The provisions of this will caused me, as I have said, considerable surprise. I had regarded myself as having no pecuniary claim on Mr. Otway, and had not considered myself as concerned in his will at all. Now it was evident that, selfish as he had been during his life, he had been anxious at least to make some atonement after his death for the injury he had done me; and the fact did not tend to make my sense of guilt less acute.
Before I had replied to Mr. Isaacs’ letter I received two other communications. One was from Jasper; and though it was written in a tone of quiet cheerfulness, its contents filled me with alarm. It appeared that Jasper, becoming uneasy at my continued neglect to take any measures to secure a counsel to represent me, had called on Dr. Thorndyke with the object of retaining him. “We have had rather bad luck,” he continued, “though I don’t suppose it will matter. Dr. Thorndyke would have been pleased to represent you, but unfortunately he has been commissioned at the last moment by the Home Office to make an independent investigation of the case. He gave me the name of a suitable counsel—a rising junior named Cawley—with whom I have made the necessary arrangements. So your interests will be looked after, and we can trust Thorndyke to clear up the obscurities of the case.”
The other letter was from Dr. Thorndyke himself, and confirmed Jasper’s account. “Your friend, Mr. Davenant,” it said, “called on me to-day to ask me to watch the proceedings of the inquest on your behalf, which I would have done with great pleasure if I had been at liberty. But I had just received instructions from the Home Office to look into the case and give evidence at the adjourned inquest; so I referred your friend to Mr. Cawley, who is an excellent counsel and will be able to do all that is necessary.
“Mr. Davenant expressed great disappointment that I should be, as he expressed it, ‘retained by the other side.’ But I pointed out to him that there is no ‘other side.’ I am not a ‘witness advocate.’ My evidence would be the same whichever side employed me. I never undertake to represent a particular interest, but merely to obtain what facts I can and give those facts impartially in my evidence; and I always make it clear to clients that they employ me at their own risk—at the risk that the facts elicited may be unfavourable to them. So, although I am not retained by you, I shall act precisely as if I were. I shall find out all I can, and tell the court all I know. This will, presumably, be entirely in your interest.
“And now I am going to ask a favour of you. I wish to examine and make a plan of the premises at Lyon’s Inn Chambers, and I understand that the tenancy of the Chambers is now vested in you. Will you be so kind as to lend me the keys and authorise me to make this survey? If you will, I shall be able to make my evidence more complete.”
If Jasper’s letter had alarmed me, Dr. Thorndyke’s positively terrified me. The cool, relentless impartiality, the unhuman indifference to everything but the actual truth that the letter conveyed appalled me; and I even seemed to read a direct menace in its tone. If I had employed him, I should have done so at my own risk; so he seemed to hint. His intention was to “find out all he could and tell the court all he knew.” How much would he find out? How much did he know already? He had a verbatim report of the evidence so far. He had Mrs. Gregg’s statement that “they seemed to be talking about suicide.” He would know all about suggestion and silent willing. Was it possible that he already knew that I had sent that wretched man on his last journey? When I recalled all that my father had said of his amazing powers of inference; when I remembered how unerringly he had detected the reservations in Mr. Otway’s evidence and mine; I could not but feel that my chance of keeping my guilty secret was infinitesimal. The probability was that it was discovered already.
As to his request, obviously I had no choice but to grant it; and I was on the point of writing to Mr. Isaacs to instruct him to hand the keys to Dr. Thorndyke when it occurred to me that it might be well to avoid unnecessarily taking the former gentleman into my confidence. I knew nothing about Mr. Isaacs, and was not particularly prepossessed by him; nor did I know the object of the proposed survey of the premises; concerning which indeed I was somewhat mystified and rather uncomfortable. Eventually I decided to call at Mr. Isaacs’ office for the keys and deliver them myself to Dr. Thorndyke.
Accordingly I wrote a short note to the latter informing him of my intentions, and on the following morning betook myself to Mr. Isaacs’ office, which was situate in New Inn. I could see that my visit was somewhat unexpected, and evidently aroused the solicitor’s curiosity.
“You will see,” said he, “that the keys are all labelled, and I have made a rough inventory of the furniture and effects. Perhaps you would like me to come with you and check it.”
“Thank you,” said I, “but I don’t think I will check the inventory to-day. We will postpone that until I take formal possession. At present I am merely going to take a look at the premises.”
When I said this, I had, of course, no intention of going to the chambers at all, but as I walked down Wych Street with the keys in my bag, I reflected that, as I had said I was going, I had better go. Moreover, it was possible that the arrangement of the place had been disturbed and that some things might need to be replaced; for I assumed that Dr. Thorndyke would wish to see the premises as they were on the night of the tragedy. And then I was not without some curiosity concerning this place which had been the scene of events so momentous to me.
At the bottom of Wych Street I turned round by the “Rising Sun” and walked along Holywell Street to the entrance of Lyon’s Inn Chambers; and as I, once again, ascended the gloomy stone stairs, the sinister atmosphere of the place enveloped me as it had done on previous occasions, and induced a vague sensation of fear. When I reached the landing and stood at the ill-omened portal, the feeling had grown so pronounced that I hesitated for a while to enter the chambers. At length I summoned up courage to insert the key, and as the massive door swung open I stepped into the lobby.
But my nervousness by no means wore off. Leaving the outer door ajar, I walked quickly down the corridor, peered into the kitchen and the little, empty room that had presumably been occupied by Mrs. Gregg—apparently the furniture had belonged to her—crossed the living-room and entered the bedroom. Here nothing seemed to have been changed. Even the great peg—on which, of course, my eye lit instantly—still bore the end of crimson rope; the bed had been stripped, but the bedside table stood intact even to the bottle of veronal tablets. I looked about me quickly and nervously, noting the arrangement of the furniture and comparing it with my recollections of that unforgettable night; and when I had decided that it was unaltered, I turned to go.
As I crossed the living-room, the large, wardrobe-like cupboard attracted my attention, and I recalled the mysterious sounds that had seemed to issue from it. Was it possible, I wondered, that Mrs. Gregg could have been concealed in it that night and have overheard those last incriminating words of mine. She had not referred to them in her evidence, but the inquiry was not finished yet. I resolved to settle the question whether it was physically possible for her to have been concealed in the cupboard, and having tried the door and found it locked, I turned the keys over one by one until I found one labelled “cupboard in living-room.” It was a rather unusual type of key, with a solid stem instead of the more usual barrel, and when I had inserted it and opened the door, I noticed that the key-hole passed right through the lock, so that the door could be locked from the inside as well as the outside. The cupboard itself was fitted like a wardrobe with a single shelf just above my eye level, beneath which a short woman like Mrs. Gregg could have easily stood upright. Thus the construction of the cupboard and the peculiar form of the lock made it at least possible that an eavesdropper might have been concealed that night; and that was all that I could say.
Before shutting the door I stood on tip-toe to see if there was anything on the shelf. In the semi-darkness of the interior I could see some kind of metallic object, and reaching in, took hold of it. As I drew it into the light of day I gave a gasp of astonishment. It was my father’s stick.
I took it down and turned it over curiously in my hands, marvelling how it should have got into this receptacle; and as I turned it over, there came into view a flattened dent on the silver knob covered by a thick smear of blood to which two hairs had stuck. I looked at the hairs closely, but could come to no opinion as to whether or not they were my father’s. One of these was white and the other a brownish grey. My father’s hair had been iron grey as a whole, but I could not judge what the appearance of individual hairs might have been. If these were really his, then the man who had gone to his account was my father’s murderer. It was a dreadful thought, but yet not without a certain compensation. As I looked at this relic of that day of wrath I felt my heart hardening. If the message that it bore was a true message, then I need have no more compunction for what I had done. If I had known with certainty that Mr. Otway had killed my father, those words which had slipped from me subconsciously would have been consciously uttered with full and deliberate intent and without a qualm.
I stood for a while with the stick in my hand considering what I should do with it. That its mysterious reappearance would create a complication I plainly foresaw, but to take it away and conceal it would be not only dishonest but very unsafe; for it was almost certain that someone knew of its existence. It must have been seen when the inventory was taken. Eventually I replaced it on the shelf and locked the cupboard; and having put the keys back in my bag made my way to the door, which had been standing ajar all this time.
As I walked slowly to the Temple, I turned over in my mind the significance of this strange discovery. Someone must have known of the presence of this stick in the chambers, and that someone was either Mr. Otway or Mrs. Gregg. But both had declared positively that they had never seen it; and it was difficult to imagine why either of them should have kept it hidden away and disclaimed all knowledge of it. I could make nothing of the problem. Only one thing was clear to me. I must let Dr. Thorndyke know of my discovery; for it did not incriminate me in any way and might give him a clue to some of the elements of the mystery, the unravelment of which would be to my advantage.
The door of Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers was opened by Mr. Polton, who greeted me with a friendly smile, all creases and wrinkles.
“I’m sorry to say that the Doctor is not at home, ma’am,” said he; “and he will be sorry, too. He would have liked to see you, I am sure.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Polton,” said I. “I have only called to leave these keys. But I should like to leave a message. Will you ask him not to disturb things more than he can help, as the inventory has not been checked yet; and will you tell him that the stick is in the large cupboard in the living-room? You won’t forget, will you?”
“I shan’t forget,” he replied, with a slight emphasis on the last word, “but I never trust my memory in important matters. Would you mind writing the Doctor a little note?”
He produced writing materials and placed a chair by the table, and I sat down and briefly put my message into writing. When I had given him the note—which he set in a conspicuous place on the mantel-piece—he looked at me as if he had something to say, and I waited to hear what it was.
“I’ve got an old verge watch to pieces upstairs,” he said at length. “I don’t know whether you would care to have a look at the movement. It’s worth looking at. If you want to know what workmanship is, you should look at the inside of a good, old watch.”
I was not, at the moment, much interested in watches or workmanship, but I could not resist his companionable enthusiasm—to say nothing of the implied compliment. So we went up together to the workshop, where he exhibited with a craftsman’s delight the delicate wheels, the engraved plates and the little chased pillars, and even brought out a microscope that I might appreciate the finish bestowed on the links of a fusee-chain that was hardly thicker than a horse-hair.
As the day of the adjourned inquest drew near, my anxiety—intensified by the consciousness of my guilty secret—grew more acute. My position was, as Jasper had said, a difficult one in any case. But the really alarming element in it was the introduction of Dr. Thorndyke into the case. The suggestion factor in the suicide would probably remain unsuspected by the coroner and the jury. But would it escape Dr. Thorndyke’s almost superhuman penetration? I could not believe that it would, for the hint of it was plain in Mrs. Gregg’s evidence. And if it were detected, it would be revealed. Of that I had not the shadow of a doubt. Dr. Thorndyke was a kindly, even a genial man; but he was Justice personified. He would investigate the case with relentless accuracy and completeness; and he would tell the truth to the last word. Of that I felt certain. If he held my fate in his hands I was lost.
Of the view of the case taken by outsiders I had an unpleasant illustration the day before the adjourned sitting. It was furnished by an article in an evening paper that I had taken up to my room to read. Glancing over its pages, my eyes was caught by the words “Lyon’s Inn,” and I read as follows:
“The new Lyon’s Inn seems to be emulating the reputation of the old. Within that ancient precinct occurred the famous Weare murder, forgotten of the present generation, but immortalised in those rather brutal verses of Tom Hood’s:
“ ‘They cut his throat from ear to ear,
His brains they battered in;
His name was Mr. William Weare,
He lived in Lyon’s Inn.’“The drama of Lyon’s Inn Chambers, however, is not a murder—at least we hope not. It is at present regarded as a suicide. But there are some queer features in the case. There is, for instance, a handsome young wife, who, it seems, flatly refused to live with her elderly husband from the very wedding day; there is a series of unaccountable anonymous letters; and there is a rumour of a hoard of precious gems spirited away from the chambers, apparently on the very night when Mr. Lewis Otway hanged himself from a peg on his bedroom wall. So the adjourned inquest, which opens at 11 a.m. to-morrow, may elicit some curious revelations.”
As I laid the paper down, a cold hand seemed to settle on my heart. The writer had exaggerated nothing. He had not even stated all the accusing facts. But even so, put quite impartially, the article exhibited me as the central figure of the tragedy, as the visible agent of the sinister events that had befallen in those ill-omened chambers. And could I say that it misstated the case? Of the anonymous letters, indeed, and the stolen gems—if stolen they were—I knew nothing. But the central fact of the case was Mr. Otway’s death. For that the coroner held me accountable. And, though he misjudged the evidence as to the means, I could not but admit that the coroner was right. The coming inquiry was, in effect, the trial of Helen Otway.
The second sitting of the inquest was a much more portentous affair than the first. The large room, or hall, in which it was held was nearly full when I entered, and it was evident that a considerable proportion of the occupants were spectators, attracted hither, no doubt, by the picturesque comments of the newspapers. But besides these were a number of persons connected with the inquiry. Behind the coroner’s chair sat a group of police officers. Mr. Isaacs and Mr. Hyams were again present; the witnesses now included Mr. and Mrs. Campbell and a youngish man of a pronouncedly Hebrew type, who sat next to them. The side of the long table allotted to the press was filled by reporters—among whom I noticed the gentleman employed by Dr. Thorndyke, and there was one or two men whom I judged to be lawyers representing the various parties interested.
My own counsel, Mr. Cawley, a shrewd-looking man of about thirty-five, introduced himself to me as I took the seat reserved for me, and gave me a few words of advice.
“I think,” said he, “I have had all the necessary instructions from Mr. Davenant, who, I see, is here.” (I had had an instantaneous glimpse of him as I entered the room.) “His impression is that the coroner is disposed to put a certain amount of blame on you for your husband’s death. If that is so, you will have to be rather careful about answering questions, especially any questions that the jury may put. Don’t be in a hurry to answer any doubtful questions. Give me time to object if they seem inclined to go beyond the evidence.”
I promised to bear his advice in mind, and then asked:
“Do you know if Dr. Thorndyke is giving evidence to-day?”
“I presume he is,” was the reply; “but I notice that he is not present and that his reporter is.”
At this point the coroner laid down the papers which he had been looking over, and opened the proceedings with a short address to the jury.
“The adjournment of this inquiry, gentlemen,” said he, “which was decided upon a fortnight ago, is amply justified by the mass of new facts which are now available. These new facts bear chiefly on the property which, as you heard at the last sitting, was believed to be missing; but in other directions they throw a very curious light on the case. The first witness will be Superintendent Miller, of the Criminal Investigation Department.”
As his name was spoken, the officer rose and took his place by the table. He took the oath, and disposed of the preliminaries with professional facility, and then waited gravely for the coroner’s next question.
“You had some knowledge of the deceased, Lewis Otway, and his affairs, I understand?” said the coroner.
“Yes. I have known of his existence for more than twenty years.”
“Will you tell us what you know of him?”
“I first made his acquaintance about twenty-three years ago. He was then practising as a solicitor—chiefly as a police-court advocate—and was known by his real name, Lewis Levy, which he subsequently changed to Otway. After a time, he began to engage in business as a money-lender, and it was at this time that he took the name of Otway. Presently he began to combine with money-lending a certain amount of trafficking in precious stones, and it was then that the police began to keep a somewhat close watch on him, with the idea that he might be also acting as a receiver. We never really had anything against him, but we always had the impression that he did some business as a middleman, or disposer of stolen jewels.
“When I first knew him, he had living with him a young woman, named Rachel Goldstein. She was nominally his housekeeper, but there were two children—a boy named Morris, and a girl named Judith—whom he admitted to be his. When he changed his name to Otway, Rachel Goldstein took the name of Gregg, and used to pass as a Scotchwoman. The children lived with their parents until they grew up, when Otway (or Levy) provided for them in a way that made the police watch still more closely. Judith married a David Samuels, who traded under the name of Campbell as a dealer in works of art, especially goldsmith’s work and jewellery; and Morris Goldstein started as a dealer in antiques, with a shop in Hand Court, and some workshops in Mansell Street, Whitechapel, where most of the antiques were made.
“Now both these men were practical working jewellers. It was believed that Otway financed them both, and it was known that he was the lessee of the premises that they occupied. Moreover, as soon as they were established in business, Otway gradually abandoned the money-lending, and occupied himself almost exclusively in dealing in gem stones. He was an exceedingly good judge of stones, and was quite successful as a legitimate dealer; but the police had an impression that he did a considerable amount of business that was not legitimate. I want it to be quite clear that I am not making any accusations; I am referring merely to an impression that the police had; it may have been quite a mistaken impression, but I mention it because the matter bears directly on this enquiry.
“The idea of the police, then, was that Otway dealt to a considerable extent in stolen property. We supposed that he obtained this property—precious stones, without the mounts—not from the thieves, but from the receivers, and that he disposed of them with the aid of his son and son-in-law. Both those men did a fairly large trade in high-class jewellery. They did not touch commercial goods, but dealt exclusively in work produced individually by skilled goldsmiths and jewellers, some of whom they kept regularly employed. They also did a good deal of repairing and re-setting, and their transactions were always with private customers, not with the trade.
“Our idea of the way it was worked was this: We thought that when Otway had got a collection of stolen stones he would pass on some of them to these two men. They would then commission their craftsmen to make some articles of jewellery, and would provide them with stones which had been bought from the regular dealers, and the purchase of which could be proved if necessary. Then, when the jewels were delivered—or even after they had been sold to a private buyer—Campbell or Goldstein would take the purchased stones out of their settings and replace them by stolen stones. And a similar method could have been employed when jewels were brought for alteration, repair or re-setting. This kind of substitution would be very difficult to trace, for it is not easy to identify particular stones and prove that they are not the ones referred to in the dealers’ receipts. As a matter of fact we never did trace any stolen gems excepting on a single occasion; and then the evidence was not good enough for us to risk a prosecution.
“And now we come to the case that concerns this enquiry. About a year ago there was a burglary at the premises of Messrs. Middleburg, of New Bond Street, the well-known jewellers, and, among other things, a collection of valuable stones, worth about five thousand pounds, was carried off. It was a small collection, but all the stones were individually of considerable value, and several of them were remarkable, either in respect of size or other peculiarities. The collection has never been traced, and none of the stones has reappeared either here or abroad; and the police have reason to believe that the whole collection is still in this country.
“When these stones disappeared so completely, the police formed the opinion that they had passed into the possession of Otway, and that he was holding them up until an opportunity occurred to issue them one by one. At this time he was living at Maidstone—he had been there a year or two, but he had kept his old chambers at Lyon’s Inn, and often stayed in them for a week or more at a time. Last May or June he left Maidstone and came back to his old chambers, and we then began to keep a closer watch on him.
“About a couple of months ago he bought—or rather took on approval—from Mr. Hyams, of Hatton Garden, a collection of stones of which I have seen the list. These stones were carefully selected by Otway, and the remarkable thing about them is that, taken as a whole, they are singularly like the stolen collection. Among the stolen stones, for instance, there were two large tourmalines, one green and one deep blue, both table stones with step-cut backs; four emeralds, two step-cut and two cut en cabochon; two large chrysoberyls, one brilliant-cut, green, and one en cabochon, yellow; one pale-blue diamond; and one pale-pink. Now, the collection taken from Mr. Hyams includes tourmalines, emeralds, chrysoberyls, and diamonds, of almost exactly the same size, colour and cutting; and there are many other passable duplicates of the stolen stones.
“When I became aware of this transaction I inferred that Otway was making arrangements to release the stolen stones, and I caused a still closer watch to be kept on him; but up to the present not one of the missing stones has been discovered. Now I understand that the Hyams collection has disappeared; and if that is so, it seems probable that the person who has taken it is also in possession of the stolen collection. But that, of course, is only a guess.”
“Quite so!” said the coroner, “and it is a matter that is more in your province than in ours. Is there anything more that you have to tell us that is relevant to the enquiry?”
“No, I think that is all.”
“You will be remaining here, in case we want to refer to you again?”
“Yes; I want to hear Dr. Thorndyke’s evidence, and, of course, I want to hear the verdict.”
“I am afraid you may have a long time to wait, for I have had a telegram from Dr. Thorndyke saying that he has been detained at Maidstone, and has missed his train. It is a great nuisance for us all. However, we will go on with the evidence. The next witness will be Mr. Samuel Isaacs.”
As the superintendent retired to his seat and Mr. Isaacs approached the table, I reflected rapidly on what I had just heard. Dr. Thorndyke had apparently been down to Maidstone. Was his visit connected with the present enquiry? And if so, what was it that he had been investigating? The locality suggested some kind of research in which I was concerned, but at the nature of that research I could make no guess whatever. However, there was no time to speculate on the subject, for Mr. Isaacs had been sworn, and was ready to begin his evidence.
“You were solicitor to the deceased, I understand, Mr. Isaacs?”
“Yes; I am one of the executors of his will.”
“In that capacity have you heard of any property said to be missing from the chambers which he occupied?”
“I have. Mr. Hyams has made a claim to have restored to him a parcel of precious stones, valued at about four thousand pounds, which, he states, was his property, and which he asserts the deceased had in his possession.”
“Have you examined the premises with a view to discovering that property?”
“Yes, I have examined the premises very thoroughly, and have made a complete inventory of all the effects of the deceased. I have gone through the contents of the safe and all other receptacles, and have checked the property which he had deposited at his bank. I have made a most exhaustive search, but have failed to find any trace of the parcel referred to, or of any precious stones whatever.”
“Is it possible that you may have overlooked the parcel?”
“I should say it is impossible. My opinion is that the parcel is not on the premises, and it certainly is not at the bank.”
The coroner and a legal-looking gentleman at the table both noted down this reply. Then the former said: “You are, no doubt, in a position to tell us what was the state of the deceased man’s affairs. Was there any kind of financial embarrassment?”
“I should say, certainly not. The gross value of the estate—which is entirely personal—is a little over seventeen thousand pounds; and the liabilities, so far as they are known to me, are quite trivial.”
“Can you tell us roughly, what are the main provisions of the will, that is, if it has been proved?”
“It has been proved. The principal beneficiary is the widow, who receives eight thousand pounds, and the lease of the chambers in Lyon’s Inn, with the furniture and effects, and is made residuary legatee. Rachel Gregg—or Goldstein—receives one thousand, and Morris and Judith, each, two thousand pounds, and the lease of the premises in which they respectively carry on their business. There are a few small legacies—less than a thousand pounds in the aggregate; so that there will probably be a residue of about three thousand pounds, which will go to the widow.”
“What is the date of this will?”
“It is dated the 10th June last.”
“Do you know whether the provisions of the will were known to the widow, or the other beneficiaries?”
“I do not know. They were not disclosed by me until probate had been granted.”
“Thank you,” said the coroner. “I think we need not trouble you any further, unless the jury wish to ask any questions.”
The jury did not; but the legal-looking gentleman at the table did, and springing up like a Jack-in-the-box, he addressed the coroner.
“As representing Mr. Hyams, sir,” said he, “I should like to ask the witness whether, in the event of the missing gems not coming to light, their loss would be chargeable to the estate?”
The countenance of Mr. Isaacs hereupon assumed that peculiar expression known to students of sculpture as “the archaic smile.”
“You are asking me to admit liability,” he replied; “I can’t do that, you know. There is a recognised procedure in these cases, with which I have no doubt you are acquainted.”
The questioner sat down with a jerk, and Mr. Cawley stood up.
“May I ask the witness, sir, whether, in the event of this loss being adjudged to be chargeable to the estate, that loss would affect equally all the beneficiaries?”
“No,” replied Mr. Isaacs, “it would not. It would fall, in the first place, on the residuary legatee. It would only affect the estate as a whole in so far as the amount of the charge exceeded that of the residue.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Cawley. “There is one other question that I should like to ask. The present will is dated the 10th of last June. Did the execution of that will involve the revocation of a previously-existing will?”
“Yes, it did. After his marriage deceased re-acknowledged the existing will by a fresh signature and attestation, but he revoked this will when he made the new one.”
“Could you tell us who were the beneficiaries under that will?”
Mr. Isaacs fixed a thoughtful (and somewhat beady) eye on the coroner’s pewter ink-pot, and cogitated for a few moments.
“Is it necessary, sir, for me to answer that question?” he asked at length, looking up at the coroner.
“Is the point material?” the latter asked, looking at Mr. Cawley.
“I submit, sir, that it may become highly important,” was the reply.
The coroner reflected with his eyes fixed on Mr. Cawley. Then he nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I think you are right. We must ask you to answer the question, Mr. Isaacs.”
Mr. Isaacs bowed. “The beneficiaries under that will were Rachel Goldstein, Morris Goldstein, and Judith Samuels.”
“In what proportions was the property devised?”
“The bulk of the personalty was divided between Morris and Judith. Rachel Goldstein—or Gregg—received two thousand pounds, but she was also the residuary legatee.”
“And the value of the estate?”
“I can’t tell you that. I only know what it is now.”
Mr. Cawley sat down, and Mr. Isaacs retired to his seat. Then the coroner pronounced the name of Mr. Hyams, and its owner took his place by the table.
“We have heard, Mr. Hyams,” said the coroner, “of certain property of yours which was in the deceased man’s custody. Will you give us a few particulars of the transaction. When, for instance, did it come into the possession of the deceased?”
“Two months ago—on the tenth of August, when the deceased called at my office, and asked me to let him have a selection of stones for a special purpose. He said that he had an opportunity of disposing of a number of pieces of jewellery to a wealthy American gentleman, and that he had discovered an extremely clever artist whom he proposed to commission to make them. They were to be important pieces, chiefly pendants, brooches, and bracelets. The stones were to be exceptional in size and quality, and he wanted an assortment for Mr. Campbell—who was conducting the transaction—to show the intending purchaser. He had a list in his pocket-book, which he referred to as he made his selection from my stock. The stones which he selected were rather unusual—the sort of stones that appeal to collectors and connoisseurs, rather than ordinary wearers of jewels. And some of them were very valuable; one ruby alone that he took was worth fifteen hundred pounds. The total value of the parcel that he carried away with him was four thousand two hundred pounds.”
“I understand that he did not pay you for them?”
“No; he was not proposing to keep them all. They were a selection to show to the customer. I made out a full list, and he signed a receipt at the foot of it. I had known deceased for many years, and had often had similar dealings with him.”
“And did he never return these stones, or any part of the collection?”
“No. From the time that he left my office with the stones in his pocket I never saw him or heard from him again.”
This was the sum of Mr. Hyams’ evidence; and when he had retired the name of Judith Samuels was called. The new witness took her place at the table, and, after the usual preliminaries, proceeded to give her evidence.
“I am the wife of David Samuels who trades under the name of Donald Campbell. He is a dealer in works of art, principally goldsmith’s work and jewellery. He is a practical jeweller himself, but most of the alterations and repairs are put out. The new work that he sells, or which is commissioned by customers, is executed for him by independent goldsmiths, not by workmen employed by him.”
“You visited the deceased on the night preceding his death, I understand, is that so?”
“Yes. I came to his chambers about half-past six, and left about seven o’clock.”
“Did you notice anything unusual in his manner or appearance?”
“He was not looking very well, and he seemed rather depressed but he brightened up as we talked. He was very much interested in the business which I had come to discuss.”
“What was the nature of that business?”
“It was connected with a collection of stones that he had got on approval from Mr. Hyams to carry out a commission that he expected to get from a very wealthy American gentleman, to whom he had an introduction. He did not disclose the name of the gentleman, but it was understood that if he secured the commission, my husband should conduct the negotiations, and get the work executed.”
“Did you gather that he had the stones in his possession?”
“Yes; he showed them to me. They were in a small wooden box, the different kinds of stones wrapped up separately in little paper packets. He took the box from a deed-box on the table by his bed-side, and put it back there when he had shown me the stones.”
“Did you make any arrangements as to the disposal of these stones?”
“No final arrangements. He advised that we should get some of our artist goldsmiths to submit designs for the customer to see; and he suggested that my husband should ask Mrs. Otway to design and execute a pendant to take some of the finest stones.”
“Mrs. Otway!” exclaimed the coroner. “What Mrs. Otway do you refer to?”
“I mean Helen Otway, the wife of the deceased.”
“Are we to understand that Mrs. Otway is a designer of jewellery?”
“She is not only a designer; she is a practical goldsmith, and a very clever one too. My husband admires her work exceedingly and has paid her some very high prices. He paid her, for instance, twenty-five guineas for a set of silver tea-spoons.”
The looks of astonishment that the coroner, the jury, and the press-men bestowed on me might, in other circumstances, have flattered my vanity. Now, I could see that Mrs. Campbell, without (so far as I knew) departing one single jot from the truth, was enveloping me in the most hideous entanglements.
After a pause—filled in with strenuous note-taking—the coroner again addressed the witness. “It has been given in evidence that the deceased had received a number of anonymous letters. Do you know anything about these letters?”
“I know nothing beyond what I heard when the evidence was given.”
“Have you any means of judging who wrote these letters?”
“I have heard the evidence, and I can make a pretty good guess who wrote them.”
“That is not quite what I mean. Have you any information about them other than what you gathered from the evidence?”
“No; I never heard of them until then.”
This concluded Mrs. Campbell’s evidence. When she had retired Mrs. Gregg was recalled and questioned concerning the missing stones.
“Did you know that deceased had these stones in his possession?”
“Yes. He showed them to me on one occasion, and I often saw him looking at them. He was very fond of precious stones. He used to set them out on a small square of black velvet, and try them in different lights, and look at them through a magnifying glass.”
“When did you last see these stones?”
“After Mrs. Campbell—that is the last witness—had left, and just before Mrs. Otway arrived. Deceased was then sitting up in bed looking at a large green stone. I reminded him that Mrs. Otway was due at eight, and he then put the stones back in their box, and put the box away in the deed-box that was on the table.”
“When did you first learn that the stones were missing?”
“The day after the discovery that the deceased had committed suicide, when Mrs. Otway came to the chambers with Mr. Hyams and the coroner’s officer. She came to search for the anonymous letters, and she went straight to the deed-box, and there they were. But the stones were not there. I saw her take all the things out of the deed-box for Mr. Hyams to see and there were no stones there.”
“Thank you,” said the coroner. “That will do. We must now, gentlemen, see if Mrs. Otway can give us any further information.”
I once more took my place at the table and was again sensible of a generally heightened curiosity on the part of the jury and the spectators.
“We may as well dispose of the question of the missing stones,” said the coroner; “for though it does not affect our enquiry directly but is rather the business of the police, it seems to have an important, indirect bearing. You have heard, Mrs. Otway, the evidence of Judith Samuels, and Rachel Goldstein—or Gregg. Can you throw any light on the disappearance of these stones?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Did you know that deceased had these valuable stones in his possession?”
“No; I never heard of the stones until Mr. Hyams called on me on the evening of the day on which Mr. Otway’s death was discovered.”
“Do you know, or have you any idea, where those stones are now?”
“I do not know, and I have no idea where they are.”
“Did you know that deceased was a dealer in precious stones?”
“No; my father told me that deceased collected gem-stones, and that he sometimes had dealings in them. But I supposed that he was merely a collector, not a professional dealer.”
“How long had you known deceased when you married him?”
“I had known of his existence about a year, but I had hardly ever spoken to him. He was virtually a stranger to me.”
“Had you never heard of the suicidal tendency in his family?”
“Never until the night preceding his death, when he told me.”
“It has been stated that you are a practical goldsmith, and that you have executed work for Mr. Samuels, or Campbell. Is that true?”
“I work as a goldsmith and I have sold some of my productions to Mr. Campbell; but I have never been employed by him. I work as an independent artist.”
“Has he ever supplied you with precious stones?”
“No. I purchase my own materials.”
“Have you ever done any alterations or resettings for him?”
“No. I have done no work of any kind for him, or anyone else. I work on my own account, and sell what I make.”
The coroner nodded, and glanced over his notes. After a pause he asked: “At what time on the night of your visit to deceased did you leave his chambers?”
“A little before ten o’clock.”
“What was the condition of deceased when you left? Did he seem particularly depressed or worried?”
“He was asleep when I left.”
“Asleep!” exclaimed the coroner, “How long had he been asleep?”
“Not very long; perhaps a quarter of an hour. When he took his usual dose of veronal he asked me to stay with him until he went to sleep, and I did so.”
“I see that the housekeeper states that when she entered the living-room in the morning, the bedroom door was wide open, and the gas full on. What was the condition of affairs when you left?”
“The gas was full on, and I did not shut the bedroom door. I was not aware that the housekeeper had gone to bed and assumed that she would look in on deceased and make what arrangements were usual for the night.”
“But if you had turned down the gas, and shut the bedroom door, that would have prevented the housekeeper from going to deceased.”
“No. It did not appear to matter either way.”
“When you went away, did you leave your hand-bag behind?”
“Yes, I had hung it on the back of my chair, and when I got up to go, I forgot about it.”
“When did you discover that you had left it behind?”
“I first remembered it when I hailed a cab at the corner of Holywell Street to take me home.”
“Why did you not then go back for it?”
“I did not like to disturb Mrs. Gregg and deceased, as it was so late.”
“Was your purse in the bag?”
“Yes; but that was of no consequence. I knew there would be someone sitting up who could pay the cabman.”
“The housekeeper has told us that you came to fetch the bag on the following day.”
“Yes, in the afternoon, about three. It was then that I first heard of Mr. Otway’s death.”
“The housekeeper states that, when she told you what had happened, you fell down in a dead faint. Is that so?”
“Yes. It gave me a great shock, especially as Mrs. Gregg told me the bad news so very abruptly.”
“Were you expecting to hear that the deceased had committed suicide?”
“No; the subject was not in my mind.”
“Is that not rather remarkable, having regard to your conversation with deceased on the previous night?”
“I don’t think so. That conversation had certainly given me the impression that there was a danger that deceased might be driven to suicide if this persecution were continued. But I had not supposed that the danger was immediate.”
“And that pitiful letter that you received from deceased? Did that convey no note of warning?”
“At the time when I received it I was not aware of any predisposition to suicide on the part of deceased. What he told me caused me some alarm, but he became so much calmer after our talk that I thought the danger was past, so far as the immediate future was concerned.”
“And when you went to his chambers on the following day, you felt no uneasiness as to what might have happened?”
“No, the possibility that anything unusual might have happened was not in my mind at all.”
“Well,” said the coroner, “it seems to me rather remarkable that the possibility did not even occur to you. However, we are dealing with the facts, and if those are the facts, there is no more to be said. We will now pass on to the consideration of the will. When did you first learn that deceased had made a fresh will?”
“Four days ago, when I received a letter from Mr. Isaacs informing me of the fact that I was one of the beneficiaries.”
“Had deceased never mentioned to you that he had made a will in your favour?”
“No.”
“Was there no stipulation on your part at the time of the marriage that he should make such a will?”
“No. Nothing ever passed between us on the subject.”
“And had you no knowledge or belief that a will affecting you had been executed?”
“I had no knowledge or belief that such a will had been executed nor any expectation that it would be. I did not consider myself as having any pecuniary claim on deceased.”
“Did you not receive an allowance from deceased?”
“No. He wished to make me an allowance, but I declined to accept it.”
“But you were entitled to an allowance for maintenance. Why did you refuse to accept it?”
“I did not consider that I had any claim on deceased so long as I insisted on living apart.”
“Then do we understand that you subsist entirely on your own means or earnings?”
“Yes, entirely.”
“Would you kindly tell us what those means and earnings respectively amount to? And what are their sources?”
“I have a small private income—about sixty pounds a year—derived from the realisation of my father’s estate. I cannot estimate my earnings very exactly, as I have been working only a few months. Probably I shall be able to earn from a hundred and fifty to two hundred pounds a year, when I am established. Up to the present I have sold all my work to Mr. Campbell.”
“How did you first become acquainted with Mr. Campbell—or Samuels, to give him his correct name?”
“Deceased recommended him to me when I first came to London. He stated that he had known him for many years.”
“Did you know that Mr. Campbell was related to deceased?”
“Not until I heard it here to-day.”
The coroner considered awhile, turning over his notes reflectively. At length he said, “Before you sit down, Mrs. Otway, I should like to ask you again about those anonymous letters. You have stated that you have no idea who wrote them.”
“That is so,” I replied.
“When you discussed them with deceased, did neither of you arrive at any conclusion as to who might have written them?”
“Deceased assured me that he could make no guess as to who had sent them. Naturally, I could not, since all his acquaintances, whether friends or enemies, were unknown to me.”
“And you adhere to your statement that you know nothing about these letters?”
“I know nothing about them whatever, excepting that deceased received them; and that I have only known by his telling me.”
“And with regard to your father’s stick? You have stated that you have no knowledge as to what became of it, or where it is now. Do you adhere to that statement too?”
“That statement was correct when I made it; but the stick has since come to light.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the coroner. “When and how did that happen?”
“It occurred three days ago, when I went to look over the chambers in Lyon’s Inn. I chanced to open a large cupboard in the living room, and there, on the single shelf at the top, I saw the stick lying at the back, and hardly visible in the deep shadow.”
“In-deed!” said the coroner, with a strong emphasis on the second syllable. It was perfectly evident that he did not believe me, and he made no secret of it. Nor were the jury any better impressed. In the silence that followed my statement they whispered together eagerly, and disbelief was writ large on the faces of them all.
“Had you any particular occasion to look over the chambers?” the coroner asked after an interval.
“Yes; I had received a letter from Dr. Thorndyke saying that he wished to make a survey of the premises and asking me to give him permission, and the necessary facilities to do so. I accordingly went, on the following day, and fetched the keys from Mr. Isaacs to leave them at Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers. On the way, I called in at Lyon’s Inn to see what condition the chambers were in.”
“And to plant the stick for Dr. Thorndyke to find, eh?” said one of the jurors, with a truculent leer.
Mr. Cawley rose instantly to protest, but he was anticipated by the coroner, who said severely: “That, sir, is quite out of order. Members of the jury must not suggest motives or actions on the part of witnesses which are not given in evidence. They may have their opinions, but those opinions must not be expressed until all the evidence has been heard and the verdict has to be considered.” Having administered this reproof, he again turned to me.
“When you looked over the chambers, did you examine the other furniture and receptacles. Did you, for instance, look in the other cupboards and drawers?”
“No.”
“Only this one cupboard? Now what made you look into this cupboard in particular?”
I saw the awkwardness of the question; but I also saw that a complete explanation of my motives would land me on much more dangerous ground. My immediate motive had been to ascertain what the inside of the cupboard was like, and this was as much as I dared tell.
“I wished to see what kind of a cupboard it was—whether it had shelves, drawers, or simply an open space.”
“Did you take the stick out of the cupboard?”
“Yes, I took it out to examine it and see if the statement in the letter as to the bruise, the blood-smear, and the hairs was correct.”
“And was the statement correct?”
“Yes; there was a bruise on the silver knob, and a thick smear of what looked like dried blood, to which two hairs had stuck.”
“Did those hairs look to you like hairs from your father’s head?”
“I could not say. They might have been. They were short and looked as if they had come from the head of a grey-haired man. My father’s hair was grey.”
“What did you do with the stick?”
“I put it back in the cupboard.”
“Why did you not bring it here?”
“I thought it best to leave it where I found it.”
“Are the keys of the chambers in your possession now?”
“No; I left them at Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers, and he has not yet returned them. I left a note informing him that the stick was in the cupboard.”
“May I ask why you did that?”
“Dr. Thorndyke mentioned in his letter that he was investigating the case on instructions from the Home Office, and I wished to give him any assistance that I could.”
“But,” the coroner exclaimed irritably, “don’t you understand that this court is investigating the case? That a coroner’s court is the proper authority to carry out such investigations? I don’t know why this medical specialist has been brought into the case at all. I have not asked for his assistance. It is quite irregular and most unnecessary. And how did this gentleman come to write to you?”
“He wanted to survey the premises, and someone—I don’t know who—had told him that I was the present lessee.”
The coroner grunted in evident displeasure. The importation of Dr. Thorndyke into the case was clearly a sore point, for he rejoined: “The whole affair is highly unsatisfactory. I am not clear that you had any right to give permission to any unofficial person to survey these premises without obtaining my consent; or that he had any right to ask you. The jury have surveyed the premises, and that ought to be enough. However, we shall see what comes of these mysterious investigations. Meanwhile, I think that is all we have to ask you, Mrs. Otway, unless the jury have any questions to put.”
The jury, warned, perhaps, by the result of the last question put by a juryman, had no question to ask; and I returned to my seat by Mr. Cawley, in time to hear Mr. Isaacs recalled.
“You have heard,” said the coroner, “the very remarkable evidence given by the last witness concerning the finding of a stick in a large cupboard in the living-room of the chambers in Lyon’s Inn?”
“I have.”
“In your previous evidence you stated that you had made a minute search of those chambers, and drawn up an inventory of their contents. Do you remember whether, when you made that search, you examined that particular cupboard?”
“Yes, I remember quite clearly that I examined it, and found it empty. I have marked it ‘empty’ in the inventory.”
“Are you sure that it was really empty? Is it not possible that this stick lying in the shade on the shelf might have been overlooked?”
“It is quite impossible. I made a most exhaustive search, and I used an electric torch for examining dark interiors. Moreover, the object that I was looking for—a little parcel of precious stones—was much smaller, and less conspicuous than a walking stick. I could not have missed a large object like that. And I have quite a clear recollection of looking on that shelf—it was the only shelf in the cupboard—and throwing the light of the torch along it. I had to stand on tip-toe to see in distinctly, and so, I suppose, had Mrs. Otway.”
“Do you swear that the cupboard was empty when you examined it?”
“I swear that it was absolutely empty.”
The coroner entered the reply in his notes, and then asked: “Did you receive any communication from Dr. Thorndyke respecting his proposed survey of the chambers at Lyon’s Inn?”
“He called to enquire in whom the tenancy of the chambers was vested, but did not state why he wanted to know. I told him that the widow was the lessee. I don’t know how he got her address. I didn’t give it to him. I may say that when I had finished the inventory I locked up the chambers, and kept the keys until I delivered them up to Mrs. Otway.”
“Thank you,” said the coroner. “That is all I wanted you to tell us. And that, gentlemen,” he continued, turning to the jury, “appears to be the whole of the evidence, with the exception of Dr. Thorndyke’s; and the question now arises, what are we to do? Let me explain the position, and then you can decide on our procedure.
“This enquiry was adjourned to enable the police to make some investigations in connection with it. On their application, Dr. John Thorndyke, who, I may inform you, is an eminent medico-legal expert, was instructed by the Home Office to proceed to Maidstone to conduct an exhumation of the body of the late John Vardon, the father of Mrs. Otway. He was to make an examination of the body, and ascertain if possible, whether the cause of the said John Vardon’s death was as stated at the inquest, or whether, as is hinted in these anonymous letters, he died from the effects of violence. The question is an important one, but it is more important to the police than to us. Then, it seems that the Home Office further instructed this gentleman to carry out an independent investigation into the facts of this case which we, in our humble and inefficient way, are trying to investigate. It is an extraordinary proceeding, and one that I do not in the least understand; but then I am not a medico-legal specialist. I am only a mere coroner, and you are only a mere coroner’s jury. It is just as well that we should know our place.
“Well, I understand that Dr. Thorndyke has made an examination of the body of Lewis Otway, and, as you have heard, he has made a survey of the deceased man’s chambers. We, also, have surveyed these chambers, but apparently our survey doesn’t count; and Dr. Shelburn, whose evidence you have heard, examined the body within a few hours of death. It would seem as if medical evidence were the last thing we want. Meanwhile I have had a telegram from Dr. Thorndyke saying that he has been detained at Maidstone, and has missed his train. I don’t know when he will arrive here. He may be here in a few minutes, or he may arrive in an hour or two. It is for you to decide what is to be done. We have a great deal of evidence to consider. We do not seem to need any more medical evidence, and the question of Mr. Vardon’s death is not of vital importance to this enquiry.
“The question is shall we wait to hear Dr. Thorndyke’s evidence or shall we proceed to consider the great mass of evidence that we already have? It is for you to decide, gentlemen.”
The jury conferred for a couple of minutes, and then the foreman announced their decision. “The jury say, sir, that we are enquiring into the death of Lewis Otway, not John Vardon. They would like to proceed with the consideration of the evidence without waiting for Dr. Thorndyke.”
“I am entirely with you, gentlemen,” said the coroner. “I think that the evidence that we have heard will prove amply sufficient to guide us to our verdict; and we can still revise our opinions if the expert witness should have something fresh to tell us.”
During the short interval, in which the coroner took a final glance over his notes, there was a general stirring among the occupants and a suggestion of preparation for the next act. Jurymen re-settled themselves in their seats, reporters straightened their backs, and looked about them, the police officers and the spectators conversed in low undertones. At length the coroner laid on the table before him a single sheet of paper—probably an abstract of the evidence—sat back in his chair, and looked towards the jury; whereupon a deep silence fell upon the court, and he began his address:
“It is hardly necessary to remind you, gentlemen, that we are assembled for the purpose of ascertaining how, when, and by what means Lewis Otway came by his death; but it may be necessary to remark that our enquiry is not entirely concerned with the immediate causes of that death, but is also—and in fact, principally—concerned with the more remote contributory circumstances. For in this case, the ‘How, when, and by what means’ are simple enough. We have the testimony of an eye-witness who saw the deceased hanging dead, from a peg on the wall, under conditions strongly suggestive—in fact characteristic—of suicide; and we have the testimony of the deputy-police surgeon that all the appearances were those of suicide, and we have his expert opinion that the cause of death was undoubtedly suicidal hanging. Indeed, we may say that the immediate cause of death is self-evident, and that the whole of our enquiry is concerned with the remote causes. We are not asking ‘Did this man commit suicide?’ for the evidence of the first two witnesses settled that question. We are asking ourselves, Why did he commit suicide? The questions that we have to answer are, Was that suicide the spontaneous act of the deceased, for which he alone is responsible? Or was deceased driven to suicide by the deliberate, purposive, and malicious acts of some other person, or persons? And if the latter appears to be the case, Who is, or are, that person or persons, and what degree of criminal responsibility attaches to such acts?
“Now we have at our disposal a considerable mass of rather miscellaneous evidence, and, I think the best way to deal with it will be to sketch out lightly the general course of events, and fill in the details later. The deceased, Lewis Otway, is the central figure of our picture, and the history that we have to trace, is his history. As to what we may call his past, that does not much concern us. Among the Ancient Egyptians the deceased was conceived as being brought before the tribunal of Osiris to answer for his conduct during his earthly life. We are not a tribunal of that kind. We are not trying Lewis Otway. If, as the police suspect, he had feathered his nest with a certain amount of illicit plumage, that is not our concern. Our interest in him is mainly confined to his connection with a particular series of events which began with his marriage and ended with his death. Let us now trace that succession of events, at first in outline, and then in more detail.
“Lewis Otway first comes into our view on the occasion of his marriage. As presented in the evidence of his widow, Helen Otway, that marriage offers us the spectacle of an act of the most amazing folly. We see an elderly man—and an unattractive one at that, as you must have observed—marrying by compulsion, under threats, and greatly against her wishes, a young woman, of very unusual physical attractions, of great talent, and of exceptional mental gifts, and strength of character. You have seen this lady, and have heard her give her evidence, and you can confirm my description of her.
“It was, I repeat, an act of amazing folly. For she must, in any case, have detested him. His conduct towards her was cruel and unscrupulous to the last degree, and in marrying her he could not fail to introduce a bitter enemy into his household. But there were added causes for that repugnance to him which she has freely admitted. In the first place, she believed that her consent had been secured by actual fraud. And in the second place, Otway’s action was the undoubted cause—whether directly or indirectly, we need not enquire at this stage—of John Vardon’s death. So that our history opens with the tableau of an elderly man who has married a young, beautiful, and clever wife, who loathes him, and has abundant reason for loathing him.
“And now we pass on to the second scene—a scene almost more amazing than the first. Within an hour or two of the marriage ceremony, the young wife has repudiated the marriage, and demanded a separation for an indefinite period—practically a permanent separation. But it is not the demand that is so astonishing. The really astounding thing is that the husband seems to have agreed to this demand without demur. Consider the extraordinary inconsistency of his conduct. On the one hand we see this man, in his eagerness to possess this beautiful girl, trampling without scruple on her happiness, and her father’s, oblivious of everything but his own desires; on the other, we see him meekly submitting to a demand which—natural as it may have been—the law would not have supported.
“Whence this sudden compliance? Why did he consent? He need not have consented. The marriage was quite regular. No suit for nullity could have been sustained, whereas he could have sued at once for restitution. Why did he agree in this incomprehensible manner to surrender his unquestionable rights?
“But this is not the only inconsistency. The conduct of the wife is even more inexplicable. When Otway gave evidence at the inquest on Mr. Vardon he omitted all reference to the loaded stick; which is not unnatural, seeing that it was a highly incriminating circumstance. But that suppression of a material fact made his evidence, in effect, false evidence. For the truth is, according to the terms of the witnesses oath, the whole truth. Yet Helen Otway, when she gave evidence, confirmed this virtually false testimony; and she also suppressed—or, at least, omitted—the facts relating to the loaded stick. Her explanation is that, feeling convinced that her father died from a heart attack, she did not consider the stick incident of any importance. In estimating the credibility of that explanation you will bear in mind that the verdict was ‘Death from natural causes,’ but that the jury were not in possession of the facts. You will also bear in mind that this woman had seen her father lying dead, with a wound on his head, and this man, whom she loathed, and detested, standing over the body, grasping a formidable weapon. But whatever view you take of the explanation, the fact remains that at the inquest she not only refrained from accusing him, but she withheld a material fact which, if it had been disclosed, might have put Otway in the dock on a charge of murder.
“Here, then, are two cases of incomprehensible inconsistency of conduct. But they are only incomprehensible so long as they are considered separately. Consider them together and a perfectly intelligible suggestion emerges. The husband had the power to compel his wife to live with him—and he did not exercise it. The wife had the power to expose the husband to a suspicion of having committed a capital crime—and she did not exercise it. The appearance is that of a surrender by each of the power to injure the other; in short, of a bargain or agreement, involving collusion to suppress evidence.
“But this suggestion of collusion raises another question, which we shall consider later, but which we may note in passing. What was really the cause of Mr. Vardon’s death? Did he die from natural causes as the coroner’s jury believed and affirmed? Or was his death due to violence inflicted by Otway? It is by no means clear that Otway did not kill him, either inadvertently or with malice. And supposing Otway to have killed Mr. Vardon, was the fact known to Helen Otway? If it was, Otway’s easy compliance is the more readily understood; for he would be absolutely in his wife’s power. But we shall consider these points at more length presently, and perhaps we may get further light on them from the evidence of Dr. Thorndyke—if he should arrive before the verdict is agreed on.
“The next phase of this drama opens about two months after the marriage. On the 21st of June, the deceased received an anonymous letter, the first of a series of seven, which were sent thereafter at fairly regular intervals of about a fortnight. Now, let us consider those letters from various points of view in relation to their probable authorship. You have heard them read, and know their general purport. They all contain veiled threats to make certain exposures. Some are vague and some are more explicit, but there is a general crescendo note, culminating in the last letter, which pretty openly makes an accusation of murder and threatens criminal proceedings.
“First, what is the purpose of these letters? It is clearly not to levy blackmail. They hold out menaces, but there is no suggestion of an attempt to extort money. Those menaces are incomprehensible until we supply an explanatory fact. The man to whom these letters were sent suffered from a strong inherited predisposition to suicide. The very obvious inference to which we are forced, in the absence of any other explanation, is that the purpose of these letters was to convert that latent tendency into action—to produce a state of mind in which the deceased would be likely to take his own life.
“But that purpose implies knowledge on the part of the writer that this inherited tendency existed, and consequently limits the possible authorship to persons possessing such knowledge. The only persons known by us to possess such knowledge are deceased’s own family. His widow has sworn that she had no knowledge of this tendency, and if you believe her statement to be true, you will tend to exclude her from the possible authorship of these letters.
“Next we have to consider the characters of the letters themselves. They all bear the East-London postmark, but there is not much in that. Anonymous letter-writers commonly post their letters in districts remote from their own residences. Still, we must take it into consideration. The two persons known to us who occupy premises in East London are Morris Goldstein and Helen Otway.
“Then as to the style of the letters. They are rather markedly uneducated in manner. The composition is ungrammatical and the phraseology vulgar. But that does not help us much; for, on the one hand, none of the persons known to us is grossly uneducated, and on the other it is usual for anonymous letter-writers to disguise their personality. Obviously, it is easy enough for an educated person to write an apparently illiterate letter.
“The next point is a much more important one. We have decided that the purpose of these letters was to produce in the deceased a state of mind which would render his suicide probable. Now, what was the motive behind that purpose? Who could have wished deceased to commit suicide, and why should that person have wished it?
“The possible motives in this case are, in effect, the usual motives of murder, with full premeditation, viz:—Revenge, or hatred; direct profit; and indirect profit by the elimination of an undesired person. Let us consider each of these motives in relation to the known facts of this case.
“First as to hatred or revenge. The only persons known to us are the family of deceased and his wife. His family certainly had a grievance against him, for the children were illegitimate, and the mother was unmarried. But it was an old grievance, and the family appeared to be on quite amicable terms. The children were quite well provided for, and their mother continued to live with deceased. There was, indeed, a new factor of possible discord. The deceased had married, and that marriage was manifestly to the disadvantage of his family; a fact of which it is necessary to take due account.