They shook hands, and then the lawyer took his departure, leaving Godfrey happier than he had been for some time past.
The month that separated the magistrate’s inquiry from the Sessions at the Old Bailey seemed to Godfrey like an eternity. Day after day crept slowly by, with but little, if anything, to relieve the monotony. He took his daily exercise, kept his cell in spotless order, received visits from the lawyer, who came to report progress, and from Sir Vivian, who brought messages of hope and encouragement from the folk at home.
On one red-letter day he was informed that visitors had arrived to see him, and he was accordingly conducted to the room where he had on several occasions interviewed his lawyer. The warder opened the door and he entered, to be nearly overwhelmed by surprise. Standing by her father’s side, at the farther end of the room, and waiting to receive him, was no less a person than Molly herself. She ran forward and threw herself into his arms.
“Molly, Molly,” he faltered, “what does this mean? Why are you here? You should not distress yourself like this.”
“I could not help it,” she answered. “I had to come, I could stay away from you no longer. You do not know how I have suffered. It seems as if a lifetime had elapsed since we parted. At last I managed to persuadepapa to bring me up. My poor boy, how ill you look! How you must have suffered!”
“Never mind about that, dear,” said Godfrey. “If it all comes right in the end, we can afford to suffer a little. Now tell me of yourself; you don’t know how hungry I am for news.”
“No, don’t let us talk of myself,” she answered. “I want to talk about you and your affairs. Do you know that this morning I saw Mr. Codey, your lawyer, for the first time? He was introduced to me by papa.”
“And what did he say to you?” Godfrey inquired, with natural interest.
“I am afraid there is not much to tell,” said Molly. “When I asked him if he thought we should be able to prove your innocence, he said, 'That’s a thing we shall have to see about; but I don’t mind going so far as to promise you, that, unless there’s anything else that I don’t know of, you and Mr. Henderson will eat your Christmas dinner together next year!’ I asked him and implored him to tell me more, but I could not get anything else out of him.”
Godfrey felt his heart beat more hopefully. It was something, indeed, to know that Codey took such a bright view of the case. ThenMolly went on to give him the latest news of his mother and sister. The old lady, it appeared, was suffering a great deal on her dear boy’s account; but she firmly believed that in the end he would be acquitted.
“It makes me so sad to see her,” said Molly. “As you may suppose, I spend the greater part of my time there now, and I think we help and comfort each other.”
“God bless you for your goodness to them, dear!” replied Godfrey. “I know what it must mean to them to have you with them.”
“And now, Molly,” said Sir Vivian, rising from his chair, “I am afraid we must go. We were only allowed a short time with you, and we must not exceed it. Good-bye, my boy, and may God bless you! Don’t be down-hearted; we’ll prove your innocence yet.”
“You still believe in me, Sir Vivian?” he asked.
“As firmly as ever,” the other answered. “I should not be here if I did not. And now, Molly, you must come along.”
Godfrey kissed his sweetheart, and wished her good-bye. When she had left the room, all the sunshine seemed to have gone out of it, and with a heavy heart he went back to the gloom of his prison life again.
Jacob Burrell sat in his comfortable armchair and took counsel with himself. He was a bachelor, and like many other bachelors was wedded to a hobby, which in some respects was more to him than any wife could possibly have been. In other words he was an enthusiastic philatelist, and his collection of the world’s stamps was the envy of every enthusiast who came in contact with them. For Jacob Burrell they possessed another interest that was quite apart from their mere intrinsic value. A very large number of the stamps so carefully pasted in the book had been collected, or had come into his possession, in the performance of his professional duties. A very rare 1¼ schilling blue Hamburg was picked up by the merest chance on the same day that he ran a notorious bank swindler to earth in Berlin; while a certain blue and brown United States, worth upward of thirty pounds, became his property during a memorable trip toAmerica in search of a fraudulent trustee, whose whereabouts the officials of Scotland Yard had not been able to discover. Well-nigh every page had a story of its own to tell, and when Burrell was in the humour, he could, with the book before him, reel off tale after tale, of a description that would be calculated to make the listener’s hair stand on end with astonishment. At the present moment he was occupied, as he very well knew, with one of the most knotty problems he had ever tackled in his life. His face wore a puzzled expression. In his right hand he held a large magnifying glass and in his left a Canadian stamp of the year 1852. But whether it was the case he was thinking of or the stamp it would have been difficult to say.
“Genuine or not?” he asked himself. “That’s the question. If it’s the first, it’s worth five pounds of any man’s money. If it’s a fudge, then it’s not the first time I’ve been had, but I’ll take very good care that, so far as the gentleman is concerned who sold it to me, it shall be the last.”
He scrutinized it carefully once more through the glass and then shook his head. Having done so he replaced the doubtful article in the envelope whence he had taken it,slipped the glass back into its chamois-leather case, tied the tape round the handle as deliberately as if all his success in life depended on it, put both book and glass away in a drawer, and then proceeding to the sideboard on the other side of the room, slowly and carefully mixed himself a glass of grog. It was close upon midnight and he felt that the work he had that day completed entitled him to such refreshment.
“Good Heavens,” he muttered as he sipped it, “what fools some men can be!”
What this remark had to do with the stamp in question was not apparent, but his next soliloquy made his meaning somewhat more intelligible.
“If he had wanted to find himself in the dock and to put the rope round his neck he couldn’t have gone to work better. He must needs stand talking to the girl in the Strand until she cries, whereupon he calls a cab and drives home with her, gets out of it and takes up a position in the full light of a gas lamp, so that the first policeman who passes may have a look at his face, and recognise him again when the proper time comes. After that he hurries back to his hotel at such a pace that he arrives in a sufficiently agitated condition tostand in need of brandy. Why, it’s an almost unbelievable list of absurd coincidences. However, he didn’t commit the crime, that’s quite certain. I’ve had a bit of experience in my time, and I don’t know that I’ve ever made a mistake about a human face yet. There’s not a trace of guilt in his. To-morrow morning I’ll just run round to the scene of the murder and begin my investigations there. Though the Pro’s have been over the ground before me, it will be strange if I can not pick up something that has not been noticed by their observant eyes.”
A perpetual feud existed between the famous Jacob Burrell and the genuine representatives of the profession. His ways were unorthodox, the latter declared. He did not follow the accustomed routine, and what was worse, when he managed to obtain information it was almost, if not quite, impossible to get him to divulge it for their benefit. Such a man deserved to be set down on every possible opportunity.
True to the arrangement he had made with himself on the previous evening, Burrell immediately after breakfast next morning set out for Burford Street. On reaching No. 16 he ascended the steps and entered the grimy passage,and inquired from a man he found there where the landlord was to be discovered. In reply the individual he interrogated went to the head of a flight of stairs that descended like an abyss into the regions below, and shouted something in German. A few moments later the proprietor of the establishment made his appearance. He was a small sallow individual with small bloodshot eyes, suggestive of an undue partiality for Schnapps, and the sadness of whose face gave one the impression that he cherished a grievance against the whole world. His sleeves were rolled up above the elbows, and he carried a knife in one hand and a potato in the other.
“Vat is dat you vant mit me?” he inquired irritably, as he took stock of the person before him.
“I want you to show me the room in which that Italian girl, Teresina Cardi, was murdered,” Burrell replied, without wasting time.
The landlord swore a deep oath in German.
“It is always de murder from morning until night,” he answered. “I am sick mit it. Dat murder will be the ruin mit me. Every day der is somebody come and say 'Where isdot room?’ Who are you that you ask me that I should to you show it?”
Burrell, to the best of his ability, explained his motive for proffering such a request. This must have been satisfactory, for in the end the landlord consented to conduct him to the room in question. From the day of the murder it had been kept locked, and it must be confessed that since no one would inhabit it, and it did not in consequence return its owner its accustomed rent, he had some measure of excuse for the irritation he displayed in connection with it.
“Dere it is,” he said, throwing the door open, “and you can look your full at it. I have scrubbed all dot floor dill my arms ache mit it, but I can not get der blood marks out. Dot stain is just where she was found, boor girl!”
The man pointed, with grizly relish, to a dark stain upon the floor, and then went on to describe the impression the murder and its attendant incidents had produced upon him. To any other man than Burrell, they would probably have been uninteresting to a degree. The latter, however, knowing the importance of little things, allowed him to continue his chatter. At the same time his quick eyeswere taking in the character of the room, making his own deductions and drawing his own inferences. At last, when the other had exhausted his powers of description, Burrell took from his pocket his favourite magnifying glass, cased in its covering of chamois leather. Having prepared it for business, he went down on his hands and knees and searched the floor minutely. What he was looking for, or what he hoped to find, he did not know himself, but a life’s experience had taught him that clews are often picked up in the most unexpected quarters.
“I’ve known a man get himself hanged,” he had once been heard to remark, “simply because he neglected to put a stitch to a shirt button and had afterward to borrow a needle and thread to do it. I remember another who had the misfortune to receive a sentence of fifteen years for forgery, who would never have been captured, but for a peculiar blend of tobacco, which he would persist in smoking after the doctors had told him it was injurious to his health.”
So slow and so careful was his investigation, that the landlord, who preferred more talkative company, very soon tired of watching him. Bidding him lock the door andbring the key downstairs with him when he had finished, he returned to the culinary operations from which he had been summoned. Burrell, however, still remained upon his knees on the floor, searching every crack and crevice with that superb and never-wearying patience that was one of his most remarkable characteristics. It was quite certain, as the landlord had said, that the floor had been most thoroughly and conscientiously scrubbed since the night of the murder. He rose to his feet and brushed his knees.
“Nothing there,” he said to himself. “They’ve destroyed any chance of my finding anything useful.”
Walking to the fireplace he made a most careful examination of the grate. Like the floor, it had also been rigorously cleaned. Not a vestige of ash or dust remained in it.
“Polished up to be ready for the newspaper reporters, I suppose,” said Burrell sarcastically to himself. “They couldn’t have done it better if they had wanted to make sure of the murderer not being caught.”
After that he strolled to the window and looked out. The room, as has already been stated elsewhere, was only a garret, and the small window opened upon a slope of tiledroof. Above the eaves and at the bottom of the slope just mentioned, was a narrow lead gutter of the usual description. From the window it was impossible, unless one leaned well out, to look down into the street below.
“Just let me think for a moment,” said Burrell to himself, as he stood looking at the roofs of the houses opposite; “the night of the murder was a warm one, and this window would almost certainly be open. I suppose if the people in the houses on the other side of the way had seen or heard anything, they would have been sure to come forward before now. The idea, however, is always worth trying. I’ve a good mind to make a few inquiries over there later on.”
As he said this he gave a little start forward, and leaning out of the window, looked down over the tiles into the gutter below. A small fragment of a well-smoked cigarette could just be descried in it.
“My luck again,” he said with a chuckle. “If some reporter or sensation hunter didn’t throw it there, which is scarcely likely, I may be on the right track after all. Now who could have been smoking cigarettes up here? First and foremost I’ll have a look at it.”
On entering, he had placed his walkingstick on the table in the middle of the room. He turned to get it, and as he did so he took from his pocket a small housewife. His multitudinous experiences had taught him the advisability of carrying such an article about with him, and on this occasion it promised to prove more than ordinarily useful. From one compartment he selected a long, stout needle which he placed in a hole in the handle of the walking stick. Then returning once more to the window, and leaning well out, he probed for the cigarette lying so snugly five or six feet below him. Twice he was unsuccessful, but the third attempt brought the precious relic to his hand. Taking it to the table, he drew up a chair and sat down to examine it. It was sodden and discoloured, but the rim of the gutter had in a measure protected it, and it still held together. His famous magnifying glass was again brought into action. Once upon a time there had been printing on the paper, but now it was well-nigh undecipherable. As I have already remarked, however, Burrell was a man gifted with rare patience, and after a scrutiny that lasted some minutes, he was able to make out sufficient of the printing to know that the maker’s name ended with “olous,” while the place in whichthe cigarette had been manufactured wasCairo.
“I wonder,” said the detective to himself, “if this is destined to be of any service to me. At first glance it would appear as if my first impression was a wrong one. Mr. Henderson, who is accused of the murder, has lately returned from Cairo. Though, perhaps he never purchased any tobacco there, it would certainly do him no good to have it produced as evidence, that the butt end of a cigarette from that place was found in the gutter outside the window of the murdered woman’s room.”
After another prolonged inspection of the room, and not until he had quite convinced himself that there was nothing more to be discovered in it, he descended to the lower regions of the house, returned the key to the landlord, and immediately left the building. Crossing the street, he made his way to the house opposite. The caretaker received him, and inquired the nature of his business. He gave his explanation, but a few questions were sufficient to convince him that he must not expect to receive any assistance from that quarter. The rooms, so he discovered, from which it would have been possible to catchany glimpse of what was going on in Teresina’s apartment in the opposite house, were tenanted only in the daytime.
“Nothing to be learned there,” said Burrell to himself, when he had thanked the man and had left the house. “Now the question to be decided is, what shall I do next?”
He stood upon the pavement meditatively scratching his chin for a few moments. Then he must have made up his mind, for he turned sharply round and walked off in the direction of the Tottenham Court Road. Taking a ’bus there, he made his way on it to Oxford Street, thence, having changed conveyances, he proceeded as far as Regent Street. It was a bright, sunny morning, and the pavements of that fashionable thoroughfare were crowded with pedestrians. As the burly, farmerish-looking man strode along, few, if any, of the people he passed would have believed him to be the great detective whose name had struck a terror, that nothing else could have inspired, into the hearts of so many hardened criminals. When he was a little more than half-way down the street, he turned sharply to his left hand, passed into another and shorter thoroughfare, then turned to his left again, and finally enteredanother street on his right. He was now in the neighbourhood of quiet-looking houses of the office description. There was nothing about them to indicate that their occupants were the possessors of any great amount of wealth, and yet one could not help feeling, as one looked at them, that there was a substantial, money-making air about them. Having reached a particular doorway, Burrell paused, consulted the names engraved upon the brass plate on the wall outside, and then entered. He found himself in a small hall, from which a narrow flight of linoleum-covered stairs led to the floors above. These stairs he ascended, to presently find himself standing before a door on which the names of Messrs. Morris and Zevenboom were painted. Disregarding the word “Private,” which for some inexplicable reason was printed underneath the name of the firm, he turned the handle and entered. A small youth was seated at a table in the centre of the apartment, busily engaged making entries in a large book propped up before him. He looked up on seeing Burrell, and, in an off-hand fashion, inquired his business.
“I want to see Mr. Zevenboom if he’s at home,” said the latter. “If he is, just tellhim, my lad, that I should like to speak to him, will you?”
“That’s all very well,” said the boy with an assurance beyond his years, “but how am I to do it if I don’t know your name? Ain’t a thought reader, am I?”
“Tell him Mr. Burrell would like to speak to him,” said the detective without any appearance of displeasure at the lad’s impertinence. “I fancy he will know who I am, even if you don’t!”
“Right you are, I’ll be back in a moment.”
So saying, the lad disappeared into an inner apartment with an air that seemed to insinuate that if Mr. Zevenboom might be impressed by the stranger, it was certainly more than he was. His feelings received rather a shock, however, when his employer informed him in a stage whisper that Mr. Burrell “was the great detective” and made him show him in at once and not keep him waiting. Jacob was accordingly ushered in, with becoming ceremony, and found himself received by a little man, whose beady black eyes and sharp features proclaimed his nationality more plainly than any words could have done.
“Ah, mein dear friend,” said he, “I am glad to see you. It is long since we havemet, and you are looking as well as ever you did.”
“I am all right, thank you,” said Burrell genially. “Thank goodness, in spite of hard work, there’s never very much the matter with me.”
Before he seated himself the other went to a cupboard at the back of his desk and, having unlocked it, took from it a cigar box, one of a number of others, which he placed upon the table at his guest’s elbow.
“Try one of these,” he said, “you will smoke nothing better in all Europe. I pledge you the word of Israel Zevenboom to that.”
“I can quite believe you,” said Burrell, and then mindful of the business that had brought him there, he added, “if there’s one man in all London who knows a good cigar I suppose you are that one.”
The little man grinned in high appreciation of the compliment.
“Cigars or cigarettes, I tell you, it’s all the same to me,” he said, spreading his hands apart. “There is no tobacco grown, or upon the market, that I can not put a name to.”
“And you are familiar with all the best makers, I suppose?”
The other again spread his hands apart as if such a question was not of sufficient importance to require an answer.
“I know them all,” he continued pompously. “And they all know me. Morris and Zevenboom is a firm whose name is famous with them all.”
A pause of upward of half a minute followed this remark, during which Burrell lit his cigar.
“And now what can I do for you, my friend?” the other inquired. “I shall be most happy to oblige you as far as lies in my power. You were very good to me in de matter of——”
He paused for a moment. Then he thought better of it and came to a sudden stop.
“Well, in the matter that we both remember,” he added finally.
“I want a little information from you, that I believe it is in your power to give,” said Burrell, taking a note book from his pocket and from it producing the scrap of cigarette he had taken from the gutter of the house in Burford Street. He placed it on the desk before his companion.
“I want you to tell me if you can who arethe makers of these cigarettes, and whether they can be obtained in England?”
The other took up his glasses and perched them on the end of his delicate nose, after which he held the charred fragment of the cigarette up to the light. This did not seem to satisfy him, so he took it to the window and examined it more closely. He turned it over, smelt it, extracted a shred of the tobacco, smelt that, and at last came back to the table.
“That cigarette was made by my good friend Kosman Constantinopolous, of Cairo, a most excellent firm, but as yet they have no representatives in England. Some day they will have.”
“Where is the nearest place at which these cigarettes can be obtained?” asked Burrell.
“In Paris—if you like I will give you the address,” the other replied, “or better still I will get some for you should you desire to have some. They are expensive but the tobacco is good.”
“I won’t trouble you to procure me any just now, thank you,” Burrell answered. “I only wanted to try and fix the maker’s name. It comes into some important business that I am just now at work upon. I suppose I canrely upon your information being correct? It will make a big difference to me.”
“My good friend, you may be quite sure of that,” the other answered with pride. “I am Israel Zevenboom, the expert, and after fifty years’ experience, should not be likely to make a mistake in such a simple matter as that.”
Then, at Burrell’s request, he thereupon wrote down the address of the firm in Paris, after which the detective thanked him heartily for his trouble and bade him good-bye.
“To-morrow,” said Burrell to himself, “if all goes well, I will take a run down to Mr. Henderson’s country seat and make a few inquiries there. After that it looks as if Paris is likely to be the scene of my next operations. There are one or two little preliminaries, however, that must be settled before I leave England.”
He was as good as his word, and the mid-day train next day landed him upon the platform at Detwich. He inquired how far it was to the Hall, and on being informed of his direction, set off along the High Road at a swinging pace. He was a man who never rode when he could walk, and, had he not chosen another profession, it is possible he might have made aname for himself in the athletic world as a pedestrian.
“It seems a sad thing,” he said to himself, as he turned in through the lodge gates and began to cross the park, “that a young gentleman owning such a beautiful place as this should be clapped into limbo on a charge of murder. But here I suppose is what the literary gentlemen call the 'Irony of Fate.’ However, it’s my business to get him out of the scrape he’s in if I can, and not to bother my head about anything else.”
Having reached the house he sent his name in to Mrs. Henderson, and asked for an interview. Her daughter Kitty was with her in the morning room when the butler entered.
“Mr. Jacob Burrell?” she said in a puzzled way, looking at the card the man had handed to her. “I don’t know the name, do you, Kitty?”
“Why, yes, mother, of course I do,” the girl replied. “How could you forget? He is the famous detective whom the lawyers have engaged to take up the case for poor Godfrey. Tell him that we will see him at once, Williamson, and show him in here.”
A few moments later Burrell made his appearance and bowed to the two ladies. Thathe was not at all the sort of individual they had expected to see was evident from the expressions upon their faces.
“Doubtless, ladies, you have heard my name and the business upon which I am engaged,” he said, by way of introducing himself.
They acknowledged that they had done so, and when they had invited him to be seated, inquired what success he had so far met with. He shook his head cautiously.
“In these sort of cases you must not expect to succeed all at once,” he said. Then observing the look upon their faces he added: “You see, Mrs. Henderson, a big case, unless the evidence is very clear and straightforward, is not unlike a Chinese puzzle, being a lot of little pieces cut out of one big block. Well, all the little cubes are tipped out upon the floor in confusion, and before you can begin to put them together it is necessary to familiarize yourself with the rough outlines of the parts and to make yourself acquainted with the sizes, shapes, and numbers of the pieces you have to work with. That done you can begin your work of putting them together.”
“Mr. Burrell is quite right, mother,” Kitty remarked. “We must be patient and not expecttoo much at first. We ourselves know that Godfrey is innocent, and Mr. Burrell will very soon demonstrate it to the world, I am very sure.” Then turning to the detective she continued: “Since you have spared the time to come down here, it is only natural to suppose that you desire to ask us questions. If so, please do not hesitate to put them. My mother and I will—only too thankfully—do all that lies in our power to assist you in your work.”
“Well, miss,” said Burrell, “I won’t deny that there are certain questions I should like to put to you. In the meantime, however, if you will allow me, I’ll just take a walk round the place, and if I have your permission to enter your brother’s rooms, it’s just possible I may be able to find something that will be of advantage to him there.”
“Go where you please,” said Mrs. Henderson. “Heaven knows at such a time we should place no restrictions upon any one. If you can save my poor boy—I shall be grateful to you forever.”
“Be sure, madam, I will do my best. I can’t say more.”
Kitty rose from her chair.
“Perhaps it would be better for me to showyou my brother’s studio first,” she said. “Will you come with me?”
Burrell followed her out of the room and down the long corridor to the room in question. Kitty left him there, and for upward of half-an-hour he remained in the apartment, busily engaged upon what he called “forming his own impressions.” After that he passed through the French windows out into the grounds beyond, had a few minutes’ conversation with some of the men, and, when he had exhausted that portion of the business, returned to the house to find that luncheon had been provided for him in the library. He thereupon sat down to it and made an excellent meal. That finished, he was wondering what he should do next, when Kitty entered the room.
“I hope you have been well looked after, Mr. Burrell,” she said. “You are quite sure there is nothing else you would like?”
“Nothing at all, thank you,” he answered, “unless I might ask you for a cigarette?”
“A cigarette,” she replied, with a suggestion of astonishment, for he did not look like the sort of man who would have cared for anything less than a pipe or a strong cigar. “That is very unfortunate, for I am afraid wehave not one in the house. My brother Godfrey, you see, never smokes them, and I remember his saying just before——” she paused for a moment and a look of pain came into her face, “just before this trouble occurred,” she continued, “that the supply he had laid in for his friends was exhausted and that he must order some more.” Then she appeared to recollect something, for her face brightened. “Ah!” she cried, “now I come to think of it, wedohappen to have a box which Mr. Fensden left here before he went away. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get it.”
He thanked her and she left the room, whereupon he walked to the window and stood looking out upon the lawn, drumming with the fingers of his right hand upon the pane before him. What his thoughts were at that moment will in all probability never be known, but when, a few minutes later, Kitty returned with a box of cigarettes in her hand, he turned to greet her with as much excitement in his face as he had ever been known to show about anything. The box in question was flat and square, with some Arabic writing in gold upon the lid and the inscription Kosman Constantinopolous et Cie, Cairo.
Jacob Burrell may or may not have been acigarette smoker (for my part I have never seen him with so mild a weed between his lips). I only know that on this particular occasion he stood with the cigarette in one hand for some time without lighting it, and the box in the other.
“Did I understand you to say that Mr. Fensden gave these cigarettes to your brother?” he inquired at last, after he had turned certain matters over in his mind.
“Yes,” she replied. “He used to say laughingly that the weakest of all Godfrey’s weak points was his dislike to Egyptian cigarettes, and that if he would only try to cultivate the taste for that tobacco, he would be converted from barbarism to comparative civilization. You have seen Mr. Fensden, of course?”
“I saw him in Court,” Burrell replied, apparently without much interest. “And now, I think, with your permission, miss, I will return to the station. I have seen all that is necessary for my purpose here, and am anxious to get back to town as soon as possible. There are several matters there that demand my attention.” Kitty was silent for a moment. Then she gained her courage and spoke out.
“Mr. Burrell,” she said, laying her handupon his arm, “I suspect you can very well imagine what a terrible time of suspense this is for us. As I said this morning, we all know that my brother is innocent of the crime with which he is charged. But how can we prove it? All our hopes are centred upon you. You have done such wonderful things in the past that surely you can bring the real perpetrator of this hideous crime to justice. Can you not give us even a grain of hope to comfort us? My poor mother is fretting herself to a shadow about it.”
“I scarcely know what I can say just yet,” he replied. “I, of course, have begun to form my own theories, but they are too unsubstantial as yet for me to be able to pin any faith upon them—much less to allow you to do so. This, however, I will tell you, and any one who knows me will tell you that it is something for me to admit. What I say is that up to the present moment, I have been more successful than I had dared to hope I should be. Like yourselves, I have a conviction that your brother is innocent, and you may believe me when I say that it won’t be my fault if we can’t prove it. May I ask you to rest content with that? I can not say more.”
“I can not thank you sufficiently for yourkindness,” she answered. “Your words give me fresh hope. May I tell Miss Devereux what you say?”
“Miss Devereux?” asked Burrell, who for the moment had forgotten the young lady in question.
“It is to Miss Devereux that my brother is engaged,” Kitty answered. “You may imagine how sad she is. Yet she has been, and still is, so brave about it.”
“Not braver than you are, I’ll be bound,” said Burrell gallantly. “And now I will wish you good-afternoon.”
He did so, and refusing her offer of a carriage to take him, was soon striding across the park on his way back to the railway station. As he walked along he thought of what he had done that day, and of the strange good fortune that had so far attended his efforts.
“It is only the merest guess,” he said to himself, “and yet it’s the old, old story. It is when they think themselves most secure, and that detection is impossible, that they are in the greatest danger. At that point some minute circumstance is sufficient to give them away, and it’s all over. This looks as if it will prove another example of the one rule.”
It was nearly five o’clock when he reachedLondon. Arriving there he called a hansom and bade the man drive him with all speed to Mr. Codey’s office. As it happened he was only just in time to catch the lawyer, who was on the point of leaving.
“Halloa, Burrell,” cried the genial Mr. Codey on seeing him, “you seem excited. What’s the matter now?”
“I didn’t know that I had anything to be excited about,” Burrell replied with a smile at the lawyer’s attempt to draw him out. “I only thought I would drop in upon you, sir, to let you know that I am leaving for the Continent first thing to-morrow morning. I may be away a week, possibly a fortnight. I’m not able to put a definite time upon it, for it will all depend upon circumstances.”
“Then I suppose, as usual, you are beginning to find yourself on the right track,” the lawyer remarked drily.
“And, just as usual, sir, I reply that that’s as may be,” said the other. “I don’t deny that I’ve got hold of a piece of information that may eventually put me on the proper line—but I’ve got to sift it first—before I can act upon it. That’s why I’m going abroad.”
“Don’t be any longer than you can helpabout it, then,” returned the lawyer. “You know when the trial comes off?”
“As well as you do, sir! That’s why I want to get away at once. There’s no time to be wasted—that’s if we’re to be properly posted.”
“Well, then, good-bye, and may good luck go with you.”
Next morning Burrell, acting on the plan he had made, left London for Paris, with the portion of cigarette in his pocket.
The first night of his sojourn in Paris was spent at the residence of a friend who was also a well-known Stamp Collector. They dined at a Restaurant together, and spent the remainder of the evening at a Café discussing matters connected with their joint hobby. Had one looked in upon Jacob Burrell then, as he sat sipping a glass of brandy and water, it would have been difficult to imagine that this man who was so emphatic and precise about Water Marks, Bâtonné Papers, Misprints, and Fudges, was in Paris for the sole reason of elucidating a terrible crime, and in the hope of bringing the criminal to justice.
Next morning he was up early and, as soon as was compatible with calling hours, was on his way to the office of which Zevenboom had given him the address. Sending his name in to the head of the firm, he asked for an interview. This was promptly grantedhim and he was ushered into the proprietor’s office, a charming little apartment fragrant with the odour of the divine weed. Now Burrell’s French is not particularly good, but Monsieur Zacroft’s English was certainly a good deal worse. However, they managed after a fashion, and with the help of a clerk, to make each other understand, and that was perhaps all that was wanted. Zacroft inquired with much solicitude after the bodily welfare of his good friend Zevenboom, and on being assured that the latter enjoyed excellent health, so far as Burrell was aware, proceeded to ask in what way he could be of service to the Englishman. The latter immediately commenced to explain, speaking in a louder tone than usual and using many gesticulations, as an Englishman so often does, in the hope of making his meaning clearer to his auditor. Later on Burrell produced the charred remnant of the cigarette. The Frenchman admitted that the cigarette shown to him was of the same brand as that manufactured by Messrs. Kosman & Constantinopolous of Cairo, of which wealthy firm, he took care to point out, he was the Parisian representative. He was also acquainted with Mr. Victor Fensden, and admitted that hehad supplied that gentleman with cigarettes of the brand mentioned for some years past.
Burrell admitted to himself that so far this was very good. He hoped that there would be still better news to follow.
“Perhaps you can tell me when he obtained his last consignment from you?” he said, after a short pause.
The manager begged Burrell to excuse him while he went into his shop to ask the question. When he returned he laid a piece of paper before the other. The latter took it up and examined it carefully, though he was not at all prepared to find that the information would be of much value to him. The surprise he received, however, almost took his breath away. It was the work of a moment to whip out his pocket-book and to open it.
He turned the leaves until he arrived at the entry he wanted.
“And am I to understand you to say that Mr. Fensden wrote to you from England for them? Are you quite sure of it?”
“Quite sure,” replied the other, and intimated in exceedingly poor English that he was prepared to show his customer’s letter in proof of the genuineness of his assertion.He did so, and Burrell examined it carefully. Ultimately he prevailed upon the other to permit him to keep the letter.
“I wouldn’t lose it for a thousand pounds,” he said to himself. “Good gracious, this is nothing less than a stupendous piece of luck. It’s the last thing in the world I should have thought of.”
He thanked the little tobacco merchant for his courtesy, and bade him farewell, promising to remember him most affectionately to Zevenboom when next he should see him. After that he went off to make arrangements about his journey from Paris to Naples.
It was at a late hour of the night when he reached that famous Italian city. Tired out he betook himself to his hotel, slept the sleep of the just, and rose in the morning with the pleasant feeling that the day before him was likely to prove a busy and also an exciting one. After he had breakfasted, which he made a point of doing in the solid English fashion, he smoked a contemplative cigar, and interested himself after his own fashion in the billings and cooings of a young newly married couple, who were staying at the hotel awaiting the arrival of the out-going Australian Mail Boat. Then, having discoveredthe interpreter whom the hotel manager had found for him, he set off for the street in which he had been told Teresina Cardi and her mother had dwelt.
“'See Naples and die’ they say,” he muttered to himself, as he made his way out of one into another tortuous and unsavoury street. “It should have been 'smellNaples and die.’ A connoisseur could discover a hundred fresh unsavouries in every hundred yards.”
At last they found themselves in the street in question, and, after some little hunting, discovered the house in which the murdered girl had resided with her mother. The interpreter questioned the head of the family who lived on the ground floor. With many flourishes and bows, the latter, whose only work in life, it would appear, was to smoke cigarettes upon the doorstep, informed him that the Signora Cardi was dead and that the funeral had been a most imposing one.
“Ask him what has become of the daughter,” said Burrell, who was anxious to discover whether or not the man were aware of the murder.
“Gone,” was the laconic reply. Eventually he condescended to add, “An Englishmancame to see her, and the signorina went away with him. I can tell you no more.”
He manufactured for himself another cigarette, with the air of a man who has done everything he could to prove himself hospitable, and is not quite certain whether he has succeeded in the attempt. At this juncture Burrell rattled the money in his pocket.
“Ask him if he thinks he would know the man again if he were to see him,” he said. “Tell him also that I will pay him well for any information he may give me.”
A vehement debate ensued—which might have lasted from three to five minutes. At the end the interpreter translated.
“He says, your Excellency, that he could pick the man out from a hundred.”
“He’s been a jolly long time saying it,” said Burrell, and as he spoke he took from his pocket half-a-dozen photographs which he had brought with him for that purpose. “However, he shall try!”
Among the number were likenesses of Fensden and Henderson. There were also others of men who had nothing whatsoever to do with the case. The proprietor of the ground floor rooms picked them up one byone and examined them critically. When he reached Fensden’s portrait he held it up immediately.
“That is the man,” he said to the interpreter. “I need look no farther. I should know him anywhere.”
Burrell replaced the photographs in his pocket.
“Ask him if he has any idea where the man he speaks of stayed when he was in Naples,” Burrell remarked to the man, but upon this subject it appeared that the other could give no sort of information, though he volunteered for a reward to find out. This help, however, Burrell declined. After rewarding him, he retraced his steps to the hotel.
“It should not be difficult,” he thought as he went along, “to discover the Englishman’s abode during the time he was in Naples. He is not the sort of man to put up anywhere but at a good hotel.”
Foreseeing for this reason that the number of the hotels at which the man he was inquiring about would be likely to stay, were limited, he resolved to institute investigations that afternoon. He was very soon successful. At the second at which he called he discoveredthat Fensden had resided there and that he had left again on the 3rd of February. The manager knew nothing of anyliaisonwith a girl of the city, nor could he say where his guest went after he left Naples. His servants were equally ignorant, though one of them believed Signor Fensden’s destination to have been Rome. Thanking the manager for his courtesy, Burrell left the hotel more than a little disappointed, to spend the remainder of the afternoon securing affidavits as to dates and generally verifying the discoveries he had made.
“Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it but to try Rome,” he said to himself, when he had considered the matter in all its details.
Early next morning he accordingly shook the highly scented dust of Naples from his feet, and in due course reached the Italian capital. He had been there many times before, and in consequence he was a great favourite at the hotel where he usually resided. The owner welcomed him effusively, somewhat as he would have done a long-lost brother of whom he stood in some little awe, and trusted that he had come to make a long stay.
“I am afraid not,” said Burrell. “I havegot an important piece of business on hand just now which must be completed as quickly as possible. I am trying to hunt up the doings of an Englishman, who I have reason to believe came here from Naples with a Neapolitan girl, in February last. Possibly he may have stayed with you. Here is his photograph. See if you can recognise him!”
He thereupon produced the photograph of Fensden, and laid it on the table for the manager’s inspection. The latter, however, shook his head. He could not remember the face among his guests.
“In that case I must begin my rounds of the hotels again, I suppose,” said Burrell.
After luncheon he did so. The result, however, was by no means satisfactory. He made inquiries at every hotel of importance, and at many that were not, but try as he would he could glean no tidings of the pair whose doings he was so anxious to trace.
“It’s evident I’ve gone wrong somewhere,” he said to himself. “I don’t think I will waste any more time in this place, but go straight on to Vienna and look about me there. We know that the box hailed from the Austrian capital and that the wedding ring was manufactured in the same country.For my own part I don’t believe they came to Rome at all.”
Once more he resumed his journey and at length had the satisfaction of finding himself in Francis Joseph’s famous city. He was very fond of Vienna, partly because he had made two important captures there, and possibly more so for the reason that one of the best deals in stamps he had ever effected was brought to a head in that delightful city. On this occasion he lost no time, but set to work immediately on his arrival. In this town, however, the search was not destined to prove a difficult one. He had not been more than twice unsuccessful when he tried the Hotel National in the Käarntner Strasse. The manager himself admitted that he had a bad memory for faces, but he was quite sure of one thing, if they had stayed at his hotel, his head waiter would be sure to recollect them. That functionary was immediately summoned to the council, and the photograph was placed before him. He had no sooner looked upon it than he recognised it as being the likeness of the gentleman who had stayed there with an Italian girl. They had come to Vienna to be married it was said.
“To be married?” said Burrell in astonishment.“What do you mean by that? Weren’t they married when they arrived?”
Before the waiter could answer, light had dawned upon the manager, who thereupon chimed in.
“Ah, my friend, I remember now,” he said. “That was the gentleman who was married at the Church of Funfhaus in the Gurtel Strasse. Now I can recall the pair perfectly.”
“The Church of Funfhaus in the Gurtel Strasse, you said, I think,” said Burrell, making a note of the name in his pocket-book for future reference. “Pray how long did the happy couple remain with you?”
“For upward of a fortnight,” the manager replied, consulting a book. “But they were not happy all the time!”
“What do you mean by that? Why were they not happy?”
“For a very simple reason,” the manager replied. “I mean that toward the end of their stay it was becoming plain to most of us that the gentleman was a little neglectful of his bride. Yet she was a beautiful girl! Ah! a beautiful girl!”
“It was the waning of the honeymoon,” said Burrell cynically. “Poor girl, it didn’tlast long.” He paused for a while to pursue his own thoughts, then he continued aloud, “Have you any idea where they went after they left here?”
The manager reflected for a moment.
“To Munich, I believe. But of that I am not quite certain. We will ask Adolphe.”
The head waiter was once more consulted, and corroborated his superior. The couple had left for Munich with the intention of proceeding later to Paris. He was sure of this for the reason that he had heard the gentleman talking to the lady on the subject on the morning of their departure.
The next day was spent by Burrell in collecting further evidence. He interviewed the worthy clergyman who had married them, obtained certain necessary documents from him, discovered the jeweller who had sold them the wedding ring, and when he had learned all he wanted to know, took the train and started for Munich.
In Munich he discovered the hotel at which they had stayed and sundry other particulars which might, or might not, prove useful later on. Thence he continued his journey to Paris, where more discoveries awaited him. At last, and none too soon, heboarded the steamer which was to carry him to England. Even this short voyage was not devoid of interest, and by the time he reached London once more, he felt that there was not very much standing between him and the end. But what remained was in all probability more important than the beginning. There was a blank to be filled in, and filled in it must be, somehow or another, before the trial commenced.
His first act on reaching home was to write out a true and complete record of his doings since he had left London. This done he consulted the memoranda he had received from the representative of Messrs. Kosman, Constantinopolous & Co., in Paris, and then set off by train to the little town of Staines. From Staines to the charming little village of Laleham is a comparatively short and a most charming walk. It was almost mid-day by the time he reached the village and began to look about him for Laburnum Cottage. When he discovered it it proved to be a pretty little thatched building standing in a garden which in summer would be bright with hollyhocks, nasturtiums and other homely flowers. A card in the window proclaimed the fact that apartments could be had within,but at that particular season of the year this announcement would be little likely to attract attention. Pushing open the gate, Burrell made his way up the garden path to the neat little porch where he gave a smart rat-tat with his stick upon the door. The sound had scarcely died away before it was opened to him by a stout, matronly person, dressed in black, and wearing a cap and a neat white apron.
“Mrs. Raikes?” asked Burrell, to make sure she was the person he desired to see.
“That is my name, sir,” said the woman. “Perhaps you will tell me what I can do for you.”
“I want you to give me some information,” Burrell answered. “I have come down from London on purpose to see you.”
“From London, sir,” she exclaimed, as if that were rather a remarkable circumstance. “Will you be pleased to step inside?” So saying, she held the door open for him to enter. He did so to find himself in a neat little sitting room, unostentatiously yet comfortably furnished. Three cases of stuffed birds decorated the walls, together with some pictures on religious subjects, a bookcase, the latter scantily furnished, and last, but notleast, a Chippendale sofa, and two or three chairs that would not have disgraced a ducal drawing-room.
“Kindly take a seat, sir,” said Mrs. Raikes, dusting one of the aforementioned chairs with her apron as she spoke. “If it’s apartments you want I am quite sure I can satisfy you. Of course it’s a bad season of the year, but at the end of the month we shall begin to fill up. There’s some splendid boating on the river, as perhaps you know, and at night, when the houseboats are all lit up, well, it’s quite lively.”
Her desire to impress him with the gaieties of the place was almost pathetic, and Burrell felt that he was acting meanly in permitting her to go on, without acquainting her with the real object of his visit.
“I am sorry to say that I am not in search of lodgings,” he said. “My business is of an altogether different nature. In the first place, I think I ought to tell you that I am a detective.”
“A detective?” she cried in horror. “Lor’, Idohope, sir, there’s nothing wrong?”
“Not so far as you are concerned, you may be sure,” he answered. “I have comedown here to make some inquiries regarding a gentleman who was known to be staying in your house some time back. His name was Fensden.”
The woman shook her head.
“I haven’t had a gentleman in my house of that name,” she answered. “In fact, the only gentleman I have had since the beginning of the year was a Mr. Onslow. The name of Fensden I don’t remember at all.”
Burrell consulted his pocket-book before he went further.
“And yet the information I received was most complete,” he continued. “Victor Fensden, Esq., c/o George Onslow, Laburnum Cottage, Laleham-on-Thames. There couldn’t be anything plainer than that, could there?”
“It seems all right, sir,” said the woman. “There is only one Laburnum Cottage, and Mr. Onslow was certainly staying with us. He had his wife with him, a sweet young thing, which was more than could be said of the gentleman, I can assure you.”
It was plain from this that she and Mr. Onslow had not been on the best of terms. Burrell took from his pocket the photographof Fensden, and handed it to her. He was beginning to have an inkling of the truth.
“Is that the likeness of Fensden or of Mr. Onslow?” he inquired.
“Mr. Onslow, sir, to be sure,” she replied, “and a very good one of him it is too. I hope he’s not a friend of yours, because I couldn’t abear him. The way he treated his poor foreign wife of his was enough to make an honest woman’s blood boil.”
“So he had a foreign wife, had he?” said Burrell. “That’s interesting. Tell me all you can about him.”
“There’s not much to be told, sir, except about his bullying and nagging that poor young thing. She was a foreigner, as I have just said, but as nice a young lady as ever stepped in at my door. When they first came she told me that Mr. Onslow was an artist, and that they wanted to be quiet and away from London. They didn’t mind putting up with the roughness of things, she said, so long as they could be quiet. Well, sir, they had this room and the bedroom above, and for the first few days everything went as smooth and as nice as could be. Then I noticed that she took to crying, andthat he went away day after day and once for two days. At last he disappeared altogether, leaving her without a halfpenny in the world. Oh! I’d have liked to have seen the brute and have given him a bit of my mind. It would have done him good, I’ll promise him that. I shall never forget that poor young thing in her trouble. She waited and waited for him to come back, but at last when there was no sign of him, she came to me in my kitchen there to know what she should do. 'I know you have not had your money, Mrs. Raikes,’ she said in a kind of piteous foreign way, that went to my heart. 'I can not stay here any longer, and so, if you’ll trust me, I’ll go away to London and try to find my husband. Even if I do not, you shall not lose by us.’ I told her I didn’t want the money, and that I was as sorry for her as a woman could be. Poor dear, I could see that her heart was nearly broken.”
“And what happened then?”
“Nothing, sir, except that she went away, and she hadn’t been gone a week before the money that was owing to me was sent in a Post Office Order. From that day to this I’ve heard nothing of either of them and that’s the truth. Whether she found herhusband I can not say, but if she’d take my advice she’d never try to.”
“You are quite sure that you’d know the man again?”
“I am certain I should,” the woman replied. “I hope, sir, in telling you all this, I’ve been doing no harm?”
“You have been doing a great deal of good,” Burrell replied. “Shortly after she left you, poor Mrs. Onslow, as you call her, was most brutally murdered, and I have been commissioned by the friends of the man who is wrongfully accused of the crime to endeavour to discover the real criminal.”
“Murdered, sir? you surely don’t mean that?”
“I do! A more abominable crime has not been committed this century.”
The good woman was honestly overcome by the news and during the remainder of the interview scarcely recovered her composure. Before he left, Burrell cautioned her most strongly against saying anything about the case to her neighbours, and this injunction she promised faithfully to observe.
“By the way,” said the detective, before he left, “do you remember whether this manOnslow received any letters while he was staying with you?”
“Only one, sir, so far as I know,” the woman replied.
“You’re quite sure of that?”
“Quite sure, sir, and why I happen to be so certain is that it caused a bit of unpleasantness between them. I was brushing the stairs just out there, when the letter arrived. It was Mrs. Onslow that took it in, and when she saw the post-mark she asked him who it was that he knew at Richmond. He snatched the letter from her and told her to mind her own business. That afternoon he went out and never came back. It’s my belief it was some woman at Richmond as enticed him away.”
“Have you any other reason for supposing that except the post-mark on the envelope?”
“Well, sir,” returned the woman, “to be candid with you, I have, though perhaps it’s a tale I shouldn’t tell. I was so sorry for that poor young thing that I couldn’t get her trouble out of my head, and nothing would serve but that I must watch him. I saw him sitting down at the head of the table where you are now, sir, about half-an-hour after hehad spoken so cross to his wife, and she, poor dear, was upstairs crying, and I noticed that he was writing a telegram. Presently he calls to me. 'Mrs. Raikes,’ said he, 'want to send a telegram at once, who can take it for me?’ 'There’s Mrs. Hawkins’s little boy next door, sir,’ says I, 'he’s taken messages for gentlemen I’ve had in the house before now, and always done it very well. I saw him playing in the field at the back of the house only this minute.’ 'Call him in to me, then,’ says he, 'and he shall have sixpence for his trouble.’ I called the lad in, and Mr. Onslow gave him the message, and then off he went with it, but not so fast but that I was able to run across to the corner of the field at the back there, and catch him on the road. 'Tommy,’ I said, 'let me have a look at that telegram.’ He was a good little boy, and handed it over to me without a word. It was addressed to 'Montgomery, 13 Bridgeworth Road, Richmond.’ There was no other name to it, and the only other word was 'yes.’ It didn’t seem to me that there was anything out of the common about it, and so I thought no more of it, until you spoke of his having letters just now.”
“I think I’ll make a note of the addressin case it should be useful,” said Burrell. “And now I’ll be off, thanking you again, Mrs. Raikes, for the information you have given me.”
On leaving the cottage he walked back to Staines, caught a train to London, and hastened to his house. Later on he made his way to Euston Station. Another twenty hours elapsed before he was able to acquire the information he wanted there—but he had the satisfaction of knowing, when he had obtained it, that there remained now only one link to be forged, and then the chain of evidence would be complete. That link was forged at Richmond, and next day he handed in his report to the astonished Codey.
“Good heavens, Burrell,” said that astute gentleman, “this is as marvellous as it is horrible. What do you think?”
“I think, sir, that we shall be able to prove that Mr. Henderson is innocent.”
At last, after all the weary waiting, the great day arrived. The Sessions had commenced at the Old Bailey. For two or three days prior to this, Godfrey had been busy with his solicitor and his counsel. It was not, however, until the afternoon before thecommencement that he could elicit from Codey any information as to Burrell’s discoveries. Immediately he was ushered into the room where Codey was awaiting him, Godfrey saw from the expression upon the other’s face, that there was something to tell.
“You—have good news for me,” he said, as they shook hands.
“The very best of news,” Codey replied. “My dear sir, you may rest assured that your innocence is completely established. The whole plot has come to light, and, when we give the word, the authorities will be able to lay their hands upon the man who committed the deed.”
“But who is the man?” Godfrey hastened to ask, scarcely able to speak for excitement. His pulse was beating like a sledge hammer inside his head, until it seemed as if his brain must burst.
“Don’t ask me that now,” said Codey. “Put your trust in me until to-morrow. Then you shall know everything. Believe me, I have my own very good reasons for asking this favour of you. Rest assured of one thing; at latest the day after to-morrow you will be at liberty to go where and do what you please.”
“But why can not it be settled at once? Why must it be the day after to-morrow? It is cruel to keep me in suspense!”
“Don’t you understand that we can not bring forward our witnesses until the proper moment arrives?” said the lawyer. “The English law has its idiosyncrasies, and even in a case of life and death, the formalities must be observed. There is one thing, however, I can promise you; that is, that when the truth comes out, it will be admitted that such a sensation has not been caused in a Court of Justice before.”
And with this assurance, meagre as it was, Godfrey had perforce to be content.