Helen Vardon's confession
was to reassure me. But if only he had known what I knew! If only he
could have looked into my heart and seen the secret guilt that was
hidden there! And, after all, was it so secret? Was it so securely
hidden? Was the still, small voice of my own conscience the only
accusing voice that I should hear? As I asked myself the question,
uncomfortable memories of the mysterious sounds that had seemed to
issue from the locked cupboard arose and whispered a new menace.
“I am putting the matter bluntly,” Jasper continued, “as the position
has to be faced, and I am confident that you have the courage and
resolution to face it. The coroner holds you accountable for Otway’s
death. He thinks you made a deliberate plan and carried it out to the
bitter end. That is his line, and we have got to show that he is
wrong, if we can, and in any case prevent him from misdirecting the
jury. You must certainly be represented by counsel.”
“What could my counsel do?” I asked.
“His principal function would be to prevent the coroner or the jury
from putting improper questions--questions that do not properly arise
out of the evidence, such as the one we spoke of just now. Of course,
I could represent you, but it would not be advisable under the
circumstances; and besides, I have had no experience of actual
practice. Do you know any barrister whom you could ask?”
“The only barrister I know is Dr. Thorndyke, but I couldn’t ask him to
attend a coroner’s court.”
“I don’t know that you couldn’t. Of course, he is a great man. But the
case is quite in his line, and I know that he doesn’t mind where he
appears if the case interests him.”
“You know him then, too?”
“Only by repute. All lawyers know him as the leading authority on
medical evidence. His position is unique, for he is a first-class
criminal lawyer and a first-class medical specialist. You couldn’t
have a better man for your representative. I advise you to see him or
write to him without delay. Does he know anything about your affairs?”
“Yes, I consulted him a month or two ago, about these very letters and
told him about my reservations at the inquest. He promised to make a
few inquiries, but I have not heard from him on the subject, so I
suppose his inquiries led to no result.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” said Jasper. “At any rate, as he knows
something of the case, and is by far the best counsel you could get,
the obvious thing is to communicate with him at once.”
Of course, Jasper was quite right--in so far as he knew the facts. For
he was assuming that I had nothing to conceal excepting my bargain
with Mr. Otway and my relations with himself. He knew nothing of the
dreadful events that befel on the night preceding Mr. Otway’s death;
of the silent willing and suggestion that my own conscience called
murder, and that any jury would have called murder if they had known
of it. But it was vivid enough in my mind; and I had hardly spoken Dr.
Thorndyke’s name before I realised that I dare not ask for his help.
My own experience fully endorsed my father’s estimate of his powers.
He missed nothing. Hidden significances that no one else guessed at
were to him as the writing of an open book. With no knowledge of the
facts, he had instantly perceived that Mr. Otway’s evidence was false,
and that I was withholding something of importance. And so I felt it
would be now. If he came into the case, my hideous secret would be a
secret no longer. I dare not run the risk.
“I must think it over,” said I. “It seems rather a liberty to ask a
man of his position to watch the evidence at an inquest.”
“He can but refuse,” said Jasper; “and don’t think it over for too
long, or you may miss your chance. He is a busy man.”
I made some sort of non-committal reply and changed the subject. Full
as we were of the events of the moment, there were other matters that
were more pleasant to discuss. For Mr. Otway’s death had made a
radical change in our prospects and plans for the future, and these we
talked over with interest and pleasure but little dimmed by the dark
clouds that hung overhead at the moment, until the chimes of St.
Dunstan’s, hard by, announced that it was nine o’clock and time for me
to go.
“I suppose,” said Jasper, as he bade me farewell, “we had better not
meet again until this affair is over. It is only a fortnight, and
after that we shall be free. Meanwhile, we can write as often as we
please.”
I agreed to this the more readily as I saw that another meeting with
Jasper would make it difficult for me to escape from his demand that I
should invoke Dr. Thorndyke’s help. Nevertheless, as I took my way
through Clifford’s Inn Passage into Fleet Street, I found myself
looking forward somewhat gloomily to the lonely and anxious fortnight
that lay ahead.
For several days nothing out of the ordinary occurred. My friends at
Wellclose Square, who knew approximately what my position was, were
quietly sympathetic, but never referred to the matter; excepting the
incorrigible Titmouse, who frankly congratulated me on my
newly-acquired freedom.
“It’s horrid for you, Sibyl,” said she, “but still it is all for the
best; though he might have managed it a little more decently--level
crossing, you know, or ‘found drowned,’ or something of that sort.”
“You are a callous little wretch, Peggy,” said I.
“I don’t care,” she replied, defiantly. “You know it’s true. I am
awfully sorry for you now. It must be perfectly beastly to have to
answer all those impertinent questions, and have your answers printed
in the newspapers. But it will soon be over, and then you can forget
it and have a good time. I shall dance at your wedding before I am six
months older.”
I had to pretend to be shocked, but the Titmouse’s optimism did me
good. For there was a bright side to the picture, and it was just as
well to gather encouragement by an occasional glance at it.
About ten days after the first sitting of the inquest I received a
letter from Mr. Isaacs. He had already written to me briefly to inform
me that the funeral had been postponed by the coroner’s direction
until after the adjourned inquest, but had then said nothing about the
will. The present letter supplied the omission, and its contents
surprised me very much. It appeared that the will had been proved and
that I was the principal beneficiary. “The testator,” said Mr. Isaacs,
“has bequeathed to you the bulk of his personalty--upwards of eight
thousand pounds--and the lease of the premises in Lyon’s Inn Chambers,
together with the furniture and effects contained therein. You are
also constituted the residuary legatee. The chambers have now been
evacuated by Mrs. Gregg, and are at your disposal. They are at present
locked up, and the keys are in my possession pending your instructions
and advice as to whether you intend to occupy the premises, to let
them or to dispose of the lease. A copy of the will can be seen at my
office, and, of course, the original can be examined at Somerset
House.”
The provisions of this will caused me, as I have said, considerable
surprise. I had regarded myself as having no pecuniary claim on Mr.
Otway, and had not considered myself as concerned in his will at all.
Now it was evident that, selfish as he had been during his life, he
had been anxious at least to make some atonement after his death for
the injury he had done me; and the fact did not tend to make my sense
of guilt less acute.
Before I had replied to Mr. Isaacs’ letter I received two other
communications. One was from Jasper; and though it was written in a
tone of quiet cheerfulness, its contents filled me with alarm. It
appeared that Jasper, becoming uneasy at my continued neglect to take
any measures to secure a counsel to represent me, had called on Dr.
Thorndyke with the object of retaining him. “We have had rather bad
luck,” he continued, “though I don’t suppose it will matter. Dr.
Thorndyke would have been pleased to represent you, but unfortunately
he has been commissioned at the last moment by the Home Office to make
an independent investigation of the case. He gave me the name of a
suitable counsel--a rising junior named Cawley--with whom I have made
the necessary arrangements. So your interests will be looked after,
and we can trust Thorndyke to clear up the obscurities of the case.”
The other letter was from Dr. Thorndyke himself, and confirmed
Jasper’s account. “Your friend, Mr. Davenant,” it said, “called on me
to-day to ask me to watch the proceedings of the inquest on your
behalf, which I would have done with great pleasure if I had been at
liberty. But I had just received instructions from the Home Office to
look into the case and give evidence at the adjourned inquest; so I
referred your friend to Mr. Cawley, who is an excellent counsel and
will be able to do all that is necessary.
“Mr. Davenant expressed great disappointment that I should be, as he
expressed it, ‘retained by the other side.’ But I pointed out to him
that there is no ‘other side.’ I am not a ‘witness advocate.’ My
evidence would be the same whichever side employed me. I never
undertake to represent a particular interest, but merely to obtain
what facts I can and give those facts impartially in my evidence; and
I always make it clear to clients that they employ me at their own
risk--at the risk that the facts elicited may be unfavourable to them.
So, although I am not retained by you, I shall act precisely as if I
were. I shall find out all I can, and tell the court all I know. This
will, presumably, be entirely in your interest.
“And now I am going to ask a favour of you. I wish to examine and make
a plan of the premises at Lyon’s Inn Chambers, and I understand that
the tenancy of the Chambers is now vested in you. Will you be so kind
as to lend me the keys and authorise me to make this survey? If you
will, I shall be able to make my evidence more complete.”
If Jasper’s letter had alarmed me, Dr. Thorndyke’s positively
terrified me. The cool, relentless impartiality, the unhuman
indifference to everything but the actual truth that the letter
conveyed appalled me; and I even seemed to read a direct menace in its
tone. If I had employed him, I should have done so at my own risk; so
he seemed to hint. His intention was to “find out all he could and
tell the court all he knew.” How much would he find out? How much did
he know already? He had a verbatim report of the evidence so far. He
had Mrs. Gregg’s statement that “they seemed to be talking about
suicide.” He would know all about suggestion and silent willing. Was
it possible that he already knew that I had sent that wretched man on
his last journey? When I recalled all that my father had said of his
amazing powers of inference; when I remembered how unerringly he had
detected the reservations in Mr. Otway’s evidence and mine; I could
not but feel that my chance of keeping my guilty secret was
infinitesimal. The probability was that it was discovered already.
As to his request, obviously I had no choice but to grant it; and I
was on the point of writing to Mr. Isaacs to instruct him to hand the
keys to Dr. Thorndyke when it occurred to me that it might be well to
avoid unnecessarily taking the former gentleman into my confidence. I
knew nothing about Mr. Isaacs, and was not particularly prepossessed
by him; nor did I know the object of the proposed survey of the
premises; concerning which indeed I was somewhat mystified and rather
uncomfortable. Eventually I decided to call at Mr. Isaacs’ office for
the keys and deliver them myself to Dr. Thorndyke.
Accordingly I wrote a short note to the latter informing him of my
intentions, and on the following morning betook myself to Mr. Isaacs’
office, which was situate in New Inn. I could see that my visit was