by Michael Sims
That Mrs. Quinion, the housekeeper, was extremely devoted to the young man is certain; but the money she received as wages, and whatever private or other means she had, could not cover the demands made upon them by young Graham Petleigh, who certainly spent money, though where it came from was a matter of very great uncertainty.
From the portrait I saw of him, he must have been of a daring, roving, jovial disposition—a youngster not inclined to let duty come between him and his inclinations; one, in short, who would get more out of the world than he would give it.
The plate was carried up to town each year with the establishment, the boxes being under the special guardianship of the butler, who never let them out of his sight between the country and town houses. The man, I have heard, looked forward to those journeys with absolute fear.
From what I learnt, I suppose the convoy of plate boxes numbered well on towards a score.
Graham Petleigh sometimes accompanied his father to town, and at other times was sent to a relative in Cornwall. I believe it suited father and son better that the latter should be packed off to Cornwall in the parliamentary season, for in town the lad necessarily became comparatively expensive—an objection in the eyes of the father, while the son found himself in a world to which, thanks to the education he had received, he was totally unfitted.
Young Petleigh’s passion was horses, and there was not a farmer on the father’s estate, or in the neighbourhood of Tram, who was not plagued for the loan of this or that horse—for the young man had none of his own.
On my part, I believe if the youth had no self-respect, the want was in a great measure owing to the father having had not any for his son.
I know I need scarcely add, that when a man is passionately fond of horses generally he bets on those quadrupeds.
It did not call for many inquiries to ascertain that young Petleigh had “put” a good deal of money upon horses, and that, as a rule, he had been lucky with them. The young man wanted some excitement, some occupation, and he found it in betting. Have I said that after the young heir was taken from the school he was allowed to run loose? This was the case. I presume the father could not bring his mind to incurring the expense of entering his son at some profession.
Things then at Petleighcote were in this condition; the father neglectful and avaricious; the son careless, neglected, and daily slipping down the ladder of life; and the housekeeper, Mrs. Quinion, saying nothing, doing nothing, but existing, and perhaps showing that she was attached to her foster-sister’s son. She was a woman of much sound and discriminating sense, and it is certain that she expressed herself to the effect that she foresaw the young man was being silently, steadfastly, unceasingly ruined.
All these preliminaries comprehended, I may proceed to the action of this narrative.
It was the 19th of May (the year is unimportant), and early in the morning when the discovery was made, by the gardener to Squire Petleigh—one Tom Brown.
Outside the great hall-door, and huddled together in an extraordinary fashion, the gardener, at half-past five in the morning (a Tuesday), found lying a human form. And when he came to make an examination, he discovered that it was the dead body of the young squire.
Seizing the handle of the great bell, he quickly sounded an alarm, and within a minute the housekeeper herself and the one servant, who together numbered the household which slept at Petleighcote when the squire was in town, stood on the threshold of the open door.
The housekeeper was half-dressed, the servant wench was huddled up in a petticoat and a blanket.
The news spread very rapidly, by means of the gardener’s boy, who, wondering where his master was stopping, came loafing about the house, quickly to find the use of his legs.
“He must have had a fit,” said the housekeeper; and it was a flying message to that effect carried by the boy into the village, which brought the village doctor to the spot in the quickest possible time.
It was then found that the catastrophe was due to no fit.
A very slight examination showed that the young squire had died from a stab caused by a rough iron barb, the metal shaft of which was six inches long, and which still remained in the body.
At the inquest, the medical man deposed that very great force must have been used in thrusting the barb into the body, for one of the ribs had been half severed by the act. The stab given, the barb had evidently been drawn back with the view of extracting it—a purpose which had failed, the flanges of the barb having fixed themselves firmly in the cartilage and tissue about it. It was impossible the deceased could have turned the barb against himself in the manner in which it had been used.
Asked what this barb appeared like, the surgeon was unable to reply. He had never seen such a weapon before. He supposed it had been fixed in a shaft of wood, from which it had been wrenched by the strength with which the barb, after the thrust, had been held by the parts surrounding the wound.
The barb was handed round to the jury, and every man cordially agreed with his neighbour that he had never seen anything of the kind before; it was equally strange to all of them.
The squire, who took the catastrophe with great coolness, gave evidence to the effect that he had seen his son on the morning previous to the discovery of the murder, and about noon—seventeen and a half hours before the catastrophe was discovered. He did not know his son was about to leave town, where he had been staying. He added that he had not missed the young man; his son was in the habit of being his own master, and going where he liked. He could offer no explanation as to why his son had returned to the country, or why the materials found upon him were there. He could offer no explanation in any way about anything connected with the matter.
It was said, as a scandal in Tram, that the squire exhibited no emotion upon giving his evidence, and that when he sat down after his examination he appeared relieved.
Furthermore, it was intimated that upon being called upon to submit to a kind of cross-examination, he appeared to be anxious, and answered the few questions guardedly.
These questions were put by one of the jurymen—a solicitor’s clerk (of some acuteness it was evident), who was the Tram oracle.
It is perhaps necessary for the right understanding of this case, that these questions should be here reported, and their answers also.
They ran as follows:
“Do you think your son died where he was found?”
“I have formed no opinion.”
“Do you think he had been in your house?”
“Certainly not.”
“Why are you so certain?”
“Because had he entered the house, my housekeeper would have known of his coming.”
“Is your housekeeper here?”
“Yes.”
“Has it been intended that she should be called as a witness?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think your son attempted to break into your house?”
[The reason for this question I will make apparent shortly. By the way, I should, perhaps, here at once explain that I obtained all these particulars of the evidence from the county paper.]
“Do you think your son attempted to break into your house?”
“Why should he?”
“That is not my question. Do you think he attempted to break into your house?”
“No, I do not.”
“You swear that, Mr. Petleigh?”
[By the way, there was no love lost between the squire and the Tram oracle, for the simple reason that not any existed that could be spilt.]
“I do swear it.”
“Do you think there was anybody in the house he wished to visit clandestinely?”
“No.”
“Who were in the house?”
“Mrs. Quinion, my housekeeper, and one servant woman.”
“Is the servant here?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of a woman is she?”
“Really Mr. Mortoun you can see her and judge for you
rself.”
“So we can. I am only going to ask one question more.”
“I reserve to myself the decision whether I shall or shall not answer it.”
“I think you will answer it, Mr. Petleigh.”
“It remains, sir, to be seen. Put your question.”
“It is very simple—do you intend to offer a reward for the discovery of the murderer of your son?”
The squire made no reply.
“You have heard my question, Mr. Petleigh.”
“I have.”
“And what is your answer?”
The squire paused for some moments. I should state that I am adding the particulars of the inquest I picked up, or detected if you like better, to the information afforded by the county paper to which I have already referred.
“I refuse to reply,” said the squire.
Mortoun thereupon applied to the coroner for his ruling.
Now it appears evident to me that this juryman had some hidden motive in thus questioning the squire. If this were so, I am free to confess I never discovered it beyond any question of doubt. I may or I may not have hit on his motive. I believe I did.
It is clear that the question Mr. Mortoun urged was badly put, for how could the father decide whether he would offer a reward for the discovery of a murderer who did not legally exist till after the finding of the jury? And indeed it may furthermore be added that this question had no bearing upon the elucidation of the mystery, or at all events it had no apparent bearing upon the facts of the catastrophe.
It is evident that Mr. Mortoun was actuated in all probability by one of two motives, both of which were obscure. One might have been an attempt really to obtain a clue to the murder, the other might have been the endeavour to bring the squire, with whom it has been said he lived bad friends, into disrespect with the county.
The oracle-juryman immediately applied to the coroner, who at once admitted that the question was not pertinent, but nevertheless urged the squire as the question had been put to answer it.
It is evident that the coroner saw the awkward position in which the squire was placed, and spoke as he did in order to enable the squire to come out of the difficulty in the least objectionable manner.
But as I have said, Mr. Petleigh, all his incongruities and faults apart, was a clear-seeing man of a good and clear mind. As I saw the want of consistency in the question, as I read it, so he must have remarked the same failure when it was addressed to him.
For after patiently hearing the coroner to the end of his remarks, Petleigh said, quietly,——
“How can I say I will offer a reward for the discovery of certain murderers when the jury have not yet returned a verdict of murder?”
“But supposing the jury do return such a verdict?” asked Mortoun.
“Why then it will be time for you to ask your question.”
I learnt that the juryman smiled as he bowed and said he was satisfied.
It appears to me that at that point Mr. Mortoun must have either gained that information which fitted in with his theory, or, accepting the lower motive for his question, that he felt he had now sufficiently damaged the squire in the opinion of the county. For the reporters were at work, and every soul present knew that not a word said would escape publication in the county paper.
Mr. Mortoun however was to be worsted within the space of a minute.
“Have you ceased questioning me, gentlemen?” asked the squire.
The coroner bowed, it appeared.
“Then,” continued the squire, “before I sit down—and you will allow me to remain in the room until the inquiry is terminated—I will state that of my own free will which I would not submit to make public upon an illegal and a totally uncalled for attempt at compulsion. Should the jury bring in a verdict of murder against unknown persons, I shall not offer a reward for the discovery of those alleged murderers.”
“Why not?” asked the coroner, who I learnt afterwards admitted that the question was utterly unpardonable.
“Because,” said Squire Petleigh, “it is quite my opinion that no murder has been committed.”
According to the newspaper report these words were followed by “sensation.”
“No murder?” said the coroner.
“No; the death of the deceased was, I am sure, an accident.”
“What makes you think that, Mr. Petleigh?”
“The nature of the death. Murders are not committed, I should think, in any such extraordinary manner as that by which my son came to his end. I have no more to say.”
“Here,” says the report, “the squire took his seat.”
The next witness called—the gardener who had discovered the body had already been heard, and simply testified to the finding of the body—was Margaret Quinion, the housekeeper.
Her depositions were totally valueless from my point of view, that of the death of the young squire. She stated simply that she had gone to bed at the usual time (about ten) on the previous night, and that Dinah Yarton retired just previously, and to the same room. She heard no noise during the night, was disturbed in no way whatever until the alarm was given by the gardener.
In her turn Mrs. Quinion was now questioned by the solicitor’s clerk, Mr. Mortoun.
“Do you and this—what is her name?—Dinah Yarton; do you and she sleep alone at Petleighcote?”
“Yes—when the family is away.”
“Are you not afraid to do so?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Why should I be?”
“Well—most women are afraid to sleep in large lonely houses by themselves. Are you not afraid of burglars?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Simply because burglars would find so little at Petleighcote to steal that they would be very foolish to break into the house.”
“But there is a good deal of plate in the house—isn’t there?”
“It all goes up to town with Mr. Petleigh.”
“All, ma’am?”
“Every ounce—as a rule.”
“You say the girl sleeps in your room?”
“In my room.”
“Is she an attractive girl?”
“No.”
“Is she unattractive?”
“You will have an opportunity of judging, for she will be called as a witness, sir.”
“Oh; you don’t think, do you, that there was anything between this young person and your young master?”
“Between Dinah and young Mr. Petleigh?”
“Yes.”
“I think there could hardly be any affair between them, for [here she smiled] they have never seen each other—the girl having come to Petleighcote from the next county only three weeks since, and three months after the family had gone to town.”
“Oh; pray have you not expected your master’s son home recently?”
“I have not expected young Mr. Petleigh home recently—he never comes home when the family is away.”
“Was he not in the habit of coming to Petleighcote unexpectedly?”
“No.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“I know that for a fact.”
“Was the deceased kept without money?”
“I know nothing of the money arrangements between the father and son.”
“Well—do you know that often he wanted money?”
“Really—I decline to answer that question.”
“Well—did he borrow money habitually from you?”
“I decline also to answer that question.”
“You say you heard nothing in the night?”
“Not anything.”
“What did you do when you were alarmed by the gardener in the morning?”
“I am at a loss to understand your question.”
“It is very plain, nevertheless. What was your first act after hearing the catastrophe?”
[After some consideration.] “It is really almost impossible, I shoul
d say, upon such terrible occasions as was that, to be able distinctly to say what is one’s first act or words, but I believe the first thing I did, or the first I remember, was to look after Dinah.”
“And why could she not look after herself?”
“Simply because she had fallen into a sort of epileptic fit—to which she is subject—upon seeing the body.”
“Then you can throw no light upon this mysterious affair?”
“No light: all I know of it was the recognition of the body of Mr. Petleigh, junior, in the morning.”
The girl Dinah Yarton was now called, but no sooner did the unfortunate young woman, waiting in the hall of the publichouse at which the inquest was held, hear her name, than she swooped into a fit which totally precluded her from giving any evidence “except,” as the county paper facetiously remarked, “the proof by her screams that her lungs were in a very enviable condition.”
“She will soon recover,” said Mrs. Quinion, “and will be able to give what evidence she can.”
“And what will that be, Mrs. Quinion?” asked the solicitor’s clerk.
“I am not able to say, Mr. Mortoun,” she replied.
The next witness called (and here as an old police-constable I may remark upon the unbusiness-like way in which the witnesses were arranged)—the next witness called was the doctor.
His evidence was as follows, omitting the purely professional points. “I was called to the deceased on Tuesday morning, at near upon six in the morning. I recognized the body as that of Mr. Petleigh junior. Life was quite extinct. He had been dead about seven or eight hours, as well as I could judge. That would bring his death about ten or eleven on the previous night. Death had been caused by a stab, which had penetrated the left lung. The deceased had bled inwardly. The instrument which had caused death had remained in the wound, and stopped what little effusion of blood there would otherwise have been. Deceased literally died from suffocation, the blood leaking into the lungs and filling them. All the other organs of the body were in a healthy condition. The instrument by which death was produced is one with which I have no acquaintance. It is a kind of iron arrow, very roughly made, and with a shaft. It must have been fixed in some kind of handle when it was used, and which must have yielded and loosed the barb when an attempt was made to withdraw it—an attempt which had been made, because I found that one of the flanges of the arrow had caught behind a rib. I repeat that I am totaly unacquainted with the instrument with which death was effected. It is remarkably coarse and rough. The deceased might have lived a quarter of a minute after the wound had been inflicted. He would not in all probability have called out. There is no evidence of the least struggle having taken place—not a particle of evidence can I find to show that the deceased had exhibited even any knowledge of danger. And yet, nevertheless, supposing the deceased not to have been asleep at the time of the murder, for murder it undoubtedly was, or manslaughter, he must have seen his assailant, who, from the position of the weapon, must have been more before than behind him. Assuredly the death was the result of either murder or accident, and not the result of suicide, because I will stake my professional reputation that it would be quite impossible for any man to thrust such an instrument into his body with such a force as in this case has been used, as is proved by the cutting of a true bone-formed rib. Nor could a suicide, under such circumstances as those of the present catastrophe, have thrust the dart in the direction which this took. To sum up, it is my opinion that the deceased was murdered without, on his part, any knowledge of the murderer.”
