A Secret of the Sea: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3)

by T. W. Speight

Among the papers which had come into the hands of Miss Bellamy at the death of Ambrose Murray's wife, were certain verbatim accounts of the trial for the Tewkesbury murder. These papers Miss Bellamy had carefully preserved, and they were now handed over by her to Gerald, who proceeded to read them carefully through three or four times, by which means he made himself master of all the details of the case as they had presented themselves at the trial. A certain Mr. Frodsham had been Murray's counsel on that occasion, and very admirable had been the speech, and very cogent the arguments, employed by him in his attempt to prove the innocence of his client--an attempt which, as we have already seen, did not succeed. To Gerald, turning the whole case over in his mind, it seemed that the first thing to do was to find out this Mr. Frodsham, see him, consult with him, tell him in confidence of Murray's escape, and ascertain whether, after so long a time, his experience could suggest any feasible plan for proving, or even attempting to prove, the innocence of a client for whose sake, twenty years ago, all his eloquence had been exerted in vain.

In setting about the task which he had thus taken in hand, and which he was thoroughly determined to go through with, Gerald did not expect to derive much assistance from Murray himself, nor, in fact, did he. Murray was altogether too unpractical; he had been shut up too long from the busy, struggling world around him to enable him to cope with it face to face, or to grope his way through such a blind man's maze as his own case necessarily involved, at every step of which a knot would have to be disentangled, or a difficulty of some kind encountered and overcome. He could asseverate earnestly enough that Jacoby was the murderer, and that the sole object for which he now lived was to bring the crime home to him; but when asked by what means that was to be done, he was like a child who had lost itself in some dark place. He could only cling to Gerald, and ask him to think, to devise, to scheme for him. "I have faith--faith the most intense," he would sometimes say, "that the world will know me for what I am before I die. Why else was my reason given back to me? why else was a way of escape shown me? why else am I here, except to prove this thing? And, oh, Gerald! why has an over-ruling Intelligence sent to me you, the son of my lost darling's oldest friend--you, with your kind heart, and clear brain, and knowledge of the world and its ways--except to assist me, to give to my forlorn weakness that strong helping hand, without which I can do nothing! Other men might ask: Why should I help this escaped lunatic? Why should I trouble myself about this criminal madman, on whose head the guilt of blood still rests? But not you--not you! You and I, Gerald, have been mysteriously drawn together by the bonds of an invisible sympathy. We have been brought together, not that we may be to each other as mere touch-and-go acquaintances, but for the working out of some hidden purpose. For good or for evil, the issues of your life and mine are inextricably mingled; like streams from two distant sources, they have met, never again to be disunited, till they fall into the far-off Hidden Sea!"

Mr. Frodsham had been too well known in the legal profession for Gerald to experience much difficulty in obtaining answers to his inquiries respecting that gentleman. It did not take him long to ascertain that Mr. Frodsham had been dead for several years. But from the same source whence he derived this positive information, came another piece of information not quite so positive, which, being of no apparent use, was thrown in gratis, as it were, to the effect that although Mr. Frodsham was dead, Mr. Peter Byrne, who had been his confidential clerk for many years, was supposed to be still alive. To Gerald this extra piece of information seemed of no use whatever. His idea in wanting to see Mr. Frodsham had been, not to obtain facts--those he had already--but to seek his advice, his counsel, perchance his assistance. But of what use or assistance Mr. Frodsham's confidential clerk could be to him, he could not for the life of him see. Still, as it behoved him to neglect no source of information, however trivial or apparently unimportant it might seem to be, and as he was rather nonplussed for the time being as to what was the next step which it behoved him to take, he decided to have this Mr. Byrne hunted up, if it were possible to find him, and then see him in person, on the very faint chance that something might be elicited from him which would tend to show what line of action it would be advisable to adopt next.

Five days later Gerald received Mr. Byrne's address by post. It was No. 2, Amelia Terrace, Claridge Road, Battersea, which place Gerald next day made it his business to go in search of.

Amelia Terrace was in a desolate locality enough, being shut out from the world by wide intervening stretches of market garden, very useful and very productive, no doubt, but which seemed to lack every pleasant attribute with which a garden is usually associated in one's mind. The particular house that Gerald was in search of was one of twenty others exactly similar to it in pattern and design. Little shabby-looking six-roomed houses, the cheap stucco with which their fronts were plastered peeling off already in great ugly blotches, the yard of "garden" on to which their windows looked protected by cheap railings, broken away in many places, and thick with rust, or twisted out of shape in others. Inside, the rooms were close and frowsy, with doors and windows that in some cases would not shut, and in others left crevices that in this wintry weather had to be stuffed up with rags, or old newspapers, or even here and there with an old bonnet. At one corner was a flaring gin-palace, and at the other a huckster's shop, only its proprietor did not call it a shop, but an "emporium."

Yes, Mr. Byrne was at home, said the slatternly servant who answered Gerald's knock at No. 2.

Before more could be said, some one called out from the parlour, "Walk in, sir, walk in, if it's me you are in want of. I saw you when you were over the way, but I didn't know that you were looking for No. 2."

Gerald accepted the invitation and walked into the parlour, a shabbily-furnished little room, pervaded by a vile odour of stale tobacco-smoke. Mr. Byrne, in red morocco slippers, a Turkish cap, and a faded dressing gown of a flowery Chinese sort of pattern, rose from the sofa to receive him.

Peter Byrne was a man of sixty, but looked quite ten years younger than that age, thanks to his dyed hair, his artificial teeth, and the faintest possible suspicion of rouge, without which, when got up for the day, he never ventured abroad. But so deftly and artfully was the hare's foot applied, that not one out of a dozen of his acquaintances accepted as other than genuine that pleasant, healthy colour which, whatever the season might be, Peter Byrne's cheeks never failed to display. He was rather under than over the medium height, was lightly built, and was very active for his age. His head was large, and somewhat disproportionate to the size of his body. He had large, but regular features, and had doubtless thought himself very good-looking when a young man; but the lines of his face were now coarse and fleshy, and seemed to indicate a too free indulgence in the good things of the table, and possibly too great a fondness for after-dinner potations. He had clear grey eyes, with a keenness and a steadfastness in them that Gerald liked; and yet there seemed something factitious about his smile--it came and went too readily to seem altogether genuine.

Gerald having introduced himself and taken a chair, proceeded at once to the object of his visit.