Helen Vardon's confession
equally brief consultation and then unanimously returned a verdict of
“Death from natural causes.”
On the announcement of the verdict everyone rose, including myself and
Mr. Otway, and the latter, turning to me, said in a low voice:
“I think I won’t wait. I want to get home and be quiet; but I shall
call on you to-morrow, if I may, to make--ah--any--ah--arrangements
that--ah--in fact, to speak to you about the--ah--the funeral.”
“Very well,” I said, reluctantly--for, deeply as I loathed him, I
could not exclude him even from that sacred ceremony without creating
an open scandal. “You had better come early in the forenoon”; and with
this I dismissed him with a stiff bow, and made my way to where Mr.
Jackson and Dr. Thorndyke were standing. As I held out my hand to the
latter and recalled to him our meeting years ago, Mr. Jackson said:
“Dr. Thorndyke happened to be in Maidstone to-day and to call at our
office, so I prevailed on him to come here and watch the proceedings
on our behalf in case any complications should arise. But everything
has gone off quite smoothly.”
“Very smoothly indeed,” Dr. Thorndyke agreed, with, as it seemed to
me, a certain degree of emphasis.
“Both the coroner and the jury were most considerate,” pursued Mr.
Jackson.
“Most considerate,” assented Dr. Thorndyke; and again I seemed to
detect a note of emphasis, as also, I think, did Mr. Jackson, for he
glanced quickly at our companion, though he made no remark.
“I wonder,” said I, “if you two gentlemen would care to come and take
a cup of tea with me?”
Mr. Jackson had an engagement at the office, and as Dr. Thorndyke
appeared to hesitate, I added quickly: “I should be very glad if you
could, though I don’t wish to take up your time if you are busy.”
“My time is my own for the next three hours,” said Dr. Thorndyke, “and
if I should really not be an inopportune visitor, I should like very
much to have tea with you.”
“Let us go, then,” said I. “Mr. Jackson will accompany us as far as
Gabriel’s Hill, won’t you?” And as my old friend assented with a prim,
little bow, we set forth.
“I have offered no condolences, Mrs. Otway,” said Dr. Thorndyke. “I
knew your father, I saw you and him together, and I realize what this
loss must mean to you. There is nothing to say except that you have my
most real sympathy.”
“Thank you,” I said, and for a time we walked on in silence. And as we
walked I found myself recalling, with a strong, speculative interest,
that curious, subtle emphasis which Dr. Thorndyke had conveyed into
his agreement with Mr. Jackson. At length, when we had dropped the
latter near the Town Hall, I summoned up courage to raise the
question.
“I have an impression, Dr. Thorndyke, which may be quite a mistaken
one, that you were not completely satisfied with the way in which the
inquest was conducted. Am I mistaken?”
“Well,” he replied, slowly, “the coroner’s methods were not what one
would call rigorous.”
“I suppose they were not. But in what respect are you disposed to find
fault with them?”
“Principally,” he replied, “in his failure to elicit a really
conclusive verdict. The verdict of the jury was based upon Dr.
Sharpe’s opinion as to the cause of death. That opinion was probably
correct, but it was based upon reasoning which was not sound. His
position was this: If certain circumstances--excitement or
exertion--should arise, there would be a great probability of their
causing sudden death. But those circumstances had actually arisen and
sudden death had actually followed. Therefore the death was due to the
factors of the said circumstances. But this conclusion is fallacious.
It does not prove a fact: it merely indicates a probability.”
“But are not all verdicts statements of probability?”
“Too often they are. But it is a coroner’s business to bring the
conclusions of his court, as far as possible, into the region of
ascertained fact. The immediate cause of death can usually be
demonstrated by scientific methods, and the inquiry can then be built
up on a foundation of certainty. Opinion should never be accepted
where knowledge is obtainable.”
“Do you think, then, that the verdict was not a proper one?”
“I am not criticizing the verdict,” he replied, “but the methods by
which it was arrived at. I think that the cause of death should have
been established beyond all doubt before any contributary
circumstances were inquired into.”
“But otherwise; apart from that one point?”
“I thought the examination of the witnesses rather easy-going. No
doubt it elicited all the relevant facts. But that is impossible to
decide on. One cannot judge of the relevancy of a fact until one has
got the fact. I think, for instance, that most counsel would have
pressed your husband a good deal more closely. The coroner appeared to
decide that the matter was not relevant without being quite clear as
to what matter he was dealing with.”
This, I must confess, had been my own impression, but I had been so
relieved at the easy manner in which the difficult passages had been
allowed to pass that I had been little disposed to criticise the
considerate and sympathetic coroner. Nor did it seem quite safe to
pursue the present discussion much farther, for it was tending in a
rather dangerous direction. My own reservations began to weigh on me
somewhat--and Dr. Thorndyke was not quite the same type of listener as
the coroner. Nevertheless, the conversation pleased me, though I could
not but be struck by the oddity of this detached discussion of a
matter which was of such vital moment to me. But that very oddity was
itself an element of gratification; for a woman is naturally flattered
when an intellectual man appears to credit her with the power of
impartial judgment of her own conduct and affairs--that faculty not
being one by which our sex is peculiarly distinguished.
But at this point, our discussion was brought naturally to an end by
our arrival at my house--as I must now call it; and here a quick
glance of surprised recognition on my companion’s part gave me a new
note of warning and prepared me for the inevitable question.
“You are living at your father’s house, I see.”
“_I_ am, for the present. Mr. Otway remains in his own house.”
“Yes. I suppose it will be more convenient to settle everything up
here before joining your husband.”
I was on the point of temporising by a vague assent; but my lips
refused to frame the implied falsehood. It may have been my natural
dislike of secrecy and concealment, it may be that my womanly pride
resented the very idea of association with that unwieldy human spider.
At any rate, an irresistible impulse drove me to say:
“I am not going to join my husband at all, Dr. Thorndyke. I am not
going to live with Mr. Otway.”
I did not look at Dr. Thorndyke as I made this statement, and he made
no comment beyond a matter-of-fact “Indeed.” But I had the feeling
that, in the silence that followed, he was fitting this new fact into
its place in some ordered scheme; that he was docketting it as an
appendix to Mr. Otway’s evidence.
Nothing more was said until we had entered the house and I had given
instructions for tea to be brought to the study. But in that interval
I was aware of a growing impulse to have done with this miserable
secrecy--this sordid fencing and dodging, which must come, in the end,
to downright lying--and tell this strong, wise man the whole wretched
story. Besides, I wanted counsel and guidance: and who was so fit to
give them as he?
Accordingly, when the tray had been laid on the study table, I
re-opened the subject.
“I did not mention this matter in my evidence,” I said. “It had no
bearing on the inquiry.”
“I am not clear,” he replied, “that you were entitled to make any
reservations. A witness’s duty is to state the whole truth. The
question of relevancy is for the court to consider.”
“But unfortunately there were other reservations that had to be made.
Dr. Thorndyke, I want to tell you the whole story--in confidence--and
to ask your advice.”
“I counsel you to make no confidences,” he said, gravely, “unless you
really wish to consult me in my professional capacity.”
“That is what I wish to do,” I said.
“Very well,” said he. “That places us in the secure relation of lawyer
and client; and I need not say that your father’s daughter is very
welcome to any help or advice that I can give.”
With this encouragement, I poured forth the story that I have told in
these pages and in almost as much detail. But still I held back one
fact. I said nothing of my having found Mr. Otway grasping my father’s
loaded stick. That single reservation had to be. Not only was I bound
by a solemn promise; my silence on that point was the price of my
release. The letter of the covenant, indeed, had reference only to my
evidence at the inquest; but its spirit sealed my lips even in this my
most intimate confidence.
And so, once again, a secret guarded from a friendly eye remained,
like a seed dropped in a summer’s drought, to germinate and bring
forth its fruit in its season.
Chapter X.
The Turning of the Page
Dr. Thorndyke listened to my recital of the history of the tragedy,
not only with patience, but with close attention and apparently keen
interest, interrupting me only at rare intervals to ask a question or
elucidate some point that was not quite clear. When I had come to an
end I was disposed to be apologetic, for I had told the story in the
fullest detail, with only the single reservation that I have noted.
“I am afraid,” I said, “that I have been rather victimizing you and
trespassing on your very great patience.”
“By no means,” he replied. “Men and men’s actions and motives are my
merchandise. If I could listen to a story like yours without the
deepest interest I should not be in my present profession. But, now
that I have heard it, I think I can guess the subject on which you
wish to consult me. You would like to annul your marriage with Mr.
Otway.”
“Yes; if it is possible.”
“It is very natural that you should wish to recover your freedom. I
sympathize with you entirely, and I wish I could give you some
encouragement. But I fear that you have no remedy.”
“It seems rather hard,” I said, “that I should be bound for life to
this man whom I detest and who has done me such grievous injuries.”
“It is very hard,” he agreed, “and, humanly speaking, there ought to
be some remedy. But the law provides none; nor is it really possible
for the law to make provision for every imaginable contingency. Yours
is a very exceptional case.”
“Yes, I see that; but it seems unreasonable to compel two people to
maintain a relationship which is not only unsuitable but quite
unreal.”
“It does,” he admitted. “But the law takes a very unsentimental view
of these matters. It regards marriage as an institution concerned with
the establishment of families and the orderly devolution of property,
and its interference is, in the main, limited to circumstances
connected with that assumed function. Of the human aspects of marriage
it takes little account. In a purely legal sense--which is what we are
considering--your position is this: You were competent to contract a
marriage and you did contract one, of your own free will, without any
compulsion or misrepresentation that the law would recognise. The
circumstances that appeared to exist before the marriage still appear
to exist. No new facts have come to light which would affect the
competence of either party. It is a case in which one of the parties
has disregarded the old legal maxim, _Caveat emptor_--buyer beware!
You bought, at a high price, something which turns out to be of no
value. You agreed to marry Mr. Otway for a consideration--the release