Helen Vardon's confession
the inquiry, we should be glad. Or the names of any witnesses that we
ought to subpœna.”
I reflected. The threatening letters must necessarily be referred to
at the inquest. I should have to mention them myself, even if Mrs.
Gregg knew nothing of them.
“I happen to know,” I replied, “that Mr. Otway had received a number
of anonymous letters and that he was greatly worried about them.”
“Blackmailing letters?” he asked.
“I don’t think any demands for money were made,” I replied.
“Do you know what was their nature? Were they threatening letters?”
“Yes, indirectly. The two or three that I saw had reference to the
death of my father, who died very suddenly and who was alone with Mr.
Otway at the time. They suggested a suspicion that Mr. Otway was
responsible for my father’s death.”
The officer looked at me quickly and then became deeply reflective.
“Will it be possible to produce those letters at the inquest?” he
asked, after a cogitative pause.
“They are not in my possession,” I answered; “but if the coroner will
make an order for their production I will endeavour to have it carried
out.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said he; and then, as an afterthought, added: “If
you could make it convenient to call at the coroner’s office
to-morrow, say at about two o’clock, I could give you the order and
perhaps help you to carry it out.”
The latter suggestion appealed to me strongly and I fell in with it at
once. Thereupon the officer picked up his helmet with an air of
satisfaction, and, having handed me the subpœna, moved towards the
door. I accompanied him along the hall and let him out; and as I
wished him good evening and launched him down the steps, another
figure emerged from the darkness and passed him on the way up.
“Does Mrs. Otway live here?” the new-comer enquired. I glanced at him
with faint suspicion, for the exact coincidence in time of his arrival
with the officer’s departure suggested a connection between the two
events.
“I am Mrs. Otway,” said I.
“Oh, indeed! Could I have a few words with you on a matter of some
importance? I will not detain you more than a few minutes.”
I hesitated, eyeing my new visitor dubiously. But there were no
reasonable grounds for a refusal; and I eventually ushered him into
the little parlour that the officer had just left, and indicated the
vacant chair.
“The matter concerning which I have taken the liberty of calling on
you, Mrs. Otway,” said he, “is connected with--er--with the painful
occurrence--er--at Lyon’s Inn Chambers. A most deplorable affair. Most
distressing for you--most distressing! Pray accept my sincere
sympathy.”
“Thank you, Mr.----”
“Hyams is my name--you may have heard your late husband speak of me.
We have been acquainted a good many years.”
“He has never spoken of you to me, Mr. Hyams. But what can I do for
you?”
“Well, I can put my business in a nut-shell. Your husband, at the time
of his death, had certain valuable property of mine in his possession.
I should like to get that property back without delay.”
He had certainly wasted no time. Unsentimental as was my own attitude
I felt this haste to be almost indecent.
“I should think you will have no difficulty,” said I, “if you apply in
the proper quarter.”
“That is what I am doing,” he retorted. “You are his widow. His
property is in your hands.”
“Not at all,” I replied. “Pending probate of the will, the property is
vested in his executors.”
He looked at me in not unnatural astonishment. I suppose the
phraseology that I had acquired from my father was unusual for a
woman.
“Who are the executors?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“But,” said he, “I suppose you have seen the will.”
“No, I don’t know that there is a will. I am only assuming the
existence of one from my knowledge of Mr. Otway’s business like
habits.”
“But this is very unsatisfactory,” said Mr. Hyams. “There is portable
property of mine worth several thousand pounds lying in his chambers
for anyone to pick up, and those chambers in charge of a woman who
probably has access to his keys. It really isn’t business, you know.”
“What is the nature of the property?” I asked.
“It is a collection of very valuable stones, the whole lot contained
in a little box that anyone could carry away in his pocket.”
“Then,” said I, “the probability is that he has deposited the box with
his bankers.”
“Who are his bankers?” he asked.
“I really don’t know.”
“You don’t know!” he exclaimed. “But you must have seen his cheques. I
presume he made you an allowance?”
“I accepted no allowance from him and I have never seen one of his
cheques.”
Mr. Hyams looked at me with undisguised incredulity. “A most
extraordinary state of affairs,” he commented. “Can you give me the
address of his lawyers?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Hyams, that I cannot. I don’t even know if he has a
lawyer. I know nothing whatever about Mr. Otway’s affairs.”
Mr. Hyams’ countenance took on an expression that was very much the
reverse of pleasant. “I suppose, Mrs. Otway,” said he, “you realise
that you are talking to a man of business and that you are telling a
rather unlikely story.”
“I realise it very clearly, Mr. Hyams,” I replied, “and I realise also
the difficulty of your position. What I recommend you to do is to go
to Lyon’s Inn and see the housekeeper, Mrs. Gregg. She has been with
Mr. Otway many years and can probably tell you all that you want to
know.”
Mr. Hyams shut his mouth tightly, rose deliberately and picked up his
hat.
“Then,” said he, “the position, as I understand it, is this: You don’t
know whether there is or is not a will; you don’t know the name of
your husband’s bankers; you don’t know who his lawyer is; you don’t
know anything about his affairs; and you disclaim any responsibility
in regard to property that was in his custody when he died.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “that is the position; a very unsatisfactory one for
you, I must admit. Perhaps I may be able to help you later, when I
know more about Mr. Otway’s affairs. Will you leave me your address?”
He was on the point of refusing, but prudence triumphed over anger and
he laid on the table a card on which I read the name, “David Hyams,
Dealer in precious stones,” and the address, “501, Hatton Garden.”
“If I learn anything fresh I will write to you,” I said; whereupon he
thanked me curtly and gruffly and walked towards the door with
pursed-up lips and a lowering, truculent expression and took his
departure without another word.
When he was gone I reflected at some length on the significance of his
visit. The interview had brought home to me very vividly my anomalous
position. Mr. Otway had been a total stranger to me. Of his past, of
his recent habits and mode of life, his friends, his occupation--if he
had any--his family and social status, I knew nothing. My father had
referred to him as a retired solicitor and as a collector of, or
dealer in, precious stones. Vaguely, I had conceived him as a man of
some means--perhaps a rich man. But I knew nothing of him and had
given him and his affairs barely a thought. He was a stranger who had
come into my life for but a moment, and had straightway gone out
again, leaving a trail of desolation to show where he had been.
That was the real position. But to strangers, to the world at large,
it would seem incredible. I was Mr. Otway’s widow. I had been his
wife--in law if not in fact. And the world would hold me to the legal
relationship. The dead man, lying in the mortuary, seemed about to
make good the claims that the living man had been forced to abandon.
My status as a wife had been a mere fiction: my status as a widow was
an undeniable reality.
The clear perception of the extent to which I was involved in the dead
man’s affairs gave my visit to the coroner’s office a new importance.
For now, while seeking information for official use at the inquest, I
must gather what knowledge I could for my own guidance under cover of
the coroner’s order. The address of the office--in Blackmoor Street,
Drury Lane--was printed on the subpœna, and there, after a few
enquiries, I made my appearance punctually on the following day.
My friend of the previous evening--whose name I discovered to be
Smallwood--was in the office, looking over some documents with the aid
of a pair of spectacles, which gave him a curiously unconstabulary
aspect. He rose when I entered, and, opening a drawer, took out a
sheet of paper.
“This is what you asked for, Mrs. Otway,” said he (upon which a young
man at a desk looked up quickly), “the coroner’s request for the
production of the letters that you told me about. Can I give you any
other assistance?”
“If you could accompany me to the chambers and be present during the
search for the letters, I should be glad,” I replied. “You see,” I
added, seeing that he looked somewhat surprised, “I am almost a
stranger to the housekeeper, I know nothing about the household or Mr.
Otway’s arrangements, and I shall be accountable to the executors, if
there are any, for any interference with the papers or their removal.
I should very much prefer to have a reliable witness.”
He saw the position at once, and, greatly to my relief, agreed to come
with me, or rather to follow me in a few minutes. Thereupon I left the
office and walking at a leisurely pace into Drury Lane presently made
my way into the Strand by way of May-pole Alley and turned eastward
towards Lyon’s Inn Chambers.
At the entrance I lingered for a minute or two and then slowly
ascended the stairs to Mr. Otway’s landing, growing more and more
uncomfortable with every step. For the bare stone staircase set my
memory working very unpleasantly, recalling again my headlong flight
and the terrible episode that had preceded it--that episode that I
would so gladly have sponged out of my recollection for ever.
I stood at the door with my hand on the bell, listening for Mr.
Smallwood’s steps on the stair, and so might have remained until he
arrived; but suddenly the door opened and Mrs. Gregg confronted me.
Apparently she had some means of observing a visitor from within.
“What are ye standing there for?” she demanded. “Why did ye not ring?”
“I was just about to ring when you opened the door,” I replied.
She smiled sourly and looked at me in that strange, inscrutable
fashion of hers that I found so disconcerting.
“And what might your business be?” she demanded.
“I have come about some letters of Mr. Otway’s--some anonymous letters
that he has received from time to time. Perhaps you know about them?”
“You mean, perhaps I have been in the habit of reading his letters.
Weel, mistress, I have not. I know nothing about his letters.”
“Perhaps you can show me where his letters were kept.”
“Indeed, I’ll do no such thing. What! Do you think I’ll have you
scratching up in his chambers and pawing over his letters and papers
and him not under-ground yet?”
At this moment I caught the welcome sound of footsteps on the stairs.
Mrs. Gregg listened suspiciously, and as Mr. Smallwood came into sight
there was a visible change in her demeanour.
“What does he want, I wonder?” she said.
“He has come to receive the letters and to be present at the search
for them,” I replied, producing the coroner’s order. She glanced at
the paper, and, as Mr. Smallwood stepped up to the door, she motioned
us to enter.
“Come in,” she said, gruffly. “’Tis no affair of mine, but I’ll no
hinder ye.”
We were just about to enter when footsteps were again audible on the
stairs, and we waited to see who this other visitor might be. Somewhat
to my surprise it turned out to be Mr. Hyams, who certainly seemed to
have a genius for coincidences.
“Now this is quite a lucky chance,” said he, doing himself, as I