“You may be able to imagine what a very unhappy mistake this is for me,” he said to the detective. “But I have no wish to complain to you; you are only doing your duty. Where is it you desire to take me?”
“We must go up to town to-night,” said the man, civilly enough. “As you may remember, sir, the adjourned2 inquest is to be held to-morrow morning, and it will be necessary for you to be present.”
“In that case we had better catch the 6.10 train from Detwich. It is an express and gets to Euston at eight. Is your cab waiting, or shall I order one of my own carriages to take us?”
“I told the man to wait,” the other replied. “He is a station cabman.”
“In that case, if you will allow me, I will tell my servant to put up a few things for me. I suppose I shall be allowed to take them?”
“There is no objection to it.”
Godfrey rang the bell, and, when the butler appeared in answer to it, bade him tell his man that he intended going up to London at once, and that he wanted his bag prepared without a moment’s delay. Then, with a fine touch of sarcasm3, he added: “Tell him also that I shall not require my dress clothes.”
The detective smiled grimly. It was a joke he could appreciate; he also liked the other’s pluck in being able to jest at such a time.
“That’s the thing with these swells,” he said to himself. “They never know when they’re beaten.”
“In the meantime,” said Godfrey, “I suppose you will permit me to say good-bye to my family? I will give you my word, if you deem it necessary, that I will make no attempt to escape.”
“I will trust you, sir,” said the man. “I know it’s hard lines on you, and I want to make it as pleasant for you as I can, provided, of course, you don’t get me into hot water.”
“I will endeavour not to do that,” said Godfrey. “And now I’ll go to the drawing-room. If you think it necessary you can wait in the hall.”
“No, sir, thank you. I am quite comfortable here,” said the man; “but I shouldn’t make the interview longer than I could help if I were you. These things are always a bit trying for the ladies. I know it, because I’ve seen it so often.”
Having ordered a glass of brandy and water for him, the man’s favourite tipple4, and handing him an illustrated5 paper, Godfrey left him and returned to the drawing-room. He had an agonizing6 part to play, and he wanted to spare his women folk as much pain as possible. As he entered the room they looked up at him with startled faces.
“What is it, Godfrey? What is it?” asked his mother, while the two girls waited for him to speak.
“It is a man from London who has come down to see me with regard to the murder,” Godfrey began, scarcely knowing how to break the news to them. “It appears that the authorities are desirous of seeing me prior to the inquest to-morrow, and so I am going up to-night.”
“Godfrey,” cried his mother, springing to her feet and running toward him, “I see it all. They have arrested you on a charge of murder! Oh, my boy, my boy, I can not let you go! They shall not take you away.”
“It is only a matter of form, mother,” he said, soothingly7. “On the face of yesterday’s evidence, they could do nothing else. All well, I shall be down again to-morrow. It is only a little temporary inconvenience; for my lawyer, who is one of the cleverest men of his profession, feels certain that he can disprove the charge.”
“It is monstrous8 even to suspect you of it,” said Kitty. “If they only knew you, they would not dare even to hint at such a thing.”
Molly said nothing. But he knew what her thoughts were.
“I must send a note to your father, dear,” he said. “He anticipated this and made me promise to communicate with him directly it should come to pass.”
He thereupon went to a writing-table in the corner of the room and wrote a hurried note to Sir Vivian, after which he rang the bell and gave orders that it should be taken to the Court without a moment’s delay.
“Now,” he said, when he had examined his watch and found that it was nearly half-past five, “I must bid you good-bye. Do not be anxious about me. I am proudly conscious of my own innocence9, and I feel sure that, by this time to-morrow, the public will be aware of it also.”
But his mother was not to be comforted. She clung to him with the tears streaming down her cheeks, as if she could not let him go.
“Mother dear,” said Kitty, “you must be brave. Think of Godfrey, and don’t send him away more unhappy than he is.”
“I will be brave,” she said, and drew his face down to hers and kissed him. “Good-bye, my dear boy. May God in His mercy bless you and send you safely back to us!”
When Kitty had kissed him, she drew her mother back into the ingle nook in order that Godfrey and Molly might say good-bye to each other in private.
Then Godfrey took Molly in his arms.
“Good-bye, my own dearest,” she said. “I shall pray for you continually. Night and day you will be in my thoughts.”
He could not answer her, but kissed her passionately10. Then, disengaging himself from her embrace, he left the room.
Returning to the library, he informed the detective that he was at his disposal, at the same time telling him that, if they desired to catch the 6.10 at Detwich, they had no time to lose.
“We had better be going, then,” said the man, and leaving the library they proceeded into the hall. Godfrey’s bag had already been placed in the cab, and the gray-haired old butler, Williamson, was standing11 at the foot of the stairs holding the door open.
“Good-bye, Williamson,” said Godfrey. “I know that I can safely leave everything in your hands.”
“You can, sir,” the man replied, simply; and then for the first time in his life he allowed himself to become familiar with his master, and laying his hand on his arm he added, “May God bless you, sir, and send you back to us soon!”
Then the cab rolled away down the drive, and Godfrey’s journey to prison had commenced.
For the greater part of the drive into Detwich neither of them spoke13. One had too much upon his mind to be in the humour for conversation, while the other, who was sorry for his prisoner, and who knew a gentleman when he saw one, had no desire to thrust himself upon him in his trouble. As it happened when they reached the station they found that they had some minutes to spare. They accordingly strolled up and down the platform, while they awaited the coming of the express. On its arrival they secured an empty compartment14, and settled down for the journey to London. When Euston was reached they took a cab and drove direct to Bow Street, where Godfrey Henderson, of Detwich Hall, Detwich, was formally charged with the wilful15 murder of Teresina Cardi, artist’s model. The usual forms having been complied with, he was placed in a somewhat superior apartment in another portion of the building. Then the key was turned upon him, and for the first time in his life was a prisoner.
Early next morning it was announced that two gentlemen had arrived to see him. They proved to be Sir Vivian Devereux and Mr. Codey, the lawyer.
“My dear lad, this is indeed a sad business,” said Sir Vivian, as they shook hands. “I can not tell you how sorry I am for you. But, thank God, we know you to be innocent and are determined16 to prove it.”
They sat down, and the lawyer, who had been looking round the room, which doubtless he had seen on many previous occasions, began to ply12 him with questions, which Godfrey answered to the best of his ability. When they had withdrawn17, he was left to himself until the time arrived for him to set off for the coroner’s court. When he did so, it was in a cab with a couple of stout19 policemen beside him to see that he made no attempt to escape. On reaching it, he found that it was packed to overflowing20. Victor Fensden was there, seated in the space reserved for the witnesses, but Sir Vivian noticed that he avoided meeting Godfrey’s eyes. With one exception, the proceedings21 proved comparatively tame. It was only when the hall porter referred to Godfrey’s haggard appearance when he returned to the hotel on the Thursday night, that there was anything approaching excitement. He deposed22 that Mr. Henderson, who had been staying at the hotel, and whom he now recognised as being in Court, returned to the hotel on the night of the murder between a quarter-past and half-past twelve. He, the porter, was immediately struck by his strange appearance. In reply to a question put by a juror, he replied that he looked very much as if he had been upset by something; his face was deadly white, and he had an anxious, what he should call frightened, look in his eyes. At the other’s request, he had procured23 him some brandy, and, as he had had some trouble next morning with the head waiter about it, the fact was the more vividly24 impressed upon his memory. The cabman who had driven them from the Strand25 to Burford Street was next called. In answer to questions put to him, he stated that, when he was hailed by the person now in court, the deceased woman seemed very reluctant to enter the cab. But the other had at last prevailed upon her to do so, and he had driven them to the house in the street in question. He had identified the body, and could swear as to the identity of the person in court. The police-constable, who had passed a few minutes before he bade Teresina good-night, was next examined. He remembered seeing them together, and thought it a strange place for a gentleman to be in at such a time. His attention was drawn18 to them because the girl was crying, while the gentleman seemed somewhat excited. Feeling that, as he was not appealed to, he had no right to interfere26, he passed on down the street. In answer to the coroner’s inquiry27, he was unable to say whether or not the man entered the house.
Ten minutes later a verdict of wilful murder against Godfrey Henderson was returned, and he was committed for trial on the coroner’s warrant.
Instead of returning to Bow Street from the coroner’s court, Godfrey was now driven to Holloway Prison, where he was placed in an ordinary cell. His spirits by this time had fallen to as low an ebb28 as it would be possible for those of a human being to reach. What had he done to deserve this cruel fate? He was not conscious of ever having done any one an injury; he had always done his best to help his fellow-men. Why, therefore, was he brought so low? He thought of Molly, and pictured her feelings when she should hear that he was committed for trial. He could imagine his mother’s despair and could almost hear poor, sorrowing Kitty vainly endeavouring to comfort her.
During the afternoon Sir Vivian and Mr. Codey came to see him again. The former was very plainly distressed29; the latter, however, regarded matters in a somewhat more stoical light. He had seen the same things so many times before, that he had become in a certain measure hardened to it. In all the cases upon which he had hitherto been engaged, however, he had never had one in which the prisoner was a country gentleman, besides being an artist of considerable repute. “You must not give way, Mr. Henderson,” he said, kindly30. “There’s plenty of time yet for us to prove your innocence. Doubtless, when this is all over and you are free once more, you will regard it as a very unpleasant experience, certainly, but one which might very easily have been worse. Now, with your permission, I will tell you what I have done. In the first place, we must endeavour to find the real murderer. Only a trained hand could do this, so I have engaged a man with whom I have had a great many dealings in the past. He is a private detective of an unusual kind, and has a knack31 of securing information which neither the Government men nor the private agents seem to possess. He will be expensive, but I suppose you will have no objection to paying him well for his services, if he is successful, as I trust he will be.”
“You may be quite sure I shall have no objection,” said Godfrey. “Let him get me out of this scrape, and I’ll pay him double, even treble, his usual charges.”
“Oh, he won’t bleed you as much as that,” returned the lawyer. “He is below now, and if you care to see him, I will obtain permission for him to come up.”
The necessary authority being forthcoming, Codey presently returned, accompanied by a burly, rosy-cheeked individual, who might very well have been the landlord of a well-to-do country inn or a farmer in a prosperous way of business. A more jovial32 countenance33 could scarcely have been discovered, had one searched England through for it. Merely to look at it was to be made to feel happy, while to hear his laugh was to be put in a good humour for the remainder of the day. He was dressed in a suit of tweeds, more than a trifle pronounced as to colour, a knitted blue waistcoat covered his portly, bow-windowed presence, while he wore a spotted34 blue and white tie, decorated with a large diamond pin. His feet and hands were enormous, and when he laughed — which he did on every available opportunity — his whole figure seemed to quiver like a blanc mange.
“This is Jacob Burrell, Mr. Henderson,” said the lawyer, when the door had closed on them. “I have told him that you wish him to take up your case, and he is prepared to do so without delay.”
“I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Burrell,” said Godfrey. “Mr. Codey has told me of your cleverness. If you can discover who it was who actually murdered the poor girl, you will not only relieve me from a position of considerable danger, but you will lay me under an everlasting35 obligation to yourself.”
“I’ll do the best I can, sir,” said the man, jovially36, rubbing his hands together, as if he regarded the whole affair as a huge joke. “As Mr. Codey may have told you, I have unravelled37 pretty tangled38 skeins in my day, and it won’t be my fault if I don’t do the same here. Now, sir, Mr. Codey, who knows my ways of work, has given me an outline of the case, but if you don’t mind, I should like to put a few questions to you on my own account.”
“Ask me whatever you please,” said Godfrey, “and I will answer to the best of my ability.”
Burrell seated himself opposite Godfrey, placed one enormous hand on either knee, and looked the other full in the face.
“Now, sir, in the first place, when you had your old studio in London, before you inherited your present estate, and when you first engaged the girl, can you remember who were your intimate friends? I mean, the friends who were in the habit of dropping into your studio pretty frequently, to smoke their pipes, and perhaps to take a friendly glass?”
Godfrey considered for a moment.
“I had not very many friends in those days,” he answered at last. “I was a hard worker, and for that reason didn’t encourage men to waste my time. Besides, I was only a struggling artist, and couldn’t afford to entertain very much.”
“But there must have been some men who came in. Think, sir, and try to recollect39. It’s an important point.”
“Well, of course, there was my friend, Mr. Fensden, who practically lived with me. He used my studio whenever he had anything to do.”
“He is the gentleman who gave the damaging evidence against you on Monday, is he not?”
“He is! Then there was a Mr. Bourke, a leader writer on the Daily Record.”
“I know Mr. Bourke,” said the detective. “We may dismiss him from the case at once.”
“Then there was an artist named Halliday, who occasionally dropped in, but he is now in Dresden.”
“When did he go?”
“Nearly two months before I went abroad myself,” Godfrey answered. “I think I have given you the list of my friends. I can remember no more.”
“Now, sir, that box, in which the hands were sent, had you ever seen it before?”
“No,” said Godfrey; “I am quite certain I had not.”
“When you came home from Egypt, did you make any purchases in Naples?”
“None at all. I was only there one night.”
“Now, sir, I am given to understand that your friend, Mr. Fensden, induced you to go abroad for the reason that he feared you were falling in love with your model. On what sort of terms was Mr. Fensden himself with the girl in question?”
“On very friendly terms,” said Godfrey.
“Was he in love with her, do you think?”
“I am certain he was not,” Godfrey replied, shaking his head. “I do not think he would ever be in love with anybody.”
“And you are quite sure that he saw nothing of the girl from the day he bade her good-bye in your studio, until Monday, when he inspected her dead body in the mortuary?”
“I am sure of it,” Godfrey answered.
“And when did he return to England, for I understand he has been abroad until lately?”
“On Thursday morning. I met him at the Mahl Stick Club an hour or two after his return from Paris.”
“Now, sir, one other question, and the last. The girl, I understand, told you that she was married, and refused to say to whom. I have had an opportunity of examining the wedding-ring from her finger. Somewhat to my surprise, I found that it was of Austrian make. Now, how does it come about that a girl living in Naples should be married with an Austrian wedding-ring? It was, moreover, an expensive one. What I want to know is, was the young woman ever in Vienna?”
“Never, to the best of my belief,” said Godfrey. “At any rate she never told me so.”
“Now, sir, there’s one point I want to clear up, and when I have done that, I sha’n’t be at all certain that I haven’t got the key to the whole mystery. Is it only a singular coincidence, do you think, that Teresina Cardi, your old model, wore a wedding-ring of Austrian make, and that the box in which her hands were sent to you the other day should bear the label of a well-known Vienna firm?”
He chuckled40 and rubbed his hands together, as he put this question to Godfrey.
“It certainly seems singular,” said the latter; “but why should not the ring have been purchased in Naples, even if it were of Austrian make?”
“There is not the least reason why it should not, but the coincidence is worth remarking. Now, sir, I shall leave you to think over what I have said. I shall telegraph to Naples and Vienna, and meanwhile endeavour to find out who it was handed the box in at Euston. Allow me to wish you good-day, gentlemen.”
They returned his salutations, after which he went away, leaving one little ray of hope behind him.
“A most remarkable41 man that!” said Codey, appreciatively, when the door was once more closed. “He will follow the trail now like a sleuth-hound. In the meantime, Mr. Henderson, I can not promise you anything very hopeful for to-morrow. I shall apply to the magistrate42 for a remand in order to give Burrell more time to look about him. I shall keep in touch with him, you may be sure. I have retained Alfred Rolland as counsel for you. He and I have often worked together, and I don’t think you could have a better man.”
“I place myself in your hands unreservedly,” said Godfrey. “Do whatever you think best, and spare no expense. I have others besides myself to think of in this matter.”
“You have indeed, poor souls!” said Sir Vivian. “I shall go down to-night, and try to reassure43 them, and come up again first thing in the morning.”
When they left him, half-an-hour later, Godfrey sat himself down on his bed and resigned himself to his own miserable44 thoughts. What enemy had he who hailed from Vienna? He could think of no one among the circle of his acquaintances who had ever been there. Certainly no one who would be likely to do him such an irreparable wrong. After that he thought of his dear ones at home, and broke down completely. His supper was sent away untouched. He felt as though he could not have swallowed a mouthful, even had his life depended on it. At last he retired45 to bed, but not to rest. When he rose next morning, he felt older by a dozen years.
“This will never do,” he said to himself. “If I go on like this, people will begin to think from my appearance that I am guilty. No, they shall see that I am not afraid to look any man in the face.”
Then the door was unlocked, and he was informed that it was time to set off for the magistrate’s court.
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1
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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2
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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4
tipple
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| n.常喝的酒；v.不断喝，饮烈酒 | |
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5
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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6
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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7
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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8
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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9
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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10
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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11
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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12
ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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13
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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14
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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15
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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16
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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17
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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18
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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20
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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21
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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22
deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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23
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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24
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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25
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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26
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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27
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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28
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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29
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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30
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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31
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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32
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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33
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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34
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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35
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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36
jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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37
unravelled
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的过去式和过去分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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38
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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39
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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40
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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42
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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43
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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44
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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45
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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