# The Vanity Box/Chapter 11

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CHAPTER XI
Colonel Sir Ian Hereward, the first witness, was called by the police sergeant who guarded the door.
Probably there was not a person in the room who did not sympathize deeply with the man who had been so tragically bereaved; yet as the door opened and he walked in, curiosity was the emotion upper most in every heart. People who were acquainted with the man, or knew him by sight, vaguely expected to see him changed by the horror which had broken his life; but Ian Hereward had not been a soldier in vain. He did not totter in as if staggering under a load, nor was his head bowed, nor were his shoulders bent. He looked as he had looked many times when he had gone into battle—grave, composed, expressionless, as a man who faces an ordeal should look when watched by many eyes.
He took his place in the witness's chair. The room was very still, and the rustling of papers which the coroner rather uneasily sorted before beginning his catechism sent a sharp little thrill through highly keyed nerves.
Then the usual questions were put at the start. How old was Lady Hereward? How long had they ​lived at Friars Moat?—questions which most persons present could have answered as well as the witness. Catechised, Sir Ian told how he and his wife had been in Paris for a fortnight, and how, the day before yesterday, which was the day after their return from the Continent, they had walked together to lunch at Riding Wood House with their friend Mrs. Forestier. They had taken the way through the woods, intending to walk home also.
"Were you accustomed to walking through the woods together?" asked Mr. Samways, the coroner, who, having once been a doctor in Riding St. Mary, still lived there, and in his private capacity as a man and neighbour, knew perfectly well that Sir Ian and Lady Hereward were in the habit of walking through Riding Wood. His mind gave him the answer "Yes," before it came from the witness's lips.
"What time did you and Lady Hereward start to return to Friar's Moat?"
"About a quarter past three—or a little before."
"Have you any particular reason for remembering the time of your start?"
Sir Ian hesitated for an instant. "The weather was oppressive, and my wife preferred not to walk fast," he replied.
"Did you wish to arrive at home by a certain hour?"
"Soon after four," said Sir Ian, rather shortly.
"Was there something that Lady Hereward or you ​intended to do when you got back?" the coroner went on, and those who listened began to take a keen interest in his line of questioning, as it was evident that he had a point to make.
"We usually had tea between half-past four and five," Sir Ian said.
"Were you expecting any visitor or visitors to tea that day?"
The witness's face changed, ever so slightly; but it did change, as if the question had not been among those put to him previously by the police. The more sharp-sighted of the jurymen noticed this, and wondered if Sir Ian had perhaps not intended to mention the fact that a visitor was expected. All waited eagerly to hear a name or names, which were sure to come out and must be of interest.
"We thought it possible that there might be visitors." (Was there reluctance in his tone?)
"Several?"
"Two."
"Will you kindly give their names?"
"Is that necessary?"
(There was no longer any doubt. Sir Ian had not wished to mention the expected visit!)
"Yes, I believe it to be necessary."
"Mrs. Forestier said at luncheon, she understood that Mrs. Ricardo of White Fields meant to call with a cousin of hers, at Friars' Moat, some time after four."
​He answered quite freely now, making the best of a business which he thought bad, for he would have given much to have kept Teresina Ricardo's name out of this terrible affair, and had indeed tried to do so. But seeing that, in spite of his deliberate concealment, by some means or other the coroner was already informed of Miss Ricardo's visit, Sir Ian realized that harm rather than good would be done by refusing to answer with apparent frankness.
"You and Lady Hereward, then, started home in time to meet these ladies, should they call?"
"We did."
"Would it not have been quicker to go by carriage or motor along the road?"
14 Yes, but we had not ordered ours to come for us, and though Mrs. Forestier offered to send us home, so that we might stop a little longer, my wife said that she would like to walk."
"It was her express wish to walk?"
"Yes."
"What way did you take through the woods?"
"The path that leads by the stone Tower."
"Is that the shortest way?"
"No, it is a slight detour. It means going rather higher along the hill than there is a need to go."
"Why did you choose to make that detour, if you were in a hurry?"
​"It takes only a few minutes longer, and there is a finer view."
"Was it, then, because you desired to see the view, that you went by the upper path that leads past the Tower?"
"My wife said that she wanted to go by the Tower."
"When you reached the Tower, did you and Lady Hereward walk on together?"
"No. I went on alone."
Every eye in the room was fixed on the ex-soldier, and it seemed strange to no one that his face should pale to the ash-gray which is the only pallor a colour less, bronzed skin can show.
"Why did you leave Lady Hereward?" the merciless-seeming voice of the coroner continued. It was merciless only in seeming, however. There did not live a more kindly-natured man than little Mr. Samways, and never had he disliked doing his duty as coroner more than he disliked it to day. He knew how agonizing these memories must be to Sir Ian Hereward, whom he respected and admired. He knew how this hero of many battles must be reproaching himself because, though all unwittingly, he had gone away and left a beloved woman undefended, to meet a ghastly fate.
Again there was a slight pause before the witness answered. When he did speak, he spoke slowly, and in a low, though clear voice.
​"I left my wife because she asked me to go. She wished to be left there by herself for a little time."
It was now the coroner's turn to pause. He seemed to be thinking this response over, or else to be giving time for the jury to do so.
"Was the door of the Tower open when you were there with Lady Hereward?" was the next question that he asked.
"Not that I know of. I didn't notice. We didn't go in," replied Sir Ian.
"Do you know whether the door is usually locked
"I believe it is supposed to be locked."
"Are several people in possession of keys which fit the door?"
"Mrs. Forestier has one, of course, as the Tower is on her estate. Possibly two or three persons in her employ have them. Mrs. Forestier gave us one some years ago, with permission to have tea there if we ever cared to, knowing that my wife was fond of the view."
"Did you often use the key?"
"Hardly ever. I haven't even seen it for a long time."
"Do you think it likely that Lady Hereward had it with her, when she went out to lunch ?"
"No, not likely but possible."
"Could she have had it, without your knowing?"
"She could have kept it in a little bag she carried with her handkerchief and purse—quite a small bag, ​embroidered in beads. She sometimes put her gloves into it, too."
"Why do you think the key was not there?"
"Because—the bead bag was found, empty, and the key of the Tower door has since been discovered, here in the house."
"Where was it discovered?"
"In a room my wife used as a sitting-room."
"Her boudoir?"
"Not exactly a boudoir. She attended to all business there, as well as a sitting-room, saw the servants, indoor and outdoor servants, when necessary, and poor people who used to come and tell her their troubles, expecting her to help them. The key has been found in the drawer of her writing-desk."
"Who found it?"
"I did, with the inspector of police."
"What led you to look for it there?"
"I thought it would have been in one of those drawers if anywhere. Besides, I was obliged to—we were looking through my wife's papers."
"You have no reason to think that any one else knew where she kept this key, or could have replaced it after the murder?"
"I have no reason to think anything of the kind."
"Where exactly did you leave Lady Hereward, on parting from her in the wood?"
​"On a seat shaped out of an old tree-trunk on the left side of the Tower."
"Did she say she would soon join you ?"
"She didn't say; but I supposed she wouldn't be very long."
"Because of the expected guests?"
"Well, yes."
"Did you think it strange that she should wish you to go on and leave her alone ?"
"No. I thought it natural, in the circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
"My wife was exhausted. It was—very warm, you will remember."
"Had she ever before asked you to leave her alone in the woods?"
"She may have. She occasionally went alone to this seat near the Tower, with a book."
"May other people besides yourself have been aware of this habit of hers ?"
"It hardly amounted to a habit."
"When you arrived at Friars Moat, had your expected guests arrived?"
"Yes—that is——"
"The two ladies?"
"Only one."
"Which?"
"Miss Ricardo."
"Is she an old friend of yours and Lady Hereward's?"
​"We both knew her, years ago, when she was a very young girl, but hadn't seen her since."
"Where did you know the lady—in England?"
"My wife knew her in England, before our marriage. I met Miss Ricardo in India, when I was stationed there. Her cousin, Mrs. Ricardo, our neighbour, was to have called, but was ill with a headache, and sent Miss Ricardo alone, rather than put us out, in case we had been told that they would come."
"Did you have tea with this lady, on returning home?"
"Yes, when Miss Verney came in—my wife's companion."
"Had Miss Verney been out?"
"I believe so."
"Did you know where?"
"I think—in the woods."
"Did you ask her if she had met Lady Hereward?"
"Yes, but she said she had not."
"Did you feel anxious when Lady Hereward did not return?"
"I thought I would look for her, when Miss Ricardo had gone, and I—did so."
"You went back to the place where you had left her?"
"Yes."
Now, once more, the eager curiosity with which every one had listened to the story, as given in question ​and answer between the coroner and the witness, was overcome by a wave of sympathy for the pale man, thus led to the most terrible point in his narrative.
"Did you meet any one on the way?"
"No one."
"Or see any one at a distance?"
"I noticed no one."
"Were you absorbed in your own thoughts?"
"Perhaps."
"Could any one have passed at some distance with out your attention being aroused?"
"Possibly. I don t know."
"What did you first observe on reaching the knoll where the Tower stands?"
"When I saw that my wife wasn't on the seat where I left her, I noticed rather to my surprise that the door of the Tower stood a little way open. I thought that she might be in the room—that she'd found the door unlocked, and gone in."
"You didn't think she had unlocked it?"
"I didn't think of that, at the moment."
"What did you see when you went in?"
Sir Ian' s nostrils quivered. He tightened his lips, as if to keep them from quivering too. Then, for the first time he bowed his head, and told the story of what he had seen, with a voice that broke more than once. He told what he had seen, and what he had done; how he had run down to the home farm of ​Riding Wood, to fetch Tom Barnard, and all that had happened there. As to the details of the sight he had had to look upon in the tower room, as few questions as possible were put, for other witnesses could paint that picture. Only, at the last, the coroner desired Sir Ian to tell the jury whether he had touched the body of his dead wife, or whether he had in any way disturbed the arrangement of the tower room as he found it on entering.
"I put my hand on her breast, to see whether her heart beat," the witness answered dully, looking older and more haggard than when he had been called into the room. "I thought perhaps she might be living still. And when I found that her heart had stopped, I touched her hand. It was cold. I knew, then—there was no hope."
"Did you notice anything about her hand?"
"I noticed that her rings were gone—rings she constantly wore. And that made me look to see if her other jewelry were missing. Her bracelet-watch was gone, and a brooch she had been wearing."
"Anything else?"
"I didn't think of it then, but afterward it was discovered that a gold case, like a cigarette-case, which my wife always carried, had disappeared. Ladies call that kind of thing a vanity box."
"Could she have dropped it in the woods on the way to the Tower?"
​"She might have, but I don't think it likely, for though it used to slide off her lap sometimes, in the house, or she would leave it on a table, she always missed it instantly; and when she was walking, it hung from her wrist by its chain. It wasn't very valuable, I think; not worth more than twenty or thirty pounds, but she was particularly attached to it, for some reason."
"Had you ever seen the inside of this case, or vanity box?"
"Never."
"Could papers have been kept inside?"
"Only very small ones, if any."
"Could it have been possible that Lady Hereward had a reason other than the one she gave you, for wanting to be left alone near the Tower ?"
"Other than the one she gave me?" Sir Ian repeated this question with a very slight yet peculiar emphasis, as if he wished to mark it in some way, in his mind. "No, I do not think so."
"She could not have expected to meet any one?"
"I feel sure she did not."
"Is there any one who, to your knowledge, had a grudge against her?"
For the third time when giving an answer, Sir Ian paused. His eyes were raised, and introspective, with an expression of distress, as if he saw some ugly image in his mind. "No," he said, at last.
​"There is no one whom you could possibly suspect of having such a grudge?"
Sir Ian's pale face reddened with a sudden rush of blood which flowed over it, to the roots of his dark hair. "I do not think that a fair question," he said, "and I refuse to answer it. It ought to be enough that I know of no person who, even with a grudge, I should believe capable of murder."
"I am afraid I must insist on your answering the question," said the coroner, feeling miserable, and looking as miserable as he felt.
"Very well, then, I suspect no one," said Sir Ian.
"Remember, you are on oath."
"You have my answer." And the soldier-face was very stern and grim.
Greatly as Mr. Samways liked and admired Sir Ian Hereward, heartily sorry as he was for the ex-soldier's tragic affliction, and deeply as he regretted the official necessity of asking disagreeable questions (some of which had become necessary because of discoveries just made), he would not have been human, he would not have had a proper respect for his own calling, if he had not found himself slightly nettled by the attitude his chief witness now took. It defied him, set him at naught both as man and coroner; and as he had tried his best to be considerate throughout the whole examination, he thought that he had deserved a different tone from Sir Ian. Several details into ​which he really ought to have inquired, if only as a matter of form, he had let slide, rather than distress the bereaved husband; and there was one query in particular which he had felt bound, yet dreaded, to put. Perhaps, had Sir Ian spoken less brusquely, and looked less haughtily obstinate, he might have decided to waive it, with others, questioning later witnesses instead, as the whole county had always praised the devotion of the Herewards to one another. But as it was, feeling himself ill-used, suddenly he discovered that it was no longer so disagreeable a task to throw a certain question at Sir Ian s proud head.
"Were you invariably on affectionate terms with Lady Hereward?" he bluntly inquired.
Then, to the surprise of every one present, Sir Ian went from dark red to ghastly white. He looked as if he had been struck to the death. Not a man in the room but felt his nerves jump under the shock of a new and astounding suspicion.