IN WHICH THE "EVENING MOON" CONTINUES TO SPEAK ITS MIND.
It was fatally true. They were dancing in blood. The woman who made the
awful discovery had white satin shoes on. As she uttered the appalling
words she looked down at her feet, and, with a wild shudder, sank into
her husband's arms. He, overwrought with excitement, had scarcely
sufficient strength to support her, and he would have allowed her to
slip to the floor had he not, also, cast his eyes earthwards. Quickly he
caught her to his breast, and, trembling violently, proceeded upstairs.
The weight of his burden compelled him to hold on to the balustrade;
but the moment he placed his hand on the polished rail, he screamed,
"There's been Murder done here!" And, shaking like a leaf, he retreated
in haste till he reached the street door. Flinging it open, he rushed
with his wife into the Square, and stood in the light of the sunrise, a
picture of terror.
The other actors in the scene had borne appropriate parts in the tragic
situation. For a little while they were paralyzed, and incapable of
action. The streaming in of the daylight aroused them, and they looked
about timidly. On the floor, stairs, and balustrade were marks of blood
not yet quite dried, and they traced the crimson stains to the end of
the passage, where it dipped into the narrow staircase which led to the
basement. There being no natural means of lighting the stairway, this
part of the house was usually lit up by a thin, funereal jet of gas,
which burnt as sadly as if its home were a tomb. At present it was in
darkness, the gas being turned off.
The thought that had been put into words by the man who had rushed out
of the house now took its place in the minds of those who remained
within. There had been murder done. But who was murdered, and where was
the murderer?
"That comes," said the violinist to the landlady, "of letting a man into
the house who refuses to give his name."
The landlady wrung her hands. She saw ruin staring her in the face.
"He's off, of course," continued the violinist, "and Mary" (the name of
the servant) "lies downstairs, murdered in cold blood."
A sound sleeper, indeed, must Mary have been to have slept through
the music, and the dancing, and the cries of terror. The silence that
reigned below was confirmation of the violinist's assumption. Of all
suppositions, it was the most reasonable. Who would go downstairs to
corroborate it? Not one had sufficient courage.
Meanwhile, events progressed in front of the house. A policeman,
attracted by the sounds of music, was drawn thitherwards, and, seeing
a man kneeling on the pavement, supporting a woman, he quickened his
steps.
"What's up?" demanded the policeman.
"Murder! murder!" gasped the man.
The woman's white shoes, bedabbled in blood, met the policeman's eye.
"There! there!" cried the man, pointing to the passage.
The policeman was immediately encompassed by the other frightened faces.
"You're just in time," said the violinist. "There's been murder done."
"Who's been murdered?" asked the policeman.
"That's to be found out," was the answer. "It's a girl, we believe."
"Ah," remarked the policeman, with a certain thoughtfulness; "the last
was a girl--an unfortunate girl--and _he's_ not been caught."
Cautiously they re-entered the house, the policeman with his truncheon
drawn, and ascended the stairs to the drawing-room. No person, dead or
alive, was found.
"_It's_ downstairs," said the violinist.
They crept downstairs in a body, keeping close together. There, an awful
sight met their eyes. On the floor of the kitchen lay the body of the
stranger who, on the 1st of July, had engaged a room on the first floor,
and had paid a month's rent in advance. He had been foully murdered.
The servant girl was sound asleep in her bed. It is strange, when she
returned home from the Alhambra, and crept through the passage and the
kitchen to bed, that she did not herself make the discovery, for the
soles of her boots were stained with the evidences of the crime, and
she must have passed within a foot or two of the lifeless body; but
satisfactory explanations have since been given, with which and with the
details of the murder, as far as they are known, the public have already
been made fully acquainted through our columns.
Our business now is with Antony Cowlrick.
So profound was the impression produced by the murder that, from the day
it was discovered, no person could be induced to lodge or sleep in the
house in which it was committed. The tenants all left without giving
notice, and the landlady, prostrated by the blow, has not dared, since
that awful night, to venture inside the door. The house is avoided,
shunned, and dreaded by all. Any human being bold enough to take it
could have it for a term of years on a very moderate rental--for the
first year, probably, for a peppercorn; but practical people as we are,
with our eyes on the main chance, we are imbued with sentiments which
can never be eradicated. The poorest family in London could not, at the
present time, be induced to occupy the house. The stain of blood is on
those floors and stairs, and _it can never be washed out_! The Spirit
of Murder lurks within the fatal building, and when night falls, the
phantom holds terrible and undisputed sway over mind and heart. A
shapeless shadow glides from room to room--no features are visible but
eyes which never close, and which shine only in the dark. And in the
daylight, which in this house is robbed of its lustre, its presence is
manifest in the echo of every step that falls upon the boards. Appalling
spectre! whose twin brother walks ever by the side of the undiscovered
murderer! Never, till justice is satisfied, shall it leave him. As he
stole from the spot in which he took the life of a fellow-creature, it
touched his heart with its spiritual hand, and whispered, "I am the
shadow of thy crime! Thou and I shall never part!" He looks into the
glass, and it peers over his shoulder; maddened, he flies away, and when
he stops to rest, he feels the breath of the Invisible on his cheek. He
slinks into his bed, and hiding his head in the bedclothes, lies there
in mortal terror, knowing that the shadow is close beside him. It brings
awful visions upon him. He looks over the bridge into the river upon
which the sun is shining. How bright is the water! How clear! How
pure! Surely over that white surface the shadow can have no power! But
suddenly comes a change, and the river is transformed into a river of
blood. An irresistible fascination draws him to the river again in
the night, when the moon is shining on the waters, and, as he gazes
downwards, he sees the ghastly body of his victim, its face upturned,
floating on a lurid tide. He cannot avoid it; whichever way he turns
it is before him. He walks through country lanes, and trembles at the
fluttering of every leaf. Rain falls; it is red; and as he treads along,
it oozes up and up till it reaches his eyes, and, resting there, tinges
everything that meets his sight with the colour of blood. Water he
cannot drink, its taste is so horrible. He must have gin, brandy--any
poison that will help him to forget. Vain hope! He shall never forget!
And the shadow of his crime shall never leave until he falls at the feet
of outraged justice, and pays the penalty. Then, _and then only_, there
may be hope for him--for God is merciful!
Among the measures adopted by the police for the discovery of the Great
Porter Square murderer was that of having the house, No. 119, watched
day and night by policemen in private clothes. There are not many
persons in the kingdom who, in a murder case which has thrilled the
public heart and filled it with horror, would accuse the police of want
of zeal; but there are many who, with justice, would accuse them of want
of tact.
A week after the murder was committed, Policeman X (as it is not of
an individual, but of a system, we complain, we will not make this
particular constable's name more prominent than it has already
become)--a week then after the murder was committed, Policeman X, in
private clothes, saw lurking in the vicinity of Great Porter Square, a
man: as he might see to-night other men lurking in the vicinity of any
and every square in London. It is a peculiarity of policemen in private
clothes that they are always ready to suspect, and that in their eyes
every poor-looking person with whose face they are not familiar is a
disreputable character. Policeman X watched this man for a few moments,
and took the opportunity of brushing past him when they were near a
lamp-post. The man's face was unknown to him; it was haggard and pale,
and his clothes betokened poverty. These were terrible signs, and
Policeman X at once set himself the task of stealthily following the
man, who walked leisurely towards the house, No. 119, in which the
murder was committed. The house was deserted and untenanted, as it is at
the present time. Now, would the suspected man pass the house, or would
he linger near it? Much depended upon this.
The man reached the house, peered around (according to Policeman X's
statement) to make sure that he was not observed, and then cast his eyes
to the dark windows. He lingered, as though in indecision, for a few
moments, and standing before the door, appeared to be studying the
number. Then he strolled away. It cannot be said that there was anything
criminating in these movements, but Policeman X, determined not to lose
sight of his man, followed him at a cautious but convenient distance.
The man sauntered round the Square, and presently commenced to munch
some stale bread and cheese, portions of which were afterwards found
upon him. He completed the circuit of the Square, and for the second
time paused before No. 119. Again he studied the number on the door,
and again he looked up at the dark windows. Not satisfied with his
inspection in that direction, he stooped down to the grating above the
area, and appeared to listen. Still not satisfied, he ascended the two
steps which led to the street door, and tried the handle.
Nothing more was needed. "I have the murderer!" thought Policeman X,
with a thrill of satisfaction; and without further hesitation, he walked
quickly up, clapped his hand on the man's shoulder, and said--
"What are you doing here?"
The sudden appearance of a human being out of the shadows probably so
startled the suspected man that he did not know what to reply. He thrust
his head forward in the endeavour to distinguish the features of the
questioner. The next words uttered by Policeman X had more meaning in
them. With his hand still on the man's shoulder, he said, sternly--
"Come with me!"
The reply given to the invitation was the reply which the writer, or any
of the readers of this article, would have given on the impulse of the
moment. It is to be borne in mind that the policeman was in private
clothes, and might, as far as appearances went, himself have been a
murderer in the eyes of another man dressed in private clothes, who, in
his turn (for what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander) might
himself have been a policeman.
"Come with me!" exclaimed Policeman X.
Antony Cowlrick--if that is his proper name, which we doubt--had as much
reason to suspect Policeman X as Policeman X had to suspect Antony
Cowlrick. Not only did he decline the invitation in words decidedly
rude (really, Mr. Cowlrick, you should have been more courteous to this
policeman in private clothes!), but he had the temerity to fling not
only Policeman X's hand from his shoulder, but the policeman's entire
body from his person. Not long did Policeman X lie upon the ground--for
just time enough to come to the conclusion that such resistance on the
part of a poor man, raggedly dressed, was strong evidence of guilt. For,
if not guilty of the murder, why should the man resist? Picking himself
up briskly, Policeman X sprang his rattle.
The precise effect produced upon the mind of Antony Cowlrick by the
sound of this rattle must be mere matter of conjecture, and we will
leave its consideration to a future article; its outward and visible
effect was the taking to his heels by Antony Cowlrick.
The mental condition of Antony Cowlrick at this exact moment presents an
interesting study. Its variety, its colour, its turmoil of possibilities
and consequences, its sequence of private and personal circumstance, are
almost sufficiently tempting to induce us instantly to wander into a
psychological treatise utterly unfit for the columns of our little
newspaper, and conducive, therefore, to its immediate decline in
popularity. We resist the temptation. We adhere to our programme; stern
Reality--pictures of life as they naturally present themselves in all
their beauty or deformity; the truth, THE TRUTH, in its naked sweetness
or hideousness! The highest efforts of imagination cannot equal the
pictures which are for ever being painted upon the canvas of Reality.
Antony Cowlrick took to his heels: what more conclusive evidence than
that he was the murderer did murderer ever give? He took to his heels
and ran, self-convicted. The evidence was complete. After him, springing
his rattle and dreaming of promotion, raced Policeman X. The magic sound
caused windows to be thrown open and heads to be thrust out; caused
ordinary wayfarers to stop and consider; caused idlers to stray in its
direction; caused old hands with the brand of thief upon them to smile
contemptuously, and young ones to slink timidly into the shadow of the
wall. To the "force" it was a call to arms. It summoned from the north
an angry, fierce, and blustering policeman; from the south a slow,
envious, dallying policeman; from the east a nipping, sharp, and sudden
policeman; from the west a brisk, alert, and eager policeman;--and all
of them converging upon the hapless form of Antony Cowlrick, he was
caught in the toils of Fate's compass, and lay, gasping and exhausted,
beneath the blaze of five bull's-eye lamps, which glowed upon him with
stern and baneful intention.
Helpless and bewildered lay Antony Cowlrick upon the flagstones of Great
Porter Square. Over him, in a circle, stood the five policemen. These
guardians of the law were tasting one of the sweetest pleasures in
existence--for to our imperfect nature, the hunting down of any living
creature, whether human or animal, is a rare enjoyment.
Policeman X wipes the mud from his brow.
"Did he strike you?" asks a comrade.
"You see," answers Policeman X, pointing to his face.
Policemen are ready of belief in such matters. They see without seeing,
and sometimes swear to the truth of a circumstance which is introduced
to them second-hand.
"Now then," says Policeman X, of the prostrate man, caught in the
toils, "will you come quietly?"
Expectancy reigned in the hearts of the constables. We do not wish to be
harsh in our judgment of them, when we say that, as a rule, they prefer
a slight resistance on the part of a prisoner. To some extent it
enhances the value of their services, and the extra exertion necessary
in the conveying of their man to the lock-up, shows that they are doing
something for their insufficient stipend. For our own part, we see much
enjoyment in a policeman's life, and were we not tied to the editorial
desk, we would joyfully exchange the quill for the rattle.
"Will you come quietly?" demands Policeman X.
Antony Cowlrick is too exhausted to reply, and accepting his silence as
a challenge, his pursuers gave him no grace. They haul him to his feet,
and proceed to deal with him in their usual humane fashion. This causes
faint murmurs of remonstrance to proceed from him, and causes him, also,
to hold his arms before his face in protection, and to ask faintly,
"What have I done?"
"Ah!" say the four policemen, with a look of enquiry at him whose rattle
summoned them to the battlefield.
The proud official--it is in truth a proud moment for him--utters but
two words; but they are sufficient to animate the policemen's breasts
with excess of ardour.
"The murderer!" he whispers.
The murderer! Had he spoken for an hour he could not have produced a
more thrilling effect; and be sure that he was as conscious of the value
of this dramatic point as the most skilful actor on our stage. A light
was instantly thrown upon the drama of the crime, and the unfortunate
man, in their eyes, was damned beyond hope of redemption. The murderer!
Blood swam before their eyes. Delightful moments!
But the ears of the prisoner had caught the words.
"What!" he screamed, making a violent attempt to wrench himself from
the grasp of his captors. Poor fool! He was one to five, and was soon
reduced to physical submission. The rough usage he received in the
course of the struggle appeared to tame him inwardly as well as
outwardly; when he spoke again his voice was calmer.
"Do you accuse me of the murder of that man?" he asked, turning his face
towards 119, Great Porter Square.
He was most surely condemning himself.
"Yon know best whether you did it," observed Policeman X.
"Yes," he replied, "I know best."
"What were you doing there?" was the next enquiry.
The man looked at them slowly, in detail, as though to fix their faces
in his memory, and then, opening his lips, smiled, but did not speak.
Nothing more exasperating could well have been imagined than the strange
smile of this wretched man--a smile which seemed to say, "You will learn
nothing from me."
It was late in the night, but a crowd had already assembled, and the
whisper went round that the murderer of the man who was found so cruelly
murdered in No. 119, Great Porter Square, had been caught. Short shrift
would have been his, even in this law-loving city, if the excited
knot of persons could have had their way; but it was the duty of the
constables to protect their prisoner.
"Will you come quietly?" they asked of him.
"Why not?" he asked in return. "I shall be the gainer."
So, carefully guarded and held as in a vice, the man walked to the
police-court with his captors, followed by the crowd. It was almost
a gala night, and the persons who hung at the heels of the supposed
murderer and his captors were vehement in speech and florid in action
as they explained to every new-comer the cause of the gathering.
"What is the charge?" asked the inspector.
Who should answer but the prisoner himself? Strange fancy of his to take
the words from the tongues of his accusers--to steal, as it were, the
very bread from their mouths!
"Murder," he cried, with a bitter laugh.
An almost imperceptible quiver agitated the eyelids of the inspector,
but it was in a quiet voice he repeated "Murder!" and held his pen
suspended over the book in which the charges were set down.
"No. 119, Great Porter Square," added Policeman X, not willing to be
robbed of every one of his perquisites.
The inspector's agitation was now more clearly exhibited. The murder was
a notable one--all London was ringing with it. His eyes wandered slowly
over the prisoner's form.
The man's clothes were ragged, mudded, and shabby, but were without a
patch; his boots showed signs of travel; his face had been unshaven for
days.
"Search him," said the inspector.
The man resisted, his face flushing up at the order; he was not aware
that every fresh resistance to every fresh indignity was additional
confirmation of guilt. The web was closing round him, and he was
assisting to spin it. They found on him some stale bread and cheese.
"Take care of it," he said tauntingly.
They continued their search, and found nothing else--not a scrap of
paper, not a card, not a penny piece, not a knife even. It was most
perplexing and annoying.
"Your name?" asked the inspector.
The man laughed again bitterly.
"Your name," repeated the inspector.
"My name!" echoed the man, and then appeared to consider what answer it
was best to give. "What do you say to Antony Cowlrick?"
"Is that the name you give?" inquired the inspector.
"Take it," said the man defiantly, "in place of a better!"
"Where do you live?"
"Under the sky."
No answers of a satisfactory nature could be obtained from him, and he
was taken to his cell, and orders were given that he should be watched
through the night.
As Antony Cowlrick, the man was brought before the magistrate the next
morning, charged with the commission of the dreadful crime, and was
formally remanded for the production of evidence.
We beg our readers not to be led away by the idea that we are writing
a romance; we are stating plain facts. Without a tittle of evidence to
implicate or connect him with the crime, the man Antony Cowlrick has
been brought up no fewer than seven times, and has been a prey to the
vulgar curiosity of eager crowds thronging to catch a glimpse of a
monster whose hands were dyed with the blood of a fellow-creature.
He has been treated as though he had already been found guilty--and,
indeed, in the minds of thousands of persons he _was_ found guilty; all
that was needed was to fix the day, and prepare the scaffold. Rumours,
false statements, columns of fiction, all tending to establish his guilt
and to eliminate from the breasts of his fellow-men every spark of pity
or mercy, have been freely and shamefully circulated. Our columns alone
have not been degraded by this cruelty and this injustice; from the
first we refused to believe in Antony Cowlrick's guilt, for the simple
reason that nothing could be adduced against him; and the course we have
pursued has been justified by the result. Antony Cowlrick is innocent.
But for weeks he has been confined in prison, and treated with
contumely. Yesterday he was brought before Mr. Reardon, at the Martin
Street Police Court, and, on the police stating that they had no further
evidence to offer, Antony Cowlrick was discharged.
We do not say that he owes his release entirely to the generous advocacy
of Mr. Goldberry, but he is certainly indebted to that gentleman for an
earlier release from prison than the police would have been willing to
accord him. For if prisons were not filled there would be no need of
constables, and the common law of self-preservation induces all men
instinctively to adopt that course which will preserve and lengthen
their existence. Therefore, we say again, the prisons must be filled,
and in the performance of this duty the police assert the necessity of
their being.
Now, how stands the case at the present moment? What is the position of
the Great Porter Square mystery? An innocent man has been arrested and
charged with the crime; after a detention of eight weeks he has been
discharged; and, during the whole of this interval, the police have been
following a wrong scent. That they knew absolutely nothing of the man
they falsely accused--that it is unknown where he has been lodging, and
how long he has been in London--that not a friend has come forward to
speak a word in his behalf, and that he himself has chosen to preserve a
strange and inexplicable silence about himself--these circumstances add
to the mystery.
A startling coincidence presents itself; the man who was murdered is
unknown; the only man whom the police have arrested for the murder is
unknown. But it would be odd if, in such a city as London, with its
millions of human beings and its myriad of circumstances, strange and
startling coincidences did not frequently occur.
There shall be no misconception of our meaning; there have been too
many instances lately of wrong done to individuals by false or reckless
swearing on the part of the police. The case of Frost and Smith,
condemned by Mr. Justice Hawkins respectively to fifteen and twelve
years' penal servitude, on the testimony of the police, for a crime they
did not commit, is fresh in the memory of our readers. The men are now
released, after undergoing two years' imprisonment--released, not by the
efforts of the police who swore away their liberty, nor by the jury who
condemned them, nor by the judge who sentenced them, but by means of
an anonymous letter and the arrest of the real criminals for another
crime--released really by an accident which, while it restores them to
liberty, cannot remove from them the taint of the gaol. But, it may be
urged, they have Her Gracious Majesty's Pardon. Sweet consolation!
A pardon for a crime they did not commit! Never was a word with a
gracious meaning to it more bitterly parodied than this; the use of the
word "pardon" by Home Secretaries, as applied to the men Frost and
Smith, is not only an unpardonable mockery, but a shameful insult.
Truly, red-tapeism, like charity, is made to cover a multitude of sins,
but it cannot cover this.
We trust that the police have restored to Antony Cowlrick the
property--the only property--they found upon his person at the time
of his arrest; the pieces of stale bread and cheese. According to
appearance it is all he has to fight the world with. It is worthy of
note that Cowlrick made no application to the magistrate for relief.
We have opened a subscription for the unfortunate man, and have already
two sovereigns in our possession, which we shall be happy to hand to
this last "victim of justice," if he will call at our office.
To-morrow we shall have something more, something perhaps of the
greatest interest, to say with respect to Antony Cowlrick.