Helen Vardon's confession
examined the wound attentively. Then, without looking at Mr. Otway, he
asked: “You say he struck his head against the corner of the
mantelpiece? This corner, I suppose?”
He touched the right hand corner of the marble shelf, and, as Mr.
Otway assented, I saw him place his shoulder against it as if to
measure its height.
“Was that when he was in the act of falling?” he asked, with his eyes
fixed on the wound.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Otway. “At least, I think so--I should say yes,
certainly--that is, to the best of my belief. Of course, Dr. Bury, you
will understand that I am a little confused in my recollection.
The--ah--the circumstances were very agitating and--ah--confusing. Is
the point of any importance?”
“Well, you see,” the doctor replied a little drily, “when a man dies
suddenly and only one person is present--as I understand was the case
in this instance--every point is of importance.”
“Yes, of course. It would be, naturally.”
Mr. Otway spoke these words in a low, husky voice, and, as I looked at
him, I saw that he had turned as pale as death and that his face had
again broken out into a greasy sweat. Nor was I the only observer.
Mrs. Gregg, who had been standing in the corner by the door, quietly
attentive to all that passed, was now watching her employer narrowly
and with a very curious expression. There was a brief interval of
silence, and then Mr. Otway having cleared his throat once or twice,
asked, in the same husky, unsteady voice:
“I suppose, when you have talked the matter over with Dr. Sharpe, you
will be able to certify the death in the usual way?”
“In the usual way?” Dr. Bury repeated. “Yes: in the way that is usual
in cases of sudden death. Of course, I shan’t be able to give an
ordinary certificate. I shall write to the coroner, giving him the
facts, and he will decide whether an inquest is necessary or whether
he can issue a certificate on my statement.”
“I see,” said Mr. Otway. “You will report the facts--and, I suppose,
you will state what your own views on the case are?”
“I shall make any comments that seem to be called for, but, of course,
the facts are what the coroner wants.”
“And would you consider that, in a case like this, an inquiry is
necessary?”
“I don’t know that I should,” was the reply; “but it doesn’t rest with
me. Would you like me to help you to move him? You can’t leave him
lying here, and you can hardly have him carried to his own house by
daylight.”
“No,” Mr. Otway agreed, “we could not. If you will kindly help me to
carry him to the drawing-room, we can lay him on the sofa.”
The two men raised my poor father, and, while I supported his head,
they carried him to the drawing-room and laid him on the sofa, when
Dr. Bury, having taken an embroidered cover from a table and spread it
over him, drew down the blinds.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you had better leave him here until we know what
the coroner intends to do. In case he should decide----”
Here he glanced a little uncomfortably at me, and I realised that he
would rather speak of the grim details unembarrassed by my presence.
Accordingly, I stole from the room and returned to the one from which
we had just come. The door was open as we had left it, and, as I came
opposite to it, treading softly, as was my habit, I saw Mrs. Gregg
standing by the roll-top table with my father’s stick in her hand,
apparently testing the weight of the heavy lead loading that the
silver knob concealed. She started as she suddenly became aware of my
presence, but, quickly recovering her self-possession, asked:
“Will this be your father’s stick?”
I answered that it was, whereupon she remarked, as she stood it in the
corner behind the writing-table, whence, I suppose, she had taken it:
“I thought ’twas a stranger to me. A fine stick it is, too, and a
trusty companion ’twould be on a dark night and a lonely road.”
To this I made no reply; and when she had glanced at the clock and
peered curiously into my father’s hat, which stood on the table, she
turned abruptly and left the room.
Chapter VII.
The Terms of Release
When Mrs. Gregg had gone, I shut the door, and, sinking on to the
chair by the writing-table, tried to collect my thoughts. But though I
was vaguely conscious that this dreadful disaster vitally affected my
position, and must in some way affect my actions, overwhelming grief
and a sense of irreparable loss rendered coherent thought impossible.
My father was dead. That was all I could think of. My one perfect
friend, who had absorbed all my affection and given me all of his, had
gone out of my life. Henceforward I was alone in the world.
Presently I heard Dr. Bury leave the house, and then the door opened
and Mr. Otway came into the room, looking like a man who had risen
prematurely after a severe illness. He dropped limply on a chair, and
sat, with his hands on his knees, looking at me with a pitiable
expression of misery and consternation.
“This is a terrible affair, Helen,” he said in a broken voice.
“Terrible! Terrible!”
I made no reply, but looked at him, half-curiously and resentfully. In
the extremity of my grief, I had no pity to spare for him who was the
cause of this dreadful calamity.
“Won’t you speak to me, Helen?” he said, imploringly. “Won’t you try
to give me some comfort? Think of the awful position I am in.”
At his miserable egotism, my grief blazed up into sudden wrath.
“You!” I exclaimed, scornfully. “And what of me? You have robbed me of
my father--of all that matters to me in life--and now you ask me to
comfort you!”
He stretched out his hands to me with a gesture of entreaty.
“Don’t say that, Helen!” he implored. “Don’t say I robbed you of him.
It was an accident that no one could foresee. And after all, you know,
Helen,” he added, persuasively, “if you have lost a father, you have
gained a devoted husband.”
At these words I gazed at him in utter amazement; and quite suddenly
the confusion of my thoughts began to clear up. I began to realise
that some action was called for, though what that action was I could
not clearly see at the moment. But what I did see quite clearly was
that the thing he was suggesting was utterly unthinkable.
“Do you suppose, Mr. Otway,” I demanded, “that I could possibly live
with you as your wife after what has happened?”
“But you are my wife, Helen,” he protested.
“I agreed to marry you, Mr. Otway, in order to save my father. My
father has not been saved.”
“That was, no doubt, your motive, Helen,” he answered. “I don’t deny
that. But, actually, you agreed to be my wife on certain specific
conditions, which I carried out--or, at least, was prepared----”
He hesitated with sudden embarrassment; and the embarrassment, with
the statement, in the midst of which he had broken off, gave me my
cue.
“Mr. Otway,” I said, “you had a letter from my father. What was in
that letter?”
At this question his self-possession broke down completely.
“I have had no letter,” he stammered; “at least, that is to say, I
haven’t seen--he spoke of a letter, but--but the fact is, in my
excitement this morning I forgot to look at my correspondence. If
there was a letter, it must be in the box still.”
“Let us go and see if it is there,” said I. My confusion of mind was
fast clearing up, and as my wits returned, I found myself shaping a
definite course of action. I rose and accompanied him to the hall door
and stood by while he unlocked the letter-box. As he opened the trap,
I perceived that the box contained a single letter; and even in that
agitating moment, the significance of the fact struck me. It was
strange, indeed, that the morning’s delivery should bring to a man of
business no more than a single letter.
He picked the missive out, and, having glanced at it, handed it to me.
I looked at it, and, perceiving that it was in my father’s
handwriting, tore open the envelope and drew out the letter, which I
read aloud. It ran thus:--
“Stonebury, Maidstone.
“25th April, 1908.
“Dear Otway,
“You will, no doubt, be glad to learn that our little difficulty is at
an end. The unexpected has happened. My friend has been able to raise
the wherewith to repay the loan that I made to him, and has sent a
cheque for the full amount. I have paid it into my bank, but, as a
measure of security, in view of the magnitude of the sum, I am waiting
until the cheque is cleared before sending you mine. However, you may
expect to receive payment in full in the course of three clear days
from this date.
“With many thanks for your forbearance,
“I am, yours very truly,
“W.H. Vardon.”
As I finished reading, I looked Mr. Otway sternly in the face.
“You realize,” I said, “that this letter makes our agreement void?”
He did not reply immediately, but stood with his eyes averted from me
and his fingers working nervously.
“Do you realize that?” I demanded.
“Well, in a way, yes,” he replied, hesitatingly. “If it had reached me
sooner--that is to say, if I had seen it----”
“If you had seen it!” I interrupted, angrily. “What has that to do
with the question? The letter was delivered to you, as the post-mark
shows, before you left the house. It came by the first post. If you
chose to leave it unopened, that is your affair. When you met me this
morning, the agreement was already at an end.”
He glanced nervously along the hall towards the kitchen stairs.
“We needn’t stand here,” he said. “Let us go into the study and talk
this affair over quietly.”
He led the way back to the room we had left, and, having shut the
door, turned to me deprecatingly.
“It’s an unfortunate business, Helen,” he said. “Very unfortunate. Of
course, I ought to have looked over the morning’s post, but, in my
natural excitement, I overlooked it; and now I don’t see that there is
anything for us to do but make the best of it.”
I looked at him in amazement. “But,” I exclaimed, “you don’t seem to
realize that our agreement was at an end before the marriage took
place.”
“No, I don’t,” he replied. “You see this letter is only a
notification--a conditional promise to pay. It doesn’t discharge the
debt.”
At this my patience gave out completely. “Let us have no evasions or
quibbles, Mr. Otway,” I said. “Our agreement was at an end before the
marriage took place, and I have no doubt that you knew it. You
obtained my consent by fraud.”
“I don’t admit that,” said he. “But even if it were so, what would you
propose?”
“I propose to have the marriage annulled,” I replied.
He shook his head. “That is impossible, Helen,” he said. “The marriage
is not voidable. An action for nullity can be sustained only on
certain conditions, none of which exist in our case.”
“But,” I exclaimed, “my consent was obtained on a fraudulent pretence!
Surely that is a sufficient ground for claiming to have the marriage
annulled!”
“I deny the fraud,” he replied, doggedly. “But in any case it is not
material. The marriage was perfectly regular, you are of full adult
age, you gave your consent without compulsion, and there are none of
those impediments which the law recognises. I assure you, Helen, that
our marriage is not voidable--that it cannot be annulled by ordinary
process.”
Little as I trusted to his truth or honour, I suspected that what he
was now saying was true. But yet the position was unthinkable.
“Do you mean to tell me,” I demanded, “that the law would uphold a
marriage between a woman and the murderer of her father?”
He winced as if I had struck him a blow, and his face grew sensibly
paler.
“For the love of God, Helen,” he entreated, “don’t talk like that! You