by John Harwood
The principal witness to these events was Godwin Rhys. According to his testimony at the inquest (which I give here more or less in his own words), he had joined Magnus and Mrs. Bryant in the old gallery at about a quarter past seven that evening. They discussed their plans for the séance the following evening; Mrs. Wraxford joined them some twenty minutes later. She seemed apprehensive and ill at ease. When Dr. Rhys, in his own words, "inadvertently reminded her of her late fiance's death at the Hall some two years previously," she became distressed and left the gallery. The others continued their discussion over dinner until about ten o'clock, when Dr. Rhys and Mrs. Bryant retired to their rooms, leaving Magnus downstairs.
Dr. Rhys (a poor sleeper, by his own account) went to bed at around eleven, but was still awake when the half hour struck. Soon after that, he heard soft footsteps—a woman's, he thought; he assumed it was one of the servants—moving past his door. His room was at the head of a corridor, just off the landing. A quarter to twelve had sounded, and he had begun to doze, when he was awakened by the sound of a key turning in a lock. Though his window was in shadow, it was bright moonlight outside. He opened his door a little and saw Mrs. Bryant, wrapped in what appeared to be a dark cloak, pass the entrance to the corridor in the direction of the landing, shielding the flame of her candle with her hand. Her expression made him wonder if she was walking in her sleep.
The lights along the passage had been extinguished, and so he was able to follow her as far as the landing without risk of being seen. Mrs. Bryant snuffed her candle and continued on, all the way to the gallery, where she passed through the open doors and out of sight. He remained where he was, about forty paces away, looking over the black pit of the stairwell.
Faint sounds, as of someone moving about in stockinged feet, came from the gallery. The shuffling ceased; he held his breath, straining to make out another, even fainter sound; a muffled creaking of hinges, as of a door being slowly and stealthily opened.
The scream that followed seemed to explode inside his head; a prolonged shriek of terror and repulsion that rose to an intolerable pitch, reverberating up and down the stairwell in a cacophony of echoes. For several seconds he stood paralysed, until the sounds of opening doors and hurrying feet brought him to his senses.
Dr. Rhys was the first to enter the gallery. He found Mrs. Bryant sprawled on the floor between the round table and the suit of armour, stone dead, her eyes open and her features contorted in an expression of the utmost horror. Mrs. Bryant's two maids ran in as he was kneeling beside the body, followed a few moments later by Bolton and some of the other servants. Magnus (as was later attested by Alfred the footman) had gone out for a stroll in the moonlight; he heard the scream from two hundred yards away, and came running back to the house.
Magnus, therefore, did not arrive at the gallery for some minutes after Dr. Rhys. His first question upon seeing the corpse was, "Where is my wife?" The maid Carrie was sent immediately to Mrs. Wraxford's room, where she knocked for some time before her mistress came to the door in her nightgown. Alone of all the household, she had slept right through Mrs. Bryant's scream. When informed by Carrie that Mrs. Bryant was dead, she replied, "There is nothing I can do; tell my husband I will see him in the morning," and closed her door again; Carrie heard her turn the key in the lock.
Mrs. Bryant's body was then carried back to her room, where Dr. Rhys made the examination. He found no trace of injury; on every indication, she had died of heart failure induced by shock. But what had caused that shock? A search of the gallery and library revealed nothing untoward; the seal which Magnus had placed upon the armour in anticipation of the séance remained unbroken; the movements of everyone in the house had been accounted for. Magnus and Dr. Rhys decided to wait until first light before dispatching a messenger to the telegraph office in Woodbridge, and the household retired for a few hours' uneasy sleep.
At around eight thirty the next morning, Bolton returned from Woodbridge with the news that he could not find a doctor willing to attend; all had said, upon hearing that Mrs. Bryant's physician was already at the Hall, that he could perfectly well sign the certificate himself. Dr. Rhys, therefore, despite considerable misgivings, certified the immediate cause as heart failure brought on by shock, with advanced heart disease as a contributing cause. It was quite possible, as Magnus observed, that Mrs. Bryant had indeed been walking in her sleep, and that the fatal spasm had been precipitated by the shock of finding herself in the gallery.
Magnus and Dr. Rhys were still at breakfast (since Mrs. Wraxford had taken all her meals in her room, they were not expecting her) when a horseman arrived with instructions from Mrs. Bryant's son. An undertaker and his men would follow within two hours to collect the body and convey it directly to London for examination by a distinguished pathologist. Dr. Rhys, upon hearing this, wanted to tear up his certificate, but Magnus dissuaded him, saying that it would give the impression they had something to hide.
Magnus had already decided to close up the Hall and return to London that day, and Carrie was accordingly sent to pack her mistress's things. But she found the door locked, and an untouched tray still in the passage where she had left it half an hour before. (Her instructions were to tap on the door and leave the tray without waiting for Mrs. Wraxford to emerge.)
At Magnus's request, Dr. Rhys accompanied him upstairs to the room, where the door was forced—there was no bolt, but the key was lying upon a little table beside the bed. They found—or rather Magnus, observed by Dr. Rhys, found—a diary open upon the writing table, with a pen lying across the page, as if the writer had been interrupted, and beside it the stub of a candle which had burnt down to its socket. The bed was turned back, the pillow dishevelled. In the child's room beyond (it had no independent exit), the blanket on the cot was turned back in the same fashion. There was soiled linen in the pail, water in the basin; nothing to suggest struggle or sudden flight, or an alarm of any kind. And according to Carrie—though she could not be certain, because of her mistress's secretive habits—the only things missing were Mrs. Wraxford's nightdress and the child's swaddling gown.
It seemed to Dr. Rhys, as they were waiting for the door to be forced, that Magnus was striving to conceal anger, rather than anxiety. Several times he nodded to himself, as if to say, "This is just what I should have expected of my wife." But as he began to leaf through the diary, his expression changed. The colour drained from his face; his hand trembled; a cold sweat appeared on his brow. For a minute or two he read on, oblivious to his surroundings; then he closed the book with a snap and slid it, without explanation, into his coat pocket.
"Search the house!" he directed Bolton, who was hovering by the doorway. "And send for a party to comb the wood. With the child, she cannot have gone far .... Perhaps, Rhys, you might assist with the search whilst I look around in here."
It was a command—not a request—and Dr. Rhys spent the next few hours stumbling fruitlessly from room to dusty room, without any clear idea of why he was doing so.
A quarter of an hour after I heard the news, I was driving at brisk pace along the Aldringham road. The day was warm and close, and I was obliged to rest my horse more than once, so that it was well after two before I reached Monks' Wood. As I drew nearer the Hall, I heard voices hallooing in the woods around me.
At the front of the house, several vehicles waited on the gravel, their horses harnessed as if for immediate departure. Servants were running between them, stowing boxes and bags and bundles of clothing. A slight, fair-haired young man in tweeds was hovering by the largest of the carriages, attempting to direct the loading of it. He looked at me fearfully as I approached, and began to explain that the undertakers had already left; I thought for a ghastly moment they had left with Nell. Such was his agitation that it took me several attempts to establish that he was Dr. Rhys, and convince him that I was not a surgeon, and several minutes more to extract from him a summary of the night's events. I was about to ask him why on earth the servants were packing u
p the house, instead of joining in the search, when I saw Magnus over by the stables, conferring with a group of men. I left Godwin Rhys wringing his hands beside the carriage, and went uneasily to join him.
Magnus walked away from the group—labourers and small farmers, some of whom I recognised—as I drew near. Bolton was distributing coins amongst them, and for an instant my hopes flared.
"What news?" I cried, forgetting everything but my anxiety for Nell. "Have you found her?"
"No, Montague, we have not," he said coldly. "I was rather hoping that you might have news for me."
Bolton glanced toward me. He was twenty feet away—too far, I hoped, for him to overhear—but the sneer on his face was enough to tell me who had been watching from the shadows.
"I have no news," I replied, holding his gaze as best I could. "If she is not found, why are you leaving?"
"Because my wife is not here. I believe she left here—by arrangement—early this morning. Someone must have been waiting with a dogcart—or something of the sort," he said, glancing at my own vehicle, "and driven away with her."
"Do you mean she was seen—?"
"No, but it is the only explanation. She is not in the house; she could not have gone very far in the wood, carrying the child ... though the search for the child must obviously continue—"
"What do you mean?"
"It is possible—especially if she has fled with a lover—" he added, "that she has abandoned or even made away with the child—"
"That is monstrous!" I exclaimed. "You cannot believe that; she would never—"
"I am aware, Montague, that you are on intimate terms with my wife. But I doubt that your intimacy extends to an understanding of her mental condition, which is precarious, at best. So unless you can tell me where, and with whom, she has gone, there is nothing more for you to do here."
"Magnus, I assure you there is nothing ..." My words withered under his stare. "Her safety is all that matters now. Suppose your theory is wrong, and they are lost somewhere out there—how can you risk abandoning her?"
"I think it far more likely that she has abandoned me. Some of the men, as I have said, will continue to search the wood for another hour or so. I shall remain here, on the chance that she may return; everyone else will leave for London within the hour. Which reminds me: you will, I am sure, agree that it would be inappropriate for you to continue as solicitor to the estate. Kindly arrange for the deed-box, the keys, and the other Wraxford papers to be conveyed to Mr. Veitch of Gray's Inn at your earliest convenience. Good day to you."
He strode away toward the house with Bolton, still smirking, trailing after him.
I spent, or rather endured that night consumed by visions of Nell strangling her child, burying the body in Monks' Wood, and fleeing with her lover (whom I could not help picturing as Edward Ravenscroft). I would fight off these ghastly images, only to be possessed by the conviction that Magnus had murdered her and the child in a jealous fury, with the intention of casting suspicion on me: At any moment, the police might come knocking with a warrant for my arrest. But what if she had left him for me? That soft tapping at the door (which I would have sworn I heard a dozen times during the night, though there was never anyone there) might be Nell, with Clara in her arms; and so on, round and round, until I drifted into nightmares worse than my darkest imaginings.
On Sunday morning, I learned that the search had been abandoned at around half past three, just as Magnus had intimated. He had addressed the remnant of the search party, along with the departing servants, to the effect that he now believed that Mrs. Wraxford, distressed by Mrs. Bryant's sudden death, had taken the child on a visit to friends, forgetting to inform anyone of her destination. The search, he assured them, had been merely a precaution. He himself would remain at the Hall for another day or two, in case she should return there; the rest of the household would return immediately to London. I could find no one who had actually been at the Hall when Magnus spoke, and yet everyone assured me—claiming to have heard it from somebody who had been present—that his manner had been that of a gallant gentleman shielding his wife. Aldeburgh was abuzz with the rumour that Eleanor Wraxford had poisoned Mrs. Bryant, smothered her infant daughter, buried the body in Monks' Wood, and eloped with a lover.
I insisted, to everyone I met, that this was a terrible slander upon an innocent woman, who was quite possibly herself in mortal danger, but my protestations were met with raised eyebrows and knowing looks. If Eleanor Wraxford was innocent, then why had the search for her been abandoned so soon? And if Mrs. Bryant had died of natural causes, why had her body been whisked away to London for an autopsy? Several people wondered aloud why I was not at the Hall with Magnus (for whom there was universal sympathy); to which I could only, and lamely, reply that he preferred to be alone; I did not dare ask what rumour had been saying of me.
The weather continued close and still until Monday afternoon, when there was a distant rumble of thunder and a play of lightning on the southern horizon, followed by heavy rain. I learned later that people in Chalford had seen, on the Sunday night before, a single flash of lightning from the direction of Monks' Wood, followed half a minute later by a faint sound that might have been thunder.
Tuesday and Wednesday dragged by; I could not face the task of bundling up the Wraxford papers, nor could I bring myself to instruct Joseph to do it. I told my partner I thought I was sickening for something, but it cannot have sounded altogether convincing, since I spent most of my time roaming the district in search of news. I felt myself an object of general suspicion, and imagined that people were whispering behind my back wherever I went; but to sit shut up in my house was more than I could bear.
On Thursday morning I woke very late, after drinking more whisky than was good for me, and was making a pretence at breakfast when my housekeeper came in to say that Inspector Roper from Woodbridge was here to see me.
"Show him in," I muttered, dabbing at the perspiration which had sprung up on my brow.
I had a nodding acquaintance with Roper, a barrel-chested man in his fifties, but at the sound of his heavy tread I rose to my feet, fighting down a mad impulse to flee. His lugubrious face, the colour and consistency of risen dough, gave an initial impression of stupidity, until you became aware of his eyes—small, deep-set, shrewd—regarding you watchfully.
"Beg pardon, sir, but your clerk said you were at home, so I took the liberty of calling."
"Not at all," I said faintly. "Would you care for some tea? What can I do for you?"
" Thank you, sir, but I had my tea at the station. And as you might guess, sir, it's about the Hall."
"In—indeed? Have you found—is there news of Mrs. Wraxford?"
"No, sir. Visiting friends, is the story we were given." The note of scepticism was all too plain. "You don't look very well, sir, if I may say so."
"I fear you are right," I said hoarsely, sinking back into my chair. "This business at the Hall—won't you sit down?—has shaken me considerably ... been with my family for generations, you know.... "
I trailed off, conscious of having said exactly the wrong thing.
"Well, indeed, sir, and that's why I'm here," he said, taking a seat. "You see, we've had a wire from Dr. Wraxford's London residence. He was expected home Monday, and then they thought maybe he'd stayed a day longer, in case Mrs. Wraxford ... but when it came Wednesday afternoon and still no sign of him, they thought they'd better ask us to go out to the Hall and take a look around. Which we did, but my man found the house all closed up, no sign of anyone, and no horse, either. So of course we inquired of Pettingshill at the livery stable, to see when Dr. Wraxford brought his horse back."
"And had he?"
" That's the odd thing, sir. The horse came back, all right. The stable boy found him waiting at the gate on Monday morning—outside, you understand—saddle still on him, reins tied to the pommel, and a guinea in the saddlebag. So Pettingshill assumed he'd taken the early train, and thought no more about i
t. But he hadn't. Dr. Wraxford hasn't been seen since Saturday, when they left him at the Hall."
"I—er—I see. Have you any theory, Inspector, as to what might have happened to him?"
"That's where I hoped, sir, that you might be able to help"—my heart lurched sickeningly—"you being solicitor to the estate—and a friend of the family and all."
His small eyes flickered like a lizard's. Even as I shrank from the insinuation (real or imagined, I could not tell), my mind was suddenly racing.
"I've heard nothing, I'm afraid .... Did Bolton—Dr. Wraxford's man—suggest that you call on me?"
"Well, no, sir, I came of my own initiative. You see, sir, I think we ought to look inside the Hall, just to be on the safe side. But it's private property, and—well, supposing Dr. Wraxford was still there, he might not appreciate the police barging in, if you see what I mean. So I was wondering whether you might have a set of keys..."
"I do, yes, at the office .... Would you like me to drive out to the Hall and—see if everything's all right?"
I heard, as I spoke, the echo of my words to Drayton on that rainy afternoon a lifetime ago. But instinct was urging me to seize the chance of investigating the Hall alone—the chance, however slender, that I might come upon some clue that would lead me to Nell.
"Well, yes, sir, that would be very helpful indeed. Will you need me to accompany you?"
I understood at last that Roper had no suspicion of me at all.
"I don't think that will be necessary, Inspector; I'm sure you have a great deal to do. Unless, of course, you feel you should be there."
"I'm hard-pressed, sir, it's true, and ought to be on the next train back to Woodbridge.... "
" Then I shall leave straightaway; the fresh air will do me good. If I should find anything—untoward—I shall come straight on to Woodbridge and let you know. I shall wire, in any case, as soon as I get back to Aldeburgh."