by Fergus Hume
‘So the papers say,’ answered Brian, listlessly, without turning his head.
‘I wonder who the gentleman in the light coat could have been,’ said Madge, as she settled herself again.
‘No one seems to know,’ he replied evasively.
‘Ah, but they’ve got a clue,’ she said. ‘Do you know, Brian,’ she went on, ‘that he was dressed just like you, in a light overcoat and soft hat?’
‘How remarkable,’ said Fitzgerald, speaking in a slightly sarcastic tone, and as calmly as he was able, ‘he was dressed in the same manner as nine out of every ten young fellows in Melbourne.’
Madge looked at him in surprise at the tone in which he spoke, so different from his usual nonchalant way of speaking, and was about to answer when the carriage stopped at the door of the Melbourne Club. Brian, anxious to escape any more remarks about the murder, sprang quickly out, and ran up the steps into the building. He found Mr Frettlby smoking complacently, and reading the Age. As Fitzgerald entered he looked up, and putting down the paper held out his hand, which the other took.
‘Ah! Fitzgerald,’ he said; ‘have you left the attractions of Collins Street for the still greater ones of Clubland?’
‘Not I,’ answered Brian, ‘I’ve come to carry you off to afternoon tea with Madge and myself.’
‘I don’t mind,’ answered Mr Frettlby, rising; ‘but isn’t afternoon tea at half past one rather an anomaly?’
‘What’s in a name,’ said Fitzgerald, absently, as they left the room. ‘What have you been doing all morning?’
‘I’ve been in here for the last half-hour reading,’ answered the other, carelessly.
‘Wool market, I suppose?’
‘No; the hansom cab murder.’
‘Oh, damn that thing,’ said Brian, hastily; then, seeing his companion looking at him in surprise, he apologised. ‘But, indeed,’ he went on, ‘I’m nearly worried to death by people asking all about Whyte, as if I knew all about him, whereas I know nothing.’
‘Just as well you didn’t,’ answered Mr Frettlby, as they descended the steps together; ‘he was not a very desirable companion.’
It was on the tip of Brian’s tongue to say ‘And yet you wanted him to marry your daughter,’ but he wisely refrained and they reached the carriage in silence.
‘Now then, papa,’ said Madge, when they were all settled in the carriage, and it was rolling along smoothly in the direction of East Melbourne, ‘what have you been doing?’
‘Enjoying myself,’ answered her father, ‘until you and Brian came, and dragged me out into this blazing sunshine.’
‘Well, Brian has been so good of late,’ said Madge, ‘that I had to reward him, so I knew that nothing would please him better than to play host.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Brian, rousing himself out of a fit of abstraction, ‘especially when one has such charming visitors.’
Madge laughed at this and made a little grimace.
‘If your tea is only equal to your compliments,’ she said, lightly, ‘I’m sure papa will forgive us for dragging him away from his club.’
‘Papa will forgive anything,’ murmured Mr Frettlby, tilting his hat over his eyes, ‘as long as he gets somewhere out of the sun. I can’t say I care about playing the parts of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the fiery furnace of a hot Melbourne day.’
‘There now, papa is quite a host in himself,’ said Madge mischievously, as the carriage drew up at Mrs Sampson’s door.
‘No, you are wrong,’ said Brian, as he alighted and helped her out of the carriage, ‘I am the host in myself this time.’
‘If there’s one thing I hate above another,’ observed Miss Frettlby calmly, ‘it’s puns, and especially bad ones.’
Mrs Sampson was very much astonished at the early arrival of her lodger’s guests, and expressed her surprise in shrill tones.
‘Bein’ taken by surprise,’ she said, with an apologetic cackle, ‘it ain’t to be suppose as miraculs can be performed with regard to cookin’, the fire havin’ gone out, not bein’ kept alight on account of the ’eat of the day, which was that ’ot as never was, tho’, to be sure, bein’ a child in the early days, I remember it were that ’ot as my sister’s aunt was in the ’abit of roastin’ her jints in the sun.’
After telling this last romance, and leaving her visitors in doubt whether the joints referred to belonged to an animal or to her sister’s aunt herself, Mrs Sampson crackled away downstairs to get things ready.
‘What a curious thing that landlady of yours is, Brian,’ said Madge, from the depths of a huge armchair. ‘I believe she’s a grasshopper from the Fitzroy Gardens.’
‘Oh, no, she’s a woman,’ said Mr Frettlby cynically. ‘You can tell that by the length of her tongue.’
‘A popular error, papa,’ retorted Madge, sharply. ‘I know plenty of men who talk far more than any woman.’
‘I hope I’ll never meet them then,’ said Mr Frettlby, ‘for if I did I would be inclined to agree with De Quincey’s essay on murder, as one of the fine arts.’
Brian shivered at this, and looked apprehensively at Madge, and saw with relief that she was not paying attention to her father, but was listening intently.
‘There she is,’ as a faint rustle at the door announced the arrival of Mrs Sampson and the tea tray. ‘I wonder, Brian, you don’t think the house is on fire with that queer noise always going on—she wants oil.’
‘Yes, St Jacob’s oil,’ laughed Brian, as Mrs Sampson entered and placed her burden on the table.
‘Not ’avin’ any cake,’ said that lady, ‘thro’ not being forewarned as to the time of arrival—tho’ it’s not ofting I’m taken by surprise—except as to a ’eadache, which, of course, is accidental to every pusson—I ain’t got nothin’ but bread and butter, the baker and grocer, both bein’ all that could be desired, except in the way of worryin’ for their money, which they thinks as ’ow I keeps the bank in the ’ouse, like Allading’s cave, as I’ve ’eard tell in the Arabian Nights, me ’avin’ gained it as a prize for English in my early girl’ood, bein’ then considered a scholard, an’ industrus.’
Mrs Sampson’s shrill apologies for the absence of cake having been received, she hopped out of the room, and Madge made the tea. The service was a quaint Chinese one which Brian had picked up in his wanderings, and used for gatherings like these. As he watched her, he could not help thinking how pretty she looked, with her hands moving deftly among the cups and saucers, so bizarre-looking with their sprawling dragons of yellow and green. He half smiled to himself as he thought, ‘If they knew all, I wonder if they would sit with me as cool and unconcerned.’ Mr Frettlby, too, as he looked at his daughter, thought of his dead wife, and sighed.
‘Well,’ said Madge, as she handed them their tea and helped herself to some thin bread and butter, ‘you two gentlemen are most delightful company—papa is sighing like a furnace, and Brian is staring at me with his eyes like blue china saucers—you ought both to be turned forth to funerals like melancholy.’
‘Why like melancholy?’ queried Brian, lazily.
‘I’m afraid, Mr Fitzgerald,’ said the young lady, with a smile in her pretty black eyes, ‘that you are not a student of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’
‘Very likely not,’ answered Brian, ‘midsummer out here is so hot that one gets no sleep, and, consequently, no dreams; depend upon it, if the four lovers whom Puck treated so badly had lived in Australia, they wouldn’t have been able to sleep for the mosquitos.’
‘What nonsense you two young people do talk,’ said Mr Frettlby, with an amused smile, as he stirred his tea.
‘Dulce est desipere in loco,’ observed Brian gravely, ‘a man who can’t carry out that observation is sure not to be up to much.’
‘I don’t like Latin,’ said Miss Frettlby, shaking her pretty head. ‘I agree with Heine’s remark, that if the Romans had had to learn it, they would not have found time to conquer the world.’
‘Which was a
much more agreeable task,’ said Brian.
‘And more profitable,’ finished Mr Frettlby.
They went on chatting in this desultory fashion for a considerable time, till at last Madge arose and said they must go. Brian proposed to dine with them at St Kilda, and then they would all go to the theatre. Madge consented to this, and she was just pulling on her gloves when suddenly they heard a ring at the front door, and presently heard Mrs Sampson talking in an excited manner at the pitch of her voice.
‘You shan’t come in, I tell you,’ they heard her say, shrilly, ‘so it’s no good trying, which I’ve allays ’eard as an Englishman’s ’ouse is ’is castle, an’ you’re a-breakin’ the law, as well as a-spilin’ the carpets, which ’as bin newly put down.’
Someone made a reply, then the door of Brian’s room was thrown open, and Gorby walked in, followed by another man. Fitzgerald turned as white as a sheet, for he felt instinctively that they had come for him. However, pulling himself together, he demanded in a haughty tone the reason of the intrusion. Mr Gorby walked straight over to where Brian was standing and placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
‘Brian Fitzgerald,’ he said, in a clear voice, ‘I arrest you in the Queen’s name.’
‘For what?’ asked Brian, steadily.
‘The murder of Oliver Whyte.’
At this Madge gave a cry.
‘It is not true!’ she said, wildly. ‘My God, it’s not true.’
Brian did not answer, but, ghastly pale, held out his hands. Gorby slipped the handcuffs on to his wrists with a feeling of compunction, in spite of his joy in running his man down. This done, Fitzgerald turned round to where Madge was standing, pale and still, as if she had turned into stone.
‘Madge,’ he said, in a clear low voice, ‘I am going to prison, perhaps to death, but I swear to you, by all that I hold most sacred, that I am innocent of this murder.’
‘My darling,’ she made a step forward, but her father stepped before her.
‘Keep back,’ he said, in a hard voice, ‘there is nothing between you and that man now.’
She turned round with an ashen face, but with a proud look in her clear eyes.
‘You are wrong,’ she answered, with a touch of scorn in her voice, ‘I love him more now than I did before.’ Then, before her father could stop her, she placed her arms round her lover’s neck and kissed him wildly on the cheek.
‘My darling,’ she said, with the tears streaming down her white cheeks, ‘whatever the world may say, you are always dearest of all to me.’
Brian kissed her passionately, and then moved away, while Madge fell down at her father’s feet in a dead faint.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
COUNSEL FOR THE PRISONER
Brian Fitzgerald was arrested a few minutes past three o’clock, and by five all Melbourne was ringing with the news that the perpetrator of the now famous hansom cab murder had been caught. The evening papers were full of the affair, and the Herald went through several editions, the demand being far in excess of the supply. Such a crime had not been committed in Melbourne since the Greer shooting case in the Opera House, and the mystery which surrounded it made it even more sensational. The committal of the crime in such an extraordinary place as a hansom cab had been startling enough, but the discovery that the assassin was one of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne was still more so. Brian Fitzgerald being well known in society as a wealthy squatter, and the future husband of one of the richest and prettiest girls in Victoria, it was no wonder that his arrest caused quite a sensation. The Herald, which was fortunate enough to obtain the earliest information about the arrest made the best use of it, and published a flaming article in its most sensational style somewhat after this fashion:—
HANSOM CAB TRAGEDY.
ARREST OF THE SUPPOSED MURDERER.
STARTLING REVELATIONS IN HIGH LIFE.
It is needless to say that some of the reporters had painted the lily pretty freely, but the public believed everything that came out in the papers to be gospel truth.
Mr Frettlby the day after Brian’s arrest had a long conversation with his daughter, and wanted her to go up to Yabba Yallook station until the public excitement had somewhat subsided. But this Madge flatly refused to do.
‘I’m not going to desert him when he most needs me,’ she said resolutely. ‘Everybody has turned against him even before they have heard the facts of the case—he says he is not guilty, and I believe him.’
‘Then let him prove his innocence,’ said her father, who was pacing slowly up and down the room. ‘If he did not get into the cab with Whyte he must have been somewhere else, so he ought to set up the defence of an alibi.’
‘He can easily do that,’ said Madge with a ray of hope lightening up her sad face, ‘he was here till eleven o’clock on Thursday night.’
‘Very probably,’ returned her father, dryly, ‘but where was he at one o’clock on Friday morning?’
‘Besides, Mr Whyte left the house long before Brian did,’ she went on rapidly. ‘You must remember—it was when you quarrelled with Mr Whyte.’
‘My dear Madge,’ said Frettlby, stopping in front of her with a displeased look, ‘you are incorrect—Whyte and myself did not quarrel—he asked me if it were true that Fitzgerald was engaged to you, and I answered yes—that was all, and then he left the house.’
‘Yes, and Brian didn’t go till two hours after,’ said Madge triumphantly, ‘he never saw Mr Whyte the whole night.’
‘So he says,’ replied Mr Frettlby, significantly.
‘I believe Brian before anyone else in the world,’ said his daughter hotly, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.
‘Ah! but will a jury?’ queried her father.
‘You have turned against him too,’ answered Madge, her eyes filling with tears, ‘you believe him guilty.’
‘I am not prepared either to deny or affirm his guilt,’ said Mr Frettlby, coldly. ‘I have done what I could to help him—I have engaged Calton to defend him, and, if eloquence and skill can save him, you may set your mind at rest.’
‘My dear father,’ said Madge, throwing her arms around his neck, ‘I knew you would not desert him altogether for my sake.’
‘My darling,’ replied her father, in a faltering voice as he kissed her, ‘there is nothing in the world I would not do for your sake.’
Meanwhile Brian was sitting in his cell in the Melbourne Gaol, thinking sadly enough about his position. He saw no hope of escape except one, and that he did not intend to take advantage of.
‘It would kill her—it would kill her,’ he said, feverishly as he paced to and fro over the echoing stones. ‘Better that the last of the Fitzgeralds should perish like a common thief than that she should know the bitter truth. If I engage a lawyer to defend me,’ he went on, ‘the first question he will ask me will be where I was on that night, and if I tell him all will be discovered, and then—no—no—I cannot do it; it would kill her, my darling,’ and throwing himself down on the bed, he covered his face with his hands.
He was roused by the opening of the door of his cell, and on looking up saw that it was Calton who entered. He was a great friend of Fitzgerald’s, and Brian was deeply touched by his kindness in coming to see him. Duncan Calton had a kindly heart, and was anxious to help Brian, but there was also a touch of self-interest in the matter. He had received a note from Mr Frettlby, asking him to defend Fitzgerald, which he agreed to do with avidity as he foresaw in this case an opportunity for his name becoming known throughout the Australian colonies. It is true that he was already a celebrated lawyer, but his reputation was purely a local one, and as he foresaw that Fitzgerald’s trial for murder would cause a great sensation throughout Australia and New Zealand, therefore determined to take advantage of it as another step in the ladder which led to fame, wealth, and position. So this tall keen-eyed man with the clean shaven face and expressive mouth advanced into the cell, and took Brian by the hand.
‘It is very
kind of you to come and see me,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘it is at a time like this that one appreciates friendship.’
‘Yes, of course,’ answered the lawyer, fixing his keen eyes on the other’s haggard face as he would read his innermost thoughts. ‘I came partly on my own account, and partly because Frettlby asked me to see you as to your defence.’
‘Mr Frettlby?’ said Brian, in a mechanical way. ‘He is very kind, I thought he believed me guilty.’
‘No man is considered guilty until he has been proved so,’ answered Calton, evasively.
Brian noticed how guarded the answer was, for he heaved an impatient sigh.
‘And Miss Frettlby?’ he asked, in a hesitating manner. This time he got a decided answer.
‘She declines to believe you guilty, and will not hear a word said against you.’
‘God bless her,’ said Brian, fervently, ‘she is a true woman. I suppose I am pretty well canvassed,’ he added bitterly.
‘Nothing else talked about,’ answered Calton, calmly. ‘Your arrest has for the present suspended all interest in theatres, cricket matches, and balls, and you are at the present moment being discussed threadbare in clubs and drawing-rooms.’
Fitzgerald writhed—he was a singularly proud man—and there was something inexpressibly galling in this unpleasant publicity.
‘But this is all idle chatter,’ said Calton, taking a seat. ‘We must get to business. Of course you will accept me as your counsel.’
‘It’s no good my doing so,’ replied Brian, gloomily, ‘the rope is already round my neck.’
‘Nonsense,’ replied the lawyer cheerfully, ‘the rope is round no man’s neck until he is on the scaffold. Now, you need not say a word,’ he went on, holding up his hand as Brian was about to speak. ‘I am going to defend you in this case, whether you like it or not. I do not know all the facts except what the papers have stated, and they exaggerate much so that one can place no reliance on them; at all events I believe, from my heart, that you are innocent, and you must walk out of the prisoner’s dock a free man, if only for the sake of that noble girl who loves you.’
