CONTAINS FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM THE “EVENING MOON” RELATING TO THE GREAT PORTER SQUARE MYSTERY.
Yesterdaythe inquiry into the Great Porter Square mystery was resumed at the Martin Street Police Court, before Mr. Reardon. The court was again crowded, and the prisoner, Antony Cowlrick, was brought in handcuffed. His appearance was, if possible, more forlorn-looking and wretched than on the previous occasions, and his face bore the marks of a scuffle. Mr. White Lush again appeared for the Treasury, and Mr. Goldberry for the prisoner. As a proof of the public feeling respecting the conduct of the police in this case we have to record that during his progress down Martin Street towards theMagistrate’s Court, Mr. Goldberry, who has so generously come forward on behalf of the prisoner, was loudly cheered.
Mr. White Lush rose, and stated that he was not prepared to offer any further evidence, in consequence of the inquiries of the police not being concluded. He applied for another adjournment of a week.
A buzz of astonishment and indignation ran through the court, which was quickly suppressed.
Mr. Reardon: I was not prepared for this application. It is my duty to do everything in my power to assist the course of justice, but I cannot shut my eyes to the fact that the prisoner has now been brought before me six times, and that on the occasion of every adjournment the police have promised to produce evidence affecting the prisoner which up to the present moment is not forthcoming. If it is my duty to further the ends of justice, it is equally the duty of the police to see that it does not lag. A suspected person—suspected withcause and reason—should not be allowed the opportunity of escape; but some protection must be given to a man who is presumably innocent. Since last week I have carefully gone over and considered the evidence presented in this court with respect to this awful and mysterious murder; and I am hardly inclined to allow the accused to remain any longer in prison on this charge. What has Mr. Goldberry to say?
Mr. Goldberry: I am glad—as I am sure the public will be—to hear the expression of your worship’s sentiments in the matter. It is not my wish to excite false sympathy for the prisoner, but I would draw your worship’s attention, and the attention of the police, to the reasonable presumption that while they are wildly hunting for evidence against an innocent man, the criminal is being allowed every opportunity to escape the hands of justice. It would almost seem—far be it from me to assert that it is so, for I am sure it would be untrue—but it would almost seem as if they were playing into the hands of thereal criminal. The only excuse that can be found for the police is, that a murder having been committed, somebody had to be arrested and charged with its committal, and, with this end in view, Cowlrick was indiscriminately taken up and so charged. Zeal is a fine quality, but, when misapplied, frequently leads to grave consequences. In my defence of the prisoner I have had great difficulties to contend with. He has not assisted me in the slightest degree. It is no breach of professional confidence to say that, in my interviews with him, he has doggedly refused to give me any information concerning himself; but as I have before asserted that poverty and wretchedness were not to be accepted as marks of guilt, so I now declare that the prisoner’s strange reticence concerning himself is also no crime. Nor is eccentricity a crime. I have had no opportunity of conversing with the prisoner this morning, or of seeing him before I entered the court a few minutes since, and I have to ask the meaning of those marks upon his face—towhich I direct your worship’s attention—and of his being handcuffed.
The police explained that on his way to Martin Street police court the prisoner had attempted to escape, and that a struggle had taken place, during which a constable and the prisoner had received several blows.
Mr. Goldberry asked if the constable who had been struck was present, and the answer was given that he was not; he was on duty in another place.
Mr. Goldberry: I will not comment upon the occurrence; in the marks upon the prisoner’s face, and in the absence of the constable who is said to have been struck, it speaks for itself. I strenuously oppose the application for a remand, and I demand the prisoner’s discharge on the plain grounds that there is no evidence against him.
Mr. White Lush: In the interests of justice, I ask for a further remand.
Mr. Reardon: Am I to understand that if I remand the prisoner until this day week, you will be prepared to bring forward evidencewhich will justify not only his present but his past detention?
Mr. White Lush: I am informed that such evidence will be forthcoming.
Mr. Reardon: Upon that understanding the prisoner is remanded until this day week.
THE “EVENING MOON” SPEAKS ITS MIND.
Yesterday, at the Martin Street Police Court, Antony Cowlrick was brought up for the seventh time, on the charge of being concerned in the mysterious murder which took place at No. 119, Great Porter Square. The remarks we have from time to time made upon this case and upon the arrest of Antony Cowlrick have been justified by the result. The prisoner was finally discharged. All that was wanted to complete the tragical farce was a caution from the magistrate to the prisoner not to do it again.
We now intend to speak plainly; and the strong interest the case has excited will be our excuse if our comments are more lengthy than those in which we generally indulge in our editorial columns. The elements of mysterysurrounding the awful murder were sufficiently complicated without the assistance of the police. Their proceedings with respect to the man calling himself Antony Cowlrick have rendered the task of bringing the murderer to justice one of enormous difficulty.
Our business at present is not so much with the murder itself as it is with Antony Cowlrick and the police; but a brief recapitulation of the circumstances of the murder is necessary for the proper understanding of what is to follow.
On Tuesday, the 1st of July, a gentleman engaged a back room on the first floor of the house No. 119, Great Porter Square. There was a piano in the room. The landlady of that house, who has undergone more than one lengthy examination, has stated that she “reckoned him up” as a man who had just come from a voyage, and that there was something superior “in the looks of him.” When she asked him for his name he said it did not matter, and he handed her four weeks’ rent, telling her at the same time not to troubleherself about a receipt. This was sufficient for the landlady; she received the stranger as a tenant, and he took possession of the room.
He led a remarkably quiet life. He did not trouble the landlady to cook a meal for him, although “attendance” was included in the sum charged for the rent of the room. He had but one visitor, a lady, who came so closely veiled that no person in the house caught a glimpse of her face. She called three times, and when the street door was opened, asked for “the gentleman on the first floor,” and went up to him without waiting for an answer. This lady has not come forward, and she has not been tracked. After the 10th of July no female resembling in the slightest the vague description given of her has called at No. 119, Great Porter Square.
It happened, singularly enough, that on the 9th of July the house was almost empty. The landlady’s niece was married on that day, and the landlady was at the wedding; there was to be a dance in the evening, and she did not expect to be home until very late. Invitationshad not only been given to the landlady, but to three of her lodgers, two of whom were married. Another lodger, a violin player, was engaged for the music. It was a kind of happy family affair, arranged by Fate. Only the general servant and the stranger were left.
The servant was human, and took advantage of the golden opportunity. If we had been in her place, and had “a young man,” we should probably have done the same. She did not have many holidays, and knowing that her services would not be required, and that her mistress and the lodger would not be home till early in the morning, she made an appointment with her “young man,” who treated her to the Alhambra. When the performances at the Alhambra were concluded, this young person and her young man indulged in supper, and, tempted to daring by the opportunity, she did not return to the house until an hour past midnight. She noticed nothing unusual when she entered; conscience-stricken at the late hour she did not light a candle, but thankful that her mistress had not returned,she crept down to her bedroom in the basement, and went to bed in the dark. She fell asleep at once, and we have the testimony of her mistress that the girl is an exceedingly heavy sleeper, and most difficult to wake. We ourselves have a servant—a most desirable creature, whom we are ready to part with on moderate terms—similarly afflicted. Thus it may be said that, for many mysterious hours, the only occupant of the house was the stranger who occupied the front drawing-room.
It was nearly four in the morning before the wedding guests, jaded with pleasure, found themselves in Great Porter Square. The wedding had been a jolly affair, and dancing had been prolonged beyond the anticipated hour of breaking up. Jaded as they were, the spirits of the little knot of merrymakers were not quite exhausted, and as they paused before the door of No. 119, with the morning’s sweet fresh light upon them, they laughed and sang, and so inspired the musician that he took his violin from its green baize bag and struck up a jig. With their tired feet moving to themeasure they entered the house, the door of which was opened by the landlady with her private key; they tripped up the steps and lingered in the passage, dancing to the music. Exhilarated by the occasion they wound in and out along the narrow passage, until the wife of one of the lodgers suddenly uttered a shriek which drove the colour from their flushed faces.
“My God!” shrieked the terrified woman, “we are dancing in blood!”
IN WHICH THE “EVENING MOON” CONTINUES TO SPEAK ITS MIND.
Itwas fatally true. They were dancing in blood. The woman who made the awful discovery had white satin shoes on. As she uttered the appalling words she looked down at her feet, and, with a wild shudder, sank into her husband’s arms. He, overwrought with excitement, had scarcely sufficient strength to support her, and he would have allowed her to slip to the floor had he not, also, cast his eyes earthwards. Quickly he caught her to his breast, and, trembling violently, proceeded upstairs. The weight of his burden compelled him to hold on to the balustrade; but the moment he placed his hand on the polished rail, he screamed, “There’s been Murder done here!” And,shaking like a leaf, he retreated in haste till he reached the street door. Flinging it open, he rushed with his wife into the Square, and stood in the light of the sunrise, a picture of terror.
The other actors in the scene had borne appropriate parts in the tragic situation. For a little while they were paralyzed, and incapable of action. The streaming in of the daylight aroused them, and they looked about timidly. On the floor, stairs, and balustrade were marks of blood not yet quite dried, and they traced the crimson stains to the end of the passage, where it dipped into the narrow staircase which led to the basement. There being no natural means of lighting the stairway, this part of the house was usually lit up by a thin, funereal jet of gas, which burnt as sadly as if its home were a tomb. At present it was in darkness, the gas being turned off.
The thought that had been put into words by the man who had rushed out of the house now took its place in the minds of those who remained within. There had been murderdone. But who was murdered, and where was the murderer?
“That comes,” said the violinist to the landlady, “of letting a man into the house who refuses to give his name.”
The landlady wrung her hands. She saw ruin staring her in the face.
“He’s off, of course,” continued the violinist, “and Mary” (the name of the servant) “lies downstairs, murdered in cold blood.”
A sound sleeper, indeed, must Mary have been to have slept through the music, and the dancing, and the cries of terror. The silence that reigned below was confirmation of the violinist’s assumption. Of all suppositions, it was the most reasonable. Who would go downstairs to corroborate it? Not one had sufficient courage.
Meanwhile, events progressed in front of the house. A policeman, attracted by the sounds of music, was drawn thitherwards, and, seeing a man kneeling on the pavement, supporting a woman, he quickened his steps.
“What’s up?” demanded the policeman.
“Murder! murder!” gasped the man.
The woman’s white shoes, bedabbled in blood, met the policeman’s eye.
“There! there!” cried the man, pointing to the passage.
The policeman was immediately encompassed by the other frightened faces.
“You’re just in time,” said the violinist. “There’s been murder done.”
“Who’s been murdered?” asked the policeman.
“That’s to be found out,” was the answer. “It’s a girl, we believe.”
“Ah,” remarked the policeman, with a certain thoughtfulness; “the last was a girl—an unfortunate girl—andhe’snot been caught.”
Cautiously they re-entered the house, the policeman with his truncheon drawn, and ascended the stairs to the drawing-room. No person, dead or alive, was found.
“It’sdownstairs,” said the violinist.
They crept downstairs in a body, keeping close together. There, an awful sight mettheir eyes. On the floor of the kitchen lay the body of the stranger who, on the 1st of July, had engaged a room on the first floor, and had paid a month’s rent in advance. He had been foully murdered. The servant girl was sound asleep in her bed. It is strange, when she returned home from the Alhambra, and crept through the passage and the kitchen to bed, that she did not herself make the discovery, for the soles of her boots were stained with the evidences of the crime, and she must have passed within a foot or two of the lifeless body; but satisfactory explanations have since been given, with which and with the details of the murder, as far as they are known, the public have already been made fully acquainted through our columns.
Our business now is with Antony Cowlrick.
So profound was the impression produced by the murder that, from the day it was discovered, no person could be induced to lodge or sleep in the house in which it was committed. The tenants all left without giving notice, and the landlady, prostrated by theblow, has not dared, since that awful night, to venture inside the door. The house is avoided, shunned, and dreaded by all. Any human being bold enough to take it could have it for a term of years on a very moderate rental—for the first year, probably, for a peppercorn; but practical people as we are, with our eyes on the main chance, we are imbued with sentiments which can never be eradicated. The poorest family in London could not, at the present time, be induced to occupy the house. The stain of blood is on those floors and stairs, andit can never be washed out! The Spirit of Murder lurks within the fatal building, and when night falls, the phantom holds terrible and undisputed sway over mind and heart. A shapeless shadow glides from room to room—no features are visible but eyes which never close, and which shine only in the dark. And in the daylight, which in this house is robbed of its lustre, its presence is manifest in the echo of every step that falls upon the boards. Appalling spectre! whose twinbrother walks ever by the side of the undiscovered murderer! Never, till justice is satisfied, shall it leave him. As he stole from the spot in which he took the life of a fellow-creature, it touched his heart with its spiritual hand, and whispered, “I am the shadow of thy crime! Thou and I shall never part!” He looks into the glass, and it peers over his shoulder; maddened, he flies away, and when he stops to rest, he feels the breath of the Invisible on his cheek. He slinks into his bed, and hiding his head in the bedclothes, lies there in mortal terror, knowing that the shadow is close beside him. It brings awful visions upon him. He looks over the bridge into the river upon which the sun is shining. How bright is the water! How clear! How pure! Surely over that white surface the shadow can have no power! But suddenly comes a change, and the river is transformed into a river of blood. An irresistible fascination draws him to the river again in the night, when the moon is shining on the waters, and, as he gazes downwards, hesees the ghastly body of his victim, its face upturned, floating on a lurid tide. He cannot avoid it; whichever way he turns it is before him. He walks through country lanes, and trembles at the fluttering of every leaf. Rain falls; it is red; and as he treads along, it oozes up and up till it reaches his eyes, and, resting there, tinges everything that meets his sight with the colour of blood. Water he cannot drink, its taste is so horrible. He must have gin, brandy—any poison that will help him to forget. Vain hope! He shall never forget! And the shadow of his crime shall never leave until he falls at the feet of outraged justice, and pays the penalty. Then,and then only, there may be hope for him—for God is merciful!
Among the measures adopted by the police for the discovery of the Great Porter Square murderer was that of having the house, No. 119, watched day and night by policemen in private clothes. There are not many persons in the kingdom who, in a murder case which has thrilled the public heart and filled it withhorror, would accuse the police of want of zeal; but there are many who, with justice, would accuse them of want of tact.
A week after the murder was committed, Policeman X (as it is not of an individual, but of a system, we complain, we will not make this particular constable’s name more prominent than it has already become)—a week then after the murder was committed, Policeman X, in private clothes, saw lurking in the vicinity of Great Porter Square, a man: as he might see to-night other men lurking in the vicinity of any and every square in London. It is a peculiarity of policemen in private clothes that they are always ready to suspect, and that in their eyes every poor-looking person with whose face they are not familiar is a disreputable character. Policeman X watched this man for a few moments, and took the opportunity of brushing past him when they were near a lamp-post. The man’s face was unknown to him; it was haggard and pale, and his clothes betokened poverty. These were terrible signs, and Policeman X atonce set himself the task of stealthily following the man, who walked leisurely towards the house, No. 119, in which the murder was committed. The house was deserted and untenanted, as it is at the present time. Now, would the suspected man pass the house, or would he linger near it? Much depended upon this.
The man reached the house, peered around (according to Policeman X’s statement) to make sure that he was not observed, and then cast his eyes to the dark windows. He lingered, as though in indecision, for a few moments, and standing before the door, appeared to be studying the number. Then he strolled away. It cannot be said that there was anything criminating in these movements, but Policeman X, determined not to lose sight of his man, followed him at a cautious but convenient distance. The man sauntered round the Square, and presently commenced to munch some stale bread and cheese, portions of which were afterwards found upon him. He completed the circuit of the Square, and for thesecond time paused before No. 119. Again he studied the number on the door, and again he looked up at the dark windows. Not satisfied with his inspection in that direction, he stooped down to the grating above the area, and appeared to listen. Still not satisfied, he ascended the two steps which led to the street door, and tried the handle.
Nothing more was needed. “I have the murderer!” thought Policeman X, with a thrill of satisfaction; and without further hesitation, he walked quickly up, clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder, and said—
“What are you doing here?”
The sudden appearance of a human being out of the shadows probably so startled the suspected man that he did not know what to reply. He thrust his head forward in the endeavour to distinguish the features of the questioner. The next words uttered by Policeman X had more meaning in them. With his hand still on the man’s shoulder, he said, sternly—
“Come with me!”
The reply given to the invitation was the reply which the writer, or any of the readers of this article, would have given on the impulse of the moment. It is to be borne in mind that the policeman was in private clothes, and might, as far as appearances went, himself have been a murderer in the eyes of another man dressed in private clothes, who, in his turn (for what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander) might himself have been a policeman.
“Come with me!” exclaimed Policeman X.
Antony Cowlrick—if that is his proper name, which we doubt—had as much reason to suspect Policeman X as Policeman X had to suspect Antony Cowlrick. Not only did he decline the invitation in words decidedly rude (really, Mr. Cowlrick, you should have been more courteous to this policeman in private clothes!), but he had the temerity to fling not only Policeman X’s hand from his shoulder, but the policeman’s entire body from his person. Not long did Policeman X lie upon the ground—for just time enough tocome to the conclusion that such resistance on the part of a poor man, raggedly dressed, was strong evidence of guilt. For, if not guilty of the murder, why should the man resist? Picking himself up briskly, Policeman X sprang his rattle.
The precise effect produced upon the mind of Antony Cowlrick by the sound of this rattle must be mere matter of conjecture, and we will leave its consideration to a future article; its outward and visible effect was the taking to his heels by Antony Cowlrick.
The mental condition of Antony Cowlrick at this exact moment presents an interesting study. Its variety, its colour, its turmoil of possibilities and consequences, its sequence of private and personal circumstance, are almost sufficiently tempting to induce us instantly to wander into a psychological treatise utterly unfit for the columns of our little newspaper, and conducive, therefore, to its immediate decline in popularity. We resist the temptation. We adhere to our programme; stern Reality—pictures of life as they naturallypresent themselves in all their beauty or deformity; the truth,THE TRUTH, in its naked sweetness or hideousness! The highest efforts of imagination cannot equal the pictures which are for ever being painted upon the canvas of Reality.
Antony Cowlrick took to his heels: what more conclusive evidence than that he was the murderer did murderer ever give? He took to his heels and ran, self-convicted. The evidence was complete. After him, springing his rattle and dreaming of promotion, raced Policeman X. The magic sound caused windows to be thrown open and heads to be thrust out; caused ordinary wayfarers to stop and consider; caused idlers to stray in its direction; caused old hands with the brand of thief upon them to smile contemptuously, and young ones to slink timidly into the shadow of the wall. To the “force” it was a call to arms. It summoned from the north an angry, fierce, and blustering policeman; from the south a slow, envious, dallying policeman; from the east a nipping, sharp, and suddenpoliceman; from the west a brisk, alert, and eager policeman;—and all of them converging upon the hapless form of Antony Cowlrick, he was caught in the toils of Fate’s compass, and lay, gasping and exhausted, beneath the blaze of five bull’s-eye lamps, which glowed upon him with stern and baneful intention.
Helpless and bewildered lay Antony Cowlrick upon the flagstones of Great Porter Square. Over him, in a circle, stood the five policemen. These guardians of the law were tasting one of the sweetest pleasures in existence—for to our imperfect nature, the hunting down of any living creature, whether human or animal, is a rare enjoyment.
Policeman X wipes the mud from his brow.
“Did he strike you?” asks a comrade.
“You see,” answers Policeman X, pointing to his face.
Policemen are ready of belief in such matters. They see without seeing, and sometimes swear to the truth of a circumstance which is introduced to them second-hand.
“Now then,” says Policeman X, of theprostrate man, caught in the toils, “will you come quietly?”
Expectancy reigned in the hearts of the constables. We do not wish to be harsh in our judgment of them, when we say that, as a rule, they prefer a slight resistance on the part of a prisoner. To some extent it enhances the value of their services, and the extra exertion necessary in the conveying of their man to the lock-up, shows that they are doing something for their insufficient stipend. For our own part, we see much enjoyment in a policeman’s life, and were we not tied to the editorial desk, we would joyfully exchange the quill for the rattle.
“Will you come quietly?” demands Policeman X.
Antony Cowlrick is too exhausted to reply, and accepting his silence as a challenge, his pursuers gave him no grace. They haul him to his feet, and proceed to deal with him in their usual humane fashion. This causes faint murmurs of remonstrance to proceed from him, and causes him, also, to hold his armsbefore his face in protection, and to ask faintly,
“What have I done?”
“Ah!” say the four policemen, with a look of enquiry at him whose rattle summoned them to the battlefield.
The proud official—it is in truth a proud moment for him—utters but two words; but they are sufficient to animate the policemen’s breasts with excess of ardour.
“The murderer!” he whispers.
The murderer! Had he spoken for an hour he could not have produced a more thrilling effect; and be sure that he was as conscious of the value of this dramatic point as the most skilful actor on our stage. A light was instantly thrown upon the drama of the crime, and the unfortunate man, in their eyes, was damned beyond hope of redemption. The murderer! Blood swam before their eyes. Delightful moments!
But the ears of the prisoner had caught the words.
“What!” he screamed, making a violentattempt to wrench himself from the grasp of his captors. Poor fool! He was one to five, and was soon reduced to physical submission. The rough usage he received in the course of the struggle appeared to tame him inwardly as well as outwardly; when he spoke again his voice was calmer.
“Do you accuse me of the murder of that man?” he asked, turning his face towards 119, Great Porter Square.
He was most surely condemning himself.
“Yon know best whether you did it,” observed Policeman X.
“Yes,” he replied, “I know best.”
“What were you doing there?” was the next enquiry.
The man looked at them slowly, in detail, as though to fix their faces in his memory, and then, opening his lips, smiled, but did not speak. Nothing more exasperating could well have been imagined than the strange smile of this wretched man—a smile which seemed to say, “You will learn nothing from me.”
It was late in the night, but a crowd hadalready assembled, and the whisper went round that the murderer of the man who was found so cruelly murdered in No. 119, Great Porter Square, had been caught. Short shrift would have been his, even in this law-loving city, if the excited knot of persons could have had their way; but it was the duty of the constables to protect their prisoner.
“Will you come quietly?” they asked of him.
“Why not?” he asked in return. “I shall be the gainer.”
So, carefully guarded and held as in a vice, the man walked to the police-court with his captors, followed by the crowd. It was almost a gala night, and the persons who hung at the heels of the supposed murderer and his captors were vehement in speech and florid in action as they explained to every new-comer the cause of the gathering.
“What is the charge?” asked the inspector.
Who should answer but the prisoner himself? Strange fancy of his to take the words from the tongues of his accusers—to steal, as it were, the very bread from their mouths!
“Murder,” he cried, with a bitter laugh.
An almost imperceptible quiver agitated the eyelids of the inspector, but it was in a quiet voice he repeated “Murder!” and held his pen suspended over the book in which the charges were set down.
“No. 119, Great Porter Square,” added Policeman X, not willing to be robbed of every one of his perquisites.
The inspector’s agitation was now more clearly exhibited. The murder was a notable one—all London was ringing with it. His eyes wandered slowly over the prisoner’s form.
The man’s clothes were ragged, mudded, and shabby, but were without a patch; his boots showed signs of travel; his face had been unshaven for days.
“Search him,” said the inspector.
The man resisted, his face flushing up at the order; he was not aware that every fresh resistance to every fresh indignity was additional confirmation of guilt. The web was closing round him, and he was assisting tospin it. They found on him some stale bread and cheese.
“Take care of it,” he said tauntingly.
They continued their search, and found nothing else—not a scrap of paper, not a card, not a penny piece, not a knife even. It was most perplexing and annoying.
“Your name?” asked the inspector.
The man laughed again bitterly.
“Your name,” repeated the inspector.
“My name!” echoed the man, and then appeared to consider what answer it was best to give. “What do you say to Antony Cowlrick?”
“Is that the name you give?” inquired the inspector.
“Take it,” said the man defiantly, “in place of a better!”
“Where do you live?”
“Under the sky.”
No answers of a satisfactory nature could be obtained from him, and he was taken to his cell, and orders were given that he should be watched through the night.
As Antony Cowlrick, the man was brought before the magistrate the next morning, charged with the commission of the dreadful crime, and was formally remanded for the production of evidence.
We beg our readers not to be led away by the idea that we are writing a romance; we are stating plain facts. Without a tittle of evidence to implicate or connect him with the crime, the man Antony Cowlrick has been brought up no fewer than seven times, and has been a prey to the vulgar curiosity of eager crowds thronging to catch a glimpse of a monster whose hands were dyed with the blood of a fellow-creature. He has been treated as though he had already been found guilty—and, indeed, in the minds of thousands of persons hewasfound guilty; all that was needed was to fix the day, and prepare the scaffold. Rumours, false statements, columns of fiction, all tending to establish his guilt and to eliminate from the breasts of his fellow-men every spark of pity or mercy, have been freely and shamefully circulated. Our columnsalone have not been degraded by this cruelty and this injustice; from the first we refused to believe in Antony Cowlrick’s guilt, for the simple reason that nothing could be adduced against him; and the course we have pursued has been justified by the result. Antony Cowlrick is innocent. But for weeks he has been confined in prison, and treated with contumely. Yesterday he was brought before Mr. Reardon, at the Martin Street Police Court, and, on the police stating that they had no further evidence to offer, Antony Cowlrick was discharged.
We do not say that he owes his release entirely to the generous advocacy of Mr. Goldberry, but he is certainly indebted to that gentleman for an earlier release from prison than the police would have been willing to accord him. For if prisons were not filled there would be no need of constables, and the common law of self-preservation induces all men instinctively to adopt that course which will preserve and lengthen their existence. Therefore, we say again, the prisons must befilled, and in the performance of this duty the police assert the necessity of their being.
Now, how stands the case at the present moment? What is the position of the Great Porter Square mystery? An innocent man has been arrested and charged with the crime; after a detention of eight weeks he has been discharged; and, during the whole of this interval, the police have been following a wrong scent. That they knew absolutely nothing of the man they falsely accused—that it is unknown where he has been lodging, and how long he has been in London—that not a friend has come forward to speak a word in his behalf, and that he himself has chosen to preserve a strange and inexplicable silence about himself—these circumstances add to the mystery.
A startling coincidence presents itself; the man who was murdered is unknown; the only man whom the police have arrested for the murder is unknown. But it would be odd if, in such a city as London, with its millions of human beings and its myriad ofcircumstances, strange and startling coincidences did not frequently occur.
There shall be no misconception of our meaning; there have been too many instances lately of wrong done to individuals by false or reckless swearing on the part of the police. The case of Frost and Smith, condemned by Mr. Justice Hawkins respectively to fifteen and twelve years’ penal servitude, on the testimony of the police, for a crime they did not commit, is fresh in the memory of our readers. The men are now released, after undergoing two years’ imprisonment—released, not by the efforts of the police who swore away their liberty, nor by the jury who condemned them, nor by the judge who sentenced them, but by means of an anonymous letter and the arrest of the real criminals for another crime—released really by an accident which, while it restores them to liberty, cannot remove from them the taint of the gaol. But, it may be urged, they have Her Gracious Majesty’s Pardon. Sweet consolation! A pardon for a crime they did notcommit! Never was a word with a gracious meaning to it more bitterly parodied than this; the use of the word “pardon” by Home Secretaries, as applied to the men Frost and Smith, is not only an unpardonable mockery, but a shameful insult. Truly, red-tapeism, like charity, is made to cover a multitude of sins, but it cannot cover this.
We trust that the police have restored to Antony Cowlrick the property—the only property—they found upon his person at the time of his arrest; the pieces of stale bread and cheese. According to appearance it is all he has to fight the world with. It is worthy of note that Cowlrick made no application to the magistrate for relief.
We have opened a subscription for the unfortunate man, and have already two sovereigns in our possession, which we shall be happy to hand to this last “victim of justice,” if he will call at our office.
To-morrow we shall have something more, something perhaps of the greatest interest, to say with respect to Antony Cowlrick.
THE “EVENING MOON” POSTPONES ITS STATEMENT RESPECTING ANTONY COWLRICK.
Wehinted to our readers yesterday that we should have something of great interest to lay before them to-day with respect to Antony Cowlrick. For reasons which we shall in due time explain, we postpone the statement until we can present it in a complete and satisfactory form. We append a list of subscriptions which have been sent to us in response to our announcement that we were ready to receive contributions in aid of the unfortunate man. The signatures of some of the donors are suggestive:—“One who was Wrongfully Convicted” sends 1s. 6d.; “A Poor Widow, whose little boy, nine years of age, was lately sentenced to three months’ hard labour for breaking a window,” sends apenny postage stamp; “A man whose life was almost sworn away by the police” sends 6d.; “One who has been there” sends 2s.; four “Lovers of Justice” send small sums; “A Reformed Detective” sends 8d.; “A Poor Old Moke” sends 2d.; the Secretary of a “Mutual Protection Society for the Education of Burglars’ Children” sends 5s.; “M.P.,” who intends to ask a question when the House meets, sends £3 3s.; and sundry others. The total amount now in our hands is £23 4s. 7d., which we hold at the disposal of Antony Cowlrick, who, despite his apparent poverty, has not thought fit to call at our office to claim it.
IN WHICH THE “EVENING MOON” RELATES THE ADVENTURES OF ITS SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.
Wehave now to place before our readers an account of our proceedings respecting Antony Cowlrick, falsely accused of the murder of a man (name unknown) at No. 119, Great Porter Square. It is lengthy, but we have resolved not to curtail it, and we shall continue it in our editions to-day and to-morrow until it is completed.
We preface our statement with an assurance that in the steps we took we were actuated no less by a feeling of pity for Antony Cowlrick and a wish to clear him completely in the eyes of the public, than by our desire to obtain information which might aid in throwing light upon the circumstances surrounding this mysterious murder. Fully conscious aswe are of the requirements of that advanced journalism which purists openly censure and privately patronise, and which is an absolute necessity of the age, we have been careful to keep within the circle of our legitimate right and duty, and not to abuse the liberty of the press.
It is not to be denied that there exists a growing desire to probe more closely the life amongst which we live and move, and to lay bare the arteries of a social system in which we one and all act our parts. Thus it is that many persons (chiefly women), who a few years ago would never have been heard of by the public, are now the theme of comment and discussion in all classes of society—that their portraits are exposed for sale in shop-windows—and that they are stared at and pointed at in the theatres and other places of public resort. The greater number of these poor creatures see no distinction between the terms notoriety and celebrity; notorious, shamefully notorious—they certainly are; worthily celebrated they can never become, let them pose as theywill on the stage or in the private rooms of the photographer. These and other new aspects of society are a condition of the times. We are not now content in the columns of our newspapers to deal with public matters in the abstract; we insist upon knowing something of the character and motives of those whose good or bad fortune it is to be prominently concerned in the wonderful and varied drama of To-Day. Thus there is open to the journalist a new and interesting province for his labours, and he who does not shrink from his duty, and does his spiriting gently and with discretion, will be the most likely to be followed and appreciated by that greatest of all critics—the Public.
Anticipating the release of Antony Cowlrick, we detailed a Special Reporter to seek an interview with him when he left the Martin Street Police Court, and to endeavour to obtain such information respecting himself as might prove interesting to our readers. The task was a delicate and difficult one, and we entrusted it to a gentleman, a member of ourstaff, whose generous instincts and sympathetic nature have won for him an unusual meed of respect. It has not yet become the fashion for newspaper writers in England to append their names to their contributions. The question whether the time has arrived for the introduction of this system is worthy of serious consideration. By the present system of anonymity, not only is opportunity afforded for slandering and stabbing in the dark, but undoubted injustice is inflicted upon many a conscientious and enthusiastic worker, who brings to his labours such study, education, and culture, as in any other department of life would make his name famous. Those behind the scenes are familiar with the names of journalists whose knowledge of character, quickness of comprehension, and readiness to seize the salient and most striking features in the pictures of life they are employed to portray, are little less than marvellous. Such workers as these are the true painters and historians of the day, and supply more food for the mental life of the world than thecombined efforts of the labourers in every other department of art and science. But the world knows them not; they are deprived of the highest reward an art-worker can receive.
“You are discharged,” said the magistrate to Antony Cowlrick.
The gaolers fell back. Antony Cowlrick mechanically passed his hands over his wrists. There was a certain pathos in the action. The handcuffs were no longer there, but they had left upon the wrists a degradation that would not soon be forgotten.
“I ask your worship to say,” said Mr. Goldberry, addressing the magistrate, “that this man, falsely accused, leaves the court without a stain upon his character.”
“I cannot say that,” replied the magistrate; “we know nothing of his character.”
“Nothing has been proved against him,” persisted Mr. Goldberry.
“Nothing has been proved in his favour,” said the magistrate. “Had you proved that the accused had led a reputable and respectable life—had a reasonable explanation beengiven of his presence in Great Porter Square and of his motive in ascending the steps leading to the street door of the house in which the murder was committed, and trying the handle—had anything creditable as to his antecedents been established—I should not have objected to some such expression of opinion as you desire. But as the accused has chosen to surround himself with mystery, he must be content with being discharged without the solace of official sympathy. I do not approve of the action of the police in this matter; neither do I approve of the course adopted by the accused. He is discharged.”
Antony Cowlrick listened impatiently to this dialogue. For a moment or two he lingered, as though he had a desire himself to speak to the magistrate, but if he had any such intention he speedily relinquished it, and with a slight shrug of his shoulders he pushed open the door of the dock and stepped into the body of the court.
Outside the police-court, Antony Cowlrick did not pause to look around him: he scarcelyseemed to be conscious of the eager faces of the people who had waited to catch a glimpse of him. Taking advantage of an opening in the crowd, he darted through it, and walked swiftly away. The people walked swiftly after him, some running before to look up into his face. This impelled him to walk still more swiftly, until presently he began to run as if for a wager.
These movements, especially the last, acted magnetically on the men, women, and children congregated in Martin Street. As though animated by one magical impulse they flew after him, shouting as they ran. There was here presented the singular spectacle of a man just pronounced innocent by the law being hunted down, immediately after his acquittal, by an indiscriminate crowd, without reason or motive.
He scarcely seemed to know the way he was flying. Through some of the narrow turnings intersecting Drury Lane and Covent Garden, then westward into the labyrinths of Soho, doubling back again towards Leicester Square,raced Antony Cowlrick, in his endeavour to get rid of the hunters, until those persons at a distance from Martin Street who were drawn into the hunt by the contagion of the excitement began to scream out, “Stop thief!” In an instant a chorus of voices took up the cry, and “Stop thief! stop thief!” issued from a hundred throats. When that sound reached Antony Cowlrick’s ears he stopped—as suddenly as he had fled—and confronted his pursuers. He found himself surrounded by a multitude of excited faces, and within a couple of yards stood an uninformed policeman, who stepped forward to take him into custody. But Antony Cowlrick raised his arm threateningly, and the hunted man and the constable glared at each other. Serious consequences might have ensued had it not been for our Reporter, who worked his way to the front, and stood by Antony Cowlrick’s side.
“There is a mistake, policeman,” said our Reporter; “this man has done nothing.”
The policeman immediately prepared to take our Reporter into custody for obstructinghim in the exercise of his duty, but he was baulked by the appearance of two other policemen who, acting under instructions, had followed the discharged prisoner, and by Mr. Goldberry, who had accompanied them without consent.
“It’s all right,” said the newly-arrived policeman. “Come—move along there!”
It is not to be supposed that they were animated by particularly friendly feelings towards Antony Cowlrick; but if he belonged to anybody he belonged to them, and they would not allow any interference with their property.
The crowd slowly dispersed, by no means in good humour; it really appeared as though some among them were of the opinion that Antony Cowlrick had inflicted a personal injury upon them by not having committed a theft and allowing himself to be taken into custody.
“Now, you,” said one of the policemen to Antony Cowlrick, stretching towards him an ominous forefinger, “had better mind whatyou are about, or you’ll be getting yourself into trouble.”
“Perhaps you will assist me in getting into it,” replied Antony Cowlrick. “You have, up till to-day, done your best, it must be admitted.”
These were the first words our Reporter had heard Antony Cowlrick utter, and they produced a singular impression upon him. The manner of their utterance was that of a gentleman. There was a distinct refinement in the voice and bearing of Antony Cowlrick which strangely contrasted with his miserable appearance.
The policeman had but one answer to this retort.
“Move on!”
“When it suits me,” said Antony Cowlrick. “I am one man, alone and unknown—that hurts you, probably. I am not obstructing the thoroughfare; I am not begging; I am not hawking without a licence; I am doing nothing unlawful. When it suits me to move on, I will move on. In the meantime,” heexclaimed, in an authoritative tone, “move you on!”
The audacity of this order staggered the policemen, and they could find no words to reply.
Antony Cowlrick proceeded:
“If a fresh crowd gathers round us—it is beginning to do so, I perceive—it is you who are collecting it. You have no more right to order me to move on than your comrades had—you are all alike, blue coats, rattles, and truncheons—to arrest me in Great Porter Square.”
The policemen looked at one another, in a state of indecision; then looked at our Reporter; then at Mr. Goldberry. They were evidently perplexed, the right being clearly on Antony Cowlrick’s side. Happily for them, their eyes fell simultaneously upon the crowd of idlers surrounding them, and, without more ado, they plunged wildly in, and scattered the curiosity-mongers in all directions. Having thus vindicated the majesty of the law, they moved reluctantlyaway, and left the victor, Antony Cowlrick, upon the field.
It happened that among the crowd was a woman who, taken unaware by the sudden onslaught of the police, was roughly dealt with. Unable to stem the rush of the dispersion, she was knocked about, and almost thrown down. Saved by a helping hand, she escaped without injury, but she was exhausted, and sat down upon a door-step to recover herself. There was nothing especially noticeable in this incident, but it will be presently seen that it has a singular bearing upon our narrative.
A group of three persons, comprising our Reporter, Mr. Goldberry, and Antony Cowlrick, standing together in Leicester Square, and a woman sitting on a doorstep—these are the individuals in whom we are at present interested. A policeman idles to and fro, at some distance, with his eyes occasionally turned towards the group, but he does not interfere.
It was noon, and, as usual, a strangequietude reigned in Leicester Square. This is its normal condition in the day-time, and is the more remarkable because of the contiguity of the Square to the most infamous thoroughfare in London—the Haymarket—wherein vice in its most shameless and degrading aspects openly parades itself for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four.
“Can I be of any assistance to you?” asked Mr. Goldberry, of Antony Cowlrick.
“No,” replied Antony Cowlrick, abruptly, and then, observing who it was that spoke, added: “Your pardon! You are the gentleman who defended me?” Mr. Goldberry nodded. “What was your motive?”
“Compassion.”
Antony Cowlrick cast his eyes upon his ragged clothes, and passed his hand over his face, upon which a two months’ beard was growing.
“I look a fit object of compassion. But I am not grateful to you. I should have been discharged, some time or other, without your assistance. There was no evidence,you see; and, after all, I may be guilty of the murder.”
“I do not think you are,” said Mr. Goldberry.
“It is scarcely worth arguing about,” remarked Antony Cowlrick. “He is not the first, and will not be the last.”
“He! Who?” quickly asked Mr. Goldberry.
“The man who was murdered in Great Porter Square.”
“Do you know anything of him?”
“What should I know? Some interesting particulars concerning him will no doubt one day be brought to light.” Cowlrick paused a moment. “You are a lawyer, and therefore a decent member of society. You go to church, and, of course, believe in God.”
“Well?”
“Well!” echoed Antony Cowlrick. “Do you think God will allow the guilty to escape, or that He needs the assistance of a lawyer to punish the man who sheds his brother’s blood?”
“His brother’s blood!” exclaimed Mr. Goldberry.
“Are we not all brothers!” said Antony Cowlrick with bitter emphasis. “Do we not all live in charity with one another? Enough. I have no desire to prolong this conversation; it can lead to no good result. But I felt bound to answer you civilly, as it is barely possible, when you rose in the police-court to defend me, that you were in part animated by a kindly sentiment for an unfortunate man. On the other hand, you may have been wholly impelled by a desire to advertise your name in an important case of murder. But you shall have the benefit of the doubt. Give me your card. If at any time I should need you, I will call upon or send for you.”
It was with an air of patronage that this beggarly man spoke to the well-to-do lawyer; but Mr. Goldberry, with admirable equanimity, accepted the position, and handed Antony Cowlrick his card.
“Can I do nothing more for you?” he asked.
“Nothing more.”
Mr. Goldberry, before he took his departure, drew our Reporter aside.
“You appear to be interested in the man?” he said.
Our Reporter enlightened him.
“I am a journalist, on the staff of theEvening Moon.”
“And on the look-out for paragraphs. You will find Antony Cowlrick worth studying.”
“You believed in his innocence when you defended him. Do you believe in it now?”
Mr. Goldberry laughed.
“I am not prepared to be interviewed. One thing is certain. There is a mystery here, and I should like to obtain a clue to it. You may be more successful than I.”
“He speaks like a gentleman.”
“We live in levelling times. There is no telling who is who. I have heard a gentleman speak like a costermonger.”
This confidential communication betweenour Reporter and Mr. Goldberry escaped the ears, but not the eyes, of Antony Cowlrick, and when Mr. Goldberry left and our Reporter remained, he was the first to speak.
“Has the lawyer deputed you to watch me?”
“No,” replied our Reporter. “I am a newspaper man, and should be glad if you can give me any information for my paper?”
“Information about what?”
“Yourself.”
“Haven’t the newspapers had enough of me? I haven’t read one for many weeks, but I guess their columns must have been filled with reports of the proceedings at the Magistrate’s Court.”
“You guess right. The murder committed in Great Porter Square was most horrible, and the public have been much excited about it. The paper I am on, theEvening Moon, was the only one which from the first declared you to be innocent of the charge brought against you. Perhaps you would like to read what we have written on the subject.”
Antony Cowlrick took the packet of papers which our Reporter had prepared in anticipation of the emergency.
“I have unknown friends, it seems.”
“It is a question of fair play, and, being a public matter, comes within our province. See, here is yesterday’s paper, stating that a subscription is opened at our office for you.”
“You have taken an unwarrantable liberty in holding me forth as an object of charity.”
“What has been done,” said our Reporter, “has been done with good intent. There was no desire to hurt your feelings, but you appeared, and appear, to be in poverty.”
“Will you lend me a sovereign?”
“Willingly. There were two at the office for you yesterday, and when I left this morning not less than ten pounds had been received for the subscription list.”
“A queer world we live in, do we not, with a public that one moment is ready to tear a man to pieces, and the next to surfeit him with sweets? I decline to accept your money.I would not touch it, though I am really in want of a meal. I suppose, if you were to leave me this instant, or I were to refuse to hold any further converse with you, you would consider it your duty to write a flaming article about me for the next edition of your paper?”
“I should narrate what has passed, in fair and temperate language, I hope.”
“I beg you,” said Antony Cowlrick, earnestly, “to do me a great favour. Do not drag me before the public to-day. Nay, nor to-morrow. Give me three days’ grace. It will be of service to me, and may help the cause of justice.”
The last words were spoken with an air of hesitation.
“If I promise to do this—providing my Chief consents, and I think he will—you must allow me in return to become better acquainted with you.”
“Pick up what scraps you can, my literary Autolycus. Examine me well. Describe my appearance, manners, and bearing. Say thatI belie my looks, and that I do not speak exactly like a ruffian. In all that, shrewd as you may be, you can only see the outside of me. Understand, if you please, that I shall not help you.”
“All right. Where do you intend to sleep to-night?”
“God knows! I do not.”
“How are you going to live? Have you a trade?”
Antony Cowlrick held out his hands.
“Do these look like hands accustomed to hard work?”
They were dirty with prison dirt, and were as soft and pliable as the hands of a lady. At this point, as he stood with his hand in the hand of our Reporter, the woman who had been knocked about by the crowd rose from the doorstep.
Our Reporter felt a nervous twitching in the hand he held, and, looking up into the face of Antony Cowlrick, saw with surprise that it was agitated by a sudden and powerful emotion. Antony Cowlrick’s eyeswere fixed upon the woman, who was walking slowly away.
She was young and fair, and in her movements there was an aimlessness which did not speak well for her character. But, as Mr. Goldberry observed, we live in levelling times, and it is hard to judge accurately of a person’s social position from dress and manner. The locality was against this young and pretty woman; her being young and pretty was against her; her apparent want of occupation was against her. But she spoke to no one, looked at no one.
Antony Cowlrick hastened after her. Our Reporter did not follow him. He was not acting the part of a detective. What he did was in pursuance of his duty, and it is not in his nature to give offence. Therefore he stood where Antony Cowlrick left him, and waited for events.
When Antony Cowlrick reached the woman’s side, he touched her arm, and spoke to her. She did not reply, but glanced carelessly at him, and, averting her eyes with agesture of repugnance, pursued her way. Before she had taken three steps, Antony Cowlrick was again by her side. Again he touched her arm and addressed her; and this time, instead of attempting to avoid him, she turned and looked up at him. For a moment doubt was expressed in her face—only for a moment. As though a sudden and wonderful light had entered her soul, her face became illumined with joy. She was pretty before; now she was beautiful.
Some words of delight struggled to her lips, but died in their utterance. Antony Cowlrick placed his hand on her mouth so that they should not be spoken aloud—directing his eyes at the same time towards the spot occupied by our Reporter.
The woman pressed her hand upon the man’s hand, still at her lips, and kissed it passionately.
Then she and Antony Cowlrick conversed hurriedly. Evidently questions were being asked and answered—questions upon which much depended. The last question asked byAntony Cowlrick was answered by the woman with a sad shake of her head. He held her fingers in his hand, and seemed to look at them inquiringly. Did he expect to find rings there which he could convert into money? Her fingers were bare of ornament. He looked at her ears, then at the bosom of her dress. She possessed neither ear-rings nor brooch.
Under such circumstances as these, speech was not needed for the understanding of what was passing between the haggard, unshaven, poverty-stricken man and the equally poor and beautiful woman.
Antony Cowlrick did not hesitate long. A dozen strides brought him to our Reporter.
“I have found a friend,” he said.
“So I perceive,” replied our Reporter.
“You offered awhile ago to lend me a sovereign. I refused to accept it. Will you lend it me now?”
Our Reporter gave it to him instantly, without a word.
The swift graciousness of the responseappeared to touch Antony Cowlrick, and an expression of gratitude dwelt on his features.
“I thank you. My gratitude will remain ever as a debt. I appreciate your delicacy in not intruding upon my interview with my friend.”
“She is not a new friend,” observed our Reporter.
“No, indeed,” was the reply.
“It seems to me that she might have appeared at the police-court to give evidence in your favour.”
“Supposing she could say anythinginmy favour.”
“It is evident that she would say nothing to harm you. Her joy at meeting you was too palpable.”
“You have a trick of keen observation. Perhaps she did not know of my awkward position.”
“How could she help knowing it when your name has been so prominent in the papers for weeks?”
“My name? Ah, I forgot. But I cannotoffer you a satisfactory explanation. More than ever now will unnecessary and immediate publicity be likely to injure me. You will keep your promise—for three days you will not write about me?”
“I will keep my promise. At the end of three days I shall simply publish what has passed between ourselves and Mr. Goldberry.”
“It seems to me to be singularly devoid of interest.”
“You are mistaken. Newspaper readers peruse such details as these with eagerness. You must not forget that you are in some way, near or remote, connected with an atrocious crime.”
“You foil me at every point. Good-day.”
“Good-day!” exclaimed our Reporter. “Shall I not see you again?”
“You will, if you play the spy upon me.”
“I shall not do that. But you promised to afford me an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with you.”
“That is true. Wait a moment.”
He rejoined the woman, and after exchanginga few words with her, returned to our Reporter.
“You will not publish the address I am about to give you?”
“Not if you do not wish it.”
“I do not wish it. We must not play with reputations—especially with the reputation of a woman. Have you pencil and paper? Thank you. Call to-night at ten o’clock at this address.”
He wrote an address in our Reporter’s note-book, and, directly afterwards, left Leicester Square with his newly-found friend. As he turned in the direction of Piccadilly, he hailed a cab, into which he and his companion hastily scrambled.
By ten o’clock that night our Reporter paused before the door of the house in which he expected to find Antony Cowlrick, and debated with himself whether he should inquire for the man by name. It was quite natural, he thought, that a person who had been placed in a position so unpleasant as Antony Cowlrick should wish to avoid thedisagreeable curiosity of prying eyes and vulgar tongues, and that in a new lodging he should give another name than his own. The house was situated in one of the lowest neighbourhoods, where only the poorest people dwell. There were at least half-a-dozen small bells on the right hand side of the door, and our Reporter fell into deep disgrace by pulling them one after another, and bringing down persons whose faces were strange to him.
He felt himself in a difficulty, when, giving a description of the man and the woman he wished to see, one lodger said, “O, it’s the second-floor back;” and another said, “Oh, it’s the third-floor front;” and another said, “What do yer mean by comin’ ’ere at this time o’ night rousing up people as want to be abed and asleep?” Now, this last rebuke was not taken in good part by our Reporter, whose knowledge of the slums of London, being somewhat extensive, had led him to the belief that householders and lodgers in these localities seldom go to bedbefore the public-house lights are put out. Sad, indeed, is it to reflect that the Gin-shop is the Church of the Poor, and that it is open from early morn till midnight to lead poverty and ignorance to lower and lower depths, in which it is impossible for purity and innocence to find a resting place!