CHAPTER XXIII.
THE MYSTERY OF MARY.
The astounding message, despatched from Neneford and signed byParkinson, the butler, ran as follows:--
_"Regret to inform you that Mrs. Courtenay was found drowned in the river this morning. Can you come here? My mistress very anxious to see you."_
Without a moment's delay I sent a reply in the affirmative, and, aftersearching in the "A.B.C.," found that I had a train at three o'clockfrom King's Cross. This I took, and after an anxious journey arrivedduly at the Manor, all the blinds of which were closely drawn.
Parkinson, white-faced and agitated, a thin, nervous figure in a coattoo large for him, had been watching my approach up the drive, andheld open the door for me.
"Ah, Doctor!" the old fellow gasped. "It's terrible--terrible! Tothink that poor Miss Mary should die like that!"
"Tell me all about it," I demanded, quickly. "Come!" and I led the wayinto the morning room.
"We don't know anything about it, sir; it's all a mystery," thegrey-faced old man replied. "When one of the housemaids went up toMiss Mary's room at eight o'clock this morning to take her tea, asusual, she received no answer to her knock. Thinking she was asleepshe returned half-an-hour later, only to find her absent, and that thebed had not been slept in. We told the mistress, never thinking thatsuch an awful fate had befallen poor Miss Mary. Mistress was inclinedto believe that she had gone off on some wild excursion somewhere, forof late she's been in the habit of going away for a day or two withouttelling us. At first none of us dreamed that anything had happened,until, just before twelve o'clock, Reuben Dixon's lad, who'd been outfishing, came up, shouting that poor Miss Mary was in the water undersome bushes close to the stile that leads into Monk's Wood. At firstwe couldn't believe it; but, with the others, I flew down post-haste,and there she was, poor thing, under the surface, with her dresscaught in the bushes that droop into the water. Her hat was gone, andher hair, unbound, floated out, waving with the current. We at oncegot a boat and took her out, but she was quite dead. Four men from thevillage carried her up here, and they've placed her in her own room."
"The police know about it, of course?"
"Yes, we told old Jarvis, the constable. He's sent a telegram toOundle, I think."
"And what doctor has seen her?"
"Doctor Govitt. He's here now."
"Ah! I must see him. He has examined the body, I suppose?"
"I expect so, sir. He's been a long time in the room."
"And how is it believed that the poor young lady got into the water?"I asked, anxious to obtain the local theory.
"It's believed that she either fell in or was pushed in a long wayhigher up, because half-a-mile away, not far from the lock, there'sdistinct marks in the long grass, showing that somebody went off thepath to the brink of the river. And close by that spot they found herblack silk shawl."
"She went out without a hat, then?" I remarked, recollecting that whenshe had met her husband in secret she had worn a shawl. Could it bepossible that she had met him again, and that he had made away withher? The theory seemed a sound one in the present circumstances.
"It seems to me, sir, that the very fact of her taking her shawlshowed that she did not intend to be out very long," the butler said.
"It would almost appear that she went out in the night in order tomeet somebody," I observed.
The old man shook his head sorrowfully, saying:
"Poor Miss Mary's never been the same since her husband died, Doctor.She was often very strange in her manner. Between ourselves, Istrongly suspect it to be a case of deliberate suicide. She wasutterly broken down by the awful blow."
"I don't see any motive for suicide," I remarked. Then I asked, "Hasshe ever been known to meet anyone on the river-bank at night?"
Old Parkinson was usually an impenetrable person. He fidgeted, and Isaw that my question was an awkward one for him to answer withouttelling a lie.
"The truth will have to be discovered about this, you know," I wenton. "Therefore, if you have any knowledge likely to assist us at theinquest it is your duty to explain."
"Well, sir," he answered, after a short pause, "to tell the truth, inthis last week there have been some funny rumours in the village."
"About what?"
"People say that she was watched by Drake, Lord Nassington'sgamekeeper, who saw her at two o'clock in the morning walkingarm-in-arm with an old gentleman. I heard the rumour down at theGolden Ball, but I wouldn't believe it. Why, Mr. Courtenay's only beendead a month or two. The man Drake is a bragging fellow, and I thinkmost people discredit his statement."
"Well," I said, "it might possibly have been true. It seems hardlyconceivable that she should go wandering alone by the river at night.She surely had some motive in going there. Was she only seen by thegamekeeper on one occasion?"
"Only once. But, of course, he soon spread it about the village, andit formed a nice little tit-bit of gossip. As soon as I heard it Itook steps to deny it."
"It never reached the young lady's ears?"
"Oh, no," the old servant answered. "We were careful to keep thescandal to ourselves, knowing how it would pain her. She's hadsufficient trouble in her life, poor thing." And with tears in hisgrey old eyes, he added: "I have known her ever since she was a childin her cradle. It's awful that her end should come like this."
He was a most trustworthy and devoted servant, having spent nearlythirty years of his life in the service of the family, until he hadbecome almost part of it. His voice quivered with emotion when hespoke of the dead daughter of the house, but he knew that towards meit was not a servant's privilege to entirely express the grief hefelt.
I put other questions regarding the dead woman's recent actions, andhe was compelled to admit that they had, of late, been quiteunaccountable. Her absences were frequent, and she appeared tosometimes make long and mysterious journeys in various directions,while her days at home were usually spent in the solitude of her ownroom. Some friends of the family, he said, attributed it to grief atthe great blow she had sustained, while others suspected that her mindhad become slightly unhinged. I recollected, myself, how strange hadbeen her manner when she had visited me, and inwardly confessed tobeing utterly mystified.
Doctor Govitt I found to be a stout middle-aged man, of the usual typeof old-fashioned practitioner of a cathedral town, whose methods andideas were equally old-fashioned. Before I entered the room where theunfortunate woman was lying, he explained to me that life hadevidently been extinct about seven hours prior to the discovery of thebody.
"There are no marks of foul play?" I inquired anxiously.
"None, as far as I've been able to find--only a scratch on the leftcheek, evidently inflicted after death."
"What's your opinion?"
"Suicide. Without a doubt. The hour at which she fell into the wateris shown by her watch. It stopped at 2.28."
"You have no suspicion of foul play?"
"None whatever."
I did not reply; but by the compression of my lips I presume he sawthat I was dubious.
"Ah! I see you are suspicious," he said. "Of course, in tragiccircumstances like these the natural conclusion is to doubt. The pooryoung lady's husband was mysteriously done to death, and I honestlybelieve that her mind gave way beneath the strain of grief. I'veattended her professionally two or three times of late, and notedcertain abnormal features in her case that aroused my suspicions thather brain had become unbalanced. I never, however, suspected her ofsuicidal tendency."
"Her mother, Mrs. Mivart, did," I responded. "She told me so only afew days ago."
"I know, I know," he answered. "Of course, her mother had morefrequent and intimate opportunities for watching her than we had. Inany case it is a very dreadful thing for the family."
"Very!" I said.
"And the mystery surrounding the death of Mr. Courtenay--was it nevercleared up? Did the police never discover any clue to the assassin?"
"No. Not a sin
gle fact regarding it, beyond those related at theinquest, has ever been brought to light."
"Extraordinary--very extraordinary!"
I went with him into the darkened bedroom wherein lay the body, whiteand composed, her hair dishevelled about her shoulders, and her whitewaxen hands crossed about her breast. The expression upon hercountenance--that face that looked so charming beneath its veil ofwidowhood as she had sat in my room at Harley Place--was calm andrestful, for indeed, in the graceful curl of the lips, there was akind of half-smile, as though, poor thing, she had at last foundperfect peace.
Govitt drew up the blind, allowing the golden sunset to stream intothe room, thereby giving me sufficient light to make my examination.The latter occupied some little time, my object being to discover anymarks of violence. In persons drowned by force, and especially inwomen, the doctor expects to find red or livid marks upon the wrists,arms or neck, where the assailant had seized the victim. Of course,these are not always discernible, for it is easier to entice theunfortunate one to the water's edge and give a gentle push thangrapple in violence and hurl a person into the stream by main force.The push leaves no trace; therefore, the verdict in hundreds of casesof wilful murder has been "Suicide," or an open one, because thenecessary evidence of foul play has been wanting.
Here was a case in point. The scratch on the face that Govitt haddescribed was undoubtedly a post-mortem injury, and, with theexception of another slight scratch on the ball of the left thumb, Icould find no trace whatever of violence. And yet, to me, the mostlikely theory was that she had again met her husband in secret, andhad lost her life at his hands. To attribute a motive was utterlyimpossible. I merely argued logically within myself that it could notpossibly be a case of suicide, for without a doubt she had metclandestinely the eccentric old man whom the world believed to bedead.
But if he were alive, who was the man who had died at Kew?
The facts within my knowledge were important and startling; yet if Irelated them to any second person I felt that my words would bescouted as improbable, and my allegations would certainly not beaccepted. Therefore I still kept my own counsel, longing to meetJevons and hear the result of his further inquiries.
Mrs. Mivart I found seated in her own room, tearful and utterlycrushed. Poor Mary's end had come upon her as an overwhelming burdenof grief, and I stood beside her full of heartfelt sympathy. A strongbond of affection had always existed between us; but, as I took herinert hand and uttered words of comfort, she only shook her headsorrowfully and burst into a torrent of tears. Truly the Manor was adismal house of mourning.
To Ethelwynn I sent a telegram addressed to the Hennikers, in orderthat she should receive it the instant she arrived in town. Briefly Iexplained the tragedy, and asked her to come down to the Manor atonce, feeling assured that Mrs. Mivart, in the hour of her distress,desired her daughter at her side. Then I accompanied the localconstable, and the three police officers who had come over fromOundle, down to the riverside.
The brilliant afterglow tinged the broad, brimming river with acrimson light, and the trees beside the water already threw heavyshadows, for the day was dying, and the glamour of the fading sunsetand the dead stillness of departing day had fallen upon everything.Escorted by a small crowd of curious villagers, we walked along thefootpath over the familiar ground that I had traversed when followingthe pair. Eagerly we searched everywhere for traces of a struggle, butthe only spot where the long grass was trodden down was at a point alittle beyond the ferry. Yet as far as I could see there was no actualsign of any struggle. It was merely as though the grass had beenflattened by the trailing of a woman's skirt across it. Examinationshowed, too, imprints of Louis XV. heels in the soft clay bank. Oneprint was perfect, but the other, close to the edge, gave evidencethat the foot had slipped, thus establishing the spot as that wherethe unfortunate young lady had fallen into the water. When examiningthe body I had noticed that she was wearing Louis XV. shoes, and alsothat there was still mud upon the heels. She had always been ratherproud of her feet, and surely there is nothing which sets off theshape of a woman's foot better than the neat little shoe, with itshigh instep and heel.
We searched on until twilight darkened into night, traversing thatpath every detail of which had impressed itself so indelibly upon mybrain. We passed the stile near which I had stood hidden in the bushesand overheard that remarkable conversation between the "dead" man andhis wife. All the memories of that never-to-be-forgotten nightreturned to me. Alas! that I had not questioned Mary when she hadcalled upon me on the previous day.
She had died, and her secret was lost.