“Had you in your mind any definite idea as to what might have happened to him?”
“I thought he might have been taken ill or have fallen down dead. He once told me that he would probably die quite suddenly. I believe that he suffered from some affection of the heart, but he did not like speaking about his health.”
“Are you sure that there was nothing more than this in your mind?”
“There was nothing more. I thought that his heart might have failed and that he might have wandered, in a half-conscious state, away from the main path and fallen dead in one of the thickets.”
The coroner pondered this reply for some time. I could not see why, for it was plain and straightforward enough. At length he said, very gravely and with what seemed to me unnecessary emphasis: “I want you to be quite frank and open with us. Miss D’Arblay. Can you swear that there was no other possibility in your mind than that of sudden illness?”
She looked at him in surprise, apparently not understanding the drift of the question. As to me, I assumed that he was endeavouring delicately to ascertain whether deceased was addicted to drink. “I have told you exactly what was in my mind,” she replied.
“Have you ever had any reason to suppose, or to entertain the possibility, that your father might take his own life?”
“Never,” she answered emphatically. “He was a happy, even-tempered man, always interested in his work and always in good spirits. I am sure he would never have taken his own life.”
The coroner nodded with a rather curious air of satisfaction, as if he were concurring with the witness’s statement. Then he asked in the same grave, emphatic manner:
“So far as you know, had your father any enemies?”
“No,” she replied confidently. “He was a kindly, amiable man who disliked nobody, and everyone who knew him loved him.”
As she uttered this panegyric (and what prouder testimony could a daughter have given?), her eyes filled, and the coroner looked at her with deep sympathy but yet with a somewhat puzzled expression.
“You are sure,” he said gently, “that there was no one whom he might have injured—even inadvertently—or who bore him any grudge or ill-will?”
“I am sure,” she answered, “that he never injured or gave offence to anyone, and I do not believe that there was any person in the whole world who bore him anything but goodwill.”
The coroner noted this reply, and as he entered it in the depositions, his face bore the same curious puzzled or doubtful expression. When he had written the answer down, he asked: “By the way, what was the deceased’s occupation?”
“He was a sculptor by profession, but in late years he worked principally as a modeller for various trades—pottery manufacturers, picture-frame makers, carvers and the makers of high-class wax figures for shop windows.”
“Had he any assistants or subordinates?”
“No. He worked alone. Occasionally I helped him with his moulds when he was very busy or had a very large work on hand; but usually he did everything himself. Of course, he occasionally employed models.”
“Do you know who those models were?”
“They were professional models. The men, I think, were all Italians and some of the women were, too. I believe my father kept a list of them in his address book.”
“Was he working from a model on the night of his death?”
“No. He was making the moulds for a porcelain statuette.”
“Did you ever hear that he had any kind of trouble with his models?”
“Never. He seemed always on the best of terms with them and he used to speak of them most appreciatively.”
“What sort of persons are professional models? Should you say they are a decent, well-conducted class?”
“Yes. They are usually most respectable, hard-working people; and, of course, they are sober and decent in their habits or they would be of no use for their professional duties.”
The coroner meditated on these replies with a speculative eye on the witness. After a short pause, he began along another line.
“Did deceased ever carry about with him property of any considerable value?”
“Never, to my knowledge.”
“No jewellery, plate or valuable material?”
“No. His work was practically all in plaster or wax. He did no goldsmith’s work and he used no precious material.”
“Did he ever have any considerable sums of money about him?”
“No. He received all his payments by cheque and he made his payments in the same way. His habit was to carry very little money on his person—usually not more than one or two pounds.”
Once more the coroner reflected profoundly. It seemed to me that he was trying to elicit some fact—I could not imagine what—and was failing utterly. At length, after another puzzled look at the witness, he turned to the jury and inquired if any of them wished to put any questions; and when they had severally shaken their heads, he thanked Miss D’Arblay for the clear and straightforward way in which she had given her evidence and released her.
While the examination had been proceeding, I had allowed my eyes to wander round the room with some curiosity, for this was the first time that I had ever been present at an inquest. From the jury, the witnesses in waiting and the reporters—among whom I tried to identify Dr. Thorndyke’s stenographer—my attention was presently transferred to the spectators. There were only a few of them, but I found myself wondering why there should be any. What kind of person attends as a spectator at an ordinary inquest such as this appeared to be? The newspaper reports of the finding of the body were quite unsensational and promised no startling developments. Finally, I decided that they were probably local residents who had some knowledge of the deceased and were just indulging their neighbourly curiosity.
Among them my attention was particularly attracted by a middle-aged woman who sat near me—at least I judged her to be middle-aged, though the rather dense black veil that she wore obscured her face to a great extent. Apparently she was a widow, and advertised the fact by the orthodox, old-fashioned ‘weeds.’ But I could see that she had white hair and wore spectacles. She held a folded newspaper on her knee, apparently dividing her attention between the printed matter and the proceedings of the court. She gave me the impression of having come in to spend an idle hour, combining a somewhat perfunctory reading of the paper with a still more perfunctory attention to the rather gruesome entertainment that the inquest afforded.
The next witness called was the doctor who had made the official examination of the body; on whom the—presumed—widow bestowed a listless, incurious glance and then returned to her newspaper. He was a youngish man, though his hair was turning grey, with a quiet but firm and confident manner and a very clear, pleasant voice. The preliminaries having been disposed of, the coroner led off with the question:
“You have made an examination of the body of the deceased?”
“Yes. It is that of a well-proportioned, fairly muscular man of about sixty, quite healthy with the exception of the heart one of the valves of which—the mitral valve—was incompetent and allowed some leakage of blood to take place.”
“Was the heart affection sufficient to account for the death of deceased?”
“No. It was quite a serviceable heart. There was good compensation—that is to say, there was extra growth of muscle to make up for the leaky valve. So far as his heart was concerned, deceased might have lived for another twenty years.”
“Were you able to ascertain what actually was the cause of death?”
“Yes. The cause of death was aconitine poisoning.”
At this reply a murmur of astonishment arose from the jury, and I heard Miss D’Arblay suddenly draw in her breath. The spectators sat up on their benches, and even the veiled lady was so far interested as to look up from her paper.
“How had the poison been administered?” the coroner asked.
“It had been injected under the skin by means of a hypodermic syring
e.”
“Can you give an opinion as to whether the poison was administered to deceased by himself or by some other person?”
“It could not have been injected by deceased himself,” the witness replied. “The needle-puncture was in the back, just below the left shoulder-blade. It is, in my opinion, physically impossible for anyone to inject with a hypodermic syringe into his own body in that spot. And, of course, a person who was administering an injection to himself would select the most convenient spot—such as the front of the thigh. But apart from the question of convenience, the place in which the needle-puncture was found was actually out of reach.” Here the witness produced a hypodermic syringe, the action of which he demonstrated with the aid of a glass of water; and having shown the impossibility of applying it to the spot that he had described, passed the syringe round for the jury’s inspection.
“Have you formed any opinion as to the purpose for which this drug was administered in this manner?”
“I have no doubt that it was administered for the purpose of causing the death of deceased.”
“Might it not have been administered for medicinal purposes?”
“That is quite inconceivable. Leaving out of consideration the circumstances—the time and place where the administration occurred—the dose excludes the possibility of medicinal purposes. It was a lethal dose. From the tissues round the needle—puncture we recovered the twelfth of a grain of aconitine. That alone was more than enough to cause death. But a quantity of the poison had been absorbed, as was shown by the fact that we recovered a recognizable trace from the liver.”
“What is the medicinal dose of aconitine?”
“The maximum medicinal dose is about the four-hundredth of a grain, and even that is not very safe. As a matter of fact, aconitine is very seldom used in medical practice. It is a dangerous drug and of no particular value.”
“How much aconitine do you suppose was injected?”
“Not less than the tenth of a grain—that is, about forty times the maximum medicinal dose. Probably more.”
“There can, I suppose, be no doubt as to the accuracy of the facts that you have stated as to the nature and quantity of the poison?”
“There can be no doubt whatever. The analysis was made in my presence by Professor Woodford of St. Margaret’s Hospital after I had removed the tissues from the body in his presence. He has not been called because, in accordance with the procedure under Coroners Law, I am responsible for the analysis and the conclusions drawn from it.”
“Taking the medical facts as known to you, are you able to form an opinion as to what took place when the poison was administered?”
“That,” the witness replied, “is a matter of inference or conjecture. I infer that the person who administered the poison thrust the needle violently into the back of the deceased, intending to inject the poison into the chest. Actually, the needle struck a rib and bent up sharply, so that the contents of the syringe were delivered just under the skin. Then I take it that the assailant ran away—probably towards the pond—and deceased pursued him. Very soon the poison would take effect, and then deceased would have fallen. He may have fallen into the pond, or more probably was thrown in. He was alive when he fell into the pond, as is proved by the presence of water in the lungs; but he must then have been insensible and in a dying condition, for there was no water in the stomach, which proves that the swallowing reflex had already ceased.”
“Your considered opinion, then, based on the medical facts ascertained by you, is, I understand, that deceased died from the effects of a poison injected into his body by some other person with homicidal intent?”
“Yes; that is my considered opinion, and I affirm that the facts do not admit of any other interpretation.”
The coroner looked towards the jury. “Do any of you gentlemen wish to ask the witness any questions?” he inquired; and when the foreman had replied that the jury were entirely satisfied with the doctor’s explanations, he thanked the witness, who thereupon retired. The medical witness was succeeded by the inspector, who made a short statement respecting the effects found on the person of deceased. They comprised a small sum of money—under two pounds—a watch, keys and other articles, none of them of any appreciable value, but such as they were, furnishing evidence that at least petty robbery had not been the object of the attack.
When the last witness had been heard, the coroner glanced at his notes and then proceeded to address the jury.
“There is little, gentlemen,” he began, “that I need say to you. The facts are before you and they seem to admit of only one interpretation. I remind you that, by the terms of your oath, your finding must be ‘according to the evidence.’ Now, the medical evidence is quite dear and definite. It is to the effect that deceased met his death by poison administered violently by some other person; that is, by homicide. Homicide is the killing of a human being, and it may or may not be criminal. But if the homicidal act is done with the intent to kill, if that intention has been deliberately formed—that is to say, if the homicidal act has been premeditated—then that homicide is wilful murder.
“Now, the person who killed the deceased came to the place where the act was done provided with a solution of a very powerful and uncommon vegetable poison. He was also provided with a very special appliance—to wit, a hypodermic syringe—for injecting it into the body. The fact that he was furnished with the poison and the appliance creates a strong presumption that he came to this place with the deliberate intention of killing the deceased. That is to say, this fact constitutes strong evidence of premeditation.
“As to the motive for this act, we are completely in the dark; nor have we any evidence pointing to the identity of the person who committed that act. But a coroner’s inquest is not necessarily concerned with motives, nor is it our business to fix the act on any particular person. We have to find how and by what means the deceased met his death; and for that purpose we have clear and sufficient evidence. I need say no more, but will leave you to agree upon your finding.”
There was a brief interval of silence when the coroner had finished speaking. The jury whispered together for a few seconds; then the foreman announced that they had agreed upon their verdict.
“And what is your decision, gentlemen?” the coroner asked.
“We find,” was the reply, “that deceased met his death by wilful murder, committed by some person unknown.”
The coroner bowed. “I am in entire agreement with you, gentlemen,” said he. “No other verdict was possible; and I am sure you will join with me in the hope that the wretch who committed this dastardly crime may be identified and in due course brought to justice.”
This brought the proceedings to an end. As the court rose, the spectators filed out of the building and the coroner approached Miss D’Arblay to express once more his deep sympathy with her in her tragic bereavement. I stood apart with Miss Boler, whose rugged face was wet with tears, but set in a grim and wrathful scowl.
“Things have taken a terrible turn,” I ventured to observe.
She shook her head and uttered a sort of low growl. “It won’t bear thinking of,” she said gruffly. “There is no possible retribution that would meet the case. One has thought that some of the old punishments were cruel and barbarous; but if I could lay my hands on the villain that did this—” She broke off, leaving the conclusion to my imagination, and in an extraordinarily different voice, said: “Come, Miss Marion; let us get out of this awful place.”
As we walked away slowly and in silence, I looked at Miss D’Arblay, not without anxiety. She was very pale, and the dazed expression that her face had borne on the fatal day of the discovery had, to some extent, reappeared. But now the signs of bewilderment and grief were mingled with something new. The rigid face, the compressed lips and lowered brows spoke of a deep and abiding wrath.
Suddenly she turned to me and said, abruptly, almost harshly: “I was wrong in what I said to you before the inquiry. You remem
ber that I said the circumstances of the loss could make no difference; but they make a whole world of difference. I had supposed that my dear father had died as he had thought he would die; that it was the course of Nature, which we cannot rebel against. Now I know, from what the doctor said, that he might have lived on happily for the full span of human life but for the malice of this unknown wretch. His life was not lost; it was stolen—from him and from me.”
“Yes,” I said somewhat lamely. “It is a horrible affair.”
“It is beyond bearing!” she exclaimed. “If his death had been natural, I would have tried to resign myself to it. I would have tried to put my grief away. But to think that his happy, useful life has been snatched from him, that he has been torn from us who loved him, by the deliberate act of this murderer—it is unendurable. It will be with me every hour of my life until I die. And every hour I shall call on God for justice against this wretch.”
I looked at her with a sort of admiring surprise. A quiet, gentle girl as I believed her to be at ordinary times, now, with her flushed cheeks, her flashing eyes and ominous brows, she reminded me of one of the heroines of the French Revolution. Her grief seemed to be merged in a longing for vengeance.
While she had been speaking. Miss Boler had kept up a running accompaniment in a deep, humming bass. I could not catch the words—if there were any—but was aware only of a low, continuous bourdon. She now said with grim decision: “God will not let him escape. He shall pay the debt to the uttermost farthing.” Then, with sudden fierceness, she added: “If I should ever meet with him, I could kill him with my own hand.”
After this, both women relapsed into silence, which I was loath to interrupt. The circumstances were too tragic for conversation. When we reached their gate. Miss D’Arblay held out her hand and once again thanked me for my help and sympathy.
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