The Lost Million Part 16

Shaw was a guest that evening, but it was proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had left the house two and a half hours before, accompanied by Asta. It was therefore my intention at once to satisfy myself whether Shaw could have returned, unknown to the girl, and re-visited t.i.tmarsh Court.

I confess openly and frankly that I suspected a crime. Hence, I spared no effort in thoroughly investigating the curious circ.u.mstances--in doing work which the police would have done had not the declarations of the two doctors been so very positive and emphatic.

I saw the body of my friend lying in a darkened bedroom upstairs, and covered with a sheet. I did not remove the shroud. I was too horrified. A post-mortem had been made, and the corpse was waiting for the arrival of the coffin.

What had the dead man intended to reveal to me? He had evidently discovered something detrimental to Shaw. Of that I felt a.s.sured, for had he not admitted as much?

"Did poor Guy appear his usual self before the affair?" I asked Cardew some half-hour later, as we again stood together in the long sombre room wherein he had died. The atmosphere was heavy with the oppressive scent of the roses, and about the silent apartment there seemed an air of mystery.

"Well, to tell the truth, I did not notice anything unusual in his manner at the time. But since--now that I have reflected--I recollect that he seemed extremely anxious concerning Shaw's daughter--as though he were apprehensive of something, and was in despair."

At that moment the Captain was called out by one of the servants, who told him that the police superintendent from Northampton would like to see him. Therefore I was left alone in the room, and was thus afforded opportunity to examine it.

I looked at the big comfortable chair in which the unfortunate man had sat, and tried to picture to myself what had occurred there, in the silent watches of the night. Why had he given vent to that shriek of horror? What had he seen?

Surely he had received some fearful, appalling shock, or such a piercing, heartrending shriek would never have escaped a man's lips.

I examined the window, the shutters, the lock on the heavy door of polished mahogany; but nothing caused me curiosity--nothing had been tampered with.

My own theory was that Guy Nicholson, whilst reading his newspaper, had seen something, and that, after shrieking in horror, he had beaten with his hands upon the door, in frantic endeavour to escape from that room.

Imprisoned there, he had received some fatal blow before he had time to unbar the window, and had sunk upon the floor and expired in agony.

But what was the something which had cost a man his Life?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

ONE POINT IS MADE CLEAR.

On the following day twelve respectable inhabitants of Corby and the neighbourhood a.s.sembled around the long dining-table at t.i.tmarsh 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 circ.u.mstances might be, they could only weigh the medical evidence.

Doctor Petherbridge, of Northampton, a.s.sisted by the county a.n.a.lyst, 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 a.r.s.enic 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 hoa.r.s.ely, 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 t.i.tmarsh?"

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 t.i.tmarsh 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sionately; 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 a.n.a.lyse 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.