“When did you last see these stones?”
“After Mrs. Campbell—that is the last witness—had left and just before Mrs. Otway arrived. Deceased was then sitting up in bed looking at a large green stone. I reminded him that Mrs. Otway was due at eight, and he then put the stones back in their box, and put the box away in the deed-box that was on the table.”
“When did you first learn that the stones were missing?”
“The day after the discovery that the deceased had committed suicide, when Mrs. Otway came to the chambers with Mr. Hyams and the coroner’s officer. She came to search for the anonymous letters, and she went straight to the deed-box, and there they were. But the stones were not there. I saw her take all the things out of the deed box for Mr. Hyams to see and there were no stones there.”
“Thank you.” said the coroner “That will do. We must now, gentlemen, see if Mrs Otway can give us any further information.”
I once more took my place at the table and was again sensible of a generally heightened curiosity on the past of the jury and the spectators.
“We may as well dispose of the question of the missing stones,” said the coroner; “for though it does not affect our enquiry directly but is rather the business of the police, it seems to have an important, indirect bearing. You have heard, Mrs. Otway, the evidence of Judith Samuels, and Rachel Goldstein—or Gregg. Can you throw any light on the disappearance of these stones?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Did you know that deceased had these valuable stones in his possession?”
“No; I never heard of the stones until Mr. Hyams called on me on the evening of the day on which Mr. Otway’s death was discovered.”
“Do you know, or have you any idea, where those stones are now?”
“I do not know, and I have no idea where they are.”
“Did you know that deceased was a dealer in precious stones?”
“No; my father told me that deceased collected gem-stones, and that he sometimes had dealings in them. But I supposed that he was merely a collector, not a professional dealer.”
“How long had you known deceased when you married him?”
“I had known of his existence about a year, but I had hardly ever spoken to him. He was virtually a stranger to me.”
“Had you never heard of the suicidal tendency in his family?”
“Never until the night preceding his death, when he told me.”
“It has been stated that you are a practical goldsmith, and that you have executed work for Mr. Samuels, or Campbell. Is that true?”
“I work as a goldsmith and I have sold some of my productions to Mr. Campbell; but I have never been employed by him. I work as an independent artist.”
“Has he ever supplied you with precious stones?”
“No. I purchase my own materials.”
“Have you ever done any alterations or resettings for him?”
“No. I have done no work of any kind for him, or anyone else. I work on my own account, and sell what I make.”
The coroner nodded, and glanced over his notes. After a pause he asked: “At what time on the night of your visit to deceased did you leave his chambers?”
“A little before ten o’clock.”
“What was the condition of deceased when you left? Did he seem particularly depressed or worried?”
“He was asleep when I left.”
“Asleep!” exclaimed the coroner, “How long had he been asleep?”
“Not very long; perhaps a quarter of an hour. When he took his usual dose of veronal he asked me to stay with him until he went to sleep, and I did so.”
“I see that the housekeeper states that when she entered the living-room in the morning, the bedroom door was wide open, and the gas full on. What was the condition of affairs when you left?”
“The gas was full on, and I did not shut the bedroom door. I was not aware that the housekeeper had gone to bed and assumed that she would look in on deceased and make what arrangements were usual for the night.”
“But if you had turned down the gas, and shut the bedroom door, that would have prevented the house keeper from going to deceased.”
“No. It did not appear to matter either way.”
“When you went away, did you leave your hand-bag behind?”
“Yes, I had hung it on the back of my chair, and when I got up to go, I forgot about it.”
“When did you discover that you had left it behind?”
“I first remembered it when I halled a cab at the corner of Holywell Street to take me home.”
“Why did you not then go back for it?”
“I did not like to disturb Mrs. Gregg and deceased, as it was so late.”
“Was your purse in the bag?”
“Yes; but that was of no consequence. I knew there would be someone sitting up who could pay the cabman.”
“The housekeeper has told us that you came to fetch the bag on the following day.”
“Yes, in the afternoon, about three. It was then that I first heard of Mr. Otway’s death.”
“The housekeeper states that, when she told you what had happened, you fell down in a dead faint. Is that so?”
“Yes. It gave me a great shock, especially as Mrs. Gregg told me the bad news so very abruptly.”
“Were you expecting to hear that the deceased had committed suicide?”
“No; the subject was not in my mind.”
“Is that not rather remarkable, having regard to your conversation with deceased on the previous night?”
“I don’t think so. That conversation had certainly given me the impression that there was a danger that deceased might be driven to suicide if this persecution were continued. But I had not supposed that the danger was immediate.”
“And that pitiful letter that you received from deceased? Did that convey no note of warning?”
“At the time when I received it I was not aware of any predisposition to suicide on the part of deceased. What he told me caused me some alarm, but he became so much calmer after our talk that I thought the danger was past, so far as the immediate future was concerned.”
“And when you went to his chambers on the following day, you felt no uneasiness as to what might have happened?”
“No, the possibility that anything unusual might have happened was not in my mind at all.”
“Well,” said the coroner, “it seems to me rather remarkable that the possibility did not even occur to you. However, we are dealing with the facts, and if those are the facts, there is no more to be said. We will now pass on to the consideration of the will. When did you first learn that deceased had made a fresh will?”
“Four days ago, when I received a letter from Mr. Isaacs informing me of the fact that I was one of the beneficiaries.”
“Had deceased never mentioned to you that he had made a will in your favour? Was there no stipulation on your part at the time of the marriage that he should make such a will?
“No. Nothing ever passed between us on the subject.”
“And had you no knowledge or belief that a will affecting you had been executed?”
“I had no knowledge or belief that such a will had been executed nor any expectation that it would be. I did not consider myself as having any pecuniary claim on the deceased.”
“Did you not receive an allowance from deceased?”
“No. He wished to make me an allowance, but I declined to accept it.”
“But you were entitled to an allowance for maintenance. Why did you refuse to accept it?
“I did not consider that I had any claim on the deceased so long as I insisted on living apart.”
“Then do we understand that you subsist entirely on your own means or earnings?”
“Yes, entirely.”
“Would you kindly tell us what those means and earnings respectively amount to? And what are their sources?”
“I have a small private income—about sixty pounds a year�
��derived from the realisation of my father’s estate. I cannot estimate my earnings very exactly, as I have been working only a few months. Probably I shall be able to earn from a hundred and fifty to two hundred pounds a year, when I am established. Up to the present I have sold all my work to Mr. Campbell.”
“How did you first become acquainted with Mr Campbell—or Samuels, to give him his correct name?”
“Deceased recommended him to me when I first came to London. He stated that he had known him for many years.”
“Did you know that Mr. Campbell was related to deceased?”
“Not until I heard it here today.”
The coroner considered a while, turning over his notes reflectively. At length he said, “Before you sit down, Mrs. Otway, I should like to ask you again about those anonymous letters. You have stated that you have no idea who wrote them.”
“That is so,” I replied.
“When you discussed them with deceased, did neither of you arrive at any conclusion as to who might have written them?”
“Deceased assured me that he could make no guess as to who had sent them. Naturally, I could not, since all his acquaintances, whether friends or enemies, were unknown to me.”
“And you adhere to your statement that you know nothing about these letters?”
“I know nothing about them whatever, excepting that deceased received them; and that I have only known by his telling me.”
“And with regard to your father’s stick? You have stated that you have no knowledge as to what became of it, or where it is now. Do you adhere to that statement too?
“That statement was correct when I made it; but the stick has since come to light.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the coroner. “When and how did that happen?”
“It occurred three days ago, when I went to look over the chambers in Lyon’s Inn. I chanced to open a large cupboard in the living room, and there, on the single shelf at the top, I saw the stick lying at the back, and hardly visible in the deep shadow.”
“In-deed!” said the coroner, with a strong emphasis on the second syllable. It was perfectly evident that he did not believe me, and he made no secret of it. Nor were the jury any better impressed. In the silence that followed my statement they whispered together eagerly, and disbelief was writ large on the faces of them all.
“Had you any particular occasion to look over the chambers?” the coroner asked after an interval.
“Yes; I had received a letter from Dr. Thorndyke saying that be wished to make a survey of the premises and asking me to give him permission and the necessary facilities to do so. I accordingly went, on the following day, and fetched the keys from Mr. Isaacs to leave them at Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers. On the way, I called in at Lyon’s Inn to see what condition the chambers were in.”
“And to plant the stick for Dr. Thorndyke to find, eh?” said one of the jurors, with a truculent leer.
Mr. Cawley rose instantly to protest, but he was anticipated by the coroner, who said severely: “That, sir, is quite out of order. Members of the jury must not suggest motives or actions on the part of witnesses which are not given in evidence. They may have their opinion but those opinions must not be expressed until all the evidence has been heard and the verdict has to be considered.” Having administered this reproof, he again turned to me.
“When you looked over the chambers, did you examine the other furniture and receptacles. Did you, for instance look in the other cupboards and drawers?”
“No.”
“Only this one cupboard? Now what made you look into this cupboard in particular?
I saw the awkwardness of the question; but I also saw that a complete explanation of my motives would land me on much more dangerous ground. My immediate motive had been to ascertain what the inside of the cupboard was like, and this was as much as I dared tell.
“I wished to see what kind of a cupboard it was—whether it had shelves, drawers, or simply an open space.”
“Did you take the stick out of the cupboard?”
“Yes, I took it out to examine it and see if the statement in the letter as to the bruise, the blood-smear and the hairs was correct.”
“And was the statement correct?”
“Yes; there was a bruise on the silver knob, and a thick smear of what looked like dried blood, to which two hairs had stuck.”
“Did those hairs look to you like hairs from your father’s head?”
“I could not say. They might have been. They were short and looked as if they had come from the head of a grey-haired man. My father’s hair was grey.”
“What did you do with the stick?”
“I put it back in the cupboard.”
“Why did you not bring it here?”
“I thought it best to leave it where I found it.”
“Are the keys of the chambers in your possession now?”
“No; I left them at Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers, and he has not yet returned them. I left a note informing him that the stick was in the cupboard.”
“May I ask why you did that?”
“Dr. Thorndyke mentioned in his letter that he was investigating the case on instructions from the Home Office, and I wished to give him any assistance that I could.”
“But,” the coroner exclaimed irritably, “don’t you understand that this court is investigating the case? That a coroner’s court is the proper authority to carry out such investigations? I don’t know why this medical specialist has been brought into the case at all. I have not asked for his assistance. It is quite irregular and most unnecessary. And how did this gentleman come to write to you?”
“He wanted to survey the premises, and someone—I don’t know who—had told him that I was the present lessee.”
The coroner grunted in evident displeasure. The importation of Dr. Thorndyke into the case was clearly a sore point, for he rejoined: “The whole affair is highly unsatisfactory. I am not clear that you had any right to give permission to any unofficial person to survey these premises without obtaining my consent; or that he had any right to ask you. The jury have surveyed the premises, and that ought to be enough. However, we shall see what comes of these mysterious investigations. Meanwhile, I think that is all we have to ask you, Mrs. Otway, unless the jury have any questions to put.”
The jury, warned, perhaps, by the result of the last question put by a juryman, had no question to ask; and I returned to my seat by Mr. Cawley, in time to hear Mr. Isaacs recalled.
“You have heard,” said the coroner, “the very remarkable evidence given by the last witness concerning the finding of a stick in a large cupboard in the living-room of the chambers in Lyon’s Inn?”
“I have.”
“In your previous evidence you stated that you had made a minute search of those chambers, and drawn up an inventory of their contents. Do you remember whether, when you made that search, you examined that particular cupboard?”
“Yes, I remember quite clearly that I examined it, and found it empty. I have marked it ‘empty’ in the inventory.”
“Are you sure that it was really empty? Is it not possible that this stick lying in the shade on the shelf might have been overlooked?”
“It is quite impossible. I made a most exhaustive search, and I used an electric torch for examining cupboard interiors. Moreover, the object that I was looking for a little parcel of precious stones—was much smaller, and less conspicuous than a walking stick. I could not have missed a large object like that. And I have quite a clear recollection of looking on that shelf—it was the only shelf in the cupboard—and throwing the light of the torch along it. I had to stand on tiptoe to see in distinctly, and so I suppose, had Mrs. Otway.”
“Do you swear that the cupboard was empty when you examined it?”
“I swear that it was absolutely empty.”
The coroner entered the reply in his notes, and then asked: “Did you receive any communication from Dr Thorndyke respecting his proposed survey of the
chambers at Lyon’s Inn?”
“He called to enquire in whom the tenancy of the chambers was vested, but did not state why he wanted know. I told him that the widow was the lessee. I don’t know how he got her address. I didn’t give it to him. I may say that when I had finished the inventory I locked up the chambers, and kept the keys until I delivered them up to Mrs. Otway.”
“Thank you,” said the coroner. “That is all I wanted you to tell us. And that, gentlemen,” he continued, turning to the jury, “appears to be the whole of the evidence, with the exception of Dr. Thorndyke’s; and the question now arises, what are we to do? Let me explain the position, and then you can decide on our procedure.
“This enquiry was adjourned to enable the police to make some investigations in connection with it. On their application, Dr. John Thorndyke, who, I may inform you is an eminent medico-legal expert, was instructed by the Home Office to proceed to Maidstone to conduct an exhumation of the body of the late John Vardon, the father of Mrs. Otway. He was to make an examination of the body, and ascertain if possible, whether the cause of the said John Vardon’s death was as stated at the inquest, or whether, as is hinted in these anonymous letters, he died from the effects of violence. The question is an important one, but it is more important to the police than to us. Then, it seems that the Home Office further instructed this gentleman to carry out an independent investigation into the facts of this case which we, in our humble and inefficient way, are trying to investigate. It is an extraordinary proceeding, and one that I do not in the least understand; but then I am not a medico-legal specialist. I am only a mere coroner, and you are only a mere coroner’s jury. It is just as well that we should know our place.
“Well, I understand that Dr. Thorndyke has made an examination of the body of Lewis Otway, and, as you have heard, he has made a survey of the deceased man’s chambers. We, also, have surveyed these chambers, but apparently our survey doesn’t count; and Dr. Shelburn, whose evidence you have heard, examined the body within a few hours of death. It would seem as if medical evidence were the last thing we want. Meanwhile I have had a telegram from Dr. Thorndyke saying that he has been detained at Maidstone, and has missed his train. I don’t know when he will arrive here. He may be here in a few minutes, or he may arrive in an hour or two. It is for you to decide what is to be done. We have a great deal of evidence to consider. We do not seem to need any more medical evidence, and the question of Mr. Vardon’s death is not of vital importance to this enquiry.
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others Page 227