GODFREY PITMAN'S TALE.
Shut in with closed doors, George Winter told his tale. Not quite all
he could tell; and not the truth in one very important particular. If
that single item of fact might be kept secret to the end, the
speaker's will was good for it.
They were all standing. Not one sat. And the room seemed filled with
the six men in it, most of whom were tall. The crimson curtain, that
Annabel Channing had mended, was drawn before the bookcase: on the
table-cover lay pens and ink and paper, for Mr. Greatorex sometimes
wrote at night in his own room. He and Judge Kene were near each
other; the clergyman was almost within the shadow of the window
curtain; Bede a little farther behind. On the opposite side of the
table, telling his tale, with the light of the bright winter's day
falling full upon him, illumining every turn of his face, and, so to
say, every word he uttered, was George Winter. And, at right angles
with the whole assemblage, his keen eyes and ears taking in every word
and look in silence, stood the detective, Jonas Butterby.
Mr. Greatorex, in spite of his son Bede's protestations, had refused
to sanction any steps for the release of Alletha Rye from custody. As
for Butterby, in that matter he seemed more inexorably hard than a
granite stone. "Show us that the young woman is innocent before you
talk about it," said they both with reason. And so George Winter was
had in to relate what he knew; and Mr. Greatorex--not to speak of some
of the rest--felt that his senses were temporarily struck out of him
when he discovered that his efficient and trusted clerk, Brown, was
the long-sought after and ill-reputed Godfrey Pitman.
With a brief summary of the circumstances which had led him,
disguised, and under the false name of Pitman, to Mrs. Jones's house
at Helstonleigh, George Winter passed on to the night of the tragedy,
and to the events which had taken him back to the house after his
departure from it in the afternoon. If ever Mr. Butterby's silent eyes
wore an eager light, it was then; not the faintest turn of a look, not
the smallest syllable was lost upon him.
"When I had been a week at Mrs. Jones's, I began to think it might be
unsafe to remain longer," he said; "and I resolved to take my
departure on the Monday. I let it transpire in the house that I was
going to Birmingham by the five o'clock train. This was to put people
off the scent, for I did not mean to go by that train at all, but by a
later one in an opposite direction--in fact, by the eight o'clock
train for Oxford: and I had thought to wait about, near the station,
until that hour. At half-past four I said good day to Mrs. Jones, and
went out: but I had not gone many yards from the door, when I saw one
of the Birmingham police, who knew me personally. I had my disguises
on, the spectacles and the false hair, but I feared he might recognize
me in spite of them. I turned my back for some minutes, apparently
looking into a shop window, and when the officer had disappeared,
stole back to Mrs. Jones's again. The door was open, and I went
upstairs without being seen, intending to wait until dusk."
"A moment if you please," interrupted Mr. Greatorex. "It would seem
that this was about the time that Mr. Ollivera returned to Mrs.
Jones's. Did you see him?"
"I did not, sir; I saw no one."
"Go on."
"I waited in my room at the top of the house, and when night set in,
began to watch for an opportunity of getting away unseen by the
household, and so avoid questionings as to what had brought me back.
It seemed not too easy of accomplishment: the servant girl was at the
street door, and Alfred Jones (as I had learnt his name to be) came in
and began to ascend the stairs. When half-way up, he turned back with
some gentleman who came out of the drawing-room--whom I know now, but
did not then, to be Mr. Bede Greatorex. Alfred Jones saw him to the
front door, and then ran up again. I escaped to my room, and locked
myself in. He went to his own, and soon I heard him go down and quit
the house. In a few minutes I went out of my room again with my blue
bag, ready for departure, and stood on the stairs to reconnoitre----"
"Can you explain the cause of those grease spots that we have heard
of?" interrupted Bede Greatorex at this juncture. And it might almost
have seemed from the fluttering emotion of his tone, which could not
be wholly suppressed, that he dreaded the revelation he knew must be
coming, and put the question only to delay it.
"Yes, sir. While Alfred Jones was in his room, I dropped my silver
pencil-case, and had to light a candle to seek it. I suppose that, in
searching, I must have held the candle aside and let the drops of
tallow fall on the carpet."
"Go on," again interposed Mr. Greatorex, impatiently. "You went out on
the stairs with your bag. What next?"
The witness--if he may be termed such--passed his hand slowly over his
forehead before answering. It appeared as though he were recalling the
past.
"As I stood there, on the top of the first flight, the sound of voices
in what seemed like angry dispute, came from the drawing-room. One in
particular was raised in passionate fury; the other was less loud. I
did not hear what was said; the door was shut----"
"Were they both men's voices?" interrupted Mr. Ollivera--and it was
the first question he had put.
"Yes," came the answer; but it was given in a low tone, and with
somewhat of hesitation. "At least, I think so."
"Well."
"The next thing that I heard was the report of a pistol, followed by a
cry of pain. Another cry succeeded to it in a different voice, a cry
of horror; and then silence supervened."
"And you did not go in?" exclaimed Mr. Ollivera in agitation, taking a
step forward.
"No. I am aware it is what I ought to have done; and I have reproached
myself later for not having done it; but I felt afraid to disclose to
any one that I was yet in the house. It might have led to the
discovery of who and what I was. Besides, I thought there was no great
harm done; I declare it, upon my honour. I could still hear sounds
within the room as of someone, or more, moving about, and I certainly
heard one voice speaking low and softly. I thought I saw my
opportunity for slipping away, and had crept down nearly to the
drawing-room door, when it suddenly opened, very quietly, and a face
looked out. Whoever it might be, I suppose the sight of me scared
them, for they retreated, and the door was reclosed softly. It scared
me also, sending me back upstairs; and I remained up until the same
person (as I supposed) came out again, descended the stairs, and left
the house. I got out myself then, gained the railway station by a
circuitous route, and got safely away from Helstonleigh."
As the words died upon the ear, there ensued a pause of silence. The
clergyman broke it. His mind seemed to be harping on one string.
"Mr. Brown, was that person a man or a woman?"
"Oh, it was a man," answered Mr. Brown, looking down at his waistcoat,
and brushing a speck off it with an air of carelessness. But something
in his demeanour at that moment struck two people in the room as being
peculiar--Judge Kene and Mr. Butterby.
"Should you recognize him again?" continued the clergyman.
"I cannot say. Perhaps I might."
"And you can stand there, Mr. Brown and deliberately avow that you did
not know a murder had been committed?" interposed the sternly
condemning voice of Mr. Greatorex.
"On my sacred word of honour, I declare to you, sir, that no suspicion
of it at the time occurred to me," answered the clerk, turning his
eyes with fearless honesty on Mr. Greatorex. "When I got to learn what
had really happened--which was not for some weeks--I wondered at
myself. All I could suppose was, that the fear and apprehension I lay
under on my own score, had rendered me callous to other impressions."
"Was it _you_ who went in, close upon the departing heels of Mr. Bede
Greatorex, and did this cruel thing?" asked Judge Kene, with quiet
emphasis, as he gazed in the face of the narrator.
"No," as quietly, and certainly as calmly, came the answer. "I had no
cause to injure Mr. Ollivera. I never saw him in my life. I am not
sure that I knew there was a barrister of the name. I don't think I
ever heard of him until after he was in the grave where he is now
lying."
"But--you must have known that Mr. Ollivera was sojourning in Mrs.
Jones's house at the same time that you were?
"I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas; I did not know that anyone was lodging
there except myself. Miss Rye, whom I saw for a few minutes
occasionally, never mentioned it, neither did the servant, and they
were the only two inmates I conversed with. For all I knew, or
thought, Mrs. Jones occupied the drawing-room herself. I once saw her
sitting there, and the maid was carrying out the tea-tray. No,"
emphatically concluded the speaker, "I did not know Mr. Ollivera was
in the house: and if I had known it, I should not have sought to harm
him."
The words were simple enough; and they were true. Judge Kene, skilled
in reading tones and looks, saw that much. The party felt at a
non-plus: as far as Alletha Rye went, the taking her into custody
appeared to have been a mistake.
"You will swear to this testimony of yours, Mr.--Winter?"
"When you please. The slight amount of facts--the sounds--that reached
me in regard to what took place in Mr. Ollivera's room, I have related
truthfully. Far from Miss Rye's having had aught to do with it, she
was not even in the house at the time: I affirm it as before heaven."
"Who was the man?" asked Judge Kene--and Mr. Butterby, as he heard the
question, gave a kind of derisive sniff. "Come; tell us that, Mr.
Winter."
"I cannot tell you," was George Winter's answer. "Whoever it was he
went down the stairs quickly. I was looking over top balustrades then,
and caught but a transient glimpse of him."
"But you saw his face beforehand?--when he looked out of the room?"
"I saw someone's face. Only for a minute. Had I known what was to come
of it later, I might have noticed better."
"And this is _all_ you have to tell us?" cried Henry William Ollivera
in agitation.
"Indeed it is all. But it is sufficient to exonerate Miss Rye."
"And now, Bede, what do _you_ know?" suddenly spoke Mr. Greatorex.
"You have acknowledged to me that you suspected at the time it was not
a case of suicide."
Bede Greatorex came forward. All eyes were turned upon him. That he
was nerving himself to speak, and far more inwardly agitated than
appeared on the surface, the two practised observers saw. Judge Kene
looked at him critically and curiously: there was something in the
case altogether, and in Bede himself, that puzzled him.
"It is not much that I have to tell," began Bede, in answer to his
father, as he put his hand heavily on the table, it might be for a
support to rest on: and his brow seemed to take a pallid hue, and the
silver threads in his once beautiful hair were very conspicuous as he
stood. "A circumstance caused me to suspect that it was not a case of
suicide. In fact, that it was somewhat as Mr. Brown has described it
to be--namely, that someone else caused the death."
A pause of perfect silence, It seemed to Bede that the very coals,
cracking in the grate, sounded like thunder.
"What was the circumstance?" asked Mr. Greatorex, for no one else
liked to interrupt. "Why did you not speak of it at the time?"
"I could not speak of it then: I cannot speak of it fully now. It was
of a nature so--so--so----." Bede came to a full stop: was he getting
too agitated to speak, or could he not find a word? "What I would say
is," he continued, in a firm low tone, rallying his nerves, "that it
was sufficient to show me the facts must have been very much as Mr.
Brown now states them."
"Then you only _think_ that, Bede?"
"It is more than thinking. By all my hopes of Heaven, declare that
Alletha Rye had not, and could not have had, anything to do with
John's death," he added with emotion. "Father, you may believe me: I
do know so much."
"But why can you not disclose what it is you know?"
"Because the time has not come for it. William, you are looking
at me with reproachful eyes: if I could tell you more I would. The
secret--so much as I know of it--has lain on me with a leaden weight:
I would only have been too glad to disburthen myself of it at first,
had it been possible."
"And what rendered it impossible?" questioned the clergyman.
"That which renders it so now. I may not speak; if I might, I should
be far more thankful than any of you who hear me."
"Is it a secret of trust reposed in you?"
Bede paused. "Well, yes; in a degree. If I were to speak of what I
know, I do not think there is one present"--and Bede's glance ran
rapidly over each individual face--"but would hush it within his own
breast, as I have done."
"And you have a suspicion of who the traitor was?"
"A suspicion I may have. But for aught else--for elucidation--you and
I must be content alike to wait."
"Elucidation!" spoke the clergyman in something like derision. "It
will not, I presume, ever be allowed to come."
"Yes, it will, William," answered Bede, quietly.
"Time--events--heaven--all are working rapidly on for it. Alletha Rye
is innocent; I could not affirm that truth to you more solemnly if I
were dying. She must be set at liberty."
As it was only on the question of her guilt or innocence that the
council had been called, it seemed that there was nothing more to do
than to break it up. An uncomfortable sensation of doubt,
dissatisfaction, and mystery, lay on all. The clergyman stalked away
in haughty displeasure. Bede Greatorex, under cover of the crowd, slid
his hand gratefully for a moment into that of George Winter, his sad
eyes sending forth their thanks. Then he turned to the Judge.
"You can give the necessary authority for the release, Sir Thomas."
"Can I?" was the answer, as Sir Thomas looked at him. "I'll talk about
it with Butterby. But I should like to have a private word first with
Mr. Winter."
"Why! you do not doubt that she is innocent?"
"Oh dear no; I no longer doubt that. Winter," he added in a whisper,
laying his hand on the clerk's shoulder to draw him outside, "_whose
face was it that you saw at the door of the room?_"
"Tell him," said Bede suddenly, for he had followed them. "You will
keep the secret, Kene, as I have kept it?"
"If it be as I suspect, I _will_," emphatically replied the Judge.
"Tell him," repeated Bede, as he walked away. "Tell him all that you
know, Winter, from first to last."
It caused Mr. Greatorex and Butterby to be left alone together. The
former, not much more pleased than William Ollivera, utterly puzzled,
hurt at the want of confidence displayed by Bede in not trusting him,
was in a downright ill-temper.
"What the devil is all this, Butterby?" demanded he. "What does it
mean?"
Mr. Butterby, cool as a cucumber, let his eyelashes close for a moment
over his non-betraying eyes, and then answered in meek simplicity.
"Ah, that's just it, sir--what it means. Wait, says your son Mr. Bede;
wait patiently till things has worked round a bit, till such time as I
can speak out. And depend upon it, Mr. Greatorex, he has good cause to
give the advice."
"But what can it be that he has to tell? And why should he wait at all
to tell it?"
"Well, I suppose he'd like to be more certain of the party," answered
Butterby, with a dubious cough. "Take a word of advice from me too,
Mr. Greatorex, on this here score, if I may make bold to offer
it--_do_ wait. Don't force your son to disclose things afore they are
ripe. It might be better for all parties."
Mr. Greatorex looked at him. "Who is it that _you_ suspect?"
"Me!" exclaimed Butterby. "Me suspect! Why, what with one odd thought
or another, I'd as lieve say it must have been the man in the moon,
for all the clue we've got. It was not Miss Rye: there can't be two
opinions about that. I told you, sir, I had my strong doubts when you
ordered her to be apprehended."
"At any rate, you said she confessed to having done it," sharply spoke
Mr. Greatorex, vexed with everybody.
"Confound the foolish women! what would the best of 'em not confess
to, to screen a sweetheart? Alletha Rye has been thinking Winter
guilty all this while, and when it came to close quarters and there
seemed a fear that he'd be taken up for it, she said what she did to
save him. _I_ see it all. I saw it afore Godfrey Pitman was half way
through his tale: and matters that have staggered me in Miss Rye, are
just as clear to read now as the printing in a big book. When she made
that there display at the grave--which you've heard enough of, may be,
Mr. Greatorex--she had not had her doubts turned on Godfrey Pitman;
she'd thought he was safe away earlier in the afternoon: when she got
to learn he had come back again in secret, and was in the house at the
time, why then she jumped to the conclusion that he had done the
murder. _I_ remember."
Mr. Butterby was right. This was exactly how it had been. Alletha Rye
had deemed George Winter guilty all along; on his side, he had only
supposed she shunned him on account of the affair at Birmingham. There
had been mutual misunderstanding; tacit, shrinking avoidance of all
explanation; and not a single word of confidence to clear it all up.
George Winter could not seek to be too explicit so long as the secret
he was guarding had to be kept: if not for his own sake, for that of
others, he was silent.
"As to what Bede's driving at, and who he suspects, I am in
ignorance," resumed Mr. Greatorex. "I am not pleased with his conduct:
he ought to let me know what he knows."
"Now, don't you blame him afore you hear his reasons, sir. He's sure
to have 'em: and I say let him alone till he can take his own time for
disclosing things." Which won't be of one while, was the detective's
mental conclusion.
"About Miss Rye? Are you here, Butterby?"
The interruption came from Judge Kene. As he walked in, closing the
door after him, they could but be struck with the aspect of his face.
It was all over of a grey pallor; very much as though its owner had
received some shock of terror. "What is the matter, Judge?" hastily
asked Mr. Greatorex. "Are you ill?"
"Ill? No. Why do you ask? Look so!--Oh, I have been standing in a room
without fire and grew rather cold there," carelessly replied the
Judge.