by Fergus Hume
He urged his horse into a gallop, and as he thundered over the turf, with the fresh, cool, night wind blowing keenly against his face, he felt a sense of relief, as though he were leaving some dark spectre behind. On he galloped, with the blood throbbing in his young veins, over miles of plain, with the dark blue star-studded sky above, and the pale moon shining down on him—past a silent shepherd’s hut, which stood near a wide creek, and then splashing through the cool water, which wound away through the dark plain like a thread of silver in the moonlight—then, again, the wide, grassy plain, dotted here and there with tall clumps of shadowy trees, and on either side he could see the sheep scurrying away like fantastic spectres—on—on—ever on, until his own homestead appeared, and he saw one star-like light shining brightly in the distance—a long avenue of tall trees, over whose wavering shadows his horse thundered, and then the wide grassy space in front of the house, with the clamorous barking of dogs. A groom, roused by the clatter of hoofs up the avenue, came round the side of the house, and Brian leapt off his horse and, flinging the reins to the man, walked into his own room.
There he found a lighted lamp, brandy and soda on the table, and a packet of letters and newspapers. He flung his hat on the sofa, and opened the window and door, so as to let in the cool breeze; then, pouring himself out a glass of brandy and soda, he turned up the lamp, and prepared to read his letters. The first he took up was from a lady. ‘Always a she correspondent for me,’ says Isaac Disraeli, ‘provided she does not cross.’ Brian’s correspondent did not cross, but notwithstanding this, after reading half a page of small talk and scandal, he flung the letter on the table with an impatient ejaculation. The other letters were principally business ones, but the last one proved to be from Calton, and Fitzgerald opened it with a sensation of pleasure. Calton was a capital letter-writer, and his epistles had done much to cheer Fitzgerald in the dismal period which succeeded his acquittal of Whyte’s murder, and when he was in danger of getting into a morbid state of mind. Brian, therefore, poured himself out some more brandy and soda and, lying back in his chair, prepared to enjoy himself.
‘My dear Fitzgerald,’ wrote Calton, in his peculiarly clear handwriting, which was such an exception to the usual crabbed hieroglyphics of his brethren of the bar. ‘While you are enjoying the cool breezes and delightful freshness of the country, here am I, with numerous other poor devils, cooped up in this hot and dusty city. How I wish I were with you in the land of Goshen, by the rolling waters of the Murray, where everything is bright and green, and unsophisticated—the two latter terms are almost identical—instead of which my view is bounded by bricks and mortar, and the muddy waters of the Yarra has to do duty for your noble river. Ah! I too have lived in Arcadia, but I don’t now, and even if some power gave me the choice to go back again, I am not sure that I would accept. Arcadia, after all, is a lotos-eating paradise of blissful ignorance, and I love the world with its pomps, vanities, and wickedness. While you, therefore, oh Corydon—don’t be afraid, I’m not going to quote Virgil—are studying Nature’s book, I am deep in the musty leaves of Themis’ volume, but I dare say that the great mother teaches you much better things than her artificial daughter does me. However, you remember that pithy proverb, “When one is in Rome, one must not speak ill of the Pope,” so being in the legal profession, I must respect its muse.
‘I suppose when you saw that this letter came from a law office, you wondered what the deuce a lawyer was writing to you for, and my handwriting no doubt suggested a writ—pshaw! I am wrong there, you are past the age of writs—not that I hint that you are old, by no means—you are just at that appreciative age when a man enjoys life most, when the fire of youth is tempered by the experience of age, and one knows how to enjoy to the utmost the good things of this world, videlicet—love, wine, and friendship. I am afraid I am growing poetical, which is a bad thing for a lawyer, for the flower of poetry cannot flourish in the arid wastes of the law.
‘On reading what I have written, I find I have been as discursive as Praed’s Vicar, and as this letter is supposed to be a business one, I must deny myself the luxury of following out a train of idle ideas, and write sense. I suppose you still hold the secret with which Rosanna Moore entrusted you with—ah! you see I know her name, and why?—simply because with the natural curiosity of the human race, I have been trying to find out who murdered Oliver Whyte, and as the Argus very cleverly pointed out Rosanna Moore as likely to be at the bottom of the whole affair, I have been learning her past history. The secret of Whyte’s murder, and the reason for it is known to you, but you refuse even in the interests of justice to reveal it—why, I don’t know—but we all have our little faults, and from an amiable though mistaken sense of—shall I say duty, you refuse to deliver up the man whose cowardly crime so nearly cost you your life.
‘After your departure from Melbourne everyone said, “The hansom cab tragedy is at an end, and the murderer will never be discovered.” I ventured to disagree with the wiseacres who made such a remark, and asked myself “Who was this woman who died at Mother Guttersnipe’s?” Receiving no satisfactory answer from myself I determined to find out, and took steps accordingly. In the first place I learned from Roger Moreland, who, if you remember, was a witness against you at the trial, that Whyte and Rosanna Moore had come out to Sydney in the John Elder about a year ago, as Mr and Mrs Whyte. I need hardly say that they did not think it needful to go through the formality of marriage, as such a tie might have been found inconvenient on some future occasion. Moreland knew nothing about Rosanna Moore and advised me to give up the search as, coming from a city like London, it would be difficult to find anyone that knew her there. Notwithstanding this I telegraphed home to a friend of mine, who is a bit of an amateur detective, “Find out the name and all about the woman who left England in the John Elder on the 21st day of August, 18—, as wife of Oliver Whyte.” Mirabile dictu, he found out all about her, and knowing, as you do, what a maelstrom of humanity London is, you must admit my friend was clever.
‘It appears, however, that the task I set him to do was easier than he expected, for the so-called Mrs Whyte was rather a notorious individual in her own way. She was a burlesque actress at the Frivolity Theatre in London, and, being a very handsome woman, had been photographed innumerable times. Consequently, when she very foolishly went with Whyte to choose a berth on board the boat, she was recognised by the clerks in the office as Rosanna Moore, better known as Musette of the Frivolity. Why she ran away with Whyte I cannot tell you. With reference to men understanding women, I refer you to Balzac’s remark anent the same. Perhaps Musette got weary of St John’s Wood and champagne suppers, and longed for the purer air of her native land. Ah! you open your eyes at this latter statement—you are surprised—no, on second thoughts you are not, because she told you herself that she was a native of Sydney, and had gone home in 1858, after a triumphant career of acting in Melbourne. And why did she leave the applauding Melbourne public and the fleshpots of Egypt? You know this also. She ran away with a rich young squatter, with more money than morals, who happened to be in Melbourne at that time. She seems to have had a weakness for running away. But why she chose Whyte to go with this time puzzles me. He was not rich, not particularly good-looking, had no position, and a bad temper.
‘How do I know all these traits of Mr Whyte’s character, morally and socially? Easily enough; my omniscient friend found them all out. Mr Oliver Whyte was the son of a London tailor, and his father being well off retired into private life, and ultimately went the way of all flesh. His son finding himself with a capital income, and a pretty taste for amusement, cut the shop of his late lamented parent, found out that his family had come over with the Conqueror—Glanville de Whyte helped to sew the Bayeux tapestry, I suppose—and graduated at the Frivolity Theatre as a masher. In common with the other gilded youth of the day he worshipped at the gas-lit shrine of Musette, and the goddess, pleased with his incense, left her other admirers in the lurch, and ran off with for
tunate Mr Whyte. As far as this goes there is nothing to show why the murder was committed. Men do not perpetrate crimes for the sake of light o’ loves like Musette, unless, indeed, some wretched youth embezzles money to buy his divinity jewellery. The career of Musette, in London, was simply that of a clever member of the demi-monde, and as far as I can learn, no one was so much in love with her as to commit a crime for her sake.
‘So far so good; the motive of the crime must be found in Australia. Whyte had spent nearly all his money in England, and, consequently, Musette and her lover arrived in Sydney with comparatively little cash. However, with an Epicurean-like philosophy they enjoyed themselves on what little they had, and then came to Melbourne, where they stayed at a second-rate hotel. Musette, I may tell you, had one special vice, a common one—drink. She loved champagne, and drank a good deal of it. Consequently, on arriving in Melbourne, and finding that a new generation had arisen, which knew not Joseph—I mean Musette—she drowned her sorrows in the flowing bowl, and went out after a quarrel with Mr Whyte to view Melbourne by night—a familiar aspect to her, no doubt. What took her to Little Bourke Street I don’t know. Perhaps she got lost—perhaps it had been a favourite walk of hers in the old days; at all events she was found dead drunk in that unsavoury locality by Sal Rawlins. I know this is so, because Sal told me so herself. Sal acted the part of the good Samaritan—took her to the squalid den she called home, and there Rosanna Moore fell dangerously ill. Whyte, who had missed her, found out where she was, and that she was too ill to be removed. I presume he was rather glad to get rid of such an encumbrance, so went back to his lodgings at St Kilda, which, judging from the landlady’s story, he must have occupied for some time, while Rosanna Moore was drinking herself to death in a quiet hotel. Still he does not break off his connection with the dying woman; but one night is murdered in a hansom cab, and that same night Rosanna Moore dies. So from all appearances everything is ended; not so, for before dying Rosanna sends for Brian Fitzgerald at his club, and reveals to him a secret which he locks up in his own heart.
‘The writer of this letter has a theory—a fanciful one, if you will—that the secret told to Brian Fitzgerald contains the mystery of Oliver Whyte’s death. Now then, have I not found out a good deal without you, and do you still decline to reveal the rest? I do not say you know who killed Whyte, but I do say that you know sufficient to lead to the detection of the murderer. If you tell me, so much the better both for your own sense of justice and for your peace of mind; if you do not—well, I shall find it out without you. I have taken, and still take, a great interest in this strange case, and I have sworn to bring the murderer to justice; so I make this last appeal to you to tell me what you know. If you refuse, I will set to work to find out all about Rosanna Moore prior to her departure from Australia in 1858, and I am certain sooner or later to discover the secret which led to Whyte’s murder. If there is any strong reason why it should be kept silent, I perhaps will come round to your view, and let the matter drop; but if I have to find it out myself, the murderer of Oliver Whyte need expect no mercy at my hands. So think over what I have said, and if I do not hear from you within the next week, I will regard your decision as final, and pursue the search myself.
‘I am sure, my dear Fitzgerald, you will find this letter too long, in spite of the interesting story it contains, so I will have pity on you, and draw to a close. Remember me to Miss Frettlby and to her father. With kind regards to yourself—I remain, yours very truly,
Duncan Calton.’
When Fitzgerald had finished the last of the closely written sheets, he let the letter fall from his hands, and leaning back in his chair, stared into the dawning light outside with a haggard face. He arose after a few moments, and pouring himself out a glass of brandy, drank it feverishly. Then mechanically lighting a cigar, he stepped out of the door into the fresh beauty of the dawn. There was a soft, crimson glow in the east, which announced the approach of the sun, and he could hear the chirping of the awakening birds in the trees. But Brian did not see the marvellous breaking of the dawn, but stood staring at the red light flaring in the east, and thinking of Calton’s letter.
‘I can do no more,’ he said, bitterly, leaning his head against the wall of the house. ‘There is only one way of stopping Calton, and that is by telling him all. My poor Madge! My poor Madge!’
A soft wind arose, and rustled among the trees, and there appeared great shafts of crimson light in the east; then, with a sudden blaze, the sun peered over the brim of the wide plain. The warm, yellow rays touched lightly the comely head of the weary man, and turning round, he held up his arms to the great luminary, as though he were a fire worshipper.
‘I accept the omen of the dawn,’ he cried, ‘for her life and for mine.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
WHAT DR CHINSTON SAID
His resolution taken, Brian did not let the grass grow under his feet, but rode over in the afternoon to tell Madge of his intended departure.
The servant told him she was in the garden, so he went there, and guided by the sound of merry voices, and the silvery laughter of pretty women, soon found his way to the lawn tennis ground. Madge and her guests were all there, seated under the shade of a great witch elm, and watching with great interest a single-handed match being played between Rolleston and Peterson, both of whom were capital players. Mr Frettlby was not present, as he was inside writing letters, and talking with old Mr Valpy, and Brian gave a sigh of relief as he noted his absence. Madge caught sight of him as he came down the garden path, and flew quickly towards him with outstretched hands, as he took his hat off.
‘How good of you to come,’ she said, in a delighted tone, as she took his arm, ‘and on such a hot day.’
‘Yes, it’s something fearful in the shade,’ said pretty Mrs Rolleston, with a laugh putting up her sunshade.
‘Pardon me if I think the contrary,’ replied Fitzgerald, bowing, with an expressive look at the charming group of ladies under the great tree.
Mrs Rolleston blushed and shook her head.
‘Ah! it’s easy seen you come from Ireland, Mr Fitzgerald,’ she observed, as she resumed her seat. ‘You are making Madge jealous.’
‘So he is,’ answered Madge, with a gay laugh. ‘I shall certainly inform Mr Rolleston about you, Brian, if you make these gallant remarks.’
‘Here he comes then,’ said her lover, as Rolleston and Peterson, having finished their game, walked off the tennis ground, and joined the group under the tree. Though in tennis flannels, they both looked remarkably warm, and throwing his racket down, Mr Rolleston followed its example, with a sigh of relief.
‘Thank goodness it’s over, and that I have won,’ he said, wiping his heated brow, ‘galley slaves couldn’t have worked harder than we have done, while all you idle folk sat sub tegmine fagi.’
‘Which means?’ asked his wife, lazily.
‘That onlookers see most of the game,’ answered her husband impudently.
‘I suppose that’s what you call a free and easy translation,’ said Peterson, laughing. ‘Mrs Rolleston ought to give you something for your new and original adaptation of Virgil.’
‘Let it be iced then,’ retorted Rolleston, lying full length on the ground, and staring up at the blue of the sky as seen through the network of leaves. ‘I always like my “something” iced.’
‘It’s a way you’ve got,’ said Madge with a laugh, as she gave him a glass filled with some sparkling, golden coloured liquor, with a large lump of ice clinking musically against the side of it.
‘He’s not the only one who’s got that way,’ said Peterson gaily, when he had been supplied with a similar drink.
It’s a way we’ve got in the army,
It’s a way we’ve got in the navy
It’s a way we’ve got in the ’Varsity.
‘And so say all of us,’ finished Rolleston noisily, and holding out his glass to be replenished, ‘I’ll have another, please—whew, it is hot.’
‘What, the drink?’ asked Julia, with a giggle.
‘No, the day,’ answered Felix, making a face at her. ‘It’s the kind of day one feels inclined to adopt Sydney Smith’s advice, by getting out of one’s skin, and letting the wind whistle through one’s bones.’
‘With such a hot wind blowing,’ said Peterson gravely, ‘I’m afraid they’d soon be broiled bones.’
‘Go, giddy one,’ retorted Felix, throwing his hat at him, ‘or I’ll drag you into the blazing sun, and make you play another game.’
‘Not I,’ replied Peterson, coolly. ‘Not being a salamander, I’m hardly used to your climate yet, and there is a limit even to lawn tennis;’ and, turning his back on Rolleston, he began to talk to Julia Featherweight.
Meanwhile, Madge and her lover, leaving all this frivolous chatter behind them, were walking slowly towards the house, and Brian was telling her of his approaching departure, but not his reasons for going.
‘I got a letter last night,’ he said, turning his face away from her, ‘and as it’s about some important business I must start at once.’
‘I don’t think it will be long before we follow,’ answered Madge, thoughtfully. ‘Papa leaves here at the end of the week.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ said Madge, petulantly, ‘he is so restless, and never seems to settle down to anything. He says for the rest of his life he is going to do nothing but wander all over the world.’
There suddenly flashed across Fitzgerald’s mind a line from Genesis, which seemed singularly applicable to Mr Frettlby—‘A fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.’
‘Everyone gets these restless fits, sooner or later,’ he said, idly. ‘In fact,’ with an uneasy laugh, ‘I believe I’m in one myself.’
