“My dear Helen,
I have not troubled you for quite a long time with my miserable affairs—which are to some extent your affairs too. But they are going from bad to worse, and now I feel that I am coming to the limits of endurance. I cannot bear this much longer. My health is shattered, my peace of mind is wrecked and my brain threatens to give way. Death would be a boon, a relief, and I feel that it is not far off. I cannot go on like this. Those wretches will not leave me in peace. Hardly a week passes but I get some new menace and now—but I can’t tell you in a letter. It is too horrible, Come to me, Helen, for the love of God! I am in torment! Have pity on me, even though you have never forgiven me. I cannot come to you, for I am now unable to leave my bed. I am a wreck, a ruin. Come to me just this once, and if you cannot help me, at least give me the comfort of your sympathy. You will not be troubled by me much longer.
“‘Your distracted husband,
“‘LEWIS OTWAY.’”
When the coroner finished reading the letter (which evidently made a deep impression on the jury) he looked at me gravely.
“Before passing to the next letter, I must ask one or two questions about this one. What did you understand from the phrases ‘I feel that it (death) is not far off. I cannot go on like this. You will not be troubled by me much longer.’ Did they not suggest to you an intention to commit suicide?”
“No. I understood them as referring to his state of health.”
“If you had known of the family tendency to suicide, how would you have understood these passages?”
“I should have suspected that he contemplated suicide.”
“But you say you were not aware of this tendency?”
“No, I was not.”
“He refers to his ‘miserable affairs—which are to some extent your affairs too.’ What did you understand him to mean by that?”
“I understood him to refer to the fact that I was partly responsible for the omission of certain details in the evidence at the inquest.”
“When you received this pitiful letter, what did you do?”
“I went to him the same day to find out what the trouble was. He then showed me an anonymous letter that he had received.”
“Is this the one?” the coroner asked, handing it to me; and when I had glanced at it and identified it, he proceeded to read it to the jury.
“‘Mr. Lewis Otway,
“‘Some funny questions are being asked. What about Mr. Vardon’s stick?—the loaded stick with the silver knob to hide the lead loading? Where is it? Somebody says they know where it is and who’s got it. And they say there is a bruise on the silver-top, and they say something about a smear of blood and a grey hair sticking to it, Do you know anything about that? If you don’t you’d better find out. Because I think you will hear from that somebody before you are many weeks older or else from the police.
“A WELL WISHER.’”
As he laid down the letter, the coroner looked at me curiously.
“There are one or two important questions, Mrs. Otway,” said he, “that arise out of this letter. The first is, What has become of this stick?”
“I don’t know what has become of it. I saw Mrs. Gregg replace it in the corner by the writing table and never saw it again. The deceased asked me the same question when he showed me the letter; but I reminded him that I did not take the stick with me when I left his house and that I never went to the house again.”
“It never occurred to you to ask what had become of your father’s stick?”
“No. I always assumed that it was in Mr. Otway’s possession.”
“You have told us that Mrs. Gregg had seen the stick in Mr. Otway’s house. Had anyone else seen it there?”
“I don’t know of anyone else having seen it; but, of course, it may have been seen there by other persons. I know nothing of what went on in that house. I never entered it after my father’s death.”
“With the exception of Mr. Otway and yourself, did anyone know that you had seen that stick in Mr. Otway’s hand on the occasion of your father’s death?”
“So far as I am aware, no one else knew.”
“There is a statement in that letter referring to a bruise on the silver knob and a smear of blood with a grey hair sticking to it. Is it possible, so far as you know, that that statement might be true?
“I cannot say that it is impossible.”
“After your father’s death, did you examine the stick?”
“No. I saw it in Mrs. Gregg’s hands, but I did not look at it closely.”
At this point a police superintendent who had been sitting near to the coroner’s table, rose, and, approaching the table, stooped over it and spoke to the coroner in a low voice. The latter listened attentively and nodded once or twice, and when the superintendent had returned to his seat he addressed me.
“I think that will do, Mrs. Otway—for the present, at any rate. We may have to ask you one or two questions later. Do any of the jury wish to ask anything before the witness sits down?
As none of the jury responded, I returned to my seat, and the coroner then recalled Mrs. Gregg.
“You have heard the last witness state that she saw you take up Mr. Vardon’s stick. What made you examine that stick?”
“I did not examine it. I noticed it standing in the corner and saw that it was a strange stick—that it was not Mr. Otway’s. I took it out of the corner to look at it and then noticed that it was heavily loaded at the top.”
“Can you say whether there was or was not a bruise or a blood smear on the knob?”
“I cannot. I did not look closely at the knob. I just picked the stick up, felt its weight and put it back in the corner.”
“Did you know that Mr. Otway had had that stick in his hand when Mr. Vardon fell dead?”
“No. I never heard of that until today.”
“Could anyone other than Mrs. Otway have known, so far as you are able to say?
“I can’t say. I should think not. I did not get back to the house until it was all over. But I thought, and believe, that there was no one in the house but those three—Mrs. Otway and her husband and her father.”
“Do you know what became of that stick?”
“I do not. I put it back in the corner and never saw it again. It was not in the corner when I tidied up the room the next day.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gregg. That will do.”
Having dismissed the witness, the coroner turned to the jury.
“I had hoped, gentlemen,” said he, “to finish the case today, but, as you have seen, its apparent simplicity was rather illusory. Some rather curious issues have arisen which will have to be considered in detail. Moreover, there appears to be a suspicion that property of very great value has been removed from the premises—at least, it seems to be missing. Under these circumstances, the police authorities ask for an adjournment to enable them to make some enquiries; and I am sure you will agree with me that this, and certain other matters, should be cleared up before a verdict is returned. I therefore propose to adjourn the enquiry for fourteen days.”
The court rose, and I rose with it. As I stood up and turned towards the door I saw Jasper standing at the back of the hall. He made no sign, nor did I; and as soon as our eyes had met, he turned and walked out. I did not attempt to follow, for I understood at once that he did not consider it desirable that we should recognise one another in this place. Moreover, I was detained for a minute or two by the coroner, who informed me, with a curious dry civility, that he wished me to attend at the adjourned meeting of the court, as further evidence from me might be required and after him, by Mr. Isaacs, who, as executor, was responsible for the funeral arrangements and who promise to inform me when the date had been fixed.
As I emerged from the gateway I glanced up the street with a wistfulness which I would hardly acknowledge to myself. But, of course, Jasper was already out of sight. Feeling very lonely, weary and exhausted, I walked slowly down Drury Lane considering what I
should do next. And suddenly there came on me a longing for the quiet and comfort of the club. It was quite near; and once there I could wash, refresh and rest in peace, alone, or at least among civilised people. And it was even possible that Jasper might be there.
At this thought I must have unconsciously quickened my pace, for a few minutes later found me passing through the entrance hall, telling myself that, of course, Jasper would not have come there. Nevertheless as I opened the door to the large room my eye instantly sought the familiar table in the corner; and when I saw Jasper sitting by it with a wishful gaze fixed on the door, my weariness and loneliness seemed to drop from me like a garment.
CHAPTER XXV
Suspense—and a Discovery
“I had hoped,” said Jasper, as we met by the table, “that you would come on here. I had to take the chance. You understood why I made myself scarce as soon as you had seen me?”
“I assumed that you thought it better that we should not be seen together just at present.”
“It is more than unadvisable,” said he. “It is vitally important. We will talk about that letter—but not here. There is a lot that I have to say to you, but we had better have our talk where we cannot be seen, or possibly overheard. I propose that I run off now—nobody has seen us here yet—and wait for you at my chambers. You just have a wash to freshen you up and come along at once. Don’t stop for tea; I will have some ready for you. And you had better come by the least frequented way. Go down the Embankment, up Middle Temple Lane, along Crown Office Row, cross King’s Bench Walk to Mitre Court, come out into Fleet Street by Mitre Court Passage, cross to Fetter Lane and into Clifford’s Inn by the postern gate.”
“All this sounds very secret and mysterious,” said I.
“It is necessary,” he replied. “We mustn’t be seen together if we can help it. Remember the jury and other interested parties are local men, and might easily run against us in the public thoroughfares. So I will run off now and you will come along as soon as you can.”
To this arrangement I agreed, although the precautions seemed to me somewhat excessive, and he hurried away while I went in quest of hot water and the other means of ablution.
The process of purification did not take long, for the temptation to linger luxuriously over the ceremonial of the toilet was combated by curiosity and anxiety to rejoin Jasper. In a few minutes I emerged, greatly refreshed and sensible of a very healthy appetite, and set forth by the prescribed route towards Clifford’s Inn, reflecting earnestly as I went on Jasper’s rather mysterious attitude. I did not have to ply the knocker, for as I reached the landing I found Jasper standing at his open door.
“Now,” said he, when I had entered and he had softly closed both the massive “oak” and the inner door, “we are secure from observers and eavesdroppers, and we can pow-wow at any length we please.”
“You are very secret and portentous,” I remarked. “What is it all about?”
“The secrecy and portentosity,” he replied, “are possibly by-products of a legal training. We will discuss that presently. Meanwhile, the need of the moment is to provide nourishment for a starving angel.”
He placed an easy chair for me by the fire, and then retired to the little kitchen, from which issued a gentle din of crockery very grateful to my ear. Presently he emerged with a tray on which were a teapot and two covers, and having deposited it on a small table, placed the latter by my chair and removed the covers with a flourish.
“There is only one cup and one plate,” said I, noting that the “nourishment” had been provided on a scale of opulence appropriate to masculine conceptions of appetite.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Jasper. “How many cups and plates do you generally use?”
“Go and get another plate and cup and saucer,” I commanded, severely.
When he had made the necessary addition to the table appointments, he drew up a second armchair, and, as he poured out the tea, he said, gravely: “We have had a long probation, Helen, dearest—at least, it seems so to me; and it is not over yet. But this little interlude should hearten us for what remains. To me it is a glimpse into a future of perfect happiness and comradeship. Do you realise, Helen, that we are now a normal, engaged couple, free to marry when we choose?
Of course I had realised that we were free; but as I thought of the shrouded figure that even now reposed under its sheet in the mortuary, I doubted whether the word “normal” was fully applicable.
“It is perfect peace and happiness to be here with you, Jasper,” I replied; “but I think I shall feel more normal when we can meet without all this secrecy. And even now I don’t quite understand it. Why is it so important that we should not be seen together?”
“That is fairly obvious, I think,” he replied. “I am going to be very frank with you, Helen, because I have complete confidence in your courage and strength of character. There is no use in blinking the fact that you are in a difficult situation. That coroner man thinks you wrote those anonymous letters; and he suspects that you knew about Otway’s suicidal tendencies.”
“But I distinctly said I did not.”
“Yes, but, you see, the person who wrote those letters is not a person whose statements would carry any weight; and he thinks you are that person. He thinks you have tried to drive Otway to suicide, and he will be looking for a motive. There is a fairly obvious motive already, as you were encumbered with a husband whom you didn’t want; but if you add another husband whom you did and do want, the motive for getting rid of the unwanted one becomes much more definite. That is the kind of motive he will be on the lookout for. Hence the necessity for the utmost caution on our part. If a witness could be produced who could depose to having seen us together, it might be possible for him to put some inconvenient questions.”
“Could he not question me on the subject apart from any such witness?”
“I don’t think it would be admissible for the coroner to suggest the existence of a lover if he had no facts. And that brings us to the point that I was going to raise. You ought to be represented either by counsel or by a solicitor; preferably by counsel, as a barrister is more agile—more accustomed to deal with the sudden exigencies that arise in court.”
“You seem to suggest that I am charged with having brought about Mr. Otway’s death.”
“I wouldn’t use the word ‘charged’ as I don’t know that there is any such offence recognised by law. Morally, to cause a man to commit suicide would be much the same as to murder him, but I can’t say off-hand what the legal position would be. My impression is that it would not be an offence that could be dealt with by law unless the act of murder could be proven. Nonetheless, I would be happier to see you with some reliable counsel we could trust.”
It was then I thought of Dr Thorndyke. He had shown a kind interest in my affairs, even to the extent of having a shorthand reporter at the inquest. Surely he would be ideal, if I could persuade him to take up the role of my advocate. I broached the possibility to Jasper, explaining Dr. Thorndyke’s interest in the case.
“The very man!” Jasper said enthusiastically. “You must see him, Helen, and soon. He is a local resident, luckily, and lives only a few moments’ walk from here.”
So fast did things seem to be moving that I was reluctant to take on another visit after my already busy day, but Jasper was insistent that I should seek out Dr. Thorndyke’s help. “I wish I could accompany you,” he said, “but it is best if we are not seen out together. Will you see him?”
“Perhaps.” I temporised, still feeling that to take on the services—and the cost!—of such a distinguished advocate was an extreme reaction to my current situation.
We talked a little longer, and then I took my leave, getting directions to Dr. Thorndyke’s rooms from Jasper.
“I suppose,” said he, as he bade me farewell, “we had better not meet again until this affair is over. It is only a fortnight, and after that we shall be free. Meanwhile, we can write as often as we please.”
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I agreed to this the more readily as I saw that another meeting with Jasper would make it difficult for me to escape from his demand that I should invoke Dr. Thorndyke’s help. Nevertheless, as I took my way through Clifford’s Inn Passage into Fleet Street, I found myself looking forward somewhat gloomily to the lonely and anxious fortnight lay ahead.
For several days nothing out of the ordinary occurred. My friends at Wellclose Square, who knew approximately what my position was, were quietly sympathetic, but never referred to the matter; excepting the incorrigible Peggy, who frankly congratulated me on my newly-acquired freedom.
“It’s horrid for you, Sibyl,” said she, “but still it is for the best; though he might have managed it a little more decently—a level crossing, you know, or ‘found drowned,’ or something of that sort.”
“You are a callous little wretch, Peggy,” said I.
“I don’t care,” she replied, defiantly. “You know it is true. I am awfully sorry for you now. It must be perfectly beastly to have to answer all those impertinent questions, and have your answers printed in the news papers. But it will soon be over, and then you can forget it and have a good time. I shall dance at your wedding before I am six months older.”
I had to pretend to be shocked, but the Titmouse’s optimism did me good. For there was a bright side to the picture, and it was just as well to gather encouragement from an occasional glance at it.
About ten days after the first sitting of the inquest I received a letter from Mr. Isaacs. He had already written to me briefly to inform me that the funeral had been postponed by the coroner’s direction until after the adjourned inquest, but had then said nothing about the will. The present letter supplied the omission, and its contents surprised me very much. It appeared that the will been proved and that I was the principal beneficiary. “The testator,” said Mr. Isaacs, “has bequeathed to you the bulk of his personalty—upwards of eight thousand pounds—and the lease of the premises in Lyon’s Inn Chambers, together with the furniture and effects contained therein. You are also constituted the residuary legatee. The chambers have now been evacuated by Mrs. Gregg, and are at your disposal. They are at present locked up, and the keys are in my possession pending your instructions and advice as to whether you intend to occupy the premises, to let them or to dispose of the lease. A copy of the will can be seen at my office, and, of course, the original can be examined at Somerset House.”
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others Page 224
