“I have come to search for some documents that have to be put in evidence,” said I. “The coroner has asked for them.”
“Well,” said Mr. Hyams, “you might, at the same time, see if you can find any trace of my property.”
“What property is that?” demanded Mrs. Gregg.
“A parcel of stones—a very valuable collection—that Mr. Otway had from me on approval.”
Mrs. Gregg snorted. “Man,” said she, “ye’re talkin’ like a fool. Do you suppose Lewis Otway would have left a valuable parcel of stones lying about in his rooms like a packet of snuff? Ye’ll find no stones here.”
“That may or may not be,” said Mr. Hyams. “At any rate, I’ll stay and see if anything turns up.”
During this dialogue we had gradually moved from the lobby down the corridor and now entered the living-room. As we crossed it I looked curiously at the large cupboard and wondered idly what I could have found so alarming in its appearance on the night of my visit. But if the living-room had, by the light of day, lost its disturbing qualities, it was otherwise with the bedroom. I opened the door with trepidation, and as I did so and was confronted by the disordered bed, the horror of the place began to come back to me. Nevertheless, I entered the room with a firm step and with my eyes on the bedside table, which appeared to be in the same condition as when I had last seen it. I had just noted this when I felt my arm grasped, and turning quickly found Mrs. Gregg at my side. Her eyes were fixed on me and with her disengaged hand she was pointing towards the corner by the bed-head. Involuntarily my gaze followed the direction in which she was pointing and lighted on the fatal peg, which now bore a loop of the red bell-rope with two free ends. Of course I had known it was there, but yet the sight of it made me turn sick and faint, and I must have shown this in the sudden pallor of my face; for when, controlling myself by an intense effort, I turned to speak to her she was looking at me with a leer of triumph.
“Can we have Mr. Otway’s keys?” I asked.
“Ye’ll find them in the right dressing-table drawer,” she answered. “I’m no party to this, but I’ll no hinder ye.”
Mr. Smallwood opened the drawer and produced a bunch of keys which he handed to me. I looked them over and selecting the most likely-looking ones, tried them, one after the other, on the deed-box. The fourth key fitted the lock, and when I had turned it and raised the lid of the box, the letter which Mr. Otway had shown me lay in full view. I took it out and laid it on the table and then proceeded to lift out the remaining contents of the box. There was not much to remove: a cheque-book, a pass-book, a small journal, a memorandum-book, a bundle of share-certificates, a canvas bag containing money, and at the bottom of the box, a foolscap envelope endorsed, “Anonymous Letters.”
I opened the unsealed envelope and drew out the letters which I glanced through one by one. There were seven in all, of which I had already seen three. When I had looked at them I returned them to the envelope, adding the last letter, and then began to replace the other things in the box.
“I see a cheque-book there, Mrs. Otway,” said Mr. Hyams, who had followed my proceedings with intense interest. “May I make a note of the banker’s address?”
I handed him the cheque-book and continued to replace the contents of the box. When I had finished I paused with the box open, waiting for him to return the cheque-book; and at this moment I became aware, with a start of surprise, that an addition had been made to our party.
The new-comer was a short, stout, middle-aged man, obviously a Jew of the swarthy, aquiline type, with a very large nose and rather prominent dark eyes. He stood in the open doorway of the bedroom watching us with a slightly unpleasant smile. As he noted my surprised look, his smile became broader and more unpleasant.
“Make yourselves at home, ladies and gentlemen,” said he. “These are public premises—at least I assume they are as I found the door open.”
Mr. Hyams looked round with a start—as, indeed, did the others.
“May I ask who you are, sir?” he enquired.
“You may,” was the suave reply. “My name is Isaacs—of the firm of Isaacs and Cohen, solicitors. I am one of the executors of Mr. Lewis Otway’s will. And having regard to my responsibilities in that capacity, I may, perhaps, venture to enquire as to the nature of these proceedings. You, sir, appear to be in possession of the testator’s cheque-book. Did you happen to require the loan of a fountain pen?”
Mr. Hyams turned very red and hastily laid down the cheque-book.
“That,” he exclaimed angrily, “is perfectly unwarranted. I was simply making a note of the banker’s address.”
“With what object?”
“With the object of enquiring whether certain property of mine, which was in Mr. Otway’s custody, had been deposited in the bank.”
“What is the nature and value of this property?” asked Mr. Isaacs.
“It is a collection of precious stones of the approximate value of four thousand pounds.”
“Then,” said Mr. Isaacs, “I can give you the information you want. No property, other than documents, has been deposited at the bank.”
“In that case,” said Mr. Hyams, “the stones must be in these rooms.”
“It is quite probable,” Mr. Isaacs agreed.
“Is there any objection to ascertaining, now, whether they are here?”
“Yes, there is,” replied Mr. Isaacs. “The will has not been proved and no letters of administration have been issued. Pending probate of the will I propose to take possession of these premises and seal all receptacles that may contain valuable property. I shall interfere with nothing until I have letters of administration.”
“And how soon will that be?” asked Mr. Hyams.
“Seven days must elapse before the will can be proved. Under the circumstances there may be some further delay. And now I should like to know what has been taking place. You, for instance, madam——”
“I am Mrs. Lewis Otway,” said I, “and I have come here by the coroner’s direction, to look for some letters that are to be put in evidence.”
“Have you found them?”
“Yes,” I answered, “they are here; and, as you are an executor, I had better hand them to you, and you can deliver them to the coroner’s officer if you think fit.”
I handed him the envelope and the coroner’s letter, which he read, and then asked: “Did you have to make a very extensive search?”
“No, she didn’t,” said Mrs. Gregg. “She kenned fine where to look for them and she found them at the first cast.”
On this I noticed that Mr. Hyams cast a quick, suspicious glance at me and I thought it wise to explain.
“I looked first in this box because I had seen Mr. Otway put one of these letters into it.”
“Quite so,” said Mr. Isaacs. “Very natural.” But obvious as the explanation was, I could see that it had left Mr. Hyams unconvinced.
I now returned the cheque-book to the deed-box, locked the latter and handed the keys to Mr. Isaacs; who delivered the anonymous letters to the coroner’s officer and took his receipt for them on a slip of paper. My business being now at an end, I offered my card to Mr. Isaacs, took his in return, and departed in company with Mr. Smallwood.
“A queer business, this, ma’am,” the officer remarked as we descended the stairs. “Regular mix up. Seem to be a lot of Sheenies in it.”
“Sheenies?” I repeated, interrogatively. “What are Sheenies?”
“Jews, ma’am,” he replied, apparently a little surprised at my ignorance. “It’s just a popular name, you know.”
I reflected on Mr. Smallwood’s remark, which seemed hardly justified by the facts—two Jews only having appeared in the case, so far as I knew. And yet I seemed to be aware of a sort of Semitic atmosphere surrounding Mr. Otway. There were, for instance, the Campbells; and then Mrs. Gregg, although a Scotswoman, might easily, but for her strong Scottish accent, have passed for a Jewess; while Mr. Otway, himself, had been distinctly Semitic in appearance.
At the entry, where we separated, Mr. Smallwood halted to give me a final injunction.
“You had better be in good time to-morrow, ma’am,” said he, “because it will be necessary for you to view the body so that you can give evidence as to the identity of the deceased.”
I thanked him for the reminder, but would much rather have been without it. For the prospect filled me with a vague alarm, and now the mental picture of the sleeping man, which had haunted me by night and by day, began to be replaced by one more dreadful, and one which I felt that my visit to the mortuary would attach to me for ever.
Chapter XXIV.
The Gathering Clouds
The distaste which I felt for my errand did not prevent me from following Mr. Smallwood’s advice on the subject of punctuality. It was some minutes short of half-past two when I turned into the mean, little street off Drury Lane in which the mortuary was situated. I had found the place without much difficulty and had still less in finding the mortuary itself, for, as I entered the street I observed a procession of about a dozen men passing in through a narrow gateway, watched attentively by a small crowd of loiterers. Assuming the former to be the jury, I walked slowly past on the opposite side and continued for the length of the short street. I had just turned to retrace my steps when the men filed out of the gateway and proceeded to enter a building a few yards up the street, and immediately afterwards Mr. Smallwood appeared at the gate. He saw me at once and waited for me to approach.
“I am glad you have come in good time, ma’am,” said he. “The jury have just been in to view the body and the coroner will like to open the inquest punctually. This is the way.”
He preceded me down a narrow passage, at the end of which he pushed open a door. Following him I entered the mortuary, a bare, stone-floored hall containing two large slate-topped tables, one of which was occupied by a recumbent figure covered by a sheet. Mr. Smallwood removed his helmet and together we advanced slowly towards the awesome, shrouded form, lying so still and lonely in its grim surroundings. Very quietly, the officer picked up the two upper corners of the sheet and drew it back, retiring then a couple of paces as if to avoid intruding on my meeting with the dead.
Strung up as I was, the first impression was less dreadful than I had anticipated. The face was pale and waxen, but it was placid in expression and more peaceful than I had ever seen it in life. The hunted, terrified look was gone and had given place to an air of repose, almost of dignity. For a few moments I was sensible of a feeling of relief; but then my glance fell upon a contorted length of crimson rope that lay on the slate table, and instinctively my eye turned to the uncovered throat. And as I noted the shallow groove under the chin, faintly marked with an impression of the strands of the rope, the shocking reality came home to me with overwhelming horror. Before my eyes arose that awful shape upon the bedroom wall and the hardly less dreadful image of the sleeping man unconsciously receiving the message of his doom.
With a new horror—an incredulous horror of myself—I looked on the pale, placid face and seemed to read in it a gentle reproach. He had gone to his death at my bidding. He had stood unsteadily on the brink of the abyss, and I had pushed him over.
It seemed incredible. There had been no conscious intention; no guilty premeditation. I would have told myself that there was no connection other than mere coincidence. But there the plain, undeniable facts were. Unconsciously—or subconsciously—my will had created that premonitory shape upon the wall; the terrible words had formed themselves and issued from my lips. And straightway the thing that my thoughts and words had foreshadowed had come to pass. This waxen-faced effigy that lay on the stone table, as its living counterpart had lain that night in the bed, was its fulfilment, its realisation.
“Better not stay too long, ma’am,” said Mr. Smallwood. And as he spoke I became suddenly aware that I had reached the limits of endurance. My knees began to tremble and I breathed the tainted air with difficulty.
“Better come away now,” continued Mr. Smallwood. “It’s been rather too much for you. Good afternoon, Mrs. Gregg.”
I looked up quickly and perceived Mrs. Gregg, who must have come in without making a sound, standing at the foot of the table watching me intently. That penetrating stare and the singular, enigmatical expression would have been disturbing at any time. But now I was conscious of actual fear. As I tottered unsteadily along the passage to the street, the menace of that watchful, inscrutable gaze followed me. How much did this woman know? What had she heard? And if she had overheard those last words of mine, how much had she understood of their import? These were weighty questions, the answers to which I should doubtless hear within an hour or two.
When I was ushered by Mr. Smallwood into the room in which the inquest was to be held, the court was already assembled and ready to begin. The jurymen sat along one side of a long table and one or two reporters occupied a part of the other, while a row of chairs accommodated the witnesses and persons interested in the case, including Mr. Isaacs, Mr. Hyams, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, and a youngish man of a markedly Jewish type whom I did not recognise. I took my seat at the end of the row, and Mrs. Gregg, who had followed us in, seated herself near the middle.
As I took my seat the coroner addressed one of the reporters:
“Let me see, what paper do you represent?”
“I am not a pressman, sir,” was the reply. “I am commissioned to make a report for Dr. Thorndyke.”
“Dr. Thorndyke! But what is his connection with the case? I know nothing about him.”
“I only know that he has asked me to make a verbatim report of the evidence.”
“Hm,” grunted the coroner. “I’m not sure that it is quite in order for private individuals to send their reporters to an inquest.”
“It is an open court, sir,” the reporter observed.
“I know. But still—however, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Well, gentlemen, I think we are ready to begin. The witnesses are all present and it is on the stroke of three. I need not occupy your time with any preliminary statement. It seems quite a straightforward case and you will get the facts from the evidence of the witnesses. We are here, as you know, to inquire into the circumstances of the death of Lewis Otway, whose body you have just viewed, which occurred either on the night of the 18th instant or the morning of the 19th. The body was found hanging from a peg in his bedroom by his housekeeper, Mrs. Gregg, and it will be best to take her evidence first.”
Mrs. Gregg was accordingly called, and having taken a position near the head of the table, was sworn and proceeded to give her evidence.
“My name is Rachel Gregg, age 51. I was housekeeper to the deceased, Lewis Otway.”
“How long,” asked the coroner, “had you known the deceased?”
“Thirty-three years.”
“What was deceased’s occupation?”
“He was a retired solicitor; but he was a connoisseur in precious stones, and, I think, dealt in them to some extent.”
“Was he in financial difficulties of any kind, so far as you know?”
“No. I believe he was quite a well-to-do man.”
“Had you any reason to suspect him of an intention to take his life?”
“Yes. He used to say that he expected, if ever he had any trouble, that he would hang himself. The tendency to suicide was in the family. His only brother hanged himself, his mother hanged herself and his mother’s father hanged himself.”
“But that was only a tendency that might not have affected him. Had you any reason to expect that he actually might commit suicide? Was there anything in his manner, in the state of his mind or in his circumstances that led you to believe that he might take his life?”
“Not until recently. He always used to be quite cheerful in a quiet way until he got married. After that he was never the same. His marriage seemed to bring all sorts of trouble into his life.”
“Tell us exactly how this change came about.”
“His marriage took place about eight months ago—on the 25th of last April when he was living at Maidstone. It was quite sudden. I knew nothing of it until the day before, when he told me he was going to marry a Miss Helen Vardon, and that the marriage was to take place secretly because the lady’s father had refused his consent. On the morning of the marriage I saw Mr. Otway go out, and soon afterwards I went out myself to do some shopping. When I came back I found the new Mrs. Otway in the study and her father, Mr. Vardon, lying dead on the floor. Mr. Otway had gone to fetch a doctor. It appeared that Mr. Vardon had called directly after the newly-married couple had arrived home from the church and that there had been a quarrel and Mr. Vardon had fallen down dead. I understand that Mr. Vardon was alone with Mr. Otway at the time.
“Soon after I arrived, Mrs. Otway left the house and went back to her own home, and Mr. Otway told me that she refused to live with him. At any rate, she never did live with him, and she never came near him until the night of his death.”
“Do you know if the deceased agreed to this separation?”
“Apparently she made him agree. But it was a great trouble to him, and I know that he tried more than once to get her to live with him.”
“Do you know what was the cause of the separation?”
“No. Mr. Otway never mentioned it to me.”
“You say that the separation was a great trouble to the deceased. Did it obviously affect his spirits?”
“Yes; he was very depressed after his wife went away, and he never recovered. He seemed to get more and more low-spirited.”
“Do you know of any other reasons than the separation from his wife why he should have been depressed in spirits?”
“Yes. Mr. Vardon’s sudden death was a great shock to him. He felt that he had been partly the cause of it, by quarrelling with Mr. Vardon. Then there was a great deal of talk in Maidstone about the affair and people blamed Mr. Otway for what had happened; and later rumours began to get about that there had been foul play—that Mr. Otway had actually killed Mr. Vardon. These rumours got on his nerves so badly that he gave up his house at Maidstone and moved to London.”
“You have spoken of a quarrel between deceased and Mr. Vardon. Do you know what the quarrel was about?”
“I believe it was about the secret marriage, but I was not in the house at the time.”
“Were there any other causes for the mental depression which you say the deceased suffered from?”
“I think so, but I can’t say for certain. There were some letters that came about once a month which seemed to worry him a good deal. I used to see him reading them and looking very anxious and depressed; and after a time he began to get very nervous and fidgety and couldn’t sleep at nights unless he took a dose of veronal. And I noticed that he was smoking much more than he used to, and taking much more whisky.”
“Did you ever see any of the letters that you have spoken of?”
“I never read one, but I saw the outsides and I noticed that they all bore the post-mark of East London.”
Here the coroner drew from the large envelope six of the letters which I had found in the deed-box, and handed them, in their envelopes, to Mrs. Gregg.
“Do you recognise any of these letters?”
Mrs. Gregg turned the envelopes over in her hand, looked closely at the post-marks and replied, as she returned them:
“Yes; these look like the letters that I spoke of.”
The coroner laid the letters on the table, and after a few moment’s reflection said: “Now, Mrs. Gregg, we want you to tell us what you know of the circumstances of Mr. Otway’s death. You spoke of a visit from Mrs. Otway.”
“Yes. She came to Lyon’s Inn Chambers on Wednesday night, about half-past six and told me that Mr. Otway had written to her asking her to come. As Mr. Otway was then expecting another visitor, I asked her to call again about eight, which she agreed to do. Mr. Otway had been rather poorly for the last few days—very nervous and despondent, and had been sleeping badly—and for three days had kept to his bed. I told him that Mrs. Otway was coming at eight o’clock and he then said that he had some private business to talk over with her and that I need not sit up. I gave him his supper at half-past seven and just after I had cleared it away Mrs. Otway came. I showed her into the bedroom and went to the kitchen to finish up my work. At half-past nine I went to bed—a little earlier than usual because I thought they would like the place quiet for their talk. At a quarter to seven on Thursday morning I got up, and as soon as I was dressed, went into the living-room to tidy it up. Then, to my great surprise, I saw that the door of the bedroom, which opens out of the living-room, was wide open and that the gas in the bedroom was full on.
“Thinking that Mr. Otway might be worse, I called out to him to ask if he wanted anything; but there was no answer. I could see the bed from where I was and could see that he was not in it; so I called to him again, and as there was still no answer, I went into the bedroom. At first I thought he was not there; but suddenly I saw him in a corner of the room that was in deep shadow. He seemed to be standing against the wall, with his arms hanging down straight and his head on one side; but when I went nearer I saw that he was hanging from a large peg and that his feet were three or four inches off the floor. He had hanged himself with a length of bell-rope that he had cut off with his razor—at least that was what it looked like, for the razor was lying open on the bed. I picked up the razor and ran to him and cut the loop of rope, and as he fell, I let him down on the floor as gently as I could. He seemed to be quite dead and his skin felt cold, so I ran out to fetch a doctor. Just outside the buildings I met a policeman and told him what had happened, and he told me to go back to the chambers and wait, which I did. A few minutes later he arrived at the chambers with a doctor, who examined the body and said that Mr. Otway had been dead some hours.”
“Did you see any means by which deceased could have raised himself to the peg from which he was hanging?”
“Yes. There was an overturned chair lying on the floor nearly underneath him. It looked as if he had stood on it to fix the loop of rope and then kicked it away. Mrs. Otway’s bag was lying on the floor by the side of the chair.”
“Mrs. Otway’s bag! What bag was that?”
“A little wrist-bag such as ladies use to carry their purses and handkerchiefs. She called for it the same day and I gave it to her. She had not heard what had happened, and when I told her she fell down in a dead faint.”
The coroner reflected for a while with wrinkled brows, and I caught the eyes of one or two of the jurymen regarding me furtively. After a somewhat lengthy pause, the coroner asked:
“Do you know what time Mrs. Otway left the chambers?”
“I heard the outer door slam about half an hour after I had gone to bed. That would be about ten o’clock.”
“Did you see Mrs. Otway or deceased after you let her in?”
“No. I did not go into the bedroom again. I went into the living-room twice and could hear them talking.”
“Could you hear what they were talking about?”
“I could hear a few words now and then. When I went into the living-room the first time they seemed to be talking about suicide. I heard Mr. Otway say something about a peg on the wall.”
“And when you went in the second time?”
“They seemed still to be talking about suicide. I heard Mrs. Otway ask deceased what drove his brother to hang himself.”
“You heard nothing suggesting a quarrel or disagreement?”
“No. They seemed to be talking in quite a friendly way.”
“Do you know what kind of terms they were on?”
“No. I never saw them together before except for a few minutes on the wedding day.”
“You spoke of a visitor who came to deceased earlier in the evening. Who was that visitor?”
“A Mrs. Campbell. Her husband is a jeweller and curio-dealer whom deceased had known for a good many years, and used to have business dealings with. I understand she came on business and she only stayed about ten minutes.”
“Is that all you know about the case?”
“Yes, I think I have told you all I know about it.”
The coroner glanced at the jury. “Do any of you, gentlemen, wish to ask the witness any questions?” he enquired.
Apparently none of them did, and when the coroner had complimented Mrs. Gregg on the clear manner in which she had given her evidence, she was dismissed.
There was a short interval in which the coroner read over his notes and the jury conferred together in low undertones. Then the coroner observed: “We had better dispose of the police and medical evidence as they are merely formal and will not take much time. We will begin with the constable.”
The policeman was then called and briefly corroborated Mrs. Gregg’s evidence. When he had finished, the doctor, whom he had brought to the chambers, took his place, and having been duly sworn deposed as follows:
“My name is John Shelburn. I am a member of the Royal College of Surgeons and a Licentiate of the Royal College of Physicians, and am acting as locum tenens for the police surgeon of Saint Clement Danes. At seven twenty-eight a.m., on Thursday, the 19th of October, I was summoned by the last witness to accompany him to Lyon’s Inn Chambers, where a man was reported to have hanged himself. I went with the constable to a set of chambers, over the door of which was painted the name of Mr. Lewis Otway. I went into the bedroom where the gas was alight, the blinds down and the curtains drawn. There, lying on the floor near the wall, I found the dead body of a tall, heavily built man, about fifty or fifty-five years of age, dressed in a suit of pyjamas. The surface of the body was cold and rigor mortis was well established. I should say the man had been dead about eight hours. Around the neck was a double loop of red bell-rope and a portion of the same was hanging from a large peg on the wall about seven feet from the floor. The rope had apparently been cut down for the purpose as a portion was still attached to the bell-wire and the severed tassel lay on the bed, on which were impressions of feet, as if someone had stood on the bed to cut it off. The length of rope had been joined at the ends with the kind of knot known as a ‘granny’ and formed into what is known as a weaver’s loop, which had been passed over the head and the standing part of the rope hitched over the peg. This would form a running loop, like this”—here the witness produced a piece of thick string and demonstrated the arrangement on his thumb and the knob of a chair-back.
“I released the double loop from the neck and found a shallow groove on the throat corresponding to the rope. The countenance of the deceased was calm—as it usually is in cases of hanging—and there were no signs of violence or anything remarkable about the body. A chair, on which the deceased had apparently stood to adjust the rope on the peg, was lying close by and near to it on the floor was a lady’s hand-bag. The rope had been cut with some sharp instrument—probably a razor, as I was informed by the housekeeper. I looked round the room but saw nothing of any significance excepting a half-empty whisky decanter and a nearly-full bottle of veronal tablets on a table by the bed.”
“Can you tell us at what time death took place?”
“Only approximately. I have said that the man appeared to have been dead about eight hours. That would give us eleven o’clock on the night of the 18th as the time at which death occurred. But I will not bind myself to that time exactly. It might have been an hour earlier or later.”
“After hearing your evidence and that of the other witnesses which you have also heard, it is a mere formality to ask your opinion as to the cause of death.”
“Yes. The cause of death was obviously suicidal hanging.”
This concluded the surgeon’s evidence, and when he had been dismissed, the coroner turned to the jury.
“We have now, gentlemen,” said he, “established the fact of death and its immediate cause. Our next investigation will seek to establish the contributory circumstances—the more remote causes. We have ascertained that this unfortunate man committed suicide. The question that we now have to consider is, Why did he commit suicide? Possibly the evidence of his widow may help us to answer that question. Helen Otway.”
As I rose to take my place at the table I was dimly aware of a certain ill-defined movement on the part of the jury and the spectators such as one may notice in a church at the conclusion of a sermon. But in the present case the cause was evidently a concentration rather than a relaxation of attention. Clearly, my evidence was anticipated with considerable interest.
“Your name is——?”
“Helen Otway. My age is twenty-four and I live at 69, Wellclose Square.”
“Have you viewed and do you identify the body now lying in St. Clement’s mortuary?”
“Yes; it is the body of Lewis Otway, my late husband.”
“When did you last see the deceased alive?”
“On the night of Wednesday, the 18th of October.”
“Tell us, please, what took place on that occasion.”
“I went to see deceased in consequence of a letter that I had received from him asking me to do so. I arrived at about half-past six and was informed by Mrs. Gregg that deceased was expecting another visitor.”
“Did you know who that other visitor was?”
“No; but as I went down the stairs I met Mrs. Campbell coming up and assumed that she was the visitor.”
“You know Mrs. Campbell, then?”
“Only by sight. I have seen her in her husband’s shop. Mrs. Gregg asked me to call again at eight, and I agreed to do so, and did so. I was then admitted by Mrs. Gregg, who conducted me to the bedroom and left me there, shutting the door as she went out. I did not see her again that night. Deceased was in bed and had by his side a table on which were a spirit decanter, a siphon of soda water, a box of cigarettes, a bottle of veronal tablets and a deed-box.”
“Did you notice anything peculiar in his appearance?”
“No. He was not looking well, but he seemed less ill than I had expected from his letter; which conveyed the impression that he was in a dangerous condition.”
“Have you got that letter?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I have it here.” As I spoke, I drew the letter from my pocket and handed it to the coroner, who glanced through it and then laid it down with some other papers.
“We will consider this letter,” said he, “with the others that you have handed to me, later. Will you now tell us what passed between you and the deceased?”
“At first we talked about an anonymous letter that he had received a day or two previously. He showed me the letter, and when I had read it, he locked it in the deed-box.”
“We will deal with the anonymous letters presently. What else did you talk about?”
“Deceased repeated the statement that he had made in the letter, that he did not expect to live much longer. I asked him if he had any reason for saying this and he then told me that there was a strong family predisposition to suicide; that his brother, his mother and his mother’s father had all hanged themselves, and that since he had received the anonymous letters he had been conscious of an impulse to make away with himself in the same manner.”
“Had you not known previously of this family tendency?”
“No. He had never mentioned it before, and I knew nothing of his family.”
“Did deceased speak as if he actually intended to make away with himself?”
“No, but he spoke of an impulse which he found it difficult to resist; and he mentioned that a large peg on the bedroom wall seemed to fascinate him and to make the impulse stronger. I advised him to have it taken away.”
“Previous to this conversation, had you ever thought it possible that the deceased might commit suicide?”
“No; the possibility never entered my mind.”
The coroner considered these replies and made a few further notes; then he proceeded to open a fresh subject.
“Now, Mrs. Otway, with regard to your relations with deceased. Were you on friendly terms with him?”
“Not particularly. We were practically strangers.”
“A witness has stated that you refused to live with deceased and that you never had lived with him. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is quite true.”
“Had you quarrelled with deceased?”
“No, there was no quarrel. Our marriage was a business transaction and immediately after the ceremony I discovered that my consent had been obtained, as I considered, by misrepresentation.”
“We don’t want to be inquisitive, Mrs. Otway, but we wish to understand the position. Could you give us a few more particulars?”
“Do you wish me to describe the circumstances of my marriage and the separation from my husband?”
“If you please.”
“My marriage with Mr. Lewis Otway took place under the following circumstances: I accidentally overheard a portion of a conversation between Mr. Otway and my father from which I gathered that Mr. Otway claimed the immediate payment of five thousand pounds held by my father—who was a solicitor—in trust. It appeared from the conversation that my father was unable immediately to produce the money, and Mr. Otway threatened to take criminal proceedings for misappropriation of trust funds. To this my father made no very definite reply. Then Mr. Otway offered to abstain from any proceedings and to allow the claim to remain in abeyance on condition that a marriage should take place between him and me. This my father refused very emphatically and angrily, and Mr. Otway left our house.
“Being greatly alarmed on my father’s account, I communicated with Mr. Otway and informed him that I was prepared to accept his offer on the terms stated—namely, that he should release my father from the immediate claim and secure him from any proceedings in connection with it. Mr. Otway accepted the conditions, and as it was certain that my father would strongly object, we agreed not to inform him until after the marriage had taken place.
“In accordance with this arrangement we were married privately on the 25th April of the present year and we went together from the church to Mr. Otway’s house. I had left a letter for my father informing him of what had been done, and very shortly after our return from the church he came to the house. From an upper window I saw him enter the garden and I was very much alarmed at his appearance. I had heard that he suffered from a complaint of the heart and had been warned against undue excitement and exertion, and I could see that he was extremely excited and was looking very ill. Mr. Otway let him in and, in answer to a question, admitted that the marriage had taken place. Then I heard my father ask Mr. Otway if he had told me about a letter that he—my father—had sent, and when Mr. Otway gave an evasive reply my father called him a scoundrel and accused him of having tricked and swindled me.
“I heard no more of what was said, as the two men went into the study and shut the door; but a minute or two later I heard a heavy fall, and, running down to the study, found my father lying on the floor and already dead. There was a small wound on his temple and Mr. Otway, who was stooping over the body, held my father’s walking-stick—a thick Malacca cane with a loaded silver knob—in his hand. He stated that my father had threatened him with the stick and that he had taken it away from him and that during the struggle my father had fallen insensible, striking his head on the corner of the mantel-piece as he fell.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I think, at the moment, I did not. But on reflection, remembering how ill my father had looked, I had no doubt he was speaking the truth.”
“Was there an inquest on your father’s death?”
“Yes. The jury found, in accordance with the medical evidence, that death was due to heart failure caused by excitement and anger.”
“And after this you refused to live with deceased?”
“Yes. I asked him about my father’s letter and he said he had not seen it. I went with him to the letter-box and there we found it. The postmark showed that it had come by the first post and my father’s address was on the outside of the envelope. There were no other letters in the box. I had no doubt that Mr. Otway had seen the letter and put it back in the box.”
“Was that why you refused to live with him?”
“Partly. The letter stated that my father was able to meet his liabilities and gave a date on which payment would be made. Consequently the threatened proceedings against my father were impossible and Mr. Otway had obtained my consent by false pretences. But further, Mr. Otway’s action had been the cause of my father’s death, and this alone would have made it impossible for me to live with him as his wife.”
“Did deceased agree to the separation?”
“Yes. He saw that the position was impossible; but he hoped that the separation might be only temporary—that we might become reconciled at some future time.”
“Did you consider this possible?”
“No. I held him accountable for my father’s death and could never have overcome my repugnance to him.”
The coroner noted down this answer and having glanced over his notes reflectively, looked up at the jury.
“Do any of you, gentlemen, wish to put any questions on this subject?” he asked.
The jurymen looked at one another and looked at me; and one of them remarked that, “This young lady seems to have rather easy-going ideas about the responsibilities of marriage.”
“That,” said the Coroner, “is hardly our concern. The next matter that we have to consider is that of certain letters received by the deceased from some unknown person or persons. There are seven of them and they seem by the postmarks to have been sent at intervals of about three weeks and to have been posted somewhere in the East end of London. We will begin with the first.” He handed a letter to me and asked: “Have you seen that letter before?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Deceased showed it to me one day last June when I met him by appointment at his request. He seemed to be extremely worried about it.”
The coroner took the letter from me and read it aloud.
“ ‘Mr. Lewis Otway,
“ ‘The undersigned is writing to put you on your guard because Somebody knows something about how Mr. Vardon came by his death and that somebody is not a friend, so you had better keep a sharp look-out for your enemy and see what they mean to do. I can’t tell you any more at present.
“ ‘A Well Wisher.’ ”
“Do you know,” the coroner asked, “who wrote that letter?”
“No, I do not.”
“Have you no idea at all? Is there no one whom you suspect?”
“I have not the least idea who sent that letter.”
“You say that deceased was extremely worried about it. Do you know why he was worried?”
“I understand that there had been rumours in Maidstone that Mr. Otway had killed my father. Those rumours seemed to have preyed upon his mind and made him unreasonably nervous.”
The coroner nodded gravely and opened another letter and as he read aloud the well-remembered phrases I realised that I should need all the courage and self-possession at my command.
“ ‘The writer of this warns you once more,’ ” the letter ran, “ ‘to look for trouble. The person that I spoke of knows that something was held back at the inquest at least they say so and that they know why your wife won’t live with you and that she knows all about it too and that someone knows more than you think anybody knows. This is a friendly warning.
“ ‘From a Well Wisher.’ ”
The coroner looked keenly at me as he finished reading.
“Can you explain the meaning of this letter?” he asked. “It refers to something that was held back at the inquest. Was anything held back, so far as you know?”
“I remember that there was one omission in the evidence. Mr. Otway made no mention of my father’s stick.”
“Was it not mentioned at the inquest at all?”
“No.”
“Did you not give evidence?”
“Yes; but I was merely asked if I confirmed Mr. Otway’s evidence, which I did.”
“You confirmed Mr. Otway’s evidence! But that evidence was not correct. The duty of a witness is to state the whole truth; whereas Mr. Otway had withheld a highly material fact. How was it that you did not supply this very important fact?”
“It did not appear to me to be of any importance. The medical evidence showed that death was due to heart failure.”
“Medical evidence!” the coroner exclaimed, testily. “There is too much of this medical evidence superstition in these courts. People speak as if doctors were infallible. It was your duty as a witness to state all that you knew, not to decide what was or was not of importance. And I cannot understand how you came to hold such an opinion. You found your father lying dead with a wound on his head and a man standing over him with a loaded stick, and you considered this fact of no consequence?”
“I see now that I ought to have mentioned it.”
“What was the verdict?”
“The verdict was in accordance with the medical evidence—Death from natural causes.”
“Did the medical witness or witnesses know that Mr. Otway had had a loaded stick in his hand?”
“No.”
“Did anybody besides yourself and Mr. Otway know about the loaded stick?”
“Mrs. Gregg came into the room when Mr. Otway had gone for a doctor. She saw the stick in a corner and picked it up to examine it. She asked whose it was and remarked on its weight.”
“Did she know it had been in Mr. Otway’s hand at the time of your father’s death?”
“I have no reason to suppose that she knew.”
“Well,” said the coroner, “it is a most extraordinary affair. You heard Mr. Otway give his evidence, you knew that that evidence was incomplete, and yet, though the dead man was your own father and you have declared an unconquerable repugnance to Mr. Otway, you allowed this garbled evidence to pass unchallenged. It is an amazing affair. However,” he continued turning to the jury, “that is not our concern. But what is our concern, for the purposes of this inquiry, is that we now begin to see daylight. We can now understand the extraordinary effect these letters seem to have had on the man whose death we are investigating. Lewis Otway, when he gave his evidence at the inquest, suppressed a most important and damaging fact, which he believed to be known only to himself and his wife. Thereby he obtained a verdict of Death from Natural Causes, which exonerated him from all blame. Had all the facts been known, the verdict might have been very different.
“Now the receipt of these letters must have destroyed his sense of security. Apparently someone else—and that someone evidently an enemy—knew of this damaging fact, and knew of the further damaging fact that it had been suppressed at the inquest. In effect, these letters held out a threat of a charge of murder, or at least, manslaughter. It is no wonder that they alarmed him. But we had better take the rest of the evidence. There is this letter of deceased to his wife, which I will read. It is dated the 17th of October, and this is what it says:
“ ‘My dear Helen,
“ ‘I have not troubled you for quite a long time with my miserable affairs—which are to some extent your affairs too. But they are going from bad to worse, and now I feel that I am coming to the limits of endurance. I cannot bear this much longer. My health is shattered, my peace of mind is wrecked and my brain threatens to give way. Death would be a boon, a relief, and I feel that it is not far off. I cannot go on like this. Those wretches leave me no peace. Hardly a week passes but I get some new menace; and now—but I can’t tell you in a letter. It is too horrible. Come to me, Helen, for the love of God! I am in torment. Have pity on me, even though you have never forgiven me. I cannot come to you, for I am now unable to leave my bed. I am a wreck, a ruin. Come to me just this once, and if you cannot help me, at least give me the comfort of your sympathy. You will not be troubled by me much longer.
“ ‘Your distracted husband,
“ ‘Lewis Otway.’ ”
When the coroner finished reading the letter (which evidently made a deep impression on the jury) he looked at me gravely.
“Before passing to the next letter, I must ask one or two questions about this one. What did you understand from the phrases ‘I feel that it (death) is not far off. I cannot go on like this. You will not be troubled by me much longer.’ Did they not suggest to you an intention to commit suicide?”
“No. I understood them as referring to his state of health.”
“If you had known of the family tendency to suicide, how would you have understood these passages?”
“I should have suspected that he contemplated suicide.”
“But you say you were not aware of this tendency?”
“No, I was not.”
“He refers to his ‘miserable affairs—which are to some extent your affairs too.’ What did you understand him to mean by that?”
“I understood him to refer to the fact that I was partly responsible for the omission of certain details in the evidence at the inquest.”
“When you received this pitiful letter, what did you do?”
“I went to him the same day to find out what the trouble was. He then showed me an anonymous letter that he had received.”
“Is this the one?” the coroner asked, handing it to me; and when I had glanced at it and identified it, he proceeded to read it to the jury.
“ ‘Mr. Lewis Otway,
“ ‘Some funny questions are being asked. What about Mr. Vardon’s stick?—the loaded stick with the silver knob to hide the lead loading? Where is it? Somebody says they know where it is and who’s got it. And they say there is a bruise on the silver-top, and they say something about a smear of blood and a grey hair sticking to it. Do you know anything about that? If you don’t you’d better find out. Because I think you will hear from that somebody before you are many weeks older or else from the police.
“ ‘A Well Wisher.’ ”
As he laid down the letter, the coroner looked at me curiously.
“There are one or two important questions, Mrs. Otway,” said he, “that arise out of this letter. The first is, What has become of this stick?”
“I don’t know what has become of it. I saw Mrs. Gregg replace it in the corner by the writing table and I never saw it again. The deceased asked me the same question when he showed me the letter; but I reminded him that I did not take the stick with me when I left his house, and that I never went to the house again.”
“It never occurred to you to ask what had become of your father’s stick?”
“No. I always assumed that it was in Mr. Otway’s possession.”
“You have told us that Mrs. Gregg had seen the stick in Mr. Otway’s house. Had anyone else seen it there?”
“I don’t know of anyone else having seen it; but, of course, it may have been seen there by other persons. I know nothing of what went on in that house. I never entered it after my father’s death.”
“With the exception of Mr. Otway and yourself, did anyone know that you had seen that stick in Mr. Otway’s hand on the occasion of your father’s death?”
“So far as I am aware, no one else knew.”
“There is a statement in that letter referring to a bruise on the silver knob and a smear of blood with a grey hair sticking to it. Is it possible, so far as you know, that that statement might be true?”
“I cannot say that it is impossible.”
“After your father’s death, did you examine the stick?”
“No. I saw it in Mrs. Gregg’s hands, but I did not look at it closely.”
At this point a police superintendent who had been sitting near to the coroner’s table, rose, and, approaching the table, stooped over it and spoke to the coroner in a low voice. The latter listened attentively and nodded once or twice, and when the superintendent had returned to his seat he addressed me.
“I think that will do, Mrs. Otway—for the present, at any rate. We may have to ask you one or two questions later. Do any of the jury wish to ask anything before the witness sits down?”
As none of the jury responded, I returned to my seat, and the coroner then recalled Mrs. Gregg.
“You have heard the last witness state that she saw you take up Mr. Vardon’s stick. What made you examine that stick?”
“I did not examine it. I noticed it standing in the corner and saw that it was a strange stick—that it was not Mr. Otway’s. I took it out of the corner to look at it and then noticed that it was heavily loaded at the top.”
“Can you say whether there was or was not a bruise or a blood smear on the knob?”
“I cannot. I did not look closely at the knob. I just picked the stick up, felt its weight and put it back in the corner.”
“Did you know that Mr. Otway had had that stick in his hand when Mr. Vardon fell dead?”
“No. I never heard of that until to-day.”
“Could anyone other than Mrs. Otway have known, so far as you are able to say?”
“I can’t say. I should think not. I did not get back to the house until it was all over. But I thought, and believe, that there was no one in the house but those three—Mrs. Otway and her husband and her father.”
“Do you know what became of that stick?”
“I do not. I put it back in the corner and never saw it again. It was not in the corner when I tidied up the room the next day.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gregg. That will do.”
Having dismissed the witness, the coroner turned to the jury.
“I had hoped, gentlemen,” said he, “to finish the case to-day, but, as you have seen, its apparent simplicity was rather illusory. Some rather curious issues have arisen which will have to be considered in detail. Moreover, there appears to be a suspicion that property of very great value has been removed from the premises—at least, it seems to be missing. Under these circumstances, the police authorities ask for an adjournment to enable them to make some enquiries; and I am sure you will agree with me that this, and certain other matters, should be cleared up before a verdict is returned. I therefore propose to adjourn this enquiry for fourteen days.”
The court rose, and I rose with it. As I stood up and turned towards the door I saw Jasper standing at the back of the hall. He made no sign, nor did I; and as soon as our eyes had met, he turned and walked out. I did not attempt to follow, for I understood at once that he did not consider it desirable that we should recognise one another in that place. Moreover, I was detained for a minute or two by the coroner, who informed me, with a curious dry civility, that he wished me to attend at the adjourned meeting of the court, as further evidence from me might be required; and after him, by Mr. Isaacs, who, as executor, was responsible for the funeral arrangements and who promised to inform me when the date had been fixed.
As I emerged from the gateway I glanced up the street with a wistfulness which I would hardly acknowledge to myself. But, of course, Jasper was already out of sight. Feeling very lonely, weary and exhausted, I walked slowly down Drury Lane considering what I should do next. And suddenly there came on me a longing for the quiet and comfort of the club. It was quite near; and once there I could wash, refresh and rest in peace, alone, or at least among civilised people. And it was even possible that Jasper might be there.
At this thought I must have unconsciously quickened my pace, for a few minutes later found me passing through the entrance hall, telling myself that, of course, Jasper would not have come there. Nevertheless as I opened the door of the large room my eye instantly sought the familiar table in the corner; and when I saw Jasper sitting by it with a watchful gaze fixed on the door, my weariness and loneliness seemed to drop from me like a garment.
Chapter XXV.
Suspense: and a Discovery
“I had hoped,” said Jasper, as we met by the table, “that you would come on here. I had to take the chance. I suppose you understood why I made myself scarce as soon as you had seen me?”
“I assumed that you thought it better that we should not be seen together just at present.”
“It is more than unadvisable,” said he. “It is vitally important. We will talk about that letter—but not here. There is a lot that I have to say to you, but we had better have our talk where we cannot be seen, or possibly overheard. I propose that I run off now—nobody has seen us here yet—and wait for you at my chambers. You just have a wash to freshen you up and come along at once. Don’t stop for tea; I will have some ready for you. And you had better come by the least frequented way. Go down to the Embankment, up Middle Temple Lane, along Crown Office Row, cross King’s Bench Walk to Mitre Court, come out into Fleet Street by Mitre Court Passage, cross to Fetter Lane and into Clifford’s Inn by the postern gate.”
“All this sounds very secret and mysterious,” said I.
“It is necessary,” he replied. “We mustn’t be seen together if we can help it. Remember the jury and other interested parties are local men, and might easily run against us in the public thoroughfares. So I will run off now and you will come along as soon as you can.”
To this arrangement I agreed, although the precautions seemed to me somewhat excessive, and he hurried away while I went in quest of hot water and the other means of ablution.
The process of purification did not take long, for the temptation to linger luxuriously over the ceremonial of the toilet was combated by curiosity and anxiety to rejoin Jasper. In a few minutes I emerged, greatly refreshed and sensible of a very healthy appetite, and set forth by the prescribed route towards Clifford’s Inn, reflecting earnestly as I went on Jasper’s rather mysterious attitude. I did not have to ply the knocker, for as I reached the landing I found Jasper standing at his open door.
“Now,” said he, when I had entered and he had softly closed both the massive “oak” and the inner door, “we are secure from observers and eavesdroppers, and we can pow-wow at any length we please.”
“You are very secret and portentous,” I remarked. “What is it all about?”
“The secrecy and portentosity,” he replied, “are possibly by-products of a legal training. We will discuss that presently. Meanwhile, the need of the moment is to provide nourishment for a starving angel.”
He placed an easy chair for me by the fire, and then retired to the little kitchen, from which issued a gentle clink of crockery very grateful to my ear. Presently he emerged with a tray on which were a teapot and two covers, and having deposited it on a small table, placed the latter by my chair and removed the covers with a flourish.
“There is only one cup and one plate,” said I, noting that the “nourishment” had been provided on a scale of opulence appropriate to masculine conceptions of appetite.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Jasper. “How many cups and plates do you generally use?”
“Go and get another plate and cup and saucer,” I commanded, severely.
When he had made the necessary addition to the table appointments, he drew up a second armchair, and, as he poured out the tea, he said, gravely: “We have had a long probation, Helen, dearest—at least, it seems so to me; and it is not over yet. But this little interlude should hearten us for what remains. To me it is a glimpse into a future of perfect happiness and comradeship. Do you realise, Helen, that we are now a normal, engaged couple, free to marry when we choose?”
Of course I had realised that we were free; but as I thought of the shrouded figure that even now reposed under its sheet in the mortuary, I doubted whether the word “normal” was fully applicable.
“It is perfect peace and happiness to be here with you, Jasper,” I replied; “but I think I shall feel more normal when we can meet without all this secrecy. And even now I don’t quite understand it. Why is it so important that we should not be seen together?”
“That is fairly obvious, I think,” he replied. “I am going to be very frank with you, Helen, because I have complete confidence in your courage and strength of character. There is no use in blinking the fact that you are in a difficult position. That coroner man thinks you wrote those anonymous letters; and he suspects that you knew about Otway’s suicidal tendencies.”
“But I distinctly said I did not.”
“Yes, but, you see, the person who wrote those letters is not a person whose statements would carry any weight; and he thinks you are that person. He thinks you have tried deliberately to drive Otway to suicide, and he will be looking for a motive. There is a fairly obvious motive already, as you were encumbered with a husband whom you didn’t want; but if you add another husband whom you did and do want, the motive for getting rid of the unwanted one becomes much more definite. That is the kind of motive he will be on the look-out for. Hence the necessity for the utmost caution on our part. If a witness could be produced who could depose to having seen us together, it might be possible for him to put some inconvenient questions.”
“Could he not question me on the subject apart from any such witness?”
“I don’t think it would be admissible for the coroner to suggest the existence of a lover if he had no facts. And that brings us to the point that I was going to raise. You ought to be represented either by counsel or by a solicitor; preferably by counsel, as a barrister is more agile—more accustomed to deal with the sudden exigencies that arise in court.”
“You seem to suggest that I am charged with having brought about Mr. Otway’s death.”
“I wouldn’t use the word ‘charged’ as I don’t know that there is any such offence recognised by law. Morally, to cause a man to commit suicide would be much the same as to murder him, but I can’t say off-hand what the legal position would be. My impression is that it would not be an offence that could be dealt with by law unless the causation were direct, as in the case where two persons agree to commit suicide together and one of them survives.”
I listened to this exposition with a sinking heart. Jasper’s intention was to reassure me. But if only he had known what I knew! If only he could have looked into my heart and seen the secret guilt that was hidden there! And, after all, was it so secret? Was it so securely hidden? Was the still, small voice of my own conscience the only accusing voice that I should hear? As I asked myself the question, uncomfortable memories of the mysterious sounds that had seemed to issue from the locked cupboard arose and whispered a new menace.
“I am putting the matter bluntly,” Jasper continued, “as the position has to be faced, and I am confident that you have the courage and resolution to face it. The coroner holds you accountable for Otway’s death. He thinks you made a deliberate plan and carried it out to the bitter end. That is his line, and we have got to show that he is wrong, if we can, and in any case prevent him from misdirecting the jury. You must certainly be represented by counsel.”
“What could my counsel do?” I asked.
“His principal function would be to prevent the coroner or the jury from putting improper questions—questions that do not properly arise out of the evidence, such as the one we spoke of just now. Of course, I could represent you, but it would not be advisable under the circumstances; and besides, I have had no experience of actual practice. Do you know any barrister whom you could ask?”
“The only barrister I know is Dr. Thorndyke, but I couldn’t ask him to attend a coroner’s court.”
“I don’t know that you couldn’t. Of course, he is a great man. But the case is quite in his line, and I know that he doesn’t mind where he appears if the case interests him.”
“You know him then, too?”
“Only by repute. All lawyers know him as the leading authority on medical evidence. His position is unique, for he is a first-class criminal lawyer and a first-class medical specialist. You couldn’t have a better man for your representative. I advise you to see him or write to him without delay. Does he know anything about your affairs?”
“Yes, I consulted him a month or two ago, about these very letters and told him about my reservations at the inquest. He promised to make a few inquiries, but I have not heard from him on the subject, so I suppose his inquiries led to no result.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” said Jasper. “At any rate, as he knows something of the case, and is by far the best counsel you could get, the obvious thing is to communicate with him at once.”
Of course, Jasper was quite right—in so far as he knew the facts. For he was assuming that I had nothing to conceal excepting my bargain with Mr. Otway and my relations with himself. He knew nothing of the dreadful events that befel on the night preceding Mr. Otway’s death; of the silent willing and suggestion that my own conscience called murder, and that any jury would have called murder if they had known of it. But it was vivid enough in my mind; and I had hardly spoken Dr. Thorndyke’s name before I realised that I dare not ask for his help. My own experience fully endorsed my father’s estimate of his powers. He missed nothing. Hidden significances that no one else guessed at were to him as the writing of an open book. With no knowledge of the facts, he had instantly perceived that Mr. Otway’s evidence was false, and that I was withholding something of importance. And so I felt it would be now. If he came into the case, my hideous secret would be a secret no longer. I dare not run the risk.
“I must think it over,” said I. “It seems rather a liberty to ask a man of his position to watch the evidence at an inquest.”
“He can but refuse,” said Jasper; “and don’t think it over for too long, or you may miss your chance. He is a busy man.”
I made some sort of non-committal reply and changed the subject. Full as we were of the events of the moment, there were other matters that were more pleasant to discuss. For Mr. Otway’s death had made a radical change in our prospects and plans for the future, and these we talked over with interest and pleasure but little dimmed by the dark clouds that hung overhead at the moment, until the chimes of St. Dunstan’s, hard by, announced that it was nine o’clock and time for me to go.
“I suppose,” said Jasper, as he bade me farewell, “we had better not meet again until this affair is over. It is only a fortnight, and after that we shall be free. Meanwhile, we can write as often as we please.”
I agreed to this the more readily as I saw that another meeting with Jasper would make it difficult for me to escape from his demand that I should invoke Dr. Thorndyke’s help. Nevertheless, as I took my way through Clifford’s Inn Passage into Fleet Street, I found myself looking forward somewhat gloomily to the lonely and anxious fortnight that lay ahead.
For several days nothing out of the ordinary occurred. My friends at Wellclose Square, who knew approximately what my position was, were quietly sympathetic, but never referred to the matter; excepting the incorrigible Titmouse, who frankly congratulated me on my newly-acquired freedom.
“It’s horrid for you, Sibyl,” said she, “but still it is all for the best; though he might have managed it a little more decently—level crossing, you know, or ‘found drowned,’ or something of that sort.”
“You are a callous little wretch, Peggy,” said I.
“I don’t care,” she replied, defiantly. “You know it’s true. I am awfully sorry for you now. It must be perfectly beastly to have to answer all those impertinent questions, and have your answers printed in the newspapers. But it will soon be over, and then you can forget it and have a good time. I shall dance at your wedding before I am six months older.”
I had to pretend to be shocked, but the Titmouse’s optimism did me good. For there was a bright side to the picture, and it was just as well to gather encouragement by an occasional glance at it.
About ten days after the first sitting of the inquest I received a letter from Mr. Isaacs. He had already written to me briefly to inform me that the funeral had been postponed by the coroner’s direction until after the adjourned inquest, but had then said nothing about the will. The present letter supplied the omission, and its contents surprised me very much. It appeared that the will had been proved and that I was the principal beneficiary. “The testator,” said Mr. Isaacs, “has bequeathed to you the bulk of his personalty—upwards of eight thousand pounds—and the lease of the premises in Lyon’s Inn Chambers, together with the furniture and effects contained therein. You are also constituted the residuary legatee. The chambers have now been evacuated by Mrs. Gregg, and are at your disposal. They are at present locked up, and the keys are in my possession pending your instructions and advice as to whether you intend to occupy the premises, to let them or to dispose of the lease. A copy of the will can be seen at my office, and, of course, the original can be examined at Somerset House.”