The Seven Secrets Part 15

Her anxious countenance shone through her veil haggard and white; her eyes were fixed upon the Coroner. She hung breathlessly upon his every word.

"We have no further evidence," replied the inspector.

There was a pause. The public who were there in search of some solution of the bewildering mystery which had been published in every paper through the land, were disappointed. They had expected at least to hear some expert evidence--which, if not always reliable, is always interesting. But there seemed an inclination on the part of the police to maintain a silence which increased rather than lessened the mystery.

"Well, gentlemen," exclaimed Dr. Diplock, turning at last to the twelve local tradesmen who formed the jury, "you have heard the evidence in this curious case, and your duty is to decide in what manner the deceased came by his death, whether by accidental means, or by foul play. I think in the circ.u.mstances you will have very little difficulty in deciding. The case is a mysterious one--a very mysterious one. The deceased was a gentleman of means who was suffering from a malignant disease, and that disease must have proved fatal within a short time. Now this fact appears to have been well known to himself, to the members of his household, and probably to most of his friends. Nevertheless, he was found dead in circ.u.mstances which point most strongly to wilful murder. If he was actually murdered, the a.s.sa.s.sin, whoever he was, had some very strong incentive in killing him at once, because he might well have waited another few months for the fatal termination of the disease. That fact, however, is not for you to consider, gentlemen. You are here for the sole purpose of deciding whether or not this case is one of murder. If, in your opinion it is, then it becomes your duty to return a verdict to that effect and leave it to the police to discover the a.s.sa.s.sin. To comment at length on the many mysterious circ.u.mstances surrounding the tragedy is, I think, needless. The depositions I have just read are sufficiently full and explanatory, especially the evidence of Sir Bernard Eyton and of Doctor Boyd, both of whom, besides being well-known in the profession, were personal friends of the deceased.

In considering your verdict I would further beg of you not to heed any theories you may have read in the newspapers, but adjudge the matter from a fair and impartial standpoint, and give your verdict as you honestly believe the truth to be."

The dead silence which had prevailed during the Coroner's address was at once broken by the uneasy moving of the crowd. I glanced across at Ethelwynn, and saw her sitting immovable, breathless, statuesque.

She watched the foreman of the jury whispering to two or three of his colleagues in the immediate vicinity. The twelve tradesmen consulted together in an undertone, while the reporters at the table conversed audibly. They, too, were disappointed at being unable to obtain any sensational "copy."

"If you wish to retire in order to consider your verdict, gentlemen, you are quite at liberty to do so," remarked the coroner.

"That is unnecessary," replied the foreman. "We are agreed unanimously."

"Upon what?"

"Our verdict is that the deceased was wilfully murdered by some person or persons unknown."

"Very well, gentlemen. Of course in my position I am not permitted to give you advice, but I think that you could have arrived at no other verdict. The police will use every endeavour to discover the ident.i.ty of the a.s.sa.s.sin."

I glanced at Ethelwynn, and at that instant she turned her head, and her eyes met mine. She started quickly, her face blanched to the lips; then she rose unsteadily, and with the crowd went slowly out.

Ambler Jevons, who had been seated at the opposite side of the room, got up and rushed away; therefore I had no chance to get a word with him. He had glanced at me significantly, and I knew well what pa.s.sed through his mind. Like myself, he was thinking of that strange letter we had found among the dead man's effects and had agreed to destroy.

About nine o'clock that same night I had left Sir Bernard's and was strolling slowly round to my rooms, when my friend's cheery voice sounded behind me. He was on his way to have a smoke with me as usual, he explained. So we entered together, and after I had turned up the light and brought out the drinks he flung himself into his habitual chair, and stretching himself wearily said--

"The affair becomes more mysterious hourly."

"How?" I inquired quickly.

"I've been down to Kew this afternoon," was his rather ambiguous response. "I had to go to my office directly after the inquest, but I returned at once."

"And what have you discovered? Anything fresh?"

"Yes," he responded slowly. "A fresh fact or two--facts that still increase the mystery."

"What are they? Tell me," I urged.

"No, Ralph, old chap. When I am certain of their true importance I'll explain them to you. At present I desire to pursue my own methods until I arrive at some clear conclusion."

This disinclination to tell me the truth was annoying. He had always been quite frank and open, explaining all his theories, and showing to me any weak points in the circ.u.mstantial evidence. Yet suddenly, as it seemed to me, he had become filled with a strange mistrust. Why, I could not conceive.

"But surely you can tell me the nature of your discoveries?" I said.

"There need be no secrets between us in this affair."

"No, Ralph. But I'm superst.i.tious enough to believe that ill-luck follows a premature exposure of one's plans," he said.

His excuse was a lame one--a very lame one. I smiled--in order to show him that I read through such a transparent attempt to mislead me.

"I might have refused to show you that letter of Ethelwynn's," I protested. "Yet our interests being mutual I handed it to you."

"And it is well that you did."

"Why?"

"Because knowledge of it has changed the whole course of my inquiries."

"Changed them from one direction to another?"

He nodded.

"And you are now prosecuting them in the direction of Ethelwynn?"

"No," he answered. "Not exactly."

I looked at his face, and saw upon it an expression of profound mysteriousness. His dark, well-marked countenance was a complex one always, but at that moment I was utterly unable to discern whether he spoke the truth, or whether he only wished to mislead my suspicions into a different channel. That he was the acme of shrewdness, that his powers of deduction were extraordinary, and that his patience in unravelling a secret was almost beyond comprehension I knew well. Even those great trackers of criminals, Shaw and Maddox, of New Scotland Yard, held him in respect, and admired his acute intelligence and marvellous power of perception.

Yet his attempt to evade a question which so closely concerned my own peace of mind and future happiness tried my patience. If he had really discovered some fresh facts I considered it but right that I should be acquainted with them.

"Has your opinion changed as to the ident.i.ty of the person who committed the crime?" I asked him, rather abruptly.

"Not in the least," he responded, slowly lighting his foul pipe. "How can it, in the face of the letter we burnt?"

"Then you think that jealousy was the cause of the tragedy? That she----"

"No, not jealousy," he interrupted, speaking quite calmly. "The facts I have discovered go to show that the motive was not jealousy."

"Hatred, then?"

"No, not hatred."

"Then what?"

"That's just where I fail to form a theory," he answered, after a brief silence, during which he watched the blue smoke curl upward to the sombre ceiling of my room. "In a few days I hope to discover the motive."

"You will let me a.s.sist you?" I urged, eagerly. "I am at your disposal at any hour."

"No," he answered, decisively. "You are prejudiced, Ralph. You unfortunately still love that woman."

A sigh escaped me. What he said was, alas! too true. I had adored her through those happy months prior to the tragedy. She had come into my lonely bachelor life as the one ray of sunlight that gave me hope and happiness, and I had lived for her alone. Because of her I had striven to rise in the profession, and had laboured hard so that in a little while I might be in a position to marry and buy that quiet country practice that was my ideal existence. And even now, with my idol broken by the knowledge of her previous engagement to the man now dead, I confess that I nevertheless still entertained a strong affection for her. The memory of a past love is often more sweet than the love itself--and to men it is so very often fatal.

I had risen to pour out some whiskey for my companion when, of a sudden, my man opened the door and announced:

"There's a lady to see you, sir."

"A lady?" we both exclaimed, with one voice.