by Anthology
“Claire? Where is Claire?” she asked. “I want to put her to bed.”
“Here she is,” answered Leighton, coming from the drawing-room with the child fast asleep on his shoulder. “Take her, Hope, and be careful not to wake her. Better lay her down as she is than have her frightened again.”
Hope held out her arms. I was startled at her aspect. “Miss Meredith is not able as yet to carry the child upstairs,” spoke up the doctor; but the child was already nestled against her breast.
“I can carry her,” she assured him, drawing her head back as the father stooped to kiss the child.
“Are you sure?” asked Alfred.
“Quite.” Her arms had closed spasmodically over the child.
“Let me go with you,” he prayed. But catching the coroner’s eye, he quickly added, “that is, if you feel the need of any assistance.”
Apparently she did not, for next minute I saw her faltering figure proceeding up alone, while the scowl which had begun to form on George’s forehead had smoothed out, and only Alfred showed discomfiture.
The next minute the coroner had concentrated the attention of us all by saying gravely to the three young men before him:
“You, as sons of Mr. Gillespie, will surely see the justice of my making an immediate attempt to find out how and when your father took the poison, which, to all appearance, has ended his invaluable life.” Then, as no one replied, he added quietly:
“A bottle is missing; the bottle of sherry from which he drank a glass since supper. Will you grant me leave to search the house till I find it? So little time has passed, it must assuredly be somewhere within reach.”
“I can tell you where it is,” rejoined one of the brothers. “I wanted a drink. I had friends upstairs, and I came down and carried off the first bottle I saw. You will find it in my room above. We all drank our share, so there can have been no harm in it.”
It was George who spoke, and I now saw why his lips had moved when this bottle was first mentioned.
The coroner showed relief, yet made a movement singularly like a signal towards the rear hall which I had supposed vacant since the servants had been sent out of it. That he was speaking in the meantime did not detract from the suggestiveness of the gesture.
“You and your friends drank of it?” he repeated. “Very good. That settles one doubt.” And he waited, or appeared to wait, for some event connected, as I felt sure, with the step we all could now hear moving in that hall.
Suddenly these steps grew louder, and a young man, evidently as much of a stranger to the occupants of the house as to myself, approached from the servants staircase with a bottle in his hand.
Quietly the coroner took it, quietly he held it up before the last speaker, without attempting to explain or to apologise in any way for the presence of the man of whom he had just made such dramatic use.
“Is this the bottle you mean?”
That young gentleman nodded.
The coroner held the bottle up to the light. Only a few drops remained in it. These he both smelled and tasted.
“You are right,” said he, “the contents of this bottle seem pure.” And he handed it back to the man, who immediately carried it out of sight.
Leighton looked as if he would like to demand who this fellow was, but he did not. Indeed it seemed hardly necessary. His confident manner, his alert eye which took us all in at a glance, satisfied us that the event we had all dreaded had transpired, and that a detective had entered the house.
Noticing, but not heeding, the effect which this unwelcome intruder had produced upon the proud trio he held under his eye, Dr. Frisbie proceeded with the questions naturally called forth by the acknowledgment made by George.
“You were on this floor, then, previous to your father’s death, possibly previous to his taking the draught which has so unfortunately ended his life?”
“I was on this floor an hour or so ago; yes, sir.”
“Did you see your father or anyone else at that time?
“No. To tell you the truth, I was a little ashamed of my errand. It was early in the evening for the social glass, so I just took the bottle off the buffet and went back.”
“And the glasses?”
“Oh, I always have enough of them in my room.”
The coroner’s hand went in characteristic action to his chin. Evidently he found his position difficult.
“No poison in this bottle,” he declared. “None in the one your old butler drained, and, so far as we are able to judge, none in the phial of chloral found standing on the study mantelpiece! Yet your father died from taking prussic acid. Cannot one of you assist me in saying how this came about? It will save us unnecessary trouble and the house some scandal.”
It was an appeal which the sons of Mr. Gillespie could little afford to ignore. Yet while each and all of them paled under the searching gaze which accompanied it, none of them spoke till the silence becoming unendurable, Leighton made an extraordinary effort and remarked:
“My father was a proud man. If he chose—I say, if he chose to end his troubles in this unfortunate way, he would plan to leave behind him no sign of an act calculated to bring such opprobrium upon his household. He would have acted under the hope that his death would be taken as the result of his late sickness. That is doubtless why you fail to find the phial from which the poison was poured.”
“Hum! Yes! I see. Your father had troubles, then?”
The answer was unexpected.
“My father had three sons, none of whom gave him unalloyed comfort. Is not this true, George? Is not this true, Alfred?”
Startled by the sudden appeal which, coming as it did from a man of great personal pride, produced an effect thrilling to the spectators as well as to the men addressed, the brothers flushed deeply, but ventured upon no protest.
“You and father have always been on good enough terms,” growled George, with an attempt at fairness which gained point from the dogged air with which it was given.
This brought a shadow over the face which a moment before had shone with something like lofty feeling.
“I cannot forget that we quarrelled an hour before he died,” murmured Leighton, moving off with an air of great depression.
Meantime I had taken a resolution. Advancing from the remote end of the hall where I had been standing with their young medical friend, I spoke up firmly, calmly, but with decision:
“Gentlemen, I have been waiting to see what my duty was. I have reason to think, notwithstanding my position as a stranger among you, that the clue to your father’s strange act is to be found in my hands. Will you allow me, before explaining myself further, to request your answer to a single question?
The surprise which this evoked, was shared by the coroner, who probably thought he had exhausted my testimony at our first interview.
“It is a question which will strike you as strange and out of place at a time so serious. But I pray you to show your confidence in me by giving me a straight forward reply. Was Mr. Gillespie a man of dramatic instincts? Had he any special powers of mimicry, or, if I may speak plainly, had he what you might call marked facial expression?”
In the astonishment this called out I saw no dissent.
“Father was a man of talent,” Alfred grudgingly allowed. “I have often heard Claire laugh at his stories, which she said were like little plays. But this is a peculiar if not inappropriate question to put to us at a time of such distress, Mr. Outhwaite.”
“So I forewarned you,” I rejoined, turning to the coroner. “Dr. Frisbie, I must throw myself upon your clemency. When I entered this house in response to an appeal from Mr. Gillespie’s grandchild, I found that gentleman labouring under great mental as well as physical distress. He was anxious, more than anxious, to have some special wish carried out; and being tongue-tied, found great difficulty in indicating what this was. But after many efforts, he made me understand that I was to take from him a paper which he held in his clenched hand; and when I had do
ne so, that I was to enclose it, folded as it was, in one of the envelopes lying on the table before us. Not seeing any reason then for non-compliance with his wishes, I accomplished this under his eye, and then asked him for the name and address of the person for whom this communication was intended; but by this time his faculties had failed to such an extent, he could not pronounce the name. He could only ejaculate: ‘To no one else—only to—to—’ Alas! he could not finish the sentence. But, gentlemen, while waiting here I have been enabled to complete in my own mind this final attempt at speech on the part of your father. Anxious to make no mistake (for the impression made by his dying adjuration not to deliver this letter into the wrong hands, was no ordinary one), I have not allowed myself to be moved by any hurried or inconsiderate impulse, to part with this communication even to those whose claims upon it might be considered paramount to those of a mere stranger like myself. But since seeing Miss Meredith, above all since hearing you address her by her name of Hope, I cannot help feeling justified in believing that this final communication from Mr. Gillespie’s hand was meant for her. For when in my perplexity I pressed him to give me some sign by which I could make out whether it was intended for his doctor, his lawyer, or his household, he roused and his face showed an elevated look which I now feel compelled to regard as a dramatic attempt to express in action the name he could no longer utter. Gentle men, I have described his action. What name among those you are accustomed to speak best fits it?” “Hope,” was the simultaneous reply.
“So I have presumed to think.” And turning to Dr. Frisbie, I added: “I have been told that this young lady was in her uncle’s confidence. Will you allow me to deliver this envelope to Miss Meredith, in accordance with the injunction I firmly believe myself to have received from Mr. Gillespie?”
There was a silence during which no movement was made. Then the coroner replied:
“Yes, if it is done in my presence.”
I turned again to the young gentlemen.
“Commiserate my position and send for Miss Meredith,” I prayed. “I feel bound to place this in her hands myself. If I make a mistake in thus interpreting the look given me by your father, it will at least be made under your eye and from unquestionable motives. With my limited knowledge of the family, I know of no one who has a better claim to this communication than she. Do you?”
None of them attempted a reply.
Dr. Bennett had already gone up for Miss Meredith.
VI. A Happy Inspiration
WHILE waiting for this young lady, I surveyed the three Gillespies with a more critical attention than I had hitherto had the opportunity of giving them. As a result, George struck me as being the most candid, Leighton the most intellectual, and Alfred the most turbulent and ungovernable in his loves and animosities. All were under the same mental tension and in all I beheld evidence of deep humiliation and distrust, but this similarity of feeling did not draw them together even outwardly, but rather seemed to provoke a self-concentration which kept them widely apart. As I looked longer, Leighton impressed himself upon me as an interesting study—possibly because he was difficult to understand; Alfred as a good lover but dangerous hater; and George as the best of good fellows when his rights were not assailed or his kindly disposition imposed upon. None of them seemed to take any interest in me. To them I was simply a connecting link between their dead father and the letter I held in charge for Miss Meredith.
Meanwhile the coroner showed but one anxiety, and that was for the lady’s speedy appearance and the consequent reading of the letter upon which all minds were fixed.
She came sooner than we expected. As her soft footfall descended the stairs a visible change took place in us all. Drooping figures started erect and furrowed brows grew smooth. Some of us even assumed that appearance of reserve which men unconsciously take on when their deeper feelings are stirred. Only Leighton acted in a perfectly natural manner; consequently it was in his direction her frightened glances flew when she realised that she had been summoned for some definite purpose.
“I don’t know what more you can want of me to night,” she protested in a tone little short of a frightened gasp. “I am hardly fit to talk. But the doctor said I must come down. Why couldn’t you have left me with Claire?”
“Because, dear Hope, this gentleman you see here, and who, as you know, was with my father when he died, says he has a letter, or some communication from your uncle, which he is sure was meant for your eye only. Do you think my father would be likely to leave you such a message? Have you any reason for expecting his last thoughts would be for you, rather than for his sons? Answer; we are quite prepared to hear you say Yes.”
She had been trying to steady herself without laying hold of his arm. But she found this impossible. With an expression of deepest anguish she caught at his wrist, and then facing us, murmured in failing tones:
“He might. I have helped him lately a great deal with his letter-writing. Must I read it here?”
In this last question and her manner of uttering it there was an appeal which almost took the form of prayer. But it failed to produce any effect upon the coroner, favourably as he seemed disposed to regard her. With some bluntness, I had almost said harshness, he answered her with a peremptory:
“Yes, miss, here.”
She was not prepared for this refusal, and her eyes, full of entreaty, flashed from one face to another till they settled again on the coroner.
“I cannot,” she protested. “Spare me! I do not seem to have full use of my faculties. My head swims—I cannot see—let me take it to the light over there—I am a nervous girl.”
She had gradually drawn herself away from Leighton. The envelope which had been given her was trembling in her hand, and her eyes, wandering from George to Alfred, seemed to pray for some encouragement they were powerless to give. “I ought to be allowed the right to read the last words of one so dearly loved without feeling myself under the eyes of—of strangers,” she finally declared with a certain pitiful access of hauteur certainly not natural to one of her manifestly generous temperament.
Was the shaft meant for me? I did not think so, but, in recognition of the hint conveyed, I stepped back and had almost reached the door when I heard the coroner say:
“If the words you find there have reference solely to your own interests, Miss Meredith, you will be allowed to read them in privacy. But if they refer in any way to the interests of the man who wrote it, you will yourself desire to read his words aloud, as the manner and meaning of his death is a mystery which you as well as all the other members of his household must desire to see immediately cleared up.”
“Open it!” she cried, thrusting it into the hands of the physician, who by this time had rejoined the group. “And may God—”
She did not finish. The sacred name seemed to act as a restraint upon the passion in whose cause it had been invoked. With her back to them all she waited for the doctor to read the lines to which she seemed to attach so apprehensive an interest.
It was impossible for me to leave at a moment so critical. Watching the doctor, I saw him draw out the paper I had so carefully enclosed in an envelope, and after looking at it, turn it over and over in such astonishment and perplexity that we all caught the alarm and crowded about him for explanation. Alas, it was a simple one! The paper concerning which I had endured so many qualms of conscience, and from the reading of which the young girl had shrunk with every appearance of intolerable dread, proved upon opening it to be an absolutely blank one.
There was not upon its smooth surface so much as the faintest trace of words.
VII. The Elderly Gentleman by the Newel-Post
“THIS is surprising. Do you understand this, Miss Meredith? There is nothing written here. The sheet is perfectly blank.”
She turned, stared, and laughed convulsively.
“Blank, do you say? What a fuss about nothing! No words, no words at all? Let me see. I certainly expected you to find some final message in it.”
What a change of manner! The moment before she had confronted us, a silent agonised woman; now her words rattled forth with such feverish volubility we scarcely knew her. The coroner, not noticing, or purposely blind to the relief she showed, handed her the slip without a word. The brothers had all drawn off, and for the first time began to whisper among themselves. As for myself, I did not know what to do or think. My position, if anything, had changed for the worse. I seemed to have played some trick. I wanted to beg her pardon and theirs, and seeing her finally let the paper fall to the floor with an incredulous shake of the head, I began to stammer out some words of explanation, which sounded weak enough under the tension of suppressed excitement called forth in every breast by this unexpected incident.
“I feel—I am persuaded—you will not give me credit either for good sense or for the sincerity of my desire to be of service to you,” I made out to say. “I certainly thought from Mr. Gillespie’s actions, above all from the expressions which accompanied them, that he had entrusted me with a communication of no little importance, and that this communication was meant for Miss Meredith.”
To my chagrin, my plea went unheeded: she was too absorbed in hiding her own satisfaction at the turn affairs had taken, and her cousins in deciding to what extent their position had been improved by the discovery of a blank sheet of paper where all had expected to find words, and very important words, too. Consequently it fell to Dr. Bennett to answer me.
“No one can doubt your intentions, Mr. Outhwaite. Miss Meredith will be the first to acknowledge her indebtedness to you when she comes to herself. You have fulfilled your commission according to the dictates of your own conscience. That you have failed to effect all you hoped for is not your fault. As a lawyer you will rate the matter at its worth, and as a man of heart excuse the exaggerated effect it has to all appearance produced upon those about you.”
