THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.
THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.
The Hampstead Mystery.CHAPTER I.
The Hampstead Mystery.
In a few seconds the door opened again, to admit Frederick Walcheren, leaning on the arm of his cousin, Philip. At first the jury wished the latter to withdraw, but he refused to do so.
‘Is it not sufficient,’ he cried, ‘for you to look at this unfortunate man, to see what he is suffering, and that he is incapable of confronting you alone? I refuse to leave him; if you insist upon it, we will both withdraw. This is a court of inquiry, not of justice; how dare youtreat this gentleman as if he were a criminal?’
‘I am not aware that the jury were doing so, Mr Walcheren,’ retorted Mr Procter. ‘However, as he seems ill, and you insist upon remaining by his side, let it be so. It is not, however, the usual thing for a witness to be examined in the presence of another person.’
‘I don’t care if it is the custom or not,’ replied Philip firmly. ‘You may commit me for contempt of court, if you like, but my cousin is too ill to stand by himself, and I refuse to leave him.’
‘Very well, sir, very well!’ replied the coroner tartly, ‘if Mr Frederick Walcheren answers the questions put to him, nothing more will be said about it.’
Frederick did indeed look more like a criminal than anything else. His dark hair, which he wore rather long for the general fashion, was dull and damp with the sweat which agony had forced from him. His features were pinched and his eyes sunk, whilst his clear olive complexionhad assumed a yellow, waxen hue. The whole man seemed to have collapsed under the force of his grief. He did not raise his eyes to the faces of his inquisitors, but sat leaning back in his chair, with his gaze fixed on the ground, and his hands clasped together between his knees.
‘Rouse yourself, if you please, sir,’ commenced the coroner, ‘and let us have as succinct an account as you can of all you know concerning this distressing affair. Do you recognise the deceased, Jane Emily Walcheren, as your late wife?’
‘Yes!’ answered Frederick in a low voice.
‘Speak up, if you please! The jury cannot hear your replies. When did you see the deceased lady last?’
‘On Saturday morning.’
‘Well, well, what more?’ cried Mr Procter, impatiently; ‘tell us all about it. Where did you see her, and when did you part with her, and what did you do in the interim? We want the whole story, and can’t go dragging it from you piecemeal.’
‘Say all you know, Frederick,’ whispered Philip, ‘it will be so much the sooner over and done with.’
The unhappy young man made a visible effort, and said,—
‘I saw her last alive on Saturday morning at the Castle Warden Hotel at about half-past eleven or twelve o’clock. We had just finished breakfast, and I left her to have a swim. I never saw her again until I came—here.’
‘How long were you away from the hotel?’
‘I did not return till nearly three. That hour was fixed for our luncheon.’
‘Three hours is a long time to be taking a swim. What were you doing for the rest of the time?’
‘I was occupied in the water, all, or nearly, all the time,’ replied Frederick.
But Mr Procter, who had never indulged in a bath but once in his life, and that was the day before his wedding, when he caught such a cold that he had never ventured into the water since, was notto be taken in by so transparent an untruth.
‘In the water for three hours, sir! Do you expect the jury to believe that?’
‘I was in the sea for the best part of the time, swimming and doing feats of skill. Some part of it must be allowed for dressing and undressing myself. But the day was fine, and I did not care to come out sooner than was necessary.’
‘I believe I am right, Mr Walcheren, in saying that you were only married to the deceased on the Friday previous?’
‘That is the case.’
‘Is it usual for a bridegroom to leave his bride alone for three hours the day after their wedding in order that he may have a swim?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Frederick, wearily; ‘but I did.’
‘Well, when you came back at three o’clock you found your wife was gone?’
‘I did.’
‘Was it not rather strange, considering that you had gone to the beach, that shedid not go to the beach also, in order to find you?’
‘At first I thought she must have done so, but I searched the beach and the town, and, finally, the cliffs, without finding any trace of her.’
‘And then you returned to the hotel! At what time might that have been?’
‘I am not sure. At about five, or half-past, I think.’
‘With the exception, then, of a run home for a few minutes, you were absent from the Castle Warden from half-past eleven to half-past five—six hours? And all that time you were bathing or looking for your wife?’
‘I have already told you so,’ answered Frederick.
‘Who saw you during that time, Mr Walcheren? What witnesses can you bring forward to testify that it was spent as you tell us?’
‘Witnesses!’ reiterated Frederick, with a stare. ‘How can I bring witnesses from a place where I am utterly unknown? Ihave never been in Dover to stay a night before now. Nobody in the town knows me. I have not spoken to an individual, excepting a young man who accosted me whilst swimming, and a girl whom I asked if she had seen—had seen—my—my—wife.’
‘That is unfortunate,’ remarked the coroner, drily. ‘Now, Mr Walcheren, am I right in supposing that your marriage was not conducted very regularly—that it was undertaken, in fact, entirely against, and in opposition to, the wishes of the parents of the deceased?’
‘I don’t know what the devil business that is of yours!’ exclaimed Frederick, roused from his lethargic condition by the impertinence of the question.
‘Everything is my business, sir, in the pursuit of my duty, and, if you address me again in that manner, I shall commit you for contempt of court. I understand, further, that not only was your marriage with the deceased an irregular one, but that you took a false oath in order to procure a licence for it, by stating the deceasedto be of age, when she wanted a year of that time.’
‘I did, if you will have it so!’ said the young man, sullenly.
‘Are you aware, Mr Walcheren, that in consequence of your behaviour in the matter, your father-in-law, Mr Crampton, altered his will and cut his daughter’s name out of it?’
‘Of course I knew it.’
‘Who told you of it?’
‘I forget. My wife, I suppose!’
‘Mr Crampton never informed you of the fact himself?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘You did not hear of it, in fact, until after your unfortunate marriage had taken place beyond recall. Can you deny it, sir?’
‘I don’t know if I did or did not. I cannot remember. My head is so dazed by the events that have taken place since that I cannot trust my memory in anything.’
‘Perhaps I can jog it for you. You took a false oath in order to enable you to marry the deceased, whom you believedto be an heiress, and it was not until you had brought her down here that you found out your mistake. Your wife told you of the fact, and you probably had a few words on the matter, before you left her so suddenly in the hotel.’
‘It’s a lie!’ cried Frederick vehemently, as he sprang up from his chair, an action which caused the coroner to dodge behind two of the jury in case his witness might prove dangerous. ‘It’s a lie, I tell you, we never had a word of misunderstanding between us, and if you dare to mention her in that way to me again, I will knock your dirty head against the wall for you.’
He would have sprung at the coroner in reality, if his cousin had not restrained him.
‘Frederick! Frederick! forhersake, restrain yourself. You would not mix up her name or memory with a low row.’
‘Gentlemen of the jury!’ exclaimed the coroner, ‘another such insult on the part of that witness and I will put him in arrest for assault. You have heard him threaten me. The whole case is one of suspicion, in myopinion. This man runs away with a lady under age, whom he believes to be an heiress, and the very day he finds out his mistake she is found thrown over the cliffs, under every appearance of there having been foul play. The witness would have us believe that he, a bridegroom not two days married, left his young wife for six mortal hours to indulge in swimming—that when she was missed, he made every effort to find her, that he even went along the cliffs where she lay dead, and never saw her body.’
‘But the body layunderthe cliffs,’ interposed a juror; ‘and the gentleman walked along them. He couldn’t have found her unless he had descended to the beach.’
‘That’s right, Mr Colly,’ said Procter, spitefully; ‘always interrupt at the most important moments. The witness has eyes in his head. I suppose he could have looked over—if he had been very energetic in his search hewouldhave looked over. And what was he doing all that time?And is it likely the deceased would have ascended the cliffs by herself, in a place where she had never been before. You have heard the witness of the landlord and waiters of the hotel, to the effect that they never saw the deceased leave the hotel after her husband—that she must have been gone almost as long as he was, for another witness, Mr Hindes, called twice with the view of seeing her, and each time she was out. Now, where was she all that time, if she were not, as is most probable, with her husband? Dr M’Coll gave us his opinion that the deceased might have been thrown over the cliffs, or she might have fallen over, or she might have thrown herself over on purpose. Now, it seems to me highly improbable that a young woman of twenty should tumble over such a place by mistake—still less that she should have committed suicide the very day after her marriage; but words lead to quarrels, gentlemen, and quarrels lead to pushing sometimes, and a hasty push is a very dangerous thing, you know,when near a steep cliff. I don’t wish to bias your decision in this matter in any degree. If you find the deceased came by her death by misadventure you will give your verdict to that effect, but if you think the circumstances are such as to demand a stricter inquiry, you will say so. I leave the case in your hands now, and I feel sure you will do it justice!’
The jury shambled out of the room, and Frederick looked up into his cousin’s face with open eyes that were half mystified and half alarmed.
‘Philip! what does that man mean? He cannot—no! it would be too gross—too impossible!—he cannot mean us to understand that he suspects me—meof having had any hand in this misfortune?’
‘Hush! Fred; hush!’ replied Philip, laying his hand soothingly on the other’s arm; ‘never mind what he says or thinks. He is a cad—any one can see that—in mind as well as breeding. Let the brute think what he likes. He cannot make others agree with him, and all your friends willknow that you are innocent in the matter as far as the poor girl’s death is concerned.’
‘But to be suspected, and by a creature like that—I, who would have given my worthless life for hers a thousand times over. My God! it is hard!’
Philip squeezed his hand.
‘I know it! It is part of the trial, but it will soon be over now! Here are the jury! They have not been long in coming to a decision.’
‘Well, gentlemen, and what is your verdict?’ demanded Mr Procter, with an unctuous smack of his lips, as if he longed to hear them say they considered that there had been foul play in the matter.
‘Our verdict, sir,’ replied the spokesman; ‘is that the deceased came by her death from a fall over the cliffs, but whether she was thrown over or fell over by accident there is not sufficient evidence to show!’
‘It is unsatisfactory that your verdict should be undecided,’ said the coroner; ‘had you not better reconsider it?’
‘We are quite unanimous on the subject, sir; and we would like to add a rider to the effect that some sort of fence should be put along the edge of the cliffs to prevent accidents in future.’
‘Very well, if you are agreed, it is no use detaining you any longer,’ said Procter, with an aggrieved air, for he had quite made up his own mind that Frederick Walcheren had killed his wife; ‘you have only to sign the papers and end the proceedings.’
As soon as they were set at liberty, Philip hurried his cousin out of the room, for Frederick was in that reckless condition that he dreaded what he might say or do to the coroner. Here they found that the body of poor Jenny had already been moved to an upper chamber by the orders of Mr Crampton, and was being prepared by women’s hands for its last receptacle. That she should have been touched without his authority made her husband furious.
‘Who has dared to do this?’ he exclaimedwrathfully, as he glared at Mr Crampton and Henry Hindes.
‘Ihave dared, sir,’ replied the father, determinedly. ‘You stole my living daughter from me, but you shall not have her now that she is dead! I have ordered, or rather my kind friend Hindes here has ordered, every preparation to be made for the conveyance of her precious remains to Hampstead, where I shall take her by train to-morrow, and there our connection ends. You have done me all the injury in your power, and I never wish to see your face again, either in this world or the next.’
‘But you shall not have her, I say,’ cried Frederick in a fury, ‘she was my wife, and I defy you to take her from me, dead or alive! I shall take her myself to my brother’s place in Northampton and see her laid in the family vault of the Walcherens’. That is the only place where my wife shall lie.’
‘She wasnotyour wife,’ exclaimed the old man; ‘you married her under falsepretences, and if you attempt to cross me in my purpose I will appeal to the law to see me righted, and give me back all that your villainy has left me of my child.’
‘By Heaven you sha’n’t!’ said the younger man, as he made a rush forward as if he would have seized Mr Crampton by the throat; ‘if you persist in your intention I will fight you inch by inch, old man as you are, for the possession of her remains.’
‘Frederick!’ interposed Philip, restraining him, ‘think what you are saying and doing. Is such wrangling seemly in the very presence of the dead? You know what this gentleman says is the truth. Youdidrob him of his daughter, and by a fraud. In strictest justice, therefore, she belongs to him now, as she did whilst alive. But even were it not so, cannot you make up your mind to yield your wishes to his? Think of all he has lost, of how little he has remaining, and don’t deny him this sad consolation of laying his daughter to rest where he can see hergrave. It is really of so little consequence when you come to think of it! And if it is a sacrifice on your part, cannot you make it as a little expiation for what has gone before, an atonement which Heaven may accept for the wrong you did them both. Be reasonable, Fred! After to-day neither you nor her father will ever see her in this world again. Why deny him the sorry comfort of taking her body home for her poor mother to weep over? Come, my dear fellow, yield this little point gracefully. I fancy your dear young wife, could we ask her, would rather choose to lie at Hampstead amongst the flowers than in our musty old vault at Northampton, where you never go.’
Frederick gave a tremendous gulp.
‘Perhaps so,’ he answered, ‘perhaps so.’ Then to Mr Crampton, ‘Take her, sir, then, take my angel back to her own people, but let me bid her a last farewell before she is carried away from me.’
‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Mr Crampton, shamed out of his brawling manner by theother’s submission, ‘and I thank you for yielding the point, but I feel it is my right—the only right, unfortunately, which you have left me.’
Philip drew Frederick upstairs. He felt the less these two men met in the future the better. The room where Jenny now lay was already set to rights, and she was stretched upon the bed, clad in fair, fresh raiment, with her hands crossed meekly on her breast. She looked very different, poor child, from the saucy, merry, wilful girl who had run away with her lover, without giving a single thought to the consequences. The women had smoothed her hair upon her forehead, her eyes were sunk, her mouth pathetically closed and rigid. The little perfect nose, her lover had so much admired, was drawn and pinched almost out of all likeness to itself, and the inside of the hands were turning purple. Her unhappy husband prostrated himself with a cry of anguish by the side of the bed, and Philip withdrew and left him for a little while, whilst he madearrangements for their departure for London. He felt that Frederick could have no possible desire to remain in Dover when Jenny’s body had been removed thence, and that the sooner he left it the better.
Mr Crampton and Henry Hindes had decided to remain there till the following day, when the sad preparations for their return to Hampstead would be completed, and Philip Walcheren was glad to see them leave the ‘Bottle and Spurs’ for a hotel, where they had arranged to pass the night. He accompanied them to the town, and, when the coast was clear, he secured a close carriage and returned to the public-house for his unfortunate cousin.
‘Come, dear Frederick,’ he said, as he re-entered the room where the body lay; ‘let me take you away from here. I have settled your bill at the Castle Warden, and your portmanteau is waiting us at the station. The—the other things there, I have arranged with Mr Crampton to take away. It is best that we should return to London at once.’
‘And is this the last—last time that I shall ever see her?’ asked Frederick, in a tone of unutterable woe.
‘On this earth, my dear cousin, yes,’ replied Philip, ‘and it is just as well. The sight can only increase your misery. In a very short time the undertakers will be here to do their work. Why not spare yourself the extra pain of watching them. And after they are gone, what will there be for you to gaze upon? A box of wood! Be a man, my dear fellow, and say good-bye to her.’
‘Oh! Philip, Philip, if you only knew what that word costs me. It is like dragging my very entrails out to pronounce it.’
‘I do know it, but it must be done. Better now than before strangers.’
‘Good-bye, good-bye, my angel,’ cried the young man, as he kissed the corpse from head to feet. ‘Don’t forget your wretched husband in the land you have gone to, but remember he has but one wish left on earth—to join you there. Good-bye, my only love! No other woman canever take your place with me. I dedicate the rest of my unhappy life to your sweet memory. Oh, Philip, how can I tear myself away from her!’
‘You have forgotten to take this, Frederick,’ said his cousin, drawing off poor Jenny’s fatal wedding-ring and holding it out to him. ‘It is yours by right to keep for her till you meet again.’
‘Sacred and inviolate!’ exclaimed Frederick, as he pressed the pledge of their married love to his lips. ‘My God, hear me swear that this ring shall keep me faithful to my darling’s memory for ever, that with it I pledge myself to fidelity and virtue as long as my life may last.’
‘And God has heard the oath,’ said Philip, solemnly. ‘Come, Frederick, the carriage is waiting at the door. Do not prolong this trying scene any more.’
‘Shall I see anybody?’ asked his cousin in a fearful manner, as they gained the outside of the door at last; ‘shall we encounter either of those men again, Crampton or Hindes, I mean, or thosedreadful creatures who wanted to accuse me—My God, Philip,’ he continued, stopping short, ‘of what was it they wanted to accuse me?’
‘Of nothing, nothing, Frederick,’ replied Philip, soothingly, ‘you must not think of it again. It is the business of a jury to make everything look as black as possible, and they never think of the pain they may inflict by their unworthy suspicions. Try and forget it, with all the other incidents of this most trying day. You will meet no one, unless it be the people of the house. You may take my word for that! Just put yourself in my hands and I will manage everything for us both.’
Frederick was only too thankful to be relieved of all responsibility, for he was utterly worn-out with grief, and incapable of thinking or acting for himself, so he clung to the arm of his cousin, who hurried him into the carriage and off to the railway station before he hardly knew where they were going. But as theyneared London, he roused himself sufficiently to ask their destination.
‘I intend to take you to my house first,’ replied Philip, cheerfully, ‘for you are not fit in your present condition to look after yourself, nor would I allow you to go back alone to your flat in Nevern Mansions. In our house you shall have a couple of rooms to yourself, and Marion will take care that you are undisturbed. When you are better, you shall decide what to do. At present you must resign yourself into my hands.’
Frederick pressed his cousin’s hand and murmured ‘Thank you,’ without making the slightest objection to the plan.
He was, indeed, too intensely miserable and worn-out to care about anything, and when their journey came to an end, he allowed Philip to do with him exactly as he chose.