by Fergus Hume
When Calton sat down, a subdued murmur of applause was heard, which was instantly suppressed, and the judge began to sum up, which he did strongly in favour of Fitzgerald. The jury then retired, and immediately there was a dead silence in the crowded court. An unnatural silence, such as must have fallen on the blood-loving Roman populace, when they saw the Christian martyrs kneeling on the hot yellow sands of the arena, and watched the long lithe forms of lion and panther creeping stealthily towards their prey. The hour being late, the gas had been lighted, and there was a sickly glare through the wide hall, which added to the singularity of the scene. Fitzgerald had been taken out of court on the retiring of the jury, but the spectators stared steadily at the empty dock, which seemed to enchain them by some indescribable fascination. They conversed among themselves only in whispers, until even the whispering ceased, and nothing could be heard but the steady ticking of the clock, and now and then, the quick drawn breath of some timid onlooker.
Suddenly a woman, whose nerves were overstrung, shrieked, and the cry rang weirdly through the crowded hall. She was taken out, and again there was silence—every eye being now fixed on the door through which the jury would re-issue with their verdict of life or death. The hands of the clock moved slowly round—a quarter—a half—threequarters—and then the hour sounded with a silvery ring which startled everyone. Madge, sitting with her hands tightly clasped together, began to fear that her highly strung nerves would give way.
‘My God!’ she muttered softly to herself. ‘Will this suspense never end?’
Just then the door opened, and the jury re-entered. The prisoner was again placed in the dock, and the judge again resumed his seat, this time with the black cap in his pocket, as everyone guessed.
The usual formalities were gone through, and when the foreman of the jury stood up, every neck was craned forward, and every ear was on the alert to catch the words that fell from his lips. The prisoner flushed a little, and then grew pale as death, giving a quick nervous glance at the quiet figure in black of which he could just catch a glimpse. Then came the verdict, sharp and decisive—‘not guilty’.
On hearing this a cheer went up from everyone in the court, so strong was the sympathy with Brian.
In vain the Crier of the Court yelled, ‘Order!’ until he was red in the face. In vain the judge threatened to commit all present for contempt of court— his voice being inaudible, it did not matter much—the enthusiasm could not be restrained, and it was five minutes before order was obtained. The judge, having recovered his composure, delivered his judgment, and discharged the prisoner, in accordance with the verdict. Calton had won many cases, but it is questionable if he had ever heard a verdict which gave him so much satisfaction as that which proclaimed Fitzgerald innocent.
And Brian, stepping down from the dock a free man, passed through a crowd of congratulating friends to a small room off the court, where a woman was waiting for him. A woman who clung round his neck, and sobbed out—
‘My darling! My darling! I knew that God would save you.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE ARGUS GIVES ITS OPINION
The morning after the trial was concluded, the following article in reference to the matter appeared in the Argus:—
‘During the past three months we have frequently, in our columns, commented on the extraordinary case which is now so widely known as “The Hansom Cab Tragedy.” We can safely say that it is the most remarkable case which has ever come under the notice of our criminal court, and the verdict given by the jury yesterday has enveloped the matter in a still deeper mystery. By a train of strange coincidences, Mr Brian Fitzgerald, a young squatter, was suspected of having murdered Whyte, and had it not been for the timely appearance of the woman Rawlins, who turned up at the eleventh hour, we feel sure that a verdict of guilty would have been given, and an innocent man would have suffered punishment for the crime of another.
‘Fortunately for the prisoner, and for the interests of justice, his counsel, Mr Calton, by unwearied diligence, was able to discover the last witness and prove an alibi. Had it not been for this, in spite of the remarks made by the learned counsel in his brilliant speech yesterday, which resulted in the acquittal of the prisoner, we question very much if the rest of the evidence in favour of the accused would have been sufficient to persuade the jury that he was an innocent man. The only points in favour of Mr Fitzgerald were the inability of the cabman Royston to swear to him as the man who had got into the cab with Whyte, the wearing of a diamond ring on the forefinger of the right hand, whereas Mr Fitzgerald wears no rings, and the difference in time sworn to by the cabman Rankin and the landlady. Against these points, however, the prosecution placed a mass of evidence, which seemed to conclusively prove the guilt of the prisoner, but the appearance of Sal Rawlins in the witness box put an end to all doubt. In language which could not be mistaken for anything else than the truth, she positively swore that Mr Fitzgerald was in one of the slums off Bourke Street, between the hours of one and two on Friday morning, at which time the murder was committed.
‘Under these circumstances, the jury unanimously agreed in the verdict, “Not Guilty,” and the prisoner was forthwith acquitted. We have to congratulate his counsel, Mr Calton, for the able speech he made for the defence, and also Mr Fitzgerald, for his providential escape from a dishonourable and undeserved punishment. He leaves the court without a stain on his character, and with the respect and sympathy of all Australians for the courage and dignity with which he comported himself throughout, while resting under the shadow of such a serious charge.
‘But now that it has been conclusively proved that he is innocent, the question arises in everyone’s mind, “Who is the murderer of Oliver Whyte?” The man who committed this dastardly crime is still at large, and, for all we know, may be in our midst. Emboldened by the impunity with which he has escaped the hands of justice, he may be walking securely down our streets, and talking of the very crime of which he is the perpetrator. Secure in the thought that all traces of him have been lost forever, from the time he alighted from Rankin’s cab, at Powlett Street, he has likely ventured to remain in Melbourne, and, for all that anyone knows, may have been in the court during the late trial. Nay, this very article, for which his crime has furnished the necessity of its being written, may meet his eye, and he may rejoice at the futile efforts which have been made to find him. But let him beware, Justice is not blind, but blindfolded, and when he least expects it, she will tear the bandage from her keen eyes, and drag him forth to the light of day to receive the reward of his deed. Owing to the strong evidence against Fitzgerald, that is the only direction in which the detectives have hitherto looked, but, baffled on one side, they will look on the other, and this time may be successful.
‘That such a man as the murderer of Oliver Whyte should be at large is a matter of danger, not only to individual citizens, but to the community at large; for it is a well-known fact that a tiger who once tastes human blood, never overcomes his craving for it; and, without doubt, the man who so daringly and coolly murdered a drunken, and therefore defenceless man, will not hesitate about committing a second crime.
‘The present feeling of all classes, in Melbourne, must be one of terror, that such a man should be at large, and must, in a great measure; resemble the fear which filled everyone’s heart in London when the Marr murders were committed, and it was known that the murderer had escaped. Anyone who has read De Quincey’s graphic description of the crime perpetrated by Williams must tremble to think that such another devil incarnate is in our midst. It is an imperative necessity that such a feeling should be done away with. But how is this to be managed? It is one thing to speak, and another to act. There seems to be no possible clue discoverable at present which can lead to the discovery of the real murderer. The man in the light coat who got out of Rankin’s cab at Powlett Street, East Melbourne (designedly, as it now appears, in order to throw suspicion on Fitzgerald) has vanished as completely as the witches in M
acbeth, and left no trace behind. It was two o’clock in the morning when he left the cab, and, in a quiet suburb like East Melbourne, no one would be about, so that he could easily escape unseen.
‘There seems to be only one chance of ever tracing him, and that is to be found in the papers which were stolen from the pocket of the dead man. What they were only two persons knew, and one knows now. The first two were, Whyte, and the woman who was called “The Queen,” and both of them are now dead. The other who knows now is the man who committed the crime. There can be no doubt in the minds of our readers that these papers were the motive of the crime, as no money was taken from the pockets of the deceased. The fact also that the papers were carried in a pocket made inside the waistcoat of the deceased shows that they were of value.
‘Now, the reason we think that the dead woman knew of the existence of these papers, is simply this. It appears that she came out from England with Whyte as his mistress, and after staying some time in Sydney came on to Melbourne. How she came into such a foul and squalid den as that she died in, we are unable to say, unless, seeing as she was given to drink, she was taken up drunk by some Samaritan of the slums, and carried to Mrs Rawlins’ humble abode. Whyte visited her there frequently, but appears to have made no attempt to remove her to a better place, alleging as his reason, that the doctor said she would die if taken into the air. Our reporter learned from one of the detectives, that the dead woman was in the habit of talking to Whyte about certain papers, and on one occasion was overheard to say to him, “They’ll make your fortune if you play your cards well.” This was told to the detective by the woman Rawlins, to whose providential appearance Mr Fitzgerald owes his escape. From this it can be gathered, that the papers—whatever they might be—were of value, and sufficient to tempt another to commit a murder in order to obtain them. Whyte, therefore, being dead and his murderer escaped, the only way of discovering the secret which lies at the root of this tree of crime, is to find out the history of the woman who died in the slum. Traced back for some years, circumstances may be discovered which will reveal what these papers contained, and once that is found, we can confidently say that the murderer will soon be discovered.
‘This is the only chance of finding out the cause and the author of this mysterious murder, and if it fails, we fear the hansom cab tragedy will have to be relegated to the list of those undiscovered crimes, and the assassin of Whyte will have no other punishment, than the remorse of his own conscience.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THREE MONTHS AFTERWARDS
A hot December day, with a cloudless blue sky, and a sun blazing down on the earth, clothed in all the beauty of summer garments. Such a description of snowy December must sound strange to English ears, and a hot Christmas day must strike them as being as fantastic as the play in A Midsummer Night’s Dream did Demetrius, when he remarked of it, ‘This is hot ice, and wondrous cold fire.’ But here in Australia is the realm of topsy-turveydom, and many things, like dreams, go by contraries. Here black swans are an established fact, and the proverb concerning them, when they were considered as mythical a bird as the Phoenix has been, rendered null and void by the discoveries of Captain Cook. Out here ironwood sinks and pumice stone floats, which must strike the curious spectator as a queer freak on the part of Dame Nature. At home the Edinburgh mail bears the hardy traveller to a cold climate, with snowy mountains, and wintry blasts, but here the further north one goes the hotter it gets, till it terminates in Queensland, where the heat is so great that a profane traveller of an epigrammatic turn of mind once fittingly called it ‘An amateur hell.’
But, however contrary, as Mrs Gamp would say, nature may be in her dealings, the English race out in this great continent are much the same as in the old country—John Bull—Paddy—and Sandy—all being of a conservative turn of mind, and with strong opinions as to the keeping up of old customs. Therefore, on a hot Christmas day, with the sun one-hundred-odd in the shade, Australian revellers sit down to the roast beef and plum pudding of old England, which they eat contentedly as the orthodox thing, and on New Year’s eve the festive Celt repairs to the doors of his ‘freends,’ with a bottle of whisky and a cheering verse of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. However, it is these peculiar customs that give an individuality to a nation, and John Bull abroad loses none of his insular obstinacy, and keeps his Christmas in the old fashion, and wears his clothes in the new fashion, without regard to heat or cold.
A nation that never surrenders to the fire of an enemy cannot be expected to give in to the fire of the sun, but if some ingenious mortal would only invent some light and airy costume, after the fashion of the Greek dress, and Australians would consent to adopt the same, life in Melbourne and her sister cities would be much cooler than it is at present.
Madge was thinking somewhat after this fashion as she sat on the wide verandah, in a state of exhaustion from the heat, and stared out at the wide plains lying parched and arid under the blazing sun. There was a dim kind of haze rising from the excessive heat, hanging midway between heaven and earth, and through its tremulous veil the distant hills looked aerial and unreal. Just before her was the garden, which made her hot to look at it, so vivid were the colours of the flowers. Great bushes of oleanders, with their bright pink blossoms, luxurious rose trees, with their yellow, red and white flowers, and all along the border a rainbow of many-coloured flowers, with such brilliant tints that the eye ached to see them in the hot sunshine, and turned restfully to the cool green of the trees which encircled the lawn. In the centre was a round pool, surrounded by a ring of white marble, and containing a still sheet of water, which flashed like a mirror in the blinding light.
The homestead of Yabba Yallook station was a long low house, with no upstairs, and with a wide verandah running nearly round it. Cool green blinds were hung between the pillars to keep out the sun, and all along were scattered lounging chairs of basketwork, with rugs, novels, empty soda-water bottles, and all the other evidences that Mr Frettlby’s guests had been wise, and stayed inside during the noonday heat. Madge was seated in one of these comfortable chairs and divided her attention between the glowing beauty of the world outside, which she could see through a narrow slit in the blind, and a new novel from Mullen’s, lying open on her knee.
This latter did not interest her much, and no wonder, being one of the polyglot productions of the present day, which contains quotations from the language of every nation under the sun, and where the characters speak in a barbarous jangle of English and French, with an occasional scrap of German thrown in. The powerful and flexible English tongue, which was sufficient for the brilliant thoughts of Macaulay and Addison, is much despised by many of our modern novelists, who express themselves in a foolish mixture of French and English, which is as irritating as it is pedantic. With one of these literary curiosities on her knee, it is not surprising that Miss Frettlby let Tristan, A Romance, by Zoe, fall unheeded on the ground, and gave herself up to her own sad thoughts. She was not looking well, for the trial through which she had passed had been very great, and had left its impress of sorrow on her beautiful face. In her eyes, too, usually so calm, there was a troubled look, as, leaning her head upon her hands, she thought of the bitterness of the past year.
After Brian’s acquittal of the murder of Oliver Whyte, she had been taken by her father up to the station, in the hope that it would restore her to health. The mental strain which had been on her during the trial had nearly brought on an attack of brain fever, but, here, far from the excitement of town life, in the quiet seclusion of the country, she had recovered her health, but not her spirits. Women are more impressionable than men, and it is, perhaps, for this reason that they age quicker. A trouble which would pass lightly over a man, leaves an indelible mark on a woman, both physically and mentally, and the terrible episode of Whyte’s murder had changed Madge from a bright and merry girl, into a grave and beautiful woman. Ah! sorrow is a potent enchantress, and once she touches the heart, life can never be the same a
gain, for we never more surrender ourselves entirely to the pleasures of life, but find that many things which we have longed for, when obtained, are but dead-sea fruit. Sorrow is the veiled Isis of the world, and once we penetrate her mystery and see her deeply furrowed face and mournful eyes, the magic light of romance dies away from the world, and we see the hard, bitter facts of life in their harsh nakedness.
This was the way Madge felt, and she saw the world now, not as the fantastic fairyland of her girlish dreams, but as the sorrowful vale of tears through which we must all walk till we reach the ‘Promised Land.’ And Brian, he also had undergone a change, for there were a few white hairs now amid his curly, chestnut locks, and his character, from being gay and bright, had become moody and irritable. After the trial he had left town immediately, in order to avoid meeting with his friends, and had gone up to his station, which was next to that of the Frettlbys’. There he worked hard all day, and smoked hard all night, thinking over the cursed secret which the dead woman had told him, and which threatened to overshadow his life. Every now and then he rode over and saw Madge, but only when he knew her father was away in Melbourne, for he seemed to have taken a dislike to the millionaire, which Madge could not help condemning as unjust, remembering how her father had stood beside him in his trouble.
But there was another reason why Brian kept aloof from Yabba Yallook station, and that was, he did not wish to meet any of the gay society which was there, knowing that since his trial he was an object of curiosity and sympathy to everyone—a position which was very galling to his proud nature. At Christmas time Mr Frettlby had asked a lot of people up from Melbourne, and though Madge would rather have been left alone, yet, she could not refuse her father, and had to play hostess with a smiling brow and aching heart. Felix Rolleston, who, a month since, had joined the noble army of Benedicts was there, with Mrs Rolleston née Miss Featherweight, who ruled him with a rod of iron. Having bought Felix with her money, she had determined to make good use of him, and being ambitious to shine in Melbourne society, had insisted upon Felix studying politics, so that when the next general election came round he could enter Parliament.
