Helen Vardon's confession 24 – Freeman · Verses Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Helen Vardon's confession 24Crime · The Dead Hand
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Helen Vardon's confession 24
Crime · The Dead Hand
FreemanEnglish
The entry of Mr. Otway into my life inaugurated a long succession of disasters. The very first words that I heard him speak shattered the peace of a lifetime. Thenceforward, like the Ancient Mariner, I was haunted by a malign influence which seemed to exhale continuously from his ill-omened personality. And even now that he was dead that malignant spirit was not at rest. His very corpse, lying in the mortuary, was a centre whence radiated sinister influences that crept into my secret soul and enveloped me from without. During his life Mr. Otway had been my evil genius; and death had but transformed him into a malicious poltergeist.
His first, tentative appearance in this character was made on the very evening of my second visit to Lyon’s Inn Chambers, when the coroner’s officer called at Wellclose Square to serve the subpœna for the inquest. The announcement of his arrival caused me some qualms of vague alarm, which I knew in my heart to be nothing but the stirring of my own conscience. For the purpose of this inquest was to find an answer to the question, “How did Lewis Otway come by his death?” And that question I could have answered in four words--Silent Willing and Suggestion. But I had no intention of answering that question; and hence, as I entered the room into which the officer had been shown, I was consciously on the defensive.
I had, however, no occasion to be. The officer was a civil, fatherly man in a constable’s uniform, sympathetic, deferential and not at all inquisitive.
“I have called, ma’am,” he began, “on a very sad errand. I don’t know whether you have heard the dreadful news----”
“Of Mr. Otway’s death?” said I.
“Ah! then you have heard. That is a relief. Well, I have called to let you know that the inquest is arranged for the day after to-morrow, at 3 p.m. in the room adjoining the mortuary.” He gave me a few explicit directions as to how to find the latter and then added: “If there is any information that you could give us that would guide us in starting the inquiry, we should be glad. Or the names of any witnesses that we ought to subpœna.”
I reflected. The threatening letters must necessarily be referred to at the inquest. I should have to mention them myself, even if Mrs. Gregg knew nothing of them.
“I happen to know,” I replied, “that Mr. Otway had received a number of anonymous letters and that he was greatly worried about them.”
“Blackmailing letters?” he asked.
“I don’t think any demands for money were made,” I replied.
“Do you know what was their nature? Were they threatening letters?”
“Yes, indirectly. The two or three that I saw had reference to the death of my father, who died very suddenly and who was alone with Mr. Otway at the time. They suggested a suspicion that Mr. Otway was responsible for my father’s death.”
The officer looked at me quickly and then became deeply reflective.
“Will it be possible to produce those letters at the inquest?” he asked, after a cogitative pause.
“They are not in my possession,” I answered; “but if the coroner will make an order for their production I will endeavour to have it carried out.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said he; and then, as an afterthought, added: “If you could make it convenient to call at the coroner’s office to-morrow, say at about two o’clock, I could give you the order and perhaps help you to carry it out.”
The latter suggestion appealed to me strongly and I fell in with it at once. Thereupon the officer picked up his helmet with an air of satisfaction, and, having handed me the subpœna, moved towards the door. I accompanied him along the hall and let him out; and as I wished him good evening and launched him down the steps, another figure emerged from the darkness and passed him on the way up.
“Does Mrs. Otway live here?” the new-comer enquired. I glanced at him with faint suspicion, for the exact coincidence in time of his arrival with the officer’s departure suggested a connection between the two events.
“I am Mrs. Otway,” said I.
“Oh, indeed! Could I have a few words with you on a matter of some importance? I will not detain you more than a few minutes.”
I hesitated, eyeing my new visitor dubiously. But there were no reasonable grounds for a refusal; and I eventually ushered him into the little parlour that the officer had just left, and indicated the vacant chair.
“The matter concerning which I have taken the liberty of calling on you, Mrs. Otway,” said he, “is connected with--er--with the painful occurrence--er--at Lyon’s Inn Chambers. A most deplorable affair. Most distressing for you--most distressing! Pray accept my sincere sympathy.”
“Thank you, Mr.----”
“Hyams is my name--you may have heard your late husband speak of me. We have been acquainted a good many years.”
“He has never spoken of you to me, Mr. Hyams. But what can I do for you?”
“Well, I can put my business in a nut-shell. Your husband, at the time of his death, had certain valuable property of mine in his possession. I should like to get that property back without delay.”
He had certainly wasted no time. Unsentimental as was my own attitude I felt this haste to be almost indecent.
“I should think you will have no difficulty,” said I, “if you apply in the proper quarter.”
“That is what I am doing,” he retorted. “You are his widow. His property is in your hands.”
“Not at all,” I replied. “Pending probate of the will, the property is vested in his executors.”
He looked at me in not unnatural astonishment. I suppose the phraseology that I had acquired from my father was unusual for a woman.
“Who are the executors?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“But,” said he, “I suppose you have seen the will.”
“No, I don’t know that there is a will. I am only assuming the existence of one from my knowledge of Mr. Otway’s business like habits.”
“But this is very unsatisfactory,” said Mr. Hyams. “There is portable property of mine worth several thousand pounds lying in his chambers for anyone to pick up, and those chambers in charge of a woman who probably has access to his keys. It really isn’t business, you know.”
“What is the nature of the property?” I asked.
“It is a collection of very valuable stones, the whole lot contained in a little box that anyone could carry away in his pocket.”
“Then,” said I, “the probability is that he has deposited the box with his bankers.”
“Who are his bankers?” he asked.
“I really don’t know.”
“You don’t know!” he exclaimed. “But you must have seen his cheques. I presume he made you an allowance?”
“I accepted no allowance from him and I have never seen one of his cheques.”
Mr. Hyams looked at me with undisguised incredulity. “A most extraordinary state of affairs,” he commented. “Can you give me the address of his lawyers?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Hyams, that I cannot. I don’t even know if he has a lawyer. I know nothing whatever about Mr. Otway’s affairs.”
Mr. Hyams’ countenance took on an expression that was very much the reverse of pleasant. “I suppose, Mrs. Otway,” said he, “you realise that you are talking to a man of business and that you are telling a rather unlikely story.”
“I realise it very clearly, Mr. Hyams,” I replied, “and I realise also the difficulty of your position. What I recommend you to do is to go to Lyon’s Inn and see the housekeeper, Mrs. Gregg. She has been with Mr. Otway many years and can probably tell you all that you want to know.”
Mr. Hyams shut his mouth tightly, rose deliberately and picked up his hat.
“Then,” said he, “the position, as I understand it, is this: You don’t know whether there is or is not a will; you don’t know the name of your husband’s bankers; you don’t know who his lawyer is; you don’t know anything about his affairs; and you disclaim any responsibility in regard to property that was in his custody when he died.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “that is the position; a very unsatisfactory one for you, I must admit. Perhaps I may be able to help you later, when I know more about Mr. Otway’s affairs. Will you leave me your address?”
He was on the point of refusing, but prudence triumphed over anger and he laid on the table a card on which I read the name, “David Hyams, Dealer in precious stones,” and the address, “501, Hatton Garden.”
“If I learn anything fresh I will write to you,” I said; whereupon he thanked me curtly and gruffly and walked towards the door with pursed-up lips and a lowering, truculent expression and took his departure without another word.
When he was gone I reflected at some length on the significance of his visit. The interview had brought home to me very vividly my anomalous position. Mr. Otway had been a total stranger to me. Of his past, of his recent habits and mode of life, his friends, his occupation--if he had any--his family and social status, I knew nothing. My father had referred to him as a retired solicitor and as a collector of, or dealer in, precious stones. Vaguely, I had conceived him as a man of some means--perhaps a rich man. But I knew nothing of him and had given him and his affairs barely a thought. He was a stranger who had come into my life for but a moment, and had straightway gone out again, leaving a trail of desolation to show where he had been.
That was the real position. But to strangers, to the world at large, it would seem incredible. I was Mr. Otway’s widow. I had been his wife--in law if not in fact. And the world would hold me to the legal relationship. The dead man, lying in the mortuary, seemed about to make good the claims that the living man had been forced to abandon. My status as a wife had been a mere fiction: my status as a widow was an undeniable reality.
The clear perception of the extent to which I was involved in the dead man’s affairs gave my visit to the coroner’s office a new importance. For now, while seeking information for official use at the inquest, I must gather what knowledge I could for my own guidance under cover of the coroner’s order. The address of the office--in Blackmoor Street, Drury Lane--was printed on the subpœna, and there, after a few enquiries, I made my appearance punctually on the following day.
My friend of the previous evening--whose name I discovered to be Smallwood--was in the office, looking over some documents with the aid of a pair of spectacles, which gave him a curiously unconstabulary aspect. He rose when I entered, and, opening a drawer, took out a sheet of paper.
“This is what you asked for, Mrs. Otway,” said he (upon which a young man at a desk looked up quickly), “the coroner’s request for the production of the letters that you told me about. Can I give you any other assistance?”
“If you could accompany me to the chambers and be present during the search for the letters, I should be glad,” I replied. “You see,” I added, seeing that he looked somewhat surprised, “I am almost a stranger to the housekeeper, I know nothing about the household or Mr. Otway’s arrangements, and I shall be accountable to the executors, if there are any, for any interference with the papers or their removal. I should very much prefer to have a reliable witness.”
He saw the position at once, and, greatly to my relief, agreed to come with me, or rather to follow me in a few minutes. Thereupon I left the office and walking at a leisurely pace into Drury Lane presently made my way into the Strand by way of May-pole Alley and turned eastward towards Lyon’s Inn Chambers.
At the entrance I lingered for a minute or two and then slowly ascended the stairs to Mr. Otway’s landing, growing more and more uncomfortable with every step. For the bare stone staircase set my memory working very unpleasantly, recalling again my headlong flight and the terrible episode that had preceded it--that episode that I would so gladly have sponged out of my recollection for ever.
I stood at the door with my hand on the bell, listening for Mr. Smallwood’s steps on the stair, and so might have remained until he arrived; but suddenly the door opened and Mrs. Gregg confronted me. Apparently she had some means of observing a visitor from within.
“What are ye standing there for?” she demanded. “Why did ye not ring?”
“I was just about to ring when you opened the door,” I replied.
She smiled sourly and looked at me in that strange, inscrutable fashion of hers that I found so disconcerting.
“And what might your business be?” she demanded.
“I have come about some letters of Mr. Otway’s--some anonymous letters that he has received from time to time. Perhaps you know about them?”
“You mean, perhaps I have been in the habit of reading his letters. Weel, mistress, I have not. I know nothing about his letters.”
“Perhaps you can show me where his letters were kept.”
“Indeed, I’ll do no such thing. What! Do you think I’ll have you scratching up in his chambers and pawing over his letters and papers and him not under-ground yet?”
At this moment I caught the welcome sound of footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. Gregg listened suspiciously, and as Mr. Smallwood came into sight there was a visible change in her demeanour.
“What does he want, I wonder?” she said.
“He has come to receive the letters and to be present at the search for them,” I replied, producing the coroner’s order. She glanced at the paper, and, as Mr. Smallwood stepped up to the door, she motioned us to enter.
“Come in,” she said, gruffly. “’Tis no affair of mine, but I’ll no hinder ye.”
We were just about to enter when footsteps were again audible on the stairs, and we waited to see who this other visitor might be. Somewhat to my surprise it turned out to be Mr. Hyams, who certainly seemed to have a genius for coincidences.
“Now this is quite a lucky chance,” said he, doing himself, as I suspected, less than justice. “I didn’t expect to find you here, Mrs. Otway. I presume you are just having a look round.”
“I have come to search for some documents that have to be put in evidence,” said I. “The coroner has asked for them.”
“Well,” said Mr. Hyams, “you might, at the same time, see if you can find any trace of my property.”
“What property is that?” demanded Mrs. Gregg.
“A parcel of stones--a very valuable collection--that Mr. Otway had from me on approval.”
Mrs. Gregg snorted. “Man,” said she, “ye’re talkin’ like a fool. Do you suppose Lewis Otway would have left a valuable parcel of stones lying about in his rooms like a packet of snuff? Ye’ll find no stones here.”
“That may or may not be,” said Mr. Hyams. “At any rate, I’ll stay and see if anything turns up.”
During this dialogue we had gradually moved from the lobby down the corridor and now entered the living-room. As we crossed it I looked curiously at the large cupboard and wondered idly what I could have found so alarming in its appearance on the night of my visit. But if the living-room had, by the light of day, lost its disturbing qualities, it was otherwise with the bedroom. I opened the door with trepidation, and as I did so and was confronted by the disordered bed, the horror of the place began to come back to me. Nevertheless, I entered the room with a firm step and with my eyes on the bedside table, which appeared to be in the same condition as when I had last seen it. I had just noted this when I felt my arm grasped, and turning quickly found Mrs. Gregg at my side. Her eyes were fixed on me and with her disengaged hand she was pointing towards the corner by the bed-head. Involuntarily my gaze followed the direction in which she was pointing and lighted on the fatal peg, which now bore a loop of the red bell-rope with two free ends. Of course I had known it was there, but yet the sight of it made me turn sick and faint, and I must have shown this in the sudden pallor of my face; for when, controlling myself by an intense effort, I turned to speak to her she was looking at me with a leer of triumph.
“Can we have Mr. Otway’s keys?” I asked.
“Ye’ll find them in the right dressing-table drawer,” she answered. “I’m no party to this, but I’ll no hinder ye.”
Mr. Smallwood opened the drawer and produced a bunch of keys which he handed to me. I looked them over and selecting the most likely-looking ones, tried them, one after the other, on the deed-box. The fourth key fitted the lock, and when I had turned it and raised the lid of the box, the letter which Mr. Otway had shown me lay in full view. I took it out and laid it on the table and then proceeded to lift out the remaining contents of the box. There was not much to remove: a cheque-book, a pass-book, a small journal, a memorandum-book, a bundle of share-certificates, a canvas bag containing money, and at the bottom of the box, a foolscap envelope endorsed, “Anonymous Letters.”
I opened the unsealed envelope and drew out the letters which I glanced through one by one. There were seven in all, of which I had already seen three. When I had looked at them I returned them to the envelope, adding the last letter, and then began to replace the other things in the box.
“I see a cheque-book there, Mrs. Otway,” said Mr. Hyams, who had followed my proceedings with intense interest. “May I make a note of the banker’s address?”
I handed him the cheque-book and continued to replace the contents of the box. When I had finished I paused with the box open, waiting for him to return the cheque-book; and at this moment I became aware, with a start of surprise, that an addition had been made to our party.
The new-comer was a short, stout, middle-aged man, obviously a Jew of the swarthy, aquiline type, with a very large nose and rather prominent dark eyes. He stood in the open doorway of the bedroom watching us with a slightly unpleasant smile. As he noted my surprised look, his smile became broader and more unpleasant.
“Make yourselves at home, ladies and gentlemen,” said he. “These are public premises--at least I assume they are as I found the door open.”
Mr. Hyams looked round with a start--as, indeed, did the others.
“May I ask who you are, sir?” he enquired.
“You may,” was the suave reply. “My name is Isaacs--of the firm of Isaacs and Cohen, solicitors. I am one of the executors of Mr. Lewis Otway’s will. And having regard to my responsibilities in that capacity, I may, perhaps, venture to enquire as to the nature of these proceedings. You, sir, appear to be in possession of the testator’s cheque-book. Did you happen to require the loan of a fountain pen?”
Mr. Hyams turned very red and hastily laid down the cheque-book.
“That,” he exclaimed angrily, “is perfectly unwarranted. I was simply making a note of the banker’s address.”
“With what object?”
“With the object of enquiring whether certain property of mine, which was in Mr. Otway’s custody, had been deposited in the bank.”
“What is the nature and value of this property?” asked Mr. Isaacs.
“It is a collection of precious stones of the approximate value of four thousand pounds.”
“Then,” said Mr. Isaacs, “I can give you the information you want. No property, other than documents, has been deposited at the bank.”
“In that case,” said Mr. Hyams, “the stones must be in these rooms.”
“It is quite probable,” Mr. Isaacs agreed.
“Is there any objection to ascertaining, now, whether they are here?”
“Yes, there is,” replied Mr. Isaacs. “The will has not been proved and no letters of administration have been issued. Pending probate of the will I propose to take possession of these premises and seal all receptacles that may contain valuable property. I shall interfere with nothing until I have letters of administration.”
“And how soon will that be?” asked Mr. Hyams.
“Seven days must elapse before the will can be proved. Under the circumstances there may be some further delay. And now I should like to know what has been taking place. You, for instance, madam----”
“I am Mrs. Lewis Otway,” said I, “and I have come here by the coroner’s direction, to look for some letters that are to be put in evidence.”
“Have you found them?”
“Yes,” I answered, “they are here; and, as you are an executor, I had better hand them to you, and you can deliver them to the coroner’s officer if you think fit.”
I handed him the envelope and the coroner’s letter, which he read, and then asked: “Did you have to make a very extensive search?”
“No, she didn’t,” said Mrs. Gregg. “She kenned fine where to look for them and she found them at the first cast.”
On this I noticed that Mr. Hyams cast a quick, suspicious glance at me and I thought it wise to explain.
“I looked first in this box because I had seen Mr. Otway put one of these letters into it.”
“Quite so,” said Mr. Isaacs. “Very natural.” But obvious as the explanation was, I could see that it had left Mr. Hyams unconvinced.
I now returned the cheque-book to the deed-box, locked the latter and handed the keys to Mr. Isaacs; who delivered the anonymous letters to the coroner’s officer and took his receipt for them on a slip of paper. My business being now at an end, I offered my card to Mr. Isaacs, took his in return, and departed in company with Mr. Smallwood.
“A queer business, this, ma’am,” the officer remarked as we descended the stairs. “Regular mix up. Seem to be a lot of Sheenies in it.”
“Sheenies?” I repeated, interrogatively. “What are Sheenies?”
“Jews, ma’am,” he replied, apparently a little surprised at my ignorance. “It’s just a popular name, you know.”
I reflected on Mr. Smallwood’s remark, which seemed hardly justified by the facts--two Jews only having appeared in the case, so far as I knew. And yet I seemed to be aware of a sort of Semitic atmosphere surrounding Mr. Otway. There were, for instance, the Campbells; and then Mrs. Gregg, although a Scotswoman, might easily, but for her strong Scottish accent, have passed for a Jewess; while Mr. Otway, himself, had been distinctly Semitic in appearance.
At the entry, where we separated, Mr. Smallwood halted to give me a final injunction.
“You had better be in good time to-morrow, ma’am,” said he, “because it will be necessary for you to view the body so that you can give evidence as to the identity of the deceased.”
I thanked him for the reminder, but would much rather have been without it. For the prospect filled me with a vague alarm, and now the mental picture of the sleeping man, which had haunted me by night and by day, began to be replaced by one more dreadful, and one which I felt that my visit to the mortuary would attach to me for ever.
