

suicide if this persecution were continued. But I had not supposed

that the danger was immediate.”

“And that pitiful letter that you received from deceased? Did that

convey no note of warning?”

“At the time when I received it I was not aware of any predisposition

to suicide on the part of deceased. What he told me caused me some

alarm, but he became so much calmer after our talk that I thought the

danger was past, so far as the immediate future was concerned.”

“And when you went to his chambers on the following day, you felt no

uneasiness as to what might have happened?”

“No, the possibility that anything unusual might have happened was not

in my mind at all.”

“Well,” said the coroner, “it seems to me rather remarkable that the

possibility did not even occur to you. However, we are dealing with

the facts, and if those are the facts, there is no more to be said. We

will now pass on to the consideration of the will. When did you first

learn that deceased had made a fresh will?”

“Four days ago, when I received a letter from Mr. Isaacs informing me

of the fact that I was one of the beneficiaries.”

“Had deceased never mentioned to you that he had made a will in your

favour?”

“No.”

“Was there no stipulation on your part at the time of the marriage

that he should make such a will?”

“No. Nothing ever passed between us on the subject.”

“And had you no knowledge or belief that a will affecting you had been

executed?”

“I had no knowledge or belief that such a will had been executed nor

any expectation that it would be. I did not consider myself as having

any pecuniary claim on deceased.”

“Did you not receive an allowance from deceased?”

“No. He wished to make me an allowance, but I declined to accept it.”

“But you were entitled to an allowance for maintenance. Why did you

refuse to accept it?”

“I did not consider that I had any claim on deceased so long as I

insisted on living apart.”

“Then do we understand that you subsist entirely on your own means or

earnings?”

“Yes, entirely.”

“Would you kindly tell us what those means and earnings respectively

amount to? And what are their sources?”

“I have a small private income--about sixty pounds a year--derived

from the realisation of my father’s estate. I cannot estimate my

earnings very exactly, as I have been working only a few months.

Probably I shall be able to earn from a hundred and fifty to two

hundred pounds a year, when I am established. Up to the present I have

sold all my work to Mr. Campbell.”

“How did you first become acquainted with Mr. Campbell--or Samuels, to

give him his correct name?”

“Deceased recommended him to me when I first came to London. He stated

that he had known him for many years.”

“Did you know that Mr. Campbell was related to deceased?”

“Not until I heard it here to-day.”

The coroner considered awhile, turning over his notes reflectively. At

length he said, “Before you sit down, Mrs. Otway, I should like to ask

you again about those anonymous letters. You have stated that you have

no idea who wrote them.”

“That is so,” I replied.

“When you discussed them with deceased, did neither of you arrive at

any conclusion as to who might have written them?”

“Deceased assured me that he could make no guess as to who had sent

them. Naturally, I could not, since all his acquaintances, whether

friends or enemies, were unknown to me.”

“And you adhere to your statement that you know nothing about these

letters?”

“I know nothing about them whatever, excepting that deceased received

them; and that I have only known by his telling me.”

“And with regard to your father’s stick? You have stated that you have

no knowledge as to what became of it, or where it is now. Do you

adhere to that statement too?”

“That statement was correct when I made it; but the stick has since

come to light.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the coroner. “When and how did that happen?”

“It occurred three days ago, when I went to look over the chambers in

Lyon’s Inn. I chanced to open a large cupboard in the living room, and

there, on the single shelf at the top, I saw the stick lying at the

back, and hardly visible in the deep shadow.”

“In-deed!” said the coroner, with a strong emphasis on the second

syllable. It was perfectly evident that he did not believe me, and he

made no secret of it. Nor were the jury any better impressed. In the

silence that followed my statement they whispered together eagerly,

and disbelief was writ large on the faces of them all.

“Had you any particular occasion to look over the chambers?” the

coroner asked after an interval.

“Yes; I had received a letter from Dr. Thorndyke saying that he wished

to make a survey of the premises and asking me to give him permission,

and the necessary facilities to do so. I accordingly went, on the

following day, and fetched the keys from Mr. Isaacs to leave them at

Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers. On the way, I called in at Lyon’s Inn to see

what condition the chambers were in.”

“And to plant the stick for Dr. Thorndyke to find, eh?” said one of

the jurors, with a truculent leer.

Mr. Cawley rose instantly to protest, but he was anticipated by the

coroner, who said severely: “That, sir, is quite out of order. Members

of the jury must not suggest motives or actions on the part of

witnesses which are not given in evidence. They may have their

opinions, but those opinions must not be expressed until all the

evidence has been heard and the verdict has to be considered.” Having

administered this reproof, he again turned to me.

“When you looked over the chambers, did you examine the other

furniture and receptacles. Did you, for instance, look in the other

cupboards and drawers?”

“No.”

“Only this one cupboard? Now what made you look into this cupboard in

particular?”

I saw the awkwardness of the question; but I also saw that a complete

explanation of my motives would land me on much more dangerous ground.

My immediate motive had been to ascertain what the inside of the

cupboard was like, and this was as much as I dared tell.

“I wished to see what kind of a cupboard it was--whether it had

shelves, drawers, or simply an open space.”

“Did you take the stick out of the cupboard?”

“Yes, I took it out to examine it and see if the statement in the

letter as to the bruise, the blood-smear, and the hairs was correct.”

“And was the statement correct?”

“Yes; there was a bruise on the silver knob, and a thick smear of what

looked like dried blood, to which two hairs had stuck.”

“Did those hairs look to you like hairs from your father’s head?”

“I could not say. They might have been. They were short and looked as

if they had come from the head of a grey-haired man. My father’s hair

was grey.”

“What did you do with the stick?”

“I put it back in the cupboard.”

“Why did you not bring it here?”

“I thought it best to leave it where I found it.”

“Are the keys of the chambers in your possession now?”

“No; I left them at Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers, and he has not yet

returned them. I left a note informing him that the stick was in the

cupboard.”

“May I ask why you did that?”

“Dr. Thorndyke mentioned in his letter that he was investigating the

case on instructions from the Home Office, and I wished to give him

any assistance that I could.”

“But,” the coroner exclaimed irritably, “don’t you understand that

this court is investigating the case? That a coroner’s court is the

proper authority to carry out such investigations? I don’t know why

this medical specialist has been brought into the case at all. I have

not asked for his assistance. It is quite irregular and most

unnecessary. And how did this gentleman come to write to you?”

“He wanted to survey the premises, and someone--I don’t know who--had

told him that I was the present lessee.”

The coroner grunted in evident displeasure. The importation of Dr.

Thorndyke into the case was clearly a sore point, for he rejoined:

“The whole affair is highly unsatisfactory. I am not clear that you

had any right to give permission to any unofficial person to survey

these premises without obtaining my consent; or that he had any right

to ask you. The jury have surveyed the premises, and that ought to be

enough. However, we shall see what comes of these mysterious

investigations. Meanwhile, I think that is all we have to ask you,

Mrs. Otway, unless the jury have any questions to put.”

The jury, warned, perhaps, by the result of the last question put by a

juryman, had no question to ask; and I returned to my seat by Mr.

Cawley, in time to hear Mr. Isaacs recalled.

“You have heard,” said the coroner, “the very remarkable evidence

given by the last witness concerning the finding of a stick in a large

cupboard in the living-room of the chambers in Lyon’s Inn?”

“I have.”

“In your previous evidence you stated that you had made a minute

search of those chambers, and drawn up an inventory of their contents.

Do you remember whether, when you made that search, you examined that

particular cupboard?”

“Yes, I remember quite clearly that I examined it, and found it empty.

I have marked it ‘empty’ in the inventory.”

“Are you sure that it was really empty? Is it not possible that this

stick lying in the shade on the shelf might have been overlooked?”

“It is quite impossible. I made a most exhaustive search, and I used

an electric torch for examining dark interiors. Moreover, the object

that I was looking for--a little parcel of precious stones--was much

smaller, and less conspicuous than a walking stick. I could not have

missed a large object like that. And I have quite a clear recollection

of looking on that shelf--it was the only shelf in the cupboard--and

throwing the light of the torch along it. I had to stand on tip-toe to

see in distinctly, and so, I suppose, had Mrs. Otway.”

“Do you swear that the cupboard was empty when you examined it?”

“I swear that it was absolutely empty.”

The coroner entered the reply in his notes, and then asked: “Did you

receive any communication from Dr. Thorndyke respecting his proposed

survey of the chambers at Lyon’s Inn?”

“He called to enquire in whom the tenancy of the chambers was vested,

but did not state why he wanted to know. I told him that the widow was

the lessee. I don’t know how he got her address. I didn’t give it to

him. I may say that when I had finished the inventory I locked up the

chambers, and kept the keys until I delivered them up to Mrs. Otway.”

“Thank you,” said the coroner. “That is all I wanted you to tell us.

And that, gentlemen,” he continued, turning to the jury, “appears to

be the whole of the evidence, with the exception of Dr. Thorndyke’s;

and the question now arises, what are we to do? Let me explain the

position, and then you can decide on our procedure.

“This enquiry was adjourned to enable the police to make some

investigations in connection with it. On their application, Dr. John

Thorndyke, who, I may inform you, is an eminent medico-legal expert,

was instructed by the Home Office to proceed to Maidstone to conduct

an exhumation of the body of the late John Vardon, the father of Mrs.

Otway. He was to make an examination of the body, and ascertain if

possible, whether the cause of the said John Vardon’s death was as

stated at the inquest, or whether, as is hinted in these anonymous

letters, he died from the effects of violence. The question is an

important one, but it is more important to the police than to us.

Then, it seems that the Home Office further instructed this gentleman

to carry out an independent investigation into the facts of this case

which we, in our humble and inefficient way, are trying to

investigate. It is an extraordinary proceeding, and one that I do not

in the least understand; but then I am not a medico-legal specialist.

I am only a mere coroner, and you are only a mere coroner’s jury. It

is just as well that we should know our place.

“Well, I understand that Dr. Thorndyke has made an examination of the

body of Lewis Otway, and, as you have heard, he has made a survey of

the deceased man’s chambers. We, also, have surveyed these chambers,

but apparently our survey doesn’t count; and Dr. Shelburn, whose

evidence you have heard, examined the body within a few hours of

death. It would seem as if medical evidence were the last thing we

want. Meanwhile I have had a telegram from Dr. Thorndyke saying that

he has been detained at Maidstone, and has missed his train. I don’t

know when he will arrive here. He may be here in a few minutes, or he

may arrive in an hour or two. It is for you to decide what is to be

done. We have a great deal of evidence to consider. We do not seem to

need any more medical evidence, and the question of Mr. Vardon’s death

is not of vital importance to this enquiry.

“The question is shall we wait to hear Dr. Thorndyke’s evidence or

shall we proceed to consider the great mass of evidence that we

already have? It is for you to decide, gentlemen.”

The jury conferred for a couple of minutes, and then the foreman

announced their decision. “The jury say, sir, that we are enquiring

into the death of Lewis Otway, not John Vardon. They would like to

proceed with the consideration of the evidence without waiting for Dr.

Thorndyke.”

“I am entirely with you, gentlemen,” said the coroner. “I think that

the evidence that we have heard will prove amply sufficient to guide

us to our verdict; and we can still revise our opinions if the expert

witness should have something fresh to tell us.”

Chapter XXVII.

The Indictment

During the short interval, in which the coroner took a final glance

over his notes, there was a general stirring among the occupants and a

suggestion of preparation for the next act. Jurymen re-settled

themselves in their seats, reporters straightened their backs, and

looked about them, the police officers and the spectators conversed in

low undertones. At length the coroner laid on the table before him a

single sheet of paper--probably an abstract of the evidence--sat back

in his chair, and looked towards the jury; whereupon a deep silence

fell upon the court, and he began his address:

“It is hardly necessary to remind you, gentlemen, that we are

assembled for the purpose of ascertaining how, when, and by what means

Lewis Otway came by his death; but it may be necessary to remark that

our enquiry is not entirely concerned with the immediate causes of

that death, but is also--and in fact, principally--concerned with the

more remote contributory circumstances. For in this case, the ‘How,

when, and by what means’ are simple enough. We have the testimony of

an eye-witness who saw the deceased hanging dead, from a peg on the

wall, under conditions strongly suggestive--in fact characteristic--of

suicide; and we have the testimony of the deputy-police surgeon that

all the appearances were those of suicide, and we have his expert

opinion that the cause of death was undoubtedly suicidal hanging.

Indeed, we may say that the immediate cause of death is self-evident,

and that the whole of our enquiry is concerned with the remote causes.

We are not asking ‘Did this man commit suicide?’ for the evidence of

the first two witnesses settled that question. We are asking

ourselves, Why did he commit suicide? The questions that we have to

answer are, Was that suicide the spontaneous act of the deceased, for

which he alone is responsible? Or was deceased driven to suicide by

the deliberate, purposive, and malicious acts of some other person, or

persons? And if the latter appears to be the case, Who is, or are,

that person or persons, and what degree of criminal responsibility

attaches to such acts?

“Now we have at our disposal a considerable mass of rather

miscellaneous evidence, and, I think the best way to deal with it will

be to sketch out lightly the general course of events, and fill in the

details later. The deceased, Lewis Otway, is the central figure of our

picture, and the history that we have to trace, is his history. As to

what we may call his past, that does not much concern us. Among the

Ancient Egyptians the deceased was conceived as being brought before

the tribunal of Osiris to answer for his conduct during his earthly

life. We are not a tribunal of that kind. We are not trying Lewis

Otway. If, as the police suspect, he had feathered his nest with a

certain amount of illicit plumage, that is not our concern. Our

interest in him is mainly confined to his connection with a particular

series of events which began with his marriage and ended with his

death. Let us now trace that succession of events, at first in

outline, and then in more detail.

“Lewis Otway first comes into our view on the occasion of his

marriage. As presented in the evidence of his widow, Helen Otway, that

marriage offers us the spectacle of an act of the most amazing folly.

We see an elderly man--and an unattractive one at that, as you must

have observed--marrying by compulsion, under threats, and greatly

against her wishes, a young woman, of very unusual physical

attractions, of great talent, and of exceptional mental gifts, and

strength of character. You have seen this lady, and have heard her

give her evidence, and you can confirm my description of her.

“It was, I repeat, an act of amazing folly. For she must, in any case,

have detested him. His conduct towards her was cruel and unscrupulous

to the last degree, and in marrying her he could not fail to introduce

a bitter enemy into his household. But there were added causes for

that repugnance to him which she has freely admitted. In the first

place, she believed that her consent had been secured by actual fraud.

And in the second place, Otway’s action was the undoubted

cause--whether directly or indirectly, we need not enquire at this

stage--of John Vardon’s death. So that our history opens with the

tableau of an elderly man who has married a young, beautiful, and

clever wife, who loathes him, and has abundant reason for loathing

him.

“And now we pass on to the second scene--a scene almost more amazing

than the first. Within an hour or two of the marriage ceremony, the

young wife has repudiated the marriage, and demanded a separation for

an indefinite period--practically a permanent separation. But it is

not the demand that is so astonishing. The really astounding thing is

that the husband seems to have agreed to this demand without demur.

Consider the extraordinary inconsistency of his conduct. On the one

hand we see this man, in his eagerness to possess this beautiful girl,

trampling without scruple on her happiness, and her father’s,

oblivious of everything but his own desires; on the other, we see him

meekly submitting to a demand which--natural as it may have been--the

law would not have supported.

“Whence this sudden compliance? Why did he consent? He need not have

consented. The marriage was quite regular. No suit for nullity could

have been sustained, whereas he could have sued at once for

restitution. Why did he agree in this incomprehensible manner to

surrender his unquestionable rights?

“But this is not the only inconsistency. The conduct of the wife is

even more inexplicable. When Otway gave evidence at the inquest on Mr.

Vardon he omitted all reference to the loaded stick; which is not

unnatural, seeing that it was a highly incriminating circumstance. But

that suppression of a material fact made his evidence, in effect,

false evidence. For the truth is, according to the terms of the

witnesses oath, the whole truth. Yet Helen Otway, when she gave

evidence, confirmed this virtually false testimony; and she also

suppressed--or, at least, omitted--the facts relating to the loaded

stick. Her explanation is that, feeling convinced that her father died

from a heart attack, she did not consider the stick incident of any

importance. In estimating the credibility of that explanation you will

bear in mind that the verdict was ‘Death from natural causes,’ but

that the jury were not in possession of the facts. You will also bear

in mind that this woman had seen her father lying dead, with a wound

on his head, and this man, whom she loathed, and detested, standing

over the body, grasping a formidable weapon. But whatever view you

take of the explanation, the fact remains that at the inquest she not

only refrained from accusing him, but she withheld a material fact

which, if it had been disclosed, might have put Otway in the dock on a

charge of murder.

“Here, then, are two cases of incomprehensible inconsistency of

conduct. But they are only incomprehensible so long as they are

considered separately. Consider them together and a perfectly

intelligible suggestion emerges. The husband had the power to compel

his wife to live with him--and he did not exercise it. The wife had

the power to expose the husband to a suspicion of having committed a

capital crime--and she did not exercise it. The appearance is that of

a surrender by each of the power to injure the other; in short, of a

bargain or agreement, involving collusion to suppress evidence.

“But this suggestion of collusion raises another question, which we

shall consider later, but which we may note in passing. What was

really the cause of Mr. Vardon’s death? Did he die from natural causes

as the coroner’s jury believed and affirmed? Or was his death due to

violence inflicted by Otway? It is by no means clear that Otway did

not kill him, either inadvertently or with malice. And supposing Otway

to have killed Mr. Vardon, was the fact known to Helen Otway? If it

was, Otway’s easy compliance is the more readily understood; for he

would be absolutely in his wife’s power. But we shall consider these

points at more length presently, and perhaps we may get further light

on them from the evidence of Dr. Thorndyke--if he should arrive before

the verdict is agreed on.

“The next phase of this drama opens about two months after the

marriage. On the 21st of June, the deceased received an anonymous

letter, the first of a series of seven, which were sent thereafter at

fairly regular intervals of about a fortnight. Now, let us consider

those letters from various points of view in relation to their

probable authorship. You have heard them read, and know their general

purport. They all contain veiled threats to make certain exposures.

Some are vague and some are more explicit, but there is a general

crescendo note, culminating in the last letter, which pretty openly

makes an accusation of murder and threatens criminal proceedings.

“First, what is the purpose of these letters? It is clearly not to

levy blackmail. They hold out menaces, but there is no suggestion of

an attempt to extort money. Those menaces are incomprehensible until

we supply an explanatory fact. The man to whom these letters were sent

suffered from a strong inherited predisposition to suicide. The very

obvious inference to which we are forced, in the absence of any other

explanation, is that the purpose of these letters was to convert that

latent tendency into action--to produce a state of mind in which the

deceased would be likely to take his own life.

“But that purpose implies knowledge on the part of the writer that

this inherited tendency existed, and consequently limits the possible

authorship to persons possessing such knowledge. The only persons

known by us to possess such knowledge are deceased’s own family. His

widow has sworn that she had no knowledge of this tendency, and if you

believe her statement to be true, you will tend to exclude her from

the possible authorship of these letters.

“Next we have to consider the characters of the letters themselves.

They all bear the East-London postmark, but there is not much in that.

Anonymous letter-writers commonly post their letters in districts

remote from their own residences. Still, we must take it into

consideration. The two persons known to us who occupy premises in East

London are Morris Goldstein and Helen Otway.

“Then as to the style of the letters. They are rather markedly

uneducated in manner. The composition is ungrammatical and the

phraseology vulgar. But that does not help us much; for, on the one

hand, none of the persons known to us is grossly uneducated, and on

the other it is usual for anonymous letter-writers to disguise their

personality. Obviously, it is easy enough for an educated person to

write an apparently illiterate letter.

“The next point is a much more important one. We have decided that the

purpose of these letters was to produce in the deceased a state of

mind which would render his suicide probable. Now, what was the motive

behind that purpose? Who could have wished deceased to commit suicide,

and why should that person have wished it?

“The possible motives in this case are, in effect, the usual motives

of murder, with full premeditation, viz:--Revenge, or hatred; direct

profit; and indirect profit by the elimination of an undesired person.

Let us consider each of these motives in relation to the known facts

of this case.

“First as to hatred or revenge. The only persons known to us are the

family of deceased and his wife. His family certainly had a grievance

against him, for the children were illegitimate, and the mother was

unmarried. But it was an old grievance, and the family appeared to be

on quite amicable terms. The children were quite well provided for,

and their mother continued to live with deceased. There was, indeed, a

new factor of possible discord. The deceased had married, and that

marriage was manifestly to the disadvantage of his family; a fact of

which it is necessary to take due account.

“When, however, we turn to the consideration of the wife, the facts

are much more striking. She had suffered grievous injuries from

deceased. He had ruined her life. He had virtually condemned her to

perpetual spinsterhood, since she would not live with him and she

could not marry anyone else. He had caused the death of her father;

and she has admitted that she had an unconquerable repugnance to him.

That is actually known to us; and there is a further possibility that

he was actually her father’s murderer, though we must leave that out

of consideration in the absence of positive evidence. But on the

evidence which is before us, you will see that the motive of personal

animosity is much more evident in the case of the wife than in that of

the family.

“We now come to the motive of direct profit, and the question that we

ask ourselves is, Who stood to benefit by the death of Lewis Otway?

And as soon as we ask that question, a very striking fact comes into

view. The first letter is dated by the postmark, the 21st of June. But

on the 10th of that month--only eleven days previously--deceased had

made a new will. By the provisions of that will Helen Otway stood to

gain from eight to twelve thousand pounds by the death of her husband.

“But did anyone else stand to gain by Lewis Otway’s death? Observe

that we are still dealing with the same group of persons--the only

persons known to us in connection with the case. Well, the family of

deceased stood to gain by his death, though to a much smaller extent.

But the fact that must instantly impress us is the opposite effects of

the new will on the family, and the wife respectively. The execution

of the new will involved the revocation of a previous will, which had

left the bulk of the estate to the family. The position of affairs is

consequently this: up to the 10th of June, the family, jointly, stood

to benefit by Lewis Otway’s death to the extent of the bulk of his

estate and the wife did not stand to benefit at all; after the 10th of

June the wife stood to benefit by Otway’s death to the extent of the

bulk of his estate, and the family to a relatively small extent.

“But the first of the anonymous letters was sent almost immediately

after the 10th of June. That is to say, it was sent almost immediately

after the family had ceased to be and the wife had become the

principal beneficiary.

“From the motive of direct profit we turn to that of indirect profit,

by the elimination of a person whose existence was a hindrance, a

danger, or an inconvenience. Is there anyone known to us who could

have regarded deceased in that light? We cannot attribute any such

view to his family, for, as I have said, they appear to have been on

quite amicable terms, and deceased seems to have maintained an

interest in his children’s welfare to the last. But what are we to say

with regard to the wife? She was married, against her wishes, to a

man, unsuitable in age, uncomely in appearance; a man whom she

loathed--and had good reason to loathe; who, while she repudiated him

as a husband, yet held her chained to him for life; who stood

inexorably between her, and any marriage which she might wish to

contract; whose existence condemned her for life to the dubious

position of a married woman who is not living with her husband. Think,

gentlemen, of this woman--young, handsome, clever, accomplished,

capable; think of what life might have been to her, and what it was

with this millstone hung round her neck! And then ask yourselves

whether--apart from all pecuniary considerations--she did not stand to

gain incalculably by his death; whether his elimination from her life

would not have opened to her the gates of a world of happiness, and

freedom.

“And it is here that the importance of that further evidence, which we

unfortunately have not yet heard, appears. For if it should now

transpire that Otway did actually kill John Vardon and that Helen

Otway was privy to the homicide, then there would be yet another

powerful reason why she should desire to be rid of him. But this

evidence is not in our possession and we must, therefore, leave this

aspect of the case out of our consideration. Nor is it essential. The

facts within our knowledge are amply sufficient to enable us to answer

the question whether Helen Otway’s position would or would not have

been improved by the death of her husband.

“And now we come to something much more definite. Hitherto we have

been dealing with the question: ‘Who _might_ have written these

letters?’ We shall now consider the more specific question, ‘Who

_could_ have written them?’

“There seems to be only one possible answer. The writer of those

letters had knowledge that was possessed by only two persons--the

deceased and his wife. One letter refers to something that was held

back at the inquest. But who knew that anything had been held back at

the inquest? No one, according to the evidence, but these two persons.

Of course, it is possible that there may have been some watcher

secreted in that house at Maidstone who knew that Lewis Otway had

stood over the body of John Vardon with a loaded stick in his hand.

But the evidence before us is to the effect that there was no one in

the house but John Vardon, Lewis Otway, and Helen Otway. Consequently,

unless Lewis Otway wrote these letters to himself, there is nobody, so

far as we know, who could have written them but Helen Otway.

“The last letter refers explicitly to the loaded stick, and even

describes its condition minutely and, as it appears, correctly. The

writer had, therefore, presumably seen the stick and very probably had

possession of it. But where was that stick? Deceased certainly did not

know where it was; the housekeeper states that she had never seen it

since that fatal morning, and Helen Otway has denied all knowledge of

its whereabouts. No one knew what had become of it.

“But if its disappearance was a mystery, its reappearance is a greater

mystery still. The account given by Helen Otway is obviously

unsatisfactory. She went to the chambers, for no very apparent reason.

When there she did not examine the various cupboards, drawers, and

other receptacles; but she went direct to this particular cupboard,

unlocked it, stood on tiptoe and looked on the shelf. And behold!

there was the missing stick. She took it out, examined it, and put it

back. And she not only put it back, but she went out of her way to

inform a person who is to give evidence on this enquiry that the stick

was to be found in that cupboard.

“Now, how did that stick get into that cupboard, and when was it put

there? You have heard Mr. Isaacs swear that it was not there when he

made out the inventory, and you will probably agree that he could

hardly be mistaken. A stick is a fairly large and conspicuous object,

whereas he was searching for a small and inconspicuous one. Clearly

the stick was put into the cupboard after his search was made. But

when he had finished, the chambers were locked up, and the keys

remained in his possession until he delivered them up to Helen Otway.

Bearing these facts in mind, you have to consider whether you can

accept Mrs. Otway’s statement, or whether it is more probable that she

took the stick to the chambers, and put it into the cupboard herself.

“We now come to the incidents of that terrible night. What really

happened in those chambers on that occasion will probably never be

known. But the accounts that we have are full of sinister suggestions.

We cannot, for instance, but note the fact that after this, the first

and only visit from his wife, Lewis Otway made away with himself. Why

he did the dreadful deed on this particular occasion, and at this

particular time, is not clear. According to his wife’s account he was

much calmer, and more cheerful after their talk, and she left him

peacefully asleep. That is what she has told us. But what are the

facts? Within an hour or two hours after she had left, his dead body

was hanging from that peg. Nay! There is even a more dreadful

possibility. The medical witness has told us that death took place

about eleven, ‘But it might have been an hour later or earlier.’ So

that it is physically possible--since Mrs. Otway left the chambers

about ten--that the suicide may have actually taken place before she

left. It is a horrible suggestion, and I should not have made it but

for the fact that there are certain appearances which seem to support

it.

“You must have been struck by the singular circumstance that when Mrs.

Otway took her departure she left the gas full on, and the bedroom

door open. You have heard her explanation, but we are not concerned

with that for the moment. The remarkable thing is that in the morning,

the gas was still full on, and the bedroom door still open. Now how

could that have been? If deceased was asleep when his wife left, then

he must have arisen, made his preparations, and finally hanged

himself, not only with the gas full on--which might easily have been

the case--but with the door open, which is improbable in the extreme.

Men do not usually commit suicide _coram publico_. Commonly suicides

lock themselves in their rooms or otherwise seek security from

interruption. Yet this man, whose bedroom opened directly into the

living-room and whose housekeeper might still have been about, cuts

down the bell-rope, arranges the chair and hangs himself, all in a

brightly-lighted room with the door open. It is certainly against

common probabilities.

“But there are other suggestions of a similar tendency. If the

fully-lighted gas and the open door suggest a hurried and agitated

departure, so does the forgotten hand-bag containing the purse. And

you will have noted that Mrs. Otway remembered that she had left her

purse behind when she hailed a cab at the corner of Holywell Street.

Now why did she not go back for it? She was quite near Lyon’s Inn. She

could have left the cab waiting, or brought it to the gate. She says

she did not like to disturb Mrs. Gregg. But she has also said that she

thought that Mrs. Gregg was still up and about. The explanation is not

convincing, but on the other hand there is a strong suggestion of

dislike to the idea of going back--a dislike which we can understand

well enough if we believe that the tragedy had already been enacted,

and that the body was even then hanging on the wall.

“Then, too, the disappearance of the precious stones points in the

same direction. They might have been taken when the deceased was

asleep; but the theft would have been far easier if he was dead. But,

of course, we cannot say with certainty that Helen Otway took the

stones. We can only consider the evidence. That evidence, however, is

almost overwhelmingly strong. It goes to show that the stones were in

the deed-box within half-an-hour of Helen Otway’s arrival. There is no

reason to suppose they were then removed. It is practically certain

that they were there when she arrived, and they were never seen there

or anywhere else after she left. And there is a further corroborative

circumstance. To ordinary persons unmounted precious stones illicitly

obtained are difficult to dispose of. But this woman is not an

ordinary person; she is a working goldsmith and jeweller who buys her

own materials and sells the finished works to individual buyers. She

could easily dispose of stolen gems in a manner that would render them

untraceable.

“The theft of these stones is not directly our business. It is that of

the police. But indirectly it is of great importance. For it furnishes

strong support to the suggestion that deceased was already dead when

Helen Otway took her hurried departure. But what is the importance of

that suggestion? The answer to that question will be found in the

consideration of certain further facts and certain points of criminal

law.

“First, we must notice that if deceased committed suicide while Helen

Otway was in the chambers, he must have done so with her consent and

connivance. But was it only a matter of consent? Is there not a

suggestion that some direct means may have been employed to induce or

compel him to commit suicide? On this point we have very little

information. But we have the evidence of Rachel Goldstein or Gregg

that she overheard the conversation between Helen Otway and deceased

on two separate occasions; and that on both occasions they seemed to

be talking about suicide. There seems to be a strong suggestion that

some active, direct, means were employed: persuasion, threats, or

perhaps the mysterious agency of suggestion. We cannot say that it was

so; but it would be in close agreement with the known circumstances

and quite consistent with the course of action exhibited by the

anonymous letters.

“Supposing such active, direct means to have been employed, what

degree of criminal responsibility would their employment entail? With

regard to the letters, though the moral responsibility for their

effect is beyond question, I should hesitate to give an opinion as to

the exact legal position. But in the case of direct means there is no

doubt at all. The law on the subject is quite clear. Let us consider

it for a moment.

“First as to the legal nature of suicide. In law, suicide is murder.

It has been expressly laid down that a person cannot commit

manslaughter on himself. But since suicide is necessarily murder, it

follows that any person who is accessory to suicide is accessory to

murder. If such person aids or abets any other person in so killing

himself, that person is an accessory before the fact, or a principal

in the second degree in the murder so committed; an accessory before

the fact being defined as one who directly or indirectly counsels,

procures, or commands any person to commit any felony or piracy which

is committed in consequence of such counselling, procuring, or

commandment.

“Here, then, is the importance of the matter. The criminal

responsibility attaching to the anonymous letters may be involved in

some obscurity; but if it can be proved that any person counselled,

procured, or commanded the deceased to kill himself, that person can

be dealt with as a principal in the second degree in the murder of

deceased. It is for you to say whether, in your judgment, such action

can be proved in the case of any person, and if so, who that person

is.

“There is only one more item of evidence that I shall refer to, and

that I shall touch upon only lightly. You have heard the witness

Rachel Goldstein state that when she informed Helen Otway that

deceased had hanged himself, Mrs. Otway fell down in a dead faint. You

have heard the explanation that Mrs. Otway gave, and you must decide

what weight you attach to it; whether you can regard this fainting as

due to the shock of an unexpected tragedy, or as the culminating

effect of prolonged and extreme nervous tension. In any case, its

evidential value is but small.

“And now, as our expert witness has still not arrived, let us take a

last look over the evidence to see what material we have for our

verdict.” Here the coroner paused, and laying a number of sheets of

paper in a row before him, glanced rapidly through them.

I watched him with a dreadful fascination, even as a bird might watch

the stealthy approach of a snake, terrified, but despairing of any

hope of escape. So I had listened to this terrible summing-up--all

false and erroneous in detail, but so horribly true in regard to the

central fact. Through that dense fog of error and false appearances

the coroner had seen the essential truth; that Lewis Otway had gone to

his death at my bidding. Like some great spider he had wound around me

a network of horrid entanglements; and now he was about to wind up the

final turns.

At length he looked up, and laid his hand on one of the papers. Then

he turned once more towards the jury and began his summary of the

evidence. And at that moment, unnoticed, apparently, by anyone save

myself, Dr. Thorndyke entered silently by a side door, and seated

himself on a vacant chair.

Chapter XXVIII.

The Verdict

The arrival of Dr. Thorndyke seemed to me to close the last avenue

of escape. The coroner had guessed at my guilty secret, but he only

offered his guess as a speculative possibility on which no decisive

opinion could be founded. But Dr. Thorndyke was not a guesser. If he

had penetrated to that secret he would offer no speculative

probabilities, but definite evidence, which would reduce the matter to

certainty.

It was a terrible thought. Self-accusation--the denunciations of a

guilty conscience--had been dreadful enough. But there is a world of

difference between self-accusation in secret and a public criminal

indictment; between calling oneself a murderess, and standing in the

dock to answer the charge.

During the coroner’s address I furtively watched Dr. Thorndyke. But I

could gather nothing from his face. As he sat motionless, with his

eyes steadily bent on the coroner, his expression denoted nothing but

a grave and concentrated attention. After the first quick glance round

the court, he never looked at me. What was in his mind I could not

guess, though I felt that he held my fate in the hollow of his hand.

“There is no need, gentlemen,” the coroner began, “for us to go

through the mass of evidence again. We have looked over it as a whole,

and we have seen that certain striking suggestions emerge from it. In

our last glance we have to bring those suggestions to a definite

focus. Our inquiry deals with a man who committed suicide, but the

appearances suggest that that suicide was not a voluntary, spontaneous

act, but was the effect of a compelling force exerted by some other

person.

“Who was that other person? The compelling force seems to have been

exerted by means of certain menacing letters. The person who procured

the suicide of deceased was therefore the writer of those letters. Now

who was the writer of those letters? The question is best answered by

asking certain other questions.

“First: Had deceased any enemies? Well, we know of one, and one only.

His wife, Helen Otway, has confessed to a deep repugnance to him. She

had suffered grievous injuries at his hands, and she resented those

injuries profoundly.

“Second: Who gained most, financially, by his death? Again, the answer

is his wife, Helen Otway.

“Third: Did anyone stand to gain in any other way by his death? The

answer again is yes; and the person who stood to gain--by liberation

from an intolerable bondage--was Helen Otway.

“Fourth: Who could have written those letters? who possessed the

secret knowledge that those letters exhibit? Only one such person is

known to us besides deceased himself. That person is Helen Otway.

“Fifth: Who was the last person who was with him before his death?

Again the answer is, Helen Otway.

“Sixth: Is there any evidence of the use of more direct means to

procure or compel this act of suicide? And if so, by whom do those

means appear to have been employed? The answer is that there is such

evidence, and that the person who appears to have used those means is

Helen Otway. There is evidence suggesting that she was actually

present when the suicide took place; there is evidence of a hurried

flight and unwillingness to return for the purse that she had left

behind; there is the open door, the lighted gas, and the missing

jewels, which were in the chambers when she arrived, and which were

never seen after she left. And then there is the mysterious stick

which had vanished, and which reappeared so strangely after her

unexplained visit to the chambers.

“That, gentlemen, is in brief the whole of the evidence with the

exception of that relating to John Vardon’s death. That evidence is

important to this enquiry; for if it should be proved that John Vardon

was killed by Lewis Otway, and that Helen Otway was privy to the

homicide, that would furnish a further motive for procuring the

suicide of deceased--the motive of the removal of the sole accomplice

in a serious crime. But that evidence is not vitally important, and it

is for you to decide whether you will still await the arrival of Dr.

Thorndyke, or whether you will proceed to consider your verdict on the

evidence that you have heard.”

As the coroner concluded, Dr. Thorndyke rose and advanced to the

table, placing on an empty chair a small green-covered suit-case. The

coroner looked up at him sharply and with somewhat definitely

unfriendly recognition.

“How long have you been here, sir?” the former demanded.

“About seven minutes,” Dr. Thorndyke replied, glancing at his watch.

“You were just beginning your summary when I entered.”

“You should have announced your arrival immediately,” said the

coroner. “However, as you are here, you had better take the oath, and

give your evidence without further delay.”

The coroner’s brusque, and even rude manner, did not appear to disturb

Dr. Thorndyke in the smallest degree. With the same impassive

expression and quiet, composed demeanour, he took the oath and

disposed of the usual preliminaries.

“We understand,” said the coroner, “that you have made an examination

of the body of the late John Vardon.”

“Yes, I proceeded to Maidstone on instructions from the Home Office

and conducted an exhumation of the body of John Vardon, of which I

then made an examination. The object of the proceeding was to

ascertain whether the cause of death had been correctly stated at the

inquest.”

“And what was the result of your examination--I don’t think we want

minute details.”

“I found that the cause of death was, as stated at the inquest by the

medical witnesses, failure of an extremely dilated heart. There was a

small wound on the right side of the forehead adjoining the temple,

which I examined very thoroughly. It was a glancing wound caused by a

very oblique impact, and was such a wound as might have been produced

in the manner described--by striking the corner of the mantelpiece in

falling. There was no injury to the bone nor to the brain or its

membranes. It was quite a trivial wound, and was not either wholly or

partially the cause of death.”

“Could that wound have been caused by a blow with a loaded stick?”

“I should say not. It was an oblique tear in the scalp and was

apparently produced by some object more angular than the knob of a

stick.”

“Well,” said the coroner, “that seems to dispose of the question of

Mr. Vardon’s death. It is a thousand pities that it was not cleared up

more completely at the time. However, it is cleared up now; and that,

really, is all, I think, that we want you to tell us, unless you have

some other information. I understand that you had a sort of roving

commission to investigate the matter of this enquiry?”

“I received instructions to make certain investigations with a view to

my giving evidence at this inquest, and I have made such

investigations as seemed to me to be necessary.”

“Yes, you have, in fact, held a sort of one-man inquest on your own

account. Well, the question is, do you suppose that you are in a

position to tell us anything that we do not know already?”

“I am quite sure that I am. If you will allow me to present a summary

of the facts in my possession----”

“I shall allow nothing of the kind. You will be good enough to answer

questions like any other witness.”

Dr. Thorndyke bowed with the same immovable serenity, and the coroner

proceeded with his examination.

“Have you had much experience of cases of suicide?”

“I have.”

“Have you had personal experience of any cases in which the suicidal

act was procured, or brought about, by acts of persons other than the

suicide, performed by them with deliberate intent?”

“Yes, I have had experience of several such cases.”

“In those cases, what methods were used to procure the other person to

commit suicide?”

“The majority were cases in which two persons agreed mutually to

commit suicide together. In the less common cases in which the

procurer did not propose to commit suicide, the method employed was

usually some form of suggestion.”

“Can you give us an instance of the employment of suggestion?”

“A very typical case occurred in my practice some years ago. A young

man, who had a strong inherited predisposition to suicide, was caused

by certain persons, who stood to benefit very considerably by his

death, to make away with himself. The method adopted was this: The

victim was made to believe that a certain Chinese jewel in his

possession carried a curse; that all previous owners of it had hanged

themselves, and that the appointed time for the suicide was made known

by the apparition of a dead mandarin. When by frequent repetitions of

this story the suitable state of mind had been produced, one of these

persons dressed himself in a mandarin’s costume and presented himself

to the victim, with the result that, within an hour or two, the latter

hanged himself.”

“In that case,” observed the coroner, “the suggestion seems to have

been in two stages. Is that usual?”

“One could hardly call it usual, as the cases are so rare. But it is

the most obvious and effective method--to produce a suicidal state of

mind by preparatory suggestion, and then, as it were, to explode the

mine by a definite determining suggestion.”

“Are you acquainted with the evidence which has been given in this

inquiry?”

“I have read a verbatim report of the first proceedings, and I have

heard your summary of the whole case.”

“You have, then, read the evidence relating to the anonymous letters.

What opinion did you form as to the purpose of those letters?”

“I formed the opinion that their purpose was to impel deceased to

commit suicide.”

“Do you consider that, in the case of a person predisposed to suicide,

they would be likely to produce that effect?”

“I should say that they would have a tendency to induce a suicidal

state of mind.”

“And suppose such a person, having received a series of such letters,

and being greatly depressed by them, should be engaged--in his

bedroom, the last thing at night--in a conversation on suicide, his

own suicide, and that of relatives who had killed themselves, what

would you expect to be the effect of such conversation?”

“It would not be possible to predict the effect, but the tendency

would be to reinforce the influence of the letters.”

“And what would be the condition of such a person in regard to his

susceptibility to further suggestion?”

“His susceptibility to further suggestion would probably be

increased.”

“Looking at this case as a whole, by the light of your experience of

suicide, do you regard the death of deceased as the result of his own

spontaneous act or as due in part to the acts of some other person or

persons?”

“I regard his death as due entirely to the acts of some other person

or persons.”

At these terrible words my heart seemed to stand still. There was a

fearful certainty and confidence in Dr. Thorndyke’s tone that chilled

my very blood. He did not guess. He knew. In the short pause that

followed, I set my teeth and waited for my condemnation.

“You consider that the suggestion conveyed in the letters and in that

conversation and by other possible means operated so as to convert

deceased into an automaton? Is that what you mean?”

“No. I do not consider that the letters or the conversation had any

effect in causing his death.”

The coroner frowned, perplexedly. “I don’t think I quite understand,”

said he. “There seems to be--if you will pardon me--some

self-contradiction. You state that the letters and the conversation

would tend to produce a suicidal state of mind; but yet, though the

letters were actually received and the conversation occurred, neither

had any effect in causing the death which followed them. Do I state

the case correctly?”

“Yes; quite correctly.”

“Then I do not understand you in the least. You appear to be flatly

contradicting yourself. I think you will agree that we are not making

much progress.”

“We are not making any progress at all. The examination has not

elicited a single, relevant fact.”

“Indeed, sir!” exclaimed the coroner. “And, pray, whose fault is

that?”

“I suggest,” Dr. Thorndyke replied, suavely, “that it is due to the

method of examination.”

The coroner turned purple. “This is insufferable!” he exclaimed; “that

a witness should presume to instruct an experienced officer of justice

in the duties of his office! But I suppose we must be humble in the

presence of an expert. May I ask, sir, what you object to in my method

of examination?”

“The lack of result,” Dr. Thorndyke replied, “is due to the fact that

your examination has been conducted to support a particular theory;

and that theory happens to be the wrong theory.”

“Again, I don’t understand you,” the coroner said, angrily. “No theory

has been advanced by me. Will you be good enough to explain what

theory you are alluding to?”

“I allude to the theory, which you seem to have adopted, that the

deceased Lewis Otway committed suicide by hanging himself from a peg

on the bedroom wall. That theory is erroneous. It is practically

certain that Lewis Otway did not commit suicide; and it is quite

certain that he never hung from that peg on the bedroom wall.”

“But,” exclaimed the coroner, “we have the evidence of a witness who

saw deceased hanging from that peg; and not only saw him, but cut him

down and found him to be dead.”

“As a witness,” said Dr. Thorndyke, “I am not concerned with the

testimony of other witnesses, but only with the facts as ascertained

by me.”

“No doubt,” retorted the coroner. “But we are concerned with the

testimony of all the witnesses; and the statement of this witness that

she saw the body hanging from the peg, and that she cut it down from

the peg, is a clear statement on a question of fact. If that statement

is true, deceased hung from that peg. If he did not hang from that peg

the statement is false. You say that he never hung from that peg. On

what facts do you base that statement?”

“On the strength of the peg and the weight of the body of deceased.

The strength of the peg--that is, the maximum weight it was capable of

supporting--was under 175 pounds. But the body of deceased weighed 231

pounds--more than half a hundredweight in excess of the greatest

weight that the peg was capable of supporting.”

“What method did you employ to measure the strength of the peg?”

“I used simple weights, which I thought preferable to a dynamometer

for purposes of evidence. These weights I had conveyed to the

chambers, and I carried out the experiment in the presence of Mr.

Anstey, K.C., and my assistant, Francis Polton. I hung from the peg a

wooden tray, slung by a chain, the total weight of which was ten

pounds. On this tray I placed--with great care to avoid shocks--two

half-hundredweights. I then added weights, five pounds at a time,

until the total weight, including that of the tray and chain, reached

170 pounds. This was evidently very near the limit of what the peg

would bear, for it was bending noticeably under the weight; and when

I added another five pounds the peg doubled under, breaking half-way

through. I have brought it with me for your inspection.” He opened the

green suit-case and produced the peg, which he handed to the coroner.

“You see,” he said, “that, in spite of its massive appearance, it had

very little strength. It is merely a piece of thinnish, brass tube.”

The coroner was impressed, but puzzled. “You consider,” said he, as he

handed the peg to the foreman of the jury, “that the test is

conclusive?”

“Quite,” replied Dr. Thorndyke. “Clearly, a peg which breaks under a

weight of 175 pounds could not have supported a body weighing 231

pounds.”

“Yes,” agreed the coroner, “that appears to be undeniable.” He again

reflected for a few moments, and then said:

“I notice that you went to the chambers provided with this apparatus.

The suggestion is that you had already a definite suspicion in your

mind. Is that the case?”

“Yes; I had already come to the conclusion that deceased had never

hung from that peg.”

“Will you tell us what led you to that conclusion?”

“When I received instructions to investigate the case, I proceeded to

make an inspection of the body, and it struck me, at once, that the

appearances were not quite in agreement with the alleged facts, which

I had learned from a verbatim report of the evidence. The amount of

injury to the structures of the neck was much less than I should have

expected in the case of so heavy a man, and the characteristic signs

of death by hanging were absent. It is my invariable rule, in all

cases of suspicious death, no matter what the apparent cause of the

death may be, to examine the contents of the stomach and the

secretions. In this case the procedure appeared to be necessary, and I

made a careful examination of the contents of the stomach. The

examination disclosed the presence of small quantities of veronal and

alcohol, but when I tested for alkaloids, I obtained from the stomach

and its contents no less than twenty-three minims of nicotine, the

alkaloid of tobacco. Now nicotine--which differs from all other

alkaloids but conein, the alkaloid of hemlock, in being a liquid--is

an intensely poisonous substance. The fatal dose has not been exactly

ascertained, but it may be stated at not more than five minims; that

is, roughly, five drops. So that the quantity of this virulent poison

actually obtained from the stomach of deceased was about four times

the fatal dose. But this was only a part of the quantity that had been

swallowed, for the examination was made ten days after death, by which

time an appreciable amount of the poison would have been lost by

post-mortem diffusion. I also examined the liver and other organs and

the secretions, and in these I detected minute quantities of nicotine.

The evidence afforded by these minute quantities is very important.

Nicotine is a poison that acts with great rapidity--in fact, with the

exception of hydrocyanic acid (prussic acid) it is probably the most

rapidly-acting poison known. The importance, therefore, of these

minute traces of the poison in remote organs is this: their existence

proves that the poison entered the stomach during life--while the

blood was still circulating; and the minuteness of the quantity

absorbed proves that death occurred very rapidly--practically

instantaneously.

“But the very large quantity of the poison and the evidence of its

almost instantaneous effect created this dilemma: a witness had stated

that she saw deceased hanging from the peg; but since death was

practically instantaneous, he could not have hanged himself after

taking the poison; and obviously he could not have taken the poison

after he had hanged himself. This discrepancy, coupled with the

absence of appreciable injury to the neck, raised a doubt as to

whether deceased had ever hung from the peg at all. That doubt was

increased by certain other circumstances. There were, for instance,

post-mortem lacerations of the hamstring muscles and other muscles of

the thighs, which could not be accounted for in the case of a body

which had hung vertically, fully extended. There were faint

impressions below the knees of some coarse-textured fabric, not part

of his clothing, and there was the condition of a length of red,

worsted rope by which deceased was said to have been suspended. Both

ends of this rope--which had formed part of a loop--had been cut

through with a very sharp instrument; and both ends were cut cleanly

right through. But this could not possibly have happened in the

alleged circumstances. If a body of this great weight had been

suspended by two thicknesses of a flimsy, woollen rope, and an attempt

had been made to cut that rope, the cutting instrument would not have

passed right through, but would have divided the rope until the

remaining portion was too weak to sustain the weight, and then that

portion would have broken, leaving a ragged end. Having regard to the

great evidential importance of the question, I decided to clear up the

doubt, if possible, by examining the peg itself. There are not many

pegs which could carry this great weight without either bending,

breaking or pulling out of the woodwork, and I thought it probable

that an actual test with weights would settle the question. I

accordingly obtained the keys from Mrs. Otway, went to the chambers

and applied the tests as I have stated.”

“If the deceased was not suspended at all,” the coroner objected, “how

do you account for the marks of the rope on his neck?”

“He _was_ suspended--or rather partially suspended. I looked about the

chambers for the probable means of suspension, and decided that this

was the knob of the bedpost at the right-hand side of the head of the

bed. On this side of the bed was a hard jute matting, the texture of

which corresponded exactly with the impressions on the knees, the

faintness of which is accounted for by the partial protection

furnished by the pyjamas. The procedure seems to have been this: the

rope was secured to the neck of deceased immediately after death,

while he was lying on the bed. It was then hitched over the knob of

the bedpost and the body drawn off the bed so that it was supported

against the bedpost in a kneeling position. This would account for the

shallowness of the marks on the neck, the impressions of the matting

on the knees, and the post-mortem lacerations of the muscles. With

regard to these latter, it is evident that the body was left suspended

in an approximately kneeling position for a good many hours--probably

for the purpose of producing as deep an indentation as possible on the

neck--and that during that time cadaveric rigidity became well

established; so that when the rope was cut and the body allowed to

fall to the floor, the legs were found to have stiffened and to be

firmly set in the kneeling posture. As deceased was to be represented

as having hanged himself from the peg, it would be necessary to

straighten out the legs by force; but as the muscles were already

rigid, the forcible extension would tend to produce such lacerations

as were found. These lacerations were, of course, under the skin and

would not be noticeable excepting on close examination.”

“Is that the whole of your evidence?” the coroner asked, as Dr.

Thorndyke paused.

“It is the whole of my evidence concerning the immediate circumstances

of the death of Lewis Otway. I have certain other information, but you

will probably not consider it of much importance to the enquiry. I

have examined the two hairs that were found adhering to Mr. Vardon’s

stick. They were not his hairs. As a matter of fact, the wound on his

head was on a part in which there was no hair; but in any case, these

were not his hairs. One of these was apparently a hair of Lewis

Otway’s--probably taken from his hair brush. His hair was white, but

was dyed with a stain containing sulphide of lead. This hair was of a

similar character and stained with the same material. The other was

white and appeared to be a woman’s hair. It was cut at both ends, and

was evidently part of a much longer hair. I have also made some

enquiries concerning the anonymous letters. Mrs. Otway consulted me

about them a month or two back, and I promised her to look into the

matter, and did so. I collected very few facts, but if I may look at

the letters, I can tell you at once whether those facts throw any

light on the authorship of these letters.”

“It really is not of much importance to us,” said the coroner, “though

it may be important evidence in another place. Still, you may as well

look at the letters.” He handed the bundle of letters to Dr.

Thorndyke, who examined each of them closely, holding them up to the

light to inspect the watermark and comparing them with some other

letters which he produced from his pocket.

“I think,” said he, as he returned the letters to the coroner, “there

is no doubt that all these letters were written by Morris Goldstein. I

have several letters which were received from and signed by him, which

are identically similar in character. All are typed on the same

foreign paper--made in Sweden--with an old Calligraph machine which

had three type-bars slightly bent--the lower-case ‘g’ and ‘s’ and the

capital ‘O.’ I have further evidence on the subject, if you care to

hear it.”

The foreman of the jury interposed at this point. “We don’t want to

hear any more about those letters. If deceased did not commit suicide,

the letters don’t matter.”

“They will matter a good deal in another court,” said the coroner,

“but I agree with you that they do not affect our probable verdict;

but there is one question to which we may as well have a definite

answer, and then we need not detain Dr. Thorndyke any longer. You have

told us, sir, that the immediate cause of Lewis Otway’s death was

nicotine poisoning. Can you say whether the poison was taken by

deceased himself, or whether it was administered by some other

person?”

“The medical evidence proper furnishes no answer to that question, but

from the attendant circumstances I infer that the poison was

administered by some other person--probably while deceased was asleep.

But that is only an opinion, based on the circumstantial evidence.”

“Exactly. It is really a question for the jury. And now I don’t think

we need trouble you any further.” The coroner bowed, a little stiffly,

and as Dr. Thorndyke walked back to his chair, he once more faced the

jury.

“Well, gentlemen,” said he, “you have heard Dr. Thorndyke’s very

remarkable evidence, and you will see that it compels us completely to

revise our views of the case. The suicide by hanging, which we have

been considering at such length, is seen to be an illusion, carefully,

elaborately and ingeniously prepared. The question now is, was there

a suicide at all? The cause of death was poisoning by nicotine, and

death was almost instantaneous. Is this, then, a case of suicidal

poisoning or of homicide?

“It is unnecessary for me to dwell on the suggested probabilities. You

have heard a witness swear, in the most circumstantial manner, that

she saw deceased hanging from a peg, and that she cut the body down.

You now know that deceased could never have hung from that peg. That

statement was false. But what was the object of that false statement?

Its object must be considered in conjunction with the illusory

appearances produced by an elaborate set of preparations--the

cord-marks on the neck, the overturned chair, the end of the rope

fastened to the peg--a set of preparations, the only intelligible

object of which seems to be the concealment of the real cause of

death. And then there is a further series of preparations revealed by

the anonymous letters. These we now have reason to believe were

written and sent by Morris Goldstein. Our reason for connecting Mrs.

Otway with those letters was based on Rachel Goldstein’s statement

that no one was in the house at Maidstone but Mrs. Otway, and her

husband and father. But we can no longer accept that statement. The

suggested probability is that she was in the house, and that she

either saw, or heard enough to gather what had taken place. In that

case we seem to detect a carefully-laid plan to procure the suicide of

the deceased, and throw suspicion on his wife; and when the suicide

failed to occur, the alternative of poison would seem to have been

adopted.

“I must draw your attention to the circumstances existing at the time

of the tragedy. In deceased’s chambers were precious stones to the

value of over four thousand pounds. Possibly there were stolen gems of

a somewhat greater aggregate value. It is highly probable that Rachel

Goldstein knew of the deceased’s letter to his wife, for as he was

bed-ridden at the time, the letter would have been posted by her, and

could easily have been opened and read. The time of the interview was

arranged by her so that Mrs. Otway should be the last visitor.

“Here then is a group of circumstances furnishing a perfect

opportunity for the carrying out of the plan. The gems were within

reach, and a visitor was expected on whom could be thrown the

suspicion of the theft, and the responsibility of the apparent

suicide.

“As to the motive, apart from the theft of the gems, we must remember

that here was an illegitimate Jewish family into which had been

introduced a legitimate Gentile wife. Her arrival had affected the

interests of the family injuriously, and if a reconciliation between

husband and wife should have occurred, those interests would have been

still more unfavourably affected.

“But we are not called on to go deeply into the question of motive.

This is a coroner’s inquest, and our business is to decide how and by

what means deceased met with his death. That decision is with you,

gentlemen. You have heard the evidence, and I shall now leave you to

consider your verdict.”

As the coroner ceased speaking, and silence fell upon the court I

allowed myself, for the first time, to think of my own position.

Previously I had not dared; for when Dr. Thorndyke had made his

dramatic statement, the revulsion of feeling had been so great that I

had much ado to restrain myself from bursting into hysterical tears or

laughter. But now I was more calm, and could think upon the change

that a few magic words had wrought in my condition. I was free--free

in body and soul. My imagined guilt had been a delusion; the silent

willing and suggestion, a myth. I had never had any conscious

intention to procure Lewis Otway’s suicide; and no suicide had been

procured. The death of that wretched man--my evil genius--had been

brought about by no act of mine, conscious or unconscious. I was

guiltless, I was free.

The jury took but a short time to consider their verdict. In a few

minutes the foreman intimated that they had come to a unanimous

decision. The coroner then formally put the question.

“Have you considered the evidence, gentlemen, and are you agreed upon

your verdict?”

“We are,” replied the foreman. “Our verdict is that the deceased,

Lewis Otway, met his death as the result of a poisonous dose of

nicotine administered to him by Rachel Goldstein.”

“Do you say that the poison was administered inadvertently or with

malice?”

The foreman consulted his colleagues, and then replied, “With malice.”

“That,” said the coroner, “amounts to a verdict of wilful murder

against Rachel Goldstein; and I may say that I am entirely in

agreement with you.”

As the coroner concluded, I looked at Mrs. Gregg. Her face was set,

and had turned a horrible, livid grey. Presently she rose slowly from

her chair, and looked furtively over her shoulder; and as she did so

she looked into the face of Superintendent Miller.

Epilogue

The history that I have set forth in the foregoing pages is the

history of an episode. That episode opened with instantaneous

abruptness; and in an instant it came to an abrupt end. The fatal

words that I had overheard in my father’s house had been as an

incantation that had cast over me a malign spell. In the moment in

which they were spoken the sinister shadow of Lewis Otway had fallen

upon my life; and in the long months that followed it had never

lifted. Even the death of the unhappy wizard had left the spell still

working, the shadow deepening from hour to hour, until Dr. Thorndyke,

like a benevolent magician, had spoken the counter-charm. Then, in an

instant, the spell was broken; the shadow lifted and lifted for ever.

And with the breaking of the spell and the lifting of the shadow, the

episode is at an end, and my tale is told. Yet I am loth to lay down

my pen until the reader who has followed my pilgrimage through the

valley of the shadow has been given at least one glimpse of me

straying in the sunshine, “along the meads of asphodel.” I would crave

his attendance at the sombre, old church of St. Clement Danes, where,

on a bright May morning, was spoken another incantation that opened to

four faithful hearts the gates of a Paradise of life-long happiness

and love. I would bid him admire sweet Peggy, tripping forth, all

smiles and blushes, beside her stalwart husband to foregather with

Jasper and me and our friends from Wellclose Square and the Temple in

the ancient rooms in Clifford’s Inn.

But my tale is told. The curtain is rung down; and I may not linger

before it, babbling over the extinguished footlights on an empty

stage--perchance to an empty house.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

This edition was published in 1922.

Though not without flaws, the edition hosted on Project Gutenberg

Australia (date and publisher not given) was cautiously consulted for

many of the changes listed below.

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. attaché-case/attaché case,

clockwise/clock-wise, unmistakeable/unmistakable, etc.) have been

preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Punctuation: fix some quotation mark pairings/nestings, and some

missing periods and commas.

[Prologue]

Change “will make a wig--should I _die_ it and hush up its treason?” to

_dye_.

[Chapter I]

“with _so_ sign of life or movement save the tumultuous thumping” to

_no_.

(“There is just one way for you out of this mess, Vardon,”) change the

last comma to a period.

(“Do!” repeated Mr. Otway. “What can I do. As a trustee,…) change

the period after _do_ to a question mark.

(would rather go to gaol than connive at the sacrifice of my

daughter’s _unhappiness_.”) to _happiness_.

[Chapter II]

(how could I entertain… “certain conceivable alternatives.”) change

the period to a question mark.

(“Yes,” he replied, after a brief pause, “it was Mr. _Oway_. to

_Otway_.

[Chapter III]

“not that I am suspecting you of trying to evade _fufilment_.” to

_fulfilment_.

“will probably continue to refuse. so that one would rather” change

the period to a comma.

“He shook my hand in a drily, courteous fashion” delete the comma.

[Chapter IV]

“But they never had been, The necessary refracting medium” change the

comma to a period.

[Chapter V]

“What do you say to a few _fays_ in London?” to _days_.

[Chapter VI]

“escape or protest against the most repulsive _familarities_” to

_familiarities_.

(“Do you mean to say,” my father demanded, “that the marriage has

actually taken place.”) change the period to a question mark.

(“I _haven’s_ seen it myself, yet. The morning’s correspondence) to

_haven’t_.

[Chapter VIII]

“seen my father’s _latter_ and deliberately left it unopened” to

_letter_.

(“Have you been able to give any more consideration to my proposal,

Helen.”) change the period to a question mark.

“approaching with a _defferential_ and rather uncomfortable air” to

_deferential_.

[Chapter IX]

“it must _evitably_ lay bare the real nature of the transaction” to

_inevitably_.

(“Naturally. But you would say that the fainting attack preceded the

blow on the head.”) change the last period to a question mark.

[Chapter XI]

“Dr. Thorndyke had admitted that the neighbourhood was _squali d_” to

_squalid_.

[Chapter XII]

“What did this portend. To Mr. Jackson it meant no more” change the

period to a question mark.

[Chapter XIII]

“had suddenly become transformed into the mystic--; wide-eyed, dreamy,

yet intense.” delete the semicolon and following space.

(great things of life,” she said in low, earnest, tones.) delete the

last comma.

“I have been fearful of intruding on your strongly individual,

self-contained, personality.” delete the last comma.

[Chapter XIV]

“he conceived the _briliant_ idea of making over his kingdom” to

_brilliant_.

“I gave that _maw_ worm ten guineas for it” to _mean_.

[Chapter XV]

“recalling, but not imitating, the works of Burne Jones and _Rosetti_”

to _Rossetti_.

“work on the easel was a similar drawing of a _freize-like_ character”

to _frieze-like_.

Hyphenate “U P E A S F,” “U P S A S F,” “J A E P E F,” and

“J A S E S F.”

(… picture of some event that is going to take place in the near

future,”) change the comma to a period.

[Chapter XVI]

“he would probably have been _con-considerably_ startled” to

_considerably_.

“And the question is, what cards does that person hold. Is he acting

on a mere guess or has he any actual knowledge.” change both periods

to question marks.

[Chapter XVII]

“show-cases which had been set up for the occasion were _surrrounded_”

to _surrounded_.

“what is Miss Finch going to do with that _bieu_ de roi vase?” to

_bleu_.

“I shall call you Miss Vardon, unless you let me call you, Helen” delete

the second comma.

“the two roisterers who had just emerged from a _handsom-cab_” to

_hansom-cab_.

(“I shan’t _wan’t_ to sell it,” she said. “If it is good) to _want_.

[Chapter XVIII]

“just a pair of walnut _slab_ hinged together, the lower slab having”

to _slabs_.

“said Mr. Campbell, pulling a face _pf_ proportionate length” to

_of_.

“it would be a sin to put those spoons _unto_ a velvet-lined case” to

_into_.

(… and while he lives I can contract no other marriage,”) change

the comma to a period.

“that his separation of the things that really mattered from those

that were trivial and inessential _and_ true and just.” to _was_.

[Chapter XIX]

“I had looked for a rather dull, social call flavoured with

porcelain.” delete the comma.

“resembled a solemn and unspeakably dull, drawing-room game” delete

the comma.

“… so you, needn’t mind asking me anything that you want to know.”)

delete the comma.

[Chapter XX]

“not much interested in anything connected with with my daily life”

delete one _with_.

“I had endeavoured to revive my _enthusiam_ for my work” to

_enthusiasm_.

“worked in _repousé_ with enrichments in enamel” to _repoussé_.

“and _he_ man from the office downstairs looks in sometimes” to _the_.

“well-beloved name, painted in white _l tters_” to _letters_.

“I entered and was confronted by a somewhat unkempt, young man” delete

the comma.

“But life is before us, and mine shall be one, long thanksgiving”

delete the second comma.

[Chapter XXI]

“at least give _the_ the comfort of your sympathy” to _me_.

Change:

I viewed him as the insurance director views interested in his

decease, not in his survival. I loathed him, the generalised

“proposer,”--but inversely; for I was but I did not hate him.

to:

I viewed him as the insurance director views the generalised

“proposer,”--but inversely; for I was interested in his decease,

not in his survival. I loathed him, but I did not hate him.

(But are you quite sure--thought you might have taken it away

with you.”) add _I_ and a space after the em-dash.

“He drew _h mself_ to the edge of the bed, and, thrusting” to

_himself_.

“It had parts--_recognisble_ members.” to _recognisable_.

[Chapter XXIII]

“He gave me a few _explcit_ directions as to how to find” to

_explicit_.

[Chapter XXIV]

“But there the plain, undeniable facts, were.” delete the second

comma.

“The length of _ripe_ had been joined at the ends” to _rope_.

“bottle of veronal tablets on a table _b y_ the bed” to _by_.

“night of the 18th as the time at which death _occured_” to

_occurred_.

(“No, I do not?”) change the question mark to a period.

“The coroner nodded gravely and opened another letter: and as he read

aloud” delete the colon.

[Chapter XXV]

“cross, to Fetter Lane and into Clifford’s Inn by the postern gate”

delete the comma.

“Before I had replied to Mr. Isaacs, letter I received two” change

the comma to a possessive apostrophe.

“which had slipped from me _subsconsciously_ would have been” to

_subconsciously_.

“But would it escape Dr. Thorndyke’s almost superhuman penetration.”

change the period to a question mark.

[Chapter XXVI]

“the collection taken from Mr. Hyams’ includes tourmalines, emeralds”

delete the apostrophe.

(“Is it necessary, sir, for me to answer that question,” he asked)

change the last comma to a question mark.

“He is a dealer in works of art, principally _goldsmiths_ work” to

_goldsmith’s_.

“Is it not possible that this stick lying in the shade on the shelf,

might have been overlooked?” delete the comma.

[Chapter XXVII]

“and there is a further _possiblity_ that he was actually her” to

_possibility_.

“The last letter refers _explicity_ to the loaded stick” to

_explicitly_.

“unmounted precious stones _illictly_ obtained are difficult” to

_illicitly_.

“weighed 231 pounds--more _that_ half a hundredweight in excess” to

_than_.

(“What method did you employ to measure the strength

of the peg.”) change the period to a question mark.

[Chapter XXVIII]

“being a liquid--is an an intensely poisonous substance” delete one

_an_.

[Epilogue]

“followed my pilgrimage through the valley of the shadow, has been

given” delete the comma.

[End of text]