Читать книгу The Peer and the Woman - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

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An inquest on the body of a peer of the realm is not an every-day occurrence. The coroner, who sat at the head of the long mahogany table, looked a shade graver and more impressed with the solemnity of his office than usual, and the same feeling was reflected in the solid-looking faces of his twelve subordinates as they were marshalled to their seats. Many of them had served on a jury before, but never in connection with such a sensational case, and there was a certain sense of ponderous satisfaction upon their faces as they drew close up to the table, almost as though they felt something akin to pleasure in the notoriety which their office would bring them. But there was genuine sympathy among them, notwithstanding, and more than one cast a pitying glance at Lord Clanavon, who sat a little apart in a high-backed oak chair.

It was a gloomy scene. Apart from the inevitable solemnity of it, the surroundings were in themselves depressing. Outside a thick, yellow fog had settled down upon the squares and streets—a penetrating fog which defied the drawn venetian blinds and heavily-draped curtain, and which hung about in a little mist around the circular glass globes and impregnated the whole atmosphere of the long room, which was at no time one of the most cheerful. It certainly could not have been said that the countenances of the twelve men, or their surroundings, were in any way out of keeping with the dreary nature of their duty. Both were funereal.

The silence was broken at last by the coroner, who in a low tone formally introduced the jury to their duties. Then the first witness, William Rogers, was called, and a tall, liveried footman answered the summons and took up a respectful attitude before the table. The coroner commenced his examination at once.

"Your name is William Rogers?"

"Yes, sir."

"What position do you hold in the household?"

"First footman, sir."

"How long have you been in the service of your deceased master?"

"About three years."

"You were the first person to enter the library and discover your master's body, I believe?"

"I was, sir."

"You had better tell us how it was, and by whose orders you went there."

"Very good, sir. It was about seven o'clock in the morning when I was woke up by a knocking at my door. I sat up in bed at once and called out, 'Who's there?' Her ladyship's maid, Marie Richards, answered me. I can't remember her exact words, but she said as her ladyship had sent her to tell me, to go down to the master's study at once and see why he had not come up to bed. I asked her why she did not go to Neillson, which was his lordship's own man, and she replied that she had been, but she couldn't wake him, which, knowing as Neillson, who used to share the same room with me, was a very heavy sleeper, I warn't surprised at. 'All right,' I sung out, 'I'll be down in a moment;' and I hurried into some clothes as fast as I could. When I got outside she was a-waiting on the landing for me quite impatient like, and we went down together. I knocked first at the study door several times, but there was no answer; so I told Marie that his lordship had very likely gone straight to his own room instead of going in to see her ladyship. I left her there and went up to see, but the room was quite empty and the bed had not been slept in. So I Game down a little flurried like and told Marie to go and tell her ladyship and ask what we were to do. Her ladyship sent down at once that we were to get in the study somehow at once, even if we had to break open the door. So I sent Marie for Thomas, the under footman, and together we forced the door open."

The man paused for a moment as though to take breath, and when he resumed it was in a low, awed tone. Low though it was, however, it was distinctly heard, for every one was holding his breath and listening in an intense hushed silence.

"The room was quite dark except for just one ray of light which was streaming in from the window, just where the curtains, which had been pulled together, didn't meet quite, and that single gleam of light just fell upon his lordship's face. Gentlemen, you must excuse—one moment, please. It was an awful sight!"

The man's voice was checked by something very much like a sob, and he shuddered. There was a slight murmur of sympathy, during which he mopped his damp forehead with a handkerchief and slowly recovered his composure. Presently he drew himself up to his former attitude and continued:

"I'm much obliged to you, gentlemen, for giving me breathing-time. If any one of you had seen the sight as I saw when that door fell in, you'd understand it making me feel a bit queer. I'll try and tell you what it was like. His lordship seemed to be all slouched down in his writing-chair, but his head was hanging right backward like, over the side a little, and was hanging down almost toward the ground. There was a great gap like between the neck and his chin, and as we stood there we could hear the slow drip, drip of the blood upon the floor; yet somehow it didn't seem as though he was dead, for his eyes were wide, staring open. Marie, she went off into hysterics something awful, and Thomas, he was trembling so that he couldn't neither move nor nothing else. I felt mortal bad myself, but I went up and touched his hand and found that it was quite cold, and then I saw the three scratches and bruises on his cheek like finger-marks. I saw that he was dead at once, but I told Thomas to be off as quick as ever he could and fetch a doctor and a policeman. I stood near the door while he was gone; and then when the sergeant came and Dr. Benton they locked up the room. That's all, sir."

He ceased with an evident gesture of relief. He was an unimaginative, phlegmatic man, of the very commonplace type of English men-servants, and without any particular affection for his master; but his share in this tragedy, as yet so recent, had been like a nightmare to him, and the recapitulation of it had agitated him strongly. They gave him a little time to recover himself before they asked him any questions. Then the coroner ceased taking notes and addressed him.

"Did you notice anything disarranged in the study—any signs of a struggle?"

"Yes, sir. There was something of the sort. The curtain hanging over his lordship's private door, which led out into Berkeley Street, was half torn down and a small table with some books on, between his lordship's desk and the door, was upset."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing else that I can remember, sir. The policeman and the gentleman from Scotland Yard they took possession of the room as soon as they arrived, and locked it up."

The usual number of irrelevant and utterly useless questions were asked by certain jurymen of an inquisitive turn of mind, to some of which the coroner listened with ill-concealed impatience. Then the witness was dismissed, and, well trained though his features were, his relief was manifest.

Marie Richards was called next. Her evidence simply corroborated that of her fellow-servant, and no questions were asked her. Then the Countess of Harrowdean was sent for, and after a little delay appeared.

To those who had known her before, her appearance was a shock. From head to foot she was clothed in the severest black, and a widow's cap concealed her light hair. The features which a week before would have been pronounced delicately moulded were now sharpened like the features of an overworked seamstress, and the ghastly blanched pallor of her complexion showed up with startling vividness the deep black rims under her sunken eyes. She was like a woman prematurely aged, stricken down in a single night, and an involuntary murmur of compassion escaped from the lips of more than one of the little body of men as they stood up to receive her. Her bearing and figure were the sole remnants of her former self. She walked up the room, leaning upon her son's arm (he had left his place and met her at the door), with a calm dignity which her sorrow seemed only to have enhanced, and there was something almost majestic in the manner in which she sank slowly into the easy-chair provided for her and acknowledged slightly the coroner's respectful salutation.

He commenced his examination at once, after thanking her for her attendance and regretting its necessity.

"Can your ladyship tell us anything which happened during the evening of last Tuesday which will throw any light upon this melancholy event or afford any clue as to its perpetrator?" he asked.

"I am afraid not. I will tell you all that I know," she answered, in a low but perfectly clear tone. "During the evening, while we were receiving our guests, my husband had a note brought to him. I do not know where it was from, or what it was about, but its contents seemed to cause him some uneasiness."

"Pardon me," interrupted the coroner, "but who brought Lord Alceston this letter?"

"Neillson."

The jury exchanged significant glances. The coroner made a note and signed to her ladyship to proceed.

"He told me that an urgent matter—I understood him to say some official business—required his immediate attention, and that he would be compelled to leave me for a while. I went in to my guests, and he to his study. It was past one o'clock, nearly two hours, before he rejoined me. During the remainder of the evening he was in remarkably good spirits, and certainly did not seem to have anything on his mind. When all the people had gone he went back again to his study, promising to come into my room shortly and have some tea. I waited for him for some time, and then, as he did not come, I put on my dressing-gown and dismissed my maid, as she seemed very tired. I must have gone to sleep then over the fire, for when I woke up it was getting daylight. I found that the tea tray had not been touched, and that my husband had evidently not been in. As he was very particular in keeping his promises, I was a little alarmed, and I rang for Marie and told her to go to Neillson's room and tell him to see where his master was. She came back saying she could not wake him. I sent her then to William, the head footman. Soon afterward she returned to say the library door was locked, and I told them to break it open. I heard this done and the commotion, and—and soon afterward they came and told me."

Every one was conscious of a certain sense of relief when she had finished. Her voice had never once trembled, and her dry eyes were bright and tearless. But there was something awfully unnatural in her slow, monotonous tone and in the repressive calmness of her manner. None would have been in the least surprised if she had burst out into a fit of the wildest hysterics at any moment. The coroner himself was nervous, but there were some questions which he felt bound to ask her.

"You saw or heard nothing of your husband's servant, Neillson, during the evening, after he brought that note?"

"Nothing."

"How long had he been in your husband's service?"

"More than twenty years."

"And had the relations between them always been cordial?"

"As far as I know."

"You know of no circumstance likely to have created any resentment on Neillson's part toward your husband?"

"None."

"Was Neillson a saving man? Was he fond of money, do you know?"

"I believe so. Yes, he was."

"I suppose you are not aware whether your husband had any money either on his person or in his desk on the night of his murder?"

Lady Alceston for the first time moved her position a little and lowered her eyes.

The change almost hid her from her son, who had resumed his seat on the opposite side of the room.

"Yes, I believe he had," she answered thoughtfully—"rather a considerable sum. I had reminded him that it was quarter-day, when we always pay some of the household accounts, and he had told me that he had been to the bank and drawn some money. This was during the afternoon."

"About how much would it amount to?"

"Between five and six hundred pounds."

"Where did Lord Alceston bank?"

"At the London and Westminster."

The coroner made a note. Several of the jury did the same. Then her ladyship was very politely told that she was needed no longer, and on her son's arm she left the room. Out in the hall he turned round and faced her.

"Mother," he said quietly, "you know that Neillson is no more capable of doing this thing than I am. Why didn't you tell them so?"

"Because they did not ask me for my opinion—only for facts."

A shadow darkened his boyish, handsome face. He caught her hand with a sudden impulsive movement and forced her to look into his eyes. A vague uneasiness had laid hold of him. What did it mean, this unnatural repression, this indefinable something in his mother's manner which seemed to suggest a secret, some knowledge which neither he nor others shared? It was clear to him that the calmness of her manner and speech was forced and unreal. She was putting a great constraint upon herself. Why? Again he asked himself, what did it mean?

"Mother," he said in a low, agitated tone, bending Close over her, and glancing first half fearfully around to be sure that none else was lingering about in the hall, "you know something more than you told. Is it not so? Cannot you trust me? I must know."

She did not answer him, although her lips moved. Looking into her face, he saw what was coming, and passed his arm around her waist and held her up firmly. The ashen pallor drew the color even from her lips, and her breath came in short troubled gasps. She had fainted.