Tempest-Driven: A Romance (Vol. 1 of 3)

CHAPTER VIII

MR. DAVENPORT'S ACCOUNT OF THE MATTER

Shortly after Mrs. Davenport left Carlingford House, Half Moon Lane, that afternoon, a supplementary luncheon was announced, and the four men went into the dining-room.

Mr. Paulton had already lunched with the family, but he wished to be with the others; so he sat down at the table with them, and broke a biscuit and half-filled a glass with sherry. Jerry O'Brien and Pringle were in no humour for trifling with food; they were both downright hungry. Alfred ate mechanically, and was much pre-occupied. The talk, therefore, for a quarter of an hour, was slight, fragmentary, as though by some agreement: no one referred to what had just occurred in the library, or to anything else connected with Crescent House. Young Pringle felt that although there must be and are extremely interesting tragedies in the world, luncheon, when one is hungry, was a matter not to be neglected. He had more than once in a criminal court eaten sandwiches and drunk sherry in the interval for luncheon, with the moral certainty that his client, who had been temporarily removed from the dock, would be sentenced to death before the Court rose, and hanged before that day four weeks.

Here were a cold rabbit pie, cold ham, and excellent sherry, well-baked, fine white bread, and nicknacks, and no particular reason for hurry-no fear of hearing "Silence" called out while one was but half-finished. The day was dull, but there was an ample fire burning brightly in the grate, the chair was soft and well-designed, so why should he bother himself for another quarter of an hour?

It was very easy for him to hold his tongue and to assure himself that he need not bother himself just now about Mrs. Davenport and her unpleasant predicament; but her predicament would not be banished, and every now and then some incident of either the drawing-room or library interview would rush into his mind with all the unexpected suddenness of that unwelcome cry of "Silence!" in the middle of luncheon at a criminal trial.

Upon the whole, that luncheon was not as calm or as successful as young Pringle meant it to be. He had never seen any one at all like Mrs. Davenport before, and he could make little or nothing of her. He now began to think that he had talked flippantly when he said she was certainly about to leave the country. Reviewing all he had seen and heard, he came to the conclusion that the safest thing for him to assume at present was-nothing. At length he spoke, addressing Alfred and Jerry O'Brien:

"Although Mrs. Davenport did not say anything to the effect when leaving, I suppose I had better act for her-until I hear something to the contrary."

Jerry O'Brien glanced at Alfred, and saw what he wished to say, but held back from speaking, because of the trouble his hasty action of the night before had brought about. Therefore Jerry made himself spokesman for his friend.

"Of course, Pringle, you go on acting for her, on her behalf. She has left this house finally now, and is not likely to cause any new unpleasantness here. Whether Mrs. Davenport is to blame or not, she can't be left alone and unaided in such a strait as this. What do you say, Mr. Paulton?"

"I am quite of your opinion, O'Brien. Now that she is out of the house I would be disposed to do anything I could for her. It's different now from what it was an hour ago. Go on, Mr. Pringle; and I most sincerely hope she may come out of the inquiry without the shadow of blame."

"I sincerely hope so," said Pringle, rising. Luncheon was over by this time. "Now, the first thing I should like, is to have a look at the place-at this Crescent House, as you call it."

Alfred and O'Brien got up, and in a few minutes the three found themselves in the hall of that house. The police were already there.

Pringle told the officers who he was and then proceeded to make inquiries. The following was the state of affairs at that time:

The inspector had been there about an hour. He had made an elaborate, but not exhaustive search in the room. The body was in the position it had been found in. An empty two-ounce bottle had been discovered on the floor. This was the bottle. It was labelled chloroform, smelt of chloroform, and had no cork in it. A cork which fitted it, and which also smelt, although faintly, of chloroform, had been found on the table close by the body.

In the pockets of the deceased had been discovered a number of letters, a small sum of money, and a pocket-book. This was the pocket-book. It was thin, and covered with Russia leather; it was old, and had been but little used. It contained several addresses, and on the first leaf was written a date of eleven years ago. It was more than likely this date corresponded with that on which the book became the property of deceased.

Most of the memoranda in that book could have no bearing on the present case, as most of them had evidently been made long ago. The last entry but one was dated in what was believed to be the handwriting of the deceased. It was made more than two years ago. After this last entry but one, a leaf was missing. A leaf had evidently been torn out-and clumsily torn out, too-for a jagged portion of the leaf remained behind.

Then came the last entry of all. This was also apparently in the handwriting of deceased. The writing was in pencil, and very shaky, and for a long time could not be deciphered. It was headed "Crescent House." The domicile fixed the date, for the night before was the only occasion on which Mr. Davenport crossed the threshold of that house. He had not even seen the house before renting it, but took it on the representation of an agent. The words on this page were:

"Pretended death. Blake gone. He emptied chloroform on me-held me down. Can't stir. Dying."

After reading this the three men stood aghast for a while. They looked at one another. They looked at the inspector. The inspector shook his head.

"There's hangman's work here," he said; and he was about to turn away, when a sudden thought struck Pringle. He said to the inspector:

"I beg your pardon. Does that pocket-book contain any London address of Mr. Davenport?"

"I don't know," said the inspector; "and I am afraid I have already shown you too much."

"I'd be very much obliged to you if you'd see. I represent Mrs. Davenport in this matter, and at the moment I don't know where to find her. She omitted to give me her address when she left me this afternoon. I want to write to her, and if you find any London address of Mr. Davenport, I'll chance directing my letter there. That can do no harm to any one."

The inspector hesitated, but at length opened the pocket-book, and after a search, said:

"There's an address here at Jermyn Street; but it's six years old."

"Never mind," said Pringle; "I'll risk it. What is it?"

The inspector read it out, and Pringle took it down.

Pringle, Alfred Paulton, and Jerry O'Brien were about to leave the room, when the first turned to the inspector, and said:

"By-the-way, you did not find the page that has been torn out of the pocket-book?"

"No," said the inspector, nodding his head significantly; "but there's evidence enough on what we did find to hang a score of men."

The three then walked to Herne Hill railway station, and took tickets for Ludgate. At the latter place Pringle left the two friends and went back to his office.

Here he sat down and wrote the following letter:

"Dear Madam,

"By accident I got this address, and will chance writing you here in the hope this note may reach you.

"I have been to Crescent House. A pocket-book of the late Mr. Davenport has been found. It contains the following entry in the handwriting of deceased: 'Pretended death. Blake gone. He emptied the chloroform on me-held me down. Can't stir. Dying.'

This was the note which Mrs. Davenport handed Thomas Blake as she stood over him in her fresh widow's weeds the night after her husband's death.

CHAPTER IX

"WHICH OF US IS MAD?"

The morning after the interview between Mrs. Davenport and Tom Blake in Jermyn Street, there were paragraphs about Mr. Davenport's death in the daily papers. These paragraphs were almost colourless, and barely suggested any cause for uneasiness. They all wound up by saying that the inquest would be held next day.

That afternoon Richard Pringle called on chance at the house in Jermyn Street, and found Mrs. Davenport at home. She received him in a dreamy, half-conscious way, and answered listlessly the common-place questions he put to her. Before seeing her he had made up his mind not to refer to the scene which had taken place between them yesterday. He was firmly convinced she would not give him her full confidence, and that to seek to get at the bottom of the affair would be only to court obstruction. From her manner he assumed she wished nothing to be said of what had taken place in the Paultons' drawing-room at Dulwich. He began by trying to prepare her for the inquest. She shuddered slightly when he used that word, and yet seemed but indifferently alive to the importance of the situation. She answered in monosyllables, and contented herself mostly with merely bowing her head in token that she attended to what he said.

No material advantage could be gained by speaking of the former interview between them. He had drawn his own conclusions from it, and it was abundantly clear to him she wished that interview ignored. Now that he was once more under the spell of her presence, he felt his interest in her case rekindle, and the charm of her beauty reasserting itself.

One thing, however, must be spoken of. It was absolutely necessary he should say something of the note he had written her last evening. He waited for a pause, or rather caused a pause in the conversation, for she volunteered nothing.

"Having found this Jermyn Street address in the pocket-book of Mr. Davenport, I sent a few lines to you yesterday evening in the hope they might reach you. Did you get them?"

This question seemed to arouse her attention. She clasped her hands in her lap, and, turning her face fully towards him, answered:

"Yes; I got your note and the extract from the pocket-book also."

She seemed perfectly cool and collected.

"It would be well if you would tell me anything you know about that entry on the leaf of the pocket-book. It has a terrible significance in the case."

Her calmness now astonished him. He had the evening before been prepared for an explosion. He had expected to find her completely broken down, or in a state of high nervous excitement to-day. Up to this she had been listless; now she was attentive and mute. Her face looked paler than yesterday, but he could not say whether this was owing to its own loss of colour or to the effect of the white cap or the crape round her throat. He waited a moment with a view to giving weight to his next question. It was:

"With regard to the memorandum made by Mr. Davenport, is there anything you would like to say to me? In the face of that memorandum, you of course know that Mr. Blake's presence will be essential at the-inquiry."

"I suppose so," she said, unmoved. She replied to the latter part of his speech first. "With regard to the entry in his pocket-book, it is right you should know that my late husband was at one time subject to hallucinations, delusions."

"And you think this writing of his may have been the result of a delusion or hallucination?"

"It is quite possible; I can explain it in no other way."

"Oh, this is a great relief! I did not know he was subject to hallucinations. This is a most important fact. What was the nature of the delusion under which he suffered?"

Up to this point Pringle had felt in despair. Now his interest and courage rose.

"He fancied people had formed a conspiracy against him, and that their design was to rob him first and then murder him."

Her enunciation was particularly distinct, her face impassible.

"This is most vital," he said. "Indeed it may explain much that now sorely needs explanation. You no doubt often had the opportunity of seeing him labouring under these ailments?"

"No-never. He has not had an attack since we were married."

"Well, we must only do the best we can. Do you know if there is anything like insanity in his family?"

Pringle felt no little disappointment that she could not personally testify to the disease; but he was resolved to make the most of it.

"I am not aware that there is anything which could be called insanity in the family. His brother is decidedly odd, and Mr. Davenport was odd at times. For instance, as I told you, he would never bring old servants into a new house. There were other little traits-some theories he had about betting on horses, and which I do not understand, but which I have been told were at least fanciful."

Pringle's curiosity was aroused. Outside his profession the thing in which he took most interest was horse-racing.

"I am not sure that it can be of any consequence; but if you could remember it, I should like to know what that peculiarity in betting was."

"I am not quite sure," she said; "but I have an indistinct recollection he made it a rule never to bet on any horse the name of which began with a letter lower down in the alphabet than 'N.'"

"Ah!" said the young solicitor, in a tone of surprise and reflection. He resolved to look this matter up when he got back to the office. He was still curious. "And may I ask if you know whether he found the system a good one? If he found it to fail oftener than to succeed, and still kept to it, one might put the persistency down to mental obliquity."

Although he said this in a confident tone, the words were no sooner uttered than he began to doubt their justice, for he had known many men who adhered to a system which had nine times out of ten betrayed them.

"I cannot tell you. I do not know."

"If he betted heavily, you would have been likely to hear whether he won or lost. Of course when I say heavily, I don't mean that he ran any danger of crippling himself. But he must have been elated when he won and dejected when he lost?"

"No. He did not bet heavily. He never seemed to care whether he won or lost. It was the system which he prized, and not the wager."

Young Pringle thought this was a sure sign of a disordered mind; but he kept the opinion to himself, as he considered it more a matter of private than professional interest. He said:

"I suppose Mr. Davenport could not have been in financial embarrassment owing to any betting transactions?"

"I am certain he was not."

"Or from any other cause?"

"I am sure he was not."

"This may be of the greatest value. I beg of you to believe I am asking this question solely with a view to your interest."

He paused and looked earnestly at her for permission to go on.

She bowed.

"Have you any reason to think that the unfortunate event which has occurred might have been brought about by his own act?"

She moved her hands nervously in her lap.

"I am not sure that I understand you."

"There is nothing in your mind which could lead you to suppose he has committed suicide?"

She shuddered visibly and answered in a constrained whisper:

"Nothing-nothing whatever."

"Well, Mrs. Davenport, it will be absolutely necessary for us, in the face of the memorandum made on the leaf of his pocket-book, to have some theory of what took place. Can you suggest any theory?"

He spoke gravely, impressively. His personal interest in her was again growing stronger than his professional interest in what he now regarded as her defence. He swore to himself that he would use not only all his skill as an advocate, but all his faculties as a man to extricate this beautiful woman from the horrible position in which he found her, and to assuage as much as might be the pains she would have to endure. Under the overwhelming spell of her rich comeliness, and in front of the evidence afforded by her presence here this afternoon, he reproached himself bitterly for the suspicion he had uttered the day before as to her fleeing from the country. It was brutal of him to think of such a thing then, and still more brutal of him to speak his thoughts.

She did not reply to his last question at once. She looked at him steadily, without flinching, but remained silent.

He spoke again, this time earnestly, almost passionately:

"Mrs. Davenport, if you give me any theory to go on, I promise you, upon my word of honour as a man, to make the most I can of it. I'll leave no stone unturned to put things in their best light. I'll work without ceasing; I'll do nothing else, think of nothing else until I see you through this ordeal. I will not ask you again for any confidence you wish to withhold from me. But if out of justice to yourself you will not, out of justice to me you must give me something to go on. You must give me at least a theory."

He spoke to her eagerly, fiercely, and held out his hands towards her in supplication.

She dropped her eyes a moment as if to collect her thoughts, and then looking straight into his face once more, said with a slight tremor in her voice:

"I have a theory; but I am afraid it is not one that will meet with your approval."

"If it is the best you can give me, trust me to do the best that can be done with it. But, for heaven's sake, give me the best one you can. Give me a chance. All I want is a chance to show you my devotion-to your interests."

He felt he was being carried away by the irresistible magic of her eyes. He paused after the word "devotion," and spoke the final phrase of his speech in a less fervent tone, to modify by matter and manner what had gone before.

"There is," she said, unclasping and then clasping her hands again, "but one theory possible in the case. As I told you a moment ago, Mr. Davenport was at one period of his life subject to delusions-"

"Pardon me," interrupted Pringle; "you said awhile ago that you had no experience of your own as to this infirmity. I assume we shall be able to produce evidence to prove that?"

"Undoubtedly there will be evidence."

"May I ask from whom we are to expect this evidence? Mr. Davenport's brother? He knows all about it, I suppose?"

"No, not Mr. Davenport's brother. I am not sure that Mr. Edward Davenport ever knew anything about it."

"That is unfortunate, since, so far as I understand, Mr. Edward Davenport is the late Mr. Davenport's only surviving relative."

"He is. But at the time when Mr. Davenport had those seizures he was abroad, on the Continent. For many years of his life Mr. Davenport did not live in the United Kingdoms. When I first knew him he had just come home after travelling for a long time in America and Europe. Although I am not quite sure, I think up to a very short time before I met him he had been out of the country most of his life. He was not very communicative about the past, or indeed on any subject. It was while he was staying for a time in Florence he had these attacks of hallucination-"

"And the evidence we can command is that of an eye-witness?" broke in Pringle.

"Certainly."

"The inquest will be to-morrow. May I not have the name of the witness? There is no time to be lost. In fact, this evidence, this extremely important evidence, comes very late. I am sorry I did not hear of it before. But we must do the best we can with it."

He spoke in a voice of deep concern.

"There was a reason why you did not hear of this evidence earlier. You asked me to give you my theory, Had I not better do so before going into other matters?"

She raised her clasped hands slightly from her lap in faint protest.

"I beg your pardon for interrupting you. By all means let me have the theory first. My anxiety betrayed me into asking questions which ought to have been deferred."

He was filled with admiration of this woman who could keep so closely to the point, and with shame for himself for his unthrifty straying from it.

"As you are no doubt aware, chloroform affects different people in different ways. A little of it will kill some people; a large quantity will scarcely affect others. Many under its influence become delirious and rave. At certain periods, while under the power of chloroform, one may be relieved of pain, conscious of surrounding things, capable of moving, and yet delirious. The theory I would suggest is that Mr. Davenport inhaled some chloroform to ease a spasm of asthma, that he became delirious, that he had a return of his old hallucination, then wrote what was found on the leaf torn from the book, and while endeavouring to administer a second dose to himself, spilled the contents of the bottle over his beard and chest."

Her words came in as calm and measured a way as though she were speaking on an abstract subject to an indifferent audience.

As she went on, Pringle's admiration gave way to amazement. A scientific witness could not be more unmoved. Was it possible this superb woman opposite him had been explaining to him in these cold, measured accents her way of accounting for the death of a husband who had been alive and without any immediate danger of death a couple of days ago, and who had since died a death which was, to say the least of it, provocative of inquiry?

He leaned back in his chair, sighed thoughtfully, and knit his brows. He cleared his throat once or twice to speak, but remained silent. He felt dull and heavy, as though something oppressed his chest.

"That is my theory-the only possible theory," she said, leaning forward and looking quietly into his face, without any change in the expression of her own.

He shook himself slightly, looked perplexed, not satisfied. At last he spoke:

"And what evidence have we in support of this supposition?"

She leaned back in her chair and whispered, "None."

He started, sat up, and looked at her keenly. He drew down his brows over his eyes as though the light hurt him.

"I am afraid," said he, "such a theory would not stand without most substantial testimony. No jury would give a satisfactory verdict on a mere statement such as that, for, you see, there are the last words written by the deceased." Until this moment he had not used that cold, formless word "deceased" to her. But he felt now that he was regarding the matter in a purely professional way, and that so was she. In a moment he continued, laying impressively significant emphasis on his words: "How are we to explain the fact of Mr. Blake's name appearing on that piece of paper?"

"Mr. Blake," she said, half-closing her eyes as though she was weary, "was the last person he saw before his death, and, when the delirium came upon him, he naturally introduced the name of Mr. Blake as being that of the person most immediate to his memory."