CHAPTER III.
BEFORE THE CORONER.
Atthe table where Christian Harefield had sat at meat on Sunday evening, with his daughter and his daughter’s companion, sat the coroner, in the gathering dusk of Monday afternoon, with his jurymen in a row of heavy oaken chairs on either side of him—looking very much as if they were sitting at a new Barmecide’s dinner—to inquire into the cause or causes of Christian Harefield’s death.
The inquest had been called for three o’clock, but it was nearly four, and the proceedings were but just beginning. There had been the usual delays—one or two jurymen late—a good deal of blundering in calling over the names—some small disputations about nothing particular—a general muddling away of time. And now the sky outside the heavy mullioned casements was deepening from gray to dun, the red glow of the fire was shiningredder upon the oak panelling as the outside world darkened, the ticking of the clock on the chimney-piece sounded obtrusively above the half-whispered conversation, and the falling of a cinder on the hearth seemed as startling as the report of a gun.
Mr. Scratchell sat at a corner of the table, note-book in hand, to watch the proceedings as Miss Harefield’s legal adviser. He had appointed himself to that post, and no one had disputed his right to it. Beatrix had asked for no legal advice. She knew that her father was dead, suddenly, mysteriously, awfully, but no instinct of her mind impelled her to seek comfort, counsel, or succour from Mr. Scratchell, or to throw herself into the sanctuary of English law.
The coroner was Dr. Judson, of Great Yafford, a medical man much respected in his district, and a coroner who indulged in the eccentricity of thinking for himself.
The proceedings were opened by the examination of Mr. Namby, who gave his opinion very decidedly upon the cause of death. He had no doubt upon this point. The deceased gentleman had died froman overdose of opium. He described those indications which led him to believe this, and Dr. Judson, who knew Taylor’s Medical Jurisprudence by heart, knew that the witness was right.
Peacock, the butler, the last person who had seen Mr. Harefield alive, was the first witness examined, after the medical evidence had been heard, and the jury had withdrawn to view the body.
He described the visit of the foreign gentleman, and his departure. He was not able to recall the gentleman’s name, although he had glanced at his card before he carried it to Mr. Harefield. The name was a foreign one, and had slipped out of his memory directly after he read it.
Coroner. How long was he with your master?
Peacock. It might be from an hour to an hour and a half. We were just beginning our suppers in the servants’ hall when the bell rang, and I opened the door to the strange gentleman. We hadn’t finished many minutes when Mr. Harefield rung his bell for me to let the strange gentleman out.
Coroner. Do you usually take an hour and a half at your supper?
Peacock. We might take as much on a Sunday night.
Coroner (with grim facetiousness, reflecting that this is how his servants make such an impression on the butcher’s bill). Oh, I see, on Sunday night you eat a little extra. The better the day the better the deed. Then, as you are in the habit of sitting an hour and a half at your supper, you conclude that the stranger was with Mr. Harefield as long as that.
Peacock. I should say about that time.
Coroner. How often did you see Mr. Harefield after the stranger left?
Peacock. I went into the room twice—once with some fresh logs, once with coals.
Coroner. Did you observe anything peculiar in your master’s manner?
Peacock. No, sir. When I went in the first time he was sitting before the fire, a little moody-like, staring straight before him; but he was moody in his ways most times. When I went in with the coals, he was sitting there still—like a statue. I askedhim if there was anything more wanted, and he said, ‘No, Peacock, nothing more.’ That was his general reply. I couldn’t see any difference in his voice or manner.
Coroner. Were you with Miss Harefield this morning when she discovered her father’s death?
Peacock. I was just outside the door when she went in and found him lying dead upon the sofa.
Coroner. In which room was he found?
Peacock. In Mrs. Harefield’s sitting-room. It hadn’t entered into my head—or into the housekeeper’s head—to look for him in that room, for the room was never used. Mr. Harefield kept the key, and it was kept locked at all times, like a tomb.
Coroner. Who suggested looking into that room?
Peacock. Miss Harefield. ‘Let us go into every room in the house,’ she said, ‘my mother’s rooms first of all.’
Coroner. Did she give any reason for making that suggestion?
Peacock. Yes—she named her reason. The strange gentleman was an old friend of her mother’s, Miss Harefield thought, and that might have set herfather thinking of old times, and carried his thoughts back to his wife’s rooms. That is what I understood her to mean.
Coroner. Then Miss Harefield led the way to the room in which her father was found?
Peacock. She did.
Coroner. And he was quite dead when you found him?
Peacock. Quite dead. When Mr. Namby saw my master he said he must have been dead some hours. He was stone cold—icy cold. Mr. Namby said icy coldness of the body was one of the signs of poisoning by opium.
Coroner. You need not tell us what Mr. Namby said. Mr. Namby has told us his opinion. Have you any knowledge of your master taking opium, for any purpose whatever?
Peacock. I have never known him to do such a thing.
Coroner. What! not an occasional dose to deaden pain?
Peacock. I have never heard him complain of pain.
Coroner. But have you never had cause to suspect him of taking opium? He was a man of reserved and lonely habits. Have you never seen him in a stupefied, dreamy state, such as you may have heard of or read of as peculiar to opium eaters?
Peacock. Never.
Coroner. Have you ever seen any bottle containing opium, or any bottle labelled opium, or laudanum, in his rooms?
Peacock. Never.
Coroner. Have you ever seen anything in your late master’s manner indicating a disturbed state of mind—the sort of thing which is usually called not being quite right in one’s mind?
Peacock. No, sir. My late master was not a cheerful man. He was a gentleman who preferred to live alone. He had always lived shut up in his own rooms since his wife’s death. I believe he took her death very much to heart. He has never talked about his troubles to me, or to any one in the house, but I believe that was his trouble.
The next witness was Isabella Scratchell. Shehad been present at the discovery of Mr. Harefield’s death. She had dined with him on the previous evening, and would naturally be an independent witness, and a more unbiassed judge of his demeanour and mental condition than either his old servants or his daughter.
Bella gave her evidence with a graceful timidity and a gentle firmness which charmed her hearers. She felt that it was her first public appearance, and that the eyes of Little Yafford—or possibly of a much wider world than Little Yafford—were upon her. She stood at the end of the long table, with her clear blue eyes fixed respectfully upon the coroner, her little white hands clasped, her head slightly bent. Even her father’s cold eye perceived that there was grace and prettiness in this familiar face and figure.
‘A girl like that ought to get a husband able to support her,’ thought Mr. Scratchell, who regarded marriage as an institution devised for taking daughters off a father’s hands, and throwing the onus of maintaining them upon an obliging stranger.
Coroner. You dined with Mr. Harefield yesterday evening, I believe?
Bella. Yes.
Coroner. What impression did his manner make upon you?
Bella. I felt very sorry for Beatrix—for Miss Harefield.
Coroner. Why?
Bella. It was so sad to see a father and daughter so unloving. Or I should say sad to see a daughter so little loved.
Coroner. Then you conclude the want of affection was on Mr. Harefield’s side?
Bella (after a moment of hesitation). Yes.
Coroner. Do you mean that Mr. Harefield was absolutely harsh in his treatment of his daughter?
Bella. Both harsh and cold. I should have felt it painfully had I been Miss Harefield. Indeed, I know she did feel it.
Coroner. She has told you so?
Bella. Indirectly. She has told me of unhappiness between her and her father.
Coroner. What kind of unhappiness?
Bella. I had rather not enter into that. I have no right to betray Miss Harefield’s confidence.
Coroner. You are bound to answer any questions bearing upon the subject of this inquiry. I want particularly to know the state of feeling between Mr. Harefield and his daughter. Now what was the unhappiness of which you have spoken?
Bella (with her eyes wandering piteously round the stolid faces of the jury, and at last seeking counsel in the looks of her father). Am I really obliged to answer this question?
Scratchell. Yes, yes, girl, you’d better answer.
Bella. The unhappiness was about a gentleman to whom Miss Harefield is deeply attached. Mr. Harefield forbade her to see this gentleman, or to hold any communication with him.
Coroner. And that had been the cause of ill-feeling between the father and daughter?
Bella. I have never said ill-feeling. I only say that Mr. Harefield’s manner to his daughter was morose and unkind.
Coroner. Did you perceive anything approaching to eccentricity or mental disturbance in his manner last evening?
Bella. Nothing.
Coroner. Should you consider him a man likely to commit suicide?
Bella. I should say not. He was always reserved and gloomy.
Coroner. But not more so yesterday evening than usual?
Bella. No more than usual.
Coroner. How did Miss Harefield seem impressed by the discovery of her father’s death?
Bella. She seemed stunned.
Coroner. She said very little, I conclude?
Bella. She said nothing. The awfulness of the discovery seemed to turn her to stone.
The next and last witness was one in whom even those stolid jurymen felt a keen interest. The next witness was Beatrix Harefield, who came into the room slowly, leaning upon Mrs. Dulcimer, a living image of horror and amazement.
Some one, seeing how feebly she moved fromthe door to the table, brought her a chair; or, in the richer phraseology of the reporters, she was ‘accommodated with a seat.’ She sat, looking straight at the distant coroner, seen dimly by the light of tall wax candles in old silver candelabra, at the end of an avenue of jurymen.
Beatrix was questioned as to the finding of her father’s body. Her replies were at first hardly audible, but voice and manner grew firmer as she went on.
Coroner. What induced you to suggest that your mother’s sitting-room should be the first place to be searched?
Beatrix. Because I fancied my father’s thoughts would dwell upon my mother last night.
Coroner. Why?
Beatrix. The gentleman who came here—after an absence of many years—was a countryman and friend of my mother’s. That would carry my father’s thoughts back.
Coroner. Can you tell me the name of this gentleman? His evidence would be important as to the state of your father’s mind yesterday evening.
Beatrix. I have heard him called Antonio.
Coroner. That was his Christian name, no doubt. Have you never heard his surname?
Beatrix. Never, to my knowledge. I was a child when he used to visit here. I have heard my father and mother both speak of him as Antonio.
Coroner. Was your father in the habit of going into that locked up room of your mother’s?
Beatrix. I know he went there sometimes.
Coroner. How do you know that?
Beatrix. I found the key left in the door once. No one could have left it there but my father.
Coroner. The room was kept locked, I understand. The members of the household were not allowed to go in.
Beatrix. It was kept locked from every one for ten years.
Coroner. Have you never been in the room during that time?
Beatrix. Once only. The day I found the key in the door. I went in and looked at my mother’s room.
Coroner. Have you any reason to suppose that your father was in the habit of taking opium?
Beatrix. I have no reason to suppose so. We lived very much apart, but from what I saw of his mode of life, I do not think my father ever took opium.
Coroner. You have never heard him complain of pain of any kind—rheumatism or neuralgia, for instance—which might have induced him to seek relief from opiates?
Beatrix. Never.
Coroner. Do you know whether there was any laudanum in the house at the time of your father’s death?
Beatrix (with evident agitation, and after a noticeable pause). No, there was no laudanum in the house at the time of my father’s death.
Coroner. Are you sure of that?
Beatrix. Quite sure. I have suffered from sleeplessness for many weeks. Last week I bought a little laudanum, and have been taking it nightly in small doses. I took rather a larger dose than usual last night and emptied the bottle.
The jury, who had been getting a little absent-minded during what they considered a somewhat wire-drawn interrogation, became suddenly on the alert. Four and twenty eyes were fixed inquisitively upon the pale face of the witness. A gentleman who stood in the shadow of the doorway watching the proceedings grew a shade paler than he had been before.
Coroner. Did any one know of your taking this laudanum?
Beatrix. No one.
Coroner. Was it recommended by your medical adviser?
Beatrix. No. I asked Mr. Namby to give me opiates, but he refused.
Coroner. And, unknown to every one, you bought laudanum, and took it in nightly doses?
Beatrix. Yes. The sleepless nights were so miserable. I think I should have gone mad if they had continued much longer.
Coroner. Was there any cause for these sleepless nights?
Beatrix (faltering, and with a distressed look). I had been unhappy lately.
Coroner. There was a love affair, was there not, which your father disapproved?
Beatrix. Yes.
Coroner. Was there ill-feeling between you and your father about this love affair?
Beatrix. Not exactly ill-feeling. I thought that my father acted unkindly.
Coroner. There was no quarrel between you?
Beatrix. No. I submitted to my father’s will, but he knew that when I came of age I should fulfil the engagement of which he disapproved.
Coroner. In other words, you defied him?
Beatrix. No. I only told him that I should be faithful to the man I loved.
Coroner. No matter how objectionable that person might be to your father?
Beatrix. He had no cause to object. He ought to have been proud that I had won the love of so good a man.
Coroner. Perhaps a young lady is not always the best judge upon that point. Now, will you tell me where you got this laudanum?
Beatrix. At Great Yafford.
Coroner. At which chemist’s?
Beatrix. I got it from several chemists. The chemist I first went to would give me only a very small quantity. I went on to another chemist and got a little more.
Coroner. That was very ingenious. How many chemists did you go to in this manner?
Beatrix. I believe I went to five or six shops.
Coroner. Getting a little laudanum at each. How much did you get altogether?
Beatrix. When I emptied all the bottles into one there was a small bottle full.
Coroner. I should like to see the bottle. Let it be sent for.
Beatrix. It is in the little Indian cabinet on the writing-table in my bedroom.
The bottle was fetched at the coroner’s desire. It was an ounce bottle, quite empty, labelled in the usual manner.
Coroner. Was this bottle never out of your hands after you brought it home?
Beatrix. Never. Till last night I kept it locked in my dressing-case.
Coroner. You are sure of that?
Beatrix. I am quite sure.
This ended Beatrix Harefield’s examination. After this the coroner adjourned the inquiry for a week, with a view to obtaining further evidence. He made a strong point of the desirability of obtaining the evidence of the strange visitor who had been closeted with Mr. Harefield for an hour and a half on the night before his death.