“Is it a fact that you and he were not on the best of terms?”
“Sir Ralph and I moved in different circles and had different views on most matters. Again, it would be unreasonable to expect us to be intimate.”
“Is it not a fact that at one time you refused him admittance to your house?”
“I am a busy man,” said Nunn, urbanely, “and I have frequently refused admittance to visitors. The fact that Sir Ralph was on his way to an entertainment given by me, and at my invitation, surely indicates my attitude towards him.”
Wellington-Andrews disliked this able evasion and showed his displeasure, but he scored no more with Nunn than he had with Dennis, who met most of his questions by the repeated avowal that he had known the dead man very slightly, and was not in a position to give information about him. He had last seen him alive a few days before the party. He did not consider it strange that he had not recognised him in fancy dress.
“You haven’t any reason for supposing that he would take his own life?”
“I’m convinced he wouldn’t. Why should he?”
“Then you can’t offer any assistance?”
“I can only say what everyone present knows about him, that he was a man with many enemies, and that he never took any steps at conciliation. He thought it weakness.”
“And your theory is that he was followed and murdered by some anonymous person with a grievance?”
“Murderers mostly remain anonymous as long as they can. As for theories, I have none. I should have thought it an accident myself; the pond is on the roadway, and a night in February is dark. Of course, I’m not disputing the medical evidence of Dr. McKenzie. I’m no authority at all in that direction. I can only assure you that I know nothing of the affair.”
That finished Nunn’s evidence, and Eleanor added nothing new. There was no mention of any hold Ralph had had over her, and it seemed probable that we could prevent that, at least, from becoming public property.
The coroner seemed trying to show how many men there were at the Abbey on the night of the 15th who were eager to see Ralph in some other world. He didn’t, as I expected, call Hilary next, but asked for Jeremy. Jeremy was cool and untroubled. He said he’d known Ralph on and off for several years, but never at all intimately; he had never been inside his house.
Wellington-Andrews said, “I believe it to be a fact that on the night of the dance you were heard to observe that you would move heaven and earth to prevent a marriage between Miss Feltham and Sir Ralph.”
“I don’t think anyone could seriously have linked Sir Ralph and marriage. It wouldn’t have been suitable. Certainly, I should have done everything in my power to prevent it, if it had been mooted.”
“May I inquire why?”
“Because I’m proposing to marry her myself.”
“I see.” The foxy old man was pleased, even delighted. He had provided his audience with a sensational motive, and he saw that his moment was being universally appreciated.
“Are you sure you see?” Jeremy asked, pleasantly. “Because, if the idea has flashed through your mind that I had anything to gain, as things stand at present, from Sir Ralph’s death, you’re inaccurately informed. If I’d meant to occupy the front seat, I should have pushed Mr. Dennis into the pond. He’s the real obstacle in my way.”
The coroner observed sardonically that perhaps Mr. Dennis would take this as a warning. Then he asked me a few questions that I hadn’t any difficulty in answering, and then at last he called on Hilary.
“You were on intimate terms, I think, with Sir Ralph Feltham?” he began without preamble.
“He was my cousin.”
“And there were times when you contemplated marrying him?”
Hilary said sweetly, “There are times when one contemplates marrying anything, one’s so bored.”
“But he was in earnest, even if you were not.”
“Of course he was. Men are.”
“And ladies are usually flippant?”
“I don’t know about that. It depends how keen they are, I suppose. But it stands to reason a man doesn’t talk about getting married unless he’s serious, because he might be taken seriously, and think what a fix he’d be in then.”
“So that he was serious in wishing to marry you?”
“To the extent of being very jealous of Mr. Dennis.”
“And you agreed to break off your engagement?”
“No, no.” Hilary’s face whitened at that unexpected thrust. I wondered how that had leaked out. Through one of the servants perhaps, the girl Eleanor had dismissed a couple of days earlier. Hilary had certainly given the Servants’ Hall plenty of matter for gossip during the past few days. Or Ralph might have broadcast the news himself. It would be quite in keeping with his general attitude, and he had enough sense to realise that when a whole community begins to expect a certain course of action on the part of any individual, it is much more likely that that course will be followed up, than if the most constant pressure is privately brought to bear on the victim.
Hilary said, “I could name half-a-dozen people who will agree that we were actually discussing possible dates for the wedding at my party. That doesn’t look much as if I had thought of marrying Sir Ralph.”
The coroner was obliged to let that go. “Still, you felt very friendly-disposed towards him? Otherwise, you would hardly have remained so long at this house a short time ago, when you realised the anxiety your friends and relations would be experiencing on your account.”
“He was my cousin,” said Hilary, indifferently, “and I’d have sheltered in an upturned bucket on a night like that. I thought my people would probably guess where I was.”
“Did they know Sir Ralph was in the neighbourhood?”
“I don’t know. That didn’t occur to me.”
“You don’t think Sir Ralph had any grounds for believing you might change your mind and marry himself?”
“It’s never very easy, as I daresay you know, to convince a man he can’t have his own way, when he sees no reason why he shouldn’t.”
I don’t think, on the whole, Hilary made a very good impression; most people seemed of the opinion that she’d played dangerously near the edge with Feltham, and probably involved her fiancé in a nasty mess; anyway, they agreed that Dennis had ample grounds for jealousy.
The coroner’s last question to Hilary related to the last time she had seen Ralph; she said it was at the Abbey a couple of days before the party, and she had only seen him for an instant. There had been no serious discussion between them. Yes, she admitted she was surprised when he didn’t turn up on the 15th and perhaps relieved. She had not heard from him in that connection.
Any of us could have endorsed that last fact. You can’t mistake Ralph’s notepaper; it’s one of his glaring extravagances, huge square white envelopes of a roughish cartridge paper with the seal in black on the flap. He was tremendously proud of the seal, and I think he liked to flaunt it at Nunn, who hadn’t one. They say he even had it impressed on his scribbling blocks. And no such envelope had arrived at the Abbey during the week preceding the party. Hook, the butler, who sorts the letters, bore out my own impression about this.
There was only one other witness, but from a spectacular point of view he was able to eclipse all the rest combined. This was Baynes, who had been Ralph’s batman, and was afterwards his servant in civil life. Baynes was a thin, well-spoken, superior sort of man, who answered questions readily. I wondered how many of Ralph’s shady secrets he knew, but it seemed obvious that he wasn’t going to tell anything that didn’t suit his book.
He was asked whether Ralph seemed in ordinary health on the night of the 15th. He said, “He was in very good spirits. He had been looking forward to the party. He thought it was an opportunity.”
“For what?”
“He said for re-asserting h
imself, sir, whatever that might have meant. He’d talked a lot during the week, as plenty besides me can tell you. He’d taken a lot of trouble over his costume, and I believe he was going to speak to anyone he met on his way over, in the hopes of making them think he was the genuine article. He left the house a bit after ten.”
“He didn’t say anything that led you to think he might be going to take his own life?”
“Oh, no, sir. I’m sure such a thought never went through his head.”
“He was sober?”
“Yes, sir. He hadn’t touched drink all day. As a matter of fact, he did say one very odd thing just as he was leaving. He turned back at the door and said to me, ‘Good-night, Baynes. I have an idea I may be going to my death.’”
“What on earth did he mean by that?”
“I did ask him, sir, but he wouldn’t say much. But I gathered he was afraid of some sort of trap.”
“Why should he be?”
“Well, sir, it’s common knowledge that he hasn’t been over-popular at the Abbey these last two years, and then this past week or two he’s been going in and out pretty well as he pleased. It makes a man a bit suspicious.”
“Of what?”
“What it means.”
“He didn’t consider remaining at home?”
“No, sir, though I did my best to urge him. I said it was running his head into a noose, but he said that whatever people could say about him, at least they shouldn’t say he funked his fences—his expression, sir. Anyway, he’d been putting it round the neighbourhood for some days past that this was his chance; they’d been top dog long enough, but they wouldn’t forget this night.”
“And what did he mean by that?”
“Sir Ralph didn’t confide his affairs to me, sir.”
The coroner looked angry; it was galling to be snubbed like that by such a witness.
“You can add nothing that may be of assistance?”
“Only this, sir, and I don’t know that it makes any difference, except perhaps it might throw a light on the way Sir Ralph was regarded up at the Abbey. About a week ago Miss Feltham came to the Cottage…”
“Ah, yes, the night on which she lost her way on the moors.”
“I wouldn’t have said lost her way myself, sir. I understood from the Captain that he was expecting her.”
A wave of sensation ran through the court. It wasn’t that the news was any surprise to us, because we’d all realised from the first that Hilary had deliberately shaken off Dennis for her own purposes, but it was fresh to most of those present or else bore out what had at most been suspicions up to date, and it kindled their excitement to a white heat.
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes, sir. The previous day the Captain told me he would be expecting a lady between four and half-past the following afternoon. He told me to get in some cream cakes and chocolate biscuits and gave special instructions about flowers and so forth. She might be a bit late, he said, and he was a bit fussy himself. But that didn’t surprise me. Even when the lady hadn’t arrived at half-past five he didn’t get upset. Well, I thought most likely something had prevented her, a husband perhaps. It was often that way with the Captain’s parties. Of course, there was the fog, but when I asked the Captain how long he’d wait, seeing the kind of afternoon it had become, he smiled and said, ‘Oh, we’ll wait, Baynes. We shan’t be disappointed. She won’t dare stay away. Of course, there may be difficulties.’”
“What did you take that to mean?”
“As I’ve said, sir, I thought the Captain was referring to a husband. It isn’t every gentleman that would like his lady to be visiting at Ravensend without himself, and, of course, in a neighbourhood like this they do gossip a lot. There’s no pictures palaces here, or anything like that, and they must do something to amuse themselves. Well, about six o’clock the lady arrived. I hadn’t known who she was, and it was a bit of a shock to me to see it was Miss Feltham, because I understood she was going to marry Mr. Dennis, and, things being as they were up at the Abbey, I wouldn’t have thought of her coming down like that, all secret-like. The Captain was as excited as a boy, and that was odd, too, because he’d often given me the idea he was fair sick of women. Like sugar, he’d say they were; pleasant enough at first, but they made your gorge rise after a bit. It was a long time since there’d been any coming to the Cottage. The lady was a bit muddy, of course, and I thought she was a bit upset. She said she’d had no end of a bother getting over. The Captain said, smiling and quite composed, ‘Late hours don’t worry me. In fact, the later the better.’ I heard him say that as I brought in the tea. I don’t know what else they talked about, because, except when he rang for hot water and later to have the tray taken away, I wasn’t in the room. I did think, though, Miss Feltham looked a bit worried. It wasn’t the first time, not by a long chalk, I’d seen ladies that had come to visit the Captain look like that. There’d been a mort of them one way and another, but generally he treated ’em all alike. Angry he’d be and very short in his manner, and he’d talk of school-girls and women being able to look after themselves. Like a granite rock, if you take me, sir. But that evening he was quite changed. As kind and as pleased as if he’d like to spend the rest of his days comforting the young lady. One other thing I did hear, sir, and that was when I went in to take away the tray. ‘How can you, Ralph?’ she was asking him. ‘Doesn’t it make you feel an utter swine?’ If you’ll pardon the expression, sir. And the Captain said only a fool threw away his weapons when his life was at stake. She softened a bit then, and said was it as bad as that, and he said he generally got what he wanted, whatever it cost; and there wasn’t any need to make the bill too heavy. She said, firing up, ‘You mean I’m to pay it, whatever it is,’ and he said if he wasn’t so fond of her he wouldn’t be warning her now. He’d run so many debts in his time that it gave him pleasure to see other people having to pay.”
In reply to another nauseating question from the corrupt old man, he said that Miss Feltham didn’t, after the first, look at all scared, or as if she wanted to get away. “Quite cosy and amicable they seemed together, and when she was really going she said in the hall that perhaps this was the best way out. ‘There’s something about all of us,’ she said, ‘and he’—meaning Mr. Dennis, sir—‘would soon have found me out.’ Even her father, she said, had had to talk to someone; and that the Felthams couldn’t stand on their own feet.”
“And that was all you heard?”
“From the young lady. Afterwards, when she’d gone, the Captain said, ‘That’ll be a nice mouthful for Master Dennis to chew. Don’t tell me the whole parish won’t want to know where she spent the evening. Not that it matters. I’m going to marry my cousin, Baynes, and we shall live at the Abbey.’ I asked him when the wedding would be, and he said, ‘No need to wait much longer. I can get possession within the year, if I want it. I’d never have leased the place to a parvenu’ (if you’ll pardon me, sir, they’re the Captain’s own words), ‘if it hadn’t been rotting for a bit of attention, and I thought, if it was a matter of going to the Jews, I might as well give my relative’s relative first refusal.’”
There was by this time something so nakedly cruel and gloating about Baynes that I began to wonder whether the neighbourhood might not shortly be startled by news of a second death. Nothing could be calculated to do Hilary more harm than this type of story, told in this particular way, while the man’s deliberate emphasising of Ralph’s disreputable tea-parties thrust her into a category of women whom Nunn wouldn’t have had at the Abbey on any pretext. I looked across at Jeremy; he was sitting next to Mrs. Ross, and she had one hand on his knee, and was whispering urgently to him. I have never seen Jeremy so obviously moved; and when I saw his face a new fear smote me. I wondered whether it had yet occurred to anyone else.
Dennis was more impassive; you couldn’t tell what he was thinking; he sat with his hands clasp
ed and swinging between his knees, but certain almost imperceptible movements of his head, as the coroner piled one question on to another, assured me that the elements of storm weren’t lacking here either. And when that broke it would be a holocaust enveloping everybody concerned.
The coroner asked if Ralph had again referred to the matter of his marriage.
“Only casually, like when he said, ‘We shall want that at the Abbey.’ And, ‘When we’re settled at the Abbey’—never ‘if’ or ‘perhaps.’ He’d made up his mind all right.”
“Now, when he didn’t come back that evening, what did you think? That he’d come to some mischief? Were you alarmed?”
“Well, no, sir. I can’t say I was exactly anxious. I thought he might be spending the night at the Abbey—it’s a big house with a lot of empty rooms to it. Or perhaps he’d gone on somewhere—I’d known him be all night before. Got plenty of friends, the Captain has…”
The original urbanity of his manner was rapidly falling from the fellow; his last words were the equivalent of a wink at the Coroner. There was no doubt in the mind of any man present of the type of roisterer Ralph had been. Hilary’s stock dropped with every word he said.
“You don’t think, then, that any harm had actually befallen him?”
“I’ve been with the Captain a good many years, sir, and I’ve never found him the kind of man to put his head into a trap of his own accord, not knowing it was a trap, I mean. He liked his life, and he saw a lot of fun ahead. That I do know. And I never saw a man so difficult to wear down. What they call whipcord and india-rubber. Nothing tired him or got him finished… not scenes nor threats nor being short of money, nor being in danger, and when I say I didn’t think anything really bad was going to happen, I mean to say I didn’t think it was going to happen to him.”
The court was tense enough now; you could hear the soft sound of breath that has been held, because none of us dared make so much noise as a gasp, whistling suddenly through dry lips. Here was drama and the least significant of us was moved and involved.
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