“No,” I answered. “But I think Dr. Sharpe considered that his heart was weak.”
“Ah! He did, did he? Well, I had better call on Dr. Sharpe and hear what he knows about the case.” He walked round, and, stooping down, examined the wound attentively. Then, without looking at Mr. Otway, he asked: “You say he struck his head against the corner of the mantelpiece? This corner, I suppose?”
He touched the right hand corner of the marble shelf, and, as Mr. Otway assented, I saw him place his shoulder against it as if to measure its height.
“Was that when he was in the act of falling?” he asked, with his eyes fixed on the wound.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Otway. “At least, I think so—I should say yes, certainly—that is, to the best of my belief. Of course, Dr. Bury, you will understand that I am a little confused in my recollection. The—ah—the circumstances were very agitating and—ah—confusing. Is the point of any importance?”
“Well, you see,” the doctor replied a little drily, “when a man dies suddenly and only one person is present—as I understand was the case in this instance—every point is of importance.”
“Yes, of course. It would be, naturally.”
Mr. Otway spoke these words in a low, husky voice, and, as I looked at him, I saw that he had turned as pale as death and that his face had again broken out into a greasy sweat. Nor was I the only observer. Mrs. Gregg, who had been standing in the corner by the door, quietly attentive to all that passed, was now watching her employer narrowly and with a very curious expression. There was a brief interval of silence, and then Mr. Otway having cleared his throat once or twice, asked, in the same husky, unsteady voice:
“I suppose, when you have talked the matter over with Dr. Sharpe, you will be able to certify the death in the usual way?”
“In the usual way?” Dr. Bury repeated. “Yes: in the way that is usual in cases of sudden death. Of course, I shan’t be able to give an ordinary certificate. I shall write to the coroner, giving him the facts, and he will decide whether an inquest is necessary or whether he can issue a certificate on my statement.”
“I see,” said Mr. Otway. “You will report the facts—and, I suppose, you will state what your own views on the case are?”
“I shall make any comments that seem to be called for, but, of course, the facts are what the coroner wants.”
“And would you consider that, in a case like this, an inquiry is necessary?
“I don’t know that I should,” was the reply; “but it doesn’t rest with me. Would you like me to help you to move him? You can’t leave him lying here, and you can hardly have him carried to his own house by daylight.”
“No,” Mr. Otway agreed, “we could not. If you will kindly help me to carry him to the drawing-room, we can lay him on the sofa.”
The two men raised my poor father, and, while I supported his head, they carried him to the drawing-room and laid him on the sofa, when Dr. Bury, having taken an embroidered cover from a table and spread it over him, drew down the blinds.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you had better leave him here until we know what the coroner intends to do. In case he should decide—”
Here he glanced a little uncomfortably at me, and I realised that he would rather speak of the grim details unembarrassed by my presence. Accordingly, I stole from the room and returned to the one from which we had just come. The door was open as we had left it, and, as I came opposite to it, treading softly, as was my habit, I saw Mrs. Gregg standing by the roll-top table with my father’s stick in her hand, apparently testing the weight of the heavy lead loading that the silver knob concealed. She started as she suddenly became aware of my presence, but, quickly recovering her self-possession, asked:
“Will this be your father’s stick?”
I answered that it was, whereupon she remarked, as she stood it in the corner behind the writing-table, whence, I suppose, she had taken it:
“I thought ’twas a stranger to me. A fine stick it is, too, and a trusty companion ’twould be on a dark night and a lonely road.”
To this I made no reply; and when she had glanced at the clock and peered curiously into my father’s hat, which stood on the table, she turned abruptly and left the room.
CHAPTER VII
The Terms of Release
When Mrs. Gregg had gone, I shut the door, and, sinking on to the chair by the writing-table, tried to collect my thoughts. But though I was vaguely conscious that this dreadful disaster vitally affected my position, and must in some way affect my actions, overwhelming grief and a sense of irreparable loss rendered coherent thought impossible. My father was dead. That was all I could think of. My one perfect friend, who had absorbed all my affection and given me all of his, had gone out of my life. Henceforward I was alone in the world.
Presently I heard Dr. Bury leave the house, and then the door opened, and Mr. Otway came into the room, looking like a man who had risen prematurely after a severe illness. He dropped limply on a chair, and sat, with his hands on his knees, looking at me with a pitiable expression of misery and consternation.
“This is a terrible affair, Helen,” he said in a broken voice. “Terrible! Terrible!”
I made no reply, but looked at him, half-curiously and resentfully. In the extremity of my grief, I had no pity to spare for him who was the cause of this dreadful calamity.
“Won’t you speak to me, Helen?” he said, imploringly. “Won’t you try to give me some comfort? Think of the awful position I am in.”
At his miserable egotism, my grief blazed up into sudden wrath.
“You!” I exclaimed, scornfully. “And what of me? You have robbed me of my father—of all that matters to me in life—and now you ask me to comfort you!”
He stretched out his hands to me with a gesture of entreaty.
“Don’t say that, Helen!” he implored. “Don’t say I robbed you of him. It was an accident that no one could foresee. And after all, you know, Helen,” he added, persuasively, “if you have lost a father, you have gained a devoted husband.”
At these words I gazed at him in utter amazement; and quite suddenly the confusion of my thoughts began to clear up. I began to realise that some action was called for, though what that action was I could not clearly see at the moment. But what I did see quite clearly was that the thing he was suggesting was utterly unthinkable.
“Do you suppose, Mr. Otway,” I demanded, “that I could possibly live with you as your wife after what has happened?”
“But you are my wife, Helen,” he protested.
“I agreed to marry you, Mr. Otway, in order to save my father. My father has not been saved.”
“That was, no doubt, your motive, Helen,” he answered. “I don’t deny that. But, actually, you agreed to be my wife on certain specific conditions, which I carried out—or, at least, was prepared—”
He hesitated with sudden embarrassment; and the embarrassment, with the statement, in the midst of which he had broken off, gave me my cue.
“Mr. Otway,” I said, “you had a letter from my father. What was in that letter?”
At this question his self-possession broke down completely.
“I have had no letter,” he stammered; “at least, that is to say, I haven’t seen—he spoke of a letter, but—but the fact is, in my excitement this morning I forgot to look at my correspondence. If there was a letter, it must be in the box still.”
“Let us go and see if it is there,” said I. My confusion of mind was fast clearing up, and as my wits returned, I found myself shaping a definite course of action. I rose and accompanied him to the hall door and stood by while he unlocked the letter-box. As he opened the trap, I perceived that the box contained a single letter; and even in that agitating moment, the significance of the fact struck me. It was strange, indeed, that the morning’s delivery should bring to a man of business no more than a single letter.
He picked the missive out, and, having glanced at it, handed it to me. I looked at it,
and, perceiving that it was in my father’s handwriting, tore open the envelope and drew out the letter, which I read aloud. It ran thus:—
“Stonebury, Maidstone.
25th April, 1908.
“Dear Otway,
“You will, no doubt, be glad to learn that our little difficulty is at an end. The unexpected has happened. My friend has been able to raise the wherewith to repay the loan that I made to him, and has sent a cheque for the full amount. I have paid it into my bank, but, as a measure of security, in view of the magnitude of the sum, I am waiting until the cheque is cleared before sending you mine. However, you may expect to receive payment in full in the course of three clear days from this date.
“With many thanks for your forbearance,
“I am, yours very truly,
W. H. VARDON.”
As I finished reading, I looked Mr. Otway sternly in the face.
“You realize,” I said, “that this letter makes our agreement void?”
He did not reply immediately, but stood with his eyes averted from me and his fingers working nervously.
“Do you realize that?” I demanded.
“Well, in a way, yes,” he replied, hesitatingly. “If it had reached me sooner—that is to say, if I had seen it—”
“If you had seen it!” I interrupted, angrily. “What has that to do with the question? The letter was delivered to you, as the post-mark shows, before you left the house. It came by the first post. If you chose to leave it unopened, that is your affair. When you met me this morning, the agreement was already at an end.”
He glanced nervously along the hall towards the kitchen stairs.
“We needn’t stand here,” he said. “Let us go into the study and talk this affair over quietly.”
He led the way back to the room we had left, and, having shut the door, turned to me deprecatingly.
It’s an unfortunate business, Helen,” he said. “Very unfortunate. Of course, I ought to have looked over the morning’s post, but, in my natural excitement, I overlooked it; and now I don’t see that there is anything for us to do but make the best of it.”
I looked at him in amazement. “But,” I exclaimed, “you don’t seem to realize that our agreement was at an end before the marriage took place.”
“No, I don’t,” he replied. “You see this letter is only a notification—a conditional promise to pay. It doesn’t discharge the debt.”
At this my patience gave out completely. “Let us have no evasions or quibbles, Mr. Otway,” I said. “Our agreement was at an end before the marriage took place, and I have no doubt that you knew it. You obtained my consent by fraud.”
“I don’t admit that,” said he. “But even if it were so, what would you propose?”
“I propose to have the marriage annulled,” I replied.
He shook his head. “That is impossible, Helen,” he said. “The marriage is not voidable. An action for nullity can be sustained only on certain conditions, none of which exist in our case.”
“But,” I exclaimed, “my consent was obtained on a fraudulent pretence! Surely that is a sufficient ground for claiming to have the marriage annulled!”
“I deny the fraud,” he replied, doggedly. “But in any case it is not material. The marriage was perfectly regular, you are of full adult age, you gave your consent without compulsion, and there are none of those impediments which the law recognises. I assure you, Helen, that our marriage is not voidable—that it cannot be annulled by ordinary process.”
Little as I trusted to his truth or honour, I suspected that what he was now saying was true. But yet the position was unthinkable.
“Do you mean to tell me,” I demanded, “that the law would uphold a marriage between a woman and the murderer of her father?”
He winced as if I had struck him a blow, and his face grew sensibly paler.
“For the love of God, Helen,” he entreated, “don’t talk like that! You don’t believe it. I can see you don’t. You know I did not kill your father.”
“I know nothing,” I replied, “but this—that when I came into the room my father was lying dead with a wound on his forehead and that you were standing over him with a formidable weapon in your hand.”
I thought he would have fainted. He sank into a chair with a gasp that was almost a sob, and the sweat streamed down his pallid face. He was a pitiable spectacle; but yet I felt no pity for him. I was bent only on escaping from the net in which he had caught me.
“I swear I never touched him, Helen,” he protested, breathlessly. “I swear it. But you know I did not. You are only saying this to torture me. You don’t believe it. I know you don’t.”
“It is of little importance what I believe, Mr. Otway.” I replied, coldly. “The decision will not rest with me. You will be judged by others on the facts which I have stated.”
He made no immediate reply. He seemed absolutely paralysed by terror, and sat, breathing quickly and staring at me, as if he expected me to kill him then and there. At length he spoke in a husky, indistinct voice.
“Helen. What is it you want of me?”
“I want this marriage set aside,” I answered.
“But,” he protested, “I have told you that is impossible. It cannot be annulled in the ordinary sense. Be reasonable, Helen. Let us talk the matter over and see if we can’t come to terms.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, persuasively, “I should like to meet your wishes if I can. I am not unreasonable. I can see that, as things are, you would not wish to live with me as my wife. We can’t get the marriage annulled, but we can arrange a separation—a temporary separation, say, without prejudice to any future arrangements—by mutual consent. What do you say to that?”
“If the marriage cannot be set aside, I suppose a separation would be the next best thing. Do I understand that you are willing to agree to a separation?”
“Yes,” he replied; “on certain conditions I am willing to agree to a separation—a temporary separation, you know.”
“What are your conditions?” I asked.
He cleared his throat once or twice, as if in doubt how best to put the matter. Then, avoiding my eye, he began, hesitatingly, but with an obsequiously persuasive manner.
“The exact circumstances of your father’s most lamentable death, Helen, are known to you and to me and to no one else. As I have told you, and I am convinced that you believe, the heart attack which killed him came as we were struggling for possession of his stick. It was due to the excitement and the violent exertion. Perhaps the blow on the head from the corner of the mantelpiece may have had something to do with it, for the fainting attack came on almost directly afterwards. He relaxed his hold on the stick and fell, leaving it in my hands. There was no violence on my part. I never struck him or did anything that could in any way make me responsible for his death. That is the truth, Helen, and I am convinced that you believe it, in spite of what you have said.”
“I have only your word that it is the truth,” said I.
“Exactly,” he agreed. “But you believe me. You know what your father’s state of health was, and you know that he was liable, on occasions, to be—er—somewhat violent. So you believe me. But others, who have not the knowledge that you have—ah—might—ah—might not believe me.”
“I haven’t said that I do,” I interposed. “However, we will let that pass. Go on, please.”
He paused to wipe his face with his handkerchief, and then proceeded:
“You said just now that when you entered the room you saw me standing over your father with a weapon in my hand.”
“So I did.”
“I know you did, Helen. You saw me holding your father’s loaded stick. It is quite true. But—it would—ah—greatly simplify matters if—well, if that circumstance were not communicated to—ah—to anyone else.”
“You mean to say,” said I, “that you want me to suppress the fact that I saw you standing over my father’
s dead body holding a loaded stick?”
“I wouldn’t use the word ‘suppress,’ Helen,” he replied, passing his handkerchief once more over his haggard face. “I only ask you to refrain—in the interests of justice and—ah—of common humanity—from mentioning a circumstance that—ah—mentioned, might mislead the hearers, and might, conceivably, lead them to quite erroneous conclusions. It is a reasonable thing to ask. No doubt you blame me; you look upon me as the cause of this dreadful trouble—which, in a certain sense, I admit I am. But you would not be vindictive, Helen, or unjust. You would not wish to see me placed in the dock—perhaps even convicted—think of that, Helen! Convicted and sentenced when I am absolutely innocent! My God! It would be an awful thing! You wouldn’t wish to have such a frightful miscarriage of justice as that on your conscience, I am sure.”
“It wouldn’t be on my conscience,” I replied, coldly. “The verdict would not be mine; and besides, I have only your word that you are innocent. You have made the statement to me, and you could make it to others, who would take it for what it is worth.”
He clasped his hands passionately and leaned forward towards me with an imploring gesture.
“Helen!” he exclaimed. “Don’t be so hard, so cold! Have you no pity for me? Think of my awful position—an innocent man, but yet with appearances so horribly against me. And the whole issue is in your hands. You were not present when—when it happened. You have only to say so and to refrain from making any unnecessary additions to that statement, and no miscarriage of justice can occur. I am not asking you to say anything that is not true; I am only asking you to keep irrelevant and misleading matter out of the inquiry. Do this, Helen, and I promise to execute a deed surrendering all claims on you—at least for a time.”
I made no immediate answer. Mr. Otway was perfectly right on one point. I did not believe that he had killed my father. I think I only half believed it, even, at the awful moment of the discovery; for the alarming appearance that my father had presented as he strode up the garden path, with his wild eyes and his strange, blotchy colour, had made me fear a catastrophe; and when the catastrophe had almost immediately followed, it was natural that my mind should refer it to a cause already considered rather than to one totally unexpected. Moreover, Mr. Otway’s account of the tragedy was intrinsically probable; it fitted the facts that were known to me; whereas the supposition that he had killed my father was wildly improbable.
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others Page 199