Chapter XXV

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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.

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