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Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Five
A Plentiful Correspondence

If Captain Ryecroft’s sudden departure from Herefordshire brought suspicion upon him, his reappearance goes far to remove it. For that this is voluntary soon becomes known. The returned policeman has communicated the fact to his fellow-professionals, it is by them further disseminated among the people assembled outside.

From the same source other information is obtained in favour of the man they have been so rashly and gravely accusing. The time of his starting off, the mode of making his journey, without any attempt to conceal his route of travel or cover his tracks – instead, leaving them so marked that any messenger, even the simplest, might have followed and found him. Only a fool fleeing from justice would have so fled, or one seeking to escape punishment for some trivial offence. But not a man guilty of murder.

Besides, is he not back there – come of his own accord – to confront his accusers, if any there still be? So runs the reasoning throughout the crowd on the carriage sweep.

With the gentlemen inside the house, equally complete is the revolution of sentiment in his favour. For, after the first violent outburst of grief, young Shenstone, in a few whispered words, makes known to them the particulars of his expedition to Boulogne, with that interview in the house of Major Mahon. Himself convinced of his rival’s innocence, he urges his conviction on the others.

But before their eyes is a sight almost confirmatory of it. That look of concentrated anguish in Captain Ryecroft’s eyes cannot be counterfeit. A soldier who sheds tears could not be an assassin; and as he stands in bent attitude, leaning over the table on which lies the corpse, tears are seen stealing down his cheeks, while his bosom rises and falls in quick, convulsive heaving.

Shenstone is himself very similarly affected, and the bystanders beholding them are convinced that, in whatever way Gwendoline Wynn may have come by her death, the one is innocent of it as the other.

For all, justice requires that the accusations already made, or menaced, against Captain Ryecroft be cleared up. Indeed, he himself demands this, for he is aware of the rumours that have been abroad about him. On this account he is called upon by the Coroner to state what he knows concerning the melancholy subject of their enquiry.

But first George Shenstone is examined – as it were by way of skirmish, and to approach, in a manner delicate as possible, the man mainly, though doubtingly accused.

The baronet’s son, beginning with the night of the ball – the fatal night – tells how he danced repeatedly with Miss Wynn; between two sets walked out with her over the lawn, stopped, and stood for some time under a certain tree, where in conversation she made known to him the fact of her being betrothed by showing him the engagement ring. She did not say who gave it, but he surmised it to be Captain Ryecroft – was sure of its being he – even without the evidence of the engraved initials afterwards observed by him inside it.

As it has already been identified by others, he is only asked to state the circumstances under which he found it. Which he does, telling how he picked it up from the floor of the summer-house; but without alluding to his own motives for being there, or acting as he has throughout.

As he is not questioned about these, why should he? But there are many hearing him who guess them – not a few quite comprehending all. George Shenstone’s mad love for Miss Wynn has been no secret, neither his pursuit of her for many long months, however hopeless it might have seemed to the initiated. His melancholy bearing now, which does not escape observation, would of itself tell the tale.

His testimony makes ready the ground for him who is looked upon less in the light of a witness than as one accused, by some once more, and more than ever so. For there are those present who not only were at the ball, but noticed that triangular byplay upon which Shenstone’s tale, without his intending it, has thrown a sinister light. Alongside the story of Clarisse, there seems to have been motive, almost enough for murder. An engagement angrily broken off – an actual quarrel – Gwendoline Wynn never afterwards seen alive! That quarrel, too, by the water’s edge, on a cliff at whose base her body has been found! Strange – altogether improbable – that she should have drowned herself. Far easier to believe that he, her fiancé, in a moment of mad, headlong passion, prompted by fell jealousy, had hurled her over the high bank.

Against this returned current of adverse sentiment, Captain Ryecroft is called upon to give his account, and state all he knows. What he will say is weighted with heavy consequences to himself. It may leave him at liberty to depart from the spot voluntarily, as he came, or be taken from it in custody. But he is yet free, and so left to tell his tale, no one interrupting.

And without circumlocution he tells it, concealing nought that may be needed for its comprehension – not even his delicate relations to the unfortunate lady. He confesses his love – his proposal of marriage – its acceptance – the bestowal of the ring – his jealousy and its cause – the ebullition of angry words between him and his betrothed – the so-called quarrel – her returning the ring, with the way, and why he did not take it back – because at that painful crisis be neither thought of nor cared for such a trifle. Then parting with, and leaving her within the pavilion, he hastened away to his boat, and was rowed off. But, while passing up stream, he again caught sight of her, still standing in the summer-house, apparently leaning upon, and looking over, its baluster rail. His boat moving on, and trees coming between he no more saw her; but soon after heard a cry – his waterman as well – startling both.

It is a new statement in evidence, which startles those listening to him. He could not comprehend, and cannot explain it; though now knowing it must have been the voice of Gwendoline Wynn – perhaps her last utterance in life.

He had commanded his boatman to hold way, and they dropped back down stream again to get within sight of the summer-house, but then to see it dark, and to all appearance deserted.

Afterwards he proceeded home to his hotel, there to sit up for the remainder of the night, packing and otherwise preparing for his journey – of itself a consequence of the angry parting with his betrothed, and the pledge so slightingly returned.

In the morning he wrote to her, directing the letter to be dropped into the post office; which he knew to have been done before his leaving the hotel for the railway station.

“Has any letter reached Llangorren Court?” enquires the Coroner, turning from the witness, and putting the question in a general way. “I mean for Miss Wynn – since the night of that ball?”

The butler present, stepping forward, answers in the affirmative, saying —

“There are a good many for Miss Gwen since – some almost coming in every post.”

Although there is, or was, but one Miss Gwen Wynn at Llangorren, the head servant, as the others, from habit calls her ‘Miss Gwen,’ speaking of her as if she were still alive.

“It is your place to look after the letters, I believe?”

“Yes; I attend to that.”

“What have you done with those addressed to Miss Wynn?”

“I gave them to Gibbons, Miss Gwen’s lady’s-maid.”

“Let Gibbons be called again!” directs the Coroner.

The girl is brought in the second time, having been already examined at some length, and, as before, confessing her neglect of duty.

“Mr Williams,” proceeds the examiner, “gave you some letters for your late mistress. What have you done with them?”

“I took them upstairs to Miss Gwen’s room.”

“Are they there still?”

“Yes; on the dressing table, where she always had the letters left for her.”

“Be good enough to bring them down here. Bring all.”

Another pause in the proceedings while Gibbons is off after the now posthumous correspondence of the deceased lady, during which whisperings are interchanged between the Coroner and jurymen, asking questions of one another. They relate to a circumstance seeming strange; that nothing has been said about these letters before – at least to those engaged in the investigation.

The explanation, however, is given – a reason evident and easily understood. They have seen the state of mind in which the two ladies of the establishment are – Miss Linton almost beside herself, Eleanor Lees not far from the same. In the excitement of occurrences neither has given thought to letters, even having forgotten the one which so occupied their attention on that day when Gwen was missed from her seat at the breakfast table. It might not have been seen by them then, but for Gibbons not being in the way to take it upstairs as usual. These facts, or rather deductions, are informal, and discussed while the maid is absent on her errand.

She is gone but for a few seconds, returning, waiter in hand, with a pile of letters upon it, which she presents in the orthodox fashion. Counted there are more than a dozen of them, the deceased lady having largely corresponded. A general favourite – to say nothing of her youth, beauty, and riches – she had friends far and near; and, as the butler had stated, letters coming by “almost every post” – that but once a day, however, Llangorren lying far from a postal town, and having but one daily delivery. Those upon the tray are from ladies, as can be told by the delicate angular chirography – all except two, that show a rounder and bolder hand. In the presence of her to whom they were addressed – now speechless and unprotesting – no breach of confidence to open them. One after another their envelopes are torn off, and they are submitted to the jury – those of the lady correspondents first. Not to be deliberately read, but only glanced at, to see if they contain aught relating to the matter in hand. Still, it takes time; and would more were they all of the same pattern – double sheets, with the scrip crossed, and full to the four corners.

Fortunately, but a few of them are thus prolix and puzzling; the greater number being notes about the late ball, birthday congratulations, invitations to “at homes,” dinner-parties, and such like.

Recognising their character, and that they have no relation to the subject of inquiry, the jurymen pass them through their fingers speedily as possible, and then turn with greater expectancy to the two in masculine handwriting. These the Coroner has meanwhile opened, and read to himself, finding one signed “George Shenstone,” the other “Vivian Ryecroft.”

Nobody present is surprised to hear that one of the letters is Ryecroft’s. They have been expecting it so. But not that the other is from the son of Sir George Shenstone. A word, however, from the young man himself explains how it came there, leaving the epistle to tell its own tale. For as both undoubtedly bear upon the matter of inquiry, the Coroner has directed both to be read aloud.

Whether by chance or otherwise, that of Shenstone is taken first. It is headed —

“Ormeston Hall, 4 a.m., Après le bal.”

The date, thus oddly indicated, seems to tell of the writer being in better spirits than might have been expected just at that time; possibly from a still lingering belief that all is not yet hopeless with him. Something of the same runs through the tone of his letter, if not its contents, which are —

“Dear Gwen, – I’ve got home, but can’t turn in without writing you a word, to say that, however sad I feel at what you’ve told me – and sad I am, God knows – if you think I shouldn’t come near you any more – and from what I noticed last night, perhaps I ought not – only say so, and I will not. Your slightest word will be a command to one who, though no longer hoping to have your hand, will still hope and pray for your happiness. That one is, —

“Yours devotedly, if despairingly, —

“George Shenstone.

“P.S. – Do not take the trouble of writing an answer. I would rather get it from your lips; and that you may have the opportunity of so giving it, I will call at the Court in the afternoon. Then you can say whether it is to be my last visit there. – G.S.”

The writer, present and listening, bravely bears himself. It is a terrible infliction, nevertheless, having his love secret thus revealed, his heart, as it were, laid open before all the world. But he is too sad to feel it now; and makes no remark, save a word or two explanatory, in answer to questions from the Coroner.

Nor are any comments made upon the letter itself. All are too anxious as to the contents of that other, bearing the signature of the man who is to most of them a stranger.

It carries the address of the hotel in which he has been all summer sojourning, and its date is only an hour or two later than that of Shenstone’s. No doubt, at the self-same moment the two men were pondering upon the words they intended writing to Gwendoline Wynn – she who now can never read them.

Very different in spirit are their epistles, unlike as the men themselves. But, so too, are the circumstances that dictated them, that of Ryecroft reads thus: —

“Gwendoline, – While you are reading this I shall be on my way to London, where I shall stay to receive your answer – if you think it worth while to give one. After parting as we’ve done, possibly you will not. When you so scornfully cast away that little love-token it told me a tale – I may say a bitter one – that you never really regarded the gift, nor cared for the giver. Is that true, Gwendoline? If not, and I am wronging you, may God forgive me. And I would crave your forgiveness; entreat you to let me replace the ring upon your finger. But if true – and you know best – then you can take it up – supposing it is still upon the floor where you flung it – fling it into the river, and forget him who gave it.

“Vivian Ryecroft.”

To this half-doubting, half-defiant epistle there is also a postscript: —

“I shall be at the Langham Hotel, London, till to-morrow noon; where your answer, if any, will reach me. Should none come, I shall conclude that all is ended between us, and henceforth you will neither need, nor desire, to know my address.

“Y.R.”

The contents of the letter make a vivid impression on all present. Its tone of earnestness, almost anger, could not be assumed or pretended. Beyond doubt, it was written under the circumstances stated; and, taken in conjunction with the writer’s statement of other events, given in such a clear, straightforward manner, there is again complete revulsion of feeling in his favour, and once more a full belief in his innocence. Which questioning him by cross-examination fails to shake, instead strengthens; and, when, at length, having given explanation of everything, he is permitted to take his place among the spectators and mourners, it is with little fear of being dragged away from Llangorren Court in the character of a criminal.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Six
Found Drowned

As a pack of hounds thrown off the scent, but a moment before hot, now cold, are the Coroner and his jury.

But only in one sense like the dogs these human searchers. There is nothing of the sleuth in their search, and they are but too glad to find the game they have been pursuing and lost is a noble stag, instead of a treacherous wicked wolf.

Not a doubt remains in their minds of the innocence of Captain Ryecroft – not the shadow of one. If there were, it is soon to be dissipated. For while they are deliberating on what had best next be done, a noise outside, a buzz of voices, excited exclamations, at length culminating in a cheer, tell of some one fresh arrived and received triumphantly.

They are not left long to conjecture who the new arrival is. One of the policemen stationed at the door stepping aside tells who – the man after Captain Ryecroft himself most wanted. No need saying it is Jack Wingate.

But a word about how the waterman has come thither, arriving at such a time, and why not sooner. It is all in a nutshell. But the hour before he returned from the duck-shooting expedition on the shores of the Severn sea, with his boat brought back by road – on a donkey cart. On arrival at his home, and hearing of the great event at Llangorren, he had launched his skiff, leaped into it, and pulled himself down to the Court as if rowing in a regatta.

In the patois of the American prairies he is now “arrove,” and, still panting for breath, is brought before the Coroner’s Court, and submitted to examination. His testimony confirms that of his old fare – in every particular about which he can testify. All the more credible is it from his own character. The young waterman is well known as a man of veracity – incapable of bearing false witness.

When he tells them that after the Captain had joined him, and was still with him in the boat, he not only saw a lady in the little house overhead, but recognised her as the young mistress of Llangorren – when he positively swears to the fact – no one any more thinks that she whose body lies dead was drowned or otherwise injured by the man standing bowed and broken over it. Least of all the other, who alike suffers and sorrows. For soon as Wingate has finished giving evidence, George Shenstone steps forward, and holding out his hand to his late rival, says, in the hearing of all —

“Forgive me, sir, for having wronged you by suspicion! I now make reparation for it in the only way I can – by declaring that I believe you as innocent as myself.”

The generous behaviour of the baronet’s son strikes home to every heart, and his example is imitated by others. Hands from every side are stretched towards that of the stranger, giving it a grasp which tells of their owners being also convinced of his innocence.

But the inquest is not yet ended – not for hours. Over the dead body of one in social rank as she, no mere perfunctory investigation would satisfy the public demand, nor would any Coroner dare to withdraw till everything has been thoroughly sifted, and to the bottom.

In view of the new facts brought out by Captain Ryecroft and his boatman – above all that cry heard by them – suspicions of foul play are rife as ever, though no longer pointed at him.

As everything in the shape of verbal testimony worth taking has been taken, the Coroner calls upon his jury to go with him to the place where the body was taken out of the water. Leaving it in charge of two policemen, they sally forth from the house two and two, he preceding, the crowd pressing close.

First they visit the little dock, in which they see two boats – the Gwendoline and Mary– lying just as they were on that night when Captain Ryecroft stepped across the one to take his seat in the other. He is with the Coroner – so is Wingate – and both questioned give minute account of that embarkation, again in brief résumé going over the circumstances that preceded and followed it.

The next move is to the summer-house, to which the distance from the dock is noted, one of the jurymen stepping it – the object to discover how time will correspond to the incidents as detailed. Not that there is any doubt about the truth of Captain Ryecroft’s statements, nor those of the boatman; for both are fully believed. The measuring is only to assist in making calculation how long time may have intervened between the lovers’ quarrel and the death-like cry, without thought of their having any connection – much less that the one was either cause or consequence of the other.

Again there is consultation at the summer-house, with questions asked, some of which are answered by George Shenstone, who shows the spot where he picked up the ring. And outside, standing on the cliff’s brink, Ryecroft and the waterman point to the place, near as they can fix it, where their boat was when the sad sound reached their ears, again recounting what they did after.

Remaining a while longer on the cliff, the Coroner and jury, with craned necks, look over its edge. Directly below is the little embayment in which the body was found. It is angular, somewhat horse-shoe shaped; the water within stagnant, which accounts for the corpse not having been swept away. There is not much current in the backwash at any part; enough to have carried it off had the drowning been done elsewhere. But beyond doubt it has been there. Such is the conclusion arrived at by the Coroner’s jury, firmly established in their minds, at sight of something hitherto unnoticed by them. For though not in a body, individually each had already inspected the place, negligently. But now in official form, with wits on the alert, one looking over detects certain abrasions on the face of the cliff – scratches on the red sandstone – distinguishable by the fresher tint of the rock – unquestionably made by something that had fallen from above, and what but the body of Gwendoline Wynn? They see, moreover, some branches of a juniper bush near the cliff’s base, broken, but still clinging. Through that the falling form must have descended!

There is no further doubting the fact. There went she over; the only questions undetermined being, whether with her own will, by misadventure, or man’s violence. In other words, was it suicide, accident, or murder?

To the last many circumstances point, and especially the fact of the body remaining where it went into the water. A woman being drowned accidentally, or drowning herself, in the death struggle would have worked away some distance from the spot she had fallen, or thrown herself in. Still the same would occur if thrown in by another; only that this other might by some means have extinguished life beforehand.

This last thought, or surmise, carries Coroner and jury back to the house, and to a more particular examination of the body. In which they are assisted by medical men – surgeons and physicians – several of both being present, unofficially; among them the one who administers to the ailings of Miss Linton. There is none of them who has attended Gwendoline Wynn, who never knew ailment of any kind.

Their post-mortem examining does not extend to dissection. There is no need. Without it there are tests which tell the cause of death – that of drowning.

Beyond this they can throw no light on the affair, which remains mysterious as ever.

Flung back on reasoning of the analytical kind, the Coroner and his jury can come to no other conclusion than that the first plunge into the water, in whatever way made, was almost instantly fatal; and if a struggle followed it ended by the body returning to, and sinking in the same place where it first went down.

Among the people outside pass many surmises, guesses, and conjectures. Suspicions also, but no more pointing to Captain Ryecroft.

They take another, and more natural, direction. Still nothing has transpired to inculpate any one, or, in the finding of a Coroner’s jury, connect man or woman with it.

This is at length pronounced in the usual formula, with its customary tag: – “Found Drowned. But how, etc, etc.”

With such ambiguous rendering the once beautiful body of Gwendoline Wynn is consigned to a coffin, and in due time deposited in the family vault, under the chancel of Llangorren Church.