The Detective Club: Dark Days & Much Darker Days

by Hugh Conway

  Ah! How happy I should have felt, could that one night’s dark work have been undone—could that white tomb for ever hold its ghastly secret!

  CHAPTER VII

  THE MELTING OF THE SNOW

  THE first stage of our flight towards safety accomplished, I sat down to once more review the situation, and to take such counsel as I could give myself. I endeavoured to foreshadow the consequences of the inevitable discovery of Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s death. I tried calmly to ascertain in what quarter the danger of discovery was situated, and how best to guard against or turn aside the peril.

  Undoubtedly the chief person to fear was Mrs Wilson. She alone knew that the man intended to reach Roding that night. She alone knew in what relation, or supposed relation, he stood to Philippa. The very night of his death would be fixed by the snow-storm; and I felt sure that as soon as the dead man was identified Mrs Wilson could not fail to associate her quest’s sudden departure and subsequent illness with the terrible event. The moment she revealed what she knew or suspected, suspicion must point to the right person, and pursuit must at once follow. My heart grew sick, as, think how I would, I could see no loop-hole by which to escape from this danger.

  About secondary things I troubled but little. Upon calm reconsideration, I did not believe that my stolid William would for a moment jump at the right conclusion. If he were led to suspect either of us, it would be me, not Philippa; and I well knew that he was so much attached to me that, although he felt certain I had done the deed, he would feel equally certain that I had good and proper reasons for doing it, and no word to my detriment would pass his reticent lips. No, there was little to fear from William.

  I blamed myself deeply for the impulse which had urged me to hurl the fatal weapon away. Why did I not keep it and bury it fathoms deep? If that pistol were found, it would possibly furnish a clue which might be followed up, and undo everything. My only hope was that I had thrown it to some spot where it might lie for years undiscovered, until all association between it and the murder had disappeared.

  To sum up briefly, I was bound to decide that the damning circumstantial evidence which could be furnished by Mrs Wilson drove me back to my original idea. There was no chance of my poor Philippa’s remaining unaccused or unsuspected of the deed she had unwittingly done; so her only hope of safety—indeed, considering all, I may also say my only hope of safety—was rapid flight. We must gain some land in which we could dwell without fear of being arrested. What land was there?

  Many a one. The date of my story is before 1873, when nearly all the extradition treaties were made. At that time such treaties existed with only two foreign countries, France and the United States; so that our choice of a resting-place was not so limited as those who are flying from the clutches of the law find it today. However, in order to make certain, I paid a visit to a legal friend of mine; and, by quoting a suppositious case, managed to acquire a good deal of information respecting the dealings of one nation with another, so far as fugitives were concerned.

  I found that although, with the two exceptions above-named, there was no settled international law on the subject, there was a kind of unwritten substitute, which was known by the name of the Comity of Nations. Under this code of courtesy, a notorious criminal, who had sought refuge in the arms of another country was not uncommonly, although there was no law under which he could be arrested, given up to his pursuers, by being simply driven across the frontier of the country in which he had hoped to find security. However, I gathered that this so-called comity was scarcely expected to be exercised by the most friendly state, unless the fugitive had fled almost red-handed, and so placed his guilt beyond doubt. No one exactly knew how far this obliging expulsion might be counted upon. It was generally supposed to be decided by the amount of influence or persuasion which one government exercised on the other.

  This information rather upset my preconceived ideas as to the ease with which safety might be obtained; but reflection told me I had little to fear. The case against Philippa could be nothing more than one of suspicion. No one, not even I myself, had seen the deed done. A warrant would, no doubt, be issued for her arrest; but if our flight precluded its execution, I did not believe that any government would put itself out of the way to aid the English law. There was no one, save myself, who could positively swear that Sir Mervyn Ferrand had been killed by Philippa.

  I learned that Spain was then, even as it is now, the land safest against English law. Perhaps the reason is that the grave, yet at times hot-blooded, Spaniard reckons human life at a lower value than more northernly nations. Anyway, it was to Spain that I turned my eyes; Spain that I resolved to reach without an hour’s unenforced delay.

  The very next day I broached the subject of foreign travel to my mother. Although so short a time had passed since they first met, I was overjoyed to see the terms upon which she and Philippa stood. The girl seemed to cling to her as to a natural protector—seemed ready to install her in the place of the mother she had lost. After all, the love of her own sex is indispensable to a woman’s happiness. It did my heart good to see the two together. Philippa talked to my mother as she had never yet talked to me; and I knew that when the day came upon which I should ask for the only reward I wanted, my mother’s kindness to the forsaken and shame-stricken girl would be an advocate that pleaded strongly in favour of my suit.

  But, could it ever be? Could we know happiness in the face of that dark night’s work? Ah me! My heart sank as I thought that any day might bring the crushing blow. Let there be no delay. Let me not blame myself hereafter for any negligence or false security. Let us away from the peril.

  ‘Mother,’ I said, ‘will you come abroad with Philippa and me?’

  ‘Abroad, Basil! I have only just come home.’

  ‘No matter; come with us at once. Let us go to some place where there is warmth and bright sunshine. Let us go to Spain.’

  ‘Spain! Why Spain? Besides, surely Philippa is not fit for a long journey!’

  ‘It will do her good. Her recollections of this country are but sad ones.’

  ‘Well, in a week or two I will see about it.’

  ‘No, at once. Let us start tomorrow or the next day. Mother, I ask it as a favour.’

  ‘Give me some good reason, Basil, and I will do as you wish.’

  ‘Look at me, and you will see the reason. Cannot you see that I am ill, worn out, nervous? I must have a change, and at once.’

  She gazed at me with solicitude. ‘Yes, I know you are not well; but why Spain?’

  ‘A whim—a sick man’s fancy. Perhaps because it is Philippa’s father’s country put it into my head. Mother, tell me, how do you like her?’

  ‘She is the woman you love; she is very beautiful; she has been cruelly treated; she is blameless; to say more after so short an acquaintance would be exaggeration.’

  ‘You will come to Spain with me—with her?’

  She kissed me and gave in to my whim. Then I sought Philippa.

  ‘My mother is going to take us abroad,’ I said with a smile, which was forced, as all my smiles now were. ‘She will see to everything for you.’

  ‘She is kind—she is sweet,’ said Philippa, clasping her hands. ‘Basil, I am beginning to worship your mother. But why are we going abroad?’

  ‘To get away from sad thoughts, for one thing; for another, because I feel ill.’

  She gave me a quick look of apprehension which brought the flush to my cheek. ‘Oh, let us go at once!’ she cried. ‘Let us leave this land of ice, and I will nurse you and make you well. Where are we going? When are we going?’

  ‘To Spain—tomorrow or the next day.’

  She looked at me with the troubled gaze which I had so often noticed. ‘Basil,’ she said, ‘you are doing this for my sake.’

  ‘And my own, I fear.’

  ‘I threw away your love—I spoilt your life. I came to you a shamed woman. You saved me! You did not scorn me. You brought me to your mother’s arms. Basil, ma
y God requite you: I never can.’

  She burst into tears, and left the room hastily.

  It was well I settled the matter of the foreign journey then. That afternoon the wind changed and a thaw set in—a thaw that slowly but surely drew away the thick white veil which covered the whole of England.

  That night I had little sleep. I could do nothing but lie awake and picture that white tomb slowly melting away, until the white face beneath peered out of it and made the dread secret known to all. Who would be the first to discover it? Doubtless some country man or woman passing that way in the grey of the morning. I drew pictures of the discoverer’s horror—the shriek of terror he or she would give. I scarcely dared to close my eyes; for I knew that if I dreamed, my dreams would take me to stand over the snowdrift, and force me to watch it melting away! It seemed to me that until Philippa was out of the range of pursuit I should not sleep again.

  Faster and faster, now it had once begun, the thaw went on. Warm wind, heavy rain the next day, helped it. That tremendous fall of snow had, indeed, been the last effort of the winter. I dreaded what I might see in the morning’s papers.

  For it was the third day from that on which I spoke about going abroad; yet we were still in London. When it really came to making preparations for the projected trip, there were a thousand and one things to be done. There was the needful passport to be obtained; my mother had many purchases to make for both Philippa and herself. She was now fully contented with the prospect of a long sojourn on the continent; but she liked travelling in comfort, and objected very much to being hurried. So it was that, in spite of the pressing need for immediate flight, we were still in London.

  The dangerous delay made me nervous, excitable and ill tempered. This state of mind was not without benefit to our cause, as my manner as well as my looks fully convinced my mother that my own health was the sole object of the journey. So, like a good creature, she set to work in thorough earnest to get everything ready for our departure.

  Tomorrow morning we were to start. I prayed heaven that it might not be too late; that the next twenty-four hours might pass without what I dreaded taking place. For I knew that by now that ghastly object on the roadside must be lying with the light of day on its pale face!

  With an effort I opened the morning’s paper, and ran hastily up and down the columns. What cared I for politics, foreign news, or money-market intelligence? Here was the one paragraph which riveted all my attention. The white tomb had given up its secret! Read! To me those words were written in letters of fire!

  ‘HORRIBLE DISCOVERY NEAR RODING

  ‘The melting of the snow has brought to light what to all appearances is a fearful crime. Yesterday afternoon a labourer walking on the highway discovered the body of a gentleman lying by the roadside. His death had been caused by a pistol-shot. It is supposed that it must have occurred on the night of the great snow-storm, and that the body has lain ever since under the snow, which had drifted to the depth of some feet. The facts that death must have been instantaneous, and that no weapon can be found near the spot, do away with the theory of suicide. Letters and papers found upon the corpse tend to show it to be that of Sir Mervyn Ferrand, Bart. The unfortunate gentleman’s friends have been communicated with, and the inquest will be opened tomorrow.’

  For some minutes I sat like one stunned. Inevitable as it was that the discovery should be made, the shock seemed scarcely lightened by the foreknowledge; the danger seemed no less terrible. Oh, that we had started yesterday—were even to start today! What might not happen before tomorrow morning! My first impulse was to go to my mother and beg her to hasten our departure; but reflection showed me how unwise this course would be. I should alarm her—alarm Philippa! I could give no reason. My one longing was to keep the news from my poor love. Let her read that paragraph, and who could answer for the consequences? Looking as a medical man at her case, I knew that there was something about that night which troubled her; some dream, or semblance of dream, to which, fortunately, she could as yet give no coherence. Let her learn that Sir Mervyn Ferrand had ever since that night been lying dead where she met him, the fearful truth must come to her. No! Not a word to excite her suspicion. My task was a twofold one. I had to save her not only from what I suppose I must call justice, but also from herself. It seemed to me that the latter was the hardest part of my work; but I would do it—I swore I would do it. I would keep watch and ward, to see that nothing reached her—that she heard nothing which could awaken memories of those mercifully absent hours.

  I tore the paper to pieces and burnt it. I think of all my dark days that one was the one I would be least willing to pass again. I trembled at every footstep on the stairs. Any man who paused for a moment outside our windows sent a cold chill over me. And in the midst of my misery I had to wear a cheerful face, and talk to Philippa and my mother about the pleasures of our projected journey! Ah! If we only reached the end of it in safety, the pleasure would not be altogether imaginary.

  Once again I say, if you cannot feel with me, throw my tale aside. Heaven knows it is a sombre one! I was breaking the law; concealing what the law calls crime; doing all I could to save the criminal. But the criminal was Philippa, and I loved her! I myself would have stood face to face with Sir Mervyn Ferrand, and have freely given my own life if I could have assured his dying like the dog he was. Why then should I blame Philippa, who had done in her temporary madness what I would have done in cold blood? Yet why trouble to extenuate? I loved her! Those words sum up everything.

  The morning dawned. No fatal messenger had arrived. I glanced hastily at the papers, which, however, contained no more information about the tragedy. Shortly after ten o’clock we started to drive to Charing Cross. The rattle of wheels over the stones seemed to send fresh life through my veins. We were off on the road to safety.

  We started in plenty of time, as I wished to call at my bankers on the way. It was my intention to take with me a large sum in gold. Notes of any kind could be traced, but the bright sovereigns would tell no tale. I changed my cheque, and whilst doing so asked if there were any letters for me. Several persons addressed letters to me at my bankers. The spruce cashier sent to inquire, and, with my bag of gold, passed under the brass-wire railing a letter with a woman’s handwriting on the envelope. I thrust it into my pocket, to read at my leisure.

  We travelled by the tidal train for Paris, via Folkestone and Boulogne. It was not the pleasantest weather in the world for a journey; but I wrapped my charges up warmly, and did all I could to mitigate the hardships of the voyage, undertaken ostensibly for the sake of my health. My mother, who was by now an experienced and seasoned traveller, settled herself down to the journey, although she little guessed how short the rest I meant to give her until we reached our destination. She laughingly protested against the cruelty of dragging an old woman like herself away from England just as she had returned to it; but there was that in her voice and manner which told me she would for my sake make a far greater sacrifice of comfort than this.

  I thought that Philippa’s spirits, like mine, rose as we left London behind us. She smiled at my sallies and feeble attempts at making merry, which, now that we were fairly on our road to safety, were not quite so forced as they had been during the last few days. She listened with interest to the pictures I drew—imaginary ones, of course—of the beauties of the south; and I was glad to believe that the thought of visiting what might almost be called her native land was beginning to awaken her interest. Only let me be able to show her that life could still promise a pleasant future, and the moody memories of the past months might be banished for ever.

  I am sure that no one who could have seen us that morning would have dreamt that out of that party of three, consisting of a comfortable pleasant-looking English matron, a strangely beautiful girl, and myself, two were flying from the hands of justice. Our appearance was certainly such as to disarm all suspicion.

  ‘But where are we going?’ asked my mother. ‘I object to go
wandering about without knowing where our pilgrimage is to end.’

  ‘We are going to Paris first, then to Spain—to wherever we can find the warmth and sunshine which is necessary to my existence. If we can’t find them in Spain, we will cross over to Africa, and, if needful, go down to the Equator.’

  ‘Then you young people will have to go alone. I draw the line of my good nature at Europe.’

  I glanced at Philippa. Her long curved lashes hid her eyes; but a tell-tale blush was on her cheek. I knew that the day was not so very distant when she would answer my appeal as I wished. I knew that, could I but sweep away the record of that one night, all might yet be well with her. Oh that she may never recall what I alone know!

  As we were nearing Folkestone I remembered the letter which had been given me at the bank. I drew it from my breast, intending to read it; but the sight of the Roding post-mark on the outside made me change my intention. I remembered Mrs Wilson’s half-promise to send me some communication. I longed and yet I dreaded to break the seal. I felt it would be better for me to read that letter alone. Whatever might be the tenor of its contents, I was sure it had some bearing on Philippa’s relations with Sir Mervyn Ferrand.

  We were soon on board the steamer and under weigh. Although the Arctic rigours of the last three weeks had departed, the air on the sea was too keen to make the channel passage an enjoyable one. I persuaded my mother and Philippa to take refuge in the saloon; and then I found a quiet spot where I was able to read my letter without fear of interruption, or of betraying myself by the emotion its contents might cause. It was well I did so, for the first words blanched my cheek. The letter began abruptly, so:

  ‘I know or guess all. I know why Sir Mervyn Ferrand did not reach my house that night. I know the reason for her strange excited state. I know why she left my home before you came to seek her. I know how he met with the death he deserved.