After the inquest The Chase had plenty to talk about. Mrs. Ambrose and
Mrs. Church were kept very busy. For few of The Chase had been actually
present in the flesh--not because they were not interested and curious
and indeed aching to be present, but because it seemed hardly decent.
Since the great Nuisance Case about the noise of the Quick Boat
Company's motor-boats there had been no event of communal importance to
The Chase; life had been a lamentable blank. And it was an ill-chance
that the first genuine excitement, not counting the close of the Great
War, should be a function which it seemed hardly decent to attend: an
inquest on the dead body of a housemaid from The Chase discovered almost
naked in a sack by a police-boat at Barnes. Nevertheless, a sprinkling
of The Chase was there--Mrs. Vincent for one, and Horace Dimple, the
barrister, for another--though he of course attended the inquest purely
as a matter of professional interest, in the same laudable spirit of
inquiry in which law students crowd to the more sensational or
objectionable trials at the High Court. There were also Mr. Mard, the
architect, who was on the Borough Council, and Mr. and Mrs. Tatham, who
had to visit the Food Committee that day. These, being in the
neighbourhood of the Court, thought it would be foolish not to "look
in." Few of them overtly acknowledged that the others were visibly
there, or, if they were compelled to take notice, smiled thinly and
looked faintly surprised.
But so startling and sensational was the course of the inquest that when
they returned to their homes any doubts about the propriety of attending
it were speedily smothered by the important fact that they had
positively been there, had been eyewitnesses of the astonishing scene,
whether from chance or compassion or curiosity, or wisdom, or simple
power of divination, which most of them felt they must undoubtedly
possess. They had known all along that there was "something fishy" about
that girl's disappearance, and now, you see, they were right. They
looked eagerly in the morning papers and in the evening papers as only
those look who have seen something actually take place, and insanely
crave to see it reported in dirty print in the obscure corners of a
newspaper. So do men who happen on a day to hear part of a Parliamentary
debate anxiously study on the morrow the Parliamentary reports at which
they have never so much as glanced before, and are never likely to
glance again.... But this is human nature, and we must not be unkind to
The Chase because they were unable to depart from that high standard.
The papers reported the affair with curious brevity and curiously failed
to get at the heart of it. The headlines were all about "Mr. Stephen
Byrne"--"Poet's Housemaid"--"Tragedy in an Author's House"--and so on.
It was only at the end of the small paragraphs that you found out there
were black suspicions about a Civil Servant, one John Egerton,
first-class clerk in the Ministry of Drains. And for The Chase these
suspicions were the really startling and enthralling outcome of the
inquest, as Mrs. Vincent and others described it. Mrs. Vincent described
it after dinner in the house of the Petways, where she had dropped in
casually for a chat. By a curious chance Mr. Dimple had also dropped in,
so that the fortunate Petways had two eyewitnesses at once. The
Whittakers came in in the middle of the story.
And they all agreed that it was a surprising story--highly surprising as
it affected Mr. Egerton, and also highly unfavourable. Dear Mr. Byrne
had given his evidence in his usual charming manner, very clear and
straightforward and delightful: very anxious to help the Coroner and the
jury, in spite of the worry about poor Mrs. Byrne. "Very pale, he was,"
said Mrs. Vincent. "Overstrained," said Mr. Dimple.
And it all depended on this sack, you see. The girl was tied up in the
sack. Mrs. Vincent gave a little shiver. "Of course, it was all _rather_
horrible, you know, but--" "But you enjoyed it thoroughly," thought
Whittaker.
"Mr. Byrne said he remembered lending the sack to Mr. Egerton--to
collect firewood or something--you know, he's _always_ poking about in
that silly boat of his, picking up sticks." (The operation as described
by Mrs. Vincent sounded incredibly puerile and base.) "Then the Coroner
asked him if he remembered _when_. Mr. Byrne said it was about three
weeks ago. Then they asked was it before or after the day that this
young woman disappeared. You could have heard a pin drop.
"I was really sorry for Mr. Byrne; I could see he didn't like it a bit.
He didn't answer for a little, kind of hesitated, then he said it was
_about_ the same day--he couldn't be sure; and that was all they could
get out of him--it was _about_ the same day. And you should have _seen_
Mr. Egerton's face."
Mrs. Vincent paused to appreciate the effect of her narrative.
"Then there was the Byrnes' young woman, Mabel Jones or some such name.
She was sent round to Mr. Egerton's to ask for the sack--one day last
week. And _she_ said--what was it she said, Mr. Dimple?"
"She said Mr. Egerton was 'short like' with her, and--"
"Ah yes!" Mrs. Vincent hastened to resume the reins. "He was 'short
like' and a bit 'uffy with her; and he said he'd lost the sack, picking
up wood--lost it in the river....
"And then Mr. Egerton himself was put in the box and he told _exactly
the same story_!" Mrs. Vincent said these words with a huge ironical
emphasis, as if it would have reflected credit on Mr. Egerton had he
invented an entirely new story for the purposes of the inquest.
"He told exactly the same story, and he told it very badly, in my
opinion--_you_ know, hesitating and mumbling, as if he was keeping
something back--and looking at the floor all the time."
"We must remember he's naturally a very shy man," said Mr. Dimple, "and
a public inquest, at the best--"
"Yes, but look what he _said_--The Coroner asked him the same
question--when was it he had borrowed the sack--before or after the
young woman disappeared. Mr. Egerton said he really didn't know, because
he didn't know when the young woman had disappeared.... As if we didn't
_all_ know, the very next day...."
"Pardon me," said Mr. Dimple, "but I didn't know myself, not till one
day last week--and I live two doors from the Byrnes--"
"Yes, but you're a _man_," said Mrs. Vincent, with a large contempt.
"So is Mr. Egerton."
Mrs. Vincent should have been a boxer. She recovered nobly.
"Anyhow, he didn't impress me, and he didn't impress the Coroner. The
Coroner kept at him a long time, trying to get it out of him, _how_ he'd
lost the sack and so on. Some of the jury asked questions too. They
couldn't understand about the wood-collecting and what he wanted
firewood for in the summer, and--Oh yes, _I_ remember. He said it must
have slipped off the boat, you see, and been picked up by somebody. Then
they asked him what he did with the wood when he picked it up--did he
put it in the sack then and there or what? He said no, he just threw it
in the bottom of the boat. _Then_ the Coroner said, 'When did you put it
in the sack?' Mr. Egerton said, 'In the garden, of course, to take it
indoors.' And then, you see, the Coroner said, 'Why on earth did he take
the sack out in the boat at _all_?' You could have heard a--" Mrs.
Vincent thought better of it. "Mr. Egerton couldn't answer that--he just
looked sheepish, and mumbled something about 'he forgot!'--forgot,
indeed!"
Mrs. Vincent looked at Mr. Dimple--a triumphant, merciless look.