“It would be difficult, I think, for any one who was not present at
that memorable inquest to have the least idea of the sensation which
its varied and dramatic incidents caused among the crowd of spectators
there.
“At first the proceedings were of the usual kind. The medical officer
gave his testimony as to the cause of death; for this was, of course,
not in dispute. The stiletto was produced; it was of an antique and
foreign pattern, probably of Eastern or else Spanish origin. In
England, it could only have been purchased at some _bric-à-brac_ shop.
“Then it was the turn of the servants at Grosvenor Square, of the
cabman, and of the commissionaire. Lord Tremarn’s evidence, which he
had sworn to on his sickbed, was also read. It added nothing to the
known facts of the case, for he had last seen his favourite nephew
alive in the course of the afternoon preceding the latter’s tragic
end.
“After that the _employés_ of the Junior Grosvenor Club retold their
story, and they were the first to strike the note of sensation which
was afterwards raised to its highest possible pitch.
“Both of them, namely, were asked each in their turn to look round the
court and see if they could recognise the stranger who had called at
the club that memorable evening. Without the slightest hesitation,
both the hall-porter and the waiter pointed to Harold Le Cheminant,
who sat with his solicitor in the body of the court.
“But already an inkling of what was to come had gradually spread
through that crowded court—instinctively every one felt that behind
the apparent simplicity of this tragic case there lurked another
mystery more strange even than that murder in the hansom cab.
“Evidence was being taken as to the previous history of the deceased,
his first appearance in London, his relationship with his uncle, and
subsequently his enmity with his cousin Harold. At this point a man
was brought forward as a witness, who it was understood had
communicated with the police at the very last moment, offering to make
a statement which he thought would throw considerable light upon the
mysterious affair.
“He was a man of about fifty years of age, who looked like a very
seedy, superannuated clerk of some insurance office.
“He gave his name as Charles Collins, and said that he resided in
Caxton Road, Clapham.
“In a perfectly level tone of voice, he then explained that some three
years ago, his son William, who had always been idle and
good-for-nothing, had suddenly disappeared from home.
“‘We heard nothing of him for over two years,’ continued Charles
Collins, in that same cheerless and even voice which spoke of a
monotonous existence of ceaseless, patient grind, ‘but some few weeks
ago my daughter went up to the West End to see about an engagement—she
plays dance music at parties sometimes—when, in Regent Street, she
came face to face with her brother William. He was no longer wretched,
as we all are,’ added the old man pathetically, ‘he was dressed like a
swell, and when his sister spoke to him, he pretended not to know her.
But she’s a sharp girl, and guessed at once that there was something
strange there which William wished to hide. She followed him from a
distance, and never lost sight of him that day, until she saw him
about six o’clock in the evening go into one of the fine houses in
Grosvenor Square. Then she came home and told her mother and me all
about it.’
“I can assure you,” continued the man in the corner, “that you might
have heard a pin drop in that crowded court whilst the old man spoke.
That he was stating the truth no one doubted for a moment. The very
fact that he was brought forward as a witness showed that his story
had been proved, at any rate, to the satisfaction of the police.
“The Collinses seem to have been very simple, good-natured people. It
never struck any of them to interfere with William, who appeared, in
their own words, to have ‘bettered himself.’ They concluded that he
had obtained some sort of position in a rich family, and was now
ashamed of his poor relations at Clapham.
“Then one morning they read in the papers the story of the mysterious
murder in the hansom cab, together with a description of the victim,
who had not yet been identified. ‘William,’ they said with one accord.
Michael Collins, one of the younger sons, went up to London to view
the murdered man at the mortuary. There was no doubt whatever that it
was William, and yet all the papers persisted in saying that the
deceased was the heir to some grand peerage.
“‘So I wrote to the police,’ concluded Charles Collins, ‘and my wife
and children were all allowed to view the body, and we are all
prepared to swear that it is that of my son, William Collins, who was
no more heir to a peerage than your worship.’
“And mopping his forehead, with a large coloured handkerchief, the old
man stepped down from the box.
“Well, you may imagine what this bombshell was in the midst of that
coroner’s court. Everyone looked at his neighbour wondering if this
was real life, or some romantic play being acted on a stage. Amidst
indescribable excitement, various other members of the Collins’ family
corroborated the old man’s testimony, as did also one or two friends
from Clapham. All those who had been allowed to view the body of the
murdered man pronounced it without hesitation to be that of William
Collins, who had disappeared from home three years ago.
“You see, it was like a repetition of the Tichborne case, only with
this strange difference: This claimant was dead, but all his papers
were in perfect order, the certificate of marriage between Lucie
Legrand and Arthur Le Cheminant at Martinique, as well as the birth
and baptismal certificate of Philip Le Cheminant, their son. Yet there
were all those simple, honest folk swearing that the deceased had been
born in Clapham, and the mother, surely, could not have been mistaken.
“That is where the difference with the other noteworthy case came in,
for in this instance as far as the general public is concerned the
actual identity of the murdered man will always remain a matter of
doubt—Philip Le Cheminant or William Collins took that part of his
secret, at any rate, with him to his grave.”