The Mystery of the Clasped Hands: A Novel

by Guy Boothby

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 When they had withdrawn, he was left to himself until the time arrived for him to set off for the coroner’s court.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.