by Hugh Conway
Was ever man in such a situation before?
Your wife commits a murder.
You become an accessory after the fact.
You take steps to destroy one of the two people who suspect the truth.
And then you find that the man on whom you committed murder is accused of the murder which you and your wife committed.
The sound of my mother’s voice scolding Philippa wakened me from my stupor. They were coming.
I could not face them.
Doubling up the newspaper, I thrust it into my pocket, and sped swiftly out of the patio.
Where did I go? I scarcely remember. I think it must have been to one of the public gardens or public-houses, I am not certain which. All sense of locality left me. I found at last some lonely spot, and there I threw myself on the ground, dug my finger-nails into the dry ground, and held on with all the tenacity of despair. In the wild whirl of my brain I feared that I might be thrown off into infinite space. This sensation passed off. At first I thought I had gone mad. Then I felt pretty certain that it must be the other people who had gone mad.
I had killed William Evans.
My wife had killed Runan Errand.
How, then, could Runan Errand have been killed by William Evans?
‘Which is absurd,’ I found myself saying, in the language of Eukleidês, the grand old Greek.
Human justice! What is justice? See how it can err! Was there ever such a boundless, unlimited blunder in the whole annals of penny fiction? Probably not. I remember nothing like it in all the learned pages of the London Journal and the Family Herald. Mrs Henry Wood and Miss Braddon never dreamed of aught like this. Philippa must be told. It was too good a joke. Would she laugh? Would she be alarmed?
Picture me lying on the ground, with the intelligence fresh in my mind.
I felt confidence, on the whole, in Philippa’s sense of humour.
Then rose the temptation.
Trust this man (William Evans, late the Sphynx) to the vaunted array of justice!
Let him have a run for his money.
Nay, more.
Go down and see the fun!
Why hesitate? You cannot possibly be implicated in the deed. You will enjoy a position nearly unique in human history. You will see the man, of whose murder you thought you were guilty, tried for the offence which you know was committed by your wife.
Every sin is not easy. My sense of honour arose against this temptation. I struggled, but I was mastered. I would go and see the trial. Home I went and broached the subject to Philippa. The brave girl never blenched. She had no hesitations, no scruples to conquer.
‘Oh Basil,’ she exclaimed, with sparkling eyes, ‘wot larx! When do we start?’
The reader will admit that I did myself no injustice when, at the commencement of this tale, I said I had wallowed in crime.
CHAPTER XII
JUDGE JUGGINS
WE got down to Newnham, where the ’Sizes were held, on the morning of September 20th. There we discovered that we had an hour or two for refreshment, and I may say that both Philippa and I employed that time to the best advantage. While at the hotel I tried to obtain the file of the Times. I wanted to look back and see if I could find the account of the magisterial proceedings against the truly unlucky William Evans.
After all, should I call him unlucky? He had escaped the snare I had laid for him, and perhaps (such things have been) even a Newnham jury might find him not guilty.
But the file of the Times was not forthcoming.
I asked the sleepy-eyed Teutonic waiter for it. He merely answered, with the fatuous patronising grin of the German kellner:
‘You vant?’
‘I want the file of the Times!’
‘I have the corkscrew of the good landlord; but the file of the Times I have it not. Have you your boots, your fish-sauce, your curry-comb?’ he went on. Then, lapsing into irrelevant local gossip, ‘the granddaughter of the blacksmith has the landing-net of the bad tailor.’
‘I want my bill, my note, my addition, my consommation,’ I answered angrily.
‘Very good bed, very good post-horse,’ he replied at random, and I left the County Hotel without being able to find out why suspicion had fallen on William Evans.
We hailed one of the cabs which stood outside the hotel door, when a heavy hand was laid on my shoulder, and a voice, strange but not unfamiliar, exclaimed, ‘Dr South, as I am a baronet—’
I turned round suddenly and found myself face to face with
SIR RUNAN ERRAND!
My brain once more began to reel. Here were the real victim and the true perpetrators of a murder come to view the trial of the man who was charged with having committed it!
Though I was trembling like an aspen leaf, I remembered that we lived in an age of ‘telepathy’ and psychical research.
Sir Runan was doubtless what Messrs. Myers and Gurney call a visible apparition as distinguished from the common invisible apparition.
If a real judge confesses, like Sir E. Hornby, to having seen a ghost, why should not a mere accessory after the fact?
Regaining my presence of mind, I asked, ‘What brings you here?’
‘Oh, to see the fun,’ he replied. ‘Fellow being tried for killing me. The morbid interest excited round here is very great. Doubt you’re getting front seats.’
‘Can’t you manage it for me?’ I asked imploringly.
‘Daresay I can. Here, take my card, and just mention my name, and they’ll let you in. Case for the prosecution, by the way, most feeble.’
Here the appearance, handing me a card, nodded, and vanished in the crowd.
I returned to Philippa, where I had left her in the four-wheeler. We drove off, and found ourselves before a double-swinging (aye, ominous as it seemed, swinging) plain oak door, over which in old English letters was written—
OLD ENGLISH CRIMINAL COURT
I need not describe the aspect of the court. Probably most of my readers have at some time in their lives found themselves in such a place.
True to the minute, the red-robed Judge appears. It is Sir Joshua Juggins, well known for his severity as ‘Gibbeting Juggins’.
Ah, there is little hope for William Evans.
I have learned from a neighbour in court the evidence against Evans is purely circumstantial.
He has been found in possession of a peculiar key, believed to have belonged to Sir Runan.
Well may they call the case for the prosecution weak.
William must have found that fatal key which Philippa took from the slain man.
On that accident the whole presumption of his guilt is founded.
The Grand Jury (country gentlemen—idiots all!) find a ‘True Bill’.
The clerk reads the indictment that ‘he, William Evans, did feloniously, wilfully, and of malice aforethought, kill and murder Sir Runan Errand, Baronet.’
As the reading goes on Philippa is strangely moved.
‘Basil,’ she whispered, ‘don’t you see the splendid, unequalled chance for an advertisement! I’ll get up and make a speech, and say I did it. Of course they can’t prove it, but it will set every one talking, and bring hundreds of pounds into the house every night.’
I now observed that Philippa had half slipped off her mantle and bonnet. Beneath these coverings she was dressed in wig and gown, like Mrs Weldon in the photographs.
‘For goodness’ sake, Philippa, don’t!’ I whispered.
The clerk turned to William Evans, the prisoner at the bar.
‘Are you guilty, or not guilty?’
In the silence a cigarette-ash might have been heard to drop, if anyone had been smoking.
The long silence was broken, but not by the prisoner.
By Philippa!
Rising to all her stately height, with her flowing robes around her, she stood at bay. Then her clear deep voice rang out:
‘My lord, I was the party that did it!’
‘Order in the court! Order in
the court!’ cried the ushers.
‘I commit you! I commit you!’ thundered Lord Justice Juggins. ‘Take her away. Five years and hard labour.’
Struggling violently, Philippa was dragged away by the minions of the law.
I notice one visitor turn round, and gaze at the commotion.
It is Mrs Thompson, the Bearded Woman.
Silence has scarcely been restored, when it is again broken.
A manly form rises. A deep voice exclaims:
‘My lord, the prisoner is innocent. I am the person whom he is said to have murdered.’
The form, the voice—it is Sir Runan Errand!
Again I hear the sharp accents of Mr Justice Juggins.
‘Is this court a bear-garden or the House of Commons? Take that man out. Give him five years and two dozen lashes.’
Scarcely had the court resumed its wonted aspect of business, scarcely had the prisoner again been asked to plead, when a shrill voice shattered the stillness.
‘My lord, the key found in the prisoner’s possession is my cellar-key.’
This time the bold interrupter was Mrs Thompson, the Bearded Woman.
‘Five years as usual, and hard labour,’ said Sir Joshua Juggins, wearily.
He was tiring of his task.
‘Please, my lord, it warn’t none of me,’ came a hoarse whisper from the prisoner at the bar.
‘Who asked you to speak? Is that the way to plead?’ snapped the judge. ‘Give him five years also, for contempt of court.’
William Evans was carried out in hysterics.
The plot, the mystery had thickened.
I now felt that there was only one way of fathoming the secret of the crime. I also must get myself committed! Then I would be able to rejoin the other actors in this strange drama, and learn their motives, and the real facts of the case.
In a moment my resolution was taken.
Springing to my feet, I exclaimed in clarion tones:
‘My lord, I am an accessory after the fact.’
Sir Joshua Juggins gave a cry of despair. Then mastering himself, he whispered:
‘Take that idiot away, and give him penal servitude for life.’
As I left the court in chains, I heard the next case being called.
CHAPTER XIII
CLEARED UP (FROM THE ‘GREEN PARK GAZETTE’)
THE legitimate public interest in the Newnham Mystery suggested to us the propriety of sending one of our young men down to interview all parties. After having visited the Maori King, Mrs Weldon, several Eminent Advertisers, and the crew of the Mignonette, he felt that his present task was a light one. He had to see the murderer, William Evans; the murderess, Mrs South, or Lady Errand; the accessory after the fact, Dr South; the victim, Sir Runan Errand; and Mrs Thompson, the owner of the key on which the case for the prosecution hinged.
His adventures in the various Asylums where those unhappy persons are unconfined have little public interest. We print the Confessions just as our young man took them down in shorthand from the lips of the sufferers.
THE CONFESSION OF SIR RUNAN ERRAND
‘I need not tell you that I never was even the husband of the woman Philippa at all. She stood in no relation to me, except as one of the persons in the troupe which I was foolish enough to manage. Instead of visiting her in January last to settle her pecuniary claims against me, I sent my valet. It appears that the man wore an old hat of mine, which he lost in the storm. That was not the only article of property belonging to me he carried off. I have since had a penitent letter from him. He is doing well in the United States, and has been elected to the Legislature. I have given up dabbling in the freak show business, and merely keep a private theatre at such a distance from human abodes that no one can complain of it as a nuisance. Since the disappearance of my valet I have been travelling in my own yacht. I reached England the day before the trial.
‘No. I never read the newspapers. Thank goodness I am no bookworm.’
THE CONFESSION OF PHILIPPA SOUTH, CALLING HERSELF LADY ERRAND
‘I tell you again, as I told you before, I know nothing about what I did that night. Go back to your employers.’
Nothing more of a nature suited to our columns could be extracted from this lady.
THE CONFESSION OF MRS THOMPSON
‘I lost my cellar key the night Philippa left my roof. I now recognise it as the key in the possession of William Evans. How he got it I have no idea whatever.’
THE CONFESSION OF BASIL SOUTH, M.D.
‘I begin to understand it all at last. The key which I took from Philippa on the night of the storm and supposed murder had not been taken by her from Sir Runan.
‘She had brought it with her from the house of Mrs Thompson, with whom she had been residing.
‘When I threw away a key, which I believed to be the one I had taken from Philippa, I made a mistake.
‘I threw away a key of my own. When I thought I was giving William Evans the key of my cellar (with fatal intentions and designs, hoping that he would never survive the contents of that cellar), I really gave him the key I had taken from Philippa.
‘Consequently the key would not fit the cellar lock.
‘Consequently William Evans never tasted the fatal fluid, and so escaped his doom.
‘I have nothing to add to this confession, except that I am deeply penitent, and will never again offer a thoughtless public a Christmas Annual so absurd, morbid, and incoherent as Much Darker Days.’
This last statement made it unnecessary to interview William Evans.
All the other persons in this dismal affair are detained during her Majesty’s displeasure.
It is sincerely hoped that, after a year of seclusion, they will return to those places in society which they are so well calculated to adorn, and that their future career may be less chequered by bigamy, murder, original kinds of lunacy, and other real or fancied misfortunes.
THE END
DARK DAYS & MUCH DARKER DAYS
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