EVIDENCE WANTED.
Mr. Richard Birch was not a philosopher in the worldly sense of the
term. He was too sensitive and high-spirited to be a philosopher.
Undoubtedly he would have been more comfortable and contented if he had
been. The suspicions of Eugene Hungerford had annoyed him almost beyond
endurance; and although common sense assured him that his friend was
still a friend, and that there was abundant cause for doubt, he was
not willing to accept the alternative; he was not willing that any one
should think it possible for him to have selfish motives, and to be
acting an underhanded part.
Mr. Birch, therefore, was not satisfied. Though Eugene had been
convicted of his error, though he had banished every suspicion
that haunted his mind, Mr. Birch felt that he had not yet made the
triumphant vindication of the integrity of his purpose which his
sensitiveness demanded. Not only in the partial eyes of his friend,
but in those of all the world, must he be spotless and unsuspected. If
Mr. Richard Birch had been a philosopher, he might have been content
to believe himself that he was without reproach, and leave to time and
circumstances the work of removing the stain which rested upon his good
name.
He drove Eugene’s horse up to the hotel stable, and left him there. He
was thinking what evidence he could procure to establish the two facts
that he was not the person with Buckstone just before the murder, and
that Dr. Bilks was the person. These two points were as clear in his
own mind as though all the solid men of the county had sworn to them in
open court. It would be very tedious to follow Mr. Birch in his patient
and laborious search after facts during the remainder of that day, and
all of that evening, because he spoke with more than a hundred persons,
and examined every foot of the shore from the Port to the Point.
If Mr. Richard Birch was not a philosopher, he was sometimes a
logician, and he had a prejudice in favor of beginning at the root of
a matter. It was evident to his discerning and logical mind, that Mr.
Buckstone must have come into Poppleton before he was murdered within
its territorial limits; and if he did come into the town, somebody saw
him, or ought to have seen him there. Thus far no such individual had
been seen or heard from. Ross Kingman and Mary appeared to be the only
persons--besides the stranger--to whom the murdered man had manifested
himself. The diligent and interested inquirer into the truth was not
willing to accept this conclusion, which is another proof that he was
not a philosopher.
Buckstone had boarded at the Bell River House during his former visit
to Poppleton. He would be likely to go there on the present occasion.
The landlord, the clerk, the chambermaids, the hall girls, the porter,
the hostlers--all knew Mr. Buckstone; but not one of them had seen him
on the day of the murder. Those who had the means of knowing were very
sure he had not entered the hotel. It was probable that the murdered
man had arrived at the Mills by the afternoon train--the same in which
the Hungerford family had come; but no one had seen him. The station
agent knew him, but he was no wiser than others.
Mr. Buckstone and the stranger had gone over to The Great Bell in a
boat--it was not possible to go in any other way, for, though some
of the enthusiasts, who believed Poppleton would, at some indefinite
future time, rival New York in commercial grandeur, when every foot of
land would be wanted, islands included, thought that a bridge over the
channel was practicable, the structure had not yet even been proposed;
therefore Mr. Buckstone and the stranger must have gone over to The
Great Bell in a boat. This was a logical conclusion, and Mr. Birch
believed in it with all his might. Then, as it was one of the customs
of society that boats should be owned by somebody, it followed, by a
course of reasoning equally accurate and logical, that the boat in
which Buckstone and the stranger had crossed to the island, belonged to
somebody.
Fortunately the problem of the ownership of this boat had already been
solved, and it only remained for Mr. Birch to see the owner. He did see
him; but the proprietor of the small craft was as lamentably ignorant
as the rest of the world. He kept his boat on the beach about half
way between the Point and the Port. He had not even missed it, for he
seldom used it, until the sheriff had spoken to him about the matter.
The boat contained two fifty-six pound weights, used as ballast, one of
which was missing; and the painter, a piece of whale line, sixty feet
in length, had been cut from the stem, and taken away; but he had not
seen Mr. Buckstone, and did not even know him by sight.
“When did you use your boat last?” asked Mr. Birch, who had made a
memorandum of the missing fifty-six and the sixty feet of whale line.
“I used it looking after the body of Goodwin the afternoon before the
murder,” replied the owner.
“What time did you go home?”
“I hauled up the boat just before dark.”
“Did you leave the sail in the boat?”
“No; I always carry that up to the house.”
“Where do you keep the oars?”
“They are not worth much; I always leave them in the boat.”
“Don’t you suppose the fifty-six was stolen by some loafer from the
Settlement?”
“I don’t know but it was; but it seems to me, if any one stole it, the
thief would have taken the other one. He might as well be hung for an
old sheep as a lamb.”
Though the sheriff had been informed of the loss of the rope and the
weight, nothing could be made of the fact, and no significance was
attached to it. Mr. Birch felt that he had gained something, though he
knew not what. He left the owner of the boat, and examined the shore.
There might be some person who had been on the beach between nine
and ten on the night of the murder; some one who had been a fishing
that day, and returned late; some one whose boat needed attention, or
some uneasy individual whose wife did not allow him to smoke in the
house. There was a current rumor in the Port that somebody had seen
two persons get into a boat, and push off about nine o’clock in the
evening; but Mr. Birch did not find this person till nine o’clock. It
was a man who caught fish for the hotels, and often came in late at
night. His name was Josiah Hubbard, and the patient inquirer was quite
sure this man would give him a clew to the mysterious stranger.
“Hubbard, they say you were on the beach here the night of the murder,”
began the lawyer.
“Yes, sir; that’s so. I was there, and I told Dr. Bilks I was there,”
replied the man, who apparently did not mean to have it appear that he
had attempted to conceal his knowledge.
“Did you, indeed!” exclaimed Birch, disgusted with this acknowledgment.
“I did; and I was ready to go on the stand and tell ’em all I knowed
about it. ’Twan’t much; but I don’t want to keep nothin’ back. I did
see them men, and I jest as lief tell you on’t as the next man.”
“What time was it?”
“Well, it was hard on to nine o’clock, I should say.”
“Did you know either of the men?”
“I cal’late I did.”
“Was either of them Mr. Buckstone? Did you know Mr. Buckstone?”
“I cal’late I did; he went down a fishing with me times enough for me
to know him.”
“Was either of them Mr. Buckstone?” asked Birch, with no little
eagerness.
“I cal’late one on ’em was Mr. Buckstone.”
“Could you swear to it?”
“I cal’late I shouldn’t want to swear to it, exactly; but I hain’t much
more doubt on’t than I had o’ t’other man--Mr. Birch. I don’t reckon
you’ll want me to swear to’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, Mr. Birch, you ’n’ I hes allers been good friends. When you
boarded to the Bell River, you did me one or two good turns, and I
ain’t the man to forgit a favor. I kind o’ kept out of the way, and
didn’t say much about what I’d seen, ’cause I thought ’twouldn’t do you
no good.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I cal’late you know what I mean, Mr. Birch,” said Hubbard, with
an expressive grin.
“Who was the man with Buckstone?” asked Birch, as a matter of form, for
he knew what the answer would be, and was satisfied that Dr. Bilks had
already tampered with the man.
“I cal’late ’twas you, Mr. Birch.”
“You saw me?”
The man “cal’lated” that he did see him; that he knew him; was
perfectly satisfied, at the time, that Mr. Birch was the person with
Buckstone. It was not an afterthought; it was not something which Dr.
Bilks had put into his head; he “knowed it all along.”
“Hubbard, has Dr. Bilks given you any money?”
“Not the first cent!”
“If he has, I am willing to give you twice as much more.”
“Do you think I would lie for money, Mr. Birch?” demanded the
fisherman, indignantly.
“I don’t believe you would, Hubbard. I want the truth. If you know
anything which you haven’t told, you ought to let it out. If any one
has paid you to keep back the truth, or any part of it----”
“No one has paid me a red cent, Mr. Birch,” protested Hubbard, who
doubtless intended to tell the truth.
Mr. Richard Birch believed in the truth; but he was willing to
neutralize the cupidity of base men by paying more for the truth than
his enemies would for lies. So far he was content to “fight the devil
with his own weapons”--no farther. He knew that testimony thus obtained
was worth nothing in a court of justice; but he hoped thereby to obtain
a clew which would enable him to unravel the tangled skein, and obtain
reliable evidence.
He questioned Hubbard with the utmost minuteness in regard to his
interview with Dr. Bilks; but the fisherman still persisted that he
knew the stranger was Mr. Birch before the doctor said a word to him.
It was possible. They were both of the same height. Both wore light
spring overcoats in the evening and on cool days. Hubbard might be
perfectly honest, but it was more than probable that his opinion had
been fortified by Dr. Bilks’s carefully-made suggestions.
Mr. Birch left the fisherman, almost prepared to believe that he was
himself the “stranger;” that he had been with Buckstone just before the
murder. The man was very positive, but he hoped Mr. Birch would not
be injured by the truth. He didn’t want any man’s money when he did
not earn it. If Mr. Birch had got into any “scrape,” he was sorry for
it, and was willing to do anything he could to help him out, but he
wouldn’t lie on the stand.
Hubbard was a hard customer, in popular parlance. What he believed, he
believed with all his might. He would do anything in reason to help a
friend out of trouble; but his “nateral” conscience would not let him
go on the stand and tell what was not true. Dick Birch left him with a
higher respect for his integrity than he had ever entertained before,
though it was none the less evident that the fisherman was mistaken. He
was not willing to swear that the stranger was Mr. Birch, but to the
best of his knowledge and belief such was the fact.
As the lawyer walked through the principal street of the Port, he saw
a light in the office of Dr. Bilks. He had done all he could do that
night on the beach, and round the streets, and he was disposed to look
into the eye of the doctor, and to hear what he had to say. He entered
without the preliminary of ringing or knocking. Dr. Bilks sat in his
easy chair reading, not The Lancet, but the last new novel. He jumped
out of his chair when Mr. Birch entered, and walked towards him with
extended hand.
“I am glad to see you, Birch,” exclaimed he, heartily. “I was afraid I
shouldn’t see you again.”
“Why were you afraid of that?” demanded Dick, coldly enough, but as
warmly as he could speak to such a man.
“Because, for some inexplicable reason, you seem to have raised your
back against me,” replied the doctor, with an injured air. “But I am
glad to see you. Have a cigar? they are not your favorite brand, but
they are the best I have.”
“I was not aware that I had raised my back against you in any manner to
which you could take exception,” answered Dick, as he lighted the cigar.
“But what an infernal scorching you gave me in the court this morning!”
exclaimed the doctor, laughing.
“That was merely professional. The blue pill you gave me a month ago
was not pleasant to take, but I didn’t blame you.”
“But the point on which you drove me to the wall was of no importance.
I never felt so bad before in my life. I had forgotten all about this
affair at the Settlement, and to save my life, I couldn’t call up a
single circumstance, except what was strictly professional. You placed
me in an awkward position; and I came very near fainting away under
it.”
“I am sorry you suffered so much, doctor.”
“I did suffer a great deal. When a man means to tell the whole truth,
and is trying to do it, it is hard to be driven up on points of no
consequence.”
“I did not regard the point as of no consequence.”
“Birch, you and I have been the best of friends since I came to
Poppleton. Your influence gave me a position at once, and I am very
grateful to you for all you did. But, Birch, you placed me in the
ugliest situation I ever was in, to-day. I don’t think it was the
least matter to you or to the court who or what my patient was. I
feel aggrieved by what you did. You made me appear ridiculous, if not
untruthful.”
Dr. Bilks looked hurt and indignant. He acted like a man who had been
injured by his best friend.
“Doctor, I have only one face. We will not quarrel,” said Dick.
“We will not; but I think it is no more that just that you should
explain your extraordinary conduct. Let us be frank and candid, as
between friend and friend.”
“I will, with all my heart,” said Birch, who found it practically
impossible to conceal himself, even from the man he regarded as his
enemy.
“I assure you that no amount of candor would offend me. Keep nothing
back, Birch!”
“I shall not. Dr. Bilks; you have taken a great deal of pains to make
it appear that I am the person who was with Blackstone on the night he
was murdered.”
“I deny it; I have taken no pains to do so.”
“You mentioned my name to Ross.”
“I did.”
“And to Hubbard.”
“I did not. He was sure you were the person.”
“Was he sure without any suggestion from you?”
“He was; his first remark to me was to the effect that the person with
Buckstone looked like Mr. Birch.”
“Did you do anything to lead him away from this conclusion?”
“I did not. I will be as candid as I wish you to be. I could not do
anything to lead him away from such a conclusion, Birch. I believe you
were the person.”
“You do!”
“Just as firmly and conscientiously as I believe that Ross killed
Buckstone.”
“Do you wish to believe it?”
“No; I have tried with all my might to believe you were not the person.
The evidence is too strong for my mind. Ross and Hubbard are confident;
and your reasons for being there are sufficiently apparent. There was
not a man in Poppleton who had any business with Buckstone, except Mr.
Hungerford and yourself,” said the doctor, earnestly.
“But I have sworn that I was not the person.”
“That is where you made the greatest mistake of your life.”
“Then you believe me guilty of perjury,” added Dick, calmly.
“I have nothing to say about that. My belief is not a matter of choice.
I believe that Bell River runs down hill; and I believe it because I
can’t help it.”
“In your eye I am perjured?”
“Don’t worry me with hard names; don’t ask me to condemn you. I
will not. I cannot see why you should be so anxious to conceal your
interview with Buckstone.”
“Do you think I helped murder him?”
“God forbid! Of course I do not.”
“Can you conceive of any motive I should have for concealing the fact,
if it were a fact, that I was with Buckstone?”
“I cannot.”
“If you believe I was the person now popularly known as the
‘stranger,’ you must think I have some strong motive for denying what
you believe.”
“There must be some motive: it is not apparent yet. I believe in the
truth; and I am confident that the truth will come out. It will be
proved that you were with Buckstone, and your motive for denying it
will also be proved. I am satisfied on this point. Now, Mr. Birch, I
claim to be your friend. You will do me the justice to say that I have
not been forward in bringing out anything to your disadvantage.”
“Did you suggest to Hungerford that I might be trying to get half a
million with Julia by preventing his marriage?”
“Such a thought occurred to me; and you virtually owned up on the stand
this forenoon.”
“I think not,” replied Dick, indignantly.
“Be that as it may, you will readily perceive that the thought which
came to my mind was a general opinion in the community; otherwise, it
would not have occurred to Mr. Lowe.”
Dick Birch had no suspicion of what had been written on the paper
passed to Mr. Lowe during the examination. Dr. Bilks had reclaimed
the paper, and suggested to the attorney that his position might be
compromised by this honest endeavor on his part to have the whole naked
truth presented to the court. Mr. Lowe saw the point, and promised to
be silent.
“Never mind that, doctor,” said Birch. “What would you, as a friend,
advise me to do?”
“Tell the truth, by all means.”
“Acknowledge that I was on the island, whether I was or was not.”
“I think there can be no doubt that you were there.”
“I still deny the fact; but grant that I was there, as you say you
believe.”
“I trust you do not believe me capable of any insincerity. I do believe
you were there.”
“Never mind that--pass the minor points. You advise me to acknowledge
that I was with Buckstone.”
“Certainly.”
“What then?”
“You are a lawyer; you know best. My impression was, and still is, that
you were on The Great Bell that night for a good purpose. As you did
not give information to the authorities of the murder, as you did not
seem to know that a murder had been committed,--for I carried the first
intelligence to Pine Hill,--I concluded that, when Buckstone went up to
see Ross, you pulled over the channel, and went home.”
“And left Buckstone to be murdered by Mary’s savage brother, or at
least to remain on the island all night?” said Dick, with a sneer.
“I confess it did not look reasonable that you would do so.”
“No man would do so.”
“You know best.”
“In your opinion, I went home, leaving my companion to take care of
himself, and not even asking a question about him until eleven o’clock
the next day!”
“Of course I know nothing of particulars. I know only what is proved.”
“It would be more reasonable to suppose that I remained; that I saw the
murder; that I saw Buckstone hurled over the cliff into the sea; that I
knew it all, and then held my tongue.”
“Ross was your friend--perhaps for his sake you did so; you know best.
If you did, it was a mistaken policy. I advise you, if this was the
case, to tell the whole truth.”
“It might be made to appear that I was an accessory, either before or
after the fact.”
“If you would tell me the whole truth, I could advise you better
what to do. If your complicity in the affair endangers you, I should
recommend you as a friend, though not as a stern lover of justice, to
leave Poppleton--leave the country.”
“I do not ask for any advice. I only desired to obtain your views.”
“I am afraid, Mr. Birch, that you are more deeply implicated than any
one yet suspects--you know best. If I can do anything to serve you, I
will do it with pleasure.”
“I thank you for your exalted opinion of my character!”
“I regard you as a first-rate fellow, and the worst I fear is, that
your zeal to serve your friend Hungerford has led you into a blunder,
if nothing worse.”
“Thank you, doctor. Let me say once more that I was _not_ the stranger.”
“I am sorry you still think it necessary to deny the fact.”
“Dr. Bilks,” said Dick Birch, jumping out of his chair, and throwing
away his cigar, “you are either the most deeply injured man in the
world, or you are the most infernal scoundrel that goes unhung.”
“Then I have been more deeply injured, in your estimation, than I
supposed I had,” replied the doctor, meekly.
“Do you expect to prove that I was the stranger?”
“I think it will be proved--my general belief in the omnipotence of
truth leads me to this conclusion.”
“Now, doctor, suppose we change the issue: my general belief in the
omnipotence of truth leads me to the conclusion that _you_ will be
proved to be the stranger.”
Even the slight change which came over the face of Dr. Bilks was not
unnoticed by Birch. He smiled, looked injured, and pronounced the
conclusion a most unwarrantable one.
“Will you be as candid with me as I have been with you? On what grounds
do you charge me?”
“Can you prove to me where you were from nine till two on that night?”
“I have already testified on that point.”
“And your testimony was not worth a brass farthing Do you expect me,
or any one, to believe this ridiculous story about the baby?”
“I certainly do.”
“What became of the baby?”
“How should I know?”
“Did you report its birth and death to the town clerk?”
“I did--you will find the record of a still-born infant, if you look;
though this is no part of my duty by law. I knew the child would not
live when I left it.”
“Could you induce Sandy McGuire to point out the place where the child
was buried?”
“Undoubtedly I could, and I will do so.”
“Do you know?”
“I do not. Sandy McGuire is an ignorant man, and is probably afraid
that he has done something wrong. I am not surprised that he would not
tell you.”
It was midnight when Mr. Birch left the doctor’s office, satisfied that
he had not made a single point. Even in the matter of Dr. Bilks’s baby,
it certainly looked as though the author of the myth would be able to
establish the truth of all he said. Dick was discouraged. He did not
sleep any that night; he lay tossing upon his bed, thinking of his own
doubtful position before the community.