A STARTLING AVOWAL.
Cuff Court, Fleet Street; and a frosty day in December. The year has
gone on some six or seven weeks since the last chapter, and people are
beginning to talk of the rapidly-advancing Christmas.
Over the fire, in the little room in Cuff Court, where you once saw
him by gas-light, sits Mr. Butterby. The room is bright enough with
sunlight now; the sunlight of the cold, clear day; a great deal
brighter than Mr. Butterby himself, who is dull as ditch-water, and in
a sulky temper.
"I've been played with; that's what I've been," said Butterby in
soliloquy. "Bede Greatorex bothers me to be still, to be passive; and
when I keep still and passive, and stop down at Helstonleigh, taking
no steps, saying nothing to living mortal, letting the thing die away,
if it will die, _he_ makes a mull of it up in town. Why couldn't he
have kept his father and Parson Ollivera quiet? Never a lawyer going,
but must be sharp enough for that. Not he. He does nothing of the
sort, but lets one or both of 'em work, and ferret, and worry, and
discover that Godfrey Pitman has turned up, and find out that _I_ knew
of it, and go to headquarters and report me for negligence I get a
curt telegram to come to town, and here's the deuce to pay."
Mr. Butterby turned round, snatched up a few papers that lay on the
table, glanced over the writing, and resumed his soliloquy when he had
put them down again.
"Jelf has it in hand here, and I've not yet got to see him. Not of
much use my seeing him before I've heard what Bede Greatorex has to
say. One thing they've not been sharp enough to discover yet--_where
Godfrey Pitman is to be found_. Foster in Birmingham holds his
tongue, Johnson shows Jelf the door when he goes to ask about
Winter: and there they are, Jelf and the Parson, or Jelf and Mr.
Greatorex--whichever of them two it is that's stirring--mooning up and
down England after Pitman, little thinking he's close at home, right
under their very noses. I and Bede Greatorex hold _that_ secret tight;
but I don't think I shall feel inclined to hold it long. 'Where _is_
Pitman?' says the sergeant to me yesterday, at headquarters. 'Ah!'
says I, 'that's just the problem we are some of us trying to work
out.'"
Mr. Butterby stopped, cracked the coal fiercely, which sent up a blaze
of sparks, and waited. Resuming after a while.
"And it _is_ a problem; one _I_ can't make come square just yet.
There's Brown--as good call him by one alias as another--keeping as
quiet as a mouse, knowing that he is being looked after for the murder
of Counsellor Ollivera. What's his motive in keeping dark? The debts
he left behind him in Birmingham are paid; Johnson and Teague
acknowledge his innocence in that past transaction of young Master
Samuel's; they are, so to say, his friends, and the man knows all
this. Why, then, don't he come forward and reap the benefit of the
acquittal, and put himself clear before the world, and say--Neither am
I guilty of the other thing--the counsellor's death? Of course, when
Jeff and Jeff's masters know he is hiding himself somewhere, and does
_not_ come forward, they assume that he dare not, that he was the man
who did it. I'd not swear but he was, either. Looking at it in a broad
point of view, one can't help seeing that he must have some urgent
motive for his silence--and what that motive is, one may give a shrewd
guess at: that he is screening himself or somebody else. There's only
one other in the world that he would screen, I expect, and that's
Alletha Rye."
A long pause. A pause of silence. Mr. Butterby's face, with all his
professional craft, had as puzzled a look on it as any ordinary
mortal's might wear.
"I suspected Alletha Rye more than anybody at the time. Don't suspect
her now. Don't _think_ it was her; wouldn't swear it wasn't, though.
And, in spite of your injunction to be still, Mr. Bede Greatorex, I'll
go into the thing a bit for my own satisfaction."
Looking over the papers on the table again, he locked them up, and sat
down to write a letter or two. Somebody then came in to see him on
business--which business does not concern us. And so time passed on,
and when the sunlight had faded into dusk, Mr. Butterby put on a top
pilot-coat of rough blue cloth, and went out. The shows were lighted,
displaying their attractions for the advancing Christmas, and Mr.
Butterby had leisure to glance at them with critical approval as he
passed.
These past few weeks had not brought forth much to tell of in regard
to general matters. Arthur and Charles Channing had passed through
London on their way to Helstonleigh; Roland Yorke had resumed his
daily and evening work, and had moreover given his confidence to Sir
Vincent Yorke (nothing daunted by that gentleman's previous repulse)
on the subject of Annabel Channing, and in his sanguine temperament
was looking ever for the place Vincent was to get him; and James
Channing drew nearer and nearer to another world. But this world was
slow to perceive it--Hamish, the bright! Three or four times a week
Roland snatched a minute to dart down to the second-hand furniture
shops in Tottenham Court Road, there to inquire prices and lay in a
stock of practical information as to the number and nature of
articles, useful and ornamental, indispensable for a gentleman and
lady going into housekeeping.
But Mr. Butterby was on his way to Mrs. Jones's residence, and we must
follow him. Halting opposite the house to take a survey of it, he saw
that there was no light in Mr. Ollivera's sitting-room; there was no
light anywhere, that he could see. By which fact he gathered that the
clergyman was not at home: and that was satisfactory, as he did not
much care to come in contact with him just at the present uncertain
state of affairs.
Crossing the street, he knocked gently at the door. Miss Rye answered
it, nobody but herself being in the house. A street gas-lamp shone
full on her face, and the start she gave was quite visible to Mr.
Butterby. He walked straight in to Mrs. Jones's parlour, saying he had
come to see her; her, Alletha Rye. Her work lay on the red table-cover
by the lamp; Mr. Butterby sat down in the shade and threw back his
coat; she stood by the fire and nervously stirred it, her hands
trembling, her face blanching.
"When that there unhappy event took place at Helstonleigh, the death
of Counsellor Ollivera, now getting on for five years back, there was
a good deal of doubt encompassing it round about, Miss Rye," he
suddenly began.
"Doubt?" she rejoined, faintly, sitting down to the table and catching
up her work.
"Yes, doubt. I mean as to how the death was caused. Some said it was a
murder, and some said it was his own doing--suicide."
"Everybody said it was a suicide!" she interrupted, with trembling
eagerness, her shaking fingers plying the needle as if she were
working for very life. "The coroner and jury decided it to be one."
"Not quite everybody," dissented Mr. Butterby, listening with
composure until she had finished. "_You_ didn't. I was in the
churchyard when they put him into the ground, and heard and saw you
over the grave."
"But I had cause to--to--alter my opinion, later," she said, her face
turning hectic with emotion. "Heaven alone knows how bitterly I have
repented of that night's work! If cutting my tongue out afterwards,
instead of before, could have undone my mistake----"
"Now look here; don't you get flurried," interposed Mr. Butterby. "I
didn't come here to put you out, but just to have a rational talk on a
point or two. I thought at the time it was a suicide, as you may
remember: but I'm free to confess that the way in which the ball has
been kept rolling since has served to alter my opinion. Counsellor
Ollivera was murdered!"
She made no reply. Taking up her scissors, she began cutting away at
the work at random, and the hectic red faded away to a sickly
whiteness.
"There was a stranger lodging at Mrs. Jones's at the time, you
remember, one Godfrey Pitman. Helstonleigh said, you know, Miss Rye,
that if anybody did it, it was him. That Godfrey Pitman is an
uncommonly sharp card to have kept himself out of the way so long!
Don't you think so?"
"I don't think anything about it," she answered. "What is it to me?"
"Well, Miss Rye, I've the pleasure of telling you that Godfrey
Pitman's found!"
The little presence of mind left in Alletha Rye seemed to quit her at
the words. Perhaps she was no longer so capable of maintaining it as
she once had been: the very best of our powers wear out when the
soul's burthen is continued long and long.
"Found!" she gasped, her hands falling on her work, her wild eyes
turned to Mr. Butterby.
"Leastways so near found, that it mayn't be a age afore he's took,"
added the detective, with professional craft. "Our friends in the blue
coats have got the clue to him. I'd not lay you the worth of that
silver thimble of yours, Miss Rye, that he's not standing in a certain
dock next March assizes."
"In what dock? What for?" came from her trembling lips.
"Helstonleigh dock For what le did to Mr. Ollivera. Come, come, I did
not want to frighten you like this, my good young woman. And why
should it? It is not certain Pitman will be brought to trial, though
he were guilty. Years have gone by since, and the Greatorexes and
Parson Ollivera may hush it up. They are humane men; Mr. Bede
especially."
"_You_ don't believe Godfrey Pitman was guilty?" she exclaimed, and
her eyes began to take a hard look, her voice a defiant tone.
"Oh, don't I!" returned Butterby. "What's more to the purpose, Miss
Rye, the London officers and their principals, who have got it in
hand, believe it."
"And what if I tell you that Godfrey Pitman never was guilty; that he
never raised his hand against Mr. Ollivera?" she broke forth in
passionate accents, rising to confront him. "What if I tell you that
it was _I?_"
Standing there before him, her eyes ablaze with light, her cheeks
crimson, her voice ringing with power, it was nearly impossible to
disbelieve her. For once, the experienced, cool man was taken aback.
"_You_, Miss Rye!"
"Yes, I. I, Alletha Rye. What, I say, if I tell you it was I did that
terrible deed? _Not_ Godfrey Pitman. Now then! you must make the most
of it, and do your best and worst."
The avowal, together with the various ideas that came crowding as its
accompaniment, struck Mr. Butterby dumb. He sat there gazing at her,
his speech utterly failing him.
"Is this true?" he whispered, when he had found his tongue.
"Should I avow such a thing if it were not? Oh, Mr. Butterby! hush the
matter up if it be in your power," she implored, clasping her hands in
an attitude of beseeching supplication, and her breath came in great
gasps, so that the words were jerked out, rather than spoken. "In pity
to me, hush it; it has lain at rest all these years. Let Godfrey
Pitman be! For my sake, let him be! I pray you in Heaven's name!"
She sat down in her chair, tottering back to it, and burst into a
flood of hysterical tears. Mr. Butterby waited in silence till they
were over, and then buttoned his coat to go out. Putting out her timid
hand, she caught his arm and held it with a nervous grasp.
"You will promise me Mr. Butterby?"
"I can't promise anything on the spur of the moment," said he in a
grave, but not unkind tone. "You must let me turn things over in my
mind. For one thing, neither the hushing of the matter up, nor the
pursuing of it, may lie with me. I told you others had got it in hand,
Miss Rye, and I told you truth. Now there's no need for you to come to
the door; I can let myself out."
And Mr. Butterby let himself out accordingly, making no noise over the
exit.
"I'm _blest_ if I can see daylight," he exclaimed with energy, as he
went down the street at a brisk pace. "Did she do it herself?--or is
she trying to screen Master George Winter? It's one of the two; and
I'm inclined to think it is the last. Anyway, she's a brave and a bold
woman. Whether she did it, or whether she didn't, it's no light matter
to accuse herself of mur----"
Mr. Butterby came to a full stop: both in words and steps. It was but
for a second of time; and he laughed a little silent laugh at his own
obtuseness as he passed on.
"I forgot her avowal at the grave. If she had done it herself, she'd
never have gone in for that public display, lest it should turn
attention on her. Yes, yes; she is screening Winter. Perhaps the man,
hiding in that top floor, with nothing to do but torment his wits, got
jealous of the counsellor below, fancying she favoured him, and
so----"
The break in Mr. Butterby's sentence this time was occasioned by his
shooting into an entry. Approaching towards him came Mrs. Jones,
attended by her servant with a huge market-basket: and as he had
neither time nor wish for an encounter with that lady at the present
moment, he let her go by.