The duplicate death

CHAPTER IOld Lord Madeley had taken unto himself a wife—one of the beautiful Sisters Alvarez of the Pavilion Theatre of Varieties and the other West-end halls. Whereat the world of Society wondered for ten days. His relatives never ceased to wonder. He was always called “Old Lord Madeley,” but as a matter of fact he had but turned the half-century some four or five years previously. The man and his history were curious. The twenty-fifth holder of the ancient Barony of Madeley, he was a legitimate scion of the Plantagenets and an illegitimate one of the Stuarts; and he had been born the youngest child of his parents’ marriage. In these later times the ancient and historic houses of Norman England have fallen upon impoverished days, and a younger son succeeds to but a pittance. The land is there for the eldest, but each generation leaves it more burdened than did its predecessor, and there is little if any margin realisable in hard cash. Such a pittance had been the fortune to which Charles de Bohun Fitz Aylwyn had succeeded at the death of his father. Hoarding his few poor hundreds per annum, he had turned his back upon the society into which he had been born, settled himself in dingy lodgings in Bloomsbury, and lapsed into an eccentric recluse, with not a single thought beyond the study of the science in which his soul delighted. His eldest brother died childless after a brief but brilliant reign, bequeathing the whole of his personalty to his widow in an attempt to increase the meagre jointure which was her portion. In the realisation of that personalty every stick of furniture and each single spoon in the old Manor House, save the portraits on the walls, were passed under the hammer of the auctioneer. The second brother was an absentee landlord, never going near his property, and draining it to the last penny. Strangers hired his house from him until he died. At his death the title and estates passed to Charles de Bohun, then and thereafter twenty-fifth Baron Madeley in the peerage of England. With a mild curiosity his relatives and the world at large wondered what on earth he would do with the inheritance. For months he never went near the place. Then, without a word or hint of warning, he left London, and travelled down into Shropshire by the evening train. He had never heard of slip coaches, he had forgotten where an obsequious porter had told him he would have to change, and at nine o’clock at night he had been turned out of the train at Shrewsbury, twenty miles beyond his destination. By the time the lumbering cab he engaged at the railway station deposited him at the Manor House, it was long past midnight. After continuous knocking a sleepy caretaker descended, only to open the door, tell the visitor to be gone, and slam it in his face. It had needed the thunderous assistance of the cabman applied both to bell and knocker and with boots upon the door panels to recall the caretaker. Lord Madeley had discharged him and his wife there and then, and neither knew, cared, nor ever inquired whether the couple left the house in the darkness or waited until the following day. Such had been the home-coming of Lord Madeley. Instructing his lawyers to refurnish the house, engage servants, and appoint a properly qualified agent to manage the estate, Lord Madeley reorganised and required in his household a reversion and rigid adherence to the studied solemnity of state which he remembered from the dignified days of his father and grandfather. That he regarded as a duty attaching to his rank, his caste, and his family. Personally he remained wedded to his pursuit of science, and continued his experiments and investigations. A recluse he had been in London—a recluse he remained at Madeley, and for the first five years of his enjoyment of the family heritage he never once set foot outside the doors of the Manor House. Absorbed in science, his mind deep and recondite in those directions, simple, straightforward, and lovable in all the matters of a more worldly nature, the old peer had probably never given a thought to either any woman in particular or to the female s*x as a general proposition. It is quite probable that it had never crossed Lord Madeley’s mind that there really were two sexes, save as a scientific proposition, of which scientific proposition he, as a man of science, was naturally cognisant. As a social problem he had never thought of it, knew nothing of it, and cared less. But peers have obligations thrust upon them, from which lesser mortals are exempt. The exact circumstances which had produced it are immaterial to the story, but a royal command had left Lord Madeley no alternative, and he had in obedience thereto betaken himself to town. That it was the first time he had recrossed the threshold of the Manor House since he had entered it was a thought which probably never presented itself to his mind; and that he was returning to the scenes in which the greater part of his life had been spent quickened his pulse not at all. He was irked by the command, bored by the anticipated absence of his scientific interests, and, in the hope of avoiding ennui, he cast about in his mind for a companion to share with him the suite of apartments he had engaged in the hotel at which his father and grandfather before him had been accustomed to sojourn whilst in town. Probably for the first time in his life his utter loneliness in the world made itself manifest. He had one relative, and one only, a young unmarried cousin, the son of a distant cousin, and from the point of pedigree the future head of the house of Fitz Aylwyn. Lord Madeley wrote and invited him. The invitation was accepted. Young Billy Fitz Aylwyn was one of those men—there are such men—whom to see was to like. Lord Madeley liked him wholeheartedly, and, in the courteous attempt to give pleasure to the younger man, the old peer had consented to a tentative suggestion of his relative that they should spend the evening by going to the Pavilion Theatre. It was the first time Lord Madeley had ever been inside a theatre. The meretriciousness of things theatrical was not laid bare to the old peer by reason of experience and knowledge, and he was fascinated by the beauty of the Alvarez girls. A passing comment on their beauty—for they were beautiful, judged by any standard—had provoked in the younger of the men a confession of a personal acquaintance with the sisters. Absolutely in ignorance of the manner of man Lord Madeley was, and thinking the pure artistic admiration of classic beauty was an interest of a totally different kind, Fitz Aylwyn had suggested asking the sisters to supper. Lord Madeley, unsophisticated in the ways of the world, and merely desiring to give pleasure to his relative and guest, whom he supposed was putting himself out to relieve the ennui of an old man, made no objection, and the supper party had taken place. The Sisters Alvarez—Eulalie was the elder and Dolores the younger—of pure Spanish descent, but of entirely English birth and domicile, were stars of the music-hall world, but stars of no great or exceeding magnitude. Calling themselves comediennes, their turn was the usual song and dance of no particular or more than average merit. On the other hand, it was useless to attempt to deny the fact that the sisters were unquestionably the most beautiful women upon the stage at that time. Descended in a left-handed way from some of the bluest blood of Andalusia, their beauty had nothing in common with the thick-lipped, teeth-displaying, plebeian prettiness, which, by reason of picture postcard advertisement, one is now asked to believe represents a type of the beauty of this country. Alike in feature, the two sisters were as wide apart as the poles in character and temperament. Eulalie, strong, compelling, masterful, and passionate, controlled the lives of both; Dolores, gentle, trusting, and submissive, intensely admired her sister, worshipped her ability, and did whatsoever she was told. The girls themselves—the outspoken frankness of their world—the utter novelty of the whole thing—the novelty of young female society—the awe-struck deference of the music-hall singer for a real peer of England, who accorded to them the courtesy and deference to women which he vaguely recollected from the world of his distant youth—interested Lord Madeley. With charming but unsophisticated hospitality he invited the sisters to visit the Manor House, thinking it an obligation of hospitality owing by him to Fitz Aylwyn. The invitation was accepted. Eulalie, with a keen eye to opportunity, made up her mind that the position of Lady Madeley, mistress of the rent roll of the great Manor of Madeley and of Madeley Manor House, was within the possibilities. She played for that position for all she was worth, with every atom of knowledge she possessed or could acquire, played her game without the opposition of tangible rivals, played her game as a clever and beautiful woman of the world, knowing every wile and every blandishment that was permissible, played her game against an old man to whom had been given no weapon of defence and from whom had been withheld the worldly knowledge out of which such weapons could have been fashioned and which would have indicated their necessity. The result was never in doubt. Lord Madeley married, or was married, as Eulalie had intended should happen. Let it here be said, for Lord Madeley soon passes out of the story, that never for one single instant did he ever regret his marriage. Save that his house was better ordered, his wishes more carefully respected, his comfort more scrupulously provided for, Lady Madeley was wise enough to recognise that the ingrained ways and habits of a lonely man of fifty-five are fixed, and are altered only at the cost of much discomfort. She contented herself with the rank and position, the wealth, and the house which the marriage had brought her, and left Lord Madeley to pursue his life as he inclined and much as he had done theretofore. Two years after their marriage their only child—a daughter, Consuelo—was born, and a few years later Lord Madeley died. Inertia, even if productive of a contented mind, is not especially conducive to length of years. His widow raised a costly marble monument over his grave, mourned for a decently prolonged interval, and re-emerged in the world; whilst Consuelo, in her own right Baroness Madeley, figured in her father’s place in the peerage books. But there had been an incident shortly after the marriage which for some time had thrown a blight upon the new-found happiness of Lord and Lady Madeley. Passing through London on their return from a honey-moon spent upon the Continent, Lady Madeley had visited on two occasions her unmarried sister at the small flat in Kensington which had been taken for her and furnished by Lord Madeley. The second visit was the last time the sisters met. Two hours afterwards the maid found the dead body of her mistress stretched upon the bed in her room, stark nude, and on the table by the bedside an opened half-bottle of champagne and a glass from which some of the wine had been drunk. At the inquest which was held, however, everything was made plain by the evidence of the maid, who described the arrival of Lady Madeley at the flat. She had prepared and taken in tea, and had then been sent to Bond Street to change the library books and to purchase stalls at one of the theatres, Lady Madeley having come to invite her sister to spend the evening with her husband and herself in that manner, and having postponed the purchase of the stalls until she had ascertained to which theatre her sister would prefer to go. “The maid found the dead body of her mistress” On her return from Bond Street, the maid had found her mistress alone—Lady Madeley having already left—and she described how her mistress had at once sent her out again to order a carriage from the livery stables, and to purchase flowers and gloves for that evening. When she returned a second time she had found the drawing-room empty, and the dead body of her mistress lying naked upon the bed. In cross-examination the maid had denied having heard the least quarrelling between the sisters, and could not suggest any reason for her mistress having taken her own life. Lady Madeley, obviously deeply affected by the tragic death of her sister, had corroborated the evidence given by the maid; and distinguished surgeons and analysts had deposed the death to have been due to prussic acid, and that the same poison could be traced in the wine remaining in the glass. The coroner summed up, emphasising the evidence which had been given, and which, he remarked, pointed conclusively to suicide. Alluding to the fact that the body was unclothed, the coroner added that he thought the jury would find therein ample justification for coming to the conclusion that the mind of the deceased had become unhinged. With such plain evidence of fact before them he assumed the jury would have no difficulty in arriving at a verdict. If the evidence of the maid had stood alone, they might well have had reason for some hesitation and might have wished to probe further into the matter for a motive to account sufficiently for self-destruction. But the maid had been for some years in the employment of a family, members of which had testified to the exemplary character she bore, and her evidence was in every way corroborated not only by Lady Madeley, but also by witnesses from the library in Bond Street, the livery stables, and the other places to which she had been sent by her mistress. There could be, therefore, not the smallest suspicion attaching to the maid. As far as they were aware, the only other visitor Miss Alvarez had had that afternoon had been her sister, Lady Madeley. Now, the evidence of the maid had clearly established the fact that when she returned on the first occasion Lady Madeley had already gone, and the maid then saw her mistress alive and spoke to her. The only other alternative which remained was that during the second absence of the maid some unknown person had entered the flat and had administered the poison. That alternative could not be dismissed as an impossibility. Miss Alvarez was certainly alone in the flat at the time when this might have occurred, but there was much evidence which all tended to negative the likelihood of such an explanation being the correct one. For murder by an unknown person to be the explanation, motive, and a strong motive, became essential. Robbery was disproved by the fact that nothing whatever had been removed from the flat, not even the purse which was found lying on the table by the bedside; nor the money, some six or seven pounds, which still remained in the purse. That disposed of any hypothetical stranger calling, demanding money, being refused, and committing a murder. Besides this, there were no signs of any struggle. “Lady Madeley,” the coroner continued, “has told us of the intimate terms of affection upon which she and her sister had always lived; and Lady Madeley, out of her resulting knowledge, has assured us that there was nothing in her sister’s life, and no one amongst her sister’s acquaintances, that could provide or account for any sufficient motive for such a crime. Of course, it is common knowledge that Lady Madeley and Miss Alvarez were, until very recently, members of the theatrical profession; but the many letters to Miss Alvarez, which remained undestroyed in the flat, and which have all been carefully examined, the tone of those letters, and the evidence we have had from so many artistes of the high moral character both the sisters were known in the profession to have, altogether negative, and it gives me sincere pleasure even on this sad and melancholy occasion to say it, they emphatically negative any supposition that there was an illicit side to the life of Miss Alvarez to which we can turn in the hope of an explanation. There was no such side. Therefore, I think any idea of murder may be dismissed. Motive, of course, must always equally precede self-destruction, but there motive need not be that outside motive which must be looked for, and for which logical explanation must be found, where another person is concerned to compass the death of a victim. As I have already indicated, we have some actual evidence of a disordered mind, and such a mind would imagine and accept as real quite non-existent facts and weave those into a self-compelling motive. Every fact that has been given in evidence is perfectly compatible with suicide. There is no fact within our knowledge which conflicts with that supposition, there is no single detail that raises any suspicion to the contrary.” Without hesitation the jury returned a verdict of “Suicide during temporary insanity,” a verdict with which the coroner remarked that he entirely concurred. Ashley Tempest, then a romantic but rising young barrister, had been present at the inquest, holding a watching brief which had been sent him by the solicitors of Lord Madeley. He had been fascinated by the beauty of the dead woman whom several times he happened to have seen and greatly admired upon the stage. The little smile which still seemed to play upon the lips, the long dark eyelashes resting upon her cheeks, the profusion of long black hair, the delicately chiselled features bit themselves in upon his brain, and for days afterwards the face with its haunting beauty formed and reformed itself before his eyes, no matter upon what he might be engaged. The face threatened to become an obsession. The dead mask was eliminating his remembrance of the living woman, whereas he would have had it otherwise; and partly for that reason, but chiefly because it was the first cause célèbre in which he had been engaged, he purchased all the photographs he could obtain of the dead actress, and, sending them to a miniaturist, ordered a miniature to be painted from them, and hung it in his chambers. As time passed slowly on, Tempest’s fascination decreased; but through all his busy life, amongst his multitudinous cases, weird and mysterious as so many of them were, he never forgot the strange story he had heard unfolded at the inquest upon the body of Dolores Alvarez. Many a night when, pushing books and papers on one side, he had lighted his final cigarette before turning into bed, the miniature would catch his eye, and, gazing again at the beautiful face, his thoughts would revert to the familiar story, and once again he would puzzle over the facts he knew, in a vain attempt to find a solution of the mystery. Why had she poisoned herself? As the succeeding years brought him fuller knowledge of men and of women, and of their motives, as case after case widened his experience, so time after time would he again place together the pieces of his puzzle, arranging and rearranging them as crime after crime passing through his hands revealed to him new motives, new characters, any one of which might prove to be analogous and afford him the clue he wanted. Suicide it seemed plain enough to him it must have been. He always remembered how closely he had followed at the time the reasoning of the coroner. He always felt convinced it was logical and conclusive, save in one little detail. Tempest had started his legal career with a certain fixed opinion concerning suicide which he never altered—never had reason to alter—an opinion that grew into conviction. Suicide of itself he held never was and never could be evidence of insanity. He maintained his conviction in argument on many occasions—at the Hardwicke—at the Union—in the courts. He carried his theory further, though not with equal certainty. But he laid it down as a proposition, yet to be disproved, that save in exceptional cases an insane person never commits suicide; and he confined those exceptional cases to cases of previously provable delusions of fact, which facts, if true, would have created a logical and sane motive sufficient to have resulted in the suicide of a sane individual. He maintained that the act of suicide was in itself a sane act, for which cause was required to be shown, and could always be shown if the facts in full were available. Such was the theory upon which he always relied whenever in the course of his profession he was brought face to face with a necessity for the elucidation of a death. He never found his theory at fault. Tempted he often was at first sight to depart from it, but always in the end the case would prove but a renewed confirmation of its accuracy. Yet what was the motive which had caused Dolores Alvarez to destroy herself? Why did she do it? Why? And ever would come that eternal Why? to which he could suggest no answer.