EXTRAORDINARY EVIDENCE
There was no need for him to wonder what that evidence was: he knew before he began to read. The prominence given by the paper to the case was a proof of the excitement the inquiry had aroused in the public mind. At last he forced himself to read. Every word rose before his eyes as vividly as though it had been traced in letters of fire. Set down in cold print, the affair presented a very sinister aspect, so far as he was concerned. Every portion of the evidence seemed to point to himself as being the man who had committed the dastardly deed. He could well imagine what the feeling of independent persons would be who read it, and how readily they would arrive at a conclusion unfavourable to himself. He had just perused it for the second time, when he was startled by a faint tap upon the door.
“Come in,” he cried, and in response Molly entered the room.
“I have been looking for you,” she said, with the parody of a smile upon her face.
“I should have come in search of you in a few moments,” he replied. “The fact is, I have had certain things to do which could not very well be left undone. Will you forgive me, dear?”
“Of course I will,” she answered. “It is impossible for you to be always with me, and yet I am selfish enough to grudge you the time you spend upon anything else.”
He was quick-witted enough to see that what she said was only an attempt to gain time. She, on her side, knew that he stood in need of comfort, and she had come to give it to him.
“Molly,” he said, rising from the chair in which he had been sitting and going toward her, “I feel that I must tell you everything. God knows, this is the crisis of my life, and to whom should I turn in my sorrow, if not to the woman I love, and whom I know loves me? Have you read the account of the inquest in the papers?”
“No,” she answered, “I would not read it, lest I should derive a false impression from it. I am quite willing to hear what you have to say about it, and to accept your version as the truth.”
“God bless you, dear, for your trust in me!” he replied; “but it is necessary that you should hear what other people have to say upon the matter. Read it carefully, and, when you have finished, tell me what you think about it.”
He gave her the paper, and for a moment she stood as if undecided.
“Do you really wish it?” she asked.
“It is better that you should do so, believe me,” he said. “In that case, no one can say that I kept anything back from you.”
“I will read it,” she said, and went toward the window-seat to do so.
While she was reading, he stood before the fire and watched her. He noticed the poise of the beautiful head, the sweet hands holding the paper, on one finger of which sparkled the engagement ring he had given her, and the tiny foot just peeping from beneath the dark green skirt. She was a woman worth fighting all the world for, and, as he reflected how easy it would be for false evidence to separate them, he experienced a fear such as he had never known in his life before.
When she had finished, she crossed the room with the paper in her hand. Deliberately folding it up and laying it upon the table, she went to him, and placed her hands in his. Looking up into his face with trustful eyes, she said:
“I told you yesterday, Godfrey, that I believed in you. I tell you again, that, whatever the world may say with regard to this dreadful affair, it will make no difference in my love. I feel as convinced as I am of anything that, by whatever means, or at whose hand, that poor girl met her death, you were in no sort of way responsible for, or connected with it. You believe me, don’t you?”
“I do,” he answered, with tears in his eyes. “And I thank God for your trust. Do you know, yesterday I suggested to your father that, situated as we are, it would be better if I were to give you back your freedom until my innocence is proved?”
“I would not take it,” she answered, firmly. “When I gave myself to you, it was not to be your bride in fair weather alone; it was to be your partner in the rough seas of life as well as in the smooth. No, come what may, Godfrey, I will not let you give me up. Promise me that you will never mention such a thing again? It hurts me even to think of it.”
“Your mind is made up?”
“Quite made up,” she answered. “I should not change, even if you were what—(here she shuddered)—what that paper would seem to suggest. No, darling, I am your wife, if not in the law, at least in God’s sight.”
“I thank you,” he answered, earnestly. “The knowledge that you still trust me will be my most precious consolation.”
“And now tell me of this Mr. Codey, the lawyer you have employed. Is he a clever man?”
“One of the cleverest in the land, I should say,” Godfrey replied. “He has had great experience in these sort of cases, and, if any man can render me assistance, I should say he is that one.”
“Oh, how thankful I shall be,” she said, “when everything is settled! How little we dreamt, when we were so happy together last week, that within a few days we should be made so miserable! Perhaps, after all, it is only our love being tried in the crucible of trouble. And when it is over, and we have come out of it, we shall know each other’s real worth. That is the best way to look at it, I think.”
“Quite the best,” he answered, and kissed her on the forehead.
Then, adopting a brighter tone, he suggested that they should go for a walk together, in order, if possible, to dispel, for the time being at least, the dark clouds that had settled upon them. It was a clear, bright morning, and as they crossed the park, and mounted the hillside toward the plantation, where the rabbits were playing, and the pheasants, who of late had not received the attention their merits deserved, were strutting about on the open grass land, Godfrey found it difficult to believe that the situation was really as desperate as he imagined. Their walk lasted for upward of two hours; indeed, it was nearly lunch-time before they reached the house once more. When they did, Molly went upstairs to her room to prepare herself for luncheon, while Godfrey made his way to his mother’s sitting room, where he found the old lady quietly knitting by the fire.
“Thank goodness you have come in at last, dear!” said Mrs. Henderson. “I have been wanting so much to have a talk with you! Godfrey, I have read the evidence given at the inquest, and it frightens me.”
“I am sorry for that, mother,” he said, seating himself by her side. “What do you think of it?”
She placed her hand upon his arm, and looked at him with her loving eyes.
“I think my boy is too noble to have done anything of which his mother would have had reason to be ashamed.”
Godfrey rose from his chair and walked to the window. These constant proofs of the love in which he was held was unmanning him. He could not trust himself to speak. When his own little world believed in him so implicitly, how could the greater world be so censorious?
When they went into luncheon, Godfrey soon saw that the ancient butler and his subordinate had become aware of the state of affairs. Attentive to his wants as they always were, on this particular occasion, they were even more so than usual. It was as if they were endeavouring in their own kindly way to show that they too believed in him, and were desirous of proving their sympathy with him. Never before had his own home struck him in the same light. His heart was too full for speech, and, in spite of his sister’s well-meant attempt to promote conversation, the meal passed almost in silence.
After luncheon the bailiff sent in word that he should like to speak to him. The man was accordingly admitted to the smoking-room, where he discussed various matters connected with the estate with his master for upward of an hour. Labouring as he was, under the weight of greater emotions, Godfrey found it difficult to pin his attention to the matters at issue, and when the other went his way, after respectfully touching his forelock, for the first time since he had known the old fellow, he heaved a sigh of relief. At half-past four he joined the ladies in the drawing-room for afternoon tea. To add to his pain, another consignment of wedding presents had arrived, and in order that he should not be thought to be unduly nervous about the future, he was compelled to appear delighted with the attentions he had received from his friends.
“That makes the fifth pair of asparagus tongs we have received,” said Molly, as she closed the case and placed it with its fellows upon the table. “And what is this? Well, I declare, it’s another set of sweet dishes. That brings the number up to twenty-seven!”
At that moment the sound of carriage wheels outside reached them, followed, a few seconds later, by the ringing of the front door-bell.
“Visitors, I suppose,” said Kitty. “It may be rude, but I must say that I trust it is not the vicar.”
They waited in suspense until Williamson, the butler, entered the room and informed Godfrey that a gentleman had called to see him, and was waiting in the library.
“Who is it?” Godfrey asked. “Did he not give his name?”
“His name is Tompkins, sir,” the butler replied. “He said he should be glad if you could spare the time to see him for a few moments.”
“I will do so at once,” said Godfrey, and, asking the ladies to excuse him, left the room.
On entering the library, he found himself face to face with a middle-aged individual, who at first glance resembled a sporting parson. He was dressed in black, and carried a black silk hat in his hand.
“What can I do for you?” Godfrey inquired. “I am not aware that I have ever seen you before.”
“Very likely not, sir,” the man replied. “My name is Tompkins, and I am a Scotland Yard detective. I hold a warrant for your arrest on a charge of wilfully murdering Teresina Cardi in Burford Street on the night of Thursday last. I had better tell you that anything you may say will be used against you.”
The blow had fallen at last!
[CHAPTER XI]
For some moments Godfrey stood looking at the man who had come down from town to arrest him, as if he were stunned. Though he had half expected it, now that the blow had fallen he seemed scarcely able to appreciate his position. At last, with an effort, he recovered his self-possession.
“You may be able to imagine what a very unhappy mistake this is for me,” he said to the detective. “But I have no wish to complain to you; you are only doing your duty. Where is it you desire to take me?”
“We must go up to town to-night,” said the man, civilly enough. “As you may remember, sir, the adjourned inquest is to be held to-morrow morning, and it will be necessary for you to be present.”
“In that case we had better catch the 6.10 train from Detwich. It is an express and gets to Euston at eight. Is your cab waiting, or shall I order one of my own carriages to take us?”
“I told the man to wait,” the other replied. “He is a station cabman.”
“In that case, if you will allow me, I will tell my servant to put up a few things for me. I suppose I shall be allowed to take them?”
“There is no objection to it.”
Godfrey rang the bell, and, when the butler appeared in answer to it, bade him tell his man that he intended going up to London at once, and that he wanted his bag prepared without a moment’s delay. Then, with a fine touch of sarcasm, he added: “Tell him also that I shall not require my dress clothes.”
The detective smiled grimly. It was a joke he could appreciate; he also liked the other’s pluck in being able to jest at such a time.
“That’s the thing with these swells,” he said to himself. “They never know when they’re beaten.”
“In the meantime,” said Godfrey, “I suppose you will permit me to say good-bye to my family? I will give you my word, if you deem it necessary, that I will make no attempt to escape.”
“I will trust you, sir,” said the man. “I know it’s hard lines on you, and I want to make it as pleasant for you as I can, provided, of course, you don’t get me into hot water.”
“I will endeavour not to do that,” said Godfrey. “And now I’ll go to the drawing-room. If you think it necessary you can wait in the hall.”
“No, sir, thank you. I am quite comfortable here,” said the man; “but I shouldn’t make the interview longer than I could help if I were you. These things are always a bit trying for the ladies. I know it, because I’ve seen it so often.”
Having ordered a glass of brandy and water for him, the man’s favourite tipple, and handing him an illustrated paper, Godfrey left him and returned to the drawing-room. He had an agonizing part to play, and he wanted to spare his women folk as much pain as possible. As he entered the room they looked up at him with startled faces.
“What is it, Godfrey? What is it?” asked his mother, while the two girls waited for him to speak.
“It is a man from London who has come down to see me with regard to the murder,” Godfrey began, scarcely knowing how to break the news to them. “It appears that the authorities are desirous of seeing me prior to the inquest to-morrow, and so I am going up to-night.”
“Godfrey,” cried his mother, springing to her feet and running toward him, “I see it all. They have arrested you on a charge of murder! Oh, my boy, my boy, I can not let you go! They shall not take you away.”
“It is only a matter of form, mother,” he said, soothingly. “On the face of yesterday’s evidence, they could do nothing else. All well, I shall be down again to-morrow. It is only a little temporary inconvenience; for my lawyer, who is one of the cleverest men of his profession, feels certain that he can disprove the charge.”
“It is monstrous even to suspect you of it,” said Kitty. “If they only knew you, they would not dare even to hint at such a thing.”
Molly said nothing. But he knew what her thoughts were.
“I must send a note to your father, dear,” he said. “He anticipated this and made me promise to communicate with him directly it should come to pass.”
He thereupon went to a writing-table in the corner of the room and wrote a hurried note to Sir Vivian, after which he rang the bell and gave orders that it should be taken to the Court without a moment’s delay.
“Now,” he said, when he had examined his watch and found that it was nearly half-past five, “I must bid you good-bye. Do not be anxious about me. I am proudly conscious of my own innocence, and I feel sure that, by this time to-morrow, the public will be aware of it also.”
But his mother was not to be comforted. She clung to him with the tears streaming down her cheeks, as if she could not let him go.
“Mother dear,” said Kitty, “you must be brave. Think of Godfrey, and don’t send him away more unhappy than he is.”
“I will be brave,” she said, and drew his face down to hers and kissed him. “Good-bye, my dear boy. May God in His mercy bless you and send you safely back to us!”
When Kitty had kissed him, she drew her mother back into the ingle nook in order that Godfrey and Molly might say good-bye to each other in private.
Then Godfrey took Molly in his arms.
“Good-bye, my own dearest,” she said. “I shall pray for you continually. Night and day you will be in my thoughts.”
He could not answer her, but kissed her passionately. Then, disengaging himself from her embrace, he left the room.
Returning to the library, he informed the detective that he was at his disposal, at the same time telling him that, if they desired to catch the 6.10 at Detwich, they had no time to lose.
“We had better be going, then,” said the man, and leaving the library they proceeded into the hall. Godfrey’s bag had already been placed in the cab, and the gray-haired old butler, Williamson, was standing at the foot of the stairs holding the door open.
“Good-bye, Williamson,” said Godfrey. “I know that I can safely leave everything in your hands.”
“You can, sir,” the man replied, simply; and then for the first time in his life he allowed himself to become familiar with his master, and laying his hand on his arm he added, “May God bless you, sir, and send you back to us soon!”
Then the cab rolled away down the drive, and Godfrey’s journey to prison had commenced.
For the greater part of the drive into Detwich neither of them spoke. One had too much upon his mind to be in the humour for conversation, while the other, who was sorry for his prisoner, and who knew a gentleman when he saw one, had no desire to thrust himself upon him in his trouble. As it happened when they reached the station they found that they had some minutes to spare. They accordingly strolled up and down the platform, while they awaited the coming of the express. On its arrival they secured an empty compartment, and settled down for the journey to London. When Euston was reached they took a cab and drove direct to Bow Street, where Godfrey Henderson, of Detwich Hall, Detwich, was formally charged with the wilful murder of Teresina Cardi, artist’s model. The usual forms having been complied with, he was placed in a somewhat superior apartment in another portion of the building. Then the key was turned upon him, and for the first time in his life was a prisoner.
Early next morning it was announced that two gentlemen had arrived to see him. They proved to be Sir Vivian Devereux and Mr. Codey, the lawyer.
“My dear lad, this is indeed a sad business,” said Sir Vivian, as they shook hands. “I can not tell you how sorry I am for you. But, thank God, we know you to be innocent and are determined to prove it.”
They sat down, and the lawyer, who had been looking round the room, which doubtless he had seen on many previous occasions, began to ply him with questions, which Godfrey answered to the best of his ability. When they had withdrawn, he was left to himself until the time arrived for him to set off for the coroner’s court. When he did so, it was in a cab with a couple of stout policemen beside him to see that he made no attempt to escape. On reaching it, he found that it was packed to overflowing. Victor Fensden was there, seated in the space reserved for the witnesses, but Sir Vivian noticed that he avoided meeting Godfrey’s eyes. With one exception, the proceedings proved comparatively tame. It was only when the hall porter referred to Godfrey’s haggard appearance when he returned to the hotel on the Thursday night, that there was anything approaching excitement. He deposed that Mr. Henderson, who had been staying at the hotel, and whom he now recognised as being in Court, returned to the hotel on the night of the murder between a quarter-past and half-past twelve. He, the porter, was immediately struck by his strange appearance. In reply to a question put by a juror, he replied that he looked very much as if he had been upset by something; his face was deadly white, and he had an anxious, what he should call frightened, look in his eyes. At the other’s request, he had procured him some brandy, and, as he had had some trouble next morning with the head waiter about it, the fact was the more vividly impressed upon his memory. The cabman who had driven them from the Strand to Burford Street was next called. In answer to questions put to him, he stated that, when he was hailed by the person now in court, the deceased woman seemed very reluctant to enter the cab. But the other had at last prevailed upon her to do so, and he had driven them to the house in the street in question. He had identified the body, and could swear as to the identity of the person in court. The police-constable, who had passed a few minutes before he bade Teresina good-night, was next examined. He remembered seeing them together, and thought it a strange place for a gentleman to be in at such a time. His attention was drawn to them because the girl was crying, while the gentleman seemed somewhat excited. Feeling that, as he was not appealed to, he had no right to interfere, he passed on down the street. In answer to the coroner’s inquiry, he was unable to say whether or not the man entered the house.
Ten minutes later a verdict of wilful murder against Godfrey Henderson was returned, and he was committed for trial on the coroner’s warrant.
Instead of returning to Bow Street from the coroner’s court, Godfrey was now driven to Holloway Prison, where he was placed in an ordinary cell. His spirits by this time had fallen to as low an ebb as it would be possible for those of a human being to reach. What had he done to deserve this cruel fate? He was not conscious of ever having done any one an injury; he had always done his best to help his fellow-men. Why, therefore, was he brought so low? He thought of Molly, and pictured her feelings when she should hear that he was committed for trial. He could imagine his mother’s despair and could almost hear poor, sorrowing Kitty vainly endeavouring to comfort her.
During the afternoon Sir Vivian and Mr. Codey came to see him again. The former was very plainly distressed; the latter, however, regarded matters in a somewhat more stoical light. He had seen the same things so many times before, that he had become in a certain measure hardened to it. In all the cases upon which he had hitherto been engaged, however, he had never had one in which the prisoner was a country gentleman, besides being an artist of considerable repute. “You must not give way, Mr. Henderson,” he said, kindly. “There’s plenty of time yet for us to prove your innocence. Doubtless, when this is all over and you are free once more, you will regard it as a very unpleasant experience, certainly, but one which might very easily have been worse. Now, with your permission, I will tell you what I have done. In the first place, we must endeavour to find the real murderer. Only a trained hand could do this, so I have engaged a man with whom I have had a great many dealings in the past. He is a private detective of an unusual kind, and has a knack of securing information which neither the Government men nor the private agents seem to possess. He will be expensive, but I suppose you will have no objection to paying him well for his services, if he is successful, as I trust he will be.”
“You may be quite sure I shall have no objection,” said Godfrey. “Let him get me out of this scrape, and I’ll pay him double, even treble, his usual charges.”
“Oh, he won’t bleed you as much as that,” returned the lawyer. “He is below now, and if you care to see him, I will obtain permission for him to come up.”
The necessary authority being forthcoming, Codey presently returned, accompanied by a burly, rosy-cheeked individual, who might very well have been the landlord of a well-to-do country inn or a farmer in a prosperous way of business. A more jovial countenance could scarcely have been discovered, had one searched England through for it. Merely to look at it was to be made to feel happy, while to hear his laugh was to be put in a good humour for the remainder of the day. He was dressed in a suit of tweeds, more than a trifle pronounced as to colour, a knitted blue waistcoat covered his portly, bow-windowed presence, while he wore a spotted blue and white tie, decorated with a large diamond pin. His feet and hands were enormous, and when he laughed—which he did on every available opportunity—his whole figure seemed to quiver like a blanc mange.
“This is Jacob Burrell, Mr. Henderson,” said the lawyer, when the door had closed on them. “I have told him that you wish him to take up your case, and he is prepared to do so without delay.”
“I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Burrell,” said Godfrey. “Mr. Codey has told me of your cleverness. If you can discover who it was who actually murdered the poor girl, you will not only relieve me from a position of considerable danger, but you will lay me under an everlasting obligation to yourself.”
“I’ll do the best I can, sir,” said the man, jovially, rubbing his hands together, as if he regarded the whole affair as a huge joke. “As Mr. Codey may have told you, I have unravelled pretty tangled skeins in my day, and it won’t be my fault if I don’t do the same here. Now, sir, Mr. Codey, who knows my ways of work, has given me an outline of the case, but if you don’t mind, I should like to put a few questions to you on my own account.”
“Ask me whatever you please,” said Godfrey, “and I will answer to the best of my ability.”
Burrell seated himself opposite Godfrey, placed one enormous hand on either knee, and looked the other full in the face.
“Now, sir, in the first place, when you had your old studio in London, before you inherited your present estate, and when you first engaged the girl, can you remember who were your intimate friends? I mean, the friends who were in the habit of dropping into your studio pretty frequently, to smoke their pipes, and perhaps to take a friendly glass?”
Godfrey considered for a moment.
“I had not very many friends in those days,” he answered at last. “I was a hard worker, and for that reason didn’t encourage men to waste my time. Besides, I was only a struggling artist, and couldn’t afford to entertain very much.”
“But there must have been some men who came in. Think, sir, and try to recollect. It’s an important point.”
“Well, of course, there was my friend, Mr. Fensden, who practically lived with me. He used my studio whenever he had anything to do.”
“He is the gentleman who gave the damaging evidence against you on Monday, is he not?”
“He is! Then there was a Mr. Bourke, a leader writer on the Daily Record.”
“I know Mr. Bourke,” said the detective. “We may dismiss him from the case at once.”
“Then there was an artist named Halliday, who occasionally dropped in, but he is now in Dresden.”
“When did he go?”
“Nearly two months before I went abroad myself,” Godfrey answered. “I think I have given you the list of my friends. I can remember no more.”
“Now, sir, that box, in which the hands were sent, had you ever seen it before?”
“No,” said Godfrey; “I am quite certain I had not.”
“When you came home from Egypt, did you make any purchases in Naples?”
“None at all. I was only there one night.”
“Now, sir, I am given to understand that your friend, Mr. Fensden, induced you to go abroad for the reason that he feared you were falling in love with your model. On what sort of terms was Mr. Fensden himself with the girl in question?”
“On very friendly terms,” said Godfrey.
“Was he in love with her, do you think?”
“I am certain he was not,” Godfrey replied, shaking his head. “I do not think he would ever be in love with anybody.”
“And you are quite sure that he saw nothing of the girl from the day he bade her good-bye in your studio, until Monday, when he inspected her dead body in the mortuary?”
“I am sure of it,” Godfrey answered.
“And when did he return to England, for I understand he has been abroad until lately?”
“On Thursday morning. I met him at the Mahl Stick Club an hour or two after his return from Paris.”
“Now, sir, one other question, and the last. The girl, I understand, told you that she was married, and refused to say to whom. I have had an opportunity of examining the wedding-ring from her finger. Somewhat to my surprise, I found that it was of Austrian make. Now, how does it come about that a girl living in Naples should be married with an Austrian wedding-ring? It was, moreover, an expensive one. What I want to know is, was the young woman ever in Vienna?”
“Never, to the best of my belief,” said Godfrey. “At any rate she never told me so.”
“Now, sir, there’s one point I want to clear up, and when I have done that, I sha’n’t be at all certain that I haven’t got the key to the whole mystery. Is it only a singular coincidence, do you think, that Teresina Cardi, your old model, wore a wedding-ring of Austrian make, and that the box in which her hands were sent to you the other day should bear the label of a well-known Vienna firm?”
He chuckled and rubbed his hands together, as he put this question to Godfrey.
“It certainly seems singular,” said the latter; “but why should not the ring have been purchased in Naples, even if it were of Austrian make?”
“There is not the least reason why it should not, but the coincidence is worth remarking. Now, sir, I shall leave you to think over what I have said. I shall telegraph to Naples and Vienna, and meanwhile endeavour to find out who it was handed the box in at Euston. Allow me to wish you good-day, gentlemen.”
They returned his salutations, after which he went away, leaving one little ray of hope behind him.
“A most remarkable man that!” said Codey, appreciatively, when the door was once more closed. “He will follow the trail now like a sleuth-hound. In the meantime, Mr. Henderson, I can not promise you anything very hopeful for to-morrow. I shall apply to the magistrate for a remand in order to give Burrell more time to look about him. I shall keep in touch with him, you may be sure. I have retained Alfred Rolland as counsel for you. He and I have often worked together, and I don’t think you could have a better man.”
“I place myself in your hands unreservedly,” said Godfrey. “Do whatever you think best, and spare no expense. I have others besides myself to think of in this matter.”
“You have indeed, poor souls!” said Sir Vivian. “I shall go down to-night, and try to reassure them, and come up again first thing in the morning.”
When they left him, half-an-hour later, Godfrey sat himself down on his bed and resigned himself to his own miserable thoughts. What enemy had he who hailed from Vienna? He could think of no one among the circle of his acquaintances who had ever been there. Certainly no one who would be likely to do him such an irreparable wrong. After that he thought of his dear ones at home, and broke down completely. His supper was sent away untouched. He felt as though he could not have swallowed a mouthful, even had his life depended on it. At last he retired to bed, but not to rest. When he rose next morning, he felt older by a dozen years.
“This will never do,” he said to himself. “If I go on like this, people will begin to think from my appearance that I am guilty. No, they shall see that I am not afraid to look any man in the face.”
Then the door was unlocked, and he was informed that it was time to set off for the magistrate’s court.
[CHAPTER XII]
The preliminary investigation before the magistrate calls for but little comment. The evidence was, with but few exceptions, that which had been given before the coroner on the Monday and Wednesday preceding. If it were remarkable for anything it was for the number of spectators in the Court. The building, in which the coroner’s inquiry had been conducted, had been crowded, but the police-court was packed, not with the poorly-clad spectators which one usually meets and associates with that miserable place, but by well-dressed and even aristocratic members of society. When Godfrey recovered from his first feeling of shame at finding himself in such a place and in such a position, and looked about him, he recognised several people whom he had once accounted his friends, but who had now schemed and contrived by every means in their power, to obtain permission to watch, what they thought would amount to his degradation and final extinction. Pulling himself together he gazed boldly around him, and more than one person there told himself or herself that a man who could look at one like that could never be guilty of such a crime as murder. Mr. Rolland, the counsel who had been retained by Codey for the defence, was a tall, handsome man, and of others, little above middle-age. He was the possessor of a bland, suave manner which had the faculty of extracting information from the most unwilling and reluctant witnesses. Near him sat Mr. Codey himself, keen-eyed and on the alert for anything that might tend to his client’s advantage. The curiosity of the visitors was not destined, however, to be gratified, for, when certain of the witnesses had been examined, the case was adjourned for a week, and Godfrey returned to Holloway by the way he had come.
How the next seven days passed Godfrey declares he is unable to tell, but at last that weary week came to an end, and once more he stood in the crowded Court. At first glance it looked, if such a thing were possible, as if more people had been squeezed into the building than on the previous occasion. The fashionable world was as well represented as before, while this time there were even more ladies present than had hitherto been the case. The cabman who had driven the pair to Burford Street was examined and repeated his former evidence. He was subjected to a severe cross-examination by Mr. Rolland, but his testimony remained unshaken. The police-constable, who had seen them together outside the house, also repeated his tale. He was quite certain, he assured the Court, that the woman in question was crying as he passed them. At the same time he was not sure whether or not the prisoner was speaking angrily to her. When he left the witness-box Victor Fensden took his place. He described the life in the studio before Godfrey left England, and repeated the story of the attempt he had made to induce him to break off his relations with the girl. When the prosecution had done with him Mr. Rolland took him in hand and inquired what reason he had for supposing that his client had ever felt any affection for the deceased woman.
“Because he himself told me so,” Fensden returned unblushingly. “I pointed out to him the absurdity of such a thing, and was at last successful in inducing him to accompany me abroad.”
“You parted where?”
“In Port Said. I went on to Palestine, while he returned to Naples.”
“En route to England?”
“I believe so.”
“On what day did you yourself reach London?”
“On the day of the murder.”
“When did you next see the prisoner?”
“He lunched with me at the Mahl Stick Club on the same day.”
“That will do,” said Mr. Rolland, somewhat to the surprise of the Court. “I have no further questions to ask you.”
It was at this point that the great sensation of the day occurred. When Fensden had taken his place once more, Detective-sergeant Gunson was called, and a tall, handsome man, with a short, brown beard entered the box. He stated that his name was Gunson, and that he was a member of the Scotland Yard detective force. Two days previous, accompanied by Detective-sergeant McVickers, he had paid a visit to the prisoner’s residence, Detwich Hall, in the county of Midlandshire. They had made a systematic search of the building, with the result that, hidden away behind a bookcase in the studio, they had discovered a long knife of Oriental workmanship and design. The blade was of razor-like sharpness, and was covered with certain dark stains. He found nothing else of an incriminating nature. Detective-sergeant McVickers was next called, who corroborated his companion’s evidence.
Dr. Bensford, an analytical chemist and lecturer at the Waterloo Hospital, stated that he was instructed by the Home Secretary to make an examination of the marks upon the knife in question, now produced, and had arrived at the conclusion that they were the stains of human blood. (Great sensation in Court.)
So overwhelming was the shock to Godfrey, that for a moment he neither heard nor saw anything. A ghastly faintness was stealing over him and the Court swam before his eyes. With a mighty effort, however, he pulled himself together and once more faced the Court. He looked at Sir Vivian and saw that the baronet’s face had suddenly become very pale.
“Good Heavens!” he thought to himself, “will he suspect me also?”
The analyst having left the box, Victor Fensden was recalled, and the knife handed to him. He took it in his daintily gloved hand and examined it carefully.
“Have you ever seen that knife before?” asked the prosecution.
Victor hesitated a moment before he replied.
“No,” he answered, as if with an effort.
“Think again,” said his examiner. “Remember that this is a court of justice, and it behooves you to speak the truth. Where did you see that knife before?”
Once more Victor hesitated. Then in a somewhat louder voice he said:
“In Egypt. In Cairo.”
“To whom does it belong?”
“To Mr.—I mean to the prisoner. I was with him when he purchased it.”
A greater sensation than ever was produced by this assertion. Godfrey leaned forward on the rail of the dock and scrutinized the witness calmly.
“Your Worship,” he said, addressing the magistrate, “with all due respect I should like to be allowed to say that I have never seen that knife in my life before.”
The prosecution having finished their case, Mr. Rolland addressed the Bench. He pointed out how entirely improbable it was that a gentleman of Mr. Henderson’s character and position would commit a murder of such a cowardly nature. He commented on the fact that it would have been impossible, had he even desired to do such a thing, for him to have committed the crime and have walked from Burford Street to his hotel in Piccadilly in the time counted from the moment he was seen by the police officer to the time of his arrival at his hotel. Moreover, he asked the magistrate to consider the question as to whether a man who had committed such a dastardly deed would have been likely to send the mutilated remains to himself as a wedding present. It was useless for him, however, to argue, the magistrate had already made up his mind, and Godfrey was therefore not surprised when he found himself committed to stand for his trial at the next Criminal Sessions, to be held in a month’s time. Bowing to the magistrate, he left the dock, entered the cab that was waiting for him in the yard, and was driven away to Holloway.
“It was the finding of that knife that did it,” said Mr. Codey reproachfully, when he next saw him. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me that it was hidden there?”
“Because I did not know it myself,” Godfrey replied. “When I told the magistrate that I had never seen it before, it was the truth. I did not buy a knife in Cairo, so how could I have brought one home with me?”
“But who could have placed it behind the bookcase, if you did not?” asked the lawyer.
“That is more than I can say,” said Godfrey simply.
“Look here, Mr. Henderson,” said Codey sharply, “I have met a good many unsuspicious men in my time, but I don’t think I have ever met one so unsuspicious as you are. I have a list of all the people in your house at the moment when that box arrived. Let us run it over. There was your mother, your sister, and your fiancée, Miss Devereux. As our friend Burrell would say, they may be dismissed from the case without delay. Your butler and footman are old family servants, as are the housekeeper, the cook, and the head parlour-maid. They may also be dismissed. The remainder of the household would be scarcely likely to possess a knife of that description, so we will dismiss them also. There remains only yourself and Mr. Fensden. You declare you are innocent, and we will presume that you are. Now, Mr. Fensden, by his evidence has placed you where you are. That is certain. You say that he lied as to the fact of your being in love with the woman who is dead, and also when he said that you purchased the knife in Cairo. You say that he came to stay with you on the day that the murder was discovered—why should he not have placed it behind the bookcase, in order that it should be another incriminating point against you?”
“I can not believe that he would do such a thing,” said Godfrey. “He would not be so base.”
“I am not so sure of it,” said the astute lawyer. “What is more, I made a curious discovery to-day. The man in question pretends to be your friend. He gives his evidence with reluctance. Yet I noticed that when that knife was produced his face betrayed neither surprise nor emotion. Had he had your interests at heart, would he have been so callous? Answer me that! Now you have my reasons for arguing that he knew where the knife was, and also the man who had placed it there.”
“The suspicions you suggest are too horrible,” said Godfrey, rising and pacing the cell. “What possible reason could he have for doing me such an injury?”
“One never knows. There are some men who hate the man who is supposed to be their best friend, either because he, the friend, has been successful in money-making, in love, or perhaps he presumes him to be happier than himself. You are rich; he is poor. You have been successful in your profession; he has been a failure. His hatred, like hundreds, might have begun with jealousy and have terminated in this. I have known more unlikely things.”
“In that case what am I to do?”
“Leave it to me and to Burrell to arrange. If things were not going right, my experience teaches me that that astute gentleman would have shown signs of dissatisfaction before now. He has got his nose on the trail, you may be sure, and if I know anything about him, he will not leave it for a moment.”
“But do you think he will be able to prove my innocence?” asked Godfrey.
“All in good time, my dear sir, all in good time,” said the lawyer. “With me for your lawyer (pardon the boast), Rolland for your counsel, Dick Horsden and Braithwaite with him, and Burrell for the ferret that is to make the rabbits bolt, you could not be better served. For my own part, I wouldn’t mind making you a bet—and as a rule I am not a man who gambles—that the last-named gentleman has already acquired sufficient information to secure your return to Detwich with an unblemished character.”
“Then do so by all means,” said Godfrey. “I will take it with the greatest pleasure in the world.”
“Very well then,” answered the lawyer. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ve a junior clerk who has the making of a man in him, but who is in consumption. The doctors tell me that, unless he is sent for a long sea voyage to the other side of the world, he will not live a year. I have promised to send him to the South Seas, and, if you like, this shall be our bet: If you get off scot-free, you pay all his expenses—something like five hundred pounds—and also give him five hundred pounds to go on with. If you don’t, then I pay. Will you agree to that?”
“With all the pleasure in the world,” Godfrey replied.
“Then it’s settled. And now I must be going. Good-bye.”
They shook hands, and then the lawyer took his departure, leaving Godfrey happier than he had been for some time past.
The month that separated the magistrate’s inquiry from the Sessions at the Old Bailey seemed to Godfrey like an eternity. Day after day crept slowly by, with but little, if anything, to relieve the monotony. He took his daily exercise, kept his cell in spotless order, received visits from the lawyer, who came to report progress, and from Sir Vivian, who brought messages of hope and encouragement from the folk at home.
On one red-letter day he was informed that visitors had arrived to see him, and he was accordingly conducted to the room where he had on several occasions interviewed his lawyer. The warder opened the door and he entered, to be nearly overwhelmed by surprise. Standing by her father’s side, at the farther end of the room, and waiting to receive him, was no less a person than Molly herself. She ran forward and threw herself into his arms.
“Molly, Molly,” he faltered, “what does this mean? Why are you here? You should not distress yourself like this.”
“I could not help it,” she answered. “I had to come, I could stay away from you no longer. You do not know how I have suffered. It seems as if a lifetime had elapsed since we parted. At last I managed to persuade papa to bring me up. My poor boy, how ill you look! How you must have suffered!”
“Never mind about that, dear,” said Godfrey. “If it all comes right in the end, we can afford to suffer a little. Now tell me of yourself; you don’t know how hungry I am for news.”
“No, don’t let us talk of myself,” she answered. “I want to talk about you and your affairs. Do you know that this morning I saw Mr. Codey, your lawyer, for the first time? He was introduced to me by papa.”
“And what did he say to you?” Godfrey inquired, with natural interest.
“I am afraid there is not much to tell,” said Molly. “When I asked him if he thought we should be able to prove your innocence, he said, 'That’s a thing we shall have to see about; but I don’t mind going so far as to promise you, that, unless there’s anything else that I don’t know of, you and Mr. Henderson will eat your Christmas dinner together next year!’ I asked him and implored him to tell me more, but I could not get anything else out of him.”
Godfrey felt his heart beat more hopefully. It was something, indeed, to know that Codey took such a bright view of the case. Then Molly went on to give him the latest news of his mother and sister. The old lady, it appeared, was suffering a great deal on her dear boy’s account; but she firmly believed that in the end he would be acquitted.
“It makes me so sad to see her,” said Molly. “As you may suppose, I spend the greater part of my time there now, and I think we help and comfort each other.”
“God bless you for your goodness to them, dear!” replied Godfrey. “I know what it must mean to them to have you with them.”
“And now, Molly,” said Sir Vivian, rising from his chair, “I am afraid we must go. We were only allowed a short time with you, and we must not exceed it. Good-bye, my boy, and may God bless you! Don’t be down-hearted; we’ll prove your innocence yet.”
“You still believe in me, Sir Vivian?” he asked.
“As firmly as ever,” the other answered. “I should not be here if I did not. And now, Molly, you must come along.”
Godfrey kissed his sweetheart, and wished her good-bye. When she had left the room, all the sunshine seemed to have gone out of it, and with a heavy heart he went back to the gloom of his prison life again.
[CHAPTER XIII]
Jacob Burrell sat in his comfortable armchair and took counsel with himself. He was a bachelor, and like many other bachelors was wedded to a hobby, which in some respects was more to him than any wife could possibly have been. In other words he was an enthusiastic philatelist, and his collection of the world’s stamps was the envy of every enthusiast who came in contact with them. For Jacob Burrell they possessed another interest that was quite apart from their mere intrinsic value. A very large number of the stamps so carefully pasted in the book had been collected, or had come into his possession, in the performance of his professional duties. A very rare 1¼ schilling blue Hamburg was picked up by the merest chance on the same day that he ran a notorious bank swindler to earth in Berlin; while a certain blue and brown United States, worth upward of thirty pounds, became his property during a memorable trip to America in search of a fraudulent trustee, whose whereabouts the officials of Scotland Yard had not been able to discover. Well-nigh every page had a story of its own to tell, and when Burrell was in the humour, he could, with the book before him, reel off tale after tale, of a description that would be calculated to make the listener’s hair stand on end with astonishment. At the present moment he was occupied, as he very well knew, with one of the most knotty problems he had ever tackled in his life. His face wore a puzzled expression. In his right hand he held a large magnifying glass and in his left a Canadian stamp of the year 1852. But whether it was the case he was thinking of or the stamp it would have been difficult to say.
“Genuine or not?” he asked himself. “That’s the question. If it’s the first, it’s worth five pounds of any man’s money. If it’s a fudge, then it’s not the first time I’ve been had, but I’ll take very good care that, so far as the gentleman is concerned who sold it to me, it shall be the last.”
He scrutinized it carefully once more through the glass and then shook his head. Having done so he replaced the doubtful article in the envelope whence he had taken it, slipped the glass back into its chamois-leather case, tied the tape round the handle as deliberately as if all his success in life depended on it, put both book and glass away in a drawer, and then proceeding to the sideboard on the other side of the room, slowly and carefully mixed himself a glass of grog. It was close upon midnight and he felt that the work he had that day completed entitled him to such refreshment.
“Good Heavens,” he muttered as he sipped it, “what fools some men can be!”
What this remark had to do with the stamp in question was not apparent, but his next soliloquy made his meaning somewhat more intelligible.
“If he had wanted to find himself in the dock and to put the rope round his neck he couldn’t have gone to work better. He must needs stand talking to the girl in the Strand until she cries, whereupon he calls a cab and drives home with her, gets out of it and takes up a position in the full light of a gas lamp, so that the first policeman who passes may have a look at his face, and recognise him again when the proper time comes. After that he hurries back to his hotel at such a pace that he arrives in a sufficiently agitated condition to stand in need of brandy. Why, it’s an almost unbelievable list of absurd coincidences. However, he didn’t commit the crime, that’s quite certain. I’ve had a bit of experience in my time, and I don’t know that I’ve ever made a mistake about a human face yet. There’s not a trace of guilt in his. To-morrow morning I’ll just run round to the scene of the murder and begin my investigations there. Though the Pro’s have been over the ground before me, it will be strange if I can not pick up something that has not been noticed by their observant eyes.”
A perpetual feud existed between the famous Jacob Burrell and the genuine representatives of the profession. His ways were unorthodox, the latter declared. He did not follow the accustomed routine, and what was worse, when he managed to obtain information it was almost, if not quite, impossible to get him to divulge it for their benefit. Such a man deserved to be set down on every possible opportunity.
True to the arrangement he had made with himself on the previous evening, Burrell immediately after breakfast next morning set out for Burford Street. On reaching No. 16 he ascended the steps and entered the grimy passage, and inquired from a man he found there where the landlord was to be discovered. In reply the individual he interrogated went to the head of a flight of stairs that descended like an abyss into the regions below, and shouted something in German. A few moments later the proprietor of the establishment made his appearance. He was a small sallow individual with small bloodshot eyes, suggestive of an undue partiality for Schnapps, and the sadness of whose face gave one the impression that he cherished a grievance against the whole world. His sleeves were rolled up above the elbows, and he carried a knife in one hand and a potato in the other.
“Vat is dat you vant mit me?” he inquired irritably, as he took stock of the person before him.
“I want you to show me the room in which that Italian girl, Teresina Cardi, was murdered,” Burrell replied, without wasting time.
The landlord swore a deep oath in German.
“It is always de murder from morning until night,” he answered. “I am sick mit it. Dat murder will be the ruin mit me. Every day der is somebody come and say 'Where is dot room?’ Who are you that you ask me that I should to you show it?”
Burrell, to the best of his ability, explained his motive for proffering such a request. This must have been satisfactory, for in the end the landlord consented to conduct him to the room in question. From the day of the murder it had been kept locked, and it must be confessed that since no one would inhabit it, and it did not in consequence return its owner its accustomed rent, he had some measure of excuse for the irritation he displayed in connection with it.
“Dere it is,” he said, throwing the door open, “and you can look your full at it. I have scrubbed all dot floor dill my arms ache mit it, but I can not get der blood marks out. Dot stain is just where she was found, boor girl!”
The man pointed, with grizly relish, to a dark stain upon the floor, and then went on to describe the impression the murder and its attendant incidents had produced upon him. To any other man than Burrell, they would probably have been uninteresting to a degree. The latter, however, knowing the importance of little things, allowed him to continue his chatter. At the same time his quick eyes were taking in the character of the room, making his own deductions and drawing his own inferences. At last, when the other had exhausted his powers of description, Burrell took from his pocket his favourite magnifying glass, cased in its covering of chamois leather. Having prepared it for business, he went down on his hands and knees and searched the floor minutely. What he was looking for, or what he hoped to find, he did not know himself, but a life’s experience had taught him that clews are often picked up in the most unexpected quarters.
“I’ve known a man get himself hanged,” he had once been heard to remark, “simply because he neglected to put a stitch to a shirt button and had afterward to borrow a needle and thread to do it. I remember another who had the misfortune to receive a sentence of fifteen years for forgery, who would never have been captured, but for a peculiar blend of tobacco, which he would persist in smoking after the doctors had told him it was injurious to his health.”
So slow and so careful was his investigation, that the landlord, who preferred more talkative company, very soon tired of watching him. Bidding him lock the door and bring the key downstairs with him when he had finished, he returned to the culinary operations from which he had been summoned. Burrell, however, still remained upon his knees on the floor, searching every crack and crevice with that superb and never-wearying patience that was one of his most remarkable characteristics. It was quite certain, as the landlord had said, that the floor had been most thoroughly and conscientiously scrubbed since the night of the murder. He rose to his feet and brushed his knees.
“Nothing there,” he said to himself. “They’ve destroyed any chance of my finding anything useful.”
Walking to the fireplace he made a most careful examination of the grate. Like the floor, it had also been rigorously cleaned. Not a vestige of ash or dust remained in it.
“Polished up to be ready for the newspaper reporters, I suppose,” said Burrell sarcastically to himself. “They couldn’t have done it better if they had wanted to make sure of the murderer not being caught.”
After that he strolled to the window and looked out. The room, as has already been stated elsewhere, was only a garret, and the small window opened upon a slope of tiled roof. Above the eaves and at the bottom of the slope just mentioned, was a narrow lead gutter of the usual description. From the window it was impossible, unless one leaned well out, to look down into the street below.
“Just let me think for a moment,” said Burrell to himself, as he stood looking at the roofs of the houses opposite; “the night of the murder was a warm one, and this window would almost certainly be open. I suppose if the people in the houses on the other side of the way had seen or heard anything, they would have been sure to come forward before now. The idea, however, is always worth trying. I’ve a good mind to make a few inquiries over there later on.”
As he said this he gave a little start forward, and leaning out of the window, looked down over the tiles into the gutter below. A small fragment of a well-smoked cigarette could just be descried in it.
“My luck again,” he said with a chuckle. “If some reporter or sensation hunter didn’t throw it there, which is scarcely likely, I may be on the right track after all. Now who could have been smoking cigarettes up here? First and foremost I’ll have a look at it.”
On entering, he had placed his walking stick on the table in the middle of the room. He turned to get it, and as he did so he took from his pocket a small housewife. His multitudinous experiences had taught him the advisability of carrying such an article about with him, and on this occasion it promised to prove more than ordinarily useful. From one compartment he selected a long, stout needle which he placed in a hole in the handle of the walking stick. Then returning once more to the window, and leaning well out, he probed for the cigarette lying so snugly five or six feet below him. Twice he was unsuccessful, but the third attempt brought the precious relic to his hand. Taking it to the table, he drew up a chair and sat down to examine it. It was sodden and discoloured, but the rim of the gutter had in a measure protected it, and it still held together. His famous magnifying glass was again brought into action. Once upon a time there had been printing on the paper, but now it was well-nigh undecipherable. As I have already remarked, however, Burrell was a man gifted with rare patience, and after a scrutiny that lasted some minutes, he was able to make out sufficient of the printing to know that the maker’s name ended with “olous,” while the place in which the cigarette had been manufactured was Cairo.
“I wonder,” said the detective to himself, “if this is destined to be of any service to me. At first glance it would appear as if my first impression was a wrong one. Mr. Henderson, who is accused of the murder, has lately returned from Cairo. Though, perhaps he never purchased any tobacco there, it would certainly do him no good to have it produced as evidence, that the butt end of a cigarette from that place was found in the gutter outside the window of the murdered woman’s room.”
After another prolonged inspection of the room, and not until he had quite convinced himself that there was nothing more to be discovered in it, he descended to the lower regions of the house, returned the key to the landlord, and immediately left the building. Crossing the street, he made his way to the house opposite. The caretaker received him, and inquired the nature of his business. He gave his explanation, but a few questions were sufficient to convince him that he must not expect to receive any assistance from that quarter. The rooms, so he discovered, from which it would have been possible to catch any glimpse of what was going on in Teresina’s apartment in the opposite house, were tenanted only in the daytime.
“Nothing to be learned there,” said Burrell to himself, when he had thanked the man and had left the house. “Now the question to be decided is, what shall I do next?”
He stood upon the pavement meditatively scratching his chin for a few moments. Then he must have made up his mind, for he turned sharply round and walked off in the direction of the Tottenham Court Road. Taking a ’bus there, he made his way on it to Oxford Street, thence, having changed conveyances, he proceeded as far as Regent Street. It was a bright, sunny morning, and the pavements of that fashionable thoroughfare were crowded with pedestrians. As the burly, farmerish-looking man strode along, few, if any, of the people he passed would have believed him to be the great detective whose name had struck a terror, that nothing else could have inspired, into the hearts of so many hardened criminals. When he was a little more than half-way down the street, he turned sharply to his left hand, passed into another and shorter thoroughfare, then turned to his left again, and finally entered another street on his right. He was now in the neighbourhood of quiet-looking houses of the office description. There was nothing about them to indicate that their occupants were the possessors of any great amount of wealth, and yet one could not help feeling, as one looked at them, that there was a substantial, money-making air about them. Having reached a particular doorway, Burrell paused, consulted the names engraved upon the brass plate on the wall outside, and then entered. He found himself in a small hall, from which a narrow flight of linoleum-covered stairs led to the floors above. These stairs he ascended, to presently find himself standing before a door on which the names of Messrs. Morris and Zevenboom were painted. Disregarding the word “Private,” which for some inexplicable reason was printed underneath the name of the firm, he turned the handle and entered. A small youth was seated at a table in the centre of the apartment, busily engaged making entries in a large book propped up before him. He looked up on seeing Burrell, and, in an off-hand fashion, inquired his business.
“I want to see Mr. Zevenboom if he’s at home,” said the latter. “If he is, just tell him, my lad, that I should like to speak to him, will you?”
“That’s all very well,” said the boy with an assurance beyond his years, “but how am I to do it if I don’t know your name? Ain’t a thought reader, am I?”
“Tell him Mr. Burrell would like to speak to him,” said the detective without any appearance of displeasure at the lad’s impertinence. “I fancy he will know who I am, even if you don’t!”
“Right you are, I’ll be back in a moment.”
So saying, the lad disappeared into an inner apartment with an air that seemed to insinuate that if Mr. Zevenboom might be impressed by the stranger, it was certainly more than he was. His feelings received rather a shock, however, when his employer informed him in a stage whisper that Mr. Burrell “was the great detective” and made him show him in at once and not keep him waiting. Jacob was accordingly ushered in, with becoming ceremony, and found himself received by a little man, whose beady black eyes and sharp features proclaimed his nationality more plainly than any words could have done.
“Ah, mein dear friend,” said he, “I am glad to see you. It is long since we have met, and you are looking as well as ever you did.”
“I am all right, thank you,” said Burrell genially. “Thank goodness, in spite of hard work, there’s never very much the matter with me.”
Before he seated himself the other went to a cupboard at the back of his desk and, having unlocked it, took from it a cigar box, one of a number of others, which he placed upon the table at his guest’s elbow.
“Try one of these,” he said, “you will smoke nothing better in all Europe. I pledge you the word of Israel Zevenboom to that.”
“I can quite believe you,” said Burrell, and then mindful of the business that had brought him there, he added, “if there’s one man in all London who knows a good cigar I suppose you are that one.”
The little man grinned in high appreciation of the compliment.
“Cigars or cigarettes, I tell you, it’s all the same to me,” he said, spreading his hands apart. “There is no tobacco grown, or upon the market, that I can not put a name to.”
“And you are familiar with all the best makers, I suppose?”
The other again spread his hands apart as if such a question was not of sufficient importance to require an answer.
“I know them all,” he continued pompously. “And they all know me. Morris and Zevenboom is a firm whose name is famous with them all.”
A pause of upward of half a minute followed this remark, during which Burrell lit his cigar.
“And now what can I do for you, my friend?” the other inquired. “I shall be most happy to oblige you as far as lies in my power. You were very good to me in de matter of——”
He paused for a moment. Then he thought better of it and came to a sudden stop.
“Well, in the matter that we both remember,” he added finally.
“I want a little information from you, that I believe it is in your power to give,” said Burrell, taking a note book from his pocket and from it producing the scrap of cigarette he had taken from the gutter of the house in Burford Street. He placed it on the desk before his companion.
“I want you to tell me if you can who are the makers of these cigarettes, and whether they can be obtained in England?”
The other took up his glasses and perched them on the end of his delicate nose, after which he held the charred fragment of the cigarette up to the light. This did not seem to satisfy him, so he took it to the window and examined it more closely. He turned it over, smelt it, extracted a shred of the tobacco, smelt that, and at last came back to the table.
“That cigarette was made by my good friend Kosman Constantinopolous, of Cairo, a most excellent firm, but as yet they have no representatives in England. Some day they will have.”
“Where is the nearest place at which these cigarettes can be obtained?” asked Burrell.
“In Paris—if you like I will give you the address,” the other replied, “or better still I will get some for you should you desire to have some. They are expensive but the tobacco is good.”
“I won’t trouble you to procure me any just now, thank you,” Burrell answered. “I only wanted to try and fix the maker’s name. It comes into some important business that I am just now at work upon. I suppose I can rely upon your information being correct? It will make a big difference to me.”
“My good friend, you may be quite sure of that,” the other answered with pride. “I am Israel Zevenboom, the expert, and after fifty years’ experience, should not be likely to make a mistake in such a simple matter as that.”
Then, at Burrell’s request, he thereupon wrote down the address of the firm in Paris, after which the detective thanked him heartily for his trouble and bade him good-bye.
“To-morrow,” said Burrell to himself, “if all goes well, I will take a run down to Mr. Henderson’s country seat and make a few inquiries there. After that it looks as if Paris is likely to be the scene of my next operations. There are one or two little preliminaries, however, that must be settled before I leave England.”
He was as good as his word, and the mid-day train next day landed him upon the platform at Detwich. He inquired how far it was to the Hall, and on being informed of his direction, set off along the High Road at a swinging pace. He was a man who never rode when he could walk, and, had he not chosen another profession, it is possible he might have made a name for himself in the athletic world as a pedestrian.
“It seems a sad thing,” he said to himself, as he turned in through the lodge gates and began to cross the park, “that a young gentleman owning such a beautiful place as this should be clapped into limbo on a charge of murder. But here I suppose is what the literary gentlemen call the 'Irony of Fate.’ However, it’s my business to get him out of the scrape he’s in if I can, and not to bother my head about anything else.”
Having reached the house he sent his name in to Mrs. Henderson, and asked for an interview. Her daughter Kitty was with her in the morning room when the butler entered.
“Mr. Jacob Burrell?” she said in a puzzled way, looking at the card the man had handed to her. “I don’t know the name, do you, Kitty?”
“Why, yes, mother, of course I do,” the girl replied. “How could you forget? He is the famous detective whom the lawyers have engaged to take up the case for poor Godfrey. Tell him that we will see him at once, Williamson, and show him in here.”
A few moments later Burrell made his appearance and bowed to the two ladies. That he was not at all the sort of individual they had expected to see was evident from the expressions upon their faces.
“Doubtless, ladies, you have heard my name and the business upon which I am engaged,” he said, by way of introducing himself.
They acknowledged that they had done so, and when they had invited him to be seated, inquired what success he had so far met with. He shook his head cautiously.
“In these sort of cases you must not expect to succeed all at once,” he said. Then observing the look upon their faces he added: “You see, Mrs. Henderson, a big case, unless the evidence is very clear and straightforward, is not unlike a Chinese puzzle, being a lot of little pieces cut out of one big block. Well, all the little cubes are tipped out upon the floor in confusion, and before you can begin to put them together it is necessary to familiarize yourself with the rough outlines of the parts and to make yourself acquainted with the sizes, shapes, and numbers of the pieces you have to work with. That done you can begin your work of putting them together.”
“Mr. Burrell is quite right, mother,” Kitty remarked. “We must be patient and not expect too much at first. We ourselves know that Godfrey is innocent, and Mr. Burrell will very soon demonstrate it to the world, I am very sure.” Then turning to the detective she continued: “Since you have spared the time to come down here, it is only natural to suppose that you desire to ask us questions. If so, please do not hesitate to put them. My mother and I will—only too thankfully—do all that lies in our power to assist you in your work.”
“Well, miss,” said Burrell, “I won’t deny that there are certain questions I should like to put to you. In the meantime, however, if you will allow me, I’ll just take a walk round the place, and if I have your permission to enter your brother’s rooms, it’s just possible I may be able to find something that will be of advantage to him there.”
“Go where you please,” said Mrs. Henderson. “Heaven knows at such a time we should place no restrictions upon any one. If you can save my poor boy—I shall be grateful to you forever.”
“Be sure, madam, I will do my best. I can’t say more.”
Kitty rose from her chair.
“Perhaps it would be better for me to show you my brother’s studio first,” she said. “Will you come with me?”
Burrell followed her out of the room and down the long corridor to the room in question. Kitty left him there, and for upward of half-an-hour he remained in the apartment, busily engaged upon what he called “forming his own impressions.” After that he passed through the French windows out into the grounds beyond, had a few minutes’ conversation with some of the men, and, when he had exhausted that portion of the business, returned to the house to find that luncheon had been provided for him in the library. He thereupon sat down to it and made an excellent meal. That finished, he was wondering what he should do next, when Kitty entered the room.
“I hope you have been well looked after, Mr. Burrell,” she said. “You are quite sure there is nothing else you would like?”
“Nothing at all, thank you,” he answered, “unless I might ask you for a cigarette?”
“A cigarette,” she replied, with a suggestion of astonishment, for he did not look like the sort of man who would have cared for anything less than a pipe or a strong cigar. “That is very unfortunate, for I am afraid we have not one in the house. My brother Godfrey, you see, never smokes them, and I remember his saying just before——” she paused for a moment and a look of pain came into her face, “just before this trouble occurred,” she continued, “that the supply he had laid in for his friends was exhausted and that he must order some more.” Then she appeared to recollect something, for her face brightened. “Ah!” she cried, “now I come to think of it, we do happen to have a box which Mr. Fensden left here before he went away. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get it.”
He thanked her and she left the room, whereupon he walked to the window and stood looking out upon the lawn, drumming with the fingers of his right hand upon the pane before him. What his thoughts were at that moment will in all probability never be known, but when, a few minutes later, Kitty returned with a box of cigarettes in her hand, he turned to greet her with as much excitement in his face as he had ever been known to show about anything. The box in question was flat and square, with some Arabic writing in gold upon the lid and the inscription Kosman Constantinopolous et Cie, Cairo.
Jacob Burrell may or may not have been a cigarette smoker (for my part I have never seen him with so mild a weed between his lips). I only know that on this particular occasion he stood with the cigarette in one hand for some time without lighting it, and the box in the other.
“Did I understand you to say that Mr. Fensden gave these cigarettes to your brother?” he inquired at last, after he had turned certain matters over in his mind.
“Yes,” she replied. “He used to say laughingly that the weakest of all Godfrey’s weak points was his dislike to Egyptian cigarettes, and that if he would only try to cultivate the taste for that tobacco, he would be converted from barbarism to comparative civilization. You have seen Mr. Fensden, of course?”
“I saw him in Court,” Burrell replied, apparently without much interest. “And now, I think, with your permission, miss, I will return to the station. I have seen all that is necessary for my purpose here, and am anxious to get back to town as soon as possible. There are several matters there that demand my attention.” Kitty was silent for a moment. Then she gained her courage and spoke out.
“Mr. Burrell,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm, “I suspect you can very well imagine what a terrible time of suspense this is for us. As I said this morning, we all know that my brother is innocent of the crime with which he is charged. But how can we prove it? All our hopes are centred upon you. You have done such wonderful things in the past that surely you can bring the real perpetrator of this hideous crime to justice. Can you not give us even a grain of hope to comfort us? My poor mother is fretting herself to a shadow about it.”
“I scarcely know what I can say just yet,” he replied. “I, of course, have begun to form my own theories, but they are too unsubstantial as yet for me to be able to pin any faith upon them—much less to allow you to do so. This, however, I will tell you, and any one who knows me will tell you that it is something for me to admit. What I say is that up to the present moment, I have been more successful than I had dared to hope I should be. Like yourselves, I have a conviction that your brother is innocent, and you may believe me when I say that it won’t be my fault if we can’t prove it. May I ask you to rest content with that? I can not say more.”
“I can not thank you sufficiently for your kindness,” she answered. “Your words give me fresh hope. May I tell Miss Devereux what you say?”
“Miss Devereux?” asked Burrell, who for the moment had forgotten the young lady in question.
“It is to Miss Devereux that my brother is engaged,” Kitty answered. “You may imagine how sad she is. Yet she has been, and still is, so brave about it.”
“Not braver than you are, I’ll be bound,” said Burrell gallantly. “And now I will wish you good-afternoon.”
He did so, and refusing her offer of a carriage to take him, was soon striding across the park on his way back to the railway station. As he walked along he thought of what he had done that day, and of the strange good fortune that had so far attended his efforts.
“It is only the merest guess,” he said to himself, “and yet it’s the old, old story. It is when they think themselves most secure, and that detection is impossible, that they are in the greatest danger. At that point some minute circumstance is sufficient to give them away, and it’s all over. This looks as if it will prove another example of the one rule.”
It was nearly five o’clock when he reached London. Arriving there he called a hansom and bade the man drive him with all speed to Mr. Codey’s office. As it happened he was only just in time to catch the lawyer, who was on the point of leaving.
“Halloa, Burrell,” cried the genial Mr. Codey on seeing him, “you seem excited. What’s the matter now?”
“I didn’t know that I had anything to be excited about,” Burrell replied with a smile at the lawyer’s attempt to draw him out. “I only thought I would drop in upon you, sir, to let you know that I am leaving for the Continent first thing to-morrow morning. I may be away a week, possibly a fortnight. I’m not able to put a definite time upon it, for it will all depend upon circumstances.”
“Then I suppose, as usual, you are beginning to find yourself on the right track,” the lawyer remarked drily.
“And, just as usual, sir, I reply that that’s as may be,” said the other. “I don’t deny that I’ve got hold of a piece of information that may eventually put me on the proper line—but I’ve got to sift it first—before I can act upon it. That’s why I’m going abroad.”
“Don’t be any longer than you can help about it, then,” returned the lawyer. “You know when the trial comes off?”
“As well as you do, sir! That’s why I want to get away at once. There’s no time to be wasted—that’s if we’re to be properly posted.”
“Well, then, good-bye, and may good luck go with you.”
Next morning Burrell, acting on the plan he had made, left London for Paris, with the portion of cigarette in his pocket.
[CHAPTER XIV]
The first night of his sojourn in Paris was spent at the residence of a friend who was also a well-known Stamp Collector. They dined at a Restaurant together, and spent the remainder of the evening at a Café discussing matters connected with their joint hobby. Had one looked in upon Jacob Burrell then, as he sat sipping a glass of brandy and water, it would have been difficult to imagine that this man who was so emphatic and precise about Water Marks, Bâtonné Papers, Misprints, and Fudges, was in Paris for the sole reason of elucidating a terrible crime, and in the hope of bringing the criminal to justice.
Next morning he was up early and, as soon as was compatible with calling hours, was on his way to the office of which Zevenboom had given him the address. Sending his name in to the head of the firm, he asked for an interview. This was promptly granted him and he was ushered into the proprietor’s office, a charming little apartment fragrant with the odour of the divine weed. Now Burrell’s French is not particularly good, but Monsieur Zacroft’s English was certainly a good deal worse. However, they managed after a fashion, and with the help of a clerk, to make each other understand, and that was perhaps all that was wanted. Zacroft inquired with much solicitude after the bodily welfare of his good friend Zevenboom, and on being assured that the latter enjoyed excellent health, so far as Burrell was aware, proceeded to ask in what way he could be of service to the Englishman. The latter immediately commenced to explain, speaking in a louder tone than usual and using many gesticulations, as an Englishman so often does, in the hope of making his meaning clearer to his auditor. Later on Burrell produced the charred remnant of the cigarette. The Frenchman admitted that the cigarette shown to him was of the same brand as that manufactured by Messrs. Kosman & Constantinopolous of Cairo, of which wealthy firm, he took care to point out, he was the Parisian representative. He was also acquainted with Mr. Victor Fensden, and admitted that he had supplied that gentleman with cigarettes of the brand mentioned for some years past.
Burrell admitted to himself that so far this was very good. He hoped that there would be still better news to follow.
“Perhaps you can tell me when he obtained his last consignment from you?” he said, after a short pause.
The manager begged Burrell to excuse him while he went into his shop to ask the question. When he returned he laid a piece of paper before the other. The latter took it up and examined it carefully, though he was not at all prepared to find that the information would be of much value to him. The surprise he received, however, almost took his breath away. It was the work of a moment to whip out his pocket-book and to open it.
He turned the leaves until he arrived at the entry he wanted.
“And am I to understand you to say that Mr. Fensden wrote to you from England for them? Are you quite sure of it?”
“Quite sure,” replied the other, and intimated in exceedingly poor English that he was prepared to show his customer’s letter in proof of the genuineness of his assertion. He did so, and Burrell examined it carefully. Ultimately he prevailed upon the other to permit him to keep the letter.
“I wouldn’t lose it for a thousand pounds,” he said to himself. “Good gracious, this is nothing less than a stupendous piece of luck. It’s the last thing in the world I should have thought of.”
He thanked the little tobacco merchant for his courtesy, and bade him farewell, promising to remember him most affectionately to Zevenboom when next he should see him. After that he went off to make arrangements about his journey from Paris to Naples.
It was at a late hour of the night when he reached that famous Italian city. Tired out he betook himself to his hotel, slept the sleep of the just, and rose in the morning with the pleasant feeling that the day before him was likely to prove a busy and also an exciting one. After he had breakfasted, which he made a point of doing in the solid English fashion, he smoked a contemplative cigar, and interested himself after his own fashion in the billings and cooings of a young newly married couple, who were staying at the hotel awaiting the arrival of the out-going Australian Mail Boat. Then, having discovered the interpreter whom the hotel manager had found for him, he set off for the street in which he had been told Teresina Cardi and her mother had dwelt.
“'See Naples and die’ they say,” he muttered to himself, as he made his way out of one into another tortuous and unsavoury street. “It should have been 'smell Naples and die.’ A connoisseur could discover a hundred fresh unsavouries in every hundred yards.”
At last they found themselves in the street in question, and, after some little hunting, discovered the house in which the murdered girl had resided with her mother. The interpreter questioned the head of the family who lived on the ground floor. With many flourishes and bows, the latter, whose only work in life, it would appear, was to smoke cigarettes upon the doorstep, informed him that the Signora Cardi was dead and that the funeral had been a most imposing one.
“Ask him what has become of the daughter,” said Burrell, who was anxious to discover whether or not the man were aware of the murder.
“Gone,” was the laconic reply. Eventually he condescended to add, “An Englishman came to see her, and the signorina went away with him. I can tell you no more.”
He manufactured for himself another cigarette, with the air of a man who has done everything he could to prove himself hospitable, and is not quite certain whether he has succeeded in the attempt. At this juncture Burrell rattled the money in his pocket.
“Ask him if he thinks he would know the man again if he were to see him,” he said. “Tell him also that I will pay him well for any information he may give me.”
A vehement debate ensued—which might have lasted from three to five minutes. At the end the interpreter translated.
“He says, your Excellency, that he could pick the man out from a hundred.”
“He’s been a jolly long time saying it,” said Burrell, and as he spoke he took from his pocket half-a-dozen photographs which he had brought with him for that purpose. “However, he shall try!”
Among the number were likenesses of Fensden and Henderson. There were also others of men who had nothing whatsoever to do with the case. The proprietor of the ground floor rooms picked them up one by one and examined them critically. When he reached Fensden’s portrait he held it up immediately.
“That is the man,” he said to the interpreter. “I need look no farther. I should know him anywhere.”
Burrell replaced the photographs in his pocket.
“Ask him if he has any idea where the man he speaks of stayed when he was in Naples,” Burrell remarked to the man, but upon this subject it appeared that the other could give no sort of information, though he volunteered for a reward to find out. This help, however, Burrell declined. After rewarding him, he retraced his steps to the hotel.
“It should not be difficult,” he thought as he went along, “to discover the Englishman’s abode during the time he was in Naples. He is not the sort of man to put up anywhere but at a good hotel.”
Foreseeing for this reason that the number of the hotels at which the man he was inquiring about would be likely to stay, were limited, he resolved to institute investigations that afternoon. He was very soon successful. At the second at which he called he discovered that Fensden had resided there and that he had left again on the 3rd of February. The manager knew nothing of any liaison with a girl of the city, nor could he say where his guest went after he left Naples. His servants were equally ignorant, though one of them believed Signor Fensden’s destination to have been Rome. Thanking the manager for his courtesy, Burrell left the hotel more than a little disappointed, to spend the remainder of the afternoon securing affidavits as to dates and generally verifying the discoveries he had made.
“Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it but to try Rome,” he said to himself, when he had considered the matter in all its details.
Early next morning he accordingly shook the highly scented dust of Naples from his feet, and in due course reached the Italian capital. He had been there many times before, and in consequence he was a great favourite at the hotel where he usually resided. The owner welcomed him effusively, somewhat as he would have done a long-lost brother of whom he stood in some little awe, and trusted that he had come to make a long stay.
“I am afraid not,” said Burrell. “I have got an important piece of business on hand just now which must be completed as quickly as possible. I am trying to hunt up the doings of an Englishman, who I have reason to believe came here from Naples with a Neapolitan girl, in February last. Possibly he may have stayed with you. Here is his photograph. See if you can recognise him!”
He thereupon produced the photograph of Fensden, and laid it on the table for the manager’s inspection. The latter, however, shook his head. He could not remember the face among his guests.
“In that case I must begin my rounds of the hotels again, I suppose,” said Burrell.
After luncheon he did so. The result, however, was by no means satisfactory. He made inquiries at every hotel of importance, and at many that were not, but try as he would he could glean no tidings of the pair whose doings he was so anxious to trace.
“It’s evident I’ve gone wrong somewhere,” he said to himself. “I don’t think I will waste any more time in this place, but go straight on to Vienna and look about me there. We know that the box hailed from the Austrian capital and that the wedding ring was manufactured in the same country. For my own part I don’t believe they came to Rome at all.”
Once more he resumed his journey and at length had the satisfaction of finding himself in Francis Joseph’s famous city. He was very fond of Vienna, partly because he had made two important captures there, and possibly more so for the reason that one of the best deals in stamps he had ever effected was brought to a head in that delightful city. On this occasion he lost no time, but set to work immediately on his arrival. In this town, however, the search was not destined to prove a difficult one. He had not been more than twice unsuccessful when he tried the Hotel National in the Käarntner Strasse. The manager himself admitted that he had a bad memory for faces, but he was quite sure of one thing, if they had stayed at his hotel, his head waiter would be sure to recollect them. That functionary was immediately summoned to the council, and the photograph was placed before him. He had no sooner looked upon it than he recognised it as being the likeness of the gentleman who had stayed there with an Italian girl. They had come to Vienna to be married it was said.
“To be married?” said Burrell in astonishment. “What do you mean by that? Weren’t they married when they arrived?”
Before the waiter could answer, light had dawned upon the manager, who thereupon chimed in.
“Ah, my friend, I remember now,” he said. “That was the gentleman who was married at the Church of Funfhaus in the Gurtel Strasse. Now I can recall the pair perfectly.”
“The Church of Funfhaus in the Gurtel Strasse, you said, I think,” said Burrell, making a note of the name in his pocket-book for future reference. “Pray how long did the happy couple remain with you?”
“For upward of a fortnight,” the manager replied, consulting a book. “But they were not happy all the time!”
“What do you mean by that? Why were they not happy?”
“For a very simple reason,” the manager replied. “I mean that toward the end of their stay it was becoming plain to most of us that the gentleman was a little neglectful of his bride. Yet she was a beautiful girl! Ah! a beautiful girl!”
“It was the waning of the honeymoon,” said Burrell cynically. “Poor girl, it didn’t last long.” He paused for a while to pursue his own thoughts, then he continued aloud, “Have you any idea where they went after they left here?”
The manager reflected for a moment.
“To Munich, I believe. But of that I am not quite certain. We will ask Adolphe.”
The head waiter was once more consulted, and corroborated his superior. The couple had left for Munich with the intention of proceeding later to Paris. He was sure of this for the reason that he had heard the gentleman talking to the lady on the subject on the morning of their departure.
The next day was spent by Burrell in collecting further evidence. He interviewed the worthy clergyman who had married them, obtained certain necessary documents from him, discovered the jeweller who had sold them the wedding ring, and when he had learned all he wanted to know, took the train and started for Munich.
In Munich he discovered the hotel at which they had stayed and sundry other particulars which might, or might not, prove useful later on. Thence he continued his journey to Paris, where more discoveries awaited him. At last, and none too soon, he boarded the steamer which was to carry him to England. Even this short voyage was not devoid of interest, and by the time he reached London once more, he felt that there was not very much standing between him and the end. But what remained was in all probability more important than the beginning. There was a blank to be filled in, and filled in it must be, somehow or another, before the trial commenced.
His first act on reaching home was to write out a true and complete record of his doings since he had left London. This done he consulted the memoranda he had received from the representative of Messrs. Kosman, Constantinopolous & Co., in Paris, and then set off by train to the little town of Staines. From Staines to the charming little village of Laleham is a comparatively short and a most charming walk. It was almost mid-day by the time he reached the village and began to look about him for Laburnum Cottage. When he discovered it it proved to be a pretty little thatched building standing in a garden which in summer would be bright with hollyhocks, nasturtiums and other homely flowers. A card in the window proclaimed the fact that apartments could be had within, but at that particular season of the year this announcement would be little likely to attract attention. Pushing open the gate, Burrell made his way up the garden path to the neat little porch where he gave a smart rat-tat with his stick upon the door. The sound had scarcely died away before it was opened to him by a stout, matronly person, dressed in black, and wearing a cap and a neat white apron.
“Mrs. Raikes?” asked Burrell, to make sure she was the person he desired to see.
“That is my name, sir,” said the woman. “Perhaps you will tell me what I can do for you.”
“I want you to give me some information,” Burrell answered. “I have come down from London on purpose to see you.”
“From London, sir,” she exclaimed, as if that were rather a remarkable circumstance. “Will you be pleased to step inside?” So saying, she held the door open for him to enter. He did so to find himself in a neat little sitting room, unostentatiously yet comfortably furnished. Three cases of stuffed birds decorated the walls, together with some pictures on religious subjects, a bookcase, the latter scantily furnished, and last, but not least, a Chippendale sofa, and two or three chairs that would not have disgraced a ducal drawing-room.
“Kindly take a seat, sir,” said Mrs. Raikes, dusting one of the aforementioned chairs with her apron as she spoke. “If it’s apartments you want I am quite sure I can satisfy you. Of course it’s a bad season of the year, but at the end of the month we shall begin to fill up. There’s some splendid boating on the river, as perhaps you know, and at night, when the houseboats are all lit up, well, it’s quite lively.”
Her desire to impress him with the gaieties of the place was almost pathetic, and Burrell felt that he was acting meanly in permitting her to go on, without acquainting her with the real object of his visit.
“I am sorry to say that I am not in search of lodgings,” he said. “My business is of an altogether different nature. In the first place, I think I ought to tell you that I am a detective.”
“A detective?” she cried in horror. “Lor’, I do hope, sir, there’s nothing wrong?”
“Not so far as you are concerned, you may be sure,” he answered. “I have come down here to make some inquiries regarding a gentleman who was known to be staying in your house some time back. His name was Fensden.”
The woman shook her head.
“I haven’t had a gentleman in my house of that name,” she answered. “In fact, the only gentleman I have had since the beginning of the year was a Mr. Onslow. The name of Fensden I don’t remember at all.”
Burrell consulted his pocket-book before he went further.
“And yet the information I received was most complete,” he continued. “Victor Fensden, Esq., c/o George Onslow, Laburnum Cottage, Laleham-on-Thames. There couldn’t be anything plainer than that, could there?”
“It seems all right, sir,” said the woman. “There is only one Laburnum Cottage, and Mr. Onslow was certainly staying with us. He had his wife with him, a sweet young thing, which was more than could be said of the gentleman, I can assure you.”
It was plain from this that she and Mr. Onslow had not been on the best of terms. Burrell took from his pocket the photograph of Fensden, and handed it to her. He was beginning to have an inkling of the truth.
“Is that the likeness of Fensden or of Mr. Onslow?” he inquired.
“Mr. Onslow, sir, to be sure,” she replied, “and a very good one of him it is too. I hope he’s not a friend of yours, because I couldn’t abear him. The way he treated his poor foreign wife of his was enough to make an honest woman’s blood boil.”
“So he had a foreign wife, had he?” said Burrell. “That’s interesting. Tell me all you can about him.”
“There’s not much to be told, sir, except about his bullying and nagging that poor young thing. She was a foreigner, as I have just said, but as nice a young lady as ever stepped in at my door. When they first came she told me that Mr. Onslow was an artist, and that they wanted to be quiet and away from London. They didn’t mind putting up with the roughness of things, she said, so long as they could be quiet. Well, sir, they had this room and the bedroom above, and for the first few days everything went as smooth and as nice as could be. Then I noticed that she took to crying, and that he went away day after day and once for two days. At last he disappeared altogether, leaving her without a halfpenny in the world. Oh! I’d have liked to have seen the brute and have given him a bit of my mind. It would have done him good, I’ll promise him that. I shall never forget that poor young thing in her trouble. She waited and waited for him to come back, but at last when there was no sign of him, she came to me in my kitchen there to know what she should do. 'I know you have not had your money, Mrs. Raikes,’ she said in a kind of piteous foreign way, that went to my heart. 'I can not stay here any longer, and so, if you’ll trust me, I’ll go away to London and try to find my husband. Even if I do not, you shall not lose by us.’ I told her I didn’t want the money, and that I was as sorry for her as a woman could be. Poor dear, I could see that her heart was nearly broken.”
“And what happened then?”
“Nothing, sir, except that she went away, and she hadn’t been gone a week before the money that was owing to me was sent in a Post Office Order. From that day to this I’ve heard nothing of either of them and that’s the truth. Whether she found her husband I can not say, but if she’d take my advice she’d never try to.”
“You are quite sure that you’d know the man again?”
“I am certain I should,” the woman replied. “I hope, sir, in telling you all this, I’ve been doing no harm?”
“You have been doing a great deal of good,” Burrell replied. “Shortly after she left you, poor Mrs. Onslow, as you call her, was most brutally murdered, and I have been commissioned by the friends of the man who is wrongfully accused of the crime to endeavour to discover the real criminal.”
“Murdered, sir? you surely don’t mean that?”
“I do! A more abominable crime has not been committed this century.”
The good woman was honestly overcome by the news and during the remainder of the interview scarcely recovered her composure. Before he left, Burrell cautioned her most strongly against saying anything about the case to her neighbours, and this injunction she promised faithfully to observe.
“By the way,” said the detective, before he left, “do you remember whether this man Onslow received any letters while he was staying with you?”
“Only one, sir, so far as I know,” the woman replied.
“You’re quite sure of that?”
“Quite sure, sir, and why I happen to be so certain is that it caused a bit of unpleasantness between them. I was brushing the stairs just out there, when the letter arrived. It was Mrs. Onslow that took it in, and when she saw the post-mark she asked him who it was that he knew at Richmond. He snatched the letter from her and told her to mind her own business. That afternoon he went out and never came back. It’s my belief it was some woman at Richmond as enticed him away.”
“Have you any other reason for supposing that except the post-mark on the envelope?”
“Well, sir,” returned the woman, “to be candid with you, I have, though perhaps it’s a tale I shouldn’t tell. I was so sorry for that poor young thing that I couldn’t get her trouble out of my head, and nothing would serve but that I must watch him. I saw him sitting down at the head of the table where you are now, sir, about half-an-hour after he had spoken so cross to his wife, and she, poor dear, was upstairs crying, and I noticed that he was writing a telegram. Presently he calls to me. 'Mrs. Raikes,’ said he, 'want to send a telegram at once, who can take it for me?’ 'There’s Mrs. Hawkins’s little boy next door, sir,’ says I, 'he’s taken messages for gentlemen I’ve had in the house before now, and always done it very well. I saw him playing in the field at the back of the house only this minute.’ 'Call him in to me, then,’ says he, 'and he shall have sixpence for his trouble.’ I called the lad in, and Mr. Onslow gave him the message, and then off he went with it, but not so fast but that I was able to run across to the corner of the field at the back there, and catch him on the road. 'Tommy,’ I said, 'let me have a look at that telegram.’ He was a good little boy, and handed it over to me without a word. It was addressed to 'Montgomery, 13 Bridgeworth Road, Richmond.’ There was no other name to it, and the only other word was 'yes.’ It didn’t seem to me that there was anything out of the common about it, and so I thought no more of it, until you spoke of his having letters just now.”
“I think I’ll make a note of the address in case it should be useful,” said Burrell. “And now I’ll be off, thanking you again, Mrs. Raikes, for the information you have given me.”
On leaving the cottage he walked back to Staines, caught a train to London, and hastened to his house. Later on he made his way to Euston Station. Another twenty hours elapsed before he was able to acquire the information he wanted there—but he had the satisfaction of knowing, when he had obtained it, that there remained now only one link to be forged, and then the chain of evidence would be complete. That link was forged at Richmond, and next day he handed in his report to the astonished Codey.
“Good heavens, Burrell,” said that astute gentleman, “this is as marvellous as it is horrible. What do you think?”
“I think, sir, that we shall be able to prove that Mr. Henderson is innocent.”
At last, after all the weary waiting, the great day arrived. The Sessions had commenced at the Old Bailey. For two or three days prior to this, Godfrey had been busy with his solicitor and his counsel. It was not, however, until the afternoon before the commencement that he could elicit from Codey any information as to Burrell’s discoveries. Immediately he was ushered into the room where Codey was awaiting him, Godfrey saw from the expression upon the other’s face, that there was something to tell.
“You—have good news for me,” he said, as they shook hands.
“The very best of news,” Codey replied. “My dear sir, you may rest assured that your innocence is completely established. The whole plot has come to light, and, when we give the word, the authorities will be able to lay their hands upon the man who committed the deed.”
“But who is the man?” Godfrey hastened to ask, scarcely able to speak for excitement. His pulse was beating like a sledge hammer inside his head, until it seemed as if his brain must burst.
“Don’t ask me that now,” said Codey. “Put your trust in me until to-morrow. Then you shall know everything. Believe me, I have my own very good reasons for asking this favour of you. Rest assured of one thing; at latest the day after to-morrow you will be at liberty to go where and do what you please.”
“But why can not it be settled at once? Why must it be the day after to-morrow? It is cruel to keep me in suspense!”
“Don’t you understand that we can not bring forward our witnesses until the proper moment arrives?” said the lawyer. “The English law has its idiosyncrasies, and even in a case of life and death, the formalities must be observed. There is one thing, however, I can promise you; that is, that when the truth comes out, it will be admitted that such a sensation has not been caused in a Court of Justice before.”
And with this assurance, meagre as it was, Godfrey had perforce to be content.
[CHAPTER XV]
When Godfrey woke on the morning of his trial he lay for some moments thinking over the strangeness of his position. He had been definitely assured by Codey that nothing could prevent his being proved innocent, yet how difficult it was to believe this when he was lying on a prison bed in a prison cell with all the grim appurtenances of a convict’s life before him. The very books upon the shelf, the spy-hole in the door, even his bed-clothes, reminded him that he was shut off from his fellow men. At the usual signal he rose and dressed, and, having done so, tidied his cell in the customary fashion. After this his breakfast was served to him, and then he was permitted a short period of exercise in the prison yard. He had not long returned to his cell before he was informed that it was time for him to set off to the Court.
Never, if he lives to be a hundred, will Godfrey Henderson forget the scene that met his eyes when he entered the Court—the judge and the sheriffs upon the Bench, the jurymen seated in their box, the rows of counsel, and the line upon line of eager-eyed spectators. When Godfrey made his appearance in the dock a sudden silence fell upon the Court. The Clerk of Arraigns rose and read over the charge preferred against him, namely, of murdering one Teresina Cardi, and this done he was called upon in the usual manner to plead. Advancing to the front of the dock Godfrey looked straight before him and said, in a calm, strong voice: “Not guilty, my lord.” The jury were then sworn, and as soon as this important business had been completed the counsel for the prosecution rose and told the story of the crime. He described the engagement of the dead woman by the prisoner, his employment of her for some considerable time, and then his hasty departure for the Continent. It would be shown that he had received a letter from her while in Egypt, and that almost immediately afterward he had returned to Naples. In the latter city he had invited her to dine with him, and had taken her to the Opera afterward. He commented upon the fact that the prisoner had voluntarily admitted to the police authorities that he had endeavoured to induce her to return to England. At that time, however, it must be borne in mind that he had not met the lady he now desired to make his wife. Whether he had seen anything of the deceased, prior to their meeting in the Strand, it was as yet impossible to say. The fact, however, remained that his engagement to the lady in the country was ultimately announced. Despite that fact, only ten days before the wedding was to take place, he was known to have met the deceased woman at midnight, and had taken her to her home in Burford Street, leading out of the Tottenham Court Road. By the medical evidence he would presently call, he would prove that less than half-an-hour afterward she was brutally murdered. Before half-past twelve, that is to say, within an hour of the cabman picking them up in the Strand, he would prove that the prisoner returned to his Hotel in Piccadilly, very white and agitated, and had called for brandy. Since his arrest, an exhaustive search had been made at his residence, with the result that a blood-stained knife, which had been identified as having been purchased by the prisoner in Cairo, had been discovered hidden behind a bookcase in his studio. As for the motive of the crime he would point out that the deceased woman wore a wedding ring, that she was known to entertain a great affection for the prisoner, and that the latter was about to be married to another lady. What was more probable than that he should wish to have the other woman out of the way before he could do so? That was certainly only a conjecture, but it was one that carried a large amount of probability with it. He would now proceed to call his witnesses.
The first witness called was the proprietor of the lodging-house, who had identified the body. He was followed by the German cabinet-maker, who had made the first and most important discovery. The police officer, who had been called in when the door had been opened, followed next, succeeded by the doctor who had made the post-mortem examination. The question of identity and discovery having been settled, what the counsel next proposed to do was to connect the prisoner with the crime. The cabman who had picked them up in the Strand and had driven them to Burford Street, was called, and the policeman who had seen them talking together on the pavement there. Victor Fensden next deposed as to the affection the deceased had entertained for the prisoner, and the efforts he had made to induce the latter to give her up. He described Godfrey’s receipt of the letter from Teresina when on the Nile, and stated that the prisoner had said nothing to him concerning his intention to visit the woman in Naples. His next meeting with the prisoner was at the Mahl Stick Club, where he had noticed a reluctance on his part to refer to his association with the woman in the past. This was accentuated on the following Saturday at the prisoner’s residence in Midlandshire. He recognised the knife produced, and recollected the circumstances under which it had been purchased by the prisoner. This concluded Fensden’s evidence, and he accordingly sat down. Various other unimportant witnesses followed, and then the case was adjourned for the day.
Wrapped in suspense, Godfrey was driven back to the jail to turn the evidence over and over in his mind all night long. Whatever trust he might place in Burrell and his discoveries, it was quite certain that another twenty-four hours would elapse before his deliverance could be expected. Once more he scarcely slept. The various events connected with the trial thronged his brain with merciless reiteration. With phonographic distinctness he could recall almost every word that was said. He could see the judge upon the Bench making his notes with pitiless exactness, the various counsel in the well of the Court whispering together, the importance of the jury, and the self-sufficiency of the Court servants. Yet he had Codey’s assurance that all was to be put right in the end, and with this knowledge he was perforce compelled to be content.
At the same hour as on the previous day he was ordered to prepare himself for his journey to the Court. The evidence already given against him was so incriminating that the officials of the jail felt sure that his condemnation was assured. They already looked upon him as a dead man, and marvelled among themselves that he could carry himself with so much assurance.
Once more the Court was crowded. Fashionable London felt that the end of one of the most interesting cases of late years was drawing near, and it was anxious not to lose an opportunity of witnessing the dénouement of the tragedy.
“The Court is ready,” said the warder, and once more Godfrey ascended the stairs that had constituted the link between life and death for so many hundreds of miserable beings before him. He found the judge, stern and implacable as before, upon the Bench, the various counsel in their places, and everyone eagerly awaiting his appearance. He bowed to the judge and took up his position at the rails. He determined that, whatever else they might think, they should not imagine that he was afraid. Then, with the customary ceremonial, the case was commenced.
The counsel for the prosecution having finished his case, Mr. Rolland, having addressed the Court, prepared to call his witnesses. They were few in number. The landlord of Godfrey’s old studio in London deposed that his rent had always been paid to the moment, and that he had heard the deceased talk of the kindness she had received at the prisoner’s hands. “It was always in the language of a dependent,” he said, “and in no way that of a girl who believed her patron to be in love with her.”
When the prosecution had declined to cross-examine this witness, the counsel for the defence arranged his gown and assumed an even more important air. It was evident that something was about to happen. A moment later Victor Fensden was recalled.
“I am anxious, Mr. Fensden,” said the counsel, “to ask you a question regarding your return from the Continent. You have already told the jury that you returned on the morning of the murder. Am I to understand that that was really so?”
“I arrived on Thursday, the 15th,” said Victor, and a close observer would have noticed that he shifted uneasily on his feet as he gave the answer.
“I should be glad also to have your repeated assurance that, from the moment you saw the prisoner purchase that knife in Cairo, you did not behold it again until it was handed you at the Magistrate’s Court?”
“That also is quite true,” said Victor, who by this time was more at his ease.
“That is all I want to ask you. You may sit down,” said the counsel. “Call Simon Updale.”
In response to the summons, a short, stout man, who was the possessor of a fiery beard and the reddest hair ever seen on a human being, made his appearance and took up his position in the box. He deposed that his name was Simon Updale, and that he was an able seaman on a steamer plying between Dover and Calais. On a certain day, a month before the murder, he had been made the subject of a complaint to the captain by the previous witness, Mr. Fensden. He was quite certain of the date and of the passenger’s identity, for the reason that one of his mates had broken his arm before reaching Dover and he wanted to accompany him to the hospital. On account of the complaint, however, he was not permitted to go.
George Perran, steward on the same boat, was next called. He corroborated what the previous witness had said, and recognised the witness Fensden as being the gentleman who had made the complaint.
“That,” said Mr. Rolland, “proves conclusively that the witness in question has committed wilful and corrupt perjury, inasmuch as that he was in England a month before he stated in his evidence.”
Every eye in Court was riveted on Victor Fensden, whose face turned as pale as the paper upon which I am writing.
“I shall now call James Tidmarsh,” said Mr. Rolland, and in response to the summons a small boy climbed into the witness-box.
His name, he stated, was James Tidmarsh, and he called himself an errand boy, though as a rule he spent his time hanging about the vicinity of Euston Station. He remembered distinctly on the night of Friday, the 16th, meeting a gentleman about eight o’clock outside the station who carried a small wooden box in his hand. That gentleman stopped him and asked him if he would care to earn half a sovereign. Upon his eagerly answering in the affirmative, the stranger gave him the box in question with the sum of fifteen shillings. “Take it to the station,” he said, “and hand it in at the parcel-office to be despatched to the address written on the label. It won’t cost more than a couple of shillings or half-a-crown, and you can keep the change for yourself. I’ll wait here until you return to tell me it’s all right.”
The boy then declared that he started off, handed the box in at the parcel-office and paid the money. In taking the money the clerk had sauced him and he had retaliated to the best of his ability. The result was that the policeman on the platform gave him a good shaking and turned him out of the building. He informed the gentleman that he had sent the parcel off, and he had not seen him since that moment until he came into Court and had heard the witness Fensden give his evidence. He, the witness to whom he alluded, was, without a shadow of doubt, the gentleman who had handed him the box to send to Detwich Hall.
The excitement in Court by this time may be better imagined than described. The colour of Fensden’s face was a dirty gray, and he seemed to gasp for breath. The counsel for the prosecution seemed uneasy, and even the judge leaned farther forward than usual, as if he were afraid of losing a word of what was said.
The clerk in the parcel-office was next called, and stated that he remembered the incident in question. The box was a foreign one, and as he had placed it on the floor he had remarked, “Another made in Germany.”
The policeman who had turned the boy out of the station followed him. He had seen the boy deposit a small box upon the counter and heard him say something cheeky to the clerk. He thereupon bundled him out of the station.
When this witness had finished his tale Mr. Rolland said: “Call Jacob Burrell.”
On hearing this a stir ran through the Court. The famous detective was well known to all the officials within the building, and they, in the light of this new discovery and the knowledge that this individual had taken up the prisoner’s case, began to regard the matter in a somewhat different light. There was a slight flicker of a smile upon the austere countenance of the judge when the counsel asked the detective his name.
“Jacob Burrell,” was the reply.
“I understand,” went on the counsel, “that you were instructed by my friend, the solicitor for the defence, to make an investigation into this case. In the course of that investigation did you visit Naples?”
“I did,” the other replied.
“And what did you discover there?”
“I found that the witness Fensden, although he has denied the matter on oath, was in Naples three weeks after the prisoner passed through on his way to England.”
The counsel here informed the jury that five affidavits to this effect would be produced and read. Addressing the witness once more he said:
“Are you aware that the witness Fensden spent the greater part of his time in Naples in the company of the deceased woman?”
“I found that to be the case. On February 3rd they left Naples together for Vienna, stayed together at the Hotel National, in the Käarntner Strasse, and were married on the 26th of that month at the Church at Funfhaus, in the Gurtel Strasse. The wedding-ring, which was still upon the left hand when it was sent to the prisoner, was purchased at the shop of Messrs. Radler & Hass, in the Kohlmarkt.”
“The head of that firm is now in Court,” said Mr. Rolland, “and will give his evidence. Call Herr Radler.”
Herr Radler thereupon entered the box which Burrell had vacated, and stated that he well remembered selling the ring in question to an Englishman who was accompanied by a beautiful Italian lady. The gentleman he recognised as the witness Fensden, and from the photograph, that had been shown to him of the dead woman, he was able to swear that it was for her the ring was purchased.
Victor Fensden, at this point, sprang to his feet as if to speak, but his voice failed him, and he sat down again.
A sworn copy of the marriage certificate having been produced and read, and handed up for the inspection of the jury, Jacob Burrell was recalled.
“When you had traced the witness and the deceased to Vienna, what did you do?”
“I returned to England, viâ Paris and Calais,” he answered. “On reaching London I followed up certain clews I had received, and found that the witness and the deceased lived for a short time together in the country.”
“At what place?”
“At the village of Laleham on the River Thames.”
Here the counsel for the prosecution rose to protest.
“Your lordship,” he said, “I must respectfully submit that the question as to whether Mr. Fensden cohabited with the deceased is not relevant to the case. We are trying the prisoner at the Bar and not Mr. Fensden.”
His opponent took up the challenge.
“I respectfully submit that I am in the right,” said Rolland. “In eliciting this information I am leading up to the question of motive, and I am sure my learned friend will admit that that is an all-important point.
“I am afraid I must rule against you,” said the judge, addressing the Prosecuting counsel. “Anything that tends to throw a light upon the proceedings of the deceased so short a time prior to the murder can scarcely fail to be relevant.”
Once more readjusting his gown, Mr. Rolland invited Burrell to proceed.
“How long did witness and the deceased occupy the house at Laleham?”
“For more than a fortnight. Then Fensden left her in a strange place without a penny in the world.” (Here a murmur of indignation ran through the Court, which, by the judge’s orders, was instantly suppressed.)
“That will do,” said Mr. Rolland. “Call Elizabeth Raikes.”
The owner of Laburnum Cottage next entered the box, and, though much flurried by the novel position in which she found herself, gave evidence to the effect that the deceased and Fensden had occupied apartments at her house for the period mentioned by the previous witness. She was quite sure, from things she had overheard, that they were not happy together, and she knew that the man treated the woman cruelly. Sometimes he was away for a couple of days, and one day he disappeared altogether without paying for anything they had had while in the house, and leaving his wife totally unprovided for. She had heard the present case talked about, but had not associated the victim with the Mrs. Onslow who had occupied rooms at her cottage.
“I have two more witnesses to call,” said Mr. Rolland, when Mrs. Raikes had stepped down. “Then, my lord, I shall have completed my case. Call Mrs. Wilhelmina Montgomery.”
A tall, handsome woman, fashionably attired, stepped into the witness-box and took the oath. In response to the question put her by the counsel for the defence, she stated that her name was Wilhelmina Montgomery, and that she was the widow of George Montgomery, late of Sheffield. “I live at No. 13, Bridgeworth Road, Richmond,” she continued. “I first met the witness, Victor Fensden, at Baden, while travelling with some friends, in December last. We became very intimate, and, when he returned to England early in March, he called upon me at my house. Eventually he asked me to marry him, and after some hesitation I consented to do so. I have three thousand a year invested in Consols, and a considerable amount of ready money lying idle at the bank. This may or may not have been his motive, but I have no knowledge of that. Mr. Fensden was anxious for an immediate marriage, but to this I would not consent. I knew that he was in the hands of the Jews, but I would have paid off his indebtedness after marriage. He stayed at my house on several occasions, as did others of my friends. One day I went out to do some shopping, and on my return discovered him in my boudoir. He held a piece of yellow soap in his hand and a large number of door-keys were spread out on the table before him. I asked him what he was doing, and he answered that he was endeavouring to find a key similar to the one he had lost. My housekeeper had furnished him with several, and he had at last found one that fitted the imprint in the soap. On the night of the murder he informed me that it would be necessary for him to attend an important meeting, and that it was just possible he would not be back until late. As a matter of fact, it was considerably after one o’clock, perhaps half-past one, when he returned. On the Saturday following he left me to go down to Midlandshire to pay a visit to an old friend, he said, who was about to be married. Before he went he once more pressed me for an early marriage, suggesting, knowing that I am fond of travelling, that we should immediately set off for a long trip round the world.”
The box which had contained the hands was then handed to her, and she was asked if she recognised it.
“Yes,” she answered immediately. “If you look underneath I think you will find a large inkstain. (This proved to be the case.) I brought some things in it from Vienna. How Mr. Fensden obtained possession of it, however, I do not know.”
The counsel for the prosecution having no questions to ask, the witness was allowed to stand down.
“Call Joseph Hodder,” said Mr. Rolland, and, to Godfrey’s amazement, one of his own under-gardeners entered the box. Having taken the oath, he stated, in reply to the counsel’s question, that, on the Sunday following the murder, it was his duty to attend to the stoking of the fires of the various conservatories at the Hall. He knew that his master and the ladies had gone to Church, because he had passed them in the park, and that the strange gentleman had remained at home, because, when he had passed the drawing-room window on his way to his work, he saw him sitting before the fire reading. Having attended to the fires in the vineries and other garden-houses, he returned to the Hall itself to look after the heat in the new winter garden that Mr. Henderson had built. From this house in question it is quite possible to see into the studio, and, to his surprise, he discovered the gentleman visitor was no longer in the drawing-room, but was kneeling beside the big bookcase near the fireplace in the studio. It looked as if he were feeling for something behind it, but what that something was he had no idea. When he was asked why he had not given information on this matter before, he replied that he had not attached any importance to it until he had talked it over with the head gardener on the day following the search by the police. Then he had gone to Miss Henderson, and had told her. She had written at once to his master’s lawyer, and that was all he knew about it.
“The evidence of this man,” said Mr. Rolland, “completes my case.”
The words had scarcely left his lips before Victor Fensden was seen to spring to his feet. Once more he opened his mouth as if to speak, and once more he failed to utter a word. Then, with a loud cry, he fell forward in a swoon. Two of the policemen near at hand ran forward to pick him up. Between them, they carried him out of the Court to an adjoining room. In the Court itself at that moment, it would have been possible to have heard a pin drop. Then the judge found his voice.
“Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the jury, “after the astounding evidence you have just heard, I am thankful to say that, in my opinion, there is not the least shadow of a reason for continuing the case against the prisoner at the bar. In this I feel sure you will concur with me.”
The foreman of the jury entirely agreed with his lordship, and at the same time desired to express, on behalf of himself and his brother jurymen, their great regret that a gentleman of Mr. Henderson’s position should, by another man’s action, have been placed in such an unhappy predicament.
“With that I quite agree,” said the counsel for the prosecution.
This was the signal for general applause in Court, which, somehow, was not checked by the judge as quickly as is customary in such cases.
When silence had been restored, the latter addressed Godfrey.
“Godfrey Henderson,” he said, and his voice was very impressive, “by reason of the false evidence that has been given against you, by a cruel and vindictive man, you have been brought to the dock of this Court, and charged with the perpetration of a most cruel and bloodthirsty crime. Of that crime twelve of your countrymen have declared you to be innocent, and to their testimony I emphatically add my own. While it is not in my power to offer you the hope of receiving any return for the anxiety you have suffered, I can say something that I know you will value much more; that is, that you leave this Court a free man, and without the shadow of a stain upon your character.”
“I thank you, my lord,” said Godfrey, quietly, and at that moment one of the ushers of the Court entered and approached the judge.
“Gentlemen,” said the latter, again addressing the Court, “I think it only right to make it known to you that a Higher Power than that I represent has intervened, and the wretched man, who has caused all this misery and suffering, has been suddenly called to appear before a greater Tribunal. May God have mercy upon his soul!”
Then the Court was cleared, and Godfrey found himself shaking hands with Sir Vivian and the men who had worked so hard to prove his innocence. When he had thanked them from the very bottom of his heart, Sir Vivian took his arm.
“Come away now, come away,” said the old gentleman. “There are other people waiting to welcome you.”
Seizing Godfrey by the arm, he hurried him out into the street to a cab which was waiting there. Ten minutes later he was locked in his mother’s arms.
“O Godfrey,” said Molly, as he embraced her in her turn, “I knew that God would send you back to me!”
A week later Godfrey and Molly were married by special license, and left England the same day for the South of France. They are now back again at the Hall, and as happy as two young people could well expect to be. The clouds that shadowed their lives at one time are now completely dispersed, but, if Godfrey lives to be a hundred, he will never forget the agony he suffered in connection with what the newspapers called “The Mystery of the Clasped Hands.”