by Anthology
“You were not the first to enter the field. Your older brother has the prior right, and, as I view the matter, the only right, to approach Hope in the attitude of a lover.”
The oaths which this excited turned the poor old listener cold. Alfred could not see the justice of his brother’s course, and stormed away about fairness being shown to the young girl herself, who possibly looked upon the matter in another light than he did.
“Then you have been making love to her on the sly!” vociferated Mr. Gillespie, totally forgetting himself.
But this the young man denied. If he understood her better than others did, it was because he loved her better. He was positive that she did not care for his brother, and all but certain she did care for himself. At all events he flattered himself to this extent. This called forth a few more bitter words from his father, and Alfred went out, banging the door behind him.
“And did you see any change in the manner of Mr. Gillespie towards his sons after this misunderstanding with Alfred?”
The witness appeared to weigh her words; but, when she answered, it was evident her care arose from a desire to present the subject fairly.
“I thought Mr. Gillespie talked less and looked about him more. And the young gentlemen seemed conscious of this change in him, for they were very careful not to show their feelings too plainly in his presence.”
“Yet there was a manifested distrust between them?”
“I fear so.”
“Amounting to animosity?”
“That I cannot say. I never heard them exchange hard words; only neither of them would leave the field open to the other. If Mr. George stayed home, Mr. Alfred found some excuse for doing so also; and if Mr. Alfred showed a disposition to linger in the parlour, Mr. George brought in his friends and made a social evening of it.”
“And is this all you can tell us?”
“On this topic? Yes.”
“You never saw Miss Meredith speaking apart to either of these two men?”
“No, sir; on the contrary, she appeared to avoid all private conversation with any of them.”
“Nor ever heard either of these men swear he would have Miss Meredith for his wife, no matter who stood in the way, or what means were taken to stop him?”
“Oh, I once heard Mr. Alfred make use of some violent expressions as I was passing his door, but I can not be sure he spoke the precise words you mention. He falls into fits of anger at times and then is liable to forget himself. But his ill-temper does not last, sir. It is quite unusual for him to show unkindness for any length of time.”
After the close of this examination, so painful to the witnesses and so humiliating to the three persons whose most cherished feelings were thus exposed to the public eye, the three sons of Mr. Gillespie were called up, one after the other, and questioned.
Leighton made the best impression. Not being involved in the delicate question which had just come up, he had no blushes to conceal nor any secret animosities to hold in check. George, on the contrary, seemed to have reached a state of exasperation which made it difficult for him to preserve any semblance of self-possession. He stammered when he talked, and looked much more like having it out with his brother in a hand-to-hand fight than submitting to an examination tending to incriminate one or both of them on a charge of murder. Alfred showed less bitterness, possibly because he felt securer in his position towards the woman whose beauty had occasioned this rivalry. Of the facts brought out by their accumulated testimony I need say little. They added nothing to the general knowledge, and the inquiry adjourned with promise of still more serious work for the morrow.
Hitherto the evidence had been of a nature to show, first, that a crime had been committed, and, secondly, that the relations between Alfred and his father had been such as to occasion a desire on the former’s part to be free from the watchful eye of one who stood between him and any attempt he might make to win the affections of the woman upon whom he had set his heart. On this morning the testimony took a turn, and an endeavour was made to show a positive connection between Alfred Gillespie and the drug which had ended his father’s life,—or so it appeared at the time. The visit he paid to the dining-room during the fatal hour preceding his father’s death was brought out, and the acknowledgment reached that he went there in search of his missing pencil.
Then the detectives were called to the stand and requested to relate the circumstances connected with the finding of a certain cork and phial; the one under the edge of the dining-room rug, and the other under the clock on the mantel-shelf. These aforementioned articles were then produced, and after positive declaration had been made that they had not been allowed to come in contact since falling into the hands of the police, they were severally handed down to the jury, who immediately proceeded to satisfy them selves that the scent of bitter almonds was nearly as marked in one as the other. This point having been reached and universal expectation raised, Sweet water handed up another article to the coroner, saying:
“In this box, which is as nearly air-tight as I could procure offhand, I caused to be placed, as soon as possible after finding it, the pencil which we came upon in our search of the dining-room floor. Like the phial and the cork, it was kept isolated in a perfectly clean glass till this box could be procured, and, with this fact in mind, may I ask you to open the box and hand the pencil round among the jury?”
Instantly a great stir took place in the whole body of spectators. Necks were stretched, heads were craned, and a general sigh swept from end to end of the room as the coroner wrenched the cover from the box, lifted out the pencil, raised it to his nose, and then passed it down to the jury. Only one person in sight failed to follow these significant movements with looks of curious interest; and that was the unhappy man who thus saw the finger of suspicion, which had been simply wavering in his direction, settle into immobility and point inexorably towards him. A white face and a sinking heart were shown by Alfred Gillespie at that moment; and in the features of Hope, disclosed for one instant under the stress of her mortal anxiety, I saw his anxiety reflected as in a mirror.
The jury whispered together with nods and significant looks as this small pencil passed from hand to hand—I had almost said from nose to nose. Then silence was restored, and the coroner, with a sudden change of manner startling to observe in one whose bearing and tone reflected his feelings almost too openly, called an expert in poisons to the stand.
His testimony established three facts; that the smell of prussic acid is unmistakable; that this poison, though volatile in its character, preserves its own individual odour for a long time if not subjected to too much air; and, lastly, that if the pencil smelt of the bottle, the pocket in which they both had lain would also give out the same odour of bitter almonds.
When the expert was seated, Detective Sweetwater was called back. And then for the first time I noticed a large package encumbering the coroner’s desk. As this package was being unrolled, I stole a look at the witness, who, from his assured air, evidently had the thread of Alfred’s future destiny in his hand, and was astonished to see how attractive a very plain man can sometimes become.
Perhaps I have not spoken of this young detective’s plainness. It was so marked and of such an unrelieved type that, after once seeing the man, you could never again think of him without recalling his lank frame and inharmonious features.
Yet as he stood there, calm amidst the tremor of this throng, his eye sparkled with such intelligence that I trembled for the man whose cause he was expected to damage with his testimony. Seeing that my feelings were shared by those about me, I glanced back at the coroner’s table to see what the unrolling of that package had revealed, and saw, hanging from the coroner’s hands, three vests, which he proceeded to display, one by one, before the witness.
“What are these?” he asked, with a stern look down the room, calculated to suppress any too open demonstration of interest.
“Vests; the property of the three gentlemen members of the
present Gillespie household; in other words, those severally worn by Messrs. George, Leighton, and Alfred Gillespie on the evening of their father’s death.”
“How do you know these particular vests to be the ones then worn?”
“From their material and cut, of which I took especial note at the time.”
“No other way?”
“Yes, sir. Foreseeing the difficulties which might arise if it ever became necessary to distinguish the vests then worn from the half dozen others which we should doubtless find in their well-supplied wardrobes, I took the precaution of secretly running my finger over a freshly inked pen before taking hold of their vests in the search I had been commanded to make of their persons. If the marks of my finger can be seen on the white linings of the vests now in your hand, you may be sure they are the ones subjected to my search on that night, as I communicated my intention to no one and have since been exceedingly careful not to take anyone into my confidence concerning this little trick.”
The coroner turned the vests. On the back of each a black spot was plainly visible to the remotest ob server in the room. A murmur of mingled admiration and suspense responded to this discovery, and the coroner turned again to Sweetwater.
“May I ask,” said he, “if you are in a position to tell us to which of these young gentlemen these several vests belong?”
“The Messrs. Gillespie can be trusted to identify their own property,” was the answer. “But I doubt if you will consider this a necessary formality. There is no scent of bitter almonds lingering about any of these pockets. There was none on that night. This I made it my especial business to ascertain.” And he glanced at Alfred as much as to say, “Thank me for doing you what justice I can.”
Such surprise followed this unexpected acknowledgment from one whose manner had given promise of a very different result, that it was hard to tell where the effect was greatest. Hope’s veil was shifted again, and the three brothers looked up simultaneously and with an equal show of relief.
But their countenances fell again as they noted the witness still on the stand—waiting.
My countenance fell too, or rather my heart began to throb apprehensively as I now perceived the face and form of Mr. Gryce slowly appearing round the corner of a certain jut in the wall where he had held himself partially concealed during most of the day’s proceedings. If this sagacious but sickly old detective thought it worth his while to come forward, I thought it worth mine to note upon whom or on what his glance first fell. But I had forgotten his habit, known to most men who have had anything to do with this celebrated detective. He had looks for nothing save the umbrella he rolled round and round between his palms; though his face—if this indicated anything—was turned towards the seat where the three Gillespies sat, rather than towards the witness with whose testimony past, present, and to come he was probably fully acquainted.
Meantime the coroner was speaking.
“When you failed to find the telltale scent of bitter almonds tainting the pockets of any of the clothes worn by these young gentlemen at the time you searched them, what did you do?”
“As soon as opportunity offered, that is, as soon as I found myself unobserved, I searched the wardrobes of these young gentlemen for other vests and pockets.
“Ah, and did you come upon any article of clothing giving signs of having at any time come in contact with this pencil or this bottle?”
“I found that,” he returned, indicating a fourth garment, which the coroner now deftly drew forth from the paper where it had hitherto lain concealed.
This garment was a vest like the others, and, like them, of a plain and inconspicuous pattern. As it was lifted into sight, a groan was heard which seemed to spring from the united breasts of the three young men behind him. Then one bounded to his feet.
“That is my vest,” he shouted. “What damned villain says there is anything the matter with it?”
It was George. The two other brothers had shrunk back out of sight.
XV. The Missing Pocket
THE excitement was intense. To see suspicion thus suddenly, and, I must say, deftly, shifted from the man hitherto regarded guilty to one whom nobody had seemed inclined to doubt, was to experience an emotion of no ordinary nature. I was so affected by it that I quite forgot myself, and stared first at the vest thus recognised by its owner, then at the witness, who was calmly awaiting an opportunity to speak, with deep bewilderment only cut short by the coroner’s abrupt words:
“Where did you find this vest I now hold up before you?”
“In the closet of the dressing-room adjoining the apartment where Mr. George Gillespie is said to sleep.”
“Does this dressing-room communicate with the hall or with any other room than the said Mr. Gillespie’s sleeping apartment?”
“No.”
“Is it a large room or a small one; a mere closet or a place big enough for a man to turn about in with ease and do such a thing, say, as change his vest with out being seen too plainly by persons in the adjoining room?”
“It is a six-by-ten room, sir. If anyone chose to do what you suggest in the especial corner where the wardrobe stands, he certainly would run little chance of being seen by anyone sitting near the fireplace of the sleeping apartment.”
“Why do you speak of the fireplace?”
“Because the evidences are strong that this was where Mr. Gillespie’s three friends were sitting when he came up from below, with the half-empty bottle of sherry in his hands.”
“What evidences do you allude to?”
“The fact that we found four chairs standing there about a table strewn with cards. I did not see the gentlemen in their seats.”
“But you did see this vest hanging on one of the nails in the wardrobe?”
“Yes, sir.”
A near nail or a remote one?
“The remotest in the closet.”
“Very good. Now, what is the matter with this vest?”
“It lacks a pocket.”
Ah! So that was it!
The coroner turned the vest in his hand.
“What pocket?”
“The lower right-hand one, the one where a gentle man usually carries a pen, knife, or pencil.”
“What has happened to it? How could a pocket be lost from a vest?”
“It has been cut out.”
“Cut out!”
“Yes, sir; we found an open knife lying on the dresser, and if you will look again at the vest you will see that the missing pocket was slit from it with a very hasty jerk.”
“I avow—” shouted the voice of the owner from the seats behind.
But the infuriated man who thus attempted to speak was quickly silenced.
“You will be allowed to explain later,” remonstrated the coroner. “At present we are listening to Mr. Sweetwater. Witness, what course did you pursue after coming upon this vest?”
“I endeavoured to ascertain if its owner had gone into his dressing-room after coming up from the room below.”
Here we heard sobs; but they were only a child’s, and the inquiry went on.
“Did you succeed?”
“I request you to call up Mr. James Baxter as a more direct witness.”
His request being complied with, Mr. James Baxter came forward, and expectancy rose to fever-point. He was one of the three gentlemen whose voices I had heard over the cards that were being played in George Gillespie’s room during the hour his father had succumbed to poison. I recognised him at once from his burly figure and weak voice; having noticed this eccentricity at our first meeting. He was not sober then, but he was very sober now, and the effect he produced was, on the whole, favourable.
Glancing at George as if in apology, and receiving a tiger’s glare in return, he waited with a certain sang-froid for the inevitable question. It came quickly and with a peremptoriness which showed that the coroner now felt himself on safe ground.
“Where were you sitting when George Gillespie left you to go do
wnstairs for wine?”
“At the card-table near the fire, with my face towards the dressing-room at the other end of the room.”
“Had wine been passed then, or any spirituous liquors?”
“No.”
“You were all in a perfectly sober condition there fore?”
“Tolerably so. Two of us had had dinner at Delmonico’s, but I had been dining at home and was dry. That is why Mr. Gillespie went down for the wine.”
“What did you do while he was downstairs?”
“Bet on the Jack about to be turned up.”
“How much money passed?”
“Oh, ten dollars or so.”
“And when your host returned, what did you do?”
“I guess we drank.”
“Did he drink too?”
“I did not notice. He put the bottle down and went into his dressing-room. When he came back he stood a minute by the fire, then he sat down. He may have drank then. I didn’t observe.”
“What did he do at the fire? Was he warming himself? It was not a cold night.”
“I don’t know what he did. I saw a sudden burst of flame, but that was all. I was busy dealing the cards.”
“You saw a flame shoot up. Was there wood or coal in the grate?”
“Deuce take me if I remember. I wasn’t thinking of the fire. I only knew we were roasting hot and more than once made some movement towards shifting the table further off, but we got too interested in the cards to bother about it.”
“It must have been a lively game. Were you too interested in shuffling and dealing to notice why Mr. Gillespie went to his dressing-room?”
“Yes, I never thought anything about it.”
“You didn’t watch him, then?!
“No.”
“Cannot say whether or not he went towards his wardrobe?!
“No.”
“Or, perhaps, whether the door between you was closed or not?”
“He didn’t close the door; I should have noticed that.”
“How long was he in that room?”
“I can’t say. Long enough for me to drink my wine and shuffle the cards. Before I had dealt them he had set down.”
