Before the inquiry was resumed, all the poor wretches in custody had
been released on suspicion that they were innocent; there was not a
single case even for a magistrate. Clues, which at such seasons are
gathered by the police like blackberries off the hedges, were scanty and
unripe. Inferior specimens were offered them by bushels, but there was
not a good one among the lot. The police could not even manufacture a
clue.
Arthur Constant's death was already the theme of every hearth, railway
carriage and public house. The dead idealist had points of contact with
so many spheres. The East End and West End alike were moved and excited,
the Democratic Leagues and the Churches, the Doss-houses and the
Universities. The pity of it! And then the impenetrable mystery of it!
The evidence given in the concluding portion of the investigation was
necessarily less sensational. There were no more witnesses to bring the
scent of blood over the coroner's table; those who had yet to be heard
were merely relatives and friends of the deceased, who spoke of him as
he had been in life. His parents were dead, perhaps luckily for them;
his relatives had seen little of him, and had scarce heard as much about
him as the outside world. No man is a prophet in his own country, and,
even if he migrates, it is advisable for him to leave his family at
home. His friends were a motley crew; friends of the same friend are not
necessarily friends of one another. But their diversity only made the
congruity of the tale they had to tell more striking. It was the tale of
a man who had never made an enemy even by benefiting him, nor lost a
friend even by refusing his favors; the tale of a man whose heart
overflowed with peace and good will to all men all the year round; of a
man to whom Christmas came not once, but three hundred and sixty-five
times a year; it was the tale of a brilliant intellect, who gave up to
mankind what was meant for himself, and worked as a laborer in the
vineyard of humanity, never crying that the grapes were sour; of a man
uniformly cheerful and of good courage, living in that forgetfulness of
self which is the truest antidote to despair. And yet there was not
quite wanting the note of pain to jar the harmony and make it human.
Richard Elton, his chum from boyhood, and vicar of Somerton, in
Midlandshire, handed to the coroner a letter from the deceased about ten
days before his death, containing some passages which the coroner read
aloud: "Do you know anything of Schopenhauer? I mean anything beyond the
current misconceptions? I have been making his acquaintance lately. He
is an agreeable rattle of a pessimist; his essay on 'The Misery of
Mankind' is quite lively reading. At first his assimilation of
Christianity and Pessimism (it occurs in his essay on 'Suicide') dazzled
me as an audacious paradox. But there is truth in it. Verily, the whole
creation groaneth and travaileth, and man is a degraded monster, and sin
is over all. Ah, my friend, I have shed many of my illusions since I
came to this seething hive of misery and wrongdoing. What shall one
man's life--a million men's lives--avail against the corruption, the
vulgarity and the squalor of civilization? Sometimes I feel like a
farthing rush-light in the Hall of Eblis. Selfishness is so long and
life so short. And the worst of it is that everybody is so beastly
contented. The poor no more desire comfort than the rich culture. The
woman to whom a penny school fee for her child represents an appreciable
slice of her income is satisfied that the rich we shall always have with
us.
"The real crusted old Tories are the paupers in the Workhouse. The
Radical working men are jealous of their own leaders, and the leaders of
one another. Schopenhauer must have organized a labor party in his salad
days. And yet one can't help feeling that he committed suicide as a
philosopher by not committing it as a man. He claims kinship with
Buddha, too; though Esoteric Buddhism at least seems spheres removed
from the philosophy of 'The Will and the Idea'. What a wonderful woman
Madame Blavatsky must be. I can't say I follow her, for she is up in the
clouds nearly all the time, and I haven't as yet developed an astral
body. Shall I send you on her book? It is fascinating.... I am becoming
quite a fluent orator. One soon gets into the way of it. The horrible
thing is that you catch yourself saying things to lead up to 'Cheers'
instead of sticking to the plain realities of the business. Lucy is
still doing the galleries in Italy. It used to pain me sometimes to
think of my darling's happiness when I came across a flat-chested
factory girl. Now I feel her happiness is as important as a factory
girl's."
Lucy, the witness explained, was Lucy Brent, the betrothed of the
deceased. The poor girl had been telegraphed for, and had started for
England. The witness stated that the outburst of despondency in this
letter was almost a solitary one, most of the letters in his possession
being bright, buoyant and hopeful. Even this letter ended with a
humorous statement of the writer's manifold plans and projects for the
new year. The deceased was a good Churchman.
Coroner: Was there any private trouble in his own life to account for
the temporary despondency?
Witness: Not so far as I am aware. His financial position was
exceptionally favorable.
Coroner: There had been no quarrel with Miss Brent?
Witness: I have the best authority for saying that no shadow of
difference had ever come between them.
Coroner: Was the deceased left-handed?
Witness: Certainly not. He was not even ambidextrous.
A Juryman: Isn't Shoppinhour one of the infidel writers, published by
the Freethought Publication Society?
Witness: I do not know who publishes his books.
The Juryman (a small grocer and big raw-boned Scotchman, rejoicing in
the name of Sandy Sanderson and the dignities of deaconry and membership
of the committee of the Bow Conservative Association): No equeevocation,
sir. Is he not a secularist, who has lectured at the Hall of Science?
Witness: No, he is a foreign writer--(Mr. Sanderson was heard to thank
Heaven for this small mercy)--who believes that life is not worth
living.
The Juryman: Were you not shocked to find the friend of a meenister
reading such impure leeterature?
Witness: The deceased read everything. Schopenhauer is the author of a
system of philosophy, and not what you seem to imagine. Perhaps you
would like to inspect the book? (Laughter.)
The Juryman: I would na' touch it with a pitchfork. Such books should be
burnt. And this Madame Blavatsky's book--what is that? Is that also
pheelosophy?
Witness: No. It is Theosophy. (Laughter.)
Mr. Allen Smith, secretary of the Trammel's Union, stated that he had
had an interview with the deceased on the day before his death, when he
(the deceased) spoke hopefully of the prospects of the movement, and
wrote him out a check for 10 guineas for his union. Deceased promised to
speak at a meeting called for a quarter past seven a.m. the next day.
Mr. Edward Wimp, of the Scotland Yard Detective Department, said that
the letters and papers of the deceased threw no light upon the manner of
his death, and they would be handed back to the family. His Department
had not formed any theory on the subject.
The Coroner proceeded to sum up the evidence. "We have to deal,
gentlemen," he said, "with a most incomprehensible and mysterious case,
the details of which are yet astonishingly simple. On the morning of
Tuesday, the 4th inst., Mrs. Drabdump, a worthy, hard-working widow, who
lets lodgings at 11 Grover Street, Bow, was unable to arouse the
deceased, who occupied the entire upper floor of the house. Becoming
alarmed, she went across to fetch Mr. George Grodman, a gentleman known
to us all by reputation, and to whose clear and scientific evidence we
are much indebted, and got him to batter in the door. They found the
deceased lying back in bed with a deep wound in his throat. Life had
only recently become extinct. There was no trace of any instrument by
which the cut could have been effected; there was no trace of any person
who could have effected the cut. No person could apparently have got in
or out. The medical evidence goes to show that the deceased could not
have inflicted the wound himself. And yet, gentlemen, there are, in the
nature of things, two--and only two--alternative explanations of his
death. Either the wound was inflicted by his own hand, or it was
inflicted by another's. I shall take each of these possibilities
separately. First, did the deceased commit suicide? The medical evidence
says deceased was lying with his hands clasped behind his head. Now the
wound was made from right to left, and terminated by a cut on the left
thumb. If the deceased had made it he would have had to do it with his
right hand, while his left hand remained under his head--a most peculiar
and unnatural position to assume. Moreover, in making a cut with the
right hand, one would naturally move the hand from left to right. It is
unlikely that the deceased would move his right hand so awkwardly and
unnaturally, unless, of course, his object was to baffle suspicion.
Another point is that on this hypothesis, the deceased would have had to
replace his right hand beneath his head. But Dr. Robinson believes that
death was instantaneous. If so, deceased could have had no time to pose
so neatly. It is just possible the cut was made with the left hand, but
then the deceased was right-handed. The absence of any signs of a
possible weapon undoubtedly goes to corroborate the medical evidence.
The police have made an exhaustive search in all places where the razor
or other weapon or instrument might by any possibility have been
concealed, including the bedclothes, the mattress, the pillow, and the
street into which it might have been dropped. But all theories involving
the willful concealment of the fatal instrument have to reckon with the
fact or probability that death was instantaneous, also with the fact
that there was no blood about the floor. Finally, the instrument used
was in all likelihood a razor, and the deceased did not shave, and was
never known to be in possession of any such instrument. If, then, we
were to confine ourselves to the medical and police evidence, there
would, I think, be little hesitation in dismissing the idea of suicide.
Nevertheless, it is well to forget the physical aspect of the case for a
moment and to apply our minds to an unprejudiced inquiry into the mental
aspect of it. Was there any reason why the deceased should wish to take
his own life? He was young, wealthy and popular, loving and loved; life
stretched fair before him. He had no vices. Plain living, high thinking,
and noble doing were the three guiding stars of his life. If he had had
ambition, an illustrious public career was within reach. He was an
orator of no mean power, a brilliant and industrious man. His outlook
was always on the future--he was always sketching out ways in which he
could be useful to his fellow-men. His purse and his time were ever at
the command of whosoever could show fair claim upon them. If such a man
were likely to end his own life, the science of human nature would be at
an end. Still, some of the shadows of the picture have been presented to
us. The man had his moments of despondency--as which of us has not? But
they seem to have been few and passing. Anyhow, he was cheerful enough
on the day before his death. He was suffering, too, from toothache. But
it does not seem to have been violent, nor did he complain. Possibly, of
course, the pain became very acute in the night. Nor must we forget that
he may have overworked himself, and got his nerves into a morbid state.
He worked very hard, never rising later than half-past seven, and doing
far more than the professional 'labor leader.' He taught and wrote as
well as spoke and organized. But on the other hand all witnesses agree
that he was looking forward eagerly to the meeting of tram-men on the
morning of the 4th inst. His whole heart was in the movement. Is it
likely that this was the night he would choose for quitting the scene of
his usefulness? Is it likely that if he had chosen it, he would not have
left letters and a statement behind, or made a last will and testament?
Mr. Wimp has found no possible clue to such conduct in his papers. Or is
it likely he would have concealed the instrument? The only positive sign
of intention is the bolting of his door in addition to the usual locking
of it, but one cannot lay much stress on that. Regarding the mental
aspects alone, the balance is largely against suicide; looking at the
physical aspects, suicide is well nigh impossible. Putting the two
together, the case against suicide is all but mathematically complete.
The answer, then, to our first question, Did the deceased commit
suicide? is, that he did not."
The coroner paused, and everybody drew a long breath. The lucid
exposition had been followed with admiration. If the coroner had stopped
now, the jury would have unhesitatingly returned a verdict of "murder."
But the coroner swallowed a mouthful of water and went on.
"We now come to the second alternative--was the deceased the victim of
homicide? In order to answer that question in the affirmative it is
essential that we should be able to form some conception of the _modus
operandi_. It is all very well for Dr. Robinson to say the cut was made
by another hand; but in the absence of any theory as to how the cut
could possibly have been made by that other hand, we should be driven
back to the theory of self-infliction, however improbable it may seem to
medical gentlemen. Now, what are the facts? When Mrs. Drabdump and Mr.
Grodman found the body it was yet warm, and Mr. Grodman, a witness
fortunately qualified by special experience, states that death had been
quite recent. This tallies closely enough with the view of Dr. Robinson,
who, examining the body about an hour later, put the time of death at
two or three hours before, say seven o'clock. Mrs. Drabdump had
attempted to wake the deceased at a quarter to seven, which would put
back the act to a little earlier. As I understand from Dr. Robinson,
that it is impossible to fix the time very precisely, death may have
very well taken place several hours before Mrs. Drabdump's first attempt
to wake deceased. Of course, it may have taken place between the first
and second calls, as he may merely have been sound asleep at first; it
may also not impossibly have taken place considerably earlier than the
first call, for all the physical data seem to prove. Nevertheless, on
the whole, I think we shall be least likely to err if we assume the time
of death to be half-past six. Gentlemen, let us picture to ourselves No.
11 Glover Street at half-past six. We have seen the house; we know
exactly how it is constructed. On the ground floor a front room tenanted
by Mr. Mortlake, with two windows giving on the street, both securely
bolted; a back room occupied by the landlady; and a kitchen. Mrs.
Drabdump did not leave her bedroom till half-past six, so that we may be
sure all the various doors and windows have not yet been unfastened;
while the season of the year is a guarantee that nothing had been left
open. The front door through which Mr. Mortlake has gone out before
half-past four, is guarded by the latch-key lock and the big lock. On
the upper floor are two rooms--a front room used by deceased for a
bedroom, and a back room which he used as a sitting-room. The back room
has been left open, with the key inside, but the window is fastened. The
door of the front room is not only locked, but bolted. We have seen the
splintered mortise and the staple of the upper bolt violently forced
from the woodwork and resting on the pin. The windows are bolted, the
fasteners being firmly fixed in the catches. The chimney is too narrow
to admit of the passage of even a child. This room, in fact, is as
firmly barred in as if besieged. It has no communication with any other
part of the house. It is as absolutely self-centered and isolated as if
it were a fort in the sea or a log-hut in the forest. Even if any
strange person is in the house, nay, in the very sitting-room of the
deceased, he cannot get into the bedroom, for the house is one built for
the poor, with no communication between the different rooms, so that
separate families, if need be, may inhabit each. Now, however, let us
grant that some person has achieved the miracle of getting into the
front room, first floor, 18 feet from the ground. At half-past six, or
thereabouts, he cuts the throat of the sleeping occupant. How is he then
to get out without attracting the attention of the now roused landlady?
But let us concede him that miracle, too. How is he to go away and yet
leave the doors and windows locked and bolted from within? This is a
degree of miracle at which my credulity must draw the line. No, the room
had been closed all night--there is scarce a trace of fog in it. No one
could get in or out. Finally, murders do not take place without motive.
Robbery and revenge are the only conceivable motives. The deceased had
not an enemy in the world; his money and valuables were left untouched.
Everything was in order. There were no signs of a struggle. The answer
then to our second inquiry--was the deceased killed by another
person?--is, that he was not.
"Gentlemen, I am aware that this sounds impossible and contradictory.
But it is the facts that contradict themselves. It seems clear that the
deceased did not commit suicide. It seems equally clear that the
deceased was not murdered. There is nothing for it, therefore,
gentlemen, but to return a verdict tantamount to an acknowledgment of
our incompetence to come to any adequately grounded conviction whatever
as to the means or the manner by which the deceased met his death. It is
the most inexplicable mystery in all my experience." (Sensation.)
The Foreman (after a colloquy with Mr. Sandy Sanderson): "We are not
agreed, sir. One of the jurors insists on a verdict of "Death from
visitation by the act of God.""