Chapter VIII: Dark Surmises

In the old house at the lower end of the town there is surprise and agitation, and a flutter of excitement which throws all the machinery of life out of gear. Hester leaves her dishes unwashed, and sits down in her disorderly kitchen to talk over Mr. Trenchard’s death with the charwoman. They talk immensely, though they know hardly anything about the dread event, save such jetsam and flotsam of intelligence, chiefly false, as has been cast up on the shore of the High Street. But they evolve a great deal out of their inner consciousness. They speculate upon that ever-interesting subject, the will, and argue for and against Sibyl’s appointment as sole heiress.

‘It will be an unjust will if he’s left everything to her,’ says Hester, vindictively.

‘Ah, but she was the favourite, you see,’ pleads the charwoman, tilting her bonnet on to her eyebrows in her animation, ‘and so pretty, and such winning ways with her. I shouldn’t wonder if all the money was left to her.’

‘Then I hope she’ll remember my poor old master, and all he’s done for her and her sisters,’ says Hester. ‘They might all have gone to the workhouse if it hadn’t been for him. Mr. Trenchard was across the seas and couldn’t help ’em, and many a good meal Dr. Faunthorpe’s gone without to bring up three hearty-eating girls.’

‘I dare say Miss Faunthorpe will take her uncle to live with her at Lancaster Lodge,’ says the charwoman. ‘Such a lovely place! I went in one evening that there was a dinner party, to help the kitchenmaid wash up. Why, the very scullery’s ekal to some people’s drawring-rooms!’

‘Dr. Faunthorpe ain’t going to live there, you may depend,’ replies Hester, decisively. ‘He don’t want none of your finery. He likes his own house and his independence, and his water cake and bit of smoked bacon for breakfast.’

‘It’s odd Miss Faunthorpe being out this morning, when her sister went up,’ speculates the charwoman.

‘Yes, that’s odd. It’s my belief she was always against this Mr. Pilgrim, and her uncle had forced the marriage upon her, and she went off this morning to some of her fine friends to get out of the way. Them Cardonnels, perhaps, that she and Miss Marion was visiting at Christmas.’

‘Ah, they do say she might have married Sir Wilford Cardonnel if she’d liked,’ says the charwoman.

‘Of course she could,’ answers Hester, glad to exalt the family she has served so faithfully. ‘Only she’s as full of fancies as an egg’s full of meat, and she wouldn’t have him.’

While this discussion goes on in the kitchen, Marion and Jenny sit in the parlour, occupied by all-absorbing thoughts of the dead man’s will and their own mourning. They have not liked Stephen Trenchard well enough to feel any regret for his loss; nay, his death is an event to which they have looked forward as a turning-point--the beginning of brighter days--in their own lives. He is dead, and a painful interval of suspense must be endured before they can know what he has done for them. They are hopeful meanwhile, and wildly speculative--especially Jenny, whose ideas ramble among thousands and tens of thousands as they have never rambled before, save in the agreeable mazes of an arithmetic book.

‘You see he had such oceans of money,’ argues Jenny. ‘He could afford to make Sibyl a great heiress, and to leave us twenty thousand apiece quite easily. And the interest of twenty thousand pounds is a thousand a year. Uncle Robert told me so. Fancy you and me with a thousand a year each! No stocking-darning, no turning and twisting our winter dresses to make them do for spring. I shall go into long skirts immediately.’

‘That will be a boon to the rest of humanity, for they’ll hide your legs,’ replies Marion.

‘Shall you have crape tucks or flounces on your black silk?’ inquires Jenny, recurring to that inexhaustible topic, the mourning.

‘Whichever is the last fashion. Miss Eylett shall make our mourning, and she always has the newest style.’

‘But we ought to have dresses ready for the day of the funeral,’ says Jenny. ‘And how can we get them before the will is read? We don’t know whether we’re heiresses or beggars.’

‘Carmichael’s people will let us have anything we want,’ replies Marion. ‘Depend upon it they’ll give us any amount of credit now uncle Trenchard is dead. They know we must come in for some of his money.’

As the day goes on the fever of curiosity and wonder which has seized upon Redcastle is intensified, for the flame is fed by new revelations of a startling character. First there is the news of Sibyl’s disappearance; and then it becomes known somehow that there is to be a post-mortem examination, followed by a coroner’s inquest. This is really interesting, and would distinguish the deceased from the common ruck even if he had not been a millionaire. The two local papers are in a flutter of excitement, and rival reporters hang about Lancaster Lodge and question the respectable Podmore, whose large pale face--in shape and expression somewhat resembling the station clock--assumes a troubled and bewildered look.

From the coroner’s house Dr. Mitsand goes on to his brother practitioner, Dr. Faunthorpe. That meek little man has just returned from a long round in his dilapidated chaise, and has ‘run in,’ as he calls it, to get a little bit of dinner. Regularly to dine is a luxury unknown to the parish doctor. The cloth is laid in the homely parlour, the remains of joint or stew are kept in the oven, with a potato or two simmering in greasy gravy, and the doctor takes his repast hurriedly and alone an hour or two after the appointed dinner-hour.

He has just seated himself at his savoury mess, when Hester enters mysteriously and announces Dr. Mitsand.

‘I’ve shown him into the best parlour,’ she says, whereupon Dr. Faunthorpe, faint with hunger, reluctantly lays down his knife and fork, and goes to receive his guest.

‘What can he want with me?’ he thinks.

Dr. Mitsand explains himself briefly.

‘The coroner has ordered me to make a post-mortem examination, assisted by Mr. Pollintory--you know Pollintory, of course; and I thought you ought to be present, as a near connection of the deceased,’ he concludes.

‘I am surprised that a post-mortem should be thought necessary,’ says Dr. Faunthorpe, fluttered by this intelligence. ‘There was nothing mysterious in my brother-in-law’s death, I hope. He had been ailing for some time.’

‘He had; but his death was not the less unexpected. It is always best to err on the side of caution. By the way, may I ask if you use much prussic acid in your practice?’

The question startles the meek little doctor, and he looks at the inquirer with a perplexed expression of countenance.

‘I have used it occasionally, but not often.’

‘You keep some in your surgery, no doubt?’

‘Yes, I have a little of the diluted acid.’

‘You are careful to keep it out of harm’s way, I suppose. It is not within any one’s reach?’ inquires Dr. Mitsand.

‘I keep that and all poisons on a top shelf, in blue bottles. They could not possibly be used in mistake for anything else, if that is what you mean.’

‘I am glad of that.’

‘But what has this to do with Mr. Trenchard’s death?’ asks Dr. Faunthorpe, with a troubled look.

‘Only this much. From the indications presented by the body after death--a livid hue--the nails purple--the hands so firmly clenched that the women who laid out the dead have not been able to place them in a peaceful attitude--and from the odour of the room where he lies, I have too much reason to fear that Mr. Trenchard died poisoned by prussic acid. This calls for immediate investigation.’

‘Great Heaven, yes!’ cries Dr. Faunthorpe, white with horror. ‘But how do you imagine the poison administered? Whom can you suspect?’

‘I suspect no one as yet. The least painful supposition is that he took the poison himself.’

‘Why should he do that? What motive had he for committing suicide? Or what motive could any one have had for murdering him?’

‘Hard to imagine a motive in either case. Unless it were possible that some one who expected to profit by his death was tempted to hasten that death by poison.’

‘Dr. Mitsand,’ exclaims Robert Faunthorpe, tremulous with indignant horror, ‘are you aware that my eldest niece is the person who had most expectation to be a gainer by her uncle Trenchard’s death?’

‘I know that.’

‘And you come to ask me whether I keep any form of prussic acid in my surgery--you suspect that the poison by which Mr. Trenchard died--or by which you suppose him to have died--was taken from this house?’

‘I tell you that I suspect nothing, Dr. Faunthorpe. But until the law has taken this painful business into its own hands, it is my duty to act in the interests of law and right. Mr. Trenchard was in my care. He dies, as I believe, foully murdered. Your niece disappears on the day of his death.’

‘She runs away to escape a marriage which we may fairly suppose had been forced upon her by Mr. Trenchard.’

‘That is one view of the case--and I hope the right one. Yet her absence cannot fail to prejudice the minds of those who have to investigate this matter. If you have any idea where she is, I should recommend you to communicate with her, and urge her immediate return.’

‘I have no idea. She had no friends before she was adopted by her rich uncle. She may have gone to some of her new friends, but they are unknown to me. I don’t know where to look for her, or how to communicate with her.’

‘It is a most unhappy case, Dr. Faunthorpe, but you and I must do our duty.’

‘My poor Sibyl--my poor unhappy girl--to be the subject of such a horrible suspicion!’ cries Dr. Faunthorpe, helplessly.

He sits alone for some time after Dr. Mitsand has left him, sits hopeless and stricken. It is not that he believes his niece guilty of this hideous crime--this almost impossible wickedness,--but that the mere suspicion should have fallen upon her is a calamity that bows him to the dust.

At four o’clock that bright summer afternoon the three medical men meet at Lancaster Lodge for their dismal work. Podmore, with his large round face, still white and horror-stricken, admits them into the dusky silence of the hall. Joel Pilgrim comes out of the study to receive them, very calm and business-like in manner, and leads the way to the room where the dead man lies. At the door he leaves them, and goes quietly downstairs to his retreat in the study, where he sits reading the paper--or making believe to read it.

In the room upstairs the dismal work is performed in silence.

To Mr. Pollintory, the skilful analyst, it is no more than an every-day matter of business. A jar is sealed in the presence of the three medical men, and this vessel Mr. Pollintory is to take back to Krampston with him, there to perform his analysis, and apply tests scientific and physiological, in the retirement of his own laboratory.

But in the minds of those three men analysis is hardly needed to establish the one fatal fact that Stephen Trenchard has been poisoned by prussic acid. In the appearances which add to the awfulness of death, in the odour which exhales from that lifeless form, there is evidence enough of a technical kind to convince a whole college of physicians.

The doctors go quietly downstairs when their work is done, and again Mr. Pilgrim appears at the study door.

‘Well, gentlemen?’ he exclaims interrogatively, ‘What is your verdict? Do you find the cause of death in the heart or brain?’

‘In neither,’ replies Dr. Mitsand.

‘What then?’

‘I had rather not state my opinion till I am called upon at the inquest to-morrow.’

‘Humph,’ mutters Joel. ‘You doctors like to be mysterious. It is a trick of the trade. But pray walk in, gentlemen, you will take some refreshment after your painful task, I hope.’

Dr. Mitsand and his colleagues decline this proffered entertainment.

‘I should like to ask a few questions of the butler before we go,’ says Dr. Mitsand. ‘I believe it was he who last saw Mr. Trenchard alive.’

‘To the best of my knowledge it was so,’ answers Joel, scraping his smooth chin thoughtfully, ‘But Podmore is a very stupid fellow, and this sad event seems to have thrown him quite off his balance. The man has no self-possession whatever. You’ll not get a succinct account from him.’

‘I don’t want an account. I only want an answer to a question or two,’ replies Dr. Mitsand. ‘Be kind enough to ring for him, Mr. Pilgrim.’

Joel obeys. Poor little Dr. Faunthorpe sits in a corner meanwhile, pale as a sheet of letter-paper, and full of vague apprehensions. That Stephen Trenchard has either destroyed himself or been foully murdered there can be no doubt. Which is it? And why is Sibyl absent?

Podmore appears in answer to the bell, and by his aspect fully justifies Joel’s account of him. He looks from one of the doctors to the other with a countenance full of apprehension.

‘You gave Mr. Trenchard his medicine at four o’clock this morning?’ inquires Dr. Mitsand.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did you find him in his usual health?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You noticed nothing particular in his manner?’

‘No, sir--unless----’

‘Speak out, pray.’

‘He might have been a little more irritable than usual, perhaps. He had been rather irritable for some time past. Mr. Pilgrim may have noticed it.’

Joel nods acquiescence.

‘As if he had something on his mind,’ suggests Dr. Mitsand.

‘Well, yes, sir. You might take it that way.’

‘Who removed the glasses and bottles from Mr. Trenchard’s room this morning? Was it one of the women-servants?’

‘No, sir. Mr. Pilgrim told me to see to clearing the room. The women-servants were timid about going in.’

‘What did you do with the glass in which your master was in the habit of taking potash water?’

‘I took it down to the pantry with the rest of the things, sir, and washed it with my other glasses.’

‘You are sure you washed it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you think you could find me that particular glass?’

‘I might perhaps, sir. It was a large soda water glass. There’s a dozen of the same pattern in the pantry. They’re kept on the same shelf; but I think I should know the one Mr. Trenchard used last from the position of it.’

‘Bring it then,’ says Joel, authoritatively.

Podmore shuffles out, and returns presently with the glass. Dr. Mitsand takes it to the window, and examines it with his back to Joel and the rest.

‘You wash your glasses in very hot water, I think,’ he says to Podmore.

‘Pretty hot, sir. And I use a bit of soda to keep them bright.’

‘I see. Was there a table with glasses and bottles on it within reach of your master’s hand as he lay in bed?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Nonsense, Podmore!’ cries Joel, quickly. ‘You forget the little table which Mr. Trenchard had placed close to his bed a few days ago, in order that he might help himself to a bottle of potash water if he wanted it without ringing for you.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ stammers Podmore. ‘Yes, I forgot the little table; my master had it put handy to his hand, as you may say. But it didn’t use to be there, and it slipped my memory.’

‘And was it from that table you took this soda water glass?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That will do,’ says Dr. Mitsand, and Podmore shuffles out again, escaping gladly as a soul released from torment.

‘If I could understand any motive for such an act,’ says Dr. Mitsand, as he and his colleagues go along the shrubberied drive between Lancaster Lodge and its gates, ‘I should be inclined to believe that that man poisoned his master. I never saw a more craven hound. We shall see if he comes in for an annuity, or a handsome legacy, under his master’s will.’