MR. LEOPOLD ASKS IRRELEVANT QUESTIONS.
An inquiry was held at Bow Street next day. Several of the witnesses
who had appeared nearly a year ago at the inquest were present, and
much of the evidence that had been then given was now repeated. The
policeman who had been called in by Desrolles, the doctor who had
first examined the dead woman’s wound, and the detective who examined
the premises--all these gave their evidence exactly as they had given
it at the inquest. Mrs. Evitt was too ill to appear, but her previous
statements were read. There was one witness present on this occasion
who had not appeared at the inquest. This was George Gerard, who had
been subpœnaed by the prosecution, and who described, with a somewhat
reluctant air, his discovery of the dagger in Jack Chicot’s colour-box.
‘This was a curious discovery of yours, Mr. Gerard,’ said Mr. Leopold,
after the witness had been examined, ‘and comes to light at a curious
time. Why did you not inform the police of this discovery when you made
it?’
‘I was not called as a witness.’
‘No. But if you considered this discovery of yours of any importance,
it was your duty to make it known immediately. You make your way into
the house of the accused without anybody’s authorization; you go
prying and peering into rooms that have already been examined by the
police; and you come forward a year afterwards with this extraordinary
discovery of a tarnished dagger. What evidence have we that this dagger
ever belonged to the accused?’
‘There need be no difficulty about that,’ said John Treverton, ‘the
dagger is mine.’
Mr. Leopold rewarded his client’s candour with a ferocious scowl. Was
there ever such a man--a man who was legally dumb, whose lips the law
had sealed, and who had the folly to blurt out such an admission as
this?
The magistrate asked whether the dagger could be found. The police had
taken possession of all Jack Chicot’s chattels. The dagger was no doubt
among them.
‘Let it be found and given to the divisional surgeon to be examined,’
said the magistrate.
The inquiry was adjourned at the request of Mr. Leopold, who wanted
time to meet the evidence against his client. The magistrate, who felt
that the case was hardly strong enough for committal, granted this
respite. An hour later John Treverton was closeted with Mr. Leopold and
Mr. Sampson in his room at Clerkenwell.
‘The medical evidence shows that the murder must have been committed at
one o’clock,’ said Mr. Leopold. ‘You only discovered it at five minutes
before three. What were you doing with yourself during those hours? At
the worst we ought to be able to prove an _alibi_.’
‘I’m afraid that would be difficult,’ answered Treverton thoughtfully.
‘I was very unhappy at that period of my life, and had acquired a
habit of roaming about the streets of London between midnight and
morning. I had suffered from a painful attack of sleeplessness, and
this night-roving was the only thing that gave me relief. I was at a
literary club near the Strand on the night of the murder. I left a few
minutes after twelve. It was a fine, mild night--wonderfully mild for
the time of year,--and I walked to Hampstead Heath and back.’
‘Humph!’ muttered Mr. Leopold, ‘you couldn’t have managed things
better, if you wanted to put the rope round your neck. You left your
club a few minutes after twelve, you say--in comfortable time for the
murder. You were seen to leave, I suppose?’
‘Yes, I left with another member, a water-colour painter, who lives at
Haverstock Hill.’
‘Good--and he walked with you as far as Haverstock Hill, I suppose?’
‘No, he didn’t. We walked to St. Martin’s Church together, and there he
took a hansom. He had no latch-key, and wanted to get home in decent
time.’
‘Did you tell him you were going to walk up to the Heath?’
‘No, I had no definite purpose. I walked as far, and in whatever
direction my fancy took me.’
‘Precisely. Then your friend, the water-colour painter, parted from you
at about a quarter-past twelve?’
‘It struck the quarter while we were wishing each other good-night.’
‘Within five minutes’ walk of your lodging. No chance of an
_alibi_ here, I fear, Mr. Treverton; unless you met any one on
Hampstead Heath, which in the middle of the night was not very likely.’
‘I neither met nor spoke to a mortal, except a man at a coffee-stall
near the Mother Redcap, on my way back.’
‘Oh! you talked to a man at a coffee-stall, did you?’
‘Yes, I stopped to take a cup of coffee at ten minutes past two. If
the same man is to be found there he ought to remember me. He was a
loquacious fellow, something of a wag, and we had quite a political
discussion. There had been an important division in the House the
night before, and my friend at the coffee-stall was well posted in his
_Daily Telegraph_.’
Mr. Leopold made a note of the circumstance while John Treverton was
talking.
‘So far so good. Now we come to another point. Is there anybody whom
you suspect as implicated in this murder? Can you trace a motive
anywhere for such an act?’
‘No,’ answered Treverton decidedly.
‘Yet you see the murder must have been done by some one, and that some
one must have had a motive. It was not a case of suicide. The medical
evidence at the inquest clearly demonstrated that.’
‘You remember the inquest?’
‘Yes, I was present.’
‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Treverton, surprised.
‘Yes, I was there. Now to continue my argument; you, as the husband of
the victim, must have been familiar with all her surroundings. You
must know better than any one else whether there was any one connected
with her who could have a motive for this crime.’
‘I cannot conceive any reason for the act. I cannot suspect any one
person more than another.’
‘Are you positive that your wife had no valuables in her
possession--money, for instance?’
‘She spent her money faster than she earned it. We were always in debt.
The little jewellery she had ever possessed had been pledged.’
‘Are you sure that she had no valuable jewellery in her possession at
the time of her death?’
‘To my knowledge she had none.’
‘That’s curious,’ said Mr. Leopold. ‘I heard a rumour at the time of
a diamond necklace, which had been seen round her throat two or three
evenings before the murder, by the dresser at the theatre. Your wife
wore a broad band of black velvet round her neck when she was dressed
for the stage, which entirely concealed the diamonds, and it was only
by accident the dresser saw them.’
‘This must be a fable,’ said Treverton. ‘My wife never possessed a
diamond necklace. She was never in a position to buy one.’
‘She may have been in a position to receive one as a gift,’ suggested
Mr. Leopold quietly.
‘She was an honest woman.’
‘Granted. Such gifts are given to honest women. Not often, perhaps, but
the thing is possible. Her possession of that diamond necklace may have
become known to the murderer, and may have tempted him to the crime.’
Treverton was silent. He remembered his wife’s anonymous admirer, the
giver of the bracelet. He had dismissed the man from his thoughts after
his interview with the jeweller. No other gifts had appeared, and he
had felt no further uneasiness on the subject.
‘Have you thought of all the people in the house?’ asked Mr. Leopold.
John Treverton shrugged his shoulders.
‘What can I think about them? No one in the house could have had any
motive for murdering my wife.’
‘It is pretty clear that the murder was not done by any one outside the
house,’ said Mr. Leopold, ‘unless, indeed, the street door had been
left open in the course of the evening, so as to enable the murderer to
slip in quietly, and hide himself until every one had gone to bed. At
what time did your wife generally return from the theatre?’
‘About twelve o’clock; oftener before twelve than after.’
‘The murderer may have followed her into the house. She had a
latch-key, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘She may have been careless in closing the door, and left it
unfastened. It is quite possible that some one may have entered the
house after her, and left it quietly when his work was done.’
‘Quite,’ answered Treverton, with a bitter smile. ‘But if we do not
know who that some one was, the fact won’t help us.’
‘How about this man who occupied the second floor--this Desrolles? What
is he?’
‘A broken-down gentleman,’ answered Treverton, with a troubled look.
He had a peculiar reluctance in speaking of Desrolles.
‘He could not be anything worse,’ said Mr. Leopold sententiously. ‘This
Desrolles was in the house at the time of the murder. Strange that he
should have heard nothing of the struggle.’
‘Mrs. Rawber heard nothing, yet she was on the floor below, and was
more likely to hear any movement in my wife’s room.’
‘I should like to know all you can tell me about Desrolles,’ said Mr.
Leopold, frowning over his pocket-book.
Honest Tom Sampson sat and listened, open-eyed and silent. To him the
famous criminal lawyer was as a god, a being made up of wisdom and
knowledge.
‘I can tell you very little,’ answered John Treverton. ‘I know nothing
to his discredit, except that he was poor, and too fond of brandy for
his own welfare.’
‘I see,’ answered Leopold quickly. ‘The kind of man who would do
anything for money.’
Treverton started. He could not deny that this was in some wise true
of Mr. Desrolles, _alias_ Mansfield, _alias_ Malcolm. It
horrified him to remember that this man was Laura’s father, and that
at any moment the disgrace of that relationship might be made known,
should Desrolles’ presence at the police court be insisted upon.
Happily Desrolles was on the other side of the Channel, where only the
solicitor who received his income knew where to find him.
Mr. Leopold asked a good many more questions, some of which seemed
frivolous and irrelevant, but all of which John Treverton answered as
well as he was able.
‘I hope you believe in me, Mr. Leopold,’ he said, when his solicitor
held out his hand at parting.
‘From my soul,’ answered the other earnestly. ‘And, what’s more, I mean
to pull you through this. It’s a troublesome business, but I think
I can see my way to the end of it. I wish you could help me to find
Desrolles.’
‘That I cannot do,’ said Treverton decidedly.
‘It’s a pity. Well, good-day. The inquiry is adjourned till next
Tuesday, so we have a week before us. It will be hard if we don’t do
something in that time.’
‘The police have done very little in a twelvemonth,’ said Treverton.
‘The police have not a monopoly of human intelligence,’ answered Mr.
Leopold. ‘We may do better than the police.’
Two advertisements appeared in the _Times_, _Telegraph_, and
_Standard_, next morning:--
‘DESROLLES--TEN POUNDS Reward will be given to
anybody furnishing the PRESENT ADDRESS of Mr. DESROLLES, late of
Cibber Street, Leicester Square.’
‘TO JEWELLERS, PAWNBROKERS, &c.--LOST, in February, 187--, a COLLET
NECKLACE of IMITATION DIAMONDS.--Anybody giving information about the
same will be liberally rewarded.’