She flushed up when I spoke. I saw that tears were very near her eyes, and she bit her lips to keep back emotion.
“My father was like no one else,” she said. “It is impossible for me to make a picture of him for one who has not seen him.”
“But you can at least tell me if he were tall or short, dark or fair, old or young?”
“No, I can’t,” she said, after another pause. “He was just father. When you love your father, he has a kind of eternal youth to you, and you don’t discriminate his features. If you are his only child, his is just the one face in all the world to you. I find it impossible to describe the face, although it fills my mind’s eye, waking and sleeping. But, stay, I have a picture of him. I don’t show it to many, but you shall see it.”
She rushed out of the room, returning in a moment with a morocco case. She opened it, and brought over a candle at the same time so that the light should fall on the picture within. It represented a tall, slight man, with deep-set eyes and a very thin face. The eyes were somewhat piercing in their glance; the lips were closely set and firm; the chin was cleft. The face showed determination. I gave it a quick glance, and, closing the case, returned it to Gabrielle.
The face was the face of the man I had seen in the garden.
* * *
—
My patient passed a dreadful night. She was no better the next morning. Her temperature was rather higher, her pulse quicker, her respiration more hurried. Her ravings had now become almost incoherent. Mackenzie and I had an anxious consultation over her. When he left the house I accompanied him.
“I am going to make a strange request of you,” I said. “I wish for your assistance, and am sure you will not refuse to give it to me. In short, I want to take immediate steps to have Heathcote’s coffin opened.”
I am quite sure Mackenzie thought that I was mad. He looked at me, opened his lips as if to speak, but then waited to hear my next words.
“I want to have Heathcote’s body exhumed,” I said. “If you will listen to me, I will tell you why.”
I then gave him a graphic account of the man I had seen in the garden.
“There is foul play somewhere,” I said, in conclusion. “I have been dragged into this thing almost against my will, and now I am determined to see it through.”
Mackenzie flung up his hands.
“I don’t pretend to doubt your wisdom,” he said; “but to ask me gravely to assist you to exhume the body of a man who died of consumption six months ago, is enough to take my breath away. What reason can you possibly give to the authorities for such an action?”
“That I have strong grounds for believing that the death never took place at all,” I replied. “Now, will you co-operate with me in this matter, or not?”
“Oh, of course, I’ll co-operate with you,” he answered. “But I don’t pretend to say that I like the business.”
We walked together to his house, talking over the necessary steps which must be taken to get an order for exhumation. Mackenzie promised to telegraph to me as soon as ever this was obtained, and I was obliged to hurry off to attend to my own duties. As I was stepping into my hansom I turned to ask the doctor one more question.
“Have you any reason to suppose that Heathcote was heavily insured?” I asked.
“No; I don’t know anything about it,” he answered.
“You are quite sure there were no money troubles anywhere?”
“I do not know of any; but that fact amounts to nothing, for I was not really intimate with the family, and, as I said yesterday evening, never entered the house until last night from the day of the funeral. I have never heard of money troubles; but, of course, they might have existed.”
“As soon as ever I hear from you, I will make an arrangement to meet you at Kensal Green,” I replied, and then I jumped into the hansom and drove away.
In the course of the day I got a telegram acquainting me with Mrs. Heathcote’s condition. It still remained absolutely unchanged, and there was, in Mackenzie’s opinion, no necessity for me to pay her another visit. Early the next morning, the required order came from the coroner. Mackenzie wired to apprise me of the fact, and I telegraphed back, making an appointment to meet him at Kensal Green on the following morning.
I shall not soon forget that day. It was one of those blustering and intensely cold days which come oftener in March than any other time of the year. The cemetery looked as dismal as such a place would on the occasion. The few wreaths of flowers which were scattered here and there on newly-made graves were sodden and deprived of all their frail beauty. The wind blew in great gusts, which were about every ten minutes accompanied by showers of sleet. There was a hollow moaning noise distinctly audible in the intervals of the storm.
I found, on my arrival, that Mackenzie was there before me. He was accompanied, by one of the coroner’s men and a police-constable. Two men who worked in the cemetery also came forward to assist. No one expressed the least surprise at our strange errand. Around Mackenzie’s lips, alone, I read an expression of disapproval.
Kensal Green is one of the oldest cemeteries which surround our vast Metropolis, and the Heathcotes’ burying-place was quite in the oldest portion of this God’s acre. It was one of the hideous, ancient, rapidly-going-out-of-date vaults. A huge brick erection was placed over it, at one side of which was the door of entrance.
The earth was removed, the door of the vault opened, and some of the men went down the steps, one of them holding a torch, in order to identify the coffin. In a couple of minutes’ time it was borne into the light of day. When I saw it I remembered poor Mrs. Heathcote’s wild ravings.
“A good, strong oak coffin, which wears well,” she had exclaimed.
Mackenzie and I, accompanied by the police-constable and the coroner’s man, followed the bearers of the coffin to the mortuary.
As we were going there, I turned to ask Mackenzie how his patient was.
He shook his head as he answered me.
“I fear the worst,” he replied. “Mrs. Heathcote is very ill indeed. The fever rages high and is like a consuming fire. Her temperature was a hundred and five this morning.”
“I should recommend packing her in sheets wrung out of cold water,” I answered. “Poor woman!—how do you account for this sudden illness, Mackenzie?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Shock of some sort,” he answered. Then he continued: “If she really knew of this day’s work, it would kill her off pretty quickly. Poor soul,” he added, “I hope it may never reach her ears.”
We had now reached the mortuary. The men who had borne the coffin on their shoulders lowered it on to a pair of trestles. They then took turn-screws out of their pockets, and in a business-like and callous manner unscrewed the lid. After doing this they left the mortuary, closing the door behind them.
The moment we found ourselves alone, I said a word to the police-constable, and then going quickly up to the coffin, lifted the lid. Under ordinary circumstances, such a proceeding would be followed by appalling results, which need not here be described. Mackenzie, whose face was very white, stood near me. I looked at him for a moment, and then flung aside the pall which was meant to conceal the face of the dead.
The dead truly! Here was death, which had never, in any sense, known life like ours. Mackenzie uttered a loud exclamation. The constable and the coroner’s man came close. I lifted a bag of flour out of the coffin!
There were many similar bags there. It had been closely packed, and evidently with a view to counterfeit the exact weight of the dead man.
Poor Mackenzie was absolutely speechless. The coroner’s man began to take copious notes; the police-constable gravely did the same.
Mackenzie at last found his tongue.
“I never felt more stunned in my life,” he said. “In very truth, I all but saw the man die
. Where is he? In the name of Heaven, what has become of him? This is the most monstrous thing I have ever heard of in the whole course of my life, and—and I attended the funeral of those bags of flour! No wonder that woman never cared to see me inside the house again. But what puzzles me,” he continued, “is the motive—what can the motive be?”
“Perhaps one of the insurance companies can tell us that,” said the police-officer. “It is my duty to report this thing, sir,” he continued, turning to me. “I have not the least doubt that the Crown will prosecute.”
“I cannot at all prevent your taking what steps you think proper,” I replied, “only pray understand that the poor lady who is the principal perpetrator in this fraud lies at the present moment at death’s door.”
“We must get the man himself,” murmured the police-officer. “If he is alive we shall soon find him.”
Half an hour later, Mackenzie and I had left the dismal cemetery.
I had to hurry back to Harley Street to attend to some important duties, but I arranged to meet Mackenzie that evening at the Heathcotes’ house. I need not say that my thoughts were much occupied with Mrs. Heathcote and her miserable story. What a life that wretched Heathcote must have led during the last six months. No wonder he looked cadaverous as the moonlight fell over his gaunt figure. No ghost truly was he, but a man of like flesh and blood to ourselves—a man who was supposed to be buried in Kensal Green, but who yet walked the earth.
It was about eight o’clock when I reached the Heathcotes’ house. Mackenzie had already arrived—he came into the hall to meet me.
“Where is Miss Gabrielle?” I asked at once.
“Poor child,” he replied; “I have begged of her to stay in her room. She knows nothing of what took place this morning, but is in a terrible state of grief about her mother. That unfortunate woman’s hours are numbered. She is sinking fast. Will you come to her at once, Halifax—she has asked for you several times.”
Accompanied by Mackenzie, I mounted the stairs and entered the sick room. One glance at the patient’s face showed me all too plainly that I was in the chamber of death. Mrs. Heathcote lay perfectly motionless. Her bright hair, still the hair of quite a young woman, was flung back over the pillow. Her pale face was wet with perspiration. Her eyes, solemn, dark, and awful in expression, turned and fixed themselves on me as I approached the bedside. Something like the ghost of a smile quivered round her lips. She made an effort to stretch out a shadowy hand to grasp mine.
“Don’t stir,” I said to her. “Perhaps you want to say something? I will stoop down to listen to you. I have very good hearing, so you can speak as low as you please.”
She smiled again with a sort of pleasure at my understanding her.
“I have something to confess,” she said, in a hollow whisper. “Send the nurse and—and Dr. Mackenzie out of the room.”
I was obliged to explain the dying woman’s wishes to my brother physician. He called to the nurse to follow him, and they immediately left the room.
As soon as they had done so, I bent my head and took one of Mrs. Heathcote’s hands in mine.
“Now,” I said, “take comfort—God can forgive sin. You have sinned?”
“Oh, yes, yes; but how can you possibly know?”
“Never mind. I am a good judge of character. If telling me will relieve your conscience, speak.”
“My husband is alive,” she murmured.
“Yes,” I said, “I guessed as much.”
“He had insured his life,” she continued, “for—for about fifteen thousand pounds. The money was wanted to—to save us from dishonour. We managed to counterfeit—death.”
She stopped, as if unable to proceed any further. “A week ago,” she continued, “I—I saw the man who is supposed to be dead. He is really dying now. The strain of knowing that I could do nothing for him—nothing to comfort his last moments—was too horrible. I felt that I could not live without him. On the day of my illness I took—poison, a preparation of Indian hemp. I meant to kill myself. I did not know that my object would be effected in so terrible a manner.”
Here she looked towards the door. A great change came over her face. Her eyes shone with sudden brightness. A look of awful joy filled them. She made a frantic effort to raise herself in bed.
I followed the direction of her eyes, and then, indeed, a startled exclamation passed my lips.
Gabrielle, with her cheeks crimson, her lips tremulous, her hair tossed wildly about her head and shoulders, was advancing into the room, leading a cadaverous, ghastly-looking man by the hand. In other words, Heathcote himself in the flesh had come into his wife’s dying chamber.
“Oh, Horace!” she exclaimed; “Horace—to die in your arms—to know that you will soon join me. This is too much bliss—this is too great joy!”
The man knelt by her, put his dying arms round her, and she laid her head on his worn breast.
“We will leave them together,” I said to Gabrielle.
I took the poor little girl’s hand and led her from the room.
She was in a frantic state of excitement.
“I said he was not dead,” she repeated—“I always said it. I was sitting by my window a few minutes ago, and I saw him in the garden. This time I was determined that he should not escape me. I rushed downstairs. He knew nothing until he saw me at his side. I caught his hand in mine. It was hot and thin. It was like a skeleton’s hand—only it burned with living fire. ‘Mother is dying—come to her at once,’ I said to him, and then I brought him into the house.”
“You did well—you acted very bravely,” I replied to her.
I took her away to a distant part of the house.
An hour later, Mrs. Heathcote died. I was not with her when she breathed her last. My one object now was to do what I could for poor little Gabrielle. In consequence, therefore, I made arrangements to have an interview with Heathcote. It was no longer possible for the wretched man to remain in hiding. His own hours were plainly numbered, and it was more than evident that he had only anticipated his real death by some months.
I saw him the next day, and he told me in a few brief words the story of his supposed death and burial.
“I am being severely punished now,” he said, “for the one great sin of my life. I am a solicitor by profession, and when a young man was tempted to appropriate some trust funds—hoping, like many another has done before me, to replace the money before the loss was discovered. I married, and had a happy home. My wife and I were devotedly attached to each other. I was not strong, and more than one physician told me that I was threatened with a serious pulmonary affection. About eight months ago, the blow which I never looked for fell. I need not enter into particulars. Suffice it to say that I was expected to deliver over twelve thousand pounds, the amount of certain trusts committed to me, to their rightful owners within three months’ time. If I failed to realize this money, imprisonment, dishonour, ruin, would be mine. My wife and child would also be reduced to beggary. I had effected an insurance on my life for fifteen thousand pounds. If this sum could be realized, it would cover the deficit in the trust, and also leave a small overplus for the use of my wife and daughter. I knew that my days were practically numbered, and it did not strike me as a particularly heinous crime to forestall my death by a few months. I talked the matter over with my wife, and at last got her to consent to help me. We managed everything cleverly, and not a soul suspected the fraud which was practised on the world. Our old servants, who had lived with us for years, were sent away on a holiday. We had no servant in the house except a charwoman, who came in for a certain number of hours daily.”
“You managed your supposed dying condition with great skill,” I answered. “That hemorrhage, the ghastly expression of your face, were sufficiently real to deceive even a keen and clever man like Mackenzie.”
Heathcote smiled grimly.
/> “After all,” he said, “the fraud was simple enough. I took an emetic, which I knew would produce the cadaverous hue of approaching death, and the supposed hemorrhage was managed with some bullock’s blood. I got it from a distant butcher, telling him that I wanted it to mix with meal to feed my dogs with.”
“And how did you deceive the undertaker’s men?” I asked.
“My wife insisted on keeping my face covered, and I managed to simulate rigidity. As to the necessary coldness, I was cold enough lying with only a sheet over me. After I was placed in the coffin my wife would not allow anyone to enter the room but herself: she brought me food, of course. We bored holes, too, in the coffin lid. Still, I shall never forget the awful five minutes during which I was screwed down.
“It was all managed with great expedition. As soon as ever the undertaker’s men could be got out of the way, my wife unscrewed the coffin and released me. We then filled it with bags of flour, which we had already secured and hidden for the purpose. My supposed funeral took place with due honours. I left the house that night, intending to ship to America. Had I done this, the appalling consequences which have now ended in the death of my wife might never have taken place, but, at the eleventh hour, my courage failed me. I could do much to shield my wife and child, but I could not endure the thought of never seeing them again. Contrary to all my wife’s entreaties, I insisted on coming into the garden, for the selfish pleasure of catching even a glimpse of Gabrielle’s little figure, as she moved about her bedroom. She saw me once, but I escaped through the shrubbery and by a door which we kept on purpose unlocked, before she reached me. I thought I would never again transgress, but once more the temptation assailed me, and I was not proof against it. My health failed rapidly. I was really dying, and on the morning when my wife’s illness began, had suffered from a genuine and very sharp attack of hemorrhage. She found me in the wretched lodging where I was hiding in a state of complete misery, and almost destitution. Something in my appearance seemed suddenly to make her lose all self-control.
The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries Page 26
