CHAPTER VIII.
[MR. DAVENPORT'S ACCOUNT OF THE MATTER.]
Shortly after Mrs. Davenport left Carlingford House, Half Moon Lane, that afternoon, a supplementary luncheon was announced, and the four men went into the dining-room.
Mr. Paulton had already lunched with the family, but he wished to be with the others; so he sat down at the table with them, and broke a biscuit and half-filled a glass with sherry. Jerry O'Brien and Pringle were in no humour for trifling with food; they were both downright hungry. Alfred ate mechanically, and was much pre-occupied. The talk, therefore, for a quarter of an hour, was slight, fragmentary, as though by some agreement: no one referred to what had just occurred in the library, or to anything else connected with Crescent House. Young Pringle felt that although there must be and are extremely interesting tragedies in the world, luncheon, when one is hungry, was a matter not to be neglected. He had more than once in a criminal court eaten sandwiches and drunk sherry in the interval for luncheon, with the moral certainty that his client, who had been temporarily removed from the dock, would be sentenced to death before the Court rose, and hanged before that day four weeks.
Here were a cold rabbit pie, cold ham, and excellent sherry, well-baked, fine white bread, and nicknacks, and no particular reason for hurry--no fear of hearing "Silence" called out while one was but half-finished. The day was dull, but there was an ample fire burning brightly in the grate, the chair was soft and well-designed, so why should he bother himself for another quarter of an hour?
It was very easy for him to hold his tongue and to assure himself that he need not bother himself just now about Mrs. Davenport and her unpleasant predicament; but her predicament would not be banished, and every now and then some incident of either the drawing-room or library interview would rush into his mind with all the unexpected suddenness of that unwelcome cry of "Silence!" in the middle of luncheon at a criminal trial.
Upon the whole, that luncheon was not as calm or as successful as young Pringle meant it to be. He had never seen any one at all like Mrs. Davenport before, and he could make little or nothing of her. He now began to think that he had talked flippantly when he said she was certainly about to leave the country. Reviewing all he had seen and heard, he came to the conclusion that the safest thing for him to assume at present was--nothing. At length he spoke, addressing Alfred and Jerry O'Brien:
"Although Mrs. Davenport did not say anything to the effect when leaving, I suppose I had better act for her--until I hear something to the contrary."
Jerry O'Brien glanced at Alfred, and saw what he wished to say, but held back from speaking, because of the trouble his hasty action of the night before had brought about. Therefore Jerry made himself spokesman for his friend.
"Of course, Pringle, you go on acting for her, on her behalf. She has left this house finally now, and is not likely to cause any new unpleasantness here. Whether Mrs. Davenport is to blame or not, she can't be left alone and unaided in such a strait as this. What do you say, Mr. Paulton?"
"I am quite of your opinion, O'Brien. Now that she is out of the house I would be disposed to do anything I could for her. It's different now from what it was an hour ago. Go on, Mr. Pringle; and I most sincerely hope she may come out of the inquiry without the shadow of blame."
"I sincerely hope so," said Pringle, rising. Luncheon was over by this time. "Now, the first thing I should like, is to have a look at the place--at this Crescent House, as you call it."
Alfred and O'Brien got up, and in a few minutes the three found themselves in the hall of that house. The police were already there.
Pringle told the officers who he was and then proceeded to make inquiries. The following was the state of affairs at that time:
The inspector had been there about an hour. He had made an elaborate, but not exhaustive search in the room. The body was in the position it had been found in. An empty two-ounce bottle had been discovered on the floor. This was the bottle. It was labelled chloroform, smelt of chloroform, and had no cork in it. A cork which fitted it, and which also smelt, although faintly, of chloroform, had been found on the table close by the body.
In the pockets of the deceased had been discovered a number of letters, a small sum of money, and a pocket-book. This was the pocket-book. It was thin, and covered with Russia leather; it was old, and had been but little used. It contained several addresses, and on the first leaf was written a date of eleven years ago. It was more than likely this date corresponded with that on which the book became the property of deceased.
Most of the memoranda in that book could have no bearing on the present case, as most of them had evidently been made long ago. The last entry but one was dated in what was believed to be the handwriting of the deceased. It was made more than two years ago. After this last entry but one, a leaf was missing. A leaf had evidently been torn out--and clumsily torn out, too--for a jagged portion of the leaf remained behind.
Then came the last entry of all. This was also apparently in the handwriting of deceased. The writing was in pencil, and very shaky, and for a long time could not be deciphered. It was headed "Crescent House." The domicile fixed the date, for the night before was the only occasion on which Mr. Davenport crossed the threshold of that house. He had not even seen the house before renting it, but took it on the representation of an agent. The words on this page were:
"Pretended death. Blake gone. He emptied chloroform on me--held me down. Can't stir. Dying."
After reading this the three men stood aghast for a while. They looked at one another. They looked at the inspector. The inspector shook his head.
"There's hangman's work here," he said; and he was about to turn away, when a sudden thought struck Pringle. He said to the inspector:
"I beg your pardon. Does that pocket-book contain any London address of Mr. Davenport?"
"I don't know," said the inspector; "and I am afraid I have already shown you too much."
"I'd be very much obliged to you if you'd see. I represent Mrs. Davenport in this matter, and at the moment I don't know where to find her. She omitted to give me her address when she left me this afternoon. I want to write to her, and if you find any London address of Mr. Davenport, I'll chance directing my letter there. That can do no harm to any one."
The inspector hesitated, but at length opened the pocket-book, and after a search, said:
"There's an address here at Jermyn Street; but it's six years old."
"Never mind," said Pringle; "I'll risk it. What is it?"
The inspector read it out, and Pringle took it down.
Pringle, Alfred Paulton, and Jerry O'Brien were about to leave the room, when the first turned to the inspector, and said:
"By-the-way, you did not find the page that has been torn out of the pocket-book?"
"No," said the inspector, nodding his head significantly; "but there's evidence enough on what we did find to hang a score of men."
The three then walked to Herne Hill railway station, and took tickets for Ludgate. At the latter place Pringle left the two friends and went back to his office.
Here he sat down and wrote the following letter:
"Lincoln's Inn Fields, E.C.
"Feb. --, 18--.
"Dear Madam,
"By accident I got this address, and will chance writing you here in the hope this note may reach you.
"I have been to Crescent House. A pocket-book of the late Mr. Davenport has been found. It contains the following entry in the handwriting of deceased: 'Pretended death. Blake gone. He emptied the chloroform on me--held me down. Can't stir. Dying.'
"Awaiting your further instructions,
"I am, dear Madam,
"Yours faithfully,
"Richard Pringle."
This was the note which Mrs. Davenport handed Thomas Blake as she stood over him in her fresh widow's weeds the night after her husband's death.