But the newspapers were premature. Scotland Yard refused to prejudice the
case despite the penny-a-liners. Several arrests were made, so that the
later editions were compelled to soften "Suicide" into "Mystery." The
people arrested were a nondescript collection of tramps. Most of them had
committed other offences for which the police had not arrested them. One
bewildered-looking gentleman gave himself up (as if he were a riddle),
but the police would have none of him, and restored him forthwith to his
friends and keepers. The number of candidates for each new opening in
Newgate is astonishing.
The full significance of this tragedy of a noble young life cut short
had hardly time to filter into the public mind, when a fresh sensation
absorbed it. Tom Mortlake had been arrested the same day at Liverpool on
suspicion of being concerned in the death of his fellow-lodger. The news
fell like a bombshell upon a land in which Tom Mortlake's name was a
household word. That the gifted artisan orator, who had never shrunk upon
occasion from launching red rhetoric at society, should actually have
shed blood seemed too startling, especially as the blood shed was not
blue, but the property of a lovable young middle-class idealist, who had
now literally given his life to the Cause. But this supplementary
sensation did not grow to a head, and everybody (save a few labour
leaders) was relieved to hear that Tom had been released almost
immediately, being merely subpoenaed to appear at the inquest. In an
interview which he accorded to the representative of a Liverpool paper
the same afternoon, he stated that he put his arrest down entirely to the
enmity and rancour entertained towards him by the police throughout the
country. He had come to Liverpool to trace the movements of a friend
about whom he was very uneasy, and he was making anxious inquiries at the
docks to discover at what times steamers left for America, when the
detectives stationed there had, in accordance with instructions from
headquarters, arrested him as a suspicious-looking character. "Though,"
said Tom, "they must very well have known my phiz, as I have been
sketched and caricatured all over the shop. When I told them who I was
they had the decency to let me go. They thought they'd scored off me
enough, I reckon. Yes, it certainly _is_ a strange coincidence that I
might actually have had something to do with the poor fellow's death,
which has cut me up as much as anybody; though if they had known I had
just come from the 'scene of the crime,' and actually lived in the house,
they would probably have--let me alone." He laughed sarcastically. "They
are a queer lot of muddle-heads, are the police. Their motto is, 'First
catch your man, then cook the evidence.' If you're on the spot you're
guilty because you're there, and if you're elsewhere you're guilty
because you have gone away. Oh, I know them! If they could have seen
their way to clap me in quod, they'd ha' done it. Luckily I know the
number of the cabman who took me to Euston before five this morning."
"If they clapped you in quod," the interviewer reported himself as
facetiously observing, "the prisoners would be on strike in a week."
"Yes, but there would be so many blacklegs ready to take their places,"
Mortlake flashed back, "that I'm afraid it 'ould be no go. But do excuse
me. I am so upset about my friend. I'm afraid he has left England, and I
have to make inquiries; and now there's poor Constant gone--horrible!
horrible! and I'm due in London at the inquest. I must really run away.
Good-by. Tell your readers it's all a police grudge."
"One last word, Mr. Mortlake, if you please. Is it true that you were
billed to preside at a great meeting of clerks at St. James's Hall
between one and two to-day to protest against the German invasion?"
"Whew! so I was. But the beggars arrested me just before one, when I was
going to wire, and then the news of poor Constant's end drove it out of
my head. What a nuisance! Lord, how troubles do come together! Well,
good-by, send me a copy of the paper."
Tom Mortlake's evidence at the inquest added little beyond this to the
public knowledge of his movements on the morning of the Mystery. The
cabman who drove him to Euston had written indignantly to the papers to
say that he picked up his celebrated fare at Bow Railway Station at about
half-past four A.M., and the arrest was a deliberate insult to democracy,
and he offered to make an affidavit to that effect, leaving it dubious to
which effect. But Scotland Yard betrayed no itch for the affidavit in
question, and No. 2138 subsided again into the obscurity of his rank.
Mortlake--whose face was very pale below the black mane brushed back from
his fine forehead--gave his evidence in low, sympathetic tones. He had
known the deceased for over a year, coming constantly across him in their
common political and social work, and had found the furnished rooms for
him in Glover Street at his own request, they just being to let when
Constant resolved to leave his rooms at Oxford House in Bethnal Green,
and to share the actual life of the people. The locality suited the
deceased, as being near the People's Palace. He respected and admired
the deceased, whose genuine goodness had won all hearts. The deceased
was an untiring worker; never grumbled, was always in fair spirits,
regarded his life and wealth as a sacred trust to be used for the benefit
of humanity. He had last seen him at a quarter past nine P.M. on the
day preceding his death. He (witness) had received a letter by the last
post which made him uneasy about a friend. He went up to consult deceased
about it. Deceased was evidently suffering from toothache, and was fixing
a piece of cotton-wool in a hollow tooth, but he did not complain.
Deceased seemed rather upset by the news he brought, and they both
discussed it rather excitedly.
By a JURYMAN: Did the news concern him?
MORTLAKE: Only impersonally. He knew my friend, and was keenly
sympathetic when one was in trouble.
CORONER: Could you show the jury the letter you received?
MORTLAKE: I have mislaid it, and cannot make out where it has got to. If
you, sir, think it relevant or essential, I will state what the trouble
was.
CORONER: Was the toothache very violent?
MORTLAKE: I cannot tell. I think not, though he told me it had disturbed
his rest the night before.
CORONER: What time did you leave him?
MORTLAKE: About twenty to ten.
CORONER: And what did you do then?
MORTLAKE: I went out for an hour or so to make some inquiries. Then I
returned, and told my landlady I should be leaving by an early train
for--for the country.
CORONER: And that was the last you saw of the deceased?
MORTLAKE (with emotion): The last.
CORONER: How was he when you left him?
MORTLAKE: Mainly concerned about my trouble.
CORONER: Otherwise you saw nothing unusual about him?
MORTLAKE: Nothing.
CORONER: What time did you leave the house on Tuesday morning?
MORTLAKE: At about five-and-twenty minutes past four.
CORONER: Are you sure that you shut the street door?
MORTLAKE: Quite sure. Knowing my landlady was rather a timid person, I
even slipped the bolt of the big lock, which was usually tied back. It
was impossible for any one to get in, even with a latch-key.
Mrs. Drabdump's evidence (which, of course, preceded his) was more
important, and occupied a considerable time, unduly eked out by
Drabdumpian padding. Thus she not only deposed that Mr. Constant had the
toothache, but that it was going to last about a week; in tragi-comic
indifference to the radical cure that had been effected. Her account of
the last hours of the deceased tallied with Mortlake's, only that she
feared Mortlake was quarrelling with him over something in the letter
that came by the nine o'clock post. Deceased had left the house a little
after Mortlake, but had returned before him, and had gone straight to
his bedroom. She had not actually seen him come in, having been in the
kitchen, but she heard his latch-key, followed by his light step up the
stairs.
A JURYMAN: How do you know it was not somebody else? (_Sensation, of
which the juryman tries to look unconscious_.)
WITNESS: He called down to me over the banisters, and says in his
sweetish voice, "Be hextra sure to wake me at a quarter to seven, Mrs.
Drabdump, or else I shan't get to my tram meeting." (_Juryman
collapses_.)
CORONER: And did you wake him?
MRS. DRABDUMP (breaking down): Oh, my lud, how can you ask?
CORONER: There, there, compose yourself. I mean did you try to wake him?
MRS. DRABDUMP: I have taken in and done for lodgers this seventeen years,
my lud, and have always gave satisfaction; and Mr. Mortlake, he wouldn't
ha' recommended me otherwise, though I wish to Heaven the poor gentleman
had never--
CORONER: Yes, yes, of course. You tried to rouse him?
But it was some time before Mrs. Drabdump was sufficiently calm to
explain that, though she had overslept herself, and though it would have
been all the same anyhow, she _had_ come up to time. Bit by bit the
tragic story was forced from her lips--a tragedy that even her telling
could not make tawdry. She told with superfluous detail how--when Mr.
Grodman broke in the door--she saw her unhappy gentleman-lodger lying on
his back in bed, stone dead, with a gaping red wound in his throat; how
her stronger-minded companion calmed her a little by spreading a
handkerchief over the distorted face; how they then looked vainly about
and under the bed for any instrument by which the deed could have been
done, the veteran detective carefully making a rapid inventory of the
contents of the room, and taking notes of the precise position and
condition of the body before anything was disturbed by the arrival of
gapers or bunglers; how she had pointed out to him that both the windows
were firmly bolted to keep out the cold night air; how, having noted this
down with a puzzled, pitying shake of the head, he had opened the window
to summon the police, and espied in the fog one Denzil Cantercot, whom he
called, and told to run to the nearest police-station and ask them to
send on an inspector and a surgeon; how they both remained in the room
till the police arrived, Grodman pondering deeply the while and making
notes every now and again, as fresh points occurred to him, and asking
her questions about the poor, weak-headed young man. Pressed as to what
she meant by calling the deceased "weak-headed," she replied that some of
her neighbours wrote him begging letters, though, Heaven knew, they were
better off than herself, who had to scrape her fingers to the bone for
every penny she earned. Under further pressure from Mr. Talbot, who was
watching the inquiry on behalf of Arthur Constant's family, Mrs. Drabdump
admitted that the deceased had behaved like a human being, nor was there
anything externally eccentric or queer in his conduct. He was always
cheerful and pleasant spoken, though certainly soft--God rest his soul.
No; he never shaved, but wore all the hair that Heaven had given him.
By a JURYMAN: She thought deceased was in the habit of locking his door
when he went to bed. Of course, she couldn't say for certain. (Laughter.)
There was no need to bolt the door as well. The bolt slid upwards, and
was at the top of the door. When she first let lodgings, her reasons for
which she seemed anxious to publish, there had only been a bolt, but a
suspicious lodger, she would not call him a gentleman, had complained
that he could not fasten his door behind him, and so she had been put to
the expense of having a lock made. The complaining lodger went off soon
after without paying his rent. (Laughter.) She had always known he would.
The CORONER: Was deceased at all nervous?