The Betrayal of John Fordham

by B. L. Farjeon

She turned to me with a gasp of thankfulness.

"I will conceal nothing," she said. "You will condemn me, perhaps, but I must not allow that to stand in the way. There is no other man I can trust, there is no other man that can serve me, there is no other man who can prove John Fordham to be innocent of the crime of which he accuses himself."

"You believe him to be innocent."

"To believe him otherwise would be to lose my faith in the goodness of God. This will explain all. When you have read it you will know what John Fordham is to me, and whether there is any chance of proving his innocence. You have used the word 'mystery.' There is a mystery here which only a man in your profession can solve, which only a true friend would take the trouble to solve. How thankful, how thankful I am that I came to you!"

She took a large packet from beneath her mantle, and placed it in my hands; then, giving me her address, and saying she would always be at home, or would call upon me at any time I might appoint, she left me to the perusal of the manuscript. But I did not apply myself to it immediately, beyond glancing at the opening words. Thinking I might be in time to see John Fordham brought up at the police court, I posted off to Marylebone, and there I found the case proceeding. Fordham was in the dock, a pale, worn man, with an expression on his face of one who had undergone much suffering. He looked like a gentleman, but I did not allow that to influence me, for I put no trust in appearances. There are men standing high in public esteem whose faces would condemn them if they were charged with a criminal offense; and guilt itself too often wears the aspect of innocence. Asked if he had anything to say, Fordham replied that he hoped to be able on his trial to make a statement, which would be accepted in extenuation of his crime; until that time arrived he would be silent, but if he could assist the police in any way, he was ready to do so. This unusual reply awoke within me a stronger interest in him, and I studied his features carefully; there was stamped upon them the expression of a man who had prepared himself for the worst. The police asked for a remand, which was granted, and he was taken back to the cells. As I issued from the court a cab drove up, and Miss Cameron alighted; she had taken a four-wheeler, and was too late for this preliminary examination. I hastened to her, and told her what had taken place.

"Shall I be allowed to see him?" she asked.

I said there would be no difficulty, but that it would be best to consult a solicitor. She mentioned the name of one who had acted for Fordham for several years, and I advised her to go to him. She thanked me and drove off, and I returned to my office to read John Fordham's Confession.

If I were to attempt to describe at any length the impression it produced upon me I should fail. I am very fond of fiction, and I have read most of the leading novels of my time, but I doubt if I have ever read anything in which a man's trials and sorrows were more powerfully portrayed. I do not speak in a literary sense, for in that respect I am a poor judge, but the effect of this Confession upon me was startling. I seemed to see the man's heart and soul, and sometimes I lost sight of the fact that I was perusing a story of real life. The kind allusion to myself and the thoughtful suppression of my name affected me strongly, and John Fordham's description of the character of Ellen Cameron showed me what a treasure I had lost. But I should have been a despicable fellow to bear him any animosity for having won the love I sought, and I thought none the worse of him or Ellen Cameron for having thrown their lots together.

So much for my private feelings and for the small part I had played in Miss Cameron's life. I set them aside entirely, and threw myself heart and soul into the mystery which surrounded the murder.

It was plain enough to me that the Confession was worthless as evidence; a clever writer might have invented and written it for the purpose of exculpating himself, and by Fordham's own admission he was a writer of great power. I had read the articles he wrote on drunkenness, and I knew that the pictures he presented were drawn from life. But if they were cited at his trial they would tell against instead of for him, and would serve to discount the speech he might make in his defense. The mystery must be grappled with in a more practical manner, and I was the more determined to grapple with it sensibly and with as little sentiment as possible, because, when I finished the Confession I was convinced that Fordham was quite truthful in all he had set down. It would be hoping too much to hope that the judge and jury would think so, but I might succeed in discovering something that would lead to a verdict of manslaughter, and the passing of a light sentence; and it was not altogether impossible that a verdict of complete acquittal might be compassed. In which case what becomes of the censure passed by Fordham's solicitor upon the class to which I belong? I cast the word "vermin" in his teeth. He and others are glad enough to avail themselves of our services when they need them.