Helen Vardon's confession

he--my father--had sent, and when Mr. Otway gave an evasive reply my father called him a scoundrel and accused him of having tricked and swindled me. “I heard no more of what was said, as the two men went into the study and shut the door; but a minute or two later I heard a heavy fall, and, running down to the study, found my father lying on the floor and already dead. There was a small wound on his temple and Mr. Otway, who was stooping over the body, held my father’s walking-stick--a thick Malacca cane with a loaded silver knob--in his hand. He stated that my father had threatened him with the stick and that he had taken it away from him and that during the struggle my father had fallen insensible, striking his head on the corner of the mantel-piece as he fell.” “Did you believe him?” “I think, at the moment, I did not. But on reflection, remembering how ill my father had looked, I had no doubt he was speaking the truth.” “Was there an inquest on your father’s death?” “Yes. The jury found, in accordance with the medical evidence, that death was due to heart failure caused by excitement and anger.” “And after this you refused to live with deceased?” “Yes. I asked him about my father’s letter and he said he had not seen it. I went with him to the letter-box and there we found it. The postmark showed that it had come by the first post and my father’s address was on the outside of the envelope. There were no other letters in the box. I had no doubt that Mr. Otway had seen the letter and put it back in the box.” “Was that why you refused to live with him?” “Partly. The letter stated that my father was able to meet his liabilities and gave a date on which payment would be made. Consequently the threatened proceedings against my father were impossible and Mr. Otway had obtained my consent by false pretences. But further, Mr. Otway’s action had been the cause of my father’s death, and this alone would have made it impossible for me to live with him as his wife.” “Did deceased agree to the separation?” “Yes. He saw that the position was impossible; but he hoped that the separation might be only temporary--that we might become reconciled at some future time.” “Did you consider this possible?” “No. I held him accountable for my father’s death and could never have overcome my repugnance to him.” The coroner noted down this answer and having glanced over his notes reflectively, looked up at the jury. “Do any of you, gentlemen, wish to put any questions on this subject?” he asked. The jurymen looked at one another and looked at me; and one of them remarked that, “This young lady seems to have rather easy-going ideas about the responsibilities of marriage.” “That,” said the Coroner, “is hardly our concern. The next matter that we have to consider is that of certain letters received by the deceased from some unknown person or persons. There are seven of them and they seem by the postmarks to have been sent at intervals of about three weeks and to have been posted somewhere in the East end of London. We will begin with the first.” He handed a letter to me and asked: “Have you seen that letter before?” “Yes,” I replied. “Deceased showed it to me one day last June when I met him by appointment at his request. He seemed to be extremely worried about it.” The coroner took the letter from me and read it aloud. “‘Mr. Lewis Otway, “‘The undersigned is writing to put you on your guard because Somebody knows something about how Mr. Vardon came by his death and that somebody is not a friend, so you had better keep a sharp look-out for your enemy and see what they mean to do. I can’t tell you any more at present. “‘A Well Wisher.’” “Do you know,” the coroner asked, “who wrote that letter?” “No, I do not.” “Have you no idea at all? Is there no one whom you suspect?” “I have not the least idea who sent that letter.” “You say that deceased was extremely worried about it. Do you know why he was worried?” “I understand that there had been rumours in Maidstone that Mr. Otway had killed my father. Those rumours seemed to have preyed upon his mind and made him unreasonably nervous.” The coroner nodded gravely and opened another letter and as he read aloud the well-remembered phrases I realised that I should need all the courage and self-possession at my command. “‘The writer of this warns you once more,’” the letter ran, “‘to look for trouble. The person that I spoke of knows that something was held back at the inquest at least they say so and that they know why your wife won’t live with you and that she knows all about it too and that someone knows more than you think anybody knows. This is a friendly warning. “‘From a Well Wisher.’” The coroner looked keenly at me as he finished reading. “Can you explain the meaning of this letter?” he asked. “It refers to something that was held back at the inquest. Was anything held back, so far as you know?” “I remember that there was one omission in the evidence. Mr. Otway made no mention of my father’s stick.” “Was it not mentioned at the inquest at all?” “No.” “Did you not give evidence?” “Yes; but I was merely asked if I confirmed Mr. Otway’s evidence, which I did.” “You confirmed Mr. Otway’s evidence! But that evidence was not correct. The duty of a witness is to state the whole truth; whereas Mr. Otway had withheld a highly material fact. How was it that you did not supply this very important fact?” “It did not appear to me to be of any importance. The medical evidence showed that death was due to heart failure.” “Medical evidence!” the coroner exclaimed, testily. “There is too much of this medical evidence superstition in these courts. People speak as if doctors were infallible. It was your duty as a witness to state all that you knew, not to decide what was or was not of importance. And I cannot understand how you came to hold such an opinion. You found your father lying dead with a wound on his head and a man standing over him with a loaded stick, and you considered this fact of no consequence?” “I see now that I ought to have mentioned it.” “What was the verdict?” “The verdict was in accordance with the medical evidence--Death from natural causes.” “Did the medical witness or witnesses know that Mr. Otway had had a loaded stick in his hand?” “No.” “Did anybody besides yourself and Mr. Otway know about the loaded stick?” “Mrs. Gregg came into the room when Mr. Otway had gone for a doctor. She saw the stick in a corner and picked it up to examine it. She asked whose it was and remarked on its weight.” “Did she know it had been in Mr. Otway’s hand at the time of your father’s death?” “I have no reason to suppose that she knew.” “Well,” said the coroner, “it is a most extraordinary affair. You heard Mr. Otway give his evidence, you knew that that evidence was incomplete, and yet, though the dead man was your own father and you have declared an unconquerable repugnance to Mr. Otway, you allowed this garbled evidence to pass unchallenged. It is an amazing affair. However,” he continued turning to the jury, “that is not our concern. But what is our concern, for the purposes of this inquiry, is that we now begin to see daylight. We can now understand the extraordinary effect these letters seem to have had on the man whose death we are investigating. Lewis Otway, when he gave his evidence at the inquest, suppressed a most important and damaging fact, which he believed to be known only to himself and his wife. Thereby he obtained a verdict of Death from Natural Causes, which exonerated him from all blame. Had all the facts been known, the verdict might have been very different. “Now the receipt of these letters must have destroyed his sense of security. Apparently someone else--and that someone evidently an enemy--knew of this damaging fact, and knew of the further damaging fact that it had been suppressed at the inquest. In effect, these letters held out a threat of a charge of murder, or at least, manslaughter. It is no wonder that they alarmed him. But we had better take the rest of the evidence. There is this letter of deceased to his wife, which I will read. It is dated the 17th of October, and this is what it says: “‘My dear Helen, “‘I have not troubled you for quite a long time with my miserable affairs--which are to some extent your affairs too. But they are going from bad to worse, and now I feel that I am coming to the limits of endurance. I cannot bear this much longer. My health is shattered, my peace of mind is wrecked and my brain threatens to give way. Death would be a boon, a relief, and I feel that it is not far off. I cannot go on like this. Those wretches leave me no peace. Hardly a week passes but I get some new menace; and now--but I can’t tell you in a letter. It is too horrible. Come to me, Helen, for the love of God! I am in torment. Have pity on me, even though you have never forgiven me. I cannot come to you, for I am now unable to leave my bed. I am a wreck, a ruin. Come to me just this once, and if you cannot help me, at least give me the comfort of your sympathy. You will not be troubled by me much longer. “‘Your distracted husband, “‘Lewis Otway.’” When the coroner finished reading the letter (which evidently made a deep impression on the jury) he looked at me gravely. “Before passing to the next letter, I must ask one or two questions about this one. What did you understand from the phrases ‘I feel that it (death) is not far off. I cannot go on like this. You will not be troubled by me much longer.’ Did they not suggest to you an intention to commit suicide?” “No. I understood them as referring to his state of health.” “If you had known of the family tendency to suicide, how would you have understood these passages?” “I should have suspected that he contemplated suicide.” “But you say you were not aware of this tendency?” “No, I was not.” “He refers to his ‘miserable affairs--which are to some extent your affairs too.’ What did you understand him to mean by that?” “I understood him to refer to the fact that I was partly responsible for the omission of certain details in the evidence at the inquest.” “When you received this pitiful letter, what did you do?” “I went to him the same day to find out what the trouble was. He then showed me an anonymous letter that he had received.” “Is this the one?” the coroner asked, handing it to me; and when I had glanced at it and identified it, he proceeded to read it to the jury. “‘Mr. Lewis Otway, “‘Some funny questions are being asked. What about Mr. Vardon’s stick?--the loaded stick with the silver knob to hide the lead loading? Where is it? Somebody says they know where it is and who’s got it. And they say there is a bruise on the silver-top, and they say something about a smear of blood and a grey hair sticking to it. Do you know anything about that? If you don’t you’d better find out. Because I think you will hear from that somebody before you are many weeks older or else from the police. “‘A Well Wisher.’” As he laid down the letter, the coroner looked at me curiously. “There are one or two important questions, Mrs. Otway,” said he, “that arise out of this letter. The first is, What has become of this stick?” “I don’t know what has become of it. I saw Mrs. Gregg replace it in the corner by the writing table and I never saw it again. The deceased