When he had eaten and drunk, and felt stronger, he resolved to put a question to her. “How about that poor fellow?”
She looked puzzled a moment, then turned pale, and said solemnly, “ ’Tis for this day week, I hear. ’Twas to be last week, but the King did respite him for a fortnight.”
“Ah, indeed! Do you now why?”
“No, indeed. In his place, I’d rather have been put out of the way at once; for they will surely hang him.”
Now in our day the respite is very rare: a criminal is hanged or reprieved. But at the period of our story men were often respited for short or long periods, yet suffered at last. One poor wretch was respited for two years, yet executed. This respite, however, was nothing unusual, and Cowen, though he looked thoughtful, had no downright suspicion of anything so serious to himself as really lay beneath the surface of this not unusual occurrence.
I shall, however, let the reader know more about it. The judge in reporting the case notified to the proper authority that he desired His Majesty to know he was not entirely at ease about the verdict. There was a lacuna in the evidence against this prisoner. He stated the flaw in a very few words. But he did not suggest any remedy.
Now the public clamored for the man’s execution, that travellers might be safe. The King’s adviser thought that if the judge had serious doubts, it was his business to tell the jury so. The order for execution issued.
Three days after this the judge received a letter from Bradbury, which I give verbatim.
the king vs. cox
My Lord—Forgive me writing to you in a case of blood. There is no other way. Daniel Cox was not defended. Counsel went against his wish, and would not throw suspicion on any other. That made it Cox or nobody. But there was a man in the inn whose conduct was suspicious. He furnished the wine that made the victim sleepy—and I must tell you the landlady would not let me see the remnant of the wine. She did everything to baffle me and defeat justice—he loaded two pistols so that neither could go off. He has got a pass-key, and goes in and out of the “Swan” at all hours. He provided counsel for Daniel Cox. That could only be through compunction.
He swore in court that he slept that night at 13 Farringdon Street. Your lordship will find it on your notes. For ’twas you put the question, and methinks Heaven inspired you. An hour after the trial I was at 13 Farringdon Street. No Cowen and no captain had ever lodged nor slept there. Present lodger, a City clerk; lodger at date of murder, an old clergyman that said he had a country cure, and got the simple body to trust him with a pass-key: so he came in and out at all hours of the night. This man was no clerk, but, as I believe, the cracksman that did the job at the “Swan.”
My lord, there is always two in a job of this sort—the professional man and the confederate. Cowen was the confederate, hocussed the wine, loaded the pistols, and lent his pass-key to the cracksman. The cracksman opened the other door with his tools, unless Cowen made him duplicate keys. Neither of them intended violence, or they would have used their own weapons. The wine was drugged especially to make that needless. The cracksman, instead of a black mask, put on a calf-skin waistcoat and a bottle-nose, and that passed muster for Cox by moonlight; it puzzled Cox by moonlight, and deceived Gardiner in the moonlight.
For the love of God get me a respite for the innocent man, and I will undertake to bring the crime home to the cracksman and to his confederate Cowen.
Bradbury signed this with his name and quality.
The judge was not sorry to see the doubt his own wariness had raised so powerfully confirmed. He sent his missive on to the minister, with the remark that he had received a letter which ought not to have been sent to him, but to those in whose hands the prisoner’s fate rested. He thought it his duty, however, to transcribe from his notes the question he had put to Captain Cowen, and his reply that he had slept at 13 Farringdon Street on the night of the murder, and also the substance of the prisoner’s defence, with the remark that, as stated by that uneducated person, it had appeared ridiculous; but that after studying the Bow Street officer’s statements, and assuming them to be in the main correct, it did not appear ridiculous, but only remarkable, and it reconciled all the undisputed facts, whereas that Cox was the murderer was and ever must remain irreconcilable with the position of the knife and the track of the blood.
Bradbury’s letter and the above comment found their way to the King, and he granted what was asked—a respite.
Bradbury and his fellows went to work to find the old clergyman, alias cracksman. But he had melted away without a trace, and they got no other clew. But during Cowen’s absence they got a traveller i.e., a disguised agent, into the inn, who found relics of wax in the key-holes of Cowen’s outer door and the door of communication.
Bradbury sent this information in two letters, one to the judge, and one to the minister.
But this did not advance him much. He had long been sure that Cowen was in it. It was the professional hand, the actual robber and murderer, he wanted.
The days succeeded one another; nothing was done. He lamented, too late, he had not applied for a new reprieve, or even a pardon. He deplored his own presumption in assuming that he could unravel such a mystery entirely. His busy brain schemed night and day; he lost his sleep and even his appetite. At last, in sheer despair, he proposed to himself a new solution, and acted upon it in the dark and with consummate subtlety; for he said to himself: “I am in deeper water than I thought. Lord, how they skim a case at the Old Bailey! They take a pond for a puddle, and go to fathom it with a forefinger.”
Captain Cowen sank into a settled gloom; but he no longer courted solitude; it gave him the horrors. He preferred to be in company, though he no longer shone in it. He made acquaintance with his neighbor, and rather liked him. The man had been in the Commissariat Department, and seemed half surprised at the honor a captain did him in conversing with him. But he was well versed in all the incidents of the late wars, and Cowen was glad to go with him into the past; for the present was dead, and the future horrible.
This Mr. Cutler, so deferential when sober, was inclined to be more familiar when he was in his cups, and that generally ended in his singing and talking to himself in his own room in the absurdest way. He never went out without a black leather case strapped across his back like a despatch-box. When joked and asked as to the contents, he used to say, “Papers, papers,” curtly.
One evening, being rather the worse for liquor, he dropped it, and there was a metallic sound. This was immediately commented on by the wags of the company.
“That fell heavy for paper,” said one.
“And there was a ring,” said another.
“Come, unload thy pack, comrade, and show us thy papers.”
Cutler was sobered in a moment, and looked scared. Cowen observed this, and quietly left the room. He went up-stairs to his own room, and, mounting on a chair, he found a thin place in the partition and made an eyelet hole.
That night he made use of this with good effect. Cutler came up to bed, singing and whistling, but presently threw down something heavy, and was silent. Cowen spied, and saw him kneel down, draw from his bosom a key suspended round his neck by a ribbon, and open the despatch-box. There were papers in it, but only to deaden the sound of a great many new guineas that glittered in the light of the candle, and seemed to fire and fill the receptacle.
Cutler looked furtively round, plunged his hands in them, took them out by handfuls, admired them, kissed them, and seemed to worship them, locked them up again, and put the black case under his pillow.
While they were glaring in the light, Cowen’s eyes flashed with unholy fire. He clutched his hands at them where he stood, but they were inaccessible. He sat down despondent, and cursed the injustice of fate. Bubbled out of money in the City; robbed on the road; but when another had money, it was safe; he left his keys in the
locks of both doors, and his gold never quitted him.
Not long after this discovery he got a letter from his son telling him that the college bill for chattels, or commons, had come in, and he was unable to pay it; he begged his father to disburse it, or he should lose credit.
This tormented the unhappy father, and the proximity of gold tantalized him so that he bought a phial of laudanum, and secreted it about his person.
“Better die,” said he, “and leave my boy to Barrington. Such a legacy from his dead comrade will be sacred, and he has the world at his feet.”
He even ordered a bottle of red port and kept it by him to swill the laudanum in, and so get drunk and die.
But when it came to the point he faltered.
Meantime the day drew near for the execution of Daniel Cox. Bradbury had undertaken too much; his cracksman seemed to the King’s advisers as shadowy as the double of Daniel Cox.
The evening before that fatal day Cowen came to a wild resolution; he would go to Tyburn at noon, which was the hour fixed, and would die under that man’s gibbet—so was the powerful mind unhinged.
This desperate idea was uppermost in his mind when he went up to his bedroom.
But he resisted. No, he would never play the coward while there was a chance left on the cards; while there is life there is hope. He seized the bottle, uncorked it, and tossed off a glass. It was potent and tingled through his veins and warmed his heart.
He set the bottle down before him. He filled another glass; but before he put it to his lips jocund noises were heard coming up the stairs, and noisy, drunken voices, and two boon companions of his neighbor Cutler—who had a double-bedded room opposite him—parted with him for the night. He was not drunk enough, it seems, for he kept demanding “t’other bottle.” His friends, however, were of a different opinion; they bundled him into his room and locked him in from the other side, and shortly after burst into their own room, and were more garrulous than articulate.
Cutler, thus disposed of, kept saying and shouting and whining that he must have “t’other bottle.” In short, any one at a distance would have thought he was announcing sixteen different propositions, so various were the accents of anger, grief, expostulation, deprecation, supplication, imprecation, and whining tenderness in which he declared he must have “t’other bo’l.”
At last he came bump against the door of communication. “Neighbor,” said he, “your wuship, I mean, great man of war.”
“Well, sir?”
“Let’s have t’other bo’l.”
Cowen’s eyes flashed; he took out his phial of laudanum and emptied about a fifth part of it into the bottle. Cutler whined at the door, “Do open the door, your wuship, and let’s have t’other (hic).”
“Why, the key is on your side.”
A feeble-minded laugh at the discovery, a fumbling with the key, and the door opened, and Cutler stood in the doorway, with his cravat disgracefully loose and his visage wreathed in foolish smiles. His eyes goggled; he pointed with a mixture of surprise and low cunning at the table. “Why, there is t’other bo’l! Let’s have’m.”
“Nay,” said Cowen, “I drain no bottles at this time; one glass suffices me. I drink your health.” He raised his glass.
Cutler grabbed the bottle and said, brutally, “And I’ll drink yours!” and shut the door with a slam, but was too intent on his prize to lock it.
Cowen sat and listened.
He heard the wine gurgle, and the drunkard draw a long breath of delight.
Then there was a pause; then a snatch of song, rather melodious and more articulate than Mr. Cutler’s recent attempts at discourse.
Then another gurgle and another loud “Ah!”
Then a vocal attempt, which broke down by degrees.
Then a snore.
Then a somnolent remark—“All right!”
Then a staggering on to his feet. Then a swaying to and fro, and a subsiding against the door.
Then by and by a little reel at the bed and a fall flat on the floor.
Then stertorous breathing.
Cowen sat at the keyhole some time, then took off his boots and softly mounted his chair, and applied his eye to the peep-hole.
Cutler was lying on his stomach between the table and the bed.
Cowen came to the door on tiptoe and turned the handle gently; the door yielded.
He lost his nerve for the first time in his life. What horrible shame, should the man come to his senses and see him!
He stepped back into his own room, ripped up his portmanteau, and took out, from between the leather and the lining a disguise and a mask. He put them on.
Then he took his loaded cane; for he thought to himself, “No more stabbing in that room,” and he crept through the door like a cat.
The man lay breathing stertorously, and his lips blowing out at every exhalation like lifeless lips urged by a strong wind, so that Cowen began to fear, not that he might wake, but that he might die.
It flashed across him he should have to leave England.
What he came to do seemed now wonderfully easy: he took the key by its ribbon carefully off the sleeper’s neck, unlocked the despatch-box, took off his hat put the gold into it, locked the despatch-box, replaced the key, took up his hatful of money, and retired slowly on tiptoe as he came.
He had but deposited his stick and the booty on the bed, when the sham drunkard pinned him from behind, and uttered a shrill whistle. With a fierce snarl Cowen whirled his captor round like a feather, and dashed him against the post of his own door, stunning the man so that he relaxed his hold, and Cowen whirled him round again, and kicked him in the stomach so fully that he was doubled up out of the way, and contributed nothing more to the struggle except his last meal. At this very moment two Bow Street runners rushed madly upon Cowen through the door of communication. He met one in full career with a blow so tremendous that it sounded through the house, and drove him all across the room against the window, where he fell down senseless; the other he struck rather short, and though the blood spurted and the man staggered, he was on him again in a moment, and pinned him. Cowen, a master of pugilism, got his head under his left shoulder, and pommelled him cruelly; but the fellow managed to hold on, till a powerful foot kicked in the door at a blow, and Bradbury himself sprang on Captain Cowen with all the fury of a tiger; he seized him by the throat from behind, and throttled him, and set his knee to his back; the other, though mauled and bleeding, whipped out a short rope, and pinioned him in the turn of the hand. Then all stood panting but the disabled men, and once more the passage and the room were filled with pale faces and panting bosoms.
Lights flashed on the scene, and instantly loud screams from the landlady and her maids, and as they screamed they pointed with trembling fingers.
And well they might. There—caught red-handed in an act of robbery and violence, a few steps from the place of the mysterious murder, stood the stately figure of Captain Cowen and the mottled face and bottle nose of Daniel Cox condemned to die in just twelve hours’ time.
CHAPTER IV
“Ay, scream, ye fools,” roared Bradbury, “that couldn’t see a church by daylight.” Then, shaking his fist at Cowen, “Thou villain! ’Tisn’t one man you have murdered, ’tis two. But please God I’ll save one of them yet, and hang you in his place. Way, there! not a moment to lose.”
In another minute they were all in the yard, and a hackney-coach sent for.
Captain Cowen said to Bradbury, “This thing on my face is choking me.”
“Oh, better than you have been choked—at Tyburn and all.”
“Hang me. Don’t pilory me. I’ve served my country.”
Bradbury removed the wax mask. He said afterward he had no power to refuse the villain, he was so grand and gentle.
“Thank you
, sir. Now, what can I do for you? Save Daniel Cox?”
“Ay, do that, and I’ll forgive you.”
“Give me a sheet of paper.”
Bradbury, impressed by the man’s tone of sincerity, took him into the bar, and getting all his men round him, placed paper and ink before him.
He addressed to General Barrington, in attendance on his majesty, these:—
General—See His Majesty betimes, tell him from me that Daniel Cox, condemned to die at noon, is innocent, and get him a reprieve. O Barrington, come to your lost comrade. The bearer will tell you where I am. I cannot.
Edward Cowen.
“Send a man you can trust to Windsor with that, and take me to my most welcome death.”
A trusty officer was despatched to Windsor, and in about an hour Cowen was lodged in Newgate.
All that night Bradbury labored to save the man that was condemned to die. He knocked up the sheriff of Middlesex, and told him all.
“Don’t come to me,” said the sheriff; “go to the minister.”
He rode to the minister’s house. The minister was up. His wife gave a ball—windows blazing, shadows dancing—music—lights. Night turned into day. Bradbury knocked. The door flew open, and revealed a line of bedizened footmen, dotted at intervals up the stairs.
“I must see my lord. Life or death. I’m an officer from Bow Street.”
“You can’t see my lord. He is entertaining the Proosian Ambassador and his sweet.”
“I must see him, or an innocent man will die tomorrow. Tell him so. Here’s a guinea.”
“Is there? Step aside here.”
He waited in torments till the message went through the gamut of lackeys, and got, more or less mutilated, to the minister.
He detached a buffer, who proposed to Mr. Bradbury to call at the Dolittle office in Westminster next morning.”
“No,” said Bradbury, “I don’t leave the house till I see him. Innocent blood shall not be spilled for want of a word in time.”
The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries Page 59
