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.”

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