“I don’t really know whether I’d any right to trespass on My Lordship’s—on Your Lordship’s time at all,” began Bredon, fighting down a growing sense of familiarity. “It was only that the landlady told us this morning you were expected to join Mottram at Chilthorpe just on the morning when he died. So we naturally thought you might have known something about his movements and his plans. When I say ‘we,’ I mean that I’m more or less working in with the police, because the Inspector down there happens to be a man I know.” (Dash it all, why was he putting all his cards on the table like this?)
“Oh, of course, I should be only too glad if I can be of any use. The newspapers have just mentioned the death as if it were an accident, but one of my priests was telling me there is a rumour in the town that the poor fellow took his own life. Well, of course, I don’t think that very probable.”
“He was quite cheerful, you mean, when you last saw him?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say cheerful, exactly; but, you see, he was always a bit of a dismal Jimmy. But he was in here one evening not a week ago; very glad to be going off for his holiday, and full of fishing plans. It was then he asked me to come down and join him just for the day. Well, there was a tempting hole in my engagement book, and there’s a useful train in the morning to Chilthorpe, so I promised I would. Then the Vicar General rang me up the last thing at night and told me about an important interview with some education person which he’d arranged behind my back. So I gave it up—one has to do what one’s told—and was meaning to telegraph to Mottram in the morning. And then this sad news came along before I had time to telegraph after all.”
“Oh, the news got here as early as that?”
“Yes, that secretary of his wired to me, Brinkman. It was kind of him to think of me, for I know the man very little. I forget the exact words he used, ‘Regret to say Mr. Mottram died last night, useless your coming,’ something of that sort.”
“Do you know if he meant to make any long stay at Chilthorpe?”
“Brinkman would be able to tell you better than I could; but I fancy they generally spent about a fortnight there every year. Mottram himself, I daresay you know, came from those parts. So far as I knew, this was to be the regular yearly visit. Honestly, I can’t think why he should have been at pains to ask me down there if there had been any idea of suicide in his mind. Of course if there was definite insanity that’s a different thing. But there was nothing about him to suggest it.”
“Do I understand that Mottram belonged to your—that Mottram was a Catholic?”
“Oh, dear no! I don’t think he was a churchgoer at all. I think he believed in Almighty God, you know; he was quite an intelligent man, though he had not had much schooling when he was young. But his friendship with us was just a matter of chance—that and the fact that his house is so close to us. He was always very kindly disposed toward us—a peculiar man, Mr. ‘Brendan,’ and a very obstinate man in some ways. He liked being in the right, and proving himself in the right; but he was broad-minded in religious matters, very.”
“You don’t think that he would have shrunk from the idea of suicide—on any moral grounds, I mean?”
“He did defend suicide in a chat we had the other day. Of course my own feeling is that by the time a man has got to the state of nerves in which suicide seems the only way out he has generally got beyond the stage at which he can really sit down and argue whether it is right or wrong. At least one hopes so. I don’t think that a person who defends suicide in the abstract is any more the likely to commit suicide for that or vice versa. Apart from grace, of course. But it’s the absence of motive, Mr. ‘Brendan.’ Why should Mottram have wanted to take his own life?”
“Well, My Lord, I’m afraid I see these things from an uncharitable angle. You see, my business is all connected with insurance; and Mottram was insured with us, and insured heavily.”
“Well, there you are, you see; you have the experience and I haven’t. But doesn’t it seem to you strange that a man in good health, who digests his meals, and has no worries, should take his own life in the hope of benefiting his heirs, whoever they may prove to be? He had no family, you must remember.”
“In good health? Then—then he didn’t mention anything to you about his life prospects?”
“I can’t say that he did; but he always seemed to me to enjoy good health. Why, was there anything wrong?”
“My Lord, I think this ought to be confidential, if you don’t mind. But since you knew him so well I think it’s only fair to mention to you that Mottram had misgivings about his health.” And he narrated the story of Mottram’s singular interview at the Indescribable offices. The Bishop looked grave when he had finished.
“Dear, dear, I’d no notion of that; no notion at all. And it’s not clear even now what was wrong with him? Well, of course that alters things. It must be a grave temptation for people who are suffering from a malignant disease, especially if it’s a painful
