Chapter IX.

Testimony and Counsel

Those who are apt to refer in contemptuous terms to the

artificiality of the plots of the novelist must have failed to observe

the orderly way in which events arrange themselves in real life; how

the circumstances of the vital and essential happenings of our lives

may, if attentively considered, be separated out in a coherent group

of causes and effects as closely knit and inevitably connected as the

parts of the story-teller’s plot.

The reflection is suggested to me by the distressing experiences of

the inquest on my father’s death. Clearly enough, indeed, did I

realise at the time that this would never have been but for those

fateful words so calamitously overheard by me, and for my

ill-considered, though well-meant, efforts to avert the apparently

impending catastrophe. But I realised not at all--as, indeed, how

should I?--that this day of sorrow, of shame and humiliation, was not

only the harvest of the irrevocable past but the seed-time of an even

more momentous future.

As I approached the school-house in which the inquest was to be held,

I observed Mr. Otway pacing slowly up and down the little court-yard.

He was pale and haggard, and though he preserved his usual ponderously

reposeful manner, it was not difficult to see that he was in a state

of intense, nervous excitement and suppressed anxiety.

He was evidently waiting for me, and turned to meet me as I entered

the gate.

“I thought we had better go in together, Helen,” he said, as we

exchanged a formal greeting. “They know that we are married, and, of

course, they don’t know that our--ah--our arrangements are in--ah--in

suspense. And it would perhaps be as well if no reference were made

to--ah--to those--ahem--temporary modifications which--ah--in short,

to our provisional agreement.”

He looked at me deprecatingly and I nodded. There would be quite

enough painful detail to be dragged into the light of day without this

sordid addition. Besides, any reference to the deed of separation

would start enquiries which neither of us desired, as was plainly

evident to Mr. Otway; for he continued in a husky undertone, as we

approached the schoolroom door:

“And you will fulfil your part of our covenant faithfully, Helen, I am

sure.”

“Most undoubtedly I shall,” I replied. “But you will remember that our

covenant does not include false evidence. I shall say as little as is

possible, but if I am asked a direct question I must answer it, and

answer it truthfully.”

“Of course you must,” he agreed: “but it is often possible to ward off

an inconvenient question which may lead to others still more

inconvenient.”

“You make take it,” I said, “that I shall carry out my part of our

bargain in the spirit as well as in the letter.”

With this assurance he appeared to be satisfied, and we now moved

slowly towards the door of the school-house. While we had been

talking, a party of men--the coroner and his jury--had filed past us

and entered; and when we followed a minute later, we found them

already in their places and the proceedings about to begin. We seated

ourselves on the two chairs placed for us, which were next to those of

the two medical witnesses, and as I glanced round the Court, I

observed Mr. Jackson sitting near the coroner, and by his side a

gentleman whose face I seemed to recognise, but to whom I could not

give a name. Some dim recollection connected the quiet, strong,

intellectual face with my father and the happy past, but not until

near the close of the inquiry was I able to bring my memory to a clear

focus.

The attitude of the coroner and jury alike--they were all local men

and most of them known to me--made my difficult task as easy as was

possible. They were all anxious to spare me to the utmost and to make

the best of what the coroner described as “a grievous and terrible

calamity.” Moreover, they restrained in the most delicate manner their

evident curiosity as to the relations of Mr. Otway and myself. But, of

course, the facts had to be given, and very distressing and

humiliating it was to me to have to confess to what must have looked

like a mere sordid intrigue with the uncouth creature at my side.

As the only person present when the death occurred, Mr. Otway was

necessarily the first witness; and a very nervous, hesitating witness

he was; and very fortunate was it for him that he had so sympathetic a

court. As he stammered out his evidence I noted, again and again, the

searching, grey eye of the strange gentleman fixed upon him, not

indeed with any obvious distrust, but with the most concentrated

attention.

“Do we understand,” asked the coroner, “that Mr. Vardon was angry and

excited when he arrived at your house?”

“Yes, furiously angry.”

“Do you know why he was angry and excited?”

Yes, the witness did know. And as he proceeded to relate, in husky,

uncertain tones, the circumstances of the secret marriage, more than

one of the jurymen glanced from him to me with hardly-concealed

astonishment; and I felt my face burning and my eyes filling with

humiliation.

“Was there any reason for this secrecy?” the coroner asked.

“Yes. The deceased had already refused his consent to the marriage.”

“But that is hardly a reason for secrecy in the case of an adult.

Could he have prevented the marriage from taking place?”

“No. But it seemed better to--ah--to avoid discussion and

unpleasantness.”

The coroner looked dissatisfied. He considered a few moments, and then

asked: “Do you know why the deceased objected to the marriage?”

“I think he considered that the--ah--the inequality of age was

undesirable,” Mr. Otway replied.

Still the coroner looked dissatisfied, and as he paused to reflect,

and the jurymen looked at him expectantly, Mr. Otway furtively wiped

his forehead with his handkerchief. Evidently, he was profoundly

disturbed, as well he might be; for if this line of inquiry were

pursued much farther, it must inevitably lay bare the real nature of

the transaction.

At length the coroner turned to the jury. “Well, gentlemen,” said he,

“I suppose the question is not very material. It is clear that the

deceased was extremely excited and angry. The ultimate cause of his

anger is, perhaps, not very relevant to the subject of our inquiry.”

To this the foreman of the jury readily agreed, and I could almost see

the sigh of relief with which Mr. Otway hailed the passing of this

perilous incident--a relief in which I participated to no small

extent.

The narrative was now resumed, and as it proceeded, Mr. Otway’s voice

became more and more husky and his speech more hesitating. He had a

difficult course to steer, and his nerves were at their utmost

tension. He had to tell a consistent story without telling the whole

truth, and he had to bear in mind that my evidence was yet to be

given. It was a position that might have shattered the nerve of a much

bolder man than Mr. Otway.

“You tell us that the deceased was violent and threatening in his

manner. Do you mean that he was physically violent?”

“Yes--at least he threatened to use physical violence.”

“He did not actually assault you?”

“Not actually. The blow that he aimed--at least that he was about to

aim--ah--did not--er--did not take effect.”

The coroner’s brows puckered into a puzzled frown. “This is not quite

clear,” said he. “Did he or did he not aim a blow at you?”

“He did--at least, that is to say, he appeared----”--here Mr. Otway

mopped his streaming forehead--“well, I think he actually raised

his--ah--his--ah--his clenched fist----”

“Did you have to restrain him?”

“No,” replied Mr. Otway, with rather unnecessary emphasis. “No, I did

not. I stepped back, and--ah--the incident--ah--passed. In fact, it

was at this moment that the fatal attack occurred.”

“Tell us exactly what happened then.”

“He suddenly turned very pale,” said Mr. Otway, speaking now with more

fluency as he got back to the narration of the actual events, “and

seemed to stand unsteadily. Then he staggered backwards and fell,

striking his head on the corner of the mantelpiece.”

“Did he appear to have fainted before he struck his head?”

“I should say, yes, but--ah--I would not--ah--I was very agitated and

alarmed--and--ah----”

“Naturally. But you would say that the fainting attack preceded the

blow on the head?”

“There was no blow,” Mr. Otway exclaimed quickly; and then, perceiving

his mistake, he added, hastily, “that is to say, you are referring to

his striking the corner of the mantelpiece?”

“That is what you were telling us about.”

“Yes. I should say that he struck--or rather that he fainted and

staggered and that he struck his head in falling.”

Once more the coroner paused and seemed to reflect; and in the intense

silence and stillness that enveloped the court, my eye travelled from

the huge, ungainly figure of the witness to the face of the tall

stranger by Mr. Jackson’s side. And a very striking face it was: a

handsome, symmetrical face, but strangely--almost unhumanly--reposeful

and impassive. Yet, though it was as immobile as a mask of stone, it

conveyed an impression of intense attention--almost of watchfulness;

and the clear, grey eyes never moved from the face of the witness. To

me there was something a little uncanny and disturbing in that

immovable mask and that steady, unrelaxing gaze. I found myself hoping

that those searching grey eyes would not be fixed on me in that

relentless observation when my turn came to give my evidence. And even

as this thought flitted through my mind, I remembered who this

stranger was. He was a Dr. Thorndyke, an old, though not very

intimate, friend of my father’s, a famous criminal lawyer and a great

authority on medical jurisprudence. I had met him only once, when he

had dined, many years ago, at our house; but I had often heard my

father speak of him in terms of the highest admiration.

When the coroner resumed his interrogation, it seemed that the crisis

was past, so far as Mr. Otway was concerned, for his first question

was: “What did you do when the deceased fell down?”

“For a moment or two,” was the reply, “I was too bewildered to do

anything. Then his daughter--my wife--came into the room, and, as he

appeared to be dying or dead, I went off to fetch a doctor.”

This virtually concluded his evidence, and the next name called was my

own, which, in its new form--Helen Otway--I heard with a start of

surprise and something like disgust. As I rose to approach the table,

I caught an instantaneous glance--a terrified, imploring glance--from

Mr. Otway; and as my eye lighted immediately afterwards on Dr.

Thorndyke’s face, I felt that this momentary look, too, had been noted

by that inexorably attentive grey eye. But I was relieved to observe

that he did not look at me, but, as I gave my evidence, fixed a

steady, introspective gaze upon a spot upon the opposite wall.

My task turned out to be easier than I had hoped, though perhaps it

might have been less easy if I had had more time to reflect on the

significance of the questions. The coroner began by expressing the

sympathy of the court with my bereavement and apologizing for imposing

on me the painful duty of attending the inquiry. Then he asked: “You

have heard the evidence of Mr. Otway with reference to your marriage

and your father’s attitude in regard to it. Do you confirm what he has

said?”

“I do,” I replied.

“You were not present at the interview of Mr. Otway with the

deceased?”

“No, I was not. When I entered the room my father was lying on the

floor and appeared to be already dead.”

“Had you seen your father since the solemnization of the marriage?”

“I saw him from the window as he entered Mr. Otway’s garden.”

“Did you notice anything unusual in his appearance?”

“Yes; his appearance alarmed me very much. He seemed excessively

excited, and his face was deeply flushed and of a strange, purplish

colour.”

“Had you any special reason to be alarmed?”

“Yes. I knew that his doctor had warned him to avoid all excitement

and exertion on account of the weak state of his heart.”

“You did not hear what passed between your father and Mr. Otway?”

“I heard my father ask where I was, and I heard Mr. Otway tell him

that the marriage had taken place.”

“Did you hear anything more?”

“My father then called Mr. Otway a scoundrel, and was still speaking

loudly and angrily when the study door closed and I heard no more.”

“What made you go to the study?”

“I heard and felt the shock when my father fell.”

“Would you mind telling us again in what condition you found your

father?”

“He appeared to be dead. His face was at first a livid grey, but it

faded to marble whiteness as I looked at him. There was a small wound

on the right side of his forehead and a drop of blood had run down on

to his cheek and on his temple.”

The coroner glanced at the jurymen. “I think, gentlemen,” he said,

“that is all we need ask Mrs. Otway?” And when the foreman had

acquiesced, and he had thanked me for “the very clear and lucid

manner” in which I had given my evidence, I was permitted to resume my

seat.

“I can never thank you enough, Helen,” whispered Mr. Otway, as I sat

down. “You managed admirably--admirably.”

To this I made no reply; for now that the ordeal was over I began to

be assailed by certain doubts as to whether I had been quite candid. I

had told all that was really material to the inquiry; but--however, at

this point Dr. Sharpe approached the table and picked up the

Testament.

His evidence practically settled the verdict. He testified that my

father had suffered for some years from a dilated heart and arterial

degeneration. “I warned him frequently to avoid excitement and undue

exertion, for he was inclined to be careless and take liberties with

himself.”

“You considered his state of health precarious?”

“I thought he might fall down dead at any moment.”

“You have heard the evidence of the two previous witnesses. Does that

evidence contain any suggestion to you as to the cause of death?”

“It suggests to me that the deceased hurried to Mr. Otway’s house in a

towering rage, and that, during the interview, he worked himself up

into a fury. I should say that the combined exertion and excitement

brought on a fatal attack of syncope.”

“You think that death was caused by heart failure?”

“I have no doubt of it.”

Dr. Bury’s evidence was much to the same effect, though less positive.

“The deceased had apparently been dead about half an hour when I

arrived. The cause of death was not obvious, but the appearances were

consistent with the account given by Mr. Otway. There was a small,

contused wound at the junction of the forehead and right temple,

apparently caused by the violent impact of some hard and blunt body.

Judging by the small amount of bleeding, the wound had been sustained

immediately before death. A single drop of blood had trickled down on

to the cheek, and one or two drops on to the temple.”

“You have heard Mr. Otway’s account of the way in which that wound was

occasioned. Do you consider that the appearances are in agreement with

that account?”

“There is no disagreement. The appearance of the wound was consistent

with its production in the manner described.”

“Would you say that it was probably so produced?”

“That,” replied Dr. Bury, “is a question for the jury. It might have

been. I can’t go beyond the appearances.”

“No, of course you can’t. And is that all that you have to tell us?”

“That is all,” was the reply; and this virtually brought the inquiry

to an end. After a brief summing-up by the coroner, the jury held an

equally brief consultation and then unanimously returned a verdict of

“Death from natural causes.”

On the announcement of the verdict everyone rose, including myself and

Mr. Otway, and the latter, turning to me, said in a low voice:

“I think I won’t wait. I want to get home and be quiet; but I shall

call on you to-morrow, if I may, to make--ah--any--ah--arrangements

that--ah--in fact, to speak to you about the--ah--the funeral.”

“Very well,” I said, reluctantly--for, deeply as I loathed him, I

could not exclude him even from that sacred ceremony without creating

an open scandal. “You had better come early in the forenoon”; and with

this I dismissed him with a stiff bow, and made my way to where Mr.

Jackson and Dr. Thorndyke were standing. As I held out my hand to the

latter and recalled to him our meeting years ago, Mr. Jackson said:

“Dr. Thorndyke happened to be in Maidstone to-day and to call at our

office, so I prevailed on him to come here and watch the proceedings

on our behalf in case any complications should arise. But everything

has gone off quite smoothly.”

“Very smoothly indeed,” Dr. Thorndyke agreed, with, as it seemed to

me, a certain degree of emphasis.

“Both the coroner and the jury were most considerate,” pursued Mr.

Jackson.

“Most considerate,” assented Dr. Thorndyke; and again I seemed to

detect a note of emphasis, as also, I think, did Mr. Jackson, for he

glanced quickly at our companion, though he made no remark.

“I wonder,” said I, “if you two gentlemen would care to come and take

a cup of tea with me?”

Mr. Jackson had an engagement at the office, and as Dr. Thorndyke

appeared to hesitate, I added quickly: “I should be very glad if you

could, though I don’t wish to take up your time if you are busy.”

“My time is my own for the next three hours,” said Dr. Thorndyke, “and

if I should really not be an inopportune visitor, I should like very

much to have tea with you.”

“Let us go, then,” said I. “Mr. Jackson will accompany us as far as

Gabriel’s Hill, won’t you?” And as my old friend assented with a prim,

little bow, we set forth.

“I have offered no condolences, Mrs. Otway,” said Dr. Thorndyke. “I

knew your father, I saw you and him together, and I realize what this

loss must mean to you. There is nothing to say except that you have my

most real sympathy.”

“Thank you,” I said, and for a time we walked on in silence. And as we

walked I found myself recalling, with a strong, speculative interest,

that curious, subtle emphasis which Dr. Thorndyke had conveyed into

his agreement with Mr. Jackson. At length, when we had dropped the

latter near the Town Hall, I summoned up courage to raise the

question.

“I have an impression, Dr. Thorndyke, which may be quite a mistaken

one, that you were not completely satisfied with the way in which the

inquest was conducted. Am I mistaken?”

“Well,” he replied, slowly, “the coroner’s methods were not what one

would call rigorous.”

“I suppose they were not. But in what respect are you disposed to find

fault with them?”

“Principally,” he replied, “in his failure to elicit a really

conclusive verdict. The verdict of the jury was based upon Dr.

Sharpe’s opinion as to the cause of death. That opinion was probably

correct, but it was based upon reasoning which was not sound. His

position was this: If certain circumstances--excitement or

exertion--should arise, there would be a great probability of their

causing sudden death. But those circumstances had actually arisen and

sudden death had actually followed. Therefore the death was due to the

factors of the said circumstances. But this conclusion is fallacious.

It does not prove a fact: it merely indicates a probability.”

“But are not all verdicts statements of probability?”

“Too often they are. But it is a coroner’s business to bring the

conclusions of his court, as far as possible, into the region of

ascertained fact. The immediate cause of death can usually be

demonstrated by scientific methods, and the inquiry can then be built

up on a foundation of certainty. Opinion should never be accepted

where knowledge is obtainable.”

“Do you think, then, that the verdict was not a proper one?”

“I am not criticizing the verdict,” he replied, “but the methods by

which it was arrived at. I think that the cause of death should have

been established beyond all doubt before any contributary

circumstances were inquired into.”

“But otherwise; apart from that one point?”

“I thought the examination of the witnesses rather easy-going. No

doubt it elicited all the relevant facts. But that is impossible to

decide on. One cannot judge of the relevancy of a fact until one has

got the fact. I think, for instance, that most counsel would have

pressed your husband a good deal more closely. The coroner appeared to

decide that the matter was not relevant without being quite clear as

to what matter he was dealing with.”

This, I must confess, had been my own impression, but I had been so

relieved at the easy manner in which the difficult passages had been

allowed to pass that I had been little disposed to criticise the

considerate and sympathetic coroner. Nor did it seem quite safe to

pursue the present discussion much farther, for it was tending in a

rather dangerous direction. My own reservations began to weigh on me

somewhat--and Dr. Thorndyke was not quite the same type of listener as

the coroner. Nevertheless, the conversation pleased me, though I could

not but be struck by the oddity of this detached discussion of a

matter which was of such vital moment to me. But that very oddity was

itself an element of gratification; for a woman is naturally flattered

when an intellectual man appears to credit her with the power of

impartial judgment of her own conduct and affairs--that faculty not

being one by which our sex is peculiarly distinguished.

But at this point, our discussion was brought naturally to an end by

our arrival at my house--as I must now call it; and here a quick

glance of surprised recognition on my companion’s part gave me a new

note of warning and prepared me for the inevitable question.

“You are living at your father’s house, I see.”

“_I_ am, for the present. Mr. Otway remains in his own house.”

“Yes. I suppose it will be more convenient to settle everything up

here before joining your husband.”

I was on the point of temporising by a vague assent; but my lips

refused to frame the implied falsehood. It may have been my natural

dislike of secrecy and concealment, it may be that my womanly pride

resented the very idea of association with that unwieldy human spider.

At any rate, an irresistible impulse drove me to say:

“I am not going to join my husband at all, Dr. Thorndyke. I am not

going to live with Mr. Otway.”

I did not look at Dr. Thorndyke as I made this statement, and he made

no comment beyond a matter-of-fact “Indeed.” But I had the feeling

that, in the silence that followed, he was fitting this new fact into

its place in some ordered scheme; that he was docketting it as an

appendix to Mr. Otway’s evidence.

Nothing more was said until we had entered the house and I had given

instructions for tea to be brought to the study. But in that interval

I was aware of a growing impulse to have done with this miserable

secrecy--this sordid fencing and dodging, which must come, in the end,

to downright lying--and tell this strong, wise man the whole wretched

story. Besides, I wanted counsel and guidance: and who was so fit to

give them as he?

Accordingly, when the tray had been laid on the study table, I

re-opened the subject.

“I did not mention this matter in my evidence,” I said. “It had no

bearing on the inquiry.”

“I am not clear,” he replied, “that you were entitled to make any

reservations. A witness’s duty is to state the whole truth. The

question of relevancy is for the court to consider.”

“But unfortunately there were other reservations that had to be made.

Dr. Thorndyke, I want to tell you the whole story--in confidence--and

to ask your advice.”

“I counsel you to make no confidences,” he said, gravely, “unless you

really wish to consult me in my professional capacity.”

“That is what I wish to do,” I said.

“Very well,” said he. “That places us in the secure relation of lawyer

and client; and I need not say that your father’s daughter is very

welcome to any help or advice that I can give.”

With this encouragement, I poured forth the story that I have told in

these pages and in almost as much detail. But still I held back one

fact. I said nothing of my having found Mr. Otway grasping my father’s

loaded stick. That single reservation had to be. Not only was I bound

by a solemn promise; my silence on that point was the price of my

release. The letter of the covenant, indeed, had reference only to my

evidence at the inquest; but its spirit sealed my lips even in this my

most intimate confidence.

And so, once again, a secret guarded from a friendly eye remained,

like a seed dropped in a summer’s drought, to germinate and bring

forth its fruit in its season.