CHAPTER VII
EVIDENCE AT THE INQUEST
I TOOK my place at the jury table for the resumed inquest with considerably quickened anticipations. Dr. Crawford’s story had introduced new factors into the case which promised added interest and a still more involved mystery, though with a possibility of suicide and, it might be, a vivid and fascinating life story. Not that I indulged in any speculations. I wanted only facts and those I expected the inquest to afford. I was not disappointed. Of course, the doctor’s evidence startled everybody.
“And what was the cause of death?” the coroner asked, when Dr. Crawford had concluded his preliminary evidence.
“The deceased died from poisoning by hydrocyanic acid,” was the reply.
This was news to most of those present, including the reporters, who began to write feverishly, those representing the evening papers, anyway. Here was a new fact, one even they, so far, had not been allowed to know.
“That is what is known as prussic acid, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“The hatpin you have already described to us was not the cause of death?”
“The deceased was dead when it was inserted.”
“Would it have caused death had there been no poison?”
“Possibly, but not certainly. Death at all events would hardly have been so rapid. With that wound the deceased might have lingered for some time, for days even.”
“He might eventually have recovered?”
“Yes.”
The coroner paused for a moment or two, then glanced at Pepster, who shook his head slightly. For some reason or other the police were not eager to pursue that particular line of questioning.
Dr. Crawford’s further evidence and that of the police surgeon from Peakborough, who followed him, was largely devoted to what one might describe as the technique of prussic acid poisoning, unnecessary to detail here. There was, however, one little fragment of evidence worth repeating.
“On a small table by the side of the couch on which the deceased was lying was a bottle half full of whisky, a siphon of soda-water and a glass. I took charge of them and later Dr. Crimley and myself analysed the contents.”
“With what results?”
“None.”
“You found no trace of prussic acid?”
“None.”
“Was there any liquid in the glass?”
“Yes, about half an inch.”
“What was it?”
“Water.”
“No whisky?”
“No”
“And no prussic acid?”
“Not a trace.”
I glanced at the reporters again and saw that they were writing their hardest. The trained newspaper man is never at fault when it comes to selecting evidence. He seems to know by instinct what is crucial. The longest report of any case does not represent more than a twentieth part of the evidence actually given, but the points are all there always. And the reporters knew quite well that the absence of poison from the bottle and siphon might make all the difference between suicide and murder. Had the whisky been poisoned Sir Philip Clevedon might have put it there himself. There was, of course, the fact that the apparent absence of any medium through which the poison could have been administered added to the puzzle, and the press dearly loves a mystery—at least its readers do, and newspapers that live by their readers wisely enough live for them also.
The next witness was John Tulmin, a little, thin man, not more than about five feet three in height and correspondingly meagre in build, who had been the late baronet’s personal servant, possessed, apparently, of sufficient education occasionally to do secretarial work for him. At all events he opened Sir Philip’s letters and typed the replies dictated by his employer. But he also acted as valet and was apparently as clever with clothes brush and razor as he was with the typewriter. He gave his evidence clearly and without hesitation, and seemed quite unaware of any reason why he should be an object of considerable interest to Police, Press and Public.
“At what time did you last see Sir Philip Clevedon alive?” the coroner asked him.
“At thirty-three minutes past eleven.”
“You are very precise.”
“I am precise because I am stating the fact.”
“What enables you to fix the time?”
“As I was leaving the room Sir Philip asked me for the time and set his watch.”
“Was that usual with him?”
“Oh, no, but he had complained during the day that his watch seemed to be losing.”
“Good! He asked you the time and you told him—”?
“Eleven thirty-three.”
“Was that from your own watch?”
“Yes”
“And your watch was right?”
“Yes.”
“You are quite sure of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“And what happened then?”
“He said, ‘That will be all, Tulmin, good night.’ I replied, ‘Good night, Sir Philip,’ and had reached the door when he called me back. ‘And, by the way, Tulmin,’ he said, ‘waken me at eight o’clock. I want to catch the 10.15 to London. Order me the car at 9.30 will you.’ I said, ‘Very good, Sir Philip,’ and then I left the room, closing the door behind me.”
“He told you to call him at eight o’clock?”
“Yes.”
“And to have the car round at 9.30?”
“Yes”
“Because he was catching the 10.15 to London?”
“Yes”
“That is a very important matter, gentlemen,” the coroner said, turning to the jury. “It has some bearing on the possibility of suicide.”
I glanced at Pepster, whose face was wrinkled in a quiet grin. Really, such orders had no bearing at all on the question of suicide—they were just such as a man might give who had determined to take his own life but desired to conceal the truth. A person bent on suicide—though “temporary insanity” is usually the verdict of kindly juries—can manifest very considerable skill, and frequently does, in covering up the real mode of his exit from this life. Scores of cases of “accident”—according to the verdict—in my experience have been suicide disguised. Men and women who have been killed on the railway, or run over by motor-cars, or drowned while bathing, or shot while cleaning a gun, or swallowed poison from bottles labelled something else, have carefully arranged those happenings, chiefly for the benefit of insurance companies. Suicide is much more frequent than is generally supposed, and it is far more often the result of careful calculation and arrangement than of insanity, temporary or otherwise.
“Did Sir Philip give you any order when he rang for you?” the coroner went on, continuing his examination of Tulmin.
“Yes, he told me to bring him a whisky and soda.”
“You did that?”
“I brought him a bottle of whisky, a siphon of soda-water and a glass, and I placed them on a small table which I drew up to the side of the couch on which Sir Philip was reclining.”
“How much whisky was there in the bottle?”
“It was about half full.”
“Where was this bottle kept?”
“It was on the sideboard in the dining-room. Sir Philip always had whisky and soda for dinner.”
“Was the bottle you took him at night the same bottle out of which Sir Philip had had whisky at dinner?”
“Yes.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Yes—quite. I poured it out myself at dinner.”
“You see the point of my question?”
“I am not sure—”
“No; but we will return to that later. As far as you know, the bottle you took Sir Philip was the one from which you had given him whisky at dinner?”
“I am quite sure it was the same.”
I confess I did not quite see the bearing of that question, but I gathered from Pepster’s attitude that he, at all events, attached some importance to it, and I was content to wait.
“Did Sir Philip drink only one brand of whisky?”
“Yes, sir, always the same; Lambert’s Blue Label.”
“How many bottles have you of that?”
“I am not quite certain, but about eight dozen, I think.”
“Now let us come to the following morning. How did you hear of the—the tragedy?”
“Miss Lepley awakened me, and I went straight to the study.”
“You saw the small table by the side of the couch?”
“Yes.”
“Was the whisky bottle there?”
“Yes.”
“And the siphon and the glass?”
“Yes.”
“Just as you had put them the night before?”
“Yes.”
“Now here is the bottle of whisky that was found on the table by Sir Philip’s side”—Pepster produced it from a bag he had been hitherto carefully guarding—“is that the bottle from which you gave your employer a drink at dinner and which you left with him at night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How do you identify it?”
“It’s Lambert’s Blue Label, sir.”
“But that is a popular brand, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, I believe it is, sir.”
“You could buy a bottle in Midlington, for example?”
“Yes, sir, at several places.”
“Are there any special marks on this particular bottle?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so.”
“Then how do you identify it?”
“It is Lambert’s Blue Label, and—”
“Just so, and we may leave it there. As far as you know, that bottle is the one from which you gave Sir Philip his drink at dinner, and which you took him at night, but there are no marks on it which enable you to identify it positively.”
“Well, of course, one bottle of Lambert’s Blue Label is very like another.”
“Precisely. Did you notice the glass?”
“Not particularly.”
“Could you say whether it was the glass you took Sir Philip?”
“It was the same sort of glass.”
“Quite an ordinary glass?”
“Oh, yes.”
“There are many glasses of that type in the house?”
“Yes, sir, several dozen, I should think. The housekeeper or the butler would know.”
“Just so. There was nothing special about the glass, any more than about the bottle?”
“Nothing, sir.”
That was the end of this very curious cross-examination, the exact bearing of which did not occur to me immediately.
The next witness was Miss Nora Lepley, niece to Mrs. Halfleet, the housekeeper. The name seemed familiar to me, and for a moment or two I puzzled over it. But when I saw the girl, I remembered. Indeed, she was not of the type that is easily forgotten. It was the girl of the farm-house at which we had called in search of Lady Clevedon’s missing chauffeur. It seemed that she was staying with her aunt, Mrs. Halfleet, for a few days, and she it was that made the first discovery of the tragedy.
“It was you who found Sir Philip’s—er—who first saw—?”
“Yes, sir, I found Sir Philip lying dead on his couch in the study.”
“At what time would that be?”
“About seven o’clock.”
“And how came you to be the first to enter the study?”
“Nobody was allowed to tidy Sir Philip’s study except my aunt, and she had to be there when the maids were cleaning. But when I was staying with her at White Towers, I sometimes looked after it for her. Sir Philip knew, and didn’t object.”
“Were you friendly with Sir Philip?”
“Oh, no, not particularly. I seldom saw him, and when I did he generally didn’t speak to me. He wasn’t very—very—”
“Is genial the word?”
“Yes, that would fit.”
The girl smiled, but quickly composed her features again.
“Now let us come to this particular morning. Tell me exactly what happened.”
“My aunt wakened me and said would I straighten Sir Philip’s study for her, as he would be down early. I think she said he was going to London.”
“What time would it be when she wakened you?”
“I should think about a quarter to seven. I can’t say to the minute, because I did not look at my watch.”
“And what happened then?”
“I dressed, and went downstairs to the study. As I opened the door I saw that the light was still burning, and that Sir Philip was lying on the couch. I thought he had fallen asleep there overnight. I went to him and put my hand on his shoulder, intending to waken him, and then I saw—”
She paused there, and her face whitened a little at the recollection.
“You saw that he was dead?”
“Yes.”
“Had you tried to awaken him?”
“Yes, I had shaken his arm.”
“And then?”
“I ran out of the room and fetched my aunt who sent me for Mr. Chinley—”
“That is the butler?”
“Yes, and then I went for Mr. Tulmin.”
“Was he awake?”
“Oh, yes. Indeed, he was half dressed.”
“Did he open the door directly you knocked?”
“Yes, I—I think so.”
“But you would not be sure of that?”
“No, I may have knocked twice.”
“Did Tulmin go with you immediately to the study?”
“Yes, and then he ran off for the doctor.”
“And what did you do?”
“I remained with my aunt and Mr. Chinley in the study until the doctor came.”
“And now I want you to consider very carefully this next question; when you saw that Sir Philip was dead, did you examine him at all?”
“No, I did not wait for that. I ran straight out to bring help.”
“Did you notice the hatpin?”
“No, I saw nothing of it.”
“Does that mean that it wasn’t there, or that you did not notice it?”
“It may have been there. Indeed, I suppose it must have been, but I did not see it.”
“You formed no idea as to how he had died?”
“I formed no ideas of any sort. I think I was too frightened and upset.”
“Thank you, Miss Lepley,” the coroner said. “You have given your evidence very clearly.”
“I am sorry I could not remember about the hatpin,” she replied.
“Oh, well, I have no doubt we shall trace it in time. And now we will have Mrs. Halfleet, the housekeeper.”