The Inquest
Ten o'clock the next morning found us crossing the village green. In
front of us was the Court House, where the inquest was to be held, its
front steps filled with people. Cars were parked along the streets and
were arriving every second. There was no doubt the sudden death of
Warren had proven to be the greatest sensation of many years and
people were coming from all directions to hear what the inquest might
bring forth.
We pushed our way through the crowd on the Court House steps and into
the building. The inquest was to be held on the second floor, and the
steps leading to the room were crowded. I doubt if we would have been
able to get through the people if it had not been for one of the
village policemen, who, recognizing Carter, managed to get us to the
second floor. And even here the hallway was filled. When we succeeded
in getting into the court room, it was to find people standing along
the walls.
In some manner the chief recognized us in the crowd and beckoned for
us to come to the front of the room. After much pushing, we reached
the rail which divided the spectators from the space reserved for the
court officials. Behind it we found three chairs had been reserved for
us. Behind the desk where the judge sat when Court was in session was
the coroner, who gave us a half smile of greeting. The chief came over
to our side, and in reply to a question from Carter, if he had
discovered anything new, shook his head.
The court room was packed to overflowing—an uneasy mass of men, whose
eyes showed the excitement they were under. Over the room hung the low
murmur of whispers, and the few women in the place gazed eagerly
around.
Though all space was taken, and people were even standing two deep
along the walls, yet at the door late arrivals were trying to crowd
their way into the room. The murder had brought them out—that strange
streak of cruelty or morbidness which is in so many people. I saw
Ranville give the place a curious look, and knew that he was thinking
of similar scenes in England.
The sheriff, a tall, heavy-set man, rose and announced that no more
people would be allowed in the room and requested that those present
be silent while the inquest was on. And then, within the next ten
minutes, the jury was chosen. It took but a little time to secure
them, for they simply called twelve men—men who filed into the jury
box with a very serious air, and men who also seemed secretly well
pleased at the place of importance which was given.
In rapid succession Carter, Ranville and myself went on the stand and
told the story of our finding of the body. Ranville's announcement
that he was an Inspector of Scotland Yard created a good deal of
comment, and I heard whispers go around the room. But our testimony
was of little importance, for we had nothing new that we could tell.
When I stepped down from the stand, the coroner looked at the papers
on his desk, then motioned to the chief and after a moment's whispered
conversation called the name of the housekeeper, Mrs. Lawrence.
The housekeeper went slowly to the chair and seated herself with a
tired air. For some reason she was wearing black, and her red face was
stern as she turned to face the coroner. She was far from being a
good-looking woman, and I judged as I looked at her that she had a
temper. The mouth was small, and the narrow lips were set in a stern
thin line. Ranville gave her one look and leaned over me to say: “She
has got her back up over something.”
Her first statements had to do with Warren's household. She had been
his housekeeper for some years, living in the house when he was out of
the country. I judged she thought that her long years of service had
given her a place of authority, for she spoke as if she had complete
reign over the household. When he returned from China, she had secured
a cook and a maid and there was also a man working around the grounds.
She told us it was Warren's practice to work in his library during the
afternoon and that he had dinner about seven o'clock.
“Did he work there alone?” asked the coroner.
“Oh, no; his secretary, Florence Harlan, was there with him.”
She paused a moment and then went on to say that she understood that
Mr. Warren was writing a book, though she was not sure. All visitors
to the house afternoons were told to go to the library. There had not,
however, been many people to see him the last few days.
“Now,” came the coroner's voice. “Suppose you tell us just what you
were doing yesterday afternoon.”
“Well,” answered the woman, “Mr. Warren had told me Mr. Carter and two
friends were coming to dinner. I arranged the dinner with the cook and
spent part of the afternoon getting the dining room ready. About seven
o'clock Mr. Carter came with his friends. I was getting rather worried
then.”
“What were you worried over?”
She was silent for a moment, then went on. “Mr. Warren had not come to
the house. He always stopped working about six and dressed for dinner.
But when it got after six, I called the library. In fact, I called it
on the phone several times, but I received no reply. Then I went out
of the house, and, going to the library, knocked on the door. No one
answered. But—” She paused.
A murmur started around the room as they waited for her next words.
She paused and continued:
“But I thought I heard a sound in the library.”
“What do you mean by a sound?” was the question.
She hesitated as if not sure of her words, then said:
“It's hard to say. It was just as I started to reach my hand for the
knocker upon the door. A sound hard to describe, like a chair being
pushed across the floor, or like glass breaking; I am not sure.”
I gave a quick glance at Ranville, who sat with his head on one side
looking at the witness. His face was calm, yet there was an interested
look in his eyes. Like breaking glass the woman had said, and I
thought of the broken door of the bookcase. I remembered that both
Carter and his friend had thought it absurd that the murderer should
have had anything to do with the broken door of the bookcase. But at
the woman's words I began to wonder if they were right.
“What did you do after you heard this noise?”
“It was hardly what you would call a noise,” retorted the woman. “It
was very faint, but I thought I heard something. I knocked on the door
then, but no one answered. The door was locked.”
“Was it Mr. Warren's habit to have his door locked when working in his
library?” asked the coroner.
“I never knew him to lock it, sir. It was a fairly warm day, and Mr.
Warren since he has been in China and South America liked plenty of
heat.”
The coroner glanced at some notes he had, then asked:
“Did any one come to the house during the afternoon—any one who wanted
to see Mr. Warren?”
The woman's voice was eager as she replied: “Yes, sir, a Chinaman.”
The room stirred as one person and I could see the people bend forward
for the next question.
“What did you mean by your last answer?”
“Just a little before six the door bell rang. When I went to the door
there was a Chinaman there. He wore a white suit and asked for Mr.
Warren. I told him where the library was and showed him how to get
there. He thanked me and went up the walk to the building.”
“Did you see him again?”
“No, sir, I did not see him again. I never saw him before for that
matter. He did not give any name.”
To my great surprise the chief and the coroner held a brief
conversation, talking in a very low tone. When it was over the woman
was excused. What surprised me was that she had not been asked about
her statement in the library regarding the secretary. Then, in a
sudden frenzy, she had almost accused the girl of murdering the
scientist. The chief had heard what she said and the doctor who was
the coroner had heard it, but they had not asked her a single
question. And I wondered.
Then the doctor made a short statement, saying that Warren had been
killed by either a dagger or a thin knife. The blow had struck the
heart and he had died at once. The explanation was made in short,
concise sentences without the usual medical terminology. He closed by
saying that he must have been dead around two hours when he saw him.
As that was some time after eight Warren had been killed between six
and half past.
The next witness proved to be the man that worked around Warren's
place. The gardener was the usual type of a workman, rather dull, with
a heavy, uninteresting face. He announced somewhat loudly that he knew
nothing about the murder and said that he had not known that his
master was dead until he heard the news in the village late in the
evening. When asked about the Chinaman, he replied that he had not
seen him. Most of the afternoon he had been working in the garden,
which, I judged from his testimony, was so placed that he could not
see the library. It seemed as if his testimony was to be of no
importance when, just after he had been excused, the coroner called
him back to ask if he had seen any one around the library.
He stumbled back into his seat and thought a moment, then said:
“Can't say that I did. But when I was going to the house after the six
o'clock whistle blew, I saw something. Don't think it is of any
importance.”
“What was it?” was the question.
“Well,” came the slow reply, “I came down by the library, and I seen a
rowboat going round the bend of the point. Did not see the person in
it because the boat was just getting out of sight.”
The coroner suggested he could not swear that the boat had come from
Warren's shore, and was surprised by having the man say he was pretty
sure it had. But why he was sure of this he was unable to say, and
though the doctor pressed him to explain, he could not. He left the
stand having given, as far as I could see, no evidence of any
importance.
Again the coroner and the chief held a short conversation. Then the
doctor surprised us by saying that the inquest would be adjourned
until after lunch. As it was only eleven-thirty this seemed rather
odd, for there was still time to hear another witness. As it was, the
morning session had been of little value. Nothing had been brought out
that we did not know, and the testimony of the gardener regarding the
row boat seemed of little worth. He was not sure the boat had come
from Warren's shore line.
The crowd filed out with a great deal of noise. They seemed to be a
bit disappointed. There had been no spectacular revelations, nothing
sensational. Just the bald recital of the murder and nothing more. One
could tell by their talk, and the shaking of heads, that the inquest
had not proven what they expected. And after they had all gone out we
went to the car and drove back to Carter's for an early lunch.
Lunch was a rather quiet affair and it was not until we had gone out
on the veranda for our smoke that any one mentioned the inquest. Then,
when we had settled back in our chairs to enjoy the thirty minutes
which remained before our return to the Court House, I asked what they
thought of the morning session.
Carter, watching the smoke from his cigar as it curled away in the
breeze, replied:
“Well, Pelt. It was not productive of any information. The most
remarkable thing to me was the fact they did not ask that housekeeper
a single question about the secretary. After her remarks last evening
one would have expected that they would have been followed up.”
“I have an idea,” said Ranville, “they may have saved that for this
afternoon. There was only one thing that interested me.”
“What was that?” I asked.
There was a thoughtful look on his face as he replied:
“The statement of the gardener about some one in a boat.”
“Why, you don't think there was anything in that?” was my surprised
comment. “He did not even know if the boat had come from Warren's
shore.”
“Maybe,” drawled the Englishman. “You want to remember that so far
there has been no evidence of any one who had been to the house except
the Chinaman. Now the housekeeper says she heard some one in the
library just as she knocked on the door; heard the glass break.
Perhaps she did, and if so, I have an idea that Warren had already
been killed, and maybe she heard the murderer.”
“But, good God, Ranville,” came Carter's disgusted voice, “that means
you think the murderer smashed the glass to steal a book. I cannot
believe that Warren was killed for a fool erotic book.”
“I do not say that he was killed for a book. In fact I have grave
doubts if the murderer even took the books. But he may have smashed
that case by accident. What I was getting at is simply this. You have
the Chinaman who went to the library. No one saw him come back. You
have that farm-hand, or whatever you call him, who saw the boat. Now
did the Chinaman go away in a boat he found on the shore or was it
some one else?”
For a few moments we discussed this, reaching in the end no agreement.
Of one thing we were certain. It was that, save for the Chinaman,
there had been no evidence of any one going to the library during the
afternoon. But what the testimony of the man who had charge of the
grounds could mean we were not sure. There was no way of telling if
the boat had come from Warren's shore or not. And then with a hurried
glance at his watch Carter ended the argument by saying we had just
time to reach the Court House before the afternoon session opened.
We found the room again filled and had just time to take our chairs as
the jury filed back into the box. Then, with one glance around the
room, the coroner recalled the housekeeper to the stand. As she took
her chair she seemed very much surprised as if she had not expected to
testify again. With a look at a paper which he held in his hand the
coroner asked the first question.
“You told us this morning that Mr. Warren worked every afternoon in
his library. Did his secretary work with him?”
The woman nodded and then said: “Yes.”
The coroner went on: “What time did she return to the house yesterday
afternoon?”
I saw a strange look flit across the woman's face and she replied:
“Around four o'clock.”
“Was that her usual time to return?”
“No, sir. As a rule she worked until five and often until seven.”
“And did she give any reason for her return at this early hour?”
The woman's face flushed a little and then she said:
“No, sir. That is, she did not say why she was back so early, but I
was surprised to see her—more so because of what she did.”
There came a silence in the room and the low whispers that one could
hear after each statement died away. The coroner, who seemed to know
just what the woman would testify, asked:
“You say, ‘What she did.’ What do you mean?”
The housekeeper had been speaking in a low voice without any apparent
show of emotion. Now she raised her head, and her voice was quick and
impulsive as she replied:
“I was in the living room when the secretary returned. She rushed in
the front door and ran upstairs. She lived at the house. I thought
that she had gone to her room for something. I thought nothing of this
until a few moments later she came downstairs; in her hand was her
suit case.”
“Her suit case?”
“Yes. And she seemed very excited. Her face was flushed and when I
spoke to her she was very angry.”
“What did you say to her?”
“Why, naturally, I asked her where she was going. Seeing the suit case
and knowing that it was not time for Mr. Warren to stop work, I
wondered what had happened.” She paused, and as she did not continue,
the coroner asked:
“Well, what did she say?”
The woman was silent a moment then replied:
“She banged the suit case down on the floor and said, ‘I am going
away. You can tell Mr. Warren I won't do any more work for him.’”
Again she hesitated, as if holding something back. Once more the
coroner had to request her to finish her statement. She raised her
head, sweeping the court room with a glance, and then her eyes came
back to the coroner. Again he barked out:
“What did she say?”
“She said,” was the slow reply, “Mr. Warren ought to be killed. He
ought to be killed.”
A murmur of astonishment went around the room, and I saw from the
coroner's face that the answer was unexpected. There had been nothing
of value until the present testimony, and now, all at once, there had
come into the crowded room the ringing of a threat. I saw Carter shift
in his chair and he bent forward and whispered something in the
Englishman's ear. But what it was I did not know. And then after a
moment of surprise the coroner tried to gain more information from his
witness.
But she had told him all she knew. She said the secretary had been
very angry, and that her voice had risen when she made her remark
“that Warren ought to be killed.” But why she had said this she could
not tell. The girl, a moment later, had picked up her suit case and
left the house. She had watched her from a front window and saw her go
out to the road. Where she had gone, or the reason for her action, she
did not know. And though the coroner asked her many questions yet he
gained nothing in return; for the woman knew of no reason why the
secretary should have left the house or above all why she had made the
remark that she did.
When she left the stand there was a different atmosphere about the
inquest. We had spent the morning in getting nowhere. Now all at once
there had come a mystery—the mystery of why the secretary should have
rushed into the house for her bag, why she had left, and, above all,
the reason for her statement against her employer.
In rapid succession two policemen followed one another on the stand.
They testified that they had spent the morning trying to find the
secretary, but to no avail. Before she had gone to Warren's home to
work she had roomed in a house kept by an aunt. But the aunt had not
seen her for several days and they had found no trace of her anywhere.
She simply had walked out of Warren's yard and vanished. They told of
asking the drivers of several of the bus lines if they had had the
girl as a passenger. But though she was very well known in the village
no one had seen her.
When they left the stand, the inquest broke down, simply for the fact
there were no more witnesses to call. Warren had been killed, and it
was the only fact the police could prove. But why he had been killed,
or any evidence which might have thrown any light upon his death, they
did not have. It had proven about as barren an inquest as I had ever
attended. The only thing of interest had been the unexpected testimony
regarding the secretary, and her foolish statement that Warren ought
to be killed. But even that by itself was not evidence of much value.
The chief and the coroner held a long whispered conversation, during
which the policeman several times shook his head. Then, gathering his
papers together, the coroner arose and, going into a short account of
the murder, gave the case to the jury. They filed out through a door
behind the judge's desk, a very perplexed-looking group of men, and we
settled back to await their return.
We did not have a long wait. As the door closed behind the twelve men,
the room had broken into excited whispers, but they died away, when
within ten minutes they returned to their chairs. They wore a rather
serious look, and upon the face of every man was an air of importance.
Then the foreman arose and very soberly said that they agreed. In a
few words he gave the only verdict which could be rendered: “Death at
the hands of a person or persons unknown.”
There came the scraping of feet, the pushing back of chairs and the
sound of excited voices. The inquest was over.