CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH THE "EVENING MOON" RELATES THE ADVENTURES OF ITS SPECIALCORRESPONDENT.
We have now to place before our readers an account of our proceedingsrespecting Antony Cowlrick, falsely accused of the murder of a man (nameunknown) at No. 119, Great Porter Square. It is lengthy, but we haveresolved not to curtail it, and we shall continue it in our editionsto-day and to-morrow until it is completed.
We preface our statement with an assurance that in the steps we took wewere actuated no less by a feeling of pity for Antony Cowlrick and awish to clear him completely in the eyes of the public, than by ourdesire to obtain information which might aid in throwing light upon thecircumstances surrounding this mysterious murder. Fully conscious as weare of the requirements of that advanced journalism which purists openlycensure and privately patronise, and which is an absolute necessityof the age, we have been careful to keep within the circle of ourlegitimate right and duty, and not to abuse the liberty of the press.
It is not to be denied that there exists a growing desire to probe moreclosely the life amongst which we live and move, and to lay bare thearteries of a social system in which we one and all act our parts. Thusit is that many persons (chiefly women), who a few years ago would neverhave been heard of by the public, are now the theme of comment anddiscussion in all classes of society--that their portraits are exposedfor sale in shop-windows--and that they are stared at and pointed at inthe theatres and other places of public resort. The greater number ofthese poor creatures see no distinction between the terms notoriety andcelebrity; notorious, shamefully notorious--they certainly are; worthilycelebrated they can never become, let them pose as they will on thestage or in the private rooms of the photographer. These and other newaspects of society are a condition of the times. We are not now contentin the columns of our newspapers to deal with public matters in theabstract; we insist upon knowing something of the character and motivesof those whose good or bad fortune it is to be prominently concernedin the wonderful and varied drama of To-Day. Thus there is open to thejournalist a new and interesting province for his labours, and he whodoes not shrink from his duty, and does his spiriting gently and withdiscretion, will be the most likely to be followed and appreciated bythat greatest of all critics--the Public.
Anticipating the release of Antony Cowlrick, we detailed a SpecialReporter to seek an interview with him when he left the Martin StreetPolice Court, and to endeavour to obtain such information respectinghimself as might prove interesting to our readers. The task was adelicate and difficult one, and we entrusted it to a gentleman, a memberof our staff, whose generous instincts and sympathetic nature have wonfor him an unusual meed of respect. It has not yet become the fashionfor newspaper writers in England to append their names to theircontributions. The question whether the time has arrived for theintroduction of this system is worthy of serious consideration. Bythe present system of anonymity, not only is opportunity affordedfor slandering and stabbing in the dark, but undoubted injustice isinflicted upon many a conscientious and enthusiastic worker, who bringsto his labours such study, education, and culture, as in any otherdepartment of life would make his name famous. Those behind the scenesare familiar with the names of journalists whose knowledge of character,quickness of comprehension, and readiness to seize the salient and moststriking features in the pictures of life they are employed to portray,are little less than marvellous. Such workers as these are the truepainters and historians of the day, and supply more food for the mentallife of the world than the combined efforts of the labourers in everyother department of art and science. But the world knows them not; theyare deprived of the highest reward an art-worker can receive.
"You are discharged," said the magistrate to Antony Cowlrick.
The gaolers fell back. Antony Cowlrick mechanically passed his handsover his wrists. There was a certain pathos in the action. The handcuffswere no longer there, but they had left upon the wrists a degradationthat would not soon be forgotten.
"I ask your worship to say," said Mr. Goldberry, addressing themagistrate, "that this man, falsely accused, leaves the court without astain upon his character."
"I cannot say that," replied the magistrate; "we know nothing of hischaracter."
"Nothing has been proved against him," persisted Mr. Goldberry.
"Nothing has been proved in his favour," said the magistrate. "Had youproved that the accused had led a reputable and respectable life--hada reasonable explanation been given of his presence in Great PorterSquare and of his motive in ascending the steps leading to thestreet door of the house in which the murder was committed, andtrying the handle--had anything creditable as to his antecedents beenestablished--I should not have objected to some such expression ofopinion as you desire. But as the accused has chosen to surround himselfwith mystery, he must be content with being discharged without thesolace of official sympathy. I do not approve of the action of thepolice in this matter; neither do I approve of the course adopted by theaccused. He is discharged."
Antony Cowlrick listened impatiently to this dialogue. For a momentor two he lingered, as though he had a desire himself to speak to themagistrate, but if he had any such intention he speedily relinquishedit, and with a slight shrug of his shoulders he pushed open the door ofthe dock and stepped into the body of the court.
Outside the police-court, Antony Cowlrick did not pause to look aroundhim: he scarcely seemed to be conscious of the eager faces of thepeople who had waited to catch a glimpse of him. Taking advantage of anopening in the crowd, he darted through it, and walked swiftly away. Thepeople walked swiftly after him, some running before to look up into hisface. This impelled him to walk still more swiftly, until presently hebegan to run as if for a wager.
These movements, especially the last, acted magnetically on the men,women, and children congregated in Martin Street. As though animated byone magical impulse they flew after him, shouting as they ran. There washere presented the singular spectacle of a man just pronounced innocentby the law being hunted down, immediately after his acquittal, by anindiscriminate crowd, without reason or motive.
He scarcely seemed to know the way he was flying. Through some of thenarrow turnings intersecting Drury Lane and Covent Garden, then westwardinto the labyrinths of Soho, doubling back again towards LeicesterSquare, raced Antony Cowlrick, in his endeavour to get rid of thehunters, until those persons at a distance from Martin Street who weredrawn into the hunt by the contagion of the excitement began to screamout, "Stop thief!" In an instant a chorus of voices took up the cry,and "Stop thief! stop thief!" issued from a hundred throats. When thatsound reached Antony Cowlrick's ears he stopped--as suddenly as he hadfled--and confronted his pursuers. He found himself surrounded by amultitude of excited faces, and within a couple of yards stood anuninformed policeman, who stepped forward to take him into custody. ButAntony Cowlrick raised his arm threateningly, and the hunted man and theconstable glared at each other. Serious consequences might have ensuedhad it not been for our Reporter, who worked his way to the front, andstood by Antony Cowlrick's side.
"There is a mistake, policeman," said our Reporter; "this man has donenothing."
The policeman immediately prepared to take our Reporter into custodyfor obstructing him in the exercise of his duty, but he was baulked bythe appearance of two other policemen who, acting under instructions,had followed the discharged prisoner, and by Mr. Goldberry, who hadaccompanied them without consent.
"It's all right," said the newly-arrived policeman. "Come--move alongthere!"
It is not to be supposed that they were animated by particularlyfriendly feelings towards Antony Cowlrick; but if he belonged to anybodyhe belonged to them, and they would not allow any interference withtheir property.
The crowd slowly dispersed, by no means in good humour; it reallyappeared as though some among them were of the opinion that AntonyCowlrick had inflicted a personal injury upon them by not havingcommitted a theft and allowing himself to be taken into custody.
"Now, you," said one of the policemen to Antony Cowlrick, stretchingtowards him an ominous forefinger, "had better mind what you are about,or you'll be getting yourself into trouble."
"Perhaps you will assist me in getting into it," replied AntonyCowlrick. "You have, up till to-day, done your best, it must beadmitted."
These were the first words our Reporter had heard Antony Cowlrick utter,and they produced a singular impression upon him. The manner of theirutterance was that of a gentleman. There was a distinct refinement inthe voice and bearing of Antony Cowlrick which strangely contrasted withhis miserable appearance.
The policeman had but one answer to this retort.
"Move on!"
"When it suits me," said Antony Cowlrick. "I am one man, aloneand unknown--that hurts you, probably. I am not obstructing thethoroughfare; I am not begging; I am not hawking without a licence; I amdoing nothing unlawful. When it suits me to move on, I will move on. Inthe meantime," he exclaimed, in an authoritative tone, "move you on!"
The audacity of this order staggered the policemen, and they could findno words to reply.
Antony Cowlrick proceeded:
"If a fresh crowd gathers round us--it is beginning to do so, Iperceive--it is you who are collecting it. You have no more right toorder me to move on than your comrades had--you are all alike, bluecoats, rattles, and truncheons--to arrest me in Great Porter Square."
The policemen looked at one another, in a state of indecision; thenlooked at our Reporter; then at Mr. Goldberry. They were evidentlyperplexed, the right being clearly on Antony Cowlrick's side. Happilyfor them, their eyes fell simultaneously upon the crowd of idlerssurrounding them, and, without more ado, they plunged wildly in,and scattered the curiosity-mongers in all directions. Having thusvindicated the majesty of the law, they moved reluctantly away, andleft the victor, Antony Cowlrick, upon the field.
It happened that among the crowd was a woman who, taken unaware by thesudden onslaught of the police, was roughly dealt with. Unable to stemthe rush of the dispersion, she was knocked about, and almost throwndown. Saved by a helping hand, she escaped without injury, but she wasexhausted, and sat down upon a door-step to recover herself. There wasnothing especially noticeable in this incident, but it will be presentlyseen that it has a singular bearing upon our narrative.
A group of three persons, comprising our Reporter, Mr. Goldberry, andAntony Cowlrick, standing together in Leicester Square, and a womansitting on a doorstep--these are the individuals in whom we are atpresent interested. A policeman idles to and fro, at some distance,with his eyes occasionally turned towards the group, but he does notinterfere.
It was noon, and, as usual, a strange quietude reigned in LeicesterSquare. This is its normal condition in the day-time, and is the moreremarkable because of the contiguity of the Square to the most infamousthoroughfare in London--the Haymarket--wherein vice in its mostshameless and degrading aspects openly parades itself for sixteen hoursout of the twenty-four.
"Can I be of any assistance to you?" asked Mr. Goldberry, of AntonyCowlrick.
"No," replied Antony Cowlrick, abruptly, and then, observing who it wasthat spoke, added: "Your pardon! You are the gentleman who defended me?"Mr. Goldberry nodded. "What was your motive?"
"Compassion."
Antony Cowlrick cast his eyes upon his ragged clothes, and passed hishand over his face, upon which a two months' beard was growing.
"I look a fit object of compassion. But I am not grateful to you.I should have been discharged, some time or other, without yourassistance. There was no evidence, you see; and, after all, I may beguilty of the murder."
"I do not think you are," said Mr. Goldberry.
"It is scarcely worth arguing about," remarked Antony Cowlrick. "He isnot the first, and will not be the last."
"He! Who?" quickly asked Mr. Goldberry.
"The man who was murdered in Great Porter Square."
"Do you know anything of him?"
"What should I know? Some interesting particulars concerning him will nodoubt one day be brought to light." Cowlrick paused a moment. "You are alawyer, and therefore a decent member of society. You go to church, and,of course, believe in God."
"Well?"
"Well!" echoed Antony Cowlrick. "Do you think God will allow the guiltyto escape, or that He needs the assistance of a lawyer to punish the manwho sheds his brother's blood?"
"His brother's blood!" exclaimed Mr. Goldberry.
"Are we not all brothers!" said Antony Cowlrick with bitter emphasis."Do we not all live in charity with one another? Enough. I have nodesire to prolong this conversation; it can lead to no good result. ButI felt bound to answer you civilly, as it is barely possible, when yourose in the police-court to defend me, that you were in part animated bya kindly sentiment for an unfortunate man. On the other hand, you mayhave been wholly impelled by a desire to advertise your name in animportant case of murder. But you shall have the benefit of the doubt.Give me your card. If at any time I should need you, I will call upon orsend for you."
It was with an air of patronage that this beggarly man spoke to thewell-to-do lawyer; but Mr. Goldberry, with admirable equanimity,accepted the position, and handed Antony Cowlrick his card.
"Can I do nothing more for you?" he asked.
"Nothing more."
Mr. Goldberry, before he took his departure, drew our Reporter aside.
"You appear to be interested in the man?" he said.
Our Reporter enlightened him.
"I am a journalist, on the staff of the _Evening Moon_."
"And on the look-out for paragraphs. You will find Antony Cowlrick worthstudying."
"You believed in his innocence when you defended him. Do you believe init now?"
Mr. Goldberry laughed.
"I am not prepared to be interviewed. One thing is certain. There is amystery here, and I should like to obtain a clue to it. You may be moresuccessful than I."
"He speaks like a gentleman."
"We live in levelling times. There is no telling who is who. I haveheard a gentleman speak like a costermonger."
This confidential communication between our Reporter and Mr. Goldberryescaped the ears, but not the eyes, of Antony Cowlrick, and when Mr.Goldberry left and our Reporter remained, he was the first to speak.
"Has the lawyer deputed you to watch me?"
"No," replied our Reporter. "I am a newspaper man, and should be glad ifyou can give me any information for my paper?"
"Information about what?"
"Yourself."
"Haven't the newspapers had enough of me? I haven't read one for manyweeks, but I guess their columns must have been filled with reports ofthe proceedings at the Magistrate's Court."
"You guess right. The murder committed in Great Porter Square was mosthorrible, and the public have been much excited about it. The paper I amon, the _Evening Moon_, was the only one which from the first declaredyou to be innocent of the charge brought against you. Perhaps you wouldlike to read what we have written on the subject."
Antony Cowlrick took the packet of papers which our Reporter hadprepared in anticipation of the emergency.
"I have unknown friends, it seems."
"It is a question of fair play, and, being a public matter, comeswithin our province. See, here is yesterday's paper, stating that asubscription is opened at our office for you."
"You have taken an unwarrantable liberty in holding me forth as anobject of charity."
"What has been done," said our Reporter, "has been done with goodintent. There was no desire to hurt your feelings, but you appeared,and appear, to be in poverty."
"Will you lend me a sovereign?"
"Willingly. There were two at the office for you yesterday, and when Ileft this morning not less than ten pounds had been received for thesubscription list."
"A queer world we live in, do we not, with a public that one moment isready to tear a man to pieces, and the next to surfeit him with sweets?I decline to accept
your money. I would not touch it, though I amreally in want of a meal. I suppose, if you were to leave me thisinstant, or I were to refuse to hold any further converse with you, youwould consider it your duty to write a flaming article about me for thenext edition of your paper?"
"I should narrate what has passed, in fair and temperate language, Ihope."
"I beg you," said Antony Cowlrick, earnestly, "to do me a great favour.Do not drag me before the public to-day. Nay, nor to-morrow. Give methree days' grace. It will be of service to me, and may help the causeof justice."
The last words were spoken with an air of hesitation.
"If I promise to do this--providing my Chief consents, and I think hewill--you must allow me in return to become better acquainted with you."
"Pick up what scraps you can, my literary Autolycus. Examine me well.Describe my appearance, manners, and bearing. Say that I belie mylooks, and that I do not speak exactly like a ruffian. In all that,shrewd as you may be, you can only see the outside of me. Understand,if you please, that I shall not help you."
"All right. Where do you intend to sleep to-night?"
"God knows! I do not."
"How are you going to live? Have you a trade?"
Antony Cowlrick held out his hands.
"Do these look like hands accustomed to hard work?"
They were dirty with prison dirt, and were as soft and pliable as thehands of a lady. At this point, as he stood with his hand in the handof our Reporter, the woman who had been knocked about by the crowd rosefrom the doorstep.
Our Reporter felt a nervous twitching in the hand he held, and, lookingup into the face of Antony Cowlrick, saw with surprise that it wasagitated by a sudden and powerful emotion. Antony Cowlrick's eyes werefixed upon the woman, who was walking slowly away.
She was young and fair, and in her movements there was an aimlessnesswhich did not speak well for her character. But, as Mr. Goldberryobserved, we live in levelling times, and it is hard to judge accuratelyof a person's social position from dress and manner. The locality wasagainst this young and pretty woman; her being young and pretty wasagainst her; her apparent want of occupation was against her. But shespoke to no one, looked at no one.
Antony Cowlrick hastened after her. Our Reporter did not follow him. Hewas not acting the part of a detective. What he did was in pursuanceof his duty, and it is not in his nature to give offence. Therefore hestood where Antony Cowlrick left him, and waited for events.
When Antony Cowlrick reached the woman's side, he touched her arm, andspoke to her. She did not reply, but glanced carelessly at him, and,averting her eyes with a gesture of repugnance, pursued her way. Beforeshe had taken three steps, Antony Cowlrick was again by her side.Again he touched her arm and addressed her; and this time, instead ofattempting to avoid him, she turned and looked up at him. For a momentdoubt was expressed in her face--only for a moment. As though a suddenand wonderful light had entered her soul, her face became illumined withjoy. She was pretty before; now she was beautiful.
Some words of delight struggled to her lips, but died in theirutterance. Antony Cowlrick placed his hand on her mouth so that theyshould not be spoken aloud--directing his eyes at the same time towardsthe spot occupied by our Reporter.
The woman pressed her hand upon the man's hand, still at her lips, andkissed it passionately.
Then she and Antony Cowlrick conversed hurriedly. Evidently questionswere being asked and answered--questions upon which much depended. Thelast question asked by Antony Cowlrick was answered by the woman with asad shake of her head. He held her fingers in his hand, and seemed tolook at them inquiringly. Did he expect to find rings there which hecould convert into money? Her fingers were bare of ornament. He lookedat her ears, then at the bosom of her dress. She possessed neitherear-rings nor brooch.
Under such circumstances as these, speech was not needed for theunderstanding of what was passing between the haggard, unshaven,poverty-stricken man and the equally poor and beautiful woman.
Antony Cowlrick did not hesitate long. A dozen strides brought him toour Reporter.
"I have found a friend," he said.
"So I perceive," replied our Reporter.
"You offered awhile ago to lend me a sovereign. I refused to accept it.Will you lend it me now?"
Our Reporter gave it to him instantly, without a word.
The swift graciousness of the response appeared to touch AntonyCowlrick, and an expression of gratitude dwelt on his features.
"I thank you. My gratitude will remain ever as a debt. I appreciate yourdelicacy in not intruding upon my interview with my friend."
"She is not a new friend," observed our Reporter.
"No, indeed," was the reply.
"It seems to me that she might have appeared at the police-court to giveevidence in your favour."
"Supposing she could say anything _in_ my favour."
"It is evident that she would say nothing to harm you. Her joy atmeeting you was too palpable."
"You have a trick of keen observation. Perhaps she did not know of myawkward position."
"How could she help knowing it when your name has been so prominent inthe papers for weeks?"
"My name? Ah, I forgot. But I cannot offer you a satisfactoryexplanation. More than ever now will unnecessary and immediate publicitybe likely to injure me. You will keep your promise--for three days youwill not write about me?"
"I will keep my promise. At the end of three days I shall simply publishwhat has passed between ourselves and Mr. Goldberry."
"It seems to me to be singularly devoid of interest."
"You are mistaken. Newspaper readers peruse such details as these witheagerness. You must not forget that you are in some way, near or remote,connected with an atrocious crime."
"You foil me at every point. Good-day."
"Good-day!" exclaimed our Reporter. "Shall I not see you again?"
"You will, if you play the spy upon me."
"I shall not do that. But you promised to afford me an opportunity ofbecoming better acquainted with you."
"That is true. Wait a moment."
He rejoined the woman, and after exchanging a few words with her,returned to our Reporter.
"You will not publish the address I am about to give you?"
"Not if you do not wish it."
"I do not wish it. We must not play with reputations--especially withthe reputation of a woman. Have you pencil and paper? Thank you. Callto-night at ten o'clock at this address."
He wrote an address in our Reporter's note-book, and, directlyafterwards, left Leicester Square with his newly-found friend. As heturned in the direction of Piccadilly, he hailed a cab, into which heand his companion hastily scrambled.
By ten o'clock that night our Reporter paused before the door of thehouse in which he expected to find Antony Cowlrick, and debated withhimself whether he should inquire for the man by name. It was quitenatural, he thought, that a person who had been placed in a positionso unpleasant as Antony Cowlrick should wish to avoid the disagreeablecuriosity of prying eyes and vulgar tongues, and that in a new lodginghe should give another name than his own. The house was situated in oneof the lowest neighbourhoods, where only the poorest people dwell. Therewere at least half-a-dozen small bells on the right hand side of thedoor, and our Reporter fell into deep disgrace by pulling them one afteranother, and bringing down persons whose faces were strange to him.
He felt himself in a difficulty, when, giving a description of theman and the woman he wished to see, one lodger said, "O, it's thesecond-floor back;" and another said, "Oh, it's the third-floor front;"and another said, "What do yer mean by comin' 'ere at this time o' nightrousing up people as want to be abed and asleep?" Now, this last rebukewas not taken in good part by our Reporter, whose knowledge of the slumsof London, being somewhat extensive, had led him to the belief thathouseholders and lodgers in these localities seldom go to bed beforethe public-house lights are put out. Sad, indeed, is it to reflect thatthe Gin-shop
is the Church of the Poor, and that it is open from earlymorn till midnight to lead poverty and ignorance to lower and lowerdepths, in which it is impossible for purity and innocence to find aresting place!
At length, in despair, our Reporter, having no alternative, inquiredof a woman in the house whether a person of the name of Cowlrick waswithin. The woman looked suspiciously at our Reporter, and said shewould call "her man." Her man came, and our Reporter repeated hisquestion.
"Cowlrick!" cried the man. "Send I may live if that ain't the name ofthe feller as was up at the perlice court for the murder in Great PorterSquare! Yer don't mean to say that it's 'im you've come to inquire forat a respectable 'ouse?"
"Shut the door in his face, Jim!" called out the woman, from the top ofthe stairs.
No sooner said than done. The door was slammed in our Reporter's face,and he was "left out in the cold," as the saying is.
What, now, was our Reporter to do? He had no intention of giving up hissearch; the woof of his nature is strong and tough, and difficultiesrather inspire than depress him. Within a stone's throw from a weakhand there were six public-houses; within a stone's throw from anyone of these were half-a-dozen other public-houses. It was as thougha huge pepper-box, filled with public-houses, had been shaken overthe neighbourhood. There was a certain peculiarity in the order andarrangement of their fall. Most of them had fallen into the corners ofthe courts and narrow streets. There must be a Providence in this--aProvidence which, watching over the welfare of brewers and distillers,has conferred upon them and upon their heirs and assigns an inalienableright in the corners of every street and lane in the restless BabylonianCity.
Our Reporter made the rounds of these public-houses, ordered liquor inevery one of them, and poured it on the floor--to the indignation ofmany topers, who called it "sinful waste;" especially to the indignationof one blear-eyed, grey-haired, old woman, with three long strong hairssticking out of her chin. This old creature, who looked as if she hadjust stepped away from the witches' cauldron in Macbeth (the brew therenot being strong enough), screamed out to our Reporter, "You'll come towant! You'll come to want! For Gawd's sake, don't spill it, my dear!Give it to me--give it to me!" and struggled with him for the liquor.
Within half-an-hour of midnight our Reporter found himself once morebefore the house in which he supposed Antony Cowlrick would sleepthat night. But he was puzzled what to do. To ring the bells again washazardous. He determined to wait until a lodger entered the house; thenhe himself would enter and try the chamber doors.
The minutes passed. No guardian angel of a lodger came to his aid. Butall at once he felt a tug at his trousers. He looked down. It was alittle girl. A very mite of a girl.
"If yer please, sir----"
"Yes, little one," said our Reporter.
"Will yer pull the blue bell, and knock five times? I can't reach."
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