Helen Vardon's confession
calamity.” Moreover, they restrained in the most delicate manner their
evident curiosity as to the relations of Mr. Otway and myself. But, of
course, the facts had to be given, and very distressing and
humiliating it was to me to have to confess to what must have looked
like a mere sordid intrigue with the uncouth creature at my side.
As the only person present when the death occurred, Mr. Otway was
necessarily the first witness; and a very nervous, hesitating witness
he was; and very fortunate was it for him that he had so sympathetic a
court. As he stammered out his evidence I noted, again and again, the
searching, grey eye of the strange gentleman fixed upon him, not
indeed with any obvious distrust, but with the most concentrated
attention.
“Do we understand,” asked the coroner, “that Mr. Vardon was angry and
excited when he arrived at your house?”
“Yes, furiously angry.”
“Do you know why he was angry and excited?”
Yes, the witness did know. And as he proceeded to relate, in husky,
uncertain tones, the circumstances of the secret marriage, more than
one of the jurymen glanced from him to me with hardly-concealed
astonishment; and I felt my face burning and my eyes filling with
humiliation.
“Was there any reason for this secrecy?” the coroner asked.
“Yes. The deceased had already refused his consent to the marriage.”
“But that is hardly a reason for secrecy in the case of an adult.
Could he have prevented the marriage from taking place?”
“No. But it seemed better to--ah--to avoid discussion and
unpleasantness.”
The coroner looked dissatisfied. He considered a few moments, and then
asked: “Do you know why the deceased objected to the marriage?”
“I think he considered that the--ah--the inequality of age was
undesirable,” Mr. Otway replied.
Still the coroner looked dissatisfied, and as he paused to reflect,
and the jurymen looked at him expectantly, Mr. Otway furtively wiped
his forehead with his handkerchief. Evidently, he was profoundly
disturbed, as well he might be; for if this line of inquiry were
pursued much farther, it must inevitably lay bare the real nature of
the transaction.
At length the coroner turned to the jury. “Well, gentlemen,” said he,
“I suppose the question is not very material. It is clear that the
deceased was extremely excited and angry. The ultimate cause of his
anger is, perhaps, not very relevant to the subject of our inquiry.”
To this the foreman of the jury readily agreed, and I could almost see
the sigh of relief with which Mr. Otway hailed the passing of this
perilous incident--a relief in which I participated to no small
extent.
The narrative was now resumed, and as it proceeded, Mr. Otway’s voice
became more and more husky and his speech more hesitating. He had a
difficult course to steer, and his nerves were at their utmost
tension. He had to tell a consistent story without telling the whole
truth, and he had to bear in mind that my evidence was yet to be
given. It was a position that might have shattered the nerve of a much
bolder man than Mr. Otway.
“You tell us that the deceased was violent and threatening in his
manner. Do you mean that he was physically violent?”
“Yes--at least he threatened to use physical violence.”
“He did not actually assault you?”
“Not actually. The blow that he aimed--at least that he was about to
aim--ah--did not--er--did not take effect.”
The coroner’s brows puckered into a puzzled frown. “This is not quite
clear,” said he. “Did he or did he not aim a blow at you?”
“He did--at least, that is to say, he appeared----”--here Mr. Otway
mopped his streaming forehead--“well, I think he actually raised
his--ah--his--ah--his clenched fist----”
“Did you have to restrain him?”
“No,” replied Mr. Otway, with rather unnecessary emphasis. “No, I did
not. I stepped back, and--ah--the incident--ah--passed. In fact, it
was at this moment that the fatal attack occurred.”
“Tell us exactly what happened then.”
“He suddenly turned very pale,” said Mr. Otway, speaking now with more
fluency as he got back to the narration of the actual events, “and
seemed to stand unsteadily. Then he staggered backwards and fell,
striking his head on the corner of the mantelpiece.”
“Did he appear to have fainted before he struck his head?”
“I should say, yes, but--ah--I would not--ah--I was very agitated and
alarmed--and--ah----”
“Naturally. But you would say that the fainting attack preceded the
blow on the head?”
“There was no blow,” Mr. Otway exclaimed quickly; and then, perceiving
his mistake, he added, hastily, “that is to say, you are referring to
his striking the corner of the mantelpiece?”
“That is what you were telling us about.”
“Yes. I should say that he struck--or rather that he fainted and
staggered and that he struck his head in falling.”
Once more the coroner paused and seemed to reflect; and in the intense
silence and stillness that enveloped the court, my eye travelled from
the huge, ungainly figure of the witness to the face of the tall
stranger by Mr. Jackson’s side. And a very striking face it was: a
handsome, symmetrical face, but strangely--almost unhumanly--reposeful
and impassive. Yet, though it was as immobile as a mask of stone, it
conveyed an impression of intense attention--almost of watchfulness;
and the clear, grey eyes never moved from the face of the witness. To
me there was something a little uncanny and disturbing in that
immovable mask and that steady, unrelaxing gaze. I found myself hoping
that those searching grey eyes would not be fixed on me in that
relentless observation when my turn came to give my evidence. And even
as this thought flitted through my mind, I remembered who this
stranger was. He was a Dr. Thorndyke, an old, though not very
intimate, friend of my father’s, a famous criminal lawyer and a great
authority on medical jurisprudence. I had met him only once, when he
had dined, many years ago, at our house; but I had often heard my
father speak of him in terms of the highest admiration.
When the coroner resumed his interrogation, it seemed that the crisis
was past, so far as Mr. Otway was concerned, for his first question
was: “What did you do when the deceased fell down?”
“For a moment or two,” was the reply, “I was too bewildered to do
anything. Then his daughter--my wife--came into the room, and, as he
appeared to be dying or dead, I went off to fetch a doctor.”
This virtually concluded his evidence, and the next name called was my
own, which, in its new form--Helen Otway--I heard with a start of
surprise and something like disgust. As I rose to approach the table,
I caught an instantaneous glance--a terrified, imploring glance--from
Mr. Otway; and as my eye lighted immediately afterwards on Dr.
Thorndyke’s face, I felt that this momentary look, too, had been noted
by that inexorably attentive grey eye. But I was relieved to observe
that he did not look at me, but, as I gave my evidence, fixed a
steady, introspective gaze upon a spot upon the opposite wall.
My task turned out to be easier than I had hoped, though perhaps it
might have been less easy if I had had more time to reflect on the
significance of the questions. The coroner began by expressing the
sympathy of the court with my bereavement and apologizing for imposing
on me the painful duty of attending the inquiry. Then he asked: “You
have heard the evidence of Mr. Otway with reference to your marriage
and your father’s attitude in regard to it. Do you confirm what he has
said?”
“I do,” I replied.
“You were not present at the interview of Mr. Otway with the
deceased?”
“No, I was not. When I entered the room my father was lying on the
floor and appeared to be already dead.”
“Had you seen your father since the solemnization of the marriage?”
“I saw him from the window as he entered Mr. Otway’s garden.”
“Did you notice anything unusual in his appearance?”
“Yes; his appearance alarmed me very much. He seemed excessively
excited, and his face was deeply flushed and of a strange, purplish
colour.”
“Had you any special reason to be alarmed?”
“Yes. I knew that his doctor had warned him to avoid all excitement
and exertion on account of the weak state of his heart.”
“You did not hear what passed between your father and Mr. Otway?”
“I heard my father ask where I was, and I heard Mr. Otway tell him
that the marriage had taken place.”
“Did you hear anything more?”
“My father then called Mr. Otway a scoundrel, and was still speaking
loudly and angrily when the study door closed and I heard no more.”
“What made you go to the study?”
“I heard and felt the shock when my father fell.”
“Would you mind telling us again in what condition you found your
father?”
“He appeared to be dead. His face was at first a livid grey, but it
faded to marble whiteness as I looked at him. There was a small wound
on the right side of his forehead and a drop of blood had run down on
to his cheek and on his temple.”
The coroner glanced at the jurymen. “I think, gentlemen,” he said,
“that is all we need ask Mrs. Otway?” And when the foreman had
acquiesced, and he had thanked me for “the very clear and lucid
manner” in which I had given my evidence, I was permitted to resume my
seat.
“I can never thank you enough, Helen,” whispered Mr. Otway, as I sat
down. “You managed admirably--admirably.”
To this I made no reply; for now that the ordeal was over I began to
be assailed by certain doubts as to whether I had been quite candid. I
had told all that was really material to the inquiry; but--however, at
this point Dr. Sharpe approached the table and picked up the
Testament.
His evidence practically settled the verdict. He testified that my
father had suffered for some years from a dilated heart and arterial
degeneration. “I warned him frequently to avoid excitement and undue
exertion, for he was inclined to be careless and take liberties with
himself.”
“You considered his state of health precarious?”
“I thought he might fall down dead at any moment.”
“You have heard the evidence of the two previous witnesses. Does that
evidence contain any suggestion to you as to the cause of death?”
“It suggests to me that the deceased hurried to Mr. Otway’s house in a
towering rage, and that, during the interview, he worked himself up
into a fury. I should say that the combined exertion and excitement
brought on a fatal attack of syncope.”
“You think that death was caused by heart failure?”
“I have no doubt of it.”
Dr. Bury’s evidence was much to the same effect, though less positive.
“The deceased had apparently been dead about half an hour when I
arrived. The cause of death was not obvious, but the appearances were
consistent with the account given by Mr. Otway. There was a small,
contused wound at the junction of the forehead and right temple,
apparently caused by the violent impact of some hard and blunt body.
Judging by the small amount of bleeding, the wound had been sustained
immediately before death. A single drop of blood had trickled down on
to the cheek, and one or two drops on to the temple.”
“You have heard Mr. Otway’s account of the way in which that wound was
occasioned. Do you consider that the appearances are in agreement with
that account?”
“There is no disagreement. The appearance of the wound was consistent
with its production in the manner described.”
“Would you say that it was probably so produced?”
“That,” replied Dr. Bury, “is a question for the jury. It might have
been. I can’t go beyond the appearances.”
“No, of course you can’t. And is that all that you have to tell us?”
“That is all,” was the reply; and this virtually brought the inquiry
to an end. After a brief summing-up by the coroner, the jury held an