BOOK III--CRIME

BOOK III--CRIME

Chapter XXIII. The Dead Hand

The entry of Mr. Otway into my life inaugurated a long succession of disasters. The very first words that I heard him speak shattered the peace of a lifetime. Thenceforward, like the Ancient Mariner, I was haunted by a malign influence which seemed to exhale continuously from his ill-omened personality. And even now that he was dead that malignant spirit was not at rest. His very corpse, lying in the mortuary, was a centre whence radiated sinister influences that crept into my secret soul and enveloped me from without. During his life Mr. Otway had been my evil genius; and death had but transformed him into a malicious poltergeist.

His first, tentative appearance in this character was made on the very evening of my second visit to Lyon’s Inn Chambers, when the coroner’s officer called at Wellclose Square to serve the subpœna for the inquest. The announcement of his arrival caused me some qualms of vague alarm, which I knew in my heart to be nothing but the stirring of my own conscience. For the purpose of this inquest was to find an answer to the question, “How did Lewis Otway come by his death?” And that question I could have answered in four words--Silent Willing and Suggestion. But I had no intention of answering that question; and hence, as I entered the room into which the officer had been shown, I was consciously on the defensive.

I had, however, no occasion to be. The officer was a civil, fatherly man in a constable’s uniform, sympathetic, deferential and not at all inquisitive.

“I have called, ma’am,” he began, “on a very sad errand. I don’t know whether you have heard the dreadful news----”

“Of Mr. Otway’s death?” said I.

“Ah! then you have heard. That is a relief. Well, I have called to let you know that the inquest is arranged for the day after to-morrow, at 3 p.m. in the room adjoining the mortuary.” He gave me a few explicit directions as to how to find the latter and then added: “If there is any information that you could give us that would guide us in starting the inquiry, we should be glad. Or the names of any witnesses that we ought to subpœna.”

I reflected. The threatening letters must necessarily be referred to at the inquest. I should have to mention them myself, even if Mrs. Gregg knew nothing of them.

“I happen to know,” I replied, “that Mr. Otway had received a number of anonymous letters and that he was greatly worried about them.”

“Blackmailing letters?” he asked.

“I don’t think any demands for money were made,” I replied.

“Do you know what was their nature? Were they threatening letters?”

“Yes, indirectly. The two or three that I saw had reference to the death of my father, who died very suddenly and who was alone with Mr. Otway at the time. They suggested a suspicion that Mr. Otway was responsible for my father’s death.”

The officer looked at me quickly and then became deeply reflective.

“Will it be possible to produce those letters at the inquest?” he asked, after a cogitative pause.

“They are not in my possession,” I answered; “but if the coroner will make an order for their production I will endeavour to have it carried out.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said he; and then, as an afterthought, added: “If you could make it convenient to call at the coroner’s office to-morrow, say at about two o’clock, I could give you the order and perhaps help you to carry it out.”

The latter suggestion appealed to me strongly and I fell in with it at once. Thereupon the officer picked up his helmet with an air of satisfaction, and, having handed me the subpœna, moved towards the door. I accompanied him along the hall and let him out; and as I wished him good evening and launched him down the steps, another figure emerged from the darkness and passed him on the way up.

“Does Mrs. Otway live here?” the new-comer enquired. I glanced at him with faint suspicion, for the exact coincidence in time of his arrival with the officer’s departure suggested a connection between the two events.

“I am Mrs. Otway,” said I.

“Oh, indeed! Could I have a few words with you on a matter of some importance? I will not detain you more than a few minutes.”

I hesitated, eyeing my new visitor dubiously. But there were no reasonable grounds for a refusal; and I eventually ushered him into the little parlour that the officer had just left, and indicated the vacant chair.

“The matter concerning which I have taken the liberty of calling on you, Mrs. Otway,” said he, “is connected with--er--with the painful occurrence--er--at Lyon’s Inn Chambers. A most deplorable affair. Most distressing for you--most distressing! Pray accept my sincere sympathy.”

“Thank you, Mr.----”

“Hyams is my name--you may have heard your late husband speak of me. We have been acquainted a good many years.”

“He has never spoken of you to me, Mr. Hyams. But what can I do for you?”

“Well, I can put my business in a nut-shell. Your husband, at the time of his death, had certain valuable property of mine in his possession. I should like to get that property back without delay.”

He had certainly wasted no time. Unsentimental as was my own attitude I felt this haste to be almost indecent.

“I should think you will have no difficulty,” said I, “if you apply in the proper quarter.”

“That is what I am doing,” he retorted. “You are his widow. His property is in your hands.”

“Not at all,” I replied. “Pending probate of the will, the property is vested in his executors.”

He looked at me in not unnatural astonishment. I suppose the phraseology that I had acquired from my father was unusual for a woman.

“Who are the executors?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“But,” said he, “I suppose you have seen the will.”

“No, I don’t know that there is a will. I am only assuming the existence of one from my knowledge of Mr. Otway’s business like habits.”

“But this is very unsatisfactory,” said Mr. Hyams. “There is portable property of mine worth several thousand pounds lying in his chambers for anyone to pick up, and those chambers in charge of a woman who probably has access to his keys. It really isn’t business, you know.”

“What is the nature of the property?” I asked.

“It is a collection of very valuable stones, the whole lot contained in a little box that anyone could carry away in his pocket.”

“Then,” said I, “the probability is that he has deposited the box with his bankers.”

“Who are his bankers?” he asked.

“I really don’t know.”

“You don’t know!” he exclaimed. “But you must have seen his cheques. I presume he made you an allowance?”

“I accepted no allowance from him and I have never seen one of his cheques.”

Mr. Hyams looked at me with undisguised incredulity. “A most extraordinary state of affairs,” he commented. “Can you give me the address of his lawyers?”

“I am sorry, Mr. Hyams, that I cannot. I don’t even know if he has a lawyer. I know nothing whatever about Mr. Otway’s affairs.”

Mr. Hyams’ countenance took on an expression that was very much the reverse of pleasant. “I suppose, Mrs. Otway,” said he, “you realise that you are talking to a man of business and that you are telling a rather unlikely story.”

“I realise it very clearly, Mr. Hyams,” I replied, “and I realise also the difficulty of your position. What I recommend you to do is to go to Lyon’s Inn and see the housekeeper, Mrs. Gregg. She has been with Mr. Otway many years and can probably tell you all that you want to know.”

Mr. Hyams shut his mouth tightly, rose deliberately and picked up his hat.

“Then,” said he, “the position, as I understand it, is this: You don’t know whether there is or is not a will; you don’t know the name of your husband’s bankers; you don’t know who his lawyer is; you don’t know anything about his affairs; and you disclaim any responsibility in regard to property that was in his custody when he died.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “that is the position; a very unsatisfactory one for you, I must admit. Perhaps I may be able to help you later, when I know more about Mr. Otway’s affairs. Will you leave me your address?”

He was on the point of refusing, but prudence triumphed over anger and he laid on the table a card on which I read the name, “David Hyams, Dealer in precious stones,” and the address, “501, Hatton Garden.”

“If I learn anything fresh I will write to you,” I said; whereupon he thanked me curtly and gruffly and walked towards the door with pursed-up lips and a lowering, truculent expression and took his departure without another word.

When he was gone I reflected at some length on the significance of his visit. The interview had brought home to me very vividly my anomalous position. Mr. Otway had been a total stranger to me. Of his past, of his recent habits and mode of life, his friends, his occupation--if he had any--his family and social status, I knew nothing. My father had referred to him as a retired solicitor and as a collector of, or dealer in, precious stones. Vaguely, I had conceived him as a man of some means--perhaps a rich man. But I knew nothing of him and had given him and his affairs barely a thought. He was a stranger who had come into my life for but a moment, and had straightway gone out again, leaving a trail of desolation to show where he had been.

That was the real position. But to strangers, to the world at large, it would seem incredible. I was Mr. Otway’s widow. I had been his wife--in law if not in fact. And the world would hold me to the legal relationship. The dead man, lying in the mortuary, seemed about to make good the claims that the living man had been forced to abandon. My status as a wife had been a mere fiction: my status as a widow was an undeniable reality.

The clear perception of the extent to which I was involved in the dead man’s affairs gave my visit to the coroner’s office a new importance. For now, while seeking information for official use at the inquest, I must gather what knowledge I could for my own guidance under cover of the coroner’s order. The address of the office--in Blackmoor Street, Drury Lane--was printed on the subpœna, and there, after a few enquiries, I made my appearance punctually on the following day.

My friend of the previous evening--whose name I discovered to be Smallwood--was in the office, looking over some documents with the aid of a pair of spectacles, which gave him a curiously unconstabulary aspect. He rose when I entered, and, opening a drawer, took out a sheet of paper.

“This is what you asked for, Mrs. Otway,” said he (upon which a young man at a desk looked up quickly), “the coroner’s request for the production of the letters that you told me about. Can I give you any other assistance?”

“If you could accompany me to the chambers and be present during the search for the letters, I should be glad,” I replied. “You see,” I added, seeing that he looked somewhat surprised, “I am almost a stranger to the housekeeper, I know nothing about the household or Mr. Otway’s arrangements, and I shall be accountable to the executors, if there are any, for any interference with the papers or their removal. I should very much prefer to have a reliable witness.”

He saw the position at once, and, greatly to my relief, agreed to come with me, or rather to follow me in a few minutes. Thereupon I left the office and walking at a leisurely pace into Drury Lane presently made my way into the Strand by way of May-pole Alley and turned eastward towards Lyon’s Inn Chambers.

At the entrance I lingered for a minute or two and then slowly ascended the stairs to Mr. Otway’s landing, growing more and more uncomfortable with every step. For the bare stone staircase set my memory working very unpleasantly, recalling again my headlong flight and the terrible episode that had preceded it--that episode that I would so gladly have sponged out of my recollection for ever.

I stood at the door with my hand on the bell, listening for Mr. Smallwood’s steps on the stair, and so might have remained until he arrived; but suddenly the door opened and Mrs. Gregg confronted me. Apparently she had some means of observing a visitor from within.

“What are ye standing there for?” she demanded. “Why did ye not ring?”

“I was just about to ring when you opened the door,” I replied.

She smiled sourly and looked at me in that strange, inscrutable fashion of hers that I found so disconcerting.

“And what might your business be?” she demanded.

“I have come about some letters of Mr. Otway’s--some anonymous letters that he has received from time to time. Perhaps you know about them?”

“You mean, perhaps I have been in the habit of reading his letters. Weel, mistress, I have not. I know nothing about his letters.”

“Perhaps you can show me where his letters were kept.”

“Indeed, I’ll do no such thing. What! Do you think I’ll have you scratching up in his chambers and pawing over his letters and papers and him not under-ground yet?”

At this moment I caught the welcome sound of footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. Gregg listened suspiciously, and as Mr. Smallwood came into sight there was a visible change in her demeanour.

“What does he want, I wonder?” she said.

“He has come to receive the letters and to be present at the search for them,” I replied, producing the coroner’s order. She glanced at the paper, and, as Mr. Smallwood stepped up to the door, she motioned us to enter.

“Come in,” she said, gruffly. “’Tis no affair of mine, but I’ll no hinder ye.”

We were just about to enter when footsteps were again audible on the stairs, and we waited to see who this other visitor might be. Somewhat to my surprise it turned out to be Mr. Hyams, who certainly seemed to have a genius for coincidences.

“Now this is quite a lucky chance,” said he, doing himself, as I suspected, less than justice. “I didn’t expect to find you here, Mrs. Otway. I presume you are just having a look round.”

“I have come to search for some documents that have to be put in evidence,” said I. “The coroner has asked for them.”

“Well,” said Mr. Hyams, “you might, at the same time, see if you can find any trace of my property.”

“What property is that?” demanded Mrs. Gregg.

“A parcel of stones--a very valuable collection--that Mr. Otway had from me on approval.”

Mrs. Gregg snorted. “Man,” said she, “ye’re talkin’ like a fool. Do you suppose Lewis Otway would have left a valuable parcel of stones lying about in his rooms like a packet of snuff? Ye’ll find no stones here.”

“That may or may not be,” said Mr. Hyams. “At any rate, I’ll stay and see if anything turns up.”

During this dialogue we had gradually moved from the lobby down the corridor and now entered the living-room. As we crossed it I looked curiously at the large cupboard and wondered idly what I could have found so alarming in its appearance on the night of my visit. But if the living-room had, by the light of day, lost its disturbing qualities, it was otherwise with the bedroom. I opened the door with trepidation, and as I did so and was confronted by the disordered bed, the horror of the place began to come back to me. Nevertheless, I entered the room with a firm step and with my eyes on the bedside table, which appeared to be in the same condition as when I had last seen it. I had just noted this when I felt my arm grasped, and turning quickly found Mrs. Gregg at my side. Her eyes were fixed on me and with her disengaged hand she was pointing towards the corner by the bed-head. Involuntarily my gaze followed the direction in which she was pointing and lighted on the fatal peg, which now bore a loop of the red bell-rope with two free ends. Of course I had known it was there, but yet the sight of it made me turn sick and faint, and I must have shown this in the sudden pallor of my face; for when, controlling myself by an intense effort, I turned to speak to her she was looking at me with a leer of triumph.

“Can we have Mr. Otway’s keys?” I asked.

“Ye’ll find them in the right dressing-table drawer,” she answered. “I’m no party to this, but I’ll no hinder ye.”

Mr. Smallwood opened the drawer and produced a bunch of keys which he handed to me. I looked them over and selecting the most likely-looking ones, tried them, one after the other, on the deed-box. The fourth key fitted the lock, and when I had turned it and raised the lid of the box, the letter which Mr. Otway had shown me lay in full view. I took it out and laid it on the table and then proceeded to lift out the remaining contents of the box. There was not much to remove: a cheque-book, a pass-book, a small journal, a memorandum-book, a bundle of share-certificates, a canvas bag containing money, and at the bottom of the box, a foolscap envelope endorsed, “Anonymous Letters.”

I opened the unsealed envelope and drew out the letters which I glanced through one by one. There were seven in all, of which I had already seen three. When I had looked at them I returned them to the envelope, adding the last letter, and then began to replace the other things in the box.

“I see a cheque-book there, Mrs. Otway,” said Mr. Hyams, who had followed my proceedings with intense interest. “May I make a note of the banker’s address?”

I handed him the cheque-book and continued to replace the contents of the box. When I had finished I paused with the box open, waiting for him to return the cheque-book; and at this moment I became aware, with a start of surprise, that an addition had been made to our party.

The new-comer was a short, stout, middle-aged man, obviously a Jew of the swarthy, aquiline type, with a very large nose and rather prominent dark eyes. He stood in the open doorway of the bedroom watching us with a slightly unpleasant smile. As he noted my surprised look, his smile became broader and more unpleasant.

“Make yourselves at home, ladies and gentlemen,” said he. “These are public premises--at least I assume they are as I found the door open.”

Mr. Hyams looked round with a start--as, indeed, did the others.

“May I ask who you are, sir?” he enquired.

“You may,” was the suave reply. “My name is Isaacs--of the firm of Isaacs and Cohen, solicitors. I am one of the executors of Mr. Lewis Otway’s will. And having regard to my responsibilities in that capacity, I may, perhaps, venture to enquire as to the nature of these proceedings. You, sir, appear to be in possession of the testator’s cheque-book. Did you happen to require the loan of a fountain pen?”

Mr. Hyams turned very red and hastily laid down the cheque-book.

“That,” he exclaimed angrily, “is perfectly unwarranted. I was simply making a note of the banker’s address.”

“With what object?”

“With the object of enquiring whether certain property of mine, which was in Mr. Otway’s custody, had been deposited in the bank.”

“What is the nature and value of this property?” asked Mr. Isaacs.

“It is a collection of precious stones of the approximate value of four thousand pounds.”

“Then,” said Mr. Isaacs, “I can give you the information you want. No property, other than documents, has been deposited at the bank.”

“In that case,” said Mr. Hyams, “the stones must be in these rooms.”

“It is quite probable,” Mr. Isaacs agreed.

“Is there any objection to ascertaining, now, whether they are here?”

“Yes, there is,” replied Mr. Isaacs. “The will has not been proved and no letters of administration have been issued. Pending probate of the will I propose to take possession of these premises and seal all receptacles that may contain valuable property. I shall interfere with nothing until I have letters of administration.”

“And how soon will that be?” asked Mr. Hyams.

“Seven days must elapse before the will can be proved. Under the circumstances there may be some further delay. And now I should like to know what has been taking place. You, for instance, madam----”

“I am Mrs. Lewis Otway,” said I, “and I have come here by the coroner’s direction, to look for some letters that are to be put in evidence.”

“Have you found them?”

“Yes,” I answered, “they are here; and, as you are an executor, I had better hand them to you, and you can deliver them to the coroner’s officer if you think fit.”

I handed him the envelope and the coroner’s letter, which he read, and then asked: “Did you have to make a very extensive search?”

“No, she didn’t,” said Mrs. Gregg. “She kenned fine where to look for them and she found them at the first cast.”

On this I noticed that Mr. Hyams cast a quick, suspicious glance at me and I thought it wise to explain.

“I looked first in this box because I had seen Mr. Otway put one of these letters into it.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Isaacs. “Very natural.” But obvious as the explanation was, I could see that it had left Mr. Hyams unconvinced.

I now returned the cheque-book to the deed-box, locked the latter and handed the keys to Mr. Isaacs; who delivered the anonymous letters to the coroner’s officer and took his receipt for them on a slip of paper. My business being now at an end, I offered my card to Mr. Isaacs, took his in return, and departed in company with Mr. Smallwood.

“A queer business, this, ma’am,” the officer remarked as we descended the stairs. “Regular mix up. Seem to be a lot of Sheenies in it.”

“Sheenies?” I repeated, interrogatively. “What are Sheenies?”

“Jews, ma’am,” he replied, apparently a little surprised at my ignorance. “It’s just a popular name, you know.”

I reflected on Mr. Smallwood’s remark, which seemed hardly justified by the facts--two Jews only having appeared in the case, so far as I knew. And yet I seemed to be aware of a sort of Semitic atmosphere surrounding Mr. Otway. There were, for instance, the Campbells; and then Mrs. Gregg, although a Scotswoman, might easily, but for her strong Scottish accent, have passed for a Jewess; while Mr. Otway, himself, had been distinctly Semitic in appearance.

At the entry, where we separated, Mr. Smallwood halted to give me a final injunction.

“You had better be in good time to-morrow, ma’am,” said he, “because it will be necessary for you to view the body so that you can give evidence as to the identity of the deceased.”

I thanked him for the reminder, but would much rather have been without it. For the prospect filled me with a vague alarm, and now the mental picture of the sleeping man, which had haunted me by night and by day, began to be replaced by one more dreadful, and one which I felt that my visit to the mortuary would attach to me for ever.

Chapter XXIV. The Gathering Clouds

The distaste which I felt for my errand did not prevent me from following Mr. Smallwood’s advice on the subject of punctuality. It was some minutes short of half-past two when I turned into the mean, little street off Drury Lane in which the mortuary was situated. I had found the place without much difficulty and had still less in finding the mortuary itself, for, as I entered the street I observed a procession of about a dozen men passing in through a narrow gateway, watched attentively by a small crowd of loiterers. Assuming the former to be the jury, I walked slowly past on the opposite side and continued for the length of the short street. I had just turned to retrace my steps when the men filed out of the gateway and proceeded to enter a building a few yards up the street, and immediately afterwards Mr. Smallwood appeared at the gate. He saw me at once and waited for me to approach.

“I am glad you have come in good time, ma’am,” said he. “The jury have just been in to view the body and the coroner will like to open the inquest punctually. This is the way.”

He preceded me down a narrow passage, at the end of which he pushed open a door. Following him I entered the mortuary, a bare, stone-floored hall containing two large slate-topped tables, one of which was occupied by a recumbent figure covered by a sheet. Mr. Smallwood removed his helmet and together we advanced slowly towards the awesome, shrouded form, lying so still and lonely in its grim surroundings. Very quietly, the officer picked up the two upper corners of the sheet and drew it back, retiring then a couple of paces as if to avoid intruding on my meeting with the dead.

Strung up as I was, the first impression was less dreadful than I had anticipated. The face was pale and waxen, but it was placid in expression and more peaceful than I had ever seen it in life. The hunted, terrified look was gone and had given place to an air of repose, almost of dignity. For a few moments I was sensible of a feeling of relief; but then my glance fell upon a contorted length of crimson rope that lay on the slate table, and instinctively my eye turned to the uncovered throat. And as I noted the shallow groove under the chin, faintly marked with an impression of the strands of the rope, the shocking reality came home to me with overwhelming horror. Before my eyes arose that awful shape upon the bedroom wall and the hardly less dreadful image of the sleeping man unconsciously receiving the message of his doom.

With a new horror--an incredulous horror of myself--I looked on the pale, placid face and seemed to read in it a gentle reproach. He had gone to his death at my bidding. He had stood unsteadily on the brink of the abyss, and I had pushed him over.

It seemed incredible. There had been no conscious intention; no guilty premeditation. I would have told myself that there was no connection other than mere coincidence. But there the plain, undeniable facts were. Unconsciously--or subconsciously--my will had created that premonitory shape upon the wall; the terrible words had formed themselves and issued from my lips. And straightway the thing that my thoughts and words had foreshadowed had come to pass. This waxen-faced effigy that lay on the stone table, as its living counterpart had lain that night in the bed, was its fulfilment, its realisation.

“Better not stay too long, ma’am,” said Mr. Smallwood. And as he spoke I became suddenly aware that I had reached the limits of endurance. My knees began to tremble and I breathed the tainted air with difficulty.

“Better come away now,” continued Mr. Smallwood. “It’s been rather too much for you. Good afternoon, Mrs. Gregg.”

I looked up quickly and perceived Mrs. Gregg, who must have come in without making a sound, standing at the foot of the table watching me intently. That penetrating stare and the singular, enigmatical expression would have been disturbing at any time. But now I was conscious of actual fear. As I tottered unsteadily along the passage to the street, the menace of that watchful, inscrutable gaze followed me. How much did this woman know? What had she heard? And if she had overheard those last words of mine, how much had she understood of their import? These were weighty questions, the answers to which I should doubtless hear within an hour or two.

When I was ushered by Mr. Smallwood into the room in which the inquest was to be held, the court was already assembled and ready to begin. The jurymen sat along one side of a long table and one or two reporters occupied a part of the other, while a row of chairs accommodated the witnesses and persons interested in the case, including Mr. Isaacs, Mr. Hyams, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, and a youngish man of a markedly Jewish type whom I did not recognise. I took my seat at the end of the row, and Mrs. Gregg, who had followed us in, seated herself near the middle.

As I took my seat the coroner addressed one of the reporters:

“Let me see, what paper do you represent?”

“I am not a pressman, sir,” was the reply. “I am commissioned to make a report for Dr. Thorndyke.”

“Dr. Thorndyke! But what is his connection with the case? I know nothing about him.”

“I only know that he has asked me to make a verbatim report of the evidence.”

“Hm,” grunted the coroner. “I’m not sure that it is quite in order for private individuals to send their reporters to an inquest.”

“It is an open court, sir,” the reporter observed.

“I know. But still--however, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Well, gentlemen, I think we are ready to begin. The witnesses are all present and it is on the stroke of three. I need not occupy your time with any preliminary statement. It seems quite a straightforward case and you will get the facts from the evidence of the witnesses. We are here, as you know, to inquire into the circumstances of the death of Lewis Otway, whose body you have just viewed, which occurred either on the night of the 18th instant or the morning of the 19th. The body was found hanging from a peg in his bedroom by his housekeeper, Mrs. Gregg, and it will be best to take her evidence first.”

Mrs. Gregg was accordingly called, and having taken a position near the head of the table, was sworn and proceeded to give her evidence.

“My name is Rachel Gregg, age 51. I was housekeeper to the deceased, Lewis Otway.”

“How long,” asked the coroner, “had you known the deceased?”

“Thirty-three years.”

“What was deceased’s occupation?”

“He was a retired solicitor; but he was a connoisseur in precious stones, and, I think, dealt in them to some extent.”

“Was he in financial difficulties of any kind, so far as you know?”

“No. I believe he was quite a well-to-do man.”

“Had you any reason to suspect him of an intention to take his life?”

“Yes. He used to say that he expected, if ever he had any trouble, that he would hang himself. The tendency to suicide was in the family. His only brother hanged himself, his mother hanged herself and his mother’s father hanged himself.”

“But that was only a tendency that might not have affected him. Had you any reason to expect that he actually might commit suicide? Was there anything in his manner, in the state of his mind or in his circumstances that led you to believe that he might take his life?”

“Not until recently. He always used to be quite cheerful in a quiet way until he got married. After that he was never the same. His marriage seemed to bring all sorts of trouble into his life.”

“Tell us exactly how this change came about.”

“His marriage took place about eight months ago--on the 25th of last April when he was living at Maidstone. It was quite sudden. I knew nothing of it until the day before, when he told me he was going to marry a Miss Helen Vardon, and that the marriage was to take place secretly because the lady’s father had refused his consent. On the morning of the marriage I saw Mr. Otway go out, and soon afterwards I went out myself to do some shopping. When I came back I found the new Mrs. Otway in the study and her father, Mr. Vardon, lying dead on the floor. Mr. Otway had gone to fetch a doctor. It appeared that Mr. Vardon had called directly after the newly-married couple had arrived home from the church and that there had been a quarrel and Mr. Vardon had fallen down dead. I understand that Mr. Vardon was alone with Mr. Otway at the time.

“Soon after I arrived, Mrs. Otway left the house and went back to her own home, and Mr. Otway told me that she refused to live with him. At any rate, she never did live with him, and she never came near him until the night of his death.”

“Do you know if the deceased agreed to this separation?”

“Apparently she made him agree. But it was a great trouble to him, and I know that he tried more than once to get her to live with him.”

“Do you know what was the cause of the separation?”

“No. Mr. Otway never mentioned it to me.”

“You say that the separation was a great trouble to the deceased. Did it obviously affect his spirits?”

“Yes; he was very depressed after his wife went away, and he never recovered. He seemed to get more and more low-spirited.”

“Do you know of any other reasons than the separation from his wife why he should have been depressed in spirits?”

“Yes. Mr. Vardon’s sudden death was a great shock to him. He felt that he had been partly the cause of it, by quarrelling with Mr. Vardon. Then there was a great deal of talk in Maidstone about the affair and people blamed Mr. Otway for what had happened; and later rumours began to get about that there had been foul play--that Mr. Otway had actually killed Mr. Vardon. These rumours got on his nerves so badly that he gave up his house at Maidstone and moved to London.”

“You have spoken of a quarrel between deceased and Mr. Vardon. Do you know what the quarrel was about?”

“I believe it was about the secret marriage, but I was not in the house at the time.”

“Were there any other causes for the mental depression which you say the deceased suffered from?”

“I think so, but I can’t say for certain. There were some letters that came about once a month which seemed to worry him a good deal. I used to see him reading them and looking very anxious and depressed; and after a time he began to get very nervous and fidgety and couldn’t sleep at nights unless he took a dose of veronal. And I noticed that he was smoking much more than he used to, and taking much more whisky.”

“Did you ever see any of the letters that you have spoken of?”

“I never read one, but I saw the outsides and I noticed that they all bore the post-mark of East London.”

Here the coroner drew from the large envelope six of the letters which I had found in the deed-box, and handed them, in their envelopes, to Mrs. Gregg.

“Do you recognise any of these letters?”

Mrs. Gregg turned the envelopes over in her hand, looked closely at the post-marks and replied, as she returned them:

“Yes; these look like the letters that I spoke of.”

The coroner laid the letters on the table, and after a few moment’s reflection said: “Now, Mrs. Gregg, we want you to tell us what you know of the circumstances of Mr. Otway’s death. You spoke of a visit from Mrs. Otway.”

“Yes. She came to Lyon’s Inn Chambers on Wednesday night, about half-past six and told me that Mr. Otway had written to her asking her to come. As Mr. Otway was then expecting another visitor, I asked her to call again about eight, which she agreed to do. Mr. Otway had been rather poorly for the last few days--very nervous and despondent, and had been sleeping badly--and for three days had kept to his bed. I told him that Mrs. Otway was coming at eight o’clock and he then said that he had some private business to talk over with her and that I need not sit up. I gave him his supper at half-past seven and just after I had cleared it away Mrs. Otway came. I showed her into the bedroom and went to the kitchen to finish up my work. At half-past nine I went to bed--a little earlier than usual because I thought they would like the place quiet for their talk. At a quarter to seven on Thursday morning I got up, and as soon as I was dressed, went into the living-room to tidy it up. Then, to my great surprise, I saw that the door of the bedroom, which opens out of the living-room, was wide open and that the gas in the bedroom was full on.

“Thinking that Mr. Otway might be worse, I called out to him to ask if he wanted anything; but there was no answer. I could see the bed from where I was and could see that he was not in it; so I called to him again, and as there was still no answer, I went into the bedroom. At first I thought he was not there; but suddenly I saw him in a corner of the room that was in deep shadow. He seemed to be standing against the wall, with his arms hanging down straight and his head on one side; but when I went nearer I saw that he was hanging from a large peg and that his feet were three or four inches off the floor. He had hanged himself with a length of bell-rope that he had cut off with his razor--at least that was what it looked like, for the razor was lying open on the bed. I picked up the razor and ran to him and cut the loop of rope, and as he fell, I let him down on the floor as gently as I could. He seemed to be quite dead and his skin felt cold, so I ran out to fetch a doctor. Just outside the buildings I met a policeman and told him what had happened, and he told me to go back to the chambers and wait, which I did. A few minutes later he arrived at the chambers with a doctor, who examined the body and said that Mr. Otway had been dead some hours.”

“Did you see any means by which deceased could have raised himself to the peg from which he was hanging?”

“Yes. There was an overturned chair lying on the floor nearly underneath him. It looked as if he had stood on it to fix the loop of rope and then kicked it away. Mrs. Otway’s bag was lying on the floor by the side of the chair.”

“Mrs. Otway’s bag! What bag was that?”

“A little wrist-bag such as ladies use to carry their purses and handkerchiefs. She called for it the same day and I gave it to her. She had not heard what had happened, and when I told her she fell down in a dead faint.”

The coroner reflected for a while with wrinkled brows, and I caught the eyes of one or two of the jurymen regarding me furtively. After a somewhat lengthy pause, the coroner asked:

“Do you know what time Mrs. Otway left the chambers?”

“I heard the outer door slam about half an hour after I had gone to bed. That would be about ten o’clock.”

“Did you see Mrs. Otway or deceased after you let her in?”

“No. I did not go into the bedroom again. I went into the living-room twice and could hear them talking.”

“Could you hear what they were talking about?”

“I could hear a few words now and then. When I went into the living-room the first time they seemed to be talking about suicide. I heard Mr. Otway say something about a peg on the wall.”

“And when you went in the second time?”

“They seemed still to be talking about suicide. I heard Mrs. Otway ask deceased what drove his brother to hang himself.”

“You heard nothing suggesting a quarrel or disagreement?”

“No. They seemed to be talking in quite a friendly way.”

“Do you know what kind of terms they were on?”

“No. I never saw them together before except for a few minutes on the wedding day.”

“You spoke of a visitor who came to deceased earlier in the evening. Who was that visitor?”

“A Mrs. Campbell. Her husband is a jeweller and curio-dealer whom deceased had known for a good many years, and used to have business dealings with. I understand she came on business and she only stayed about ten minutes.”

“Is that all you know about the case?”

“Yes, I think I have told you all I know about it.”

The coroner glanced at the jury. “Do any of you, gentlemen, wish to ask the witness any questions?” he enquired.

Apparently none of them did, and when the coroner had complimented Mrs. Gregg on the clear manner in which she had given her evidence, she was dismissed.

There was a short interval in which the coroner read over his notes and the jury conferred together in low undertones. Then the coroner observed: “We had better dispose of the police and medical evidence as they are merely formal and will not take much time. We will begin with the constable.”

The policeman was then called and briefly corroborated Mrs. Gregg’s evidence. When he had finished, the doctor, whom he had brought to the chambers, took his place, and having been duly sworn deposed as follows:

“My name is John Shelburn. I am a member of the Royal College of Surgeons and a Licentiate of the Royal College of Physicians, and am acting as locum tenens for the police surgeon of Saint Clement Danes. At seven twenty-eight a.m., on Thursday, the 19th of October, I was summoned by the last witness to accompany him to Lyon’s Inn Chambers, where a man was reported to have hanged himself. I went with the constable to a set of chambers, over the door of which was painted the name of Mr. Lewis Otway. I went into the bedroom where the gas was alight, the blinds down and the curtains drawn. There, lying on the floor near the wall, I found the dead body of a tall, heavily built man, about fifty or fifty-five years of age, dressed in a suit of pyjamas. The surface of the body was cold and rigor mortis was well established. I should say the man had been dead about eight hours. Around the neck was a double loop of red bell-rope and a portion of the same was hanging from a large peg on the wall about seven feet from the floor. The rope had apparently been cut down for the purpose as a portion was still attached to the bell-wire and the severed tassel lay on the bed, on which were impressions of feet, as if someone had stood on the bed to cut it off. The length of rope had been joined at the ends with the kind of knot known as a ‘granny’ and formed into what is known as a weaver’s loop, which had been passed over the head and the standing part of the rope hitched over the peg. This would form a running loop, like this”--here the witness produced a piece of thick string and demonstrated the arrangement on his thumb and the knob of a chair-back.

“I released the double loop from the neck and found a shallow groove on the throat corresponding to the rope. The countenance of the deceased was calm--as it usually is in cases of hanging--and there were no signs of violence or anything remarkable about the body. A chair, on which the deceased had apparently stood to adjust the rope on the peg, was lying close by and near to it on the floor was a lady’s hand-bag. The rope had been cut with some sharp instrument--probably a razor, as I was informed by the housekeeper. I looked round the room but saw nothing of any significance excepting a half-empty whisky decanter and a nearly-full bottle of veronal tablets on a table by the bed.”

“Can you tell us at what time death took place?”

“Only approximately. I have said that the man appeared to have been dead about eight hours. That would give us eleven o’clock on the night of the 18th as the time at which death occurred. But I will not bind myself to that time exactly. It might have been an hour earlier or later.”

“After hearing your evidence and that of the other witnesses which you have also heard, it is a mere formality to ask your opinion as to the cause of death.”

“Yes. The cause of death was obviously suicidal hanging.”

This concluded the surgeon’s evidence, and when he had been dismissed, the coroner turned to the jury.

“We have now, gentlemen,” said he, “established the fact of death and its immediate cause. Our next investigation will seek to establish the contributory circumstances--the more remote causes. We have ascertained that this unfortunate man committed suicide. The question that we now have to consider is, Why did he commit suicide? Possibly the evidence of his widow may help us to answer that question. Helen Otway.”

As I rose to take my place at the table I was dimly aware of a certain ill-defined movement on the part of the jury and the spectators such as one may notice in a church at the conclusion of a sermon. But in the present case the cause was evidently a concentration rather than a relaxation of attention. Clearly, my evidence was anticipated with considerable interest.

“Your name is----?”

“Helen Otway. My age is twenty-four and I live at 69, Wellclose Square.”

“Have you viewed and do you identify the body now lying in St. Clement’s mortuary?”

“Yes; it is the body of Lewis Otway, my late husband.”

“When did you last see the deceased alive?”

“On the night of Wednesday, the 18th of October.”

“Tell us, please, what took place on that occasion.”

“I went to see deceased in consequence of a letter that I had received from him asking me to do so. I arrived at about half-past six and was informed by Mrs. Gregg that deceased was expecting another visitor.”

“Did you know who that other visitor was?”

“No; but as I went down the stairs I met Mrs. Campbell coming up and assumed that she was the visitor.”

“You know Mrs. Campbell, then?”

“Only by sight. I have seen her in her husband’s shop. Mrs. Gregg asked me to call again at eight, and I agreed to do so, and did so. I was then admitted by Mrs. Gregg, who conducted me to the bedroom and left me there, shutting the door as she went out. I did not see her again that night. Deceased was in bed and had by his side a table on which were a spirit decanter, a siphon of soda water, a box of cigarettes, a bottle of veronal tablets and a deed-box.”

“Did you notice anything peculiar in his appearance?”

“No. He was not looking well, but he seemed less ill than I had expected from his letter; which conveyed the impression that he was in a dangerous condition.”

“Have you got that letter?”

“Yes,” I replied, “I have it here.” As I spoke, I drew the letter from my pocket and handed it to the coroner, who glanced through it and then laid it down with some other papers.

“We will consider this letter,” said he, “with the others that you have handed to me, later. Will you now tell us what passed between you and the deceased?”

“At first we talked about an anonymous letter that he had received a day or two previously. He showed me the letter, and when I had read it, he locked it in the deed-box.”

“We will deal with the anonymous letters presently. What else did you talk about?”

“Deceased repeated the statement that he had made in the letter, that he did not expect to live much longer. I asked him if he had any reason for saying this and he then told me that there was a strong family predisposition to suicide; that his brother, his mother and his mother’s father had all hanged themselves, and that since he had received the anonymous letters he had been conscious of an impulse to make away with himself in the same manner.”

“Had you not known previously of this family tendency?”

“No. He had never mentioned it before, and I knew nothing of his family.”

“Did deceased speak as if he actually intended to make away with himself?”

“No, but he spoke of an impulse which he found it difficult to resist; and he mentioned that a large peg on the bedroom wall seemed to fascinate him and to make the impulse stronger. I advised him to have it taken away.”

“Previous to this conversation, had you ever thought it possible that the deceased might commit suicide?”

“No; the possibility never entered my mind.”

The coroner considered these replies and made a few further notes; then he proceeded to open a fresh subject.

“Now, Mrs. Otway, with regard to your relations with deceased. Were you on friendly terms with him?”

“Not particularly. We were practically strangers.”

“A witness has stated that you refused to live with deceased and that you never had lived with him. Is that true?”

“Yes, it is quite true.”

“Had you quarrelled with deceased?”

“No, there was no quarrel. Our marriage was a business transaction and immediately after the ceremony I discovered that my consent had been obtained, as I considered, by misrepresentation.”

“We don’t want to be inquisitive, Mrs. Otway, but we wish to understand the position. Could you give us a few more particulars?”

“Do you wish me to describe the circumstances of my marriage and the separation from my husband?”

“If you please.”

“My marriage with Mr. Lewis Otway took place under the following circumstances: I accidentally overheard a portion of a conversation between Mr. Otway and my father from which I gathered that Mr. Otway claimed the immediate payment of five thousand pounds held by my father--who was a solicitor--in trust. It appeared from the conversation that my father was unable immediately to produce the money, and Mr. Otway threatened to take criminal proceedings for misappropriation of trust funds. To this my father made no very definite reply. Then Mr. Otway offered to abstain from any proceedings and to allow the claim to remain in abeyance on condition that a marriage should take place between him and me. This my father refused very emphatically and angrily, and Mr. Otway left our house.

“Being greatly alarmed on my father’s account, I communicated with Mr. Otway and informed him that I was prepared to accept his offer on the terms stated--namely, that he should release my father from the immediate claim and secure him from any proceedings in connection with it. Mr. Otway accepted the conditions, and as it was certain that my father would strongly object, we agreed not to inform him until after the marriage had taken place.

“In accordance with this arrangement we were married privately on the 25th April of the present year and we went together from the church to Mr. Otway’s house. I had left a letter for my father informing him of what had been done, and very shortly after our return from the church he came to the house. From an upper window I saw him enter the garden and I was very much alarmed at his appearance. I had heard that he suffered from a complaint of the heart and had been warned against undue excitement and exertion, and I could see that he was extremely excited and was looking very ill. Mr. Otway let him in and, in answer to a question, admitted that the marriage had taken place. Then I heard my father ask Mr. Otway if he had told me about a letter that he--my father--had sent, and when Mr. Otway gave an evasive reply my father called him a scoundrel and accused him of having tricked and swindled me.

“I heard no more of what was said, as the two men went into the study and shut the door; but a minute or two later I heard a heavy fall, and, running down to the study, found my father lying on the floor and already dead. There was a small wound on his temple and Mr. Otway, who was stooping over the body, held my father’s walking-stick--a thick Malacca cane with a loaded silver knob--in his hand. He stated that my father had threatened him with the stick and that he had taken it away from him and that during the struggle my father had fallen insensible, striking his head on the corner of the mantel-piece as he fell.”

“Did you believe him?”

“I think, at the moment, I did not. But on reflection, remembering how ill my father had looked, I had no doubt he was speaking the truth.”

“Was there an inquest on your father’s death?”

“Yes. The jury found, in accordance with the medical evidence, that death was due to heart failure caused by excitement and anger.”

“And after this you refused to live with deceased?”

“Yes. I asked him about my father’s letter and he said he had not seen it. I went with him to the letter-box and there we found it. The postmark showed that it had come by the first post and my father’s address was on the outside of the envelope. There were no other letters in the box. I had no doubt that Mr. Otway had seen the letter and put it back in the box.”

“Was that why you refused to live with him?”

“Partly. The letter stated that my father was able to meet his liabilities and gave a date on which payment would be made. Consequently the threatened proceedings against my father were impossible and Mr. Otway had obtained my consent by false pretences. But further, Mr. Otway’s action had been the cause of my father’s death, and this alone would have made it impossible for me to live with him as his wife.”

“Did deceased agree to the separation?”

“Yes. He saw that the position was impossible; but he hoped that the separation might be only temporary--that we might become reconciled at some future time.”

“Did you consider this possible?”

“No. I held him accountable for my father’s death and could never have overcome my repugnance to him.”

The coroner noted down this answer and having glanced over his notes reflectively, looked up at the jury.

“Do any of you, gentlemen, wish to put any questions on this subject?” he asked.

The jurymen looked at one another and looked at me; and one of them remarked that, “This young lady seems to have rather easy-going ideas about the responsibilities of marriage.”

“That,” said the Coroner, “is hardly our concern. The next matter that we have to consider is that of certain letters received by the deceased from some unknown person or persons. There are seven of them and they seem by the postmarks to have been sent at intervals of about three weeks and to have been posted somewhere in the East end of London. We will begin with the first.” He handed a letter to me and asked: “Have you seen that letter before?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Deceased showed it to me one day last June when I met him by appointment at his request. He seemed to be extremely worried about it.”

The coroner took the letter from me and read it aloud.

“‘Mr. Lewis Otway,

“‘The undersigned is writing to put you on your guard because Somebody knows something about how Mr. Vardon came by his death and that somebody is not a friend, so you had better keep a sharp look-out for your enemy and see what they mean to do. I can’t tell you any more at present.

                                        “‘A Well Wisher.’”

“Do you know,” the coroner asked, “who wrote that letter?”

“No, I do not.”

“Have you no idea at all? Is there no one whom you suspect?”

“I have not the least idea who sent that letter.”

“You say that deceased was extremely worried about it. Do you know why he was worried?”

“I understand that there had been rumours in Maidstone that Mr. Otway had killed my father. Those rumours seemed to have preyed upon his mind and made him unreasonably nervous.”

The coroner nodded gravely and opened another letter and as he read aloud the well-remembered phrases I realised that I should need all the courage and self-possession at my command.

“‘The writer of this warns you once more,’” the letter ran, “‘to look for trouble. The person that I spoke of knows that something was held back at the inquest at least they say so and that they know why your wife won’t live with you and that she knows all about it too and that someone knows more than you think anybody knows. This is a friendly warning.

                                    “‘From a Well Wisher.’”

The coroner looked keenly at me as he finished reading.

“Can you explain the meaning of this letter?” he asked. “It refers to something that was held back at the inquest. Was anything held back, so far as you know?”

“I remember that there was one omission in the evidence. Mr. Otway made no mention of my father’s stick.”

“Was it not mentioned at the inquest at all?”

“No.”

“Did you not give evidence?”

“Yes; but I was merely asked if I confirmed Mr. Otway’s evidence, which I did.”

“You confirmed Mr. Otway’s evidence! But that evidence was not correct. The duty of a witness is to state the whole truth; whereas Mr. Otway had withheld a highly material fact. How was it that you did not supply this very important fact?”

“It did not appear to me to be of any importance. The medical evidence showed that death was due to heart failure.”

“Medical evidence!” the coroner exclaimed, testily. “There is too much of this medical evidence superstition in these courts. People speak as if doctors were infallible. It was your duty as a witness to state all that you knew, not to decide what was or was not of importance. And I cannot understand how you came to hold such an opinion. You found your father lying dead with a wound on his head and a man standing over him with a loaded stick, and you considered this fact of no consequence?”

“I see now that I ought to have mentioned it.”

“What was the verdict?”

“The verdict was in accordance with the medical evidence--Death from natural causes.”

“Did the medical witness or witnesses know that Mr. Otway had had a loaded stick in his hand?”

“No.”

“Did anybody besides yourself and Mr. Otway know about the loaded stick?”

“Mrs. Gregg came into the room when Mr. Otway had gone for a doctor. She saw the stick in a corner and picked it up to examine it. She asked whose it was and remarked on its weight.”

“Did she know it had been in Mr. Otway’s hand at the time of your father’s death?”

“I have no reason to suppose that she knew.”

“Well,” said the coroner, “it is a most extraordinary affair. You heard Mr. Otway give his evidence, you knew that that evidence was incomplete, and yet, though the dead man was your own father and you have declared an unconquerable repugnance to Mr. Otway, you allowed this garbled evidence to pass unchallenged. It is an amazing affair. However,” he continued turning to the jury, “that is not our concern. But what is our concern, for the purposes of this inquiry, is that we now begin to see daylight. We can now understand the extraordinary effect these letters seem to have had on the man whose death we are investigating. Lewis Otway, when he gave his evidence at the inquest, suppressed a most important and damaging fact, which he believed to be known only to himself and his wife. Thereby he obtained a verdict of Death from Natural Causes, which exonerated him from all blame. Had all the facts been known, the verdict might have been very different.

“Now the receipt of these letters must have destroyed his sense of security. Apparently someone else--and that someone evidently an enemy--knew of this damaging fact, and knew of the further damaging fact that it had been suppressed at the inquest. In effect, these letters held out a threat of a charge of murder, or at least, manslaughter. It is no wonder that they alarmed him. But we had better take the rest of the evidence. There is this letter of deceased to his wife, which I will read. It is dated the 17th of October, and this is what it says:

“‘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 leave me no 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 I 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 to-day.”

“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 to-day, 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 this 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 that 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 promised 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 of the large room my eye instantly sought the familiar table in the corner; and when I saw Jasper sitting by it with a watchful 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. I suppose 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 to 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 clink 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 position. 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 deliberately 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 look-out 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 causation were direct, as in the case where two persons agree to commit suicide together and one of them survives.”

I listened to this exposition with a sinking heart. Jasper’s intention was to reassure me. But if only he had known what I knew! If only he could have looked into my heart and seen the secret guilt that was hidden there! And, after all, was it so secret? Was it so securely hidden? Was the still, small voice of my own conscience the only accusing voice that I should hear? As I asked myself the question, uncomfortable memories of the mysterious sounds that had seemed to issue from the locked cupboard arose and whispered a new menace.

“I am putting the matter bluntly,” Jasper continued, “as the position has to be faced, and I am confident that you have the courage and resolution to face it. The coroner holds you accountable for Otway’s death. He thinks you made a deliberate plan and carried it out to the bitter end. That is his line, and we have got to show that he is wrong, if we can, and in any case prevent him from misdirecting the jury. You must certainly be represented by counsel.”

“What could my counsel do?” I asked.

“His principal function would be to prevent the coroner or the jury from putting improper questions--questions that do not properly arise out of the evidence, such as the one we spoke of just now. Of course, I could represent you, but it would not be advisable under the circumstances; and besides, I have had no experience of actual practice. Do you know any barrister whom you could ask?”

“The only barrister I know is Dr. Thorndyke, but I couldn’t ask him to attend a coroner’s court.”

“I don’t know that you couldn’t. Of course, he is a great man. But the case is quite in his line, and I know that he doesn’t mind where he appears if the case interests him.”

“You know him then, too?”

“Only by repute. All lawyers know him as the leading authority on medical evidence. His position is unique, for he is a first-class criminal lawyer and a first-class medical specialist. You couldn’t have a better man for your representative. I advise you to see him or write to him without delay. Does he know anything about your affairs?”

“Yes, I consulted him a month or two ago, about these very letters and told him about my reservations at the inquest. He promised to make a few inquiries, but I have not heard from him on the subject, so I suppose his inquiries led to no result.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” said Jasper. “At any rate, as he knows something of the case, and is by far the best counsel you could get, the obvious thing is to communicate with him at once.”

Of course, Jasper was quite right--in so far as he knew the facts. For he was assuming that I had nothing to conceal excepting my bargain with Mr. Otway and my relations with himself. He knew nothing of the dreadful events that befel on the night preceding Mr. Otway’s death; of the silent willing and suggestion that my own conscience called murder, and that any jury would have called murder if they had known of it. But it was vivid enough in my mind; and I had hardly spoken Dr. Thorndyke’s name before I realised that I dare not ask for his help. My own experience fully endorsed my father’s estimate of his powers. He missed nothing. Hidden significances that no one else guessed at were to him as the writing of an open book. With no knowledge of the facts, he had instantly perceived that Mr. Otway’s evidence was false, and that I was withholding something of importance. And so I felt it would be now. If he came into the case, my hideous secret would be a secret no longer. I dare not run the risk.

“I must think it over,” said I. “It seems rather a liberty to ask a man of his position to watch the evidence at an inquest.”

“He can but refuse,” said Jasper; “and don’t think it over for too long, or you may miss your chance. He is a busy man.”

I made some sort of non-committal reply and changed the subject. Full as we were of the events of the moment, there were other matters that were more pleasant to discuss. For Mr. Otway’s death had made a radical change in our prospects and plans for the future, and these we talked over with interest and pleasure but little dimmed by the dark clouds that hung overhead at the moment, until the chimes of St. Dunstan’s, hard by, announced that it was nine o’clock and time for me to go.

“I suppose,” said Jasper, 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.”

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 that 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 Titmouse, who frankly congratulated me on my newly-acquired freedom.

“It’s horrid for you, Sibyl,” said she, “but still it is all for the best; though he might have managed it a little more decently--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’s 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 newspapers. 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 by 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 had 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 provisions of this will caused me, as I have said, considerable surprise. I had regarded myself as having no pecuniary claim on Mr. Otway, and had not considered myself as concerned in his will at all. Now it was evident that, selfish as he had been during his life, he had been anxious at least to make some atonement after his death for the injury he had done me; and the fact did not tend to make my sense of guilt less acute.

Before I had replied to Mr. Isaacs’ letter I received two other communications. One was from Jasper; and though it was written in a tone of quiet cheerfulness, its contents filled me with alarm. It appeared that Jasper, becoming uneasy at my continued neglect to take any measures to secure a counsel to represent me, had called on Dr. Thorndyke with the object of retaining him. “We have had rather bad luck,” he continued, “though I don’t suppose it will matter. Dr. Thorndyke would have been pleased to represent you, but unfortunately he has been commissioned at the last moment by the Home Office to make an independent investigation of the case. He gave me the name of a suitable counsel--a rising junior named Cawley--with whom I have made the necessary arrangements. So your interests will be looked after, and we can trust Thorndyke to clear up the obscurities of the case.”

The other letter was from Dr. Thorndyke himself, and confirmed Jasper’s account. “Your friend, Mr. Davenant,” it said, “called on me to-day to ask me to watch the proceedings of the inquest on your behalf, which I would have done with great pleasure if I had been at liberty. But I had just received instructions from the Home Office to look into the case and give evidence at the adjourned inquest; so I referred your friend to Mr. Cawley, who is an excellent counsel and will be able to do all that is necessary.

“Mr. Davenant expressed great disappointment that I should be, as he expressed it, ‘retained by the other side.’ But I pointed out to him that there is no ‘other side.’ I am not a ‘witness advocate.’ My evidence would be the same whichever side employed me. I never undertake to represent a particular interest, but merely to obtain what facts I can and give those facts impartially in my evidence; and I always make it clear to clients that they employ me at their own risk--at the risk that the facts elicited may be unfavourable to them. So, although I am not retained by you, I shall act precisely as if I were. I shall find out all I can, and tell the court all I know. This will, presumably, be entirely in your interest.

“And now I am going to ask a favour of you. I wish to examine and make a plan of the premises at Lyon’s Inn Chambers, and I understand that the tenancy of the Chambers is now vested in you. Will you be so kind as to lend me the keys and authorise me to make this survey? If you will, I shall be able to make my evidence more complete.”

If Jasper’s letter had alarmed me, Dr. Thorndyke’s positively terrified me. The cool, relentless impartiality, the unhuman indifference to everything but the actual truth that the letter conveyed appalled me; and I even seemed to read a direct menace in its tone. If I had employed him, I should have done so at my own risk; so he seemed to hint. His intention was to “find out all he could and tell the court all he knew.” How much would he find out? How much did he know already? He had a verbatim report of the evidence so far. He had Mrs. Gregg’s statement that “they seemed to be talking about suicide.” He would know all about suggestion and silent willing. Was it possible that he already knew that I had sent that wretched man on his last journey? When I recalled all that my father had said of his amazing powers of inference; when I remembered how unerringly he had detected the reservations in Mr. Otway’s evidence and mine; I could not but feel that my chance of keeping my guilty secret was infinitesimal. The probability was that it was discovered already.

As to his request, obviously I had no choice but to grant it; and I was on the point of writing to Mr. Isaacs to instruct him to hand the keys to Dr. Thorndyke when it occurred to me that it might be well to avoid unnecessarily taking the former gentleman into my confidence. I knew nothing about Mr. Isaacs, and was not particularly prepossessed by him; nor did I know the object of the proposed survey of the premises; concerning which indeed I was somewhat mystified and rather uncomfortable. Eventually I decided to call at Mr. Isaacs’ office for the keys and deliver them myself to Dr. Thorndyke.

Accordingly I wrote a short note to the latter informing him of my intentions, and on the following morning betook myself to Mr. Isaacs’ office, which was situate in New Inn. I could see that my visit was somewhat unexpected, and evidently aroused the solicitor’s curiosity.

“You will see,” said he, “that the keys are all labelled, and I have made a rough inventory of the furniture and effects. Perhaps you would like me to come with you and check it.”

“Thank you,” said I, “but I don’t think I will check the inventory to-day. We will postpone that until I take formal possession. At present I am merely going to take a look at the premises.”

When I said this, I had, of course, no intention of going to the chambers at all, but as I walked down Wych Street with the keys in my bag, I reflected that, as I had said I was going, I had better go. Moreover, it was possible that the arrangement of the place had been disturbed and that some things might need to be replaced; for I assumed that Dr. Thorndyke would wish to see the premises as they were on the night of the tragedy. And then I was not without some curiosity concerning this place which had been the scene of events so momentous to me.

At the bottom of Wych Street I turned round by the “Rising Sun” and walked along Holywell Street to the entrance of Lyon’s Inn Chambers; and as I, once again, ascended the gloomy stone stairs, the sinister atmosphere of the place enveloped me as it had done on previous occasions, and induced a vague sensation of fear. When I reached the landing and stood at the ill-omened portal, the feeling had grown so pronounced that I hesitated for a while to enter the chambers. At length I summoned up courage to insert the key, and as the massive door swung open I stepped into the lobby.

But my nervousness by no means wore off. Leaving the outer door ajar, I walked quickly down the corridor, peered into the kitchen and the little, empty room that had presumably been occupied by Mrs. Gregg--apparently the furniture had belonged to her--crossed the living-room and entered the bedroom. Here nothing seemed to have been changed. Even the great peg--on which, of course, my eye lit instantly--still bore the end of crimson rope; the bed had been stripped, but the bedside table stood intact even to the bottle of veronal tablets. I looked about me quickly and nervously, noting the arrangement of the furniture and comparing it with my recollections of that unforgettable night; and when I had decided that it was unaltered, I turned to go.

As I crossed the living-room, the large, wardrobe-like cupboard attracted my attention, and I recalled the mysterious sounds that had seemed to issue from it. Was it possible, I wondered, that Mrs. Gregg could have been concealed in it that night and have overheard those last incriminating words of mine. She had not referred to them in her evidence, but the inquiry was not finished yet. I resolved to settle the question whether it was physically possible for her to have been concealed in the cupboard, and having tried the door and found it locked, I turned the keys over one by one until I found one labelled “cupboard in living-room.” It was a rather unusual type of key, with a solid stem instead of the more usual barrel, and when I had inserted it and opened the door, I noticed that the key-hole passed right through the lock, so that the door could be locked from the inside as well as the outside. The cupboard itself was fitted like a wardrobe with a single shelf just above my eye level, beneath which a short woman like Mrs. Gregg could have easily stood upright. Thus the construction of the cupboard and the peculiar form of the lock made it at least possible that an eavesdropper might have been concealed that night; and that was all that I could say.

Before shutting the door I stood on tip-toe to see if there was anything on the shelf. In the semi-darkness of the interior I could see some kind of metallic object, and reaching in, took hold of it. As I drew it into the light of day I gave a gasp of astonishment. It was my father’s stick.

I took it down and turned it over curiously in my hands, marvelling how it should have got into this receptacle; and as I turned it over, there came into view a flattened dent on the silver knob covered by a thick smear of blood to which two hairs had stuck. I looked at the hairs closely, but could come to no opinion as to whether or not they were my father’s. One of these was white and the other a brownish grey. My father’s hair had been iron grey as a whole, but I could not judge what the appearance of individual hairs might have been. If these were really his, then the man who had gone to his account was my father’s murderer. It was a dreadful thought, but yet not without a certain compensation. As I looked at this relic of that day of wrath I felt my heart hardening. If the message that it bore was a true message, then I need have no more compunction for what I had done. If I had known with certainty that Mr. Otway had killed my father, those words which had slipped from me subconsciously would have been consciously uttered with full and deliberate intent and without a qualm.

I stood for a while with the stick in my hand considering what I should do with it. That its mysterious reappearance would create a complication I plainly foresaw, but to take it away and conceal it would be not only dishonest but very unsafe; for it was almost certain that someone knew of its existence. It must have been seen when the inventory was taken. Eventually I replaced it on the shelf and locked the cupboard; and having put the keys back in my bag made my way to the door, which had been standing ajar all this time.

As I walked slowly to the Temple, I turned over in my mind the significance of this strange discovery. Someone must have known of the presence of this stick in the chambers, and that someone was either Mr. Otway or Mrs. Gregg. But both had declared positively that they had never seen it; and it was difficult to imagine why either of them should have kept it hidden away and disclaimed all knowledge of it. I could make nothing of the problem. Only one thing was clear to me. I must let Dr. Thorndyke know of my discovery; for it did not incriminate me in any way and might give him a clue to some of the elements of the mystery, the unravelment of which would be to my advantage.

The door of Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers was opened by Mr. Polton, who greeted me with a friendly smile, all creases and wrinkles.

“I’m sorry to say that the Doctor is not at home, ma’am,” said he; “and he will be sorry, too. He would have liked to see you, I am sure.”

“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Polton,” said I. “I have only called to leave these keys. But I should like to leave a message. Will you ask him not to disturb things more than he can help, as the inventory has not been checked yet; and will you tell him that the stick is in the large cupboard in the living-room? You won’t forget, will you?”

“I shan’t forget,” he replied, with a slight emphasis on the last word, “but I never trust my memory in important matters. Would you mind writing the Doctor a little note?”

He produced writing materials and placed a chair by the table, and I sat down and briefly put my message into writing. When I had given him the note--which he set in a conspicuous place on the mantel-piece--he looked at me as if he had something to say, and I waited to hear what it was.

“I’ve got an old verge watch to pieces upstairs,” he said at length. “I don’t know whether you would care to have a look at the movement. It’s worth looking at. If you want to know what workmanship is, you should look at the inside of a good, old watch.”

I was not, at the moment, much interested in watches or workmanship, but I could not resist his companionable enthusiasm--to say nothing of the implied compliment. So we went up together to the workshop, where he exhibited with a craftsman’s delight the delicate wheels, the engraved plates and the little chased pillars, and even brought out a microscope that I might appreciate the finish bestowed on the links of a fusee-chain that was hardly thicker than a horse-hair.

As the day of the adjourned inquest drew near, my anxiety--intensified by the consciousness of my guilty secret--grew more acute. My position was, as Jasper had said, a difficult one in any case. But the really alarming element in it was the introduction of Dr. Thorndyke into the case. The suggestion factor in the suicide would probably remain unsuspected by the coroner and the jury. But would it escape Dr. Thorndyke’s almost superhuman penetration? I could not believe that it would, for the hint of it was plain in Mrs. Gregg’s evidence. And if it were detected, it would be revealed. Of that I had not the shadow of a doubt. Dr. Thorndyke was a kindly, even a genial man; but he was Justice personified. He would investigate the case with relentless accuracy and completeness; and he would tell the truth to the last word. Of that I felt certain. If he held my fate in his hands I was lost.

Of the view of the case taken by outsiders I had an unpleasant illustration the day before the adjourned sitting. It was furnished by an article in an evening paper that I had taken up to my room to read. Glancing over its pages, my eyes was caught by the words “Lyon’s Inn,” and I read as follows:

“The new Lyon’s Inn seems to be emulating the reputation of the old. Within that ancient precinct occurred the famous Weare murder, forgotten of the present generation, but immortalised in those rather brutal verses of Tom Hood’s:

 “‘They cut his throat from ear to ear,
   His brains they battered in;
 His name was Mr. William Weare,
   He lived in Lyon’s Inn.’

“The drama of Lyon’s Inn Chambers, however, is not a murder--at least we hope not. It is at present regarded as a suicide. But there are some queer features in the case. There is, for instance, a handsome young wife, who, it seems, flatly refused to live with her elderly husband from the very wedding day; there is a series of unaccountable anonymous letters; and there is a rumour of a hoard of precious gems spirited away from the chambers, apparently on the very night when Mr. Lewis Otway hanged himself from a peg on his bedroom wall. So the adjourned inquest, which opens at 11 a.m. to-morrow, may elicit some curious revelations.”

As I laid the paper down, a cold hand seemed to settle on my heart. The writer had exaggerated nothing. He had not even stated all the accusing facts. But even so, put quite impartially, the article exhibited me as the central figure of the tragedy, as the visible agent of the sinister events that had befallen in those ill-omened chambers. And could I say that it misstated the case? Of the anonymous letters, indeed, and the stolen gems--if stolen they were--I knew nothing. But the central fact of the case was Mr. Otway’s death. For that the coroner held me accountable. And, though he misjudged the evidence as to the means, I could not but admit that the coroner was right. The coming inquiry was, in effect, the trial of Helen Otway.

Chapter XXVI. The Adjourned Inquiry

The second sitting of the inquest was a much more portentous affair than the first. The large room, or hall, in which it was held was nearly full when I entered, and it was evident that a considerable proportion of the occupants were spectators, attracted hither, no doubt, by the picturesque comments of the newspapers. But besides these were a number of persons connected with the inquiry. Behind the coroner’s chair sat a group of police officers. Mr. Isaacs and Mr. Hyams were again present; the witnesses now included Mr. and Mrs. Campbell and a youngish man of a pronouncedly Hebrew type, who sat next to them. The side of the long table allotted to the press was filled by reporters--among whom I noticed the gentleman employed by Dr. Thorndyke, and there was one or two men whom I judged to be lawyers representing the various parties interested.

My own counsel, Mr. Cawley, a shrewd-looking man of about thirty-five, introduced himself to me as I took the seat reserved for me, and gave me a few words of advice.

“I think,” said he, “I have had all the necessary instructions from Mr. Davenant, who, I see, is here.” (I had had an instantaneous glimpse of him as I entered the room.) “His impression is that the coroner is disposed to put a certain amount of blame on you for your husband’s death. If that is so, you will have to be rather careful about answering questions, especially any questions that the jury may put. Don’t be in a hurry to answer any doubtful questions. Give me time to object if they seem inclined to go beyond the evidence.”

I promised to bear his advice in mind, and then asked:

“Do you know if Dr. Thorndyke is giving evidence to-day?”

“I presume he is,” was the reply; “but I notice that he is not present and that his reporter is.”

At this point the coroner laid down the papers which he had been looking over, and opened the proceedings with a short address to the jury.

“The adjournment of this inquiry, gentlemen,” said he, “which was decided upon a fortnight ago, is amply justified by the mass of new facts which are now available. These new facts bear chiefly on the property which, as you heard at the last sitting, was believed to be missing; but in other directions they throw a very curious light on the case. The first witness will be Superintendent Miller, of the Criminal Investigation Department.”

As his name was spoken, the officer rose and took his place by the table. He took the oath, and disposed of the preliminaries with professional facility, and then waited gravely for the coroner’s next question.

“You had some knowledge of the deceased, Lewis Otway, and his affairs, I understand?” said the coroner.

“Yes. I have known of his existence for more than twenty years.”

“Will you tell us what you know of him?”

“I first made his acquaintance about twenty-three years ago. He was then practising as a solicitor--chiefly as a police-court advocate--and was known by his real name, Lewis Levy, which he subsequently changed to Otway. After a time, he began to engage in business as a money-lender, and it was at this time that he took the name of Otway. Presently he began to combine with money-lending a certain amount of trafficking in precious stones, and it was then that the police began to keep a somewhat close watch on him, with the idea that he might be also acting as a receiver. We never really had anything against him, but we always had the impression that he did some business as a middleman, or disposer of stolen jewels.

“When I first knew him, he had living with him a young woman, named Rachel Goldstein. She was nominally his housekeeper, but there were two children--a boy named Morris, and a girl named Judith--whom he admitted to be his. When he changed his name to Otway, Rachel Goldstein took the name of Gregg, and used to pass as a Scotchwoman. The children lived with their parents until they grew up, when Otway (or Levy) provided for them in a way that made the police watch still more closely. Judith married a David Samuels, who traded under the name of Campbell as a dealer in works of art, especially goldsmith’s work and jewellery; and Morris Goldstein started as a dealer in antiques, with a shop in Hand Court, and some workshops in Mansell Street, Whitechapel, where most of the antiques were made.

“Now both these men were practical working jewellers. It was believed that Otway financed them both, and it was known that he was the lessee of the premises that they occupied. Moreover, as soon as they were established in business, Otway gradually abandoned the money-lending, and occupied himself almost exclusively in dealing in gem stones. He was an exceedingly good judge of stones, and was quite successful as a legitimate dealer; but the police had an impression that he did a considerable amount of business that was not legitimate. I want it to be quite clear that I am not making any accusations; I am referring merely to an impression that the police had; it may have been quite a mistaken impression, but I mention it because the matter bears directly on this enquiry.

“The idea of the police, then, was that Otway dealt to a considerable extent in stolen property. We supposed that he obtained this property--precious stones, without the mounts--not from the thieves, but from the receivers, and that he disposed of them with the aid of his son and son-in-law. Both those men did a fairly large trade in high-class jewellery. They did not touch commercial goods, but dealt exclusively in work produced individually by skilled goldsmiths and jewellers, some of whom they kept regularly employed. They also did a good deal of repairing and re-setting, and their transactions were always with private customers, not with the trade.

“Our idea of the way it was worked was this: We thought that when Otway had got a collection of stolen stones he would pass on some of them to these two men. They would then commission their craftsmen to make some articles of jewellery, and would provide them with stones which had been bought from the regular dealers, and the purchase of which could be proved if necessary. Then, when the jewels were delivered--or even after they had been sold to a private buyer--Campbell or Goldstein would take the purchased stones out of their settings and replace them by stolen stones. And a similar method could have been employed when jewels were brought for alteration, repair or re-setting. This kind of substitution would be very difficult to trace, for it is not easy to identify particular stones and prove that they are not the ones referred to in the dealers’ receipts. As a matter of fact we never did trace any stolen gems excepting on a single occasion; and then the evidence was not good enough for us to risk a prosecution.

“And now we come to the case that concerns this enquiry. About a year ago there was a burglary at the premises of Messrs. Middleburg, of New Bond Street, the well-known jewellers, and, among other things, a collection of valuable stones, worth about five thousand pounds, was carried off. It was a small collection, but all the stones were individually of considerable value, and several of them were remarkable, either in respect of size or other peculiarities. The collection has never been traced, and none of the stones has reappeared either here or abroad; and the police have reason to believe that the whole collection is still in this country.

“When these stones disappeared so completely, the police formed the opinion that they had passed into the possession of Otway, and that he was holding them up until an opportunity occurred to issue them one by one. At this time he was living at Maidstone--he had been there a year or two, but he had kept his old chambers at Lyon’s Inn, and often stayed in them for a week or more at a time. Last May or June he left Maidstone and came back to his old chambers, and we then began to keep a closer watch on him.

“About a couple of months ago he bought--or rather took on approval--from Mr. Hyams, of Hatton Garden, a collection of stones of which I have seen the list. These stones were carefully selected by Otway, and the remarkable thing about them is that, taken as a whole, they are singularly like the stolen collection. Among the stolen stones, for instance, there were two large tourmalines, one green and one deep blue, both table stones with step-cut backs; four emeralds, two step-cut and two cut en cabochon; two large chrysoberyls, one brilliant-cut, green, and one en cabochon, yellow; one pale-blue diamond; and one pale-pink. Now, the collection taken from Mr. Hyams includes tourmalines, emeralds, chrysoberyls, and diamonds, of almost exactly the same size, colour and cutting; and there are many other passable duplicates of the stolen stones.

“When I became aware of this transaction I inferred that Otway was making arrangements to release the stolen stones, and I caused a still closer watch to be kept on him; but up to the present not one of the missing stones has been discovered. Now I understand that the Hyams collection has disappeared; and if that is so, it seems probable that the person who has taken it is also in possession of the stolen collection. But that, of course, is only a guess.”

“Quite so!” said the coroner, “and it is a matter that is more in your province than in ours. Is there anything more that you have to tell us that is relevant to the enquiry?”

“No, I think that is all.”

“You will be remaining here, in case we want to refer to you again?”

“Yes; I want to hear Dr. Thorndyke’s evidence, and, of course, I want to hear the verdict.”

“I am afraid you may have a long time to wait, for I have had a telegram from Dr. Thorndyke saying that he has been detained at Maidstone, and has missed his train. It is a great nuisance for us all. However, we will go on with the evidence. The next witness will be Mr. Samuel Isaacs.”

As the superintendent retired to his seat and Mr. Isaacs approached the table, I reflected rapidly on what I had just heard. Dr. Thorndyke had apparently been down to Maidstone. Was his visit connected with the present enquiry? And if so, what was it that he had been investigating? The locality suggested some kind of research in which I was concerned, but at the nature of that research I could make no guess whatever. However, there was no time to speculate on the subject, for Mr. Isaacs had been sworn, and was ready to begin his evidence.

“You were solicitor to the deceased, I understand, Mr. Isaacs?”

“Yes; I am one of the executors of his will.”

“In that capacity have you heard of any property said to be missing from the chambers which he occupied?”

“I have. Mr. Hyams has made a claim to have restored to him a parcel of precious stones, valued at about four thousand pounds, which, he states, was his property, and which he asserts the deceased had in his possession.”

“Have you examined the premises with a view to discovering that property?”

“Yes, I have examined the premises very thoroughly, and have made a complete inventory of all the effects of the deceased. I have gone through the contents of the safe and all other receptacles, and have checked the property which he had deposited at his bank. I have made a most exhaustive search, but have failed to find any trace of the parcel referred to, or of any precious stones whatever.”

“Is it possible that you may have overlooked the parcel?”

“I should say it is impossible. My opinion is that the parcel is not on the premises, and it certainly is not at the bank.”

The coroner and a legal-looking gentleman at the table both noted down this reply. Then the former said: “You are, no doubt, in a position to tell us what was the state of the deceased man’s affairs. Was there any kind of financial embarrassment?”

“I should say, certainly not. The gross value of the estate--which is entirely personal--is a little over seventeen thousand pounds; and the liabilities, so far as they are known to me, are quite trivial.”

“Can you tell us roughly, what are the main provisions of the will, that is, if it has been proved?”

“It has been proved. The principal beneficiary is the widow, who receives eight thousand pounds, and the lease of the chambers in Lyon’s Inn, with the furniture and effects, and is made residuary legatee. Rachel Gregg--or Goldstein--receives one thousand, and Morris and Judith, each, two thousand pounds, and the lease of the premises in which they respectively carry on their business. There are a few small legacies--less than a thousand pounds in the aggregate; so that there will probably be a residue of about three thousand pounds, which will go to the widow.”

“What is the date of this will?”

“It is dated the 10th June last.”

“Do you know whether the provisions of the will were known to the widow, or the other beneficiaries?”

“I do not know. They were not disclosed by me until probate had been granted.”

“Thank you,” said the coroner. “I think we need not trouble you any further, unless the jury wish to ask any questions.”

The jury did not; but the legal-looking gentleman at the table did, and springing up like a Jack-in-the-box, he addressed the coroner.

“As representing Mr. Hyams, sir,” said he, “I should like to ask the witness whether, in the event of the missing gems not coming to light, their loss would be chargeable to the estate?”

The countenance of Mr. Isaacs hereupon assumed that peculiar expression known to students of sculpture as “the archaic smile.”

“You are asking me to admit liability,” he replied; “I can’t do that, you know. There is a recognised procedure in these cases, with which I have no doubt you are acquainted.”

The questioner sat down with a jerk, and Mr. Cawley stood up.

“May I ask the witness, sir, whether, in the event of this loss being adjudged to be chargeable to the estate, that loss would affect equally all the beneficiaries?”

“No,” replied Mr. Isaacs, “it would not. It would fall, in the first place, on the residuary legatee. It would only affect the estate as a whole in so far as the amount of the charge exceeded that of the residue.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Cawley. “There is one other question that I should like to ask. The present will is dated the 10th of last June. Did the execution of that will involve the revocation of a previously-existing will?”

“Yes, it did. After his marriage deceased re-acknowledged the existing will by a fresh signature and attestation, but he revoked this will when he made the new one.”

“Could you tell us who were the beneficiaries under that will?”

Mr. Isaacs fixed a thoughtful (and somewhat beady) eye on the coroner’s pewter ink-pot, and cogitated for a few moments.

“Is it necessary, sir, for me to answer that question?” he asked at length, looking up at the coroner.

“Is the point material?” the latter asked, looking at Mr. Cawley.

“I submit, sir, that it may become highly important,” was the reply.

The coroner reflected with his eyes fixed on Mr. Cawley. Then he nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I think you are right. We must ask you to answer the question, Mr. Isaacs.”

Mr. Isaacs bowed. “The beneficiaries under that will were Rachel Goldstein, Morris Goldstein, and Judith Samuels.”

“In what proportions was the property devised?”

“The bulk of the personalty was divided between Morris and Judith. Rachel Goldstein--or Gregg--received two thousand pounds, but she was also the residuary legatee.”

“And the value of the estate?”

“I can’t tell you that. I only know what it is now.”

Mr. Cawley sat down, and Mr. Isaacs retired to his seat. Then the coroner pronounced the name of Mr. Hyams, and its owner took his place by the table.

“We have heard, Mr. Hyams,” said the coroner, “of certain property of yours which was in the deceased man’s custody. Will you give us a few particulars of the transaction. When, for instance, did it come into the possession of the deceased?”

“Two months ago--on the tenth of August, when the deceased called at my office, and asked me to let him have a selection of stones for a special purpose. He said that he had an opportunity of disposing of a number of pieces of jewellery to a wealthy American gentleman, and that he had discovered an extremely clever artist whom he proposed to commission to make them. They were to be important pieces, chiefly pendants, brooches, and bracelets. The stones were to be exceptional in size and quality, and he wanted an assortment for Mr. Campbell--who was conducting the transaction--to show the intending purchaser. He had a list in his pocket-book, which he referred to as he made his selection from my stock. The stones which he selected were rather unusual--the sort of stones that appeal to collectors and connoisseurs, rather than ordinary wearers of jewels. And some of them were very valuable; one ruby alone that he took was worth fifteen hundred pounds. The total value of the parcel that he carried away with him was four thousand two hundred pounds.”

“I understand that he did not pay you for them?”

“No; he was not proposing to keep them all. They were a selection to show to the customer. I made out a full list, and he signed a receipt at the foot of it. I had known deceased for many years, and had often had similar dealings with him.”

“And did he never return these stones, or any part of the collection?”

“No. From the time that he left my office with the stones in his pocket I never saw him or heard from him again.”

This was the sum of Mr. Hyams’ evidence; and when he had retired the name of Judith Samuels was called. The new witness took her place at the table, and, after the usual preliminaries, proceeded to give her evidence.

“I am the wife of David Samuels who trades under the name of Donald Campbell. He is a dealer in works of art, principally goldsmith’s work and jewellery. He is a practical jeweller himself, but most of the alterations and repairs are put out. The new work that he sells, or which is commissioned by customers, is executed for him by independent goldsmiths, not by workmen employed by him.”

“You visited the deceased on the night preceding his death, I understand, is that so?”

“Yes. I came to his chambers about half-past six, and left about seven o’clock.”

“Did you notice anything unusual in his manner or appearance?”

“He was not looking very well, and he seemed rather depressed but he brightened up as we talked. He was very much interested in the business which I had come to discuss.”

“What was the nature of that business?”

“It was connected with a collection of stones that he had got on approval from Mr. Hyams to carry out a commission that he expected to get from a very wealthy American gentleman, to whom he had an introduction. He did not disclose the name of the gentleman, but it was understood that if he secured the commission, my husband should conduct the negotiations, and get the work executed.”

“Did you gather that he had the stones in his possession?”

“Yes; he showed them to me. They were in a small wooden box, the different kinds of stones wrapped up separately in little paper packets. He took the box from a deed-box on the table by his bed-side, and put it back there when he had shown me the stones.”

“Did you make any arrangements as to the disposal of these stones?”

“No final arrangements. He advised that we should get some of our artist goldsmiths to submit designs for the customer to see; and he suggested that my husband should ask Mrs. Otway to design and execute a pendant to take some of the finest stones.”

“Mrs. Otway!” exclaimed the coroner. “What Mrs. Otway do you refer to?”

“I mean Helen Otway, the wife of the deceased.”

“Are we to understand that Mrs. Otway is a designer of jewellery?”

“She is not only a designer; she is a practical goldsmith, and a very clever one too. My husband admires her work exceedingly and has paid her some very high prices. He paid her, for instance, twenty-five guineas for a set of silver tea-spoons.”

The looks of astonishment that the coroner, the jury, and the press-men bestowed on me might, in other circumstances, have flattered my vanity. Now, I could see that Mrs. Campbell, without (so far as I knew) departing one single jot from the truth, was enveloping me in the most hideous entanglements.

After a pause--filled in with strenuous note-taking--the coroner again addressed the witness. “It has been given in evidence that the deceased had received a number of anonymous letters. Do you know anything about these letters?”

“I know nothing beyond what I heard when the evidence was given.”

“Have you any means of judging who wrote these letters?”

“I have heard the evidence, and I can make a pretty good guess who wrote them.”

“That is not quite what I mean. Have you any information about them other than what you gathered from the evidence?”

“No; I never heard of them until then.”

This concluded Mrs. Campbell’s evidence. When she had retired Mrs. Gregg was recalled and questioned concerning the missing stones.

“Did you know that deceased had these stones in his possession?”

“Yes. He showed them to me on one occasion, and I often saw him looking at them. He was very fond of precious stones. He used to set them out on a small square of black velvet, and try them in different lights, and look at them through a magnifying glass.”

“When did you last see these stones?”

“After Mrs. Campbell--that is the last witness--had left, and just before Mrs. Otway arrived. Deceased was then sitting up in bed looking at a large green stone. I reminded him that Mrs. Otway was due at eight, and he then put the stones back in their box, and put the box away in the deed-box that was on the table.”

“When did you first learn that the stones were missing?”

“The day after the discovery that the deceased had committed suicide, when Mrs. Otway came to the chambers with Mr. Hyams and the coroner’s officer. She came to search for the anonymous letters, and she went straight to the deed-box, and there they were. But the stones were not there. I saw her take all the things out of the deed-box for Mr. Hyams to see and there were no stones there.”

“Thank you,” said the coroner. “That will do. We must now, gentlemen, see if Mrs. Otway can give us any further information.”

I once more took my place at the table and was again sensible of a generally heightened curiosity on the part of the jury and the spectators.

“We may as well dispose of the question of the missing stones,” said the coroner; “for though it does not affect our enquiry directly but is rather the business of the police, it seems to have an important, indirect bearing. You have heard, Mrs. Otway, the evidence of Judith Samuels, and Rachel Goldstein--or Gregg. Can you throw any light on the disappearance of these stones?”

“No, I cannot.”

“Did you know that deceased had these valuable stones in his possession?”

“No; I never heard of the stones until Mr. Hyams called on me on the evening of the day on which Mr. Otway’s death was discovered.”

“Do you know, or have you any idea, where those stones are now?”

“I do not know, and I have no idea where they are.”

“Did you know that deceased was a dealer in precious stones?”

“No; my father told me that deceased collected gem-stones, and that he sometimes had dealings in them. But I supposed that he was merely a collector, not a professional dealer.”

“How long had you known deceased when you married him?”

“I had known of his existence about a year, but I had hardly ever spoken to him. He was virtually a stranger to me.”

“Had you never heard of the suicidal tendency in his family?”

“Never until the night preceding his death, when he told me.”

“It has been stated that you are a practical goldsmith, and that you have executed work for Mr. Samuels, or Campbell. Is that true?”

“I work as a goldsmith and I have sold some of my productions to Mr. Campbell; but I have never been employed by him. I work as an independent artist.”

“Has he ever supplied you with precious stones?”

“No. I purchase my own materials.”

“Have you ever done any alterations or resettings for him?”

“No. I have done no work of any kind for him, or anyone else. I work on my own account, and sell what I make.”

The coroner nodded, and glanced over his notes. After a pause he asked: “At what time on the night of your visit to deceased did you leave his chambers?”

“A little before ten o’clock.”

“What was the condition of deceased when you left? Did he seem particularly depressed or worried?”

“He was asleep when I left.”

“Asleep!” exclaimed the coroner, “How long had he been asleep?”

“Not very long; perhaps a quarter of an hour. When he took his usual dose of veronal he asked me to stay with him until he went to sleep, and I did so.”

“I see that the housekeeper states that when she entered the living-room in the morning, the bedroom door was wide open, and the gas full on. What was the condition of affairs when you left?”

“The gas was full on, and I did not shut the bedroom door. I was not aware that the housekeeper had gone to bed and assumed that she would look in on deceased and make what arrangements were usual for the night.”

“But if you had turned down the gas, and shut the bedroom door, that would have prevented the housekeeper from going to deceased.”

“No. It did not appear to matter either way.”

“When you went away, did you leave your hand-bag behind?”

“Yes, I had hung it on the back of my chair, and when I got up to go, I forgot about it.”

“When did you discover that you had left it behind?”

“I first remembered it when I hailed a cab at the corner of Holywell Street to take me home.”

“Why did you not then go back for it?”

“I did not like to disturb Mrs. Gregg and deceased, as it was so late.”

“Was your purse in the bag?”

“Yes; but that was of no consequence. I knew there would be someone sitting up who could pay the cabman.”

“The housekeeper has told us that you came to fetch the bag on the following day.”

“Yes, in the afternoon, about three. It was then that I first heard of Mr. Otway’s death.”

“The housekeeper states that, when she told you what had happened, you fell down in a dead faint. Is that so?”

“Yes. It gave me a great shock, especially as Mrs. Gregg told me the bad news so very abruptly.”

“Were you expecting to hear that the deceased had committed suicide?”

“No; the subject was not in my mind.”

“Is that not rather remarkable, having regard to your conversation with deceased on the previous night?”

“I don’t think so. That conversation had certainly given me the impression that there was a danger that deceased might be driven to suicide if this persecution were continued. But I had not supposed that the danger was immediate.”

“And that pitiful letter that you received from deceased? Did that convey no note of warning?”

“At the time when I received it I was not aware of any predisposition to suicide on the part of deceased. What he told me caused me some alarm, but he became so much calmer after our talk that I thought the danger was past, so far as the immediate future was concerned.”

“And when you went to his chambers on the following day, you felt no uneasiness as to what might have happened?”

“No, the possibility that anything unusual might have happened was not in my mind at all.”

“Well,” said the coroner, “it seems to me rather remarkable that the possibility did not even occur to you. However, we are dealing with the facts, and if those are the facts, there is no more to be said. We will now pass on to the consideration of the will. When did you first learn that deceased had made a fresh will?”

“Four days ago, when I received a letter from Mr. Isaacs informing me of the fact that I was one of the beneficiaries.”

“Had deceased never mentioned to you that he had made a will in your favour?”

“No.”

“Was there no stipulation on your part at the time of the marriage that he should make such a will?”

“No. Nothing ever passed between us on the subject.”

“And had you no knowledge or belief that a will affecting you had been executed?”

“I had no knowledge or belief that such a will had been executed nor any expectation that it would be. I did not consider myself as having any pecuniary claim on deceased.”

“Did you not receive an allowance from deceased?”

“No. He wished to make me an allowance, but I declined to accept it.”

“But you were entitled to an allowance for maintenance. Why did you refuse to accept it?”

“I did not consider that I had any claim on deceased so long as I insisted on living apart.”

“Then do we understand that you subsist entirely on your own means or earnings?”

“Yes, entirely.”

“Would you kindly tell us what those means and earnings respectively amount to? And what are their sources?”

“I have a small private income--about sixty pounds a year--derived from the realisation of my father’s estate. I cannot estimate my earnings very exactly, as I have been working only a few months. Probably I shall be able to earn from a hundred and fifty to two hundred pounds a year, when I am established. Up to the present I have sold all my work to Mr. Campbell.”

“How did you first become acquainted with Mr. Campbell--or Samuels, to give him his correct name?”

“Deceased recommended him to me when I first came to London. He stated that he had known him for many years.”

“Did you know that Mr. Campbell was related to deceased?”

“Not until I heard it here to-day.”

The coroner considered awhile, turning over his notes reflectively. At length he said, “Before you sit down, Mrs. Otway, I should like to ask you again about those anonymous letters. You have stated that you have no idea who wrote them.”

“That is so,” I replied.

“When you discussed them with deceased, did neither of you arrive at any conclusion as to who might have written them?”

“Deceased assured me that he could make no guess as to who had sent them. Naturally, I could not, since all his acquaintances, whether friends or enemies, were unknown to me.”

“And you adhere to your statement that you know nothing about these letters?”

“I know nothing about them whatever, excepting that deceased received them; and that I have only known by his telling me.”

“And with regard to your father’s stick? You have stated that you have no knowledge as to what became of it, or where it is now. Do you adhere to that statement too?”

“That statement was correct when I made it; but the stick has since come to light.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the coroner. “When and how did that happen?”

“It occurred three days ago, when I went to look over the chambers in Lyon’s Inn. I chanced to open a large cupboard in the living room, and there, on the single shelf at the top, I saw the stick lying at the back, and hardly visible in the deep shadow.”

“In-deed!” said the coroner, with a strong emphasis on the second syllable. It was perfectly evident that he did not believe me, and he made no secret of it. Nor were the jury any better impressed. In the silence that followed my statement they whispered together eagerly, and disbelief was writ large on the faces of them all.

“Had you any particular occasion to look over the chambers?” the coroner asked after an interval.

“Yes; I had received a letter from Dr. Thorndyke saying that he wished to make a survey of the premises and asking me to give him permission, and the necessary facilities to do so. I accordingly went, on the following day, and fetched the keys from Mr. Isaacs to leave them at Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers. On the way, I called in at Lyon’s Inn to see what condition the chambers were in.”

“And to plant the stick for Dr. Thorndyke to find, eh?” said one of the jurors, with a truculent leer.

Mr. Cawley rose instantly to protest, but he was anticipated by the coroner, who said severely: “That, sir, is quite out of order. Members of the jury must not suggest motives or actions on the part of witnesses which are not given in evidence. They may have their opinions, but those opinions must not be expressed until all the evidence has been heard and the verdict has to be considered.” Having administered this reproof, he again turned to me.

“When you looked over the chambers, did you examine the other furniture and receptacles. Did you, for instance, look in the other cupboards and drawers?”

“No.”

“Only this one cupboard? Now what made you look into this cupboard in particular?”

I saw the awkwardness of the question; but I also saw that a complete explanation of my motives would land me on much more dangerous ground. My immediate motive had been to ascertain what the inside of the cupboard was like, and this was as much as I dared tell.

“I wished to see what kind of a cupboard it was--whether it had shelves, drawers, or simply an open space.”

“Did you take the stick out of the cupboard?”

“Yes, I took it out to examine it and see if the statement in the letter as to the bruise, the blood-smear, and the hairs was correct.”

“And was the statement correct?”

“Yes; there was a bruise on the silver knob, and a thick smear of what looked like dried blood, to which two hairs had stuck.”

“Did those hairs look to you like hairs from your father’s head?”

“I could not say. They might have been. They were short and looked as if they had come from the head of a grey-haired man. My father’s hair was grey.”

“What did you do with the stick?”

“I put it back in the cupboard.”

“Why did you not bring it here?”

“I thought it best to leave it where I found it.”

“Are the keys of the chambers in your possession now?”

“No; I left them at Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers, and he has not yet returned them. I left a note informing him that the stick was in the cupboard.”

“May I ask why you did that?”

“Dr. Thorndyke mentioned in his letter that he was investigating the case on instructions from the Home Office, and I wished to give him any assistance that I could.”

“But,” the coroner exclaimed irritably, “don’t you understand that this court is investigating the case? That a coroner’s court is the proper authority to carry out such investigations? I don’t know why this medical specialist has been brought into the case at all. I have not asked for his assistance. It is quite irregular and most unnecessary. And how did this gentleman come to write to you?”

“He wanted to survey the premises, and someone--I don’t know who--had told him that I was the present lessee.”

The coroner grunted in evident displeasure. The importation of Dr. Thorndyke into the case was clearly a sore point, for he rejoined: “The whole affair is highly unsatisfactory. I am not clear that you had any right to give permission to any unofficial person to survey these premises without obtaining my consent; or that he had any right to ask you. The jury have surveyed the premises, and that ought to be enough. However, we shall see what comes of these mysterious investigations. Meanwhile, I think that is all we have to ask you, Mrs. Otway, unless the jury have any questions to put.”

The jury, warned, perhaps, by the result of the last question put by a juryman, had no question to ask; and I returned to my seat by Mr. Cawley, in time to hear Mr. Isaacs recalled.

“You have heard,” said the coroner, “the very remarkable evidence given by the last witness concerning the finding of a stick in a large cupboard in the living-room of the chambers in Lyon’s Inn?”

“I have.”

“In your previous evidence you stated that you had made a minute search of those chambers, and drawn up an inventory of their contents. Do you remember whether, when you made that search, you examined that particular cupboard?”

“Yes, I remember quite clearly that I examined it, and found it empty. I have marked it ‘empty’ in the inventory.”

“Are you sure that it was really empty? Is it not possible that this stick lying in the shade on the shelf might have been overlooked?”

“It is quite impossible. I made a most exhaustive search, and I used an electric torch for examining dark interiors. Moreover, the object that I was looking for--a little parcel of precious stones--was much smaller, and less conspicuous than a walking stick. I could not have missed a large object like that. And I have quite a clear recollection of looking on that shelf--it was the only shelf in the cupboard--and throwing the light of the torch along it. I had to stand on tip-toe to see in distinctly, and so, I suppose, had Mrs. Otway.”

“Do you swear that the cupboard was empty when you examined it?”

“I swear that it was absolutely empty.”

The coroner entered the reply in his notes, and then asked: “Did you receive any communication from Dr. Thorndyke respecting his proposed survey of the chambers at Lyon’s Inn?”

“He called to enquire in whom the tenancy of the chambers was vested, but did not state why he wanted to know. I told him that the widow was the lessee. I don’t know how he got her address. I didn’t give it to him. I may say that when I had finished the inventory I locked up the chambers, and kept the keys until I delivered them up to Mrs. Otway.”

“Thank you,” said the coroner. “That is all I wanted you to tell us. And that, gentlemen,” he continued, turning to the jury, “appears to be the whole of the evidence, with the exception of Dr. Thorndyke’s; and the question now arises, what are we to do? Let me explain the position, and then you can decide on our procedure.

“This enquiry was adjourned to enable the police to make some investigations in connection with it. On their application, Dr. John Thorndyke, who, I may inform you, is an eminent medico-legal expert, was instructed by the Home Office to proceed to Maidstone to conduct an exhumation of the body of the late John Vardon, the father of Mrs. Otway. He was to make an examination of the body, and ascertain if possible, whether the cause of the said John Vardon’s death was as stated at the inquest, or whether, as is hinted in these anonymous letters, he died from the effects of violence. The question is an important one, but it is more important to the police than to us. Then, it seems that the Home Office further instructed this gentleman to carry out an independent investigation into the facts of this case which we, in our humble and inefficient way, are trying to investigate. It is an extraordinary proceeding, and one that I do not in the least understand; but then I am not a medico-legal specialist. I am only a mere coroner, and you are only a mere coroner’s jury. It is just as well that we should know our place.

“Well, I understand that Dr. Thorndyke has made an examination of the body of Lewis Otway, and, as you have heard, he has made a survey of the deceased man’s chambers. We, also, have surveyed these chambers, but apparently our survey doesn’t count; and Dr. Shelburn, whose evidence you have heard, examined the body within a few hours of death. It would seem as if medical evidence were the last thing we want. Meanwhile I have had a telegram from Dr. Thorndyke saying that he has been detained at Maidstone, and has missed his train. I don’t know when he will arrive here. He may be here in a few minutes, or he may arrive in an hour or two. It is for you to decide what is to be done. We have a great deal of evidence to consider. We do not seem to need any more medical evidence, and the question of Mr. Vardon’s death is not of vital importance to this enquiry.

“The question is shall we wait to hear Dr. Thorndyke’s evidence or shall we proceed to consider the great mass of evidence that we already have? It is for you to decide, gentlemen.”

The jury conferred for a couple of minutes, and then the foreman announced their decision. “The jury say, sir, that we are enquiring into the death of Lewis Otway, not John Vardon. They would like to proceed with the consideration of the evidence without waiting for Dr. Thorndyke.”

“I am entirely with you, gentlemen,” said the coroner. “I think that the evidence that we have heard will prove amply sufficient to guide us to our verdict; and we can still revise our opinions if the expert witness should have something fresh to tell us.”

Chapter XXVII. The Indictment

During the short interval, in which the coroner took a final glance over his notes, there was a general stirring among the occupants and a suggestion of preparation for the next act. Jurymen re-settled themselves in their seats, reporters straightened their backs, and looked about them, the police officers and the spectators conversed in low undertones. At length the coroner laid on the table before him a single sheet of paper--probably an abstract of the evidence--sat back in his chair, and looked towards the jury; whereupon a deep silence fell upon the court, and he began his address:

“It is hardly necessary to remind you, gentlemen, that we are assembled for the purpose of ascertaining how, when, and by what means Lewis Otway came by his death; but it may be necessary to remark that our enquiry is not entirely concerned with the immediate causes of that death, but is also--and in fact, principally--concerned with the more remote contributory circumstances. For in this case, the ‘How, when, and by what means’ are simple enough. We have the testimony of an eye-witness who saw the deceased hanging dead, from a peg on the wall, under conditions strongly suggestive--in fact characteristic--of suicide; and we have the testimony of the deputy-police surgeon that all the appearances were those of suicide, and we have his expert opinion that the cause of death was undoubtedly suicidal hanging. Indeed, we may say that the immediate cause of death is self-evident, and that the whole of our enquiry is concerned with the remote causes. We are not asking ‘Did this man commit suicide?’ for the evidence of the first two witnesses settled that question. We are asking ourselves, Why did he commit suicide? The questions that we have to answer are, Was that suicide the spontaneous act of the deceased, for which he alone is responsible? Or was deceased driven to suicide by the deliberate, purposive, and malicious acts of some other person, or persons? And if the latter appears to be the case, Who is, or are, that person or persons, and what degree of criminal responsibility attaches to such acts?

“Now we have at our disposal a considerable mass of rather miscellaneous evidence, and, I think the best way to deal with it will be to sketch out lightly the general course of events, and fill in the details later. The deceased, Lewis Otway, is the central figure of our picture, and the history that we have to trace, is his history. As to what we may call his past, that does not much concern us. Among the Ancient Egyptians the deceased was conceived as being brought before the tribunal of Osiris to answer for his conduct during his earthly life. We are not a tribunal of that kind. We are not trying Lewis Otway. If, as the police suspect, he had feathered his nest with a certain amount of illicit plumage, that is not our concern. Our interest in him is mainly confined to his connection with a particular series of events which began with his marriage and ended with his death. Let us now trace that succession of events, at first in outline, and then in more detail.

“Lewis Otway first comes into our view on the occasion of his marriage. As presented in the evidence of his widow, Helen Otway, that marriage offers us the spectacle of an act of the most amazing folly. We see an elderly man--and an unattractive one at that, as you must have observed--marrying by compulsion, under threats, and greatly against her wishes, a young woman, of very unusual physical attractions, of great talent, and of exceptional mental gifts, and strength of character. You have seen this lady, and have heard her give her evidence, and you can confirm my description of her.

“It was, I repeat, an act of amazing folly. For she must, in any case, have detested him. His conduct towards her was cruel and unscrupulous to the last degree, and in marrying her he could not fail to introduce a bitter enemy into his household. But there were added causes for that repugnance to him which she has freely admitted. In the first place, she believed that her consent had been secured by actual fraud. And in the second place, Otway’s action was the undoubted cause--whether directly or indirectly, we need not enquire at this stage--of John Vardon’s death. So that our history opens with the tableau of an elderly man who has married a young, beautiful, and clever wife, who loathes him, and has abundant reason for loathing him.

“And now we pass on to the second scene--a scene almost more amazing than the first. Within an hour or two of the marriage ceremony, the young wife has repudiated the marriage, and demanded a separation for an indefinite period--practically a permanent separation. But it is not the demand that is so astonishing. The really astounding thing is that the husband seems to have agreed to this demand without demur. Consider the extraordinary inconsistency of his conduct. On the one hand we see this man, in his eagerness to possess this beautiful girl, trampling without scruple on her happiness, and her father’s, oblivious of everything but his own desires; on the other, we see him meekly submitting to a demand which--natural as it may have been--the law would not have supported.

“Whence this sudden compliance? Why did he consent? He need not have consented. The marriage was quite regular. No suit for nullity could have been sustained, whereas he could have sued at once for restitution. Why did he agree in this incomprehensible manner to surrender his unquestionable rights?

“But this is not the only inconsistency. The conduct of the wife is even more inexplicable. When Otway gave evidence at the inquest on Mr. Vardon he omitted all reference to the loaded stick; which is not unnatural, seeing that it was a highly incriminating circumstance. But that suppression of a material fact made his evidence, in effect, false evidence. For the truth is, according to the terms of the witnesses oath, the whole truth. Yet Helen Otway, when she gave evidence, confirmed this virtually false testimony; and she also suppressed--or, at least, omitted--the facts relating to the loaded stick. Her explanation is that, feeling convinced that her father died from a heart attack, she did not consider the stick incident of any importance. In estimating the credibility of that explanation you will bear in mind that the verdict was ‘Death from natural causes,’ but that the jury were not in possession of the facts. You will also bear in mind that this woman had seen her father lying dead, with a wound on his head, and this man, whom she loathed, and detested, standing over the body, grasping a formidable weapon. But whatever view you take of the explanation, the fact remains that at the inquest she not only refrained from accusing him, but she withheld a material fact which, if it had been disclosed, might have put Otway in the dock on a charge of murder.

“Here, then, are two cases of incomprehensible inconsistency of conduct. But they are only incomprehensible so long as they are considered separately. Consider them together and a perfectly intelligible suggestion emerges. The husband had the power to compel his wife to live with him--and he did not exercise it. The wife had the power to expose the husband to a suspicion of having committed a capital crime--and she did not exercise it. The appearance is that of a surrender by each of the power to injure the other; in short, of a bargain or agreement, involving collusion to suppress evidence.

“But this suggestion of collusion raises another question, which we shall consider later, but which we may note in passing. What was really the cause of Mr. Vardon’s death? Did he die from natural causes as the coroner’s jury believed and affirmed? Or was his death due to violence inflicted by Otway? It is by no means clear that Otway did not kill him, either inadvertently or with malice. And supposing Otway to have killed Mr. Vardon, was the fact known to Helen Otway? If it was, Otway’s easy compliance is the more readily understood; for he would be absolutely in his wife’s power. But we shall consider these points at more length presently, and perhaps we may get further light on them from the evidence of Dr. Thorndyke--if he should arrive before the verdict is agreed on.

“The next phase of this drama opens about two months after the marriage. On the 21st of June, the deceased received an anonymous letter, the first of a series of seven, which were sent thereafter at fairly regular intervals of about a fortnight. Now, let us consider those letters from various points of view in relation to their probable authorship. You have heard them read, and know their general purport. They all contain veiled threats to make certain exposures. Some are vague and some are more explicit, but there is a general crescendo note, culminating in the last letter, which pretty openly makes an accusation of murder and threatens criminal proceedings.

“First, what is the purpose of these letters? It is clearly not to levy blackmail. They hold out menaces, but there is no suggestion of an attempt to extort money. Those menaces are incomprehensible until we supply an explanatory fact. The man to whom these letters were sent suffered from a strong inherited predisposition to suicide. The very obvious inference to which we are forced, in the absence of any other explanation, is that the purpose of these letters was to convert that latent tendency into action--to produce a state of mind in which the deceased would be likely to take his own life.

“But that purpose implies knowledge on the part of the writer that this inherited tendency existed, and consequently limits the possible authorship to persons possessing such knowledge. The only persons known by us to possess such knowledge are deceased’s own family. His widow has sworn that she had no knowledge of this tendency, and if you believe her statement to be true, you will tend to exclude her from the possible authorship of these letters.

“Next we have to consider the characters of the letters themselves. They all bear the East-London postmark, but there is not much in that. Anonymous letter-writers commonly post their letters in districts remote from their own residences. Still, we must take it into consideration. The two persons known to us who occupy premises in East London are Morris Goldstein and Helen Otway.

“Then as to the style of the letters. They are rather markedly uneducated in manner. The composition is ungrammatical and the phraseology vulgar. But that does not help us much; for, on the one hand, none of the persons known to us is grossly uneducated, and on the other it is usual for anonymous letter-writers to disguise their personality. Obviously, it is easy enough for an educated person to write an apparently illiterate letter.

“The next point is a much more important one. We have decided that the purpose of these letters was to produce in the deceased a state of mind which would render his suicide probable. Now, what was the motive behind that purpose? Who could have wished deceased to commit suicide, and why should that person have wished it?

“The possible motives in this case are, in effect, the usual motives of murder, with full premeditation, viz:--Revenge, or hatred; direct profit; and indirect profit by the elimination of an undesired person. Let us consider each of these motives in relation to the known facts of this case.

“First as to hatred or revenge. The only persons known to us are the family of deceased and his wife. His family certainly had a grievance against him, for the children were illegitimate, and the mother was unmarried. But it was an old grievance, and the family appeared to be on quite amicable terms. The children were quite well provided for, and their mother continued to live with deceased. There was, indeed, a new factor of possible discord. The deceased had married, and that marriage was manifestly to the disadvantage of his family; a fact of which it is necessary to take due account.

“When, however, we turn to the consideration of the wife, the facts are much more striking. She had suffered grievous injuries from deceased. He had ruined her life. He had virtually condemned her to perpetual spinsterhood, since she would not live with him and she could not marry anyone else. He had caused the death of her father; and she has admitted that she had an unconquerable repugnance to him. That is actually known to us; and there is a further possibility that he was actually her father’s murderer, though we must leave that out of consideration in the absence of positive evidence. But on the evidence which is before us, you will see that the motive of personal animosity is much more evident in the case of the wife than in that of the family.

“We now come to the motive of direct profit, and the question that we ask ourselves is, Who stood to benefit by the death of Lewis Otway? And as soon as we ask that question, a very striking fact comes into view. The first letter is dated by the postmark, the 21st of June. But on the 10th of that month--only eleven days previously--deceased had made a new will. By the provisions of that will Helen Otway stood to gain from eight to twelve thousand pounds by the death of her husband.

“But did anyone else stand to gain by Lewis Otway’s death? Observe that we are still dealing with the same group of persons--the only persons known to us in connection with the case. Well, the family of deceased stood to gain by his death, though to a much smaller extent. But the fact that must instantly impress us is the opposite effects of the new will on the family, and the wife respectively. The execution of the new will involved the revocation of a previous will, which had left the bulk of the estate to the family. The position of affairs is consequently this: up to the 10th of June, the family, jointly, stood to benefit by Lewis Otway’s death to the extent of the bulk of his estate and the wife did not stand to benefit at all; after the 10th of June the wife stood to benefit by Otway’s death to the extent of the bulk of his estate, and the family to a relatively small extent.

“But the first of the anonymous letters was sent almost immediately after the 10th of June. That is to say, it was sent almost immediately after the family had ceased to be and the wife had become the principal beneficiary.

“From the motive of direct profit we turn to that of indirect profit, by the elimination of a person whose existence was a hindrance, a danger, or an inconvenience. Is there anyone known to us who could have regarded deceased in that light? We cannot attribute any such view to his family, for, as I have said, they appear to have been on quite amicable terms, and deceased seems to have maintained an interest in his children’s welfare to the last. But what are we to say with regard to the wife? She was married, against her wishes, to a man, unsuitable in age, uncomely in appearance; a man whom she loathed--and had good reason to loathe; who, while she repudiated him as a husband, yet held her chained to him for life; who stood inexorably between her, and any marriage which she might wish to contract; whose existence condemned her for life to the dubious position of a married woman who is not living with her husband. Think, gentlemen, of this woman--young, handsome, clever, accomplished, capable; think of what life might have been to her, and what it was with this millstone hung round her neck! And then ask yourselves whether--apart from all pecuniary considerations--she did not stand to gain incalculably by his death; whether his elimination from her life would not have opened to her the gates of a world of happiness, and freedom.

“And it is here that the importance of that further evidence, which we unfortunately have not yet heard, appears. For if it should now transpire that Otway did actually kill John Vardon and that Helen Otway was privy to the homicide, then there would be yet another powerful reason why she should desire to be rid of him. But this evidence is not in our possession and we must, therefore, leave this aspect of the case out of our consideration. Nor is it essential. The facts within our knowledge are amply sufficient to enable us to answer the question whether Helen Otway’s position would or would not have been improved by the death of her husband.

“And now we come to something much more definite. Hitherto we have been dealing with the question: ‘Who might have written these letters?’ We shall now consider the more specific question, ‘Who could have written them?’

“There seems to be only one possible answer. The writer of those letters had knowledge that was possessed by only two persons--the deceased and his wife. One letter refers to something that was held back at the inquest. But who knew that anything had been held back at the inquest? No one, according to the evidence, but these two persons. Of course, it is possible that there may have been some watcher secreted in that house at Maidstone who knew that Lewis Otway had stood over the body of John Vardon with a loaded stick in his hand. But the evidence before us is to the effect that there was no one in the house but John Vardon, Lewis Otway, and Helen Otway. Consequently, unless Lewis Otway wrote these letters to himself, there is nobody, so far as we know, who could have written them but Helen Otway.

“The last letter refers explicitly to the loaded stick, and even describes its condition minutely and, as it appears, correctly. The writer had, therefore, presumably seen the stick and very probably had possession of it. But where was that stick? Deceased certainly did not know where it was; the housekeeper states that she had never seen it since that fatal morning, and Helen Otway has denied all knowledge of its whereabouts. No one knew what had become of it.

“But if its disappearance was a mystery, its reappearance is a greater mystery still. The account given by Helen Otway is obviously unsatisfactory. She went to the chambers, for no very apparent reason. When there she did not examine the various cupboards, drawers, and other receptacles; but she went direct to this particular cupboard, unlocked it, stood on tiptoe and looked on the shelf. And behold! there was the missing stick. She took it out, examined it, and put it back. And she not only put it back, but she went out of her way to inform a person who is to give evidence on this enquiry that the stick was to be found in that cupboard.

“Now, how did that stick get into that cupboard, and when was it put there? You have heard Mr. Isaacs swear that it was not there when he made out the inventory, and you will probably agree that he could hardly be mistaken. A stick is a fairly large and conspicuous object, whereas he was searching for a small and inconspicuous one. Clearly the stick was put into the cupboard after his search was made. But when he had finished, the chambers were locked up, and the keys remained in his possession until he delivered them up to Helen Otway. Bearing these facts in mind, you have to consider whether you can accept Mrs. Otway’s statement, or whether it is more probable that she took the stick to the chambers, and put it into the cupboard herself.

“We now come to the incidents of that terrible night. What really happened in those chambers on that occasion will probably never be known. But the accounts that we have are full of sinister suggestions. We cannot, for instance, but note the fact that after this, the first and only visit from his wife, Lewis Otway made away with himself. Why he did the dreadful deed on this particular occasion, and at this particular time, is not clear. According to his wife’s account he was much calmer, and more cheerful after their talk, and she left him peacefully asleep. That is what she has told us. But what are the facts? Within an hour or two hours after she had left, his dead body was hanging from that peg. Nay! There is even a more dreadful possibility. The medical witness has told us that death took place about eleven, ‘But it might have been an hour later or earlier.’ So that it is physically possible--since Mrs. Otway left the chambers about ten--that the suicide may have actually taken place before she left. It is a horrible suggestion, and I should not have made it but for the fact that there are certain appearances which seem to support it.

“You must have been struck by the singular circumstance that when Mrs. Otway took her departure she left the gas full on, and the bedroom door open. You have heard her explanation, but we are not concerned with that for the moment. The remarkable thing is that in the morning, the gas was still full on, and the bedroom door still open. Now how could that have been? If deceased was asleep when his wife left, then he must have arisen, made his preparations, and finally hanged himself, not only with the gas full on--which might easily have been the case--but with the door open, which is improbable in the extreme. Men do not usually commit suicide coram publico. Commonly suicides lock themselves in their rooms or otherwise seek security from interruption. Yet this man, whose bedroom opened directly into the living-room and whose housekeeper might still have been about, cuts down the bell-rope, arranges the chair and hangs himself, all in a brightly-lighted room with the door open. It is certainly against common probabilities.

“But there are other suggestions of a similar tendency. If the fully-lighted gas and the open door suggest a hurried and agitated departure, so does the forgotten hand-bag containing the purse. And you will have noted that Mrs. Otway remembered that she had left her purse behind when she hailed a cab at the corner of Holywell Street. Now why did she not go back for it? She was quite near Lyon’s Inn. She could have left the cab waiting, or brought it to the gate. She says she did not like to disturb Mrs. Gregg. But she has also said that she thought that Mrs. Gregg was still up and about. The explanation is not convincing, but on the other hand there is a strong suggestion of dislike to the idea of going back--a dislike which we can understand well enough if we believe that the tragedy had already been enacted, and that the body was even then hanging on the wall.

“Then, too, the disappearance of the precious stones points in the same direction. They might have been taken when the deceased was asleep; but the theft would have been far easier if he was dead. But, of course, we cannot say with certainty that Helen Otway took the stones. We can only consider the evidence. That evidence, however, is almost overwhelmingly strong. It goes to show that the stones were in the deed-box within half-an-hour of Helen Otway’s arrival. There is no reason to suppose they were then removed. It is practically certain that they were there when she arrived, and they were never seen there or anywhere else after she left. And there is a further corroborative circumstance. To ordinary persons unmounted precious stones illicitly obtained are difficult to dispose of. But this woman is not an ordinary person; she is a working goldsmith and jeweller who buys her own materials and sells the finished works to individual buyers. She could easily dispose of stolen gems in a manner that would render them untraceable.

“The theft of these stones is not directly our business. It is that of the police. But indirectly it is of great importance. For it furnishes strong support to the suggestion that deceased was already dead when Helen Otway took her hurried departure. But what is the importance of that suggestion? The answer to that question will be found in the consideration of certain further facts and certain points of criminal law.

“First, we must notice that if deceased committed suicide while Helen Otway was in the chambers, he must have done so with her consent and connivance. But was it only a matter of consent? Is there not a suggestion that some direct means may have been employed to induce or compel him to commit suicide? On this point we have very little information. But we have the evidence of Rachel Goldstein or Gregg that she overheard the conversation between Helen Otway and deceased on two separate occasions; and that on both occasions they seemed to be talking about suicide. There seems to be a strong suggestion that some active, direct, means were employed: persuasion, threats, or perhaps the mysterious agency of suggestion. We cannot say that it was so; but it would be in close agreement with the known circumstances and quite consistent with the course of action exhibited by the anonymous letters.

“Supposing such active, direct means to have been employed, what degree of criminal responsibility would their employment entail? With regard to the letters, though the moral responsibility for their effect is beyond question, I should hesitate to give an opinion as to the exact legal position. But in the case of direct means there is no doubt at all. The law on the subject is quite clear. Let us consider it for a moment.

“First as to the legal nature of suicide. In law, suicide is murder. It has been expressly laid down that a person cannot commit manslaughter on himself. But since suicide is necessarily murder, it follows that any person who is accessory to suicide is accessory to murder. If such person aids or abets any other person in so killing himself, that person is an accessory before the fact, or a principal in the second degree in the murder so committed; an accessory before the fact being defined as one who directly or indirectly counsels, procures, or commands any person to commit any felony or piracy which is committed in consequence of such counselling, procuring, or commandment.

“Here, then, is the importance of the matter. The criminal responsibility attaching to the anonymous letters may be involved in some obscurity; but if it can be proved that any person counselled, procured, or commanded the deceased to kill himself, that person can be dealt with as a principal in the second degree in the murder of deceased. It is for you to say whether, in your judgment, such action can be proved in the case of any person, and if so, who that person is.

“There is only one more item of evidence that I shall refer to, and that I shall touch upon only lightly. You have heard the witness Rachel Goldstein state that when she informed Helen Otway that deceased had hanged himself, Mrs. Otway fell down in a dead faint. You have heard the explanation that Mrs. Otway gave, and you must decide what weight you attach to it; whether you can regard this fainting as due to the shock of an unexpected tragedy, or as the culminating effect of prolonged and extreme nervous tension. In any case, its evidential value is but small.

“And now, as our expert witness has still not arrived, let us take a last look over the evidence to see what material we have for our verdict.” Here the coroner paused, and laying a number of sheets of paper in a row before him, glanced rapidly through them.

I watched him with a dreadful fascination, even as a bird might watch the stealthy approach of a snake, terrified, but despairing of any hope of escape. So I had listened to this terrible summing-up--all false and erroneous in detail, but so horribly true in regard to the central fact. Through that dense fog of error and false appearances the coroner had seen the essential truth; that Lewis Otway had gone to his death at my bidding. Like some great spider he had wound around me a network of horrid entanglements; and now he was about to wind up the final turns.

At length he looked up, and laid his hand on one of the papers. Then he turned once more towards the jury and began his summary of the evidence. And at that moment, unnoticed, apparently, by anyone save myself, Dr. Thorndyke entered silently by a side door, and seated himself on a vacant chair.

Chapter XXVIII. The Verdict

The arrival of Dr. Thorndyke seemed to me to close the last avenue of escape. The coroner had guessed at my guilty secret, but he only offered his guess as a speculative possibility on which no decisive opinion could be founded. But Dr. Thorndyke was not a guesser. If he had penetrated to that secret he would offer no speculative probabilities, but definite evidence, which would reduce the matter to certainty.

It was a terrible thought. Self-accusation--the denunciations of a guilty conscience--had been dreadful enough. But there is a world of difference between self-accusation in secret and a public criminal indictment; between calling oneself a murderess, and standing in the dock to answer the charge.

During the coroner’s address I furtively watched Dr. Thorndyke. But I could gather nothing from his face. As he sat motionless, with his eyes steadily bent on the coroner, his expression denoted nothing but a grave and concentrated attention. After the first quick glance round the court, he never looked at me. What was in his mind I could not guess, though I felt that he held my fate in the hollow of his hand.

“There is no need, gentlemen,” the coroner began, “for us to go through the mass of evidence again. We have looked over it as a whole, and we have seen that certain striking suggestions emerge from it. In our last glance we have to bring those suggestions to a definite focus. Our inquiry deals with a man who committed suicide, but the appearances suggest that that suicide was not a voluntary, spontaneous act, but was the effect of a compelling force exerted by some other person.

“Who was that other person? The compelling force seems to have been exerted by means of certain menacing letters. The person who procured the suicide of deceased was therefore the writer of those letters. Now who was the writer of those letters? The question is best answered by asking certain other questions.

“First: Had deceased any enemies? Well, we know of one, and one only. His wife, Helen Otway, has confessed to a deep repugnance to him. She had suffered grievous injuries at his hands, and she resented those injuries profoundly.

“Second: Who gained most, financially, by his death? Again, the answer is his wife, Helen Otway.

“Third: Did anyone stand to gain in any other way by his death? The answer again is yes; and the person who stood to gain--by liberation from an intolerable bondage--was Helen Otway.

“Fourth: Who could have written those letters? who possessed the secret knowledge that those letters exhibit? Only one such person is known to us besides deceased himself. That person is Helen Otway.

“Fifth: Who was the last person who was with him before his death? Again the answer is, Helen Otway.

“Sixth: Is there any evidence of the use of more direct means to procure or compel this act of suicide? And if so, by whom do those means appear to have been employed? The answer is that there is such evidence, and that the person who appears to have used those means is Helen Otway. There is evidence suggesting that she was actually present when the suicide took place; there is evidence of a hurried flight and unwillingness to return for the purse that she had left behind; there is the open door, the lighted gas, and the missing jewels, which were in the chambers when she arrived, and which were never seen after she left. And then there is the mysterious stick which had vanished, and which reappeared so strangely after her unexplained visit to the chambers.

“That, gentlemen, is in brief the whole of the evidence with the exception of that relating to John Vardon’s death. That evidence is important to this enquiry; for if it should be proved that John Vardon was killed by Lewis Otway, and that Helen Otway was privy to the homicide, that would furnish a further motive for procuring the suicide of deceased--the motive of the removal of the sole accomplice in a serious crime. But that evidence is not vitally important, and it is for you to decide whether you will still await the arrival of Dr. Thorndyke, or whether you will proceed to consider your verdict on the evidence that you have heard.”

As the coroner concluded, Dr. Thorndyke rose and advanced to the table, placing on an empty chair a small green-covered suit-case. The coroner looked up at him sharply and with somewhat definitely unfriendly recognition.

“How long have you been here, sir?” the former demanded.

“About seven minutes,” Dr. Thorndyke replied, glancing at his watch. “You were just beginning your summary when I entered.”

“You should have announced your arrival immediately,” said the coroner. “However, as you are here, you had better take the oath, and give your evidence without further delay.”

The coroner’s brusque, and even rude manner, did not appear to disturb Dr. Thorndyke in the smallest degree. With the same impassive expression and quiet, composed demeanour, he took the oath and disposed of the usual preliminaries.

“We understand,” said the coroner, “that you have made an examination of the body of the late John Vardon.”

“Yes, I proceeded to Maidstone on instructions from the Home Office and conducted an exhumation of the body of John Vardon, of which I then made an examination. The object of the proceeding was to ascertain whether the cause of death had been correctly stated at the inquest.”

“And what was the result of your examination--I don’t think we want minute details.”

“I found that the cause of death was, as stated at the inquest by the medical witnesses, failure of an extremely dilated heart. There was a small wound on the right side of the forehead adjoining the temple, which I examined very thoroughly. It was a glancing wound caused by a very oblique impact, and was such a wound as might have been produced in the manner described--by striking the corner of the mantelpiece in falling. There was no injury to the bone nor to the brain or its membranes. It was quite a trivial wound, and was not either wholly or partially the cause of death.”

“Could that wound have been caused by a blow with a loaded stick?”

“I should say not. It was an oblique tear in the scalp and was apparently produced by some object more angular than the knob of a stick.”

“Well,” said the coroner, “that seems to dispose of the question of Mr. Vardon’s death. It is a thousand pities that it was not cleared up more completely at the time. However, it is cleared up now; and that, really, is all, I think, that we want you to tell us, unless you have some other information. I understand that you had a sort of roving commission to investigate the matter of this enquiry?”

“I received instructions to make certain investigations with a view to my giving evidence at this inquest, and I have made such investigations as seemed to me to be necessary.”

“Yes, you have, in fact, held a sort of one-man inquest on your own account. Well, the question is, do you suppose that you are in a position to tell us anything that we do not know already?”

“I am quite sure that I am. If you will allow me to present a summary of the facts in my possession----”

“I shall allow nothing of the kind. You will be good enough to answer questions like any other witness.”

Dr. Thorndyke bowed with the same immovable serenity, and the coroner proceeded with his examination.

“Have you had much experience of cases of suicide?”

“I have.”

“Have you had personal experience of any cases in which the suicidal act was procured, or brought about, by acts of persons other than the suicide, performed by them with deliberate intent?”

“Yes, I have had experience of several such cases.”

“In those cases, what methods were used to procure the other person to commit suicide?”

“The majority were cases in which two persons agreed mutually to commit suicide together. In the less common cases in which the procurer did not propose to commit suicide, the method employed was usually some form of suggestion.”

“Can you give us an instance of the employment of suggestion?”

“A very typical case occurred in my practice some years ago. A young man, who had a strong inherited predisposition to suicide, was caused by certain persons, who stood to benefit very considerably by his death, to make away with himself. The method adopted was this: The victim was made to believe that a certain Chinese jewel in his possession carried a curse; that all previous owners of it had hanged themselves, and that the appointed time for the suicide was made known by the apparition of a dead mandarin. When by frequent repetitions of this story the suitable state of mind had been produced, one of these persons dressed himself in a mandarin’s costume and presented himself to the victim, with the result that, within an hour or two, the latter hanged himself.”

“In that case,” observed the coroner, “the suggestion seems to have been in two stages. Is that usual?”

“One could hardly call it usual, as the cases are so rare. But it is the most obvious and effective method--to produce a suicidal state of mind by preparatory suggestion, and then, as it were, to explode the mine by a definite determining suggestion.”

“Are you acquainted with the evidence which has been given in this inquiry?”

“I have read a verbatim report of the first proceedings, and I have heard your summary of the whole case.”

“You have, then, read the evidence relating to the anonymous letters. What opinion did you form as to the purpose of those letters?”

“I formed the opinion that their purpose was to impel deceased to commit suicide.”

“Do you consider that, in the case of a person predisposed to suicide, they would be likely to produce that effect?”

“I should say that they would have a tendency to induce a suicidal state of mind.”

“And suppose such a person, having received a series of such letters, and being greatly depressed by them, should be engaged--in his bedroom, the last thing at night--in a conversation on suicide, his own suicide, and that of relatives who had killed themselves, what would you expect to be the effect of such conversation?”

“It would not be possible to predict the effect, but the tendency would be to reinforce the influence of the letters.”

“And what would be the condition of such a person in regard to his susceptibility to further suggestion?”

“His susceptibility to further suggestion would probably be increased.”

“Looking at this case as a whole, by the light of your experience of suicide, do you regard the death of deceased as the result of his own spontaneous act or as due in part to the acts of some other person or persons?”

“I regard his death as due entirely to the acts of some other person or persons.”

At these terrible words my heart seemed to stand still. There was a fearful certainty and confidence in Dr. Thorndyke’s tone that chilled my very blood. He did not guess. He knew. In the short pause that followed, I set my teeth and waited for my condemnation.

“You consider that the suggestion conveyed in the letters and in that conversation and by other possible means operated so as to convert deceased into an automaton? Is that what you mean?”

“No. I do not consider that the letters or the conversation had any effect in causing his death.”

The coroner frowned, perplexedly. “I don’t think I quite understand,” said he. “There seems to be--if you will pardon me--some self-contradiction. You state that the letters and the conversation would tend to produce a suicidal state of mind; but yet, though the letters were actually received and the conversation occurred, neither had any effect in causing the death which followed them. Do I state the case correctly?”

“Yes; quite correctly.”

“Then I do not understand you in the least. You appear to be flatly contradicting yourself. I think you will agree that we are not making much progress.”

“We are not making any progress at all. The examination has not elicited a single, relevant fact.”

“Indeed, sir!” exclaimed the coroner. “And, pray, whose fault is that?”

“I suggest,” Dr. Thorndyke replied, suavely, “that it is due to the method of examination.”

The coroner turned purple. “This is insufferable!” he exclaimed; “that a witness should presume to instruct an experienced officer of justice in the duties of his office! But I suppose we must be humble in the presence of an expert. May I ask, sir, what you object to in my method of examination?”

“The lack of result,” Dr. Thorndyke replied, “is due to the fact that your examination has been conducted to support a particular theory; and that theory happens to be the wrong theory.”

“Again, I don’t understand you,” the coroner said, angrily. “No theory has been advanced by me. Will you be good enough to explain what theory you are alluding to?”

“I allude to the theory, which you seem to have adopted, that the deceased Lewis Otway committed suicide by hanging himself from a peg on the bedroom wall. That theory is erroneous. It is practically certain that Lewis Otway did not commit suicide; and it is quite certain that he never hung from that peg on the bedroom wall.”

“But,” exclaimed the coroner, “we have the evidence of a witness who saw deceased hanging from that peg; and not only saw him, but cut him down and found him to be dead.”

“As a witness,” said Dr. Thorndyke, “I am not concerned with the testimony of other witnesses, but only with the facts as ascertained by me.”

“No doubt,” retorted the coroner. “But we are concerned with the testimony of all the witnesses; and the statement of this witness that she saw the body hanging from the peg, and that she cut it down from the peg, is a clear statement on a question of fact. If that statement is true, deceased hung from that peg. If he did not hang from that peg the statement is false. You say that he never hung from that peg. On what facts do you base that statement?”

“On the strength of the peg and the weight of the body of deceased. The strength of the peg--that is, the maximum weight it was capable of supporting--was under 175 pounds. But the body of deceased weighed 231 pounds--more than half a hundredweight in excess of the greatest weight that the peg was capable of supporting.”

“What method did you employ to measure the strength of the peg?”

“I used simple weights, which I thought preferable to a dynamometer for purposes of evidence. These weights I had conveyed to the chambers, and I carried out the experiment in the presence of Mr. Anstey, K.C., and my assistant, Francis Polton. I hung from the peg a wooden tray, slung by a chain, the total weight of which was ten pounds. On this tray I placed--with great care to avoid shocks--two half-hundredweights. I then added weights, five pounds at a time, until the total weight, including that of the tray and chain, reached 170 pounds. This was evidently very near the limit of what the peg would bear, for it was bending noticeably under the weight; and when I added another five pounds the peg doubled under, breaking half-way through. I have brought it with me for your inspection.” He opened the green suit-case and produced the peg, which he handed to the coroner.

“You see,” he said, “that, in spite of its massive appearance, it had very little strength. It is merely a piece of thinnish, brass tube.”

The coroner was impressed, but puzzled. “You consider,” said he, as he handed the peg to the foreman of the jury, “that the test is conclusive?”

“Quite,” replied Dr. Thorndyke. “Clearly, a peg which breaks under a weight of 175 pounds could not have supported a body weighing 231 pounds.”

“Yes,” agreed the coroner, “that appears to be undeniable.” He again reflected for a few moments, and then said:

“I notice that you went to the chambers provided with this apparatus. The suggestion is that you had already a definite suspicion in your mind. Is that the case?”

“Yes; I had already come to the conclusion that deceased had never hung from that peg.”

“Will you tell us what led you to that conclusion?”

“When I received instructions to investigate the case, I proceeded to make an inspection of the body, and it struck me, at once, that the appearances were not quite in agreement with the alleged facts, which I had learned from a verbatim report of the evidence. The amount of injury to the structures of the neck was much less than I should have expected in the case of so heavy a man, and the characteristic signs of death by hanging were absent. It is my invariable rule, in all cases of suspicious death, no matter what the apparent cause of the death may be, to examine the contents of the stomach and the secretions. In this case the procedure appeared to be necessary, and I made a careful examination of the contents of the stomach. The examination disclosed the presence of small quantities of veronal and alcohol, but when I tested for alkaloids, I obtained from the stomach and its contents no less than twenty-three minims of nicotine, the alkaloid of tobacco. Now nicotine--which differs from all other alkaloids but conein, the alkaloid of hemlock, in being a liquid--is an intensely poisonous substance. The fatal dose has not been exactly ascertained, but it may be stated at not more than five minims; that is, roughly, five drops. So that the quantity of this virulent poison actually obtained from the stomach of deceased was about four times the fatal dose. But this was only a part of the quantity that had been swallowed, for the examination was made ten days after death, by which time an appreciable amount of the poison would have been lost by post-mortem diffusion. I also examined the liver and other organs and the secretions, and in these I detected minute quantities of nicotine. The evidence afforded by these minute quantities is very important. Nicotine is a poison that acts with great rapidity--in fact, with the exception of hydrocyanic acid (prussic acid) it is probably the most rapidly-acting poison known. The importance, therefore, of these minute traces of the poison in remote organs is this: their existence proves that the poison entered the stomach during life--while the blood was still circulating; and the minuteness of the quantity absorbed proves that death occurred very rapidly--practically instantaneously.

“But the very large quantity of the poison and the evidence of its almost instantaneous effect created this dilemma: a witness had stated that she saw deceased hanging from the peg; but since death was practically instantaneous, he could not have hanged himself after taking the poison; and obviously he could not have taken the poison after he had hanged himself. This discrepancy, coupled with the absence of appreciable injury to the neck, raised a doubt as to whether deceased had ever hung from the peg at all. That doubt was increased by certain other circumstances. There were, for instance, post-mortem lacerations of the hamstring muscles and other muscles of the thighs, which could not be accounted for in the case of a body which had hung vertically, fully extended. There were faint impressions below the knees of some coarse-textured fabric, not part of his clothing, and there was the condition of a length of red, worsted rope by which deceased was said to have been suspended. Both ends of this rope--which had formed part of a loop--had been cut through with a very sharp instrument; and both ends were cut cleanly right through. But this could not possibly have happened in the alleged circumstances. If a body of this great weight had been suspended by two thicknesses of a flimsy, woollen rope, and an attempt had been made to cut that rope, the cutting instrument would not have passed right through, but would have divided the rope until the remaining portion was too weak to sustain the weight, and then that portion would have broken, leaving a ragged end. Having regard to the great evidential importance of the question, I decided to clear up the doubt, if possible, by examining the peg itself. There are not many pegs which could carry this great weight without either bending, breaking or pulling out of the woodwork, and I thought it probable that an actual test with weights would settle the question. I accordingly obtained the keys from Mrs. Otway, went to the chambers and applied the tests as I have stated.”

“If the deceased was not suspended at all,” the coroner objected, “how do you account for the marks of the rope on his neck?”

“He was suspended--or rather partially suspended. I looked about the chambers for the probable means of suspension, and decided that this was the knob of the bedpost at the right-hand side of the head of the bed. On this side of the bed was a hard jute matting, the texture of which corresponded exactly with the impressions on the knees, the faintness of which is accounted for by the partial protection furnished by the pyjamas. The procedure seems to have been this: the rope was secured to the neck of deceased immediately after death, while he was lying on the bed. It was then hitched over the knob of the bedpost and the body drawn off the bed so that it was supported against the bedpost in a kneeling position. This would account for the shallowness of the marks on the neck, the impressions of the matting on the knees, and the post-mortem lacerations of the muscles. With regard to these latter, it is evident that the body was left suspended in an approximately kneeling position for a good many hours--probably for the purpose of producing as deep an indentation as possible on the neck--and that during that time cadaveric rigidity became well established; so that when the rope was cut and the body allowed to fall to the floor, the legs were found to have stiffened and to be firmly set in the kneeling posture. As deceased was to be represented as having hanged himself from the peg, it would be necessary to straighten out the legs by force; but as the muscles were already rigid, the forcible extension would tend to produce such lacerations as were found. These lacerations were, of course, under the skin and would not be noticeable excepting on close examination.”

“Is that the whole of your evidence?” the coroner asked, as Dr. Thorndyke paused.

“It is the whole of my evidence concerning the immediate circumstances of the death of Lewis Otway. I have certain other information, but you will probably not consider it of much importance to the enquiry. I have examined the two hairs that were found adhering to Mr. Vardon’s stick. They were not his hairs. As a matter of fact, the wound on his head was on a part in which there was no hair; but in any case, these were not his hairs. One of these was apparently a hair of Lewis Otway’s--probably taken from his hair brush. His hair was white, but was dyed with a stain containing sulphide of lead. This hair was of a similar character and stained with the same material. The other was white and appeared to be a woman’s hair. It was cut at both ends, and was evidently part of a much longer hair. I have also made some enquiries concerning the anonymous letters. Mrs. Otway consulted me about them a month or two back, and I promised her to look into the matter, and did so. I collected very few facts, but if I may look at the letters, I can tell you at once whether those facts throw any light on the authorship of these letters.”

“It really is not of much importance to us,” said the coroner, “though it may be important evidence in another place. Still, you may as well look at the letters.” He handed the bundle of letters to Dr. Thorndyke, who examined each of them closely, holding them up to the light to inspect the watermark and comparing them with some other letters which he produced from his pocket.

“I think,” said he, as he returned the letters to the coroner, “there is no doubt that all these letters were written by Morris Goldstein. I have several letters which were received from and signed by him, which are identically similar in character. All are typed on the same foreign paper--made in Sweden--with an old Calligraph machine which had three type-bars slightly bent--the lower-case ‘g’ and ‘s’ and the capital ‘O.’ I have further evidence on the subject, if you care to hear it.”

The foreman of the jury interposed at this point. “We don’t want to hear any more about those letters. If deceased did not commit suicide, the letters don’t matter.”

“They will matter a good deal in another court,” said the coroner, “but I agree with you that they do not affect our probable verdict; but there is one question to which we may as well have a definite answer, and then we need not detain Dr. Thorndyke any longer. You have told us, sir, that the immediate cause of Lewis Otway’s death was nicotine poisoning. Can you say whether the poison was taken by deceased himself, or whether it was administered by some other person?”

“The medical evidence proper furnishes no answer to that question, but from the attendant circumstances I infer that the poison was administered by some other person--probably while deceased was asleep. But that is only an opinion, based on the circumstantial evidence.”

“Exactly. It is really a question for the jury. And now I don’t think we need trouble you any further.” The coroner bowed, a little stiffly, and as Dr. Thorndyke walked back to his chair, he once more faced the jury.

“Well, gentlemen,” said he, “you have heard Dr. Thorndyke’s very remarkable evidence, and you will see that it compels us completely to revise our views of the case. The suicide by hanging, which we have been considering at such length, is seen to be an illusion, carefully, elaborately and ingeniously prepared. The question now is, was there a suicide at all? The cause of death was poisoning by nicotine, and death was almost instantaneous. Is this, then, a case of suicidal poisoning or of homicide?

“It is unnecessary for me to dwell on the suggested probabilities. You have heard a witness swear, in the most circumstantial manner, that she saw deceased hanging from a peg, and that she cut the body down. You now know that deceased could never have hung from that peg. That statement was false. But what was the object of that false statement? Its object must be considered in conjunction with the illusory appearances produced by an elaborate set of preparations--the cord-marks on the neck, the overturned chair, the end of the rope fastened to the peg--a set of preparations, the only intelligible object of which seems to be the concealment of the real cause of death. And then there is a further series of preparations revealed by the anonymous letters. These we now have reason to believe were written and sent by Morris Goldstein. Our reason for connecting Mrs. Otway with those letters was based on Rachel Goldstein’s statement that no one was in the house at Maidstone but Mrs. Otway, and her husband and father. But we can no longer accept that statement. The suggested probability is that she was in the house, and that she either saw, or heard enough to gather what had taken place. In that case we seem to detect a carefully-laid plan to procure the suicide of the deceased, and throw suspicion on his wife; and when the suicide failed to occur, the alternative of poison would seem to have been adopted.

“I must draw your attention to the circumstances existing at the time of the tragedy. In deceased’s chambers were precious stones to the value of over four thousand pounds. Possibly there were stolen gems of a somewhat greater aggregate value. It is highly probable that Rachel Goldstein knew of the deceased’s letter to his wife, for as he was bed-ridden at the time, the letter would have been posted by her, and could easily have been opened and read. The time of the interview was arranged by her so that Mrs. Otway should be the last visitor.

“Here then is a group of circumstances furnishing a perfect opportunity for the carrying out of the plan. The gems were within reach, and a visitor was expected on whom could be thrown the suspicion of the theft, and the responsibility of the apparent suicide.

“As to the motive, apart from the theft of the gems, we must remember that here was an illegitimate Jewish family into which had been introduced a legitimate Gentile wife. Her arrival had affected the interests of the family injuriously, and if a reconciliation between husband and wife should have occurred, those interests would have been still more unfavourably affected.

“But we are not called on to go deeply into the question of motive. This is a coroner’s inquest, and our business is to decide how and by what means deceased met with his death. That decision is with you, gentlemen. You have heard the evidence, and I shall now leave you to consider your verdict.”

As the coroner ceased speaking, and silence fell upon the court I allowed myself, for the first time, to think of my own position. Previously I had not dared; for when Dr. Thorndyke had made his dramatic statement, the revulsion of feeling had been so great that I had much ado to restrain myself from bursting into hysterical tears or laughter. But now I was more calm, and could think upon the change that a few magic words had wrought in my condition. I was free--free in body and soul. My imagined guilt had been a delusion; the silent willing and suggestion, a myth. I had never had any conscious intention to procure Lewis Otway’s suicide; and no suicide had been procured. The death of that wretched man--my evil genius--had been brought about by no act of mine, conscious or unconscious. I was guiltless, I was free.

The jury took but a short time to consider their verdict. In a few minutes the foreman intimated that they had come to a unanimous decision. The coroner then formally put the question.

“Have you considered the evidence, gentlemen, and are you agreed upon your verdict?”

“We are,” replied the foreman. “Our verdict is that the deceased, Lewis Otway, met his death as the result of a poisonous dose of nicotine administered to him by Rachel Goldstein.”

“Do you say that the poison was administered inadvertently or with malice?”

The foreman consulted his colleagues, and then replied, “With malice.”

“That,” said the coroner, “amounts to a verdict of wilful murder against Rachel Goldstein; and I may say that I am entirely in agreement with you.”

As the coroner concluded, I looked at Mrs. Gregg. Her face was set, and had turned a horrible, livid grey. Presently she rose slowly from her chair, and looked furtively over her shoulder; and as she did so she looked into the face of Superintendent Miller.