DR. SHEPPARD AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE

Mrs. Ferrars died on the night of the 16th–17th September—a Thursday. Irnwas sent for at eight o’clock on the morning of Friday the 17th. Therernwas nothing to be done. She had been dead some hours.rnrnIt was just a few minutes after nine when I reached home once more. Irnopened the front door with my latch-key, and purposely delayed a fewrnmoments in the hall, hanging up my hat and the light overcoat thatrnI had deemed a wise precaution against the chill of an early autumnrnmorning. To tell the truth, I was considerably upset and worried. I amrnnot going to pretend that at that moment I foresaw the events of thernnext few weeks. I emphatically did not do so. But my instinct told mernthat there were stirring times ahead.rnrnFrom the dining-room on my left there came the rattle of tea-cups andrnthe short, dry cough of my sister Caroline.rnrn“Is that you, James?” she called.rnrnAn unnecessary question, since who else could it be? To tell therntruth, it was precisely my sister Caroline who was the cause of my fewrnminutes’ delay. The motto of the mongoose family, so Mr. Kipling tellsrnus, is: “Go and find out.” If Caroline ever adopts a crest, I shouldrncertainly suggest a mongoose rampant. One might omit the first partrnof the motto. Caroline can do any amount of finding out by sittingrnplacidly at home. I don’t know how she manages it, but there it is. Irnsuspect that the servants and the tradesmen constitute her IntelligencernCorps. When she goes out, it is not to gather in information, but tornspread it. At that, too, she is amazingly expert.rnrnIt was really this last named trait of hers which was causing me thesernpangs of indecision. Whatever I told Caroline now concerning the demisernof Mrs. Ferrars would be common knowledge all over the village withinrnthe space of an hour and a half. As a professional man, I naturallyrnaim at discretion. Therefore I have got into the habit of continuallyrnwithholding all information possible from my sister. She usually findsrnout just the same, but I have the moral satisfaction of knowing that Irnam in no way to blame.rnrnMrs. Ferrars’ husband died just over a year ago, and Caroline hasrnconstantly asserted, without the least foundation for the assertion,rnthat his wife poisoned him.rnrnShe scorns my invariable rejoinder that Mr. Ferrars died of acuterngastritis, helped on by habitual over-indulgence in alcoholicrnbeverages. The symptoms of gastritis and arsenical poisoning are not,rnI agree, unlike, but Caroline bases her accusation on quite differentrnlines.rnrn“You’ve only got to look at her,” I have heard her say.rnrnMrs. Ferrars, though not in her first youth, was a very attractivernwoman, and her clothes, though simple, always seemed to fit her veryrnwell, but all the same, lots of women buy their clothes in Paris andrnhave not, on that account, necessarily poisoned their husbands.rnrnAs I stood hesitating in the hall, with all this passing through myrnmind, Caroline’s voice came again, with a sharper note in it.rnrn“What on earth are you doing out there, James? Why don’t you come andrnget your breakfast?”rnrn“Just coming, my dear,” I said hastily. “I’ve been hanging up myrnovercoat.”rnrn“You could have hung up half a dozen overcoats in this time.”rnrnShe was quite right. I could have.rnrnI walked into the dining-room, gave Caroline the accustomed peck on therncheek, and sat down to eggs and bacon. The bacon was rather cold.rnrn“You’ve had an early call,” remarked Caroline.rnrn“Yes,” I said. “King’s Paddock. Mrs. Ferrars.”rnrn“I know,” said my sister.rnrn“How did you know?”rnrn“Annie told me.”rnrnAnnie is the house parlormaid. A nice girl, but an inveterate talker.rnrnThere was a pause. I continued to eat eggs and bacon. My sister’s nose,rnwhich is long and thin, quivered a little at the tip, as it always doesrnwhen she is interested or excited over anything.rnrn“Well?” she demanded.rnrn“A bad business. Nothing to be done. Must have died in her sleep.”rnrn“I know,” said my sister again.rnrnThis time I was annoyed.rnrn“You can’t know,” I snapped. “I didn’t know myself until I got there,rnand I haven’t mentioned it to a soul yet. If that girl Annie knows, shernmust be a clairvoyant.”rnrn“It wasn’t Annie who told me. It was the milkman. He had it from thernFerrars’ cook.”rnrnAs I say, there is no need for Caroline to go out to get information.rnShe sits at home, and it comes to her.rnrnMy sister continued:rnrn“What did she die of? Heart failure?”rnrn“Didn’t the milkman tell you that?” I inquired sarcastically.rnrnSarcasm is wasted on Caroline. She takes it seriously and answersrnaccordingly.rnrn“He didn’t know,” she explained.rnrnAfter all, Caroline was bound to hear sooner or later. She might asrnwell hear from me.rnrn“She died of an overdose of veronal. She’s been taking it lately forrnsleeplessness. Must have taken too much.”rnrn“Nonsense,” said Caroline immediately. “She took it on purpose. Don’trntell me!”rnrnIt is odd how, when you have a secret belief of your own which you dornnot wish to acknowledge, the voicing of it by some one else will rousernyou to a fury of denial. I burst immediately into indignant speech.rnrn“There you go again,” I said. “Rushing along without rhyme or reason.rnWhy on earth should Mrs. Ferrars wish to commit suicide? A widow,rnfairly young still, very well off, good health, and nothing to do butrnenjoy life. It’s absurd.”rnrn“Not at all. Even you must have noticed how different she has beenrnlooking lately. It’s been coming on for the last six months. She’srnlooked positively hag-ridden. And you have just admitted that shernhasn’t been able to sleep.”rnrn“What is your diagnosis?” I demanded coldly. “An unfortunate lovernaffair, I suppose?”rnrnMy sister shook her head.rnrn“_Remorse_,” she said, with great gusto.rnrn“Remorse?”rnrn“Yes. You never would believe me when I told you she poisoned herrnhusband. I’m more than ever convinced of it now.”rnrn“I don’t think you’re very logical,” I objected. “Surely if a womanrncommitted a crime like murder, she’d be sufficiently cold-blooded tornenjoy the fruits of it without any weak-minded sentimentality such asrnrepentance.”rnrnCaroline shook her head.rnrn“There probably are women like that—but Mrs. Ferrars wasn’t one ofrnthem. She was a mass of nerves. An overmastering impulse drove her onrnto get rid of her husband because she was the sort of person who simplyrncan’t endure suffering of any kind, and there’s no doubt that the wifernof a man like Ashley Ferrars must have had to suffer a good deal——”rnrnI nodded.rnrn“And ever since she’s been haunted by what she did. I can’t helprnfeeling sorry for her.”rnrnI don’t think Caroline ever felt sorry for Mrs. Ferrars whilst she wasrnalive. Now that she has gone where (presumably) Paris frocks can nornlonger be worn, Caroline is prepared to indulge in the softer emotionsrnof pity and comprehension.rnrnI told her firmly that her whole idea was nonsense. I was all the morernfirm because I secretly agreed with some part, at least, of what shernhad said. But it is all wrong that Caroline should arrive at the truthrnsimply by a kind of inspired guesswork. I wasn’t going to encouragernthat sort of thing. She will go round the village airing her views, andrnevery one will think that she is doing so on medical data supplied byrnme. Life is very trying.rnrn“Nonsense,” said Caroline, in reply to my strictures. “You’ll see. Tenrnto one she’s left a letter confessing everything.”rnrn“She didn’t leave a letter of any kind,” I said sharply, and not seeingrnwhere the admission was going to land me.rnrn“Oh!” said Caroline. “So you _did_ inquire about that, did you? Irnbelieve, James, that in your heart of hearts, you think very much as Irndo. You’re a precious old humbug.”rnrn“One always has to take the possibility of suicide into consideration,”rnI said repressively.rnrn“Will there be an inquest?”rnrn“There may be. It all depends. If I am able to declare myselfrnabsolutely satisfied that the overdose was taken accidentally, anrninquest might be dispensed with.”rnrn“And are you absolutely satisfied?” asked my sister shrewdly.rnrnI did not answer, but got up from table.