The Last Tenant

CHAPTER XV.
WHAT THE INQUEST REVEALED

"An inquest was held yesterday at the Hare and Hounds on the body of Beatrice Lockyer, a young lady residing with her stepfather at 79 Lamb's Terrace, who met her death by suffocation. The coroner said this was a sad case, the deceased being young and apparently in good health on the night of the occurrence. The facts appeared to be very simple, and the jury would have little difficulty in arriving at a verdict. The first witness called was Mr. Nisbet, the deceased's stepfather, who gave his evidence with manifest distress.

"'What is your name?'

"'Oliver Nisbet.'

"'Profession?'

"'None. I live on my means.'

"'What relation do you bear to the deceased?'

"'She was my stepdaughter.'

"'Her age?'

"'Twenty last birthday.'

"'Is her mother living?'

"'No, she died four years ago.'

"'How long were you married?'

"'A few months only.'

"'At the time of her mother's death the deceased was sixteen years old?'

"'Yes.'

"'Did her death affect the deceased in any particular way?'

"'She was deeply grieved at the loss, but apart from this natural feeling there was no change in her.'

"'Have you observed any change in her during the last few days or weeks?'

"'No; we had had domestic worries with servants, such as happen to most housekeepers in London, but they had passed away, and as we had determined to reside abroad we regarded them rather with amusement. We looked forward to an easier life in a foreign country.'

"'On the night of your stepdaughter's death, at what hour did she retire to her room?'

"'At a little after ten.'

"'Who was in the house besides yourselves?'

"'No one.'

"'You had a servant left. What became of her?'

"'It was arranged that she should remain in our service on the Continent, and we sent her on before us.'

"'Where to?'

"'To Lucerne. I had taken a châlet in Vitznau, and she was to proceed there to see to the rooms, and to await our arrival.'

"'How is it that you and the deceased remained in the house when there were no servants in it?'

"'It was against my desire. I wished my daughter to go to a hotel, but she refused. She said we could manage very well at home. She had an aversion to English hotels, and was never happy in one. As we were to leave London the next day, I humored her.'

"'Can you give us any explanation of the cause of her aversion to our hotels?'

"'She was in the habit of saying that they were so different to Continental hotels-so stiff and formal. But I do not think that was quite the reason. She was nervously distrustful of herself in the society of strangers, and was, I regret to say, of a melancholy disposition.'

"'Had this been always the case with her?'

"'From her childhood, her mother used to tell me. For years past I have endeavored to bring her to a more cheerful frame of mind by travel and constant change of scene, but I fear my efforts were wasted.'

"'Was her mother of a similar disposition?'

"'Yes. It is a natural inference that it was inherited.'

"'How did you pass the day before her death?'

"'We breakfasted together in the morning-a simple breakfast, which she herself got ready-and then I went into the city to complete the arrangements for our journey, and to settle my monetary affairs. This occupied several hours. At six o'clock I returned home, with the intention of taking her out to dinner; but she had a little dinner prepared for us, and said she would enjoy it much more than dining out. After dinner we chatted, and she played upon her zither.'

"'Cheerful airs?'

"'No; but she was a very sweet player, and whether her music was sad or bright, it was a pleasure to listen to it.'

"'Have you at any time observed a disposition in her to commit suicide?'

"'Never; and I never heard her utter a word to indicate that she was tired of life.'

"'Was her general health good?'

"'Yes, fairly good; she suffered a little from headaches, but she has had no serious illness in my experience of her.'

"'Describe your movements on the morning of her death.'

"'I rose at about eight o'clock, and employed an hour in packing my bags. We were to leave the house for the station at half-past ten. At nine o'clock I listened, and did not hear her move. I was not surprised at this, because she was a late riser and frequently overslept herself. During our travels we have lost trains from this cause. I went to her room, and knocked and called, and, receiving no answer, opened the door, and was immediately driven back by the fumes of gas. Dreading a calamity, I rushed in and threw the window open; then I saw my dear daughter lying motionless upon her bed. I was educated in the medical profession, though I do not follow it. I made a hasty examination of her condition and, fearing the worst, I ran for Dr. Cooper. He accompanied me back to the house, and confirmed my fears.'

"'Her bedroom door was unlocked?'

"'It was; she would never lock it, being, I think, afraid of fire. It was hard to reason her out of any of her fancies. I frequently expostulated with her upon her dislike to fresh air. I tried to induce her to keep her bedroom window open a little from the top, but I could not persuade her that it was unhealthy to sleep in a close room.'

"'That is all the information you can give us?'

"'I know nothing further.'

"Dr. Cooper's evidence tallied with that already given. He had been called to the deceased by Mr. Nisbet, who had come to him in a state of great agitation, and whom he had accompanied immediately to Lamb's Terrace, arriving at the house too late to be of any service. The unfortunate young lady had been dead for hours, and the cause of death was indisputable.

"There were no other witness and after a brief summing up a verdict was returned of death by misadventure."

I gathered from the account that the case had excited very little interest and attention, and was soon over and forgotten.

This is all I learned from the report of Mr. Dickson and the account of the inquest.

The bare facts were clear enough to the ordinary mind, that is to say, to the mind that had no profound motive to urge it to look beneath the surface. They were clear enough to me, but not in any sense satisfactory. It appeared to my judgment that the inquest was hurried over, that statements had been accepted which should have been the subject of more searching examination, and that any person deeply interested in the case would have asked questions which did not seem to have occurred to coroner and jury. My own experience had led me to the conclusion that at these hasty inquests many important matters of detail which might have a vital bearing on the verdict are altogether overlooked. The coroners have too much to do, too many inquiries to make in the course of a few hours; the jury, dragged from their occupations without adequate remuneration, are only anxious to get the matter over and return to their businesses and homes. There should be some better method of procedure in these important investigations if it is desired that justice shall be properly served, and for my part I was stirred by an uneasy consciousness that in this instance justice had been hoodwinked. How, indeed, could I have felt differently with the specter cat lying at my feet, and looking up into my face?

The silent monitor was an irresistible force. Although the death of Beatrice Lockyer did not personally concern me, and I had no direct interest in discovering whether she died by fair means or foul, I was impelled onward by the conviction that I should never be freed from this supernatural visitation until the truth was brought to light.

It was evening when I received and read the report of the inquiry agent and the account of the inquest, and I had made no appointment to meet Bob. On the chance of finding him at home, I took the train to Canonbury, leaving a message with Maria that if he called during my absence he was to remain till I returned. Accompanied by my spectral companion, I mounted Bob's staircase, and he, hearing my footsteps, received me on the landing.

"I half expected you," he said, casting his eyes downward.

"It is with me, Bob," I said, answering the look. "Have you seen your nephew to-day?"

"No," he replied. "I should not be surprised if he pops in to-night. You have some news?"

"Mr. Dickson has sent me certain particulars relating to the death of the young lady, whose name, as you will see, is Beatrice Lockyer. I should like to go through them with you, and to hear what strikes you as having a suspicious bearing on the case."

I handed him the papers I had brought with me, and he read them carefully.

"I doubt," he said, when he had finished, "whether Ronald knows to this day that Beatrice was not Mr. Nisbet's daughter."

"Would he not have read the account of the inquest?" I inquired.

"He could not read it himself; he was blind at the time, recollect; and I know no one who would have inflicted upon him the pain of making him acquainted with the sorrowful details. I am convinced that these published particulars have not come to his knowledge."

"Point out weak and suspicious points, Bob."

"She was not his daughter," said Bob.

"Exactly. And therefore there was no reason why he should have had any strong affection for her."

"I suppose," said Bob, "that we had best take the worst view of anything that suggests itself."

"I don't intend to soften anything down," I replied. "At present we are doing no one an injustice, and I am inclined to accept the most terrible suggestion without shrinking. We need not give it a name, Bob. If it is in your mind as it is in mine, let it rest there till the time arrives to proclaim it aloud."

Bob nodded and said, "There was a large fortune. £60,000 is a tempting bait."

"Observe," I remarked, "that at the inquest no allusion is made to the fact that Mr. Nisbet would so largely benefit by the death of his stepdaughter."

"It is singular, Ned. Could it have been willfully suppressed?"

"If so it was suppressed by only one man-the man who has obtained possession of the fortune. Who else at the inquest could have known anything about it? Not the coroner, certainly, or it would have been mentioned; certainly not the jury, to whom the unfortunate young lady and her stepfather were absolute strangers. Mr. Nisbet, as it appears to me, had the game entirely in his hands, and could play it as served him best. There was no one to question him or his motives, not a soul to come forward to verify or falsify anything he cared to say. He and Beatrice were alone together in this great city, cut off, as it were, from all mankind. There is no mention of the name of a single friend. On the night of her death only he and she were in the house, in that lonely, wretched house which my stupid wife had set her heart upon."

"It must have been in a better state then than it is now."

"Granted; but there are large grounds attached to the house, and there was not even a fitful gardener employed to keep it in order, who could come forward and say, 'I will tell you what I know.'"

"Are you sure of that, Ned?" asked Bob.

"Ah! It is a suggestion that must not be lost sight of. There is the value of talking a thing over in an open way. At all events, no such man makes his appearance. Now, does it stand to reason that a lady and gentleman of ample means would willingly bury themselves in such a place? If the man had been straight minded and right minded, would he not have insisted on taking a young lady whom he calls his daughter into more comfortable quarters? He is her guardian, her protector, she has no one else to depend upon, she has no friend in whom she can confide. Although, as you say, the house must have been in a better condition then than it is now, is it at all likely that, without some sinister motive, Mr. Nisbet should have deliberately selected a residence in so cheerless a locality? He says she was averse to society. We have only his word for that. From the little concerning her which Ronald Elsdale has imparted to you it does not appear that she was disinclined to make pleasant acquaintances. Why did not her stepfather give her opportunities of doing so? On the contrary, he regards with aversion even the slight advances which a gentleman like Ronald, with everything in his favor, pays her on a legitimate occasion. Is that in his favor?"

"It tells against him distinctly."

"Your nephew describes her as a young lady of singular attractions. What does such a lady naturally look forward to? Would it not be to marriage, to a home of her own? But, that accomplished, all chance of Mr. Nisbet coming into a fortune of £60,000 would be lost? Here we find the motive spring of his actions. It was for this, probably, that he married the mother. So dark are the thoughts that keep cropping up in my mind that I ask myself, 'How did the mother meet her death?'"

I had worked myself into a state of great excitement, and I was now restlessly pacing Bob's little room.

"Even without this evidence," I continued, pointing to the apparition of the cat, "I should suspect his motives. With such evidence I am almost ready to condemn him unheard. The arguments I bring forward seem to me reasonable and conclusive, and so far as lies in my power I will bring the matter to its rightful issue."

"I cannot blame you," said Bob, "and, as I have already told you, I will assist you if I can. The difficulty is, where to commence. You have no starting point."

"I have. The house in Lamb's Terrace. I shall put your courage to the test before I leave you to-night; but I will speak of that presently. There is another circumstance I wish to refer to with respect to Mr. Nisbet's evidence at the inquest. He speaks of the one domestic who remained in their service after the others had left, or had been discharged."

"Why do you say discharged?"

"It has only at this moment occurred to me. Things suggest themselves as I ventilate the subject which I did not think of at first. We may be able to find one of these servants who left of their own accord, or were turned away. Keeping to this one domestic who remained faithful to them, the probability is that it was an English girl of humble origin. This being so, it is still more probable that she knew nothing of foreign countries and foreign travel; and that she could speak no language but her own."

"Well?"

"Mr. Nesbit says he sent her on to Lucerne before the day on which he intended to start with Beatrice, and that she was to proceed to Vitznau from Lucerne to attend to the rooms he had taken there. Was that not a curious thing to do, and was it likely that an ignorant London domestic could be expected to reach the place without mishap."

"It was a strange proceeding."

"It is more than strange. If we could lay hands upon that girl we might learn something useful. If we can find her people-" I paused; there were footsteps on the stairs, and I knew, from the care that was being taken in ascending, that it was Ronald Elsdale who was coming up. I opened the door for him, and gave him good-evening. I observed again the look of discomposure on his face as he entered the room; again I saw him turn his eyes downward to the spot upon which the cat was lying. He made no reference, however, to the fancy which oppressed him, but brushed his hand across his forehead, as he had done before.

"I am glad you are here, Mr. Emery," he said. "I wished to ask you something. Why did you want to know where the young lady lived whom, but for my blindness, I should have asked to be my wife?"

I paused a moment before I spoke. I felt that the time had not arrived to take him fully into my confidence.

"I beg you will not press me," I said; "I had a reason, but I cannot disclose it at present."

"You will some day?"

"Yes, I promise you."

"Thank you. I have been thinking of it a great deal, and I felt that you did not ask the question out of idle curiosity."

"I did not. And now, if you will deal more generously to me than it may appear I am dealing to you, I should like to ask another question or two concerning her-if," I added, "the subject is not too painful to you."

He turned to his uncle, who said, "Yes, answer the questions, Ronald."

"I will do so freely," he said.

"I assure you," I commenced, "that I am impelled by a strong and earnest motive, and that before long you shall know all that is passing in my mind. When you met her on the Continent, did she give you the impression that she was of a morbid or melancholy temperament?"

"Not at all. She was always cheerful and animated."

"Was she averse to society? Did she show that it was distasteful to her?"

"Oh, no. With modesty and discretion she seemed glad to converse with people whose manners were agreeable and becoming."

"She had a favorite instrument, had she not, upon which she was fond of playing?"

"You seem to know a great deal about her, Mr. Emery. Her favorite instrument was the zither."

"Have you heard her play upon it?"

"Yes, and her touch was sweet and beautiful."

"Would you say that her inclination was to play sorrowful or somber airs?"

"By no means. The zither does not lend itself to boisterous music, there is a tenderness in the instrument which goes to the heart. Her taste lay in the direction of sweetness; but there was nothing sorrowful or somber in her playing."

These questions answered, I succeeded in changing the subject of conversation, and Ronald stopped with us an hour, and then took his departure, saying before he left, "I rely on your promise, Mr. Emery."

When he was gone I said to Bob, "False in one thing, false in all. Mr. Nisbet's evidence at the inquest was a tissue of fabrications. Now, Bob, I am going to put you to the test. The house in Lamb's Terrace is mine for three months. Will you spend a night or two with me there?"

He looked up, rather startled at the proposition; but any uneasiness he may have felt passed away almost immediately.

"Yes," he replied. "When?"

"Not to-morrow night. It would not be fair. You have to get to the office on the following morning, and a night of unrest may interfere with your duties. Your Sundays are free. Let us fix Saturday night."

"Very well, Ned. What explanation will you give to your wife?"

"I shall exercise a pardonable deceit upon her. On Saturday afternoon you and I will be supposed to be going to Brighton for a blow. She will raise no objection and we may depend upon her not disturbing us. Untold gold would not tempt her into that house again."

"I will join you," said Bob, in a serious tone. "I should not like you to be alone there."

So it was arranged, and I bade him good-night.

CHAPTER XVI.
IN 79 LAMB'S TERRACE

As I supposed, my wife was entirely agreeable to the seaside excursion, and professed herself delighted at the idea.

"You should go about more," she said. "Too much moping at home is bad for a man. We don't notice the changes that take place in ourselves, but others do."

"You have noticed some change in me?" I asked.

"I have. You are not half the man you used to be; your good spirits seem to have quite deserted you, and you keep looking about you in a most suspicious way."

"Tell me, Maria, in what particular way?"

"Well, as if you were afraid somebody was going to pick your pocket, or as if you fancied you had a shadow for a companion. My opinion is that you have not got over that unfortunate visit we paid to the house in Lamb's Terrace."

"Have you got over it?"

"No, and never shall. I can't keep my thoughts away from the place, and I often feel as if something was dragging me to the house again, though a second visit would be the death of me."

"Never be tempted, Maria; don't go near the neighborhood. We both need change of scene to clear the cobwebs away. When I come back from Brighton you shall run off to the seaside for a day or two; you can easily get a lady friend to keep you company, especially if I pay all the expenses."

"Why should we not go together?"

"Because in each other's society we should brood over the frightful adventure we had. Change of company, Maria, as well as change of scene; that is what will do us good."

This conversation proved that my wife had not succeeded in forgetting the adventure, and had only refrained from speaking of it out of consideration for me. Her confession that she sometimes felt as if she was being dragged to the house against her will rather alarmed me, and I determined to adopt some means to send her from London for longer than a day or two. It would be beneficial to her, and would leave me free to act.

Before the hour arrived upon which Bob and I were to set out upon our pretended holiday, I paid a second visit to the inquiry agent, Mr. Dickson, and commissioned him to ascertain for me:

First. The name of the servant girl who was sent to Switzerland by Mr. Nisbet; where her family lived; when she returned from the Continent.

Second. The names and residences of the other servants in Mr. Nisbet's employ who had discharged themselves.

Third. Where Miss Beatrice Lockyer was buried.

Fourth. Any particulars he could gather relating to the death of Miss Beatrice's mother.

Fifth. Where Mr. Nisbet was living at the present time.

Mr. Dickson informed me that these inquiries could scarcely be answered in less than a couple of weeks, and I left them in his hands, requesting him to use expedition.

Contrary to my expectation I received a letter from him on Saturday morning, in which he informed me that he was enabled to give me imperfect answers to three of my questions.

First. The name of the servant girl who was sent to Switzerland was Molly Brand. She had no parents, and the people she lived with when she entered Mr. Nisbet's service had emigrated. At that time she had a little sister dependent upon her, a child of some six years of age. This child had presumably been taken by Molly's friends to Australia, but upon this point, and upon the point of the child's age, he could not speak with any certainty. He had not yet succeeded in obtaining any traces of Molly from the time of her departure from London, and could not therefore say whether she had returned or where she was.

Second. From what he could gather Mr. Nisbet had had no other servants in his employ.

Third. The young lady was not buried. She was cremated at Woking.

To these scanty particulars was attached a memorandum to the effect that he was cramped by a limit I had mentioned as to the amount of the expenses to be incurred in his investigation. It was a measure of prudence I had adopted, for I was not inclined to give him quite a free hand, but it seemed to be fated that my desires to reach the heart of the mystery should be continually baffled by meeting with closed doors, and I now determined to be more liberal in my instructions. I wrote to Mr. Dickson to this effect, inwardly marveling as I wrote the letter that, in a matter in which I did not appear to be in any way personally interested, I should be impelled into a reckless course of expenditure. But, casting my eyes downward, I saw the phantom cat at my feet, and I felt that I should not be released from this frightful companion until my task was completed.

"Rest content," I said to the specter; "I will pursue it to the end."

There was no sign, no movement from it. Waiting for the development of events, it was ever on the watch. If, like Poe's raven, it had uttered but a word, it would have been a relief to me, for nothing could intensify the terror of the dread silence it preserved. There was within me a conviction that a moment would arrive when it would take some action toward the unraveling of the mystery, but in what shape this action would display itself was to me unfathomable.

At one o'clock Bob called for me, and I bade Maria good-by.

"Now, mind you enjoy yourselves," she said; "and take good care of him, Mr. Millet."

"I will do that," said Bob, rather guiltily.

He was not an adept in deception, but my wife had no suspicion that we were deceiving her, and we took our departure in peace, each of us provided with a Gladstone bag, Bob's being the bulkier of the two. In mine my wife had placed, in addition to toilet necessaries, two flat bottles, one containing brandy, the other port wine, and the usual packet of sandwiches which the middle-class feminine mind deems a positive essential for a railway journey. Bob had also provided himself with food and liquids, and thus furnished we started upon our expedition.

On our road we discussed the information I had received from Mr. Dickson, each item of which strengthened our suspicion of foul play. The strongest feature in confirmation of this suspicion was the cremation of the body of the unfortunate young lady. We would not for one moment admit that Mr. Nisbet was an enthusiast on the subject of cremation, but accepted the course he had adopted as damning evidence against him. I mention it to show to what lengths the prejudiced mind will go in arriving at a conclusion upon an open matter; but, apart from this consideration, we certainly had ample reason for the strong feelings we entertained. A hasty inquest held by incompetent persons, the acceptance of conclusive statements from the party most interested in the young lady's death, the falsehoods of which he already stood convicted, and other falsehoods which I had little doubt would be in a short time discovered, pointed one and all to a miscarriage of justice. Bob no longer disputed the conclusions at which I arrived, but accepted them with gloomy avidity.

Needless to say that we did not set out upon our expedition without the society of my spectral familiar, and that we were both in a state of nervous excitement as to what would occur. Bob had never been in the neighborhood of Lamb's Terrace, and its desolate appearance surprised him. Dismal and forlorn as was its aspect on the occasion of my first introduction to the region, it was still more so now. This sharpened accentuation of its desolate condition was probably caused by the knowledge I had since gained, and by the vagaries of our beautiful London climate. When we stated from home there was the promise of a tolerably fine day, but during the last half hour the sky had become overcast and dreary mists were gathering.

"Cheerful, isn't it, Bob?" I said.

"Do you mean to tell me," was his response, "that having come so far on your first visit, your wife did not immediately abandon the idea of taking a house in such a locality?"

"Whatever may have been in her mind," I replied, "she certainly insisted upon finding the house and going over it. It was offered to us at half the value of a house of such dimensions, and did you ever know a woman sufficiently strong minded to resist a bargain? I do not believe she would have had the courage to complete the arrangement, but she went quite far enough."

We turned down the narrow lane and skirted the dilapidated wall till we arrived at our destination. As we walked through the front garden entrance, choked up with its weeds and rank grass, and ascended the flight of steps, I asked Bob how he felt.

"It is impossible not to feel depressed," he answered; "but you will not find me fail you, Ned. We will go through what we have undertaken."

"Well said. We shall get along all right till Monday morning. There was a little furniture in one or two of the rooms, and I do not suppose it has been removed. When my wife was here we only examined the front room on the second floor; the rooms I have not seen may be habitable. I expect we shall have to go out and buy some necessaries. What have you got in your bag?"

"You shall see presently."

The cat entered the house with us, but it did not remain with us in the lobby. I saw it pass down to the basement, and it gave no sign of expectation that I should accompany it.

"That's a comfort," I remarked.

I had to explain my meaning to Bob, and he seemed to regard the departure as a significant commencement of our enterprise. We did not follow our spectral companion to the basement, but proceeded upstairs to the apartments I had already seen. In all, with the exception of the front room on the second floor, in which I had rang the bell which summoned the apparitions, there was some furniture left, and Bob expressed his astonishment that it had not been removed or sold by the last tenant.

"It would have been a simple matter," he said, "to call in a broker, who would very soon have cleared the house of every stick in it."

"He must have had his reasons," I observed. "Perhaps his coming into possession of a large fortune made him careless of these trifles."

"They are not exactly trifles," said Bob, who was better able than I to speak on the subject. "A broker would give at least fifty pounds for what is on this floor. The wonder is that the place has not been robbed."

We had not yet reached the second floor, and we now ascended to the room in which my wife and I had met with our appalling experience. Before entering it we examined the back rooms, and in one, a bedroom, we found two beds, which we determined to occupy for the night. Bob, having lived a bachelor life for many years, now showed his handiness. He examined the stove, to see that the register was up, and then he opened his Gladstone bag, the contents of which surprised me. He produced first a bundle of wood, then a remarkable case which contained within its exceedingly limited space a kettle with a folding handle, a gridiron, two tin pannikins, knives, forks, and spoons, and a spirit lamp, fitting in each other.

"Bravo, Bob," I said; "living alone has taught you something."

He smiled, and proceeded to further surprise me, fishing out a loaf of bread, tea, sugar, a tin of condensed milk, sausages, salt, pepper, a revolver, a pack of cards, and a Bible-a motley collection of articles.

"A bachelor's multum in parvo," he said, adding, as he touched the revolver, "wouldn't be bad for the bush. We are short of two things, coal and water. But look here-we are in luck. A scuttle nearly full. There will be no water in the house fit to drink. We shall have to go and market, but there will not be so much to get in as I expected."