The dead man's manuscript was gone. But how? A phantom might delude my
eye, a human will, though exerted at a distance, might, if the tales of
mesmerism be true, deprive me of movement and of consciousness; but
neither phantom nor mesmeric will could surely remove from the table
before me the material substance of the book that had vanished! Was I to
seek explanation in the arts of sorcery ascribed to Louis Grayle in the
narrative? I would not pursue that conjecture. Against it my reason rose
up half alarmed, half disdainful. Some one must have entered the room,
some one have removed the manuscript. I looked round. The windows were
closed, the curtains partly drawn over the shutters, as they were before
my consciousness had left me: all seemed undisturbed. Snatching up one of
the candles, fast dying out, I went into the adjoining library, the
desolate state-rooins, into the entrance-hall, and examined the outer
door. barred and locked! The robber had left no vestige of his stealthy
presence.
I resolved to go at once to Strahan's room and tell him of the loss
sustained. A deposit had been confided to me, and I felt as if there
were a slur on my honour every moment in which I kept its abstraction
concealed from him to whom I was responsible for the trust. I hastily
ascended the great staircase, grim with faded portraits, and found myself
in a long corridor opening on my own bedroom; no doubt also on Strahan's.
Which was his? I knew not. I opened rapidly door after door, peered into
empty chambers, went blundering on, when to the right, down a narrow
passage. I recognized the signs of my host's whereabouts,--signs
familiarly commonplace and vulgar; signs by which the inmate of any
chamber in lodging-house or inn makes himself known,--a chair before a
doorway, clothes negligently thrown on it, beside it a pair of shoes. And
so ludicrous did such testimony of common every-day life, of the habits
which Strahan would necessarily have contracted in his desultory
unluxurious bachelor's existence,--so ludicrous, I say, did these homely
details seem to me, so grotesquely at variance with the wonders of which I
had been reading, with the wonders yet more incredible of which I myself
had been witness and victim, that as I turned down the passage, I heard my
own unconscious half-hysterical laugh; and, startled by the sound of that
laugh as if it came from some one else, I paused, my hand on the door, and
asked myself: "Do I dream? Am I awake? And if awake what am I to say to
the common place mortal I am about to rouse? Speak to him of a phantom!
Speak to him of some weird spell over this strong frame! Speak to him of
a mystic trance in which has been stolen what he confided to me, without
my knowledge! What will he say? What should I have said a few days ago
to any man who told such a tale to me?" I did not wait to resolve these
questions. I entered the room. There was Strahan sound asleep on his
bed. I shook him roughly. He started up, rubbed his eyes. "You,
Allen,--you! What the deuce?--what 's the matter?"
"Strahan, I have been robbed!--robbed of the manuscript you lent me. I
could not rest till I had told you."
"Robbed, robbed! Are you serious?"
By this time Strahan had thrown off the bed-clothes, and sat upright,
staring at me.
And then those questions which my mind had suggested while I was standing
at his door repeated themselves with double force. Tell this man, this
unimaginative, hard-headed, raw-boned, sandy-haired North
countryman,--tell this man a story which the most credulous school-girl
would have rejected as a fable! Impossible!
"I fell asleep," said I, colouring and stammering, for the slightest
deviation from truth was painful to me, "and-and--when I awoke--the
manuscript was gone. Some one must have entered and committed the
theft--"
"Some one entered the house at this hour of the night and then only stolen
a manuscript which could be of no value to him! Absurd! If thieves have
come in it must be for other objects,--for plate, for money. I will
dress; we will see!"
Strahan hurried on his clothes, muttering to himself and avoiding my eye.
He was embarrassed. He did not like to say to an old friend what was on
his mind; but I saw at once that he suspected I had resolved to deprive
him of the manuscript, and had invented a wild tale in order to conceal my
own dishonesty.
Nevertheless, he proceeded to search the house. I followed him in
silence, oppressed with my own thoughts, and longing for solitude in my
own chamber. We found no one, no trace of any one, nothing to excite
suspicion. There were but two female servants sleeping in the house,--the
old housekeeper, and a country girl who assisted her. It was not possible
to suspect either of these persons; but in the course of our search we
opened the doors of their rooms. We saw that they were both in bed, both
seemingly asleep: it seemed idle to wake and question them. When the
formality of our futile investigation was concluded, Strahan stopped at
the door of my bedroom, and for the first time fixing his eyes on me
steadily, said,--
"Allen Fenwick, I would have given half the fortune I have come into
rather than this had happened. The manuscript, as you know, was
bequeathed to me as a sacred trust by a benefactor whose slightest wish it
is my duty to observe religiously. If it contained aught valuable to a
man of your knowledge and profession, why, you were free to use its
contents. Let me hope, Allen, that the book will reappear to-morrow."
He said no more, drew himself away from the hand I involuntarily extended,
and walked quickly back towards his own room.
Alone once more, I sank on a seat, buried my face in my hands, and strove
in vain to collect into some definite shape my own tumultuous and
disordered thoughts. Could I attach serious credit to the marvellous
narrative I had read? Were there, indeed, such powers given to man, such
influences latent in the calm routine of Nature? I could not believe it;
I must have some morbid affection of the brain; I must be under an
hallucination. Hallucination? The phantom, yes; the trance, yes. But
still, how came the book gone? That, at least, was not hallucination.
I left my room the next morning with a vague hope that I should find the
manuscript somewhere in the study; that, in my own trance, I might have
secreted it, as sleep-walkers are said to secrete things, without
remembrance of their acts in their waking state.
I searched minutely in every conceivable place. Strahan found me still
employed in that hopeless task. He had breakfasted in his own room, and
it was past eleven o'clock when he joined me. His manner was now hard,
cold, and distant, and his suspicion so bluntly shown that my distress
gave way to resentment.
"Is it possible," I cried indignantly, "that you, who have known me so
well, can suspect me of an act so base, and so gratuitously base?
Purloin, conceal a book confided to me, with full power to copy from it
whatever I might desire, use its contents in any way that might seem to me
serviceable to science, or useful to me in my own calling!"
"I have not accused you," answered Strahan, sullenly. "But what are we to
say to Mr. Jeeves; to all others who know that this manuscript existed?
Will they believe what you tell me?"
"Mr. Jeeves," I said, "cannot suspect a fellow-townsman, whose character
is as high as mine, of untruth and theft. And to whom else have you
communicated the facts connected with a memoir and a request of so
extraordinary a nature?"
"To young Margrave; I told you so!"
"True, true. We need not go farther to find the thief. Margrave has been
in this house more than once. He knows the position of the rooms. You
have named the robber!"
"Tut! what on earth could a gay young fellow like Margrave want with a
work of such dry and recondite nature as I presume my poor kinsman's
memoir must be?"
I was about to answer, when the door was abruptly opened, and the
servant-girl entered, followed by two men, in whom I recognized the
superintendent of the L---- police and the same subordinate who had found
me by Sir Philip's corpse.
The superintendent came up to me with a grave face, and whispered in my
ear. I did not at first comprehend him. "Come with you," I said, "and to
Mr. Vigors, the magistrate? I thought my deposition was closed."
The superintendent shook his head. "I have the authority here, Dr.
Fenwick."
"Well, I will come, of course. Has anything new transpired?"
The superintendent turned to the servant-girl, who was standing with
gaping mouth and staring eyes.
"Show us Dr. Fenwick's room. You had better put up, sir, whatever things
you have brought here. I will go upstairs with you," he whispered again.
"Come, Dr. Fenwick, I am in the discharge of my duty."
Something in the man's manner was so sinister and menacing that I felt at
once that some new and strange calamity had befallen me. I turned towards
Strahan. He was at the threshold, speaking in a low voice to the
subordinate policeman, and there was an expression of amazement and horror
in his countenance. As I came towards him he darted away without a word.
I went up the stairs, entered my bedroom, the superintendent close behind
me. As I took up mechanically the few things I had brought with me, the
police-officer drew them from me with an abruptness that appeared
insolent, and deliberately searched the pockets of the coat which I had
worn the evening before, then opened the drawers in the room, and even
pried into the bed.
"What do you mean?" I asked haughtily.
"Excuse me, sir. Duty. You are-"
"Well, I am what?"
"My prisoner; here is the warrant."
"Warrant! on what charge?"
"The murder of Sir Philip Derval."
"I--I! Murder!" I could say no more.
I must hurry over this awful passage in my marvellous record. It
is torture to dwell on the details; and indeed I have so sought to chase
them from my recollection, that they only come back to me in hideous
fragments, like the incoherent remains of a horrible dream.
All that I need state is as follows: Early on the very morning on which I
had been arrested, a man, a stranger in the town, had privately sought Mr.
Vigors, and deposed that on the night of the murder, he had been taking
refuge from a sudden storm under shelter of the eaves and buttresses of a
wall adjoining an old archway; that he had heard men talking within the
archway; had heard one say to the other, "You still bear me a grudge."
The other had replied, "I can forgive you on one condition." That he then
lost much of the conversation that ensued, which was in a lower voice;
but he gathered enough to know that the condition demanded by the one was
the possession of a casket which the other carried about with him; that
there seemed an altercation on this matter between the two men, which, to
judge by the tones of voice, was angry on the part of the man demanding
the casket; that, finally, this man said in a loud key, "Do you still
refuse?" and on receiving the answer, which the witness did not overhear,
exclaimed threateningly, "It is you who will repent," and then stepped
forth from the arch into the street. The rain had then ceased, but by a
broad flash of lightning the witness saw distinctly the figure of the
person thus quitting the shelter of the arch,--a man of tall stature,
powerful frame, erect carriage. A little time afterwards, witness saw a
slighter and older man come forth from the arch, whom he could only
examine by the flickering ray of the gas-lamp near the wall, the
lightning having ceased, but whom he fully believed to be the person he
afterwards discovered to be Sir Philip Derval.
He said that he himself had only arrived at the town a few hours before; a
stranger to L----, and indeed to England, having come from the United
States of America, where he had passed his life from childhood. He had
journeyed on foot to L----, in the hope of finding there some distant
relatives. He had put up at a small inn, after which he had strolled
through the town, when the storm had driven him to seek shelter. He had
then failed to find his way back to the inn, and after wandering about in
vain, and seeing no one at that late hour of night of whom he could ask
the way, lie had crept under a portico and slept for two or three hours.
Waking towards the dawn, he had then got up, and again sought to find his
way to the inn, when he saw, in a narrow street before him, two men, one
of whom he recognized as the taller of the two to whose conversation he
had listened under the arch; the other he did not recognize at the moment.
The taller man seemed angry and agitated, and he heard him say, "The
casket; I will have it." There then seemed to be a struggle between these
two persons, when the taller one struck down the shorter, knelt on his
breast, and he caught distinctly the gleam of some steel instrument. That
he was so frightened that he could not stir from the place, and that
though he cried out, he believed his voice was not heard. He then saw the
taller man rise, the other resting on the pavement motionless; and a
minute or so afterwards beheld policemen coming to the place, on which he,
the witness, walked away. He did not know that a murder had been
committed; it might be only an assault; it was no business of his, he was
a stranger. He thought it best not to interfere, the police having
cognizance of the affair. He found out his inn; for the next few days he
was absent from L---- in search of his relations, who had left the town,
many years ago, to fix their residence in one of the neighbouring
villages.
He was, however, disappointed; none of these relations now survived. He
had now returned to L----, heard of the murder, was in doubt what to do,
might get himself into trouble if, a mere stranger, he gave an
unsupported testimony. But, on the day before the evidence was
volunteered, as he was lounging in the streets, he had seen a gentleman
pass by on horseback, in whom he immediately recognized the man who, in
his belief, was the murderer of Sir Philip Derval. He inquired of a
bystander the name of the gentleman; the answer was "Dr. Fenwick." That,
the rest of the day, he felt much disturbed in his mind, not liking to
volunteer such a charge against a man of apparent respectability and
station; but that his conscience would not let him sleep that night, and
he had resolved at morning to go to the magistrate and make a clean breast
of it.
The story was in itself so improbable that any other magistrate but Mr.
Vigors would perhaps have dismissed it in contempt. But Mr. Vigors,
already so bitterly prejudiced against me, and not sorry, perhaps, to
subject me to the humiliation of so horrible a charge, immediately issued
his warrant to search my house. I was absent at Derval Court; the house
was searched. In the bureau in my favourite study, which was left
unlocked, the steel casket was discovered, and a large case-knife, on the
blade of which the stains of blood were still perceptible. On this
discovery I was apprehended; and on these evidences, and on the deposition
of this vagrant stranger, I was not, indeed, committed to take my trial
for murder, but placed in confinement, all bail for my appearance refused,
and the examination adjourned to give time for further evidence and
inquiries. I had requested the professional aid of Mr. Jeeves. To my
surprise and dismay, Mr. Jeeves begged me to excuse him. He said he was
pre-engaged by Mr. Strahan to detect and prosecute the murderer of Sir P.
Derval, and could not assist one accused of the murder. I gathered from
the little he said that Strahan had already been to him that morning and
told him of the missing manuscript, that Strahan had ceased to be my
friend. I engaged another solicitor, a young man of ability, and who
professed personal esteem for me. Mr. Stanton (such was the lawyer's
name) believed in my innocence; but he warned me that appearances were
grave, he implored me to be perfectly frank with him. Had I held
conversation with Sir Philip under the archway as reported by the witness?
Had I used such or similar words? Had the deceased said, "I had a grudge
against him"? Had I demanded the casket? Had I threatened Sir Philip
that he would repent? And of what,--his refusal?
I felt myself grow pale, as I answered, "Yes; I thought such or similar
expressions had occurred in my conversation with the deceased."
"What was the reason of the grudge? What was the nature of this casket,
that I should so desire its possession?"
There, I became terribly embarrassed. What could I say to a keen,
sensible, worldly man of law,--tell him of the powder and the fumes, of
the scene in the museum, of Sir Philip's tale, of the implied identity of
the youthful Margrave with the aged Grayle, of the elixir of life, and of
magic arts? I--I tell such a romance! I,--the noted adversary of all
pretended mysticism; I,--I a sceptical practitioner of medicine! Had that
manuscript of Sir Philip's been available,--a substantial record of
marvellous events by a man of repute for intellect and learning,--I might
perhaps have ventured to startle the solicitor of I--with my revelations.
But the sole proof that all which the solicitor urged me to confide was
not a monstrous fiction or an insane delusion had disappeared; and its
disappearance was a part of the terrible mystery that enveloped the whole.
I answered therefore, as composedly as I could, that "I could have no
serious grudge against Sir Philip, whom I had never seen before that
evening; that the words which applied to my supposed grudge were lightly
said by Sir Philip, in reference to a physiological dispute on matters
connected with mesmerical phenomena; that the deceased had declared his
casket, which he had shown me at the mayor's house, contained drugs of
great potency in medicine; that I had asked permission to test those drugs
myself; and that when I said he would repent of his refusal, I merely
meant that he would repent of his reliance on drugs not warranted by the
experiments of professional science."
My replies seemed to satisfy the lawyer so far, but "how could I aceount
for the casket and the knife being found in my room?"
"In no way but this; the window of my study is a door-window opening on
the lane, from which any one might enter the room. I was in the habit,
not only of going out myself that way, but of admitting through that door
any more familiar private acquaintance."
"Whom, for instance?"
I hesitated a moment, and then said, with a significance I could not
forbear, "Mr. Margrave! He would know the locale perfectly; he would
know that the door was rarely bolted from within during the daytime: he
could enter at all hours; he could place, or instruct any one to deposit,
the knife and casket in my bureau, which he knew I never kept locked; it
contained no secrets, no private correspondence,--chiefly surgical
implements, or such things as I might want for professional experiments."
"Mr. Margrave! But you cannot suspect him--a lively, charming young man,
against whose character not a whisper was ever heard--of connivance with
such a charge against you,--a connivance that would implicate him in the
murder itself; for if you are accused wrongfully, he who accuses you is
either the criminal or the criminal's accomplice, his instigator or his
tool."
"Mr. Stanton," I said firmly, after a moment's pause, "I do suspect Mr.
Margrave of a hand in this crime. Sir Philip, on seeing him at the
mayor's house, expressed a strong abhorrence of him, more than hinted at
crimes he had committed, appointed me to come to Derval Court the day
after that on which the murder was committed. Sir Philip had known
something of this Margrave in the East; Margrave might dread exposure,
revelations--of what I know not; but, strange as it may seem to you, it is
my conviction that this young man, apparently so gay and so thoughtless,
is the real criminal, and in some way which I cannot conjecture has
employed this lying vagabond in the fabrication of a charge against
myself. Reflect: of Mr. Margrave's antecedents we know nothing; of them
nothing was known even by the young gentleman who first introduced him to
the society of this town. If you would serve and save me, it is to that
quarter that you will direct your vigilant and unrelaxing researches."
I had scarcely so said when I repented my candour, for I observed in the
face of Mr. Stanton a sudden revulsion of feeling, an utter incredulity of
the accusation I had thus hazarded, and for the first time a doubt of my
own innocence. The fascination exercised by Margrave was universal; nor
was it to be wondered at: for besides the charm of his joyous presence, he
seemed so singularly free from even the errors common enough with the
young,--so gay and boon a companion, yet a shunner of wine; so dazzling in
aspect, so more than beautiful, so courted, so idolized by women, yet no
tale of seduction, of profligacy, attached to his name! As to his
antecedents, he had so frankly owned himself a natural son, a nobody, a
traveller, an idler; his expenses, though lavish, were so unostentatious,
so regularly defrayed; he was so wholly the reverse of the character
assigned to criminals, that it seemed as absurd to bring a charge of
homicide against a butterfly or a goldfinch as against this seemingly
innocent and delightful favourite of humanity and nature.
However, Mr. Stanton said little or nothing, and shortly afterwards left
me, with a dry expression of hope that my innocence would be cleared in
spite of evidence that, he was bound to say, was of the most serious
character.
I was exhausted. I fell into a profound sleep early that night; it might
be a little after twelve when I woke, and woke as fully, as completely, as
much restored to life and consciousness, as it was then my habit to be at
the break of day. And so waking, I saw, on the wall opposite my bed, the
same luminous phantom I had seen in the wizard's study at Derval Court. I
have read in Scandinavian legends of an apparition called the Scin-Laeca,
or shining corpse. It is supposed in the northern superstition, sometimes
to haunt sepulchres, sometimes to foretell doom. It is the spectre of a
human body seen in a phosphoric light; and so exactly did this phantom
correspond to the description of such an apparition in Scandinavian fable
that I knew not how to give it a better name than that of Scin-Laeca,--the
shining corpse.
There it was before me, corpse-like, yet not dead; there, as in the
haunted study of the wizard Forman!--the form and the face of Margrave.
Constitutionally, my nerves are strong, and my temper hardy, and now I was
resolved to battle against any impression which my senses might receive
from my own deluding fancies. Things that witnessed for the first time
daunt us witnessed for the second time lose their terror. I rose from my
bed with a bold aspect, I approached the phantom with a firm step; but
when within two paces of it, and my hand outstretched to touch it, my arm
became fixed in air, my feet locked to the ground. I did not experience
fear; I felt that my heart beat regularly, but an invincible something
opposed itself to me. I stood as if turned to stone. And then from the
lips of this phantom there came a voice, but a voice which seemed borne
from a great distance,--very low, muffled, and yet distinct; I could not
even be sure that my ear heard it, or whether the sound was not conveyed
to me by an inner sense.
"I, and I alone, can save and deliver you," said the voice. "I will do
so; and the conditions I ask, in return, are simple and easy."
"Fiend or spectre, or mere delusion of my own brain," cried I, "there can
be no compact between thee and me. I despise thy malice, I reject thy
services; I accept no conditions to escape from the one or to obtain the
other."
"You may give a different answer when I ask again."
The Scin-Laeca slowly waned, and, fading first into a paler shadow, then
vanished. I rejoiced at the reply I had given. Two days elapsed before
Mr. Stanton again came to me; in the interval the Scin-Laeca did not
reappear. I had mustered all my courage, all my common-sense, noted down
all the weak points of the false evidence against me, and felt calm and
supported by the strength of my innocence.
The first few words of the solicitor dashed all my courage to the ground;
for I was anxious to hear news of Lilian, anxious to have some message
from her that might cheer and strengthen me, and my first question was
this,--
"Mr. Stanton, you are aware that I am engaged in marriage to Miss
Ashleigh. Your family are not unacquainted with her. What says, what
thinks she of this monstrous charge against her betrothed?"
"I was for two hours at Mrs. Ashleigh's house last evening," replied the
lawyer; "she was naturally anxious to see me as employed in your defence.
Who do you think was there? Who, eager to defend you, to express his
persuasion of your innocence, to declare his conviction that the real
criminal would be soon discovered,--who but that same Mr. Margrave; whom,
pardon me my frankness, you so rashly and groundlessly suspected."
"Heavens! Do you say that he is received in that house; that he--he is
familiarly admitted to her presence?"
"My good sir, why these unjust prepossessions against a true friend? It
was as your friend that, as soon as the charge against you amazed and
shocked the town of L----, Mr. Margrave called on Mrs. Ashleigh, presented
to her by Miss Brabazon, and was so cheering and hopeful that--"
"Enough!" I exclaimed,--"enough!"
I paced the room in a state of excitement and rage, which the lawyer in
vain endeavoured to calm, until at length I halted abruptly: "Well, and
you saw Miss Ashleigh? What message does she send to me--her betrothed?"
Mr. Stanton looked confused. "Message! Consider, sir, Miss Ashleigh's
situation--the delicacy--and--and--"
"I understand, no message, no word, from a young lady so respectable to a
man accused of murder."
Mr. Stanton was silent for some moments, and then said quietly, "Let us
change this subject; let us think of what more immediately presses. I see
you have been making some notes: may I look at them?"
I composed myself and sat down. "This accuser! Have inquiries really
been made as to himself, and his statement of his own proceedings? He
comes, he says, from America: in what ship? At what port did he land? Is
there any evidence to corroborate his story of the relations he tried to
discover; of the inn at which he first put up, and to which he could not
find his way?"
"Your suggestions are sensible, Dr. Fenwick. I have forestalled them. It
is true that the man lodged at a small inn,--the Rising Sun; true that
lie made inquiries about some relations of the name of Walls, who formerly
resided at L----, and afterwards removed to a village ten miles
distant,--two brothers, tradesmen of small means but respectable
character. He at first refused to say at what seaport he landed, in what
ship he sailed. I suspect that he has now told a falsehood as to these
matters. I sent my clerk to Southampton, for it is there he said that he
was put on shore; we shall see: the man himself is detained in close
custody. I hear that his manner is strange and excitable; but that he
preserves silence as much as possible. It is generally believed that he
is a bad character, perhaps a returned convict, and that this is the true
reason why he so long delayed giving evidence, and has been since so
reluctant to account for himself. But even if his testimony should be
impugned, should break down, still we should have to account for the fact
that the casket and the case-knife were found in your bureau; for,
granting that a person could, in your absence, have entered your study and
placed the articles in your bureau, it is clear that such a person must
have been well acquainted with your house, and this stranger to L----
could not have possessed that knowledge."
"Of course not. Mr. Margrave did possess it!"
"Mr. Margrave again! oh, sir!"
I arose and moved away with an impatient gesture. I could not trust
myself to speak. That night I did not sleep; I watched impatiently,
gazing on the opposite wall for the gleam of the Scin-Laeca. But the
night passed away, and the spectre did not appear.