Helen Vardon's confession
suspected, less than justice. “I didn’t expect to find you here, Mrs.
Otway. I presume you are just having a look round.”
“I have come to search for some documents that have to be put in
evidence,” said I. “The coroner has asked for them.”
“Well,” said Mr. Hyams, “you might, at the same time, see if you can
find any trace of my property.”
“What property is that?” demanded Mrs. Gregg.
“A parcel of stones--a very valuable collection--that Mr. Otway had
from me on approval.”
Mrs. Gregg snorted. “Man,” said she, “ye’re talkin’ like a fool. Do
you suppose Lewis Otway would have left a valuable parcel of stones
lying about in his rooms like a packet of snuff? Ye’ll find no stones
here.”
“That may or may not be,” said Mr. Hyams. “At any rate, I’ll stay and
see if anything turns up.”
During this dialogue we had gradually moved from the lobby down the
corridor and now entered the living-room. As we crossed it I looked
curiously at the large cupboard and wondered idly what I could have
found so alarming in its appearance on the night of my visit. But if
the living-room had, by the light of day, lost its disturbing
qualities, it was otherwise with the bedroom. I opened the door with
trepidation, and as I did so and was confronted by the disordered bed,
the horror of the place began to come back to me. Nevertheless, I
entered the room with a firm step and with my eyes on the bedside
table, which appeared to be in the same condition as when I had last
seen it. I had just noted this when I felt my arm grasped, and turning
quickly found Mrs. Gregg at my side. Her eyes were fixed on me and
with her disengaged hand she was pointing towards the corner by the
bed-head. Involuntarily my gaze followed the direction in which she
was pointing and lighted on the fatal peg, which now bore a loop of
the red bell-rope with two free ends. Of course I had known it was
there, but yet the sight of it made me turn sick and faint, and I must
have shown this in the sudden pallor of my face; for when, controlling
myself by an intense effort, I turned to speak to her she was looking
at me with a leer of triumph.
“Can we have Mr. Otway’s keys?” I asked.
“Ye’ll find them in the right dressing-table drawer,” she answered.
“I’m no party to this, but I’ll no hinder ye.”
Mr. Smallwood opened the drawer and produced a bunch of keys which he
handed to me. I looked them over and selecting the most likely-looking
ones, tried them, one after the other, on the deed-box. The fourth key
fitted the lock, and when I had turned it and raised the lid of the
box, the letter which Mr. Otway had shown me lay in full view. I took
it out and laid it on the table and then proceeded to lift out the
remaining contents of the box. There was not much to remove: a
cheque-book, a pass-book, a small journal, a memorandum-book, a bundle
of share-certificates, a canvas bag containing money, and at the
bottom of the box, a foolscap envelope endorsed, “Anonymous Letters.”
I opened the unsealed envelope and drew out the letters which I
glanced through one by one. There were seven in all, of which I had
already seen three. When I had looked at them I returned them to the
envelope, adding the last letter, and then began to replace the other
things in the box.
“I see a cheque-book there, Mrs. Otway,” said Mr. Hyams, who had
followed my proceedings with intense interest. “May I make a note of
the banker’s address?”
I handed him the cheque-book and continued to replace the contents of
the box. When I had finished I paused with the box open, waiting for
him to return the cheque-book; and at this moment I became aware, with
a start of surprise, that an addition had been made to our party.
The new-comer was a short, stout, middle-aged man, obviously a Jew of
the swarthy, aquiline type, with a very large nose and rather
prominent dark eyes. He stood in the open doorway of the bedroom
watching us with a slightly unpleasant smile. As he noted my surprised
look, his smile became broader and more unpleasant.
“Make yourselves at home, ladies and gentlemen,” said he. “These are
public premises--at least I assume they are as I found the door open.”
Mr. Hyams looked round with a start--as, indeed, did the others.
“May I ask who you are, sir?” he enquired.
“You may,” was the suave reply. “My name is Isaacs--of the firm of
Isaacs and Cohen, solicitors. I am one of the executors of Mr. Lewis
Otway’s will. And having regard to my responsibilities in that
capacity, I may, perhaps, venture to enquire as to the nature of these
proceedings. You, sir, appear to be in possession of the testator’s
cheque-book. Did you happen to require the loan of a fountain pen?”
Mr. Hyams turned very red and hastily laid down the cheque-book.
“That,” he exclaimed angrily, “is perfectly unwarranted. I was simply
making a note of the banker’s address.”
“With what object?”
“With the object of enquiring whether certain property of mine, which
was in Mr. Otway’s custody, had been deposited in the bank.”
“What is the nature and value of this property?” asked Mr. Isaacs.
“It is a collection of precious stones of the approximate value of
four thousand pounds.”
“Then,” said Mr. Isaacs, “I can give you the information you want. No
property, other than documents, has been deposited at the bank.”
“In that case,” said Mr. Hyams, “the stones must be in these rooms.”
“It is quite probable,” Mr. Isaacs agreed.
“Is there any objection to ascertaining, now, whether they are here?”
“Yes, there is,” replied Mr. Isaacs. “The will has not been proved and
no letters of administration have been issued. Pending probate of the
will I propose to take possession of these premises and seal all
receptacles that may contain valuable property. I shall interfere with
nothing until I have letters of administration.”
“And how soon will that be?” asked Mr. Hyams.
“Seven days must elapse before the will can be proved. Under the
circumstances there may be some further delay. And now I should like
to know what has been taking place. You, for instance, madam----”
“I am Mrs. Lewis Otway,” said I, “and I have come here by the
coroner’s direction, to look for some letters that are to be put in
evidence.”
“Have you found them?”
“Yes,” I answered, “they are here; and, as you are an executor, I had
better hand them to you, and you can deliver them to the coroner’s
officer if you think fit.”
I handed him the envelope and the coroner’s letter, which he read, and
then asked: “Did you have to make a very extensive search?”
“No, she didn’t,” said Mrs. Gregg. “She kenned fine where to look for
them and she found them at the first cast.”
On this I noticed that Mr. Hyams cast a quick, suspicious glance at me
and I thought it wise to explain.
“I looked first in this box because I had seen Mr. Otway put one of
these letters into it.”
“Quite so,” said Mr. Isaacs. “Very natural.” But obvious as the
explanation was, I could see that it had left Mr. Hyams unconvinced.
I now returned the cheque-book to the deed-box, locked the latter and
handed the keys to Mr. Isaacs; who delivered the anonymous letters to
the coroner’s officer and took his receipt for them on a slip of
paper. My business being now at an end, I offered my card to Mr.
Isaacs, took his in return, and departed in company with Mr.
Smallwood.
“A queer business, this, ma’am,” the officer remarked as we descended
the stairs. “Regular mix up. Seem to be a lot of Sheenies in it.”
“Sheenies?” I repeated, interrogatively. “What are Sheenies?”
“Jews, ma’am,” he replied, apparently a little surprised at my
ignorance. “It’s just a popular name, you know.”
I reflected on Mr. Smallwood’s remark, which seemed hardly justified
by the facts--two Jews only having appeared in the case, so far as I
knew. And yet I seemed to be aware of a sort of Semitic atmosphere
surrounding Mr. Otway. There were, for instance, the Campbells; and
then Mrs. Gregg, although a Scotswoman, might easily, but for her
strong Scottish accent, have passed for a Jewess; while Mr. Otway,
himself, had been distinctly Semitic in appearance.
At the entry, where we separated, Mr. Smallwood halted to give me a
final injunction.
“You had better be in good time to-morrow, ma’am,” said he, “because
it will be necessary for you to view the body so that you can give
evidence as to the identity of the deceased.”
I thanked him for the reminder, but would much rather have been
without it. For the prospect filled me with a vague alarm, and now the
mental picture of the sleeping man, which had haunted me by night and
by day, began to be replaced by one more dreadful, and one which I
felt that my visit to the mortuary would attach to me for ever.
Chapter XXIV.
The Gathering Clouds
The distaste which I felt for my errand did not prevent me from
following Mr. Smallwood’s advice on the subject of punctuality. It was
some minutes short of half-past two when I turned into the mean,
little street off Drury Lane in which the mortuary was situated. I had
found the place without much difficulty and had still less in finding
the mortuary itself, for, as I entered the street I observed a
procession of about a dozen men passing in through a narrow gateway,
watched attentively by a small crowd of loiterers. Assuming the former
to be the jury, I walked slowly past on the opposite side and
continued for the length of the short street. I had just turned to
retrace my steps when the men filed out of the gateway and proceeded
to enter a building a few yards up the street, and immediately
afterwards Mr. Smallwood appeared at the gate. He saw me at once and
waited for me to approach.
“I am glad you have come in good time, ma’am,” said he. “The jury have
just been in to view the body and the coroner will like to open the
inquest punctually. This is the way.”
He preceded me down a narrow passage, at the end of which he pushed
open a door. Following him I entered the mortuary, a bare,
stone-floored hall containing two large slate-topped tables, one of
which was occupied by a recumbent figure covered by a sheet. Mr.
Smallwood removed his helmet and together we advanced slowly towards
the awesome, shrouded form, lying so still and lonely in its grim
surroundings. Very quietly, the officer picked up the two upper
corners of the sheet and drew it back, retiring then a couple of paces
as if to avoid intruding on my meeting with the dead.
Strung up as I was, the first impression was less dreadful than I had
anticipated. The face was pale and waxen, but it was placid in
expression and more peaceful than I had ever seen it in life. The
hunted, terrified look was gone and had given place to an air of
repose, almost of dignity. For a few moments I was sensible of a
feeling of relief; but then my glance fell upon a contorted length of
crimson rope that lay on the slate table, and instinctively my eye
turned to the uncovered throat. And as I noted the shallow groove
under the chin, faintly marked with an impression of the strands of
the rope, the shocking reality came home to me with overwhelming
horror. Before my eyes arose that awful shape upon the bedroom wall
and the hardly less dreadful image of the sleeping man unconsciously
receiving the message of his doom.
With a new horror--an incredulous horror of myself--I looked on the
pale, placid face and seemed to read in it a gentle reproach. He had
gone to his death at my bidding. He had stood unsteadily on the brink
of the abyss, and I had pushed him over.
It seemed incredible. There had been no conscious intention; no guilty
premeditation. I would have told myself that there was no connection
other than mere coincidence. But there the plain, undeniable facts