But we will not follow Richard Markham any further in his reflections during that sleepless night.
He rose at an early hour, and anxiously awaited the arrival of the morning’s newspaper.
From that vehicle of information he learnt that Katherine Wilmot had been examined, on the previous day, before the magistrate at the Marylebone Police Court, and had been remanded for one week, in order that the depositions might be made out previous to her committal to Newgate to take her trial for the murder of Matilda Ken-rick.
We need not now dwell upon the evidence adduced on the occasion of that preliminary investigation, inasmuch as we shall be hereafter compelled to detail it at some length.
We must, however, observe that when Richard Markham perused all the testimony adduced against the girl before the magistrate, he was staggered; for it seemed crushing, connected, and overwhelming indeed.
Nevertheless, he remembered his own unhappy case; and he determined not to desert her.
He called upon Mr. Tracy, and found that gentleman unwilling to believe that so young and seemingly innocent a girl could be capable of so enormous a crime; yet the reverend gentleman was compelled to admit not only that the evidence weighed strongly against her, but that it was difficult to conceive how the housekeeper had come by her death unless by Katherine’s hands.
Richard took his leave of the rector, in whom he saw only a most compassionate man—ready to allow justice to take its course, but very unwilling to utter a word prejudicial to the accused.
From Mr. Tracy’s house our hero proceeded to the New Prison, Clerkenwell, to see Katherine.
The New Prison is situate in the midst of the most densely populated part of Clerkenwell. It was originally established in the reign of James I.; but in 1816 it was considerably improved and enlarged, at the enormous cost of £40,000. It is now destined to be levelled with the ground, and a new prison is to be built upon the same site, but upon a plan adapted for the application of the atrocious solitary system.
The infamy of the English plan of gaol discipline is nowhere more strikingly illustrated than in the New Prison, Clerkenwell. Between five and six thousand prisoners pass annually through this gaol; and not the slightest attempt at classification, save in respect to sex, is made. The beds are filthy in the extreme, and often full of vermin from the last occupant: thus prisoners who arrive at the prison in a cleanly state, find themselves covered with loathsome animalculæ after one night’s rest in that disgusting place. A miserable attempt at cleanliness is made by bathing the prisoners, but the generality of them dislike it, and bribe the wardsmen to allow them to escape the ordeal. And no wonder—for the gaol authorities compel every six individuals to bathe one after the other in the same water, and it frequently happens that a cleanly person is forced into a bath containing the filth and vermin washed from the person of a beggar. The reader must remember, that highly respectable persons—even gentlemen and ladies—may become prisoners in this establishment, for breaches of the peace, assaults, or menaces, until they be released by bail; and yet the gentlemen are compelled to herd with felons, beggars, and misdemeanants—and the ladies with the lowest grade of prostitutes and the filthiest vagrants!
The prisoners pilfer from each other; and the entire establishment is a scene of quarrelling, swearing, fighting, obscenity, and gambling. The male prisoners write notes of the most disgusting description, and throw them over with a coal into the female yard. Riots and disturbances are common in the sleeping wards; and ardent spirits are procured with tolerable facility.
The degradation of mingling with the obscene and filthy inmates of the female Reception Ward was, however, avoided by poor Katherine Wilmot. The Keeper took compassion upon her youth and the deep distress of mind into which she was plunged, and sent her to the Female Infirmary.
When Richard Markham called at the New Prison he was permitted to have an interview with Katherine in the Keeper’s office.
The hapless girl flew towards our hero, as if to a brother, and clasping her hands fervently together, exclaimed, “Mr. Markham, I am innocent—I am innocent!”
“So I choose to believe you—unless a jury should pronounce you to be guilty,” replied Richard; “and even then,” he added, in a musing tone, “it is possible—I mean that juries are not infallible.”
“Oh! Mr. Markham, I am most unfortunate—and very, very unhappy!” said Katherine, the tears rolling down her cheeks. “I have never injured a human being—and yet, see where I am! see how I am treated!”
At that moment Richard recalled to mind all that the policeman had told him relative to the unpretending charity of the poor girl,—her goodness even to the very neighbours who despised her,—her amiability towards her unfortunate cousin,—the pious resignation with which she had supported the ill-treatment of her uncle,—and her constant anxiety to earn her own bread in a respectable manner.
All this Richard remembered; and he felt an invincible belief in the complete innocence of the poor creature with respect to the awful deed now laid to her charge.
“It is not death that I fear, Mr. Markham,” said Katherine, after a pause; “but it is hard—very hard to be accused of a crime which I abhor! No—I do not fear death: perhaps it would be better for me to die even at my age—than dwell in a world which has no charms for me. For I have been unhappy from my birth, Mr. Markham: I was left an orphan when I was young—so very young—oh! too young to lose both parents! Since then my existence has not been blest; and at the very moment when a brighter destiny seemed opened to me, through the goodness of yourself and Mr. Tracy, I am suddenly snatched away to a prison, and overwhelmed with this terrible accusation!”
“Katherine,” said Richard, deeply affected by the young girl’s tone and words, “I believe you to be innocent—as God is my judge, I believe you to be innocent!”
“And may that same Almighty Power bless you for this assurance!” exclaimed Katherine, pressing our hero’s hands with the most grateful warmth.
“Although in asserting my conviction of your innocence, Katherine,” continued Richard, “I leave the deed itself enveloped in the darkest mystery, still I do believe that you are innocent—and I will not desert you.”
Richard remembered how grateful to his ears had once sounded those words, “I believe that you are innocent,”—when Thomas Armstrong uttered them in the prison of Newgate.
“Yes, Katherine—you are, you must be innocent,” he continued; “and I will labour unceasingly to make your innocence apparent. I will provide the ablest counsel to assist in your defence; and all that human agency can effect in your behalf shall be ensured at any cost.”
The poor girl could not find words to express her deep gratitude to this young man who so generously constituted himself her champion, and on whom she had not the slightest claim;—but her looks and her tears conveyed to our hero all she felt.
“Has your uncle been to see you?” he inquired.
“No, sir—nor my cousin,” replied Katherine, with melancholy emphasis upon the latter words.
“Perhaps they are unaware of your situation. I will call and communicate to them the sad tidings. As your relatives, it is right that they should know the truth.”
He then took leave of the young creature, who now felt less forlorn since she knew that she possessed at least one friend who would not only exert himself in her behalf, but who also believed in her innocence.
From the New Prison Richard proceeded to Saint Giles’s, and knocked at the door of the Public Executioner’s abode.
But his summons remained unanswered.
He repeated it again: all was silent within.
At length a neighbour,—a man who kept a coal and potato shed,—emerged from his shop, and volunteered some information concerning the hangman and his son.
“It’s no use knocking and knocking the
re, sir,” said the man: “Smithers and his lad left London early yesterday morning for some place in the north of Ireland—I don’t know the name—but where there’s some work in his partickler line. The postman brought Smithers a letter, asking him to start off without delay; and he did so. He took Gibbet with him to give him another chance, he said, of trying his hand. Smithers told me all this before he went away, and asked me to take in any letters that might come for him, or answer any one that called. That’s how I came to know all this.”
“Do you happen to be aware when he will return?” asked Richard.
“I’ve no more idea than that there tatur,” answered the man, indicating with his foot a specimen of the vegetable alluded to.
Richard thanked the man for the information which he had been enabled to give, and then pursued his way towards the chief police station in the neighbourhood.
Arrived at that establishment, he inquired for Morris Benstead.
The officer happened to be on the premises at the moment.
Markham led him to a short distance, and then addressed him as follows:—
“You have doubtless heard of the extraordinary position in which poor Katherine Wilmot is placed. I, for one, firmly believe her to be innocent.”
“So do I, sir,” exclaimed the officer, emphatically.
“Then you will prove the more useful to my purpose in consequence of that impression,” said Richard. “When I saw you on a former occasion, you offered me your services if ever I should require them. Little did I then suppose that I should so soon need your aid. Are you willing to assist me in investigating this most mysterious affair?”
“With pleasure, sir—with the sincerest pleasure,” answered Benstead. “You know the respect I entertain for poor Miss Kate.”
“And I know your goodness of heart,” said our hero. “You must then aid me in collecting proofs of her innocence. Spare no expense in your task: hesitate not to apply to me for any money that you may need. Here are ten pounds for immediate purposes. To-morrow I will let you know whom I shall decide upon employing to conduct the poor girl’s defence; and you can then communicate direct with the solicitor and barrister retained. Are you willing to undertake this task?”
“Need you ask me, sir?” cried the policeman. “I would do any thing to serve Miss Kate.”
“Prudence renders it necessary for me to keep myself in the background in this affair,” said Richard; “for fear lest scandal should attach an unworthy motive to my exertions in her behalf, and thus prejudice her cause by injuring her character. Upon you, then, I throw the weight of the investigation.”
“And I accept it cheerfully,” returned Benstead.
Markham then took leave of the officer, and having paid a visit to Mr. Gregory, returned home.
CHAPTER CLV.
PATRIOTISM.
It was late in the evening of the day on which Richard adopted the measures just recorded to ensure the most complete investigation into the case of Katherine Wilmot, that a foreigner called at Markham Place and requested a few moments’ private conversation with our hero.
The request was immediately acceded to; and the foreigner was shown into the library.
He was a man of middle age, with a dark complexion, and was dressed with considerable taste. His air was military, and his manners were frank and open.
He addressed Richard in bad English, and tendered an apology for thus intruding upon him.
Markham, believing him, by his accent and appearance, to be an Italian, spoke to him in that language; and the foreigner immediately replied in the same tongue with a fluency which convinced our hero that he was not mistaken relative to the country to which his visitor belonged.
“The object of my visit is of a most important and solemn nature,” said the Italian; “and you will excuse me if I open my business by asking you a few questions.”
“This is certainly a strange mode of proceeding,” observed our hero; “but you are aware that I must reserve to myself the right of replying or not to your queries, as I may think fit.”
“Undoubtedly,” said the Italian. “But I am a man of honour; and should our interview progress as favourably as I hope, I shall entrust you with secrets which will prove my readiness to look upon you in the same light.”
“Proceed,” said Richard: “you speak fairly.”
“In the first place, am I right in believing that you were once most intimate with a certain Count Alteroni who resides near Richmond?”
“Quite right,” answered Richard.
“Do you, or do you not, entertain good feelings towards that nobleman?”
“The best feelings—the most sincere friendship—the most devoted attachment,” exclaimed our hero.
“Are you aware of any particulars in his political history?”’
“He is a refugee from his native land,” he replied.
“Does he now bear his true name?” he continued.
“If you wish me to place confidence in you,” said Richard,” you will yourself answer me one question, before I reply to any farther interrogatory on your part.”
“Speak,” returned the Italian stranger.
“Do you wish to propose to me any thing whereby I can manifest my attachment to Count Alteroni, without injury to my own character or honour?” demanded Richard.
“I do,” said the stranger solemnly. “You can render Count Alteroni great and signal services.”
“I will then as frankly admit to you that I am acquainted with all which relates to Count Alteroni,” said Richard, dwelling upon the words marked in italics.
“With all which relates to Prince Alberto of Castelcicala?” added the stranger, in a significant whisper. “Do we understand each other?”
“So far that we are equally well acquainted with the affairs of his Highness the Prince,” answered Richard.
“Right. You have heard of General Grachia?” said the foreigner.
“He is also an exile from Castelcicala,” returned Markham.
“He is in England,” continued the foreigner. “I had the honour to be his chief aide-de-camp, when he filled the post of Minister of War; and I am Colonel Morosino.”
Richard bowed an acknowledgment of this proof of confidence.
“General Grachia,” proceeded Morosino, “reached England two days ago. His amiable family is at Geneva. The general visited Prince Alberto yesterday, and had a long conversation with his Highness upon the situation of affairs in Castelcicala. The Grand Duke is endeavouring to establish a complete despotism, and to enslave the country. One province has already been placed under martial law; and several executions have taken place in Montoni itself. The only crime of the victims was a demand for a Constitution. General Grachia represented to his Highness Prince Alberto the necessity of taking up arms in defence of the liberties of the Castelcicalans against the encroachments of despotism. The reply of the Prince was disheartening to his friends and partizans. ‘Under no pretence,’ said he, ‘would I kindle civil war in my native country.’ ”
“He possesses a truly generous soul,” said Richard.
“He is so afraid of being deemed selfish,” observed the Colonel; “and no one can do otherwise than admire that delicacy and forbearance which shrink from the idea of even appearing to act in accordance with his own personal interests. The Prince has every thing to gain from a successful civil war; hence he will not countenance that extremity.”
“And what does General Grachia now propose?” asked Markham.
“You are aware that when Prince Alberto was exiled from Castelcicala for having openly proclaimed his opinions in favour of a Constitution and of the extension of the popular liberties, numbers of his supporters in those views were banished with him. We know that there cannot be less than two thousand Castelcicalan refugees in Paris
and London. Do you begin to comprehend me?”
“I fear that you meditate proceedings which are opposed to the wishes of his Highness Prince Alberto,” said Markham.
“The friends of Castelcicalan freedom can undertake what in them would be recognised as pure patriotism, but which in Prince Alberto would be deemed the result of his own personal interests or ambition.”
“True,” said Richard: “the distinction is striking.”
“The Prince, moreover, in the audience which he accorded to General Grachia yesterday evening, used these memorable words:—‘Were I less than I am, I would consent to take up arms in defence of the liberties of Castelcicala; but, being as I am, I never will take a step which the world would unanimously attribute to selfishness.’ ”
“Those were noble sentiments!” ejaculated Markham: “well worthy of him who uttered them.”
“And worthy of serving as rules and suggestions for the patriots of Castelcicala!” cried Colonel Morosino. “There are certain times, Mr. Markham,” he continued, “when it becomes a duty to take up arms against a sovereign who forgets his duty towards his subjects. Men are not born to be slaves; and they are bound to resist those who attempt to enslave them.”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 17
