Chapter Thirteen. One Point is Made Clear.

On the following day twelve respectable inhabitants of Corby and the neighbourhood assembled around the long dining-table at Titmarsh Court, and decided, upon the evidence of the two doctors, that its young master had died of natural causes.

I was present, and heard a solicitor representing the relatives put a query to the Coroner regarding that cry in the night. But the official coldly declared that the jury were there only to decide the cause of death, and that, whatever the circumstances might be, they could only weigh the medical evidence.

Doctor Petherbridge, of Northampton, assisted by the county analyst, had, it seemed, examined the contents of the stomach and made the Dragendorff test for strychnine, applied the Stas process for alkaloids and the Pettenkofer test for mineral acid, as well as searching for arsenic with the Marsh apparatus. The result in all cases had been negative. Mr Guy Nicholson had certainly not died of poison.

After the verdict of “death from natural causes,” I drove Shaw, who had also been present, back to Lydford, and there saw poor Asta, looking wan and pale in her deep mourning. She was seated in a low chair in her own pretty room, full of books and flowers—an artistic, cosy little apartment leading from the big drawing-room and upholstered in pale blue.

The blind was down, for the sun was blazing-hot outside. But as she took my hand I saw that her eyes had dark rings around them, and that she had recently been crying.

I hardly know what words of sympathy and condolence I uttered as I held her small hand in mine. Her heart, however, was too full for words, and she burst into a flood of tears.

Shaw, unable to bear the sight of her grief, placed his hand tenderly upon her shoulder and urged her to bear up; but she only shook her head sadly in her profound sorrow.

I stood there, not knowing what to say; but a few moments later, when Shaw had left the room and we were alone, I too placed my hand upon her shoulder and strove to calm her.

“You have all my most heartfelt sympathy, Miss Seymour,” I said. “I have ventured to come here to-day to see if I could be of any service to you.”

“Ah, what service can you render me, Mr Kemball, now that poor Guy is, alas! dead—dead!” she cried hoarsely, staring straight before her. “The inquest was held to-day. What have they decided?”

“That the poor fellow died of natural causes. He suffered from an unsuspected disease of the brain.”

“Ah, yes,” she sighed. “I expected they would say something like that. But—” and she broke off short without concluding her sentence.

“You dined with him only a few hours before,” I remarked; for I had gone there on purpose to question her, and I hardly knew how to commence, fearing lest, in my anxiety, I might blunder.

“Yes. Who would have thought that when I parted from him I should never see him again?”

“You left before the Vanes, did you not?”

“Yes. My father, just before eleven, told me that he was not feeling very well, so I ordered the car, and we came home, after a most delightful evening. The weather was bright, and everything had been done to perfection. On the way home Dad complained of bad pains in his head, and I became alarmed. Indeed, when we got here he seemed so very queer that I tried to persuade him to let me telephone for Doctor Redwood. But he would not hear of it. He begged me to go to bed, but I remained with him in the smoking-room until nearly three o’clock.”

“Until three o’clock?” I echoed. “And you did not leave him at all?”

“No. Because he seemed so very queer. I mixed him some brandy and water several times, and he tried to smoke, but could not.”

“What was his objection against summoning the doctor?”

“Oh, he said that he would be all right presently, and that it was only a bad headache. Long ago, when he was abroad, he had been subject to such attacks, he said. But he had not had one for years past.”

“And after three o’clock you retired to bed?”

“It was half-past three, and getting quite light, when I saw him as far as his room. He looked fearfully pale and worn—quite unlike his usual self. He said he had fits of extreme nervousness, and I noticed that at times his limbs were trembling. I remarked upon it, but my comments seemed to irritate him. So I said nothing further. At nine o’clock next morning he came down to breakfast quite well. Then—then—just after ten o’clock last night—Captain Cardew telephoned to him telling him of the—the awful discovery at Titmarsh?”

Her story made one fact entirely plain—namely, that Shaw, whatever he might be, was perfectly free from suspicion.

“Is it not curious that your father was taken ill?” I asked. “Did he not tell the doctors?”

“No. Because long ago, when he was in South America, he was subject to such attacks, and his illness could not have had any connection with poor Guy’s death, he said.”

She spoke very gravely, her sad, tearful eyes fixed upon the blue carpet. A slim, pathetic little figure she presented in her deep black, which, however, only served to heighten her wonderful beauty.

I questioned her further regarding the events of that fatal night, and convinced myself that Shaw had had no opportunity of returning to Titmarsh Court after he had once bade good-night to poor Nicholson.

Any suspicions I had entertained had now been swept away. Her statement, plain and straightforward, showed how solicitous she was of the welfare of the man whom she had always looked upon as her father. She had taken me into her confidence on the first day we had met, and she was certainly not deceiving me.

As I stood near, watching her, I became bewildered by the strange circumstances of the death of the man who had promised to come to me, and in confidence make certain revelations. My feelings towards Shaw had been mixed ones. He had been open and straightforward with me, and had told me that he was leading a double life. Asta had treated me as a friend; therefore I had intended to protect their secret from Nicholson as far as possible. Nevertheless, I had been consumed by curiosity to know what he had actually discovered—how far he had ascertained the truth.

His meaning words to Cardew on the night of his death showed that, owing to his discovery, he hesitated to ask Asta to become his wife. He loved her most passionately; and when a man loves as he did, then it must be a very serious bar which prevents him throwing prudence to the winds and marrying the girl of his choice.

Shaw re-entered the room presently, asking me to stay to luncheon, which I did. But the meal was, alas! a very dismal one. Asta, full of thoughts of her dead lover, hardly spoke a word, while Shaw himself seemed preoccupied and thoughtful.

“The Coroner was an idiot,” I declared in the course of our discussion of the events of the morning. “He would scarcely allow any mention of poor Guy’s cry of horror heard by Cardew.”

“Ah, my dear Kemball,” my friend replied, “in many cases inquests are worse than useless. Coroners so often override the jury and instruct them as to what verdict they should return. In almost every case you will find that the jury, ignorant for the most part, though perfectly honest in their meaning, return a verdict in accordance with the evidence of the local doctor, who, in so many cases, happens to be the man who attends themselves and their families. If they are ill, they call him in and accept his dictum. They do just the same at a Coroner’s inquest. They never analyse or weigh the facts for themselves.”

“Asta has just been telling me that you too were very unwell that night,” I said suddenly; and I noticed that, on hearing my words, he glanced across at the girl in annoyance.

“Yes,” he said, with a light laugh. “I didn’t feel over grand—a bad headache, just as I used to have years ago. But it was nothing. It didn’t arise from anything I ate or drank. I knew that, and for that reason did not ’phone to Redwood. Yes,” he added, “I spent a rather poor night. Asta became quite alarmed.”

“Well,” I exclaimed, “what is your theory regarding the poor fellow’s death?”

“Theory! Well, after the medical evidence and the verdict of the jury, what can one think?” he asked. “There are certainly many curious points in the affair, and the chief one, to my mind, is the fact that he was found locked in the room.”

“That’s just my point. He could not have locked himself in.”

“Yet, remember that we only have the evidence of the girl Hayes that he was locked in. In her hurry to enter the room she seems to have fumbled at the lock, and, of course, in her alarm at the discovery, may have been deceived, and thought the key had been turned.”

I had not before regarded her statement from that point of view, and his suggestion caused me to ponder. But next second I asked—

“If the door was not locked, then why should he have hammered to get out?”

“But did he hammer?” queried Shaw. “Sounds in the night are always distorted, remember.”

“Please don’t discuss the horrible affair further, Dad,” cried Asta, appealingly.

“My dear, I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed, turning to her hastily. “I know I ought not to have mentioned the matter. Both Kemball and myself deeply condole with you in your grief. You never mentioned to me your affection for Guy, but I had guessed it long ago. I told Kemball about it, didn’t I?” and he glanced across at me.

“Yes, you did,” I said.

“Ah, poor Guy!” he sighed. “He was such a thorough sterling fellow, and I had hoped, Asta, that you would marry and be happy. But, alas! the Fates have willed it otherwise.”

“I—I feel bewildered, Dad,” exclaimed the girl. “I can’t believe that he is really dead,” and rising suddenly, she again burst into tears, and with uneven steps left the room.

“Poor child!” remarked Shaw in a low voice, when she had gone. “It is indeed a terrible blow for her. I had no idea that she was so devoted to him. She had many admirers in the neighbourhood, but he was evidently the one to whom she was most attached. And, between ourselves, Kemball,” he added, in a low voice, his wineglass poised between his white fingers, “he was one of the most eligible young fellows in the whole county—eight thousand a year, as well as a half-share in Nicholson Brothers of Sheffield. I had dreams of seeing Asta mistress of Titmarsh Court. But, of course, I never told her so. I believe in allowing a girl to make her own choice in life. Love affairs, if interfered with by elders, invariably turn out badly.”

And so he chatted on as we smoked our cigarettes; and as I gazed into those small queer eyes of his, I became more and more convinced that my suspicions of the previous day had been unfounded. He could not possibly have had any hand in the poor fellow’s untimely end.

He could not know of Guy’s secret intention to make certain revelations to me—and even if he did, he knew quite well that I was already aware that he was leading a double life. No; when I carefully weighed over the whole of the facts, I came to the conclusion that the man before me—mysterious though he might be—had every motive that Guy Nicholson should live. I do not think my intelligence was much above that of the ordinary man, yet I felt that if he were an adventurer, as already seemed proved, then what more natural than that he should secure Nicholson as husband for Asta, and afterwards judiciously bleed him. It certainly was not to his interest that the fellow should die.

The circumstances were full of suspicion, I admit; but the hard facts certainly disproved that Harvey Shaw had had any hand in the strange affair.

Still, what was the Something which had held poor Guy horror-stricken, and which had produced symptoms so near akin to the affection of the brain that the doctors had been deceived by it and the Coroner and jury misled?

The opinion I still held was that Guy Nicholson did not die a natural death. Therefore I intended to leave no stone unturned in my endeavour to probe the extraordinary mystery, and to ascertain the truth of what had actually occurred in that long old room during the silent watches of that fateful night.