But Dorothy would not take it. She put both hers firmly behind her.
"I shall say, however much you give it up, the remembrance of what you have done and been in the past will cling to you still," she said cuttingly. "Friends with a detective—a spy! No, thank you, Mr. Cardyn!"
Chapter X
The hall at the back of Charlton Crescent where the inquest on Lady Anne Daventry was resumed was crammed to its utmost limit when the inquiry was reopened. Crowds waited outside, unable to get in, but hoping for a glance at those who were to give evidence to-day. The curiosity of the sightseers was not to be gratified this morning, however. A private car with the rector of North Coton, his wife and the two girls came first. They were followed quickly by another car containing Bruce Cardyn, John Daventry, Inspector Furnival and Soames.
They were both driven through the crowd to a back entrance, and while the sightseers were still watching for "the Five" they were safely inside the court-house.
The inquest was held in a big room, while there sat at the table near the coroner the counsels who held watching briefs for the five and for the Fyvert and Daventry families, and, much to the surprise of the general public who did not see the connexion, for Messrs. Spagnum and Thirgood. Close behind them again were the solicitors who instructed them, and the seats allotted to the witnesses. Every other seat, every other inch of standing room was quickly filled when the coroner took his place and the doors were opened.
Francis Herbert Soames was the first witness called and there was a sharp stir of expectation through the court.
Soames looked as urbane and dignified as ever as he made his way through the crowd, but it was evident to a keen observer that the tragic events of the past fortnight had left their mark upon him. His shoulders were more bowed, his face was paler, even his lips were white as he kissed the book.
After the preliminaries were over the coroner bade him tell the story of the afternoon of Lady Anne's death to the jury, as clearly and as concisely as possible.
He stated his length of service in the Daventry family and gave his age as fifty-six, to the surprise of the sightseers, who thought he looked more. Then he passed on to what he saw on the afternoon of the 29th.
"It was getting dark," he began, "and I took up another relay of hot cakes to my lady's sitting-room, knowing how fond the young ladies were of them. I had got in the room and was surprised to find how dark it was, it not being my lady's custom to sit in the gloaming. One of the young ladies began to joke about the cakes," he went on, a huskiness coming in his voice for the first time. "I was just opposite the window, and as I answered Miss Dorothy something seemed to move across the glass. I looked more closely and saw a white face—a noticeably white face, staring in at us. I was so startled, sir," looking apologetically at the coroner, "that I am ashamed to say I dropped the plate of cakes in my hand and called out. I often say to myself that if I hadn't done so my poor lady might have been alive now. For there was such an outcry when Mr. Daventry and the young ladies saw the face at the window that the murderer was able to come in and work his wicked will on my lady. The next thing I heard, while we were all looking out, was that dreadful gasping cry, and when we turned round, there was my lady choking her life-blood away, with that dagger sticking out of her breast."
He stopped. The coroner looked at his notes.
"You say, 'the murderer was able to come in.' Why do you say he came in? Did you see him? Did you hear any movement?"
"No, sir, no." The witness paused as if to suppress some emotion. "But it stands to reason that some one did come in. It is impossible to suppose—"
"You are not asked to suppose, witness," the coroner interposed. "Did you or did you not hear or see anything to show you that another person had entered the room."
"No, I did not, sir," the witness replied unwillingly.
"Now with regard to this man at the window," the coroner went on, after another glance at his notes, "will you tell us exactly about the state of these windows—this one and the other? Were they open or closed?"
"This one was open a few inches from the top, sir. The one nearest her ladyship—not the one the man came to—was a little open. The other was latched. They were just as my lady always gave orders they should be, sir."
"I have no doubt of that," said the coroner. "Now can you conceive it possible that a man could have got through either of them into the room?"
"Well, I don't know, sir. I couldn't. But then I am not a Cat Burglar."
In spite of the gravity of the case a ripple of laughter ran through the crowd at the idea of the portly and superior butler posing as a cat burglar. When it had been suppressed by the usher, the coroner said:
"One more question, please, Mr. Soames. You speak of the last gasping cry her ladyship gave. Did it sound to you as if your lady were trying to call out, to say some words?"
"Well, no, sir, I can't say that it did!" the witness said doubtfully. "But then you see there was such a commotion and I was that upset by seeing the face at the window that I didn't realize what was happening, or how important it was that I should be able to remember all that passed."
"I see." The coroner wrote a few lines on his paper. "You can go, now, witness, but you must hold yourself in readiness, for you may be wanted later."
Soames's place in the witness-box was taken by John Daventry, who looked the model of a healthy young Englishman as he stood up to face the crowded court, though his usually good-tempered expression had been replaced by an air of morose defiance. He took the oath and kissed the book and answered the first few formal questions in a surly fashion that turned the sympathies of most men against him. Asked to give his account of the events of that tragic afternoon he responded curtly that it would be just the same as the last witness's, except that he did not see the face at the window till after Soames cried out.
"Nevertheless, put it in your own words, please," the coroner said with an air of calm authority that even John Daventry dared not disregard.
"Well, my aunt had been telling us all about her pearls and showing us her other bits of jewellery and—and—the dagger. And we had been turning them all over and then it was getting dusk and we had tea up. We had so much to talk about that we didn't ring for lights. At last Soames brought us some more hot cakes and dropped them and yelled like mad, and stood pointing at the window. Then I saw some joker looking in—a fellow with an ugly white face. We all ran to the window, but the chap seemed to have got away somehow. And while we were all looking for him there was that cry from Lady Anne and we turned to find her dead or dying with that dagger sticking in her." During this bald recital Daventry's ruddy cheeks had faded almost to the sickly green colour of the evening of the murder. After that first glance at the lookers-on in the well of the court, however, he did not turn that way again, but faced the coroner with shoulders thrown back and squared, and defiant eyes. He seemed in some way to sense the hostile feeling of the waiting crowd.
The coroner held out a plan of the sitting-room to him.
"Will you mark the chair in which you sat, if you please, Mr. Daventry?"
The witness took the plan, scowled at it and finally scored one of the seats with a big black cross.
The coroner scrutinized it. "You were the nearest to the escritoire, to Lady Anne, I see."
"Yes, I was, on that side," John Daventry said gloomily. "But—" a sudden passion springing into his tone—"that doesn't say that I jumped up and stuck a dagger into the poor old lady. Oh, I know what you are