Helen Vardon's confession
“No. I have done no work of any kind for him, or anyone else. I work
on my own account, and sell what I make.”
The coroner nodded, and glanced over his notes. After a pause he
asked: “At what time on the night of your visit to deceased did you
leave his chambers?”
“A little before ten o’clock.”
“What was the condition of deceased when you left? Did he seem
particularly depressed or worried?”
“He was asleep when I left.”
“Asleep!” exclaimed the coroner, “How long had he been asleep?”
“Not very long; perhaps a quarter of an hour. When he took his usual
dose of veronal he asked me to stay with him until he went to sleep,
and I did so.”
“I see that the housekeeper states that when she entered the
living-room in the morning, the bedroom door was wide open, and the
gas full on. What was the condition of affairs when you left?”
“The gas was full on, and I did not shut the bedroom door. I was not
aware that the housekeeper had gone to bed and assumed that she would
look in on deceased and make what arrangements were usual for the
night.”
“But if you had turned down the gas, and shut the bedroom door, that
would have prevented the housekeeper from going to deceased.”
“No. It did not appear to matter either way.”
“When you went away, did you leave your hand-bag behind?”
“Yes, I had hung it on the back of my chair, and when I got up to go,
I forgot about it.”
“When did you discover that you had left it behind?”
“I first remembered it when I hailed a cab at the corner of Holywell
Street to take me home.”
“Why did you not then go back for it?”
“I did not like to disturb Mrs. Gregg and deceased, as it was so
late.”
“Was your purse in the bag?”
“Yes; but that was of no consequence. I knew there would be someone
sitting up who could pay the cabman.”
“The housekeeper has told us that you came to fetch the bag on the
following day.”
“Yes, in the afternoon, about three. It was then that I first heard of
Mr. Otway’s death.”
“The housekeeper states that, when she told you what had happened, you
fell down in a dead faint. Is that so?”
“Yes. It gave me a great shock, especially as Mrs. Gregg told me the
bad news so very abruptly.”
“Were you expecting to hear that the deceased had committed suicide?”
“No; the subject was not in my mind.”
“Is that not rather remarkable, having regard to your conversation
with deceased on the previous night?”
“I don’t think so. That conversation had certainly given me the
impression that there was a danger that deceased might be driven to
suicide if this persecution were continued. But I had not supposed
that the danger was immediate.”
“And that pitiful letter that you received from deceased? Did that
convey no note of warning?”
“At the time when I received it I was not aware of any predisposition
to suicide on the part of deceased. What he told me caused me some
alarm, but he became so much calmer after our talk that I thought the
danger was past, so far as the immediate future was concerned.”
“And when you went to his chambers on the following day, you felt no
uneasiness as to what might have happened?”
“No, the possibility that anything unusual might have happened was not
in my mind at all.”
“Well,” said the coroner, “it seems to me rather remarkable that the
possibility did not even occur to you. However, we are dealing with
the facts, and if those are the facts, there is no more to be said. We
will now pass on to the consideration of the will. When did you first
learn that deceased had made a fresh will?”
“Four days ago, when I received a letter from Mr. Isaacs informing me
of the fact that I was one of the beneficiaries.”
“Had deceased never mentioned to you that he had made a will in your
favour?”
“No.”
“Was there no stipulation on your part at the time of the marriage
that he should make such a will?”
“No. Nothing ever passed between us on the subject.”
“And had you no knowledge or belief that a will affecting you had been
executed?”
“I had no knowledge or belief that such a will had been executed nor
any expectation that it would be. I did not consider myself as having
any pecuniary claim on deceased.”
“Did you not receive an allowance from deceased?”
“No. He wished to make me an allowance, but I declined to accept it.”
“But you were entitled to an allowance for maintenance. Why did you
refuse to accept it?”
“I did not consider that I had any claim on deceased so long as I
insisted on living apart.”
“Then do we understand that you subsist entirely on your own means or
earnings?”
“Yes, entirely.”
“Would you kindly tell us what those means and earnings respectively
amount to? And what are their sources?”
“I have a small private income--about sixty pounds a year--derived
from the realisation of my father’s estate. I cannot estimate my
earnings very exactly, as I have been working only a few months.
Probably I shall be able to earn from a hundred and fifty to two
hundred pounds a year, when I am established. Up to the present I have
sold all my work to Mr. Campbell.”
“How did you first become acquainted with Mr. Campbell--or Samuels, to
give him his correct name?”
“Deceased recommended him to me when I first came to London. He stated
that he had known him for many years.”
“Did you know that Mr. Campbell was related to deceased?”
“Not until I heard it here to-day.”
The coroner considered awhile, turning over his notes reflectively. At
length he said, “Before you sit down, Mrs. Otway, I should like to ask
you again about those anonymous letters. You have stated that you have
no idea who wrote them.”
“That is so,” I replied.
“When you discussed them with deceased, did neither of you arrive at
any conclusion as to who might have written them?”
“Deceased assured me that he could make no guess as to who had sent
them. Naturally, I could not, since all his acquaintances, whether
friends or enemies, were unknown to me.”
“And you adhere to your statement that you know nothing about these
letters?”
“I know nothing about them whatever, excepting that deceased received
them; and that I have only known by his telling me.”
“And with regard to your father’s stick? You have stated that you have
no knowledge as to what became of it, or where it is now. Do you
adhere to that statement too?”
“That statement was correct when I made it; but the stick has since
come to light.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the coroner. “When and how did that happen?”
“It occurred three days ago, when I went to look over the chambers in
Lyon’s Inn. I chanced to open a large cupboard in the living room, and
there, on the single shelf at the top, I saw the stick lying at the
back, and hardly visible in the deep shadow.”
“In-deed!” said the coroner, with a strong emphasis on the second
syllable. It was perfectly evident that he did not believe me, and he
made no secret of it. Nor were the jury any better impressed. In the
silence that followed my statement they whispered together eagerly,
and disbelief was writ large on the faces of them all.
“Had you any particular occasion to look over the chambers?” the
coroner asked after an interval.
“Yes; I had received a letter from Dr. Thorndyke saying that he wished
to make a survey of the premises and asking me to give him permission,
and the necessary facilities to do so. I accordingly went, on the
following day, and fetched the keys from Mr. Isaacs to leave them at
Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers. On the way, I called in at Lyon’s Inn to see
what condition the chambers were in.”
“And to plant the stick for Dr. Thorndyke to find, eh?” said one of
the jurors, with a truculent leer.
Mr. Cawley rose instantly to protest, but he was anticipated by the
coroner, who said severely: “That, sir, is quite out of order. Members
of the jury must not suggest motives or actions on the part of
witnesses which are not given in evidence. They may have their
opinions, but those opinions must not be expressed until all the
evidence has been heard and the verdict has to be considered.” Having
administered this reproof, he again turned to me.
“When you looked over the chambers, did you examine the other
furniture and receptacles. Did you, for instance, look in the other
cupboards and drawers?”
“No.”
“Only this one cupboard? Now what made you look into this cupboard in
particular?”
I saw the awkwardness of the question; but I also saw that a complete
explanation of my motives would land me on much more dangerous ground.
My immediate motive had been to ascertain what the inside of the
cupboard was like, and this was as much as I dared tell.
“I wished to see what kind of a cupboard it was--whether it had
shelves, drawers, or simply an open space.”
“Did you take the stick out of the cupboard?”
“Yes, I took it out to examine it and see if the statement in the
letter as to the bruise, the blood-smear, and the hairs was correct.”
“And was the statement correct?”
“Yes; there was a bruise on the silver knob, and a thick smear of what
looked like dried blood, to which two hairs had stuck.”
“Did those hairs look to you like hairs from your father’s head?”
“I could not say. They might have been. They were short and looked as
if they had come from the head of a grey-haired man. My father’s hair
was grey.”
“What did you do with the stick?”
“I put it back in the cupboard.”
“Why did you not bring it here?”
“I thought it best to leave it where I found it.”
“Are the keys of the chambers in your possession now?”
“No; I left them at Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers, and he has not yet
returned them. I left a note informing him that the stick was in the
cupboard.”
“May I ask why you did that?”
“Dr. Thorndyke mentioned in his letter that he was investigating the
case on instructions from the Home Office, and I wished to give him
any assistance that I could.”
“But,” the coroner exclaimed irritably, “don’t you understand that
this court is investigating the case? That a coroner’s court is the
proper authority to carry out such investigations? I don’t know why
this medical specialist has been brought into the case at all. I have
not asked for his assistance. It is quite irregular and most
unnecessary. And how did this gentleman come to write to you?”
“He wanted to survey the premises, and someone--I don’t know who--had
told him that I was the present lessee.”
The coroner grunted in evident displeasure. The importation of Dr.
Thorndyke into the case was clearly a sore point, for he rejoined:
“The whole affair is highly unsatisfactory. I am not clear that you
had any right to give permission to any unofficial person to survey
these premises without obtaining my consent; or that he had any right
to ask you. The jury have surveyed the premises, and that ought to be
enough. However, we shall see what comes of these mysterious
investigations. Meanwhile, I think that is all we have to ask you,
Mrs. Otway, unless the jury have any questions to put.”
The jury, warned, perhaps, by the result of the last question put by a
juryman, had no question to ask; and I returned to my seat by Mr.
Cawley, in time to hear Mr. Isaacs recalled.
“You have heard,” said the coroner, “the very remarkable evidence
given by the last witness concerning the finding of a stick in a large
cupboard in the living-room of the chambers in Lyon’s Inn?”
“I have.”
“In your previous evidence you stated that you had made a minute
search of those chambers, and drawn up an inventory of their contents.
Do you remember whether, when you made that search, you examined that
particular cupboard?”
“Yes, I remember quite clearly that I examined it, and found it empty.
I have marked it ‘empty’ in the inventory.”
“Are you sure that it was really empty? Is it not possible that this