The Story Behind the Verdict

Front matter

THE STORY BEHIND THE VERDICT

BY FRANK DANBY Author of "Pigs in Clover," "Heart of a Child," etc.

NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1915

Introduction

INTRODUCTION

Everybody both in and out of London, Rome, Paris, and Vienna knew or knew of the Keightley Wilburs. To begin with, their relationship was peculiar. To continue, so were they. Plutocrats, yet to be counted among the intellectuals: mother and son, yet lovers and intimate companions living together in a rare and perfect sympathy. Keightley wrote plays, poems, essays, professed Socialism and practised the occult His mother dressed exquisitely, preserved her figure and complexion and played auction bridge with ardour. Each was tolerant of the other's hobbies. Their house in Carlton House Terrace, although not the largest, was certainly the most remarkable. For whilst their neighbours cherished eighteenth century masterpieces—Sir Joshuas, Romneys, Gainsboroughs, Hoppners—the Keightley Wilburs had accumulated a collection of Primitives, in comparison with which these were as interesting as modern Italian china.

Within the limited covers of one book it would be impossible to schedule, far less to describe, the valuables with which Keightley Wilbur and his mother were always surrounded, the aura in which they moved exquisitely and uniquely. There are readers however for whom such description would have but limited value, to whom humanity has a stronger and deeper appeal than tradition; individuality than the most pregnant art. And it is for these the following stories have been gathered together. They represent one short phase in the evolution of Keightley Wilbur's psychology; the psychology of a young man of genius whose preciosity was almost sincere: a young man of taste who violated it perversely and often; a young man of sentiment who spent a lifetime in disguising that which he looked upon as a weakness.

Accident led him to his adventure into criminology, the weird little god of circumstance. It is not impossible that conscience kept him where he had been led. And the end would seem to confirm the surmise.

Certain it is that, until Pierre Lamotte came to his untimely end, Keightley Wilbur knew no more of coroners' courts than of Christian Science, and was as little interested in either. But after twelve jury-men had pronounced their verdict of accidental death upon his whilom friend and guest, his attention became riveted upon these petty inquisitions, and he discovered in them during the following few months a perpetual source of wonder and surprise, a fount of inspiration, even of romance. The coroners' courts for this short period provided him with abundance of material for his literary work, with comedy as well as tragedy, and occasionally farce. The occult ceased to interest him. Socialism and Fabianism faded into insignificance. During this time he was heard perpetually asking why such a field should have been so neglected? He upbraided his journalistic friends for their supineness, urging his brother dramatists and novelists to join him in riding this new hobby.

Such an occurrence as the first related in this series could have had no similar effect on any other individual. But Keightley Wilbur was and remains different to the common run of men, and must not be judged from the ordinary standpoint.

1. The Case of Pierre Lamotte

CHAPTER I

THE CASE OF PIERRE LAMOTTE

Extract from a London evening paper:

"At Windsor yesterday an inquiry was opened by the coroner (Mr. Morton Bull) into the death of Pierre Lamotte, the distinguished French dramatist, whose body was discovered at an early hour on Ssiturday morning, in the rushes by the 'Bells of Ouseley.'

"Pierre Lamotte is known in England principally by L'Ingénue, an English version of which was produced by the Players' Society early in the season under the title of The Flapper. It will be remembered that considerable and somewhat acrimonious controversy ensued after this performance. Other works of his that have been translated are a volume of verse, which was well received by the critics; and a lurid romance entitled 'Half-Brothers,' immediately placed on the Index Expurgatorius of the Library Association. We understand that Mr. Lamotte was in England on the present occasion in connection with L'Ecrevisse, now staged at the Odéon, and, according to rumour, to be seen at St. James's if ever the run of Renegades shows signs of having exhausted its popularity. At present there are no such signs.

"Mr. Lamotte, during his stay in England, was the guest of Keightley Wilbur, the young literary Mæcenas of Carlton House Terrace, who, it is understood, will be called to-morrow to throw what light is possible upon the mystery of his friend's death."

At the adjourned inquest, true to newspaper anticipation, the first witness called, after the necessary formalities had been gone through, was Mr. Keighley Wilbur. The court was crowded with literary celebrities and well-known people.

After being duly sworn, Mr. Wilbur said, in answer to questions:

"I am Keightley Wilbur, of Carlton House Terrace, author of 'The Nut's Progress,' 'Love,' and other pieces. I am also a playwright, and in my leisure hours I interest myself in sociology. Mr. Pierre Lamotte was my guest, but hardly my friend."

The coroner asked a little impatiently:

"You were intimate with him?"

"I have no intimates." He added, a little sententiously, perhaps: "The great are always lonely."

It was later on mentioned in one of the illustrated papers that Mr. Wilbur gave all his evidence as if he were aware that it would be reported verbatim; he held the court as an actor the stage, or a practised Parliamentarian the floor of St. Stephen's. This same enterprising illustrated paper, publishing his photograph, showed a rather thin and mobile visage, with black hair, smoothly brushed back and super-abundant, a Jewish cast of countenance, not unlike that of the late Benjamin Disraeli. The witness spoke in a pleasantly modulated voice with a slight drawl.

"I am an Etonian; practically self-educated."

Mr. Bull directed him, somewhat abruptly, to answer the questions without interpolations. Keightley Wilbur smiled at the reporters and shrugged his shoulders.

"Since I left New College, Oxford, I have rented the houseboat, the Marguerite, moored between Datchet and Windsor. Yes, I have entertained there many distinguished English and foreign guests."

He then explained unnecessarily that he should hardly apply the word "distinguished" to Pierre Lamotte. He preferred to call him a "promising young writer."

It was easy to see the witness was irritating the coroner by the manner in which he gave his evidence.

"You know that the book he published here was withdrawn from circulation?"

"I wrote to him immediately after that lamentable and absurd occurrence. I apologised on behalf of my country. Since then we have maintained a correspondence."

"Go on, please."

"When I heard that Mr. Lamotte proposed to visit England, I invited him to my house. He stayed with me last week, and we discussed L'Ecrevisse, It had been translated from the French, but I had to explain to him the necessity that it should be re-translated into English. Sir George Alexander, Lamotte, and I lunched together at my house on Thursday, and spent the afternoon arguing how to make the play sufficiently innocuous for the censor and the prurient purists without denuding it of value. Sir George was greatly concerned over this. Pierre Lamotte and I spoke of deodorisation, and advised him to call in a chemist's assistant."

There was some laughter in the court, immediately and sternly suppressed by the coroner, who threatened to have the court cleared.

In continuation, Keightley Wilbur said that, after the long interview with Sir George, he and Pierre Lamotte went down together from Paddington by the 5.5 to Windsor, arriving at 6.3. It was a beautiful evening; they changed into flannels, and sat in the dinghy talking about Puritanism and the play, until it was time to dress for dinner.

"Was there anyone else upon the houseboat—any servants or visitors?"

"There were two ladies, my Japanese valet who waited upon us, and, I believe, a couple of female servants—a cook and something that is called either a tweeny or a slavey."

In answer to a juryman the coroner said the two ladies and the servants were in court, and would be called in due course.

Keightley Wilbur answered the remaining questions put to him in a somewhat bored manner. He seemed to have lost interest in the affair.

"We dined. I don't know what we drank. Kito may be able to tell you. Not much, I should think: we were all abstemious. The ladies may have had champagne. Afterwards there was a little music. Madame Bosquet played to us; Miss Blaney sang. It was all very agreeable."

"Was there any other visitor?"

"Dr. Nicholson pulled up after dinner, moored his boat alongside, and came on board."

"How long did he remain?"

"About half an hour, I should think."

"Then the singing and playing were resumed until2"

"I make a point of never knowing the time."

The answer annoyed the coroner, who made a remark intended to be sarcastic. Mr. Wilbur replied, pertinently, or impertinently, and there was a sharp little exchange of epigrams that kept the reporters busy. When matters became normal again Mr. Bull asked sarcastically:

"Perhaps you will not mind telling the court if you and Mr. Lamotte sat up later than the ladies?"

"I am pleased to oblige the court with the information. I trust my meaning will not be misconstrued. We retired practically simultaneously."

Mr. Bull ignored the innuendo, and asked:

"During the evening had there been a quarrel or dispute, or any break in the harmony?"

"There was certainly one break in the harmony."

The jury leaned forward, the reporters sharpened their pencils, and Mr. Bull felt pleased with himself for his question.

"Go on, please."

"One of the strings of the piano gave way: the G of the third octave, I believe."

The laughter gurgled again, and again Mr. Bull said he would not permit these exhibitions, rebuking Mr. Wilbur for his flippancy. Mr. Wilbur said wearily that he had been answering futile questions for over an hour.

"You can throw no further light on the case?"

"That, I understand, is your affair."

He was told he could stand down. The hour was late, and the court adjourned until the next day. In the meantime the jury were taken to see the houseboat and the room in which Mr. Lamotte had slept.

The Marguerite was one of the best boats on the river, luxuriously fitted; the drawing-room in Chinese style with hanging lamps that tinkled musically, black satin divans and embroidered cushions. Many-coloured Chinese glass pictures were on the walls and fine kakemonos. The dining-room was Florentine, and the bedrooms merely comfortable. There was nothing on the boat to suggest tragedy.

The tender was also visited, and found to contain kitchen and servants' accommodation of the most commonplace description. Two of the three bedrooms in the Marguerite had been occupied by the ladies. The third, from the window of which the unfortunate French dramatist was supposed to have walked into the river, was nearest to the dining-room.

The first witness called after the adjournment was Kito, the Japanese manservant. He was intelligent and non-committal, short of stature and speech. He said he had heard nothing in the nature of a disagreement whilst waiting at dinner. When he had cleared away, placed the tantalus and glasses on the dining-room table, and put out the silver box filled with Sandorides Lucana Turkish cigarettes, his work for the evening was over. Mr. Wilbur never kept him up when he had guests. He knew nothing of what happened between ten o'clock that night, when he went to bed as usual, and nine o'clock the next morning when the police came, and he woke his master.

The two ladies who followed Kito into the witness-box added little to the story.

Madame Bosquet, a Frenchwoman, whose evidence had to be translated, was very voluble and a little incoherent, about thirty-five years of age, with white hair surmounting a young face, a little made-up, but still beautiful. Her eyes were soft and dark, and she was admirably dressed. She described a pleasant evening, charming company, and said vehemently that between such men as her eminent host and his no less eminent guest no possible cause of friction could have arisen. She added that anything of the nature of a struggle would have been impossible without herself or Miss Blaney becoming aware of it. The bedrooms were all quite close.

Here formal evidence was asked for and given as to whether Mr. Lamotte had occupied his room. The bed had certainly been slept in, was disarranged, and had not been made tidy when the police made their matutinal visit. The French windows, reaching to the floor, were wide open. There was no disorder in the room.

Ellaline Blaney, who was pale and fair and frightened, exquisitely pretty, and understood to be upon the stage, said "Yes" or "No" to every question put to her, and seemed not to understand the significance of any of them. The climax came when she was gently interrogated as to the length of her acquaintance with Mr. Wilbur, and the nature of it. She was understood to say he had been very kind to her, and paid for her singing lessons. She then burst into tears, became hysterical, and was allowed to step down.

The cook and the soiled little maid-of-all-work talked a great deal and said nothing. They had both heard noises in the night, and one of them had dreamt of calamity. They knew neither Mr. Wilbur nor any of the guests by sight, having been engaged by Kito.

"An' a very civil an' obligin' gentleman he is, although coloured, which I couldn't hev believed if I 'adn't seed it for meself. If you'll excuse me, I'd like to tell you how he mended the big fish-kettle2"

The coroner did excuse her, and from the box, cutting her reminiscences short. Then he said:

"Gentlemen, have you heard enough, or do you wish to adjourn for the attendance of the visitor. Dr. Nicholson, who looked in for half an hour and listened to the music? I have a letter from him in which he asks to be excused if possible. He is on the panel, and has many poor patients in this district and in Hurley. I do not propose to bring him from his work unless you, gentlemen, think it necessary."

The jury of petty tradesmen, recruited from the neighbourhood, had already been two days away from business, and the rate of remuneration was low. They were unanimous in not wishing to adjourn for the attendance of Dr. Nicholson, and were then shepherded by the coroner into finding a verdict.

They found that Monsieur Pierre Lamotte had met his death by drowning, hut how he got into the river there was no evidence to show.

Mr. David Devenish had a trenchant leader the next day in the Daily Grail, commenting upon the inconclusiveness of this verdict and finding fault with the way the proceedings had been conducted.

The article went on, after saying that the matter could not end there:

"The only evidence that might have proved of value was the evidence that was not called. From Dr. Nicholson we might have learnt, for instance, whether he had observed any excitement in manner, any irregularity in the pupils, any cerebral or locomotor symptoms to account for the action of Pierre Lamotte that led to his death. Was he a sleep-walker? Was any illness looked for, or only abrasions? Why was there not a complete autopsy made instead of a partial one?"

The article aroused a certain amount of attention, and several people wrote letters. Others expressed their views in clubs and at suburban dinners. But nothing, of course, was done, and within a few weeks Pierre Lamotte's death ceased to have any interest for the general public.

The next incident that occured bearing in any way upon the tragedy was that Dr. Nicholson, the panel doctor who had visited the houseboat, was removed from his position owing to a bad mistake he made with a patient when himself under the influence of drink or some drug.

David Devenish, happening to meet Keightley Wilbur at the Savoy grill, heard that Dr. Nicholson had written to him asking for assistance, and was shown Keightley's reply, of which he was evidently rather proud:

"That you have not the smallest claim upon my benevolence makes it agreeable to me to bestow it. Herewith a cheque, which will be repeated monthly until you have your inevitable delirium tremens, or I receive the Nobel Prize for my contributions to English literature. The circumstances having no relation to each other, must be considered together. …"

When David Devenish left the restaurant he found himself wondering about this laboured letter, why it had been shown him, and why Wilbur should give Dr. Nicholson an allowance. Keightley Wilbur was very rich, and, of course, known to be liberal to his friends. But the last person in the world whom one would have thought could be counted among Keightley Wilbur's friends was a panel doctor. David's mind was naturally a suspicious one, and his paper was always on the outlook for sensational matter. Keightley Wilbur was still unclassified in the ordered pigeon-holes where dwelt the putative and premature obituaries of prominent men. David Devenish thought of him as something of a genius, if something of a charlatan; a cinematograph show of a youngster, coruscating fitfully and brilliantly. Nevertheless, he had a certain tolerant liking for him, accentuated by the knowledge that Keightley more than returned his feeling. It was in the Daily Grail, in an article written by David himself, that Keightley received his first Press recognition and "The Nut's Progress" the impetus that sped its sales into six figures. The two men frequented the same places—the Garrick Club and the Savoy grill-room, the Saville, and first nights at the theatres. Keightley was literary and David merely journalistic, but there was a certain community of interests between them. Therefore, although David was suspicious, and believed that Keightley knew more about Pierre Lamotte's death than he had told the coroner, he made no definite attempt to confirm his suspicions.

Eighteen months after the death of Pierre Lamotte, David Devenish met, for the first time. Miss Ellaline Blancy, lately returned from completing her musical education in Paris, and already engaged for the new musical comedy about which all the papers were full.

At nineteen, when seen in the coroner's court as a witness in the Lamotte case, Ellaline had been merely a pretty girl with fair hair, blue eyes, and lovely little teeth. At twenty-one, after the advantages of eighteen months in Paris and one or two at the Odeon, her outlines refined, grace added to her beauty, she had all the exotic charm of a super supper cat. David succumbed—succumbed utterly, to the great entertainment of his many friends and the undisguised and sympathetic amusement of Keightley Wilbur.

But David Devenish was not the man to take lightly even a love affair with a Gaiety girl. Within three weeks of the first meeting he asked Ellaline to marry him.

She told Keightley of this proposal on the following Sunday. He had come to fetch her for a motor drive, but the luxurious flat in Ashley Gardens was full of fog, and their intentions halted. It was after they had discussed the weather, last night's audience, and one or two other topical questions, that Ellaline came out with her astonishing news:

"David Devenish has asked me to marry him."

"No! Brave boy! And, of course, you said 'Yes'?"

Keightley flung himself on the sofa and seemed highly diverted. Ellaline was offended at the way he took her news.

"Why shouldn't I?" she said.

"Why, indeed?"

Between the fog and the red glow of the fire her fair hair shone like a will-o'-the-wisp in marsh land.

"I'd like to know what you'd do if I took you at your word."

"Try me!"

There was laughter in his eyes when he looked at her, and she broke into angry speech:

"You think you can do and say what you like with me! I've half a mind to show you2"

"Half a mind! You think you have as much as that altogether?"

"I'm not going to be made fun of."

"But if you persist in being so amusing?"

"Perhaps you wouldn't care if I did say 'Yes'—if I did marry David Devenish?"

"Indeed I should. I should mind very much." He was emphatic, and she softened at once, would have spoken, but that he went on too quickly: "I am attached to David. I am under a very serious obligation to him. He explained me to a slow world. But for David I might be still published in special editions, calf bound, and paid for by myself. Certainly I should object to your marrying David."

"You are trying to insult me."

"Are you going to make a scene?" he asked politely, as if entertained by the idea, and curious.

She burst into tears and voluble, incoherent reproaches. He listened attentively, but soon became bored.

"You are saying exactly the things every woman has said from time immemorial. There isn't even 'copy' in it." His calmness and indifference enraged her, and she broke out:

"Well! I could say very different ones if I chose."

"Could you? Then I wish you would. You are very good-looking, and improving in your stage work, but I must point out to you that your conversation lacks originality."

"You know what I could talk about!" she said savagely.

"Cosmetics, and the necessity of distilled water for the complexion?"

"Of something you would not like anybody to know," she answered angrily, watching him, nevertheless, as if to see how he would take the blow.

"And what is that?" he asked imperturbably.

"Of what happened that night on board the Marguerite."

He looked at her, surprised, and then interested.

"Of course," he answered, "of course. The very thing. I had forgotten all about it. Yes, you must tell David. You or I must tell him. That will do the trick, I expect. I should make a better story of it than you2"

"What do you mean? I needn't tell him if I don't choose."

"David is really a remarkable person, full of prejudices, yet with an underlying sentimentality that can rise and veil him as the fog veils this room."

He spoke as if to himself, as if he had no auditor, and was experimenting with phrases as he did in the solitude of his own library. "Yes, the story must be told," he went on thoughtfully.

She said rudely, but a little uneasily:

"That's what you call 'bluffing,' I suppose?"

He roused himself from his mood, and observing her uneasiness, began to tease her.

"That is it: you have guessed it, of course. One can always trust the quick wit of a chorus girl. What you must do now is to call my bluff. Send for David; ring him up on the telephone."

"I've half a mind to do it."

"I suppose you really are unaware that you have only half a mind altogether, or rather less? Tell me, now, have you been thinking all these months that you had a hold over me?"

He smiled at her and settled himself more comfortable on the sofa, nursing his leg and continuing to talk. "Did you think I sent you to Paris to get you out of the way, to keep you quiet? Go on: tell me all of your thoughts."

"You are a perfect devil. I don't believe you care about anything or anybody. Mr. Devenish is as different as possible."

"Of course I am different from anybody else. Haven't you found that out before? What a quaint, absurd little person you are; not real at all. If I had invented you I should have invented you just as you are."

She was half crying, and said chokingly:

"I believe you'd be glad to get rid of me."

"No. You are not in the least in my way. Sometimes you please me extremely."

"If I say 'Yes' to David I shall tell him everything. I couldn't marry and keep such a secret from him."

"Couldn't you? I didn't know."

"You do nothing but jeer at me."

"Don't you believe it. I am feeling very sympathetic to you, and a little grateful. You are showing me the mechanism of the transpontine melodrama mind in working order."

"I wish you were dead."

"Do you really care for me as much as that?"

"I hate you."

"I know—they always do. And because you love me and hate me, hardly knowing which, I shall have to intervene and save you from marrying that good fellow David Devenish."

"He won't think you a good fellow when I tell him what I know about you."

"Won't he? I am not sure."

"You won't laugh presently."

"Are you about to consign me to a cold and 'ke-ruel' jail? Shall I go forth from this warm and wicked flat with gyves upon my wrists. It is a wicked flat, by the way, and will be so described in the evening papers."

She did not understand him in the least, but he succeeded presently in goading her to the telephone.

"Westminster 4638! Are you there? Is that Mr. Devenish's flat? Oh, I didn't know it was you. I wish you'd come round here."

Obviously, David Devenish expressed himself overjoyed at the invitation.

"Now? Oh, yes! whenever you like. No, I don't know about lunch."

She hung up the receiver and said excitedly to Keightley:

"He'll be here in ten minutes. What are you going to do?"

"Do? What am I going to do? Why, stay and criticise your skill as a raconteuse, of course. What did you expect me to do? Little idiot! Come here." He smiled, making room for her on the sofa. She hesitated, and then, as if hyrpnotised, went over to him slowly. "That's right One gets a sense of purring pleasure out of you sometimes, after all." There was an interval, during which he kissed her, played with her a little. He was amazingly attractive to women, and this one was particularly easy. Afterwards he said: "But what have you, and such as you, to do with marriage? That's not your affair at all."

"David adores me." She pouted.

"David knows nothing about women."

"You are very unkind."

But she nestled against him, nevertheless, for she was of that easy type. And he went on caressing her carelessly.

"I thought you didn't care for me any more," she whispered.

"You are a harp upon which I no longer play, an exquisite eighteenth-century harpsichord. Tell me, do your strings still vibrate for me?"

"You were ever so much nicer before I went to Paris." She nestled closer.

"Was I? I don't think I could ever have been more tolerant. This coat will never be wearable again: the mixture of cream and powder you are depositing upon it defies even turpentine. Is it your idea, by the way, that David Devenish should discover us in this attitude: that with your head upon my shoulder you will tell him your ger-r-uesome tale?"

"I forgot he was coming. I don't want to tell him anything. Can't I say I'm out; that I've changed my mind?"

But already the bell rang. The fog had thickened, and through it David Devenish's voice was heard in the hall.

He came in with both hands extended. But seemed surprised to see Keightley lounging familiarly on the sofa, and pulled himself up shortly.

Ellaline, who had risen before his entry, began quickly to talk about the fog, saying mendaciously and unnecessarily that Keightley had only just come in. David felt at once that there was something in the atmosphere, tense and unexpected, to which Keightley Wilbur's presence was the cue. Keightley was self-possessed and appeared amused.

"She sent for me to consult me as to your proposal. I stand in loco parentis to her, as you possibly know."

A faint colour showed in David's face, but he made no other sign of anger.

"I understand you have been helpful to her," he said stiffly, without any indication of feeling.

"The fact is," Keightley drawled—he seemed to be enjoying himself, which was certainly not the case with either of the others—"we are both of us a little uncertain as to whether, before answering 'Yes' or 'No' she ought not to tell you a certain story. …"

"I don't know what he is talking about," she interrupted, going over to the fireplace, speaking in nervous haste. "Don't listen to him, David: he is only gassing."

"My words are the words of wisdom. Listen, Devenish …"

"If it is Miss Blaney's pleasure?"

"Whether it is Miss Blaney's pleasure or not. But you like to hear me talk, don't you, Ellaline?"

"No, I don't," she answered shortly.

There was an interchange of uncomplimentary sentences between them. David felt irritated, and wished Keightley would be silent. He had not expected to meet him here to-day, and was embarrassed, as any man would be under the circumstances. But in a minute his ear caught the name of Pierre Lamotte, and then his attention was riveted. Since he had fallen so incongruously in love, he had forgotten his suspicions and all the details of the inquest. Now he remembered, and quite suddenly he feared what it was that Keightley insisted upon telling him.

After Ellaline had exhausted her attempts to prevent Keightley speaking, she relapsed into a sullen silence.

When Keightley began it was as if he were talking to himself again, as if neither of them were there. David remained standing all the time the story was being told, and Ellaline crouched before the fire. Keightley had the gift of arresting attention.

"Dusk, and the evening stars. Curious to recall them here in the fog. I always knew I should one day tell the story of how Pierre Lamotte came by his death. But I thought it would have been in verse. …"