CHAPTER XLIX. — SUICIDE.
From the cottage I proceeded to Kingsley's. He was in readiness, and waiting me. We drove directly to Edgerton's lodging-house, the appointed hour of four being at hand. Kingsley only alighted from the carriage, and entered the dwelling. He was absent several minutes. When he returned, he returned alone.
“Edgerton is either asleep or has gone out. His room-door is locked. The landlord called and knocked, but received no answer. He lacks manliness, and I suspect has fled. The steamboat went at two.”
“Impossible!” I exclaimed, leaping from the carriage. “I know Edgerton better. I can not think he would fly, after the solemn pledge he gave me.”
“You have only thought too well of him always,” said the other, as we entered the house.
“Let us go to the room together,” I said to the landlord. “I fear something wrong.”
“Well, so do I,” responded the publican. “The poor gentleman has been looking very badly, and sometimes gets into a strange wild taking, and then he goes along seeing nobody. Only last Saturday I said to my old woman, as how I thought everything warn't altogether right HERE,”—and the licensed sinner touched his head with his fore-finger, himself looking the very picture of well-satisfied sagacity. We said nothing, but leaving the eloquence to him, followed him up to Edgerton's chamber. I struck the door thrice with the butt end of my whip, then called his name, but without receiving any answer. Endeavoring to look through the key-hole, I discovered the key on the inside, and within the lock. I then immediately conjectured the truth. William Edgerton had committed suicide.
And so it was. We burst the door, and found him suspended by a silk handkerchief to a beam that traversed the apartment. He had raised himself upon a chair, which he had kicked over after the knot had been adjusted. Such a proceeding evinced the most determined resolution.
We took him down with all despatch, but life had already been long extinct. He must have been hanging two hours. His face was perfectly livid—his eyeballs dilated—his mouth distorted—but the neck remained unbroken. He had died by suffocation. I pass over the ordinary proceedings—the consternation, the clamor, the attendance of the grave-looking gentlemen with lancet and lotion. They did a great deal, of course, in doing nothing. Nothing could be done. Then followed the “crowner's” inquest. A paper, addressed to the landlord, was submitted to them, and formed the burden of their report.