There is a sob over by the window. Maggie is looking out into the miserable street with her forehead pressed against one of its cracked panes.
“Say all you have to say very slowly to this gentleman then, my lad,” answers Evie Ravensdale. “He is a magistrate, and will take your deposition, and hear you swear to it.”
“I want to tell you, sir, how wicked I have been. But God has forgiven me, for Father Vaughan has heard my confession, and given me absolution. I’m a Catholic, sir, you know. But Father Vaughan told me I ought to tell you what I’m going to, because of the great wrong which other people have suffered by what I’ve helped to do. So, sir, this is it.
“I’m twenty-three years of age, sir, and I have earned my living since a boy, and since poor mother died, in the service of Mr. Trackem. He’s a private detective agent, sir, and something else besides. He always said I was a sharp lad, and that I did things quick for him, so that when I was eighteen he made me his head clerk, and used to tell me all about his affairs and jobs. It was he and I who arranged that attack on Mrs. de Lara, and several days before it I had watched her every night when she came out for her evening stroll, and the night before the attack I got into her sitting-room while she was out, and stole a lot of her note-paper and some of her writing. I was at Mr. D’Estrange’s trial, sir, and all what Mrs. de Lara and Miss Vernon and you swore to was quite true, and nearly all what Mr. Trackem said was a lie. Well, sir, after Mr. D’Estrange and you and Miss Vernon rescued Mrs. de Lara, Mr. Trackem and I and Lord Westray held a consultation. His lordship was very much put about, and swore he would be revenged. He offered me and Mr. Trackem a deal of money to help him, and then Mr. Trackem hatched the plan, sir. I can imitate handwriting well, and he made me write two letters copying Mrs. de Lara’s handwriting. One was to her maid, saying she was going up to London, and the other to Mr. Trackem, telling him to keep the house in Verdegrease Crescent for her and Lord Westray. And then Lord Westray himself wrote several letters in the vein described by Mr. Trackem at the trial. And then, sir, Mr. Trackem arranged with his lordship all about buying a poor man’s body, as soon as one could be found suitable for the purpose. You look startled, sir, but it’s not difficult to do a job of that sort in some parts of London, and, in fact, one was soon got. We put Lord Westray’s gold ring on one of its little fingers, and hung the chain and locket about its neck, and it was me, sir, that took it down by night and buried it in Mrs. de Lara’s grounds where it was found, and close to it I buried the clothes which Lord Westray was wearing the night that Mr. D’Estrange fired at him. By this time Lord Westray had gone abroad, but it was all arranged that in two years’ time or so Mr. D’Estrange was to be accused of the murder. When that time had elapsed, anonymous letters were sent to the present Lord Westray, telling him all about the murder, and then Mr. Trackem went and told his lordship what he knew. Everything happened as we wanted it to. The matter was placed in Mr. Trackem’s hands; he communicated with the police, and he employed me and a dog of his called Nero, a half-bred bloodhound, to hunt the grounds of Mrs. de Lara’s place at night in search of the body and clothes. I had previously given Nero a lesson or two as to their whereabouts, so he soon traced them in the presence of the police. This is all I know, sir. On my dying oath I swear that Mr. D’Estrange did not murder Lord Westray. The wound received was slight, and soon healed up. This is my confession, sir. I know I did wrong, but I was a poor boy, and I was sorely tempted by the money offered me. I loved a girl, sir. She was called Léonie, and she was in Mr. Trackem’s service. I wanted to marry her, and I didn’t dare ask her till I got money. But God has punished me. I shall never see Léonie again; she’s gone away, I don’t know where, and now I’m dying. If it had not been for dear sister Maggie I should have been dead by now, for Lord Westray never paid me the money he promised to; least if he gave it to Mr. Trackem I never got it. Not that I want it now. I would not touch it for all the world, indeed I would not. And now, sir, I want to ask you to forgive me as I know God has, and I want you to ask Mrs. de Lara and Mr. D’Estrange to forgive me too. I think if they saw me as you do now, sir, they would pity and forgive me.”
The young man pauses, and listens eagerly for a reply. The hectic flush has deepened in his cheeks, and his eyes gleam with the fire that heralds death more brilliantly than ever.
“My poor lad, I do forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven myself,” says Evie Ravensdale softly. Terrible and horrible as is the plot which this dying youth has disclosed to him, yet in the presence of that death which he can see approaching fast, he feels that he must forgive.
“And Mrs. de Lara, Mr. D’Estrange?” persists Eric Fortescue anxiously.
“Mr. D’Estrange is dead,” is all that Evie Ravensdale can trust himself to reply.
Eric Fortescue starts up in his bed, and stares wildly at the duke.
“Not hanged, sir? Oh God! not hanged, sir? I thought he escaped, sir?”