by John Harwood
"Very good, sir, and thank you; I'm much obliged."
***
It was after midday when I set off. Low, swirling clouds hung over the fields, still damp from the night's rain, and a chill wind blew from the sea: all too reminiscent of my journey with Drayton. I was aware, too, that my position was questionable, at best. If Magnus had told Bolton, or for that matter, Dr. Rhys, that he had dismissed me ... I had received nothing in writing, but it would raise eyebrows all the same.
On Saturday, with the forecourt crowded with carriages, I had been too shaken by my encounter with Magnus to think of anything but Nell, and had given little thought to the Hall's sinister history. But now those primeval fears returned with a vengeance. It was all very well to tell myself that this was the age of steam engine and the electric telegraph, and that science had banished those terrors; here, I might as well have been a thousand miles from civilisation.
The front door was bolted on the inside, but I found a smaller door, close by the stone bench where I had sat with Nell, which let me into an unfamiliar part of the house. I took a stub of candle from a blackened glass chimney, and made my way through the gloom to the great hall and up the stairs to the landing, where I stood listening to the silence.
The study was locked, but not from the inside. Cornelius's camp bed and the washstand had gone; a leather writing chair was drawn up to the desk. There were rows of volumes around the walls, but nothing on the desk itself. The damp, ammoniacal smell of books left untended for too many winters caught at my throat. The only sign of recent occupation was a greatcoat, which I recognised as Magnus's—hanging from a hook on the back of the door I had just opened.
In the right-hand pocket was an oblong package, sealed with Magnus's phoenix seal and addressed in his hand to Jabez Veitch, Esq., of Veitch, Oldcastle and Veitch, Gray's Inn Square, Holborn. As I stood there trying to divine the contents—which felt like a slender volume, about eight inches by five, and a letter or document of some kind—it struck me that this would be Magnus's advice to Mr. Veitch of my dismissal. I slipped the package into my own greatcoat and turned out the other pockets, in which I found a penknife, a pair of riding gloves, and a purse containing four sovereigns.
Of course, Magnus might simply have forgotten his coat.
I went on through the library, where I saw something that looked like a massive spinning wheel, with half a dozen glass discs, a handle, and wires trailing away beneath the door leading into the gallery. The door was locked, but this time from the outside; I turned the key and entered.
In the middle of the floor, a small round table had been overturned, with several chairs scattered around it, two of them lying on their sides. The tomb of Sir Henry Wraxford sat like a stone in the throat of the fireplace. Wires from the machine in the library trailed past my feet, joining to those which connected the armour to the lightning rods. I became aware, beneath the odours of ancient timber and mildewed fabric, of a faint, cold, acrid smell of burning.
The armour was closed. As I drew nearer, with every nerve urging me to turn and flee, I saw, where the sword blade entered the plinth, a rusty dagger thrust into the slot, jamming the mechanism. Caught between the plates was a piece of dove-grey fabric that might have been torn from the hem of a woman's dress—like the one Nell had been wearing that afternoon a week ago. The cloth was charred along the line where it vanished into the armour.
I stood petrified, remembering the story from Chalford of that single brilliant flash, lighting up the sky above Monks' Wood on Sunday night, and staring at the torn fabric until I realised that the dress had been caught from the outside. Lying in the shadows behind the armour was a small jewelled pistol, such as a woman might use.
Rain spattered against the windows overhead. I dropped the pistol into my pocket, stooped to free the dagger, and then, shuddering as if I were grasping a serpent, took hold of the sword-hilt.
A grey, inchoate form engulfed me; something struck my foot and boiled up around me in a coarse grey cloud, filling my mouth and nostrils with the gritty taste of ash. There were ashes in my hair and upon my clothes, and as the cloud settled, I saw that my feet were surrounded by shards and splinters of greyish bone. Glinting amongst them were several tiny pellets of gold—one still embedded in the remnant of a tooth—and the misshapen shell of a signet ring, blackened and distorted but still recognisable, melted onto a fractured cylinder of bone.
I do not remember thinking, "Nell has done this." I no longer felt afraid; I no longer felt anything at all. I went numbly back through the library and study and down the grand staircase to the front door, which I unbolted and unlocked, and let myself out of the house.
The rain had more or less ceased. My horse waited patiently, his head hanging down. The prospect of confronting Roper was intolerable; I wanted only to go home and huddle by my fireside until it came time to sleep, never to wake again. I reached into the side pocket of my coat and took out the pistol—a derringer, no more than five inches long, with a single barrel—but 'tis enough, 'twill serve. I clicked back the hammer, raised the gun, still without conscious intent, and pressed the cold muzzle to my temple, wondering with a sort of detached curiosity what the sensation would be. The movement made me aware that something was pressing against my chest; the corner of the package in my breast pocket.
Awareness flooded back to me; I lowered the pistol, meaning to uncock it, but my hand was seized by a spasm of trembling. The pistol jumped like a live thing; a spurt of muddy water flew up at my feet; my horse threw up his head in alarm as the report echoed around the clearing.
Shaking more violently than ever, I put away the gun and drew out the package. To Jabez Veitch, Esq. But what if Magnus had told him why he was dismissing me? I stepped back into the shelter of the portico and broke the seal.
Inside was a small blue notebook, and a letter in Magnus's hand, the latter part of it blotched and spattered with ink.
Wraxford Hall
30 Sept 1868
My dear Veitch,
I am alone at the Hall—the servants left an hour ago. You will hear of my wife's disappearance long before this reaches you. I fear she has committed a terrible crime—perhaps several—and must make up my mind what to do.
I found this diary in my wife's room when we forced the door this morning. It is proof, I fear, that her sanity has given way, as you will see from her terrible animus against me, who has striven so long to keep her from the madhouse. I confess I converted Mrs. Bryant's money into diamonds, in the hope of winning back Eleanor's love—I have just discovered that the diamonds are not in the drawer where I left them last night. And as I learned only yesterday, my wife has formed a clandestine attachment to John Montague, whom I trusted, as you know, implicitly. I dismissed him on the spot when he had the effrontery to call this afternoon; you should receive the papers &c from him some time this week, unless he has already fled with her.
Whether Montague was party to the theft, or to the death of Mrs. Bryant—in which I suspect my wife had a hand—I do not know, but I fear my daughter is already dead
There is someone moving on the floor above.
In haste: I have just seen a woman on the upper landing. The light was bad but I am certain it was my wife—she had a pistol in her hand. I thought she meant to fire, but she vanished into the dark.
The light is fading fast. I shall hide this package and then attempt to find her—perhaps she will listen to reason.
Yours, MW
I remember thinking quite dispassionately, as I slid the letter back into the packet, that I was holding everything required to make me an accessory to Magnus's murder, for which I would very likely hang along with Nell.
Darkness was falling by the time I reached Woodbridge, and such was my state of mind that I did not think to hide, let alone burn the package, which was still in my pocket as I climbed the steps of the police station like a man ascending the scaffold. Roper was still in his office, and received me with the utmost sympathy; it pl
ainly never occurred to him to doubt my story. I handed over the keys, and the pistol (which had discharged, I told him, when I dropped it on my way out), and within twenty minutes was installed in a room at the Woodbridge Arms. There I read and re-read Nell's journal, and sank at last into a drugged, hallucinatory sleep, stepping up to the armour over and over again, knowing what was coming but unable to stop myself grasping the lever. It did not even occur to me until morning, when I was sitting huddled beside my window, watching the grey water flowing past the Tide Mill, that the ashes in the armour might be Nell's. Magnus's letter could have been contrived to hang us both; it could even have been quite sincere, except that in the ensuing pursuit it had been Nell—not Magnus—who had died.
My duty was plain: to hand over the package immediately. It was not too late to pretend that I had been too shaken to remember it; I could even pretend that I had broken the seal in my agitation. Except that no one would believe me, and in trying to persuade Roper that the ashes were Nell's, I would only tighten the noose around my neck.
Back in Aldeburgh, I awaited the inquest—which was delayed some days to allow several London experts time to come up and examine the scene—as if it were my own trial for murder. Bolton was bound to be called, and his evidence alone would be damning. I knew I should burn the package, but every time I took up the matches, I would imagine policemen bursting in upon me, just as I steeled myself a dozen times to confess all to Roper, and in the end, like a man caught in a nightmare, did nothing but pace endlessly about my study at home—I could not face the office—while the jaws of the trap closed inexorably around me.
I was thus engaged, the day before the inquest was due to begin in Woodbridge, when my housekeeper knocked to say that a Mr. Bolton was asking to see me.
"Show him into the drawing room," I said, and spent the next few minutes struggling vainly to compose myself.
He was seated upon the sofa when I came in. His dress was modelled upon Magnus's: black suit, white stock, tall hat and gloves; the expression on his pale, fleshless face was perfectly deferential, and though he rose and bowed as soon as I appeared, it was plain who was the master.
"Very kind of you to see me, Mr. Montague, sir; I'm up for the inquest."
"Er—yes," I said, swallowing. "This—your master's death came as a great shock to me—as it must have been for you all."
"Indeed, sir; and as I'm sure you understand, we're all wondering what is to become of us. In fact, if I may take the liberty of asking, you wouldn't happen to know whether the master made any sort of provision for me?"
"I'm afraid not," I said. "His will is with Mr. Veitch in London; and you understand, of course, that nothing can be done until the coroner has handed down his findings?"
"Oh I quite understand that, sir."
An appraising silence followed; though the room was chilly, I could feel the perspiration trickling down my forehead.
"Er—is there anything else I can do for you?" I asked.
"Well, yes, sir, as a matter of fact there is. You see, sir—not that I wasn't very happy in Dr. Wraxford's service—my ambition lies in the way of photography. I should like to start a little business of my own ... but of course I'm in want of capital, and it occurred to me, sir—you being such a close friend of the family—that you might see your way to advancing me a loan."
"I see. Er—how much did you have in mind?" I added far too quickly.
"Two hundred and fifty pounds, sir, would set me up very nicely."
"I see. And—for what term?"
"Hard to say, sir. Perhaps we could make it—an informal arrangement. I'm sure I should be very grateful."
"Very well," I said, dabbing at my forehead.
" Thank you, sir, I'm very much obliged. Now I don't suppose, sir, you could favour me with a cheque today...?"
The note of menace was unmistakable.
"Very well," I repeated, avoiding his insinuating gaze. "If you could return at three ... I shall be out, but the cheque will be waiting for you."
" Thank you again, sir, you won't regret it, I'm sure. No need to ring, sir, I'll see myself out."
My state of mind at the inquest can readily be imagined. I was one of the first to be called before the coroner—a florid-faced gentleman from Ipswich by the name of Bright—and thought my knees would give way before I had taken the oath. But as with Roper, my haggard appearance attracted sympathy rather than suspicion, and I was on the witness stand only a few minutes.
Next came the question of identification. The charred signet was identified by Bolton (who studiously avoided my eye). He also confirmed that Magnus had had five teeth filled with gold. The distinguished pathologist Sir Douglas Keir testified, on the basis of the larger fragments, that the remains were those of a man, probably taller than average, in the prime of life. Further than that he could not go, owing to the extreme heat to which the bones had been subjected—sufficient to reduce flesh and soft tissue to a fine powdery ash. As to whether lightning could have inflicted the damage, he was not qualified to say.
Professor Ernest Dingwall, Mr. John Barrett, FRS, and Dr. Francis Iremonger were called to testify on this point. The effects of being struck by lightning in the open—there appeared to be no precedent for the manner of Magnus's death—varied considerably. Some had survived, with burns of varying degrees; in one case, a man was rendered unconscious, and when he recovered, walked away from the scene with no recollection of having been struck. Others had died instantly; in one case, a man's skull had been reduced to fine fragments, with no apparent injury to the skin. No one could cite anything like the annihilation of Dr. Wraxford, but Mr. Barrett gave it as his opinion that the force of the bolt could have been greatly concentrated by the armour. Dr. Iremonger took a diametrically opposite view, maintaining that the suit of armour would have acted as a "Faraday cage"—i.e., the entire force of the blast would travel around the outside of the suit, leaving the person inside unharmed.
The coroner inquired, with a good deal of sarcasm, whether the learned gentleman would care to try the experiment himself. The learned gentleman confessed that he would not.
It was clear, from that moment onward, that the coroner had made up his mind that Nell Wraxford was guilty. He remarked in his summation to the jury that "the lightning strike upon the Hall was mere chance, and very long odds at that, the salient point being that if Magnus Wraxford was not already dead when his murderer forced him into the armour at gunpoint—Mr. Montague's testimony alone seems to me decisive upon this point, though of course you must make up your own minds—if, as I say, Magnus Wraxford was not already dead, he had been left there to starve. You may well consider, gentlemen of the jury, that jamming the mechanism was as culpable, and far crueller, an act of murder than shooting him dead would have been.
"Furthermore," he continued, "an infant child is missing in circumstances which can only point to the mother's guilt. Why would Mrs. Wraxford not allow anyone else near her child? You may well conclude, gentlemen, that her insistence on caring for the infant alone is already evidence of unsound mind. You have Dr. Rhys's testimony as to her extreme agitation on the night of Mrs. Bryant's death; the curious fact of her being the only person, on her own account, not to be woken by that lady's death-cry, which was heard two hundred yards away. You have heard, too, that a crumpled note was found by the police on the floor of Mrs. Bryant's room—a note inviting her to come to the gallery at midnight—which is when and where she died. The hand appears to be that of Mrs. Wraxford. We are not charged with investigating this death, but it is suggestive, all the same, of a dangerous predisposition to violence on Mrs. Wraxford's part.
" Then there is the matter of the necklace. You have heard from Dr. Rhys that Mrs. Wraxford appeared to be deeply estranged from the deceased. You have heard, from the representative of the Bond Street firm who furnished the necklace, that the deceased purchased this very extravagant gift for his wife for the sum of ten thousand pounds—which suggests an uxorious, even infatuate
d husband willing to go to the most extravagant lengths to win back his wife's regard. You have heard that the empty jewel-case was found by the police beneath a floorboard in Mrs. Wraxford's room. The necklace is nowhere to be found."
He said a great deal more in the same vein. After brief deliberation, the jury returned a verdict of wilful murder by person or persons unknown, and a warrant was immediately sworn for Eleanor Wraxford's arrest.
The post-mortem on Mrs. Bryant revealed that she had indeed been suffering from advanced heart disease and had died of heart failure, probably as a result of a severe shock. But the family were not satisfied; her estranged son now became his mother's champion, and rumours that began to circulate in London, to the effect that Dr. Rhys and the Wraxfords had conspired to murder her—and that Eleanor Wraxford had then disposed of her husband and child and fled with the diamonds.
Magnus Wraxford, in a will dated some months before his death, had left his entire estate to his cousin Augusta Wraxford, a spinster nearly forty years older than himself, making no provision for Nell or Clara, or any of his servants. Mr. Veitch wrote to me in the most cordial terms to make certain that Magnus had not left any later will with me. The estate, however, consisted entirely of debts: the contents of the Munster Square house had to be sold to reduce them; and at the end of the proceedings, the servants (with the exception of Bolton, from whom I never heard again) were thrown onto the street to look for new situations. The bequest to Augusta Wraxford—who had, as I would later learn, nurtured a lifelong resentment against her male relations for bringing ruin upon the estate—seemed like a satiric act of malice.
I continued to act as solicitor to the estate, partly out of fear of what someone else might discover, and partly in the vain hope of hearing some news of Nell. Augusta Wraxford—a fierce old lady of decidedly eccentric views—came to see me as soon as Magnus's will had been proven, and instructed me to locate her nearest female relative. Thus began the long and weary process of constructing and testing a genealogy, in the course of which I discovered that Nell had been distantly related to Magnus, though neither appeared to have known, which made the tragedy seem even darker. And though Augusta Wraxford had long coveted the Hall, she could not afford to render it habitable; the most she could do was reduce the burden of debt. But neither was she willing to sell, and so the house was once again closed up, and left to its long decay.