_MORE ABOUT TOM CHARKE'S SUICIDE_
So the inquest was held, and Mr. Manwaring, of Wail Forest, was the only
juryman who seemed to entertain the idea during the inquiry that Mr. Charke
had died by any hand but his own.
'And how _could_ he fancy such a thing?' I exclaimed indignantly.
'Well, you will see the result was quite enough to justify them in saying
as they did, that he died by his own hand. The window was found fastened
with a screw on the inside, as it had been when the chambermaid had
arranged it at nine o'-clock; no one could have entered through it.
Besides, it was on the third story, and the rooms are lofty, so it stood
at a great height from the ground, and there was no ladder long enough
to reach it. The house is built in the form of a hollow square, and Mr.
Charke's room looked into the narrow court-yard within. There is but one
door leading into this, and it did not show any sign of having been open
for years. The door was locked upon the inside, and the key in the lock,
so that nobody could have made an entrance that way either, for it was
impossible, you see, to unlock the door from the outside.' 'And how could
they affect to question anything so clear?' I asked.
'There did come, nevertheless, a kind of mist over the subject, which
gave those who chose to talk unpleasantly an opportunity of insinuating
suspicions, though they could not themselves find the clue of the mystery.
In the first place, it appeared that he had gone to bed very tipsy, and
that he was heard singing and noisy in his room while getting to bed--not
the mood in which men make away with themselves. Then, although his own
razor was found in that dreadful blood (it is shocking to have to hear all
this) near his right hand, the fingers of his left were cut to the bone.
Then the memorandum book in which his bets were noted was nowhere to be
found. That, you know, was very odd. His keys were there attached to a
chain. He wore a great deal of gold and trinkets. I saw him, wretched
man, on the course. They had got off their horses. He and your uncle were
walking on the course.'
'Did he look like a gentleman?' I inquired, as I dare say, other young
ladies would.
'He looked like a Jew, my dear. He had a horrid brown coat with a velvet
cape, curling black hair over his collar, and great whiskers, very high
shoulders, and he was puffing a cigar straight up into the air. I was
shocked to see Silas in such company.'
'And did his keys discover anything?' I asked.
'On opening his travelling desk and a small japanned box within it a vast
deal less money was found than was expected--in fact, very little. Your
uncle said that he had won some of it the night before at play, and
that Charke complained to him when tipsy of having had severe losses to
counterbalance his gains on the races. Besides, he had been paid but a
small part of those gains. About his book it appeared that there were
little notes of bets on the backs of letters, and it was said that
he sometimes made no other memorandum of his wagers--but this was
disputed--and among those notes there was not one referring to Silas. But,
then, there was an omission of all allusion to his transactions with two
other well-known gentlemen. So that was not singular.'
'No, certainly; that was quite accounted for,' said I.
'And then came the question,' continued she, 'what motive could Mr. Charke
possibly have had for making away with himself.'
'But is not that very difficult to make out in many cases?' I interposed.
'It was said that he had some mysterious troubles in London, at which he
used to hint. Some people said that he really was in a scrape, but others
that there was no such thing, and that when he talked so he was only
jesting. There was no suspicion during the inquest that your uncle Silas
was involved, except those questions of Mr. Manwaring's.'
'What were they?' I asked.
'I really forget; but they greatly offended your uncle, and there was a
little scene in the room. Mr. Manwaring seemed to think that some one had
somehow got into the room. Through the door it could not be, nor down the
chimney, for they found an iron bar across the flue, near the top in the
masonry. The window looked into a court-yard no bigger than a ball-room.
They went down and examined it, but, though the ground beneath was moist,
they could not discover the slightest trace of a footprint. So far as they
could make out, Mr. Charke had hermetically sealed himself into his room,
and then cut his throat with his own razor.'
'Yes,' said I, 'for it was all secured--that is, the window and the
door--upon the inside, and no sign of any attempt to get in.'
'Just so; and when the walls were searched, and, as your uncle Silas
directed, the wainscoting removed, some months afterwards, when the scandal
grew loudest, then it was evident that there was no concealed access to the
room.'
'So the answer to all those calumnies was simply that the crime was
impossible,' said I. 'How dreadful that such a slander should have required
an answer at all!'
'It was an unpleasant affair even then, although I cannot say that anyone
supposed Silas guilty; but you know the whole thing was disreputable, that
Mr. Charke was a discreditable inmate, the occurrence was horrible, and
there was a glare of publicity which brought into relief the scandals of
Bartram-Haugh. But in a little time it became, all on a sudden, a great
deal worse.'
My cousin paused to recollect exactly.
'There were very disagreeable whispers among the sporting people in London.
This person, Charke, had written two letters. Yes--two. They were published
about two months after, by the villain to whom they were written; he wanted
to extort money. They were first talked of a great deal among that set in
town; but the moment they were published they produced a sensation in the
country, and a storm of newspaper commentary. The first of these was of no
great consequence, but the second was very startling, embarrassing, and
even alarming.'
'What was it, Cousin Monica?' I whispered.
'I can only tell you in a general way, it is so very long since I read
it; but both were written in the same kind of slang, and parts as hard to
understand as a prize fight. I hope you never read those things.'
I satisfied this sudden educational alarm, and Lady Knollys proceeded.
'I am afraid you hardly hear me, the wind makes such an uproar. Well,
listen. The letter said distinctly, that he, Mr. Charke, had made a very
profitable visit to Bartram-Haugh, and mentioned in exact figures for how
much he held your uncle Silas's I.O.U.'s, for he could not pay him. I can't
say what the sum was. I only remember that it was quite frightful. It took
away my breath when I read it.'
'Uncle Silas had lost it?' I asked.
'Yes, and owed it; and had given him those papers called I.O.U.'s promising
to pay, which, of course, Mr. Charke had locked up with his money; and the
insinuation was that Silas had made away with him, to get rid of this debt,
and that he had also taken a great deal of his money.
'I just recollect these points which were exactly what made the
impression,' continued Lady Knollys, after a short pause; 'the letter was
written in the evening of the last day of the wretched man's life, so that
there had not been much time for your uncle Silas to win back his money;
and he stoutly alleged that he did not owe Mr. Charke a guinea. It
mentioned an enormous sum as being actually owed by Silas; and it cautioned
the man, an agent, to whom he wrote, not to mention the circumstance, as
Silas could only pay by getting the money from his wealthy brother, who
would have the management; and he distinctly said that he had kept the
matter very close at Silas's request. That, you know, was a very awkward
letter, and all the worse that it was written in brutally high spirits, and
not at all like a man meditating an exit from the world. You can't imagine
what a sensation the publication of these letters produced. In a moment
the storm was up, and certainly Silas did meet it bravely--yes, with great
courage and ability. What a pity he did not early enter upon some career of
ambition! Well, well, it is idle regretting. He suggested that the letters
were forgeries. He alleged that Charke was in the habit of boasting, and
telling enormous falsehoods about his gambling transactions, especially in
his letters. He reminded the world how often men affect high animal spirits
at the very moment of meditating suicide. He alluded, in a manly and
graceful way, to his family and their character. He took a high and
menacing tone with his adversaries, and he insisted that what they dared to
insinuate against him was physically impossible.'
I asked in what form this vindication appeared.
'It was a letter, printed as a pamphlet; everybody admired its ability,
ingenuity, and force, and it was written with immense rapidity.'
'Was it at all in the style of his letters?' I innocently asked.
My cousin laughed.
'Oh, dear, no! Ever since he avowed himself a religious character, he had
written nothing but the most vapid and nerveless twaddle. Your poor dear
father used to send his letters to me to read, and I sometimes really
thought that Silas was losing his faculties; but I believe he was only
trying to write in character.'
'I suppose the general feeling was in his favour?' I said.
'I don't think it was, anywhere; but in his own county it was certainly
unanimously against him. There is no use in asking why; but so it was, and
I think it would have been easier for him with his unaided strength to
uproot the Peak than to change the convictions of the Derbyshire gentlemen.
They were all against him. Of course there were predisposing causes. Your
uncle published a very bitter attack upon them, describing himself as the
victim of a political conspiracy: and I recollect he mentioned that from
the hour of the shocking catastrophe in his house, he had forsworn the turf
and all pursuits and amusements connected with it. People sneered, and said
he might as well go as wait to be kicked out.'
'Were there law-suits about all this?' I asked.
'Everybody expected that there would, for there were very savage things
printed on both sides, and I think, too, that the persons who thought worst
of him expected that evidence would yet turn up to convict Silas of the
crime they chose to impute; and so years have glided away, and many of the
people who remembered the tragedy of Bartram-Haugh, and took the strongest
part in the denunciation, and ostracism that followed, are dead, and no new
light had been thrown upon the occurrence, and your uncle Silas remains an
outcast. At first he was quite wild with rage, and would have fought the
whole county, man by man, if they would have met him. But he had since
changed his habits and, as he says, his aspirations altogether.'
'He has become religious.'
'The only occupation remaining to him. He owes money; he is poor; he is
isolated; and he says, sick and religious. Your poor father, who was
very decided and inflexible, never helped him beyond the limit he had
prescribed, after Silas's _mésalliance_. He wanted to get him into
Parliament, and would have paid his expenses, and made him an allowance;
but either Silas had grown lazy, or he understood his position better than
poor Austin, or he distrusted his powers, or possibly he really is in
ill-health; but he objected his religious scruples. Your poor papa thought
self-assertion possible, where an injured man has right to rely upon, but
he had been very long out of the world, and the theory won't do. Nothing is
harder than to get a person who has once been effectually slurred, received
again. Silas, I think, was right. I don't think it was practicable.
'Dear child, how late it is!' exclaimed Lady Knollys suddenly, looking at
the Louis Quatorze clock, that crowned the mantelpiece.
It was near one o'clock. The storm had a little subsided, and I took a less
agitated and more confident view of Uncle Silas than I had at an earlier
hour of that evening.
'And what do you think of him?' I asked.
Lady Knollys drummed on the table with her finger points as she looked into
the fire.
'I don't understand metaphysics, my dear, nor witchcraft. I sometimes
believe in the supernatural, and sometimes I don't. Silas Ruthyn is himself
alone, and I can't define him, because I don't understand him. Perhaps
other souls than human are sometimes born into the world, and clothed in
flesh. It is not only about that dreadful occurrence, but nearly always
throughout his life; early and late he has puzzled me. I have tried in vain
to understand him. But at one time of his life I am sure he was awfully
wicked--eccentric indeed in his wickedness--gay, frivolous, secret, and
dangerous. At one time I think he could have made poor Austin do almost
anything; but his influence vanished with his marriage, never to return
again. No; I don't understand him. He always bewildered me, like a shifting
face, sometimes smiling, but always sinister, in an unpleasant dream.'