Part 4

‘And Mrs Morrell and her brother?’

‘Are safely in charge of two policemen, and on their way to the county jail. I analysed those candles at once, and then applied for a magistrate’s warrant, telegraphing to Dr Weston to meet me here. Two policemen in plain clothes were detailed for the arrest, and the affair was managed very quietly, so that even the servants do not know precisely what has happened. Mr Foster was arrested in his study, and made no resistance, although he assumed a high tone of injured innocence.—Do you know, Miss Armitage, where the rest of the poisoned candles are kept?’

In reply I opened the door of the cupboard and pointed to the rows of boxes. He and Dr Weston then carefully locked and sealed up the door, until the state of the invalid should permit a fuller investigation of the apartment. Dr Archer then informed me that a nurse had been telegraphed for from the Nurses’ Home at the county town, and that I need feel no apprehension lest Edith should suffer from the want of skilled attendance.

Nurse Mary soon after arrived, and proved invaluable. All her care and skill, however, were needed to counteract the effects of the poison upon Edith’s delicate frame. For days she hung between life and death. Her convalescence was long and tedious; but at length she recovered sufficiently to leave Gorton Hall for the Isle of Wight, where the pure sea-breezes soon brought back the colour to her cheeks.

Investigation proved that the candles similar to those which had been burned nightly in the sickroom for over two months, were highly deleterious. The wax was pure, but the wicks were impregnated by a strong solution of arsenic. The remainder were analysed, and from them much of the poisonous drug was extracted. The closest research, however, failed to discover from whom they had been originally procured. Beyond the fact that the boxes came from London, their origin remains a mystery to this day. The plans of the conspirators had been so cleverly laid that it was almost impossible to bring their wrongdoing home to them.

I wish I could say that both Edith’s treacherous guardians received an exemplary punishment; but unfortunately, punishment in this world does not always overtake the criminal. Mr Foster maintained the assertion of his innocence to the last; nor was there one tittle of evidence, direct or indirect, against him. Ably defended by a most skilful advocate, he escaped absolutely scot-free. Mrs Morrell maintained the same line of conduct, and was merely sentenced to imprisonment for two years. Dr Archer and I were aghast and bitterly disappointed at such an obvious failure of justice. But we had one small consolation—that Edith’s fortune was secured to her, and that the scheming adventurers who had risked all to grasp her gold were not benefited, after all their trouble, by one farthing.

The Thorndyke family interfered, and her affairs were placed in trustworthy hands until her coming of age. Her twenty-first birthday was also the day of her marriage to Dr Archer; and they are indeed a united pair. I will not write down here all the expressions of gratitude I received from Edith, her lover, and her relatives, for my ‘courage’ and ‘sagacity’ in defeating her step-father’s murderous designs. I declined Edith’s offer of a home with her, for I believed that married people are happiest by themselves; but, though still working for my living, I spend all my holidays with her, and little voices already call me ‘Auntie.’

Their home is perfect in all its appointments; but one fact, which is never explained to casual visitors, sometimes strikes new-comers as strange: nothing will induce Dr Archer to have a wax candle in his house. They set it down as a fad and singular fancy; only Edith, he, and I know the truth.

THE LAW OF INNKEEPER AND GUEST.

These two terms, appendant one to the other, are now to most people somewhat vague, and seem to point out a state of things a little strange. Of course, we all know what a guest is; but we associate that term more with the friendly interchange of courtesy than with the relation between innkeeper and guest in modern times. The usage is derived from a condition of things that has to a great extent disappeared—when the means of communication between one part of the country and another were less rapid and more limited than now. The roads also were far from good; indeed, about the reign of Queen Elizabeth they were so bad that there were only a few coaches existing; and everything had to be done by means of packhorses and light gigs. To many places, especially in Cumberland, Westmorland, North Lancashire, Wales, and many of the western counties, there were no roads, only a beaten path over a huge lonely common, often a long way above the level of the sea, and extending for many hours’ journey. To get to Cumberland out of Westmorland was practically almost impossible, except with the aid of a guide who knew the various passes and the many dangers that lay in the route, including those from the footpad and mounted highwayman. If a traveller visited these lonely places, he would get rest and refreshment at the village inn; and if he came on horseback, his horse was fed and well taken care of.

In those remote times, therefore, the business of an innkeeper was an important accessory to every country village. His house was usually situated on the high-road, and was called by a variety of names, quaint and funny; and sometimes his sign bore the telling legend, which he did well to follow—that he

Selleth goode ale and beer, And giveth to all righte goode cheer.

Thus the duty of an innkeeper came to be recognised as one which was most important to the state, one which it was the bounden duty of judges of the high courts to look well after.

It is long since the duty of an innkeeper to his guest or traveller was regulated by the common law of the land, while the abuses into which he is liable to fall, have also been made the subject of statute law regulation. The whole law on this subject in England and Scotland is derived from the famous Edict of the Roman prætor, beginning with the words: ‘_Nautæ caupones_.’ Here is a brief outline of what the innkeeper has to do, and what he has to guard against. Before he is allowed to have a license, his house must be proved to be substantial, and to have sufficient accommodation for man and beast. In fact, anything that a traveller may need or reasonably demand, he should and must supply him with. If the innkeeper refuses without any good or justifiable reason, he is liable to be sued for any damages that the traveller may think due to him for such refusal, and for the annoyance and inconvenience caused thereby. The innkeeper is compelled to let into his house at any time of the night any person who is a _bonâ fide_ traveller; immediately to supply him with refreshments, according to his needs, and to put up his horse and vehicle. When he takes the traveller into his house, the latter immediately becomes his guest, and the innkeeper himself is transformed into ‘mine host.’ Here begins the proper employment of the innkeeper. He takes care of his guest’s luggage, houses his carriage, feeds his horse, and does everything for the care and safety of the accompaniments of his guest. If the latter has servants, he puts them up, sees to their welfare and ease, and indeed becomes one of the most hospitable of men. Of course he knows he will be paid for his trouble—perhaps well paid—and this urges him to make everybody as comfortable as possible. It will be kept in view that a coffee-house, a boarding-house, or a lodging-house, is not an inn.

Let us suppose that some of the property of the guest is stolen; some village rogue has noticed the wealth of the traveller or the abundance of luggage, and has secretly—perhaps during the night—entered the house of the innkeeper and made off with something belonging to the traveller. Or, again, the inn might be set on fire, and except the inmates who would escape, everything within it would be destroyed and consumed. Who, then, is responsible for the traveller’s goods? If this had occurred in a friend’s house, or anywhere else, of course the owner would be the loser; but it happened in the house of an innkeeper, amenable to certain precedents of our common law, and he is liable to the full extent of the loss. But in Scotland, a loss by fire is regarded as _damnum fatale_, and the innkeeper is not liable unless a case of fire-raising by the servant of the inn is proved.

You may say this seems hard, and we answer it does; but still it is an exceptional case. At the same time, it shows what an innkeeper is bound to do, and gives additional security to the goods of a person, seeking the assistance of another unknown to him. The case is different from a person taking upon himself the custody of goods for a premium or charge according to the value of the goods so left with him; for it is not necessary that the innkeeper should even know that his guest had any property with him; and for what might appear to be the absurd carelessness of the owner, he is in many cases responsible.

But perhaps it will be better to give a few of the cases which have occurred on this subject, as proving definitely this peculiar feature of our law. We will first take a case which was tried at the Lancaster assizes in 1793, in which it appeared that a merchant called Bennet was accustomed to send his servant with goods to the market at Manchester. At the time in question, this man had bought certain goods, but had not been able to dispose of them. He consequently endeavoured to find a place where he could leave them until the next market-day. He went to an inn, and there asked the wife of the innkeeper—whose name was Mellor—if he might leave them there; but she replied that she could not tell, for they were full of parcels. The servant then sat down, put behind his chair the parcels of goods he had brought, and had some drink. After sitting a little while, he got up, and found that the parcels were missing. Bennet, the master of the servant and owner of the goods, then sued the innkeeper for their value, and obtained a verdict in his favour.

This case certainly gives the idea that the servant was very careless in allowing his goods to be stolen just behind him; but the matter was well argued out on a rule for a new trial of the cause, which was discharged, the judges holding that the man had immediately upon his entry and asking for something to drink become a guest; and the innkeeper was responsible for the care of the goods brought with him into the house, even though his wife had refused to take care of them until the next market-day, for that was a separate transaction.

But let us cite another case, in which a verdict was given for the innkeeper, it being proved that there were suspicious circumstances, which ought to have been guarded against by the owner of the goods sued for. Some seventy years ago, a Birmingham factor in the course of his business stopped at an inn in Oxford, having with him three boxes of valuable goods, chiefly jewellery. As he desired to show his wares to customers, he asked for a private room, which was provided him. The landlady also gave him the key to the room, so that he might lock the door when he went out. The boxes were removed into this room; and a customer calling, the factor opened his boxes and displayed his goods. Several purchases were made. During this time, the door of the room was twice opened; a stranger looked in, begged pardon, and immediately withdrew. The door was then bolted, to prevent further interruption. After they had completed their business, the customer left, and the factor packed up his goods, but did not lock the door. What was stranger still, he said afterwards that he did not know whether he had shut it or left it open. The door also opened into a gateway which led to the street, and on the outside of this door there was found a key. The result of this carelessness was that two of the boxes with their contents were stolen. The factor then endeavoured to recover their value from the innkeeper, but failed. The matter was brought before the superior courts, the judges of which, although they held that the giving of the key to the factor was not sufficient of itself to absolve the innkeeper from his liability, yet they decided he could not be held responsible, after the gross carelessness shown by the plaintiff.

Another case happened at Brighton in 1830, in which a gentleman named Kent sued to recover the value of a reticule and a number of bank-notes which were in it at the time it was stolen. The plaintiff, his wife, and a young lady called Miss Stratford, took a sitting-room and two bedrooms at an hotel in Brighton, so situated that when the door of the sitting-room was open, a person could see the entrances into both bedrooms. Mrs Kent, shortly after they had taken possession, went into one of the bedrooms, laid the reticule on the bed, and afterwards returned into the sitting-room, leaving the door open. After she had been there for about five minutes, she sent Miss Stratford for the reticule; but it was not to be found. Here the jury had no difficulty in finding a verdict for the plaintiff; the only question being, whether money came within the scope of the writ, in the same way as goods undoubtedly did. It being decided in the affirmative, the plaintiff succeeded.

There is no doubt that the liability of the innkeeper is excluded by the contributory negligence of the guest; but the innkeeper must show not only that the guest did not show the ordinary care that might be expected from a prudent man, but also that the loss would not have happened if such care had been shown. But as the guest is entitled to rely on the common-law obligation of the innkeeper, these cases of contributory negligence seldom arise, except where it may be inferred, from the acts or words of the parties, that the innkeeper’s liability has been qualified or superseded, or where the guest is put on his guard by suspicious circumstances. The usual notice on a bedroom wall about locking the door will not protect the innkeeper, unless the guest actually read it and made no objection. The only other case in which an innkeeper is not liable is that of _damnum fatale_, as where the goods are destroyed by a tempest.

Let us take three other cases, which will show a little diversity, but will further explain our subject. A man came to an inn with a horse, and left it under the innkeeper’s care to be fed. The latter put the horse into a field, whence it was stolen; and for this the innkeeper was held to be liable. In the same way, a gentleman, whilst taking refreshments within the house, left his carriage in the care of the hostler, who placed it, as was his custom, in the road; and it was stolen. The innkeeper was held to be responsible.

The peculiarity of these cases is not only in the fact that the place whence the horse and carriage were severally stolen was not in the inn, but also in the circumstance that they were put in a certain place without the sanction or knowledge of the owner. In a similar case, however, in which the owner had asked that the horse should be put out to pasture beyond the precincts of the inn, the innkeeper was exonerated from all liability in respect of its loss.

We think we have shown by these cases that the responsibility of an innkeeper is by no means a light one, and that it may be taken as a fact, that in ordinary and unexceptional cases, he is liable for the goods of his guest. Here we may add in parenthesis, that he is _not_ liable for the person of his guest beyond his own actions; that is, if the guest is assaulted or in any way maltreated on his premises, the innkeeper is not liable beyond what he may himself personally have contributed to such maltreatment. There are, however, many points which may be, and have been, raised, according to the particular circumstances of the case, as where there is attached to the inn an ordinary refreshment bar, and the owner of the goods only makes use of that part of the house; in which case he cannot recover. Again, the innkeeper is only responsible for what happens in his own house—with the exceptions we have before noticed—and by his default, or by that of his servants. He is protected, if the theft is committed by the servants or companions of the traveller. If his house is full, but a person says he will shift for himself among the guests, then he is not responsible for anything that is lost; neither is he, unless the relation of landlord and guest is established.

On this latter point, we will give one more case, which was tried at the last summer assizes at Carlisle. The plaintiff was a traveller for a firm of wine-merchants, and in the course of his journeys he alighted from the train at Carlisle station, to which is connected the _County Hotel_. He at once intrusted his luggage to the hotel porter, with the intention of staying until the next day and sleeping in the hotel. He went up the covered passage into the hotel; but there received a telegram, which he considered necessitated his going to Manchester that day. Before doing so, he asked for some refreshments, and was shown into the refreshment room, which was legally not part of the inn, and not endowed with the same liabilities as the other part, the inn proper. On his way to this room, he met the hotel porter, who asked the number of his room. He said that he did not know whether he was going to stay overnight or not. The porter then locked the luggage in a room in the passage used for that purpose. When the traveller required the luggage, part of it could not be found. For this he sued the innkeeper, but failed, as it was not considered to be satisfactorily proved that he had become a guest of the innkeeper.

By an Act passed in 1863 (26 and 27 Vict. c. 41), the liability of innkeepers for the goods of their guests was limited to the sum of thirty pounds, except in two cases: (1) where the goods were deposited for safe custody; (2) where the goods were stolen, lost, or injured through the wilful act or neglect of the innkeeper. The innkeeper must put up a notice of the Act in the hall of the inn, and he is entitled to require that deposited goods shall be in a sealed box. This Act does not apply to horses and carriages.

INCIDENTS OF RENT-COLLECTION IN IRELAND.

The collection of rents in Ireland is often an unpleasant duty; but amusing incidents sometimes arise. Last year, a farmer in the county of Cavan came to me on the rent-day and said he could not pay more than half the sum he owed. He had much to tell of losses, bad times, and low prices, and I listened with patience until he had finished. I then reminded him that his rent had been reduced under the Land Act, and that I had voluntarily cancelled a considerable arrear; and I firmly refused to accept less than the full amount. Mickey Sheridan—that was his name—was married, and I knew his wife ruled the roast.

‘Now, Mickey,’ said I, ‘you ought to be ashamed of yourself! After what has been done to relieve you, I did expect you to behave better. I am sure your wife would not approve of your conduct.’

Mickey had frequently confided to me that ‘herself’—his wife—gave him ‘a sore life;’ and I desired to learn how far she had meddled in this matter.

After some hesitation, he replied: ‘Well, sir, if ye won’t discover on me, I’ll tell ye the thruth. Herself advised me to pay only half the rent. She’s a good scholar, an’ reads the papers; an’ she tells me a new Land Act will soon be passed an’ all arrears wiped out.—Will yer honour take the half-year?’

‘No, Mickey, I cannot. Be honest, and pay the money you owe. I feel sure you have it all in your pocket.’

That was a hit; for Mickey, with an Irish peasant’s quick sense of the humour of the situation, replied: ‘Begorra, it’s in two pockets! Herself made up the two half-years in separate parcels, an’ put thim into different pockets, to purvint any mistake; an’ I was only to give yer honour one of thim, if I could manage it. But here’s the full money, an’ maybe it’s best to keep out of debt.’

A few weeks later, when I was collecting rents in the county of Longford, one of the principal tenants came forward, before any money had been paid, as the spokesman of thirty others who were present, and asked for an abatement.

‘Why, Pat Molloy,’ said I, ‘you and all here hold your farms at reduced rents, which you agreed to pay under an amicable arrangement made only two years ago and according to the provisions of the Land Act. I cannot do what you ask; but if you really have not the full year’s rent, I will accept three-fourths of it and give you a reasonable time to pay the remainder.’

‘We thank yer honour,’ said Pat; ‘an’ here is my money.’

‘How much did you give me?’ said I, after I had carefully twice counted the bundle of notes.

‘Thirty pounds, sir; an’ all in one-pound notes; an’ shure, it’s the hard work I had to make it!’

‘Och, thrue for ye, Pat Molloy!’ said a voice behind him; ‘faith, it’s not aisy to make the rint those times!’

‘Well, Pat,’ said I, ‘you have given me thirty-nine pounds; and I now have the pleasure of handing you the receipt for the same.’

Whether the ten-pound note had been paid to Pat Molloy in mistake for one pound, and its value was unknown to him, or that he had omitted to take it out of the bundle, could only be matter of conjecture. He kept a close mouth, and left the room.

The misadventure of their leader broke up the concerted union of the tenants; and when I announced, after Molloy departed, that I should insist on full payments—seeing ten-pound notes were apparently plentiful in the district—nearly all the tenants came forward and paid.