  The morning of the inquest broke beautifully fine and sunny. I looked out of my bedroom window and felt that the duty that lay ahead of us meant putting such a glorious day to poor use. The inquest was to be held at the “Swan’s Nest”—the most pretentious hostelry that Considine boasted. I shaved, washed and dressed with an ill grace that morning, for I could remember attending an inquest before—it had bored me beyond expression. Sir Charles opened the matter at breakfast. “Baddeley tells me they are bringing Marshall in from Lewes for to-day’s affair. I was, I confess, somewhat surprised at the news—I had scarcely anticipated such a step. I suppose they know their own business best.” “Who is the coroner for this district, Sir Charles?” asked Anthony. “A Dr. Anselm. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him once or twice before ... being a magistrate,” replied our host. “It wouldn’t astonish me to see a verdict of ‘Wilful murder’ against ‘Spider’ Webb,” said Jack Considine—“despite what he and this pretty wife of his say about it. What’s your opinion, Bathurst?” Anthony walked across to the sideboard and helped himself to a healthy portion of cold pie. “Depends entirely upon what Baddeley wants,” he responded. “If he’s keen on that particular verdict he’ll probably play his cards to get it. Personally, I’m not so sure that he is.” He went back to the table. “What makes you think that, Bathurst?” asked Captain Arkwright. “Oh—I’m not suggesting anything against Baddeley, in any shape or form—but the police have advantages in these matters—they’re playing on their own ground as it were.” He laughed. “I’m assured in my own mind that it is so—I’ve watched events pretty closely and often noticed it—still, this Inspector has impressed me throughout as an upright, honest and quite efficient person so we can’t tell.” He walked back to his seat. Then continued, “And of course, there’s always the possibility that he may have something up his sleeve. Personally—I shall expect it.” “Well, Baddeley isn’t the only one to have that,” I ventured blazingly indiscreet. Anthony shook a warning finger at me. “Bill—Bill——” The breakfast company immediately became all attention. “What’s this, Bill?” demanded Sir Charles. “Who among us has any special knowledge? Bathurst hasn’t made any other discoveries, has he?” Anthony flung another warning glance in my direction then replied to Sir Charles. “You flatter me, Sir Charles,” he said laughingly, “and you make altogether too much of my Webb escapade—Bill is getting as bad as the rest of you—that’s all there is to it.” I thought that Sir Charles looked somewhat relieved. Lady Considine evidently had a similar impression for she leaned across and patted him on the sleeve. “Don’t you worry too much about it, Charles,” she said quietly; “let’s get this unpleasant business over to-day—then perhaps we may be allowed to forget. If Inspector Baddeley arrests the murderer—well and good—if he fails to——” she shrugged her shoulders. The breakfast party broke up. “Both the cars are going down to the village—there will be room in them for all,” announced our host. We murmured our thanks. “What do you say to a stroll down, Bill?” said Anthony. “Plenty of time, and it will stretch our legs.” “I’m with you,” I responded. I was secretly pleased at the opportunity—I imagined that he wanted to tell me something or desired to discuss some aspect of the case with me. I was disappointed. He was quiet. We swung along some distance before I broke the ice. “What did you make of that letter business?” I asked, watching his expression intently. “In what relation?” “To Prescott—to the murder.” I was nettled. What relation did he imagine I meant? “Oh, that! None at all!” I stared incredulously, even more nettled than before. “Sorry to hear that—I had hoped that I had discovered something moderately important.” “So you did, Bill. But its importance was not exactly in reference to the actual murder.” “What on earth do you——” “Its importance is a matter of accumulation—its real relation is to the boot-lace and the Barker I.O.U.” I shook my head hopelessly. “What can Mary’s letter have to do with those other things—you said yourself we didn’t know to whom the letter was written—besides, we have Mary’s word that she never wrote to Prescott in her life—surely you believe her—you can’t doubt her?” “Not for a moment, Bill.” “Well, then”—I became emphatic—“there must be——” “You’ll see what I’m getting at all in good time. Don’t be impatient—besides, here we are at ‘The Swan’s Nest.’” The news of the inquest had excited considerable interest, and a good-sized knot of people had gathered outside the hostelry. As we entered, I heard speculation regarding many details of the case, and our identity was audibly discussed. Dr. Anselm was just taking his seat. He referred to the shocking nature of the tragedy that was to be there, and then investigated and proceeded at once to put the case before the twelve good men and true. Witnesses, he informed us, would be called to identify the deceased as Gerald Prescott, a guest of Sir Charles Considine—he mentioned the name with proper respect and reverence—at Considine Manor, where he had been staying for nearly a week. A good many of the company knew that the poor young man—with whose relatives he would desire to express his deepest sympathy—had appeared in the last ’Varsity Match at Lords’, and had been invited to Considine Manor to take part in Sir Charles Considine’s Annual Cricket Week. Nothing of any untoward incident had occurred during his stay—they had no evidence of any quarrelling or friction of any kind—yet on the Saturday morning, Prescott had been found lying on the billiard-table—in the—ahem—billiard room—foully murdered. Sensation! Done to death by strangulation, Dr. Elliott would inform them, as a highly qualified medical man, and it would be the jury’s duty to weigh this evidence and all the evidence to arrive at a fit and proper verdict. In addition to a boot-lace tied tightly round his throat, the murdered man had also been stabbed at the base of the neck, at the top of the spinal cord with a dagger! More and greater sensation! The case had also a strange complication. On the night of the murder, Lady Considine’s pearls had been stolen from the Manor. Again sensation! But owing to the masterly handling of this portion of the affair by Inspector Baddeley of the Sussex Constabulary, who had acted with lightning-like rapidity in the following up of certain data that he had gleaned, two persons had been arrested and lodged in Lewes Jail. Final and crowning sensation! The reporters present licked their lips. This was almost too good to be true. Anthony nudged me in the ribs. “He’s rendered to Baddeley the things that weren’t Baddeley’s—you see!” He grinned. “Just as I expected.” Dr. Anselm speedily got to the real business of the morning. The room we were in was evidently the dining-room of the “Swan’s Nest,” and I attempted to picture it in its ordinary environment. It seemed grotesque to imagine people could dine here in any comfort after this inquiry was over. Then I heard “Mrs. Prescott” called. The Coroner once again expressed his profound sympathy with her in her distress. She gave formal evidence identifying the body that she had viewed as the body of her son—Gerald Onslow Lancelot Prescott. He was twenty-two years of age—unmarried—and had just come down from Oxford. As far as she was aware deceased had no troubles or worries; he was quite sound financially and to her knowledge hadn’t an enemy in the world. The Coroner.—“Had he any love affair?” Mrs. Prescott.—“No. None that he had ever confided to me.” The Coroner.—“He had come to Considine Manor simply to take part in the Cricket Week?” Mrs. Prescott.—“That is so.” The Coroner.—“Had you heard from him during his stay there?” Mrs. Prescott.—“Yes—a short letter. Full of the good times he was having.” The Coroner.—“And you know of absolutely nothing that would throw any light upon this indescribably dreadful affair?” Mrs. Prescott.—“Nothing! Nothing at all!” The Coroner thanked her and the next witness was summoned. If summoned can correctly describe the procedure. “Constance Webb!” From between two sturdy members of the Sussex County Police came she whom we had known as Marshall. Still sensation! The reporters bent to their tasks with redoubled energy—sweetened by the thoughts of circulations to come. A low hum buzzed round the room at the appearance of this new witness. Anthony clutched at my arm. “Look,” he muttered. Inspector Baddeley had come round to the side of Dr. Anselm and was whispering something to him. I saw the Coroner nod his head three or four times in seeming acquiescence. Baddeley appeared to be explaining something, for I saw the doctor give a final approving movement of the head, and then turn and address the witness. “What’s afoot?” I interrogated. “I think I know,” answered Anthony. “Listen!” “Marshall,” as it seems the more natural for me to call her, gave her evidence in a low, toneless, almost inaudible voice. Several times the Coroner had to request her to speak up. Up to Saturday last she had been a maid in the employ of Sir Charles and Lady Considine, and among her duties was the task of sweeping and cleaning a number of the Manor rooms first thing in the morning—as she had done on the Saturday morning in question. She had eventually reached the billiard room! Here the witness was observed to falter and excitement ran high in the “Swan’s Nest.” Dr. Anselm took a hand. “What did you find when you got to the billiard room?” More excitement followed—a sharp-featured little man on the left of the room jumped to his feet. All eyes were turned on him. “I object to that question, sir, with all deference—the witness has not yet said that she had found anything.” Dr. Anselm glared at this disturber of the peace. “Who are you, sir?” The little man produced his card. “Felix Lawson. I am present at this inquiry watching the interests of Webb—the man under——” The Coroner broke in quickly. “Very well, Mr. Lawson. That is sufficient.” He addressed himself to the witness again. “Tell your story—go on.” “I entered the billiard room and the first thing I saw was the dead body of Mr. Prescott lying across the billiard-table.” “What did you do?” She hesitated for a brief period. “I screamed for help! Then the other people came in.” “I see! I will only ask you one more question. Describe the attitude of the body on the table as well as you are able.” “It seemed to be lying across the end of the table—almost on one shoulder—I can’t remember any more. Is that all?” Dr. Anselm asserted his satisfaction. “Inspector Baddeley!” Baddeley stepped forward, as briskly as ever. He told his story curtly and decisively. He explained that he had been called to Considine Manor about eight o’clock on the morning in question, in company with Dr. Elliott. As the previous witness had stated, the body of the dead man lay across the billiard-table in the billiard room. The room was to an extent disordered. Three of the chairs were overturned, and by the side of one lay the poker from the fireplace. The window of the room was open—probably about two feet. There were footprints outside this window, indicating that deceased had been out there, and another man as well. With regard to this latter fact he would say no more for the moment. Anthony plucked at my elbow. “You’ll hear no mention of the ‘Spider’—you see.” Baddeley went on with his evidence. No money had been found on the deceased, although he was almost fully dressed. He was wearing, when discovered, full evening dress with the exception of his shoes. These were brown—the deceased had evidently pulled them on in a great hurry. He had made inquiries about the deceased gentleman, and had discovered nothing whatever to his discredit or detriment. Inspector Baddeley retired. Dr. Elliott then followed with his medical testimony. Once again the room at the “Swan’s Nest” buzzed and hummed with excitement. Death was due, he told his audience, to strangulation. Deceased had been strangled by a brown shoe-lace, taken from one of the shoes that he was wearing and tied tightly round his throat. A dagger had also been driven into the base of the neck, at the top of the spinal column, but in his opinion, death had already supervened before this assault had taken place. Acute sensation! A Juryman.—“Was it possible, Dr. Elliott, for this shoe-lace to have been placed round deceased’s neck by deceased himself?” Dr. Elliott.—“You suggest suicide?” A Juryman.—“Yes. That’s what I mean.” Dr. Elliott.—“Quite possible, of course, but as a medical man, I hardly——” A Juryman.—“Thank ye, Doctor.” Continuing, Dr. Elliott gave it his considered opinion that death had taken place about six or seven hours when he first examined the body. The Coroner.—“That would time the murder then, Dr. Elliott, at about one o’clock or half-past? Am I correct?” Dr. Elliott agreed. In conclusion he stated that the body he had examined was normal, and healthy in every respect—that of an athletic young man. Then Anthony and I became like the crowd. We got our sensation. “Andrew Whitney.” “Who the blazes is this?” I asked excitedly. “Somebody Baddeley has dug up?” Anthony leaned forward in his seat to look at the newcomer. A medium-sized fat-faced man stepped up. He had a jovial, well-nourished countenance and was evidently full to the brim with joie de vivre. He gave his evidence very quickly and clearly. “I am Andrew Whitney—Sales Manager, Blue Star Soap Products Co.—I was motoring home on Friday night last from Eastbourne. My home is at Coulsdon. I left Eastbourne very late—I had been staying with friends,—and it was very probably Saturday morning before I actually got under way. To make matters worse I had engine trouble, and it was striking three as I came through Considine. I remember hearing two church clocks strike the hour. I passed Considine Manor about five minutes past three. Just as I was passing, the engine trouble that had previously helped to delay me, recurred and I was forced to stop again. While I was tinkering about at the job, I was surprised to see a room at the side of the house suddenly flash into brilliant light—the electric light was suddenly turned on. It remained on for a period that I should estimate at two or three minutes, and then equally suddenly went out. It struck me as rather strange that people should be walking about in rooms at that hour of the night. I have since identified that room where the light was, as the billiard room.” The man who had described himself as Felix Lawson rose to his feet. He bowed to the Coroner. “With your permission, Dr. Anselm, I would like to put one question to the witness.” “Very well, Mr. Lawson.” The little man turned to Whitney. “Are you prepared to affirm, on oath, Mr. Whitney, that this lighting up of the billiard room took place after three o’clock? You are absolutely certain of your time?” Whitney nodded his head impatiently. “Quite positive. I imagined I had made myself clear on that point.” Lawson raised his hand deprecatingly. “You were judging, I think, from the chimes of a clock. They are very easily miscounted, especially when your mind is otherwise pretty well occupied. You counted the strokes and were sure?” “I did. I am positive on the point.” “Thank you very much. Thank you, Dr. Anselm. That is all I have to ask.” Whitney stepped away smartly. “Annie Dennis.” A girl whose face was vaguely familiar to me came forward. When she started to speak I realized that I knew her. It was one of the kitchen maids at the Manor. She had been called as a result of Inspector Baddeley’s inquiries, and had something to tell the world which the Inspector considered important. I whispered again to Anthony Bathurst. “Did you know about this?” I said. “No,” he replied. “Not a glimmer. The Inspector has been busy.” Annie’s evidence was as follows. On Friday evening she had been sent down into the village by Fitch, the butler. She had returned just after nine o’clock, and as she entered the grounds of the Manor she was amazed to see a man walking on the flower-bed directly outside the billiard room window. Dr. Anselm.—“What exactly did he appear to be doing?” “Nothing! Only walking across the bed.” “Can you describe him?” The witness shook her head. “No, sir—not very well. He seemed to disappear very quickly as I drew nearer to the house itself. But there was something a little peculiar about his walk.” “In what way peculiar?” Annie Dennis hesitated. “I can’t rightly say, sir, it just didn’t seem ordinary-like—not free and easy.” “Do you mean that he limped in some way or was lame?” “No, sir, not exactly that—I can’t tell you quite what I mean—but I should know it if I ever saw it again.” Dr. Anselm desisted from worrying the witness any more, and having summed the whole facts up, concisely and accurately, the jury were asked for their verdict. It was speedily forthcoming. “Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown—death having been caused by strangulation.” We filed out of the room one by one. I was anxious to ask Anthony his opinion of the two fresh witnesses. I turned to address him when I found, to my surprise, Inspector Baddeley at our sides. “I’d like a chat with you, Mr. Bathurst,” he said, “at your convenience.” “Whenever you like, Baddeley! You’ve deserted the ‘Spider’ then?” “Not altogether, although it might appear to be so,” came the answer. “You must have strong reasons.” “Pretty fair,” grinned the Inspector. Then his face relapsed into the grave again. “Still, I’m not denying that I’m puzzled,” he admitted. “I can’t get the facts to tally at all. That’s why I want a word with you. Understand?” Anthony patted him on the back. “Only too pleased, Inspector; the case has been rather troublesome, I admit.” We walked home together. |
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