SHADOWS.
The revelation held me utterly dumfounded.
Already I had, by placing my hand in contact with the shawl,
ascertained its exact texture, and saw that both its tint and its
fabric were unquestionably the same as the knotted fragment I held in
my hand. Chenille shawls, as every woman knows, must be handled
carefully or the lightly-made fringe will come asunder; for the kind
of cord of floss silk is generally made upon a single thread, which
will break with the slightest strain.
By some means the shawl in question had accidentally become
entangled--or perhaps been strained by the sudden uplifting of the arm
of the wearer. In any case the little innocent-looking fragment had
snapped, and dropped at the bedside of the murdered man.
The grave suspicions of Ethelwynn which I had held on the previous
night when she endeavoured to justify her sister's neglect again
crowded upon me, and Sir Bernard's hint at the secret of her past
thrust the iron deeply into my heart.
My eyes were fixed upon the little object in my palm--the silent but
damning evidence--and my mind became filled by bitterest regrets. I
saw how cleverly I had been duped--I recognised that this woman, whom
I thought an angel, was only a cunning assassin.
No, believe me: I was not prejudging her! The thought had already
occurred to me that she might have entered the room wearing that shawl
perhaps to wish the invalid good-night. She had, however, in answer to
my question, declared that she had retired to bed without seeing
him--for Nurse Kate had told her that he was sleeping. She had
therefore not disturbed him.
Then, yet another thought had occurred to me. She might have worn the
shawl when she entered after the raising of the alarm. In order to
clear up that point I had questioned the servants, one by one, and all
had told me the same story, namely, that Miss Ethelwynn had not
entered the room at all. She had only come to the door and glanced in,
then turned away in horror and shut herself in her own room. As far as
anyone knew, she had not summoned sufficient courage to go in and look
upon the dead man's face. She declared herself horrified, and dared
not to enter the death chamber.
In the light of my discovery all these facts as related to me made the
truth only too apparent. She had entered there unknown to anyone, and
that her presence had been with a fell purpose I could no longer
doubt.
If I gave the clue into Ambler Jevons' hands he would, I knew, quickly
follow it, gathering up the threads of the tangled skein one by one,
until he could openly charge her with the crime. I stood undecided
how to act. Should I leave my friend to make his own investigations
independently and unbiassed, or should I frankly tell him of my own
startling discovery?
I carefully went through the whole of the circumstances, weighing
point after point, and decided at last to still retain the knowledge I
had gained. The point which outbalanced my intention was that curious
admission of Short regarding the possession of the knife. So I
resolved to say nothing to my friend until after the inquest.
As may be imagined, the London papers that afternoon were full of the
mystery. Nothing like a first-class "sensation," sub-editors will tell
you. There is art in alliterative headlines and startling
"cross-heads." The inevitable interview with "a member of the
family"--who is generally anonymous, be it said--is sure to be eagerly
devoured by the public. The world may sneer at sensational journalism,
but after all it loves to have its curiosity excited over the tragic
denouement of some domestic secret. As soon as the first information
reached the Central News and Press Association, therefore, reporters
crowded upon us. Representatives, not only of the metropolitan press,
but those of the local newspapers, the "Richmond and Twickenham
Times," the "Independent," over at Brentford, the "Middlesex
Chronicle" at Hounslow, and the "Middlesex Mercury," of Isleworth, all
vied with each other in obtaining the most accurate information.
"Say nothing," Jevons urged. "Be civil, but keep your mouth closed
tight. There are one or two friends of mine among the crowd. I'll see
them and give them something that will carry the story further.
Remember, you mustn't make any statement whatsoever."
I obeyed him, and although the reporters followed me about all the
morning, and outside the house the police had difficulty in preventing
a crowd assembling, I refused to express any opinion or describe
anything I had witnessed.
At eleven o'clock I received a wire from Sir Bernard at Hove as
follows:--
"Much shocked at news. Unfortunately very unwell, but shall endeavour
to be with you later in the day."
At mid-day I called at the neighbour's house close to Kew Gardens
Station, where the widow and her sister had taken refuge. Mrs.
Courtenay was utterly broken down, for Ethelwynn had told her the
terrible truth that her husband had been murdered, and both women
pounced upon me eagerly to ascertain what theory the police now held.
I looked at the woman who had held me so long beneath her spell. Was
it possible that one so open-faced and pure could be the author of so
dastardly and cowardly a crime? Her face was white and anxious, but
the countenance had now reassumed its normal innocence of expression,
and in her eyes I saw the genuine love-look of old. She had arranged
her hair and dress, and no longer wore the shawl.
"It's terrible--terrible, Ralph," she cried. "Poor Mary! The blow has
utterly crushed her."
"I am to blame--it is my own fault!" exclaimed the young widow,
hoarsely. "But I had no idea that his end was so near. I tried to be a
dutiful wife, but oh--only Ethelwynn knows how hard it was, and how I
suffered. His malady made him unbearable, and instead of quarrelling I
thought the better plan was to go out and leave him with the nurse.
What people have always said, was, alas! too true. Owing to the
difference of our ages our marriage was a ghastly failure. And now it
has ended in a tragedy."
I responded in words as sympathetic as I could find tongue to utter.
Her eyes were red with crying, and her pretty face was swollen and
ugly. I knew that she now felt a genuine regret at the loss of her
husband, even though her life had been so dull and unhappy.
While she sat in a big armchair bowed in silence, I turned to
Ethelwynn and discussed the situation with her. Their friends were
most kind, she said. The husband was churchwarden at Kew Church, and
his wife was an ardent church worker, hence they had long ago become
excellent friends.
"You have your friend, Mr. Jevons, with you, I hear. Nurse has just
returned and told me so."
"Yes," I responded. "He is making an independent inquiry."
"And what has he found?" she inquired breathlessly.
"Nothing."
Then, as I watched her closely, I saw that she breathed again more
freely. By the manner in which she uttered Ambler's name I detected
that she was not at all well-disposed towards him. Indeed, she spoke
as though she feared that he might discover the truth.
After half-an-hour I left, and more puzzled than ever, returned to the
house in Richmond Road. Sometimes I felt entirely convinced that my
love was authoress of the foul deed; yet at others there seemed
something wanting in the confirmation of my suspicions. Regarding the
latter I could not overlook the fact that Short had told a story which
was false on the face of it, while the utter absence of any motive on
my love's part in murdering the old gentleman seemed to point in an
entirely opposite direction.
Dr. Diplock, the coroner, had fixed the inquest for eleven o'clock on
the morrow; therefore I assisted Dr. Farmer, of Kew, the police
surgeon, to make the post-mortem.
We made the examination in the afternoon, before the light faded, and
if the circumstances of the crime were mysterious, the means by which
the unfortunate man was murdered were, we found, doubly so.
Outwardly, the wound was an ordinary one, one inch in breadth,
inflicted by a blow delivered from left to right. The weapon had
entered between the fourth and fifth ribs, and the heart had been
completely transfixed by some sharp cutting instrument. The injuries
we discovered within, however, increased the mystery ten-fold, for we
found two extraordinary lateral incisions, which almost completely
divided the heart from side to side, the only remaining attachment of
the upper portion to the lower being a small portion of the anterior
wall of the heart behind the sternum.
Such a wound was absolutely beyond explanation.
The instrument with which the crime had been committed by striking
between the ribs had penetrated to the heart with an unerring
precision, making a terrible wound eight times the size within, as
compared with the exterior puncture. And yet the weapon had been
withdrawn, and was missing!
For fully an hour we measured and discussed the strange discovery,
hoping all the time that Sir Bernard would arrive. The knife which the
man Short confessed he had taken down in self-defence we compared with
the exterior wound and found, as we anticipated, that just such a
wound could be caused by it. But the fact that the exterior cut was
cleanly done, while the internal injuries were jagged and the tissues
torn in a most terrible manner, caused a doubt to arise whether the
Indian knife, which was double-edged, had actually been used. To be
absolutely clear upon this point it would be necessary to examine it
microscopically, for the corpuscles of human blood are easily
distinguished beneath the lens.
We were about to conclude our examination in despair, utterly unable
to account for the extraordinary wound, when the door opened and Sir
Bernard entered.
He looked upon the body of his old friend, not a pleasing spectacle
indeed, and then grasped my hand without a word.
"I read the evening paper on my way up," he said at last in a voice
trembling with emotion. "The affair seems very mysterious. Poor
Courtenay! Poor fellow!"
"It is sad--very sad," I remarked. "We have just concluded the
post-mortem;" and then I introduced the police surgeon to the man
whose name was a household word throughout the medical profession.
I showed my chief the wound, explained its extraordinary features, and
asked his opinion. He removed his coat, turned up his shirt-cuffs,
adjusted his big spectacles, and, bending beside the board upon which
the body lay, made a long and careful inspection of the injury.
"Extraordinary!" he ejaculated. "I've never known of such a wound
before. One would almost suspect an explosive bullet, if it were not
for the clean incised wound on the exterior. The ribs seem grazed, yet
the manner in which such a hurt has been inflicted is utterly
unaccountable."
"We have been unable to solve the enigma," Dr. Farmer observed. "I was
an army surgeon before I entered private practice, but I have never
seen a similar case."
"Nor have I," responded Sir Bernard. "It is most puzzling."
"Do you think that this knife could have been used?" I asked, handing
my chief the weapon.
He looked at it, raised it in his hand as though to strike, felt its
edge, and then shook his head, saying: "No, I think not. The
instrument used was only sharp on one edge. This has both edges
sharpened."
It was a point we had overlooked, but at once we agreed with him, and
abandoned our half-formed theory that the Indian dagger had caused the
wound.
With Sir Bernard we made an examination of the tongue and other
organs, in order to ascertain the progress of the disease from which
the deceased had been suffering, but a detailed account of our
discoveries can have no interest for the lay reader.
In a word, our conclusions were that the murdered man could easily
have lived another year or more. The disease was not so advanced as we
had believed. Sir Bernard had a patient to see in Grosvenor Square;
therefore he left at about four o'clock, regretting that he had not
time to call round at the neighbour's and express his sympathy with
the widow.
"Give her all my sympathies, poor young lady," he said to me. "And
tell her that I will call upon her to-morrow." Then, after promising
to attend the inquest and give evidence regarding the post-mortem, he
shook hands with us both and left.
At eight o'clock that evening I was back in my own rooms in Harley
Place, eating my dinner alone, when Ambler Jevons entered.
He was not as cheery as usual. He did not exclaim, as was his habit,
"Well, my boy, how goes it? Whom have you killed to-day?" or some such
grim pleasantry.
On the contrary, he came in with scarcely a word, threw his hat upon a
side table, and sank into his usual arm chair with scarcely a word,
save the question uttered in almost a growl:
"May I smoke?"
"Of course," I said, continuing my meal. "Where have you been?"
"I left while you were cutting up the body," he said. "I've been about
a lot since then, and I'm a bit tired."
"You look it. Have a drink?"
"No," he responded, shaking his head. "I don't drink when I'm
bothered. This case is an absolute mystery." And striking a match he
lit his foul pipe and puffed away vigorously, staring straight into
the fire the while.
"Well," I asked, after a long silence. "What's your opinion now?"
"I've none," he answered, gloomily. "What's yours?"
"Mine is that the mystery increases hourly."
"What did you find at the cutting-up?"
In a few words I explained the unaccountable nature of the wound,
drawing for him a rough diagram on the back of an old envelope, which
I tossed over to where he sat.
He looked at it for a long time without speaking, then observed:
"H'm! Just as I thought. The police theory regarding that fellow Short
and the knife is all a confounded myth. Depend upon it, Boyd, old
chap, that gentleman is no fool. He's tricked Thorpe finely--and with
a motive, too."
"What motive do you suspect?" I inquired, eagerly, for this was an
entirely fresh theory.
"One that you'd call absurd if I were to tell it to you now. I'll
explain later on, when my suspicions are confirmed--as I feel sure
they will be before long."
"You're mysterious, Ambler," I said, surprised. "Why?"
"I have a reason, my dear chap," was all the reply he vouchsafed. Then
he puffed again vigorously at his pipe, and filled the room with
clouds of choking smoke of a not particularly good brand of tobacco.