IN CUSTODY.
Pacing his carpet, in the worst state of perturbation possible, was
the Rev. Mr. Ollivera. He had so paced it all the morning. Neglecting
his ordinary duties, staying indoors when he ought to have been out,
unable to eat or to rest, he and his mind were alike in a state of
most distressing indecision. The whole of the night had he tossed and
turned, and rose up again and again to walk his room, struggling with
his conscience. For years past, he had, so to say, lived on the
anticipation of this hour: when the memory of his dear brother should
be cleared of its foul stain, and the true criminal brought to light.
And, now that it had come, he was hesitating whether or not to take
advantage of it: whether to let the stain remain, and the criminal
escape.
Torn to pieces with doubt and pain, was he. Unable to see _where_ his
duty lay, more than once, with lifted hands and eyes and heart, a cry
to Heaven to direct him broke from his lips. Passages of Scripture,
bearing both ways, crowded on his mind, to puzzle him the more; but
there was one great lesson he could not ignore--the loving, merciful
teaching of Jesus Christ.
About one o'clock, when the remembrance of the miserable grave, and of
him who had been so miserably put into it, lay very strong upon him,
Alletha Rye came into the room with some white cravats of the parson's
in her hand. She was neat and nice as usual, wearing a soft merino
gown with white worked cuffs and collars, her fair hair smooth and
abundant.
"I have done the best I could with them, sir: cut off the edges and
hemmed them afresh," she said. "After that, I passed the iron over
them, and they look just as if fresh got up.
"Thank you," murmured Mr. Ollivera, the colour flushing his face, and
speaking in a confused kind of manner, like a man overtaken in a
crime.
"Great heaven, can I go on with it?" he exclaimed, as she went out,
leaving the neckerchiefs on the table. "Is it possible to believe that
she _did_ it?--with her calm good face, with her clear honest eye?" he
continued in an agony of distress. "Oh, for guidance! that I may be
shown what my course ought to be!" As a personal matter, to give
Alletha Rye into custody would cause him grievous pain. She had lived
under the same roof with him, showing him voluntarily a hundred little
courtesies and kindnesses. These white cravats of his, just put to
rights, had been undertaken in pure good will.
How very much of our terrible seasons of distress might be spared to
us, if we could but see a little further than the present moment; than
the atmosphere immediately around. Henry William Ollivera might have
been saved his: had he but known that while he was doubting, another
was acting. Mr. Greatorex had taken it into his own hands, and the
house's trouble was, even then, at the very door. In after life, Henry
Ollivera never ceased to be thankful that it was not himself who
brought it.
A commotion below. Mr. Roland Yorke had entered, and was calling out
to the house to bring his dinner. It was taken to him in the shape of
some slices of roast mutton and potatoes. When Mrs. Jones had a joint
herself, Roland was served from it. That she was no gainer by the
bargain, Mrs. Jones was conscious of; the small sum she allowed
herself in repayment out of the weekly sovereign, debarred it: but
Roland was favoured for the sake of old times.
Close almost upon that, there came a rather quiet double knock at the
street door, which Miss Rye went to answer. Roland thought he
recognised a voice, and ran out, his mouth full of mutton.
"Why, it's never you, old Butterby! What brings you in London again?"
Whatever brought Mr. Butterby to London, something curious appeared to
have brought him to Mrs. Jones's. A policeman had followed him in, and
was shutting the street door, with a manner quite at home. There
escaped a faint cry from Alletha, and her face turned white as ashes.
Roland stared from one to the other.
"What on earth's the matter?" demanded he.
"I'd like to speak to you in private for a minute, Miss Rye," said Mr.
Butterby, in a low civil tone. "Tompkins, you wait there."
She went higher up the passage and looked round something liked a stag
at bay. There was no unoccupied room to take him to. Mr. Brown's
frugal dinner tray (luncheon, as he called it) was in his, awaiting
his entrance. That the terrible man of law with his officer had come
to arrest _him_ Alletha never doubted. A hundred wild ideas of
telegraphing him some impossible warning, _not_ to enter, went teeming
through her brain. Tompkins stood on the entrance mat; Roland Yorke,
with his accustomed curiosity, put his back against his parlour
door-post to watch proceedings.
"Miss Rye, I'd not have done this of my own accord, leastways not so
soon, but it has been forced upon me," whispered Mr. Butterby. "I've
got to ask you to go with me."
"To ask _me?_" she tremblingly said, while he was showing her a paper:
probably the warrant.
"Are you so much surprised: after that there avowal you made to me
last night? If I'd gone and told a police officer that I had killed
somebody, it would not astonish me to be took."
Her face fell. The pallor of her cheeks was coloured by a faint
crimson; her eyes flashed with a condemning light.
"I told you in confidence, as one friend might speak to another, in
defence of him who was not there to defend himself," she panted. "How
could I suppose you would hasten treacherously to use it against me?"
"Ah," said Mr. Butterby, "in things of that sort us law defenders is
just the wrong sort to make confidants of. But now, look here, Miss
Rye, I didn't go and abuse that confidence, and though it is me that
has put the wheels of the law in motion, it is done in obedience to
orders, which I had no power to stop. I'm sorry to have to do it: and
I've come down with the warrant myself out of respect to you, that
things might be accomplished as genteel as might be."
"Now then, Alletha! Do you know that your dinner's getting cold? What
on earth are you stopping there for? Who is it?"
The interruption was from Mrs. Jones, called out through the nearly
closed door of her parlour. Alletha, making no response, looked fit to
die.
"Have you come to arrest me?" she whispered.
"Well, it's about it, Miss Rye. Apprehend, that is. We'll get a cab
and you'll go in it with my friend there, all snug and quiet. I'm
vexed that young Yorke should just be at home. Tried to get here half
an hour earlier, but--"
Mrs. Jones's door was pulled open with a jerk. To describe the
aggravated astonishment on her face when she saw the state of affairs,
would be a work of skill. Alletha with a countenance of ghastly fear;
Mr. Butterby whispering to her; the policeman on the door mat; Roland
Yorke looking leisurely on.
"Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones. "What may be the meaning of
this?"
There could be no evasion now. Had Alletha in her secret heart hoped
to keep it from her tart, condemning, and strong-minded sister, the
possibility was over. She went down the few steps that led to the
room, and entered it; Mr. Butterby close behind her. The latter was
shutting the door, when Roland Yorke walked in, taking French leave.
Which of the two stared the most, Mrs. Jones or Roland, and which of
the two felt inclined to abuse Mr. Butterby the most, when his errand
became known, remains a question to this day. Roland's championship
was hot.
"You know you always do take the wrong people, Butterby!"
"Now, young Mr. Yorke, just you concern yourself with your own
business, and leave other folk's alone," was the detective's answering
reprimand. "I don't see what call you have to be in this here room at
all."
In all the phases of the affair, with its attendant conjectures and
suspicions, from the first moment that she saw John Ollivera lying
dead in her house, the possibility of Alletha's being cognisant of its
cause, much less connected with it, had never once entered the head of
Mrs. Jones. She stared from one to the other in simple wonder.
"_What_ is it you charge my sister with, Butterby?--the death of
Counsellor Ollivera?"
"Well, yes; that's it," he answered.
"And how dare you do it?"
"Now, look you here, Mrs. Jones," said Butterby, in a tone of reason,
putting his hand calmly on her wrist, "I've told Miss Rye, and I tell
you, that these proceedings are instituted by the law, not by me; if I
had not come to carry them out, another would, who might have done it
in a rougher manner. A woman of your sense ought to see the matter in
its right light. I don't say she's guilty, and I hope she'll be able
to prove that she's not; but I can tell you this much, Mrs. Jones,
there's them that have had their suspicions turned upon her from the
first."
_Being_ a woman of sense, as Mr. Butterby delicately insinuated, Mrs.
Jones began to feel a trifle staggered. Not at his words: they had
little power over _her_ mind, but at Alletha's appearance. Leaning
against the wall there, white, faint, silent, she looked like one
guilty, rather than innocent. And it suddenly struck Mrs. Jones that
she did not attempt a syllable in her own defence.
"Why don't you speak out, girl?" she demanded, in her tartest tone.
"You can, I suppose?"
But the commotion had begun to cause attention in the quiet house. Not
so much from its noise, as by that subtle instinct that makes itself
heard, we cannot tell how; and Mr. Ollivera came in.
"Who has done this?" he briefly asked of the detective.
"Mr. Greatorex, sir."
"The next thing they'll do may be to take me up on the charge," spoke
Mrs. Jones with acrimony. "What on earth put this into their miserable
heads? _You_ don't suspect her, I hope, Mr. Ollivera?"
He only looked at Mrs. Jones in silence by way of answer, a grave
meaning in his sad face. It spoke volumes: and Mrs. Jones, albeit not
one to give way to emotion, or any other kind of weakness, felt as if
a jug of cold water were being poured down her back. Straightforward,
always, she put the question to him with naked plainness.
"_Do_ you suspect her?"
"I have suspected her," came the low tones of Mr. Ollivera in answer.
"Believe me, Mrs. Jones, whatever may be the final result of this, I
grieve for it bitterly."
"I say, why can't you speak up, and say you did not do it?" stamped
Roland in his championship. "Don't be frightened out of your senses by
Butterby. He never pitches upon the right person; Mrs. J. remembers
_that_."
"As this here talking won't do any good--and I'm sure if it would I'd
let it go on a bit--suppose we make a move," interposed Butterby. "If
you'd like to put up a few things to take with you, Miss Rye, do so.
You'll have to go to Helstonleigh."
"Oh law!" cried Roland. "I say, Butterby, it's a mistake, I know. Let
her go. Come! you shall have all my dinner."
"Don't stand there like a statue, as if you were moonstruck," said
Mrs. Jones, seizing her sister to administer a slight shaking. "Tell
them you are innocent, girl, if you can; and let Butterby go about his
business."
And in response, Alletha neither spoke nor moved.
But at this moment another actor came upon the scene. A knock at the
front door was politely answered at once by the policeman, glad, no
doubt, to have something to do, and Mr. Brown entered, arriving at
home for his midday meal. Roland dashed into the passage.
"I say, Brown, here _is_ a stunning shame. Old Butterby's come to take
up Alletha Rye."
"Take her up for what?" Mr. Brown calmly asked.
"For the killing and slaying of Counsellor Ollivera, he says. But in
these things he never was anything but a calf."
Mr. Brown turned into his room, put down his hat and a small paper
parcel, and went on to the scene. Before he could say a word, Alletha
Rye burst forth like one demented.
"Don't come here Mr. Brown. We've nothing to do with strangers. I
can't have all the world looking at me."
Mr. Brown took a quiet survey of matters with perfect self-possession,
and then drew Mr. Butterby towards his room, just as though he had
possessed the authority of Scotland Yard. Mrs. Jones was left alone
with her sister, and caught hold of her two hands.
"Now then! What is the English of this? Had you aught to do with the
death of Mr. Ollivera?"
"Never," said Alletha; "I would not have hurt a hair of his head."
Mrs. Jones, at the answer, hardly knew whether to slap the young
woman's face or to shriek at her. All this disgrace brought upon her
house, and Alletha to submit to it in unrefuting tameness! As a
preliminary, she began a torrent of words.
"Hush!" said Alletha. "They think me guilty, and at present they must
be let think it. I cannot help myself: if Butterby conveys me to
Helstonleigh, he must do it."
Mrs. Jones was nearly staggered out of her passion. The cold water
went trickling down again. Not at once could she answer.
"Lord help the wench for a fool! Don't you know that! if you are
conveyed to Helstonleigh it would be to take your trial at the next
assizes? Would you face _that?_"
"I cannot tell," wailed Alletha, putting up her thin hand to her
troubled face. "I must have time to think."
But we must follow Mr. Brown. As he passed into his room and closed
the door, he took a tolerably long look into Butterby's eyes: possibly
hoping to discover whether that astute officer knew him for Godfrey
Pitman. He obtained no result. Had Mr. Butterby been a born natural he
could not have looked more charmingly innocent. That he chose to
indulge this demand for an interview for purposes of his own, those
who knew him could not doubt. They stood together before the fireless
hearth; however cold the weather might be, Mr. Brown's fire went out
after breakfast and was not re-lighted until night.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Butterby. With so much confusion in
there"--nodding in the direction of Mrs. Jones's parlour--"I am not
sure that I fully understood. Is it true that you are about to take
Miss Rye into custody on suspicion of having caused the death of John
Ollivera?"
"I have took her," was the short answer. "It is nothing to you, I
suppose."
"It is this much to me: that I happen to be in a position to testify
that she did not do it."
"Oh, you think so, do you," said Butterby, in a civil but slightly
mocking tone. "I've knowed ten men at least swear to one man's
innocence of a crime, and him guilty all the while. Don't say it was
perjury: appearances is deceptive, and human nature's soft."
"I affirm to you, in the hearing of Heaven, that Alletha Rye was
innocent of the death of John Ollivera," said Mr. Brown in a solemn
tone that might have carried conviction to even a less experienced
ear. "She had nothing whatever to do with it. Until the following
morning, when she found him, she was as ignorant as you that he was
dead."
"Then why don't she speak up and say so? Not that it could make any
difference at the present stage of affairs."
"Will you let me ask who it is that has had her apprehended? Mr. Bede
Greatorex?"
"Bede Greatorex has had nothing to do with it. 'Twas his father."
"Well now, I have a favour to ask you, Mr. Butterby," continued the
other after a pause. "The good name of a young woman is a great deal
easier lost than regained, as no one can tell better than yourself. It
will be an awful thing if Alletha Rye, being innocent--as I swear to
you she is--should be accused of this dreadful crime before the world.
You have known her a long while: will you not stretch a point to save
it?"
"That might depend a good deal upon what the point was," replied Mr.
Butterby.
"A very simple one. Only this--that you would stay proceedings until I
have had time to see Bede Greatorex. Let her remain here, in custody
of course--for I am not so foolish as to suppose you could release
her--but don't molest her; don't take her away. In fact, _treat her as
though you knew_ she were wrongfully accused. You may be obliged to me
for this later, Mr. Butterby--I won't say in the interests of
humanity, but of justice."
Various thoughts and experiences of the past, as connected with Bede
Greatorex, came crowding into the mind of Butterby. His lips parted
with a smile, but it was not a favourable one.
"I think that Bede Greatorex could join with me in satisfying you that
it was not Miss Rye," urged the petitioner. "I am almost sure he can
do this if he will.
"Which is as much as to say that both he and you have got your
suspicions turned on some other quarter," rejoined Butterby. "Who was
it?"
That Mr. Brown's cheeks took a darker tinge at the direct query, was
plain to be seen. He made no answer.
"Come! Who did that thing? _You_ know."
"If I do not know--and I am unable to tell you that I do, Mr.
Butterby--I can yet make a shrewd guess at it."
"And Bede Greatorex too, you say?"
"I fancy he can."
Looking into each other's eyes, those two deep men, there ensued a
silence. "If it wasn't this woman," whispered Butterby, "perhaps it was
another."
The clerk opened his lips to speak in hasty impulse: but he closed
them again, still looking hard at the officer.
"Whether it was or not, the woman was not Alletha Rye."
"Then," said Mr. Butterby, following out his own private thoughts, and
giving the table an emphatic slap, which caused the frugal luncheon
tray to jingle, "this thing will never be brought to trial."
"I don't much think it will," was the significant answer. "But you
will consent to what I ask? I won't be away long. A quarter of an hour
will suffice for my interview with Bede Greatorex."
Weighing chances and possibilities, as it lay in the business of Mr.
Butterby to do; knowing who the man before him was, with the suspicion
attaching to him, he thought it might be as well to keep him under
view. There was no apparent intention to escape; the clerk seemed
honest as the day on this present purpose, and strangely earnest; but
Mr. Butterby had learnt to trust nobody.
"I'll go with yon," said he. "Tompkins will keep matters safe here.
Come on. Hang me if this case ever had its fellow: it turns one about
with its little finger."