by Fergus Hume
‘Rosanna went with me to my station, where we lived as man and wife, though, in Melbourne, she was supposed to be my mistress. At last, feeling degraded in my own eyes as to the way I was living to the world, I wanted to reveal our secret, but this Rosanna would not consent to. I was astonished at this, and could never discover the reason, but in many ways Rosanna was an enigma to me. She then grew weary of the quiet country life, and longed to return to the glitter and glare of the footlights. This I refused to let her do, and from that moment she took a dislike to me. A child was born, and for a time she was engrossed with it, but soon wearied of the new plaything, and again pressed me to allow her to return to the stage. I again refused, and we became estranged from one another. I grew gloomy and irritable, and was accustomed to take long rides by myself, frequently being away for days.
‘There was a great friend of mine who owned the next station, a fine, handsome young fellow, called Frank Kelly, with a gay, sunny disposition, and a wonderful flow of humour. When he found I was so much away, thinking Rosanna was only my mistress, he began to console her, and succeeded so well that one day, on my return from a ride, I found she had fled with him, and had taken the child with her. She left a letter saying that she had never really cared for me, but had married me for my money—she would keep our marriage secret, and was going to return to the stage. I followed my false friend and false wife down to Melbourne, but arrived too late, as they had just left for England. Disgusted with the manner in which I had been treated, I plunged into a whirl of dissipation, trying to drown the memory of my married life. My friends, of course, thought that my loss amounted to no more than that of a mistress, and I soon began myself to doubt that I had ever been married, so far away and visionary did my life of the year previous seem.
‘I continued my fast life for about six months, when suddenly I was arrested upon the brink of destruction by—an angel. I say this advisedly, for if ever there was an angel upon earth, it was she, who afterwards became my wife. She was the daughter of a doctor, and it was her influence which drew me back from the dreary path of profligacy and dissipation which I was then leading. I paid her great attention, and we were in fact looked upon as good as engaged, but I knew that I was still linked to that accursed woman, and could not ask her to be my wife. At this second crisis of my life Fate again intervened, for I received a letter from England, which informed me that Rosanna Moore had been run over in the streets of London, and had died in an hospital. The writer was a young doctor, who had attended her, and I wrote home to him, begging him to send out a certificate of her death, so that I might be sure she was no more. He did so, and also enclosed an account of the accident, which had appeared in a newspaper.
‘Then, indeed, I felt that I was free, and closing, as I thought, for ever the darkest page of my life’s history, I began to look forward to the future. I married again, and my domestic life was a singularly happy one. As the colony grew greater, with every year I became even more wealthy than I had been, and was looked up to and respected by my fellow citizens. When my dear daughter Margaret was born, I felt that my cup of happiness was full, but suddenly I received a disagreeable reminder of the past. Rosanna’s mother made her appearance one day—a disreputable-looking creature, smelling of gin, and in whom I could not recognise the respectably dressed woman who used to accompany Rosanna to the theatre. She had spent long ago all the money I had given her, and had sank lower and lower, until she now lived in a slum off Little Bourke Street. I made enquiries after the child, and she told me it was dead. Rosanna had not taken it to England with her, but had left it in her mother’s charge, and, no doubt, neglect and want of proper nourishment was the cause of its death. There now seemed to be no link to bind me to the past, with the exception of the old hag who knew nothing about the marriage. I did not attempt to undeceive her, but agreed to allow her enough to live on, if she promised never to trouble me again, and to keep quiet about everything which had reference to my connection with her daughter. She promised readily enough, and went back to her squalid dwelling in the slums, where, for all I know, she still lives, as money has been paid to her regularly every month by my solicitors. I heard nothing more about the matter, and now felt quite satisfied that I had heard the last of Rosanna.
‘As years rolled on things prospered with me, and so fortunate I was in all speculations that my luck became proverbial. Then, alas! When all things seemed to smile upon me, my wife died, and the world has never seemed the same to me since. I, however, had my dear daughter to console me, and in her love and affection I became reconciled to the loss of my wife. A young Irish gentleman called Brian Fitzgerald came out to Australia, and I soon saw that my daughter was in love with him, and that he reciprocated that affection, whereat I was glad, as I have always esteemed him highly. I looked forward to their marriage, when suddenly a series of events occurred, which must be fresh in the memory of those who read these pages. Mr Oliver Whyte, a gentleman from London, called on me and startled me with the news that my first wife, Rosanna Moore, was still living, and that the story of her death had been an ingenious fabrication in order to deceive me. She had met with an accident, as stated in the newspaper, and had been taken to an hospital, where she recovered. The young doctor, who had sent me the certificate of her death, had fallen in love with her and wanted to marry her, and had told me that she was dead in order that her past life might be obliterated. The doctor, however, died before the marriage, and Rosanna did not trouble herself about undeceiving me. She was then acting on the burlesque stage under the name of Musette, and seemed to have gained an unenviable notoriety by her extravagance and infamy. Whyte met her in London, and she became his mistress. He seemed to have had a wonderful influence over her, for she told him all her past life, and about her marriage with me. Her popularity being on the wane in London, as she was now growing old, and had to make way for younger actresses, Whyte proposed that they should come out to the colonies and extort money from me, and he had come to me for that purpose.
‘The villain told me all this in the coolest manner, and I, knowing he held the secret of my life, was unable to resent it. I refused to see Rosanna, but told Whyte I would agree to his terms, which were, first, a large sum of money was to be paid to Rosanna, and, secondly, Whyte wanted to marry my daughter. I at first absolutely declined to sanction the latter proposal, but as he threatened to publish the story, and that meant the proclamation to the world of my daughter’s illegitimacy, I at last agreed, and he began to pay his addresses to Madge. She, however, refused to marry him, and told me she was engaged to Fitzgerald, so, after a severe struggle with myself, I told Whyte that I would not allow him to marry Madge, but would give him whatever sum he liked to name. On the night he was murdered he came to see me, and showed me the certificate of marriage between myself and Rosanna Moore. He refused to take a sum of money, and said unless I consented to his marriage with Madge he would publish the whole affair. I implored him to give me time to think, so he said he would give me two days, but no more, and left the house, taking the marriage certificate with him. I was in despair, and saw that the only way to save myself was to obtain possession of the marriage certificate and deny everything.
‘With this idea in my mind I followed him up to town and saw him meet Moreland, and drink with him. They went into the hotel in Russell Street, and when Whyte came out, at half past twelve, he was quite intoxicated, I saw him go along to the Scotch Church, near the Burke and Wills monument, and cling to the lamp-post at the corner. I thought I would then be able to get the certificate from him, as he was so drunk, when I saw a gentleman in a light coat—I did not know it was Fitzgerald—come up to him and hail a cab for him. I saw there was nothing more to be done at that time, so, in despair, went home and waited for the next day, in fear lest he should carry out his determination. Nothing, however, turned up, and I was beginning to think that Whyte had abandoned his purpose, when I heard that he had been murdered in the hansom cab. I was in great fear lest the m
arriage certificate would be found on him, but as nothing was said about it I began to wonder. I knew he had it on him, so came to the conclusion that the murderer, whoever he was, had taken it from the body, and would sooner or later come to me to extort money, knowing that I dare not denounce him. Fitzgerald was arrested, and afterwards acquitted, so I began to think that the certificate had been lost, and my troubles were at an end. However, I was always haunted by a dread that the sword was hanging over my head, and would fall sooner or later.
‘I was right, for two nights ago, Roger Moreland, who was an intimate friend of Whyte’s, called on me and produced the marriage certificate, which he offered to sell to me for five thousand pounds. In horror, I accused him of murdering Whyte, which he denied at first, but afterwards acknowledged, stating that I dare not betray him for my own sake. I was nearly mad with the horror I was placed in, either to denounce my daughter as illegitimate or let a murderer escape the penalty of his crime. At last I agreed to keep silent, and handed him a cheque for five thousand pounds, receiving in return the marriage certificate. I then made Moreland swear to leave the colony, which he readily agreed to do, saying Melbourne was dangerous. When he left I reflected upon the awfulness of my position, and had almost determined to commit suicide, but, thank God, I saved myself from that crime.
‘I wrote out this confession in order that after my death the true story of the murder of Whyte may be known, and that anyone who may hereafter be accused of the murder may not be wrongfully punished. I have no hopes of Moreland ever receiving the penalty of his crime, as when this is open all trace of him will, no doubt, be lost. I will not destroy the marriage certificate, but place it with these papers, so that the truth of my story can be seen. In conclusion, I would ask forgiveness of my daughter Margaret for my sins, which have been visited on her, but she can see for herself that circumstances were too strong for me. May she forgive me, as I hope God in his infinite mercy will, and may she come sometimes and pray over my grave, nor think too hardly upon her dead father.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE HANDS OF JUSTICE
Calton’s voice faltered a little when he read those last sad words, and he laid the manuscript down on the table, amid a dead silence, which was first broken by Brian.
‘Thank God,’ he said, reverently. ‘Thank God that he was innocent of the crime.’
‘So,’ said Calton, a little cynically, ‘the riddle which has perplexed us so long is read, and the Sphinx is silent for ever more.’
‘I knew he was incapable of such a thing,’ cried Chinston, whom emotion had hitherto kept silent.
Meanwhile Kilsip listened to these eulogistic remarks on the dead man, and purred to himself, in a satisfied sort of way, like a cat who has caught a mouse.
‘You see, sir,’ he said, addressing the barrister, ‘I was right after all.’
‘Yes,’ answered Calton, frankly, ‘I acknowledge my defeat, but now—’
‘I’m going to arrest Moreland right off,’ said Kilsip, coolly.
There was a silence for a few moments, and then Calton spoke again.
‘I suppose it must be so—poor girl—poor girl.’
‘I’m very sorry for the young lady myself,’ said the detective in his soft, low voice, ‘but you see I cannot let a dangerous criminal escape for a mere matter of sentiment.’
‘Of course not,’ said Fitzgerald, sharply. ‘Moreland must be arrested right off.’
‘But he will confess everything,’ said Calton, angrily, ‘and then everyone will know about this first marriage.’
‘Let them,’ retorted Brian, bitterly. ‘As soon as she is well enough we will marry at once, and leave Australia forever.’
‘But—’
‘I know her better than you do,’ said the young man, doggedly, ‘and I know she would like an end made of this whole miserable business at once. Arrest the murderer, and let him suffer for his crime.’
Kilsip nodded approvingly.
‘Well, I suppose it must be so,’ said Chinston, with a sigh, ‘but it seems very hard that this slur should be cast upon Miss Frettlby.’
Brian turned a little pale.
‘The sins of the father are generally visited upon the children by the world,’ he said, bitterly. ‘But after the first pain is over, in new lands among new faces, she will forget the bitter past.’
‘Now that it is settled Moreland is to be arrested,’ said Calton, ‘how is it to be done? Is he still in Melbourne?’
‘Rather,’ said Kilsip, in a satisfied tone. ‘I’ve had my eye on him for the last two months, and someone is watching him for me now—trust me, he can’t move two steps without my knowing it.’
‘Ah, indeed!’ said Calton quickly. ‘Then do you know if he has been to the bank and cashed that cheque for five thousand, which Frettlby gave him?’
‘Well, now,’ observed Kilsip, after a pause, ‘do you know you rather startled me when you told me he had received a cheque for that amount.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s such a large one,’ replied the detective, ‘and had I known what sum he had paid into his account I should have been suspicious.’
‘Then he has been to the bank?’
‘To his own bank, yes. He went there yesterday afternoon at two o’clock—that is the day after he got it—so it would be sent round to Mr Frettlby’s bank, and would not be returned till next day, and as he died in the meanwhile I expect it hasn’t been honoured, so Mr Moreland won’t have his money yet.’
‘I wonder what he’ll do,’ said Chinston.
‘Go to the manager and kick up a row,’ said Kilsip, coolly, ‘and the manager will no doubt tell him he’d better see the executors.’
‘But, my good friend, the manager doesn’t know who the executors are,’ broke in Calton, impatiently. ‘You forget the will has yet to be read.’
‘Then he’ll tell him to go to the late Mr Frettlby’s solicitors. I suppose he knows who they are,’ retorted the detective.
‘Thinton and Tarbit,’ said Calton, musingly, ‘but it’s questionable if Moreland would go to them.’
‘Why shouldn’t he, sir?’ said Kilsip, quickly. ‘He does not know anything about this,’ laying his hand on the confession, ‘and as the cheque is genuine enough he won’t let five thousand pounds go without a struggle.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ observed Calton, after a few moments of reflection, ‘I’ll go across the way and telephone to Thinton and Tarbit, and when he calls on them they can send him up to me.’
‘A very good idea,’ said Kilsip, rubbing his hands, ‘and then I can arrest him.’
‘But the warrant?’ interposed Brian, as Calton arose and put on his hat.
‘Is here,’ said the detective, producing it.
‘By Jove, you must have been pretty certain of his guilt,’ remarked Chinston, dryly.
‘Of course I was,’ retorted Kilsip, in a satisfied tone of voice. ‘When I told the magistrate where I found the coat, and reminded him of Moreland’s acknowledgment at the trial, that he had it in his possession before the murder, I soon got him to see the necessity of having Moreland arrested.’
‘Half past four,’ said Calton, pausing for a moment at the door and looking at his watch. ‘I’m afraid it’s rather late to catch Moreland today, however, I’ll see what Thinton and Tarbit know,’ and he went out.
The rest sat waiting his return, and chatted about the curious end of the hansom cab mystery, when, in about ten minutes, Calton rushed in hurriedly and closed the door after him quickly.
‘Fate is playing into our hands,’ he said, as soon as he recovered his breath. ‘Moreland called on Thinton and Tarbit, as Kilsip surmised, and as neither of them were in, said he would call again before five o’clock. I told the clerk to bring him up to me at once, so he may be here at any moment.’
‘That is, if he’s fool enough to come,’ observed Chinston, dryly.
‘Oh, he’ll come,’ said the detective, confidently, rat
tling a pair of handcuffs together. ‘He is so satisfied that he has made things safe that he’ll walk right into the trap.’
It was getting a little dusk, and the four men were greatly excited, though they concealed it under an assumed nonchalance.
‘What a situation for a drama,’ said Brian, drawing a long breath.
‘Only,’ said Chinston, quietly, ‘it is as realistic as in the old days of the Colosseum, where the actor who played Orpheus was torn to pieces by bears at the end of the play.’
‘His last appearance on any stage, I suppose,’ said Calton, a little cruelly, it must be confessed.
Meanwhile, Kilsip remained seated in his chair, humming an operatic air and chinking the handcuffs together, by way of accompaniment. He felt intensely pleased with himself, the more so, as he saw that by this capture he would be ranked far above Gorby. ‘And what would Gorby say?—Gorby, who had laughed at all his ideas as foolish, and who had been quite wrong from the first. If only—’
‘Hush!’ said Calton, holding up his finger, as steps were heard echoing on the flags outside. ‘Here he is, I believe.’
Kilsip arose from his chair, and, stealing softly to the window, looked cautiously out. Then he turned round to those inside and, nodding his head, slipped the handcuffs into his pocket. Just as he did so, there was a knock at the door, and, in response to Calton’s invitation to enter, Thinton and Tarbit’s clerk came in with Roger Moreland. The latter faltered a little on the threshold, when he saw Calton was not alone, and seemed half inclined to retreat. But, evidently, thinking there was no danger of his secret being discovered, he pulled himself together, and advanced into the room in an easy and confident manner.
‘This is the gentleman who wants to know about the cheque, sir,’ said Thinton and Tarbit’s clerk to Calton.
‘Oh, indeed,’ answered Calton, quietly. ‘I am glad to see him, you can go.’
