“I’m frightened about Jean.”
Dr. Maclean looked across at his wife. “How d’you mean?” he asked
irritably. “Explain yourself, woman.”
“I sent her upstairs to lie down after Mr. Kentworthy had gone away, and
about tea-time Elsie went up to see if she was asleep. But she wasn’t in
her room. We looked all over the house, but she’s slipped out without
telling anybody.”
“Well? What of that? Why shouldn’t the girl want a breath of fresh air?
It’s just what I should have done at her age if I’d felt as I’m afraid
the poor wean is feeling now.”
“Listen to what she did do,” said Mrs. Maclean in a low voice. “Elsie
felt uneasy—just as uneasy as I did. So she went off into the village.
They said at the post office that Jean had gone by, walking very
quickly, about a quarter of an hour before. Then Elsie—the woman’s no
fool, Jock—somehow guessed what the child had done!”
“D’you mean she went to the Thatched House?”
Dr. Maclean could not keep the dismay out of his voice. He knew that the
police were still in charge of Harry Garlett’s dwelling-place.
“She went to the churchyard. Elsie found her close to poor Mrs.
Garlett’s grave. She was kneeling there, on the bare, wet ground, and
when Elsie came up close behind her she heard her say: ‘Don’t be angry
with Harry, Mrs. Garlett. He hardly knew I existed while you were alive.
But I’ll give him up—I will, indeed, if you’ll help to save him?’ The
poor girl screamed when Elsie spoke to her. But she got up off the cold
earth, and came back with Elsie. She’s sitting in the dining room now,
but she looks very strange, and when I spoke to her just now she didn’t
seem to hear.”
The doctor looked alarmed. “She’s got it in her head that she may have
said something to the man who took her statement that will injure
Garlett. She let out as much to me yesterday. I did my best to reassure
her, but I found it damned difficult to do so, beyond saying that if the
man’s innocent nothing she said could affect the issue.”
“I wish I could think that,” said his wife significantly, “I used to
believe that an innocent man was never found guilty, but I don’t know
that I think so now, Jock.”
“Does that mean,” asked the doctor quickly, “that you now think Garlett
is innocent?”
“I am more inclined to think him so than you are. For one thing, Mr.
Kentworthy’s belief in him has impressed me very much.”
“Has Jean said anything to you about her talk with Kentworthy?”
“No,” said Mrs. Maclean; “in a way, she’s been quite mysterious about
it, but I’m afraid she was terribly disappointed.”
“I suppose she’s sleeping badly?”
“She looked this morning as if she’d had no sleep at all.”
Dr. Maclean got up; he came over to where his wife was sitting and
patted her hand.
“To-day I received a sample of a new preparation of bromide and valerian
with just a dash of chloral. I’ll try Jean with that to-night, and if it
gives her a good night I’ll wire to London for a bottle of the stuff to
come down by train parcel to-morrow. We’ve got to keep her going these
next few weeks.”
“I’ve such a horror of drugs,” said Mrs. Maclean in a low voice. “I
thought you had, too, Jock?”
“So I have, but it’s quite an exceptional case. For the matter of that,
I only wish I could send the poor child to sleep till the whole of this
painful business is over. I’ve sometimes thought what a fine thing it
will be when science is able to suspend a man’s thinking faculties for a
much longer period than for just a few hours——”
“I don’t want to live in that time,” said Mrs. Maclean stubbornly.
“I daresay you don’t, but a good many people would be thankful to be
able to take a dose of—shall we say ‘forgetfulness?’—through their worst
time of sorrow, and, above all, of anxiety.”
“Has any one spoken to you of the case to-day?” she asked.
“Every one has spoken to me of it! I was even stopped in the road three
or four times, and not very far from our gate I had quite a talk with a
newspaper man—in fact I wonder Jean and Elsie didn’t meet him. He
admitted he’d been hanging about all the afternoon.”
“They did meet him—he said he came from the biggest of the London press
agencies. But of course they hurried indoors and refused to have
anything to say to him.”
“He almost persuaded me that it would be worth our while to let Jean
give him an interview,” observed the doctor hesitatingly.
“I disagree,” she said emphatically.
“Well, the question won’t arise now, for I told the man right out she
would give no statement to the press at all.”
“If only she would go away,” moaned Mrs. Maclean.
“I think she might—if you were to tell her that you simply can’t bear
staying here in the circumstances, and that you will go with her,” said
Dr. Maclean slowly.
As only answer his wife burst into sudden, sharp, short sobs.
“Why, what’s the matter?” he exclaimed.
“I can’t do it, Jock.” She was trying hard to regain her composure. “You
mustn’t ask it of me! I don’t feel I can leave home just now. I know
that my unhappiness is nothing to that poor child’s, but still, I am
very unhappy.” The tears were running down her cheeks. “I suppose we’ve
been very fortunate,” she sobbed, “more fortunate than I knew. Well,
we’re paying for it now!”
“It’ll be all the same a hundred years hence,” he said lamely, “cheer
up, woman!” And Mrs. Maclean wiped her eyes and did try to cheer up.
It is two o’clock in the morning, the darkest hour of the winter night,
and Jean Bower is dreaming. In what she would describe as “a sort of a
way” she knows she is dreaming, and yet, even so, she is filled with an
awful sensation of foreboding and affright.
In this strange and terrific dream of hers, Bonnie Doon is transformed
into a citadel. She is in an upper room, and, gazing fearfully out of
the window, she sees a mob of men surging round the pretty,
old-fashioned, creeper-covered house standing so defenceless close to
the road leading from Terriford village to Grendon. The assaulters are
trying to force their way inside the house. She can hear the roar of
triumph when one of them thinks he has obtained a foothold on the
trellis work, and the murmur of disappointment and exasperation when one
of them falls back.
She knows with a sure and dreadful knowledge that they are all trying to
get at her, and she begins running from room to room trying to hide
herself. But this only means a new horror—for into whatever room she
runs there is always a window, and against that window she sees pressed
menacing, grimacing faces.
And yet, even so, one part of her drugged brain tells her that this
fearful adventure is only a dream—a dream induced by what Elsie told her
about the three reporters whose faces were pressed against the kitchen
window on the morning after the arrest of Harry Garlett. Her uncle had
warned her that what had happened that morning would probably occur
again and again....
At last, with a sobbing sensation of relief, she awakes and sits up in
bed. What was it woke her? The sound, which seemed infinitely far away,
of a window opening and shutting?
Again she lies down, and soon she has gone back to that strange land of
dreams that has always played such a part in her life. But this time it
is to a happy dreamland, and to her weary, bemused brain the knowledge
brings with it a vague comfort. Anything is better than real life just
now.
A dream-match has been struck close to her face, and a dream-man’s
voice—a low, pleasant, caressing voice—exclaims soothingly:
“Don’t be frightened, little girl; it’s only a friend who wants to help
you and your lover.”
A friend? A real friend who wants to help her and Harry? How wonderful!
Even though she knows it is only a dream-friend, the kind deep voice
brings comfort, and a measure of reassurance, to her oppressed heart. So
she answers in a low, sleepy voice:
“How can you help us? I don’t think any one can help us.”
As she mutters the words the light flickers out, and she is again in
darkness. But out of the darkness there again comes that drawling,
caressing voice:
“We—you and I—have this in common, Miss Jean. You believe in Harry
Garlett’s innocence, and I know he is innocent.”
She answers dreamily, “I know it, too. I more than believe, I _know_
that Harry is innocent.”
And from her unseen friend there come again brave, comforting words:
“We must put our wits together, and think of something that will make
other people believe him innocent.”
“I can’t think of anything,” she says wearily, “can you? Oh, do try,
dream-friend!”
She finds it so delicious to be lulled by that deep, caressing voice,
even though she knows it is only a dream-voice.
“Have you never thought that Mrs. Garlett might have taken the poison
herself?”
She answers, as if hypnotized: “Do you think so?” and quickly the answer
comes back out of the darkness: “Why not? There’s only one thing worth
having in life—and that one thing the poor soul lacked.”
One thing worth having? What can he mean? Jean is losing hold of
herself, she is beginning to feel extraordinarily drowsy.
“The one thing worth having in this queer life of ours is love,”
whispers the tender, mocking voice. “Mrs. Garlett had no love in her
life, and even she must have known that life is not worth living without
love.”
Jean murmurs: “What brings happiness is to love, not to be loved.”
And then, as if the familiar words were being uttered infinitely far
away, she hears—“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings——”
Then the voice comes nearer, it is close to her ear.
“Before I go back, far, far away, to the land of dreams, I have a
message for you, Miss Jean.”
“A message, dream-friend?”
“A message from Harry Garlett’s soul to yours. He asks you to remember
that ‘stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.’ He says
he feels happy—happy in spite of all that has happened—because he
possesses your love.”
And then the voice becomes infinitely sad: “There is no love where I
live—in Goblin Land—only an ugly imitation of love. Still, even an ugly
imitation of the greatest thing in the world is better than no love at
all,” and there is something so mournful, so hopeless in the voice that
utters those words that Jean feels keenly distressed. Were she not so
drowsy the tears would come into her eyes.
“Hobgoblins, strange and horrible shapes of pain and death, haunt my
dwelling-place,” goes on her dream-friend. “True there is no unjust
judge, no stupid, conceited set of jurymen, but as a terrible set-off to
that relief there is no rapture—or none to speak of—in the land of
dreams. You and Harry Garlett have the best of it, even now, in the
waking world, Miss Jean. And now, dream happy dreams, poor child, happy,
happy dreams....”
The next morning but one Elsie was bustling about her kitchen, but ever
since she had seen those pallid faces pressed against the window-pane
she had left the shutters closed till after breakfast.
Soon there came the sound of milk cans jingling against one another, so
she hurried into the scullery and cautiously unlocked the back door.
The milkman looked so cheerful that Elsie felt irritated.
“You’re later than usual,” she said snappily.
“I stopped to ’ave a read of the paper. ’Tis rare exciting to-day.” He
added with a chuckle: “I’m in it this morning.”
“You!” exclaimed Elsie. She thought he had gone mad.
“There’s my picture in it, as well as my name—just because I ’aves the
honour of leaving the milk ’ere each morning,” he said grinning.
Then he waited for a second. Though they were old friends he was
slightly afraid of the tall Scotswoman who now stood looking at him with
an air of disgust and doubt on her strong features.
“You’re in it, too,” he said at last, enjoying with a somewhat fearful
joy the look of wrath that flamed up into her face.
“Me in it?”
“You and me is on the back page. Right in the middle where they prints
the big news there’s a piece as what they calls a statement about your
young lady——”
And then he handed her the paper.
She opened it wide and saw that on the middle sheet, under a photograph
of Bonnie Doon, ran the words in huge letters:
THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY
JEAN BOWER’S STATEMENT
BY AN OLD FRIEND
“Miss Jean’s not given any statement,” said Elsie fiercely. “It’s all a
lie, from beginning to end.”
“Well, you just read what’s there.”
“I hope the doctor will have the law on this dratted paper. I never
heard of such a thing. How dare they?” she cried indignantly.
But she was rapidly reading the short double-column, large-print
article, and as she did so she was impressed in spite of herself.
Every man, woman and child in Terriford village will tell you that
Jean Bower, the sweet-faced heroine of what promises to be one of the
big murder mysteries of our time, is a simple, gentle-natured girl
with an exceptionally kind and feeling heart for those in any sorrow
or distress. That is why the hearts of all her neighbours, gentle and
simple, go out to her in the terrible and overwhelming sorrow which
has come to her.
While utterly refusing to be interviewed by any pressmen, I have had
the privilege, as one of her oldest friends, to have a short talk with
her on the subject of what has come to be called the Terriford
Mystery.
Through me she is willing to let it be known that she is absolutely
convinced of Harry Garlett’s innocence. Further, she is inclined to
believe that Mrs. Garlett, a bedridden invalid, who was known to have
attacks of depression at times, administered the poison to herself!
The very fact that Mrs. Garlett was so deeply attached to her husband
would of itself provide a motive to some of those who were acquainted
with the poor lady. Among those acquaintances, however, Miss Jean
Bower was not, for it is a curious fact that she had never even seen
Mrs. Garlett.
Furthermore, her old friend can emphatically deny the cruel and stupid
rumours that declare her to have been on friendly terms with Mr.
Garlett before his wife’s death. Owing to a series of circumstances
that will be made clear by the defence, Miss Bower, though actually in
the employment of the Etna China Company, was only on the most distant
terms with the company’s managing director.
As Elsie read on her first feeling of anger and disgust was insensibly
transformed into one of satisfaction, though she frowned, or tried to
frown, when, after a laudatory account of Bonnie Doon, of Dr. Maclean
and of his wife, she came to the following paragraphs:
Last, and by no means least, in the group of people who compose this
typical British household of worthy and high-minded folk, is Elsie
MacTaggart, the cook.
Elsie is a clever, pugnacious Scotswoman, full of the mother wit and
tender, homely wisdom that we all associate with the land which gave
birth to J. M. Barrie. “It was a fair treat,” as one of those who was
present told me, “to hear Elsie dealing with the swarm of reporters
and press photographers that surrounded Bonnie Doon the day after
Harry Garlett was arrested!”
Unlike the great majority of her brilliant fellow countrymen and
countrywomen, she showed no favour, even to those of the press folk
present who hailed from the other side of the Tweed. She held the
fort, so to speak, with fine discrimination and courage, and it is
largely thanks to her that no statement could be extracted even out of
Dr. Maclean.
Elsie MacTaggart, in addition to her other gifts, is a splendid cook,
and those who have the good fortune to be bidden as guests to Bonnie
Doon all go home feeling utterly dissatisfied with their own porridge
and griddle cakes.
“What a havering idiot the man seems to be!” said Elsie at last.
“Some there are as believe as what Mrs. Cole-Wright wrote that piece,”
observed the milkman.
“Never!” exclaimed Elsie. “She’s far too proud a body to demean herself
by writing for a newspaper. This is a man’s work—unless I’m much out of
my reckoning.”
“Maybe it’s the Reverend Cole-Wright.”
“No, ’tisn’t him neither,” said Elsie decidedly.
Her quick mind was darting hither and thither. She felt genuinely
puzzled, and then there came to her a sudden illumination.
“It’s that fat Kentworthy!” she exclaimed, remembering that Mr.
Kentworthy had highly approved of the bountiful tea which had been
spread out in his honour. Also, now that she came to think of it, he had
said that he liked Scotch cakes owing to his mother having been a
Scotswoman. Well, well, the world’s a small place!
Elsie took her old worn leather purse out of her pocket. “I’d like to
keep this paper,” she observed. “Here’s a penny, milkman, for you to get
yourself another one.”
“You can keep the paper and your penny, too,” said the man offended. “I
never thought, Miss MacTaggart, good friends though we may be, that
you’d take me for a Scotsman!”
Locking the scullery door, Elsie went back into her kitchen, and there
she spread the newspaper out on the table, and once more read the
article through.
Now Elsie never went into the village to do her daily shopping without
hearing Mrs. Garlett’s mysterious death discussed from every point of
view, but never once had any one even so much as hinted that the late
mistress of the Thatched House had committed suicide.
Again and again she now read over the words: “She is inclined to believe
that Mrs. Garlett, a bedridden invalid who was known to have attacks of
depression at times, administered the poison to herself.”
This was, of course, the one solution that would make them all happy
again!
So it was with a look of real happiness on her thin, intelligent face
that she took the paper into the dining room just after the doctor and
his wife had sat down to breakfast.
“There’s something just here,” she exclaimed, “that I doubt whether
you’ll approve, doctor. But I’m thinking it will make you happy all the
same.”
Without waiting for an answer, she went out of the room, and Mrs.
Maclean jumped from her chair and came round to where her husband, an
air of astonishment on his face, was staring with angry, disgusted eyes
at the picture of Bonnie Doon. Then, together, they eagerly read the
article which purported to contain a statement by Jean Bower.
“Whoever do you think wrote this?” asked Mrs. Maclean at last. “Of
course there’s a lot in it that’s true, but I’d stake my life that Jean
hasn’t talked about this terrible business to any human being. I know
she has absolutely refused to discuss it with Miss Prince, though the
woman’s been at her again and again about it.”
For a few moments Dr. Maclean remained silent. Half mechanically he was
reading over and over again the phrases in the so-called statement that
puzzled him the most.
Then at last he looked up.
“This is the work of a practised literary hand—maybe I ought to say of a
practised literary hack!” he exclaimed.
“I’ll tell you who I think did it, or maybe had it done,” said Mrs.
Maclean slowly. “I think ’twas that man Kentworthy or someone he
employed to write it.”
The doctor struck his hand on the table.
“You’ve got it, woman!” he cried. “Kentworthy did his level best to
force me to say that that poor creature, Emily Garlett, had administered
the poison to herself. This is the red herring across the trail. Not a
doubt of it!”
He sat back in his chair.
“The more I know of law and lawyers, the more I feel that what we call
law and justice are queer, twisted things,” he said in a low voice.
“Perhaps Kentworthy has done the best in the circumstances. At any rate,
it’s not our job to let him down or blame him.”
His wife shook her head.
“To my mind no one is justified in putting words into Jean’s mouth which
she never uttered, and never will utter,” she said firmly.
“You are one of those old-fashioned people who believe in telling the
truth,” said the doctor dubiously. “I’d have said the same of myself a
month ago. Of course, you and I know that that woman never committed
suicide—the idea’s absurd! Still, if they can’t get any better notion,
that’s what the defence will set out to prove—I can see that well
enough. I fear me I shall be asked the question straight out, if only
because of this foolish article.”
“And if you are asked the question straight out, what is it you intend
to say in answer, Jock?”
They were both unheeding and uncaring of the good breakfast which was
fast getting cold, and instinctively they had both lowered their voices
for fear lest Jean, though they believed her to be safe in bed, might
suddenly open the door on them.
“Well, Jenny, if I’m on oath, what can I say, except that to the best of
my belief the thought of suicide never crossed Mrs. Garlett’s mind?”
“Will you have to put it quite as strongly as that?” asked his wife.
“Well, I don’t say I shall put it quite as strongly as I’ve put it to
you, but still it’s the truth! Mrs. Garlett loved life, for all she was
such a poor, sickly thing. You must remember that she had never been a
strong and healthy woman.”
And then Mrs. Maclean so far forgot herself as to say something which
reduced her husband to silence.
She went back to her place behind the teapot, and from there, in a
small, still voice, she said quietly:
“You did make one mistake, Jock. You hadn’t a doubt that the woman died
a natural death, and you signed a certificate to that effect. Isn’t it
just possible that you’ve made another mistake? Supposing, after all,
Mrs. Garlett had got tired of her life and made up her mind to quit?
Don’t you go and be too sure of anything, my dear. You were wrong once;
you may be wrong again.”
He made no answer to that, and though she loved him well, and had no
wish to hurt him, she would not have taken her words back. What she had
said was true—in this strange world it is a mistake, sometimes a
terrible mistake, to be too sure of anything.
After a while she spoke again:
“I wouldn’t let Jean know about this article, if we can prevent it,
Jock. She’s so fearsomely truthful. She might think it her duty to write
to the paper and say that she does not believe Mrs. Garlett killed
herself! I did raise the point with her after Kentworthy came that first
time, and she declared that Harry Garlett told her his wife was much too
religious a woman ever to have thought of such a thing—apart from the
fact that she always seemed perfectly happy and contented with her
life.”
“I think you’re right. We’ll say nothing of it. What a blessing it is
that we can trust Elsie to hold her tongue!”
And so it was that Dr. Maclean locked the paper away, and that Jean
Bower was never shown the article described as containing her statement.
Yet the so-called statement was widely discussed, and both the
Prosecution and the Defence took special note of it. Further, the
circulation of the paper was very largely increased, at any rate in
Terriford and Grendon, during the weeks which followed. Thus the
enterprise the editor had shown in securing the article was justified,
though one of the proprietors, when he discovered, as he took the
trouble to do, that the author was a casual contributor and had been
paid a special fee of fifty guineas, thought the sum excessive.