The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others

by R. Austin Freeman

  On this I noticed that Mr. Hyams cast a quick, suspicious glance at me and I thought it wise to explain.

  “I looked first in this box because I had seen Mr. Otway put one of these letters into it.”

  “Quite so,” said Mr. Isaacs. “Very natural.” But obvious as the explanation was, I could see that it had left Mr. Hyams unconvinced.

  I now returned the cheque-book to the deed-box, locked the latter and handed the keys to Mr. Isaacs; who delivered the anonymous letters to the coroner’s officer and took his receipt for them on a slip of paper. My business being now at an end, I offered my card to Mr. Isaacs, took his in return, and departed in company with Mr. Smallwood.

  “A queer business, this, ma’am,” the officer remarked as we descended the stairs. “Regular mix up. Seem to be a lot of Sheenies in it.”

  “Sheenies?” I repeated, interrogatively. “What are Sheenies?

  “Jews, ma’am,” he replied, apparently a little surprised at my ignorance. “It’s just a popular name, you know.”

  I reflected on Mr. Smallwood’s remark, which seemed hardly justified by the facts—two Jews only having appeared in the case, so far as I knew. And yet I seemed to be aware of a sort of Semitic atmosphere surrounding Mr. Otway. There were, for instance, the Campbells; and then Mrs. Gregg, although a Scotswoman, might easily, but for her strong Scottish accent, have passed for a Jewess; while Mr. Otway, himself, had been distinctly Semitic in appearance.

  At the entry, where we separated, Mr. Smallwood halted to give me a final injunction.

  “You had better be in good time tomorrow, ma’am,” said he, “because it will be necessary for you to view the body so that you can give evidence as to the identity of the deceased.”

  I thanked him for the reminder, but would much rather have been without it. For the prospect filled me with a vague alarm, and now the mental picture of the sleeping man, which had haunted me by night and by day, began to be replaced by one more dreadful, and one which I felt that my visit to the mortuary would attach to me for ever.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  The Gathering Clouds

  The distaste which I felt for my errand did not prevent me from following Mr. Smallwood’s advice on the subject of punctuality. It was some minutes short of half-past two when I turned into the mean little street off Drury Lane in which the mortuary was situated. I had found the place without much difficulty and had still less in finding the mortuary itself, for, as I entered the street I observed a procession of about a dozen men passing in through a narrow gateway, watched attentively by a small crowd of loiterers. Assuming the former to be the jury, I walked slowly past on the opposite side and continued for the length of the short street. I had just turned to retrace my steps when the men filed out of the gateway and proceeded to enter a building a few yards up the street, and immediately afterwards Mr. Smallwood appeared at the gate. He saw me at once and waited for me to approach.

  “I am glad you have come in good time, ma’am,” said he. “The jury have just been in to view the body and the coroner will like to open the inquest punctually. This is the way.”

  He preceded me down a narrow passage, at the end of which he pushed open a door. Following him I entered the mortuary, a bare, stone-floored hall containing two large slate-topped tables, one of which was occupied by a recumbent figure covered by a sheet. Mr. Smallwood removed his helmet and together we advanced slowly towards the awesome, shrouded form, lying so still and lonely in its grim surroundings. Very quietly, the officer picked up the two upper corners of the sheet and drew it back, retiring then a couple of paces as if to avoid intruding on my meeting with the dead.

  Strung up as I was, the first impression was less dreadful than I had anticipated. The face was pale and waxen, but it was placid in expression and more peaceful than I had ever seen it in life. The hunted, terrified look was gone and had given place to an air of repose, almost of dignity. For a few moments I was sensible of a feeling of relief; but then my glance fell upon a contorted length of crimson rope that lay on the slate table, and instinctively my eye turned to the uncovered throat. And as I noted the shallow groove under the chin, faintly marked with an impression of the strands of the rope, the shocking reality came home to me with overwhelming horror. Before my eyes arose that awful shape upon the bedroom wall and the hardly less dreadful image of the sleeping man unconsciously receiving the message of his doom.

  With a new horror—an incredulous horror of myself—I looked on the pale, placid face and seemed to read in it a gentle reproach. He had gone to his death at my bidding. He had stood unsteadily on the brink of the abyss, and I had pushed him over.

  It seemed incredible. There had been no conscious intention; no guilty premeditation. I would have told myself that there was no connection other than mere coincidence. But there the plain, undeniable facts were. Unconsciously—or subconsciously—my will had created that premonitory shape upon the wall; the terrible words had formed themselves and issued from my lips. And straightway the thing that my thoughts and words had foreshadowed had come to pass. This waxen-faced effigy that lay on the stone table, as its living counterpart had lain that night in the bed, was its fulfilment, its realisation.

  “Better not stay too long, ma’am,” said Mr. Smallwood. And as he spoke I became suddenly aware that I had reached the limits of endurance. My knees began to tremble and I breathed the tainted air with difficulty.

  “Better come away now,” continued Mr. Smallwood. “It’s been rather too much for you. Good afternoon, Mrs. Gregg.”

  I looked up quickly and perceived Mrs. Gregg, who must have come in without making a sound, standing at the foot of the table watching me intently. That penetrating stare and the singular, enigmatical expression would have been disturbing at any time. But now I was conscious of actual fear. As I tottered unsteadily along the passage to the street, the menace of that watchful, inscrutable gaze followed me. How much did this woman know? What had she heard? And if she had overheard those last words of mine, how much had she understood of their import? These were weighty questions, the answers to which I should doubtless hear within an hour or two.

  When I was ushered by Mr. Smallwood into the room in which the inquest was to be held, the court was already assembled and ready to begin. The jurymen sat along one side of a long table and one or two reporters occupied a part of the other, while a row of chairs accommodated the witnesses and persons interested in the case, including Mr. Isaacs, Mr. Hyams, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, and a youngish man of a markedly Jewish type whom I did not recognise. I took my seat at the end of the row, and Mrs. Gregg, who had followed us in, seated herself near the middle.

  As I took my seat the coroner addressed one of the reporters:

  “Let me see, what paper do you represent?”

  “I am not a pressman, sir,” was the reply. “I am commissioned to make a report for Dr. Thorndyke.”

  “Dr. Thorndyke! But what is his connection with the case? I know nothing about him.”

  “I only know that he has asked me to make a verbatim report of the evidence.”

  “Hm,” grunted the coroner. “I’m not sure that it is quite in order for private individuals to send their reporters to an inquest.”

  “It is an open court, sir,” the reporter observed.

  “I know. But still—however, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Well, gentlemen, I think we are ready to begin. The witnesses are all present and it is on the stroke of three. I need not occupy your time with any preliminary statement. It seems quite a straightforward case and you will get the facts from the evidence of the witnesses. We are here, as you know, to inquire into the circumstances of the death of Lewis Otway, whose body you have just viewed, which occurred either on the night of the 18th instant or the morning of the 19th. The body was found hanging from a peg in his bedroom by his housekeeper, Mrs. Gregg, and it will be best to take her evidence first.”

  Mrs. Gregg was accordingly called, and having taken a position near the
head of the table, was sworn and proceeded to give her evidence.

  “My name is Rachel Gregg, age 51. I was housekeeper to the deceased, Lewis Otway.”

  “How long,” asked the coroner, “had you known the deceased?”

  “Thirty-three years.”

  “What was deceased’s occupation?”

  “He was a retired solicitor; but he was a connoisseur in precious stones, and, I think, dealt in them to some extent.”

  “Was he in financial difficulties of any kind, so far as you know?”

  “No. I believe he was quite a well-to-do man.”

  “Had you any reason to suspect him of an intention to take his life?

  “Yes. He used to say that he expected, if ever he had any trouble, that he would hang himself. The tendency to suicide was in the family. His only brother hanged himself, his mother hanged herself and his mother’s father hanged himself.”

  “But that was only a tendency that might not have affected him. Had you any reason to expect that he actually might commit suicide? Was there anything in his manner, in the state of his mind or in his circumstances that led you to believe that he might take his life?

  “Not until recently. He always used to be quite cheerful in a quiet way until he got married. After that he was never the same. His marriage seemed to bring all sorts of trouble into his life.”

  “Tell us exactly how this change came about.”

  “His marriage took place about eight months ago—on the 25th of last April when he was living at Maidstone. It was quite sudden. I knew nothing of it until the day before, when he told me he was going to marry a Miss Helen Vardon, and that the marriage was to take place secretly because the lady’s father had refused his consent. On the morning of the marriage I saw Mr. Otway go out, and soon afterwards I went out myself to do some shopping. When I came back I found the new Mrs. Otway in the study and her father, Mr. Vardon, lying dead on the floor. Mr. Otway had gone to fetch a doctor. It appeared that Mr. Vardon had called directly after the newly-married couple had arrived home from the church and that there had been a quarrel and Mr. Vardon had fallen down dead. I understand that Mr. Vardon was alone with Mr. Otway at the time.

  “Soon after I arrived, Mrs. Otway left the house and went back to her own home, and Mr. Otway told me that she refused to live with him. At any rate, she never did live with him, and she never came near him until the night of his death.”

  “Do you know if the deceased agreed to this separation?”

  “Apparently she made him agree. But it was a great trouble to him, and I know that he tried more than once to get her to live with him.”

  “Do you know what was the cause of the separation?”

  “No. Mr. Otway never mentioned it to me.”

  “You say that the separation was a great trouble to the deceased. Did it obviously affect his spirits?

  “Yes; he was very depressed after his wife went away, and he never recovered. He seemed to get more and more low-spirited.”

  “Do you know of any other reasons than the separation from his wife why he should have been depressed in spirits?”

  “Yes. Mr. Vardon’s sudden death was a great shock to him. He felt that he had been partly the cause of it, by quarrelling with Mr. Vardon. Then there was a great deal of talk in Maidstone about the affair and people blamed Mr. Otway for what had happened; and later rumours began to get about that there had been foul play—that Mr. Otway had actually killed Mr. Vardon. These rumours got on his nerves so badly that he gave up his house at Maidstone and moved to London.”

  “You have spoken of a quarrel between deceased and Mr. Vardon. Do you know what the quarrel was about?”

  “I believe it was about the secret marriage, but I was not in the house at the time.”

  “Were there any other causes for the mental depression which you say the deceased suffered from?”

  “I think so, but I can’t say for certain. There were some letters that came about once a month which seemed to worry him a good deal. I used to see him reading them and looking very anxious and depressed; and after a time he began to get very nervous and fidgety and couldn’t sleep at nights unless he took a dose of veronal. And I noticed that he was smoking much more than he used to, and taking much more whisky.”

  “Did you ever see any of the letters that you have spoken of?”

  “I never read one, but I saw the outsides and I noticed that they all bore the post-mark of East London.”

  Here the coroner drew from the large envelope six of the letters which I had found in the deed-box, and handed them, in their envelopes, to Mrs. Gregg.

  “Do you recognise any of these letters?”

  Mrs. Gregg turned the envelopes over in her hand, looked closely at the post-marks and replied, as she returned them:

  “Yes; these look like the letters that I spoke of.”

  The coroner laid the letters on the table, and after a few moments reflection said: “Now, Mrs. Gregg, we want you to tell us what you know of the circumstances of Mr. Otway’s death. You spoke of a visit from Mrs. Otway.”

  “Yes. She came to Lyon’s Inn Chambers on Wednesday night, about half-past six and told me that Mr. Otway had written to her asking her to come. As Mr. Otway was then expecting another visitor, I asked her to call again about eight, which she agreed to do. Mr. Otway had been rather poorly for the last few days—very nervous and despondent, and had been sleeping badly—and for three days had kept to his bed. I told him that Mrs. Otway was coming at eight o’clock and he then said that he had some private business to talk over with her and that I need not sit up. I gave him his supper at half-past seven and just after I had cleared it away Mrs. Otway came. I showed her into the bedroom and went to the kitchen to finish up my work. At half-past nine I went to bed—a little earlier than usual because I thought they would like the place quiet for their talk. At a quarter to seven on Thursday morning I got up, and as soon as I was dressed, went into the living-room to tidy it up. Then, to my great surprise, I saw that the door of the bedroom, which opens out of the living-room, was wide open and that the gas in the bedroom was full on.

  “Thinking that Mr. Otway might be worse, I called out to him to ask if he wanted anything; but there was no answer. I could see the bed from where I was and could see that he was not in it; so I called to him again, and as there was still no answer, I went into the bedroom. At first I thought he was not there; but suddenly I saw him in a corner of the room that was in deep shadow. He seemed to be standing against the wall, with his arms hanging down straight and his head on one side; but when I went nearer I saw that he was hanging from a large peg and that his feet were three or four inches off the floor. He had hanged himself with a length of bell-rope that he had cut off with his razor—at least that was what it looked like, for the razor was lying open on the bed. I picked up the razor and ran to him and cut the loop of rope, and as he fell, I let him down on the floor as gently as I could. He seemed to be quite dead and his skin felt cold, so I ran out to fetch a doctor. Just outside the buildings I met a policeman and told him what had happened, and he told me to go back to the chambers and wait, which I did. A few minutes later he arrived at the chambers with a doctor, who examined the body and said that Mr. Otway had been dead some hours.”

  “Did you see any means by which deceased could have raised himself to the peg from which he was hanging?

  “Yes. There was an overturned chair lying on the floor nearly underneath him. It looked as if he had stood on it to fix the loop of rope and then kicked it away. Mrs. Otway’s bag was lying on the floor by the side of the chair.”

  “Mrs. Otway’s bag! What bag was that?”

  “A little wrist-bag such as ladies use to carry their purses and handkerchiefs. She called for it the same day and I gave it to her. She had not heard what had happened, and when I told her she fell down in a dead faint.”

  The coroner reflected for a while with wrinkled brows, and I caught the eyes of one or two of the jurymen r
egarding me furtively. After a somewhat lengthy pause, the coroner asked:

  “Do you know what time Mrs. Otway left the chambers?”

  “I heard the outer door slam about half an hour after I had gone to bed. That would be about ten o’clock.”

  “Did you see Mrs. Otway or deceased after you let her in?”

  “No. I did not go into the bedroom again. I went into the living-room twice and could hear them talking.”

  “Could you hear what they were talking about?”

  “I could hear a few words now and then. When I went into the living-room the first time they seemed to be talking about suicide. I heard Mr. Otway say something about a peg on the wall.”

  “And when you went in the second time?”

  “They seemed still to be talking about suicide. I heard Mrs. Otway ask deceased what drove his brother to hang himself.”

  “You heard nothing suggesting a quarrel or disagreement?”

  “No. They seemed to be talking in quite a friendly way.”

  “Do you know what kind of terms they were on?”

  “No. I never saw them together before except for a few minutes on the wedding day.”

  “You spoke of a visitor who came to deceased earlier in the evening. Who was that visitor?

  “A Mrs. Campbell. Her husband is a jeweller and curio-dealer whom deceased had known for a good many years, and used to have business dealings with. I understand she came on business and she only stayed about ten minutes.”

  “Is that all you know about the case?”

  “Yes, I think I have told you all I know about it.”

  The coroner glanced at the jury. “Do any of you gentlemen, wish to ask the witness any questions?” he inquired.

  Apparently none of them did, and when the coroner had complimented Mrs. Gregg on the clear manner in which she had given her evidence, she was dismissed.

  There was a short interval in which the coroner read over his notes and the jury conferred together in low under tones. Then the coroner observed: “We had better dispose of the police and medical evidence as they are merely formal and will not take much time. We will begin with the constable.”