Madame Midas

by Fergus Hume

‘Pshaw, my dear fellow,’ said Vandeloup, languidly; ‘people don’t go to melodrama for ideas. Everyone has got their own version of this story; the best thing to do is to await the result of the inquest.’

  ‘Is there to be an inquest?’ cried all.

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ replied the Frenchman, coolly; ‘sounds as if there was something wrong, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a curious poisoning case,’ observed Bellthorp.

  ‘Ah, but it isn’t proved that there is any poisoning about it,’ said Vandeloup, looking keenly at him; ‘you jump to conclusions.’

  ‘There is no smoke without fire,’ replied Rolleston, sagely. ‘I expect we’ll all be rather astonished when the inquest is held,’ and so the discussion closed.

  The inquest was appointed to take place next day, and Calton had been asked by Madame Midas to be present on her behalf. Kilsip, a detective officer, was also present, and, curled up like a cat in the corner, was listening to every word of the evidence.

  The first witness called was Madame Midas, who deposed that the deceased, Selina Jane Sprotts, was her servant. She had gone to bed in excellent health, and next morning she had found her dead.

  The Coroner asked a few questions relative to the case.

  Q. Miss Marchurst awoke you, I believe?

  A. Yes.

  Q. And her room is off yours?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Had she to go through your room to reach her own?

  A. She had. There was no other way of getting there.

  Q. One of the windows of your room was open?

  A. It was—all night.

  Miss Kitty Marchurst was then called, and being sworn, gave her story of the hand coming through the window. This caused a great sensation in Court, and Calton looked puzzled, while Kilsip, scenting a mystery, rubbed his lean hands together softly.

  Q. You live with Mrs Villiers, I believe, Miss Marchurst?

  A. I do.

  Q. And you knew the deceased intimately?

  A. I had known her all my life.

  Q. Had she anyone who would wish to injure her?

  A. Not that I knew of. She was a favourite with everyone.

  Q. What time did you come home from the ball you were at?

  A. About half-past two, I think. I went straight to Mrs Villiers’ room.

  Q. With the intention of going through it to reach your own?

  A. Yes.

  Q. You say you fell asleep looking at a portrait. How long did you sleep?

  A. I don’t know. I was awakened by a noise at the window, and saw the hand appear.

  Q. Was it a man’s hand or a woman’s?

  A. I don’t know. It was too indistinct for me to see clearly; and I was so afraid, I fainted.

  Q. You saw it pour something from a bottle into the glass on the table?

  A. Yes; but I did not see it withdraw. I fainted right off.

  Q. When you recovered your senses, the deceased had drank the contents of the glass?

  A. Yes. She must have felt thirsty and drank it, not knowing it was poisoned. Q. How do you know it was poisoned?

  A. I only suppose so. I don’t think anyone would come to a window and pour anything into a glass without some evil purpose.

  The Coroner then asked why the glass with what remained of the contents had not been put in evidence, but was informed that the glass was broken.

  When Kitty had ended her evidence and was stepping down, she caught the eye of Vandeloup, who was looking at her keenly. She met his gaze defiantly, and he smiled meaningly at her. At this moment, however, Kilsip bent forward and whispered something to the Coroner, whereupon Kitty was recalled.

  Q. You were an actress, Miss Marchurst?

  A. Yes. I was on tour with Mr Theodore Wopples for some time.

  Q. Do you know a drama called ‘The Hidden Hand’?

  A. Yes—I have played in it once or twice.

  Q. Is there not a strong resemblance between your story of this crime and the drama?

  A. Yes, it is very much the same.

  Kilsip then gave his evidence, and deposed that he had examined the ground between the window, where the hand was alleged to have appeared, and the garden wall. There were no footmarks on the flower-bed under the window, which was the only place where footmarks would show, as the lawn itself was hard and dry. He also examined the wall, but could find no evidence that anyone had climbed over it, as it was defended by broken bottles, and the bushes at its foot were not crushed or disturbed in any way.

  Dr Chinston was then called, and deposed that he had made a post- mortem examination of the body of the deceased. The body was that of a woman of apparently fifty or fifty-five years of age, and of medium height; the body was well nourished. There were no ulcers or other signs of disease, and no marks of violence on the body. The brain was congested and soft, and there was an abnormal amount of fluid in the spaces known as the ventricles of the brain; the lungs were gorged with dark fluid blood; the heart appeared healthy, its left side was contracted and empty, but the right was dilated and filled with dark fluid blood; the stomach was somewhat congested, and contained a little partially digested food; the intestines here and there were congested, and throughout the body the blood was dark and fluid.

  Q. What then, in your opinion, was the cause of death?

  A. In my opinion death resulted from serous effusion on the brain, commonly known as serous apoplexy.

  Q. Then you found no appearances in the stomach, or elsewhere, which would lead you to believe poison had been taken?

  A. No, none.

  Q. From the post-mortem examination could you say the death of the deceased was not due to some narcotic poison?

  A. No: the post-mortem appearances of the body are quite consistent with those of poisoning by certain poisons, but there is no reason to suppose that any poison has been administered in this case, as I, of course, go by what I see; and the presence of poisons, especially vegetable poisons, can only be detected by chemical analysis.

  Q. Did you analyse the contents of the stomach chemically?

  A. No; it was not my duty to do so; I handed over the stomach to the police, seeing that there is suspicion of poison, and thence it will go to the Government analyst.

  Q. It is stated that the deceased had convulsions before she died— is this not a symptom of narcotic poisoning?

  A. In some cases, yes, but not commonly; aconite, for instance, always produces convulsions in animals, seldom in man.

  Q. How do you account for the congested condition of the lungs?

  A. I believe the serous effusion caused death by suspended respiration.

  Q. Was there any odour perceptible?

  A. No, none whatsoever.

  The inquest was then adjourned till next day, and there was great excitement over the affair. If Kitty Marchurst’s statement was true, the deceased must have died from the administration of poison; but, on the other hand, Dr Chinston asserted positively that there was no trace of poison, and that the deceased had clearly died from apoplexy. Public opinion was very much divided, some asserting that Kitty’s story was true, while others said she had got the idea from ‘The Hidden Hand’, and only told it in order to make herself notorious. There were plenty of letters written to the papers on the subject, each offering a new solution of the difficulty, but the fact remained the same, that Kitty said the deceased had been poisoned; the doctor that she had died of apoplexy. Calton was considerably puzzled over the matter. Of course, there was no doubt that the man who committed the murder had intended to poison Madame Midas, but the fact that Selina stayed all night with her, had resulted in the wrong person being killed. Madame Midas told Calton the whole story of her life, and asserted positively that if the poison was meant for her, Villiers must have administered it. This was all very well, but the question then arose, was Villiers alive? The police were once more set to work, and once more their search resulted in nothing. Altogether the whole affair was wrapped in mystery, as it could not
even be told if a murder had been committed, or if the deceased had died from natural causes. The only chance of finding out the truth would be to have the stomach analysed, and the cause of death ascertained; once that was done, and the matter could be gone on with, or dropped, according to the report of the analyst. If he said it was apoplexy, Kitty’s story would necessarily have to be discredited as an invention; but if, on the other hand, the traces of poison were found, search would have to be made for the murderer. Matters were at a deadlock, and everyone waited impatiently for the report of the analyst. Suddenly, however, a new interest was given to the case by the assertion that a Ballarat doctor, called Gollipeck, who was a noted toxicologist, had come down to Melbourne to assist at the analysis of the stomach, and knew something which would throw light on the mysterious death.

  Vandeloup saw the paragraph which gave this information, and it disturbed him very much.

  ‘Curse that book of Prevol’s,’ he said to himself, as he threw down the paper: ‘it will put them on the right track, and then—well,’ observed M. Vandeloup, sententiously, ‘they say danger sharpens a man’s wits; it’s lucky for me if it does.’

  CHAPTER XIII. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND

  M. Vandeloup’s rooms in Clarendon Street, East Melbourne, were very luxuriously and artistically furnished, in perfect accordance with the taste of their owner, but as the satiated despot is depicted by the moralists as miserable amid all his splendour, so M. Gaston Vandeloup, though not exactly miserable, was very ill at ease. The inquest had been adjourned until the Government analyst, assisted by Dr Gollipeck, had examined the stomach, and according to a paragraph in the evening paper, some strange statements, implicating various people, would be made next day. It was this that made Vandeloup so uneasy, for he knew that Dr Gollipeck would trace a resemblance between the death of Selina Sprotts in Melbourne and Adele Blondet in Paris, and then the question would arise how the poison used in the one case came to be used in the other. If that question arose it would be all over with him, for he would not dare to face any examination, and as discretion is the better part of valour, M. Vandeloup decided to leave the country. With his usual foresight he had guessed that Dr Gollipeck would be mixed up in the affair, so had drawn his money out of all securities in which it was invested, sent most of it to America to a New York bank, reserving only a certain sum for travelling purposes. He was going to leave Melbourne next morning by the express train for Sydney, and there would catch the steamer to San Francisco via New Zealand and Honolulu. Once in America and he would be quite safe, and as he now had plenty of money he could enjoy himself there. He had given up the idea of marrying Madame Midas, as he dare not run the risk of remaining in Australia, but then there were plenty of heiresses in the States he could marry if he chose, so to give her up was a small matter. Another thing, he would be rid of Pierre Lemaire, for once let him put the ocean between him and the dumb man he would take care they never met again. Altogether, M. Vandeloup had taken all precautions to secure his own safety with his usual promptitude and coolness, but notwithstanding that another twelve hours would see him on his way to Sydney en route for the States, he felt slightly uneasy, for as he often said, ‘There are always possibilities.’

  It was about eight o’clock at night, and Gaston was busy in his rooms packing up to go away next morning. He had disposed of his apartments to Bellthorp, as that young gentleman had lately come in for some money and was dissatisfied with the paternal roof, where he was kept too strictly tied up.

  Vandeloup, seated in his shirt sleeves in the midst of a chaos of articles of clothing, portmanteaux, and boxes, was, with the experience of an accomplished traveller, rapidly putting these all away in the most expeditious and neatest manner. He wanted to get finished before ten o’clock, so that he could go down to his club and show himself, in order to obviate any suspicion as to his going away. He did not intend to send out any P.P.C. cards, as he was a modest young man and wanted to slip unostentatiously out of the country; besides, there was nothing like precaution, as the least intimation of his approaching departure would certainly put Dr Gollipeck on the alert and cause trouble. The gas was lighted, there was a bright glare through all the room, and everything was in confusion, with M. Vandeloup seated in the centre, like Marius amid the ruins of Carthage. While thus engaged there came a ring at the outer door, and shortly afterwards Gaston’s landlady entered his room with a card.

  ‘A gentleman wants to see you, sir,’ she said, holding out the card.

  ‘I’m not at home,’ replied Vandeloup, coolly, removing the cigarette he was smoking from his mouth; ‘I can’t see anyone tonight.’

  ‘He says you’d like to see him, sir,’ answered the woman, standing at the door.

  ‘The deuce he does,’ muttered Vandeloup, uneasily; ‘I wonder what this pertinacious gentleman’s name is? and he glanced at the card, whereon was written ‘Dr Gollipeck’.

  Vandeloup felt a chill running through him as he rose to his feet. The battle was about to begin, and he knew he would need all his wit and skill to get himself out safely. Dr Gollipeck had thrown down the gauntlet, and he would have to pick it up. Well, it was best to know the worst at once, so he told the landlady he would see Gollipeck downstairs. He did not want him to come up there, as he would see all the evidences of his intention to leave the country.

  ‘I’ll see him downstairs,’ he said, sharply, to the landlady; ‘ask the gentleman to wait.’

  The landlady, however, was pushed roughly to one side, and Dr Gollipeck, rusty and dingy-looking as ever, entered the room.

  ‘No need, my dear friend,’ he said in his grating voice, blinking at the young man through his spectacles, ‘we can talk here.’

  Vandeloup signed to the landlady to leave the room, which she did, closing the door after her, and then, pulling himself together with a great effort, he advanced smilingly on the doctor.

  ‘Ah, my dear Monsieur,’ he said, in his musical voice, holding out both hands, ‘how pleased I am to see you.’

  Dr Gollipeck gurgled pleasantly in his throat at this and laughed, that is, something apparently went wrong in his inside and a rasping noise came out of his mouth.

  ‘You clever young man,’ he said, affectionately, to Gaston, as he unwound a long crimson woollen scarf from his throat, and thereby caused a button to fly off his waistcoat with the exertion. Dr Gollipeck, however, being used to these little eccentricities of his toilet, pinned the waistcoat together, and then, sitting down, spread his red bandanna handkerchief over his knees, and stared steadily at Vandeloup, who had put on a loose velvet smoking coat, and, with a cigarette in his mouth, was leaning against the mantelpiece. It was raining outside, and the pleasant patter of the raindrops was quite audible in the stillness of the room, while every now and then a gust of wind would make the windows rattle, and shake the heavy green curtains. The two men eyed one another keenly, for they both knew they had an unpleasant quarter of an hour before them, and were like two clever fencers—both watching their opportunity to begin the combat. Gollipeck, with his greasy coat, all rucked up behind his neck, and his frayed shirt cuffs coming down on his ungainly hands, sat sternly silent, so Vandeloup, after contemplating him for a few moments, had to begin the battle.

  ‘My room is untidy, is it not?’ he said, nodding his head carelessly at the chaos of furniture. ‘I’m going away for a few days.’

  ‘A few days; ha, ha!’ observed Gollipeck, something again going wrong with his inside. ‘Your destination is—

  ‘Sydney,’ replied Gaston, promptly.

  ‘And then?’ queried the doctor.

  Gaston shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Depends upon circumstances,’ he answered, lazily.

  ‘That’s a mistake,’ retorted Gollipeck, leaning forward; ‘it depends upon me.’

  Vandeloup smiled.

  ‘In that case, circumstances, as represented by you, will permit me to choose my own destinations.’

  ‘Depends entirely upon your
being guided by circumstances, as represented by me,’ retorted the Doctor, grimly.

  ‘Pshaw!’ said the Frenchman, coolly, ‘let us have done with allegory, and come to common sense. What do you want?’

  ‘I want Octave Braulard,’ said Gollipeck, rising to his feet.

  Vandeloup quite expected this, and was too clever to waste time in denying his identity.

  ‘He stands before you,’ he answered, curtly, ‘what then?’

  ‘You acknowledge, then, that you are Octave Braulard, transported to New Caledonia for the murder of Adele Blondet?’ said the Doctor tapping the table with one hand.

  ‘To you—yes,’ answered Vandeloup, crossing to the door and locking it; ‘to others—no.’

  ‘Why do you lock the door?’ asked Gollipeck, gruffly.

  ‘I don’t want my private affairs all over Melbourne,’ retorted Gaston, smoothly, returning to his position in front of the fireplace; ‘are you afraid?’

  Something again went wrong with Dr Gollipeck’s inside, and he grated out a hard ironical laugh.

  ‘Do I look afraid?’ he asked, spreading out his hands.

  Vandeloup stooped down to the portmanteau lying open at his feet, and picked up a revolver, which he pointed straight at Gollipeck.

  ‘You make an excellent target,’ he observed, quickly, putting his finger on the trigger.

  Dr Gollipeck sat down, and arranged his handkerchief once more over his knees.

  ‘Very likely,’ he answered, coolly, ‘but a target you won’t practise on.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Vandeloup, still keeping his finger on the trigger.

  ‘Because the pistol-shot would alarm the house,’ said Gollipeck, serenely, ‘and if I was found dead, you would be arrested for my murder. If I was only wounded I could tell a few facts about M. Octave Braulard that would have an unpleasant influence on the life of M. Gaston Vandeloup.’

  Vandeloup laid the pistol down on the mantelpiece with a laugh, lit a cigarette, and, sitting down in a chair opposite Gollipeck, began to talk.

  ‘You are a brave man,’ he said, coolly blowing a wreath of smoke, ‘I admire brave men.’