“Yes. I knew that his doctor had warned him to avoid all excitement and exertion on account of the weak state of his heart.”
“You did not hear what passed between your father and Mr. Otway?”
“I heard my father ask where I was, and I heard Mr. Otway tell him that the marriage had taken place.”
“Did you hear anything more?”
“My father then called Mr. Otway a scoundrel, and was still speaking loudly and angrily when the study door closed and I heard no more.”
“What made you go to the study?”
“I heard and felt the shock when my father fell.”
“Would you mind telling us again in what condition you found your father?”
“He appeared to be dead. His face was at first a livid grey, but it faded to marble whiteness as I looked at him. There was a small wound on the right side of his forehead and a drop of blood had run down on to his cheek and on his temple.”
The coroner glanced at the jurymen. “I think, gentlemen,” he said, “that is all we need ask Mrs. Otway?”
And when the foreman had acquiesced, and he had thanked me for “the very clear and lucid manner” in which I had given my evidence, I was permitted to resume my seat.
“I can never thank you enough, Helen,” whispered Mr. Otway, as I sat down. “You managed admirably—admirably.”
To this I made no reply; for now that the ordeal was over I began to be assailed by certain doubts as to whether I had been quite candid. I had told all that was really material to the inquiry; but—however, at this point Dr. Sharpe approached the table and picked up the Testament.
His evidence practically settled the verdict. He testified that my father had suffered for some years from a dilated heart and arterial degeneration. “I warned him frequently to avoid excitement and undue exertion, for he was inclined to be careless and take liberties with himself.”
“You considered his state of health precarious?”
“I thought he might fall down dead at any moment.”
“You have heard the evidence of the two previous witnesses. Does that evidence contain any suggestion to you as to the cause of death?”
“It suggests to me that the deceased hurried to Mr. Otway’s house in a towering rage, and that, during the interview, he worked himself up into a fury. I should say that the combined exertion and excitement brought on a fatal attack of syncope.”
“You think that death was caused by heart failure?”
“I have no doubt of it.”
Dr. Bury’s evidence was much to the same effect, though less positive.
“The deceased had apparently been dead about half an hour when I arrived. The cause of death was not obvious, but the appearances were consistent with the account given by Mr. Otway. There was a small, contused wound at the junction of the forehead and right temple, apparently caused by the violent impact of some hard and blunt body. Judging by the small amount of bleeding, the wound had been sustained immediately before death. A single drop of blood had trickled down on to the cheek, and one or two drops on to the temple.”
“You have heard Mr. Otway’s account of the way in which that wound was occasioned. Do you consider that the appearances are in agreement with that account?”
“There is no disagreement. The appearance of the wound was consistent with its production in the manner described.”
“Would you say that it was probably so produced?”
“That,” replied Dr. Bury, “is a question for the jury. It might have been. I can’t go beyond the appearances.”
“No, of course you can’t. And is that all that you have to tell us?”
“That is all,” was the reply; and this virtually brought the inquiry to an end. After a brief summing-up by the coroner, the jury held an equally brief consultation and then unanimously returned a verdict of “Death from natural causes.”
On the announcement of the verdict everyone rose, including myself and Mr. Otway, and the latter, turning to me, said in a low voice:
“I think I won’t wait. I want to get home and be quiet; but I shall call on you tomorrow, if I may, to make—ah—any—ah—arrangements that—ah—in fact, to speak to you about the—ah—the funeral.”
“Very well,” I said, reluctantly—for, deeply as I loathed him, I could not exclude him even from that sacred ceremony without creating an open scandal. “You had better come early in the forenoon.” and with this I dismissed him with a stiff bow, and made my way to where Mr. Jackson and Dr. Thorndyke were standing. As I held out my hand to the latter and recalled to him our meeting years ago, Mr. Jackson said: “Dr. Thorndyke happened to be in Maidstone today and to call at our office, so I prevailed on him to come here and watch the proceedings on our behalf in case any complications should arise. But everything has gone off quite smoothly.”
“Very smoothly indeed,” Dr. Thorndyke agreed, with, as it seemed to me, a certain degree of emphasis.
“Both the coroner and the jury were most considerate,” pursued Mr. Jackson.
“Most considerate,” assented Dr. Thorndyke; and again I seemed to detect a note of emphasis, as also, I think, did Mr. Jackson, for he glanced quickly at our companion, though he made no remark.
“I wonder,” said I, “if you two gentlemen would care to come and take a cup of tea with me?”
Mr. Jackson had an engagement at the office, and as Dr. Thorndyke appeared to hesitate, I added quickly: “I should be very glad if you could, though I don’t wish to take up your time if you are busy.”
“My time is my own for the next three hours,” said Dr. Thorndyke, “and if I should really not be an inopportune visitor, I should like very much to have tea with you.”
“Let us go, then,” said I. “Mr. Jackson will accompany us as far as Gabriel’s Hill, won’t you?” And as my old friend assented with a prim, little bow, we set forth.
“I have offered no condolences, Mrs. Otway,” said Dr. Thorndyke. “I knew your father, I saw you and him together, and I realize what this loss must mean to you. There is nothing to say except that you have my most real sympathy.”
“Thank you,” I said, and for a time we walked on in silence. And as we walked I found myself recalling, with a strong, speculative interest, that curious, subtle emphasis which Dr. Thorndyke had conveyed into his agreement with Mr. Jackson. At length, when we had dropped the latter near the Town Hall, I summoned up courage to raise the question.
“I have an impression, Dr. Thorndyke, which may be quite a mistaken one, that you were not completely satisfied with the way in which the inquest was conducted. Am I mistaken?”
“Well,” he replied, slowly, “the coroner’s methods were not what one would call rigorous.”
“I suppose they were not. But in what respect are you disposed to find fault with them?”
“Principally,” he replied, “in his failure to elicit a really conclusive verdict. The verdict of the jury was based upon Dr. Sharpe’s opinion as to the cause of death. That opinion was probably correct, but it was based upon reasoning which was not sound. His position was this: If certain circumstances—excitement or exertion—should arise, there would be a great probability of their causing sudden death. But those circumstances had actually arisen and sudden death had actually followed. Therefore the death was due to the factors of the said circumstances. But this conclusion is fallacious. It does not prove a fact: it merely indicates a probability.”
“But are not all verdicts statements of probability?”
“Too often they are. But it is a coroner’s business to bring the conclusions of his court, as far as possible, into the region of ascertained fact. The immediate cause of death can usually be demonstrated by scientific methods, and the inquiry can then be built up on a foundation of certainty. Opinion should never be accepted where knowledge is obtainable.”
“Do you think, then, that the verdict was not a proper one?”
“I am not criticizing the verdict,” he replied, “but the me
thods by which it was arrived at. I think that the cause of death should have been established beyond all doubt before any contributory circumstances were inquired into.”
“But otherwise; apart from that one point?”
“I thought the examination of the witnesses rather easy going. No doubt it elicited all the relevant facts. But that is impossible to decide on. One cannot judge of the relevancy of a fact until one has got the fact. I think, for instance, that most counsel would have pressed your husband a good deal more closely. The coroner appeared to decide that the matter was not relevant without being quite clear as to what matter he was dealing with.”
This, I must confess, had been my own impression, but I had been so relieved at the manner in which the difficult passages had been allowed to pass that I had been little disposed to criticise the considerate and sympathetic coroner. Nor did it seem quite safe to pursue the present discussion much farther, for it was tending in a rather dangerous direction. My own reservations began to weigh on me somewhat—and Dr. Thorndyke was not quite the same type of listener as the coroner. Nevertheless, the conversation pleased me, though I could not but be struck by the oddity of this detached discussion of a matter which was of such vital moment to me. But that very oddity was itself an element of gratification; for a woman is naturally flattered when an intellectual man appears to credit her with the power of impartial judgment of her own conduct and affairs—that faculty not being one by which our sex is peculiarly distinguished.
But at this point, our discussion was brought naturally to an end by our arrival at my house—as I must now call it; and here a quick glance of surprised recognition on my companion’s part gave me a new note of warning and prepared me for the inevitable question.
“You are living at your father’s house, I see.”
“I am, for the present. Mr. Otway remains in his own house.”
“Yes. I suppose it will be more convenient to settle everything up here before joining your husband.”
I was on the point of temporising by a vague assent; but my lips refused to frame the implied falsehood. It may have been my natural dislike of secrecy and concealment, it may be that my womanly pride resented the very idea of association with that unwieldy human spider. At any rate, an irresistible impulse drove me to say:
“I am not going to join my husband at all, Dr. Thorndyke. I am not going to live with Mr. Otway.”
I did not look at Dr. Thorndyke as I made this statement, and he made no comment beyond a matter-of-fact “Indeed.” But I had the feeling that, in the silence that followed, he was fitting this new fact into its place in some ordered scheme; that he was docketting it as an appendix to Mr. Otway’s evidence.
Nothing more was said until we had entered the house and I had given instructions for tea to be brought to the study. But in that interval I was aware of a growing impulse to have done with this miserable secrecy—this sordid fencing and dodging, which must come, in the end, to downright lying—and tell this strong, wise man the whole wretched story. Besides, I wanted counsel and guidance: and who was so fit to give them as he?
Accordingly, when the tray had been laid on the study table, I re-opened the subject.
“I did not mention this matter in my evidence,” I said. “It had no bearing on the inquiry.”
“I am not clear,” he replied, “that you were entitled to make any reservations. A witness’s duty is to state the whole truth. The question of relevancy is for the court to consider.”
“But unfortunately there were other reservations that had to be made. Dr. Thorndyke, I want to tell you the whole story—in confidence—and to ask your advice.”
“I counsel you to make no confidences,” he said, gravely, “unless you really wish to consult me in my professional capacity.”
“That is what I wish to do,” I said.
“Very well,” said he. “That places us in the secure relation of lawyer and client; and I need not say that your father’s daughter is very welcome to any help or advice that I can give.”
With this encouragement, I poured forth the story that I have told in these pages and in almost as much detail. But still I held back one fact. I said nothing of my having found Mr. Otway grasping my father’s loaded stick. That single reservation had to be. Not only was I bound by a solemn promise; my silence on that point was the price of my release. The letter of the covenant, indeed, had reference only to my evidence at the inquest; but its spirit sealed my lips even in this my most intimate confidence.
And so, once again, a secret guarded from a friendly eye remained, like a seed dropped in a summer’s drought, to germinate and bring forth its fruit in its season.
CHAPTER X
The Turning of the Page
Dr. Thorndyke listened to my recital of the history of the tragedy, not only with patience, but with close attention and apparently keen interest, interrupting me only at rare intervals to ask a question or elucidate some point that was not quite clear. When I had come to an end I was disposed to be apologetic, for I had told the story in the fullest detail, with only the single reservation that I have noted.
“I am afraid,” I said, “that I have been rather victimizing you and trespassing on your very great patience.”
“By no means,” he replied. “Men and men’s actions and motives are my merchandise. If I could listen to a story like yours without the deepest interest I should not be in my present profession. But, now that I have heard it, I think I can guess the subject on which you wish to consult me. You would like to annul your marriage with Mr. Otway.”
“Yes; if it is possible.”
“It is very natural that you should wish to recover your freedom. I sympathize with you entirely, and I wish I could give you some encouragement. But I fear that you have no remedy.”
“It seems rather hard,” I said, “that I should be bound for life to this man whom I detest and who has done me such grievous injuries.”
“It is very hard,” he agreed, “and, humanly speaking, there ought to be some remedy. But the law provides none; nor is it really possible for the law to make provision for every imaginable contingency. Yours is a very exceptional case.”
“Yes, I see that; but it seems unreasonable to compel two people to maintain a relationship which is not only unsuitable but quite unreal.”
“It does,” he admitted. “But the law takes a very unsentimental view of these matters. It regards marriage as an institution concerned with the establishment of families and the orderly devolution of property, and its interference is, in the main, limited to circumstances connected with that assumed function. Of the human aspects of marriage it takes little account. In a purely legal sense—which is what we are considering—your position is this: You were competent to contract a marriage and you did contract one, of your own free will, without any compulsion or misrepresentation that the law would recognise. The circumstances that appeared to exist before the marriage still appear to exist. No new facts have come to light which would affect the competence of either party. It is a case in which one of the parties has disregarded the old legal maxim, Caveat emptor—buyer beware! You bought, at a high price, something which turns out to be of no value. You agreed to marry Mr. Otway for a consideration—the release of your father from his embarrassments—which seemed to be valuable enough to justify the great sacrifice that you contemplated. But it turned out that your father needed no release; and the consideration thereupon ceased to have any value. As far as the law is concerned, you have simply made a very bad bargain.”
“Does the law attach no importance to fraud?” I demanded.
“But has there been fraud?” he objected. “No representations, true or false, were made to you by Mr. Otway. You acted on knowledge which you assumed that you possessed. You laid down the conditions; he accepted them. You demanded a certain consideration; he furnished the consideration demanded. Even with regard to the letter from your father, we may—and do—suspect that he knew that it was in the box
, and probably guessed at its contents. But we have no proof. Moreover, if he did know that it was there—even if he had opened it and read it, he was under no obligation to communicate its contents to you. Your agreement made no such provision. It laid down specific conditions, and with these Mr. Otway had fully complied. On the plea of fraud, I am afraid you would have no case.”
“Apparently not,” I agreed. “You are most horribly convincing, Dr. Thorndyke.”
“I am putting the case as a lawyer, and very much against my own feeling as a man. But my present office is rather like that of a Devil’s Advocate in a theological council. I think that this marriage ought to be annulled, but I am sure that, in point of law, it is not voidable.
“But there is yet another aspect of the case, and you must forgive me if I put it rather bluntly. There are not many women to whom I should have spoken in as downright a fashion as I have to you, and I shall continue to pay you this rather unpleasant compliment. Mrs. Otway, even if, legally speaking, you had a case, you could not take it into court.”
“Why not?” I asked, more than a little startled.
“Because of the incidents of the inquest. You have spoken of certain reservations in your evidence. But in the case of Mr. Otway there was more than reservation. There was deliberate mis-statement, and that, too, in respect of a question that was highly material to the inquiry. He was asked the reason of your father’s resentment of this marriage, and he stated it to be the disparity of age. But that was not the reason, and he knew it was not. Your father would have raised no obstacle if you had really wished to marry Mr. Otway. He resented the marriage because it had been brought about by means which he regarded as—morally speaking—fraudulent. Mr. Otway’s evidence was false evidence, and it was deliberately given with the intention of misleading the jury.”
“But it was a small point and of no importance. Besides, Mr. Otway’s evidence is no concern of mine.”
“Pardon me,” Dr. Thorndyke objected, gravely, “the point was of very great importance. It would have started a train of entirely new issues. And Mr. Otway’s evidence is very much your concern. You heard it given, you were asked if you confirmed it, and you did confirm it. There upon, Mr. Otway’s evidence became your evidence.
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