A Terrible Suspicion
Eight o'clock in the evening by the remarkably incorrect clock on the
mantelpiece, eight-thirty by Mr. Fanks' watch, which was never wrong,
and that gentleman was seated in a private room of the "Foundryman
Hotel" waiting the arrival of Roger Axton.
The "Foundryman" was not a first-class hotel, nor was the private room
a first-class apartment, but it was comfortable enough, and Mr. Fanks
was too much worried in his own mind to pay much attention to his
personal wants. He was much disturbed about his old schoolfellow, as
everything now seemed to point to Axton as a possible murderer--the
conversation at Jarlchester, the evidence of Dr. Japix, the delicately
insinuated suspicions of Judas--it seemed as though no doubt could
exist but that Roger Axton was the person responsible for the death of
Sebastian Melstane.
In spite, however, of all this circumstantial evidence, the detective
hoped against hope, and resolved within his own honest heart not to
believe Roger guilty until he had heard his explanation of the affair.
He knew well that circumstantial evidence was not always to be
depended upon, and Axton's prompt arrival in answer to his letter had
inspired him with the belief that the young man must be innocent,
otherwise he would hardly dare to place himself in a position of such
peril. So Mr. Fanks, with the perplexity of his mind showing even in
his usually impassive face, sat watch in hand, awaiting Roger's
arrival and casting absent glances round the room.
A comfortable room enough in an old-fashioned way! All the furniture
seemed to have been made at that primeval period when Ironfields was a
village, but here and there some meretricious hotel decoration spoiled
the effect of the whole. Heavy mahogany arm-chairs, a heavy mahogany
table, a heavy mahogany sideboard stood on a gaudy carpet with a dingy
white ground, and sprawling red roses mixed with painfully green
leaves. An antique carved mantelpiece, all Cupids and flowers and
foliage, but on it a staring square mirror with an ornate gilt frame
swathed in yellow gauze, and in front of this a gimcrack French
timepiece, with an aggressively loud tick, vividly painted vases of
coarse china containing tawdry paper flowers, and two ragged fans of
peacock's feathers. The curtains of the one window were drawn, a
cheerful fire burned under the antique mantelpiece with its modern
barbarisms, and an evil-smelling lamp, with a dull, yellow flame,
illuminated the apartment. Mr. Fanks himself sat in a grandfatherly
armchair drawn close to the fire, and pondered over the curious aspect
of affairs, while the rain outside swept down the crooked street, and
the wind howled at the window as if it wanted to get in to the
comfortable warmth out of the damp cold.
A knock at the door disturbed the sombre meditations of Octavius, and
in response to his answer, Roger walked into the room with a flushed
face and a somewhat nervous manner. He did not attempt to shake hands
(feeling he had no right to do so until he had explained his previous
behaviour at Jarlchester), but sat down near the fire, opposite to his
friend, and looked rather defiantly at the impassive face of that
gentleman, who gave him a cool nod.
"Well," he said, at length, breaking a somewhat awkward silence, "I've
lost no time in answering your letter."
"I'm glad of that, Roger," responded Fanks, gravely; "it gives me
great hopes."
"How? That I'm not a criminal, I suppose."
Fanks said nothing, but looked sadly at the suspicious face of the
young man.
"Silence gives consent, I see," said Axton, throwing himself back in
his chair, with a harsh laugh. "Well, I'm sorry a man I thought my
friend should think so ill of me."
"What else can I think, Roger?"
"He calls me Roger," said Axton, with an effort at gaiety. "Why not
the prisoner at the bar--the convict in the jail--the secret
poisoner?"
"Because I believe you to be none of the three, my friend," replied
Fanks, candidly.
Roger looked at him with a sudden flush of shame, and involuntarily
held out his hand, but drew it back quickly, before the other could
clasp it.
"No, not yet," he said, hastily; "I will not clasp your hand in
friendship until I clear myself in your eyes. You demand an
explanation. Well, I am here to give it."
"I am glad of that," replied Fanks for the second time. "I'm quite
aware," continued Roger, flushing, "that now you are at Ironfields you
must be aware that I concealed certain facts in my conversation with
you."
"Yes! You said you had not been to Ironfields, and that you did not
correspond with Miss Varlins. Both statements were false."
"May I ask on whose authority you speak so confidently?" demanded
Axton, coldly.
"Certainly. On the authority of Dr. Japix."
"Japix!" repeated Roger, starting, "do you know him?"
"Yes! I met him some time ago in Manchester, and I renewed my
acquaintance with him down here."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted him to analyse those pills found in Melstane's room
after his death."
He looked sharply at Roger as he spoke, but that young man met his
gaze serenely and without flinching, which seemed to give Fanks great
satisfaction, for he withdrew his eyes with a sigh of relief.
"Octavius," said Roger, after a pause, "do you remember our
conversation at Jarlchester?"
Mr. Fanks deliberately produced his secretive little note-book and
tapped it delicately with his long fingers.
"The conversation is set down here."
"Oh," said Roger, with sardonic politeness. "I was not aware you
carried your detective principles so far as to take a note of
interviews with your friends."
"I don't do it as a rule," responded Fanks, coolly; "but I had an
instinct that our interview might be useful in connection with
Melstane's case. I was right, you see. Roger," he cried, with a burst
of natural feeling, "why did you not trust me?"
Roger turned away his face, upon which burned a flush of shame.
"Because I was afraid," he replied, in a low voice.
"Of being accused of the murder?"
"Yes!"
"But you can exculpate yourself?" said Fanks, in a startled tone.
"I hope so," replied Roger, gloomily; "but on my word of honour,
Fanks, I am innocent. Have you read 'Edwin Drood'?"
"Yes!" responded Fanks, rather puzzled at what appeared to be an
irrelevant question, "several times."
"Do you remember what Dickens says in that novel?" said Axton, slowly.
"'Circumstances may accumulate so strongly even against an innocent
man that, directed, sharpened, and pointed, they may slay him.'"
"True, true," answered Fanks, approvingly nodding his head; "such
things have occurred before."
"And may occur again," cried Axton, with a look of apprehension. "I
know that you suspect me; I know that circumstantial evidence could be
brought against me which would put my life in danger; but on my soul,
Fanks, I am innocent of Melstane's death."
"I feel certain you are," answered Octavius, gently; "but, as you say,
circumstances are strong against you. Tell me everything without
reserve, and I may be able to advise you; otherwise, I am completely
in the dark."
"I believe you are my friend, Fanks," said Roger, earnestly. "I
believe you know me too well to think I would be guilty of such a
dreadful crime. Yes; I will tell you everything, and place myself
unreservedly in your hands. But first tell me how it is you are so
sure it was murder and not suicide!"
"Certainly! It is well we should both be on common ground for the
better understanding of your explanation. Regarding the death of this
Melstane, I own that at Jarlchester I was half inclined to believe in
the suicide theory, and had it not been for the name Ironfields on
that pill-box, which gave me a clue, would probably have acquiesced in
the verdict of the jury. Following up the clue, however, I went to the
chemists, Wosk & Co.'s, where the pills were made up, and discovered
that originally there were twelve in the box. I could account for
the disposal of six, so that ought to have left a balance of
half-a-dozen."
"True! but if I remember, when I counted them at Jarlchester there
were eight."
"Exactly! Two extra pills were placed in that box by some unknown
person whom I believe to be the murderer of Melstane."
"Why?"
"Because I took the pills to Dr. Japix, and he analysed the whole
eight; seven were harmless tonic pills, the eighth compounded of
deadly morphia."
"What!" cried Roger, starting to his feet, "and Melstane died of
morphia!"
"He did! Now do you understand? The murderer, whoever he was, placed
two morphia pills sufficient to cause death in the box. Melstane took
one in complete innocence and died, the other was analysed by Japix
and found to contain sufficient morphia to kill two men."
"It's wonderful how you have worked it out," said Roger, with hearty
admiration; "but how do you connect me with the murder?"
"I did not say I connected you with the murder," replied Fanks,
hastily; "I only said there were suspicious circumstances against you.
For instance, you had morphia pills in your possession."
"How do you know that?" asked Roger, with a start of surprise.
"Japix told me."
"Yes, and Japix prescribed them," cried Axton, starting to his feet.
"I own that does look suspicious; but I can set your mind at rest on
that point. Will you permit me to withdraw for a moment?"
"Don't talk nonsense, Roger," said Fanks, angrily; "of course I will."
Axton said nothing, but left the room, leaving Fanks considerably
puzzled as to the cause of his departure. In a few minutes, however,
he returned and placed in the detective's hands a box of pills.
"There," he said, resuming his seat, "if you count those pills you
will find there are eleven. The original number was twelve; I only
took one, and finding it did me no good, left the rest in the box. Am
I correct?"
"You are," replied Fanks, who had counted the pills; "there are eleven
here."
"If you have any further doubts, you can ask Wosk & Co., who made up
the pills."
"There is no need. I believe you."
"But I would prefer your doing so," said Roger, urgently.
"Very well," replied Fanks, calmly putting the box in his pocket; "I
will see about it to-morrow. But now you have set my mind at rest on
this point, and I have told you my story, tell me yours."
Roger paled a little at this request, and remained silent for a few
moments.
"Fanks," he said at last, with great solemnity, "you have your
suspicions of me now, and perhaps when I tell you all, you may
consider them to be confirmed. What then?"
"What then?" echoed Fanks, cheerfully. "Simply this. Knowing
your character as I do, I don't believe you would be guilty of a
cold-blooded murder, so when you tell me your story we will put our
heads together and try to find out the true criminal."
"I'll be only too glad to do that," said Roger, gratefully, "if only
to regain your confidence which I have lost."
"Well, go on with your story."
"I told you a good deal of it at Jarlchester," replied Axton, looking
at the fire thoughtfully; "but I will reveal now what I concealed
then. The first time I met Judith Varlins was in this town. I came
down with letters of introduction from a London friend to Mr. Marson,
and he made me free of his house--in fact, he wanted me to stay there;
but though I am poor I am proud, so preferred to put up at Binter's
Boarding-house."
"Yes, I know that place."
"How so?"
"I went there to see a Monsieur Guinaud."
"Then you saw an uncommonly good specimen of a scoundrel. He was a
great friend of Melstane's, and they both hated me like poison. I
don't know why Judas--that's his nickname here--did, but Melstane had
a grudge against me because I put a stop to his secret meetings with
Florry Marson by telling Judith."
"Why did you do that?"
"Because Melstane was such an out-and-out scoundrel that I did not
want him to marry that silly little thing. If he had done so, he would
have broken her heart. Well, when Judith became aware of these
meetings, she took Florry off to Ventnor. I escorted them to London,
where they stayed for a time, and then went on to the Isle of Wight.
Shortly afterwards I followed them. I told you all that took place
there. On our return to Ironfields about the middle of October, I
believed Melstane met Florry by stealth, and I taxed him with it. We
had a furious row, and I went off to London. While there I received a
letter from Miss Varlins, telling me that Florry was engaged to Mr.
Spolger, and that Melstane was leaving Ironfields for Jarlchester."
"How did she know that?" asked Fanks, sharply.
"I don't know; perhaps Florry told her. She, of course, could easily
learn it from her lover; but what puzzles me is why Melstane went to
Jarlchester at all."
"You have no idea?" said Octavius, looking at him keenly.
"Not the least in the world. I'm quite at sea as to his reasons."
"Humph! Go on!"
"Judith asked me to go to Jarlchester and await the arrival of
Melstane, in order to obtain from him a packet of letters written by
Florry, which he had in his possession."
"Yes," said Fanks, eagerly; "go on!"
"I went down to Jarlchester ostensibly on a walking tour, and received
a second letter from Judith, telling me Melstane had left Ironfields,
and was on his way down. On the day he was expected to arrive, I went
for a walk, intending to return early. Unfortunately, however, I lost
my way and did not get back until late at night. I found Melstane had
arrived and gone to bed."
"Did you ask if Mr. Melstane had arrived?"
"No! I asked casually if a stranger had arrived, and they told me one
had come from London, and described him, so of course I knew him at
once."
"But why all this mystery?"
"Judith implored me to be careful," said Roger, quickly. "You see
Florry's good name was at stake, and I wanted to get the packet of
letters back with as little publicity as possible."
"Nevertheless, you rather overdid the mystery business! Well, what did
you do when you found Melstane had gone to bed?"
"I went to bed also, and made up my mind to see him the next morning.
Thinking of the letters, however, and knowing he was in the next room,
I could not sleep, so as it was not then twelve o'clock, I thought I
would go in and see him."
"Curious thing to make a visit to a man's room at that time."
"I dare say," replied Axton, tartly; "but you see, I was anxious to
get the letters, and knowing that Melstane was a nervous man,
particularly at night, I fancied I might get them back by playing on
his fears."
"A most original idea!"
"Rather wild, perhaps, but not without merit. Well, I put on my
things, took my candle, and went into his room."
"Ho! ho! so it was you that left the door ajar!"
"It was. I went into the room quietly, and saw he was sound asleep. On
the table near the bed was a bundle of letters which he had evidently
been reading."
"How did you know it was the bundle you wanted?"
"Because I recognised Miss Marson's writing on the top letter."
"Well, seeing that was the bundle you were in search of, what did you
do?"
"Rather a mean thing--I stole them."
"Stole them! Upon my word, Roger, you are a nice young man!"
"In fighting with a man like Melstane, I had to make use of his own
weapons," retorted Roger, coolly. "It seems dishonourable to you for
me to go into a man's room and steal a bundle of letters; but I was
dealing with a scoundrel; those letters contained the honour of a
young and inexperienced girl whom he held at his mercy. If I had
awakened him there would have been a row, he would have raised the
alarm, and I would have got into trouble, so I did the best thing--the
only thing to be done under the circumstances and stole the letters."
"Did you see the pill-box when you were in the room?"
"No, I was in such a hurry to go, having once secured what I wanted,
that I did not stop to look at anything, but went back to my room."
"Leaving the door of No. 37 ajar," said Fanks, reprovingly, "foolish
man."
"Ah! you see I was not experienced in midnight burglaries."
"Well, after you got back to your own room, what did you do?"
"I went to bed and slept soundly. Next morning I sent the packet of
letters to Judith, and went off on a stroll. When I came back at
night, I was horrified to learn Sebastian Melstane was dead. The rest
you know."
"When you spoke to me, did you really and truly believe he had
committed suicide?"
"Yes, I did," replied Roger, honestly. "I thought he had found out the
loss of the letters, and seeing that his hold over Florry Marson was
lost, had committed suicide in desperation."
"How did you account for the morphia?"
"I didn't attempt to account for it. All I knew was that I had secured
the letters, that Melstane was dead, and that Florry was safe."
"So that's all. I wish you had told me all this at Jarlchester."
"I tell you I was afraid to do so. Look how black the case appears
against me. I fight with a man here; I follow him down to Jarlchester;
I have morphia pills in my possession; I go into his room at night,
and in the morning he is found dead of morphia. Why, if I had told all
this, I would have been arrested. Florry's name would have come up.
That infernal Monsieur Judas would have put his spoke in, and I would
very probably have been hanged on circumstantial evidence."
"I don't wonder you were afraid," replied Octavius, thoughtfully; "but
seeing I was your friend, you might just as well have trusted me."
"You are a detective."
"I am your old schoolfellow."
"Then you believe I am innocent?"
"I do. If you were guilty, you would not have told a story so dead
against yourself."
"Will you shake hands, then?" asked Roger, colouring and holding out
his hand.
"By all means," replied Fanks, solemnly, and the two friends shook
hands with honest fervour.
"Now, then," said Octavius, when this ceremony was concluded, "the
next thing to be done is to find out who killed Melstane."
"It's an impossibility," cried Roger, in despair.
"No, I don't say that," answered Fanks, coolly. "At Jarlchester I had
nothing to go upon, and yet look what I've discovered."
"You are a genius, Octavius."
"Egad! I've need to be to unravel this case," said Octavius, smiling.
"It's the most difficult affair I ever took in hand."
"Do you suspect any one?"
"I can't say at present till I get things more in order. The first
thing I want to know is, what were the contents of those letters?"
"I cannot tell you. I did not read them, of course, but simply packed
them up and sent them to Miss Varlins."
"Oh, then she has got them?"
"No, she hasn't."
"Where are they, then?"
"Lost."
"Lost How so?"
"I can't tell you," said Roger, helplessly. "You see, Miss Varlins did
not want them sent to the Hall, as Florry Marson might have got hold
of them, and if she had, she's such a little fool, and was so much in
love with Melstane, that she probably would have sent them straight
back."
"Well, as they did not go to the Hall, where did they go?"
"To the post office in this place. The postmistress, however, knows
Miss Varlins, and had the packet been addressed in that name, would
have sent them up at once to the Hall. To make things safe, however, I
directed the letters to Miss Judith, Post Office, Suburban Ironfields,
and she was to call for them."
"I suppose she called?"
"Yes, every day, but the postmistress said no packet had arrived."
"Strange! The postal arrangements are very good as a rule. Letters
don't often go astray. Addressed to Miss Judith, you say?"
"Yes."
Fanks pinched his chin thoughtfully between his finger and thumb,
looked frowningly at the fire, and then looked up suddenly:
"Is the postmistress here intelligent?"
"No, the reverse. A snuffy old idiot."
"Oh!" said Fanks, smiling to himself; "then I wouldn't be surprised if
she had delivered that packet to the wrong person."
"But there's no one else about here called Judith."
Mr. Fanks did not reply, but leaving his chair, went to the sideboard
and brought back pen, ink, and paper, which he placed on the table
near Roger.
"You're a very bad writer!" he said, calmly arranging the paper.
"No worse than the usual run of literary men."
"I'm sorry for the printers, if that is the case. The letter you sent
me here, saying you were coming, is most illegible."
"Well, that letter has nothing to do with the case," said Roger,
impatiently.
"I think it has a good deal to do with it, seeing it told me you were
coming down here," replied Fanks, coolly. "However, this is not to the
point. Take up that pen." Roger did so, looking considerably
bewildered at the manner in which his friend was behaving.
"Now write me down the address you put on the packet." Axton obeyed
quickly, and produced the following scrawl:
[Illustration: Handwritten address on packet]
"Miss Judith, Post Office, Suburban Ironfields"
"Humph!" said Fanks, looking at this specimen of caligraphy. "Most
careless writing. Observe; you use the old-fashioned 's.' You don't
dot your 'i's,' nor cross your 't's,' and, moreover, you curve your
'i' towards the next letter in the fashion of 'a.' So far so good. Now
write M. Judas."
[Illustration: Handwritten 'M. Judas']
Roger did so with no idea of what his friend had in his mind.
"There," observed Fanks, when this was completed, "do you see much
difference between Judith and Judas, according to your writing?"
"No," said Roger, honestly, looking at them, "I can't say that I do.
But what do you mean?"
"I mean that the postmistress--old and stupid, as you say she is--has
made a mistake, and delivered the packet to Monsieur Judas."
"Absurd!"
"Not at all. Judith Varlins is generally called Miss Varlins, I
presume, so the Christian name Judith would not occur to this old
woman. On the other hand, the odd name Judas would, and knowing that
extraordinary-looking Frenchman to be called Judas, she--I mean the
postmistress--would naturally hand the packet over to him."
"But surely he would refuse to receive it?"
"I don't know so much about that. In the first place, he might have
thought the packet was for him, and in the second, his natural
curiosity would make him take it home to examine. When he found what
the packet contained, he kept it."
"But why should he keep it?"
"How dense you are, Roger!" said Fanks, irritably. "He was a friend of
Melstane's, and seeing the letters were addressed to Melstane, he very
likely kept them by him to return to his brother scamp."
"Then you think Monsieur Judas has the packet?"
"I'm certain of it. We'll call and see what we can do to-morrow."
"All right; but why are you so anxious to get the packet?"
"For several reasons. I believe that packet to contain letters to
Melstane, not only from Miss Marson, but from her father also; and I
further believe," continued Fanks, sinking his voice to a whisper,
"that in that packet is contained the secret of Melstane's death."
"But you surely don't suspect Mr. Marson?" cried Roger, aghast.
Octavius rolled up the paper upon which Roger had been writing and
threw it into the fire as he answered, with marked emphasis on the
latter part of his reply:
"I suspect no one--at present."
Extracts From A Detective's Note-Book
". . . I feel much more at ease now I have seen Roger . . . He has
explained away my suspicions . . . It is true that his story tells
very much against him, but to my mind this fact assures me of his
innocence, as no guilty man would tell a story so much against himself
. . . Yes, I am sure he is not guilty . . . He acted foolishly in
obeying Miss Varlins' instructions--in keeping the truth from me at
Jarlchester . . . Nevertheless, his conduct has not been that of a
guilty man, and whosoever poisoned Sebastian Melstane, it was
certainly not Roger Axton . . .
". . . I am much troubled about the disappearance of those letters,
and would like to see them . . . There must be something in them which
may throw light on this mysterious affair . . . I have no grounds for
declaring this, but I think so . . . If Mr. Marson, who did not want
his daughter to marry Melstane, wrote, his letters must be in that
packet . . . It is his letters I wish to see . . . Now, however, by
the unfortunate mistake of the postmistress, the letters are in the
possession of Judas . . . This again implicates him in the affair
. . . I don't like the attitude of Judas at all . . . Could he--but
no, it's impossible; he has no motive . . . Sebastian Melstane was his
friend, so there was no reason he should wish him out of the way
. . . I believe that Judas holds the letters in order to make capital
out of them with Mr. Marson . . . I'll thwart him on the point,
however . . .
"_Mem_.--To see the postmistress to-morrow and find out for certain if
the packet was delivered--as I verily believe--to Judas."