With the help of Grahame Hallward and a strict economy of the money
which Godfrey Twyneham had sent me I managed to get through the summer
fairly comfortably. I visited the West End but rarely, and was spared
the indignity of being cut by my former acquaintances.
I gathered from what Grahame Hallward let fall that Lionel Holland had
given him an idea of the humiliation I had undergone in his presence.
Grahame was much too chivalrous and sweet-natured to wound my feelings
by any direct allusion to it; I doubt, indeed, if he realised that he
had ever given me a hint of his knowledge.
Sibella had no chivalry, and when I called could not forbear to make
pointed allusion to people who passed themselves off for being what
they were not. Again I left the house hating her, and still my dreams
were tormented by thoughts of her.
By the autumn I had quite made up my mind that I would try and clear
my path to the Gascoyne earldom. I tabulated the lives it would be
necessary to remove. They were as follows:
Simeon, Earl Gascoyne, aged 25
Ughtred Gascoyne, " 55
Henry Gascoyne, " 62
Gascoyne Gascoyne, " 68
Gascoyne Gascoyne, " 27
Henry Gascoyne, " 22
Edith Gascoyne, " 23
Henry Gascoyne, " 89
It was strange that there were not more women, and it was somewhat of
a relief. The killing of women is not a pleasant task, believe me. I
have learnt so much from experience. The great question was, where to
begin. The old gentleman of eighty-nine might be left out of the
reckoning. It was highly probable that by the time I brought my
operations to a conclusion, he would be beyond the need for attention.
I debated with myself the alternatives of beginning near the head of
the house, or with those members who were furthest removed. After much
reflection I decided that it would be better to begin where there was
likely to be the least suspicion of foul play.
Gascoyne Gascoyne was the son of the man who had snubbed me so
unmercifully when I applied to him for introductions. He was
twenty-seven years of age, and I had absolutely no knowledge of him
beyond that fact. I knew that his father was on the Stock Exchange,
and the Red Book told me that he lived in a house at South Kensington.
I wandered about in its vicinity for several evenings and gathered
that young Gascoyne lived at home with his father and mother. It was
hardly likely that the young man who came home every evening at the
same time and only went out again at irregular intervals would be
other than the son of the house, and I was assured that he was the man
I was looking for by his entering a carriage one evening with the
master and mistress of the house and being addressed by them as
Gascoyne. The time had come to formulate a plan of campaign, and I
went home and shut myself up with French cigarettes to think.
My study of poisons had been profoundly unproductive of suggestion.
The vast majority of them were thrown aside as ridiculous. To use them
would have been suicidal. Corrosives, for instance, with their obvious
evidences, could never be employed except by the most thoughtless and
ignorant. I even disliked reading about their symptoms. I would
certainly as soon have dashed out the brains of my victim with a
sledge-hammer.
True, there are, I believe, on record cases where poisoning by arsenic
had passed undetected, but it was far too slow a medium; I might not
always have sufficient time at my command. I studied the irritants
with an equal feeling of dissatisfaction, and the neurotics filled me
with a sense of the hopelessness of the task I had undertaken. I was
firmly convinced that there must be a poison somewhere in which the
chances of detection were infinitesimal. Copper, and the possibility
of its being administered so that its presence in food might appear
accidental, detained me some time and cost me a great deal of thought,
but how to manage it was not very apparent. At any rate, I mentally
registered the idea; I was determined that on no account would I
commit anything to paper. I have at all times considered the
carelessness of criminals in this respect most curious. I reflected
that it would be an excellent thing to devote so much time every
evening to a retrospect of the day’s work and if possible to destroy
all evidences as I went along.
My sinister resolution had been taken so imperceptibly that I found
myself engrossed with the details before I was quite aware of how far
I had travelled in the matter.
About this time I picked up a book on reincarnation, and I began to
wonder if after all I might not be Ethel, Lord Gascoyne, come again.
In default of being able to prove the contrary I came to the
conclusion that I was. The fancy pleased me and I would indulge it.
In my search for a good medium I was confronted with the fact that the
secrets of the best poisoners have died with them. Confession does not
recommend itself to the strongest intellects even when _in extremis_.
Now and then of course the vanity of a great artist has led to
inconvenient death-bed boasting, as in the case of Philippe Darville,
who, imagining himself about to die, gave an exhaustive and
circumstantial account of his crimes, and recovering, was brought to
the block, only his sense of humour supporting him through the trying
development.
I continued my search for the medium I wanted, and in the meanwhile
made myself thoroughly acquainted with the habits of young Gascoyne
Gascoyne.
In appearance he was tall and athletic, and his character seemed to be
that of most young men about town with natural instincts and without
too much imagination. He patronised the lighter forms of theatrical
entertainment, and I recognised him as having been one of the habitués
of the Frivolity Theatre. Further inquiry elicited the fact that he
was being assisted to sow his wild oats by a young lady of the chorus
with a snub nose and with that in her which can only be described as
“devil.” She appeared to be genuinely in love with him and had proved
it by declining to allow him to marry her—an offer he had made in the
first days of their acquaintance. He was busily employed in the City
all day, and, being an only son, his parents seemed to expect more
attention from him than would otherwise have been the case. The house
they lived in had gardens at the back which opened on to a quiet road.
Having no very clear conception as to how I was going to act I derived
a certain satisfaction from hanging about this road, and was surprised
one night by almost running up against young Gascoyne Gascoyne as he
emerged from a private gate which he locked behind him with a
pass-key. I watched him walk swiftly into the thoroughfare, hail a cab
and drive away. It was barely eleven o’clock, and when I returned and
looked at the house all the lights in the lower windows were out.
That, however, in what I had by observation gathered to be his bedroom
was alight. Evidently he was not sufficiently emancipated from
parental control to go his own way openly, or his secrecy was due to
consideration for his parents’ feelings.
I ascertained that as a rule when he spent the evening at home he left
the house as soon as his parents were in bed, and if in time called at
the theatre and drove his infatuation home. Sometimes he did not
return to South Kensington till daybreak. It seemed such a daring
proceeding that at times I wondered if his father might not be
cognisant of it. The girl’s name was Kate Falconer. I don’t suppose it
was her real name, but as such she figured with a couple of dozen
others at the bottom of the play bill.
Since her attachment to young Gascoyne she had dispensed with the
attentions of all her other admirers. I was sorry for her, as it meant
that she was wasting time. She lived in a flat in Bloomsbury, three
floors up, and once her front door was shut she was as secure from any
observation as if she had been living in the moon.
The problem was a difficult one. It was essential that I should not be
acquainted with either of them. Put brutally, the task I had set
myself was how to poison a man to whom I was a perfect stranger, and
to whose food-supply I had absolutely no means of access.
Whichever way I looked at the matter I was forced to the conclusion
that there could be no success without a certain amount of risk, and I
had not yet accustomed myself to the idea of risk. It seemed
inevitable that I must make myself acquainted with young Gascoyne
somehow or other, but I left this as a last resource, and I am glad I
did so, for fate assisted me in a most remarkable manner.
One Sunday afternoon I found myself wandering in the neighbourhood of
the Bloomsbury flats where Kate Falconer lived. I had become so
tenacious of my purpose that whilst thinking out some definite scheme
I enjoyed feeling that I was in the vicinity of my intended victim. I
knew that as a rule he spent Sunday afternoon at the flat. A sudden
curiosity impelled me to enter the building, and, passing the
hall-porter as if I had business, I climbed to the top. It seemed
likely to have been an aimless proceeding, but as I was descending I
heard Miss Falconer’s door open on the landing just above me, and
recognised her voice in conversation with young Gascoyne.
“I shan’t see you till next Saturday then?”
“I’m afraid not; my father and mother will want me every day till they
go away. I shall call for you on Saturday at eleven. Our train leaves
Waterloo at eleven-thirty.”
“Just fancy a whole week at the seaside together! It will be perfect,
won’t it?”
There was a silence eloquent of an embrace. I waited, anxious to know
where they were going.
“You don’t mind a quiet place?”
“I should have minded it a year ago. I like it now.”
“Well, Lowhaven is quite quiet, and at this time of year we shall
probably have the hotel to ourselves.”
There was another embrace, and, conscious that the interview might
draw to a close any moment, I stole downstairs.
I would go to Lowhaven and stay at the same hotel. It might lead to
something. In thinking the matter over I had arrived at the conclusion
that I, having apparently no motive in young Gascoyne’s death, could
use means which would be unwise on the part of people upon whom
suspicion would fall as a natural consequence of their crime.
Supposing unseen I dropped aconite, or some such poison, into a
whisky-and-soda, how could suspicion possibly fall on me? At any rate,
it was worth while going to Lowhaven. I could not quite make up my
mind whether to travel by the same train, or to precede them, or to
follow them. Even such minor details required careful consideration.
It was impossible to say which method of procedure might not leave a
clue to the acute mind of Scotland Yard.
Discovering that there was only one hotel at Lowhaven, I decided to go
down on the previous day.
Lowhaven turned out to be a mere village, at which I was somewhat
sorry, as every new arrival became at once an object of attention. The
hotel was situated at the extreme end of the tiny parade. Such walks
as I took were all in the direction that led away from the town.
Whether I should write my own name in the hotel book or not was a
question. I was undecided about it up to the last moment. I reflected
that it was quite possible that a smart detective might take the
trouble to find out all about the only visitor to the hotel if
anything should occur. As a matter of fact, there were three other
visitors in the hotel, a mother and two daughters, who as a rule kept
to their rooms, only emerging to go for walks or drives.
Gascoyne and his companion did not come by the train they had settled
on, and I began to wonder whether after all they had changed their
minds and gone somewhere else, or whether circumstances had prevented
their coming at all. I was far too cautious to ask or seek information
even in the most round-about way.
I studied the time table in the privacy of my own room. There was
another train which would bring them down about five o’clock.
I established myself in the vestibule with some afternoon tea in front
of me, and a little after five they drove up looking deliciously
happy.
I grew quite sentimental over them, and was compelled to take a long
walk to cure myself.
I had, before I left town, decided that aconite would be the best
thing I could use if I chose to run the risk of a poison which left
evidences. Aconite essentially knows its own mind, and the struggle is
not a long one.
After tea I went for a long tramp, and on my way back met them walking
along the edge of the cliff. They were entirely engrossed in each
other and barely noticed me as I passed, although there was not
another soul in sight. The day had been perfect, but a gale sprang up
as soon as the sun went down, and the rioting wind shook the little
hotel as if it had been matchwood. There were six of us in the hotel
dining-room at dinner, and with true British aloofness we had placed
ourselves as far apart as possible. The lady and her two daughters
dined in silence, as if it were a solemnity too deep for words. I sat
alone and surveyed the reflection of young Gascoyne and Kate Falconer
in the mirror in front of me. A bottle of champagne decorated their
table, and between the courses they gazed into each other’s eyes in an
ecstasy of happiness. After dinner the widow and her two daughters
disappeared. Young Gascoyne smoked a cigar and took coffee and
liqueurs in the vestibule with his chair pushed close to Kate
Falconer. By half-past ten everybody in the hotel had gone to bed, and
I lay smoking innumerable cigarettes and thinking deeply, while the
storm howled and raved without. In the morning when I awoke there lay
before me a panorama of foam-crowned waves, driving furiously to the
shore or tossing tumultuously and flinging their spray into the air.
It was Sunday, and despite the terrific wind the widow and her
daughters went off to church, disappearing up the winding path of the
cliff with superhuman struggles against the wind. I was late, and
watched them from my bedroom window.
As I passed down the corridor on my way to the dining-room I met a
servant carrying a breakfast tray. It could only be for Gascoyne and
his friend, and I would have given a great deal to have had five
seconds with that teapot undetected.
It disappeared into bedroom No. 10, and I went downstairs to a
solitary breakfast in the dining-room. The day passed quite
uneventfully. The two lovers appeared to a late lunch and spent the
afternoon in a bow window in the hall. Young Gascoyne smoked
cigarettes which Kate Falconer lit for him, a proceeding contemplated
by the elder of the widow’s two daughters—who, apparently a little
wearied by the company of her relatives, had descended to read a book
in an armchair—with a tightening of the upper lip. Kate Falconer’s
bringing-up, however, had trained her to the disapproval of the more
respectable members of her own sex.
I suppose the day would have been very dull but for the state of
suppressed excitement I was in. Once I almost thought my chance had
come.
After tea the lovers parted for the first time since they had arrived.
She went upstairs and he went to the reading-room. I strolled out into
the garden and glanced in at the window. He was seated at a table
writing letters. After a few minutes I returned to the hotel. As I
entered the door a waiter was carrying a whisky-and-soda to the
reading-room. I sat down in the hall and waited, not imagining that I
should be able to reach the whisky-and-soda but determined not to lose
a chance. In a minute or so the waiter returned to the servants’
quarters, and in a few minutes more Gascoyne came hurriedly out of the
reading-room and ran lightly upstairs. I walked slowly into the room.
The whisky-and-soda, untouched, stood on the writing-table by a
half-finished letter. Unfortunately there was a glass door between the
reading-room and the hall, and it caused me to hesitate. The next
moment Gascoyne was back again in the room and the opportunity was
gone.
He and Miss Falconer, who seemed to have recognised me, had evidently
more than once made me the subject of conversation, but had been too
wrapped up in each other to take any further notice. Finding ourselves
alone, however, he became quite companionable. He had charming manners
and a singularly pleasant voice. I took a fancy to him from the first,
and keenly regretted that our acquaintanceship must be so short.
I was compelled by the exigencies of the situation to avoid anything
like actual friendliness, which I could see young Gascoyne was
perfectly ready to display.
I had five days in which to do my work.
Monday passed uneventfully. It was a glorious day, and Gascoyne and
Miss Falconer went out early in the morning and did not return till
dinner-time. There was nothing to be gained by impatience. The only
thing was to watch, and to seize the opportunity should one occur.
Tuesday and Wednesday went by, and on Thursday I heard Gascoyne tell
the manageress that they would be leaving the next day. It seemed as
if my visit were to be in vain.
I had ascertained that Gascoyne and Miss Falconer had two rooms on the
same landing as myself, Nos. 10 and 11. On Friday morning, the day of
their departure, as I was on my way downstairs I saw a breakfast tray
for two on a chair on the landing outside their room. The breakfast
was untasted. It was obviously theirs, and the waiter had most
probably gone back for something.
There was not a soul in sight. I looked over the staircase. There was
no one to be seen in the hall below. In a second my resolution was
taken. Swiftly I took the tiny phial containing the aconite from my
pocket and dropped a few grains into the teapot.
As I descended the stairs I met the waiter returning, breathless. He
held a sugar basin in his hands, which he had evidently forgotten. I
went on to the dining-room. To me the hotel was already full of the
ghosts of pain. I was haunted even in that moment of stress by the one
weak spot in my scheme. Aconitine is not instantaneous, neither does
it rob the victims of their intelligence, which remains clear and
undisturbed till the end. Should either of them be asked if it had
been suicide the reply would of course be in the negative, and that
would be an awkward factor at the inquest.
In a few minutes the hotel was in a state of excitement. This was what
I had expected. The doctor was telephoned for from the village. Before
he arrived, however, all was over and an awful gloom descended on the
place. I felt severely the disadvantage of not knowing all that had
passed in the death chamber. It appeared that the widow lady
thoroughly understood nursing, and had at once ordered anyone who
could not be of use out of the room. I was certainly not likely to
pretend to any medical knowledge, so I remained in the hall asking
eagerly for news from anyone who came down from the sick room, the
widow’s two daughters, all their reserve banished, keeping me company.
It was their mother who brought us word of the tragic ending.
In a few minutes everybody in the hotel was gathered in the hall
discussing the affair in hushed voices, and it was at this moment that
the doctor bustled in.
“I was not at home when you telephoned,” he said.
The manageress explained that the people he had come to attend on were
dead.
“Surely not, my dear Miss Worcester. Let me see them at once.”
The widow stepped forward.
“I have been a hospital matron, doctor, and I have no doubt about it.”
She commenced to lead the way upstairs, the doctor and the manageress
following her.
In a few minutes the manageress reappeared.
“Telephone to the village and tell them that someone is to come from
the police-station at once.”
This was unpleasant, and I must confess to a dismally nervous feeling,
but I was somewhat reassured by hearing the manageress say in
conversation with the widow:
“I think it must have been suicide.”
“They seemed very happy,” said the widow.
“Lately married, I suppose.” And the manageress raised her eyebrows
and looked at the widow interrogatively.
“One must not judge, but I fancy——” the widow stopped. She did not
look the sort of woman who would take the least pleasure in scandal.
The doctor sent down again in a few minutes instructions to send a
messenger for another medical man. The driver of the hotel fly mounted
a horse and rode off in hot haste. We wondered whether it was possible
that after all they were not dead. I scarcely knew which I hoped for.
I was not sufficiently hardened to be without a vague desire that they
should be alive. At the same time, it would be a terrible nuisance to
have to do the work all over again.
Our doubts were soon set at rest. When the doctor came down he
announced that there was no longer the least doubt that life was
extinct. Gascoyne’s card-case and his town address had been
discovered, and his father had been wired for, who replied that he
would be down by the next train. At the time he was expected I went
out. A nameless horror came over me at the idea of seeing the father’s
face in its first grief and despair.
When I returned to the hotel the coroner had arrived. The post-mortem
took place that afternoon; the inquest was held the next morning, and
I attended.
Mr. Gascoyne first gave evidence, formally identifying the body of the
man as that of his son. He was marvellously self-controlled, but his
face was ashy. So far it had been impossible to communicate with any
of Kate Falconer’s relatives, but in the course of the inquest a
telegram was received by the coroner from a sister, who stated,
however, that she had not seen her for two years.
The evidence of the waiter who carried up their breakfast followed. He
deposed to leaving the breakfast tray in the room, when they appeared
well and cheerful. It must have been about ten minutes later that the
bell was rung violently and he hurried upstairs. He found the young
man in an armchair and the young woman lying on the bed, both of them
evidently in great pain. He immediately went for the manageress. The
young woman kept on crying out that she had been poisoned, and the
young man’s distress at her suffering was such that it was impossible
to get anything out of him.
The evidence of the widow and the manageress followed. Then came the
doctor, and the court grew tense with interest.
It was undoubted, he said, that death was due to aconite, taken
apparently in a cup of tea. When he arrived at the hotel they were
both dead. Death had been singularly rapid. The other medical man
corroborated.
The case had a distinct element of mystery, but in the absence of
evidence of motive it seemed that a verdict of suicide was inevitable.
The inspector strengthened this presumption by the intangible
insinuation which he managed to convey in his evidence. The jury
obviously thought it curious that in reply to a question from the
foreman he explained that nothing which could be shown to have
contained the aconite was to be found.
Still, the coroner summed up distinctly in favour of suicide, and such
was the decision of the jury, a verdict which caused Mr. Gascoyne the
greatest distress.
Immediately after the verdict he took his son’s body back to town,
leaving instructions, as I discovered, that the girl’s funeral was to
be at his expense unless the relatives wished otherwise, and that he
personally would attend, a display of feeling I had hardly thought him
capable of.
I returned to town late that night and reached my house at Clapham in
the early hours of the morning.
As I opened the door it was as if the voice of an unseen presence
pervaded the emptiness of the house, whispering: “Murderer!” and when
I awoke the next morning it seemed as if the heavy gray light of dawn
wove itself into haunting, opaque shapes. With a shudder I realised
that never again should I be alone and at peace.