The Female Detective (20 page)

“Why are you so certain?”

“Because had he entered the house, my housekeeper would have known of his coming.”

“Is your housekeeper here?”

“Yes.”

“Has it been intended that she should be called as a witness?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think your son attempted to break into your house?”

[The reason for this question I will make apparent shortly. By the way, I should, perhaps, here at once explain that I obtained all these particulars of the evidence from the county paper.]

“Do you think your son attempted to break into your house?”

“Why should he?”

“That is not my question. Do you think he attempted to break into your house?”

“No, I do not.”

“You swear that, Mr. Petleigh?”

[By the way, there was no love lost between the squire and the Tram oracle, for the simple reason that not any existed that could be spilt.]

“I do swear it.”

“Do you think there was anybody in the house he wished to visit clandestinely?”

“No.”

“Who were in the house?”

“Mrs. Quinion, my housekeeper, and one servant woman.”

“Is the servant here?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of a woman is she?”

“Really Mr. Mortoun you can see her and judge for yourself.”

“So we can. I am only going to ask one question more.”

“I reserve to myself the decision whether I shall or shall not answer it.”

“I think you will answer it, Mr. Petleigh.”

“It remains, sir, to be seen. Put your question.”

“It is very simple—do you intend to offer a reward for the discovery of the murderer of your son?”

The squire made no reply.

“You have heard my question, Mr. Petleigh.”

“I have.”

“And what is your answer?”

The squire paused for some moments. I should state that I am adding the particulars of the inquest I picked up, or detected if you like better, to the information afforded by the county paper to which I have already referred.

“I refuse to reply,” said the squire.

Mortoun thereupon applied to the coroner for his ruling.

Now it appears evident to me that this juryman had some hidden motive in thus questioning the squire. If this were so, I am free to confess I never discovered it beyond any question of doubt. I may or I may not have hit on his motive. I believe I did.

It is clear that the question Mr. Mortoun urged was badly put, for how could the father decide whether he would offer a reward for the discovery of a murderer who did not legally exist till after the finding of the jury? And indeed it may furthermore be added that this question had no bearing upon the elucidation of the mystery, or at all events it had no apparent bearing upon the facts of the catastrophe.

It is evident that Mr. Mortoun was actuated in all probability by one of two motives, both of which were obscure. One might have been an attempt really to obtain a clue to the murder, the other might have been the endeavour to bring the squire, with whom it has been said he lived bad friends, into disrespect with the county.

The oracle-juryman immediately applied to the coroner, who at once admitted that the question was not pertinent, but nevertheless urged the squire as the question had been put to answer it.

It is evident that the coroner saw the awkward position in which the squire was placed, and spoke as he did in order to enable the squire to come out of the difficulty in the least objectionable manner.

But as I have said, Mr. Petleigh, all his incongruities and faults apart, was a clear-seeing man of a good and clear mind. As I saw the want of consistency in the question, as I read it, so he must have remarked the same failure when it was addressed to him.

For after patiently hearing the coroner to the end of his remarks, Petleigh said, quietly,—

“How can I say I will offer a reward for the discovery of certain murderers when the jury have not yet returned a verdict of murder?”

“But supposing the jury do return such a verdict?” asked Mortoun.

“Why then it will be time for you to ask your question.”

I learnt that the juryman smiled as he bowed and said he was satisfied.

It appears to me that at that point Mr. Mortoun must have either gained that information which fitted in with his theory, or, accepting the lower motive for his question, that he felt he had now sufficiently damaged the squire in the opinion of the county. For the reporters were at work, and every soul present knew that not a word said would escape publication in the county paper.

Mr. Mortoun however was to be worsted within the space of a minute.

“Have you ceased questioning me, gentlemen?” asked the squire.

The coroner bowed, it appeared.

“Then,” continued the squire, “before I sit down—and you will allow me to remain in the room until the inquiry is terminated—I will state that of my own free will which I would not submit to make public upon an illegal and a totally uncalled-for attempt at compulsion. Should the jury bring in a verdict of murder against unknown persons, I shall
not
offer a reward for the discovery of those alleged murderers.”

“Why not?” asked the coroner, who I learnt afterwards admitted that the question was utterly unpardonable.

“Because,” said Squire Petleigh, “it is quite my opinion that no
murder
has been committed.”

According to the newspaper report these words were followed by “sensation.”

“No murder?” said the coroner.

“No; the death of the deceased was, I am sure, an accident.”

“What makes you think that, Mr. Petleigh?”

“The nature of the death. Murders are not committed, I should think, in any such extraordinary manner as that by which my son came to his end. I have no more to say.”

“Here,” says the report, “the squire took his seat.”

The next witness called—the gardener who had discovered the body had already been heard, and simply testified to the finding of the body—was Margaret Quinion, the housekeeper.

Her depositions were totally valueless from my point of view, that of the death of the young squire. She stated simply that she had gone to bed at the usual time (about ten) on the previous night, and that Dinah Yarton retired just previously, and to the same room. She heard no noise during the night, was disturbed in no way whatever until the alarm was given by the gardener.

In her turn Mrs. Quinion was now questioned by the solicitor's clerk, Mr. Mortoun.

“Do you and this—what is her name?—Dinah Yarton; do you and she sleep alone at Petleighcote?”

“Yes—when the family is away.”

“Are you not afraid to do so?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Why should I be?”

“Well—most women are afraid to sleep in large lonely houses by themselves. Are you not afraid of burglars?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Simply because burglars would find so little at Petleighcote to steal that they would be very foolish to break into the house.”

“But there is a good deal of plate in the house—isn't there?”

“It all goes up to town with Mr. Petleigh.”

“All, ma'am?”

“Every ounce—as a rule.”

“You say the girl sleeps in your room?”

“In my room.”

“Is she an attractive girl?”

“No.”

“Is she unattractive?”

“You will have an opportunity of judging, for she will be called as a witness, sir.”

“Oh; you don't think, do you, that there was anything between this young person and your young master?”

“Between Dinah and young Mr. Petleigh?”

“Yes.”

“I think there could hardly be any affair between them, for [here she smiled] they have never seen each other—the girl having come to Petleighcote from the next county only three weeks since, and three months after the family had gone to town.”

“Oh; pray have you not expected your master's son home recently?”

“I have not expected young Mr. Petleigh home recently—he never comes home when the family is away.”

“Was he not in the habit of coming to Petleighcote unexpectedly?”

“No.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“I know that for a fact.”

“Was the deceased kept without money?”

“I know nothing of the money arrangements between the father and son.”

“Well—do you know that often he wanted money?”

“Really—I decline to answer that question.”

“Well—did he borrow money habitually from you?”

“I decline also to answer that question.”

“You say you heard nothing in the night?”

“Not anything.”

“What did you do when you were alarmed by the gardener in the morning?”

“I am at a loss to understand your question.”

“It is very plain, nevertheless. What was your first act after hearing the catastrophe?”

[After some consideration.] “It is really almost impossible, I should say, upon such terrible occasions as was that, to be able distinctly to say what is one's first act or words, but I believe the first thing I did, or the first I remember, was to look after Dinah.”

“And why could she not look after herself?”

“Simply because she had fallen into a sort of epileptic fit—to which she is subject—upon seeing the body.”

“Then you can throw no light upon this mysterious affair?”

“No light: all I know of it was the recognition of the body of Mr. Petleigh, junior, in the morning.”

The girl Dinah Yarton was now called, but no sooner did the unfortunate young woman, waiting in the hall of the publichouse at which the inquest was held, hear her name, than she swooped into a fit which totally precluded her from giving any evidence “except,” as the county paper facetiously remarked, “the proof by her screams that her lungs were in a very enviable condition.”

“She will soon recover,” said Mrs. Quinion, “and will be able to give what evidence she can.”

“And what will that be, Mrs. Quinion?” asked the solicitor's clerk.

“I am not able to say, Mr. Mortoun,” she replied.

The next witness called (and here as an old police-constable I may remark upon the unbusiness-like way in which the witnesses were arranged)—the next witness called was the doctor.

His evidence was as follows, omitting the purely professional points. “I was called to the deceased on Tuesday morning, at near upon six in the morning. I recognized the body as that of Mr. Petleigh junior. Life was quite extinct. He had been dead about seven or eight hours, as well as I could judge. That would bring his death about ten or eleven on the previous night. Death had been caused by a stab, which had penetrated the left lung. The deceased had bled inwardly. The instrument which had caused death had remained in the wound, and stopped what little effusion of blood there would otherwise have been. Deceased literally died from suffocation, the blood leaking into the lungs and filling them. All the other organs of the body were in a healthy condition. The instrument by which death was produced is one with which I have no acquaintance. It is a kind of iron arrow, very roughly made, and with a shaft. It must have been fixed in some kind of handle when it was used, and which must have yielded and loosed the barb when an attempt was made to withdraw it—an attempt which had been made, because I found that one of the flanges of the arrow had caught behind a rib. I repeat that I am totally unacquainted with the instrument with which death was effected. It is remarkably coarse and rough. The deceased might have lived a quarter of a minute after the wound had been inflicted. He would not in all probability have called out. There is no evidence of the least struggle having taken place—not a particle of evidence can I find to show that the deceased had exhibited even any knowledge of danger. And yet, nevertheless, supposing the deceased not to have been asleep at the time of the murder, for murder it undoubtedly was, or manslaughter, he must have seen his assailant, who, from the position of the weapon, must have been more before than behind him. Assuredly the death was the result of either murder or accident, and not the result of suicide, because I will stake my professional reputation that it would be quite impossible for any man to thrust such an instrument into his body with such a force as in this case has been used, as is proved by the cutting of a true bone-formed rib. Nor could a suicide, under such circumstances as those of the present catastrophe, have thrust the dart in the direction which this took. To sum up, it is my opinion that the deceased was murdered without, on his part, any knowledge of the murderer.”

Mr. Mortoun cross-examined the doctor:

To this gentleman's inquiries he answered willingly.

“Do you think, Dr. Pitcherley, that no blood flowed externally?”

“Of that I am quite sure.”

“How?”

“There were no marks of blood on the clothes.”

“Then the inference stands that no blood stained the place of the murder?”

“Certainly.”

“Then the body may have been brought an immense way, and no spots of blood would form a clue to the road?”

“Not one.”

“Is it your impression that the murder was committed far away from the spot, or near the place where the body was found?”

“This question is one which it is quite out of my power to answer, Mr. Mortoun, my duty here being to give evidence as to my being called to the deceased, and as to the cause of death. But I need not tell you that I have formed my own theory of the catastrophe, and if the jury desire to have it, I am ready to offer it for their consideration.”

Here there was a consultation, from which it resulted that the jury expressed themselves very desirous of obtaining the doctor's impression.

[I have no doubt the following words led the jury to their decision.]