“He did,” said Godfrey. “But when I saw him at the station this morning there was nothing to tell. In any case I go up to town to-morrow morning, when I shall first call upon my own solicitor, to whom I have already written, and afterward attend the inquest as I have promised. Fensden says he’s coming up, too, in order that any evidence he may have to give may be accepted.”
“One moment, Godfrey,” said the old gentleman, stopping him and allowing the others to go on ahead. “I am going to put a question to you which may probably offend you. But whether it does or does not, it must be asked.”
“Anything you ask me, sir, you may be sure will not offend me,” said Godfrey. “What is this particular question?”
“I want to know how long you have known your friend?” the old man inquired. “You see I am going to be perfectly candid with you. You may think me absurd when I say so, but I have come to the conclusion that Mr. Fensden does not like you.”
“In that case, sir, I am sure you are mistaken,” said Godfrey. “Victor and I were at school together, and we have been companions ever since. He may be a little cynical in his humour, and inclined to be affected in his dress and speech, but, believe me, in his inmost heart he is a thoroughly good fellow.”
Sir Vivian was silent for a moment.
“If that is so,” he went on, “then I am wrong in my conclusions. I must confess, however, that I was not favourably impressed with Mr. Fensden yesterday. I noticed that when he was looking at you and you were not watching him, there was a curious expression upon his face that was either one of malice or something very like it. If I were asked my opinion about this affair I should say that he knew more about it than you and I put together, and more than he either cares, or is going, to tell.”
“I can not help disagreeing with you, sir,” said Godfrey, warming in defence of his friend. “I happen to know that Victor has not seen Teresina since the day we left England. It was he who induced me to get rid of her because he was afraid that she, being a pretty woman, might possibly induce me to fall in love with her. You see, I am quite candid with you.”
“I am glad that you are,” the other rejoined. “Nevertheless obstinacy is proverbially an old man’s failing, and I still adhere to my opinion concerning the gentleman in question. Whether I am right or wrong time will prove. In the meantime you say that you go up to town to-morrow morning.”
“Yes, to-morrow morning, first thing,” said Godfrey. “We shall leave Detwich by the 10.18.”
“In that case I am going to ask a favour of you,” said the other. “Will you allow me to accompany you? Remember that, as you are going to marry my daughter, your interests are, and must be, as my own.”
“I shall be only too glad if you will come, sir,” said Godfrey, gratefully. “It is a kindness I did not like to ask of you. I am sure it will make Molly happier to know that you are with me, while it will prove to the world, if such a proof is needed, that you believe my interest in this miserable affair to be only what I have stated it to be.”
“We all believe that, Godfrey, of course,” Sir Vivian replied. “The man who thinks otherwise would be insane. And now we turn off here. It is agreed, therefore, that we meet at the railway station to-morrow morning and go up to town together?”
“With all my heart, sir,” Godfrey replied, and then the kindly old gentleman turned off with his wife at the path that led across the fields to the court. When they were out of sight Godfrey informed Molly of her father’s decision.
“With father and Mr. Fensden beside you, the newspapers will not dare to hint at anything more.”
Then for the first time in his life Godfrey felt a vague distrust of Victor Fensden.
He put the suspicion from him, however, as being not only dishonourable to his friend, but also to himself.
“I have known Victor for a good many years,” he muttered, “and I should surely be familiar with his character by this time.”
Yet, despite his resolve to think no ill of the man, he felt that the idea was gaining ground with him.
When they reached the house they found Fensden in the drawing-room, comfortably ensconced in a large chair before a roaring fire. He had changed his mind, he asserted, and had not gone for a walk after all. He certainly did not look well. His face was paler than usual, while he was hollow-eyed, as if from want of sleep. As the party, radiant after their walk through the sharp air, entered the room, he looked up at them.
“How nice it must be to be so energetic,” he said, languidly. “Godfrey looks disgustingly fit, and more like the ideal country squire than ever. You should paint your own portrait in that capacity.”
This time there was no mistaking the sneer. It may have been the thoughts that had occupied his brain as he walked home, but even he could not help coming to the conclusion that the man he had known for so long, whom he had trusted so implicitly, and for whom he had done so much, was no longer well disposed toward himself. He said nothing, however, for Victor was not only his guest, but he had troubles enough of his own just then to look after, without adding to the number. Molly had noticed it also, and commented on it when she and her lover were alone together.
“Never mind, dear,” said Godfrey. “It doesn’t matter very much if he has taken a dislike to me. I think the truth of the matter is he is not quite himself. Though he will not show it, I have an idea he is as much cut up by this terrible business as I am myself. He is very highly strung, and the shock has doubtless proved too much for his nerves. You won’t see very much more of him, for he will bring his visit to a close to-morrow morning, as he has decided to go abroad again immediately after the inquest.”
“But I thought he was tired of travelling, and that he had stated his desire never to see a foreign hotel again?”
“I thought so too, but it appears we were mistaken. However, do not let us talk about him just now. Can you realize, dearest, that in ten days’ time we are to be married?”
“I am beginning to realize it,” she answered. “But this terrible affair has thrown such a shadow over our happiness for the last twenty-four hours that I have thought of little else.”
“The shadow will soon pass,” he answered. “Then we will go to the sunny South and try to forget all about it.”
In his own heart he knew that this was likely to be easier said than done. Ever since he had seen it on that memorable Thursday night, Teresina’s piteous face had been before him, and now with the recollection of what had followed so close upon their interview to deepen the impression, it was more than likely that some time would elapse before he would be able to forget it.
That night, when he went to bed, he found it difficult to get to sleep. It was as if the events of the morrow were casting their shadows before, and when he did sleep he was assailed with the most villainous dreams. He saw himself in a garret room with Teresina kneeling before him holding up her hands in piteous entreaty; then he saw her lying dead upon the floor, her glassy eyes looking up at him as if in mute reproach. A moment later he was sitting up in bed staring at Victor Fensden, who was standing beside him, holding a candle in his hand, and with a look upon his face that showed he was almost beside himself with terror.
“Good Heavens, man, what is the matter?” cried Godfrey, for the other’s face frightened him. It was as white as paper, while in his eyes there shone a light that was scarcely that of reason.
“Let me stay with you, let me stay with you!” he cried. “If I am left alone I don’t know what I shall do. I have had such dreams to-night that I dare not even close my eyes. For God’s sake give me brandy! I must have something to bring back my courage. Look, look! Can’t you see, man, how badly I need it?”
Needless to say, Godfrey saw this. Accordingly bidding him remain where he was, he went off to procure some. When he returned he found Victor seated on the settee at the foot of the bed. Apparently he had recovered his self-command.
“I am afraid you must think me an awful fool, Godfrey,” he said. “But I have really had a deuce of a fright. You don’t know what awful dreams I had. I could not have stayed alone in that room another minute.”
It must indeed have been a fright, for Godfrey noticed that, though he pretended to have recovered, he was still trembling.
“Well, I am glad to see that you are feeling better,” he said. “Drink some of this, it will make a new man of you.”
“If it could do that I’d drink a hogshead,” he said bitterly. “If there’s one man in this world of whose society I am heartily sick, it is Victor Fensden. Now I’ll go back to my own room. Forgive me for disturbing you, won’t you, but I could not help myself.”
So saying, he took up his candle once more and returned to his own room, leaving Godfrey to put what construction he thought best upon the incident.
“I am beginning to think that poor Victor is not quite right in his head,” said the latter to himself as he blew out his candle and composed himself for slumber once more.
The first train that left Detwich for London next morning had for its passengers Sir Vivian Devereux, Godfrey Henderson, and Victor Fensden. Inspector Griffin was also travelling by it, not a little elated by the importance of his errand. On reaching Euston, after promising to meet them at the inquest, Fensden drove off to his club, while Sir Vivian and Godfrey made their way to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where they were to have an interview with Mr. Cornelius Bensleigh, of the firm of Bensleigh and Bensleigh, solicitors. That gentleman had already received a letter from Godfrey, written on the Saturday night, giving him an outline of the affair, and acquainting him of the part the latter had played in the mystery.
“I am afraid this will be calculated to put you to a considerable amount of inconvenience, Mr. Henderson,” said the lawyer, after they had discussed the matter for a few moments. “From what I can gather, you were the last person to see the poor woman alive, and as Sir Vivian Devereux says, for that reason we must be particularly careful that no breath of scandal attaches itself to your name. Now, as cases like this are somewhat foreign to our experience, I have made up my mind, always, of course, with your permission, that I will introduce you to a gentleman who makes them his particular study. Of course, should you desire it, I will put precedent on one side, and do all I can for you; but, if you will be guided by me, you will place your case in the hands of Mr. Codey, the gentleman to whom I refer, and whose name is doubtless familiar to you. His office is not far from here, and if you will accompany me, I shall be only too pleased to escort you to it, and to introduce you to him.”
This course having been agreed upon, they accompanied him to the office of the lawyer in question, and, after a few moments’ delay, were conducted to his presence. He looked more like a trainer of racehorses than a criminal lawyer. He was the possessor of a sharp, keen face, a pair of restless eyes, a clean-shaven mouth and chin, while the whiskers on his cheeks were clipped to a nicety. The elderly lawyer introduced Sir Vivian and Godfrey to him, and explained the nature of their visit.
“Ah, the Burford Street murder,” said Mr. Codey, as soon as he heard the name of the case. “I was wondering how long it would be before I was drawn into it. And so, Mr. Henderson, you have the misfortune to be connected with it? As a matter of fact, I suppose you are the gentleman in evening dress who was seen speaking to the girl on the pavement outside the house.”
“I am; but how do you know it?” Godfrey asked, in considerable surprise.
“I merely guessed it,” said the lawyer. “I see from the papers that the deceased was once your model. Now you come to me for help. I simply put two and two together, with the result aforesaid. Perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me all you know about it. Be very sure you keep nothing back; after that I shall know how to act.”
Thus encouraged, Godfrey set to work, and told the tale with which by this time my readers are so familiar. The lawyer listened patiently, made a few notes on a sheet of paper as the story progressed, and when he had finished asked one or two more or less pertinent questions.
“You say that you returned to your hotel immediately after your interview with the deceased?”
“Immediately,” Godfrey answered.
“Did you take a cab?”
“No,” said Godfrey; “it was a cold night, and I thought the walk would do me good.”
“But you drove to the house in a cab?”
“I did, and dismissed it at once.”
“That was unfortunate. Do you think the driver would know you again?”
“I should think it very probable,” said Godfrey.
“You were standing under the lamp-post, of course, when you paid him, with the light shining full upon your face?”
“I suppose so, as the lamp is exactly opposite the door; but I did not think of that.”
“No; but, you see, I must think of these things,” said the lawyer. “And when you returned to your hotel?”
“I called for a brandy and soda, and, having drunk it, went to bed.”
When he had learned all he desired to know, it was arranged that Mr. Codey should attend the coroner’s court, and watch the case on Godfrey’s behalf; after which they left the office. On reaching the club where Sir Vivian and Godfrey had elected to lunch, they found that the murder was the one absorbing topic of the day. This was more than Godfrey had bargained for; for, when it was remembered that the deceased woman had been his model, he was cross-questioned concerning her on every hand. So unbearable did this at last become, that he proposed to Sir Vivian that they should take a stroll in the park until it should be time for them to set off to the business of the afternoon.
When they reached the building in which the inquest was to be held, they discovered that a large crowd had collected; indeed, it was only with difficulty, and after they had explained their errand, that they could gain admittance to the building. Fensden was awaiting them there, still looking pale and worried; also Mr. Codey, the lawyer, appearing even keener than he had done at his office.
“Public curiosity is a strange thing,” said the latter, as he looked round the packed court. “Probably not more than five persons now in this room ever saw the dead girl, and yet they crowd here as though their lives depended upon their not losing a word of what is said about her.”
At this moment an official came forward, and said something to Godfrey in a low voice. The latter immediately followed him from the room. When he returned he was very white, and he seemed visibly upset.
Then the coroner entered, a portly, dignified gentleman, and took his seat, after which the proceedings were opened in due form.
The landlord of the house, in which the deceased had resided, was the first witness called. He deposed as to the name she was known by in the house, stated that she was supposed to be an artist’s model, and that, to the best of his belief, she had been a quiet and respectable girl. At any rate, her rent had invariably been paid on the day on which it had become due. He had identified the body as being that of his lodger. During the time she had been with him he had never known her to receive a visitor; as a matter of fact, she had kept to herself; scarcely speaking to any one save when she returned their salutations on the stairs. He was not aware that she had received a letter, and, as far as he knew, she had not a friend in London.
The next witness was the German cabinet-maker, who had been the first to discover the murder. He gave evidence through the medium of an interpreter, and described how he had seen the congealed blood under the door and the suspicions it had given rise to. In answer to a question put by a superintendent of police, who represented the commissioner, he stated that he had never spoken to the deceased, for the reason that he knew no English or Italian, and she was not acquainted with German. He had heard her go out on the night in question, and return shortly after midnight, but whether she was accompanied by any one he could not say. He also deposed to the position of the body when they opened the door, and to the mysterious fact that the hands were missing.
The next witness was the police-constable on the beat, who had been called in by the landlord. He gave evidence as to the opening of the door, and the discovery then made. He was followed by the doctor, who had made the post-mortem examination, and who described the nature and situation of the various wounds, and the conclusions he had drawn therefrom. Then came the first sensation of the afternoon, when the well-known artist, Godfrey Henderson, was called. In answer to the various questions put to him, he deposed that he had known the deceased for upward of a year; that he had employed her for the model of his picture, “A Woman of the People,” and had always found her a quiet and eminently respectable girl. He had been compelled to dismiss her, not because he had any fault to find with her, but because he was going abroad. This was not the last he had heard of her, for, while on the Nile at Luxor, he had received a letter from her, informing him of her address, in view of any future work he might have for her. At Naples he had again met her, when he was on his way back to England, and had taken her to the Opera in her mother’s company. On the night of the murder, he had again met her in the Strand, quite by accident, when, finding that she was in serious trouble, he had offered to help her. She would not accept his assistance, however. Noticing that she was in a most unhappy state, and not liking to leave her alone in the streets, he had called a cab and escorted her to her abode in Burford Street. He did not enter the building, however, but bade her good-bye in the street, after which he returned to his hotel. He was unable to assign any motive for the crime, and added that the only person he could have believed would have committed it, was a man named Dardini, an Italian, who was in love with the girl, and who had attempted his (the witness’s) life in Naples, on the night of the visit to the Opera. Whether the man was in England he was unable to say. Whether she had been in want of money at the time of his last seeing her, he also was unable to say. She had declared that she was in work, that was all he knew of the matter.
“On hearing that she was married, did you not inquire the name of her husband?” asked the coroner.
“I did,” Godfrey replied, “but she refused to tell me.”
“Did not that strike you as being singular?”
“No,” Godfrey replied. “When she informed me that he was dead, I did not press the matter.”
“You are quite sure, I suppose, that she was not married when you met her at Naples?”
“I feel convinced that she was not; but I could not say so on my oath.”
“And when you opened the box, which you say was sent you at your country residence, were you not shocked at the discovery you made?”
“Naturally I was!”
“And what conclusions did you come to?”
“I gathered from it that my old friend had been murdered.”
“What caused you to recognise her hands?”
“A certain mark above the knuckle of the second finger, the result, I should say, of a burn.”
At this point, Mr. Codey, who had already informed the coroner that he was appearing on behalf of the witness then being examined, asked an important question.
“On making this terrible discovery, what was your immediate action?”
“I sent for my prospective father-in-law, Sir Vivian Devereux, and for the police officer in charge of Detwich. It was at once agreed that we should communicate with the authorities and that I should render them all the assistance in my power.”
“Pardon my touching upon such a matter, but I believe you are about to be married, Mr. Henderson?” said the coroner.
“I hope to be married on Thursday next,” said Godfrey.
“I do not think I need trouble you any further,” the coroner then remarked.
The next witness was a police officer, who informed the Court that inquiries had been made in Naples concerning the man Dardini, with the result that it was discovered that he had been arrested for assault upon a foreigner a fortnight before the deceased’s return to England, and that he was still in prison. This effectually disposed of his association with the crime, and added an even greater air of mystery to it than before.
When this witness had stepped down, Mr. Victor Fensden was called. He stated that he was also an artist, and a friend of Mr. Godfrey Henderson. It was he who had first discovered the deceased, and he had recommended her to his friend for the picture of which she was afterward the principal figure. She had always struck him as being a quiet and respectable girl. When asked why she had received her notice of dismissal, Victor answered that it was because his friend, Mr. Henderson, had suddenly made up his mind to travel.
“I understand you to say suddenly,” said the superintendent in charge of the case. “Why was it Mr. Henderson suddenly made up his mind to go abroad?”
“I do not know that this question is at all relevant to the case,” said Victor, appealing to the coroner. “It was purely a private matter on Mr. Henderson’s part.”
“But anything that bears on the question at issue can scarcely be irrelevant,” said the coroner. “I think it would be better if you would answer the question.”
Fensden paused for a moment while the Court waited in suspense.
“I repeat my question,” said the superintendent. “Why did the deceased so suddenly lose her employment?”
Once more Victor hesitated. Godfrey looked at him in surprise. Why did he not go on?
“We decided to travel on account of a conversation Mr. Henderson and I had concerning the girl.”
“What was that conversation?” inquired the coroner.
Once more Fensden seemed to hesitate.
“Did the conversation refer to the deceased?”
“It did!”
“I gather from your reluctance to answer that you were afraid Mr. Henderson might become attached to her, so you used your friendly influence in order to hurry him away as quickly as possible? Am I right in so supposing?”
Another pause, during which Victor’s face was seen to express great emotion.
“That was so.”
“You are sure that Mr. Henderson was attached to the deceased?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Did you know that Mr. Henderson was aware of the deceased’s return to Naples?”
“I was aware that he was in correspondence with her,” said Victor; “but he said nothing to me of his intention to visit her in Naples.”
“Had you known this, would you have endeavoured to dissuade him from such a course?”
“I do not know what I should have done; but I should think it very probable that I should have endeavoured to prevent their meeting.”
“When did you become aware of the deceased’s return to England?”
“When Mr. Henderson informed me of it on my arrival at his house at Detwich Hall.”
“You were naturally very much surprised to hear that he had met her, I suppose?”
“Very much,” Victor replied.
“Did you say anything to him upon the subject?”
“I warned him against the folly of being drawn into another entanglement with her, particularly when he was to be married in ten days’ time.”
“You say another entanglement with her? Are we, therefore, to understand that there had been an entanglement before?”
Again Victor paused before he replied.
“I withdraw the word 'another,’” he said, hurriedly. “I did not mean it in that sense. I merely suggested to Mr. Henderson that his fiancée might not care to know that he had been seen driving through the streets of London after midnight with an Italian girl, who had once been his model.”
“Good Heavens!” said Godfrey to himself. “And this is the man whom I have trusted and who has called himself my friend for so many years!”
At this point the coroner, addressing the jury, stated his intention of adjourning the inquiry until the following Wednesday morning at eleven o’clock. He had excellent reasons for keeping it open until then, he said, and these reasons he had communicated to the foreman of the jury, who was completely satisfied. The Court thereupon adjourned, and Godfrey presently found himself in the street with Mr. Codey on one side and Sir Vivian Devereux on the other. Victor Fensden was waiting for them on the pavement, and, as soon as they emerged, he approached them with a face that still bore the traces of violent emotion.
“Godfrey,” he began, in a faltering voice, “after what they dragged out of me, I scarcely know what to say to you.”
“In any case, I beg that you will not say it,” said Godfrey, coldly. “You have said quite enough already.” Then, turning to the others, he continued: “Come, gentlemen, let us find a cab. I suppose we had better go back to your office, Mr. Codey?”
“I think it would be better,” said that gentleman. “I must have a talk with you upon this matter.”
Then, hailing a cab, they entered it, leaving Fensden on the pavement looking after them. Godfrey’s face was still very pale. It was impossible for him to be blind to the fact that his kindness to Teresina had been the means of bringing down grave suspicion upon himself. Yet, even with that knowledge before him, he knew that he would not, or could not, have acted otherwise than he had done.
When they reached the lawyer’s private office, the door was shut and they sat down to business.
“Well, Mr. Henderson,” said Mr. Codey, “what is your opinion now?”
“I think that the public mind is already jumping to the conclusion that I am responsible for the murder,” Godfrey answered, without fear or hesitation.
“I am very much afraid that you must accustom yourself to look upon it in that light,” the other replied. “The man Fensden’s evidence, given in such a manner as he gave it, was unnecessarily damaging.”
“He is a black-hearted scoundrel,” said the old baronet, wrathfully. “I told you yesterday, Godfrey, that I didn’t trust him, and that I felt sure he bore you some ill-will. And yet, do you know, Mr. Codey,” he added, turning to the lawyer, “Mr. Henderson has done everything for that man. He has practically kept him for years past, he took him on a tour round Europe only a few months ago, and this is the result. It makes one sick with humanity.”
“When you have seen as much of humanity as I have, you will not be surprised at anything,” said the lawyer. “The greater the obligation in many cases, the deeper the ingratitude. We are wandering from the point, however. Now I am going to be plain-spoken. Tell me, Mr. Henderson, did you ever, under any sort of circumstance, make love, or suggest love, to the woman who is now deceased?”
“Never,” said Godfrey, firmly. “The man who declares that I did, lies.”
“Very probable, but that won’t prevent his saying it. When you left her in Burford Street, did you meet any one near the house?”
“Not a soul. The street, so far as I could see, was empty.”
“I think you said this morning that the night porter let you in at your hotel? Did you make any remark to him respecting the time?”
“Yes, I said to him when he had opened the door, 'I’m afraid I’m rather late,’ then, looking at my watch, I added, 'Why, it’s half-past twelve!’”
“If he’s blessed with a good memory, he will recollect that,” said Codey. Then with his usual abruptness, he continued, “Which way did you walk from Burford Street?”
“Through the Tottenham Court Road, along Oxford Street, and down Bond Street.”
“A man shall walk it quickly to-morrow morning in order to see how long it will take. If only that hall porter has a good memory, and can be relied upon, this should prove an important point.”
“But surely, my good sir,” put in Sir Vivian, “you do not for a moment suppose that Mr. Henderson will be accused of having killed this woman?”
“I should not be at all surprised,” said the lawyer, quietly. “Let us regard the facts of the case. Some months back, Mr. Henderson employed this girl as his model, and retained her services when he really had no need for them. He was on such familiar terms with her that his friend felt compelled to remonstrate with him. As a result they left England hurriedly, the girl following them to Naples. No, no, Mr. Henderson, I beg that you will be silent. Remember, I am telling the story as I should tell it if I were against you instead of for you. As I have said, the girl left for Naples, and I insinuate that she followed you. It can be proved that she corresponded with you, and that you sent your friend on his way to travel alone; always bearing in mind that he was the man who had persuaded you to give the girl up. You, in the meantime, returned to Naples, in order to visit her again. You may dispute the motive, but you can not deny that you took her out to dinner and to a theatre afterward.”
“But her mother was with her,” said Godfrey hurriedly, his face flushing angrily at the imputation put upon his action by the other.
“That point is immaterial,” the lawyer replied calmly. “It is sufficient for the purposes of the prosecution that you met her there. Then you proceeded to England, and, after a little while in the country, became engaged to the daughter of Sir Vivian, now present. The Italian girl had also gone to England. Why? To be with you, of course. You, however, see nothing of her. Therefore, she is unhappy. Why? Because you are about to be married.”
“But that is only supposition,” said Godfrey. “As a matter of fact, she herself was already married.”
“To whom? Why not to yourself?”
“Good Heavens, man,” said Godfrey, starting from his seat, “you don’t surely mean to say that you believe I had married her?”
“I believe nothing,” he replied, still with the same coolness. “But you will find that the counsel for the prosecution will consider it more than likely. Let me continue my story. I was saying that she was unhappy because you were about to be married. It is only natural. Then you came up to town, visited the theatre, and afterward, quite by chance, met her in the Strand, at midnight. At midnight, and by chance, mark that! Does that meeting look like an accidental one? Could you convince a jury that it was? I doubt it. However, let us proceed. The girl is in trouble, and you take her home in a hansom. The policeman and the cabman will certainly identify you, and, for the reason that you say the street was empty when you bade her good-bye, no one will be able to swear that you did not go into the house with her. Now, Mr. Henderson, I ask you to look these facts in the face, and tell me, as a thinking man, whether you consider the public is to be blamed if it regards you with suspicion?”
“As you put it, no,” said Godfrey. “But it can surely be proved that I had nothing whatsoever to do with it, beyond what I have said.”
“Exactly; and that is what we have got to do. But I don’t mind telling you candidly that I fancy we shall have our work cut out to do it. You see, we have to remember that, beyond your own evidence, there is absolutely nothing for us to argue upon. The two strongest points in your favour are the facts that you were at Detwich when the box containing the dead woman’s hands was sent off at Euston, and that there would not be sufficient time between the moment when the policeman saw you in Burford Street and the time when you arrived at your hotel, for you to have committed the crime. What we have to do is to find the person who despatched the box from London, and to make sure of the hall porter. In the meantime go back to Detwich, and be sure that you don’t stir from home until you hear from me.”
“One more question, Mr. Codey. I should like you, before we go any further, to tell me honestly whether, in your own heart, you believe me to be innocent or guilty?”
“I believe you to be innocent,” said the lawyer; “and you may be sure I shall try to prove it.”
A more miserable home-coming than Godfrey’s, after the events described in the previous chapter, could scarcely be imagined. They had taken a cab from the lawyer’s office to Euston Station, and during the drive, neither of them referred in any way to the interview they had just had with Codey. It was not until they were seated in the railway carriage, and the train had started upon its journey, that they broke their silence.
“Sir Vivian,” said Godfrey, “I can not express to you my thanks for the kindness which you showed me in standing by me to-day. Believe me, I am very sensible of it.”
“You must not speak of it;” said the worthy old gentleman; “and as for the affair itself, it is a piece of ill-luck that might have happened to the best of us. At the same time, I should very much like to have an opportunity of telling that wretched Fensden what I think of him.”
“Do not let us talk of him,” said Godfrey. “His own feelings must be sufficient punishment for him. There is one thing, however, that I must say to you before we go any further.”
“And what is that?”
“It concerns my wedding,” Godfrey replied. “I am afraid it will be a terrible blow to poor Molly; but until this charge, which I have no doubt will be brought against me, is disproved, she must not think any more of me.”
Sir Vivian stared at him in astonishment.
“Nonsense, my dear lad,” said he. “I know that you love my girl, and that she loves you. It is her duty, therefore, to stand by you and to comfort you when you are in trouble. Believe me, she will have no doubt as to your innocence.”
“I know that,” said Godfrey; “but I do not think it would be fair for me to allow her name to be linked with mine under such painful circumstances.”
“It will be linked with it whether you like it or not,” was the reply. “If I am prepared to stake my honour on your innocence, you may be very sure that she will stake hers. Molly isn’t a fair-weather friend.”
“She is the truest and best girl in the world,” said Godfrey. “No one knows that better than I.”
“Then wait until you have seen her and talked it over with her alone. Put the question to her, and see what she will say. I know her well enough to guess what her answer will be.”
“God bless you for your trust in me!” said Godfrey, in a shaky voice. “I fear I have done very little to deserve it.”
“It is sufficient that I know you for what you are,” the other answered. “I knew your uncle and grandfather before him, and I am as certain that you would not do anything dishonourable as I am of my own name. What we have to do is to put our wits to work and to endeavour to find out, as Codey says, the sender of the box. Then I believe we shall be on the track of the real criminal. It was a very good suggestion on Mr. Bensleigh’s part that we should employ that man; we could not have had a better. I never saw such eyes in my life. He seems to look one through and through. I pity Mr. Fensden when he comes to be cross-examined by him.”
The old gentleman chuckled over the thought and then lapsed into silence.
When they reached Detwich, they became aware that Griffin had travelled from London by the same train. Godfrey beckoned to him.
“Of course you heard the evidence to-day, Griffin,” Godfrey began when the other approached.
“Yes, sir, I did,” said the police official, gravely.
“And you must have drawn your own conclusions from it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Griffin, what I wanted to say to you is that, if I am wanted for anything, I shall not leave the Hall until Wednesday morning; then I shall go up to the inquiry again.”
“I will bear the fact in mind, sir,” said the man. “But there’s one thing I should like to say, if you don’t mind.”
“What is it? Say it by all means.”
“It’s this, sir. Whether it’s going against my duty or not—and there’s nobody here to hear it if it is—whatever verdict they may bring in, I don’t believe for a moment that you had any more to do with that poor girl’s death than I had. You will excuse my saying so, I hope, sir?”
“On the contrary, I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion,” Godfrey replied, holding out his hand which the other took. “I am afraid that it’s going to be a very unpleasant business for me. That can’t be helped, however. Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir,” the man answered.
Then Godfrey joined Sir Vivian and, as had been arranged, they drove off to the Hall together. The moon was rising above the hill as they went through the park, and as Godfrey looked on the peaceful scene around him and thought of the terrible suspicion that was growing in people’s minds concerning himself his heart sank within him. If only little Teresina could speak, how easily she could clear up all the dark charges against him! She was dead, however, brutally murdered, and he, the only man who had ever befriended her, was suspected of having caused her death.
“Keep up a stout heart, my lad,” said Sir Vivian, as they alighted from the carriage and ascended the steps. “Think of the ladies, and don’t make them any more unhappy than you can help.”
The door was opened by the ancient butler who had served his uncle before him, and Godfrey entered his home, but how different a man from the young fellow who had left it that morning!
“The ladies are in the drawing-room, sir,” said the servant, when he had relieved them of their hats and coats.
They accordingly proceeded thither, one of them at least with a sinking heart.
“We have just been wondering when we should see you,” said Kitty.
There was a look of anxiety on Molly’s face as she came forward to meet her lover. She placed her hand in his, and they sat down together.
“Well, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Henderson, “what have you to tell us? What was the result?”
There was no need for her to say to what she referred. Their minds had been too much occupied with it that day to leave room for any uncertainty upon the point.
“Nothing is decided yet,” said Sir Vivian, who took upon himself the part of spokesman. “The inquiry is adjourned until Wednesday.”
“That means that you will have to go up again,” said Molly. “Why couldn’t they settle it at once?”
Godfrey knew, but he dared not tell her the reason.
“They are searching for more evidence, I fancy,” said Sir Vivian. “You must remember that the matter is, at present, shrouded in the greatest mystery. Until that can be cleared up, nothing can be done.”
“And Mr. Fensden, where did you leave him?” asked Mrs. Henderson.
“We parted outside the Court,” said Godfrey. “I have no idea where he is staying to-night.”
Though he tried to speak unconcernedly, Molly felt certain in her own mind that there had been trouble between the two men. She said nothing to him about it, however. She knew that he would tell her in good time.
That night, when Sir Vivian’s carriage was announced, Godfrey accompanied him to the front door. Before leaving, the old gentleman took him on one side out of earshot of the servants.
“Keep up your spirits, my dear lad,” he said, as he had done so many times before. “Remember that you have many friends and that I am not the least of them. Should anything occur, send for me at once, and I will be with you as fast as horses can bring me. In the meantime do not alarm the ladies more than you can help.”
“You may rely upon my not doing so,” said Godfrey, and then Sir Vivian entered his carriage and drove away.
Later, when Godfrey bade Molly good-night, she looked up at him with sorrowful eyes.
“I feel sure,” she said, “that there is something you are keeping back from me. I beg of you not to do so. You know how I love you, and how earnest is my desire to share both your joys and your sorrows with you. Will you not confide in me and tell me everything?”
“When there is anything worth the hearing, you may be sure I will tell you, dear,” he answered, not daring to let her know the truth that night. “In the morning we will talk the whole matter over and you shall give me your advice. And now you must go to bed and try to obtain a good night’s rest, for I am sure you did not sleep well last night.”
“I did not,” she answered. “I was thinking of you all night, for I knew how you were dreading going up to-day.”
He did not tell her that he dreaded going up on Wednesday a great deal more. He preferred to take her in his arms and kiss her, calling her his good angel, swearing that he would love her all his life long, and that even death itself should not separate them. Then he went to his room, prepared to spend what he knew would be a sleepless night, and he was not destined to be wrong. Hour after hour he tumbled and tossed upon his bed, going over the day’s proceedings again and again, and speculating with never-ceasing anxiety as to what was to happen in the future. At last, unable to bear it any longer, he rose from his bed and went downstairs to his studio, where he lighted his fire and smoked and read until daylight. Then a cold bath somewhat refreshed him, and, as soon as he had dressed, he set off across the park to the home farm. He was always an early riser, and his presence there at that hour excited no comment. He watched the sleek, soft-eyed cows being milked, saw the handsome cart-horses, of which he had once been so proud, set off upon their day’s work, had a quarter of an hour’s conversation with his head-keeper at his cottage gate, and then returned home through the plantations to breakfast. It was his mother’s habit to read prayers to the household immediately before the meal, and, as he knelt by Molly’s side, and listened to the old familiar words, his heart ached when he thought of the misery that any moment might bring upon them.
As the first train from London did not arrive until somewhat late, the morning papers were delivered with the letters, which usually reached the Hall about half-past nine. When they arrived Godfrey selected one, and took it with him to his studio. With a feeling that he had never before experienced when opening a paper, he turned the crisp pages in search of the column which he knew he would find. Then he saw in large type:
There was no need for him to wonder what that evidence was: he knew before he began to read. The prominence given by the paper to the case was a proof of the excitement the inquiry had aroused in the public mind. At last he forced himself to read. Every word rose before his eyes as vividly as though it had been traced in letters of fire. Set down in cold print, the affair presented a very sinister aspect, so far as he was concerned. Every portion of the evidence seemed to point to himself as being the man who had committed the dastardly deed. He could well imagine what the feeling of independent persons would be who read it, and how readily they would arrive at a conclusion unfavourable to himself. He had just perused it for the second time, when he was startled by a faint tap upon the door.
“Come in,” he cried, and in response Molly entered the room.
“I have been looking for you,” she said, with the parody of a smile upon her face.
“I should have come in search of you in a few moments,” he replied. “The fact is, I have had certain things to do which could not very well be left undone. Will you forgive me, dear?”
“Of course I will,” she answered. “It is impossible for you to be always with me, and yet I am selfish enough to grudge you the time you spend upon anything else.”
He was quick-witted enough to see that what she said was only an attempt to gain time. She, on her side, knew that he stood in need of comfort, and she had come to give it to him.
“Molly,” he said, rising from the chair in which he had been sitting and going toward her, “I feel that I must tell you everything. God knows, this is the crisis of my life, and to whom should I turn in my sorrow, if not to the woman I love, and whom I know loves me? Have you read the account of the inquest in the papers?”
“No,” she answered, “I would not read it, lest I should derive a false impression from it. I am quite willing to hear what you have to say about it, and to accept your version as the truth.”
“God bless you, dear, for your trust in me!” he replied; “but it is necessary that you should hear what other people have to say upon the matter. Read it carefully, and, when you have finished, tell me what you think about it.”
He gave her the paper, and for a moment she stood as if undecided.
“Do you really wish it?” she asked.
“It is better that you should do so, believe me,” he said. “In that case, no one can say that I kept anything back from you.”
“I will read it,” she said, and went toward the window-seat to do so.
While she was reading, he stood before the fire and watched her. He noticed the poise of the beautiful head, the sweet hands holding the paper, on one finger of which sparkled the engagement ring he had given her, and the tiny foot just peeping from beneath the dark green skirt. She was a woman worth fighting all the world for, and, as he reflected how easy it would be for false evidence to separate them, he experienced a fear such as he had never known in his life before.
When she had finished, she crossed the room with the paper in her hand. Deliberately folding it up and laying it upon the table, she went to him, and placed her hands in his. Looking up into his face with trustful eyes, she said:
“I told you yesterday, Godfrey, that I believed in you. I tell you again, that, whatever the world may say with regard to this dreadful affair, it will make no difference in my love. I feel as convinced as I am of anything that, by whatever means, or at whose hand, that poor girl met her death, you were in no sort of way responsible for, or connected with it. You believe me, don’t you?”
“I do,” he answered, with tears in his eyes. “And I thank God for your trust. Do you know, yesterday I suggested to your father that, situated as we are, it would be better if I were to give you back your freedom until my innocence is proved?”
“I would not take it,” she answered, firmly. “When I gave myself to you, it was not to be your bride in fair weather alone; it was to be your partner in the rough seas of life as well as in the smooth. No, come what may, Godfrey, I will not let you give me up. Promise me that you will never mention such a thing again? It hurts me even to think of it.”
“Your mind is made up?”
“Quite made up,” she answered. “I should not change, even if you were what—(here she shuddered)—what that paper would seem to suggest. No, darling, I am your wife, if not in the law, at least in God’s sight.”
“I thank you,” he answered, earnestly. “The knowledge that you still trust me will be my most precious consolation.”
“And now tell me of this Mr. Codey, the lawyer you have employed. Is he a clever man?”
“One of the cleverest in the land, I should say,” Godfrey replied. “He has had great experience in these sort of cases, and, if any man can render me assistance, I should say he is that one.”
“Oh, how thankful I shall be,” she said, “when everything is settled! How little we dreamt, when we were so happy together last week, that within a few days we should be made so miserable! Perhaps, after all, it is only our love being tried in the crucible of trouble. And when it is over, and we have come out of it, we shall know each other’s real worth. That is the best way to look at it, I think.”
“Quite the best,” he answered, and kissed her on the forehead.
Then, adopting a brighter tone, he suggested that they should go for a walk together, in order, if possible, to dispel, for the time being at least, the dark clouds that had settled upon them. It was a clear, bright morning, and as they crossed the park, and mounted the hillside toward the plantation, where the rabbits were playing, and the pheasants, who of late had not received the attention their merits deserved, were strutting about on the open grass land, Godfrey found it difficult to believe that the situation was really as desperate as he imagined. Their walk lasted for upward of two hours; indeed, it was nearly lunch-time before they reached the house once more. When they did, Molly went upstairs to her room to prepare herself for luncheon, while Godfrey made his way to his mother’s sitting room, where he found the old lady quietly knitting by the fire.
“Thank goodness you have come in at last, dear!” said Mrs. Henderson. “I have been wanting so much to have a talk with you! Godfrey, I have read the evidence given at the inquest, and it frightens me.”
“I am sorry for that, mother,” he said, seating himself by her side. “What do you think of it?”
She placed her hand upon his arm, and looked at him with her loving eyes.
“I think my boy is too noble to have done anything of which his mother would have had reason to be ashamed.”
Godfrey rose from his chair and walked to the window. These constant proofs of the love in which he was held was unmanning him. He could not trust himself to speak. When his own little world believed in him so implicitly, how could the greater world be so censorious?
When they went into luncheon, Godfrey soon saw that the ancient butler and his subordinate had become aware of the state of affairs. Attentive to his wants as they always were, on this particular occasion, they were even more so than usual. It was as if they were endeavouring in their own kindly way to show that they too believed in him, and were desirous of proving their sympathy with him. Never before had his own home struck him in the same light. His heart was too full for speech, and, in spite of his sister’s well-meant attempt to promote conversation, the meal passed almost in silence.
After luncheon the bailiff sent in word that he should like to speak to him. The man was accordingly admitted to the smoking-room, where he discussed various matters connected with the estate with his master for upward of an hour. Labouring as he was, under the weight of greater emotions, Godfrey found it difficult to pin his attention to the matters at issue, and when the other went his way, after respectfully touching his forelock, for the first time since he had known the old fellow, he heaved a sigh of relief. At half-past four he joined the ladies in the drawing-room for afternoon tea. To add to his pain, another consignment of wedding presents had arrived, and in order that he should not be thought to be unduly nervous about the future, he was compelled to appear delighted with the attentions he had received from his friends.
“That makes the fifth pair of asparagus tongs we have received,” said Molly, as she closed the case and placed it with its fellows upon the table. “And what is this? Well, I declare, it’s another set of sweet dishes. That brings the number up to twenty-seven!”
At that moment the sound of carriage wheels outside reached them, followed, a few seconds later, by the ringing of the front door-bell.
“Visitors, I suppose,” said Kitty. “It may be rude, but I must say that I trust it is not the vicar.”
They waited in suspense until Williamson, the butler, entered the room and informed Godfrey that a gentleman had called to see him, and was waiting in the library.
“Who is it?” Godfrey asked. “Did he not give his name?”
“His name is Tompkins, sir,” the butler replied. “He said he should be glad if you could spare the time to see him for a few moments.”
“I will do so at once,” said Godfrey, and, asking the ladies to excuse him, left the room.
On entering the library, he found himself face to face with a middle-aged individual, who at first glance resembled a sporting parson. He was dressed in black, and carried a black silk hat in his hand.
“What can I do for you?” Godfrey inquired. “I am not aware that I have ever seen you before.”
“Very likely not, sir,” the man replied. “My name is Tompkins, and I am a Scotland Yard detective. I hold a warrant for your arrest on a charge of wilfully murdering Teresina Cardi in Burford Street on the night of Thursday last. I had better tell you that anything you may say will be used against you.”
The blow had fallen at last!