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Any ordeal is far less terrifying, far easier to meet with courage, when it is repeated, than is even a milder experience which is entirely novel.
Mrs. Bernard had already attended an inquest as a witness, and it was one of the few events sharply etched against the somewhat blurred screen of her memory.
Years ago, when she was still Ellen Green, she had been staying at a country house with her elderly mistress. It was there that one of those sudden, pitiful tragedies had occurred, shattering the serenity and apparent decorum of a large, respectable household.
The under-housemaid, a pretty, happy-natured girl, had drowned herself for love of the footman, who had given his sweetheart cause for bitter jealousy. The girl had chosen to confide in the strange lady’s maid rather than her own fellow-servants, and it was during their conversation that she had threatened to take her own life.
As Mrs. Bernard put on her outdoor clothes, preparing to go out, she recalled very clearly all the details of that dreadful affair and the part she had unwillingly played in it.
She visualized the country inn where the inquest on that poor, unfortunate creature had been held.
The butler had escorted her from the Hall, for he too was to give evidence, and as they arrived, there had been a look of cheerful animation about the inn yard—people coming and going, many women as well as men, village folk, among whom the dead girl’s fate had aroused a great deal of interest and the kind of horror which those who live in a dull countryside welcome rather than avoid.
Everyone there had been particularly nice and polite to her, to Ellen Green; there had been a time of waiting in a room upstairs in the old inn, and the witnesses had been accommodated not only with chairs but with cake and wine.
She remembered how she had dreaded being a witness, how she had felt as if she would rather run away from her nice, easy place than have to get up and tell the little that she knew of the sad business.
But it had not been so very dreadful after all. The coroner had been a kindly-spoken gentleman; in fact, he had complimented her on the clear, sensible way she had given her evidence concerning the exact words the unhappy girl had used.
One thing Ellen Green had said, in answer to a question put by an inquisitive juryman, had raised a laugh in the crowded, low-ceilinged room. “Ought not Miss Ellen Green,” the man had asked, “to have told someone of the girl’s threat? If she had done so, might not the girl have been prevented from throwing herself into the lake?” And she, the witness, had answered, with some asperity—for by that time the coroner’s kind manner had put her at ease—that she had not attached any importance to what the girl had threatened to do, never believing that any young woman could be so silly as to drown herself for love!
Vaguely, Mrs. Bernard supposed that the inquest she was going to attend this afternoon would be like that country inquest of long ago.
It had been no mere perfunctory inquiry; she remembered very well how little by little that pleasant-spoken gentleman, the coroner, had extracted the whole truth—the story of how that horrid footman, whom she, Ellen Green, had disliked from the first minute she had set eyes on him, had taken up with another young woman. It had been supposed that this fact would not be elicited by the coroner; but it had been, quietly, remorselessly. More, the dead girl’s letters had been read out—piteous, queerly expressed letters, full of wild love and bitter, threatening jealousy. And the jury had censured the young man most severely; she remembered the look on his face when the people, shrinking back, had made a passage for him to slink out of the crowded room.
Come to think of it now, it was strange she had never told Bernard that long-ago tale. It had occurred years before she knew him, and somehow nothing had ever happened to make her tell him about it.
She wondered whether Bernard had ever been to an inquest. She longed to ask him. But if she asked him now, this minute, he might guess where she was thinking of going.
And then, while still moving about her bedroom, she shook her head—no, no, Bernard would never guess such a thing; he would never, never suspect her of telling him a lie.
Stop—had she told a lie? She did mean to go to the doctor after the inquest was finished—if there was time, that is. She wondered uneasily how long such an inquiry was likely to last. In this case, as so very little had been discovered, the proceedings would surely be very formal—formal and therefore short.
She had one quite definite objective—to hear the evidence of those who believed they had seen the murderer leaving the spot where his victims lay, weltering in their still-flowing blood. She was filled with a painful, secret, and yes, eager curiosity to hear how those who were so positive about the matter would describe the appearance of The Rose Killer. After all, a lot of people must have seen him, for as Bernard had said only the day before to young Chandler, The Rose Killer was not a ghost; he was a living man with some kind of hiding place where he was known, and where he spent his time between his awful crimes.
As she came back to the sitting-room, her extreme pallor struck her husband.
“Why, Ellen,” he said, “it’s high time you saw the doctor. You look like you’re heading to a funeral. I’ll come along with you as far as the station. You’re taking the train, aren’t you? Not the bus? It’s a long way to Ealing, you know.”
“There you go! Breaking your solemn promise to me the very first minute!” But her tone wasn’t unkind, only fretful and sad.
Bernard hung his head. “Why, I’d clean forgotten about the lodger! But will you be all right, Ellen? Why not wait till tomorrow and take Daisy with you?”
“I like doing my own business in my own way, not in someone else’s way!” she snapped. Then, more gently, seeing the genuine concern in his eyes, she added, “I’ll be all right, old man. Don’t you worry about me.”
As she turned to go to the door, she drew the black shawl she had put over her long jacket more closely around her shoulders.
She felt ashamed, deeply ashamed, of deceiving such a kind husband. And yet, what could she do? How could she share her dreadful burden with poor Bernard? Why, it would be enough to drive a man mad. Even she often felt as if she could no longer bear it, as if she would give anything to tell someone—anyone—what it was that she suspected, what deep in her heart she so feared to be the truth.
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But, unknown to herself, the fresh outside air, fog-laden though it was, soon began to do her good. She had gone out far too little the last few days, plagued by a nervous terror of leaving the house unprotected and a great unwillingness to allow Bernard to interact with the lodger.
When she reached the Underground station, she stopped short. There were two ways to get to St. Pancras—by bus or train. She decided on the latter. But before turning into the station, her eyes strayed over the bills of the early afternoon papers lying on the ground.
Two words, THE ROSE KILLER, stared up at her in varying type.
Drawing her black shawl even closer about her shoulders, Mrs. Bernard looked down at the placards. She didn’t feel inclined to buy a paper, as many of the people around her were doing. Her eyes were still smarting from following the close print in the paper Bernard took in.
Slowly, she turned into the Underground station.
And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell Mrs. Bernard.
The third-class carriage she entered was empty, save for the presence of a police inspector. Once they were well on their way, she summoned the courage to ask him the question she knew she would have to ask someone within the next few minutes.
“Can you tell me,” she said in a low voice, “where death inquests are held”—she moistened her lips, waited a moment, and then concluded—“in the neighborhood of King’s Cross?”
The man turned and looked at her attentively. She didn’t look at all like the sort of Londoner who goes to an inquest—there are many such—just for the thrill of it. Approvingly, for he was a widower, he noted her neat black coat and skirt, and the plain Princess bonnet that framed her pale, refined face.
“I’m going to the Coroner’s Court myself,” he said good-naturedly. “So you can come along with me. With that big Rose Killer inquest going on today, they’ll likely have other arrangements for—hum, hum—ordinary cases.” As she looked at him dumbly, he continued, “There’ll be a mighty crowd of people at The Rose Killer inquest—a lot of ticket holders to accommodate, to say nothing of the public.”
“That’s the inquest I’m going to,” faltered Mrs. Bernard. She could scarcely get the words out. She realized with acute discomfort, and yes, shame, how strange, how untoward, her errand was. Fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a murder inquest!
During the last few days, all her perceptions had become sharpened by suspense and fear. She realized now, as she looked into the stolid face of her unknown companion, how she herself would have regarded any woman who wanted to attend such an inquiry out of morbid curiosity. And yet—that was just what she was about to do.
“I’ve got a reason for wanting to go there,” she murmured. It was a comfort to unburden herself this little way, even to a stranger.
“Ah!” he said reflectively. “A—a relative connected with one of the two victims’ husbands, I presume?”
Mrs. Bernard nodded.
“Going to give evidence?” he asked casually, then turned and looked at her with far more attention.
“Oh, no!” There was a world of horror, of fear in her voice.
The inspector felt concerned and sorry. “Hadn’t seen her for quite a long time, I suppose?”
“Never had seen her. I’m from the country.” Something impelled Mrs. Bernard to say these words. But she hastily corrected herself, “At least, I was.”
“Will he be there?”
She looked at him dumbly, not understanding to whom he was alluding.
“I mean the husband,” the inspector clarified hastily. “I felt sorry for the last poor chap—I mean the husband of the last one—he seemed so awfully miserable. You see, she’d been a good wife and a good mother till she took to the drink.”
“It always is so,” breathed Mrs. Bernard, her voice barely a whisper, as the weight of her secrets pressed down on her shoulders, mingling dread with a morbid sense of anticipation.
“Aye,” he said, pausing for a moment. “D’you know anyone about the court?”
She shook her head.
“Well, don’t you worry. I’ll take you in with me. You’d never get in by yourself.”
They got out, and oh, the comfort of being in someone’s charge, of having a determined man in uniform to look after one! And yet, even now, there was something dream-like, unsubstantial about the whole business to Mrs. Bernard.
“If he knew—if he only knew what I know!” she kept saying over and over again to herself as she walked lightly beside the big, burly form of the police inspector.
“’Tisn’t far—not three minutes,” he said suddenly. “Am I walking too quick for you, ma’am?”
“No, not at all. I’m a quick walker.”
They turned a corner and came upon a mass of people, a densely packed crowd of men and women, staring at a mean-looking little door sunk into a high wall.
“Better take my arm,” the inspector suggested. “Make way there! Make way!” he cried authoritatively, and he swept her through the serried ranks which parted at the sound of his voice and the sight of his uniform.
“Lucky you met me,” he said, smiling. “You’d never have gotten through alone. And ’tain’t a nice crowd, not by any manner of means.”
The small door opened just a little way, and they found themselves on a narrow stone-flagged path, leading into a square yard. A few men were out there, smoking.
Before leading her into the building that rose at the back of the yard, Mrs. Bernard’s kind new friend took out his watch. “There’s another twenty minutes before they begin,” he said. “There’s the mortuary”—he pointed with his thumb to a low room built out to the right of the court. “Would you like to go in and see them?” he whispered.
“Oh, no!” she cried, in a tone of extreme horror. He looked down at her with sympathy and increased respect. She was a nice, respectable woman, she was. She had not come here imbued with any morbid curiosity, but because she thought it her duty to do so. He suspected her of being a sister-in-law to one of The Rose Killer’s victims.
They walked through into a big room or hall, now full of men talking in subdued yet eager, animated tones.
“I think you’d better sit down here,” he said considerately, leading her to one of the benches that stood out from the whitewashed walls, “unless you’d rather be with the witnesses, that is.”
But again she said, “Oh, no!” And then, with an effort, “Oughtn’t I to go into the court now, if it’s likely to be so full?”
“Don’t you worry,” he said kindly. “I’ll see you get a proper place. I must leave you now for a minute, but I’ll come back in good time and look after you.”
She raised the thick veil she had pulled down over her face while they were going through that sinister, wolfish-looking crowd outside, and looked about her.
Many of the gentlemen—they mostly wore tall hats and good overcoats—standing around her looked vaguely familiar. She picked out one at once. He was a famous journalist, whose shrewd, animated face was familiar to her owing to the fact that it was widely advertised in connection with a preparation for the hair—the preparation which, in happier, more prosperous days, Bernard had had great faith in, and used, or so he always said, with great benefit to himself. This gentleman was the center of an eager circle; half a dozen men were talking to him, listening deferentially when he spoke, and each of these men, so Mrs. Bernard realized, was a Somebody.
How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all parts of London, from their doubtless important avocations, one unseen, mysterious beckoner had brought all these men together, to this sordid place, on this bitterly cold, dreary day. Here they were, all thinking of, talking of, evoking one unknown, mysterious personality—that of the shadowy and yet terribly real human being who chose to call himself The Rose Killer. And somewhere, not so very far away from them all, The Rose Killer was keeping these clever, astute, highly trained minds—aye, and bodies, too—at bay.
Even Mrs. Bernard, sitting there unnoticed, realized the irony of her presence among them. She, who harbored suspicions and fears that none of them could even begin to fathom, was here among the elite of London’s investigative world, drawn by a compulsion she could scarcely understand, let alone articulate.