“And yet,” I answered, slowly, turning it over in my own mind; “he has run away at first. Why should he do that if he means—to commit suicide?” I hated to utter the words before that broken soul; but there was no way out of it.
Hilda interrupted me with a quiet suggestion. “How do you know he has run away?” she asked. “Are you not taking it for granted that, if he meant suicide, he would blow his brains out in his own house? But surely that would not be the Le Geyt way. They are gentle-natured folk; they would never blow their brains out or cut their throats. For all we know, he may have made straight for Waterloo Bridge,”—she framed her lips to the unspoken words, unseen by Mrs. Mallet,—“like his uncle Alfred.”
“That is true,” I answered, lip-reading. “I never thought of that either.”
“Still, I do not attach importance to this idea,” she went on. “I have some reason for thinking he has run away…elsewhere; and if so, our first task must be to entice him back again.”
“What are your reasons?” I asked, humbly. Whatever they might be, I knew enough of Hilda Wade by this time to know that she had probably good grounds for accepting them.
“Oh, they may wait for the present,” she answered. “Other things are more pressing. First, let Lina tell us what she thinks of most moment.”
Mrs. Mallet braced herself up visibly to a distressing effort. “You have seen the body, Dr. Cumberledge?” she faltered.
“No, dear Mrs. Mallet, I have not. I came straight from Nathaniel’s. I have had no time to see it.”
“Dr. Sebastian has viewed it by my wish—he has been so kind—and he will be present as representing the family at the post-mortem. He notes that the wound was inflicted with a dagger—a small ornamental Norwegian dagger, which always lay, as I know, on the little what-not by the blue sofa.”
I nodded assent. “Exactly; I have seen it there.”
“It was blunt and rusty—a mere toy knife—not at all the sort of weapon a man would make use of who designed to commit a deliberate murder. The crime, if there was a crime (which we do not admit), must therefore have been wholly unpremeditated.”
I bowed my head. “For us who knew Hugo that goes without saying.”
She leaned forward eagerly. “Dr. Sebastian has pointed out to me a line of defence which would probably succeed—if we could only induce poor Hugo to adopt it. He has examined the blade and scabbard, and finds that the dagger fits its sheath very tight, so that it can only be withdrawn with considerable violence. The blade sticks.” (I nodded again.) “It needs a hard pull to wrench it out.… He has also inspected the wound, and assures me its character is such that it might have been self-inflicted.” She paused now and again, and brought out her words with difficulty. “Self-inflicted, he suggests; therefore, that this may have happened. It is admitted—will be admitted—the servants overheard it—we can make no reservation there—a difference of opinion, an altercation, even, took place between Hugo and Clara that evening”—she started suddenly—“why, it was only last night—it seems like ages—an altercation about the children’s schooling. Clara held strong views on the subject of the children”—her eyes blinked hard—“which Hugo did not share. We throw out the hint, then, that Clara, during the course of the dispute—we must call it a dispute—accidentally took up this dagger and toyed with it. You know her habit of toying, when she had no knitting or needlework. In the course of playing with it (we suggest) she tried to pull the knife out of its sheath; failed; held it up, so, point upward; pulled again; pulled harder—with a jerk, at last the sheath came off; the dagger sprang up; it wounded Clara fatally. Hugo, knowing that they had disagreed, knowing that the servants had heard, and seeing her fall suddenly dead before him, was seized with horror—the Le Geyt impulsiveness!—lost his head; rushed out; fancied the accident would be mistaken for murder. But why? A Q.C., don’t you know! Recently married! Most attached to his wife. It is plausible, isn’t it?”