THE MYSTERY OF MARY.
The astounding message, despatched from Neneford and signed by
Parkinson, the butler, ran as follows:--
_"Regret to inform you that Mrs. Courtenay was found drowned
in the river this morning. Can you come here? My mistress
very anxious to see you."_
Without a moment's delay I sent a reply in the affirmative, and, after
searching in the "A.B.C.," found that I had a train at three o'clock
from King's Cross. This I took, and after an anxious journey arrived
duly at the Manor, all the blinds of which were closely drawn.
Parkinson, white-faced and agitated, a thin, nervous figure in a coat
too large for him, had been watching my approach up the drive, and
held open the door for me.
"Ah, Doctor!" the old fellow gasped. "It's terrible--terrible! To
think that poor Miss Mary should die like that!"
"Tell me all about it," I demanded, quickly. "Come!" and I led the way
into the morning room.
"We don't know anything about it, sir; it's all a mystery," the
grey-faced old man replied. "When one of the housemaids went up to
Miss Mary's room at eight o'clock this morning to take her tea, as
usual, she received no answer to her knock. Thinking she was asleep
she returned half-an-hour later, only to find her absent, and that the
bed had not been slept in. We told the mistress, never thinking that
such an awful fate had befallen poor Miss Mary. Mistress was inclined
to believe that she had gone off on some wild excursion somewhere, for
of late she's been in the habit of going away for a day or two without
telling us. At first none of us dreamed that anything had happened,
until, just before twelve o'clock, Reuben Dixon's lad, who'd been out
fishing, came up, shouting that poor Miss Mary was in the water under
some bushes close to the stile that leads into Monk's Wood. At first
we couldn't believe it; but, with the others, I flew down post-haste,
and there she was, poor thing, under the surface, with her dress
caught in the bushes that droop into the water. Her hat was gone, and
her hair, unbound, floated out, waving with the current. We at once
got a boat and took her out, but she was quite dead. Four men from the
village carried her up here, and they've placed her in her own room."
"The police know about it, of course?"
"Yes, we told old Jarvis, the constable. He's sent a telegram to
Oundle, I think."
"And what doctor has seen her?"
"Doctor Govitt. He's here now."
"Ah! I must see him. He has examined the body, I suppose?"
"I expect so, sir. He's been a long time in the room."
"And how is it believed that the poor young lady got into the water?"
I asked, anxious to obtain the local theory.
"It's believed that she either fell in or was pushed in a long way
higher up, because half-a-mile away, not far from the lock, there's
distinct marks in the long grass, showing that somebody went off the
path to the brink of the river. And close by that spot they found her
black silk shawl."
"She went out without a hat, then?" I remarked, recollecting that when
she had met her husband in secret she had worn a shawl. Could it be
possible that she had met him again, and that he had made away with
her? The theory seemed a sound one in the present circumstances.
"It seems to me, sir, that the very fact of her taking her shawl
showed that she did not intend to be out very long," the butler said.
"It would almost appear that she went out in the night in order to
meet somebody," I observed.
The old man shook his head sorrowfully, saying:
"Poor Miss Mary's never been the same since her husband died, Doctor.
She was often very strange in her manner. Between ourselves, I
strongly suspect it to be a case of deliberate suicide. She was
utterly broken down by the awful blow."
"I don't see any motive for suicide," I remarked. Then I asked, "Has
she ever been known to meet anyone on the river-bank at night?"
Old Parkinson was usually an impenetrable person. He fidgeted, and I
saw that my question was an awkward one for him to answer without
telling a lie.
"The truth will have to be discovered about this, you know," I went
on. "Therefore, if you have any knowledge likely to assist us at the
inquest it is your duty to explain."
"Well, sir," he answered, after a short pause, "to tell the truth, in
this last week there have been some funny rumours in the village."
"About what?"
"People say that she was watched by Drake, Lord Nassington's
gamekeeper, who saw her at two o'clock in the morning walking
arm-in-arm with an old gentleman. I heard the rumour down at the
Golden Ball, but I wouldn't believe it. Why, Mr. Courtenay's only been
dead a month or two. The man Drake is a bragging fellow, and I think
most people discredit his statement."
"Well," I said, "it might possibly have been true. It seems hardly
conceivable that she should go wandering alone by the river at night.
She surely had some motive in going there. Was she only seen by the
gamekeeper on one occasion?"
"Only once. But, of course, he soon spread it about the village, and
it formed a nice little tit-bit of gossip. As soon as I heard it I
took steps to deny it."
"It never reached the young lady's ears?"
"Oh, no," the old servant answered. "We were careful to keep the
scandal to ourselves, knowing how it would pain her. She's had
sufficient trouble in her life, poor thing." And with tears in his
grey old eyes, he added: "I have known her ever since she was a child
in her cradle. It's awful that her end should come like this."
He was a most trustworthy and devoted servant, having spent nearly
thirty years of his life in the service of the family, until he had
become almost part of it. His voice quivered with emotion when he
spoke of the dead daughter of the house, but he knew that towards me
it was not a servant's privilege to entirely express the grief he
felt.
I put other questions regarding the dead woman's recent actions, and
he was compelled to admit that they had, of late, been quite
unaccountable. Her absences were frequent, and she appeared to
sometimes make long and mysterious journeys in various directions,
while her days at home were usually spent in the solitude of her own
room. Some friends of the family, he said, attributed it to grief at
the great blow she had sustained, while others suspected that her mind
had become slightly unhinged. I recollected, myself, how strange had
been her manner when she had visited me, and inwardly confessed to
being utterly mystified.
Doctor Govitt I found to be a stout middle-aged man, of the usual type
of old-fashioned practitioner of a cathedral town, whose methods and
ideas were equally old-fashioned. Before I entered the room where the
unfortunate woman was lying, he explained to me that life had
evidently been extinct about seven hours prior to the discovery of the
body.
"There are no marks of foul play?" I inquired anxiously.
"None, as far as I've been able to find--only a scratch on the left
cheek, evidently inflicted after death."
"What's your opinion?"
"Suicide. Without a doubt. The hour at which she fell into the water
is shown by her watch. It stopped at 2.28."
"You have no suspicion of foul play?"
"None whatever."
I did not reply; but by the compression of my lips I presume he saw
that I was dubious.
"Ah! I see you are suspicious," he said. "Of course, in tragic
circumstances like these the natural conclusion is to doubt. The poor
young lady's husband was mysteriously done to death, and I honestly
believe that her mind gave way beneath the strain of grief. I've
attended her professionally two or three times of late, and noted
certain abnormal features in her case that aroused my suspicions that
her brain had become unbalanced. I never, however, suspected her of
suicidal tendency."
"Her mother, Mrs. Mivart, did," I responded. "She told me so only a
few days ago."
"I know, I know," he answered. "Of course, her mother had more
frequent and intimate opportunities for watching her than we had. In
any case it is a very dreadful thing for the family."
"Very!" I said.
"And the mystery surrounding the death of Mr. Courtenay--was it never
cleared up? Did the police never discover any clue to the assassin?"
"No. Not a single fact regarding it, beyond those related at the
inquest, has ever been brought to light."
"Extraordinary--very extraordinary!"
I went with him into the darkened bedroom wherein lay the body, white
and composed, her hair dishevelled about her shoulders, and her white
waxen hands crossed about her breast. The expression upon her
countenance--that face that looked so charming beneath its veil of
widowhood as she had sat in my room at Harley Place--was calm and
restful, for indeed, in the graceful curl of the lips, there was a
kind of half-smile, as though, poor thing, she had at last found
perfect peace.
Govitt drew up the blind, allowing the golden sunset to stream into
the room, thereby giving me sufficient light to make my examination.
The latter occupied some little time, my object being to discover any
marks of violence. In persons drowned by force, and especially in
women, the doctor expects to find red or livid marks upon the wrists,
arms or neck, where the assailant had seized the victim. Of course,
these are not always discernible, for it is easier to entice the
unfortunate one to the water's edge and give a gentle push than
grapple in violence and hurl a person into the stream by main force.
The push leaves no trace; therefore, the verdict in hundreds of cases
of wilful murder has been "Suicide," or an open one, because the
necessary evidence of foul play has been wanting.
Here was a case in point. The scratch on the face that Govitt had
described was undoubtedly a post-mortem injury, and, with the
exception of another slight scratch on the ball of the left thumb, I
could find no trace whatever of violence. And yet, to me, the most
likely theory was that she had again met her husband in secret, and
had lost her life at his hands. To attribute a motive was utterly
impossible. I merely argued logically within myself that it could not
possibly be a case of suicide, for without a doubt she had met
clandestinely the eccentric old man whom the world believed to be
dead.
But if he were alive, who was the man who had died at Kew?
The facts within my knowledge were important and startling; yet if I
related them to any second person I felt that my words would be
scouted as improbable, and my allegations would certainly not be
accepted. Therefore I still kept my own counsel, longing to meet
Jevons and hear the result of his further inquiries.
Mrs. Mivart I found seated in her own room, tearful and utterly
crushed. Poor Mary's end had come upon her as an overwhelming burden
of grief, and I stood beside her full of heartfelt sympathy. A strong
bond of affection had always existed between us; but, as I took her
inert hand and uttered words of comfort, she only shook her head
sorrowfully and burst into a torrent of tears. Truly the Manor was a
dismal house of mourning.
To Ethelwynn I sent a telegram addressed to the Hennikers, in order
that she should receive it the instant she arrived in town. Briefly I
explained the tragedy, and asked her to come down to the Manor at
once, feeling assured that Mrs. Mivart, in the hour of her distress,
desired her daughter at her side. Then I accompanied the local
constable, and the three police officers who had come over from
Oundle, down to the riverside.
The brilliant afterglow tinged the broad, brimming river with a
crimson light, and the trees beside the water already threw heavy
shadows, for the day was dying, and the glamour of the fading sunset
and the dead stillness of departing day had fallen upon everything.
Escorted by a small crowd of curious villagers, we walked along the
footpath over the familiar ground that I had traversed when following
the pair. Eagerly we searched everywhere for traces of a struggle, but
the only spot where the long grass was trodden down was at a point a
little beyond the ferry. Yet as far as I could see there was no actual
sign of any struggle. It was merely as though the grass had been
flattened by the trailing of a woman's skirt across it. Examination
showed, too, imprints of Louis XV. heels in the soft clay bank. One
print was perfect, but the other, close to the edge, gave evidence
that the foot had slipped, thus establishing the spot as that where
the unfortunate young lady had fallen into the water. When examining
the body I had noticed that she was wearing Louis XV. shoes, and also
that there was still mud upon the heels. She had always been rather
proud of her feet, and surely there is nothing which sets off the
shape of a woman's foot better than the neat little shoe, with its
high instep and heel.
We searched on until twilight darkened into night, traversing that
path every detail of which had impressed itself so indelibly upon my
brain. We passed the stile near which I had stood hidden in the bushes
and overheard that remarkable conversation between the "dead" man and
his wife. All the memories of that never-to-be-forgotten night
returned to me. Alas! that I had not questioned Mary when she had
called upon me on the previous day.
She had died, and her secret was lost.