"HANGING EVIDENCE"
Isobel came into the room and approached the chair from which I had
arisen. In her plain morning frock, with the sun bringing out those
wonderful russet tints in her hair, but having that frightened look
still in her eyes, she had never seemed more beautiful. Yet I saw as I
rose to greet her that she was laboring under the influence of
dangerous nervous excitement.
"You are worried about Eric?" I said, when we had exchanged those
rather formal greetings in which I think we took mutual shelter.
Certainly I did, and later I was to know that Isobel did so, too.
"Every day seems to make the case grow blacker against him," she
replied, sinking down upon the settee beside me.
And indeed the shadow which had fallen upon all of us seemed at that
moment almost palpable--a thing to be felt like the darkness of Egypt
and not to be dispelled even by the brightness of the morning.
"When did you last see Coverly?"
Isobel raised her head wearily.
"Last night, and he seemed to think that some one was following him--a
detective."
I noticed that Isobel spoke of Eric Coverly with a certain manner of
restraint for which I could not account. Yet perhaps it was only
natural that she should do so, but at the time I was foolishly blind
to the opposing emotions which fought and conflicted within her.
"He still refused to explain his movements on the night of the
murder?" I asked.
"Yes, he persisted in his extraordinary silence," said Isobel.
The look of trouble in her eyes grew more acute.
"What I cannot understand is a sort of attitude of resentment which he
has lately adopted."
"Of resentment? Towards whom?"
"Towards _me_."
"But--"
"Oh, it's quite incomprehensible, Jack, and it is making me horribly
unhappy. He complained so bitterly too about this police surveillance
to which he is subjected. He realizes that the coroner is almost
certain to put a wrong construction on his silence, but instead of
being frank about it he adopts, even when alone with me, this
incomprehensible attitude of resentment. In fact his behavior almost
suggests that _I_ am responsible for his present misfortunes."
"He must be mad," I said, and I expect I spoke bitterly, for Isobel
lowered her eyes and her face flushed with embarrassment.
"Don't think that I condemn him," I added hastily, "but really in
justice to you, if not in order to clear his own good name, he should
speak out at once. Are you expecting to see him to-day?"
Isobel nodded.
"I am expecting him at almost any moment," she replied; then glancing
aside at a number of daily papers which lay littered upon the floor
beside the settee: "Of course you have seen what the press has to say
about it?" she added.
I nodded.
"What can you expect?" said I. "It is one of those cases in which
practically all the evidence, although it is of a purely
circumstantial nature, points to an innocent man as the culprit. I
feel very keenly annoyed with Coverly, for not only is he involving
both of you in a most unsavory case but he is also hindering the work
of justice. In fact by his inexplicable silence he is, although no
doubt unconsciously, affording the murderer time to elude the law."
Even as I spoke the words I heard a cab draw up in the street below,
and glancing out of the window, I saw Coverly alight from the cab, pay
the man and enter the doorway. His bearing was oddly furtive, that, as
I thought with a sudden pang, of a fugitive. A few moments later he
came into the room and his expression when he found me there was one
of marked hostility.
Eric Coverly bore no resemblance whatever to the deceased baronet from
whom he inherited the title, belonging as he did to quite another
branch of the family. Whereas Sir Marcus had been of a dark and sallow
type, Eric Coverly was one of those fair, fresh-colored, open-air
English types, handsome in an undistinguished way, and as a rule of a
light and careless disposition. There had never been any very close
sympathy between us, for the studies to which I devoted so much time
were by him regarded as frankly laughable absurdities. Although well
enough informed, he was typical of his class, and no one could justly
have catalogued him as an intellectual.
"Good morning, Addison," he said, having greeted Isobel in a
perfunctory fashion which I assumed to be accounted for by my
unwelcome presence. "The men of your Fleet Street tribe have conspired
to hang me, I see."
"Don't talk nonsense, Coverly," I said bruskly; "this misapprehension
is bound to arise if you decline to give any account of your
movements."
"But it is an outrage!" cried Coverly hotly. "What the devil do _I_
know about Marcus's death?"
"I am perfectly convinced that you know nothing whatever; but then I
have known you for many years. The 'Fleet Street tribe' to whom you
refer merely regard you as a unit of our rather large population. In a
case of this kind, Coverly, all men are equal."
Whilst I had been delivering myself of this somewhat priggish
speech--designed, I may add, in self-defense, to spur Coverly to a
rejoinder which might throw some light upon the mystery--he had
regarded me with an expression of ever increasing dislike. I noted
that there were shadows under his eyes, and that he was in a highly
nervous and excited condition. He had slept but little I judged during
the last forty-eight hours and had possibly had recourse to stimulants
to enable him to face the new trials which arose with every day.
"I don't feel called upon," he said angrily, "to give an account of my
movements to every policeman who cares to inquire. I know nothing
whatever about the matter. I have said so, and I am not accustomed to
have my word doubted."
"My dear Coverly," said I, "you must be perfectly well aware that
sooner or later you will have to relinquish this heroic pose. Will you
allow no one to advise you? You will have to answer the coroner, and
if you persist in this extraordinary refusal to give a simple answer
to a simple question, surely you realize that the matter will be
transferred to a higher tribunal?"
"Oh, I told you that they had hanged me in Fleet Street already,
Isobel!" cried Coverly, with a burst of unmirthful laughter.
But (and no man could have construed the thing favorably to Coverly)
to my anger and amazement he added:
"Let them do it! I'll speak if I choose, but not otherwise!"
That I was annoyed with the young fool already, my remarks to him,
which had transgressed every code of good taste, must sufficiently
have shown. But I had hoped to provoke him to a declaration which
would clear his name from the shadow which was settling darkly upon
it, and which would raise that shadow from the girl who stood beside
him, watching me with a sort of reproachful look in her dark eyes.
Now I recognized that I could remain no longer and keep the peace,
therefore:
"Perhaps it is time that I went about my own business," I said,
conjuring up a smile, although it must have been a dreary one, "and
ceased to interfere with the affairs of other people. Good-by, Isobel.
Anything I can do, you know you may command. Good-by, Coverly. I am
deeply sorry about this business."
He barely touched my extended hand, but instantly turned and walked to
the bay window. Descending to the street, I had immediate confirmation
of Coverly's statement that his movements were watched.
In the porch below a man stood talking to the hall-porter. As I
appeared he immediately averted his face and began to light a
cigarette. Nevertheless I had had time to recognize him as the man who
had brought Gatton news of Marie's detention.
It was in a truly perturbed frame of mind that I proceeded on my way
to the _Planet_ offices. I would have sacrificed much to have been
afforded means to comfort Isobel; a furious anger towards the man who
thus deliberately had brought doubt and unhappiness upon her had taken
up permanent quarters in my mind. I counted Coverly's declination to
clear himself little better than the attitude of a cad.
I read religiously through a pile of cuttings bearing upon the case,
and found the unmistakable trend of opinion to be directed towards
Coverly as the culprit. The use made of Isobel's name enraged me to
boiling point and I presently took up the entire bundle of cuttings
and crammed them into a waste-paper basket. I was engaged in stamping
them down with my foot when I was called to the telephone.
Inspector Gatton was speaking from New Scotland Yard; and his voice
was very grave.
"Can you possibly come along at once?" he asked. "There is a new
development; a most unpleasant one."
He would say no more over the telephone. Therefore I hurried out to
where Coates was waiting, and in ten minutes found myself in one of
those bare, comfortless apartments which characterize the headquarters
of the Metropolitan Police Force.
With his hat off Gatton looked more like a seaman than ever, for he
had short, crisply curly hair and that kind of bull-dog line of
cranium which one associates with members of the senior service. Upon
a chair set in a recess formed by one of the lofty windows a leather
grip rested. It was wet and stained, and had palpably been recovered
but recently from the water. Seeing my glance straying towards this
object at the moment of my entrance, the Inspector nodded.
"Yes," said he, "it has just come in."
"What is it?"
"Well," replied Gatton, sitting upon a corner of the table and folding
his arms, "it is a piece of evidence sufficient to hang the most
innocent man breathing."
He eyed me in a significant manner and I felt my heart beginning to
beat more rapidly.
"May I know the particulars?"
"Certainly. I asked you to come along for the purpose of telling you.
Sir Eric Coverly's refusal to answer the questions put to him had
necessitated his being watched, as you know. I mean to say, it's
sheerly automatic; the Commissioner himself couldn't make an
exception. Well, last night he left his chambers and started for Miss
Merlin's flat. He came out of a back door and went along a narrow
passage, instead of going out at the front. He evidently thought he
had got away unobserved. He was carrying--that."
"Good heavens!" I said. "The young fool seems determined to put a rope
around his own neck."
"As a matter of fact," continued Gatton, "he was _not_ unobserved. He
was followed right across St. James's Park. By the lake he lingered
for some time; and the man tracking him kept carefully out of sight,
of course. There was nobody else about at the moment, and presently,
thinking himself safe, Coverly dropped his bag in the water!
Immediately he set off walking rapidly again, and he was followed
right to Miss Merlin's door. But the spot where he had dropped the bag
had been marked, of course, and when I came in here to-day it had been
fished, up--and placed there for my inspection."
With ever-growing misgivings:
"What does it contain?" I asked.
Inspector Gatton walked across to the chair and threw the bag open.
First he took out several lumps of wet coal.
"To weight it, of course," he said.
Then one by one he withdrew from the clammy interior a series of
ragged garments, the garments of a tramp. A pair of heavy boots there
were, a pair of patched trousers and an old shabby coat, a greasy cap,
and finally a threadbare red muffler!
Gatton looked hard at me.
"He will have to break his obstinate silence now," he said. "Failing
our discovery of new clews pointing in another direction, this is
hanging evidence!"
"It is maddening!" I cried. "Can nothing be done, Gatton? Is there no
possible line of inquiry hitherto neglected which might lead to the
discovery of the truth? For whatever your own ideas may be, personally
I am certain that Coverly is innocent."
Gatton replaced the sodden garments one by one in the bag, frowning as
he did so, and:
"It occurred to me this morning," he replied, "that there _is_ one
inquiry which in justice to the suspected man and in order to round
off the investigation, should be instituted. I'm afraid Coverly will
have a bad time in the Coroner's court, but it is even possible that
something might be done before the inquest. Now--"
He looked at me quizzically, and:
"Knowing your keen personal interest in the case, I am going to make a
suggestion. It is probably going outside the intentions of the chief
in regard to your share of the inquiry, but I'll risk that. I
stipulate, however, that anything you learn is to be communicated
direct to me, not to the _Planet_. Is this arrangement consistent with
your journalistic conscience?"
"Quite," I said eagerly; "my contributions to the _Planet_ are always
subject, of course, to your censorship. What is it that you propose I
should do?"
"This," said Gatton tersely; "I should like to know under what
circumstances Mr. Roger Coverly died."
"Roger Coverly?" I echoed.
"The son of Sir Burnham Coverly," continued Gatton, "and therefore the
direct heir to the title. He died somewhere abroad about five or six
years ago, and as a result the late Sir Marcus inherited the baronetcy
on the death of his uncle, Sir Burnham. You will remember that the
man, Morris, spoke of the ill-feeling existing between Lady Burnham
Coverly and Sir Marcus, because of the premature death of her own son,
of course."
"I follow you," I said eagerly. "You suggest that I should go down to
Friar's Park and interview Lady Burnham Coverly?"
"Exactly," replied Gatton. "It's very irregular, of course, but I know
you well enough to take my chance of a carpeting. I may send a C.I.D.
man down as well. I've too much to do in town to think of going
myself; but I will advise you of any such step."
The motive underlying Inspector Gatton's suggestion was perfectly
evident to me and I experienced a feeling of gratitude for the
humanity which directed it. I held out my hand, and:
"Thanks, Gatton," I said; "you can leave the matter in my care with
every confidence. I will start for Friar's Park to-day."
"Good," replied Gatton. "Let me give you a hint. Take a good pistol
with you!"