Mrs. Evitt sighed, and turned her weary head upon her pillow.
‘Poor young man,’ she murmured, ‘he was always affable — not very free spoken, but always affable. I should feel sorry if it went against him. It would be awful, wouldn’t it,’ she exclaimed, with sudden agitation, lifting herself up from her pillow, and gazing fixedly at the surgeon; ‘it would be awful for him to be hung, and innocent all the time; and a sweet young wife, too. I couldn’t bear it; no, I couldn’t bear it. The thought of it would weigh me down to my grave, and I don’t suppose it would let me rest even there.’
Gerard thought the poor woman was getting delirious. He laid his fingers gently on her skinny wrist, and held them there while he looked at his watch.
Yes, the pulse was a good deal quicker than it had been when he last felt it.
‘Is Jemima there?’ asked Mrs. Evitt, twitching aside the bed-curtain, and looking nervously round.
Yes, Jemima was there, sitting before the fire, darning a coarse grey stocking, and feeling very happy in being allowed to bask in the warmth of a fire, in a room where nobody threw saucepan lids at her.
George Gerard had rigged up what he called a jury curtain, to shelter the truckle bed from those piercing currents of air which find their way alike through old and new window frames.
Mrs. Evitt’s thin fingers suddenly fastened like claws upon the surgeon’s wrist.
‘I want to speak to you,’ she whispered, ‘by-and-by, when Jemima’s gone down to her supper. I can’t keep it any longer. It’s preying on my vitals.’
The delirium was evidently increasing, thought Gerard. There was generally this exacerbation of the fever at nightfall.
‘What is it you can’t keep?’ he asked, soothingly. ‘Is there anything that worries you?’
‘Wait till Jemima has gone down,’ whispered the invalid.
‘I’ll come up and have a look at you between ten and eleven,’ said Gerard, aloud, rising to go. I’ve a lot of reading to get through this evening,’
He went down to his books and his tranquil solitude, pondering upon Mrs. Evitt’s speech and manner. No, it was not delirium. The woman’s words were too consecutive for delirium; her manner was excited, but not wild. There was evidently something on her mind — something connected with La Chicot’s murder.
Great Heaven, could this feeble old woman be the assassin? Could those withered old hands have inflicted that mortal gash? No, the idea was not to be entertained for a moment. Yet, stranger things have been since the world began. Crime, like madness, might give a factitious strength to feeble hands. La Chicot might have had money — jewels — hidden wealth of some kind, of which the secret was known to her landlady, and, tempted by direst poverty, this wretched woman might —— ! The thought was too horrible. It took possession of George Gerard’s brain like a nightmare. Vainly did he endeavour to beguile his mind by the study of an interesting treatise on dry-rot in the metatarsal bone. His thoughts were with that feeble old woman upstairs, whose skinny hand, just now, had set him thinking of the witches in Macbeth.
He listened for Jemima’s clumping footfall going downstairs. It came at last, and he knew that the girl was gone to her meagre supper, and the coast was clear for Mrs. Evitt’s revelation. He shut his book, and went quietly upstairs. Never until now had George Gerard known the meaning of fear; but it was with actual fear that he entered Mrs. Evitt’s room, dreading the discovery he was going to make.
He was startled at finding the invalid risen, and with her dingy black stuff gown drawn on over her night-gear.
‘Why in heaven’s name did you get up?’ he asked. ‘If you were to take cold you would be ever so much worse than you have been yet.’
‘I know it,’ answered Mrs. Evitt, with her teeth chattering, ‘but I can’t help that. I’ve got to go upstairs to the second floor back, and you must go with me.’
‘What for?’
‘I’ll tell you that presently. I want you to tell me something first.’
Gerard took a blanket off the bed, and wrapped it round the old woman’s shoulders. She was sitting in front of the fire, just where Jemima had sat darning her stocking.
‘I’ll tell you anything you like,’ answered Gerard, ‘but I shall be very savage if you catch cold.’
‘If an innocent person was suspected of a murder, and the evidence was strong against him, and another person knew he hadn’t done it, and said nothing, and let the law take its course, would the other person be guilty?’
‘Of murder!’ cried Gerard; ‘of nothing less than murder. Having the power to save an innocent life, and not saving it! What could that be but murder!’
‘Are you sure Jemima isn’t outside, on the listen?’ asked Mrs. Evitt, suspiciously. ‘Just go to the door and look.’
Gerard obeyed.
‘There’s not a mortal within earshot,’ he said. ‘Now, my good soul, don’t waste any more time. It’s evident you know all about this murder.’
‘I believe I know who did it,’ said the old woman.
‘Who?’
‘I can remember that awful night as well as if it was yesterday,’ began Mrs. Evitt, making strange swallowing noises, as if to keep down her agitation. ‘There we all stood on the landing outside this door — Mrs. Rawber, Mr. Desrolles, me, and Mr. Chicot. Mrs. Rawber and me was all of a twitter. Mr. Chicot looked as white as a ghost; Mr. Desrolles was the coolest among us. He took it all quiet enough, and I felt it was a comfort to have somebody there that had his wits about him. It was him that proposed sending for a policeman.’
‘Sensible enough,’ said Gerard.
‘Nothing was further from my thoughts than to suspect him,’ pursued Mrs. Evitt. ‘He had been with me, off and on, for five years, and he’d been a quiet lodger, coming in at his own time with his own key, and giving very little trouble. He had only one fault, and that was his liking for the bottle. He and Madame Chicot had been very friendly. He seemed to take quite a fatherly care of her, and had brought her home from the theatre many a night, when her husband was at his club.’
‘Yes, yes,’ cried Gerard, impatiently. ‘You’ve told me that often before to-night. Go on, for heaven’s sake. Do you mean to say that Desrolles had anything to do with the murder?’
‘He did it,’ said Mrs. Evitt, whispering into the surgeon’s ear.
‘How do you know? What ground have you for accusing him?’
‘The best of grounds. There was a struggle between that poor creature and her murderer. When I went in to look at her as she lay there, before the doctor had touched her, one of her hands was clenched tight — as if she had clutched at something in her last gasp. In that clenched hand I found a tuft of iron-gray hair — just the colour of Desrolles’ hair. I could swear to it.’
‘Is that all your evidence against Desrolles? The fact is strongly in favour of poor Treverton, and you were a wicked woman not to reveal it at the inquest; but you cannot condemn Desrolles upon the strength of a few gray hairs, unless you know of other evidence against him.’
‘I do,’ said Mrs. Evitt. ‘Dreadful evidence. But don’t say that I was a wicked woman because I didn’t tell it at the inquest. There was nobody’s life in danger. Mr. Chicot had got safe off. Why should I up and tell that which would hang Mr. Desrolles. He had always been a good lodger to me; and though I could never look at him after that time without feeling every drop of blood in my veins turned to ice, and though I was thankful to Providence when he left me, it wasn’t in me to tell that which would be his death.’
‘Go on,’ urged Gerard. ‘What was it you discovered?’
‘When the policeman had come in and looked about him, Mr. Desrolles says, “I shall go to bed; I ain’t wanted no more here,” and he goes back to his room, as quiet and as cool as if nothing had happened. When the sergeant came back half an hour afterwards, with a gentleman in plain clothes, which was neither more nor less than a detective, them two went into every room in the house. I went with them to show the way, and to
open cupboards and such like. They went up into Mr. Desrolles’ room, and he was sleeping like a lamb. He grumbled a bit at us for disturbing him. “Look about as much as you like,” he said, “as long as you don’t worry me. Open all the drawers. You won’t find any of ’em locked. I haven’t a very extensive wardrobe. I can keep count of my clothes without an inventory.” “A very pleasant gentleman,” said the detective afterwards.”’
‘Did they find nothing?’ asked Gerard.
‘Nothing, yet they looked and pried about very careful. There’s only one closet in the second-floor back, and that’s behind the head of the bed. The bed’s a tent, with chintz curtains all round. They looked under the bed, and they even went so far as to move the chimney board and look up the chimney; but they didn’t move the bed. I suppose they didn’t want to disturb Mr. Desrolles, who had curled himself up in the bed-clothes and gone off to sleep again. ‘I suppose there ain’t no cupboards in this room?’ says the detective. I was that tired of dancing attendance upon them, that I just gave my head a shake that might mean anything, and they went downstairs to the parlours to worrit Mrs. Rawber.’
Here Mrs. Evitt paused, as if exhausted by much speech.
‘Come, old lady,’ said Gerard kindly, ‘take a little of this barley water, and then go on. You are keeping me on tenter hooks.’
Mrs. Evitt drank, gasped two or three times, and continued —
‘I don’t know what put it into my head, but after the two men was gone I couldn’t help thinking about that cupboard, and whether there mightn’t be something in it that the detective would like to have found. Mr. Desrolles came downstairs at eleven o’clock, and went out to get his breakfast — as he called it, — but I knew pretty well when he went out of doors for his breakfast, he breakfasted upon brandy. If he wanted a cup of tea or a bloater, I got it for him; but there was mornings when he hadn’t appetite to pick a bit of bloater with a slice of bread and butter, and then he went out of doors.’
‘Yes, yes,’ assented Gerard, ‘pray go on.’
‘When he was gone I put up the chain of the front door, so as to make sure of not being disturbed, and I went straight up to his room. I moved the bedstead, and opened the cupboard door. Mr. Desrolles had no key to the cupboard, for the key was lost when he first came to me, and though it had turned up afterwards, I hadn’t troubled to give it him. What did he want with keys, when all the property he had in the world wasn’t worth a five-pound note?’
‘Go on, there’s a good soul.’
‘I opened the cupboard. It was a queer, old-fashioned closet in the wall, and the door was papered over just the same as the room. It was so dark inside that I had to light a candle before I could see anything there. There was not much to see at first, even with the candle, but I went down upon my knees, and hunted in the dark corners, and at last I found Mr. Desrolles’ old chintz dressing-gown, rolled up small, and stuffed into the darkest corner of the cupboard, under a lot of rubbish. He had been wearing it only a day or two before, and I knew it as well as I knew him. I took it over to the window and unfolded it; and there was the evidence that told who had murdered that poor creature lying cold on her bed in the room below. The front of the dressing gown and one of the sleeves were soaked in blood. It must have flowed in torrents. The stains were hardly dry. ‘Good Lord!’ says I to myself, ‘this would hang him,’ and I takes and rolls the gown up tight, and puts it back in the corner, and covers it over with other things, old newspapers and old clothes, and such like, just as it was before. And then I runs downstairs and routs out the key of the closet, and takes and locks it. I was all of a tremble while I did it, but I felt there was a power within me to do it. I had but just put the key in my pocket when there came a loud knocking downstairs. From the time Mr. Desrolles had gone out it wasn’t quite a quarter of an hour, but I felt pretty sure this was him come back again. I pushed back the bed, and ran down to the door, still trembling inwardly. “What the-(wicked word)—”did you put the chain up for?” he asked, angrily, for it was him. I told him that I felt that nervous after last night that I was obliged to do it. He smelt strong of brandy, and I thought that he looking strange, like a man that feels all queer his inside, and struggles not to show it. “I suppose I must put myself into a clean shirt for this inquest,” he says, and then he goes upstairs, and I wonders to myself how he feels as he goes by the door where that poor thing lies.’
‘Did he never ask you for the key of the closet?’
‘Never. Whether he guessed what had happened, and knew that I suspected him, I can’t tell — but he never asked no questions, and the closet has been locked up to this day, and I’ve got the key, and if you will come upstairs with me I’ll show you what I saw that dreadful morning.’
‘No, no, there’s no need for that. The police are the people who must see the inside of that closet. It’s a strange business,’ said Gerard, ‘but I’m more glad than I can say for Treverton’s sake, and for the sake of his lovely young wife. What motive could this Desrolles have had for such a brutal murder?’
Mrs. Evitt shook her head solemnly.
‘That’s what I never could make out,’ she said, ‘though I’ve lain awake many a night puzzling myself over it. I know she hadn’t no money — I know that him and her was always friendly, up to the last day of her life. But I’ve got my idea about it.’
‘What is your idea?’ asked Gerard.
‘That it was done when he was out of his mind with delirious tremings.’
‘But have you ever seen him mad from the effects of drink?’
‘No, never. But how can we tell that it didn’t come upon him sudden in the dead of the night, and work upon him until he got up and rushed downstairs in his madness, and cut that poor thing’s throat.’
‘That’s too wild an idea. That a man should be raging mad with delirium tremens between twelve and one o’clock, and perfectly sane at three, is hardly within the range of possibility. No. There must have been a motive, though cannot fathom it. Well, I thank God that conscience has impelled you to tell the truth at last, late as it is. I shall get you to repeat this statement to Mr. Leopold to-morrow. And now back to bed, and I’ll send Jemima up to you with a cup of good beef tea. God grant that this fellow Desrolles may be found.’
‘I hope not,’ said Mrs. Evitt. ‘If they find him they’ll hang him, and he was always a good lodger to me. I’m bound to speak of him as I found him.’
‘You wouldn’t speak very well of him if you had found him at your throat with a razor.’
‘ Ah,’ replied the landlady, ‘I lived in fear and dread of him ever after that horrid time. I’ve woke up in a cold prespiration many a time, fancying that I heard his breathing close beside my bed, though I always slept with my door locked and the kitching table pushed against it. I was right down thankful when he went away, though it was hard upon me to have my second-floor empty — and Queen’s taxes, and all my rates coming in just as regular as when my house was full.’
Gerard insisted on his patient going to bed with-out further delay. She was flushed and excited by her own revelations, and would have willingly gone on talking till midnight, if her doctor had allowed it. But he wished her good-night, and went downstairs to summon the well-meaning Jemima, who was a very good sick nurse, having ministered to a large family of stepbrothers and stepsisters, through teething, measles, chicken-pox, mumps, and all the ills that infant flesh is heir to.
George Gerard communicated early next day with Mr. Leopold, and that gentleman came at once to Mrs. Evitt’s bedside, where he had a long and friendly conversation with that lady, who was well enough to be inordinately loquacious. She was quite fascinated by the famous lawyer, whose manners seemed to her the perfection of courtesy, and she remarked afterwards that if her own neck had been in peril she could hardly have refused answer any questions he asked her.
Once master of his facts, at first hand, Mr. Leopold called a hansom, and drove to shady retreat where his client was languishing durance. L
aura was with her husband when the lawyer came. She started up, pale and agitated, at his entrance, looking to him as the one man who was to save an innocent life.
‘Good news,’ said Leopold, cheerily.
‘Thank God,’ murmured Laura, sinking back in her chair.
‘We have found the murderer.’
‘Found him,’ cried Treverton; ‘how, and where?’
‘When I say found, I go rather too far,’ said Leopold, ‘but we know who he is. It’s the man I suspected from the beginning — your second-floor lodger, Desrolles.’
Laura gave a cry of horror.
‘You need not pity him, Mrs. Treverton,’ said Mr. Leopold. ‘He’s a thorough-paced scoundrel. I happen to be acquainted with circumstances that throw a light upon his motive for the murder. He is quite unworthy of your compassion. I doubt if hanging — in the gentlemanly way in which it’s done now — is bad enough for him. He ought to have lived in a less refined age, when he would have had his last moments enlivened by the yells and profanity of the populace.’
‘How do you know that Desrolles was the murderer?’ asked John Treverton.
Mr. Leopold told his client the gist of Mrs. Evitt’s statement.
Treverton listened in silence. Laura sat quietly by, white as marble.
‘The young surgeon in Cibber Street tells me that Mrs. Evitt will be well enough to appear in court next Tuesday,’ said Mr. Leopold, in conclusion. ‘If she isn’t, we must ask for another adjournment. I think you may consider that you’re out of it. It would be impossible for any magistrate to commit you, in the face of this woman’s evidence; but Desrolles will have to be found all the same, and the sooner he’s found the better. I shall set the police on his track immediately. Don’t look so frightened, Mrs. Treverton. The only way to prove your husband’s innocence is to show that some one else is guilty. I wish you could help me with any information that would put the police on the right scent,’ he added, turning to John Treverton.
‘I told you yesterday that I could not help you.’
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 626
