Shortly after Mrs. Davenport left Carlingford House, Half Moon Lane, that afternoon, a supplementary luncheon was announced, and the four men went into the dining-room.
Mr. Paulton had already lunched with the family, but he wished to be with the others; so he sat down at the table with them, and broke a biscuit and half-filled a glass with sherry. Jerry O'Brien and Pringle were in no humour for trifling with food; they were both downright hungry. Alfred ate mechanically, and was much pre-occupied. The talk, therefore, for a quarter of an hour, was slight, fragmentary, as though by some agreement: no one referred to what had just occurred in the library, or to anything else connected with Crescent House. Young Pringle felt that although there must be and are extremely interesting tragedies in the world, luncheon, when one is hungry, was a matter not to be neglected. He had more than once in a criminal court eaten sandwiches and drunk sherry in the interval for luncheon, with the moral certainty that his client, who had been temporarily removed from the dock, would be sentenced to death before the Court rose, and hanged before that day four weeks.
Here were a cold rabbit pie, cold ham, and excellent sherry, well-baked, fine white bread, and nicknacks, and no particular reason for hurry--no fear of hearing "Silence" called out while one was but half-finished. The day was dull, but there was an ample fire burning brightly in the grate, the chair was soft and well-designed, so why should he bother himself for another quarter of an hour?
It was very easy for him to hold his tongue and to assure himself that he need not bother himself just now about Mrs. Davenport and her unpleasant predicament; but her predicament would not be banished, and every now and then some incident of either the drawing-room or library interview would rush into his mind with all the unexpected suddenness of that unwelcome cry of "Silence!" in the middle of luncheon at a criminal trial.
Upon the whole, that luncheon was not as calm or as successful as young Pringle meant it to be. He had never seen any one at all like Mrs. Davenport before, and he could make little or nothing of her. He now began to think that he had talked flippantly when he said she was certainly about to leave the country. Reviewing all he had seen and heard, he came to the conclusion that the safest thing for him to assume at present was--nothing. At length he spoke, addressing Alfred and Jerry O'Brien:
"Although Mrs. Davenport did not say anything to the effect when leaving, I suppose I had better act for her--until I hear something to the contrary."
Jerry O'Brien glanced at Alfred, and saw what he wished to say, but held back from speaking, because of the trouble his hasty action of the night before had brought about. Therefore Jerry made himself spokesman for his friend.
"Of course, Pringle, you go on acting for her, on her behalf. She has left this house finally now, and is not likely to cause any new unpleasantness here. Whether Mrs. Davenport is to blame or not, she can't be left alone and unaided in such a strait as this. What do you say, Mr. Paulton?"
"I am quite of your opinion, O'Brien. Now that she is out of the house I would be disposed to do anything I could for her. It's different now from what it was an hour ago. Go on, Mr. Pringle; and I most sincerely hope she may come out of the inquiry without the shadow of blame."
"I sincerely hope so," said Pringle, rising. Luncheon was over by this time. "Now, the first thing I should like, is to have a look at the place--at this Crescent House, as you call it."
Alfred and O'Brien got up, and in a few minutes the three found themselves in the hall of that house. The police were already there.
Pringle told the officers who he was and then proceeded to make inquiries. The following was the state of affairs at that time:
The inspector had been there about an hour. He had made an elaborate, but not exhaustive search in the room. The body was in the position it had been found in. An empty two-ounce bottle had been discovered on the floor. This was the bottle. It was labelled chloroform, smelt of chloroform, and had no cork in it. A cork which fitted it, and which also smelt, although faintly, of chloroform, had been found on the table close by the body.
In the pockets of the deceased had been discovered a number of letters, a small sum of money, and a pocket-book. This was the pocket-book. It was thin, and covered with Russia leather; it was old, and had been but little used. It contained several addresses, and on the first leaf was written a date of eleven years ago. It was more than likely this date corresponded with that on which the book became the property of deceased.
Most of the memoranda in that book could have no bearing on the present case, as most of them had evidently been made long ago. The last entry but one was dated in what was believed to be the handwriting of the deceased. It was made more than two years ago. After this last entry but one, a leaf was missing. A leaf had evidently been torn out--and clumsily torn out, too--for a jagged portion of the leaf remained behind.
Then came the last entry of all. This was also apparently in the handwriting of deceased. The writing was in pencil, and very shaky, and for a long time could not be deciphered. It was headed "Crescent House." The domicile fixed the date, for the night before was the only occasion on which Mr. Davenport crossed the threshold of that house. He had not even seen the house before renting it, but took it on the representation of an agent. The words on this page were:
"Pretended death. Blake gone. He emptied chloroform on me--held me down. Can't stir. Dying."
After reading this the three men stood aghast for a while. They looked at one another. They looked at the inspector. The inspector shook his head.
"There's hangman's work here," he said; and he was about to turn away, when a sudden thought struck Pringle. He said to the inspector:
"I beg your pardon. Does that pocket-book contain any London address of Mr. Davenport?"
"I don't know," said the inspector; "and I am afraid I have already shown you too much."
"I'd be very much obliged to you if you'd see. I represent Mrs. Davenport in this matter, and at the moment I don't know where to find her. She omitted to give me her address when she left me this afternoon. I want to write to her, and if you find any London address of Mr. Davenport, I'll chance directing my letter there. That can do no harm to any one."
The inspector hesitated, but at length opened the pocket-book, and after a search, said:
"There's an address here at Jermyn Street; but it's six years old."
"Never mind," said Pringle; "I'll risk it. What is it?"
The inspector read it out, and Pringle took it down.
Pringle, Alfred Paulton, and Jerry O'Brien were about to leave the room, when the first turned to the inspector, and said:
"By-the-way, you did not find the page that has been torn out of the pocket-book?"
"No," said the inspector, nodding his head significantly; "but there's evidence enough on what wedidfind to hang a score of men."
The three then walked to Herne Hill railway station, and took tickets for Ludgate. At the latter place Pringle left the two friends and went back to his office.
Here he sat down and wrote the following letter:
"Lincoln's Inn Fields, E.C.
"Feb. --, 18--.
"Dear Madam,
"By accident I got this address, and will chance writing you here in the hope this note may reach you.
"I have been to Crescent House. A pocket-book of the late Mr. Davenport has been found. It contains the following entry in the handwriting of deceased: 'Pretended death. Blake gone. He emptied the chloroform on me--held me down. Can't stir. Dying.'
"Awaiting your further instructions,
"I am, dear Madam,
"Yours faithfully,
"Richard Pringle."
This was the note which Mrs. Davenport handed Thomas Blake as she stood over him in her fresh widow's weeds the night after her husband's death.
The morning after the interview between Mrs. Davenport and Tom Blake in Jermyn Street, there were paragraphs about Mr. Davenport's death in the daily papers. These paragraphs were almost colourless, and barely suggested any cause for uneasiness. They all wound up by saying that the inquest would be held next day.
That afternoon Richard Pringle called on chance at the house in Jermyn Street, and found Mrs. Davenport at home. She received him in a dreamy, half-conscious way, and answered listlessly the common-place questions he put to her. Before seeing her he had made up his mind not to refer to the scene which had taken place between them yesterday. He was firmly convinced she would not give him her full confidence, and that to seek to get at the bottom of the affair would be only to court obstruction. From her manner he assumed she wished nothing to be said of what had taken place in the Paultons' drawing-room at Dulwich. He began by trying to prepare her for the inquest. She shuddered slightly when he used that word, and yet seemed but indifferently alive to the importance of the situation. She answered in monosyllables, and contented herself mostly with merely bowing her head in token that she attended to what he said.
No material advantage could be gained by speaking of the former interview between them. He had drawn his own conclusions from it, and it was abundantly clear to him she wished that interview ignored. Now that he was once more under the spell of her presence, he felt his interest in her case rekindle, and the charm of her beauty reasserting itself.
One thing, however, must be spoken of. It was absolutely necessary he should say something of the note he had written her last evening. He waited for a pause, or rather caused a pause in the conversation, for she volunteered nothing.
"Having found this Jermyn Street address in the pocket-book of Mr. Davenport, I sent a few lines to you yesterday evening in the hope they might reach you. Did you get them?"
This question seemed to arouse her attention. She clasped her hands in her lap, and, turning her face fully towards him, answered:
"Yes; I got your note and the extract from the pocket-book also."
She seemed perfectly cool and collected.
"It would be well if you would tell me anything you know about that entry on the leaf of the pocket-book. It has a terrible significance in the case."
Her calmness now astonished him. He had the evening before been prepared for an explosion. He had expected to find her completely broken down, or in a state of high nervous excitement to-day. Up to this she had been listless; now she was attentive and mute. Her face looked paler than yesterday, but he could not say whether this was owing to its own loss of colour or to the effect of the white cap or the crape round her throat. He waited a moment with a view to giving weight to his next question. It was:
"With regard to the memorandum made by Mr. Davenport, is there anything you would like to say to me? In the face of that memorandum, you of course know that Mr. Blake's presence will be essential at the--inquiry."
"I suppose so," she said, unmoved. She replied to the latter part of his speech first. "With regard to the entry in his pocket-book, it is right you should know that my late husband was at one time subject to hallucinations, delusions."
"And you think this writing of his may have been the result of a delusion or hallucination?"
"It is quite possible; I can explain it in no other way."
"Oh, this is a great relief! I did not know he was subject to hallucinations. This is a most important fact. What was the nature of the delusion under which he suffered?"
Up to this point Pringle had felt in despair. Now his interest and courage rose.
"He fancied people had formed a conspiracy against him, and that their design was to rob him first and then murder him."
Her enunciation was particularly distinct, her face impassible.
"This is most vital," he said. "Indeed it may explain much that now sorely needs explanation. You no doubt often had the opportunity of seeing him labouring under these ailments?"
"No--never. He has not had an attack since we were married."
"Well, we must only do the best we can. Do you know if there is anything like insanity in his family?"
Pringle felt no little disappointment that she could not personally testify to the disease; but he was resolved to make the most of it.
"I am not aware that there is anything which could be called insanity in the family. His brother is decidedly odd, and Mr. Davenport was odd at times. For instance, as I told you, he would never bring old servants into a new house. There were other little traits--some theories he had about betting on horses, and which I do not understand, but which I have been told were at least fanciful."
Pringle's curiosity was aroused. Outside his profession the thing in which he took most interest was horse-racing.
"I am not sure that it can be of any consequence; but if you could remember it, I should like to know what that peculiarity in betting was."
"I am not quite sure," she said; "but I have an indistinct recollection he made it a rule never to bet on any horse the name of which began with a letter lower down in the alphabet than 'N.'"
"Ah!" said the young solicitor, in a tone of surprise and reflection. He resolved to look this matter up when he got back to the office. He was still curious. "And may I ask if you know whether he found the system a good one? If he found it to fail oftener than to succeed, and still kept to it, one might put the persistency down to mental obliquity."
Although he said this in a confident tone, the words were no sooner uttered than he began to doubt their justice, for he had known many men who adhered to a system which had nine times out of ten betrayed them.
"I cannot tell you. I do not know."
"If he betted heavily, you would have been likely to hear whether he won or lost. Of course when I say heavily, I don't mean that he ran any danger of crippling himself. But he must have been elated when he won and dejected when he lost?"
"No. He did not bet heavily. He never seemed to care whether he won or lost. It was the system which he prized, and not the wager."
Young Pringle thought this was a sure sign of a disordered mind; but he kept the opinion to himself, as he considered it more a matter of private than professional interest. He said:
"I suppose Mr. Davenport could not have been in financial embarrassment owing to any betting transactions?"
"I am certain he was not."
"Or from any other cause?"
"I am sure he was not."
"This may be of the greatest value. I beg of you to believe I am asking this question solely with a view to your interest."
He paused and looked earnestly at her for permission to go on.
She bowed.
"Have you any reason to think that the unfortunate event which has occurred might have been brought about by his own act?"
She moved her hands nervously in her lap.
"I am not sure that I understand you."
"There is nothing in your mind which could lead you to suppose he has committed suicide?"
She shuddered visibly and answered in a constrained whisper:
"Nothing--nothing whatever."
"Well, Mrs. Davenport, it will be absolutely necessary for us, in the face of the memorandum made on the leaf of his pocket-book, to have some theory of what took place. Can you suggest any theory?"
He spoke gravely, impressively. His personal interest in her was again growing stronger than his professional interest in what he now regarded as her defence. He swore to himself that he would use not only all his skill as an advocate, but all his faculties as a man to extricate this beautiful woman from the horrible position in which he found her, and to assuage as much as might be the pains she would have to endure. Under the overwhelming spell of her rich comeliness, and in front of the evidence afforded by her presence here this afternoon, he reproached himself bitterly for the suspicion he had uttered the day before as to her fleeing from the country. It was brutal of him to think of such a thing then, and still more brutal of him to speak his thoughts.
She did not reply to his last question at once. She looked at him steadily, without flinching, but remained silent.
He spoke again, this time earnestly, almost passionately:
"Mrs. Davenport, if you give me any theory to go on, I promise you, upon my word of honour as a man, to make the most I can of it. I'll leave no stone unturned to put things in their best light. I'll work without ceasing; I'll do nothing else, think of nothing else until I see you through this ordeal. I will not ask you again for any confidence you wish to withhold from me. But if out of justice to yourself you will not, out of justice to me youmustgive me something to go on. Youmustgive me at least a theory."
He spoke to her eagerly, fiercely, and held out his hands towards her in supplication.
She dropped her eyes a moment as if to collect her thoughts, and then looking straight into his face once more, said with a slight tremor in her voice:
"I have a theory; but I am afraid it is not one that will meet with your approval."
"If it is the best you can give me, trust me to do the best that can be done with it. But, for heaven's sake, give me the best one you can. Give me a chance. All I want is a chance to show you my devotion--to your interests."
He felt he was being carried away by the irresistible magic of her eyes. He paused after the word "devotion," and spoke the final phrase of his speech in a less fervent tone, to modify by matter and manner what had gone before.
"There is," she said, unclasping and then clasping her hands again, "but one theory possible in the case. As I told you a moment ago, Mr. Davenport was at one period of his life subject to delusions----"
"Pardon me," interrupted Pringle; "you said awhile ago that you had no experience of your own as to this infirmity. I assume we shall be able to produce evidence to prove that?"
"Undoubtedly there will be evidence."
"May I ask from whom we are to expect this evidence? Mr. Davenport's brother? He knows all about it, I suppose?"
"No, not Mr. Davenport's brother. I am not sure that Mr. Edward Davenport ever knew anything about it."
"That is unfortunate, since, so far as I understand, Mr. Edward Davenport is the late Mr. Davenport's only surviving relative."
"He is. But at the time when Mr. Davenport had those seizures he was abroad, on the Continent. For many years of his life Mr. Davenport did not live in the United Kingdoms. When I first knew him he had just come home after travelling for a long time in America and Europe. Although I am not quite sure, I think up to a very short time before I met him he had been out of the country most of his life. He was not very communicative about the past, or indeed on any subject. It was while he was staying for a time in Florence he had these attacks of hallucination----"
"And the evidence we can command is that of an eye-witness?" broke in Pringle.
"Certainly."
"The inquest will be to-morrow. May I not have the name of the witness? There is no time to be lost. In fact, this evidence, this extremely important evidence, comes very late. I am sorry I did not hear of it before. But we must do the best we can with it."
He spoke in a voice of deep concern.
"There was a reason why you did not hear of this evidence earlier. You asked me to give you my theory, Had I not better do so before going into other matters?"
She raised her clasped hands slightly from her lap in faint protest.
"I beg your pardon for interrupting you. By all means let me have the theory first. My anxiety betrayed me into asking questions which ought to have been deferred."
He was filled with admiration of this woman who could keep so closely to the point, and with shame for himself for his unthrifty straying from it.
"As you are no doubt aware, chloroform affects different people in different ways. A little of it will kill some people; a large quantity will scarcely affect others. Many under its influence become delirious and rave. At certain periods, while under the power of chloroform, one may be relieved of pain, conscious of surrounding things, capable of moving, and yet delirious. The theory I would suggest is that Mr. Davenport inhaled some chloroform to ease a spasm of asthma, that he became delirious, that he had a return of his old hallucination, then wrote what was found on the leaf torn from the book, and while endeavouring to administer a second dose to himself, spilled the contents of the bottle over his beard and chest."
Her words came in as calm and measured a way as though she were speaking on an abstract subject to an indifferent audience.
As she went on, Pringle's admiration gave way to amazement. A scientific witness could not be more unmoved. Was it possible this superb woman opposite him had been explaining to him in these cold, measured accents her way of accounting for the death of a husband who had been alive and without any immediate danger of death a couple of days ago, and who had since died a death which was, to say the least of it, provocative of inquiry?
He leaned back in his chair, sighed thoughtfully, and knit his brows. He cleared his throat once or twice to speak, but remained silent. He felt dull and heavy, as though something oppressed his chest.
"That is my theory--the only possible theory," she said, leaning forward and looking quietly into his face, without any change in the expression of her own.
He shook himself slightly, looked perplexed, not satisfied. At last he spoke:
"And what evidence have we in support of this supposition?"
She leaned back in her chair and whispered, "None."
He started, sat up, and looked at her keenly. He drew down his brows over his eyes as though the light hurt him.
"I am afraid," said he, "such a theory would not stand without most substantial testimony. No jury would give a satisfactory verdict on a mere statement such as that, for, you see, there are the last words written by the deceased." Until this moment he had not used that cold, formless word "deceased" to her. But he felt now that he was regarding the matter in a purely professional way, and that so was she. In a moment he continued, laying impressively significant emphasis on his words: "How are we to explain the fact of Mr. Blake's name appearing on that piece of paper?"
"Mr. Blake," she said, half-closing her eyes as though she was weary, "was the last person he saw before his death, and, when the delirium came upon him, he naturally introduced the name of Mr. Blake as being that of the person most immediate to his memory."
"What!" cried Pringle, starting up off his chair and leaning towards her, "Do we admit he was there?"
He could scarcely contain himself for astonishment. He looked at her as though he expected to find her transformed into the person of Blake himself.
"Undoubtedly," she said, opening her eyes slowly and looking up at him. "Mr. Blake was there a little while before Mr. Davenport died."
Pringle groaned, ran his fingers excitedly through his hair, and began pacing the room up and down hastily.
After a dozen turns, he stopped in front of her chair.
"When did you learn that your late husband had had hallucinations?"
"Last night."
"Last night only! Who told you?"
"Mr. Blake."
"Mr. Blake!--Mr. Blake! And who saw your husband when he was suffering from these hallucinations?"
"Mr. Blake."
"And is he the witness we have as to the hallucinations?"
"Yes."
"Merciful heavens! Which of us is mad? Where did you meet this Blake?"
"I wrote to him to come here, and he came."
"You wrote him to come here!Heaven help you--heaven help you! It is you who are mad."
And he hastened out of the room.
When Richard Pringle reached the street, he set off at a rapid walk for Lincoln's Inn Fields. His thoughts and feelings were too much disturbed for reasoning. The dialogue of the past hour hurried through his brain in an incoherent, inconsequential mass. In the intense excitement of the last few minutes, he had told her she was mad, and he almost believed it. He had known from the previous day that Blake had been at Crescent House on the night of Mr. Davenport's death. He had most plainly, most impressively given her to understand that he knew it. She must have seen plainly then he attached most disastrous importance to that visit of her former lover. Since then the leaf torn out of the pocket-book had been discovered. On that leaf appeared a deliberate accusation of murder in the handwriting of the dead man against Blake. That, in all reason, was sufficiently serious; but worse followed. She had the day after her husband's death asked this man Blake to visit her!
From Blake she had, Pringle felt not the least doubt, adopted that elaborate and childish theory of the fatal event. Blake had told her in that interview a thing neither she nor his brother had ever known before--namely, that the deceased man had at one time, and to Blake's personal knowledge, suffered from mental aberration of a kind which would exactly explain away that damnatory writing on the paper--if any one could believe Blake's story! The whole affair was simply monstrous. If he viewed the matter from a purely professional point of view, he would have been heartily sorry he ever connected himself with it. But he could not regard the case solely as a matter between client and solicitor. He was under the spell of this woman, and he could not, if he would, and he would not if he could, escape. Only one thing was clear to his mind now, and that took the form of muttered words:
"There will be business for the hangman in this affair."
When he arrived at the office he found his father in, and having locked the door of the private room, he communicated to the old man the substance of the interview which had just been brought to a close.
His father listened to the recital with the most circumstantial patience. When the son had finished his tale, and wound up with the opinion that some one was going to swing for the matter, the father, to the son's unspeakable astonishment, looked up cheerfully, and said:
"I am not at all sure of that, Dick--not at all."
"Bless my soul, father, where do you see the way out of it?"
"I can't say," said the elder man, "that I see my way out of it; but I am suretheydo. Just run over the facts briefly: This woman was formerly in love with Blake; Blake is bought off by old Davenport, and Davenport marries the beauty. After years, the married couple come to London, and put up by themselves in a detached house. That night the old lover visits the house, and shortly after he leaves, the wife raises an alarm, and the husband is found dead. The doctor called in is not fully satisfied, and hints that the man has been killed by chloroform--a drug frequently used by deceased. The widow finds shelter in a neighbour's house. While there, she is given to understand by her attorney that it is supposed her old lover was in the house within a short time of the death, and that death is believed to have arisen from choloroform, not asthma. Upon this she displays great emotion, and declines to give any further information. She leaves the neighbour's house that afternoon, and goes to a house in which she stayed about six years ago when in London with her husband. From that house she sends for her old lover, and has an interview with him. Meantime a document is found in the handwriting of deceased, saying her old lover has poisoned him (deceased). Her solicitor sends a copy of this document to her. Next day solicitor calls upon her, and finds her quite calm. She explains her theory of her husband's death, and attributes the document mentioned to hallucination, from which she alleges deceased suffered earlier in life, and that death was the result of accidentally spilling the chloroform by deceased. That's the case, as far as I can make it out. Am I right, Dick?"
"Yes, sir--quite right."
"At the first glance it's a strong case."
"Did you ever, short of eye-witnesses, see a stronger?"
"I've seen a lot of cases in my time--a lot of cases. Wait a bit, Dick, until we have another look at it. A motive lies on the very surface; nothing could be plainer than the motive implied by the case. It is: the old lover poisons the husband in order that the woman may be free to marry him. A money motive may turn up later on; if we may find that the widow is rich. Dick, I am getting to be an old man now, and I give you one piece of advice, lest I may forget it:Alwayssuspect a case where the motive is glaringly obvious. Now, the two survivors in this affair are people of good education, good position and intelligence, are they not?"
"Most assuredly, sir."
"Neither of the two is an idiot?"
"I am greatly afraid, father, that the lady's reason is affected."
"Observe, Dick, I did not ask you whether both are sane or mad. But is either of them anidiot--a drivelling idiot--whom you would not leave alone in a room where there was a fire or a razor?"
"No, no! They are both, as far as I know--I never saw him--rational on the surface, anyway. But I fear the strain has been too much for Mrs. Davenport."
"Never mind about that. She may for my purpose be as mad as she likes, so long as she is not a drivelling idiot. Now, supposing either of them had committed the crime of murder in this case, do you suppose that until drivelling idiocy had been fully established in one or the other, either of them would behave in such a childish way as you describe? Why, it would shame any Bedlamite in Europe for rank silliness! The man who tried to cool a red-hot poker in a barrel of gunpowder would be only a little rash compared with either of these two, if, as you seem to suppose, either is responsible for the dead man's death."
The younger man's face brightened.
"Then you think, sir, there is still good reason to hope?"
"I am sure there is no reason to do anything else. This Mrs. Davenport, at your first interview, trusts you fully up to a certain point, and then suddenly refuses to give you any more confidence. At your second interview she gives you all, and more than all, the confidence you require. What has wrought that change? She has seen the old lover. She is acting upon his advice. She has given you a great deal of confidence, but she has not told you everything. She is keeping back the most important piece of all."
"What is that?"
"The line of his and her defence. He will, of course, be professionally represented at the inquest. There will be some one there for him, anyhow. I am firmly convinced he has an unanswerable and startling defence. If I were you I should take every precaution I could for the protection of my client; but I feel fully assuredhewill clear up the whole case. Now run away. I've got in another batch of those Millington deeds, and I want to get through them by dinner-time. Will you be home to dinner?"
"I don't think so, sir. I'll run out to Dulwich and see if there is anything new."
When young Pringle found himself at Dulwich he went to Carlingford House; for he knew that the folk there, especially Alfred, would be anxious to hear the news, and this analysis of the case by his father had put him in good heart.
The day was fine and mild for the season. As he entered the garden of Carlingford House, he saw, through a tall wicket gateway, two elderly men walking in the grounds at the rear. One of these he recognised as Mr. Paulton; the other was a stranger to him.
He passed through the wicket gateway into the back garden. Just as he did so the two men faced fully round, and Mr. Paulton cried out, as he hastened towards the solicitor:
"Mr. Pringle, you are the very man we want. We were this minute talking of you. Mr. Davenport, this is Mr. Pringle, who has kindly consented, at our request, to act in this unhappy affair as solicitor for Mrs. Davenport."
"Sir," said the dead man's brother, bowing low, "I am very glad to make your acquaintance. I hope you find yourself in the enjoyment of good health."
"I am quite well, thank you," said Pringle, somewhat taken aback by the old-fashioned formality of the other.
The man who stood in front of him was a square-made, thick-set, low-sized man of close on sixty years of age. His hair was black and long and lank, profusely oiled, and hung down on the collar of his coat and shoulders. He did not wear beard, whiskers, or moustaches. His complexion was a lifeless sallow; his skin wrinkled, his nose aquiline, and narrow at the top; his mouth weak and uncertain, with thin, bloodless lips; his gait half-mincing, half-pompous; his voice half-suave, half-raucous. His eyes were large and prominent, and of a filmy, hazel colour. As Pringle looked at the new-comer, he thought: "If he weren't so broad, he'd look like a dyspeptic mummy."
"I have just finished telling Mr. Davenport all I heard about this sad affair, and I suppose you, Mr. Pringle, can now add something to where I left off? Mr. Davenport is most anxious to know everything."
Young Pringle had then for the second time to go over the main features of what had taken place since he was at Dulwich last. Of course he was much more reticent than he had been with his father, and repeated nothing of what had passed between Mrs. Davenport and himself. It was Jerry O'Brien who had first introduced Blake's name into the case. Mr. Paulton had told Mr. Davenport all he knew, without adopting the precaution of finding out how the brother of the dead man felt towards the widow.
Pringle had therefore no hesitation in saying that he had seen Mrs. Davenport, and that she, of course, would be present at the inquest to-morrow. He also said he had heard Thomas Blake would be present. He told Mr. Davenport that if he wished to call upon the widow, her address was at his disposal.
Mr. Davenport drew himself up hurriedly, and looking furiously at Pringle from head to foot, as though the solicitor was the cause of all the misfortunes, cried, while his lips, hands, and legs were trembling:
"I--I go near her!Are you mad, young sir? Have you taken leave of your senses, or are you jeering at me? I go near my brother's murderess! Do you take me for a conspirator too? Do you think I am another Blake? I pity you, sir. An attorney, quotha! A man of your trade ought to have some little discrimination. You are for her, young sir! Look you: If justice can be had on this earth, by any and all means in my power these two shall hang side by side on the same gibbet, and keep the company of each other on the road to hell, and in hell everlastingly;" and, foaming at the mouth, he dashed away from the astonished pair and rushed into the house.
The inquest was to be held next day at noon.
The remainder of that afternoon and the early part of next day were devoted by young Pringle to arranging details for the inquest. He would have attached but little importance to the wild words and manner of Mr. Edward Davenport if there had not been other very strong elements, of suspicion in the case. There was matter for more than grave suspicion--there was matter for absolute alarm. The theory for the defence set up by Mrs. Davenport was puerile in the extreme, and yet he could not make any other fit in with the admitted facts of the case. Upon deliberate consideration, he thought less of his father's exposition than he had at first. His father might be right, but his father's conviction went no further than a supposititious negative. In logic one could not prove a negative; in law there was no prohibition. An overwhelmingalibiwould insure an acquittal, but analibiwas impossible in this case; and by what other means was it possible to establish a negative?
He was anxious to ascertain one thing: Would Blake be arrested before or during the inquest? He made inquiries, and found that, although Blake's address was known and detectives were watching him, no arrest would be made before the coroner had taken some evidence. Pringle had no interest in Blake beyond the extent to which he affected Mrs. Davenport's case. But that was a great deal. If Blake's mouth were shut, Mrs. Davenport's defence would, he thought, be simpler.
The day of the inquest Pringle went to Jermyn Street, and took Mrs. Davenport to Dulwich. She was taciturn the whole way, and said she had nothing to add to what she had communicated yesterday. She hardly spoke a word the whole way from Jermyn Street to Herne Hill. Pringle's spirits became more depressed as they journeyed together, but he had made up his mind to fight the case out to the last.
The inquest was to be held at the "Wolfdog Inn," and when Pringle and Mrs. Davenport arrived there, a large crowd had already assembled, although the proceedings would not begin for some time. Pringle had engaged a private room for Mrs. Davenport, and to it she retired immediately on their arrival.
It was evident from the manner of those assembled in and near the "Wolf-dog," that the approaching inquiry was regarded with great interest, and that popular feeling was aroused against the newly-made widow.
Mrs. Davenport had entered by a back way, and had not been observed by the loungers. No one in the crowd knew her; but, of course, if she had passed through it, she would have been recognised instantly by her fresh weeds.
For a while young Pringle stood on the steps of the inn, and the broken snatches of conversation which he overheard did not help to cheer or inspirit him: he would have taken little or no heed of the idle talk floating in and out of the door had he felt merely a professional interest in this woman; but he had just left her; he had been with her for nearly an hour, and although few words had passed between them in that time, the spell of her physical beauty had reasserted itself, and his chivalry was up in arms for her.
While Pringle was standing on the steps of the inn, Dr. Santley and Alfred Paulton came up. They had walked with one another from Half Moon Lane.
"Well," said the latter, addressing Pringle, "any good news?"
The solicitor shook his head and answered:
"Nothing fresh."
"I thought," said Paulton, in a tone of disappointment, "that Jerry O'Brien would be with you. Is he not come? He said he would be here to-day."
"I have not seen him," said Pringle. "I came out with Mrs. Davenport. She is upstairs in a private room. Do you know anything of Blake? Have you met him on the way?"
"Perhaps," said Dr. Santley grimly, "he is cultivating the acquaintance of the police."
The speakers had moved out of earshot of the crowd.
"No," said Pringle, "I have ascertained that he will not be touched until after this day's work, anyway."
As the solicitor ceased speaking, two other men approached. They, too, were walking together; but as they drew near the "Wolfdog," one of them moved off to the right, and went towards the inn door; the other held on towards the three men. The latter was Jerry O'Brien. When he came up with the little group, and had shaken hands with them, Pringle asked:
"Who was that you were with as you came up the road?"
"What! Don't you all know him? Why, who could it be but Tom Blake?"
Significant looks passed between the three men. Paulton was the first to speak:
"You don't mean to say, Jerry, that you have----"
"Indeed I have. I met him on the platform at Victoria, and we came out in the same compartment together."
Jerry O'Brien seemed as much astonished at what he had done as his friends.
"But," urged Paulton, "you gave him the worst of characters the day before yesterday, and said he had something to do with this awful affair. Since then things have grown blacker against him, and yet you don't cut him! You come out here arm-in-arm with him to the very inquest where you say he will have to answer the ugliest questions which can be put to a man!"
"I bar only one thing in what you have said, Alfred. I didnotwalk out with him arm-in-arm. I met him quite accidentally at Victoria. I told you I should be here at the inquest. I was on my way here. I no more expected to see him than the man in the moon. He pounced on me suddenly, and rushed me. As a rule, I can take care of myself, but I admit I am no match for Blake. I am not sure I ever met his match. Look here, Pringle; I know you're a first-rate fellow at your work. You're not as old as you might be, but you're one of the best men in England for this kind of a job. However, if you have to tackle Tom Blake, he'll give you as much as you want."
Jerry O'Brien spoke with heightened colour, and in a tone of intense irritation.
This opinion was not unwelcome to Pringle's ears, for he knew that, no matter how big a scoundrel Blake might be, he would say nothing to inculpate Mrs. Davenport.
"What is this Blake's manner?" asked Pringle.
"Perfectly self-possessed, cool and audacious."
"Is he venturesome?
"He'd play for his boots or his shirt, and then for his skin."
"Do you think, O'Brien, he'll get out of this with a whole skin?"
"He may, for you are not his lawyer," said O'Brien, with a laugh.
"It is an old form of joke," said the attorney, with a smile. "Do you know if he has got legal assistance?"
"Legal assistance!" cried O'Brien, scornfully. "Not he. He laughed when telling me some fellows said he ought to get legal assistance. Why, my dear Pringle, he'd give the best of you thirty out of a hundred, and win the game by making you give misses. When is this thing to begin?"
"Presently. Have you any notion of what he is going to say at the inquest?"
"I asked him. I told him the paper found in the handwriting of the deceased would be very awkward."
"What did he say?"
"That it looked very awkward, no doubt; but that many people got into awkward positions and got out of them again."
"I asked him had he been summoned as a witness, and he said naturally he had, as he was the last person who saw the dead man alive."
"By Jove, O'Brien! Go on."
"I asked him how he thought the death occurred. He said that was beyond him to say. He had no doubt it was accidental, and that the memorandum on the piece of paper written under the influence of delirium might be an idea created by chloroform, or while suffering from a relapse of the old disease which seized him at Florence years ago."
"The same story identically. Did he say anything more?"
"Yes. I asked him did anything unpleasant occur between himself and Mr. Davenport that night?"
"What did he say to that?" eagerly asked the attorney.
"He looked at me doubtfully for a moment. 'O'Brien,' he said, 'you know more about this than the outside public. You are interested in it?' I said I was interested in it very indirectly. 'Very well, then,' said he, 'I'm going to the inquest. You come with me and then you shall hear the truth as far as I know it.'"
"This put me in a queer fix. I had not up to this told him I was on my way to this place. I could not keep the fact any longer to myself, so I told him I expected to find friends here, nothing more; and I asked him if I might communicate the substance of what he had said to them. He gave me full liberty. After all this, you will see I could not very well shake him off. When we got here he shook himself off. Mrs. Davenport's name was never mentioned by either of us. He did not show the least curiosity when I said I took an indirect interest in the case."
A few minutes after this the four men moved into the inn, and the coroner having arrived, the jury were sworn, and after returning from Crescent House, the business of taking evidence began.
After formal identification of the body by Mr. Edward Davenport, the witness examined was Alfred Paulton. He told his story simply and briefly, and answered the questions of the coroner and jury with precision. When what may be regarded as the examination-in-chief was over, Mr. Bertram Spencer, legal representative of Mr. Edward Davenport, put a few questions through the coroner. Paulton's replies were in effect:
No, he had never seen Mr. Davenport alive. When Dr. Santley and he entered the room where Mr. Davenport lay, deceased was then dead. At least, so he believed. He had no acquaintance with the effects of chloroform. He had never been in the room with a dead person before. Mrs. Davenport, upon his invitation, accompanied him to his father's house, also in Half Moon Lane. Paulton was asked a few more questions, but nothing new came out.
Dr. Santley was then examined. He stated that Mr. Paulton called him on the morning of the death. That he went immediately, as he happened to be dressed and disengaged at the time. He found Mr. Davenport quite dead. He thought life had been extinct for an hour or so; it was impossible to say accurately. The body was not cold. He was familiar with cases of spasmodic asthma. Practically it never killed directly; that is, one never died of the spasm. In a spasm, the heart, or head, or lungs, or aorta might give way, causing death. He had never known a case of death from spasmodic asthma, pure and simple.
He was, of course, familiar with chloroform as an anæsthetic. He had once seen a case of poisoning by chloroform. That case was accidental. Chloroform was frequently used as a palliative in severe cases of asthma. A small quantity sprinkled on a napkin or handkerchief and held close to the nose and mouth very often afforded temporary relief. This treatment had no effect on the disease beyond mitigating the violence or putting an end to the spasm. Chloroform should always be administered with great care, as it had frequently been known to cause death. In the present case he found no napkin or handkerchief lying near the body. In administering chloroform for spasmodic asthma, the usual way was to fold a napkin so that when open it would resemble rudely a funnel. Into the sharper end of the funnel the chloroform was dropped, and then the mouth and nose of the patient thrust into the more open end. The handkerchief of deceased showed no trace of being used in the administration of chloroform, nor did either of the napkins found in the room. There was a very strong smell of chloroform about the place, and a large, a very large quantity had been spilled over the beard and shirt and waistcoat of deceased. The bottle produced was what was known as a two-ounce bottle. The full of it, or half the full of it would, if sprinkled over the shirt and beard and waistcoat, in all likelihood cause death, provided the natural course of the vapour upwards towards the mouth and nostrils was not interfered with. He could form no certain opinion as to the cause of death. He had declined to certify because he did not know. He would prefer giving no opinion. The brain, or aorta, or heart might have given way without displaying any external symptom. If the lungs had yielded, there would no doubt have been an outward sign. In deaths by chloroform he was not acquainted with any infallible outward sign. Apost-mortemexamination would, he thought, determine the cause of death.
A few questions were then put on behalf of Mrs. Davenport. The case of poisoning by chloroform which had come directly under his notice was unquestionably accidental. A man who suffered acutely from neuralgia was in the habit of using chloroform to allay pain. He was found dead in his bed one morning with an empty bottle, which had contained an ounce of the drug, by the side of his face and partly under the clothes. It was possible, but very unlikely, that in the present case the bottle might have been accidentally emptied by deceased. Chloroform was denser than water, and would not run out of such a bottle very quickly. It was most unlikely that any man in possession of his senses would allow an ounce and a half of that fluid to escape from such a bottle and fall on his beard and chest. Assuming he was recumbent at the time, he would be obliged to hold the bottle on a level with his eyes in order to pour the spirit on his beard, and he would have to hold the bottle in that position for an appreciable time. In his opinion, the poison had not got on deceased accidentally.
Up to this point the questions had all been put through the coroner. Now Pringle suggested that it would be for the convenience of all concerned if he himself might, by favour of the coroner, directly interrogate the witness. This was agreed to, the coroner, before proceeding any further, giving notice that no further evidence would be taken that day, and that as soon as Dr. Santley's evidence was concluded, the inquiry would be adjourned pending the result of thepost-mortemexamination.
At this announcement Mr. Pringle expressed the greatest surprise. He had been curious to learn why the medical evidence had been gone into so early in the case. But knowing the coroner always acted with the greatest tact and judgment, he had made no remark at the time. For his part, he believed such a course, if followed, would be found very inconvenient.
Mrs. Davenport, in whose interest he was watching the case, was particularly anxious to be examined to-day, as she felt the strain of expectation in such an ordeal very great.
The coroner said if Mrs. Davenport was anxious to be examined he should be happy to take her evidence.
In that case Mr. Pringle begged as a favour that he might be allowed to reserve the few questions he had to ask Dr. Santley until after Mrs. Davenport had been examined. To this also, after a little show of resistance, the coroner acceded.
Pringle had resolved to have her evidence taken to-day at any risk. Several reasons urged him to this determination. It would look better, or, rather, less bad, in the eyes of the public to state that in a week's time her strength would be diminished by waiting and anxiety; and to get her examined thus, after the point at which the coroner had intended practically to close the evidence for that day would, he felt certain, tend to mitigate the rigours of the examination.
Mrs. Davenport was called.