‘Oh, please don’t,’ cried Mary, putting her friendly arms round her mistress. ‘You mustn’t give way, indeed you mustn’t. It’s so dreadful bad for you. Everything’s bound to come right, ma’am. Look at master, how cheerful he is, and how brave and handsome he looked in that horrid place.’
‘‘Yes, Mary, he pretended to be cheerful and confident for my sake, just as I try to keep myself calm in order to sustain him. But it is a mere pretence on both sides. I shall be a miserable woman until this inquiry is over.’
‘Well, ma’am, of course it’s an anxious time.’
‘We have hardly a friend who can help us. What does Mr. Sampson know of criminal law? What does my husband know as to what he ought to do to protect himself in his present position? We are like children lost in a dark wood — a wood where there are beasts of prey that may devour us.’
‘Mr. Sampson seems very clever, ma’am. Depend upon it, he’ll know what to do. Lor’, what a ugly place this London is, ‘exclaimed Mary, looking with astonished eyes at the architectural beauties of the Gray’s Inn-road, ‘everything so dark and smoky. Beechampton is ever so much grander.’
Here the cab turned into the Euston-road, and the palatial front of the Midland Hotel revealed itself in a burst of splendour to Mary’s astonished eyes.
‘My!’ she exclaimed, it must be Buckingham Palace, surely!’
Her astonishment became stupefaction when the cab drove under the Italian-Gothic portico, and a liveried page sprang forward to open the door, and relieve the bewildered Abigail of her mistress’s travelling bag. Her surprise and admiration went on increasing, like a geometrical progression, commencing above unity, as she followed her mistress across the pillared hall and up the marble staircase, to a corridor, whose remote perspective ended far away in a twinkling speck of gaslight.
‘Gracious, what a place,’ she cried. ‘If all the hotels in London are like this what must the Queen’s palace be ?’
The polite German attendant opened the door of a sitting-room, where a bright fire burned as if to welcome expected guests. He had softly murmured the words ‘sitting-room’ into Laura’s ear as she crossed the hall, and she had bowed gently in assent. No more was needed. He felt that she was the right sort of customer for the Grand Midland.
‘Die pettroom is vithin,’ he said, indicating a door of communication.’ Dere is also tressing. room. Dere vill pe a room vanted for die mait, matam, I subbose. I vill sent die champermait. Matam vill vish to tine ?’
‘No, thanks. You can bring some tea,’ answered Laura, sinking wearily into a chair. She kept her veil down to hide her tear-stained cheeks. ‘If a gentleman called Sampson should inquire for me in the course of the evening, please send him here.’
‘Yes, matame.Vat name ?’
‘What man ! Oh, you mean my own name. Treverton, Mrs. Treverton.’
She shuddered at the thought that in a few days the name might be notorious.
Mary ordered a dish of cutlets to be sent up with the tea, and presently she and the chambermaid were arranging Mrs. Treverton’s bedroom, opening the portmanteau, setting out the ivory brushes and silvertopped bottles from the travelling bag, and giving a look of comfort and homeliness to the strange apartment.
Fires were lighted in the bedroom and dressing room, and there was that all-pervading air of luxury, which, to the traveller of limited means, suggests the idea that, for the time being, he is living at the rate of ten thousand a year.
The evening was sad and weary for Laura Treverton. Now only was she beginning to realise the catastrophe that had befallen her. Now only, as she walked up and down the strange sitting-room, alone, friendless, in the big world of London, did all the horror of her position come home to her.
Her husband a prisoner, charged with the most direful offence man can commit against his fellow-man, to be brought, perhaps to-morrow, to face his accusers, and to have the details of his supposed guilt bandied from lip to lip to-morrow night, the subject of idle wonder and foolish speculations. He, her darling, degraded to the lowest depth to which humanity can fall! It was too horrible. She clasped her hands before her eyes, as if to shut out an actual scene of horror — the dock, the judgment-seat, the hangman, and the scaffold.
‘My husband suspected of such a crime,’ she said to herself. ‘My husband, whose inmost thoughts are known to me; a man incapable of cruelty to the meanest thing that crawls.’
Sometimes, in the course of those slow hours, a sudden excitement took hold of her. She forgot everything except the one fact of her husband’s position.
‘Let us go to him, Mary,’ she cried. ‘Get me my bat and jacket, and let us go to him directly.’
‘Indeed, ma’am, we can’t get in,’ remonstrated Mary. ‘Don’t you remember what they told us about the hours of admission. You were only to see him at a particular time. Why, they’re all abed by this time, poor things, I make no doubt.’
‘How cruel,’ cried Laura; ‘how cruel it is that I can’t be with him.’
‘If you go on worrying yourself like this, ma’am, you’ll be ill. You haven’t eaten a bit since you left home, though I’m sure the cutlets was done lovely. Shall I order some arrowroot for your supper? Or a basin of soup, now? What would be more nourishing.’
‘No, Mary, it’s no use. I can’t eat anything. How I wish Mr. Sampson would come.’
‘It’s almost too late to expect him, ma’am. I don’t suppose he’s left Hazlehurst. Perhaps he couldn’t get away to-day.’
‘Not get away!’ echoed Laura. ‘Nonsense. He would never abandon my husband in the hour of difficulty.’
The German waiter at this very moment announced, ‘Mr. Zambzon.’
‘I’m awfully late, Mrs.Treverton,’ said the little man, bustling in, ‘but I thought you’d like to see me, so I came in. I’ve engaged a room in the hotel, and I shall stay as long as I’m wanted, even if my Hazlehurst business goes to pot.’
‘How good you are. You have only just come to London?’
‘Only just come indeed! I came by the train after yours. I was in London at seven o’clock. I’ve been with Mr. Leopold, the well-known solicitor — the man who’s so great in criminal cases, you know — and I’ve got him for our side. And I’ve been down to Cibber Street with him, and we’ve picked up all the information we can. The landlady’s laid up with low fever, and so we couldn’t get much out of her, but we’ve seen Mr. Gerard, and we know pretty well what he has to bring forward against us, and I think he’ll be rather a reluctant witness. It’s a pity that Mr. Desrolles is out of the way. We might have made something out of him.’
Laura turned to him with a startled look.Desrolles! That was the name by which her husband had known her father. He, to whom an alias seemed so easy, had been known in his London lodgings as Mr. Desrolles. And he had been in the house at the time of the murder.
‘You have no fear as to the result, have you?’ Laura asked Sampson, with intense anxiety. ‘My husband will be able to prove himself innocent of this terrible crime.’
‘I don’t believe the other side will be able to prove him guilty said Sampson, thoughtfully.
‘But he may remain all his life under the stigma of this hideous suspicion. The world will believe him guilty, though the crime cannot be brought home to him. Is that what you mean?’
‘My dear Mrs.Treverton, I am not clever enough or experienced enough to offer an opinion in such a case as this. We are only at the outset of things. Besides, I am no criminal lawyer.’
‘What does Mr. Leopold say?’ asked Laura, looking at him intently.
‘I am not at liberty to tell you that. It would be a breach of confidence,’ answered Sampson.
‘I see. Mr. Leopold thinks there is a strong case against my husband.’
‘Mr. Leopold thinks nothing at present. He has no data to go upon.’
‘He must remember the report of the inquest and all that was said in the newspapers.’
‘Mr. Leopold thinks that of the ne
wspapers.’ exclaimed Sampson, snapping his fingers. ‘Mr. Leopold is not led by the nose by the newspapers. He would not be where he is if he were that kind of man.’
‘Well, we must wait and hope,’ said Laura, with a sigh. ‘ It is a hard trial, but it must be borne. Will anything be done to-morrow?’
‘There will be an inquiry at Bow-street.
‘Will Mr. Leopold be present?
‘Of course. He will watch the case as a cat watches a mouse.’
‘Tell him that I should think half my fortune too little to reward him if he can prove clearly and plainly prove my husband’s innocence.’
‘Mr. Leopold won’t ask for your fortune. He’s as rich as well, rolling in money. He’ll do his duty, you may depend upon it, without any prompting from me.’
CHAPTER X. MR. LEOPOLD ASKS IRRELEVANT QUESTIONS.
AN inquiry was held at Bow Street next day. Several of the witnesses who had appeared nearly a year ago at the inquest were present, and much of the evidence that had been then given was now repeated. The policeman who had been called in by Desrolles, the doctor who had first examined the dead woman’s wound, and the detective who examined the premises — all these gave their evidence exactly as they had given it at the inquest. Mrs. Evitt was too ill to appear, but her previous statements were read. There was one witness present on this occasion who had not appeared at the inquest. This was George Gerard, who had been subpoenaed by the prosecution, and who described, with a somewhat reluctant air, his discovery of the dagger in Jack Chicot’s colour box.
‘This.was.a.curious.discovery.of.yours,.Mr. Gerard,’ said Mr. Leopold, after the witness had been examined,’and comes to light at a curious time. Why did you not inform the police of this discovery when you made it?’
‘I was not called as a witness.’
‘No. But if you considered this discovery of yours of any importance, it was your duty to make it known immediately. You make your way into the house of the accused without anybody’s authorisation; you go prying and peering into rooms that have already been examined by the police; and you come forward a year afterwards with this extraordinary discovery of a tarnished dagger. What evidence have we that this dagger, ever belonged to the accused?’
‘There need be no difficulty about that,’ said John Treverton,’the dagger is mine.’
Mr. Leopold rewarded his client’s candour with a ferocious scowl. Was there ever such a man? a man who was legally dumb, whose lips the law had sealed, and who had the folly to blurt out such an admission as this.
The magistrate asked whether the dagger could be found. The police had taken possession of all Jack Chicot’s chattels.The dagger was no doubt among them.
‘Let it be found and given to the divisional surgeon to be examined,’ said the magistrate.
The inquiry was adjourned at the request of Mr. Leopold, who wanted time to meet the evidence against his client. The magistrate, who felt that the case was hardly strong enough for committal, granted this respite. An hour later John Treverton was closeted with Mr. Leopold and Mr. Sampson, in his room at Clerkenwell.
‘The medical evidence shows that the murder must have been committed at one o’clock,’ said Mr. Leopold.’You only discovered it at five minutes before three. What were you doing with yourself during those hours. At the worst we ought to be able to prove an alibi’
‘I’m.afraid.that.would.be.difficult,’.answered.Treverton, thoughtfully.’I was very unhappy at that period of my life, and.had.acquired.a.habit.of.roaming.about.the.streets.of London between Midnight and morning. I had suffered from a painful attack of sleeplessness, and this night-roving was the only thing that gave me relief. I was at a literary club near the Strand on the night of the murder. I left a few minutes after twelve. It was a fine, mild night — wonderfully mild for the time of year — and I walked to Hampstead Heath and back.’
‘Humph!’ muttered Mr. Leopold,’ you couldn’t have managed things better, if you wanted to put the rope round your neck. You left your club a few minutes after twelve, you say — in comfortable time for the murder. You were seen to leave, I suppose?’
‘Yes, I left with another member, a watercolour painter, who lives at Haverstock Hill.’
‘Good — and he walked with you as far as Haverstock Hill, I suppose?’
‘No, he didn’t. We walked to St. Martin’s Church together, and there he took a hansom. He had no latch-key, and wanted to get home in decent time.’
‘Did you tell him you were going to walk up to the Heath?’
‘No, I had no definite purpose. I walked as far, and in whatever direction my fancy took me.’
‘Precisely. Then your friend, the water-colour painter, parted from you at about a quarter-past twelve?’
‘It struck the quarter while we were wishing each other good-night.’
‘Within five minutes’ walk of your lodging. No chance of an alibi here, I fear, Mr. Treverton; unless you met any one on Hampstead Heath, which, in the middle of the night, was not very likely.’
‘I neither met nor spoke to a mortal, except a man at a coffee stall near the Mother Redcap, on my way back.’
‘Oh! you talked to a man at a coffee-stall, did you?’
‘Yes, I stopped to take a cup of coffee at ten minutes past two. If the same man is to be found there he ought to remember me. He was a loquacious fellow, something of a wag, and we had quite a political discussion. There had been an important division in the House the night before, and my friend at the coffee stall was well posted in his Daily Telegraph.’
Mr. Leopold made a note of the circumstance while John Treverton was talking.
‘So far so good. Now we come to another point. Is there anybody whom you suspect as implicated in this murder? Can you trace a motive anywhere for such an act?’
‘No,’ answered Treverton, decidedly.’
Yet you see the murder must have been done by some one, and that some one must have had a motive. It was not a case of suicide. The medical evidence at the inquest clearly demonstrated that.’
‘You remember the inquest?’
‘Yes, I was present.’
‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Treverton, surprised.’
Yes, I was there. Now to continue my argument, you as the husband of the victim, must have been familiar with all her surroundings. You must know better than any one else whether there was any one connected with her who could have a motive for this crime.’
‘I cannot conceive any reason for the act. I cannot suspect any one person more than another.’
‘Are you positive that your wife had no valuables in her possession — money, for instance?’
‘She spent her money faster than she earned it. We were always in debt. The little jewellery she had ever possessed had been pledged.’
‘Are you sure that she had no valuable jewellery in her possession at the time of her death ?’
‘To my knowledge she had none.’
‘That’s curious,’ said Mr. Leopold. ‘ I heard a rumour at the time of a diamond necklace, which had been seen round her throat two or three evenings before the murder by the dresser at the theatre. Your wife wore a broad band of black velvet round her neck when she was dressed for the stage, which entirely concealed the diamonds, and it was only by accident the dresser saw them.”
‘This must be a fable,’ said Treverton. ‘My wife never possessed a diamond necklace. She was never in a position to buy one.’
‘She may have been in a position to receive one as a gift,’ suggested Mr. Leopold, quietly
‘She was an honest woman.’
‘Granted. Such gifts are given to honest women. Not often, perhaps, but the thing is possible. Her possession of that diamond necklace may have become known to the murderer, and may have tempted him to the crime.’
Treverton was silent. He remembered his wife’s anonymous admirer, the giver of the bracelet. He had dismissed the man from his thoughts after his interview with the jeweller. No other gifts had appeared, a
nd he had felt no further uneasiness on the subject.
‘Have you thought of all the people in the house?’ asked Mr. Leopold.
John Treverton shrugged his shoulders.
‘What can I think about them? No one in the house could have had any motive for murdering my wife.’
‘ It is pretty clear that the murder was not done by any one outside the house,’ said Mr. Leopold, ‘ unless, indeed, the street door had been left open in the course of the evening, so as to enable the murderer to slip in quietly, and hide himself until every one had gone to bed. At what time did your wife generally return from the theatre?’
‘About twelve o’clock; oftener before twelve than after.’
‘The murderer may have followed her into the house. She had a latch key, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘She may have been careless in closing the door, and left it unfastened. It is quite possible that some one may have entered the house after her, and left it quietly when his work was done.’
‘Quite,’ answered Treverton, with a bitter smile. ‘But if we do not know who that some one was, the fact won’t help us.’
‘How about this man who occupied the second floor — this Desrolles? What is he?’
‘A broken-down gentleman,’ answered Treverton, with a troubled look.
He had a peculiar reluctance in speaking of Desrolles.
‘He could not be anything worse,’ said Mr. Leopold, sententiously. ‘This Desrolles was in the house at the time of the murder. Strange that he should have heard nothing of the struggle.’
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