THE MURDERER OF A DEAD WOMAN.
Since the day he was attacked, James Gobson had become ruder and more
brutal to his wife than before. Although he seemed to have been joking
when reproaching her for having set assassins on his track, the idea of
a trap laid by her had taken root in his mind, and, brave as he was, he
so feared that the attempt would be renewed that he no longer returned
to Jamaica Plain at night. When he had prolonged his stay at the club
he slept there, and did not return to the villa until daylight the next
day.
His first duty, on arriving home, was invariably to make a scene,
either with his servants or Mrs. Gobson; then, this duty of a drunkard
being accomplished, he would call on Charles Murray, of whom he had
made a confidant. The latter tried to calm him, but took such strange
means that Gobson always left him after such conversations filled with
greater hatred than ever toward Ada.
The day after the event which ends the preceding chapter, James
returned home towards three o’clock, and as usual called on his
neighbor, and talked about his wife in such a manner that Mr. Dow
answered:
“Such a life is a perfect purgatory; why do you not separate from Mrs.
Gobson? It would be better than any scandal, for certainly she will run
off some morning. Some fine evening, when you return home, you won’t
find her.”
“Separate from her? Is that possible?” growled the husband. “If I
thought she had any idea of flight, I swear she should not go out of my
house until she went with her feet foremost. There will be trouble yet.
Does she ever say anything in particular to you?”
“I have never been alone with her more than twice since we have been
acquainted, and you know she does not like me very well.”
“Of course not. You saved my life.”
“No, that is not the reason; but she knows that I have great friendship
for you. However, it is very evident that she has some plan in her
head. Have you not a relative or friend by the name of Davis?”
“Davis? No. Why?”
“I had reason to think so, for the other evening, when you had been
treating her rather badly, it must be confessed, I heard her murmur, as
she followed you about with her eyes: ‘And to think I had only to write
a word to Davis to put an end to it all.’”
“Davis? The wretch!”
This name, no doubt, had suddenly awakened terrible memories in
Gobson’s mind, for in uttering this exclamation he had become very pale
and had arisen.
“You will not betray me,” said Charles Murray. “Come, calm yourself. It
is of no use to be violent with women. You must use a little cunning,
and don’t let them surprise you. This Davis, or any other friend or
relative, matters little to you. No one could frighten you; you are
master in your own house. If I were in your place I should leave Mrs.
Gobson to live as she pleases; I would authorize her to amuse herself
as best suits her; I would even urge her to keep less secluded. It
would not need any more to satisfy her and restore peace to both of
you.”
“Yes, perhaps you are right,” answered James, with a visible effort to
master himself.
“And above all, I would not say anything to her. If you do, she will be
on her guard, and will play you some trick and do something rash. Do
you think we had better go and see her together?”
“No, indeed, not to-day, or to-morrow, probably. This evening I dine
at the club, and to-morrow we shall go to the races with a jolly
companion, who has lately joined us, Harris Burnett. Now, you know that
on the day of the races, there is a great banquet at Barker’s. After
to-morrow, in two or three days, we will see what is best to be done.
Meanwhile, since you will not come with us, preach to Ada, and if you
see anything promise to warn me.”
“I will not fail to do so.”
“And, then, you see, at heart I do not think her capable of playing me
a wicked trick. However, I know what I am about.”
James Gobson spoke these words in a peculiar tone, and the friends
having separated after this conversation, the drunken Gobson went to
Boston without even stopping to see his wife. The latter, however,
waited in vain for Charles Murray all the evening. The door between
the two villas remained closed, and she passed a terrible night,
not understanding why he had not come to see her. Mad with love and
despair, she did not fall asleep until late into the night, and the
next morning she hastily wrote a note, which she sent to her neighbor.
On reading this letter, Murray could not conceal a smile of triumph.
Ada, however, had written only these three lines, but no doubt did not
wish more:
Come, I beg you, I will tell you everything, I cannot live thus; I do
not wish Mr. Gobson to find me at Jamaica Plain to-morrow.
An hour later Charles Murray was warmly greeted by Mrs. Gobson.
“Ada,” he said, gently, “I do not wish to know your secrets; from
yourself, I wish only you; will you elope with me?”
“Will I?” answered the young woman with a joyful cry.
“Well, in the first place, your husband must be sent away for two or
three days, but he must certainly be sent away from Boston, for he
might come home from his club at any moment and suddenly surprise you
making preparations for departure. You know him well.”
“He would kill me; but how can I manage to send him away?”
“You must send him to some city away from Boston. Let me think. Has he
not some friends at Buffalo?”
“I don’t know of any.”
“Ah! I think I have found a plan. What were the names of those
magistrates who made such a foolish mistake in accusing your husband of
having murdered you?”
“Mortimer and Davis. The latter was the coroner in my district.”
Mrs. Gobson spoke these names with a blush and in a choking voice.
But her neighbor did not observe her emotion, and said:
“Coroner Davis, that is perfect. I have a plan; write down his name and
address for me that I may not forget it. Here, on this envelope.”
Murray took a tablet from the table and placed it on Miss Ada’s knees.
The latter tremblingly obeyed.
“Do you not understand me?” he asked.
“No,” she answered.
“It is very simple, however. I am going to get a friend of mine in
New York to write a letter to Mr. Gobson, in which Mr. Davis will be
supposed to have some information to ask of him.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” cried Ada, in terror.
“Why, what is there to fear? Absolutely nothing.”
But seeing Mrs. Gobson’s eyes look wild and her face terrified, he
continued gently:
“Well, let us think of something else--or rather we will think of
something this evening; calm yourself now.”
“Yes, this evening,” she repeated, questioning him with her eyes.
“But until then you must obey me.”
“Blindly.”
“You must take care to keep your servants out of the way; I don’t wish
to be betrayed by any of them.”
“The gardener has gone to the races and will not return. The cook is
ill, and I shall send my maid to the city.”
“Then stand near the garden-gate this evening at nine o’clock, and I
will come for you.”
“Give me one kiss,” entreated Mrs. Gobson.
Murray, who had arisen, lightly touched his lips to her forehead and
left her.
He remained only a few moments in his room, then went out and stepped
into a carriage standing at his door. An hour later he was in the
American House shaking hands with Saunders and Young, who had just
arrived.
The chief of detectives was still the same--friendly and gruff, and
talking, as usual, of arresting every one in the world.
William Dow asked after Mr. Kelly.
“I saw him yesterday,” answered the captain; “he was impatiently
waiting for you to keep your promise.”
“The elections will not take place for a fortnight; now, to-morrow
morning I hope all will be ended.”
In Saunders a great change had taken place, to his advantage. His love
had vanished, and in his heart remained only anger and humiliation
at having been duped. In physique he was wonderfully improved. His
complexion had recovered its freshness, and stout as he was he had even
gained flesh. It is useless to add that he was very affectionate to his
friend Dow, especially when he learned that the moment for vengeance
had come.
Toward six o’clock the travelers had dinner served in their room, and
the detective left them a moment to receive, in an adjoining parlor, a
visitor who had asked for him.
It was Harris Burnett.
“Well,” said William Dow, “where is our man?”
“He has lost much at the races, which has put him in a bad mood;
besides, he is half drunk,” answered Burnett.
“He must not get wholly drunk. Now listen to me attentively. At
half-past eleven, while it is still possible for Gobson to take the
train for Jamaica Plain, you must have one of the servants at the club
hand him this letter, telling him to answer; if he is asked who brought
it, say that it was a messenger. Keep near James when he reads it. He
will immediately leave Barker’s. If he begs you to accompany him you
will go with him; if he does not you must follow him home, and if he
closes his gate behind him you must enter mine, which you will find
open, and wait behind the little gate that connects his place and mine
until I call you. Have you understood me?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“Then return to Gobson quickly, lest he perceive your absence.”
Harris Burnett hastened back to the club, and William Dow rejoined
Young and Saunders at the table. At eight o’clock he gave the signal
for departure.
The three friends entered the carriage, and a few moments before nine
Dow introduced the chief of detectives and Saunders into his private
room on the ground floor of his house. There, after begging them to
wait with as much patience as they could, he left them alone and went
up to Miss Jane’s room. The young girl, still pale from her emotion of
the evening before, was with her teacher.
“My dear child,” said William to her, “I have come to beg you not to go
down to the garden this evening, and whatever sound you may hear not to
stir from your room.”
Jane turned a look upon her friend so full of anxious affection that he
continued:
“Fear nothing for me, I run no danger; but there is great need for you
to do what I wish. If I can accomplish, as I hope, the work that is
approaching an end, you yourself will thank me. I can count on you, can
I not, and you, Mrs. Wandright?”
The governess and her pupil, without asking a question, promised
immediately that they would not leave their room until he gave them
their liberty, and he left them, with an affectionate smile at Miss
Jane, feeling assured that his instructions would be strictly obeyed.
It had just struck nine. He ran to the gate and opened it. Prompt at
the rendezvous, Ada was waiting for him.
“Come,” he said to her, and taking her hand he led her to the hall
connecting with his room. Then, from there, without passing the
sleeping-room where Young and Saunders were standing, he took her
into the library. But the door of this room was hardly closed before
a horrible cry was heard--the cry of a woman mad with terror and
despair--and followed by the sound of some one falling to the floor.
Then groans, laments, and sobs followed one another, and silence again
filled that part of the villa so suddenly and strangely disturbed.
Two hours later William Dow and Young, carrying an inert body,
crossed the garden and ascended the stairs which led to Mrs. Gobson’s
rooms. Reaching her sleeping-room, they placed their burden on the
bed and withdrew. A few moments later they took the same path again,
accompanied this time by Saunders, who seemed deeply moved, and by a
woman enveloped in a large cloak, and who seemed hardly able to support
herself.
At the same moment a servant handed James Gobson, at Barker’s, a letter
which a messenger had just brought. Excited by losses and wine, Gobson
opened it angrily. It contained a note of two lines and an inclosed
letter. The note, signed Murray, was as follows:
This is what I have found on your door-step, and as this letter,
which you have lost, may be urgent I send it by a messenger.
“What does this mean?” asked James.
But, as he asked this question, he cast his eyes on the envelope, and
immediately became very pale. He read on this envelope, written in a
woman’s hand:
“Mr. Davis, coroner of the Saint Vincent district of New York.”
The letter, which he hastened to open, increased his fear still more;
for, without uttering a word, he sprang out of the room, ran down into
the street, and, after giving an address to the coachman, sprang into a
carriage.
He did not perceive that he was followed by Harris Burnett, who stood
a few steps away when the letter was handed him, and had kept him in
sight every moment.
Twenty minutes later, Gobson was driving hastily along the avenue, in
Jamaica Plain, but, when he reached his door, he stopped a moment. His
forehead was bathed with an icy sweat; his hideous face expressed an
implacable resolution, and he muttered, with a sinister smile:
“Oh! no, wretch, you shall not escape thus.”
All was silent in the villa, and the garden was enveloped in darkness.
When he recovered from his rapid drive, he noiselessly opened his
gate, slipped along the wall as far as his house, entered, and, owing
to the carpet which smothered his footsteps, he softly reached the
threshold of the door of his wife’s apartment. He held a revolver in
his hand; but, as he was about to cross the parlor, he said to himself:
“No, not thus; some one might hear,” and putting the pistol back in his
pocket, he armed himself with a short, stout dagger, without which he
had not gone out of the house since the attack of which he had nearly
become a victim.
The door that led from the parlor to the sleeping-room was open. He
soon reached it, and raising the portieres, and although the room
was lighted only by the soft, shaded light of an elaborate lamp, he
recognized Ada, who, lying in her bed, seemed to be in a profound
sleep. Her luxuriant hair rolled down over the lace alabaster-trimmed
pillows beneath her charming head, and one of her bare arms, ornamented
by one of those large gold bracelets with which she was so fond of
decking herself, was gracefully extended on the coverlet. Overcome by
fatigue, she had no doubt forgotten to divest herself of a part of her
jewels, for, from the spot where like a wild beast Gobson was devouring
his prey with glaring eyes, he saw the flash as of a fiery star of one
of the magnificent diamonds in her pretty ears, a present from Saunders.
The charming tableau was not of a nature to calm his revengeful
feelings. It seemed as if it roused his hatred, for, after a moment’s
hesitation, he sprang forward, and his dagger, with a thrust that
would have pierced the heart of his victim, struck her in the throat,
and the murderer whispered hoarsely:
“Now, Kitty Bell, you will not speak.”
But the wretch gave a frightful shriek, and bounded backward.
His weapon, he did not understand how, had met with resistance, and at
the bedside suddenly rose before his horrified gaze the figure of a
woman in Indian costume, which cried:
“Assassin! assassin! a second time!”
“Miss Ada,” screamed Gobson, at this terrible apparition, and with
affrighted eyes, foaming mouth, and convulsed features, his whole being
shuddering with horror and fear, he seized his pistol and fired at the
accusing phantom.
But his ball, badly aimed, struck the wall above the young woman’s
head, and the murderer had not time to repeat his homicidal attempt,
for, being immediately seized and disarmed by Young and Dow, who sprang
from behind the curtains where they had hidden themselves, he was soon
thrown upon the floor, and made powerless.
At the same moment a sob was heard.
Poor Saunders had thrown himself upon this waxen statue, the
faithful image of her he had so much loved, and he said, through his
tears, pressing in his burning hand the icy hand of Albert Moor’s
_chef-d’œuvre_:
“Poor Ada! poor Ada! I knew that she had not deceived me.”