The Betrayal of John Fordham

by B. L. Farjeon

Did Louis have an accomplice? If so, who more likely than Maxwell? The conjecture was natural, but I soon dismissed it. Two men would have made short work of me. Revenge and greed would have chained Maxwell to Louis' side, and I should not now be alive and comparatively uninjured. There had been blood on my face and hands, but it had not come from me—a proof that I had not, as I supposed, been attacked with a knife. The only weapon used in the struggle was used by me, and it had only to be established as belonging to me to serve as fatal evidence against me. And yet it was strange that in an attack deliberately premeditated and thought out, my assailant should have had no weapon at his command. There was, however, no certainty of this. Knowing; that I was a powerful man he would hardly have trusted to his own physical strength to overcome me. The reasonable presumption was that he had a weapon, which he had either been unable to draw or had dropped in the scuffle. I adopted these conclusions as facts beyond dispute. He had no accomplices, he had a weapon. The former fact added to my chances of safety, for having confided his savage purpose to no one, the secret was confined to his own breast. And he died without revealing it.

For the deed itself I did not, I could not, hold myself any more responsible than if I had been attacked by a wild beast. Discovered, I must bear the consequences, but I was justified in keeping it secret, and in leaving to others the task of detection. And, indeed, it was now too late for me to take the initiative. My flight and the property in my possession were sufficient proofs of guilt. Innocent (it would be argued), what had I to fear? Justice never errs—never! What mockery! Being guilty, I had done what all guilty men do. What could be clearer?

I was now afflicted with the doubt whether I had acted wisely in adopting a policy of concealment. It is in the nature of such a labyrinth of circumstance as that in which I was wandering never to be sure of the road, to be ever in doubt whether the right track has not been hopelessly missed. There are no sadder reflections than those inspired by what is and what might have been. Lost moments—lost opportunities—if I had done this, if I had done that! So do we torture ourselves when the fatal issue is before us. But I had chosen my course, and it was now too late to retrace my steps.

I deemed it fortunate that in my cable messages to Ellen and my solicitor I had not stated the name of the vessel by which I had taken passage home, my intention having been to give my dear one a delightful surprise. I had time for further deliberation, to more fully mature my plans. It would be necessary that my lawyer should be made acquainted with the facts of my arrival, but I need not communicate with him for a few day. My present concern was to learn from the newspapers of the discovery of Louis' body, and what was said about it. In the afternoon I went out and bought copies of the evening papers, taking care to show myself only in those thoroughfares where I deemed myself safe. The leading principle of all my movements at this period was caution, and I did not lose sight of it even in so trifling a matter as the purchase of a few newspapers. I evinced no anxiety to read them, but put them into my pocket with assumed carelessness, as though I were not interested in their contents. Two or three times I fancied that I was being followed, and I put it to the test, and satisfied myself that my fears had misled me. Returning to the hotel, I looked through the papers in the solitude of my room, without meeting with any reference to a Liverpool tragedy. Neither in the papers of the following day was any allusion made to it.

I put the true construction upon this silence. The house in which I had left Louis' body was practically untenanted, and no indication of anything unusual had been found in the street. But it would have been folly on my part to suppose that the murder could remain forever undiscovered. The suspense was dreadful.

So several days passed by. I removed from the hotel, and took apartments in the north of London. From that address I wrote to my solicitor, requesting him to call upon me in the evening, and asking him to say nothing of my return home. At the appointed hour we were closeted together.

After the first few words of greeting he spoke of Barbara's death, and said it was a happy release for her and for me. He then spoke of Ellen, and I gathered that he had formed a high opinion of her; but he made no inquiries as to my intentions with respect to her. He asked, however, whether it was my wish that she should not be informed of my return. I replied that I wished nobody to know, and he promised to preserve absolute silence. If he felt surprise, he evinced none.

"Have you seen much of her?" I asked.

"Very little," he replied. "Altogether, I think, not more than four or five times. I send her her allowance every month through the post, and she sends me an acknowledgment by return. Am I to continue to send the money?"

"Yes; it is hers for life, whatever becomes of me." He raised his eyes. "Life is uncertain," I added. "And I shall feel obliged by your forwarding any letters to her which I may address to your care, and by your forwarding her letters to any address I may give you. My reasons for concealment are such as I cannot confide to you."