THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.
_The Hampstead Mystery._
A Novel.
BY
FLORENCE MARRYAT,
AUTHOR OF ‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘VÉRONIQUE,’ ‘MY OWN
CHILD,’ ‘MY SISTER THE ACTRESS,’ ‘HOW LIKE
A WOMAN,’ ‘PARSON JONES,’ ETC., ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. II.
LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & CO.,
14 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1894.
_CONTENTS._
PAGE
CHAPTER I., 1
CHAPTER II., 24
CHAPTER III., 48
CHAPTER IV., 76
CHAPTER V., 96
CHAPTER VI., 123
CHAPTER VII., 150
CHAPTER VIII., 172
CHAPTER IX., 199
CHAPTER X., 219
THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.
_The Hampstead Mystery._
CHAPTER I.
In a few seconds the door opened again, to admit Frederick Walcheren,
leaning on the arm of his cousin, Philip. At first the jury wished the
latter to withdraw, but he refused to do so.
‘Is it not sufficient,’ he cried, ‘for you to look at this unfortunate
man, to see what he is suffering, and that he is incapable of
confronting you alone? I refuse to leave him; if you insist upon it,
we will both withdraw. This is a court of inquiry, not of justice; how
dare you treat this gentleman as if he were a criminal?’
‘I am not aware that the jury were doing so, Mr Walcheren,’ retorted
Mr Procter. ‘However, as he seems ill, and you insist upon remaining
by his side, let it be so. It is not, however, the usual thing for a
witness to be examined in the presence of another person.’
‘I don’t care if it is the custom or not,’ replied Philip firmly. ‘You
may commit me for contempt of court, if you like, but my cousin is too
ill to stand by himself, and I refuse to leave him.’
‘Very well, sir, very well!’ replied the coroner tartly, ‘if Mr
Frederick Walcheren answers the questions put to him, nothing more will
be said about it.’
Frederick did indeed look more like a criminal than anything else. His
dark hair, which he wore rather long for the general fashion, was dull
and damp with the sweat which agony had forced from him. His features
were pinched and his eyes sunk, whilst his clear olive complexion had
assumed a yellow, waxen hue. The whole man seemed to have collapsed
under the force of his grief. He did not raise his eyes to the faces of
his inquisitors, but sat leaning back in his chair, with his gaze fixed
on the ground, and his hands clasped together between his knees.
‘Rouse yourself, if you please, sir,’ commenced the coroner, ‘and let
us have as succinct an account as you can of all you know concerning
this distressing affair. Do you recognise the deceased, Jane Emily
Walcheren, as your late wife?’
‘Yes!’ answered Frederick in a low voice.
‘Speak up, if you please! The jury cannot hear your replies. When did
you see the deceased lady last?’
‘On Saturday morning.’
‘Well, well, what more?’ cried Mr Procter, impatiently; ‘tell us all
about it. Where did you see her, and when did you part with her, and
what did you do in the interim? We want the whole story, and can’t go
dragging it from you piecemeal.’
‘Say all you know, Frederick,’ whispered Philip, ‘it will be so much
the sooner over and done with.’
The unhappy young man made a visible effort, and said,--
‘I saw her last alive on Saturday morning at the Castle Warden Hotel
at about half-past eleven or twelve o’clock. We had just finished
breakfast, and I left her to have a swim. I never saw her again until I
came--here.’
‘How long were you away from the hotel?’
‘I did not return till nearly three. That hour was fixed for our
luncheon.’
‘Three hours is a long time to be taking a swim. What were you doing
for the rest of the time?’
‘I was occupied in the water, all, or nearly, all the time,’ replied
Frederick.
But Mr Procter, who had never indulged in a bath but once in his life,
and that was the day before his wedding, when he caught such a cold
that he had never ventured into the water since, was not to be taken
in by so transparent an untruth.
‘In the water for three hours, sir! Do you expect the jury to believe
that?’
‘I was in the sea for the best part of the time, swimming and doing
feats of skill. Some part of it must be allowed for dressing and
undressing myself. But the day was fine, and I did not care to come out
sooner than was necessary.’
‘I believe I am right, Mr Walcheren, in saying that you were only
married to the deceased on the Friday previous?’
‘That is the case.’
‘Is it usual for a bridegroom to leave his bride alone for three hours
the day after their wedding in order that he may have a swim?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Frederick, wearily; ‘but I did.’
‘Well, when you came back at three o’clock you found your wife was
gone?’
‘I did.’
‘Was it not rather strange, considering that you had gone to the beach,
that she did not go to the beach also, in order to find you?’
‘At first I thought she must have done so, but I searched the beach and
the town, and, finally, the cliffs, without finding any trace of her.’
‘And then you returned to the hotel! At what time might that have been?’
‘I am not sure. At about five, or half-past, I think.’
‘With the exception, then, of a run home for a few minutes, you were
absent from the Castle Warden from half-past eleven to half-past
five--six hours? And all that time you were bathing or looking for your
wife?’
‘I have already told you so,’ answered Frederick.
‘Who saw you during that time, Mr Walcheren? What witnesses can you
bring forward to testify that it was spent as you tell us?’
‘Witnesses!’ reiterated Frederick, with a stare. ‘How can I bring
witnesses from a place where I am utterly unknown? I have never been
in Dover to stay a night before now. Nobody in the town knows me. I
have not spoken to an individual, excepting a young man who accosted
me whilst swimming, and a girl whom I asked if she had seen--had
seen--my--my--wife.’
‘That is unfortunate,’ remarked the coroner, drily. ‘Now, Mr Walcheren,
am I right in supposing that your marriage was not conducted very
regularly--that it was undertaken, in fact, entirely against, and in
opposition to, the wishes of the parents of the deceased?’
‘I don’t know what the devil business that is of yours!’ exclaimed
Frederick, roused from his lethargic condition by the impertinence of
the question.
‘Everything is my business, sir, in the pursuit of my duty, and, if you
address me again in that manner, I shall commit you for contempt of
court. I understand, further, that not only was your marriage with the
deceased an irregular one, but that you took a false oath in order to
procure a licence for it, by stating the deceased to be of age, when
she wanted a year of that time.’
‘I did, if you will have it so!’ said the young man, sullenly.
‘Are you aware, Mr Walcheren, that in consequence of your behaviour in
the matter, your father-in-law, Mr Crampton, altered his will and cut
his daughter’s name out of it?’
‘Of course I knew it.’
‘Who told you of it?’
‘I forget. My wife, I suppose!’
‘Mr Crampton never informed you of the fact himself?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘You did not hear of it, in fact, until after your unfortunate marriage
had taken place beyond recall. Can you deny it, sir?’
‘I don’t know if I did or did not. I cannot remember. My head is so
dazed by the events that have taken place since that I cannot trust my
memory in anything.’
‘Perhaps I can jog it for you. You took a false oath in order to enable
you to marry the deceased, whom you believed to be an heiress, and it
was not until you had brought her down here that you found out your
mistake. Your wife told you of the fact, and you probably had a few
words on the matter, before you left her so suddenly in the hotel.’
‘It’s a lie!’ cried Frederick vehemently, as he sprang up from his
chair, an action which caused the coroner to dodge behind two of the
jury in case his witness might prove dangerous. ‘It’s a lie, I tell
you, we never had a word of misunderstanding between us, and if you
dare to mention her in that way to me again, I will knock your dirty
head against the wall for you.’
He would have sprung at the coroner in reality, if his cousin had not
restrained him.
‘Frederick! Frederick! for _her_ sake, restrain yourself. You would not
mix up her name or memory with a low row.’
‘Gentlemen of the jury!’ exclaimed the coroner, ‘another such insult on
the part of that witness and I will put him in arrest for assault. You
have heard him threaten me. The whole case is one of suspicion, in my
opinion. This man runs away with a lady under age, whom he believes to
be an heiress, and the very day he finds out his mistake she is found
thrown over the cliffs, under every appearance of there having been
foul play. The witness would have us believe that he, a bridegroom not
two days married, left his young wife for six mortal hours to indulge
in swimming--that when she was missed, he made every effort to find
her, that he even went along the cliffs where she lay dead, and never
saw her body.’
‘But the body lay _under_ the cliffs,’ interposed a juror; ‘and the
gentleman walked along them. He couldn’t have found her unless he had
descended to the beach.’
‘That’s right, Mr Colly,’ said Procter, spitefully; ‘always interrupt
at the most important moments. The witness has eyes in his head. I
suppose he could have looked over--if he had been very energetic in
his search he _would_ have looked over. And what was he doing all that
time? And is it likely the deceased would have ascended the cliffs by
herself, in a place where she had never been before. You have heard the
witness of the landlord and waiters of the hotel, to the effect that
they never saw the deceased leave the hotel after her husband--that
she must have been gone almost as long as he was, for another witness,
Mr Hindes, called twice with the view of seeing her, and each time
she was out. Now, where was she all that time, if she were not, as is
most probable, with her husband? Dr M’Coll gave us his opinion that
the deceased might have been thrown over the cliffs, or she might have
fallen over, or she might have thrown herself over on purpose. Now,
it seems to me highly improbable that a young woman of twenty should
tumble over such a place by mistake--still less that she should have
committed suicide the very day after her marriage; but words lead to
quarrels, gentlemen, and quarrels lead to pushing sometimes, and a
hasty push is a very dangerous thing, you know, when near a steep
cliff. I don’t wish to bias your decision in this matter in any degree.
If you find the deceased came by her death by misadventure you will
give your verdict to that effect, but if you think the circumstances
are such as to demand a stricter inquiry, you will say so. I leave the
case in your hands now, and I feel sure you will do it justice!’
The jury shambled out of the room, and Frederick looked up into his
cousin’s face with open eyes that were half mystified and half alarmed.
‘Philip! what does that man mean? He cannot--no! it would be too
gross--too impossible!--he cannot mean us to understand that he
suspects me--_me_ of having had any hand in this misfortune?’
‘Hush! Fred; hush!’ replied Philip, laying his hand soothingly on the
other’s arm; ‘never mind what he says or thinks. He is a cad--any one
can see that--in mind as well as breeding. Let the brute think what he
likes. He cannot make others agree with him, and all your friends will
know that you are innocent in the matter as far as the poor girl’s
death is concerned.’
‘But to be suspected, and by a creature like that--I, who would have
given my worthless life for hers a thousand times over. My God! it is
hard!’
Philip squeezed his hand.
‘I know it! It is part of the trial, but it will soon be over now! Here
are the jury! They have not been long in coming to a decision.’
‘Well, gentlemen, and what is your verdict?’ demanded Mr Procter, with
an unctuous smack of his lips, as if he longed to hear them say they
considered that there had been foul play in the matter.
‘Our verdict, sir,’ replied the spokesman; ‘is that the deceased came
by her death from a fall over the cliffs, but whether she was thrown
over or fell over by accident there is not sufficient evidence to show!’
‘It is unsatisfactory that your verdict should be undecided,’ said the
coroner; ‘had you not better reconsider it?’
‘We are quite unanimous on the subject, sir; and we would like to add
a rider to the effect that some sort of fence should be put along the
edge of the cliffs to prevent accidents in future.’
‘Very well, if you are agreed, it is no use detaining you any longer,’
said Procter, with an aggrieved air, for he had quite made up his own
mind that Frederick Walcheren had killed his wife; ‘you have only to
sign the papers and end the proceedings.’
As soon as they were set at liberty, Philip hurried his cousin out of
the room, for Frederick was in that reckless condition that he dreaded
what he might say or do to the coroner. Here they found that the body
of poor Jenny had already been moved to an upper chamber by the orders
of Mr Crampton, and was being prepared by women’s hands for its last
receptacle. That she should have been touched without his authority
made her husband furious.
‘Who has dared to do this?’ he exclaimed wrathfully, as he glared at
Mr Crampton and Henry Hindes.
‘_I_ have dared, sir,’ replied the father, determinedly. ‘You stole my
living daughter from me, but you shall not have her now that she is
dead! I have ordered, or rather my kind friend Hindes here has ordered,
every preparation to be made for the conveyance of her precious remains
to Hampstead, where I shall take her by train to-morrow, and there our
connection ends. You have done me all the injury in your power, and I
never wish to see your face again, either in this world or the next.’
‘But you shall not have her, I say,’ cried Frederick in a fury, ‘she
was my wife, and I defy you to take her from me, dead or alive! I shall
take her myself to my brother’s place in Northampton and see her laid
in the family vault of the Walcherens’. That is the only place where my
wife shall lie.’
‘She was _not_ your wife,’ exclaimed the old man; ‘you married her
under false pretences, and if you attempt to cross me in my purpose
I will appeal to the law to see me righted, and give me back all that
your villainy has left me of my child.’
‘By Heaven you sha’n’t!’ said the younger man, as he made a rush
forward as if he would have seized Mr Crampton by the throat; ‘if you
persist in your intention I will fight you inch by inch, old man as you
are, for the possession of her remains.’
‘Frederick!’ interposed Philip, restraining him, ‘think what you are
saying and doing. Is such wrangling seemly in the very presence of the
dead? You know what this gentleman says is the truth. You _did_ rob him
of his daughter, and by a fraud. In strictest justice, therefore, she
belongs to him now, as she did whilst alive. But even were it not so,
cannot you make up your mind to yield your wishes to his? Think of all
he has lost, of how little he has remaining, and don’t deny him this
sad consolation of laying his daughter to rest where he can see her
grave. It is really of so little consequence when you come to think
of it! And if it is a sacrifice on your part, cannot you make it as a
little expiation for what has gone before, an atonement which Heaven
may accept for the wrong you did them both. Be reasonable, Fred! After
to-day neither you nor her father will ever see her in this world
again. Why deny him the sorry comfort of taking her body home for her
poor mother to weep over? Come, my dear fellow, yield this little point
gracefully. I fancy your dear young wife, could we ask her, would
rather choose to lie at Hampstead amongst the flowers than in our musty
old vault at Northampton, where you never go.’
Frederick gave a tremendous gulp.
‘Perhaps so,’ he answered, ‘perhaps so.’ Then to Mr Crampton, ‘Take
her, sir, then, take my angel back to her own people, but let me bid
her a last farewell before she is carried away from me.’
‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Mr Crampton, shamed out of his brawling
manner by the other’s submission, ‘and I thank you for yielding the
point, but I feel it is my right--the only right, unfortunately, which
you have left me.’
Philip drew Frederick upstairs. He felt the less these two men met in
the future the better. The room where Jenny now lay was already set
to rights, and she was stretched upon the bed, clad in fair, fresh
raiment, with her hands crossed meekly on her breast. She looked
very different, poor child, from the saucy, merry, wilful girl who
had run away with her lover, without giving a single thought to the
consequences. The women had smoothed her hair upon her forehead, her
eyes were sunk, her mouth pathetically closed and rigid. The little
perfect nose, her lover had so much admired, was drawn and pinched
almost out of all likeness to itself, and the inside of the hands were
turning purple. Her unhappy husband prostrated himself with a cry of
anguish by the side of the bed, and Philip withdrew and left him for
a little while, whilst he made arrangements for their departure for
London. He felt that Frederick could have no possible desire to remain
in Dover when Jenny’s body had been removed thence, and that the sooner
he left it the better.
Mr Crampton and Henry Hindes had decided to remain there till the
following day, when the sad preparations for their return to Hampstead
would be completed, and Philip Walcheren was glad to see them leave the
‘Bottle and Spurs’ for a hotel, where they had arranged to pass the
night. He accompanied them to the town, and, when the coast was clear,
he secured a close carriage and returned to the public-house for his
unfortunate cousin.
‘Come, dear Frederick,’ he said, as he re-entered the room where the
body lay; ‘let me take you away from here. I have settled your bill at
the Castle Warden, and your portmanteau is waiting us at the station.
The--the other things there, I have arranged with Mr Crampton to take
away. It is best that we should return to London at once.’
‘And is this the last--last time that I shall ever see her?’ asked
Frederick, in a tone of unutterable woe.
‘On this earth, my dear cousin, yes,’ replied Philip, ‘and it is just
as well. The sight can only increase your misery. In a very short time
the undertakers will be here to do their work. Why not spare yourself
the extra pain of watching them. And after they are gone, what will
there be for you to gaze upon? A box of wood! Be a man, my dear fellow,
and say good-bye to her.’
‘Oh! Philip, Philip, if you only knew what that word costs me. It is
like dragging my very entrails out to pronounce it.’
‘I do know it, but it must be done. Better now than before strangers.’
‘Good-bye, good-bye, my angel,’ cried the young man, as he kissed
the corpse from head to feet. ‘Don’t forget your wretched husband in
the land you have gone to, but remember he has but one wish left on
earth--to join you there. Good-bye, my only love! No other woman can
ever take your place with me. I dedicate the rest of my unhappy life to
your sweet memory. Oh, Philip, how can I tear myself away from her!’
‘You have forgotten to take this, Frederick,’ said his cousin, drawing
off poor Jenny’s fatal wedding-ring and holding it out to him. ‘It is
yours by right to keep for her till you meet again.’
‘Sacred and inviolate!’ exclaimed Frederick, as he pressed the pledge
of their married love to his lips. ‘My God, hear me swear that this
ring shall keep me faithful to my darling’s memory for ever, that with
it I pledge myself to fidelity and virtue as long as my life may last.’
‘And God has heard the oath,’ said Philip, solemnly. ‘Come, Frederick,
the carriage is waiting at the door. Do not prolong this trying scene
any more.’
‘Shall I see anybody?’ asked his cousin in a fearful manner, as they
gained the outside of the door at last; ‘shall we encounter either
of those men again, Crampton or Hindes, I mean, or those dreadful
creatures who wanted to accuse me--My God, Philip,’ he continued,
stopping short, ‘of what was it they wanted to accuse me?’
‘Of nothing, nothing, Frederick,’ replied Philip, soothingly, ‘you must
not think of it again. It is the business of a jury to make everything
look as black as possible, and they never think of the pain they may
inflict by their unworthy suspicions. Try and forget it, with all the
other incidents of this most trying day. You will meet no one, unless
it be the people of the house. You may take my word for that! Just put
yourself in my hands and I will manage everything for us both.’
Frederick was only too thankful to be relieved of all responsibility,
for he was utterly worn-out with grief, and incapable of thinking or
acting for himself, so he clung to the arm of his cousin, who hurried
him into the carriage and off to the railway station before he hardly
knew where they were going. But as they neared London, he roused
himself sufficiently to ask their destination.
‘I intend to take you to my house first,’ replied Philip, cheerfully,
‘for you are not fit in your present condition to look after yourself,
nor would I allow you to go back alone to your flat in Nevern Mansions.
In our house you shall have a couple of rooms to yourself, and Marion
will take care that you are undisturbed. When you are better, you shall
decide what to do. At present you must resign yourself into my hands.’
Frederick pressed his cousin’s hand and murmured ‘Thank you,’ without
making the slightest objection to the plan.
He was, indeed, too intensely miserable and worn-out to care about
anything, and when their journey came to an end, he allowed Philip to
do with him exactly as he chose.