"'Did you observe anything particular in the kitchen?'—'Nothing particular. Things were pretty much as I had left them on the night before.'
"'The drawer in which you kept your knives—was it closed?'—'Yes, it was closed.'
"'The knife with the horn handle—where was that?'—'I did not know. I had no occasion to use it, and I did not look for it.'
"'At what time in the morning did the deceased usually ring his bell for you?'—'At nine o'clock or thereabouts; but there were exceptions, and when nine o'clock passed and I was not summoned, I did not attach any importance to it.'
"'You supposed Miss Farebrother to be in the house?'—'Oh yes; but I did not expect to hear her bell for a long time. She generally slept till ten or eleven o'clock. I waited till half-past ten, and then, being uneasy at not hearing my master's bell, I went to his room, and as there was no answer to my knock, I opened the door. My master was not there, and the bed had not been slept in. Then I went to Miss Farebrother's room, and she was not there, and she had not slept in her bed. I became frightened, and I thought I would look about the grounds. It was then that I discovered my master lying dead, with blood upon him, and the knife with the horn handle lying near him, with clotted blood on it. I flew to the village for assistance, and some people came back with me, and said that my master had been murdered.'
"'How far from the house is the spot upon which you discovered the body of the deceased?'—'I cannot say. Perhaps a quarter of a mile.'
"'Could you, being in the house, have heard any sounds proceeding from that spot?'—'It would be almost, if not quite, impossible.'
"'So that if there had been any cries for help, they would not have reached your ears?'—'No, they could not.'
"'Now, did you observe anything particular about Miss Farebrother's dress when you found her in the kitchen so late at night?'—'She was dressed as she usually was.'
"'Fully dressed?'—'Yes.'
"'Did she wear a hat?'—'Yes.'
"'With a veil to it?'—'Yes, there was a veil to it.'
"'Would you be able to recognize the veil?'—'Yes.'
"'Is this it?' (Veil produced.)—'Yes, this is it.'
"'Did she wear any ornaments?'—'I noticed only one, and I should not have noticed that if I had not presented it to her as a birthday gift.'
"'What was the ornament?'—'A brooch.'
"'Can you identify it?'—'Oh yes; it is a very particular brooch. My mother had it before me.'
"'Is this it?'—'Yes, this is it.'
"'That is all I have to ask you.'—'Thank you, sir.'
"Mr. Cornwall: 'A moment, please.'
"The Coroner: 'You understand, Mr. Cornwall, that I shall check you if you ask any questions irrelevant to this inquiry?'
"Mr. Cornwall: 'I quite understand it, sir.' To witness: 'Are you positive that your memory is faithful upon all the events you have described?'—'I am very positive, sir.'
"'As to what took place between you and Miss Farebrother in the kitchen?'—'Everything is as I had described.'
"'The conversation between you?'—'Yes, sir.'
"'And the knife with the horn handle?'—'It is as I have said, sir.'
"'You swear that Miss Farebrother frequently threatened her father?'—'Frequently, sir, I am sorry to say.'
"'Did you ever mention this continual disagreement to any person?'—'No, sir, except to my son. I have no acquaintances.'
"'Not one?'—'Not one.'
"The Coroner: 'In this place, Mr. Cornwall, these questions do not appear to me to be pertinent. Some are repetitions of questions already asked and answered, others do not affect the particular inquiry upon which we are engaged.'
"Mr. Cornwall: 'I am sorry to hear that expression of opinion from you, for there is to me, and doubtless to others, something like a direct accusation in the witness's evidence.'
"Witness (in a quiet tone): 'I do not accuse any one. I am speaking the truth.'
"Mr. Cornwall: 'Then it is the truth, and you swear it, that when you last saw Miss Farebrother she wore the brooch which you gave her as a birthday gift?'—'It is the truth, and I swear it.'
"'Can you describe the man who visited the deceased on the night of his death?'—'I can, sir.'
"The Coroner: 'It is a proper question, and it should have been asked. I should doubtless have recalled the witness to answer it.'
"Witness: 'He is a man not much taller than I am. I am above the usual height of a woman. His face is dark; he has a large mouth and a small nose; his eyes are blue.'
"'How dressed?'—'In a dark tweed suit.'
"'Wearing any jewellery?'—'A silver chain and a large diamond ring.'
"'They scarcely match. The man who can afford to wear a large diamond would be likely to wear a gold chain.'—'I don't know about that. The diamond may not be genuine.'
"'About what age would you suppose?'—'About forty.'
"The next witness called was Dr. Playfellow. He deposed that the deceased had met his death by violence. It was caused by the wound in his breast, inflicted by precisely such a weapon as the knife with the horn handle. Asked whether the deceased might not have stabbed himself, Dr. Playfellow said that from the direction of the wound and the position in which the body was found, it was impossible that death could have been inflicted by his own hands.
"Jeremiah Pamflett was next examined. He is the son of the murdered man's house-keeper, and he testified that he had been in the employment of the deceased since he was a lad, and that he had risen from the position of a petty clerk to that of sole manager of Miser Farebrother's business. Between him and his master the most perfect harmony existed; they had never had a word of difference, and his master reposed complete confidence in him. On the afternoon before his master's death he went to Parksides to submit certain accounts to Miser Farebrother, anticipating the telegram which was sent to him requesting him to come. The deceased expressed great satisfaction at his attention to business, and in the course of the interview informed the witness that it was his intention to admit him as a partner. He, the witness, left Parksides in a very happy frame of mind at this promised reward of his long and faithful service. Miser Farebrother was a kind and liberal master; the witness declared he could not desire a better.
"A Juryman: 'You say he was a kind master. Was he in other respects a kind man?'—'Very kind and considerate; he deserved greater happiness than he enjoyed.'
"Being asked to explain the meaning of this statement, the witness exhibited a reluctance to reply, and said he was sorry he had let the words slip. He was, however, pressed to explain, and he then said that the deceased was made very unhappy by the want of affection shown to him by his daughter.
"The Juryman: 'Was he kind to his daughter?'—'Very kind.'
"'Was there any disagreement between them?'—'There was continual disagreement; but it was not my master's fault. He did all he could to please her.'
"'Do you know the cause of this disagreement?'—'It was partly about money.'
"'That she asked for, and that he would not give?'—'Yes.'
"'But you said he was very kind to her. The deceased was a man of means. Why should he refuse to give his daughter money?'—'From what my master said to me at different times, it was because she demanded sums of money for purposes of which he did not approve. He was exceedingly liberal to her where she herself was concerned; but he objected to his money being given to persons who hated him.'
"'To what persons do you refer?'—'To her relatives in London—the only relatives she has.'
"'What is the name of these relatives?'—'Lethbridge. They live in Camden Town.'
"'And Miss Farebrother wanted money for them?'—'According to what my master said, she was always wanting money for them.'
"'Was she in the habit of visiting them?'—'Continually.'
"'With the consent of the deceased?'—'Against his consent. He frequently remonstrated with her for paying long visits to persons who bore him such ill-will.'
"'In spite of these remonstrances she continued to visit them?'—'Yes.'
"'Mention has been made of a man who was in the habit of visiting the deceased in his home at Parksides late at night. Do you know anything of him?'—'Nothing, except what my mother has told me and has told you.'
"'Did he not visit the office in London?'—'No. I never saw him.'
"'Did no conversation ever pass between you and the deceased respecting him?'—'None.'
"'Then you do not know upon what business he came?'—'No; but it could not have been upon the affairs of the London business, or I should have heard it.'
"The only questions put to this witness by Mr. Cornwall were these:
"'By what train did you leave for London on the occasion of your last visit to the deceased?'—'By the 8.12.'
"'Did you go direct to the office when you reached London?'—'Yes.'
"'At what time did you arrive at the office?'—'At about ten o'clock.'
"'You sleep there?'—'Yes.'
"The next witness called was Mrs. Lethbridge, whose evidence was to the following effect:
"'You are a relative of the deceased?'—'I am his sister-in-law.'
"'Were you upon friendly terms with him?'—'No.'
"'Nor any of your family?'—'No. But we are not to blame for that.'
"'Was his daughter in the habit of visiting your house?'—'Yes.'
"'Frequently?'—'Frequently.'
"'And of remaining there for any length of time?'—'Yes; generally for three or four days.'
"'Your intimacy with her, then, was of a thoroughly friendly nature?'—'Of a most affectionate nature. I love her as a child of my own.'
"'Was that the sentiment of all your family?'—'Yes.'
"'Were Miss Farebrother's visits to your house paid with the consent of the deceased?'—'Yes.'
"'Did you learn this from him?'—'No. We very seldom saw him.'
"'In point of fact, how many times have you or any of your family seen him, say within these eight or nine years?'—'Only twice.'
"'Where? At your house in London?'—'No; at his house in Parksides.'
"'At his invitation?'—'No. The first time we were asked by his daughter. It was her birthday, but we understood that our visit would be agreeable to him.'
"'You understood. From whom?'—'From my niece.'
"'On that occasion how long were you at Parksides?'—'For five or six hours.'
"'Did you and your family partake of any meal there?'—'We had tea.'
"'Was the deceased present at the table?'—'No; he sent word that he was not well enough to join us.'
"'Was your second visit paid upon his invitation?'—'No; we went of our own accord.'
"'Who went?'—'I, my niece, and Mr. Cornwall.'
"'Is Mr. Cornwall the gentleman who represents Miss Farebrother at this inquest?'—'Yes.'
"'Why did he accompany you?'—'Must I answer?'
"'It is at your own discretion. I cannot compel you.'
"Mr. Cornwall: 'Answer the question, Mrs. Lethbridge.'
"Witness: 'Mr. Cornwall had proposed to my niece, and he accompanied us for the purpose of asking Mr. Farebrother's consent to the engagement.'
"'Was that consent given?'—'No.'
"'Did the deceased turn you and Mr. Cornwall from his house?'—'Yes.'
"'In the question I am about to ask you I will not confine myself to the last eight or nine years. I will go as far back as the birth of the deceased's daughter, who is now of a marriageable age. During this long period did the deceased ever visit your house?'—'No.'
"'Not once?'—'Not once.'
"'Did he correspond with you, or you with him?'—'No.'
"'Not a letter, then, passed between you?'—'Not a letter.'
"'Nor a direct communication of any kind? You hesitate!'—'I was considering. There was one letter.'
"'Written and sent by you or the deceased?'—'By Mr. Farebrother. It was a great many years ago. My niece then was scarcely two years of age, and her poor mother was dying. She wished to see me before she died, and it was at her direction that her husband wrote to me.'
"'It appears that even previous to that time you were not upon friendly terms with him?'—'It was so, unhappily.'
"'Did you comply with the request contained in that letter?'—'Yes; and I saw my sister. I was with her when she died, and I promised to look after her child and to love her as my own.'
"'I wish you to understand that it is entirely at your discretion whether you reply to certain of my questions. On that visit, so long ago, did you gather the impression that the deceased was glad to see you—that you were, in fact, welcome in his house?'—'I must speak the truth. He was not glad to see me; I was not welcome.'
"'We can, therefore, arrive but at one conclusion—that there existed an absolute and distinct antipathy on one side or both. I come now to the night upon which the deceased met his death. Your niece was living with you then?'—'Yes.'
"'I will not inquire into the circumstances of her taking up her residence with you when her father's home was open to her.'—'It was not open to her.'
"'You say that? Not under any conditions? Had he positively refused ever to receive her again as a daughter?'—'Unless under conditions which were repugnant to her.'
"'Then her father's homewasopen to her if she were prepared to behave dutifully, and to obey him?'—'I cannot deny that; but as I have said, his conditions were repugnant to her.'
"'Into those domestic matters it is not our business to inquire. A few hours before her father was murdered she left your house?'—'She did.'
"'With your knowledge?'—'Without my knowledge.'
"'How did you become acquainted with her movements?'—'She met our servant, and desired her to give us a message that she was going to Parksides to see her father.'
"'It was a strange hour for her to leave. Did she return to your house on that night?'—'No.'
"'The next morning?'—'Yes.'
"'At what time?'—'At about ten o'clock.'
"'Did she give you any explanation of her movements?'—'She could not do so. She was in a state of exhaustion and was very ill.'
"'What was the nature of her illness?'—'She was delirious.'
"'We have a certificate that she has brain fever.'—'It is unhappily true.'
"'Do you recognize this veil?' (Veil produced.)—'It is one my niece wore.'
"'On that night?'—'I cannot positively say, but it is hers.'
"'Do you recognize this brooch?'—'I have seen it, but I do not think it has been in her possession for some weeks.'
"'Can you swear to that?'—'No, I cannot swear to it.'
"'When she returned home, did it strike you that she must have experienced some excitement?'—'Yes.'
"'Some very strong excitement?'—'Yes.'
"'And she gave you no explanation of it?'—'She could not, because of her condition.'
"Mr. Cornwall asked no questions of this witness, who several times in the course of the examination was much agitated.
"Witnesses were called who proved that the veil and the brooch were found near the body of the murdered man.
"The coroner having addressed the jury, they considered their verdict, which was that Miser Farebrother had been murdered by some person or persons unknown.
"We understand that a warrant has been issued for the arrest of Phœbe Farebrother on the charge of murdering her father, Miser Farebrother."
"The trial of Phœbe Farebrother for the murder of her father, commonly known as Miser Farebrother, terminated last evening, and will be long remembered as one of the most remarkable and painful in criminal records. The extraordinary interest exhibited by the public in the case is only partially due to the murder itself and to the relations which existed between the unhappy prisoner and the deceased; chiefly it may be set down to the youth and beauty of the young woman who was accused of a crime so horrible and atrocious. As she stood in the dock it was almost impossible to believe that a being so lovely and gentle could harbour a thought that was not innocent and pure, and the demeanour of those who were present at the trial was sufficient to prove that popular sympathy was enlisted on her side. Fitting it is—and especially fitting in this case—that justice should be blind.
"Now that the trial is over, the verdict given, and the sentence pronounced, we propose to devote some brief attention to those features in it which rendered it remarkable. The case is one of circumstantial evidence, and turned no less upon the statements of those who testified uncompromisingly against the prisoner than upon the statements of her friends, whose sorrowful evidence weighed heavily against her.
"The household of Miser Farebrother, in the lifetime of the unfortunate man, was eminently cold and cheerless. Love occupied no place therein. A man of wealth and means, all the avenues of enjoyment were open to him, but he cared only for the accumulation of money. This may be said to have been his one object, and he devoted to it all his energies. An attempt was made to prove that he was of an affectionate and tender nature, and that his behaviour toward his child was that of a loving father, but this view of his character may be unhesitatingly dismissed. It renders the crime no less heinous; that he was ruthlessly murdered is an established fact.
"He had earned the sobriquet of 'miser,' and he was entitled to it. A miser he was, whose supreme passion was that of accumulating wealth. His business—that of a money-lender—was in keeping with his ambition, and enabled him to compass it. Had he been animated by sentiments of a nobler kind they would have found vent in action which would have won for him esteem and gratitude; but he did good neither openly nor by stealth. That the two persons who served him, Mrs. Pamflett and her son, Jeremiah Pamflett, should speak well of him is natural and to their credit. Were it left to them to write his epitaph mankind would be deceived—as it is in many instances by words graven on tombstones.
"He led in Parksides practically a lonely existence, and it would be difficult to imagine a more mournful picture than that of a motherless child brought up amidst such surroundings. Spacious as are the grounds of Parksides, they were allowed to run to waste; with the exception of his house-keeper and her son he had not a friend; he received no visitors, and neither dispensed nor accepted hospitality of any kind; his child had no child companions, and between her and her father's servants existed a feeling of strong antipathy; he made no effort to provide her with any sort of education; in the great house they occupied the light of home never shone. His daughter, however, was not entirely without friends. Her aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge, and their two children, lived in London, and for some years past Phœbe Farebrother has been in the habit of visiting their house, and of participating, through them, in ordinary and moderate enjoyments. We may at once admit that the character borne by Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge is unimpeachable—and this, despite the evidence given by Mrs. Pamflett and her son, in which may be discerned a distinct bias against them as designing persons, whose aim was to extort money from the murdered man. No direct testimony to the establishment of this view is forthcoming, and the general repute of the Lethbridges is a contradiction of it. A feeling of bitterness appears to have existed for years between these parties; on one side, Miser Farebrother and Mrs. and Jeremiah Pamflett; on the other, Miser Farebrother's unhappy daughter and her relatives in London. This was the state of affairs when Phœbe Farebrother, a few weeks before her father's death, left his house, and found her way to her aunt's home in London, where she was received with open arms.
"There are side issues to which we do not intend to refer at any length; these issues relate to Miser Farebrother's desire that his daughter should marry a man of his choosing, and to her having already set her affections upon a man of whom her father did not approve. In connection with these opposing desires is an incident which will presently be mentioned.
"It has been elicited that on the night of Miser Farebrother's murder, and for some time previous, the Lethbridges were in pecuniary difficulties, to extricate them from which a sum of money was immediately required. A puzzling feature in the whole of this sad case is the absolute frankness which the Lethbridges have displayed as to their position and the movements of the prisoner up to the hour when the warrant for her arrest was issued. So far as can be seen there has been no concealment whatever of anything within their knowledge, and this is the more strange because much of their evidence told directly against the prisoner.
"There seemed to be only one way of obtaining the money required to extricate the Lethbridges from their difficulties, and that was by a successful application to Miser Farebrother. There is no evidence that they asked their niece to appeal to her father in their behalf; they positively deny having done so, and she herself says that no word fell from their lips to that effect. When she left their house in London with the intention of proceeding to Parksides, she did so without their knowledge. There can be no doubt that she was actuated by a wish to help them. From the moment she left them until she returned the next morning in a state of prostration, physically and mentally, they are in darkness as to what occurred, and can throw no light whatever upon her movements. During that night Miser Farebrother met his death. At the trial three articles were brought in evidence against the prisoner. The first is a brooch presented to her on her last birthday by Mrs. Pamflett. This brooch was found in the grounds of Parksides, near to the body of the murdered man. There is conflicting testimony upon the subject of this brooch. Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge and their daughter, Miss Fanny Lethbridge, have no recollection of having seen the brooch from the time the prisoner left Parksides to take up her residence with them. They cannot swear that on the fatal night she did not wear it; but Miss Lethbridge is positive that her cousin did not bring it with her from Parksides. The two young women slept together, and not a word passed between them with respect to this ornament. Miss Lethbridge's statement, therefore, is based upon an assumption. The prisoner avers that when she quitted her father's house she did not take the brooch with her. On the other hand, Mrs. Pamflett swears positively that the prisoner did take it away with her. The house-keeper made repeated examinations of the room in Parksides in which the prisoner slept, and never saw the brooch after she left. Here, then, we have a positive oath against a vague assumption, and this sworn evidence is strengthened by the fact of the brooch having been found close to the body of her master. If the prisoner did not wear it on the night of the murder, how could it have got into the grounds?
"The second article brought in evidence against the prisoner is her veil. Here there is no conflicting testimony. The prisoner admits having worn the veil when she went to Parksides, and this veil was also found in the grounds close to the body.
"The third article is the prisoner's handkerchief, which her aunt took from her pocket when she returned in the morning. There were stains of blood upon the handkerchief, which the prosecution declares was the blood of the murdered man. The prisoner declares that the blood proceeded from scratches she received by stumbling in the dark against fences and coming in contact with the branches of trees. That she did sustain some such slight wounds is undoubtedly true; and although the weight of conflicting evidence as to the blood-stains on the handkerchief is about equal, the theory of the prosecution is strengthened by independent circumstances in connection with the murder.
"What Mrs. Pamflett knows of the strange and sudden visit of the prisoner to Parksides at midnight need not here be recapitulated. Her evidence has been printed in our columns on three occasions: first when the inquest on the body was held; again, when the prisoner was brought before the magistrate and committed for trial; and again, at greater length, during the trial just ended. What passed between her and the prisoner, the incident of the knife with the horn handle with which the deed was done, the high words in the grounds between the prisoner and her father, especially those uttered by the prisoner: 'I will do as I please, and go where I please. You ought to have been dead long ago! You had better be careful!'—all this has been fully reported. The visit of a strange man to Miser Farebrother on this night is still a mystery. It was hoped by the prosecution that the endeavour to trace this man would have been successful, or that he himself would have voluntarily come forward to give evidence, but the hope has not been fulfilled. He remains in hiding, and will probably so continue to remain. The theory of the prosecution is a feasible one—that this man's visits to Miser Farebrother being paid in secret, his business was of a questionable nature, the revealment of which would bring him into trouble. Great care and caution were always displayed on the occasion of these visits, and the minute description of his dress and appearance given by Mrs. Pamflett is of little value, in the absence of any other evidence respecting him, so long as he chooses to remain hidden.
"The prisoner's statement as to what occurred, so far as she can remember, from the time she left her aunt's house in London on the night of the murder to the hour she returned to it on the following morning, is as follows:
"She admits that when she went away, unknown to her relatives, she did so with the purpose of going to Parksides and appealing to her father to give her a sum of money which would extricate the Lethbridges from their difficulties. 'Had I told them what was in my mind,' she says, 'they would have prevented me from leaving them, having no hope that my errand would be successful. But I had thought of a plan by which I could induce my father to comply with my request. I did not dare to mention this plan to my aunt, because it would only have strengthened her opposition to my project.' She thus explains the nature of this plan: Between her and her father were two causes of disagreement. The first was her intimacy with the Lethbridges. He disapproved of it, and wished her to discontinue her visits, and to have nothing more to do with them. To this she was now ready to agree if he would advance her the money she asked for. 'I could not promise to forget them,' she says; 'that would have been impossible—my love for them was so great, and also my gratitude for the kindness and affection they showed me from the time my mother died. But I would have borne my suffering in secret, and would never have spoken of it reproachfully to my father. I should have been only too thankful if he would have assisted me to repay them, in some small measure, for all their wonderful kindness to me. They have made great sacrifices for me. Should I hesitate to make a sacrifice for them in return? It was only my own happiness that was at stake, and perhaps death would have soon come to me to put an end to my misery. There was a time when I used to pray for death.' This, however, was not the only sacrifice she avers she was ready to make; there was another of an infinitely graver nature. Her father wished her to marry a man she abhorred. She had shrunk in horror from the proposal, but she was ready to submit to it now. She would humble herself to her father's will. Her father had written these words to her, 'When you are prepared to obey me in the one wish of my life, you can come to me; not until then.' Upon these words she was prepared to act. She would go to him and say that she was ready to obey him if he would assist her in the way she wished. Animated by this resolve—which, if it were the truth, would have been most noble and heroic—she took the last train to Beddington, and arrived at Parksides late in the night. She did not take a return ticket, not having sufficient money to pay for it. She cannot fix the hour of her arrival, nor indeed has she anything to say as to time. It may have been midnight, it may have been earlier or later—her mind is a blank upon this. The night, she says, was dark, and the house itself was in darkness; she saw no one moving, inside or out. She was afraid to knock, because her summons would have brought Mrs. Pamflett down, and she feared that the house-keeper, who hated her, would have driven her from the place, and prevented her from seeing her father. So she concealed herself in the grounds quite near to the house, her intention being to pass the night in the open, and the first thing in the morning, when the door was unlocked, to enter it and go straight to her father's room, unknown to Mrs. Pamflett, and tell him what she came for. We now take up her own words as to what followed:
"'I do not know how long I waited outside, crouching down in concealment; it seemed to me very, very long, and I was so agitated that I cannot depend upon my memory. I did my best to keep my eyes open, but they would close in spite of me, and at last I must have fallen asleep. When I opened my eyes it was with an impression that some one was standing over me, and seeing no one as I looked up, I thought that I must have been mistaken; and yet I could not shake off the idea that some person had been near me. I was very frightened and very confused, and I made up my mind not to close my eyes again, but to wait till daybreak. I did not have to wait so long. In the distance I saw a light, the light of a lantern, moving slowly on. I was overcome with gratitude at the thought that it might be my father, and that I might speak to him at once. I knew that my father sometimes went out into the grounds at night, but I was not aware for what purpose. I rose to my feet, and softly followed the light till I was sure it was held by my father. Then I went up and spoke to him. I cannot recall what I said, or in what way he answered me. I know that he was at first surprised that I should come to him at so strange an hour, and that, when he got over his surprise, he was in a furious passion. I know, although he continually interrupted me, that I must have succeeded in making him understand why I had presented myself to him. I know that he threatened me and spoke most bitter words, and that he said I had come too late, that he had no longer a child; that every one in the world was his enemy, and was conspiring to ruin him, and that he would drive me from his gates. I have a remembrance of pleading to him, of going on my knees to him, and that he dragged me to my feet, and threw me violently off. I fell fainting to the ground, and remember nothing more of him. When I recovered I was alone, and it was still dark. Heart-broken, bewildered, and sick, and scarcely knowing what I was doing, I dragged myself away from Parksides, and there was no light in the sky when I left Parksides behind me. It is useless for me to attempt to describe what followed. I must have known the direction to London, and my idea was to get back to my dear aunt, and at the same time to conceal myself from the sight of every one on the road. Whether I succeeded or not I cannot say, and it was only by God's mercy that I reached my aunt's house. There is something so horrible in the accusation that is brought against me that I cannot realize it. I can only pray to God to bring the truth to light!'
"There is in this statement an element of romance and improbability which renders it impossible of belief, especially when it is placed side by side with established evidence. The prisoner refers to a letter she received from her father, in which he says that when she is prepared to obey him she can return to her proper home. But that letter also contains the words: 'Your guilty desires can only be accomplished by my death.'
"We come now to the evidence of another witness, the policeman Tom Barley, which told fatally against the prisoner; which perhaps turned the scale against her, and dispelled any doubts which the jury might have entertained. This man, who receives from his superiors a character in every way satisfactory and honourable, was a servant in Miser Farebrother's house during the childhood of the prisoner. His devotion to the prisoner cannot be doubted; his belief in her innocence is not to be shaken, and yet he gave fatal evidence against her. We append here a résumé of the evidence to which we allude, leading up to it by a few questions put to other witnesses, all of them friends of the prisoner.
"Mrs. Lethbridge is examined:
"'On the day the prisoner left your house secretly for Parksides, what was the colour of her dress?'—'Blue.'
"'Did she wear it the whole of the day?'—'Yes.'
"'In the evening, when you and your family were sitting at home, the prisoner being with you, had she this blue dress on?'—'Yes.'
"'Did she change it at all during the day or night?'-'No.'
"'You are positive she left your house wearing this blue dress?'—'I am positive.'
"Miss Fanny Lethbridge, the prisoner's cousin, is examined:
"'Do you remember the dress the prisoner wore on the night she left your parents' house for Parksides?'—'Yes.'
"'What was its colour?'—'Blue. It is her favourite colour.'
"'You have no doubt in your mind that her dress was blue?'—'No.'
"'Could she have changed it unknown to you?'—'No; she had only one other dress, a grey one, and that was hanging up in our room.'
"'Melia Jane, maid of all work in Mrs. Lethbridge's house, is examined:
"'You met the prisoner shortly after she left your mistress's house on the night her father was murdered?'-'Yes.'
"'She gave you a message to deliver to your mistress?'—'Yes; she said she was going to Parksides to see her father.'
"'Did you notice the dress she was wearing?'—'I saw it.'
"'What dress was it?'—'Her favourite frock, a blue one.'
"'Is there any doubt in your mind upon the point?'—'None at all. She had her blue frock on.'"
Tom Barley is examined:
"'You were in the service of the murdered man?'—'For many a long year. My grandfather and grandmother were care-takers there before Miser Farebrother took possession.'
"'Answer only the questions that are put to you. What age was the prisoner when you entered her father's service?'—'Miss Phœbe couldn't have been more than two. I was there when she first came.'
"'You were previously engaged, then?'—'Yes; at two-pence a week, and I never got more.'
"'What inducement was there for you to remain?'—'Well, I grew up there, so to speak; and I couldn't bear the thought of leaving Miss Phœbe.'
"'The prisoner?'—'Yes.'
"'To serve her was a pleasing duty?'—'I would die for her.'
"'If it were in your power you would testify in her favour?'—'I should be sorry to say a word against her.'
"'But you would tell the truth?'—'I must.'
"'Were you as much attached to your master?'—'No. If he was alive I would tell you what I thought of him.'
"'But being dead you say nothing?'—'It's more decent.'
"'Apart from their relationship as father and child, what kind of feeling existed between them?'—'He had no feeling for her; he hardly took notice of her. She would have loved him if he'd have let her; but he had other notions.'
"'You left his service less than a year ago?'—'Yes. I'll tell you the reason of it.'
"'We do not want to know the reason. Do you remember the night of the murder of Miser Farebrother?'—'Yes.'
"'On that night did you go to Mrs. Lethbridge's house?'—'Yes.'
"'After or before the prisoner left it?'—'After Miss Phœbe left.'
"'Were you spoken to about her having gone away?'—'Yes.'
"'By whom?'—'By Mrs. Lethbridge.'
"'What did she say to you?'—'That Miss Phœbe, without asking her advice, had gone to Parksides, and would I go after her and see that she would come to no harm.'
"'Was there any fear of her coming to harm in her father's house?'—'A good deal. She wasn't safe there.'
"'That is your opinion?'—'Yes, it's my opinion, and the truth.'
"'You went?'—'Yes. I had time, without interfering with my duty.'
"'You were glad to go?'—'I was glad to do anything to serve Miss Phœbe.'
"'Did you go by the train?'—'I was too late for trains; I walked.'
"'A tiring walk?'—'Not for me. I shouldn't think anything of forty mile.'
"'What did you do when you arrived at Parksides?'—'I looked about for Miss Phœbe.'
"'Did you see her?'—'No.'
"'Did you remain there for any length of time?'—'Up to the last safe minute. I had to get back to London to my duty by a certain time.'
"'I understand, then, that you remained until the last safe minute?'—'Yes.'
"'When you left Parksides, was it night or morning?'—'Morning. The sun was rising.'
"'You could distinguish objects perfectly?'—'Yes.'
"'Did you walk about Parksides freely? Was there any restraint upon your movements?'—'I don't know about restraints. It is the truth that I did not wish to be seen.'
"'Why?'—'There was no love lost between me and Miser Farebrother. He wouldn't have been pleased to see me.'
"'You knew you had no right to be there?'—'I was doing no harm, and had no intention of doing any. I wanted to be of service to Miss Phœbe.'
"'You were, however, careful in your movements?'—'Yes.'
"'Now, you say it was sunrise when you left?'—'It was.'
"'And that you could see clearly?'—'Yes.'
"'Is your eyesight good?'—'Very good. I can almost see in the dark.'
"'But you could not distinguish colours in the dark?'—'I don't say I could. At all events, I wouldn't swear to them.'
"'You have stated that you did not see the prisoner. But did you see any one you knew?'—'It's hard to answer.'
"'Not at all. You must be able to state whether you saw anything, before you left Parksides, that attracted your attention.'—'I am able to state that, but I answer your questions as you put them to me.'
"'And I do not complain of your answers. I am pleased to say that you are giving your evidence in a perfectly straightforward manner.'—'Thank you, sir.'
"'Well, then, you say you did not see any one whom you knew; but did you see any one at all?'—'Yes, I did. A woman.'
"'How do you know it was a woman?'—'By her dress.'
"'You saw that?'—'Clearly.'
"'I wish to lead up intelligibly and distinctly to this, and I am sure you will assist me—your desire being that justice shall be done?'—'It is my desire, sir; then everything will be right.'
"'You saw a woman, you say. Did you see her only once?'—'I saw her three times.'
"'At what distance was she from you?'—'Say thirty or forty yards.'
"'Always at about that distance?'—'Always at about that.'
"'Among the trees?'—'Yes.'
"'Did you walk toward her?'—'Yes.'
"'Well?'—'Then she disappeared.'
"'On every occasion?'—'On every occasion.'
"'As if she were hiding from you?'—'It looked like it.'
"'As if discovering that you were walking toward her, she did not wish you to see her?'—'It's fair to say that.'
"'Was her face turned toward you?'—'Never once.'
"'Then you could not recognize it?'—'It wasn't possible.'
"'That is why you say you did not see any one whom you knew?'—'Yes, that is the reason.'
"'However, you knew it was a woman by her dress?'—'Yes.'
"'By the form or the colour of her dress?'—'More by the colour than the form, though I am certain both ways.'
"'But the colour enables you to be quite positive?'—'Yes.'
"'Now, what was the colour of the dress worn by this woman?'—'It was blue.'
"'Is there any possibility that you could have been mistaken?'—'No.'
"'You swear it was blue?'—'I swear it.'
"'And the woman who wore this blue dress, discovering that you were following her, seemed anxious that you should not see her face?'—'It seemed so.'
"These were the salient features of the examination of Tom Barley, corroborated, as they were, by the evidence of witnesses favourable to the prisoner. Lurking about the grounds of Parksides was a woman in a blue dress, who was unmistakably anxious that he should not recognize her. The conclusion is that she was known to him, and that she had reasons for avoiding him.
"The prisoner, when she left her aunt's house on the night of the murder, wore a blue dress—her favourite colour. Even without this evidence there was sufficient to warrant the conclusion that the prisoner was guilty of the crime of which she stood charged; but it was natural, perhaps, that her youth and beauty would have won the day with impressionable men, had it not been for this important evidence of colour. In association with Miser Farebrother were two women only, Mrs. Pamflett and the prisoner. Setting a due value upon Tom Barley's evidence, the prosecution had carefully sifted it, and the conclusion arrived at was indisputable. Mrs. Pamflett was not a favourite in Beddington and round about; she had no friends or acquaintances there or anywhere; but she had been compelled to make her purchases in the village, and her appearance was familiar by force of circumstance. She had never been known to wear a blue dress; it was, she said, a detestable colour, and she would not purchase even a piece of ribbon of that hue. As the prisoner's favourite colour was blue, so Mrs. Pamflett's was pink, and in all the housekeeper's wardrobe—which, it may be mentioned, was thrown open to the investigation of the prosecution—there was not a fabric of blue.
"Another thing told heavily against the prisoner. In her statement she said that 'it was still dark when she went away' from Parksides. She said, 'There was no light in the sky when I left Parksides behind me.' Tom Barley proved that he saw her in a blue dress when the sun was rising. A sad duty indeed devolved upon the jury, but it was a duty which had to be fulfilled. The verdict of 'Guilty' which was returned was one which could not be avoided by conscientious men, however painful it must have been. Phœbe Farebrother is not the only beautiful and apparently gentle woman upon whom sentence of death has been passed."
Aunt and Uncle Leth and their children sat in their once happy home in Camden Town gazing at each other in mute despair. For them the tragedy of life was complete and overwhelming, and their condition was such that they could find no words to give expression to their horror and grief. They were waiting for Fred Cornwall, who had obtained permission to see Phœbe in prison. When he entered the room his face was white and stern. He felt the terrible blow which had fallen upon them no less poignantly than they; but he had not lost the power to act, nor, as with them, had hope entirely deserted him.
"I have seen her," he said, in a low tone. "She sends loving messages to you. I expected to find her heart-broken and prostrate, but she is imbued with a strange strength and resignation. The worst is over, she says she must not think of the past, but of the future. She is sustained by a consciousness of innocence, and is inexpressibly comforted by the thought that we know she is innocent. She begs that you will not grieve too deeply for her." He paused a moment or two. "That is the sense of her message to you. She is an angel and a martyr. I can trust myself to say nothing more of my visit to the prison. I must not remain with you now, unless you have something to communicate which may help me in the task upon which I am engaged—of even yet clearing her from the wicked charge. Yes, Aunt Leth, I will move heaven and earth to establish her innocence. I will not rest, I will not sleep—" Again he was compelled to pause; and when he could control himself he said: "I must see Tom Barley. Has he been here to-day?"
"Yes," replied Aunt Leth; "but I fear it will be long before he comes here again. There was a dreadful scene between him and 'Melia Jane. The girl stormed at him for giving his evidence about seeing a woman in a blue dress at Parksides on that fatal night. She said if it had not been for him our poor Phœbe would have been set free; and when he asked what else he could do but answer the questions they put to him, she answered that he ought to have cut his tongue out first."
"'Melia Jane was right," said Fanny.
"I don't see that he could have acted differently," said Fred, thoughtfully. "Without his evidence the case against my suffering angel would have been incomplete; but there can be no question that he spoke the truth. He did see a woman in a blue dress at Parksides; but it was not Phœbe. The evidence relating to the dresses worn by Mrs. Pamflett is not to be shaken, and it could not have been that she wore on that night a blue dress in order to throw suspicion upon our innocent darling."
"She could have worn such a dress," said Uncle Leth, "and afterward destroyed it."
"That is possible enough; but she could have had no hope, supposing her to be the guilty wretch—"
"Or her son," interposed Fanny.
"She could have had no hope of entangling our Phœbe by so doing. She knew that Phœbe was living here, and the sudden visit our poor girl paid to her father could not by any possibility have become known to her beforehand. If the woman Tom Barley saw was neither Phœbe nor Mrs. Pamflett, who is she? There are now two mysterious persons in this horrible affair—the man who was in the habit of visiting Miser Farebrother late at night and this woman whom Tom Barley saw, and who was conspicuously anxious that he should not see her face. These matters must be followed up; we can agitate, we can get time. I hear on all sides nothing but sympathy expressed for our dear Phœbe, and the case against her is so entirely circumstantial that I will not, I cannot, give up hope. A friend of mine who has chambers next to mine is so much interested in the case that he has offered to help me all he can. He is clearer-headed than I am just now, and cleverer, and higher up the ladder. He is convinced that Phœbe is innocent, and that there is a mystery in the affair which, unravelled, would set her free."
"God bless him!" sobbed Fanny. "What is the name of this good friend, that I may remember it in my prayers."
"Dick Garden. We are going to work together. He is waiting for me now in my rooms. He is a good fellow—the best of friends; I rely greatly upon him. Calm as I appear, I am burning with wrath and indignation, and I am scarcely to be depended upon for a clear judicial reasoning upon anything we may happily discover. I must go at once. Then you cannot tell me where I can find Tom Barley?"
"I will find him for you," said Robert, starting up.
"Do; and send him on to my place immediately. Good-by—good-by. If you hear anything, don't fail to let me know."
He drove rapidly to his rooms, where he found his friend Richard Garden awaiting him. This friend was of about the same age as himself; an ambitious, astute young fellow, determined to get along in the world, and almost certain to succeed, for the reason that he had brains and indomitable courage and industry.
He looked up from the paper upon which he was writing when Fred entered. Upon a smaller table in the room some food was spread: a plate of ham and beef, a cold pie, and bread; also a jug of ale.
"You have had nothing to eat?" said Garden. Fred shook his head impatiently. "Of course you haven't; and you think that we can go into an affair like this with empty stomachs. No, old fellow; we must assist ourselves like sensible men. A craving stomach is a bad mental foundation. Come, tuck away; force something down. That's right. Just taste this cold pie—good, isn't it? A pint of ale between us—here's your half, no more and no less. You feel better, don't you? Now we are fit to set to work. You saw her?"
"Yes."
"Did you get her to talk calmly?"
"She was calmer than you are, Dick. She has made up her mind to die."
"Not for many a long year yet. Here's a letter I've written to the papers, signed 'A Lawyer,' showing up the weak points in the case, and appealing for sympathy and a surer kind of justice. Just finished the fourth copy as you came in. My lad is down-stairs; he will take the letters to the newspaper offices, and to-morrow they will be all over the country. Don't lose heart, Fred; there is some infernal mystery at the bottom of this affair, and I mean to get at it. You asked the poor girl about the dresses Mrs. Pamflett was in the habit of wearing?"
"Yes; and she said she never saw the woman in a blue dress."
"Is she still positive about the brooch?"
"She has not the slightest doubt. When her father turned her from his house she left the brooch behind her."
"Then it must have been placed in the grounds by some person—deliberately placed there."
"Unless it was dropped by accident."
"If so, it must have been a female who dropped it. Either way, the person who dropped or placed it where it was found can be no other than Mrs. Pamflett. Let us suppose that. If dropped by accident, it proves that she must have been near the spot where the miser was murdered; if placed there by her, it must have been placed there for a motive. Miss Farebrother adheres to the truth of her story as to what occurred on the night of her visit to Parksides?"
"Yes."
"She did not see Mrs. Pamflett?"
"No."
"But Mrs. Pamflett may have seen her. Let us assume that she or her son committed the deed. She sees Miss Farebrother in the grounds, and overhears, perhaps, what passes between the poor young lady and her father. She witnesses Miss Farebrother's departure from Parksides. After that the murder is committed. Then, seeing Miss Farebrother's veil on the ground—in Miss Farebrother's condition there are a thousand reasonable hypotheses to account for its having become detached from her hat—the idea presents itself to Mrs. Pamflett to strengthen the case against Miss Farebrother by placing the brooch also near the dead body."
"You do not forget the female in a blue dress that Tom Barley saw in the grounds?"
"I do not; and I cannot account for it. Did you ask Miss Farebrother anything about the man who, according to Mrs. Pamflett, had been in the habit for years of visiting Miser Farebrother secretly at night?"
"To her knowledge, no such man ever presented himself, and no such visits ever took place."
"She has no remembrance of anything of the kind occurring?"
"Not the slightest."
"It is inexplicable. There's some one at the door. Come in!"
It was Robert Lethbridge, who came to say that Tom Barley was on duty, and would not be able to visit Fred Cornwall before the morning; but if they wished to speak to him at once they would find him on his beat.
"No," said Garden; "we will not go to him. I want him when his time is his own, so that we can talk quietly and uninterruptedly. Go and tell him to come and see us at nine o'clock in the morning."
"He can be here earlier, Dick," said Fred Cornwall.
"Nine o'clock is early enough. It will give us time to sleep and rest. I am physician as well as lawyer in this case, it seems."
Robert Lethbridge departed with the message, and he was barely gone before two other visitors presented themselves. These were Kiss, the comedian, and Mr. Linton, the dramatic author. They looked very grave as they entered. Fred Cornwall introduced them to Richard Garden, who cast a shrewd glance at them, and then said, quietly:
"You have something to tell us?"
"You can speak freely," said Fred. "Mr. Garden and I are working together in this terrible matter."
"A terrible matter indeed, Mr. Cornwall," said Kiss, with deep feeling in his voice, "and Mr. Linton and I are responsible for it." The young lawyers looked at their visitors in surprise at this statement. Kiss continued: "It is the melancholy truth that if it had not been for us an innocent young girl, an angel of sweetness and purity, would not be lying at death's door as we stand here. Unless we can prove her innocence it will haunt us to our dying day."
"Why do you accuse yourselves?" asked Garden.
"Was it not through our folly that Mr. Lethbridge was plunged into difficulties? Believing that my friend Linton had written a play which would make all our fortunes, did we not go to Mr. Lethbridge and by our plausible statements induce him to sign a bill for three hundred pounds which that infamous scoundrel, Jeremiah Pamflett, discounted? You will remember the play I refer to, Mr. Garden; it wasA Heart of Gold, which, because of an extraordinary first-night speech made by Mr. Linton, blazed up for a fortnight or so, and then spluttered out like a tallow candle with a damp wick. It was in the hope of helping her uncle out of his difficulties—for which we, and we alone, were responsible—that Miss Farebrother paid a visit to her father on the night he was murdered. Had she not gone he would have been murdered all the same—there is no doubt in our minds as to that—and, safe and happy at home with her aunt and uncle, by no possibility could suspicion have been cast upon her. But shedidgo, because none of us were able to pay the money which Mr. Lethbridge borrowed for us. Do you see now how it is that we are responsible for what has occurred? It is Linton and I who ought to have been placed in the dock instead of that sweet, unfortunate young lady. Since the lying accusation was brought against her, we have not been able to sleep. If exhausted nature compels us to go off in a doze, we start up in affright and horror. There will never again be rest for either of us until Miss Farebrother is set at liberty and her honourable name restored to her."
"Your feelings do you credit," said Garden; "but it is not alone to say what you have said that you have come here to-night?"
"No; but it leads up to what may be of importance. God knows whether it will or not, but drowning men catch at a straw. I am glad you are working with Mr. Cornwall, sir; it is easy to see how he is suffering, and you must be a comfort to him—if," he added, feelingly, "anybodycancomfort him at such a time as this. Well, sir, Linton and I have also been putting our heads together, and we decided to set a watch."
"Upon whom?"
"Upon that image of wickedness, Jeremiah Pamflett, and his equally wicked mother. Sir, that tale of hers as to what took place between her and Miss Farebrother on the night of the murder is false as—Never mind; it will not do to be profane."
"That is to say, you believe it to be false? You have no direct evidence to the contrary?"
"No, sir; unfortunately we have not. It is our belief, as you say, but none the less incontrovertible. It is not because we have dramatic ideas that we determined to watch this precious pair. It seemed to us to offer a chance of discovering something; therefore we set practically to work, Linton watching the son, I watching the mother. Until this evening we saw nothing that could be turned against them. You are probably aware that Mrs. Pamflett left Parksides shortly after the murder?"
"She had to leave," remarked Fred; "as Miss Farebrother's legal representative, I saw to that before the trial took place."
"Quite proper. And her son had to leave the London office and seek lodgings elsewhere?"
"Yes; that was also effected through me."
"Being thrown upon their own resources, they took two rooms in Knightsbridge. We tracked them there. Sometimes they went out together, sometimes alone. When they were together they scarcely spoke to each other, and it seemed to us as if this silence had been determined upon between them; what they said might have been overheard, and they might have said something injudicious. It almost appeared as if nothing was to come of our watch. There was a monotony in it which weighed upon us, and we were almost in despair. We tried to get a room in the house they lodged in, but there was none to let. The day before yesterday, however, something occurred to rouse us. We saw a woman watching the house they lived in. She knocked at the street door, and received an answer to her questions from the landlady. Then she retired, and from a short distance kept watch upon the house—you may imagine how excited this made us—until Jeremiah Pamflett came out alone. He walked along apparently with no suspicion in his mind that he was being followed by the woman, and certainly with no suspicion that Linton and I were walking behind them both. You may be certain that we were very careful. It is excusable in me as an actor, and in Linton as a dramatic author, that we should adopt some slight disguise, altered from day to day under my direction, to lessen the chances of our being detected in case Jeremiah Pamflett should happen to see us. Well, sir, as the four of us were walking along in Indian file, what did the woman suddenly do but go up to Jeremiah and accost him! And what did he do but start violently, turn round to look at the woman, and then, without saying one word to her, walk rapidly away with the conspicuous intention of getting rid of her. From a rapid walk he got into a run, and the woman and we lost sight of him. So far as that incident was concerned, there was an end of it. We lost sight, too, of the woman; but not before we saw sufficient of her to be able to recognize her if we should see her again. Yesterday we were again in view of the house in which these Pamfletts lodged, and there again was the same woman watching, as we judged, for her friend Jeremiah. But he did not make his appearance, and after remaining in the neighbourhood for nearly an hour, we saw the landlady put a card in her front window, 'Rooms to let.' Across the road went the woman; she knocked at the door, made some inquiries of the landlady, and came away with a spiteful, disappointed expression on her face. I told Linton to follow her, and find out where she lived. Meanwhile I myself went across to the home, and inquired about the rooms to let. It was as I suspected: the Pamfletts had left—'quite sudden,' the landlady said. Putting this and that together, I came to the conclusion that they had left their lodgings, and most probably the neighbourhood, because of the discovery by the woman of their whereabouts. This looked so much like fright on the part of Jeremiah Pamflett that it stirred me up and made me hopeful. But where had he and his mother flown to? Sir, this very evening chance has befriended us, and we are again on the track. Give me, if you please, your closest attention; I am approaching something rather startling."
"Stop a moment," said Garden, rising and going to the side-board, from which he took a bottle of apollinaris and a bottle of brandy, "you seem rather faint."
"To tell you the truth," said Kiss, "I have scarcely tasted food to-day, I have been that anxious and distressed."
"We are all engaged in the same good cause," said Garden, smiling, "and every one, with the exception of myself, seems bent upon starving himself. Take a slice of this pie; Mr. Linton will join you. You don't object to brandy and apollinaris?"
"Not at all," said Kiss, speaking with his mouth full; "split it between Linton and me. Mr. Garden, you are a wise gentleman and a capable chief. If we are happily successful in the end we have in view—and I pray God we shall be!—we shall have you to thank for it. Do you not think with me, Mr. Cornwall?"
Fred pressed Garden's hand with emotion, and Garden, shrewd, cool, self-possessed, and with all his wits about him, returned the pressure, and gave Fred a look of encouragement. It was like wine to Fred. His hopes grew stronger. Perhaps, after all, his dear, suffering girl would, by the mercy of God, be rescued from her dread peril, and be spared to brighten his life and the lives of those who held her dear. His eyes grew dim, and he pressed his hand across them.
"Do not overrate my services," said Garden, in his clear strong voice. "I am only a moderately skilful engineer, and my hardest task, it appears to me, is to keep the machinery of which I have direction in fair workable order. Now, then, Mr. Kiss, you look double the man you were. We are all attention."