The policeman was then called and briefly corroborated Mrs. Gregg’s evidence. When he had finished, the doctor, whom he had brought to the chambers, took his place, and having been duly sworn deposed as follows:
“My name is John Shelburn. I am a member of the Royal College of Surgeons and a Licentiate of the Royal College of Physicians, and am acting as locum tenens for the police surgeon of Saint Clement Danes. At seven twenty-eight a.m., on Thursday, the 18th of October, I was summoned by the last witness to accompany him to Lyon’s Inn Chambers, where a man was reported to have hanged himself. I went with the constable to a set of chambers, over the door of which was painted the name of Mr. Lewis Otway. I went into the bedroom where the gas was alight, the blinds down and the curtains drawn. There, lying on the floor near the wall, I found the dead body of a tall, heavily built man, about fifty or fifty-five years of age, dressed in a suit of pyjamas. The surface of the body was cold and rigor mortis was well established. I should say the man had been dead about eight hours. Around the neck was a double loop of red bell-rope and a portion of the same was hanging from a large peg on the wall about seven feet from the floor. The rope had apparently been cut down for the purpose as a portion was still attached to the bell-wire and the severed tassel lay on the bed, on which were impressions of feet, as if someone had stood on the bed to cut it off. The length of rope had been joined at the ends with the kind of knot known as a ‘granny’ and formed into what is known as a weaver’s loop, which had been passed over the head and the standing part of the rope hitched over the peg. This would form a running loop, like this”—here the witness produced a piece of thick string and demonstrated the arrangement on his thumb and the knob of a chair-back.
“I released the double loop from the neck and found a shallow groove on the throat corresponding to the rope. The countenance of the deceased was calm—as it usually is in cases of hanging—and there were no signs of violence or anything remarkable about the body. A chair, on which the deceased had apparently stood to adjust the rope on the peg, was lying close by and near to it on the floor was a lady’s hand-bag. The rope had been cut with some sharp instrument—probably a razor, as I was informed by the housekeeper. I looked round the room but saw nothing of any significance excepting a half-empty whisky decanter and a nearly-full bottle of veronal tablets on a table by the bed.”
“Can you tell us at what time death took place?”
“Only approximately. I have said that the man appeared to have been dead about eight hours. That would give us eleven o’clock on the night of the 18th as the time at which death occurred. But I will not bind myself to that time exactly. It might have been an hour earlier or later.”
“After hearing your evidence and that of the other witnesses which you have also heard, it is a mere formality to ask your opinion as to the cause of death.”
“Yes. The cause of death was obviously suicidal hanging.”
This concluded the surgeon’s evidence, and when he had been dismissed, the coroner turned to the jury.
“We have now, gentlemen,” said he, “established the fact of death and its immediate cause. Our next move is to seek to establish the contributory circumstances—the more remote causes. We have ascertained that this unfortunate man committed suicide. The question that we now have to consider is, Why did he commit suicide? Possibly the evidence of his widow may help us to answer that question. Helen Otway.”
As I rose to take my place at the table I was dimly aware of a certain ill-defined movement on the part of the jury and the spectators such as one may notice in a church at the conclusion of a sermon. But in the present case the cause was evidently a concentration rather than a relaxation of attention. Clearly, my evidence was anticipated with considerable interest.
“Your name is—?
“Helen Otway. My age is twenty-four and I live at 69, Wellclose Square.”
“Have you viewed and do you identify the body now lying in St. Clement’s mortuary?”
“Yes; it is the body of Lewis Otway, my late husband.”
“When did you last see the deceased alive?”
“On the night of Wednesday, the 18th of October.”
“Tell us, please, what took place on that occasion.”
“I went to see deceased in consequence of a letter that I had received from him asking me to do so. I arrived at about half-past six and was informed by Mrs. Gregg that deceased was expecting another visitor.”
“Did you know who that other visitor was?”
“No; but as I went down the stairs I met Mrs. Campbell coming up and assumed that she was the visitor.”
“You know Mrs. Campbell, then?”
“Only by sight. I have seen her in her husband’s shop. Mrs. Gregg asked me to call again at eight, and I agreed to do so, and did so. I was then admitted by Mrs. Gregg, who conducted me to the bedroom and left me there, shutting the door as she went out. I did not see her again that night. Deceased was in bed and had by his side a table on which were a spirit decanter, a siphon of soda water, a box of cigarettes, a bottle of veronal tablets and a deed-box.”
“Did you notice anything peculiar in his appearance?”
“No. He was not looking well, but he seemed less ill than I had expected from his letter; which conveyed the impression that he was in a dangerous condition.”
“Have you got that letter?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I have it here.” As I spoke, I drew the letter from my pocket and handed it to the coroner who glanced through it and then laid it down with some other papers.
“We will consider this letter,” said he, “with the others that you have handed to me, later. Will you now tell us what passed between you and the deceased?”
“At first we talked about an anonymous letter that he had received a day or two previously. He showed me the letter, and when I had read it, he locked it in the deed-box.”
“We will deal with the anonymous letters presently. What else did you talk about?”
“Deceased repeated the statement that he had made in the letter, that he did not expect to live much longer. I asked him if he had any reason for saying this and he then told me that there was a strong family predisposition suicide; that his brother, his mother and his mother’s father had all hanged themselves, and that since he had received the anonymous letters he had been conscious of an impulse to make away with himself in the same manner.”
“Had you not known previously of this family tendency?”
“No. He had never mentioned it before, and I knew nothing of his family.”
“Did deceased speak as if he actually intended to make away with himself?”
“No, but he spoke of an impulse which he found it difficult to resist; and he mentioned that a large peg on the bedroom wall seemed to fascinate him and to make the impulse stronger. I advised him to have it taken away.”
“Previous to this conversation, had you ever thought it possible that the deceased might commit suicide?
“No; the possibility never entered my mind.”
The coroner considered these replies and made a few further notes; then he proceeded to open a fresh subject.
“Now, Mrs. Otway, with regard to your relations with deceased. Were you on friendly terms with him?”
“Not particularly. We were practically strangers.”
“A witness has stated that you refused to live with deceased and that you never had lived with him. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is quite true.”
“Had you quarrelled with deceased?”
“No, there was no quarrel. Our marriage was a business transaction and immediately after the ceremony I discovered that my consent had been obtained, as I considered, by misrepresentation.”
“We don’t want to be inquisitive, Mrs. Otway, but we wish to understand the position. Could you give us a few more particulars?”
“Do you wish me to describe the circumstances of my marriage and the separation from my husband?”
> “If you please.”
“My marriage with Mr. Lewis Otway took place under the following circumstances: I accidentally overheard a portion of a conversation between Mr. Otway and my father from which I gathered that Mr. Otway claimed the immediate payment of five thousand pounds held by my father—who was a solicitor—in trust. It appeared from the conversation that my father was unable immediately to produce the money, and Mr. Otway threatened to take criminal proceedings for misappropriation of trust funds. To this my father made no very definite reply. Then Mr. Otway offered to abstain from any proceedings and to allow the claim to remain in abeyance on condition that a marriage should take place between him and me. This my father refused very emphatically and angrily, and Mr. Otway left our house.
“Being greatly alarmed on my father’s account, I communicated with Mr. Otway and informed him that I was prepared to accept his offer on the terms stated—namely, that he should release my father from the immediate claim and secure him from any proceedings in connection with it. Mr. Otway accepted the conditions, and as it was certain that my father would strongly object, we agreed not to inform him until after the marriage had take place.
“In accordance with this arrangement we were married privately on the 25th April of the present year and we went together from the church to Mr. Otway’s house. I had left a letter for my father informing him of what had been done, and very shortly after our return from the church he came to the house. From an upper window I saw him enter the garden and I was very much alarmed at his appearance. I had heard that he suffered from complaint of the heart and had been warned against undue excitement and exertion, and I could see that he was extremely excited and was looking very ill. Mr. Otway let him in and, in answer to a question, admitted that the marriage had taken place. Then I heard my father ask Mr. Otway if he had told me about a letter that he—my father—had sent, and when Mr. Otway gave an evasive reply my father called him a scoundrel and accused him of having tricked and swindled me.
“I heard no more of what was said, as the two men went into the study and shut the door; but a minute or two later I heard a heavy fall, and, running down to the study found my father lying on the floor and already dead. There was a small wound on his temple and Mr. Otway, who was stooping over the body, held my father’s walking-stick—a thick Malacca cane with a loaded silver knob—in his hand. He stated that my father had threatened him with the stick and that he had taken it away from him and that during the struggle my father had fallen insensible, striking his head on the corner of the mantel-piece as he fell.”
“Did you believe him?
“I think, at the moment, I did not. But on reflection, remembering how ill my father had looked, I had no doubt he was speaking the truth.”
“Was there an inquest on your father’s death?”
“Yes. The jury found, in accordance with the medical evidence, that death was due to heart failure caused by excitement and anger.”
“And after this you refused to live with deceased?
“Yes. I asked him about my father’s letter and he said he had not seen it. I went with him to the letter-box and there we found it. The postmark showed that it had come by the first post and my father’s address was on the outside of the envelope. There were no other letters in the box. I had no doubt that Mr. Otway had seen the letter and put it back in the box.”
“Was that why you refused to live with him?”
“Partly. The letter stated that my father was able to meet his liabilities and gave a date on which payment would he made. Consequently the threatened proceedings against my father were impossible and Mr. Otway had obtained my consent by false pretences. But further, Mr. Otway’s action had been the cause of my father’s death, and this alone would have made it impossible for me to live with him as his wife.”
“Did deceased agree to the separation?”
“Yes. He saw that the position was impossible; but he hoped that the separation might be only temporary—that we might become reconciled at some future time.”
“Did you consider this possible?”
“No. I held him accountable for my father’s death and could never have overcome my repugnance to him.”
The coroner noted down this answer and having glanced over his notes reflectively, looked up at the jury.
“Do any of you, gentlemen, wish to put any questions on this subject?” he asked.
The jurymen looked at one another and looked at me; and one of them remarked that, “This young lady seems to have rather easy-going ideas about the responsibilities of marriage.”
“That,” said the Coroner, “is hardly our concern. The next matter that we have to consider is that of certain letters received by the deceased from some unknown person or persons. There are seven of them and they seem by the postmarks to have been sent at intervals of about three weeks and to have been posted somewhere in the East end of London. We will begin with the first.” He handed a letter to me and asked: “Have you seen that letter before?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Deceased showed it to me one day last June when I met him by appointment at his request. He seemed to be extremely worried about it.”
The coroner took the letter from me and read it aloud.
“‘Mr. Lewis Otway,
“‘The undersigned is writing to put you on your guard because Somebody knows something about how Mr Vardon came by his death and that somebody is not a friend, so you had better keep a sharp lookout for you enemy and see what they mean to do. I can’t tell you any more at present.
“A WELL WISHER.”
“Do you know,” the coroner asked, “who wrote that letter?”
“No, I do not.”
“Have you no idea at all? Is there no one whom you suspect?”
“I have not the least idea who sent that letter.”
“You say that deceased was extremely worried about it. Do you know why he was worried?”
“I understand that there had been rumours in Maidstone that Mr. Otway had killed my father. Those rumour seemed to have preyed upon his mind and made him unreasonably nervous.”
The coroner nodded gravely and opened another letter and as he read aloud the well-remembered phrases I realised that I should need all the courage and self-possession at my command.
“‘The writer of this warns you once more,’” the letter ran, “‘to look for trouble. The person that I spoke of knows that something was held back at the inquest at least they say so and that they know why your wife won’t live with you and that she knows all about it too and that someone knows more than you think anybody knows. This is a friendly warning.
“‘FROM A WELL WISHER.’”
The coroner looked keenly at me as he finished reading.
“Can you explain the meaning of this letter?” asked. “It refers to something that was held back at the inquest. Was anything held back, so far as you know?”
“I remember that there was one omission in the evidence. Mr. Otway made no mention of my father’s stick.”
“Was it not mentioned at the inquest at all?”
“No.”
“Did you not give evidence?”
“Yes; but I was merely asked if I confirmed Mr. Otway’s evidence, which I did.”
“You confirmed Mr. Otway’s evidence! But that evidence was not correct. The duty of a witness is to state the whole truth; whereas Mr. Otway had withheld a highly material fact. How was it that you did not supply this very important fact?”
“It did not appear to me to be of any importance. The medical evidence showed that death was due to heart failure.”
“Medical evidence!” the coroner exclaimed, testily. “There is too much of this medical evidence superstition in these courts. People speak as if doctors were infallible. It was your duty as a witness to state all that you knew, not to decide what was or was not of importance. And I cannot understand how you came to hold such an opinion. You found your father lying dead with a wound on his head and a man st
anding over him with a loaded stick, and you considered this fact of no consequence?”
“I see now that I ought to have mentioned it.”
“What was the verdict?
“The verdict was in accordance with the medical evidence—Death from natural causes.”
“Did the medical witness or witnesses know that Mr. Otway had had a loaded stick in his hand?”
“No.”
“Did anybody besides yourself and Mr. Otway know about the loaded stick?”
“Mrs. Gregg came into the room when Mr. Otway had gone for a doctor. She saw the stick in a corner and picked it up to examine it. She asked whose it was and remarked on its weight.”
“Did she know it had been in Mr. Otway’s hand at the time of your father’s death?”
“I have no reason to suppose that she knew.”
“Well,” said the coroner, “it is a most extraordinary affair. You heard Mr. Otway give his evidence, you knew that that evidence was incomplete, and yet, though the dead man was your own father and you have declared an unconquerable repugnance to Mr. Otway, you allowed this garbled evidence to pass unchallenged. It is an amazing affair. However,” he continued turning to the jury, “that is not our concern. But what is our concern, for the purposes of this inquiry, is that we now begin to see daylight. We can now understand the extraordinary effect these letters seem to have had on the man whose death we are investigating. Lewis Otway, when he gave his evidence at the inquest, suppressed a most important and damaging fact which he believed to be known only to himself and his wife. Thereby he obtained a verdict of Death from Natural Causes, which exonerated him from all blame. Had all the facts been known, the verdict might have been very different.
“Now the receipt of these letters must have destroyed his sense of security. Apparently someone else—and that someone evidently an enemy—knew of this damaging fact and knew of the further damaging fact that it had been suppressed at the inquest. In effect, these letters held out a threat of a charge of murder, or at least, manslaughter. It is no wonder that they alarmed him. But we had better take the rest of the evidence. There is this letter deceased wrote to his wife, which I will read. It is dated the 17th of October, and this is what it says:
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others Page 223