THE SCREAM - 60 Horror Tales in One Edition. Joseph Sheridan Le FanuЧитать онлайн книгу.
miserable!” I exclaimed.
“I don’t think it troubled Silas very much, for she drank gin, they said, poor thing, and the expense was not much; and, on the whole, I really think he was glad she drank, for it kept her out of his way, and was likely to kill her. At this time your poor father, who was thoroughly disgusted at his marriage, had stopped the supplies, you know, and Silas was very poor, and as hungry as a hawk, and they said he pounced upon this rich London gamester, intending to win his money. I am telling you know all that was said afterwards. The races lasted I forget how many days, and Mr. Clarke stayed at Bartram–Haugh all this time and for some days after. It was thought that poor Austin would pay all Silas’s gambling debts, and so this wretched Mr. Clarke made heavy wagers with him on the races, and they played very deep, besides, at Bartram. He and Silas used to sit out afterwards, for there was an inquest, you know, and then Silas published what he called his “statement,” and there was a great deal of most distressing correspondence in the newspapers.”
“And why did Mr. Clarke kill himself?” I asked.
“Well, I will tell you first what all are agreed about. The second night after the races, your uncle and Mr. Clarke sat up till between two and three o’clock in the morning, quite by themselves, in the parlour, Mr. Clarke’s servant was at the Stag’s Head Inn at Feltram, and therefore could throw no light upon what occurred at night at Bartram–Haugh; but he was there at six o’clock in the morning, and very early at his master’s door by his direction. He had locked it, as was his habit, upon the inside, and the key was in the lock, which turned out afterwards a very important point. On knocking he found that he could not awaken his master, because, as it appeared when the door was forced open, his master was lying dead at his bedside, not in a pool, but a perfect pond of blood, as they described it, with his throat cut.”
“How horrible!” cried I.
“So it was. Your uncle Silas was called up, and greatly shocked of course, and he did what I believe was best. He had everything left as nearly as possible in the exact state in which it had been found, and he sent his own servant forthwith for the coroner, and, being himself a justice of the peace, he took the depositions of Mr. Clarke’s servant while all the incidents were still fresh in his memory.”
“Could anything be more straightforward, more right and wise?” I said.
“Oh, nothing of course,” answered Lady Knollys, I thought a little drily.
Chapter 27.
More About Tom Clarke’s Suicide
SO THE INQUEST was held, and Mr. Manwaring, of Wail Forest, was the only juryman who seemed to entertain the idea during the inquiry that Mr. Clarke had died by any hand but his own.
“And how could he fancy such a thing?” I exclaimed indignantly.
“Well, you will see the result was quite enough to justify them in saying as they did, that he died by his own hand. The window was found fastened with a screw on the inside, as it had been when the chambermaid had arranged it at nine o’clock; no one could have entered through it. Besides, it was on the third story, and the rooms are lofty, so it stood at a great height from the ground, and there was no ladder long enough to reach it. The house is built in the form of a hollow square, and Mr. Clarke’s room looked into the narrow courtyard within. There is but one door leading into this, and it did not show any sign of having been open for years. The door was locked upon the inside, and the key in the lock, so that nobody could have made an entrance that way either, for it was impossible, you see, to unlock the door from the outside.”
“And how could they affect to question anything so clear?” I asked.
“There did come, nevertheless, a kind of mist over the subject, which gave those who chose to talk unpleasantly an opportunity of insinuating suspicions, though they could not themselves find the clue of the mystery. In the first place, it appeared that he had gone to bed very tipsy, and that he was heard singing and noisy in his room while getting to bed — not the mood in which men make away with themselves. Then, although his own razor was found in that dreadful blood (it is shocking to have to hear all this) near his right hand, the fingers of his left were cut to the bone. Then the memorandum book in which his bets were noted was nowhere to be found. That, you know, was very odd. His keys were there attached to a chain. He wore a great deal of gold and trinkets. I saw him, wretched man, on the course. They had got off their horses. He and your uncle were walking on the course.”
“Did he look like a gentleman?” I inquired, as I dare say, other young ladies would.
“He looked like a Jew, my dear. He had a horrid brown coat with a velvet cape, curling black hair over his collar, and great whiskers, very high shoulders, and he was puffing a cigar straight up into the air. I was shocked to see Silas in such company.”
“And did his keys discover anything?” I asked.
“On opening his travelling desk and a small japanned box within it a vast deal less money was found than was expected — in fact, very little. Your uncle said that he had won some of it the night before at play, and that Clarke complained to him when tipsy of having had severe losses to counterbalance his gains on the races. Besides, he had been paid but a small part of those gains. About his book it appeared that there were little notes of bets on the backs of letters, and it was said that he sometimes made no other memorandum of his wagers — but this was disputed — and among those notes there was not one referring to Silas. But, then, there was an omission of all allusion to his transactions with two other well-known gentlemen. So that was not singular.”
“No, certainly; that was quite accounted for,” said I.
“And then came the question,” continued she, “what motive could Mr. Clarke possibly have had for making away with himself.”
“But is not that very difficult to make out in many cases?” I interposed.
“It was said that he had some mysterious troubles in London, at which he used to hint. Some people said that he really was in a scrape, but others that there was no such thing, and that when he talked he was only jesting. There was no suspicion during the inquest that your uncle Silas was involved, except those questions of Mr. Manwaring’s.”
“What were they?” I asked.
“I really forget; but they greatly offended your uncle, and there was a little scene in the room. Mr. Manwaring seemed to think that some one had somehow got into the room. Through the door it could not be, nor down the chimney, for they found an iron bar across the flue, near the top in the masonry. The window looked into a court-yard no bigger than a ball-room. They went down and examined it, but, though the ground beneath was moist, they could not discover the slightest trace of a footprint. So far as they could make out, Mr. Clarke had hermetically sealed himself into his room, and then cut his throat with his own razor.”
“Yes,” said I, “for it was all secured — that is, the window and the door — upon the inside, and no sign of any attempt to get in.”
“Just so; and when the walls were searched, and, as your uncle Silas directed, the wainscoting removed, some moths afterwards, when the scandal grew loudest, then it was evident that there was no concealed access to the room.”
“So the answer to all those calumnies was simply that the crime was impossible,” said I. “How dreadful that such a slander should have required an answer at all!”
“It was an unpleasant affair even then, although I cannot say that anyone supposed Silas guilty; but you know the whole thing was disreputable, that Mr. Clarke was a discreditable inmate, the occurrence was horrible, and there was a glare of publicity which brought into relief the scandals of Bartram–Haugh. But in a little time it became, all on a sudden, a great deal worse.”
My cousin paused to recollect exactly.
“There