Great Porter Square: A Mystery. v. 1

by B. L. Farjeon

“Nothing has been proved against him,” persisted Mr. Goldberry.

“Nothing has been proved in his favour,” said the magistrate. “Had you proved that the accused had led a reputable and respectable life—had a reasonable explanation been given of his presence in Great Porter Square and of his motive in ascending the steps leading to the street door of the house in which the murder was committed, and trying the handle—had anything creditable as to his antecedents been established—I should not have objected to some such expression of opinion as you desire. But as the accused has chosen to surround himself with mystery, he must be content with being discharged without the solace of official sympathy. I do not approve of the action of the police in this matter; neither do I approve of the course adopted by the accused. He is discharged.”

Antony Cowlrick listened impatiently to this dialogue. For a moment or two he lingered, as though he had a desire himself to speak to the magistrate, but if he had any such intention he speedily relinquished it, and with a slight shrug of his shoulders he pushed open the door of the dock and stepped into the body of the court.

Outside the police-court, Antony Cowlrick did not pause to look around him: he scarcely seemed to be conscious of the eager faces of the people who had waited to catch a glimpse of him. Taking advantage of an opening in the crowd, he darted through it, and walked swiftly away. The people walked swiftly after him, some running before to look up into his face. This impelled him to walk still more swiftly, until presently he began to run as if for a wager.

These movements, especially the last, acted magnetically on the men, women, and children congregated in Martin Street. As though animated by one magical impulse they flew after him, shouting as they ran. There was here presented the singular spectacle of a man just pronounced innocent by the law being hunted down, immediately after his acquittal, by an indiscriminate crowd, without reason or motive.

He scarcely seemed to know the way he was flying. Through some of the narrow turnings intersecting Drury Lane and Covent Garden, then westward into the labyrinths of Soho, doubling back again towards Leicester Square, raced Antony Cowlrick, in his endeavour to get rid of the hunters, until those persons at a distance from Martin Street who were drawn into the hunt by the contagion of the excitement began to scream out, “Stop thief!” In an instant a chorus of voices took up the cry, and “Stop thief! stop thief!” issued from a hundred throats. When that sound reached Antony Cowlrick’s ears he stopped—as suddenly as he had fled—and confronted his pursuers. He found himself surrounded by a multitude of excited faces, and within a couple of yards stood an uninformed policeman, who stepped forward to take him into custody. But Antony Cowlrick raised his arm threateningly, and the hunted man and the constable glared at each other. Serious consequences might have ensued had it not been for our Reporter, who worked his way to the front, and stood by Antony Cowlrick’s side.

“There is a mistake, policeman,” said our Reporter; “this man has done nothing.”

The policeman immediately prepared to take our Reporter into custody for obstructing him in the exercise of his duty, but he was baulked by the appearance of two other policemen who, acting under instructions, had followed the discharged prisoner, and by Mr. Goldberry, who had accompanied them without consent.

“It’s all right,” said the newly-arrived policeman. “Come—move along there!”

It is not to be supposed that they were animated by particularly friendly feelings towards Antony Cowlrick; but if he belonged to anybody he belonged to them, and they would not allow any interference with their property.