The following is a copy of Mr. Hazeldine's letter to his son:
Oct. 5, 18--,
"My Dear Edward,
"When these lines reach you, he who writes them will be no longer among the living. The end of my days is at hand. I am about to go hence, and be no more seen.
"Three months ago I consulted two eminent London specialists with reference to the state of my health. For some time I had had reason to believe that my heart was seriously affected, but I had shrank from turning doubt into certainty. At length, however, I did so, and the verdict proved to be little more than a confirmation of my own secret fears. Both the men I consulted gave me to understand that, with great care, I might live for some time to come, but that there was a possibility of my being taken off at any moment. Rest and perfect quiet were essential to my case, and a complete release from the cares and worries of business--all of which you will say might have been mine had I so willed it--and indeed it is quite true that I might have retired to some restful spot, and there, 'far from the madding crowd,' have eked out the poor remainder of my days, but for certain circumstances which rendered such a step an impossibility. What those circumstances were, I will now tell you.
"Edward, from youth upward I have been a gambler--a secret gambler--but so well have I kept the knowledge to myself that not even your mother has known of it, whatever she may have suspected. When I was a schoolboy I used to gamble for halfpence. When I grew older I was in the habit of venturing my half-crowns, and afterwards my sovereigns, on this race or the other. When I was a young man, and supposed to be taking my autumn holidays in Scotland or at the seaside, I generally contrived to find my way to Doncaster for the St. Leger; and over and over again I have gone through the whole gamut of a gambler's hopes, fears, exultations, and despair.
"Of late years, however, I have given up having anything to do with the Turf, and have confined myself to transactions on the Stock Exchange. Three years ago I was worth twenty thousand pounds: to-day I am a ruined man. I wanted to turn my twenty thousand into fifty, and it seemed so easy to do it that I had not the courage to withhold my hand. Even now I have faith to believe that I could retrieve my fortunes were time given me to do so, but time is the one thing I can no longer call my own. The anxieties of the last few months have told terribly upon me, and I feel that the end may come at any moment. Besides which, Mr. Avison will be at home in the course of a few days.
"You may, perhaps, ask in what way the return of Mr. Avison can affect me, unless it serve to transfer some of the cares of business from my shoulders to his, and, in so far, prove a source of relief to me. But, Edward, I dare not meet him! When I tell you this, you will know what I mean.
"Yes, it is even so. Things that I have been able to cover up during his absence can be hidden no longer when he returns. I cannot, I dare not face that which would inevitably follow. What a terribly bitter confession is this to make to you, my eldest son!
"What then, is to be done? How escape a disgrace which seems inevitable? There is only one mode of escaping from it--by suicide--and that is the mode I have determined to adopt. It is my last and only resource.
"You are aware that, many years ago, I insured my life for twelve thousand pounds. This sum, together with a thousand pounds standing to my credit at the Bank (for I have always contrived to maintain a balance there in order to avoid suspicion), will be nearly all that your mother and sister will have to depend upon after I am gone; should it, however, be discovered that I have committed suicide, the policy will be forfeited and they will be left little better off than paupers. For this reason, therefore, if for no other, my death must not seem to be the act of my own hand.
"But there is another reason, almost as imperative, why the world must not be allowed to believe that I have put an end to my existence. It must never become known that I dare not face Mr. Avison, and my employer himself must never learn how his most trusted servant has betrayed the confidence reposed in him. The shame, disgrace, and misery in which such knowledge would involve those I leave behind me must be avoided at every risk. There is only one way by which such consequences can be averted, and that is by making my death seem to have resulted, not from my own act, but from the act of another. In brief, the world must be led to believe, not that I have committed suicide, but that I have been murdered!
"You will naturally ask how is such an end to be accomplished? for in such a case nothing must be left to chance--every step in the affair, every contingency that might arise out of it, must be thought of and arranged for beforehand. I will tell you what I purpose doing--what, in fact, will actually have been done, to secure the object I have in view, before to-morrow's sunrise.
"In the first place, I have paid off to the uttermost farthing all my losses on the Stock Exchange; and as I have always speculated under an assumed name, there is no risk of its ever becoming known that the respected manager of the Ashdown Bank was the desperate gambler he has been in reality.
"And now for the details of my final arrangements. To-night--for the final act of the tragedy can no longer be delayed, seeing that Mr. Avison is already as far as Paris on his road home--to-night I shall work at the office till after everyone else has gone. I shall put Sweet off his guard. I shall arrange matters so that the door of the bullion safe in the strong room shall be found open, and the safe, to all appearance, rifled of its contents. The booty supposed to have been thus appropriated will amount to something over four thousand pounds, that being the sum in which I am indebted to the Bank. My books will show that latterly the Bank has been accumulating funds in notes and gold to a very considerable amount in order to provide for certain contingencies which it would have to meet before long in the ordinary course of business. As for my worthless self--I shall be found dead on the hearthrug of my office, stabbed to the heart.
"Such is an outline of the programme which will have been carried into effect before these lines meet your eye. In carrying out this desperate resolve I am merely anticipating the end of a life which no power on earth could prolong for many months, and which might go out like the snuff of a candle at any moment. The proceeds of my policy of insurance will be saved to my family, my fair fame will remain untainted, the world will respect my memory as that of a man just and honorable in all his dealings, while those I leave behind me will have no cause to blush for the name they bear.
"Such being the case, why have I chosen to make you my confidant in this matter? Why have I imposed upon you the burthen of such a confession? Why have I not let you live on in ignorance, as your brother will live on in his? I will tell you why.
"Notwithstanding all the precautions I shall take to obviate so untoward a result, it is just possible that my death may be laid at the door of some innocent person. Many a guiltless man has been done to death by circumstantial evidence, and such a thing might easily happen again. I charge you, therefore, as my eldest son, that in the event of anyone being accused of my death, you at once make public such facts as will suffice to free him from so heinous a charge. Better, a thousand times better, that the whole truth should be told, than that the accusation of being a murderer should cling to anyone for an hour! I lay upon you this most solemn duty, being perfectly satisfied that I could entrust it into no better hands. My fervent hope, however, is that no such contingency may arise. Should it do so, your duty will lie plainly before you, and I feel satisfied that you will not shrink from doing it.
"And now, what shall I say more? I dare not write one-twentieth part of that which I feel, for fear I should break down; and I need all the strength I can summon to my aid to go through the ordeal before me. You will continue to be what you have always been--a good son and a good brother. You will treat your father's memory in your thoughts as leniently as you can. I have been weak, foolish--criminal, even; but had fortune smiled on my schemes, all this would have remained unknown, even to you. I should have lived and died prosperous and respected, and the local newspaper, in its obituary notice, would have attributed to me half the virtues under the sun. But should the world ever come to know that which I have here revealed to you, then the colors it would paint me in would be black indeed.
"I can write no more.
"Farewell, a long farewell.
"Your unhappy father,
"James Hazeldine."
Edward Hazeldine was still sitting with his father's open letter in his hand, in a maze of grief, shame, and perplexity, when there came a knock at his office door. He put the letter carefully out of sight, and then said, "Come in." A servant entered.
"If you please, sir, the Coroner has sent for you, and you are wanted immediately."
The Coroner and jury had met in a room of the "White Lion Hotel," a house not more than two or three hundred yards from the Bank. The twelve good men and true were either tradesmen or private householders of the town, all of whom had known, and most of them had done business with, the late Mr. Hazeldine.
After viewing the body, which still lay in the room where it had been found, the jury went back to the hotel. The proceedings were watched by Mr. Prestwich, solicitor, retained by Mr. Edward Hazeldine, on behalf of the relatives of the deceased. Mr. Mace and three of his men were in attendance.
The first witness called was Clement Hazeldine, who identified the body of the deceased as that of his father.
The next witness was John Brancker, who deposed to deceased having left the Bank during the forenoon of the previous day, with the intention of going to London to change notes to the amount of about twelve hundred pounds for gold. When he left the Bank he took with him the black bag which was always made use of on such occasions. It was not often, witness went on to say, that Mr. Hazeldine himself went to London to obtain change; that was a duty which more frequently devolved upon him, witness; still, it sometimes happened that deceased had other business to transact in town, in which case he would bring back the gold himself.
David Measom, the railway booking-clerk, deposed to having sold deceased a first-class return ticket to London and back by the ten-thirty train on the previous day.
Obed Sweet, night-watchman, deposed to the events as detailed in a previous chapter:--To seeing Mr. Hazeldine enter the Bank about half-past eight P.M., carrying his black bag; to hearing, as he believed, the front door shut about half-past ten, and to finding, to his surprise when he went upstairs, that deceased was still at work; to waiting until half-past eleven before going upstairs again, and to finding the office at that time in darkness, and Mr. Hazeldine, to all appearance, gone. Witness then went on to state that the noise he had heard about half-past ten had since been accounted for, by the fact of Mr. Brancker having come back to the Bank to fetch his umbrella.
In reply to a question by the Coroner, it was stated that both deceased and Mr. Brancker had pass-keys, by means of which they could let themselves into the Bank after ordinary business hours without troubling Sweet, unless the front door had been finally bolted for the night.
"Does anyone know whether the pass-key belonging to deceased has been found?" asked the Coroner of Mr. Mace.
"It was found in one of his pockets," was the answer.
The next witness was Amanda Sweet, the nightwatchman's wife, who deposed to finding the door of Mr. Hazeldine's room locked and the key outside, as it was said to have been left by last witness, when she went at half-past seven A.M. to sweep out and dust the office as usual. The first thing she did was to draw up the blinds, after which, on turning round, she saw the body of deceased lying right across the hearthrug with a foreign-looking knife a little distance away from it. Being asked what she did next, she replied that she screamed and fainted right away.
Peggy Lown, charwoman, deposed to being sent by Obed Sweet in search of a constable; to encountering Mr. Judd a short distance from the Bank, and telling him what had happened, and to finding a constable a few minutes afterwards.
Ephraim Judd deposed that, in consequence of what last witness told him, he hurried to the Bank, and there found Sweet and his wife by the dead body of Mr. Hazeldine.
The evidence of Constable Jeremy was to a similar effect.
Chief Constable Mace deposed that in consequence of a message sent him by the last witness, he hurried to the Bank, calling on Dr. Barton by the way, and taking that gentleman with him. He then went on to describe the finding of the body, and produced the knife which last witness had picked up and given him. He told how he had found the door of the strong room open, as was also the door of the bullion-safe inside; and that, as Mr. Brancker would tell them, there was little doubt the safe had been robbed, and notes and hard cash to a very large amount made away with. He then went on to describe how he had made a thorough examination of the premises, but without finding any clue to the mode by which the perpetrator of the crime had obtained access to the Bank, and had afterwards been able to get clear away with his booty, unseen and unheard by anyone.
There was, however, one circumstance, Mr. Mace remarked, to which it would be necessary to call the attention of the jury. On the floor of the office usually occupied by Mr. Brancker and Mr. Judd were several stains, apparently quite recent, which had all the appearance of blood-stains, Dr. Barton, who had examined them at his request, would no doubt be prepared to give the jury his opinion about them. In addition, the outside of one of the drawers--Mr. Brancker's drawer, he believed it to be--was smeared in a similar way, as were also some portion of its contents. He believed Mr. Brancker would tell them that he was utterly at a loss to account for the existence of the marks in question. Before proceeding further in the case he would respectfully suggest that the jury should be requested to examine the stains for themselves.
This course was agreed to; but it was first deemed advisable to take the evidence of Dr. Barton.
Dr. Barton, having been sworn, deposed to the fact of deceased having met with his death by violence. His chest had been pierced by some sharp instrument which, in all probability, had penetrated the tissues of the heart; but that was a point as to which he could not speak positively until after the post-mortem examination. Death, in that case, would have been all but instantaneous. He had examined the weapon produced and compared it with the wound, which it exactly fitted. In his opinion, there was little doubt that the knife in question was the one with which the fatal blow had been inflicted. There had been a certain amount of hemorrhage from the wound, but scarcely as much as might have been expected--a little on the floor, rather more on the clothes of deceased. Death had taken place several hours before he, witness, was called in. He was not prepared to state how many hours before: it might have been five, or it might have been eight or nine; it was impossible to speak with exactitude. The clothes of the deceased were, to a certain extent, disarranged. His vest was unbuttoned, the ends of his cravat were hanging loose, his collar had been violently wrenched from the button which had held it, and the wristband of one sleeve of his shirt had been nearly torn away--all indicative of a struggle, however brief, with his assailant. The idea of suicide was one which had never entered his--witness's--mind; had any such theory been advanced, it would have seemed to him altogether untenable.
When the jury had reassembled after their visit to the Bank, Dr. Barton was recalled, and, in reply to a question by the Coroner, stated that, to the best of his belief, and speaking from a merely casual examination, the stains on the floor of the office usually occupied by Mr. Brancker and Mr. Judd had been caused by blood.
John Brancker was then recalled. In answer to various questions, some of which were put by the Coroner, some by the jury, and some by Mr. Prestwich, he deposed as under:
He left the office about nine o'clock, without having seen Mr. Hazeldine after his return from London, although he had understood from Sweet that he was at work in his office. When he, witness, left the office, Mr. Judd was still there. All the other clerks had gone before. On quitting the Bank, he went straight home and did not stir out again till past ten o'clock. He then decided to go and call upon William Strong, the man who blew the organ bellows for him at church. He had heard that Strong was ill, and he wanted to ascertain whether he would be well enough to attend to his duties on Sunday next. He had hardly left home when a few drops of rain began to fall, and he then remembered that he had left his umbrella at the Bank, and determined to call there and get it. On his way to the Bank he encountered Mr. Judd, whom he told what he was going to do. On reaching the Bank he saw that Mr. Hazeldine's office windows were still lighted up. This did not surprise him, knowing, as he did, that Mr. Hazeldine often worked till a late hour. Having let himself in with his pass-key, he went into the inner room and there found his umbrella in the corner where he had left it. He found it in the dark. He did not go near Mr. Hazeldine, but left the Bank at once without seeing anyone, and went on his way towards Strong's cottage.
Being requested to continue his narrative, and relate what happened afterwards, witness went on to say that on reaching Strong's cottage, although there was a light in one of the windows, no one came in response to his repeated knocking, and that at length he went away, convinced that Strong was not at home. As there seemed no likelihood of more rain, the moon being now shining, he determined to return by way of the foot-path through the meadows by the river This would take him quite a mile out of his way, but that did not matter as he was in no hurry to reach home. As he was walking through the fields, he heard the sounds of a man and woman quarrelling. As the man seemed to be ill-using the woman, he went a little out of his road to ascertain what was the matter. On coming up to the pair he remonstrated with the man for his behavior, when both he and the woman turned upon him, and demanded to know what right he had to interfere between husband and wife. So enraged was the woman, that she took up a stone and flung it at him, hitting him over the left eye. For a few moments he felt stunned, and by the time he had recovered himself, both the man and the woman had disappeared. St. Mary's clock was striking midnight as he opened the garden gate of his own house.
In reply to a question by the Coroner, witness stated that, in company with Mr. Mace, he had visited the strong room. He had found the door of the bullion safe open, and from the cursory examination, which was all he had yet had time to make, he had no doubt that gold and notes to the amount of between three and four thousand pounds, together with the twelve hundred pounds' worth of change, had been abstracted from the coffers of the Bank.
"Am I to understand, Mr. Brancker," asked the Coroner, "that you know nothing whatever as to the origin of the bloodstains on the floor of your office, nor of the marks of a similar kind scattered about the contents of your drawer?"
"I know nothing of them whatever, sir, and I was never more surprised in my life than when I saw them there this morning."
"I presume that you locked your drawer before leaving it last evening?"
"To the best of my recollection I did."
"And you found it locked on your arrival this morning?"
"I certainly did. To me the whole affair is utterly inexplicable."
At this juncture, who should shoulder his way into the room but William Strong, the man Mr. Brancker had been so anxious to see the previous evening. Mr. Mace recognized him, and whispered to the Coroner, and next moment, greatly to his surprise, Strong was summoned by name out of the crowd, and sworn by the Coroner's clerk.
"Have you any objection to tell the Court where you were last evening between the hours of half-past ten and half-past eleven?" queried the Coroner.
"I was at home, sir. I've been ill, and have not put foot outside the door for four days till this afternoon."
"Will you swear to that?"
"Of course I will, and my wife will tell you the same thing if you ask her."
"Then if you were at home the whole of last evening, as you state, you could scarcely have failed to hear if anyone knocked at your door?"
"Of course I couldn't, sir; my house ain't like a gentleman's mansion. There's only four rooms in it altogether."
"Mr. Brancker has just told us that he knocked at your door some time between ten and eleven last night--that he knocked repeatedly, but that nobody answered his summons."
"There must be a mistake somewhere," said Strong, with a puzzled shake of his head. "All I know is that I was never out of the house, and that nobody could have knocked without my hearing them."
"What time did you go to bed last night?"
"At twelve, to the minute--my general time. If I go to bed sooner than that I can't sleep."
"Perhaps Mr. Brancker was mistaken in the house," suggested one of the jury, "and knocked at the wrong door."
"Well, sir, I hardly see how that could happen," said Strong, with a slow, incredulous smile, "seeing that my little shanty ain't one of a row, but stands all by itself."
John Brancker could contain himself no longer. He started to his feet. "Do you mean to say, Strong," he cried, "that you were never out of the house last evening, and yet that you did not hear me knock?"
"I do mean to say so, Mr. Brancker, and what I say is the truth, if these are the last words I ever speak."
"Why, I knocked half-a-dozen times if I knocked once. I was upwards of ten minutes at your door."
Strong could only shake his head. "I can say no more than I've said already," was his answer. "I was never out of the house, and if anybody had knocked I must have heard 'em."
"You may sit down for the present," said the Coroner.
"It is incredible, incredible!" muttered John, as he too resumed his seat. His mind was in a whirl. Was it possible, he asked himself, that he had only dreamed that he called at Strong's cottage, and that he had never been there in reality? But no, that was an impossibility. As well fancy that he had not seen the man and woman quarreling; but there was the bruise on his forehead to prove the reality of that. He looked round the room, and to his excited fancy it seemed that people were already beginning to gaze askance at him. What were the jury whispering about so earnestly? Surely--surely, they could not for one moment suspect----! No, that would be at once too horrible and too absurd.
To the best of his belief, Strong had sworn to nothing but the truth when he stated that he had never left home during the previous evening, and that it was impossible that Mr. Brancker could have knocked at his door without his being aware of it. It was what Strong believed to be the truth, and yet it was not the whole truth. It was an undoubted fact that he never left the house, but as regards one important feature of the case he had said nothing. He forgot to relate how a certain boon companion of his had called in the course of the evening, bringing with him a bottle of fiery whiskey, and how his friend did not go away till the bottle was empty, leaving Strong, who had eaten little food for several days, in a semi-maudlin state of intoxication.
Mrs. Strong was out at the time, and Strong, left alone before a good fire, and rendered drowsy by the fumes of the liquor, was fast asleep in less than five minutes after his friend had left him. He slept for upwards of an hour, only waking up on his wife's return, but of this sleep his memory retained no recollection whatever next morning. He knew that he had taken a little more to drink than was good for him; but, had he been questioned on the point, he would certainly have denied that he had even as much as closed his eyes till after his wife's return.
Ephraim Judd was recalled by the Coroner. He looked very pale and nervous; but the circumstances of the morning were enough to unnerve any man. He wore a black kid glove on his left hand; in his right hand he carried the other glove loose.
"How long did you stay at the office after Mr. Brancker left you there last evening?"
"Certainly not more than twenty minutes."
"You were the last of the officials to leave the Bank?"
"The last, except Mr. Hazeldine."
"You have seen the blood-stains on the floor of the office where you and Mr. Brancker generally work; you have seen the marks inside the drawer, and the smears outside; have you any knowledge whatever as to how they came there?"
For a moment Ephraim's lips twitched curiously, but the answer when it came was clear and distinct.
"I have no knowledge whatever on the point."
"Did you see or speak to the deceased at all last evening?"
"I neither saw him, nor spoke to him, after his departure for London the previous forenoon."
"Then how do you know that he was at the Bank last evening?"
"Sweet, the night-watchman, told Mr. Brancker and me that he had returned; and I saw that his office was lighted up when I left."
"We have been informed that you met Mr. Brancker accidentally about half-past ten. Tell the jury what passed between you and him on that occasion."
Witness having given him an account of the interview which tallied with John's account, went on to say that after bidding Mr. Brancker good-night, he walked as far as the newsroom, and after sitting there for half an hour he went home to bed.
The Coroner had one more question to put.
"Can you tell the jury of your own knowledge how long Mr. Brancker remained at the Bank after he left you for the purpose of fetching his umbrella?"
Again there was a momentary hesitation before the answer came.
"I did not see Mr. Brancker again after leaving him," was the reply.
The Coroner dismissed him with a nod. Ephraim squeezed his way through the crowd to a quiet corner, and there wiped his perspiring forehead, and waited while his flurried nerves grew calm again.
Scarcely had Ephraim Judd resumed his seat before Mr. Edward Hazeldine was seen shouldering his way through the crowd at the lower end of the room. People made way for him readily, and he became at once the focus of a hundred eyes. He looked very pale, but the hard, resolute expression of his face was in nowise changed.
"I am sorry to have been obliged to send for you, Mr. Hazeldine," said the Coroner, "but as you were one of the last persons who saw your father alive, I shall require a little formal evidence from you in order to complete the depositions, as far as it is possible to do so today."
"I am entirely at your service," said Mr. Hazeldine, who was then sworn in the usual way.
His evidence simply went to prove that deceased had seemed to be in his usual health and spirits on his return from London the previous evening; that he mentioned the fact of his having been to town to obtain the requisite gold for the Bank's requirements on the morrow; and that he also informed witness of his intention to work late at the office.
"Pardon the question," said the Coroner, "but does it not strike you as somewhat strange that Mrs. Hazeldine should not have noticed the fact of her husband's non-arrival at home, and have been alarmed thereby, and have at once caused inquiry to be made?"
"There is nothing strange about it when it comes to be explained," said witness. "The fact is, when my father worked late at the office he usually slept on a little camp-bed in his dressing-room. This was to avoid disturbing my mother, who, as a rule, retires for the night at any early hour. If my mother woke up in the course of last night, or early this morning, she would naturally conclude that my father had let himself into the house by means of his latch-key, and had gone to bed in the other room."
There being no more witnesses to examine, the Coroner announced that the inquiry would be adjourned for a week, so as to allow time for a post-mortem examination to be made, and also to enable the police to follow up their investigations into an affair which, the more it was looked into, the more mysterious it seemed to become.
Edward Hazeldine and Mr. Prestwich retired to a private room in the hotel, while John Brancker walked back to the Bank like a man utterly dazed and confounded. He could not help noticing how the crowd that lingered about the hotel divided and made way for him, nor how they stared at him and broke into eager whisperings the moment he had passed. To his excited fancy it seemed as if everybody shrank from him. How could Strong swear as he had sworn! And yet there seemed the ring of truth in all he said. And those mysterious blood-stains! It was all a terrible mystery at present, but one which a few days at the most would surely unravel.
John Brancker paused on the steps outside the Bank, feeling utterly sick at heart. Not again to-day could he set foot inside those walls. The man whom he had respected and looked up to for so many years lay there dead, and he, John Brancker, was actually suspected of---- Great heavens! could it be anything more than a horrible nightmare? He turned and set off homeward at a rapid pace. Awaiting him there were two loving hearts into which no vile breath of suspicion, not even if the evidence against him were an hundredfold stronger than it was, would ever find a moment's harborage. Never had his humble home seemed so sweet and dear to him as that afternoon.
It was in no very enviable frame of mind that Ephraim Judd quitted the jury-room and made his way towards the river-bank. He was in no mood for business; he felt the need of being alone. How he despised himself for what he had done! And yet he felt that, in similar circumstances, he should be driven to do the same again. How was it possible for him to tell the truth, when to do so meant ruin to himself? Not one day longer would Mr. Avison retain him in his service if he were to become aware of his practice of prying into other people's affairs, and, in that case, what would become of him and his widowed mother?
To do Ephraim justice, in giving his evidence as he had given it, he had thought only of screening himself, never dreaming that by so doing he would be strengthening the web of suspicion which seemed to be closing slowly round Mr. Brancker. With all his petty, tortuous ways and crooked modes of reasoning, he shrank from doing anyone a direct injury. If, in his dealings with others, however simple those dealings might be, a roundabout course was sweeter to him than a straightforward one--that was a little weakness which he shared in common with many men far more highly placed than himself.
Truth to tell, Ephraim was not framed in the mould out of which your more robust villains are turned out. It might be said of him that, while to serve his own ends he would not have shrunk from pricking anyone with a pin in the dark, had a dagger been thrust into his hand he would have dropped it in terror and slunk away.
He had perjured himself to save himself, but nothing had been further from his intention than to do John Brancker an injury. No one had been more surprised than he at the turn Strong's evidence had taken; he was utterly at a loss how to reconcile the statements of the two men.
As soon as Edward Hazeldine and Mr. Prestwich were alone, the latter said:
"I wish you had heard the evidence this afternoon; it has taken quite an unexpected turn."
"An unexpected turn! In what way?" asked Edward, with a quick, suspicious glance at his companion.
"As tending to fix a shadow of suspicion on Mr. Brancker."
"On Mr. Brancker! What nonsense that must be!" exclaimed Edward, impatiently.
"I should probably have been as sceptical as you are, had I not heard the evidence in question," remarked Mr. Prestwich dryly.
He then went on to enlighten his companion, detailing the different points of evidence as deposed to by each witness in turn. Edward listened with growing wonder and uneasiness.
"That man Strong must have sworn to a lie," he said impetuously, when Mr. Prestwich had done.
"I don't think so, and I watched him narrowly. The fellow may be something of a dunderhead, but he seemed very much in earnest in what he said."
"Then you mean to imply that John Brancker has not told the truth?"
"I imply nothing. I only take the evidence as it stands, and try to consider it dispassionately. It seems to be fully understood that Mr. Brancker called at the Bank about half-past ten last evening, and he himself admits that he did not get home till midnight. It would appear certain that Mr. Hazeldine came by his death within those two periods of time. The nightwatchman is positive that he did not hear Mr. Brancker enter the Bank, which is accounted for by the latter making use of his pass-key. Both the murder and robbery would seem to be the work of someone well acquainted with your father's habits, and who knew in which particular safe the bullion was kept, and where to find the key of it; and who also possessed the means of getting quietly away after the deed was done. Mr. Brancker says that he knocked several times at Strong's door; Strong says that no one knocked; Mr. Brancker has a contusion over his left eye, which he accounts for by saying that a woman hit him with a stone. Finally, how are we to account for the blood-smears with which Mr. Brancker's drawer is marked both inside and out, as well as the floor in front of it?"
"For all that you have said I do not care one jot," was Edward Hazeldine's answer. "I am perfectly convinced that John Brancker had no more to do with the death of my father than I had."
"I am not saying that he had. I am only showing you which way the evidence is tending. In all probability the researches of the police during the next few days will put an entirely different complexion on the affair."
Edward Hazeldine went his way, a thoroughly unhappy man. It is not too much to say that the horror with which he had first heard of his father's death was now to a certain extent overshadowed by the grief and shame caused him by the reading of his father's letter. Under his cold, practical, matter-of-fact exterior lay hidden a proud and, in some things, a very sensitive nature, which was far more easily wounded than anyone knew of, and very deep was the wound made in it today. He prided himself on being a thoroughly just man, and it was essential to his happiness that all his actions should meet with the approval of his own conscience. But still more essential was it that he should stand well in the eyes of the world, and be one of whom his fellow-townsmen might have just reason to feel proud. Hidden in the deepest recesses of his mind lay the half-formed hope of one day being able to represent his native town in Parliament. It was a hope of which he had never spoken to anyone, but none the less was it secretly cherished. From the time when he was a boy of twelve, he had set himself steadily to regard his advancement in life, and the acquisition of wealth and social position, as the great ends for which he must never cease to strive.
But what would Lord and Lady Elstree think and say, and in what way would they act, should he ever be compelled to reveal to the world the real facts connected with his father's death? In such a case he knew full well that the doors of Seaham Lodge would be closed to him forever, and that he must give up all hope of ever winning the hand of Miss Winterton. Goshope Grange, one of the Earl's country seats, to which he had been invited for a week's shooting last September, and where he had for fellow-guests two lords, three baronets, and a host of minor celebrities, would know him no more. Social extinction would be the fate of him and his, should the contents of his father's letter ever become known. After such an exposure, how could he bear to look his fellow-townsmen in the face? He would have to give up his business, if indeed, his partners did not insist on his seceding from it; all his ambitious projects would fall in ruins around him, and he would have to seek another home in some place where he was known to none.
"And as matters were now turning out, it seemed only too probable that he would feel himself compelled to reveal the contents of the letter. It would never do to let an innocent man suffer under the stigma of so terrible a crime. Whatever the cost to him and his might be, that man's innocence must be proclaimed aloud on the housetops. Very bitter were his thoughts as he walked slowly through the town, with his hat pulled over his brows and his eyes bent on the ground, towards his father's house. A chill shot through his heart as his fingers touched the muffled knocker. The servant who let him in burst out crying afresh the moment she set eyes on him, and he needed all his nerve to enable him to retain his outward composure as he opened the drawing-room door and went in. Clement was sitting on one side of the fireplace, Fanny on the other. Edward touched his brother lightly on the shoulder, and then the hands of both met in a long, affectionate grip.
"Where is my mother?" asked the elder man.
"She is lying down in her own room," answered Fanny. "When I went to her, a few minutes ago, she was asleep."
"Sleep is the best thing for her just now. I must leave it to you, Clem, to induce her to keep up her strength as much as possible."
"You may rely upon it that I will look after her."
Presently Edward took his leave. He was restless and anxious to get home. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. The company of anyone would have been distasteful to him just then. He shut himself up in his study as soon as he reached home.
Next day Mr. Avison, who had been telegraphed for, arrived from Paris, and he and John Brancker at once set to work to ascertain to what extent the Bank was a sufferer by the recent robbery. The result was that gold and notes to the amount of about three thousand one hundred pounds proved to be missing, together with the twelve hundred pounds which the dead man had brought with him from London.
The investigation served to bring to light one singular fact which puzzled Mr. Avison and John Brancker not a little. Mr. Hazeldine's private ledger was missing, as were also a number of check slips on which the undercashiers entered the numbers of the notes which they paid over at the close of each day's business.
"It certainly looks," said Mr. Avison, "as if the thief or thieves were intimately acquainted with the ins and outs of our business, or else why should they have taken away with them the only evidence by means of which we should have been able to trace the missing notes?"
But John Brancker could only profess himself to be as utterly puzzled over the affair as Mr. Avison was.
Although Mr. Avison had read the evidence taken at the inquest, he had hitherto attached no importance to the fact that certain portions of it seemed to point the finger of suspicion at John Brancker. John was such an old and tried servant, and he had such implicit confidence in his integrity, that he had only smiled to himself, as he thought how wide of the truth people are often led by circumstantial evidence.
But now the case began to put on a very different complexion. A grave suspicion was taking root in his mind, that no one but a man thoroughly acquainted with the inner working of the Bank could be at the bottom of the mystery. It troubled him more even than the loss of the money troubled him, to think that his faith in human nature should be so rudely shaken. But Mr. Avison was by nature a very reticent man, a man who thought much but said little, and John had not the faintest notion of the feelings at work in his employer's mind. The Banker said to himself that some further evidence would probably be forthcoming at the adjourned inquest, and that he could afford to wait till then.
Obed Sweet was another person who was considerably troubled in the article he called his mind. That Mr. Hazeldine had come by his death between half-past ten and half-past eleven o'clock, everybody seemed fully agreed. Yet was Obed quite aware that during the greater portion of the time in question, he had been asleep in his room downstairs. This it was that troubled him. If he had only kept awake, as he ought to have done, might he not have heard someone come in, or go out, or have been alarmed by the noise of a struggle, or by some cry for help? Unfortunately, he had heard nothing. He tried to argue himself into the belief that he was a remarkably light sleeper. "Why, a mouse could hardly scamper across the floor without my hearing it," he said to himself again and again. Still he wished most fervently that he had not fallen asleep on that fatal night.
Meanwhile, the needful authority having been granted by the Coroner, Mr. Hazeldine's funeral took place. It was attended by nearly half the population of Ashdown, either as followers or onlookers. A day or two later, the jury met again for the adjourned inquest.
One important piece of evidence bearing on the murder of Mr. Hazeldine, and one only, had been ferreted out by the police in the course of the week which preceded the adjourned inquest. They had discovered the man who sold the weapon with which the crime had presumably been perpetrated. The point that still remained to be cleared up was the identification of the purchaser of the knife.
As before, the jury assembled in a room of the "White Lion Hotel."
For the sake of appearances, Edward Hazeldine had been obliged to retain the services of Mr. Prestwich, who was supposed to be there with the view of looking after the interests of the family of the deceased. Mr. Avison occupied a seat in the reserved space, and all the witnesses who had been called and sworn on the previous occasion were again in attendance.
The depositions having been read over, Dr. Barton was called, and deposed that, in conjunction with his colleague, Dr. Stone, he had made a post-mortem examination of the body of deceased, and that they found the cause of death to be puncture of the tissues of the heart with the point of some sharp instrument.
The weapon produced exactly fitted the cavity of the wound, and bearing in mind the fact that it was found close by the body, there was little room for doubt that it was the instrument with which the fatal blow had been inflicted.
The evidence of Dr. Stone was to the same effect as that of the previous witness.
Patience Strong, wife of William Strong, deposed that, to the best of her belief, her husband never left home on the night of the supposed murder. He had been ill for two or three days previously, and on the evening in question she left him about nine o'clock, sitting in his slippers by the fire, when she went out to see a neighbor who had a sick child, and she found him still sitting in his slippers by the fire when she got home at five minutes before twelve.
After speaking in a low voice to Chief Constable Mace for a few moments, the Coroner called upon Walter Brill to come forward. In response to the summons a dark, quick-eyed, nervous little man, evidently dressed in his Sunday best, pressed his way through the crowd, and was sworn in the usual way. He deposed that he resided at No. 29 Winton Street, London, and that a few days ago he received, through the police, the photograph of a knife, produced, with a printed request that if he remembered having sold such a weapon he would at once communicate with the authorities. As he at once recognized the photograph's being very like that of a knife sold by him about two months before, he did as he was requested, and was waited upon by Mr. Mace and another gentleman, with the result that he was before the Coroner to-day to give evidence.
The knife now put into his hands was sold by him on a certain day in August last. He knew it by a private mark, which he put on all goods out of the common way sold by him. Had no means of telling the exact date when he sold the knife, but knew it was in August, because his little girl, who had just recovered from the measles, was running about the shop at the time. The knife was called an "American knife," but was in reality of Sheffield manufacture. It was made of the best steel, had one blade six inches in length, and opened with a spring. The purchaser of it was a gentleman about fifty years old, who carried a small black leather bag, of which he seemed to take especial care.
Being pressed to describe more particularly the appearance of the gentleman, witness said that, to the best of his recollection, he wore a black tail-coat and waistcoat, and a high, old-fashioned collar. He had no beard and not much whisker, and was very "respectable-looking." Being asked to look round the room, and see whether anyone among those present bore any resemblance to the person who bought the knife, witness rubbed his hands nervously together, and then turned and fronted the sixty or seventy faces grouped at the other end of the room.
By the time witness had reached this point the eyes of every spectator and juryman had shifted from his face to the face of John Brancker. Mr. Avison and John were sitting on one side of the room between the crowd of ordinary onlookers and the Coroner, and facing the jury.
As Walter Brill went on to describe the appearance of the man who bought the knife, John felt his color change in spite of himself. He was a shy, nervous man at the best of times, and totally unfitted to go through such an ordeal as the present one. He could feel, rather than see, that the eyes of all present were bent upon him. He turned first red and then white, and his lower lip began to quiver, as it had a trick of doing in moments of excitement or agitation. Mr. Mace favored his colleague from Scotland Yard with a nod that was perceptible to him alone. Almost unconsciously Mr. Avison moved his chair a few inches further away. John noticed the action, and his heart swelled within him.
The cause of all this was the strangely accurate description given by Brill of the man who had purchased the knife. John Brancker was verging towards middle-age. He went to London three or four times a month, on which occasions he took with him a small black leather bag. A black tail-coat and a high stiff collar formed part of his customary attire. He was clean-shaven, except for two short side-whiskers which began to show signs of grey; while no one could dispute the fact that he was a very staid and respectable-looking man.
The eyes of Brill roved with a sort of vague inquisitiveness from face to face, but no light of recognition came into them. He shook his head slowly and turned to the Coroner.
"Take your time; don't be in too great a hurry," said the latter; so Brill turned to look again.
It needs but that two or three people should stare intently at some one object for the eyes of all there to be drawn in the same direction. So it was in the present case. Brill awoke to the fact that the spectators were not looking so much at him as at someone behind him. He turned, letting his eyes follow the direction of theirs, and confronted John Brancker.
The two men looked at each other. For the first few moments it seemed to Brill that he was gazing into the face of a man whom he had never seen before, but as his eyes took in one by one the different items of John's attire, and then wandered back to his smooth-shaven chin and pointed collars, and when he became conscious that everyone in the room was waiting with a sort of breathless anxiety to see whether he would recognize the man before him, then he began to fancy that the face he was looking at was not altogether strange to him, and that he must have seen it before. In such a case fancy goes a long way on the road to certainty. But Brill felt the responsibility of his position, and was nervously anxious not to make a mistake.
"Well," said the Coroner, after a pause, during which, as the saying goes, a pin might have been heard to drop, "are you satisfied that the person to whom you sold the knife is nowhere among those present?"
Brill drew a long breath, glanced furtively round the room again, and then said in a low voice:
"There is one gentleman here that seems something like the party who called at my shop in August."
"Be good enough to point out the person to whom you refer."
"That is the gentleman," said the witness, turning and indicating John Brancker with his finger. A low murmur, like an inarticulate sigh, ran through the room, and then the silence became more intense than before.
"Are you prepared to swear that is the gentlemen to whom you sold the knife you have seen here to-day?"
"No, I am not prepared to swear to anything of the kind."
"To the best of your belief is he the person to whom you sold the knife?"
"No, I won't go even as far as that," answered Brill, dogmatically. "All I can say is that there is a strong likeness between him and the party who came to my shop; but, for all that, I'm not going to swear that it was him." Nor from that point could anything move him.
John Brancker rose to his feet.
"Don't say anything now," whispered Mr. Avison.
"I must, sir--I must," answered John, with a passionate ring in his voice. Then turning to the Coroner, he said:
"Sir, as I stand here, a living man, I swear that I never saw or spoke to this person before to-day, that I was never inside his shop in my life, and that I never purchased a knife like the one in question either of him or of anyone else." Having said these few words, John resumed his seat.
"Have you any questions to ask the last witness?" asked the Coroner of Mr. Prestwich. He had listened with polite attention to John, but had made no comment.
Mr. Prestwich shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Only two minutes before he had whispered to Edward Hazeldine, who was seated in the next chair, "The evidence this week seems tending in the same direction as that of last week."
"I don't care for that--John Brancker is an innocent man," was the emphatic reply.
"In any case," said Mr. Prestwich, "I should like to put a few questions to the man Brill."
"I beg you will do nothing of the kind, at least not now," was all he got in answer.
After that Mr. Prestwich could say no more. To him Edward Hazeldine's pig-headedness, as he termed it in his own mind, was altogether inexplicable.
But more inexplicable was it to Edward that in the description given by Brill of the man who had bought the knife no one should have recognized the portrait of Mr. Hazeldine. He had recognized it in a moment, but all the others, having had their minds imbued with the idea that the description must of necessity apply to John Brancker, had failed to discover the other likeness--all except Ephraim Judd. Brill's account had given him a clue to something which had hitherto puzzled him not a little. "Now, I can guess it all," he muttered under his breath. "I wonder whether anyone suspects besides myself." Henceforward for him the tragedy had a double meaning.
Both Mr. Hazeldine and John Brancker belonged to the staid, old-fashioned school of bank officials. They were sober in their ways and sober in their attire. There was no great dissimilarity in their ages, and in the course of years John, without being consciously aware of it, had got into the way of copying his superior officer both in manner and dress: so that, under the circumstances, the mistake made not only by Brill, but by those who knew both the men, was hardly to be wondered at, however unfortunate it might prove to be for one of them.
There being no further evidence forthcoming, the Coroner proceeded to sum up the case. It was not his fault that nearly all the evidence seemed to point to one conclusion. He stated the facts as he found them, and strove in no way to bias the minds of the jury.
The jury retired at twenty minutes past five and were away forty minutes. Much eager whispered conversation went on during their absence, but no one attempted to leave the room. Everyone felt the intensity of the strain. John Brancker sat perfectly still, staring into vacancy, with his hands crossed over the knob of his umbrella. Edward Hazeldine sat like a man in a stupor, heedless of all that was going on around him. Mr. Prestwich took snuff and conversed with the Coroner in undertones. There was a momentary rustle, and then a dead silence fell upon the room as the jury filed back to their seats, and returned a verdict of wilful murder against John Brancker.
A ghastly pallor overspread John's face as the words fell upon his ears. They surely could not be meant to apply to him! His lips formed themselves to speak, but no sound came from them. Oh! to think--to think that anyone could for a moment believe his was the hand which had struck so foul a blow! Then he bowed his head and waited, while two or three scalding tears dropped unseen on his crossed hands.
Edward Hazeldine strode across the room and grasped John by the hand. "Mr. Brancker," he said, "I am profoundly grieved at what has happened here to-day. From the bottom of my heart I believe you to be an innocent man. This verdict seems to me a most monstrous one--one which will never be sustained by that higher tribunal to which your case will now be relegated. Believe me, I would stake my life on your innocence."
John grasped the hand that lay in his. His momentary burst of emotion had relieved his overcharged feelings. His courage was coming back to him. "Thank you, sincerely, Mr. Edward, for your kind words," he said as he stood up. "They have taken a great weight off my heart. The world can hardly believe me guilty when it knows that you have faith in my innocence."
At this moment Clement Hazeldine came pushing his way through the crowd. He had been unable to get there before. He was inexpressibly shocked at the news which had just been told him. He, too, grasped John by the hand, and assured him in warm terms of his thorough confidence in his innocence.
"Now I can face whatever has yet to come," said John, with the ghost of a smile on his quivering lips. "But who is to break the news to my sister, and--and to Hermia?"
"I will do that, if you will allow me," answered Clement, gently.
"Do--do. Poor Lotty! Poor Hermy!" He turned away; it was all he could do to keep from breaking down again.
Other friends crowded round him with sympathetic looks and cheering words. Mr. Avison had slipped quietly away without speaking to anyone.
The committal warrant, duly signed by the Coroner, was ready by this time. The Chief Constable touched his prisoner on the shoulder, and John followed him to the fly which was waiting to convey him to the gaol, a mile or more away, at the other end of the town. A last hearty hand-shake with several friends, and then the two men got inside, and were driven off. One by one the crowd congregated round the door of the "White Lion" melted away.
Next forenoon John was brought up before the loca Bench of magistrates, when the whole dreary business of the evidence against him was minutely sifted and gone through afresh, and after a couple of adjournments, John was committed to take his trial on the capital charge at the forthcoming winter assizes, held at Dulminster, the county town eight miles from Ashdown.