Helen Vardon's confession 10 – Freeman · Verses Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Helen Vardon's confession 10Tragedy · Testimony and Counsel
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Helen Vardon's confession 10
Tragedy · Testimony and Counsel
FreemanEnglish
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.
