by Anthology
“You have something dreadful to communicate,” murmured the elder son.
The doctor hesitated; then he glanced from one to the other of the two handsome faces before him, and remarked:
“Your brother is not here. Do you know if he is likely to return soon?”
“Where is Mr. Leighton?” inquired Alfred, turning towards the servants. “I thought he meant to remain home to-night.”
The butler respectfully advanced.
“Mr. Leighton went out an hour ago,” said he. “He and Mr. Gillespie had a few words in the den, sir, after which he put on his hat and coat and went out.”
“Did you see your master at that time?”
“No, sir, I only heard his voice.”
“Did that sound natural?”
The old servant seemed loth to reply, but feeling the doctor’s eye resting imperatively upon him, he hesitatingly admitted:
“It wasn’t quiet, sir, if you mean that. Mr. Gillespie seemed to be angry or very much displeased. He spoke quite loud.”
“Where were you?”
“In the dining-room, sir, putting away the last of the dinner dishes.”
“Did you hear what your master said?”
“No, sir; it was something about religion; too much religion.”
“My brother attends too many mission services to please my father,” explained Alfred in a low tone.
The doctor heard, but did not take his eye from the old servant.
“Was this before he took the glass of wine you have just told us he asked for?”
“Yes, sir, just before. It was Mr. Leighton who came for it. He said his father looked tired.”
“Ah, and how came the glass to be back then on the dining-room mantel-shelf?”
“I don’t know, sir. Perhaps Mr. Gillespie put it there himself. He never liked any litter on his study table, sir.”
At this statement the older brother opened his lips, but I noticed he did not speak. There were no traces of intoxication about him now.
“I wish you would show me the bottle from which you poured the wine.”
The butler, whose name I afterwards learned to be Hewson, led the way to a large buffet extending half across the dining-room wall. From where I stood in the hall-way I could see him pointing out a bottle of what looked like sherry. Suddenly he gave a start.
“That isn’t the one,” he cried, loud enough for me to hear. “The bottle I took out for Mr. Leighton was half-empty. This is quite full.”
Again I saw the lips of the elder brother move, and again he refrained from speaking.
“I should like to have that bottle found,” said the physician; “but no one need look for it now. In deed, it would be better for us to wait for Leighton’s return before making any further movement. George, Alfred, may I ask you to leave me alone with your father for a few minutes. And let the dining-room be cleared. I don’t want to have to make any excuses to the coroner when he arrives. Your father has not died a natural death.”
It was an announcement for which we had been in a measure prepared by the serious manner of the young doctor, yet it seemed to me it ought to have occasioned a greater, or at least a different display of feeling on the part of the two most intimately concerned. I looked for an exchange of glances between them or at least some hurried words of sorrow or dismay. But though all evinced strong emotion, no looks passed between them, nor did they make the least attempt at mutual sympathy or encouragement. Were they not on confidential terms? The moment certainly was one to call out whatever brotherly feeling they possessed.
“I shall have to make use of the telephone,” Dr. Bennett now announced. “You must pardon my seeming disrespect to the dead. The occasion demands it.”
And with one hurried look to see that his commands had been obeyed, and that the dining-room had been cleared of the huddling servants, he stepped back into the so-called den and closed the door behind him.
Next moment we heard his voice rise in the in evitable “Hallo!”
“I don’t understand Dr. Bennett’s strange demeanour,” I now heard uttered in remark near me. It was George speaking in a low tone to his brother.
But that brother, with one of his anxious looks up the stairs, failed to answer.
“Father was in the habit of taking chloral, but I thought he always waited until he got to his own room. I never knew him to take it downstairs be fore,” George went on in a low tone between a whisper and a grumble.
This time Alfred answered.
He made an exception to-night, said he. “When I ran down to your door at half-past eight, I met Claire coming out of father’s room with a bottle in her hand. She had been sent up after the chloral, and was taking it down to him.”
George gave his brother a suspicious look.
“Did she say so?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Poor child! She will miss her grandfather. I wonder if she knows?”
I felt that I had no right to listen. But I was standing where the doctor had left me, and hardly knew how to withdraw till I had received my dismissal from someone in authority. Yet I was thinking of going farther front when the doctor came out again and, approaching me, remarked:
“This delay is probably causing you great inconvenience. But I must ask you to remain a short time longer. I presume you can find a seat in the drawing-room.”
With a glance at the young gentlemen, I expressed my obligations for his courtesy, but did not make a move towards the room he had indicated.
Instantly, and with an understanding of my feelings which surprised me, George took the hint I had given him, and stepping forward, raised a heavy plush curtain at the left and begged me to be seated in the richly appointed room within. But I had hardly taken a step towards it when a diversion was created by the entrance into the house of a gentleman whom I at once took to be the third brother for whose presence all waited with more or less suspense.
He was sufficiently prepossessing in appearance to awaken admiration, but he bore no resemblance to his brothers. He seemed to have more character and less—well, I find it difficult to say just what impression he made upon me at this moment. Enough that with my first glimpse of him I felt confident that no ordinary person had entered upon the scene, though just what special characteristic of his personality or disposition would prove the emphatic one it was not easy to judge, at a moment’s notice.
He had a downcast air, and to my eyes looked weary to the point of collapse, but he roused at the sight of a stranger, and cast an inquiring look at the doctor and then at the servants crowding in the pas sage beyond.
He evidently took me for one of his brothers boon companions.
“What’s amiss?” he demanded in some irritation—an irritation I was fain to construe into a total lack of preparation for the fatal news awaiting him. “What’s the matter, George? What’s the matter, Alph?”
“The worst!” came in simultaneous reply.
“Father is dead!” cried George.
“Took too much chloral,” added Alfred.
Leighton Gillespie stood stock-still for a moment, then threw off his hat and rushed down the hall. But at the door of what now might be called the chamber of death, he found the doctor standing in an attitude which compelled him to come to a sudden stop.
“Wait a moment,” said that gentleman. “I have to correct an impression. Your father has not died from an overdose of chloral as I had at first supposed, but from a deadly dose of prussic acid. You have only to smell his lips to be certain of this fact. Now, Leighton, you may enter.”
III. What a Door Hid
IT was a startling declaration, and the horror it called up was visible on every face. But the surprise which should have accompanied it was lacking, and however quickly the three nearest the deceased man’s heart strove to cover up their first instinctive acceptance of a fact so suggestive of hidden troubles, I could not but see that the prosperous stock-broker had had griefs, anxieties, or hopes to which thi
s sudden end seemed to those who knew him best, a natural sequence.
I began to regret the chance which had brought me into such close relations with this family, and felt the closed envelope in my pocket weighing on my breast like lead.
Meanwhile, he whom they called Leighton was saying in a highly strained tone, which he vainly endeavoured to make natural:
“May not Dr. Bennett be mistaken? There is the chloral bottle on the shelf over the fireplace. We are not in the habit of seeing it here. Does not its presence in this room argue that father felt the need of it. Prussic acid can only be obtained through a doctor, and I am confident you never prescribed him such a dangerous drug, Dr. Bennett.”
“No, for it is totally inapplicable to his case. But you will find that he died from taking it, Leighton; all his symptoms show it, and we have only to deter mine now whether he took it in the chloral, in the glass of wine he drank, or by means of some other agency not yet discovered. I regret to speak so unequivocally, but I never mince matters where my profession is concerned. And, besides, the coroner would not show you this consideration even if I did. The fact is too patent.”
They were now inside the study and I did not hear Leighton’s reply, but when they all came out again, I saw that the latter had not only accepted the situation, but that he had been informed of the part I had been called upon to play in this matter. This was apparent from the way he greeted me, and the questions he put concerning his child’s conduct during the last terrible moments of her grandfather’s life.
As he did this I had a fuller opportunity for studying his face. It was the most melancholy one I had ever seen, and what struck me as being worthy of remark was that this melancholy seemed a settled one and quite apart from the present grief and disturbance. Yet he had been heavily shaken by his father’s sudden if not inexplicable death, or appeared to be, which possibly is not quite the same thing.
“I do not understand why my father should have called anyone in from the street to witness his sufferings while he had sons in the house,” he courteously remarked; “but having felt this necessity and having succeeded in obtaining such help, I am glad that chance favoured him and us with a person of such apparent good feeling as yourself.”
I scarcely heeded him. I was pondering over the letter and whether I should pass it over to this man. But instinct withheld me, or rather my lawyer-like habits which happily acted as a restraint upon my natural impulse. I had received no intimation as yet that it was intended for any of Mr. Gillespie’s sons.
“You will oblige us by waiting for the coroner?” he now went on. “He has telephoned that he will be here immediately.”
“I shall wait,” I said. And it was by his invitation I now stepped into the parlour.
A quarter of an hour, a half-hour, passed before the front door bell rang again. From the hubbub which ensued, I knew that the man we wished for had arrived, but it was a long while before he entered the room in which I sat, during which tedious interim I had to possess my soul in patience. But at last I heard his step on the threshold, and looking up, I be held a spare, earnest man who approached me with great seriousness, and sat down near enough to indulge in confidential talk without running the risk of being heard by anyone.
“You are Mr. Outhwaite,” he began. “I have heard of your firm and have more than once seen Mr. Robinson. Had you any acquaintance with Mr. Gillespie or his family before to-night?”
“No, sir; Mr. Gillespie was known to me only by reputation.”
“Then it was pure chance which led you to be a witness of his final moments?”
“Pure chance, if we do not believe in Providence,” I returned.
He surveyed me quite intently
“Relate what passed.”
Now here was a dilemma. Did my duty exact a revelation of the facts which I had hitherto felt obliged to keep even from the deceased man’s sons? It was a question not to be decided in a moment, so I made up my mind to be guided by developments, and confined my narration to a recapitulation of my former plain account of Mr. Gillespie’s last moments. This narrative I made as simple as I could. When I had finished he asked if Mr. Gillespie’s grandchild had been present at the moment her grandfather expired.
I answered that she had been clinging to him all the time he remained erect, but shrank back and ran out of the room the moment he gave signs of falling to the floor.
“Did he speak to her?”
“Not that I heard.”
“Did he say anything?”
“A few inarticulate words, no names.”
“He did not ask for his sons?”
“No.”
“For none of them?”
“No.”
“How came the alarm to be spread?”
“I went up with the child and called the young men down.”
Coroner Frisbie stroked his chin, still looking at me intently.
“Was there an empty phial or a piece of paper lying about on the study-table or on the floor when you went in?”
I started.
“Paper?” I repeated. “What kind of paper?”
“Such as is used by druggists and physicians in rolling up their prescriptions. The prussic acid which Mr. Gillespie has evidently taken must have been bought in liquid form. The bottle which held it should be lying about and possibly the paper in which it was wrapped. That is, if this poison was swallowed intentionally by Mr. Gillespie.”
I recalled the exact look of the scrap of paper I had put into an envelope at this gentleman’s request. It was not such a one as is used by druggists in wrapping up parcels, and I felt my breast grow lighter by a degree.
“I did not see any such paper.”
“Where is the little girl?” he now queried. “I must see her.”
I had made up my mind to one thing. If the child said that I had been given a paper by her grandfather I would acknowledge it and produce the envelope. But if she had forgotten the fact or had been too frightened to notice it, I would preserve silence in regard to it a little longer, in the hope of being shown a way out of my difficulty.
I was therefore not sorry to hear him ask for the little girl.
“I take it that you are not anxious to remain here,” he now remarked. “If you will give me your address and hold yourself in readiness to obey my summons, I can excuse you for the night.”
For answer I held out my card, and seeing that I had no further excuse for lingering, was moving toward the door, when Dr. Bennett came hurriedly in.
“I have found something—” he began, and then paused with a quick glance in my direction, as if questioning the propriety of proceeding further with his discovery in my presence.
The coroner showed no such hesitation. Hastening to meet the old family physician, he said:
“You have found the bottle or only the paper in which the bottle was wrapped?”
Dr. Bennett drew him aside, and I saw what looked like a small cork pass between them.
“Was it in Mr. Gillespie’s study you found this?” queried the coroner. “I thought I had thoroughly searched the study.”
The answer was uttered in the lowest of low tones, but I had no difficulty in catching the gist of what he said.
“It was on the dining-room floor, under the edge of the rug. A very suspicious fact, don’t you think so? Mr. Gillespie would never have thrust it there. Some other person—don’t know who—not say any thing yet—shrink from seeing the police in this house.”
The two doctors interchanged a look which I surprised in the large mirror opposite. But I gave no sign of having seen anything extraordinary. I felt too keenly the delicacy of my own position. Next minute we were all walking towards the hall.
“Silence!” came in admonitory tones from the coroner as we paused for a moment on the threshold.
“Let us not disturb the young men any further than is necessary to night.”
At that moment we heard the cry:
“Where is Miss Meredith? Has anyone
seen Miss Meredith? I cannot find her in any of the rooms upstairs.”
“Hope! Hope! Where are you, Hope?” called out another voice, charged with feeling.
Hope! Did my heart beat faster as this name, destined to play such a part in my future life, was sounded in my ears? I cannot say. That heart has beat often enough since at the utterance of this sweet monosyllable, but at that time—well, I think I was too interested in the alarm which this cry instantly raised, to note my personal sensations. From one end of the house to the other, men and women rushed from room to room, and I heard not only this name called out, but that of the child, which it seems was Claire.
“Cannot the child be found either?” I inquired impetuously of the coroner who still lingered in the lower hall.
“It seems not. Who is Miss Meredith?”
It was the old butler who answered him.
“She is the young gentlemen’s cousin,” said he. “She was a great favourite with Mr. Gillespie, and lived here like a daughter. They will find her some where upstairs.”
But the prophecy proved to be a false one. Slowly the servants came creeping down whispering among themselves and looking very much frightened. Then we saw George descend shaking his head impatiently, and then Leighton, wild with an anxiety for which he had no name.
“She must be here!” he cried, thinking only of his child. “Claire! Claire!” And he began running through the great drawing-room where we knew she could not be.
Alfred had remained above.
Suddenly I recalled a fact connected with my own visit upstairs.
“Have they been up to the fourth floor?” I inquired of Dr. Bennett. “When I was in Mr. Alfred Gillespie’s room on the third floor, I remember hearing someone rush through the hall. I supposed at that time it was someone going below. But it may have been someone going higher up.”