Chapter SIXTEEN: The Inquest

“A good deed,” said Scottie sententiously, “brings its own reward, and I am merely acting in consonance with all the high-class literature I’ve read, dealing with reformed criminals. I’m not sure that ‘consonance’ is the word, but it sounds right. In my last prison they ran a line of fiction dealing exclusively with the good deeds of old lags that had been saved from a life of shame and misery by the smile of a child. Sometimes she was the governor’s daughter and sometimes the chaplain’s sister, and her age varied from nine to nineteen. But she was always rescued from drowning by the hook—generally when he was on his way to commit an even more hideous crime. And the memory of her blue eyes turned him from his career, and he lived happily ever after. The end!”

“You’re only—talking—to stop me—from getting hysterical,” gasped Stella.

There was a new litter of ashes on the hearth; they still smoked.

“You shouldn’t have burnt the pin,” said Scottie, and picking it out, hot as it was, thrust it into the edge of his waistcoat. “Burnt paper is just burnt paper, but supposing Will _does_ run to the police and tells a story of two bills that were pinned together, and suppose they find the burnt pin—well, that would look as if he were telling the truth, and I should hate that.”

“You heard everything?” she said, dabbing her eyes.

“Mostly,” confessed Scottie. “I was in the garden when he was talking to you on the step. And he left the front door open, so I heard—most of the things. That man isn’t, from a professional point of view, a crook. It would take five years’ hard learning to make him anything like a professional. He’s all nerves. And he’s talkative. Everybody round here is that way. You’re looking at me, Miss Nelson, with a sort of doubtful expression. Perhaps you think I’m in that class, too. I am, but my conversation is backed by knowledge. I admit it. You can’t go round the world as I’ve been, all through Canada and the United States, Australia, to South Africa, _and_ the islands, without acquiring knowledge which an occasional sojourn in jug helps you to consolidate.”

“I’m going up to my room, Mr.—Scottie. I haven’t thanked you, have I? I must tell Mr. Macleod.”

Scottie shook his head violently.

“You mustn’t do that, miss. It would put him in a hole. My experience of the police has taught me two things—what they want to know and what they don’t want to know. It is fatal to make a mistake on either side.”

He was right. She hadn’t the strength to argue. This last shock had exhausted her reserves. She just wanted to go away and be quiet. She did not give another thought to Arthur Wilmot. He was with the ashes on the hearth.

“Good-night and thank you.”

“Pleasant dreams,” said Scottie, and did not look up from the book he was reading until she was gone.

Then he carefully brushed up the ashes of paper, carried them to the kitchen, and mixed them in a glass with water. This he poured away, and washed and dried the glass.

“Would that one’s past could be washed away as easily,” said Scottie poetically.

* * * * *

There came to Beverley Green the next morning, and long after the vanguard of the reporting army had struck their tents, a clever, middle-aged newspaper man who was attached to no particular journal, but had the _entrée_ to all. He was in the most exact sense a gleaner of news, for he found his harvest among the stubble—tiny ears of news thinly scattered. Sometimes his gleaning gave him a poor return for his labour, but often the yield dwarfed the hastily-gathered sheaf of the earlier harvester.

He had the true news conscience, which means that all things were subservient to the truth, whoever was hurt or whatever interests were jeopardised by the telling. His methods presented the problem in ethics over which the metaphysician and the moralist have for ever disagreed. To secure the truth he would lie and cheat, and, if necessary, steal. He would betray a confidence as light-heartedly as he would order his breakfast. The solemn pledge to observe secrecy was part of his equipment. The majority of his fellows—more honest men—despised him, and made no secret of their dislike. But they admitted that he was a great news man, and expressed their wishes that they too had been born without a sense of decency.

He was a short, coarse-featured man, who wore powerful pince-nez and who smoked cigars from getting up to lying down. Normally, he looked bad-tempered and discontented, and was, in consequence, spoken of as “repulsive.” He could be almost anything that complimented his _vis-à-vis_, and in this quality lay his power, and, for the victim, his danger.

It is on record that he talked theology to the Bishop of Grinstead for three hours and never made a false move, before the bishop, by way of illustrating some point, told him the inside story of the Rev. Stoner Jelph and why he resigned his living. Of course, the bishop did not mention Mr. Jelph by name. He was, in the simple prelate’s argument, a hypothetical X. But Downer (which was the reporter’s name) had the story, and printed it. He did not mention names either, but he left no doubt as to who he was writing about.

Andy was the first to see Downer arrive. He had been expecting his advent ever since the day of the murder. The reporter came straight to him.

“Good-morning, Macleod. I thought I would see you before I made any independent enquiries. I always say that it is not fair to the man in charge of the case to start nosing without telling him first. Very often a reporter does a deuce of a lot of harm that way. I think I’ve got the main facts. Is there any new development?”

Andy offered him his cigar case.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Downer, but you’re rather late. No, there is nothing new.”

“No fresh clues of any description? Who is this Abraham Selim you are after? I seem to know the name.”

“He is your story, Downer,” said Andy, pulling at his cigar and watching the other from under his drooped lids. “All the other men have missed it. And we’ve missed Selim.”

“Great. Maybe this is the best place to get hold of his tail. You can trust me, Macleod. I’ll not go barging into your lines. I’m too much of a fisher myself.”

It would be inaccurate to say that Downer was afraid of Andy. He was not afraid of a hill of dynamite, but he would not have chosen its crest as a place for a quiet smoke. He respected him, and, if possible, avoided him. Andy was the only man he knew who could and would engage in an intelligent vendetta against him if he were crossed. Downer respected the capability of this antagonist. Nevertheless:

“You have Four-Eyed Scottie here, they tell me. He got past with an alibi on some charge or other?”

“He is here now,” said Andy. “Some friends of mine are giving him house-room.”

“You think he has a string to the story?” said Downer, nodding. “Possibly. He is a sharp boy and I’ll give him a miss. I don’t believe in interfering with regular police witnesses. I’ll be getting along.”

Andy watched him as he loafed aimlessly in the direction of Merrivan’s house. He had been frank about Scottie, knowing that Downer would find out sooner or later. Therein he had been wise, for the reporter had visited Beverley Green the night before, and had trailed Scottie to his home. Mentally ruling out Scottie as a source of sensation, Downer made his leisurely way to the house. Ten minutes later he was discussing with the fascinated sergeant the slowness of promotion in the county police.

The inquest was held that afternoon, and the little court was crowded to its fullest capacity.

Andy saw Mr. Boyd Salter in a privileged seat near the coroner and the Justice beckoned him forward.

“I have brought Madding, the gamekeeper, down,” he said. “His evidence may be of value as to fixing the time the murder occurred. I have been trying to get you further particulars about Abraham Selim. He seems to have begun his operations about thirty-five years ago, somewhere in the west. A very old friend of mine, who of course does not want his name mentioned, had some dealings with him when he was a young man at college. He never saw Selim and never knew anybody who did. Selim seems to have come to town twenty-five years ago and to have established a profitable connection amongst shipping men, exporters, and agents, about whose financial position he had an extraordinary knowledge. I am afraid that is all I know.”

Andy thanked him and went back to his seat.

Shippers! Who were shippers? He had been in an agent’s office lately, and then he remembered with a start—Wentworth & Wentworth, the decaying firm whose offices were next door to Abraham Selim. It might only be a coincidence, but it was well worth a second investigation, he decided, as he settled himself down to the swearing-in of the jury.

His own evidence followed that of Mr. Arthur Wilmot, who had identified his uncle and who had seen him on the night of the murder.

The butler followed him to the witness-stand and told the story he had already told to a dozen reporters and to Andy.

The question which was exercising Mr. Andrew Macleod was whether Arthur Wilmot would be recalled to testify as to the names of his uncle’s women friends. No question had been asked him on this point when he had been giving his evidence. The coroner made no special point of the woman’s voice, but seemed much more interested in the incident of the letter. The butler pointed out on a sketch-map exactly where the letter had been found, and how he had picked it up and placed it mechanically under Merrivan’s other papers.

“Had it been folded or was it open?”

The butler was not sure. He thought it was half-open when he picked it up.

“Had an envelope been discovered?”

Here Andy was recalled, and stated that after a very careful search no envelope was found. This had seemed strange to Andy at the time. The letter was undated, and it might have been delivered earlier in the day.

“Did you discover anything that would lead you to believe that Mr. Merrivan was in fear of his life?”

“I found a loaded revolver,” said Andy. “It was in a cupboard behind the desk and was in easy reach of his hand. It had not been discharged or touched.”

(He had found this weapon after Scottie had described to him the location of the cupboard.)

The policeman who had first seen the body, Mr. Vetch, the dead man’s lawyer, Madding, the gamekeeper, Merrivan’s cook and his hysterical house-maid, who gave yet another exhibition of her weakness in this direction and had to be carried out of court, and the calling of Inspector Dane, concluded the proceedings; and the inquest seemed well through when the coroner, who was a fussy old gentleman with a defective memory, looked up from the papers he was examining, and:

“Dr. Macleod, I’d like to recall you again. There is a point here which does not seem to be cleared up. It is in relation to the woman whose voice was heard by the butler.”

Andy walked calmly to his place.

“There is a newspaper report to the effect that you saw a woman leaving Mr. Merrivan’s house at eleven o’clock, and she passed under your window at the guest house, on her way apparently to Beverley. Usually,” said the coroner, “I do not take much notice of newspaper reports, but here it is distinctly stated in an interview with you by one of the reporters, and I do not remember any reference to the incident having been made in the course of this enquiry.”