by Jean Stubbs
‘No sir, there is no need!’ cried the doctor.
Fitzgerald made a gesture which might, or might not, have concurred with this remark.
‘Is there no way in which the writer may be found and silenced?’
‘I know of none, except through the police,’ Fitzgerald replied.
‘Are there no private people who might be employed for such a purpose?’
‘What, sir? Pursue them secretly and lay yourself open to blackmail? That would be a pretty pickle!’
‘Laura,’ said Titus, ‘I am afraid that there is talk ahead of us, in any case, whatever we do,’ and he ventured to look at her.
Nothing could be divined from her expression. She looked back at him as calmly as though the three letters had never been written: as a sister-in-law looks at a brother-in-law she has known for fifteen years. Affectionately, trustfully, frankly.
‘One can bear anything if one knows the truth,’ she answered, and spread out her fan and admired its ivories.
‘Then take them to Scotland Yard,’ said Titus, ‘and be damned to them! I crave your pardon, Laura – I forgot myself.’
She inclined a graceful head.
‘I commend your decision, sir,’ said Fitzgerald drily. ‘I regret the need for it.’
‘And I, too. I, too. My dear Mrs Crozier, should I not ring for Kate? The shock – the grievous upset to your nervous system.’
‘I can suffer no more than I have done,’ she replied coldly. ‘There comes an end even to suffering, I find.’
‘By the by,’ said Fitzgerald, at the door, ‘this will mean an exhumation, I am afraid. You do realize that?’
She stared at him, and what little colour she possessed left her face.
‘Oh, certainly,’ said Fitzgerald, rocking on his heels. ‘There has been accusation of poisoning. They must exhume.’
She rose, reached out a hand as if for help, and pitched to the carpet before even Padgett could fuss forward. In the mêlée of bell-ringing, hurrying maids, burning feathers and sal volatile, three conscience-stricken men watched Laura revive into tears.
‘I gave him one of my capsules,’ she wept, ‘they will arrest me. I can never forgive myself.’
Dr Padgett, fanning her ardently, concealed a smile and shook his head. Titus and Fitzgerald stared at each other.
‘My dear sirs,’ said Padgett, so relieved by her second confession that he could have laughed aloud, ‘the capsule contained one-sixth grain of quinine and the same of morphine. I have told the lady already that this could have made no difference to the illness from which Mr Crozier died, one way or the other. But it really is extremely difficult – when the ladies get a notion in their heads …’
A touched amusement wiped the evening clean.
‘I beg you to excuse me,’ Laura whispered from the sofa, and the shelter of Kate’s arm, ‘I have not been myself of late.’
They exchanged smiles. She was everything they could have wished her to be: beautiful, frail, loving and most charmingly foolish.
*
The funeral had been majestic. The exhumation shameful. Apart from occasional admonitions and directions, it proceeded in silence. A cold wind reddened noses and ruffled cloaks and greatcoats as the coffin jolted into light of day again. The two grave-diggers wiped their faces with the corner of their neckerchiefs, cleaned grimed hands on nankeen breeches, touched their caps and pocketed a tip apiece. An unpleasant business. Beneath the scratched wood, in fearful corruption, lay evidence of guilt or innocence.
‘Sooner the doctor than me,’ said one grave-digger to the other, as they filled in the cavity. ‘I don’t mind a-burying of them, but a-cutting up of them after is nasty!’
The other man spat, as though the too-sweet stench were in his mouth instead of his nostrils.
At the morgue, the forensic surgeon carried out his task methodically, delicately, accurately, and made his report.
The body contained a lethal dose of morphine. Three grains had dispatched Theodore Augustus Sydney Crozier to his Maker.
*
‘Have you any notion, ma’am, where or when your late husband might have obtained such a quantity of morphine?’ Padgett asked.
She stared for a full minute out of her drawing-room window.
‘I should have spoken earlier,’ she said at last, ‘but I wanted to avoid a scandal, and I may have thus mistakenly involved myself in a greater one. I had a full bottle of the tablets you prescribed for me, since I was at the end of the others. When I fetched the bottle out, the night after Theodore’s death, I found it empty. Would they be sufficient to furnish such a dose?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Padgett gravely, ‘they would. It is a pity,’ he added, ‘that you did not think fit to confide this matter to me. It will not look well, coming after the post-mortem, I fear. Why did you not do so?’
She replied simply and truthfully, ‘Because I was afraid.’
PART TWO: INNER WORLDS
10
We have had the morality of submission and that of chivalry; but the time is now come for the morality of justice.
The Subjection of Women – John Stuart Mill
‘NOW, ma’am,’ said Dr Padgett, outside the court-room, ‘this is merely a formality. You shall be troubled as little as possible, I assure you. Everyone knows the true state of affairs, and their sympathy is with you in your tragic loss. I have no doubt whatsoever that your late husband, overcome by personal worries and the depressive mood induced by his illness, took his own life.’
The thought of this made him grave, and then another and a graver occurred to him.
‘Do you not think, Mr Crozier,’ he said anxiously, to Titus, ‘that I should escort this lady? In view of the rumours, I mean.’
‘No, sir,’ Titus replied firmly. ‘I discount and despise the rumours. The lady is my late brother’s widow and as such entitled to my protection. I shall not truckle to gossip.’
‘Well spoken,’ Padgett murmured. ‘Most nobly put, my dear sir.’
He opened the door upon a little sea of turned heads and curious eyes. Laura pulled down her black veil and accepted Titus’s arm.
‘Are you not well, Laura?’ he asked quietly, feeling her hand tremble.
‘I wish I were not on view, that is all. I wish we could have avoided this.’
The coroner stilled the whispers smartly with his hammer, and began to state the case. With an attention to detail tedious enough to have won Theodore’s approval, the facts were disclosed. Once again, the deceased patriarch trod the dreary round of influenza under the guidance of Dr Padgett. In his anxiety to be of help to Laura, the doctor brought up examples of every ailment Theodore had suffered. His high blood pressure and temperamental liver were exposed to the public. The murmur at his heart was revived. His tendency to pulmonary disorders racked them. When his last pessimistic state of mind had wearied everybody present, Padgett stepped down, satisfied that he had done his duty to the living if not to the dead.
‘I regret to have to question you, Mrs Crozier,’ said the coroner, consulting his notes, ‘but I shall not keep you longer than I can help. Being closest to the deceased you will be able to throw further light on these sad circumstances.’
Laura waited. On the black crown of her hat, a pierced black bird spread his wings until the tail-tips touched the wide brim.
‘Mrs Crozier, do you know of any reason, other than post-influenzal depression, why your late husband should have taken his own life?’
‘None, sir.’
‘You were happy together, I believe?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You know, of course, of the existence of three anonymous letters? Yes. Well, I do not like to ask a lady to comment upon such libellous notes, but was there any truth in any of them?’
‘No, sir,’ Laura replied firmly.
‘He left no farewell note of any kind?’
‘I have not found anything.’
‘There is a great deal of mystery t
o my mind, in this case,’ the coroner continued, after a pause. ‘If there had been no scurrilous letters, or if no poison had been found in the body, or if there had been some kind of last note – there would be less difficulty. But this is not a satisfactory state of affairs, ma’am, as I am sure you will agree. Are you positive that you know of no other reason, Mrs Crozier?’
Laura considered, pressed her lips together, then again said, ‘No, sir.’
‘Very well, ma’am. I thank you. Mr Titus Crozier.’
Titus, bereft of his usual ruddy colour and exuberance, nevertheless held himself smartly. And though he was in deepest mourning, his tailor had not failed him.
‘I think you and I shall be frank with each other, sir,’ said the coroner abruptly, ‘and so spare the lady further questioning. Are you in debt?’
‘I have one or two small bills unpaid,’ said Titus, easily enough. ‘Tradespeople can be impatient. I owe a friend something at cards, too.’
‘I see, sir. What sum of money would you describe as small?’
‘I do not recollect the exact sum.’
‘Come, sir. This court is not concerned with halfpence. We can discover the amount if necessary. How much would you guess – to save public time and expense?’
Titus said reluctantly, ‘About £800.’
‘I should not have called that a small sum. Where would you have got it from, sir?’
‘I asked my late brother to consider raising my salary. I have a position to maintain, and he always regarded me as an invaluable asset to the firm.’
‘In what way invaluable, sir?’
‘My late brother was the business man. I possess what one might call a flair for buying.’
‘And for spending,’ said the coroner, and raised a ripple that might have been laughter, but for the seriousness of the occasion. ‘Did your late brother refuse this advancement?’
‘I am afraid he did.’
‘So where would you have got this small sum?’
‘I suppose I should have borrowed it, from a money-lender. I do not wish my private affairs to be discussed in public,’ Titus added, ruffled, ‘so I am prepared to write down the amount of my annual salary on a piece of paper for your own eyes. You will see that – though I should have been somewhat straitened for a few months – it was possible to pay the debts in full.’
The coroner wrote deliberately, and then read what he had written.
‘I am quite satisfied, Mr Crozier, on that point. You need not trouble to confide in me. Are the finances of the firm in good order?’
‘In excellent order,’ said Titus, relieved to give good news for a change.
‘Thank you. Now sir, why should there be rumours of a warmer relationship than was proper with Mrs Crozier?’
Titus pondered, one hand in the breast of his cutaway jacket.
‘I was so frequently at the house, of course,’ he said, as though thinking of the matter for the first time. ‘My late brother acted in loco parentis for me, from when I was a boy. At the time of his marriage, he and my sister-in-law were good enough to accept me as part of their household. I was, and am, on amiable terms with her. I cannot conjecture how such rumours start.’
‘Did you visit Mrs Crozier, perhaps, when her husband was not at home?’
‘Occasionally. Why should I not? I have two fine nephews and a charming niece. I am regarded as an indulgent uncle. My visits were quite open. You may question my sister-in-law’s servants if you doubt my word.’
The coroner shook his head.
‘Has Mrs Crozier ever called upon you without her late husband?’
‘Only when I was unwell. I am a bachelor, sir,’ said Titus, smiling, ‘and bachelors are sad creatures in the clutch of sickness. My sister-in-law was merciful enough – at her late husband’s express wish, I may add – to see that I wanted for no comforts to aid my recovery.’
‘Have you ever escorted Mrs Crozier to – say – the theatre, or to supper, without her late husband?’
‘Very probably. Yes. I suppose I have. If so, that was again with my late brother’s permission. I have often taken Mrs Crozier and her children to the pantomime and so on – but perhaps that is not what you wish to know?’
His good-humoured replies took the tension, and some excitement, from the court-room.
‘Mr Crozier, would you say that this marriage was a happy one?’
‘Yes, sir. My late brother was extremely proud of his wife. She wanted for nothing. In his turn, I may say that he enjoyed all the benefits of a comfortable home and a devoted companion.’
‘They had had no major disagreements – particularly of late?’
It was Titus’s turn to pause, but at length he said he knew of none. The coroner’s pen sputtered on for a while before he laid it petulantly down.
‘This is a highly important matter, Mr Crozier. A gentleman has met his death, if not by his own hand then by that of another. I find the reason put forward by Dr Padgett very thin. Very thin, indeed. I find it difficult to believe that a happily married man of considerable means, and a thriving business, swallows his wife’s sleeping capsules simply because he has had the influenza. I had the influenza myself, sir, as did many a hundred other men – but my court-room is not crowded with dead bodies in consequence!'
He regarded Laura’s drooping black bird and Titus’s returned colour with some asperity.
‘If you can furnish me with no better reason,’ he said briefly, ‘I must refer this case to a higher authority.’
Titus looked imploringly at Laura, who looked back and then slowly nodded.
‘We did not wish to bring the matter to public attention,’ Titus began in a low voice. The watchers became alert. ‘It is purely a personal family affair, which will cast a slur upon my late brother’s otherwise unblemished reputation, and inflict fresh grief upon his widow.’
The coroner placed the tips of his fingers together.
‘I am very sorry for that, Mr Crozier, but this is a public inquiry. I should advise you to clear such rumours as you can, for both your sakes, with whatever means are at your disposal.’
Titus took a deep breath and folded his black kid-gloved hands one upon the other.
‘A short time ago, sir, some letters were delivered by a lady who declined to leave her name, with directions to the parlourmaid to deliver them personally into my late brother’s hands. Knowing he was resting, and feeling that husband and wife were in each other’s full confidence, the maid gave them to my sister-in-law. The lady who brought the letters wat not the sort of person with whom our family would have enjoyed social intimacy, and Mrs Crozier was suspicious. Distressed by the secrecy, she charged her husband with an indiscretion. He declined to comment, and out of her trouble she begged me to aid her.
‘Mrs Crozier has no male relative alive, other than that of an aged uncle. She had no one else to turn to, and was greatly upset. My late brother confessed to me that he had indeed been foolish. He assured me that the connection was at an end, and the fault would not be committed again.’
Appalled, Dr Padgett patted Laura’s doeskin glove. But it might have covered marble for all the attention she paid to him.
‘My late brother humbly asked his wife’s forgiveness, and she did forgive him in a most noble and womanly fashion. They were fully reconciled.’
The quietness in the court-room was disturbed by the coroner’s busy pen.
‘But surely, Mr Crozier,’ he said, returning persistently to the fray, ‘you are not suggesting – since they had made their peace – that the late gentleman then killed himself out of remorse? That would be pointless. Do you not agree?’
Titus said resolutely, ‘My sister-in-law is unaware of a further fact in connection with this matter. Her husband was being blackmailed. Not all the letters had been returned.’
Laura lifted her head suddenly and stared at him.
‘My late brother was gravely worried, and he dreaded scandal.’
‘I will have s
ilence, if you please,’ cried the coroner, and emphasized his words with the hammer. ‘Well, sir, this puts a very different complexion on the affair. Are you able to produce these letters?’
Laura’s voice, too high, said, ‘I believe them to have been burned.’
‘How do you know that, ma’am?’
‘I saw a quantity of ashes in the grate, the day after they were delivered.’
‘Can any of your maids testify to that, Mrs Crozier?’
‘I do not know. They may. They may very well not have noticed. Why should they? We frequently burned spoiled papers on the fire.’
‘Pray do not agitate yourself, ma’am,’ whispered Padgett, but she rose, shaking.
‘This is inhuman!’ she cried to the assembly. ‘It is too cruel. Am I to lose everything? Honour and respect and peace of mind, and now a memory that should have remained sacred to me?’
Cries of ‘Shame!’ were directed at the coroner.
She reached for her cloak, but it had snarled on the leg of the chair. She pulled at it ineffectually until Padgett released it for her.
‘Do not come near me!’ she said peremptorily, as Titus and the doctor came to her assistance. ‘You have done your duty, sir!’ Turning to the coroner. ‘You have found out a truth I would have concealed. I knew my late husband took his life. I thought it was from remorse. I found the empty bottle and I said nothing. If that is a criminal offence then imprison me. I sought to protect his reputation. I trusted in God to pardon his offence.’
Her articulation was too precise, her voice too brittle.
The spectators were on their feet, craning to see her.
‘Leave me! Leave me!’ she commanded imperiously, and the small black gloves gestured away those who would have helped her. ‘If my husband were here he would not allow me to be so used. Is this how you deal with a woman who lacks protection?’
‘Shame on you, sir!’ shouted an elderly gentleman from the back of the room, and he shook his rolled umbrella at the coroner.
The hammer beat on the table in vain.
‘What is to become of me?’ Laura wept, and wrung her hands. ‘Where shall I go?’