Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  The dumb detective went to one end of the coffin, while his colleague stood at the other. The Liverpool officer was correct in his supposition. The lid was only secured by two or three long stout nails, and gave way in three minutes. The two detectives lifted it off the coffin — and there, hot, flushed, and panting, half-suffocated, with desperation in his wicked blue eyes, his teeth locked in furious rage at his utter powerlessness to escape from the grasp of his pursuers — there, run to earth at last, lay the accomplished Raymond, Count de Marolles!

  They put the handcuffs on him before they lifted him out of the coffin, the Smasher assisting. Years after, when the Smasher grew to be an older and graver man, he used to tell to admiring and awe-stricken customers the story of this arrest. But it is to be observed that his memory on these occasions was wont to play him false, for he omitted to mention either the Liverpool detective or our good friend Mr. Peters as taking any art in the capture; but described the whole affair as conducted by himself alone, with an incalculable number of “I says,” and “so then I thinks,” and “well, what do I do next?” and other phrases of the same description.

  The Count de Marolles, with tumbled hair, and a white face and blue lips, sitting handcuffed upon the bench of the steamer between the Liverpool detective and Mr. Peters, steaming back to Liverpool, was a sight not good to look upon. The cheerful gentleman sat with the Smasher and Mr. Darley, who had been told to keep an eye upon him, and who — the Smasher especially — kept both eyes upon him with a will.

  Throughout the little voyage there were no words spoken but these from the Liverpool detective, as he first put the fetters on the white and slender wrists of his prisoner: “Monsieur de Marolles,” he said, “you’ve tried this little game once before. This is the second occasion, I understand, on which you’ve done a sham die. I’d have you beware of the third time. According to superstitious people, it’s generally fatal.”

  CHAPTER VI. THE END OF THE DARK ROAD.

  ONCE more Slopperton-on-the-Sloshy rang with a subject dismissed from the public mind eight years ago, and now revived with a great deal more excitement and discussion than ever. That subject was, the murder of Mr. Montague Harding. All Slopperton made itself into one voice, and spoke but upon one theme — the pending trial of another man for that very crime of which Richard Marwood had been found guilty years ago — Richard, who, according to report, had died in an attempt to escape from the county asylum.

  Very little was known of the criminal, but a great deal was conjectured; a great deal more was invented; and ultimately, most conflicting reports were spread abroad by the citizens of Slopperton, every one of whom had his particular account of the seizure of De Marolles, and every one of whom stood to his view of the case with a pertinacity and fortitude worthy of a better cause. Thus, if you went into High Street, entering that thoroughfare from the Market-place, you would hear how this De Marolles was a French nobleman, who had crossed the Channel in an open boat on the night of the murder, walked from Dover to Slopperton — (not above two hundred miles by the shortest cut) — and gone back to Calais in the same manner. If, staggered by the slight discrepancies of time and place in this account of the transaction, you pursued your inquiries a little further down the same street, you would very likely be told that De Marolles was no Frenchman at all, but the son of a clergyman in the next county, whose unfortunate mother was at that moment on her knees in the throne-room at Buckingham Palace, soliciting his pardon on account of his connection with the clerical interest. If this story struck you as more romantic than probable, you had only to turn the corner into Little Market Street — (rather a low neighbourhood, and chiefly inhabited by butchers and the tripe and cow-heel trade) — and you might sup full of horrors, the denizens of this locality labouring under the fixed conviction that the prisoner then lying in Slopperton gaol was neither more nor less than a distinguished burglar, long the scourge of the united kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland, and guilty of outrages and murders innumerable.

  There were others who confined themselves to animated and detailed descriptions of the attempted escape and capture of the accused. These congregated at street-corners, and disputed and gesticulated in little groups, one man often dropping back from his companions, and taking a wide berth on the pavement, to give his particular story the benefit of illustrative action. Some stories told how the prisoner had got halfway to America concealed in the paddle wheel of a screw steamer; others gave an animated account of his having been found hidden in the corner of the engine-room, where he had lain concealed for fourteen days without either bite or sup. Others told you he had been furled up in the foretopsail of an American man-of-war; others related how he had made the passage in the maintop of the same vessel, only descending in the dead of the night for his meals, and paying the captain of the ship a quarter of a million of money for the accommodation. As to the sums of money he had embezzled in his capacity of banker, they grew with every hour; till at last Slopperton turned up its nose at anything under a billion for the sum total of his plunder.

  The assizes were looked forward to with such eager expectation and interest as never had been felt about any other assizes within the memory of living Slopperton; and the Judges and barristers on this circuit were the envy of judges and barristers on other circuits, who said bitterly, that no such case ever came across their way, and that it was like Prius Q.C.’s luck to be counsel for the prosecution in such a trial; and that if Nisi, whom the Count de Marolles had intrusted with his defence, didn’t get him off, he, Nisi, deserved to be hung in lieu of his client.

  It seemed a strange and awful instance of retributive justice that Raymond Marolles, having been taken in his endeavour to escape in the autumn of the year, had to await the spring assizes of the following year for his trial, and had, therefore, to drag out even a longer period in his solitary cell than Richard Marwood, the innocent victim of circumstantial evidence, had done years before.

  Who shall dare to enter this man’s cell? Who shall dare to look into this hardened heart? Who shall follow the dark and terrible speculations of this perverted intellect?

  At last the time, so welcome to the free citizens of Slopperton, and so very unwelcome to some of the denizens in the gaol, who preferred awaiting their trial in that retreat to crossing the briny ocean for an unlimited period as the issue of that trial — at last, the assize time came round once more. Once more the tip-top Slopperton hotels were bewilderingly gay with elegant young barristers and grave grey-headed judges. Once more the criminal court was one vast sea of human heads, rising wave on wave to the very roof; and once more every eager eye was turned towards the dock in which stood the elegant and accomplished Raymond, Count de Marolles, alias Jabez North, sometime pauper of the Slopperton-on-the-Sloshy Union, afterwards usher in the academy of Dr. Tappenden, charged with the wilful murder of Montague Larding, also of Slopperton, eight years before.

  The first point the counsel for the prosecution endeavoured to prove to the minds of the Jury was the identity of Raymond de Marolles, the Parisian, with Jabez North, the pauper schoolboy. This hinged chiefly upon his power to disprove the supposed death of Jabez North, in which all Slopperton had hitherto firmly believed. Dr. Tappenden had stood by his usher’s corpse. How, then, could that usher be alive and before the Slopperton jury to-day? But there were plenty to certify that here he was in the flesh — this very Jabez North, whom so many people remembered, and had been in the habit of seeing, eight years ago. They were ready to identify him, in spite of his dark hair and eyebrows. On the other hand, there were some who had seen the body of the suicide, found by Peters the detective, on the heath outside Slopperton; and these were as ready to declare that the afore-mentioned body was the body of Jabez North, the usher to Dr. Tappenden, and none other. But when a rough-looking man, with a mangy fur cap in his hand, and two greasy locks of hair carefully twisted into limp curls on either side of his swarthy face, which curls were known to his poetically and figuratively-disposed f
riends as Newgate knockers — when this man, who gave his name to the jury as Slithery Bill — or, seeing the jury didn’t approve of this cognomen, Bill Withers, if they liked it better — was called into the witness-box, his evidence, sulkily and rather despondingly given, as from one who says, “It may be my turn next,” threw quite a new light upon the subject.

  Bill Withers was politely asked if he remembered the summer of 18 — . Yes; Mr. Withers could remember the summer of 18 — ; was out of work that summer, and made the marginal remark that “them as couldn’t live might starve or steal, for all Slopperton folks cared.”

  Was again politely asked if he remembered doing one particular job of work that summer.

  Did remember it — made the marginal remark, “and it was a jolly queer dodge as ever a cove had a hand in.” Was asked to be good enough to state what the particular job was.

  Assented to the request with a polite nod of the head, and proceeded to smooth his Newgate knockers, and fold his arms on the ledge of the witness-box prior to stating his case; then cleared his throat, and commenced discursively, thus, —

  “Vy, it vas as this ‘ere — I vas out of work. I does up small gent’s gardens in the spring, and tidies and veeds and rakes and hoes ’em a bit, back and front, vhen I can get it to do, vich ain’t often; and bein’ out of work, and old Mother Thingamy, down Blind Peter, she ses to me, vich she vas a vicked old ‘ag, she ses to me, ‘I’ve got a job for them as asks no questions, and don’t vant to be told no lies;’ by vich remark, and the vay of her altogether, I knowed she weren’t up to no good; so I ses, `You looks here, mother; if it’s a job a respectable young man, vot’s out o’ work, and ain’t had a bite or sup since the day afore yesterday, can do with a clear conscience, I’ll do it — if it ain’t, vy I von’t. There!’” Having recorded which heroic declaration, Mr. William Withers wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked round the court, as much as to say, “Let Slopperton be proud of such a citizen.”

  “‘Don’t you go to flurry your tender constitution and do yourself a unrecoverable injury,’ the old cat made reply; ‘it’s a job as the parson of the parish might do, if he’d got a truck.’ ‘ A truck?’ I ses; ‘is it movin’ boxes you’re making this ‘ere palaver about?’ ‘Never you mind vether it’s boxes or vether it ain’t; vill you do it? she ses; ‘vill you do it, and put a sovering in your pocket, and never go for to split, unless you vant that precious throat of yours slit some fine evenin’?’”

  “And you consented to do what she required of you?” suggested the counsel.

  “Vell, I don’t know about that,” replied Mr. Withers, “but I undertook the job. ‘So,’ ses she, that’s the old ‘un, she ses, ‘you bring a truck down by that there broken buildin’ ground at the back of Blind Peter at ten o’clock to-night, and you keep yourself quiet till you hears a vhistle; ven you hears a vhistle,’ she ses, ‘bring your truck around as n our front door. This here’s all you’ve got to do,’ she ses, ‘besides keepin’ your tongue between your teeth.’ ‘All right,’ I ses, and off I goes to see if there was any cove as would trust me with a truck agen the evenin’. Vell, I finds the cove, vich, seein’ I wanted it bad, he stood out for a bob and a tanner for the loan of it.”

  “Perhaps the jury would wish to be told what sum of money — I conclude it is money — a bob and a tanner represent?” said the counsel.

  “They must be a jolly ignorant lot, then, anyways,” replied Mr. Withers, with more candour than circumlocution. “Any infant knows eighteenpence ven it’s showed him.”

  “Oh, a bob and a tanner are eighteenpence? Very good,” said the counsel, encouragingly; “pray go on, Mr. Withers.”

  “Vell, ten o’clock come, and veren’t it a precious stormy night, that’s all; and there I was a-vaitin’ a-sittin’ on this blessed truck at the back of Blind Peter, vich vos my directions. At last the vhistle come, and a precious cautious vhistle it vas too, as soft as a niteingel vot’s payin’ its addresses to another niteingel; and round I goes to the front, as vos my directions. There, agen’ her door, stands the old ‘ag, and agen her stands a young man in an old ragged pair of trousis an’ a shirt. Lookin’ him hard in the face, who does I see but Jim, the old un’s grandson; so I ses, ‘Jim!’ friendly like, but he makes no reply; and then the old un ses, `Lend this young gent a ‘and ‘ere, vill yer?’ So in I goes, and there on the bed I sees something rolled up very careful in a old counterpane. It giv’ me a turn like, and I didn’t much like the looks of it; but I ses nothink; and then the young man, Jim, as I thinks, ses, ‘Lend us a hand with this ‘ere, vill yer?’ and it giv’d me another turn like, for though it’s Jim’s face, somehow it ain’t quite Jim’s voice — more genteel and fine like; but I goes up to the bed, and I takes hold of von end of vot lays there; and then I gets turn number three — for I find my suspicions was correct — it was a dead body!”

  “A dead body?”

  “Yes; but who’s it vos there vos no knowin’, it vos wrapped up in that manner. But I feels myself turn dreadful vhite, and I ses, ‘If this ere’s anythink wrong, I washes my hands ov it, and you may do your dirty work yourself.’ I hadn’t got the vords out afore this ‘ere young man, as I thought at first vos Jim, caught me by the throat sudden, and threw me down on my knee. I ain’t a baby; but, lor’, I vos nothink in his grasp, though his hand vos as vite and as deliket as a young lady’s. ‘Now, you just look ‘ere,’ he says; and I looked, as vell as I could, vith my eyes a-startin’ out ov of my head in cosekence of bein’ just upon the choke, ‘you see vot this is,’ and vith his left hand he takes a pistol out ov his pocket; ‘you refuse to do vot ve vant done, or you go for to be noisy or in any vay ill-conwenient, and it’s the last time as ever you’ll have the chance ov so doing. Get up,’ he says, as if I vos a dog; and I gets up, and I agrees to do vot he vants, for there vas that there devil in that young man’s hye, that I began to think it vos best not to go agen him.”

  Here Mr. Withers paused for refreshment after his exertions, and blew his nose very deliberately on a handkerchief which, from its dilapidated condition, resembled a red cotton cabbage-net. Silence reigned throughout the crowded court, broken only by the scratching of the pen with which the counsel for the defence was taking notes of the evidence, and the fluttering of the leaves of the reporters’ pocket-books, as they threw off page after page of flimsy paper.

  The prisoner at the bar looked straight before him; the firmly-compressed lips had never once quivered, the golden fringed eyelashes had never drooped.

  “Can you tell me,” said the counsel for the prosecution, whether you have ever, since that night, seen this young man, who so closely resembled your old friend, Jim?”

  “Never seen him since, to my knowledge” — there was a flutter in the crowded court, as if every spectator had simultaneously drawn a long breath—”till to-day.”

  “Till to-day?” said the counsel. This time it was more than aflutter, it was a subdued murmur that ran through the listening crowd.

  “Be good enough to say if you can see him at this present moment.”

  “I can,” replied Mr. Withers. “That’s him! or my name ain’t vot I’ve been led to believe it is.” And he pointed with a dirty but decided finger at the prisoner at the bar.

  The prisoner slightly elevated his arched eyebrows superciliously, as if he would say, “This is a pretty sort of witness to hang a man of my standing.”

  “Be so good as to continue your story,” said the counsel.

  “Vell, I does vot he tells me, and I lays the body, vith his ‘elp, on the truck. ‘Now,’ he ses, ‘follow this ‘ere old voman, and do everythink vot she tells you, or you’ll find it considerably vorse for your future ‘appiness;’ vith vich he slams the door upon me, the old un, and the truck, and I sees no more of ‘im. Vell, I follows the old un through a lot o’ lanes and back slums, till ve leaves the town behind, and gets right out upon the ‘eath; and ve crosses over the ‘eath, till ve comes to vere it’s precious lonel
y, yet the hedge of the pathway like; and ‘ere she tells me as ve’re to leave the body, and ‘ere ve shifts it off the truck and lays it down upon the grass, vich it vas a-rainin’ ‘eavens ‘ard, and a-thunderin’ and a-lightnin’ like von o’clock. ‘And now,’ she ses, ‘vot you’ve got to do is to go back from vheres you come from, and lose no time about it; and take notice,’ she sea, ‘if ever you speaks or jabbers about this ‘ere business, it’ll be the end of your jabberin’ in this world,’ vith vitch she looks at me like a old vitch as she vos, and points vith her skinny arm down the road. So I valks my chalks, but I doesn’t valk ’em very far, and presently I sees the old ‘ag a-runnin’ back tovards the town as fast as ever she could tear. ‘Ho I’ I ses, ‘you are a nice lot, you are; but I’ll see who’s dead, in spite of you.’ So I crawls up to vere ve’d left the body, and there it vos sure enuff, but all uncovered now, the face a-starin’ up at the black sky, and it vos dressed, as far as I could make out, quite like a gentleman, all in black, but it vos so jolly dark I couldn’t see the face, vhen all of a sudden, vhile I vos a-kneelin’ down and lookin’ at it, there comes von of the longest flashes of lightnin’ as I ever remember, and in the blue light I sees the face plainer than I could have seen it in the day. I thought I should have fell down all of a-heap. It vos Jim! Jim hisself, as I knowed as well as I ever knowed myself, dead at my feet! My first thought vos as how that young man as vos so like Jim had murdered him; but there vorn’t no marks of violence novheres about the body. Now, I hadn’t in my own mind any doubts as how it vos Jim; but still, I ses to myself, I ses, ‘Everythink seems topsy-turvy like this night, so I’ll be sure;’ so I takes up his arm, and turns up his coat-sleeve. Now, vy I does this is this ‘ere: there vos a young voman Jim vos uncommon fond ov, vhich her name vos Bess, though he and many more called her, for short, Sillikens: and von day vhen me and Jim vos at a public, ve happened to fall in vith a sailor, vot ve’d both mowed afore he vent to sea. So he vos a-tellin’ of us his adventures and such-like, and then he said promiscus, ‘I’ll show you somethin’ pretty;’ and sure enuff, he slipped up the sleeve ov his Garnsey, and there, all over his arm, vos all manner ov sort ov picters done vith gunpowder, such as ankers, and Rule Britannias, and ships in full sail on the backs of flyin’ alligators. So Jim takes quite a fancy to this ‘ere, and he ses, ‘I vish, Joe (the sailor’s name bein’ Joe), I vish, Joe, as how you’d do me my young voman’s name and a wreath of roses on my arm, like that there.’ Joe ses, ‘And so I vill, and velcome.’ And sure enuff, a week or two artervards, Jim comes to me vith his arm like a picter-book, and Bess as large as life just above the elber joint. So I turns up his coat-sleeve, and vaits for a flash ov lightnin’. I hasn’t to vait long, and there I reads, ‘B.E.S.S.’ ‘There ain’t no doubt now,’ I ses, ‘this ‘ere’s Jim, and there’s some willany or other in it, vot I ain’t up to.”’