William Le Queux - Whoso Findeth a Wife

“You think so?” inquired Mrs Laing, with eagerness. “You don’t believe, then, he has been a victim of foul play?”

“Not at all. Beyond the slight bruise on the forehead, evidently caused by the fall upon the gravel, there is no mark whatever,” the doctor answered. “Until I have made a thorough examination I cannot, of course, determine the nature of the fatal cause. By noon to-morrow we shall, I hope, know the truth.”

“He must have fallen and expired within ten minutes of leaving the house,” Beck exclaimed. “Yet when he shook hands with us he was in the highest possible spirits. How terribly sudden his end was.”

“Terrible!” I exclaimed, myself dazed by the peculiarly tragic and mysterious affair. “When he wished us adieu he could not have dreamed that his life had so nearly run its course.”

“He complained of no pain during the evening, I suppose?” the doctor inquired.

“Not to my knowledge,” Beck answered, and this statement I was compelled to endorse.

“He dined here?” Dr Allenby exclaimed, turning to Mrs Laing.

“Yes.”

“There are some remains of the food left, I presume?”

“No doubt,” she answered quickly. “But – but what do you suspect! Are the symptoms those of poisoning?” she gasped.

“I suspect nothing,” replied the doctor, with hesitation. “The fact that the hands are tightly clenched suggests a final paroxysm of pain which might possibly accrue from poison. The remains of the dinner may be required for analysis, therefore it would be advisable to keep them.”

“Very well,” she answered, a shadow of annoyance upon her face. “I’ll give orders to that effect. But surely, doctor, you do not think poor Dudley can have been poisoned in my house. If anything we had for dinner had been deleterious, all of us must have suffered.”

“No, pardon me for disagreeing,” he answered politely. “In many cases known to toxicologists, families have eaten of the same meal, and one person only has been seized with sudden illness that has proved fatal. By analysis we may obtain some clue as to the cause of Mr Ogle’s unfortunate end.”

Mrs Laing’s thin lips moved, but no sound escaped them. At last, turning suddenly, she covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out from her gaze the white, haggard countenance she had so recently looked upon.

“Come,” exclaimed the doctor, sympathetically, laying his hand upon her arm. “You are trembling. This unfortunate occurrence has no doubt upset you, but you must bear up. Immediately I get home I shall send you a draught that will brace up your nerves. Take care how the sad news is broken to Miss Ella. The slightest undue excitement may affect her very seriously.”

“I have not forgotten your words yesterday, doctor,” she replied. “You are very kind. Good-night!”

They shook hands, and Dr Allenby, taking up his hat, left – an example Beck and I soon afterwards followed, passing the night at the Angel Hotel.

Throughout the dark, breathless hours sleep came not to my eyes, so full was my mind of the tragic discovery. As I lay awake, hour after hour, listening to the chiming bells, and watching the dawn struggling in between the curtains, I reflected deeply upon the strange events of that evening, and the more I pondered, the more mysterious appeared the circumstances. Foremost in my mind was the strange, inviolable secret that I felt convinced existed between Ella and Beck. Although strenuously denied by her, she had nevertheless admitted her unworthiness of my love. Yet I adored her. No woman had ever stirred my soul as she had; no woman had so completely held me under her spell. I remembered how she had seemed a trifle wan and distressed; yet that look enhanced rather than detracted from her refined beauty. Her steady refusal to enlighten me regarding the subject of her earnest conversation with Beck when I had watched them in the garden, and the significant glances she had exchanged with him across the dinner-table, had aroused within me a suspicion that, notwithstanding her declaration, she loved Beck. Again, the tone of her letter was, I now saw distinctly, such as a woman would write if she desired to break off her engagement. Yet had I not a right to demand full explanation of her extraordinary statement? had I not a right to seek the truth of her relations with this loud-spoken parvenu? Nevertheless, as I pondered, I felt half inclined to believe that my estimate of Beck was a distorted one, for his regret at the death of Dudley, and his sympathy for Mrs Laing were, I felt assured, deep, heartfelt and genuine. When at last I carefully analysed my feelings towards him, I was bound to admit within myself that jealousy was now the only cause of my bitter antipathy.

Again, other incidents increased the mystery. Mrs Laing’s dread that Ella should know of Dudley’s death was very curious, and her exclamations and inquiries of the doctor regarding his conjecture of poison seemed to point to the fact that she entertained certain suspicions, or was aware of certain facts. But, after fully reviewing the tragic affair in all its phases, I arrived at the conclusion that Dr Allenby did not anticipate for one moment finding poison at the post-mortem . On the contrary, from the words he had let drop, he undoubtedly believed death due to heart-disease. I could not, however, rid myself of a vague suspicion that Ella’s mother feared analysis of the remains of the dinner, and that the presence of the police unnerved her, as it invariably does those who are guilty.

Until the sun shone out, casting a long bright beam across the dingy carpet, I pondered over these curious facts in their sequence, unable to elucidate the deep mystery underlying them. After a dismal, sleepless night, haunted by a nameless spectral fear, that ray of sunshine brought back hope and banished despair I found myself at last reflecting that, after all, Dudley had expired suddenly from a cause to which any of us might be liable, and it was probable that I had been scenting mystery and tragedy where there were none.

I rose, and actually smiled at the weird and horrible nature of the thoughts that throughout the wearying night had held me spellbound in indescribable dread and terror.

When at noon, in accordance with the urgent and strangely-worded telegram I had received from the Earl of Warnham, I alighted at Horsham Station, in Sussex, I found one of the carriages from the Hall awaiting me. As I entered it, I was followed by a man I knew slightly, Superintendent Frayling, chief of the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard, who had apparently travelled down by the same train from Victoria.

Greeting me, he took the place beside me, and a moment later the footman sprang upon the box and we sped away towards the open country. To my question as to his business with the Earl, he made an evasive reply, merely stating that he had received a telegram requesting an immediate interview.

“This summons is rather unusual,” he added, smiling. “Has anything serious occurred, do you know?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Perhaps there’s been a burglary at the Hall?” I suggested.

“Hardly that, I think,” he replied, with a knowing look, stroking his pointed brown beard. “If burglars had visited the place, he would have asked for a clever officer or two, not for a personal interview with me.” With this view I was compelled to agree, then, lighting cigarettes, we sat back calmly contemplating the beautiful, fertile country through which we were driving. The road, leaving the quaint old town, descended sharply for a short distance, then wound uphill through cornfields lined by high hedges of hawthorn and holly. On, past a quaint old water-mill we skirted Warnham Pond, whereon Shelley in his youthful days sailed paper boats, then half-a-mile further entered the handsome lodge-gates of Warnham Park. Through a fine avenue, with a broad sweep of park on either side well stocked with deer, emus and many zoological specimens, we ascended, until at last, after negotiating the long, winding drive in front of the Hall, the carriage pulled up with a sudden jerk before its handsome portico.