The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “There may be something in what you say,” said Benson, “in fact, there must be. But the gambling alone doesn’t seem to be a satisfactory explanation. I am inclined to suspect that you are right in your suggestion of a possible blackmailer. The way in which the money was drawn out in untraceable notes seems to support that view very strongly. There is no reason why a simple, straightforward gambler should take precautions against having his payments traced. However, we shall have to adjourn this discussion. That gentleman looks like the police officer.”

  As he spoke, Mr. Weech appeared emerging from the covered way in company with a tall, brisk-looking man in civilian clothes who carried a largish attaché case. The two men approached us and Mr. Weech effected a concise introduction.

  “There is no need for you two gentlemen to come up with me,” said the officer; “in fact it would be better for me to go alone so that I can make my observations undisturbed. But I will ask you to be good enough to wait here until I have seen what there is to see. I shall want to take a few particulars for the purposes of the inquest.”

  With this he departed under Mr. Weech’s guidance in the direction of Gillum’s entry, the approach of the pair closely observed from the window of the type writing office. When they had gone, I rather expected Benson to resume our conversation. But apparently what had been said already gave him sufficient food for thought, for he paced up and down the alley at my side uttering no word and evidently deep in his own reflections, which, to judge by his stern, gloomy expression, were of a highly disagreeable kind.

  The officer’s observations took rather longer than I had expected. At each turn of our walk when we came to the end of the alley and in view of Gillum’s chambers, I could see Mr. Weech at the open landing window, gazing out discontentedly across the quadrangle, and at the office window below watchful heads appeared from time to time over the wire blind. But the officer remained hidden from our sight.

  At length, at about the twentieth turn, as we came to the corner of the alley, I observed that Mr. Weech had disappeared from his post at the window, and a moment later he came into view in the obscurity of the staircase and then emerged into the open, followed closely by the officer, whereupon Benson and I walked forward to meet them.

  “Well, gentlemen,” said the officer, “it seems quite a straightforward case from my point of view, but I may as well have a few particulars for the guidance of the coroner’s officer in preparing the details of the inquest. I will begin by taking your names and addresses and your relations with deceased.”

  He looked from one of us to the other, and Benson, as an actual relative, opened the proceedings by giving his name and address and stating his relationship.

  “Ah!” said the officer, “you are deceased’s cousin. Then you will be the proper person to identify the body. Not that it is of any importance as there is no question as to who he is. But you have seen the body. Can you identify it positively?”

  “Yes,” replied Benson. “It is the body of my cousin, John Gillum.”

  “Exactly,” said the officer. “Now, is there anything that you can tell us that would throw any light on the suicide—assuming it to be a suicide?”

  “No,” replied Benson. “I can’t account for it at all. But I haven’t seen deceased for about two years, so I haven’t any very recent information about him. This gentleman, Mr. Mortimer, knows a good deal more about his affairs than I do.”

  Thereupon the officer turned to me and asked me to give him any information that might guide him as to the kind of evidence that would be required at the inquest and the names of any witnesses who might have to be called. Accordingly I told him who I was but pointed out that, as an employee of deceased’s bank, I was not at liberty to give any information as to his financial affairs.

  “No,” he agreed, “not in the ordinary way. But the customer’s death releases the bank from its obligations of secrecy. However, I won’t press you. Any information that the bank may be able to supply will have to be given at the inquest if it is relevant. Should you say that it would be relevant? I mean in relation to the motive for the suicide—assuming it to be a suicide?”

  “Yes,” I replied, “I think I may say that much. But perhaps you had better see the manager. He knows the ropes better than I do.”

  “Or Mr. Penfield,” Benson suggested. “He is Gillum’s executor and was his man of business and as he is a lawyer he will know exactly what information he ought to give.”

  The officer agreed to this and took down the addresses of the manager and Mr. Penfield. “And that,” said he, “is all for the present. Now I must see about getting the body removed to the mortuary. I had better keep the keys until the inquest is over as we don’t want the rooms disturbed, and there may be some letters or papers which ought to be examined either by me or by Mr. Penfield. I will hear what he has to say about that. So I will wish you gentlemen good afternoon.”

  With this he bustled away and Benson and Weech and I walked down to the lodge where, declining an invitation to go in and rest a few minutes, Benson and I left the porter and made our way out into Fleet Street. My companion was still silent and gloomy, uttering scarcely a word as we walked down towards Ludgate Circus. Only just before we parted at the corner did he make any observation on the tragedy.

  Then, in a tone of almost passionate grief; he exclaimed: “It is a miserable business, and what makes it more awful to me is the feeling that I have been, in a manner, the cause of the disaster. It looks very much as if poor Gillum had funked meeting me.”

  I could not but admit that the same idea had occurred to me. It would certainly have been a very awkward meeting, involving some exceedingly uncomfortable explanations.

  “But he needn’t have funked it,” said Benson. “Of course, I should have been pretty sick. But I shouldn’t have reproached him and I should not have let him down. He could have come back with me and helped me to run the farm and got back to his natural way of life. However, it is no use thinking now of what might have been. Good-bye, Mortimer. You know where to find me if you should want me.”

  He shook my hand heartily and turned away down Farringdon Street, and, as it was now too late to go back to the bank, I made my way towards my own place of abode.

  CHAPTER VI

  The Coroner’s Inquest

  If the facts which were disclosed by the evidence of witnesses at the inquest on the body of John Gillum were mostly new to me only to the extent that they were facts, for most of them had already existed in my mind in the form of suspicions. Nevertheless, the grim proceedings had for me the melancholy interest that now, when all the contributory circumstances of the final catastrophe were assembled, I was able to realise the enormity of that catastrophe. It was really beyond belief. That a man who had seemed to have been the especial favourite of fortune should have mismanaged his affairs so unutterably as to bring himself to actual destitution and to a pauper suicide’s grave, appeared, and was, an incredible instance of human folly and perversity. But I need not moralise on the tragedy, the facts deposed to in evidence tell their own tale.

  The first witness was Mr. Weech, who gave a slightly verbose but very impressive description of the discovery. When he had finished and in answer to a question, had stated the date on which he had last seen deceased alive, he was dismissed and his place taken by Arthur Benson.

  “You were present with Mr. Weech when the body was discovered,” said the coroner. “Were you able to identify the body?”

  “Yes,” was the reply, “it was the body of my cousin, John Gillum.”

  “The identity of the body is not in question,” said the coroner, “but may we take it that you are certain that it was the body of your cousin?”

  “I am quite certain,” replied Benson. “The circumstances were so remarkable that I had at first some doubt whether it could really be John Gillum, so I examined it closely and carefully. There is no doubt whatever that it was John Gillum’s body.”

  “Naturally,” sa
id the coroner, “you were greatly shocked at what had happened, but were you surprised?

  “I was astounded,” replied Benson. “John Gillum was the last man in the world whom I should have expected to have committed suicide. But I had not seen him for nearly two years, when he was leaving Australia to come to England. Up to that time he had been working on a sheep farm and had seemed to be a happy, capable, well-balanced man. But I learn that since he came to this country his habits and even his character seem to have undergone a radical change. Of that, of course, I know nothing.”

  Here the coroner put one or two questions concerning Gillum’s antecedents, to which Benson answered in much the same terms as those in which he had replied to mine, as recorded in the last chapter. And these details of Gillum’s pecuniary position formed the remainder of his evidence.

  The next witness was Detective-Sergeant Edmund Waters, who stepped up to the place appointed for witnesses and gave his evidence with professional readiness and precision.

  “On Wednesday the eighteenth of July, I was in formed that a telephone message had been received reporting the finding of the dead body of a man in a room at 64, Clifford’s Inn. I proceeded there forthwith, going first to the porter’s lodge where I met Mr. Weech, who had sent the message, Mr. Benson and Mr. Mortimer. Mr. Weech conducted me to the room, which was in a set of chambers on the first floor, and unlocked the door to admit me.

  “On entering the room, I saw the dead body of a man lying on a couch close to a window. From the appearance of the body and a very foul odour which pervaded the air of the room, I judged that the man had been dead several days. I inspected the body without disturbing it but could see no injuries or any sign of violence or any indication of a struggle. The man was lying on the couch in an easy posture, as if he had fallen asleep there and nothing in the room appeared to be disturbed. By the side of the couch was a small table on which was a decanter containing whisky, a siphon of soda-water, a tumbler, and a small bottle labelled ‘Tablets of morphine hydrochloride; gr. 1/2,’ and containing a number of white tablets. The description on the label was written with a pen in block capital letters.

  “I took possession of the bottle and then I examined the tumbler. There were quite a large number of fingerprints on it and most of them were perfectly distinct. There were also fingerprints on the bottle, but these were not so distinct and I had to develop some of them up, especially those on the label, before I could be sure of the pattern. As I had my finger print apparatus with me, I proceeded very carefully to take a set of the fingerprints of the body to compare with those on the tumbler and the bottle. When I made the comparison, it became perfectly clear that all the prints on both vessels were made by deceased. Those on the tumbler were prints of the fingers of deceased’s right hand and those on the bottle were principally prints of the left hand with one or two of the right.”

  “You are sure,” said the coroner, “that there were no other fingerprints?”

  “Quite sure,” replied the sergeant. “The prints were all recognisable and I compared each one separately with the prints that I had taken from the body.”

  “That is very important,” said the coroner, “and it seems quite conclusive. Did you make any examination of the room?”

  “Not a minute examination. I just looked round to see if there were any signs of anything unusual, but there were not. Everything looked perfectly normal.”

  “Have you made any further investigation since then?”

  “Yes. I went to the chambers with Mr. Bateman, who was acting for the executors, to see if there were any papers or documents that might throw any light on the affair. We found the keys in the pockets of deceased’s clothes and with them we opened the drawers of the writing-table. In one of the drawers we found several letters in their envelopes tied up in a bundle. We read these letters and we both formed the opinion that they were blackmailer’s letters. Mr. Bateman took possession of them and I believe he has them still.”

  “Then,” said the coroner, “as Mr. Bateman is here and will be giving evidence, we need not go into the question of the letters now. Is there anything else that you have to tell us?”

  “No,” replied the sergeant, “excepting that I notified the coroner—yourself—that I had the bottle of tablets and, in accordance with instructions, handed it to Dr. Sidney.”

  “Then,” said the coroner, “we need not trouble you further unless any member of the jury wishes to ask any questions. No questions? Then we had better next take the medical evidence.”

  Accordingly, the medical witness, Dr. Thomas Winsford, was called and, having given his name and qualifications, deposed, in answer to the coroner’s question: “I have made a careful examination of the body of deceased. It is that of a man about forty years of age, well-developed and muscular and free from any signs of disease. I examined it in relation to the questions of the date of death and its cause. With regard to the first, there was a slight difficulty owing to the condition of the body, which was definitely in a state of incipient putrefaction. But, taking into account the temperature of the room in which it had been lying, I should say that deceased had been dead from six to eight days.”

  “You speak of the heat of the room. Had you any personal knowledge of the conditions in that room?”

  “Yes. I obtained the key of the chambers from Sergeant Waters and went there in the afternoon. The sun was shining in at the window and the room was very hot. I took the temperature with a thermometer and found it to be eighty-one degrees Fahrenheit. That would account for the rather advanced state of putrefaction in the time that I have mentioned, and I am inclined to the opinion that deceased had not been dead more than six or seven days.”

  “Yes,” the coroner remarked, “that seems to agree with what Mr. Weech has told us. He saw deceased alive ten days before the discovery of the body. And what do you say as to the cause of death?”

  “From the inspection of the body, it was difficult to assign any cause of death. There were no injuries or external marks of any kind or any abnormal appearances whatever. But I had been informed of the finding of the bottle of morphine tablets and I examined the body for signs of morphine poisoning.”

  “And did you find any such traces?”

  “Morphine does not ordinarily leave very pronounced traces, and the condition of the body was not favourable for discovering the more minute signs. But I found a somewhat contracted state of the pupils, and this, with the absence of any other signs indicating death from any other cause, confirmed the suggestion that death was due to poisoning with morphine. But I can only say that all the appearances were consistent with morphine poisoning and that I could not discover any other cause of death.”

  “Did you take any measure, to settle this question?”

  “Yes. I removed from the body certain of the internal organs and put them in chemically clean jars which I closed and sealed and affixed to each a label on which I wrote the particulars and the date, and signed my name. These jars, in accordance with instructions, I handed personally to Dr. Walter Sidney for analysis.”

  This concluded the doctor’s evidence. He was followed by Dr. Walter Sidney, who deposed that he was a pathologist and an analytical chemist, and that he had received from the preceding witness certain jars containing various organs from a human body which he was informed had been removed from the body of deceased. He had also received from Sergeant Waters a bottle containing a number of white tablets and labelled with a written label: “Morphine hydrochloride, gr. 1/2.” He had analysed four of the tablets and found that they were composed of morphine hydrochloride and that each tablet contained half a grain of the drug. He had also made a chemical examination of the organs from the jars and had obtained from them a little over two and a quarter grains of morphine. He estimated the amount of morphine present in the whole body at, at least, four grains, but probably more.

  “What do you consider a poisonous dose of morphine?” the coroner asked.

  “It varie
s considerably in different persons,” the witness replied. “Half a grain has been known to cause death, but that is very unusual. One grain would be very likely to cause death in a person who was not accustomed to the drug, and two grains would ordinarily be a lethal dose.”

  “Then four grains is definitely a lethal dose?”

  “Yes. It would almost certainly cause death in a person who was not in the habit of taking the drug.”

  “Did your examination enable you to form any opinion as to whether deceased had been in the habit of taking morphine?”

  “I should not like to give a very definite opinion. All the organs, including the liver, were quite healthy; which would hardly have been the case if deceased had been in the habit of dosing himself with morphine. I can only say that I found no signs that suggested the habitual taking of the drug. And Dr. Winsford’s evidence, in which he stated that deceased appeared to be a strong, healthy man, is quite inconsistent with the idea that deceased was a morphine addict.”

  “As a result of your examination, can you make any suggestion as to the cause of death?”

  “Inasmuch as a lethal dose of morphine was found in the body, and as no other cause of death was discoverable, I should say that there is no doubt that deceased died from poisoning by morphine.”

  “Thank you,” said the coroner; “that is what we want to know; and I think that, if you have nothing more to tell us, we need not detain you any longer.”

  He glanced enquiringly at the jury, and, as neither the jury nor the witness volunteered any remark, the latter withdrew to his seat.

  The next witness was Mr. Alfred Bateman, a gentle man of typically legal aspect whose acquaintance I had already made. Having been sworn, he deposed that he was the managing clerk of Mr. Penfield, a solicitor and executor of the will of deceased, for whom he also acted as man of business.

  “Are you in possession of any facts that explain, or have any bearing on, the death of deceased?” the coroner asked.

  “I am in possession of certain facts which seem to me to be relevant to the subject of this inquiry,” the witness replied. “In the first place, deceased had, in less than two years, got through a fortune, and was, at the time of his death, so far as I can ascertain, absolutely penniless and in debt. In the second place, he was, at the time of his death, being harassed by blackmailers.”