CHAPTER X.
[THE ELDER PRINGLE SPEAKS.]
When Richard Pringle reached the street, he set off at a rapid walk for Lincoln's Inn Fields. His thoughts and feelings were too much disturbed for reasoning. The dialogue of the past hour hurried through his brain in an incoherent, inconsequential mass. In the intense excitement of the last few minutes, he had told her she was mad, and he almost believed it. He had known from the previous day that Blake had been at Crescent House on the night of Mr. Davenport's death. He had most plainly, most impressively given her to understand that he knew it. She must have seen plainly then he attached most disastrous importance to that visit of her former lover. Since then the leaf torn out of the pocket-book had been discovered. On that leaf appeared a deliberate accusation of murder in the handwriting of the dead man against Blake. That, in all reason, was sufficiently serious; but worse followed. She had the day after her husband's death asked this man Blake to visit her!
From Blake she had, Pringle felt not the least doubt, adopted that elaborate and childish theory of the fatal event. Blake had told her in that interview a thing neither she nor his brother had ever known before--namely, that the deceased man had at one time, and to Blake's personal knowledge, suffered from mental aberration of a kind which would exactly explain away that damnatory writing on the paper--if any one could believe Blake's story! The whole affair was simply monstrous. If he viewed the matter from a purely professional point of view, he would have been heartily sorry he ever connected himself with it. But he could not regard the case solely as a matter between client and solicitor. He was under the spell of this woman, and he could not, if he would, and he would not if he could, escape. Only one thing was clear to his mind now, and that took the form of muttered words:
"There will be business for the hangman in this affair."
When he arrived at the office he found his father in, and having locked the door of the private room, he communicated to the old man the substance of the interview which had just been brought to a close.
His father listened to the recital with the most circumstantial patience. When the son had finished his tale, and wound up with the opinion that some one was going to swing for the matter, the father, to the son's unspeakable astonishment, looked up cheerfully, and said:
"I am not at all sure of that, Dick--not at all."
"Bless my soul, father, where do you see the way out of it?"
"I can't say," said the elder man, "that I see my way out of it; but I am sure they do. Just run over the facts briefly: This woman was formerly in love with Blake; Blake is bought off by old Davenport, and Davenport marries the beauty. After years, the married couple come to London, and put up by themselves in a detached house. That night the old lover visits the house, and shortly after he leaves, the wife raises an alarm, and the husband is found dead. The doctor called in is not fully satisfied, and hints that the man has been killed by chloroform--a drug frequently used by deceased. The widow finds shelter in a neighbour's house. While there, she is given to understand by her attorney that it is supposed her old lover was in the house within a short time of the death, and that death is believed to have arisen from choloroform, not asthma. Upon this she displays great emotion, and declines to give any further information. She leaves the neighbour's house that afternoon, and goes to a house in which she stayed about six years ago when in London with her husband. From that house she sends for her old lover, and has an interview with him. Meantime a document is found in the handwriting of deceased, saying her old lover has poisoned him (deceased). Her solicitor sends a copy of this document to her. Next day solicitor calls upon her, and finds her quite calm. She explains her theory of her husband's death, and attributes the document mentioned to hallucination, from which she alleges deceased suffered earlier in life, and that death was the result of accidentally spilling the chloroform by deceased. That's the case, as far as I can make it out. Am I right, Dick?"
"Yes, sir--quite right."
"At the first glance it's a strong case."
"Did you ever, short of eye-witnesses, see a stronger?"
"I've seen a lot of cases in my time--a lot of cases. Wait a bit, Dick, until we have another look at it. A motive lies on the very surface; nothing could be plainer than the motive implied by the case. It is: the old lover poisons the husband in order that the woman may be free to marry him. A money motive may turn up later on; if we may find that the widow is rich. Dick, I am getting to be an old man now, and I give you one piece of advice, lest I may forget it: Always suspect a case where the motive is glaringly obvious. Now, the two survivors in this affair are people of good education, good position and intelligence, are they not?"
"Most assuredly, sir."
"Neither of the two is an idiot?"
"I am greatly afraid, father, that the lady's reason is affected."
"Observe, Dick, I did not ask you whether both are sane or mad. But is either of them an idiot--a drivelling idiot--whom you would not leave alone in a room where there was a fire or a razor?"
"No, no! They are both, as far as I know--I never saw him--rational on the surface, anyway. But I fear the strain has been too much for Mrs. Davenport."
"Never mind about that. She may for my purpose be as mad as she likes, so long as she is not a drivelling idiot. Now, supposing either of them had committed the crime of murder in this case, do you suppose that until drivelling idiocy had been fully established in one or the other, either of them would behave in such a childish way as you describe? Why, it would shame any Bedlamite in Europe for rank silliness! The man who tried to cool a red-hot poker in a barrel of gunpowder would be only a little rash compared with either of these two, if, as you seem to suppose, either is responsible for the dead man's death."
The younger man's face brightened.
"Then you think, sir, there is still good reason to hope?"
"I am sure there is no reason to do anything else. This Mrs. Davenport, at your first interview, trusts you fully up to a certain point, and then suddenly refuses to give you any more confidence. At your second interview she gives you all, and more than all, the confidence you require. What has wrought that change? She has seen the old lover. She is acting upon his advice. She has given you a great deal of confidence, but she has not told you everything. She is keeping back the most important piece of all."
"What is that?"
"The line of his and her defence. He will, of course, be professionally represented at the inquest. There will be some one there for him, anyhow. I am firmly convinced he has an unanswerable and startling defence. If I were you I should take every precaution I could for the protection of my client; but I feel fully assured he will clear up the whole case. Now run away. I've got in another batch of those Millington deeds, and I want to get through them by dinner-time. Will you be home to dinner?"
"I don't think so, sir. I'll run out to Dulwich and see if there is anything new."
When young Pringle found himself at Dulwich he went to Carlingford House; for he knew that the folk there, especially Alfred, would be anxious to hear the news, and this analysis of the case by his father had put him in good heart.
The day was fine and mild for the season. As he entered the garden of Carlingford House, he saw, through a tall wicket gateway, two elderly men walking in the grounds at the rear. One of these he recognised as Mr. Paulton; the other was a stranger to him.
He passed through the wicket gateway into the back garden. Just as he did so the two men faced fully round, and Mr. Paulton cried out, as he hastened towards the solicitor:
"Mr. Pringle, you are the very man we want. We were this minute talking of you. Mr. Davenport, this is Mr. Pringle, who has kindly consented, at our request, to act in this unhappy affair as solicitor for Mrs. Davenport."
"Sir," said the dead man's brother, bowing low, "I am very glad to make your acquaintance. I hope you find yourself in the enjoyment of good health."
"I am quite well, thank you," said Pringle, somewhat taken aback by the old-fashioned formality of the other.
The man who stood in front of him was a square-made, thick-set, low-sized man of close on sixty years of age. His hair was black and long and lank, profusely oiled, and hung down on the collar of his coat and shoulders. He did not wear beard, whiskers, or moustaches. His complexion was a lifeless sallow; his skin wrinkled, his nose aquiline, and narrow at the top; his mouth weak and uncertain, with thin, bloodless lips; his gait half-mincing, half-pompous; his voice half-suave, half-raucous. His eyes were large and prominent, and of a filmy, hazel colour. As Pringle looked at the new-comer, he thought: "If he weren't so broad, he'd look like a dyspeptic mummy."
"I have just finished telling Mr. Davenport all I heard about this sad affair, and I suppose you, Mr. Pringle, can now add something to where I left off? Mr. Davenport is most anxious to know everything."
Young Pringle had then for the second time to go over the main features of what had taken place since he was at Dulwich last. Of course he was much more reticent than he had been with his father, and repeated nothing of what had passed between Mrs. Davenport and himself. It was Jerry O'Brien who had first introduced Blake's name into the case. Mr. Paulton had told Mr. Davenport all he knew, without adopting the precaution of finding out how the brother of the dead man felt towards the widow.
Pringle had therefore no hesitation in saying that he had seen Mrs. Davenport, and that she, of course, would be present at the inquest to-morrow. He also said he had heard Thomas Blake would be present. He told Mr. Davenport that if he wished to call upon the widow, her address was at his disposal.
Mr. Davenport drew himself up hurriedly, and looking furiously at Pringle from head to foot, as though the solicitor was the cause of all the misfortunes, cried, while his lips, hands, and legs were trembling:
"I--I go near her! Are you mad, young sir? Have you taken leave of your senses, or are you jeering at me? I go near my brother's murderess! Do you take me for a conspirator too? Do you think I am another Blake? I pity you, sir. An attorney, quotha! A man of your trade ought to have some little discrimination. You are for her, young sir! Look you: If justice can be had on this earth, by any and all means in my power these two shall hang side by side on the same gibbet, and keep the company of each other on the road to hell, and in hell everlastingly;" and, foaming at the mouth, he dashed away from the astonished pair and rushed into the house.
The inquest was to be held next day at noon.