Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  CHAPTER III.

  Before the Coroner.

  THE coroner and jury assembled at an unusually early hour, for the convenience of Mr. Kene, who wished to be present. It had been thought that the only brother of the deceased, a clergyman, would have come down; but he had not arrived. After viewing the body, which lay still at Mrs. Jones’s, the proceedings commenced. Medical testimony was given as to the cause of death — a pistol-shot that had penetrated the heart The surgeon, Mr. Hurst, who had been called in at the first discovery on Tuesday morning, stated that to the best of his belief, death (which must have been instantaneous) had taken place early the previous evening, he should say about seven or eight o’clock. And this view was confirmed in rather a singular manner. Upon examining the quantity of oil in the lamp, which Mrs. Jones had herself filled, it was seen that it could not have burnt very much more than an hour: thus leaving it to be inferred that the deceased had put it out before committing the rash deed, and that it must have been done shortly after Mr. Bede Greatorex left him.

  Alletha Rye was called. She spoke to the fact of finding Mr. Ollivera, dead; and electrified the court, when questioned as to why she had gone to the sitting-room, seeing that it was an entirely unusual thing for her to do, by saying that she went in to see whether Mr. Ollivera was there dead, or not. In the quietest, most composed manner possible, she related her singular dream, saying it had sent her to the room.

  “Surely,” said the coroner, “you did not expect to see Mr. Ollivera dead?”

  “I cannot say I did; I went, rather, to convince myself he was not there dead,” was the witness’s answer. “But the dream had been so vivid that I could not shake it from my mind; it made me uneasy, although my better reason did not put any faith in it whatever that it could be true. That is why I went to the room. And Mr. Ollivera lay dead in his chair, exactly as I had seen him in my dream.”

  The coroner, a practical man, did not know what to make of this statement: such evidence had never been tendered him before, and he eyed the witness keenly. To see her stand there in her black robes, tall, upright, of really dignified demeanour, with her fair features and good looks — but there were dark circles round her eyes to-day, and the soft colour had left her cheeks — to hear her tell of this in her sensible, calm accents, was something marvellous.

  “Were you at home on the Monday night?” asked the coroner. And it may as well be remarked that some of the questions put by him during the inquest, miscellaneous queries that did not appear to be quite in order, or have much to do with the point in question, had very probably their origin in the various rumours that had reached him, and in the doubt breathed into his ears by Mr. Kene. The coroner did not in the least agree with Mr. Kene; rather pitied the barrister as a visionary, for allowing himself to glance at such a doubt; but he was fond of diving to the bottom of things. Living in the same town, knowing all the jury personally, in the habit of exchanging a word of news with Mrs. Jones whenever he met her, the coroner may have been excused if the proceedings were slightly irregular, involving some gossip as well as law.

  “No,” replied the witness. “Except that I ran in for a few minutes. I had been at work that afternoon at a neighbour’s, helping her to make a gown. I went in home to get a pattern.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I cannot be particular as to the exact time. It must have been nearly eight.”

  “Did you see the deceased then?”

  “No. I did not see any one except the servant. She was standing at the open street door. When I had been up stairs to get what I wanted I went out again.”

  “Did you hear any noise as you passed Mr. Ollivera’s rooms?”

  “Not any. I do not know anything more of the details, sir, than I have told you.”

  The next witness called was Mr. Bede Greatorex. He gave his evidence clearly, but at portions of it was evidently under the influence of some natural emotion, which he contrived to suppress. A man does not like to show such.

  “My name is Bede Greatorex. I am the son of Mr. Greatorex, the well-known London solicitor, and second partner in the firm Greatorex and Greatorex. The deceased, John Ollivera, was my cousin, his father and my mother having been brother and sister. A matter of business arose connected with a cause to be tried in the Nisi Prius Court, in which Mr. Ollivera was to be the leading counsel, and my father despatched me down on Monday to communicate with him. I arrived by the six o’clock evening train, and was with him before half-past six. We held a business conference together; I stayed about an hour with him, and then went back to my hotel. I never afterwards saw him alive.”

  “I must put a few questions to you with your permission, Mr. Greatorex, for the satisfaction of the jury,” observed the coroner.

  “Put as many as you like, sir; I will answer them to the best of my ability,” was the reply.

  “First of all — what was the exact hour at which you reached Mr. Ollivera’s rooms?”

  “I should think it must have been about twenty minutes after six. The train got in to time, six o’clock; I took a fly to the Star and Garter, and from thence walked at once to Mr. Ollivera’s lodgings, the people at the hotel directing me. The whole could not have taken above twenty minutes.”

  “And how long did you remain with him?”

  “An hour: perhaps rather more. I should think I left him about half-past seven. I was back at the hotel by a quarter to eight, having walked slowly, looking at the different features of the streets as I passed. I had never been in the town before.”

  “Well, now, Mr. Greatorex, what was the manner of the deceased while you were with him? Did you perceive anything unusual?”

  “Nothing at all. He was just as he always was, and very glad to see me. We” — the witness paused to swallow his emotion— “we had ever been the best of friends and companions. I thought him a little quiet, dull. As he sat, he bent his forehead on his hand and complained of headache, saying it had been close in court that day.”

  (“True enough,” murmured Mr. Kene.)

  “The news you brought down to him was not bad news?” questioned the coroner.

  “Quite the contrary. It was good: favourable to our cause.”

  “Did you see him write the note found on his table, or any portion of it?”

  “When the servant showed me into the room, he appeared to be writing a note. As he sat down after shaking hands with me, he put the blotting paper over what he had written. He did not take it off again, or write at all while I remained.”

  “Was it the same note, think you, that was afterwards found?”

  “I should think it likely. “ I noticed that some few lines only were written. About” — the witness paused a moment— “about the same quantity as in the first portion of the note.”

  “Did he put the blotting paper over it to prevent you seeing it, do you suppose, Mr. Greatorex?”

  “I do not know. I thought he was only afraid it might get blotted. The ink was wet.”

  “Did any one come in while you were with him?”

  “No. I wished him good night, intending to see him in the morning, and was shown out by some young man.”

  “Do you know to whom that note was written?”

  “I have not the slightest idea. Neither do I know to what it alludes.”

  “Then — your theory, I presume, is — that he added that blotted concluding line after your departure? In fact, just when he was on the point of committing the rash act?”

  “I do not see what else can be believed. The pen lay across the words when found, as if thrown there after writing them, and appeared to have caused the blots.”

  “Did he say anything to you about any appointment he had kept that afternoon?”

  “Not anything.”

  “And now about the pistol, Mr. Greatorex. Did you see one on the table?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did it not strike you as singular that it should be there?”

  “Not at all. Mr. Ol
livera never travelled anywhere without a pistol; it was a fancy he had. Some years ago, when in a remote part of Spain, he was attacked in his chamber at night, robbed, and rather seriously hurt; since then he has always when travelling taken a pistol with him. I asked him what brought it on the table, and he said he had been putting a drop of oil on the lock.”

  “Did you know that it was loaded?”

  “I did not. I really did not think much about it, one way or the other. We were busy over the business on which I came down: and I knew, as I have said, that he used to carry a pistol with him in travelling.”

  “Then — in point of fact, Mr. Greatorex, you can throw no positive light on this affair for us?”

  The witness shook his head. “I wish I could. I have told you all I know.”

  “Do you think there can be any reasonable doubt — any doubt whatever — that he committed suicide?”

  “I fear there can be none,” replied Mr. Greatorex, in a low tone, and he shivered perceptibly as he gave it. It was a crime which Bede Greatorex had always held in shrinking, pitying abhorrence.

  “One question more, and then we will release you and thank you for the clear manner in which you have given your evidence,” said the coroner. “Did you see cause to suspect in that last interview that his mind was otherwise than in a sane sate?”

  “Oh no; certainly not.”

  “It was calm and clear as usual, for all you saw?”

  “Quite so.”

  “Stay. There’s one other point. Was the deceased in any kind of embarrassment, so far as your cognizance goes, pecuniary, or else?”

  “I feel quite sure that he was in no pecuniary embarrassment whatever,” returned the witness warmly, anxious to do justice to his cousin’s memory. “As to any other kind of embarrassment, I cannot speak. I am aware of none; and I should think he was one of the least likely men to get into any.”

  That was all. Mr. Bede Greatorex bowed to the coroner and gave place to another witness. A little dark woman in black, with an old-fashioned black chip bonnet on, and silver threads beginning to mix with her black hair; but her eyebrows were very black still. Certainly no two women could present a greater contrast in appearance than she and Miss Rye, although they were sisters.

  “Your name is Julia Jones,” began the coroner’s man, who knew Mrs. Jones intimately in private life.

  “Yes, it is Julia Jones,” emphatically replied the lady, in a tart voice, and with an accent on the “Jones,” as if the name grated on her tongue. And Mrs. Jones was sworn.

  After some preliminary evidence, touching Mr. Ollivera’s previous visits to her, and the length of time he had stayed, which she entered upon of her own accord and was not checked, Mrs. Jones was asked what she knew of the calamity. How it was first brought to her knowledge.

  “The first was through my sister Alletha Rye shrieking out from the first-floor landing below, a little before seven o’clock on Tuesday morning,” responded Mrs. Jones, in the same tart tone; which was, in fact, habitual to her. “I was in my bed-room, the front room on the second floor, dressed up to my petticoat, and out I flew, thinking she must be on fire. She said something about Mr. Ollivera, and I ran down, and saw him lying in the chair. Jones’s nephew, in his waistcoat and shirt-sleeves, and his face all in a lather, for he was shaving, got into the room when I did.”

  “When did you see the deceased last, Mrs. Jones?” was the next question put, after the witness had described the appearance of the room, the pistol on the carpet, the blotted note on the table, the quantity of oil in the lamp, and so forth.

  “When did I see him last? why on the Monday afternoon, when he came in from court responded Mrs. Jones. “I was crossing the hall at the foot of the stairs, between the parlour and the shop, as he came in. He looked tired, and I said so; and he answered that he had been about all day, in the court and elsewhere, and was tired. That’s when I saw him last: never after, till I saw him in his chair, dead.”

  “You heard nothing of his movements on that evening?”

  “I wasn’t likely to hear it, seeing I went out as soon as the shop was shut. Before it, in fact, for I left Jones’s nephew to put up the shutters. Old Jenkins is dying, as all the parish knows, and I went to sit with him and take him some beef-tea. Jones’s nephew, he went out too, to his debating club, as he calls it. And precious debating it must be,” continued Mrs. Jones, with additional tartness, “if the debaters are all as green and soft as he! Alletha Rye, she was at work at Mrs. Wilson’s: and so, as ill-luck had it, all the house was out.”

  “Except your servant, Susan Marks,” observed one of the jury. “She was left at home to keep house, we hear.”

  “And in a very pretty manner she did keep it!” retorted Mrs. Jones, as if she had taken a pint of vinegar to set her teeth on edge; while Susan Marks, at the back, gave a kind of groan, and burst into fresh tears. “Up the street here, down the street there, over the way at the doors yonder, staring, and gossiping, and gampusing — that’s how she kept it. And on an assize night, of all nights in the year, to be airing her cap in the street, when barristers and other loose characters are about!”

  The gratuitous compliment paid to the barristers raised a laugh, in spite of the sad enquiry the court had met upon. Mrs. Jones’s epithet sounded, however, worse to others than to herself.

  “And she could tell me, when I got in just before eleven, that Mr. Ollivera had gone to bed!” resumed that lady, in intense aggravation: “which, of course, I believed, and we all went up to our rooms, suspecting nothing. Let me ever catch her out at the street door again! home she’ll go to Upton Snodsbury.”

  Groans from the back, in the vicinity of Susan Marks.

  “Had you known previously, Mrs. Jones, that Mr. Ollivera was in the habit of bringing with him a loaded pistol?”

  “Yes; for he told me. One day last October, when I was up dusting his drawing-room, he had got it out of the case. I said I should not like to have such a weapon near me, and he laughed at that. He used to keep it on the chest of drawers in his bed-room: that is, the case; and I suppose the thing itself was inside.”

  “Your husband was not at home when this unfortunate event happened, Mrs. Jones?”

  “No, he was not,” assented Mrs. Jones; and it was as if she had swallowed a whole gallon of vinegar now. “He has been off to Wales last week and this, and is as likely as not to be there next.”

  Another question or two, not of much import, and Mrs. Jones gave place to her husband’s nephew. He was known in the town for a steady, well-conducted young man, quite trustworthy. He had not very much to tell.

  “My name is Alfred Jones,” he said, “and I live with my uncle, Richard Jones, as assistant in the shop—”

  “ — Which wouldn’t want any assistant at all, if Jones stayed at home and stuck to his duties,” put in Mrs. Jones’s sharp voice, from the back. Upon which she was admonished to hold her tongue: and the witness continued.

  “On Monday night, I put up the shutters at seven, as usual in the winter season; I changed my coat, washed my hands, and went to the debating club in Goose Lane. Soon after I got there I found I had forgotten a book that I ought to have taken back to the club’s library. The time for my keeping it was up, and as we are fined twopence if we keep a book over time, I went back to get it. It was then halfpast seven. The street door was open, and Susan, the servant, was standing at it outside. As I ran up the stairs, the book being in my bed-room at the top of the house, I heard the drawing-room door open just after I passed it; I turned my head, and saw a gentleman come out. He—”

  “Did you know him, witness?”

  “No, sir, he was a stranger to me. I know him now for Mr. Greatorex. He was talking to Mr. Ollivera. They were making an appointment for the next morning.”

  “Did you hear what was said?”

  “Yes, sir. As I looked round at the gentleman he was turning his head back to the room, and said, ‘Yes, you may rely upon my coming early; I’ll be here be
fore nine o’clock. Good night, John.” Those were, I think, the exact words, sir.”

  “Did you see Mr. Ollivera?”

  “No, sir, he did not come out, and the gentleman only pushed the door back a little while he spoke. If it had been wide open I couldn’t have seen in; I was too far, some two or three steps up the stairs. I turned back then to attend Mr. Greatorex to the street door. After that I ran up for my book, and left the house again. I was not two minutes in it altogether.”

  “Did you see Mr. Ollivera as you came down?”

  “No, sir. The drawing-room door was closed, as Mr. Greatorex had left it. I never saw or heard of Mr. Ollivera again until Miss Rye’s screams brought me down the next morning. That is all I know.”

  “At what hour did you go home on Monday evening?”

  “It was close upon eleven, sir. We generally disperse at half-past ten, but we stayed late that night. Mrs. Jones and Miss Rye had not long come in, and were in the sitting-room.”

  The next witness called was Susan Marks. The young woman, what with her own heinous offences on the eventful night, the dreadful calamity itself, and the reproaches of her mistress, had been in a state of tears ever since, fresh bursts breaking forth at the most unseasonable times.

  Susan Marks, aged nineteen, native of Upton Snodsbury, cook and servant-of-all-work to Mrs. Jones. Such was the young woman’s report of herself, as well as could be heard for her sobs and tears. She was attired neatly and well; in a print mourning gown and straw bonnet trimmed with black; her face, that would otherwise have been fresh and clear, had small patches of red upon it, the result of the many tears and of perpetual rubbing.

  “Now, young woman,” said the coroner briskly, as if he thought time was being lost, “what have you to tell us of the events of Monday night?”

  “Nothing, sir,” replied the young woman, in a fresh burst of grief that could be called nothing Jess than a howl. “I never see Mr. Ollivera at all after I showed the gentleman up to him.”