THE INQUIRY――THE END OF A MURDERER.
Although Doctor Bourne was what might be termed a black sheep, he was
in a good position; he mixed with a respectable class of persons, and
was in tolerably fair repute as a medical man.
The darker side of his character was, of course, not known to those
whom he counted as his friends.
Some people, gossiping and mischievously disposed persons, hinted that
he was not the best of husbands; that he was a mercenary grasping man,
but nobody was prepared to hear that he was a murderer.
His social position caused him to be treated with some degree of
consideration, and bail was accepted pending the serious and weighty
charge made against him. He had not much difficulty in obtaining the
necessary sureties, after which he returned home. The offence with
which he stood charged was committed in America, and the prosecution
sought, by means of the extradition treaty, to take him over to that
country for trial.
The doctor hoped, as other culprits have hoped both before and since,
that the identification would fail to be established, and at the
outset of the proceedings he buoyed himself up with this delusion. But
Mr. Shearman had managed the case with a considerable amount of skill
and tact, and he was not at all the sort of man to let the accused
escape through any neglect or want of forethought.
When the first examination took place before the sitting magistrate,
the counsel for the prosecution gave a brief but succinct recital of
the leading events. He dwelt with much force upon the sudden and
mysterious death of Clara Wagstaff, who appeared, so he averred, to be
in sound and robust health but a few days before her decease.
Suddenly, and without any perceptible cause, she was stricken down
with insupportable and violent pains in the viscera.
A doctor was called in, who declared her to be suffering from
inflammation of the bowels. He prescribed and attended her with the
greatest assiduity, but despite his remedies she gradually sank and
expired in her husband’s arms, who was said to be overwhelmed with
grief at the loss of his partner.
The body of the ill-fated woman was interred, and her husband, after a
short period of mourning, plunged, so it was alleged, into a vortex of
dissipation.
The theory that the young woman came by her death from natural causes,
which were beyond the control of man, was very generally accepted.
Some few, however, at the time of her decease, were a little
mistrustful. One in particular, the black girl, Tilda, shook her head,
and said she was not at all satisfied with the manner of her
mistress’s death, which she declared to be strange and mysterious, and
in every way suspicious. She spoke her mind pretty freely at the time,
with no better result than being reviled for what people chose to call
her scandalous and wicked aspersions. So the matter dropped, and, as
years passed on, the death of Mrs. Wagstaff was forgotten by the
inhabitants of the neighbourhood. And it was not until Mr. Silas
Leaven instituted inquiries, that the real facts of the case were
brought to light. The body was exhumed, and the presence of arsenic
was detected in the stomach, intestines, and other organs of the body.
A sufficient amount was recovered to prove beyond all question that
the poor creature had been poisoned by that deleterious drug. Two
doctors from America, who made the post mortem examination, gave their
evidence at the police-court, and their testimony was unanswerable.
Up to this point the case was as clear as the sun at noonday. The next
question was, how far Dr. Bourne was connected with the case. Was he
the man who passed as Wagstaff, and who married the planter’s
daughter?
In proof of this a photograph was produced of the person known as
Wagstaff; it bore a most remarkable similarity to the accused――that
is, if allowance was made for the difference in his age now and at the
period when the photo was taken.
The magistrate, however, was of opinion that the photo, although
valuable as collateral evidence, was not in itself sufficient to
establish identity.
When the doctor heard this he smiled――hope dawned upon him, and he
emphatically declared that he was not the man.
But the case did not rest on the photo alone.
Two persons, who had resided at Texas at the time of the lady’s death,
were present at the inquiry, and were placed in the box.
One swore to the prisoner most positively, and the other would not go
further than that he was the gentleman whom he had known as Mr.
Wagstaff to the best of his belief; further than this he would not
undertake to say.
“I confess,” observed the magistrate, “that the case assumes a grave
aspect, and certainly cannot be permitted to drop without a searching
inquiry, but at present I fail to see that the idendity is clearly
established. It is true, one witness swears to the person being the
man, but it is possible――nay, indeed, probable――that he may be
mistaken.”
“He is not mistaken, sir,” said the counsel. “And that I hope to be in
a position to prove to your satisfaction in the course of two or three
days at the latest.”
“How do you propose to do that?” inquired the worthy magistrate.
“By producing the black servant who lived in the house with Mr. and
Mrs. Wagstaff at the time of the unfortunate lady’s decease. She is
well acquainted with the countenance and general personal appearance
of her late master, and if she recognises the prisoner as the husband
of the now dead lady, I assume the case is established as far as the
identity is concerned.”
“If she does recognise him, and can swear positively to his being the
person, then it is established, and all difficulties will be removed.
When do you expect her?”
“She ought to be here now. She may arrive to-morrow or the next day.
In fact, she is hourly expected.”
“That being so, it would be best to adjourn the case for a week,
perhaps.”
“Will that be long enough?”
“Oh, I should imagine so. She is sure to arrive before the expiration
of that time――at least, we hope so.”
“She will be the only other witness, I presume, you are likely to
call?”
“No; there will be another――a lady who was on intimate terms with the
Wagstaffs when they resided in Texas. She is also well acquainted with
the personal characteristics of the murdered woman’s husband.”
“Where was this photograph taken?” said the magistrate, glancing first
at it and then at the prisoner.
“At Baltimore, I believe.”
“No, New York,” said Shearman. “I purchased it myself in that city.”
“And are you sure it is a representation of Mr. Wagstaff? We have at
present no proof of that, you know.”
“It has been recognised by a number of persons in Texas who were
acquainted with the person it is supposed to represent. Indeed, many
of the inhabitants have copies of it, presented to them by Mr.
Wagstaff himself.”
“It is to be regretted that one or more of them are not here.”
“But two are here, sir.”
“And who may they be? and why have you not called them?”
“The two gentlemen who have already been examined can speak to the
photo being a representation of Mr. Wagstaff,” said the counsel.
“Then let them be recalled.”
The two witnesses from Texas were again placed in the box. They both
swore that the photo in question was a representation of Mr. Wagstaff
as he then appeared.
“I adjourn the case till this day week,” said the magistrate.
“I hope, sir, you will accept good and substantial bail for the
reappearance of my client,” said Bourne’s solicitor. “We have not had
any time allowed us to meet this charge. My client is a gentleman
moving in a good position in society; he is greatly respected by, I
may say, all who have the honour of his acquaintance, and a charge of
this nature presses with a heavy overwhelming weight upon one who, we
hope and trust it will be proved beyond all controversy, is perfectly
innocent.”
“I am not likely to prejudge the case, and should, indeed, be sorry by
any observation of mine to prejudice Doctor Bourne in the eyes of the
world or his associates,” observed the magistrate. “Still you must
admit――indeed, everyone must admit, I think, who has heard the
evidence――that the case cannot be dismissed without a searching
inquiry. I hope and trust that the prisoner may be in a position, on
the next inquiry, to rebut the grave testimony that has been given
against him here to-day. I, however, deem it advisable, for many
reasons, not to enter into any discussion upon the merits of the case
in this early stage of the proceedings. I will accept good and
substantial bail for Doctor Bourne’s reappearance at the next
examination.”
“Thank you, sir. With the usual notice?”
“Yes, with the usual notice. There will be no difficulty in the
matter, I suppose?”
“None whatever. Doctor Bourne can produce bail to any amount.”
In the course of the day bail was offered and accepted, and the doctor
was liberated. He returned home, miserably depressed――dejected and
sick of heart.
He had not counted on the array of evidence which had been presented
on the first examination. His legal advisers endeavoured to comfort
him with the assurance that as yet there was not enough to send the
case for trial. Much depended upon the girl Tilda.
She might break down. Anyway she would be subjected to an exhaustive
and searching cross-examination. Then came the question of an alibi;
when everything else failed an alibi was the invariable recourse of an
accused person. Was it possible to get up one? Such things had been
done, and in some cases they had been successful. The doctor clung to
this as the drowning wretch clings to a straw, but he could not, at
present, see his way clear as to working it successfully.
He returned home, and at once made for his surgery, where he remained
for hours still and thoughtful. The clouds which had been gathering
over his head seemed to be darkening and thickening.
What was he to do? Could he fly and escape the avenging arm of the
law? It had been made painfully manifest to him at the examination
before the magistrate that his enemies or accusers were on the alert;
they did not intend to let him escape.
Certainly not if they could help it. Mr. Shearman had acted in a
business-like way throughout the inquiry; he had hunted up evidence in
the States with the greatest assiduity, and had succeeded in obtaining
information connected with a number of smaller and less important
circumstances connected with the death of the ill-fated woman.
At present, Bourne had only been made acquainted with a portion of the
evidence to be preferred against him. Much of it was kept in the
background, but what had been given before the magistrate was of a
most damnatory character.
Bourne appeared to be almost paralysed at the array of evidence. He
trembled for the future; an oppressive and all but insupportable
weight seemed to press upon him.
Just as he was about to accuse his wife of bigamy, so that he might be
rid of her, and be free to marry a third wife, in the shape of a rich
widow, a fearful accusation was brought against him, which in any case
would hurl him from his present position, if nothing worse happened;
but the chances were that he would have to suffer a dreadful and
ignominious death.
[Sidenote: No. 53.]
[Illustration: “DEAD!”]
They would take him over to America to try him――so his solicitor
informed him――and he knew perfectly well that prejudice ran high
against him when he resided in Texas, and the probability was that
this feeling had been strengthened and intensified, so that if there
was a chance of bringing the charge home to him, a Yankee jury would
be sure to return an adverse verdict.
Dr. Bourne, therefore, could not conceal from himself that he was in
imminent danger.
He knew himself to be guilty of the charge preferred against him, and
was in consequence scourged by conscience, and in a state of fear and
trepidation.
Nevertheless, he was in hopes that the evidence in respect to the
identity would break down.
The crime had been committed many years ago, and if he could throw
discredit on the witnesses there might be some chance of upsetting the
whole case. Much depended upon the girl, Tilda. Bourne was in hopes
that he was so much altered in appearance that the black slavey would
be a little puzzled, and would fail to recognise him.
It is thus that criminals of every degree have been from time
immemorial accustomed to delude themselves with hopes that in most
cases have turned out fallacious.
The doctor affected to put as bold a front on the matter as possible,
but he studiously avoided his wife, and she had no desire to force
herself into his company. It had been at best but a miserable state of
affairs as far as their domestic happiness, if it could be so termed,
was concerned, and it was a relief to both when they were apart.
Consequently they saw as little of each other as possible.
Mrs. Bourne, however, was not altogether in the dark in respect to the
state of affairs as regards her husband. Her faithful attendant, Amy,
who like, most servants, was something of a gossip, made her mistress
acquainted with the full particulars of the grave charge made against
her master. Mrs. Bourne was perfectly astounded at the revelation. She
had never for a moment supposed that her husband had contracted any
marriage previous to his nuptials with her. He had throughout their
acquaintance signified that he was a bachelor.
“Ah!” murmured the unhappy wife――“my suspicious were not groundless. I
have indeed escaped almost by a miracle; but, after all, I cannot find
it in my heart to believe him guilty of such an atrocious crime.”
Facts, however, are stubborn things, and there was no getting away
from those made manifest on the first magisterial inquiry.
Mrs. Bourne was now very careful in examining minutely what she
partook of in the house of her suspected husband――who, however, had
very little opportunity at this time of tampering with either food or
drink; he was too much occupied with his own guilty thoughts, and in
devising some scheme to turn aside the course of justice. He went
about, as usual, paid visits to his patients, and endeavoured to make
out that the whole affair was a wicked conspiracy on the part of some
evil-disposed persons who owed him a grudge. There were many who
believed this view of the matter; for it is at all times most
difficult to believe a man you have been intimately acquainted with
capable of committing a crime of such enormity.
The few friends the doctor possessed rallied round him on this
occasion, and sought to console him with words of comfort. Prone as
the world is to look upon the dark side of the picture, the most
hardened offender has at times a few faithful followers, and the
doctor was not an exception to the rule; nevertheless it was pretty
generally buzzed about that he was in a precarious position, and that
those engaged for the prosecution were using every endeavour to bring
the murderer of the dead woman to the bar of justice. The matter was
canvassed at several fashionable clubs, in select coteries, and by the
public generally; indeed, it was the universal topic of conversation
at the West-end of the town, and many bets were offered and taken upon
the issue of the next examination.
Two days of suspense had passed over. On the third, as Doctor Bourne
was getting into his brougham, he saw at the corner of the street two
persons looking eagerly at him. His heart seemed to sink when he
discovered that one of these was the black girl, Tilda, the other
being Mr. Shearman.
“Oh, golly!” exclaimed the black girl, “that’s ’im, massa; I could
swear to him out of ten tousand. It’s Massa Wagstaff, as did away wi’
missus.”
“Hush! mind what you are saying, girl,” cried Shearman. “Remember you
are in England, and people are not permitted to speak their minds as
freely as in the States.”
“Dunno ’bout dat,” returned Tilda. “I knows ’im, an’ I mean to tell
all ’bout de cuss, come what may.”
“Silence! Come along, and cease your clattering, you foolish wench,”
said Shearman, dragging her forcibly from the spot.
Doctor Bourne broke down; his last hope was gone. It was evident
enough that Tilda would swear to him――we won’t say till she was black
in the face, for that she was already――but she would swear to him
while she had the power of speech.
Bourne felt convinced of this. He knew pretty well the temperament and
disposition of the young woman who had come across the seas to give
evidence against him. He knew that she would not budge an inch when
she had once made up her mind.
She had years before been forcibly impressed with the fact that her
mistress had met with her death through foul play, and at the time of
her decease she had not scrupled to say so.
She had been throughout her life devotedly attached to the planter’s
daughter. This is not at all surprising, seeing that “Tilda,” as she
was termed, had been a “help” in the family since she was little more
than a child.
“Curse her!” exclaimed Bourne through his clenched teeth. “I wish the
ship that brought her over had sunk to the bottom of the sea before
she set foot on these shores. The game is up――they’ll prove their
case, and I am lost――lost!”
He was so miserable, so completely overcome, that he would fain have
burst out into tears, but his eyes were dry and bloodshot, and his
tongue was hot and parched; there was a singing in his ear like the
murmur of rushing waters; his temples throbbed painfully, and he fell
back in the cushions of his brougham in a state of prostration.
Something seemed to whisper to him, “Can’t she be bribed?” At this
suggestion hope dawned again upon him for a moment, but it was only
for a fleeting moment or so, and he came to the conclusion that
bribery in her case would be an impossibility.
“What was he to do? what would be the end of this terrible business?
Death on the public scaffold.”
This thought was a maddening one. He struck his forehead with his
clenched fist, let down the window of the vehicle, and gasped for air,
for he felt as one about to faint.
Mr. Shearman would be too much for him――that was but too painfully
manifested. On the next examination he could complete his case, and
then in all probability he would be given into the custody of the
American representatives. Bail would, of course, be refused, and it
was not very difficult to see how it would all end.
Doctor Bourne, upon arriving at his own residence, endeavoured to
muster up an air of intrepidity to his brow. Upon alighting he told
his coachman that he should not go out for the remainder of the day.
Then, having signified this much, he opened the street door with his
key and made at once for his surgery.
He remained there for two or three hours making up some prescriptions.
The medicine boy came in and sallied forth with his basket of drugs,
after which the doctor went into the front parlour.
When dinner was laid he was informed by the maid servant that her
mistress was indisposed and begged to be excused at the dinner hour,
adding that she, Amy, was to take her up a basin of soup and a small
portion of fish into her bedroom. This was done, and Bourne sat down
to his solitary meal.
He was glad, however, to be by himself. He did not believe in the
indisposition of his wife, and deemed it only an excuse. Perhaps he
was not very far out in his supposition. He did not care to meet her,
nor she him; and, so as far as that went, they were both satisfied.
He had no appetite, but swallowed several glasses of wine, which he
supplemented by a small modicum of cognac. Then he endeavoured to
swallow a few mouthfuls of food. This he found no easy task. His
throat was inflamed, and his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of
his mouth. Nevertheless, he felt constrained to make a pretence of
dining, and to say the truth a most miserable pretence it was.
However, it had to be gone through.
He was very quiet and reserved, and only hazarded a few chance
observations to Amy, who was struck with the paleness of his
countenance and his distraught manner. However, she did not appear to
notice it, and spoke to her master in her usual respectful cheery
manner.
Bourne looked at her for a moment, and then heaved a deep-drawn sigh.
What would he have given at that time to be possessed of a conscience
as pure and untroubled as his servant girl!
The dinner things were cleared away, and Bourne took a medical book,
which for some time he appeared to peruse with interest.
The grey dusk of the evening was succeeded by the gloom of night, and
the girl lit all the branches of the chandelier.
Her master was busily occupied with his book and did not appear to be
aware of her presence, or if he was, he did not care to take any
notice of her. The night wore on. Bourne left the front parlour and
entered his surgery.
His countenance was pale and haggard. It was indicative of some
settled and defined purpose. There was a fixed and rigid expression
about the mouth, and an almost savage look darted from the flaming
eyes.
He sat himself down in his chair, and then bent his body forward,
resting his head on his hands, while the elbows were supported on the
table before him. His breathing was heavy and troubled, and his whole
attitude was one of abject despair. Presently he rose from his seat,
went towards the bottles, which were ranged on some shelves at the
side of the room. He took one after another in his hand, and examined
their contents with the eye of a connoisseur.
He selected one and placed it on the table near to a medicine glass,
then he sat down again.
The terrible and appalling nature of his thoughts at this time it
would be impossible to describe.
He took the glass stopper out of the bottle, emptied the contents of
the bottle into the medicine glass, and swallowed the liquid with one
gulp.
And then? Well, there was silence in the room――silence deep, dark, and
impenetrable.
A few fleeting hours passed over, the night waned and passed away, the
second hour of the morning arrived. All the inhabitants of the house
had retired to rest――all save the master of the establishment.
There was a violent ring at the night bell, which was unanswered; a
second summons was given, whereupon the servant, Amy――who had hastily
slipped on her things――descended the stairs and opened the door. A man
servant stood on the steps outside.
He informed the doctor’s maid that his mistress was seriously ill, and
desired Doctor Bourne’s attendance immediately. The doctor had been
retained as accoucheur to the lady in question, and the man said that
not a moment was to be lost.
“I will tell Doctor Bourne,” said the girl, “and am quite sure he will
be with your mistress in less than a quarter of an hour, or perhaps
before that.”
“The messenger upon this assurance took his departure. Amy closed the
street door gently, and made direct for her master’s bedroom. She
knocked at the door, but received no answer. She called him by his
name, and then knocked louder, but still no answer. In cases of this
sort ceremony could be dispensed with. She opened the door, and
entered the room, which she found tenantless.
“Perhaps he’s gone there,” she murmured. “He knows Mrs. Curtis is near
her time. It is possible he may have gone there.”
She paused for a moment, and pressed one hand to her side as a
troubled expression passed over her countenance.
She looked at the bed. It was just the same as she had made it in the
morning. It was evident enough that no one had occupied it since then.
“I did not hear him go out,” she murmured, “and I believe he was in
the surgery when I went to bed.”
She crept downstairs without awaking her mistress, and made direct for
the surgery.
She could see through the crevices of the door that a light was still
burning.
She knocked, but received no answer.
Then a vague shadowy fear seemed to take possession of her, and she
was half afraid to enter, but being a girl of high spirit, and one who
was not easily cowed, she opened the door and entered.
She saw the figure of her master in his high-backed chair.
To all appearance he was slumbering.
“Mr. Bourne――doctor!” cried Amy. “You are wanted immediately, if you
please. Mrs. Curtis is very ill!”
The figure in the chair did not stir or give any indications of life.
The girl cried out in something like a terrified voice, but she did
not succeed in arousing her master, who had fallen back in his chair
with his legs stretched out like one who had suddenly sunk into a deep
slumber.
“I can’t wake him! What on earth shall I do?” cried the girl. “How
very strange and how fearfully pale he looks.”
There was a small hand-lamp on the table. Amy seized hold of this and
by the aid of the flame examined the features of her master.
“Heaven save us!” she ejaculated, “he must be in a fit or else――――”
She did not complete the sentence, but examined the features of the
doctor more minutely. She placed her hand on his shoulder, shook him,
and called him again by his name.
Then she shuddered and crept out of the room like one bewitched. She
hastened upstairs and aroused her mistress, who was sleeping soundly.
“For Heaven’s sake do tell me what’s the matter, Amy? You look like a
person who has just seen a ghost.”
“Oh, ma’am, if you please I don’t know what to make of master, he
looks so strange. I am afraid something’s happened to him――he appears
to be in a fit.”
“Where is he――in his bedroom?”
“No, in the surgery.”
“In the surgery at this hour! It is just upon two o’clock,” said Mrs.
Bourne, as she glanced at the timepiece on the shelf.
“He hasn’t been to bed, that’s quite certain, and I told Thomas, Mr.
Curtis’s footman, that he would be with her in less than a quarter of
an hour. Whatever are we to do?”
“I’ll get up at once,” cried Mrs. Bourne, springing out of bed and
arraying herself in her capacious dressing gown.
“In the surgery――eh?”
“Yes, ma’m, sitting in his chair.”
“Ah, he’s all right enough, I dare say. Don’t give way to groundless
fears――let us hope you are mistaken.”
Mrs. Bourne put her feet into her slippers, and, accompanied by her
faithful handmaiden, she went downstairs.
She entered the surgery, and glanced at her husband. Then a bolt of
ice seemed to shoot through her heart.
“Where is Peter?” she inquired.
“In bed, I suppose.”
“Go and rouse him at once. Tell him to put on his things and go off at
once for Doctor Garnet. Quick! not a moment is to be lost.”
“What is the matter with the doctor?” inquired Amy, in evident
trepidation.
“Matter, girl, something very serious. It appears to me that he is
dead.”
At these words, the girl uttered a sort of shriek, and flew upstairs
for the boy Peter.
The young urchin was not long in bundling on his things.
Upon descending below he found his mistress in the front parlour.
“Go as quickly as possible to Doctor Garnet’s house, ring the night
bell, and say I want to see him. We fear something has happened to Mr.
Bourne. Do you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll run all the way.”
“Good lad, and mind you don’t return without Dr. Garnet,” cried Mrs.
Bourne, seeing her messenger to the door.
Dr. Garnet lived but two streets off. He had been accustomed to attend
to Bourne’s practice when that gentleman was away from home.
He was a little alarmed, however, upon being informed of the urgent
nature of the case. He had seen Bourne a day or two before, and
considered him to be in excellent health.
He was a little depressed, it is true, but nothing to speak
of――certainly not to give rise to fears as to his health.
Garnet was a little fussy bald-headed gentleman, with a soft musical
voice, and a conciliatory agreeable manner. He was very popular with
the ladies, to whom he was at all times remarkably attentive.
“Dear me, this is a very sad business,” he ejaculated, as he proceeded
to make a careful toilette, for Garnet made it a rule never to be
caught _en deshabille_. “Very sad. Poor Mrs. Bourne, it must have
greatly alarmed her. Did you say your master was insensible, my lad?”
“I aint seen him, sir,” returned the boy; “but missus said he was, and
Amy could not get him to speak.”
“Ah, we will see what ails him. Over work, worry, anxiety of mind,
that’s the remote cause, the proximate may be――be――well, apoplexy
perhaps.”
“Tell your mistress I will be with her in a few minutes.”
“If you please, sir――――”
“Well, what?”
“She said I was not to return without you.”
“Oh, very well, my man, go down stairs and wait, I will be with you
shortly.”
The lad went down as requested. Presently he was joined by Dr. Garnet,
who hurried off at once to his patient. As a matter of course he found
Mrs. Bourne anxiously awaiting his appearance.
“My dear Mrs. Bourne, let me beg of you to bear up against this trial,
for such it must prove to be in any case, but we none of us know how
soon we may be stricken down; but this is of so sudden a nature
that――――”
“It is sudden, Dr. Garnet, both sudden and unaccountable.”
“We shall be able to account for it, my dear madam, there is not the
slightest doubt about that. But where is the patient?”
“In the surgery.”
“I will see what can be done for him,” said Garnet, with the same soft
voice――the same mellifluous and measured accents――for he never at any
time permitted himself to be betrayed into an expression of surprise.
To use a common phrase, he invariably took things in a quiet sort of
way.
He entered the surgery, and glanced at the face of Bourne; then he
felt his pulse, and then placed his hand on the region of the heart;
then he lifted up one of the eyelids and looked at the pupil of the
eye.
This done, he drew a chair up to the table and sat down, placing at
the same time another chair for the mistress of the establishment.
“Well, doctor, what is it?”
“It is very plain what it is, Mrs. Bourne; but let me beg of you to
bear up against this terrible trial.”
“What is it?” cried the lady.
“It is death!” returned Garnet. “But the cause which led to it we have
yet to determine.”
“My husband is dead then?” exclaimed Mrs. Bourne. “Then there is no
hope?”
“None whatever. He has passed away peacefully and tranquilly, and to
all appearance without pain. Be thankful for that.”
The bereaved wife burst into tears. He had never been at any time an
affectionate partner, or even a passable sort of husband, but the
suddenness of the blow quite unnerved his widow, who demonstrated an
amount of feeling which few would, perhaps, have given her credit for.
“Dead!” she iterated in sorrowful accents, “and the last time we met
we parted in anger.”
“There is no occasion for you to make that declaration, my dear lady;
people will talk quite soon enough without you giving them a handle
for their discourse. Say as little as possible upon that subject,
which is nobody’s business but your own. Poor Bourne, I confess I was
not prepared for this, but after all, everything is for the best.”
“I do not understand your meaning,” said Mrs. Bourne.
“Umph, no, perhaps not. When was the doctor last seen alive?”
“When he went into the surgery――in the early part of last evening.”
“And by whom?”
“By me, sir,” returned Amy.
“And did he appear in his usual health at that time?”
“He looked very pale, and his manner was strange.”
“How strange?”
“He seemed to be in trouble about something――so I thought.”
“Oh, likely enough, girl; the probability is that he was very much
troubled in his mind. He gave indications of that when I last saw him,
but not to so great an extent as to suggest this act.”
Mrs. Bourne looked hard at the speaker, but said nothing.
“What a strange odour there is in the room, doctor,” observed Amy.
“Odour, girl――of what description?”
“Like peaches.”
“Umph! Ah――yes, there is, I admit.”
He took up the medicine-glass, which had fallen upon the floor after
its contents had been swallowed by the dead man, and smelt it.
“It proceeds from this,” observed Garnet, in the same soft voice as
heretofore. “Yes, that is from whence this odour proceeds. Let us
return into the next room, my dear madam.”
Mrs. Bourne rose from her seat and went into the front parlour with
Doctor Garnet. Amy and the boy made their way into the kitchen, after
carefully closing the door of the surgery.
“I shall purposely abstain from making any observations upon the state
of mind of my friend, Bourne, prior to his decease. In fact, it will
be as well, I think, to say as little as possible upon the subject,
certainly not till the inquest is held.”
“Inquest!”
“Yes, my dear madam. There must be an inquest. That is a _sine quâ
non_. It is pretty clearly demonstrated that Bourne has died from the
effects of poison, and there can be but little doubt, I think, that he
took it of his own free will.”
“What poison has he taken, then?”
“Prussic acid! That is as far as I can judge at present. I must beg of
you, my dear friend, not to disturb anything in that room――in fact it
had better be locked up, and either you or I will take charge of the
key.”
“Oh, you had better do so. I would much prefer it.”
“Well, I will if you wish it. Let us lock the door at once.”
Garnet and Mrs. Bourne went out of the front parlour. The former
locked the door of the surgery and placed the key in his pocket; then
they returned to the parlour once more.
“These things will occur,” said Garnet, casting his eyes up to the
ceiling. “In fact they do so, I may say, almost daily. Death is
terrible at all times and under any circumstances――that is a truism
everyone must admit; but all things considered I really do not think
there is any great reason to repine in this case. I have lost an old
friend and companion, and you have lost a husband, and we have, of
course, both of us reason to mourn. Still, matters might have been
worse.”
“They might have been, I admit,” said Mrs. Bourne.
“This is a shock to you, a sad blow,” cried Garnet, placing his hand
on her shoulder with well-simulated kindness of manner. “Let me again
beg of you to bear it with becoming fortitude. I will be with you in
the morning after I have given notice to the coroner. Till then,
adieu, my dear madam. I need hardly say that it will afford me great
pleasure in being of service to you in this matter.”
“You are very kind, I am sure, Mr. Garnet. Accept my thanks. At the
present moment I find it difficult, and indeed, I may say impossible,
to realise the terrible reality which has been presented to us so
suddenly.”
“Of course not. I can well understand that,” observed the oily-tongued
doctor; “but do not worry yourself, the worst is over. I was not
prepared for such an ending, but all things considered, it is after
all but a natural sequence, and not so much to be regretted as we at
first supposed.”
“Not to be regretted, Doctor Garnet?”
“Umph. Well, no, not so much, my dear madam.”
“What do you mean? Are you of opinion that my husband was guilty of
the charge preferred against him?”
“Really, Mrs. Bourne, you must excuse me. You cannot expect me to
answer such a query. I should not be justified in hazarding an opinion
at this early stage of the inquiry. Still you know people will draw
their own conclusions after what has occurred. Be thankful that you
are here.”
“I now perfectly understand your meaning.”
“The lady died from the effects of poison; that has been established
beyond dispute,” said Garnet. “Who administered it is another
question. The prosecution says my late friend, Doctor Bourne; but
assertions are one thing and proof is another. This is a question,
however, which I think we had better not attempt to discuss just now.
Good-night, or rather morning, my dear friend. I will see you as early
as possible to-morrow.”
And with these words the fashionable physician took his departure.