The fernery was a huge glass building on one side of the ballroom, filled with Australian and New Zealand ferns, and having a large fountain in the centre sending up a sparkling jet of water, which fell into the shallow stone basin filled with water lilies and their pure white flowers. At the end was a mimic representation of a mountain torrent, with real water tumbling down real rocks, and here and there in the crannies and crevices grew delicate little ferns, while overhead towered the great fronds of the tree ferns. The roof was a dense mass of greenery, and wire baskets filled with sinuous creepers hung down, with their contents straggling over. Electric lights in green globes were skilfully hidden all round, and a faint aquamarine twilight permeated the whole place, and made it look like a mermaid’s grotto in the depths of the sea. Here and there were delightful nooks, with well-cushioned seats, many of which were occupied by pretty girls and their attendant cavaliers. On one side of the fernery a wide door opened on to a low terrace, from whence steps went down to the lawn, and beyond was the dark fringe of trees wherein Pierre was concealed.
Kitty and Vandeloup found a very comfortable nook just opposite the door, and they could see the white gleam of the terrace in the luminous starlight. Every now and then a couple would pass, black silhouettes against the clear sky, and around they could hear the murmur of voices and the musical tinkling of the fountain, while the melancholy music of the valse, with its haunting refrain, sounded through the pale green twilight. Barty Jarper was talking near them, in his mild little way, to a tall young lady in a bilious-looking green dress, and further off Mr Bellthorp was laughing with Mrs Riller behind the friendly shelter of her fan.
‘Well,’ said Vandeloup, amiably, as he sank into a seat beside Kitty, ‘what is this great matter you wish to speak about?’
‘Madame Midas,’ retorted Kitty, looking straight at him.
‘Such a delightful subject,’ murmured Gaston, closing his eyes, as he guessed what was coming; ‘go on, I’m all attention.’
‘You are going to marry her,’ said Miss Marchurst, bending towards him and closing her fan with a snap.
Vandeloup smiled faintly.
‘You don’t say so?’ he murmured, opening his eyes and looking at her lazily; ‘who told you this news—for news it is to me, I assure you?’
‘Then it’s not true?’ added Kitty, eagerly, with a kind of gasp.
‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ he replied, indolently fingering his moustache; ‘I haven’t asked her yet.’
‘You are not going to do so?’ she said, rapidly, with a flush on her face.
‘Why not?’ in surprise; ‘do you object?’
‘Object? my God!’ she ejaculated, in a low fierce tone; ‘have you forgotten what we are to one another?’
‘Friends, I understand,’ he said, looking at his hands, admiringly.
‘And something more,’ she added, bitterly; ‘lovers!’
‘Don’t talk so loud, my dear,’ replied Vandeloup, coolly; ‘it doesn’t do to let everyone know your private business.’
‘It’s private now,’ she said, in a voice of passion, ‘but it will soon be public enough.’
‘Indeed! which paper do you advertise in?’
‘Listen to me, Gaston,’ she said, taking no notice of his sneer; ‘you will never marry Madame Midas; sooner than that, I will reveal all and kill myself.’
‘You forget,’ he said, gently; ‘it is comedy, not tragedy, we play.’
‘That is as I choose,’ she retorted; ‘see!’ and with a sudden gesture she put her hand into the bosom of her dress and took out the bottle of poison with the red bands. ‘I have it still.’
‘So I perceive,’ he answered, smiling. ‘Do you always carry it about with you, like a modern Lucrezia Borgia?’
‘Yes,’ she answered quietly; ‘it never leaves me, you see,’ with a sneer. ‘As you said yourself, it’s always well to be prepared for emergencies.’
‘So it appears,’ observed Vandeloup, with a yawn, sitting up. ‘I wouldn’t use that poison if I were you; it is risky.’
‘Oh, no, it’s not,’ answered Kitty; ‘it is fatal in its results, and leaves no trace behind.’
‘There you are wrong,’ replied Gaston, coolly; ‘it does leave traces behind, but makes it appear as if apoplexy was the cause of death. Give me the bottle?’ peremptorily.
‘No!’ she answered, defiantly, clenching it in her hand.
‘I say yes,’ he said, in an angry whisper; ‘that poison is my secret, and I’m not going to have you play fast and loose with it; give it up,’ and he placed his hand on her wrist.
‘You hurt my wrist,’ she said.
‘I’ll break your wrist, my darling,’ he said, quietly, ‘if you don’t give me that bottle.’
Kitty wrenched her hand away, and rose to her feet.
‘Sooner than that, I’ll throw it away,’ she said, and before he could stop her, she flung the bottle out on to the lawn, where it fell down near the trees.
‘Bah! I will find it,’ he said, springing to his feet, but Kitty was too quick for him.
‘M. Vandeloup,’ she said aloud, so that everyone could hear; ‘kindly take me back to the ball-room, will you, to finish our valse.’
Vandeloup would have refused, but she had his arm, and as everyone was looking at him, he could not refuse without being guilty of marked discourtesy. Kitty had beaten him with his own weapons, so, with a half-admiring glance at her, he took her back to the ball-room, where the waltz was just ending.
‘At all events,’ he said in her ear, as they went smoothly gliding round the room, ‘you won’t be able to do any mischief with it now to yourself or to anyone else.’
‘Won’t I?’ she retorted quickly; ‘I have some more at home.’
‘The deuce!’ he ejaculated.
‘Yes,’ she replied, triumphantly; ‘the bottle I got that belonged to you, I put half its contents into another. So you see I can still do mischief, and,’ in a fierce whisper, ‘I will, if you don’t give up this idea of marrying Madame Midas.’
‘I thought you knew me better than that,’ he said, in a tone of concentrated passion. ‘I will not.’
Then I’ll poison her,’ she retorted.
‘What, the woman who has been so kind to you?’
‘Yes, I’d rather see her dead than married to a devil like you.’
‘How amiable you are, Bebe,’ he said, with a laugh, as the music stopped.
‘I am what you have made me,’ she replied, bitterly, and they walked into the drawing-room.
After this Vandeloup clearly saw that it was a case of diamond cut diamond, for Kitty was becoming as clever with her tongue as he was. After all, though she was his pupil, and was getting as hardened and cynical as possible, he did not think it fair she should use his own weapons against himself. He did not believe she would try and poison Madame Midas, even though she was certain of not being detected, for he thought she was too tender-hearted. But, alas! he had taught her excellently well, and Kitty was rapidly arriving at the conclusion he had long since come to, that number one was the greatest number. Besides, her love for Vandeloup, though not so ardent as it had been, was too intense for her to let any other woman get a hold of him. Altogether, M. Vandeloup was in an extremely unpleasant position, and one of his own making.
Having given Kitty over to the tender care of Mrs Rolleston, Vandeloup hurried outside to look for the missing bottle. He had guessed the position it fell in, and, striking a match, went to look over the smooth close-shorn turf. But though he was a long time, and looked carefully, the bottle was gone.
‘The devil!’ said Vandeloup, startled by this discovery. ‘Who could have picked it up?’
He went back into the conservatory, and, sitting down in his old place, commenced to review the position.
It was most annoying about the poison, there was no doubt of that. He only hoped that whoever picked it up would know nothing about its dangerous qualities. After all, he could be certain about that, as no one but himself knew what the poison was and how it could be used. The person who picked up the bottle would probably throw it away again as useless; and then, again, perhaps when Kitty threw the bottle away the stopper came out, and the contents would be lost. And then Kitty still had more left, but—bah!—she would not use it on Madame Midas. That was the vague threat of a jealous woman to frighten him. The real danger he was in lay in the fact that she might tell Madame Midas the relations between them, and then there would be no chance of his marrying at all. If he could only stop Kitty’s mouth in some way—persuasion was thrown away on her. If he could with safety get rid of her he would. Ah! that was an idea. He had some of this poison—if he could only manage to give it to her, and thus remove her from his path. There would be no risk of discovery, as the poison left no traces behind, and if it came to the worst, it would appear she had committed suicide, for poison similar to what she had used would be found in her possession. It was a pity to kill her, so young and pretty, and yet his safety demanded it; for if she told Madame Midas all, it might lead to further inquiries, and M. Vandeloup well knew his past life would not bear looking into. Another thing, she had threatened him about some secret she held—he did not know what it was, and yet almost guessed; if that was the secret she must be got rid of, for it would imperil not only his liberty, but his life. Well, if he had to get rid of her, the sooner he did so the better, for even on the next day she might tell all—he would have to give her the poison that night—but how? that was the difficulty. He could not do it at this ball, as it would be too apparent if she died—no—it would have to be administered secretly when she went home. But then she would go to Madame Midas’ room to see how she was, and then would retire to her own room. He knew where that was—just off Mrs Villiers’ room; there were French windows in both rooms—two in Mrs Villiers’, and one in Kitty’s. That was the plan—they would be left open as the night was hot. Suppose he went down to St Kilda, and got into the garden, he knew every inch of the way; then he could slip into the open window, and if it was not open, he could use a diamond ring to cut the glass. He had a diamond ring he never wore, so if Kitty was discovered to be poisoned, and the glass cut, they would never suspect him, as he did not wear rings at all, and the evidence of the cut window would show a diamond must have been used. Well, suppose he got inside, Kitty would be asleep, and he could put the poison into the water carafe, or he could put it in a glass of water and leave it standing; the risk would be, would she drink it or not—he would have to run that risk; if he failed this time, he would not the next. But, then, suppose she awoke and screamed—pshaw! when she saw it was he Kitty would not dare to make a scene, and he could easily make some excuse for his presence there. It was a wild scheme, but then he was in such a dangerous position that he had to try everything.
When M. Vandeloup had come to this conclusion he arose, and, going to the supper room, drank a glass of brandy; for even he, cool as he was, felt a little nervous over the crime he was about to commit. He thought he would give Kitty one last chance, so when she was already cloaked, waiting with Mrs Riller for the carriage, he drew her aside.
‘You did not mean what you said tonight,’ he whispered, looking searchingly at her.
‘Yes, I did,’ she replied, defiantly; ‘if you push me to extremities, you must take the consequences.’
‘It will be the worse for you,’ he said, threateningly, as the carriage drove up.
‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she retorted, shrugging her shoulders, a trick she had learned from him; ‘you have ruined my life, but I’m not going to let you ruin Madame’s. I’d sooner see her dead than in your arms.’
‘Remember, I have warned you,’ he said, gravely, handing her to the carriage. ‘Good night!’
‘Good night!’ she answered, mockingly; ‘and to-morrow,’ in a low voice, ‘you will be astonished.’
‘And to-morrow,’ he said to himself, as the carriage drove off, ‘you will be dead.’
Everyone knows the story of Damocles, and how uncomfortable he felt with the sword suspended by a hair over his head. No one could enjoy their dinner under such circumstances, and it is much to be thankful for that hosts of the present day do not indulge in these practical jokes. But though history does not repeat itself exactly regarding the suspended sword, yet there are cases when a sense of impending misfortune has the same effect on the spirits. This was the case of Madame Midas. She was not by any means of a nervous temperature, yet ever since the disappearance of her husband she was a prey to a secret dread, which, reacting on her nerves, rendered her miserable. Had Mr Villiers only appeared, she would have known how to deal with him, and done so promptly, but it was his absence that made her afraid. Was he dead? If so, why was his body not found; if he was not dead, why did he not reappear on the scene. Allowing, for the sake of argument, that he had stolen the nugget and left the colony in order to enjoy the fruits of his villainy—well, the nugget weighed about three hundred ounces—and that if he disposed of it, as he must have done, it would give him a sum of money a little over one thousand pounds. True, his possession of such a large mass of gold would awake suspicions in the mind of anyone he went to; but then, there were people who were always ready to do shady things, provided they were well paid. So whomsoever he went to would levy blackmail on him on threat of informing the police and having him arrested. Therefore, the most feasible thing would be that he had got about half of the value of the nugget, which would be about six hundred pounds. Say that he did so, a whole year had elapsed, and Madame Midas knew her husband well enough to know that six hundred pounds would soon slip through his fingers, so at the present time he must once more be penniless. If he was, why did he not come back to her and demand more money now she was rich? Even had he gone to a distant place, he would always have kept enough money to pay his way back to Victoria, so that he could wring money out of her. It was this unpleasant feeling of being watched that haunted her and made her uneasy. The constant strain began to tell on her; she became ill and haggard-looking, and her eyes were always glancing around in the anxious manner common to hunted animals. She felt as though she were advancing on a masked battery, and at any moment a shot might strike her from the most unexpected quarter. She tried to laugh off the feeling and blamed herself severely for the morbid state of mind into which she was falling; but it was no use, for by day and night the sense of impending misfortune hung over her like the sword of Damocles, ready to fall at any moment. If her husband would only appear, she would settle an income on him, on condition he ceased to trouble her, but at present she was fighting in the dark with an unknown enemy. She became afraid of being left alone, and even when seated quietly with Selina, would suddenly start and look apprehensively towards the door, as if she heard his footstep. Imagination, when uncontrolled, can keep the mind on a mental rack, to which that of the Inquisition was a bed of roses.
Selina was grieved at this state of things, and tried to argue and comfort her mistress with the most amiable proverbs, but she was quite unable to administer to a mind diseased, and Mrs Villiers’ life became a perfect hell upon earth.
‘Are my troubles never going to end?’ she said to Selina on the night of the Meddlechip ball, as she paced restlessly up and down her room; ‘this man has embittered the whole of my life, and now he is stabbing me in the dark.’
‘Let the dead past bury its dead,’ quoted Selina, who was arranging the room for the night.
‘Pshaw!’ retorted Madame, impatiently, walking to the French window at the end of the room and opening it; ‘how do you know he is dead? Come here, Selina,’ she went on, beckoning to the old woman, and pointing outside to the garden bathed in moonlight; ‘I have always a dread lest he may be watching the house. Even now he may be concealed yonder’—pointing down the garden.
Selina looked out, but could see nothing. There was a smooth lawn, burnt and yellow with the heat, which stretched for about fifty feet, and ended in a low quickset hedge at the foot of a red brick wall which ran down that side of the property. The top of this wall was set with broken bottles, and beyond was the street, where they could hear people passing along. The moonlight rendered all this as light as day, and, as Selina pointed out to her mistress, there was no place where a man could conceal himself. But this did not satisfy Madame; she left the window half open, so that the cool night wind could blow in, and drew together the red velvet curtains which hung there.
‘You’ve left the window open,’ remarked Selina, looking at her mistress, ‘and if you are nervous it will not make you feel safe.’
Madame Midas glanced at the window.
‘It’s so hot,’ she said, plaintively, ‘I will get no sleep. Can’t you manage to fix it up, so that I can leave it open?’
‘I’ll try,’ answered Selina, and she undressed her mistress and put her to bed, then proceeded to fix up a kind of burglar trap. The bed was a four-poster, with heavy crimson curtains, and the top was pushed against the wall, near the window. The curtains of the window and those of the bed prevented any draught blowing in; and directly in front of the window, Selina set a small wood table, so that anyone who tried to enter would throw it over, and thus put the sleeper on the alert. On this she put a night-light, a book, in case Madame should wake up and want to read—a thing she very often did—and a glass of homemade lemonade, for a night drink. Then she locked the other window and drew the curtains, and, after going into Kitty’s room, which opened off the larger one, and fixing up the one window there in the same way, she prepared to retire, but Madame stopped her.
‘You must stay all night with me, Selina,’ she said, irritably. ‘I can’t be left alone.’
‘But, Miss Kitty,’ objected Selina, ‘she’ll expect to be waited for coming home from the ball.’
‘Well, she comes in here to go to her own room,’ said Madame, impatiently; ‘you can leave the door unlocked.’
‘Well,’ observed Miss Sprotts, grimly, beginning to undress herself, ‘for a nervous woman, you leave a great many windows and doors open.’
‘I’m not afraid as long as you are with me,’ said Madame, yawning; ‘it’s by myself I get nervous.’
Miss Sprotts sniffed, and observed that ‘Prevention is better than cure,’ then went to bed, and both she and Madame were soon fast asleep. Selina slept on the outside of the bed, and Madame, having a sense of security from being with someone, slumbered calmly; so the night wore drowsily on, and nothing could be heard but the steady ticking of the clock and the heavy breathing of the two women.
A sleepy servant admitted Kitty when she came home from the ball, and had said goodbye to Mrs Riller and Bellthorp. Then Mrs Riller, whose husband had gone home three hours before, drove away with Bellthorp, and Kitty went into Madame’s room, while the sleepy servant, thankful that his vigil for the night was over, went to bed. Kitty found Madame’s door ajar, and went in softly, fearful lest she might wake her. She did not know that Selina was in the room, and as she heard the steady breathing of the sleepers, she concluded that Madame was asleep, and resolved to go quietly into her own room without disturbing the sleeper. So eerie the room looked with the faint night-light burning on the table beside the bed, and all the shadows, not marked and distinct as in a strong glare, were faintly confused. Just near the door was a long chevral glass, and Kitty caught sight of herself in it, wan and spectral-looking, in her white dress, and, as she let the heavy blue cloak fall from her shoulders, a perfect shower of apple blossoms were shaken on to the floor. Her hair had come undone from its sleek, smooth plaits, and now hung like a veil of gold on her shoulders. She looked closely at herself in the glass, and her face looked worn and haggard in the dim light. A pungent acrid odour permeated the room, and the heavy velvet curtains moved with subdued rustlings as the wind stole in through the window. On a table near her was a portrait of Vandeloup, which he had given Madame two days before, and though she could not see the face she knew it was his. Stretching out her hand she took the photograph from its stand, and sank into a low chair which stood at the end of the room some distance from the bed. So noiseless were her movements that the two sleepers never awoke, and the girl sat in the chair with the portrait in her hand dreaming of the man whom it represented. She knew his handsome face was smiling up at her out of the glimmering gloom, and clenched her hands in anger as she thought how he had treated her. She let the portrait fall on her lap, and leaning back in the chair, with all her golden hair showering down loosely over her shoulders, gave herself up to reflection.
He was going to marry Madame Midas—the man who had ruined her life; he would hold another woman in his arms and tell her all the false tales he had told her. He would look into her eyes with his own, and she would be unable to see the treachery and guile hidden in their depths. She could not stand it. False friend, false lover, he had been, but to see him married to another—no! it was too much. And yet what could she do? A woman in love believes no ill of the man she adores, and if she was to tell Madame Midas all she would not be believed. Ah! it was useless to fight against fate, it was too strong for her, so she would have to suffer in silence, and see them happy. That story of Hans Andersen’s, which she had read, about the little mermaid who danced, and felt that swords were wounding her feet while the prince smiled on his bride—yes, that was her case. She would have to stand by in silence and see him caressing another woman, while every caress would stab her like a sword. Was there no way of stopping it? Ah! what is that? The poison—no! no! anything but that. Madame had been kind to her, and she could not repay her trust with treachery. No, she was not weak enough for that. And yet suppose Madame died? no one could tell she had been poisoned, and then she could marry Vandeloup. Madame was sleeping in yonder bed, and on the table there was a glass with some liquid in it. She would only have to go to her room, fetch the poison, and put it in there—then retire to bed. Madame would surely drink during the night, and then—yes, there was only one way—the poison!
How still the house was: not a sound but the ticking of the clock in the hall and the rushing scamper of a rat or mouse. The dawn reddens faintly in the east and the chill morning breeze comes up from the south, salt with the odours of the ocean. Ah! what is that? a scream—a woman’s voice—then another, and the bell rings furiously. The frightened servants collect from all parts of the house, in all shapes of dress and undress. The bell sounds from the bedroom of Mrs Villiers, and having ascertained this they all rush in. What a sight meets their eyes. Kitty Marchurst, still in her ball dress, clinging convulsively to the chair; Madame Midas, pale but calm, ringing the bell; and on the bed, with one arm hanging over, lies Selina Sprotts—dead! The table near the bed was overturned on the floor, and the glass and the night-lamp both lie smashed to pieces on the carpet.
‘Send for a doctor at once,’ cried Madame, letting go the bell-rope and crossing to the window; ‘Selina has had a fit of some sort.’
Startled servant goes out to stables and wakes up the grooms, one of whom is soon on horseback riding for dear life to Dr Chinston. Clatter—clatter along in the keen morning air; a few workmen on their way to work gaze in surprise at this furious rider. Luckily, the doctor lives in St Kilda, and being awoke out of his sleep, dresses himself quickly, and taking the groom’s horse, rides back to Mrs Villiers’ house. He dismounts, enters the house, then the bedroom. Kitty, pale and wan, is seated in the chair; the window curtains are drawn, and the cold light of day pours into the room, while Madame Midas is kneeling beside the corpse, with all the servants around her. Dr Chinston lifts the arm; it falls limply down. The face is ghastly white, the eyes staring; there is a streak of foam on the tightly clenched mouth. The doctor puts his hand on the heart—not a throb; he closes the staring eyes reverently, and turns to the kneeling woman and the frightened servants.
‘She is dead,’ he says, briefly, and orders them to leave the room.
‘When did this occur, Mrs Villiers?’ he asked, when the room had been cleared and only himself, Madame, and Kitty remained.
‘I can’t tell you,’ replied Madame, weeping; ‘she was all right last night when we went to bed, and she stayed all night with me because I was nervous. I slept soundly, when I was awakened by a cry and saw Kitty standing beside the bed and Selina in convulsions; then she became quite still and lay like that till you came. What is the cause?’
‘Apoplexy,’ replied the doctor, doubtfully; ‘at least, judging from the symptoms; but perhaps Miss Marchurst can tell us when the attack came on?’
He turned to Kitty, who was shivering in the chair and looked so pale that Madame Midas went over to her to see what was the matter. The girl, however, shrank away with a cry as the elder woman approached, and rising to her feet moved unsteadily towards the doctor.
‘You say she,’ pointing to the body, ‘died of apoplexy?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, curtly, ‘all the symptoms of apoplexy are there.’
‘You are wrong!’ gasped Kitty, laying her hand on his arm, ‘it is poison!’
‘Poison!’ echoed Madame and the Doctor in surprise.
‘Listen,’ said Kitty, quickly, pulling herself together by a great effort. ‘I came home from the ball between two and three, I entered the room to go to my own,’ pointing to the other door; ‘I did not know Selina was with Madame.’
‘No,’ said Madame, quietly, ‘that is true, I only asked her to stop at the last moment.’
‘I was going quietly to bed,’ resumed Kitty, hurriedly, ‘in order not to waken Madame, when I saw the portrait of M. Vandeloup on the table; I took it up to look at it.’
‘How could you see without a light?’ asked Dr Chinston, sharply, looking at her.
‘There was a night light burning,’ replied Kitty, pointing to the fragments on the floor; ‘and I could only guess it was M. Vandeloup’s portrait; but at all events,’ she said, quickly, ‘I sat down in the chair over there and fell asleep.’
‘You see, doctor, she had been to a ball and was tired,’ interposed Madame Midas; ‘but go on, Kitty, I want to know why you say Selina was poisoned.’
‘I don’t know how long I was asleep,’ said Kitty, wetting her dry lips with her tongue, ‘but I was awoke by a noise at the window there,’ pointing towards the window, upon which both her listeners turned towards it, ‘and looking, I saw a hand coming out from behind the curtain with a bottle in it; it held the bottle over the glass on the table, and after pouring the contents in, then withdrew.’
‘And why did you not cry out for assistance?’ asked the doctor, quickly.
‘I couldn’t,’ she replied, ‘I was so afraid that I fainted. I recovered my senses, Selina had drank the poison, and when I got up on my feet and went to the bed she was in convulsions; I woke Madame, and that’s all.’
‘A strange story,’ said Chinston, musingly, ‘where is the glass?’
‘It’s broken, doctor,’ replied Madame Midas; ‘in getting out of bed I knocked the table down, and both the night lamp and glass smashed.’
‘No one could have been concealed behind the curtain of the window?’ said the doctor to Madame Midas.
‘No,’ she replied, ‘but the window was open all night; so if it is as Kitty says, the man who gave the poison must have put his hand through the open window.’
Dr Chinston went to the window and looked out; there were no marks of feet on the flower bed, where it was so soft that anyone standing on it would have left a footmark behind.
‘Strange,’ said the doctor, ‘it’s a peculiar story,’ looking at Kitty keenly.
‘But a true one,’ she replied boldly, the colour coming back to her face; ‘I say she was poisoned.’
‘By whom?’ asked Madame Midas, the memory of her husband coming back to her.
‘I can’t tell you,’ answered Kitty, ‘I only saw the hand.’
‘At all events,’ said Chinston, slowly, ‘the poisoner did not know that your nurse was with you, so the poison was meant for Mrs Villiers.’
For me?’ she echoed, ghastly pale; ‘I knew it,—my husband is alive, and this is his work.’
Ill news travels fast, and before noon the death of Selina Sprotts was known all over Melbourne. The ubiquitous reporter, of course, appeared on the scene, and the evening papers gave its own version of the affair, and a hint at foul play. There was no grounds for this statement, as Dr Chinston told Kitty and Madame Midas to say nothing about the poison, and it was generally understood that the deceased had died from apoplexy. A rumour, however, which originated none knew how, crept about among everyone that poison was the cause of death, and this, being added to by some and embellished in all its little details by others, there was soon a complete story made up about the affair. At the Bachelor’s Club it was being warmly spoken about when Vandeloup came in about eight o’clock in the evening; and when he appeared he was immediately overwhelmed with inquiries. He looked cool and calm as usual, and stood smiling quietly on the excited group before him.
‘You know Mrs Villiers,’ said Bellthorp, in an assertive tone, ‘so you must know all about the affair.’ ‘I don’t see that,’ returned Gaston, pulling at his moustache, ‘knowing anyone does not include a knowledge of all that goes on in the house. I assure you, beyond what there is in the papers, I am as ignorant as you are.’
‘They say this woman—Sprotts or Potts, or something—died from poison,’ said Barty Jarper, who had been all round the place collecting information.
‘Apoplexy, the doctor says,’ said Bellthorp, lighting a cigarette; ‘she was in the same room with Mrs Villiers and was found dead in the morning.’
‘Miss Marchurst was also in the room,’ put in Barty, eagerly.
‘Oh, indeed!’ said Vandeloup, smoothly, turning to him; ‘do you think she had anything to do with it?’
‘Of course not,’ said Rolleston, who had just entered, ‘she had no reason to kill the woman.’
Vandeloup smiled.
‘So logical you are,’ he murmured, ‘you want a reason for everything.’
‘Naturally,’ retorted Felix, fixing in his eyeglass, ‘there is no effect without a cause.’
‘It couldn’t have been Miss Marchurst,’ said Bellthorp, ‘they say that the poison was poured out of a bottle held by a hand which came through the window—it’s quite true,’ defiantly looking at the disbelieving faces round him; ‘one of Mrs Villiers’ servants heard it in the house and told Mrs Riller’s maid.’
‘From whence,’ said Vandeloup, politely, ‘it was transmitted to you—precisely.’
Bellthorp reddened slightly, and turned away as he saw the other smiling, for his relations with Mrs Riller were well known.
‘That hand business is all bosh,’ observed Felix Rolleston, authoritatively; ‘it’s in a play called “The Hidden Handâ€.’
‘Perhaps the person who poisoned Miss Sprotts, got the idea from it?’ suggested Jarper.
‘Pshaw, my dear fellow,’ said Vandeloup, languidly; ‘people don’t go to melodrama for ideas. Everyone has got their own version of this story; the best thing to do is to await the result of the inquest.’
‘Is there to be an inquest?’ cried all.
‘So I’ve heard,’ replied the Frenchman, coolly; ‘sounds as if there was something wrong, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s a curious poisoning case,’ observed Bellthorp.
‘Ah, but it isn’t proved that there is any poisoning about it,’ said Vandeloup, looking keenly at him; ‘you jump to conclusions.’
‘There is no smoke without fire,’ replied Rolleston, sagely. ‘I expect we’ll all be rather astonished when the inquest is held,’ and so the discussion closed.
The inquest was appointed to take place next day, and Calton had been asked by Madame Midas to be present on her behalf. Kilsip, a detective officer, was also present, and, curled up like a cat in the corner, was listening to every word of the evidence.
The first witness called was Madame Midas, who deposed that the deceased, Selina Jane Sprotts, was her servant. She had gone to bed in excellent health, and next morning she had found her dead.
The Coroner asked a few questions relative to the case.
Q. Miss Marchurst awoke you, I believe?
A. Yes.
Q. And her room is off yours?
A. Yes.
Q. Had she to go through your room to reach her own?
A. She had. There was no other way of getting there.
Q. One of the windows of your room was open?
A. It was—all night.
Miss Kitty Marchurst was then called, and being sworn, gave her story of the hand coming through the window. This caused a great sensation in Court, and Calton looked puzzled, while Kilsip, scenting a mystery, rubbed his lean hands together softly.
Q. You live with Mrs Villiers, I believe, Miss Marchurst?
A. I do.
Q. And you knew the deceased intimately?
A. I had known her all my life.
Q. Had she anyone who would wish to injure her?
A. Not that I knew of. She was a favourite with everyone.
Q. What time did you come home from the ball you were at?
A. About half-past two, I think. I went straight to Mrs Villiers’ room.
Q. With the intention of going through it to reach your own?
A. Yes.
Q. You say you fell asleep looking at a portrait. How long did you sleep?
A. I don’t know. I was awakened by a noise at the window, and saw the hand appear.
Q. Was it a man’s hand or a woman’s?
A. I don’t know. It was too indistinct for me to see clearly; and I was so afraid, I fainted.
Q. You saw it pour something from a bottle into the glass on the table?
A. Yes; but I did not see it withdraw. I fainted right off.
Q. When you recovered your senses, the deceased had drank the contents of the glass?
A. Yes. She must have felt thirsty and drank it, not knowing it was poisoned. Q. How do you know it was poisoned?
A. I only suppose so. I don’t think anyone would come to a window and pour anything into a glass without some evil purpose.
The Coroner then asked why the glass with what remained of the contents had not been put in evidence, but was informed that the glass was broken.
When Kitty had ended her evidence and was stepping down, she caught the eye of Vandeloup, who was looking at her keenly. She met his gaze defiantly, and he smiled meaningly at her. At this moment, however, Kilsip bent forward and whispered something to the Coroner, whereupon Kitty was recalled.
Q. You were an actress, Miss Marchurst?
A. Yes. I was on tour with Mr Theodore Wopples for some time.
Q. Do you know a drama called ‘The Hidden Hand’?
A. Yes—I have played in it once or twice.
Q. Is there not a strong resemblance between your story of this crime and the drama?
A. Yes, it is very much the same.
Kilsip then gave his evidence, and deposed that he had examined the ground between the window, where the hand was alleged to have appeared, and the garden wall. There were no footmarks on the flower-bed under the window, which was the only place where footmarks would show, as the lawn itself was hard and dry. He also examined the wall, but could find no evidence that anyone had climbed over it, as it was defended by broken bottles, and the bushes at its foot were not crushed or disturbed in any way.
Dr Chinston was then called, and deposed that he had made a post-mortem examination of the body of the deceased. The body was that of a woman of apparently fifty or fifty-five years of age, and of medium height; the body was well nourished. There were no ulcers or other signs of disease, and no marks of violence on the body. The brain was congested and soft, and there was an abnormal amount of fluid in the spaces known as the ventricles of the brain; the lungs were gorged with dark fluid blood; the heart appeared healthy, its left side was contracted and empty, but the right was dilated and filled with dark fluid blood; the stomach was somewhat congested, and contained a little partially digested food; the intestines here and there were congested, and throughout the body the blood was dark and fluid.
Q. What then, in your opinion, was the cause of death?
A. In my opinion death resulted from serous effusion on the brain, commonly known as serous apoplexy.
Q. Then you found no appearances in the stomach, or elsewhere, which would lead you to believe poison had been taken?
A. No, none.
Q. From the post-mortem examination could you say the death of the deceased was not due to some narcotic poison?
A. No: the post-mortem appearances of the body are quite consistent with those of poisoning by certain poisons, but there is no reason to suppose that any poison has been administered in this case, as I, of course, go by what I see; and the presence of poisons, especially vegetable poisons, can only be detected by chemical analysis.
Q. Did you analyse the contents of the stomach chemically?
A. No; it was not my duty to do so; I handed over the stomach to the police, seeing that there is suspicion of poison, and thence it will go to the Government analyst.
Q. It is stated that the deceased had convulsions before she died—is this not a symptom of narcotic poisoning?
A. In some cases, yes, but not commonly; aconite, for instance, always produces convulsions in animals, seldom in man.
Q. How do you account for the congested condition of the lungs?
A. I believe the serous effusion caused death by suspended respiration.
Q. Was there any odour perceptible?
A. No, none whatsoever.
The inquest was then adjourned till next day, and there was great excitement over the affair. If Kitty Marchurst’s statement was true, the deceased must have died from the administration of poison; but, on the other hand, Dr Chinston asserted positively that there was no trace of poison, and that the deceased had clearly died from apoplexy. Public opinion was very much divided, some asserting that Kitty’s story was true, while others said she had got the idea from ‘The Hidden Hand’, and only told it in order to make herself notorious. There were plenty of letters written to the papers on the subject, each offering a new solution of the difficulty, but the fact remained the same, that Kitty said the deceased had been poisoned; the doctor that she had died of apoplexy. Calton was considerably puzzled over the matter. Of course, there was no doubt that the man who committed the murder had intended to poison Madame Midas, but the fact that Selina stayed all night with her, had resulted in the wrong person being killed. Madame Midas told Calton the whole story of her life, and asserted positively that if the poison was meant for her, Villiers must have administered it. This was all very well, but the question then arose, was Villiers alive? The police were once more set to work, and once more their search resulted in nothing. Altogether the whole affair was wrapped in mystery, as it could not even be told if a murder had been committed, or if the deceased had died from natural causes. The only chance of finding out the truth would be to have the stomach analysed, and the cause of death ascertained; once that was done, and the matter could be gone on with, or dropped, according to the report of the analyst. If he said it was apoplexy, Kitty’s story would necessarily have to be discredited as an invention; but if, on the other hand, the traces of poison were found, search would have to be made for the murderer. Matters were at a deadlock, and everyone waited impatiently for the report of the analyst. Suddenly, however, a new interest was given to the case by the assertion that a Ballarat doctor, called Gollipeck, who was a noted toxicologist, had come down to Melbourne to assist at the analysis of the stomach, and knew something which would throw light on the mysterious death.
Vandeloup saw the paragraph which gave this information, and it disturbed him very much.
‘Curse that book of Prevol’s,’ he said to himself, as he threw down the paper: ‘it will put them on the right track, and then—well,’ observed M. Vandeloup, sententiously, ‘they say danger sharpens a man’s wits; it’s lucky for me if it does.’