CHAPTER XXIX.

The Coroner, in the law’s phrase, sat on the body of Gerard Denton, and the jury, who knew as much about the case as anyone else (except Lady Denton and, perhaps, Mr. Wheeler), before they entered the box, listened to the somewhat perfunctory evidence of how it was found, the injuries it had received, and the condition of the path from which it had fallen. They stirred to a quickened interest when Lady Adelaide Denton was called, and entered the witness box. She was quietly dressed, though not in black; for Sir Daniel, as was generally known, did not approve of that ugly convention, and had, indeed, expressly forbidden it in his will. She was rather pale but quite self-controlled, and looked as beautiful as she always did.

She was an important witness, being the last person, so far as was known, who had seen Gerard Denton alive, and having gone some distance with him on his fatal walk; but what she had to say could be soon told, and Mr. Duckworth, an elderly medical man, more at home with the injuries from which his subjects died than the legal and psychological questions which their exits raised, treated her gently, and with a disregard for the laws of evidence and the rules of examination which it is the high prerogative of all Coroners to exercise.

This method, joined to her own instinct of economy in untruth, gave her an easy passage, and supplied the jury with a vivid and accurate realization of the emotional atmosphere of the house from which Gerard Denton had gone out to die.

She had known, she said, that he had been asked to attend at the police station that evening.

“Did you know the purpose of that visit?” the Coroner asked.

“It was to make some alterations in a statement which he had signed previously.”

“About Sir Daniel’s death?”

“Yes.”

“Did he appear alarmed at this prospect, or unwilling to face the ordeal?”

“He was a good deal upset.” She added, after a second’s pause, as though in explanation, or it might be in defence of the dead man: “Gerard got upset rather easily.”

“Did he say or do anything to give you the idea that he might be intending to take his own life?”

“No,” she said; and then, surprisingly: “And I don’t believe that he was.”

Mr. Duckworth looked puzzled as he took down this answer. He even began a word of protest, which got no further than: “But…,” when she added: “I mean, he hadn’t any such intention during the day.”

“You mean he might have acted on a sudden impulse?”

She considered this. “It would be a more likely thing. If he ever made his mind up about anything, he always changed it in half an hour.”

Mr. Wheeler, genuinely puzzled as to the events which had ended in Gerard Denton’s death, and not at all sure that Lady Denton was telling all, or nearly all, that she knew, had a moment of admiration. “If it were deliberate acting,” he thought, “it would be genius. She says she doesn’t believe he intended suicide, and yet convinces the jury both of the sincerity of her own evidence, and of the impulsive instability which makes it plausible that he did.” He saw that she was invincible because she was speaking truth, and truth is always the most potent weapon with which to sustain a lie.

But the Coroner was going on with his quietly leading, suggesting questions, taking her out on the final walk. “And this visit to the police station was still the sole topic of conversation?”

“Yes.”

“And how far did you go with him?”

“Not very far. We stopped once or twice, and then went on when he started talking about it again. It may have been to the top of the hill. He said he couldn’t stand any more hanging about the house. He’d walk on to Loudwater, and come back by the lower road in time for the interview at seven, and I said that was too far for me, and if I’d got to go back alone I wouldn’t go any further. But I thought it might be the best thing he could do, in the mood he was in.”

The examination was soon over after that, and it was not long before the Coroner was summing up, in a brief and rather perfunctory way, as one who went through a necessary preamble to reach a verdict already sure.

He explained shortly what the jury had to decide: the cause and manner of death. Beyond that they had no concern. There might be other matters concerning the dead man which he would have to ask them to consider later in another connection, but not now. Was it murder? There was no evidence to suggest it. There was no sign of a struggle. Was it accident? If so, what had led him of the road to that desolate and lonely spot? Was it suicide?

They had heard of the evident emotional stress under which he was labouring. There were people, even when absolutely innocent, who had a morbid horror of everything pertaining, however remotely, to the processes of the criminal law; and they had heard—he was not inviting them to go outside the proper scope of this enquiry—but they had heard that the accuracy of a state­ment which he made, in regard to a recent tragedy which must be in all their minds, had been seriously challenged, and he had been given an opportunity of altering his evidence, which he appeared to be fearful to do. It might seem that suicide—possibly on a sudden unpre­meditated impulse—was very clearly indicated. But it was for them to decide.

The jury returned a verdict of “suicide while of unsound mind” without leaving the box.

It was then three minutes to twelve, and the adjourned inquest on Sir Daniel Denton was held immediately.

The Coroner, after a few preliminary remarks, including an injunction to the jury to put out of their minds anything that they had heard at the previous inquest, which it would be obviously impossible for them to do, promptly put Chief Inspector Pinkey into the box, from whom they heard an account of the bribery of the boy, and of the explanation, which might or might not be true, which Gerard Denton subsequently gave, including his admission that there had been angry words between himself and his brother at that last interview, which he had endeavoured to conceal.

He went on to say that, after these admissions, he had given him an interval of several days in which to consider what amended statement, if any, he would prefer to substitute for that which he had acknowledged to be untrue, and how, the second appointment not being kept, he had gone, in company with Superintendent Trackfield, to Bywater Grange, and there learnt from Lady Denton how he had left the house in the earlier evening. Briefly, but sufficiently, he narrated the later details of the finding of the body of the missing man, which had been given more fully at the previous inquest.

There was a moment’s pause as Inspector Pinkey left the witness box, during which many eyes were turned upon Tommy, sitting apprehensively on a bench at the rear of the court, his usual cheerful grin effectually suspended as he waited to hear the summons which would oblige him to repeat his story—or, rather, one of his stories—in that strange and awful publicity.

But the Coroner and Inspector Pinkey had exchanged a few words on that subject already, and had agreed—the idea had been gently suggested by the Inspector—that he was an utterly unreliable witness, and that no useful purpose would now be served by putting on the records what might be no more than a varied lie. The Inspector had decided that it would be best to obtain such a verdict from the jury as would finally close the case, and the amended version of Tommy’s narrative, if it should endure cross-examination unshaken, could only confuse the minds of the jurymen with a useless doubt.

Mr. Duckworth had agreed, though with some hesitation, that, so far as he was concerned, Tommy should not be called. The boy had supported Gerard Denton in an account, which they had subsequently admitted to be untrue, he having been paid to lie. He had then, from whatever motive, truly or not, supported an amended narrative which was alike in so far that it appeared to clear Gerard from suspicion of his brother’s death. But when Gerard had been invited to embody this second account in a written statement, he had avoided the appointment, and it had become an officially recorded 7fact that he had preferred the desperate alternative of suicide. What reliance could now be placed on anything that the boy might say?

But Mr. Duckworth saw that a demand for his evidence to be taken might come from Mr. Wheeler, either in the interests of Lady Denton or of the reputation of the dead man, whom he had also legally represented, and, if such a demand were made, he did not feel that it could be refused. Now he looked interrogatively at Mr. Wheeler, who shook his head in reply. That astute gentleman saw that nothing could be gained by any evidence that Tommy would be likely to give, and some risks that he would be glad to avoid.

The disinclination to hear Tommy’s further evidence was unanimous, unless among the jury themselves, who were not consulted, and too overawed by the solemnity of the tribunal to express any individual inclinations that they might feel. They soon found themselves listening to the Coroner’s summing-up which he gave them in an easy, competent, conversational manner, with no more than an occasional reference to the notes of the previous hearing, and in such a way that, while he explained that the responsibility of the verdict was theirs, he made equally clear, as his custom was, what he expected that verdict to be, and he would have been surprised indeed if a jury of Beacon’s Cross had been sufficiently disrespectful to disregard his wishes.

After commencing with a routine exposition of the law as it affected such cases, and of the various verdicts which it was within their discretion to render, he went briefly and clearly over the admitted facts of the case, and then came to the core of the problem which was before them.

“You have first to consider,” he said, “whether the evidence is consistent with a theory of self-destruction. When you examine that possibility, you observe that it is not supported by any evidence of an affirmative character. No one has come forward to say that Sir Daniel had ever threatened to put an end to his life. Those who commit suicide often leave letters or other documentary evidences of their intention. There is no such document here. Those who take the desperate remedy of self-destruction are usually of unbalanced character, or suffering from acute mental disturbance, or the ravages of disease. There is no such condition suggested here. In fact, there is no discernible motive at all.

“It might be rash to conclude that, because no motive has been discovered, therefore none existed, either in fact or imagination, but where no motive can be discerned, and where no disposition to self-destruction has been observed, it is natural to look the more closely at the circumstances of the case before admitting the theory of suicide in explanation of the tragedy.

“As to that, you have heard the evidence of the position of the wound, and the course which the bullet took. You have heard the opinion of Sir Lionel Tipshift that it is not reasonable to suppose that such a wound should be self-inflicted.”

Mr. Wheeler rose. “I have on my notes that he stated it was a possible thing.”

The Coroner paused a moment to consider the implication of the interjection. He had not supposed that Mr. Wheeler would advocate the theory of suicide, and, had he intended to do so, he would have expected that he would have taken a different line at an earlier stage. He was right in that. Mr. Wheeler did not now propose to go far enough to risk the possibility that the jury’s verdict might be one of felo de se, or suicide while of unsound mind.

He recognized, as a practical man, that he would almost certainly fail in the attempt, and it might be a real though probably not an insuperable obstacle to collecting the insurance money, for the company to be able to point to the fact that the family, through their solicitor, had publicly contended that Sir Daniel had taken his own life. But, feeling assured that there was no risk that the jury would bring in such a verdict, and facing the contingency—still possible, however improbable it might be—that the case would end with Lady Denton in a criminal dock, he saw advantage in the fact that he would then be able to bring into prominence that admission that Sir Lionel had made, that suicide was a “possible” thing.

The Coroner looked for a moment at Mr. Wheeler’s inscrutable face, and then at his notes of the evidence taken on the earlier day, and said dryly: “Yes—possible.” But the tone did not matter. The word was there. Mr. Wheeler, well content, listened silently as the Coroner resumed:

“You will probably dismiss from your minds, for the reasons that I have stated, any theory of self-destruction, and so arrive at the real problem of by whose hand, and whether by accident or design, Sir Daniel Denton was killed. No theory of accidental death has been put forward, and the fact that the weapon must have been taken from his own drawer may seem to discount that possibility.

“You may also be able to eliminate any question of homicide other than deliberate murder when you consider, not only that the pistol must have been taken from the drawer, but that there was no sign of a struggle, and that the shot came from behind. You may also decide that it is at least a probable deduction that whoever knew where that weapon lay, who could secure it, either with Sir Daniel’s consent or without his knowledge, and who could take up that position, immediately beside or behind him, in his own study, must have been known to him, and, most probably, a member of his own household.

“Examining every possibility, as you are bound to do, you may first consider the position of Lady Denton. Her own account is that she was in the drawing room, at the other side of the hall, when she heard the shot, and that she ran at once to her husband’s side. When she found him a dying man, she screamed for help, as any woman would be likely to do. She says that when she reached the room the murderer had left, which is quite possible, the window being unbarred, if not actually standing open at the time. You may think that the murderer, whoever he was, would be unlikely to remain after the commission of such a crime, and that Lady Denton’s account in this particular is no more than you would have expected to hear.

“Her tale, in itself, was simple and natural, and was not shaken in the course of her examination. Such witness is most often true.

“Then you will come to the position of Gerard Denton. I do not know how he may have impressed you in the witness box—I know how he impressed me—but as he gave his evidence, and as it was supported, as you will doubtless remember, by that of Lady Denton, and of the gardener’s boy, he appeared to be removed from any suspicion of complicity in the crime.

“That evidence was in accordance with written statements which had already been taken by the police—very properly taken—before the inquest was held. Such evidence—apart from that of Lady Denton—and those statements we now know to be false. You have heard Inspector Pinkey, and you know the dreadful alternative which Gerard Denton preferred to the ordeal of explanation. You may find—but it is entirely for you to decide—that the conclusion is irresistible. But the decision is yours.

“Should you feel that, while you are satisfied that murder was committed, the evidence does not point to any person with sufficient certainty as the perpetrator of the crime, you may render your verdict in that way. But should you, as reasonable men, and on such evidence as you would regard as conclusive in the conduct of your own affairs, consider that the case is proved beyond serious doubt, you will, I feel sure, do your duty as citizens, and render your verdict without fear or favour, either toward the living or the dead.”

Mr. Duckworth had omitted one or two things that he had meant to say, but he had led himself up to an impressive climax, as he usually did, and his dramatic instinct was sufficiently strong to cause him to cease at that point. He added briefly, on a lower note: “You will consider your verdict,” on which there was a moment of whispering among the jury, and of bending over toward one another, so that it seemed that they might be about to agree without leaving the box. But, after that, the foreman exchanged an inaudible word with the usher, and they rose and filed out to the seclusion of the jury-room.

After they were gone, the usher had a whispered word with the Coroner’s clerk, Mr. Leadbeater, who had another with the Coroner, who announced that the Court stood adjourned until the jury should be ready to render their verdict. He retired to his own room, and a stir of conversation arose among those who remained.

Lady Denton, sitting beside Mr. Wheeler, showed no outward sign of emotion, though she found it somewhat difficult to follow the anecdote which he considered appropriate for the occasion, and which he told with force and humour.

“It isn’t worth getting up,” he said at the first. “Ten minutes will be about their time.” Other experi­enced observers took the same view. But as the minutes passed, and they did not return, he began the tale of an inquest he had attended three years before at which the jury had brought in a verdict so perverse and startling that the Coroner had refused to accept it, and had sent them back to resume their deliberations.

“Not,” he added, “that there’s any danger of that here. It’s just between ‘Gerard Denton’ and ‘some person unknown,’ and not much doubt even between those.”

Lady Denton understood that he was intending to allay any disproportioned anxiety she might be feeling, and to prepare her against the remote contingency that the jury might have an opinion of their own with which to surprise the Court.

It was half an hour later that the Coroner resumed his seat, and the jury filed back into the box.

The foreman stated in reply to the usual question, that they were agreed on their verdict. They found that Sir Daniel Denton had been murdered by Gerard Denton, who had committed suicide when he had seen that he could not otherwise escape the penalty of his crime.

The Coroner said: “Thank you, gentlemen. It is a verdict with which I entirely agree.” And entered it in somewhat different phraseology. They came out of the jury box with a pleasant sense which his words had given them, that they had shown themselves to be some­what cleverer than their fellow men.

Lady Denton rose, shook hands with Mr. Wheeler, giving him a word of thanks which he surely deserved, and passed out quickly to her waiting car. She went through a little crowd round the door, from which there arose a sympathetic murmur that almost grew to a cheer.

Inspector Pinkey said he would go back on the three-seven—the same train that Mr. Wheeler was taking. There would be just time for a late lunch at the Station Inn. Would Superintendent Trackfield join them? No, he thought not. The Superintendent was the one living man who had reason to be dissatisfied with the verdict they had just heard, which convicted him of an incompetence which he did not readily admit to his own mind. Perhaps it was natural that he was the one man also who was not entirely convinced that the verdict was soundly reached.

“I wish,” he said, “that I could be more sure than I am that that boy isn’t telling the truth.”

Inspector Pinkey looked at him curiously. He asked: “Does it matter now?”

It was a question to which the Superintendent found no reply.