by Fergus Hume
Brian did not answer, but put out his hand, which the other grasped warmly.
‘I will not deny,’ went on Calton, ‘that there is a little bit of professional curiosity about me. This case is such an extraordinary one that I feel as if I were unable to let slip an opportunity of doing something with it. I don’t care for your humdrum murders with the poker, and all that sort of thing, but this is something clever, and therefore interesting. When you are safe we will together look for the real criminal, and the pleasure of the search will be proportionate to the excitement when we find him out.’
‘I agree with everything you say,’ said Fitzgerald, calmly, ‘but I have no defence to make.’
‘No defence—you are not going to confess you killed him.’
‘No,’ with an angry flush, ‘but there are certain circumstances which prevent me from defending myself.’
‘What nonsense,’ retorted Calton, sharply, ‘as if any circumstances should prevent a man from saving his own life, but, never mind, I like these objections—they make the nut harder to crack, but the kernel must be worth getting at. Now you have to answer me certain questions.’
‘I won’t promise.’
‘Well, we shall see,’ said the lawyer cheerfully, taking out his notebook, and resting it on his knee. ‘First, where were you on the Thursday night preceding the murder?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Oh, yes, you can, my friend. You left St Kilda and came up to town by the eleven o’clock train.’
‘Eleven-twenty,’ corrected Brian.
Calton smiled in a gratified manner, as he noted this down. ‘A little diplomacy, is all that’s required,’ he said mentally. ‘And where did you go then?’ he added aloud.
‘I met Rolleston in the train, and we took a cab from the Flinders Street station, up to the club.’
‘What club?’
‘The Melbourne Club.’
‘Yes?’ interrogatively.
‘Rolleston went home, and I went into the club and played cards for a time.’
‘When did you leave the club?’
‘A few minutes to one o’clock in the morning.’
‘And then I suppose you went home.’
‘No; I did not.’
‘Then where did you go?’
‘Down the street.’
‘Rather vague. I presume you mean Collins Street.’
‘Yes.’
‘You were going to meet someone, I suppose?’
‘I never said so.’
‘Probably not, but young men don’t wander about the streets at night without some object.’
‘I was restless, and wanted a walk.’
‘Indeed; how curious you should prefer going into the heart of the dusty town for a walk to strolling through the Fitzroy Gardens, which were on your way home. It won’t do, you had an appointment to meet someone.’
‘Well—er—yes.’
‘I thought as much. Man or woman?’
‘I cannot tell you.’
‘Then I must find out for myself.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Indeed! Why not?’
‘You don’t know where to look for her.’
‘Her!’ cried Calton, delighted at the success of his craftily put question. ‘I knew it was a woman.’
Brian did not answer, but sat biting his lips with vexation.
‘Now, who is this woman?’
No answer.
‘Come now, Fitzgerald, I know that young men will be young men, and of course you don’t like these things talked about; but in this case your character must be sacrificed to save your neck. What is her name?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Oh! you know it, then?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘And you won’t tell me.’
‘No!’
Calton, however, had found out two things that pleased him; first, that Fitzgerald had an appointment, and, second, it was with a woman. He went on another line.
‘When did you last see Whyte?’
Brian answered with great reluctance, ‘I saw him drunk by the Scotch Church.’
‘What! you were the man who hailed the hansom?’
‘Yes,’ assented the other hesitating slightly, ‘I was.’
The thought flashed through Calton’s brain as to whether the young man before him was guilty or not, and he was obliged to confess things looked very black against him. ‘Then what the newspapers said was correct?’
‘Partly.’
‘Ah!’ Calton drew a long breath—here was a ray of hope.
‘You did not know it was Whyte when you found him lying drunk near the Scotch Church?’
‘No, I did not! Had I known it was he, I would not have picked him up.’
‘Of course you recognised him afterwards?’
‘Yes, I did, and as the paper stated, dropped him and walked away.’
‘Why did you leave him so abruptly?’
Brian looked at his questioner in some surprise.
‘Because I detested him,’ he said, shortly.
‘Why did you detest him?’
No answer.
‘Was it because he had admired Miss Frettlby, and from all appearances, was going to marry her?’
‘Well, yes,’ sullenly.
‘And now,’ said Calton, impressively, ‘this is the whole point upon which the case turns—Why did you get into the cab with him?’
‘I did not get into the cab.’
‘The cabman declares that you did.’
‘He is wrong. I never came back after I recognised Whyte.’
‘Then who was the man who got into the cab with Whyte?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You have no idea?’
‘Not the least.’
‘You are certain?’
‘Yes, perfectly certain.’
‘He seems to have been dressed exactly like you.’
‘Very probably. I could name at least a dozen of my acquaintances who wear light coats over their evening dress, and soft hats.’
‘Do you know if Whyte had any enemies?’
‘No! I don’t; I know nothing about him, beyond that he came from England a short time ago with a letter of introduction to Mr Frettlby, and had the impertinence to ask Madge to marry him.’
‘Where did Whyte live?’
‘Down in St Kilda, at the end of Grey Street.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It was in the papers, and—and—’ hesitatingly, ‘I called on him.’
‘Why?’
‘To see if he would drop asking Madge to marry him, and to tell him that she was engaged to me.’
And what did he say?’
‘Laughed at me. Curse him.’
‘You had high words evidently?’
Brian laughed bitterly.
‘Yes, we had.’
‘Did anyone hear you?’
‘The landlady did, I think. I saw her in the passage as I left the house.’
‘The prosecution will bring her forward as a witness.’
‘Very likely,’ indifferently.
‘Did you say anything likely to criminate yourself?’
Fitzgerald turned away his head.
‘Yes,’ he answered in a low voice. ‘I spoke very wildly—indeed, I did not know at the time what I said.’
‘Did you threaten him?’
‘Yes, I did. I told him I would kill him if he persisted in his plan of marrying Madge.’
‘Ah! If the landlady can swear that she heard you say so it will form a strong piece of evidence against you. As far as I can see, there is only one defence, and that is an easy one—you must prove an alibi.’
No answer.
‘You say you did not come back and get into the cab?’ said Calton, watching the face of the other closely.
‘No, it was someone else dressed like me.’
‘And you have no idea who it was?’
‘No, I have n
ot.’
‘Then, after you left Whyte, and walked along Russell Street, where did you go?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Were you intoxicated?’
‘No!’ indignantly.
‘Then you remember?’
‘Yes.’
‘And where were you?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘You refuse?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Take time to consider. You may have to pay a heavy price for your refusal.’
‘If necessary I will pay it.’
‘And you won’t tell me where you were?’
‘No, I won’t.’
Calton was beginning to feel annoyed.
‘You’re very foolish,’ he said, ‘sacrificing your life to some feeling of false modesty. You must prove an alibi.’
No answer.
‘What time did you get home?’
‘About two o’clock in the morning.’
‘Did you walk home?’
‘Yes—through the Fitzroy Gardens.’
‘Did you see anyone on your way home?’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention.’
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Then you refuse to tell me where you were between one and two o’clock on Friday morning?’
‘Absolutely!’
Calton thought for a moment, to consider his next move.
‘Do you know that Whyte carried valuable papers about with him?’
Fitzgerald hesitated, and turned pale.
‘No! I did not know,’ he said, reluctantly.
The lawyer made a masterstroke.
‘Then why did you take them from him?’
‘What! He had it with him?’
Calton saw his advantage, and seized on it at once.
‘Yes, he had it with him. Why did you take it?’
‘I did not take it. I didn’t even know he had it with him.’
‘Indeed! Will you kindly tell me what “it” is?’
Brian saw the trap into which he had fallen.
‘No! I will not,’ he answered steadily.
‘Was it a jewel?’
‘No!’
‘Was it an important paper?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Ah! It was a paper. I can see it in your face, and was that paper of importance to you?’
‘Why do you ask?’
Calton fixed his keen grey eyes steadily on Brian’s face.
‘Because,’ he answered slowly, ‘the man to whom that paper was of such value murdered Whyte.’
Brian started up ghastly pale.
‘My God!’ he almost shrieked, stretching out his hands, ‘it is true after all,’ and he fell down on the stone pavement in a dead faint.
Calton, alarmed, summoned the gaoler, and, between them, they placed him on the bed, and dashed some cold water over his face. He recovered, and moaned feebly, while Calton, seeing that he was unfit to be spoken to, left the prison. When he got outside, he stopped for a moment and look back on the grim, grey walls.
‘Brian Fitzgerald,’ he said to himself, ‘you did not commit the murder yourself, but you know who did.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
SHE WAS A TRUE WOMAN
Melbourne society was greatly agitated over the hansom cab murder. Before the assassin had been discovered it had been merely looked upon as a common murder, and one that society need take no cognisance of beyond the fact that it was something new to talk about. But now the affair was assuming gigantic proportions, since the assassin had been discovered to be one of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne.
Mrs Grundy was shocked, and openly talked about having nourished a viper in her bosom, which had turned unexpectedly and stung her. In Toorak drawing-rooms and Melbourne clubs the matter was talked about, morn, noon, and night, and Mrs Grundy declared positively that she never heard of such a thing. Here was a young man, well born—‘the Fitzgeralds, my dear, an Irish family, with royal blood in their veins’—well-bred—‘most charming manners, I assure you, and so very good-looking’—and engaged to one of the richest girls in Melbourne—‘pretty enough, madam, no doubt, but he wanted her money, sly dog.’ And this young man, who had been petted by the ladies, voted a good fellow by the men, and was universally popular, both in drawing-room and club, had committed a vulgar murder—it was truly shocking—what was the world coming to, and what were gaols and lunatic asylums built for, if men of young Fitzgerald’s calibre were not put in them, and kept from killing people.
And then, of course, everybody kept asking everybody else who Whyte was, and why he had never been heard of before. All people who had met Mr Whyte were worried to death with questions about him, and underwent a species of social martyrdom as to who he was, what he was like, why he was killed, and all the rest of the inane questions which some people will ask. It was talked about everywhere—in fashionable drawing-rooms at five o’clock tea, over thin bread and butter and souchong; at clubs, over brandies and sodas and cigarettes; by working men over their midday pint, and by their wives in the congenial atmosphere of the backyard over the wash tub.
The papers were full of paragraphs about the famous murder, and the society papers gave an interview with the prisoner by their special reporters, and which had been composed by those gentlemen out of the floating rumours which they heard around, and their own fertile imagination. In fact, one young man of literary tendencies had been so struck by the dramatic capabilities of the affair that he thought of writing a five-act drama on it—with a sensation scene of the hanging of Fitzgerald—and of offering it to Williamson, for production at the Theatre Royal. But that astute manager refused to entertain the idea, with the dry remark that as the fifth act had not been played out in real life, he did not see how the dramatist could end it satisfactorily.
As to the prisoner’s guilt, everyone was certain of that. The cabman Royston had sworn that Fitzgerald had got into the cab with Whyte, and when he got out Whyte was dead. There could be no stronger proof than that, and the general opinion was that the prisoner would put in no defence, but would throw himself on the mercy of the court. Even the church caught the contagion, and ministers—Anglican, Roman Catholic and Presbyterian, together with the lesser lights of minor denominations—took the hansom cab murder as a text whereon to preach sermons on the profligacy of the age, and to point out that the only ark which could save men from the rising flood of infidelity and immorality was their own particular church. ‘Gad,’ as Calton remarked, after hearing five or six ministers each claim their own churches as the one special vessel of safety, ‘there seems to be a whole fleet of arks.’
As to Mr Felix Rolleston it was a time of great joy to him, knowing as he did all the circumstances of the case, and the dramatis personae. When any new evidence came to light, Rolleston was the first to know all about it, and would go round to his friends and relate it with certain additions of his own, which rendered it more piquant and dramatic. But when asked his opinion as to the guilt of the accused he would shake his head sagaciously, and hint that both he and his dear friend Calton—he knew Calton to nod to—could not make up their minds about the matter.
‘Fact is, don’t you know,’ observed Mr Rolleston, wisely, ‘there’s more in this than meets the eye, and all that sort of thing—think ’tective fellers wrong myself—don’t think Fitz killed Whyte; jolly well sure he didn’t.’
Then, of course, after such an observation, a chorus, chiefly feminine, would arise, ‘Then who killed him?’
‘Aha,’ Felix would retort, putting his head on one side like a meditative sparrow, ‘’tective fellers can’t find out, that’s the difficulty. Good mind to go on the prowl myself, by Jove.’
‘But do you know anything of the detective business?’ someone would ask.
‘Oh, dear, yes,’ with an airy wave of his hand, ‘I’ve read Gaboriau, you know, awfully jolly life, ’tectives.�
�
Mr Rolleston, however, in spite of his asseverations, had no grounds for his belief that Fitzgerald was innocent, and in his heart of hearts thought him guilty, but then he was one of those people who, having either tender hearts or obstinate natures—more particularly the latter—always make a point of coming forward as champions of those in trouble with the world at large. There are no doubt many people who think that Nero was a pleasant young man, whose cruelties were merely an overflow of high spirits, and who regard Henry VIII as a henpecked husband, who was unfortunate in having six wives. It is these kind of people who delight in sympathising with great criminals of the Ned Kelly sort, and look upon them as embodiments of heroism, badly treated by the narrow understanding of the law. There is a proverb to the effect that the world kicks a man when he is down, but if one half of the world does act in such a brutal manner, the other consoles the prostrate individual with halfpence. So taking things as a whole, though the weight of public opinion was dead against the innocence of Fitzgerald, still he had his friends and sympathisers, who stood up for him and declared that he had been wrongly accused.
The opinions of these kindly individuals were told to Madge, and she was much comforted thereby. Other people thought him innocent, and she was firmly convinced that they were right. If the whole of Melbourne had unanimously condemned Brian, she would have still believed in his innocence. But then women are so singularly illogical—the world may be against a man, but the woman who loves him will boldly stand forth as his champion. No matter how low, how vile a man may be, if a woman loves him she exalts him to the rank of a demigod, and refuses to see the clay feet of her idol. When all others forsake, she clings to him—when all others frown, she smiles on him—and when he dies she reverences his memory as that of a saint and a martyr. Young men of the present day are very fond of running down women, and think it a manly thing to sneer at them for their failings—but God help the man who, in time of trouble, has not a woman to stand by his side with cheering words and loving smiles to help him in the battle of life.
