Miss Gascoyne and I were to be married the following spring. Why
people who want to get married and are in a position to get married
don’t do so at once I cannot understand. I fancy Mr. and Mrs. Gascoyne
would have liked us to live with them, but we resolutely declined to
accept any hints on the subject, and they were quite generous-minded
enough to see the justice of our objection. At the same time, they
regarded the departure of Edith from under their roof with no little
gloom.
Miss Gascoyne insisted on settling half her income on me. “I might,”
she said, laughing, “become weak-minded, or go off with some one else,
and it is only fair that you should not run the chance of being worse
off.” I protested, but on this point she was firm. If she had not done
this of her own accord, I think I should have found some means to
suggest that she should; for if a man marries money he lives in
greater style than he would otherwise have done, and it is not fair
that he should be left at the mercy of his wife in the event of their
parting, or should his own capacity for earning a living be impaired.
With Hammerton mine by right of descent, and Edith, beautiful and
stately, my wife and Countess, I should be on equal terms with the
great people of the land. It would obviously be stupid, therefore, to
stay my hand, and remain as I was. Lady Gascoyne might have more
children, and my task might grow more and more difficult as years went
on. At present I was devoting myself entirely to the removal of the
Reverend Henry. He, poor gentleman, continued to imbibe his Sunday
afternoon port and eat game he had not shot himself, all unconscious
of the kind friend who was bent on hastening his reunion with the wife
whose loss he so deplored. Indeed, I had justification for what I
contemplated, inasmuch as the bronze tablet to her memory declared
that his chief joy and hope lay in the prospect of their meeting,
though he no doubt philosophically reflected that the union was not
likely to be less joyful for being delayed a few years.
I had decided to give up the idea of launching decaying masonry at the
poor old gentleman’s head. A few experiments in this direction taught
me that I could not trust to my accuracy of aim. I abandoned the
project with a good deal of reluctance, because if successful it would
have been quite free from any danger of detection.
There remained the poisoning of his glass of water. How to get at it
was the question.
My plans were largely facilitated by the departure of Mr. and Mrs.
Gascoyne for Italy, taking Edith with them. They had long wished to
make a habit of evading the English winter, which agreed with neither
of them. They had intended to do so the following year, leaving the
business entirely in my hands, but the doctor suddenly ordered Mrs.
Gascoyne south.
She and her husband wished to leave Miss Gascoyne behind, but I
declined to hear of such a thing. I was only too glad to have her out
of London for the winter. She, on her part, directly she discovered
that Mr. and Mrs. Gascoyne wished her to accompany them, insisted on
going.
“Israel and I will see quite enough of each other after next spring,”
she said laughingly, in reply to their remonstrances.
They departed early in October and I was left free to carry out my
plans. They intended to be away seven months, and I was to join them
at Christmas on the Riviera. The arrangement had another good point.
Sibella was delighted at the prospect of a long winter with me all to
herself.
The first Saturday after the Gascoynes’ departure I went down to
Lincolnshire. It was an Indian summer, and as balmy as June. My
sensations were very different from those which the moral reader will
no doubt think ought to have animated the mind of a murderer. They
were entirely exhilarating and happy, and the pleasant Lincolnshire
landscape with the sunlit emerald of its far-stretching flats,
intersected by the glistening silver threads of canals, filled me with
the delight in Nature which only a thoroughly artificial mind can
feel. It may seem odd, but I was genuinely appealed to by the quaint,
brown barges with their gay notes of colour in green and red, the
trampling horses and the towing-line hauled taut, the jerseyed
helmsman alternately blowing at his pipe and whistling a tune. These
things I loved as much as the veriest Cockney artist let loose for the
first time among the joys of Nature with a sketch-book.
I was in a curious mood for one whose mission was death, and when I
caught sight of the tower of Lye Church above the stately elms which
were swaying in the fresh October breeze I felt almost sentimental. It
was not my intention to stay there, however, and I passed Lye Station
and alighted some three or four miles further on at a place called
Cumber. Here there was a very comfortable little inn, almost an hotel.
After dark I walked over to Lye, and hung round the comfortable
Rectory. Once I ventured a few paces on to the lawn, whence I could
see the Rector at dinner with his sister and niece. They appeared to
live prodigiously well, and it was very diverting to watch their
gestures and the process of mastication as they devoured something
they particularly liked, or to observe the Rector say something over
his shoulder to the butler, who immediately hurried forward to fill
his master’s glass.
I could not help reflecting that the silver candlesticks, the
gilt-framed pictures on the walls, the elaborate dishes, the
obsequious servants, were the appanage of one who had given a special
undertaking to imitate Christ and do His work by example. I was even
led into some no doubt highly foolish and irreverent reflections as to
which of us was the greater criminal—I, who at any rate told no lies
to myself, or this polished, good-natured hypocrite who had never
tested a single action by His teaching.
The meal over, the ladies left the room. Apparently no social
convention was omitted in this house of spiritual direction. When the
butler had placed a box of cigars on the table, and filled his
master’s glass, he also withdrew, and the Reverend Henry lit a cigar,
and, leaning back in his chair, half closed his eyes in ecstatic
enjoyment. At this point a step scrunched on the gravel path, and then
there was a ring at the front-door bell. In another minute or two a
gentlemanly-looking curate was shown into the room. He was evidently
an embryo Reverend Henry, and he was cordially waved to a seat. From
the way he filled his glass and accepted the proffered cigar he was
none of your blue-ribboned, fasting weeds. Indeed, it is not to be
supposed that the comfortable Rector would have tolerated such an one
in his parish. On reflection, I think, perhaps, that I must admit to
being the greater criminal of the two, for he had the merit of being
unconscious.
Later, the Rector and his curate left the dining-room and passed into
the drawing-room, from which there had already proceeded the sounds of
a piano. A nocturne by Chopin came to an abrupt ending as the two men
entered. Tea was then brought in—the taking of tea instead of coffee
after dinner always seems to vouch for the respectability and
antiquity of a family, recalling the traditions of piquet and
spadille. The curate then warbled ‘The Message’ in a by no means
unfinished way. Mr. Gascoyne’s niece played his accompaniments, and
the two older people slept right through half a dozen of his
performances, only awaked by the percussion of a sudden silence.
This was all very entertaining, but was not helping me much, though it
was no doubt convenient to be acquainted with details of life at the
Rectory.
The next morning I again walked over to Lye, and wandered about the
churchyard during the service. This proceeding did not help me more
than my prowl of the previous evening had done.
Through a window I could see the interior of the church, the preacher
in the pulpit, and the glass at his right hand. I was coming to the
conclusion that poisoning the glass would be the only way, and the
idea received an unexpected impetus. Years before, when my great idea
had first taken possession of me, I had provided myself with digitalis
in powder form. Anxious to discover whether its effects remained, and
nervous of seeking the requisite information, I had bought a small dog
from a man in Piccadilly. It was a dog of no particular breed, with a
blue ribbon tied round its neck to suggest how eminently suited it was
to a boudoir existence. I had taken the little thing to Clapham—the
proceeding cost me a pang, for I am very fond of animals, and its eyes
were like Sibella’s—and had experimented, with the result that the
little creature was at this moment lying buried in the back garden. If
I could smear some of the powder on the glass before the Reverend
Henry mounted the pulpit I might accomplish my design.
I returned to town to think it over.
The next week I went down, and put up at a different village, so that
my aimless visits might not attract attention.
I arrived on Saturday, and early on Sunday morning strolled into Lye
Church. It was empty. The October sun shone through the uncoloured
panes, flooding the building with a cheerful light, while here and
there the one or two stained-glass windows threw variegated patches of
colour across the worn stone and worm-eaten pews. I sat down, and
listened intently to make sure whether anyone was about. After a few
minutes of utter silence I went up to the chancel, and glanced
casually towards the vestry. The door was open, and I peeped in. It
was empty, and on the table stood the bottle and glass. In a few
seconds I had sprinkled the glass with fine powder from a small phial.
I regained the churchyard without meeting a soul.
Of course, the plan might very possibly miscarry. The verger might
wash the glass. The Rector might not use it. The curate might preach
and not the Rector. I considered, however, that my luck had been so
good that there might be a special dispensation of fortunate events in
my favour. I met the verger as I passed through the churchyard, a
fussy little man with side whiskers and an abnormal nose, which looked
as if it had been specially designed for being poked into other
people’s business. His air of importance was quite grotesque, and he
was a byword in the village for curiosity. Even as I passed he stopped
a small boy on his way through the churchyard with a covered dish.
“What have you got there, Freddy Barling?”
“Mutton, Mester Voller.”
“With taters?”
“Yus, Mr. Voller.”
Having obtained his information with some degree of tact and suavity
he became stern.
“And for why are yer carryin’ roast mutton through God’s acre, Freddy
Barling?”
At the change of tone Freddy Barling gazed at the belligerent whiskers
in speechless terror, seized with an awful fear that the family roast
mutton and taters were about to be confiscated.
“Go round by the road, Freddy Barling, and don’t blaspheme against
God’s acre with profane food.”
Freddy Barling hurried away, only too thankful at having rescued the
Sunday dinner. The conscientious Mr. Voller pursued his way into the
church, pausing at the door to take a view of the graveyard flooded
with sunlight. He was no doubt reflecting on the pleasant spot in
which he had been permitted to live, and the good seed he had planted
in Freddy Barling’s conscience.
I lingered about the churchyard. Mr. Voller was probably dusting the
litany and the Rector’s Bible, and setting such things as he had not
arranged over night in order. Presently the villagers began to pass
across the churchyard path. There was not much greeting interchanged
beyond a ‘good-morning’ or two. The gossiping came after the service.
I went into the church, and sat down in a secluded corner and waited
for the service to begin. Time went on, and there was no sign of the
Rector or curate. Presently the curate with a very white face emerged
from the vestry, and going up to a stout, comfortable woman in a front
pew spoke to her in a whisper, and they passed out of the west door
into the churchyard.
Suddenly a piercing shriek came through the window. The congregation
sprang to their feet. What on earth was the matter? Old Mr. Crabbs,
the solicitor, after gazing around hesitatingly for a few moments,
hurried out, followed at short intervals by the whole congregation. I
was one of the last, and was in time to see Mrs. Voller being led
through the wicket-gate at the end of the churchyard by the curate and
the Rector.
I quite saw what had happened. Most probably, from the mere instinct
of meddling, Mr. Voller had drunk out of the glass, and had as a
consequence departed on this pleasant Sunday morning for a better
land. By degrees the whole congregation, with many Sabbath-breakers
from the village street corners, were crowded round the vestry door.
“Annie, take your little brother and sister for a walk,” said one
lady, who was evidently bent on seeing as much of the fun as possible
herself.
“What has happened?” I asked of a bystander.
“They do say as Mr. Voller ’ave ’ad a fit and died, and the doctor be
examinin’ ’im now.”
In a few minutes an individual whom I took to be the doctor appeared
at the vestry door.
“Will some of you run and fetch a stretcher and help to carry him
home?”
“’e’s dead, then, doctor?”
“I am afraid so.”
“’ave ’e ’ad a fit?”
“Heart disease, I think,” answered the doctor, gravely.
Full of importance, several young men hastened off for the stretcher,
and in their hurry to oblige became jammed at the wicket-gate.
The whole thing was a very serious annoyance to me, and I walked off
across the fields in a high state of indignation with the departed Mr.
Voller.
That such a nobody should have been allowed to obstruct the workings
of a great policy was irritating. I only hoped that it would be a
lesson to Mr. Voller in his progress through the underworld to be less
inquisitive.
I grew more and more indignant with the shade of that estimable
gentleman as the day went on.
I walked over to Lye again in the evening, when the Rector preached a
sermon on the instability of human hopes. He alluded to the late Mr.
Voller with much feeling. From the gossip in the churchyard after
service I gathered that the doctor had quite made up his mind that
death was due to heart disease.
This was fortunate, but Mr. Voller had spoilt my plans.
I returned to London disconsolate. If there should be the least
suspicion that Mr. Voller had been poisoned things might become very
complicated. Although it was quite improbable that I should be
suspected, it would be too risky to attempt the same procedure again.
It was impossible not to be amused at poor Mr. Voller’s ill fortune.
When the humour of the affair got the better of my irritation I
laughed heartily.
I did not learn the result of the inquest for two or three weeks
afterwards. When I ventured into the neighbourhood again I was
intensely relieved to find that a verdict had been returned in
accordance with my expectations. Mr. Voller was a most respected
character, and the only people who might be expected to bear him a
grudge were the small boys who misbehaved themselves in church.
If it struck anyone to wonder what a half empty glass of water was
doing there they no doubt came to the conclusion that, feeling faint,
Mr. Voller had poured it out to drink.
It was now the Rector’s turn. I began to feel quite annoyed with the
old gentleman. He was giving me a great deal of trouble, whilst if he
had gone off at the right moment I should have been on the best of
terms with his memory. Things were made more difficult by Sibella, who
was a hard mistress to serve, and who took leave to suspect my reasons
for going out of town so constantly. She had had a strange instinct
about me from the moment she had surrendered. She vaguely felt that
something was wrong, although she had not the slightest idea where to
look for it. I was obliged to warn her that jealousy will fatigue
passion sooner or later.
It was late in November before I ventured again into the vicinity of
Lye. Armed with my small phial of digitalis I spent one or two
week-ends in the district without other results than a little more
private information about Mr. Gascoyne’s home life. It was the most
difficult case I had yet attempted. Nothing gave me any assistance.
One day I was chatting with the landlord of the inn when the Reverend
Gascoyne passed the window. It was about half-past four in the
afternoon, and I had presumably come over to the village to fish. As a
matter of fact, my nature is too fastidious for so brutal a sport. I
cannot bear to inflict suffering for mere pleasure, and I am quite
unable to understand the brutality and grossness of a nature that
delights in it.
I had been careful, however, to master its jargon, and there were two
or three shining specimens at the bottom of my basket to give evidence
of my prowess.
“There goes the parson,” I said, carelessly.
“Ah! ’e be going to take tea with old Mrs. Finucane.”
“Indeed?”
“Wet or fine, twice a week, ’e goes over and drinks a cup of tea with
’er, and reads to ’er for an hour or two. ’e be a good man, be the
parson.”
“Who’s old Mrs. Finucane?”
“’Er husband were organist, and when ’e died—though, by the way, ’e
were younger than Mrs. Finucane, and they do say were at college with
the parson—well, when ’e died it were found that Mrs. Finucane were a
pauper, and wur as like as not to ’ave to go to the workus, but the
parson, ’e says to the Squire, ‘If you’ll put down a pound a week for
life, I’ll put down a pound a week for life also,’ and so ’twas done.
Sir Robert couldn’t for shame’s sake refuse, seeing that Mr. Finucane
had saved his son’s life, and so Mrs. Finucane be comfortable enough,
’er cottage being ’er own. They do say that the Squire wur none too
willing to do it, though.”
“Does Mrs. Finucane live in the village?”
I knew it was quite unnecessary to ask exactly where she lived, as
every villager loves to maunder on, and give any inquirer details
concerning his neighbours gratis.
“She lives in the cottage just before you come to the ’ill. You’ll
know it, for it be covered with red berries.”
I went and had a look at Mrs. Finucane’s cottage. It was called ‘The
Glebe,’ and had a mass of creeper with red berries over the front.
Through the bars of the high garden gate I could just see a little
green with the bare flower-beds of winter round it. I inspected the
house from every point of view.
Where the yew-hedge which surrounded the garden was somewhat thin I
could see through and into the pleasant parlour. On this cold autumn
day a bright fire was burning in the grate, and drawn up before it was
a little table with a chess-board, on either side of which sat Mr.
Gascoyne and Mrs. Finucane. By this table was a smaller one with a
cosy-looking tea-urn on a snowy cover, flanked with plates of hot
toast and muffins. It was a homely and pleasant sight to contemplate,
and reminded me of one of those inimitable scenes of village life
which more than one of our lady novelists has depicted with so much
spirit and truth. Strange it is, but such literature as Miss Austin’s
_Emma_ and Mrs. Gaskell’s _Cranford_ has always charmed me more than
any other, on the same principle, I suppose, that a complex character
responds to simplicity. Country folk do not appreciate rural sweets as
does the knowing Cockney.
It seemed impossible that I could gain admission to the house. It was
as secure from any intrusion as if it had been a royal palace guarded
at every gate. From my point of vantage I watched the movements of the
two inside carefully. I was screened from the observation of the
village. In a minute or so they abandoned the attractions of the
chess-table for those of tea and muffins.
The Rector was apparently as capable with tea and muffins as with
partridge and port. In fact, to see him at any meal was to receive an
explanation of his florid complexion and ever-increasing portliness.
He was one of those people—and they are legion—who for the want of a
little vanity abandon themselves completely to the pleasures of the
table. Vanity has its uses, and should by no means be discouraged in
the young. Many a man and woman has been saved from a drunkard’s grave
through the fear of losing a good complexion. In not a few cases
gluttony has met its match in vanity when all other remedies have
failed. Vanity has made cowards appear brave, and the miser
ostentatious. Charity would be an anæmic spinster were it not for her
servant, vanity; and she is as often the parent of moderation as of
excess. With a little proper vanity the kindly Rector might have
preserved a greater measure of youth and sprightliness.
He was nevertheless a pleasant sight as he sat before the blazing fire
and chatted and drank his tea with the old lady. I stood and watched
them through the gap in the hedge till the light faded. Then a little
maid brought in candles, and, drawing the curtains, shut the pleasant
interior from my sight.
I was afraid there was no chance of making Mrs. Finucane’s hospitable
teapot or genial muffins and cake useful to my scheme, for although
such luxuries are poison, it is a slow process.
Occupied with these thoughts, I strolled down the village street. I
could reach the road back to the inn where I was staying more quickly
by passing through the churchyard, and as I reached the church door a
sudden impulse urged me to enter. The gloom was rendered more profound
by the faint suggestion of fading daylight lingering about the
building. I was not at all disturbed by thoughts of Mr. Voller’s
ghost, but made my way without trepidation into the vestry. There
stood the glass of water and the bottle, and I was about to repeat the
experiment which had been so successful in the case of Mr. Voller when
something shining lying on the floor attracted my attention. I went
towards it and picked up a fluted silver cigar-case. I carried it out
of the church, and, opening it, found it full. I went back to my
quarters for the night before I made a thorough examination of my
find. As I had hoped, it proved to be Mr. Gascoyne’s. His monogram was
on the outside. I turned it over and over in deep thought. I
remembered reading, when I was studying poisons in my house in
Clapham, of one used by the Red Indians, who, soaking the end of a
cigar in it, were in the habit of asking an acquaintance who had
offended them to take a friendly weed, with—from their point of
view—very desirable consequences.
I had the strongest objections to using the medium of the glass of
water again. It might strike someone that it had played a part in the
death of the verger.
On arriving in town I consulted the book in which I remembered to have
seen the information as to the Indian poison. It was as I thought; the
end of a cigar dipped in a decoction of the Grobi root was sufficient
to induce stupor ending in death if immediate measures were not taken
to rouse the patient. I knew where to obtain the Grobi root, which is
also used medicinally by the Red Indians.
Down by the docks there is a narrow street full of shops devoted to
the sale of curios from foreign parts. I had gone there during the
days when I was racketing about town to purchase a monkey for a chorus
girl who demanded its immediate production as a pledge of affection.
It was whilst I was in the shop that I had heard the aged proprietor
explaining the properties of a small dried bundle of herbs which hung
from one of the low rafters. At the first mention of the word poison I
had listened intently, whilst apparently interested in the other
articles scattered about the shop.
It was possible that the plant was no longer in its old place. At the
same time it was not the sort of thing which was likely to be largely
in demand, and it might hang there through a generation without being
disturbed. I knew that the proprietor was a great dealer in Chinese
cabinets and curiosities of all kinds. I decided to buy Miss Gascoyne
something very rare, and took my way to the East End in a state of
suspense as to whether the business had been moved. As I entered the
street, however, I saw the cages and bird-stands outside the door as
of yore. So little had changed that it seemed to give me assurance
that the magic root was hanging in the old place. As soon as I entered
the shop I looked anxiously at the place where it had been, and gave
almost a sigh of relief as it caught my eye.
The wizened little old proprietor hastened forward from the back of
the shop where he was inspecting some articles which were being
displayed for his approval by a sailor. The latter, in no way
disconcerted or offended at being left with such scant ceremony, took
up a newspaper which lay on his patron’s desk and settled himself to
read till such time as the proprietor should be free again. I
explained that I wanted a Chinese cabinet; something quite new and
original. The old man looked around puzzled.
“They’re very much of a muchness,” he said, “especially in our days,
when we dealers have got to be as careful as the public that we are
not cheated. There was a sailor as used to do the China trip twice a
year, and he brought back some of the quaintest looking cabinets as
ever I saw, but it turned out that he bought ’em all in this country,
and that’s the way we’re took in.”
It did not strike the old gentleman that if the articles were genuine
it could not matter very much whether they were bought in England or
not.
I objected to everything which was shown to me, and made every effort
to get him to go to his storerooms upstairs, suggesting that he might
have something put away. He denied this, and continued to grope about
amongst his treasures, while the bunches of Grobi root dangled
temptingly above our heads.
While he was meandering I examined them very carefully, and studied
how I could detach one of the bundles in the shortest space of time.
Finally, the old man remembered that he had something which might
tempt me in his back premises, and he went shuffling away to look for
it.
As soon as his back was turned I took my penknife, which I had already
opened in my pocket, and, glancing swiftly at the sailor occupied with
his paper in the corner, reached up my hand and cut the string by
which the bundle of dried root was attached to the ceiling. I thrust
it into my great-coat pocket and looked again at the sailor. He
appeared to have been quite ignorant of my proceeding. It was some
minutes before the old gentleman shambled back into the shop, bearing
in his hands a box of some scented wood, from which, where it had lain
buried in cotton-wool, he lifted out a miniature cabinet of exquisite
workmanship.
“I had forgotten all about this. I’ve had it by me for years.”
I shrewdly suspected that it was one of those things which had been
brought to the old man by someone of whose honesty he was doubtful.
I haggled with him a good deal over the price, but finally took it
away, having paid a very reasonable sum, and having in my great-coat
pocket the Grobi root.
It was a drawback that it was impossible to test the efficacy of the
poison taken in the particular way in which I intended.
I made my decoction, and, steeping the end of one of the cigars in it,
dried it and returned it with the others to the case. I then went to
the village of Lye, and, entering the church one evening, stole into
the vestry. Unperceived, I placed the cigar-case on the table behind a
pile of books.
I had well considered the disadvantage of my scheme, which was that
the Reverend gentleman might hand his cigar-case to some friend, who
would have first choice, and might select the prize. It would not have
done to place two poisoned cigars in the case, as the fact of two
gentlemen lighting up and swooning away could not fail to attract
attention and rouse suspicion.
It was with a sigh of satisfaction and relief that I opened _The
Times_ one morning and read in the obituary notices that the Reverend
Henry Gascoyne, Rural Dean, and Rector of Lye, had succumbed to an
apoplectic stroke.