THREE WITNESSES.
In the forenoon of the following Tuesday John Treverton again appeared
before the magistrate, at the Police-court in Bow Street.
The same witnesses were present who had been examined on the previous
occasion. Two medical men gave their evidence as to the dagger, which
had been sent to them for examination. One declared that the blade bore
unmistakable traces of blood stains, and gave it as his opinion that
steel once so sullied never lost the stain. The other stated that a
steel blade wiped quickly while the blood upon it was wet would carry
no such ineffaceable mark, and that the tarnished appearance of the
dagger was referable only to time and atmosphere.
The inquiry dragged itself haltingly towards a futile close, when just
as it seemed about to conclude, an elderly woman, wrapped in a thick
gray shawl, and a cat-skin sable victorine, and further muffled with a
Shetland veil tied over a close black bonnet, came forward, escorted by
George Gerard, and volunteered her evidence. This was Mrs. Evitt, who
was just well enough to crawl from a cab to the witness-box, leaning on
the surgeon’s arm.
‘Oh,’ said the magistrate, when Jane Sophia Evitt had been duly sworn,
‘you are the landlady, are you? Why were you not here last Tuesday? You
were subpœnaed, I believe.’
‘Yes, your worship, though I was not in a state of health to bear it.’
‘Oh, you were too ill to appear, were you? Well, what have you to say
about the prisoner?’
‘Please, your worship, he oughtn’t to be a prisoner. I ought to have up
and spoke the truth sooner--it has preyed upon me awful that I didn’t
do it--a sweet young wife, too.’
‘What is the meaning of this rambling?’ asked the magistrate,
indignantly. ‘Is the poor creature delirious?’
‘No, sir, I ain’t more delirious than your worship. My body has been
all of a shiver--hot fits and cold fits--but thank God my mind has kep’
clear.’
‘You really must not tell us about your ailments. What do you know of
the prisoner?’
‘Only that he’s as innocent as that lamb, yonder,’ said Mrs. Evitt,
pointing to a baby in the arms of a forlorn looking drab, from the
adjacent rookeries of St. Giles’s, which had just set up a shrill
squall, and was in process of being evicted by a policeman. ‘He had no
more to do with it than that blessed infant that’s just been carried
out of court.’
And then, continually beginning to wander, and being continually pulled
up sharp by the magistrate, Mrs. Evitt told her ghastly story of the
handful of iron-grey hair, and the blood-stained dressing-gown, hidden
in the closet behind the bed in her two-pair back.
‘Which is there to this day, as the police may find for themselves if
they like to go and look,’ concluded Mrs. Evitt.
‘They will take care to do that,’ said the magistrate. ‘Where is this
Desrolles?’
‘He is being looked for, sir,’ replied Mr. Leopold. ‘If your worship
will permit, there are two gentlemen in court who are in possession of
facts that have a material bearing on this case.’
‘Let them be sworn.’
The first of these two voluntary witnesses was Mr. Joseph Lemuel,
the well-known stockbroker and millionaire, on whose appearance in
the witness-box there was a sudden hush in the court, and profound
attention from every one, as at the presence of greatness.
Even that tag-rag and bob-tail from adjacent St. Giles’s had heard of
Joseph Lemuel. His name had been in the penny newspapers. He was a man
who was supposed to make a million of money every time there was war in
Europe, and to lose a million whenever there was a financial crisis.
‘Do you know anything of this affair, Mr. Lemuel?’ the magistrate
asked, with an off-hand friendliness, when the witness had been sworn,
as much as to say, ‘It is really uncommonly good of you to trouble
yourself about a fellow-creature’s fate; and I want to make the thing
as light and as pleasant as I can, for your sake.’
‘I think I may be able to afford a clue to the motive of the murderer,’
said Mr. Lemuel, who seemed more moved than the occasion warranted.
‘I presented the unhappy lady with a necklace about a week before her
death; and I have reason to fear that this gift may have been the cause
of her terrible death!’
‘Was the necklace of such value as to tempt a murderer?’
‘It was not. But, to an uneducated eye, it appeared of great value. It
was a gift which I offered to a lady whose talents I--as one of the
outside public--enthusiastically admired.’
‘Naturally,’ assented the magistrate, as much as to say, ‘Don’t
be frightened, my dear sir. I am not going to ask you any awkward
questions.’
‘It was a necklace I had bought in Paris, in the Palais Royal, a
short time before. It was made by a man who had a speciality for these
things. It would perhaps have deceived any eye except that of a diamond
merchant, and might indeed have deceived a dealer, if he had judged by
the eye alone. I gave fifty pounds for the necklace. It was exquisitely
set, and really a work of art.’
‘Did Madame Chicot suppose the stones were real?’
‘I don’t know, I told her nothing about the necklace. It seemed to me a
suitable offering to an actress, to whom appearances are as important
as realities.’
‘Madame Chicot made no inquiry as to the intrinsic value of your gift?’
‘None. It was offered and accepted in silence.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘That is all.’
The next witness was Mr. Mosheh, the diamond merchant. His evidence
consisted of a straight and succinct narrative of his interview with
the stranger who offered for sale a set of imitation diamonds under the
impression that he was offering real stones of great value.
‘These crystals were some of them equal in size to the largest
diamonds known in the trade,’ said Mr. Mosheh. ‘They would have been a
tremendous haul for a thief, if they had been real.’
He gave the date of the man’s visit, which was within a week of La
Chicot’s murder.
‘Could you identify the man who called upon you with those stones?’
asked the magistrate.
‘I believe I could.’
‘Was he the prisoner?’
‘Certainly not. He was a man of between fifty and sixty years of age.’
‘Has anybody a photograph of Desrolles?’
Yes, there was a photograph in court. Mrs. Evitt had furnished
the police with two, which Desrolles had given her upon different
occasions. One was in court, the other had been taken by the detective
who was looking for Desrolles.
The photograph was shown to the witness.
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Mosheh, ‘I believe that to be the same face. The man
who came to me wore a large gray beard. All the lower part of the face
was hidden, and the beard made him look older. I conclude that it was
a false beard. But to the best of my belief that is the same man. The
upper part of the face is very striking. I don’t think I could be
deceived in it.’
After this evidence Mr. Leopold urged that there was no ground for any
longer detaining John Treverton. The magistrate, after some little
discussion, agreed to this, and the prisoner was discharged.