Phineas Redux

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LXXII.

  THE END OF THE STORY OF MR. EMILIUS AND LADY EUSTACE.

  The interest in the murder by no means came to an end when PhineasFinn was acquitted. The new facts which served so thoroughly to provehim innocent tended with almost equal weight to prove another manguilty. And the other man was already in custody on a charge whichhad subjected him to the peculiar ill-will of the British public. He,a foreigner and a Jew, by name Yosef Mealyus,--as every one was nowvery careful to call him,--had come to England, had got himself to beordained as a clergyman, had called himself Emilius, and had marrieda rich wife with a title, although he had a former wife still livingin his own country. Had he called himself Jones it would have beenbetter for him, but there was something in the name of Emilius whichadded a peculiar sting to his iniquities. It was now known that thebigamy could be certainly proved, and that his last victim,--ourold friend, poor little Lizzie Eustace,--would be rescued from hisclutches. She would once more be a free woman, and as she had beenstrong enough to defend her future income from his grasp, she wasperhaps as fortunate as she deserved to be. She was still youngand pretty, and there might come another lover more desirable thanYosef Mealyus. That the man would have to undergo the punishment ofbigamy in its severest form, there was no doubt;--but would law, andjustice, and the prevailing desire for revenge, be able to get athim in such a way that he might be hung? There certainly did exista strong desire to prove Mr. Emilius to have been a murderer, sothat there might come a fitting termination to his career in GreatBritain.

  The police seemed to think that they could make but little either ofthe coat or of the key, unless other evidence, that would be almostsufficient in itself, should be found. Lord Fawn was informed thathis testimony would probably be required at another trial,--whichintimation affected him so grievously that his friends for a weekor two thought that he would altogether sink under his miseries.But he would say nothing which would seem to criminate Mealyus. Aman hurrying along with a grey coat was all that he could swear tonow,--professing himself to be altogether ignorant whether the man,as seen by him, had been tall or short. And then the manufacture ofthe key,--though it was that which made every one feel sure thatMealyus was the murderer,--did not, in truth, afford the slightestevidence against him. Even had it been proved that he had certainlyused the false key and left Mrs. Meager's house on the night inquestion, that would not have sufficed at all to prove that thereforehe had committed a murder in Berkeley Street. No doubt Mr. Bonteenhad been his enemy,--and Mr. Bonteen had been murdered by an enemy.But so great had been the man's luck that no real evidence seemed totouch him. Nobody doubted;--but then but few had doubted before as tothe guilt of Phineas Finn.

  There was one other fact by which the truth might, it was hoped,still be reached. Mr. Bonteen had, of course, been killed bythe weapon which had been found in the garden. As to that ageneral certainty prevailed. Mrs. Meager and Miss Meager, and themaid-of-all-work belonging to the Meagers, and even Lady Eustace,were examined as to this bludgeon. Had anything of the kind everbeen seen in the possession of the clergyman? The clergyman had beenso sly that nothing of the kind had been seen. Of the drawers andcupboards which he used, Mrs. Meager had always possessed duplicatekeys, and Miss Meager frankly acknowledged that she had a general andfairly accurate acquaintance with the contents of these receptacles;but there had always been a big trunk with an impenetrable lock,--alock which required that even if you had the key you should beacquainted with a certain combination of letters before you couldopen it,--and of that trunk no one had seen the inside. As a matterof course, the weapon, when brought to London, had been keptaltogether hidden in the trunk. Nothing could be easier. But a mancannot be hung because he has had a secret hiding place in which amurderous weapon may have been stowed away.

  But might it not be possible to trace the weapon? Mealyus, on hisreturn from Prague, had certainly come through Paris. So much waslearned,--and it was also learned as a certainty that the articlewas of French,--and probably of Parisian manufacture. If it could beproved that the man had bought this weapon, or even such a weapon, inParis then,--so said all the police authorities,--it might be worthwhile to make an attempt to hang him. Men very skilful in unravellingsuch mysteries were sent to Paris, and the police of that capitalentered upon the search with most praiseworthy zeal. But the numberof life-preservers which had been sold altogether baffled them. Itseemed that nothing was so common as that gentlemen should walk aboutwith bludgeons in their pockets covered with leathern thongs. A youngwoman and an old man who thought that they could recollect somethingof a special sale were brought over,--and saw the splendour of Londonunder very favourable circumstances;--but when confronted with Mr.Emilius, neither could venture to identify him. A large sum of moneywas expended,--no doubt justified by the high position which poor Mr.Bonteen had filled in the counsels of the nation; but it was expendedin vain. Mr. Bonteen had been murdered in the streets at the West Endof London. The murderer was known to everybody. He had been seen aminute or two before the murder. The motive which had induced thecrime was apparent. The weapon with which it had been perpetrated hadbeen found. The murderer's disguise had been discovered. The cunningwith which he had endeavoured to prove that he was in bed at homehad been unravelled, and the criminal purpose of his cunning madealtogether manifest. Every man's eye could see the whole thing fromthe moment in which the murderer crept out of Mrs. Meager's housewith Mr. Meager's coat upon his shoulders and the life-preserver inhis pocket, till he was seen by Lord Fawn hurrying out of the mewsto his prey. The blows from the bludgeon could be counted. The verymoment in which they had been struck had been ascertained. His veryact in hurling the weapon over the wall was all but seen. And yetnothing could be done. "It is a very dangerous thing hanging a man oncircumstantial evidence," said Sir Gregory Grogram, who, a couple ofmonths since, had felt almost sure that his honourable friend PhineasFinn would have to be hung on circumstantial evidence. The policeand magistrates and lawyers all agreed that it would be useless, andindeed wrong, to send the case before a jury. But there had beenquite sufficient evidence against Phineas Finn!

  In the meantime the trial for bigamy proceeded in order that poorlittle Lizzie Eustace might be freed from the incubus which afflictedher. Before the end of July she was made once more a free woman, andthe Rev. Joseph Emilius,--under which name it was thought proper thathe should be tried,--was convicted and sentenced to penal servitudefor five years. A very touching appeal was made for him to the juryby a learned serjeant, who declared that his client was to lose hiswife and to be punished with extreme severity as a bigamist, becauseit was found to be impossible to bring home against him a charge ofmurder. There was, perhaps, some truth in what the learned serjeantsaid, but the truth had no effect upon the jury. Mr. Emilius wasfound guilty as quickly as Phineas Finn had been acquitted, and was,perhaps, treated with a severity which the single crime would hardlyhave elicited. But all this happened in the middle of the effortswhich were being made to trace the purchase of the bludgeon, andwhen men hoped two or five or twenty-five years of threatenedincarceration might be all the same to Mr. Emilius. Could they havesucceeded in discovering where he had bought the weapon, his yearsof penal servitude would have afflicted him but little. They did notsucceed; and though it cannot be said that any mystery was attachedto the Bonteen murder, it has remained one of those crimes which areunavenged by the flagging law. And so the Rev. Mr. Emilius will passaway from our story.

  There must be one or two words further respecting poor littleLizzie Eustace. She still had her income almost untouched, havingbeen herself unable to squander it during her late married life,and having succeeded in saving it from the clutches of her pseudohusband. And she had her title, of which no one could rob her, andher castle down in Ayrshire,--which, however, as a place of residenceshe had learned to hate most thoroughly. Nor had she done anythingwhich of itself must necessarily have put her out of the pale ofsociety. As a married woman she had had no lovers; and, when a widow,very
little fault in that line had been brought home against her. Butthe world at large seemed to be sick of her. Mrs. Bonteen had beenher best friend, and, while it was still thought that Phineas Finnhad committed the murder, with Mrs. Bonteen she had remained. Butit was impossible that the arrangement should be continued when itbecame known,--for it was known,--that Mr. Bonteen had been murderedby the man who was still Lizzie's reputed husband. Not that Lizzieperceived this,--though she was averse to the idea of her husbandhaving been a murderer. But Mrs. Bonteen perceived it, and told herfriend that she must--go. It was most unwillingly that the wretchedwidow changed her faith as to the murderer; but at last she foundherself bound to believe as the world believed; and then she hintedto the wife of Mr. Emilius that she had better find another home.

  "I don't believe it a bit," said Lizzie.

  "It is not a subject I can discuss," said the widow.

  "And I don't see that it makes any difference. He isn't my husband.You have said that yourself very often, Mrs. Bonteen."

  "It is better that we shouldn't be together, Lady Eustace."

  "Oh, I can go, of course, Mrs. Bonteen. There needn't be theslightest trouble about that. I had thought perhaps it might beconvenient; but of course you know best."

  She went forth into lodgings in Half Moon Street, close to the sceneof the murder, and was once more alone in the world. She had a childindeed, the son of her first husband, as to whom it behoved many tobe anxious, who stood high in rank and high in repute; but such hadbeen Lizzie's manner of life that neither her own relations nor thoseof her husband could put up with her, or endure her contact. And yetshe was conscious of no special sins, and regarded herself as one whowith a tender heart of her own, and a too-confiding spirit, had beenmuch injured by the cruelty of those with whom she had been thrown.Now she was alone, weeping in solitude, pitying herself with deepestcompassion; but it never occurred to her that there was anything inher conduct that she need alter. She would still continue to play hergame as before, would still scheme, would still lie; and might still,at last, land herself in that Elysium of life of which she had beenalways dreaming. Poor Lizzie Eustace! Was it nature or educationwhich had made it impossible to her to tell the truth, when a liecame to her hand? Lizzie, the liar! Poor Lizzie!