The first train that left Detwich for London next morning had for its
passengers Sir Vivian Devereux, Godfrey Henderson, and Victor Fensden.
Inspector Griffin was also travelling by it, not a little elated by the
importance of his errand. On reaching Euston, after promising to meet
them at the inquest, Fensden drove off to his club, while Sir Vivian and
Godfrey made their way to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where they were to have
an interview with Mr. Cornelius Bensleigh, of the firm of Bensleigh and
Bensleigh, solicitors. That gentleman had already received a letter from
Godfrey, written on the Saturday night, giving him an outline of the
affair, and acquainting him of the part the latter had played in the
mystery.
“I am afraid this will be calculated to put you to a considerable amount
of inconvenience, Mr. Henderson,” said the lawyer, after they had
discussed the matter for a few moments. “From what I can gather, you
were the last person to see the poor woman alive, and as Sir Vivian
Devereux says, for that reason we must be particularly careful that no
breath of scandal attaches itself to your name. Now, as cases like this
are somewhat foreign to our experience, I have made up my mind, always,
of course, with your permission, that I will introduce you to a
gentleman who makes them his particular study. Of course, should you
desire it, I will put precedent on one side, and do all I can for you;
but, if you will be guided by me, you will place your case in the hands
of Mr. Codey, the gentleman to whom I refer, and whose name is doubtless
familiar to you. His office is not far from here, and if you will
accompany me, I shall be only too pleased to escort you to it, and to
introduce you to him.”
This course having been agreed upon, they accompanied him to the office
of the lawyer in question, and, after a few moments’ delay, were
conducted to his presence. He looked more like a trainer of racehorses
than a criminal lawyer. He was the possessor of a sharp, keen face, a
pair of restless eyes, a clean-shaven mouth and chin, while the whiskers
on his cheeks were clipped to a nicety. The elderly lawyer introduced
Sir Vivian and Godfrey to him, and explained the nature of their visit.
“Ah, the Burford Street murder,” said Mr. Codey, as soon as he heard the
name of the case. “I was wondering how long it would be before I was
drawn into it. And so, Mr. Henderson, you have the misfortune to be
connected with it? As a matter of fact, I suppose you are the gentleman
in evening dress who was seen speaking to the girl on the pavement
outside the house.”
“I am; but how do you know it?” Godfrey asked, in considerable surprise.
“I merely guessed it,” said the lawyer. “I see from the papers that the
deceased was once your model. Now you come to me for help. I simply put
two and two together, with the result aforesaid. Perhaps you will be
kind enough to tell me all you know about it. Be very sure you keep
nothing back; after that I shall know how to act.”
Thus encouraged, Godfrey set to work, and told the tale with which by
this time my readers are so familiar. The lawyer listened patiently,
made a few notes on a sheet of paper as the story progressed, and when
he had finished asked one or two more or less pertinent questions.
“You say that you returned to your hotel immediately after your
interview with the deceased?”
“Immediately,” Godfrey answered.
“Did you take a cab?”
“No,” said Godfrey; “it was a cold night, and I thought the walk would
do me good.”
“But you drove to the house in a cab?”
“I did, and dismissed it at once.”
“That was unfortunate. Do you think the driver would know you again?”
“I should think it very probable,” said Godfrey.
“You were standing under the lamp-post, of course, when you paid him,
with the light shining full upon your face?”
“I suppose so, as the lamp is exactly opposite the door; but I did not
think of that.”
“No; but, you see, I must think of these things,” said the lawyer. “And
when you returned to your hotel?”
“I called for a brandy and soda, and, having drunk it, went to bed.”
When he had learned all he desired to know, it was arranged that Mr.
Codey should attend the coroner’s court, and watch the case on Godfrey’s
behalf; after which they left the office. On reaching the club where Sir
Vivian and Godfrey had elected to lunch, they found that the murder was
the one absorbing topic of the day. This was more than Godfrey had
bargained for; for, when it was remembered that the deceased woman had
been his model, he was cross-questioned concerning her on every hand. So
unbearable did this at last become, that he proposed to Sir Vivian that
they should take a stroll in the park until it should be time for them
to set off to the business of the afternoon.
When they reached the building in which the inquest was to be held, they
discovered that a large crowd had collected; indeed, it was only with
difficulty, and after they had explained their errand, that they could
gain admittance to the building. Fensden was awaiting them there, still
looking pale and worried; also Mr. Codey, the lawyer, appearing even
keener than he had done at his office.
“Public curiosity is a strange thing,” said the latter, as he looked
round the packed court. “Probably not more than five persons now in this
room ever saw the dead girl, and yet they crowd here as though their
lives depended upon their not losing a word of what is said about her.”
At this moment an official came forward, and said something to Godfrey
in a low voice. The latter immediately followed him from the room. When
he returned he was very white, and he seemed visibly upset.
Then the coroner entered, a portly, dignified gentleman, and took his
seat, after which the proceedings were opened in due form.
The landlord of the house, in which the deceased had resided, was the
first witness called. He deposed as to the name she was known by in the
house, stated that she was supposed to be an artist’s model, and that,
to the best of his belief, she had been a quiet and respectable girl. At
any rate, her rent had invariably been paid on the day on which it had
become due. He had identified the body as being that of his lodger.
During the time she had been with him he had never known her to receive
a visitor; as a matter of fact, she had kept to herself; scarcely
speaking to any one save when she returned their salutations on the
stairs. He was not aware that she had received a letter, and, as far as
he knew, she had not a friend in London.
The next witness was the German cabinet-maker, who had been the first to
discover the murder. He gave evidence through the medium of an
interpreter, and described how he had seen the congealed blood under
the door and the suspicions it had given rise to. In answer to a
question put by a superintendent of police, who represented the
commissioner, he stated that he had never spoken to the deceased, for
the reason that he knew no English or Italian, and she was not
acquainted with German. He had heard her go out on the night in
question, and return shortly after midnight, but whether she was
accompanied by any one he could not say. He also deposed to the position
of the body when they opened the door, and to the mysterious fact that
the hands were missing.
The next witness was the police-constable on the beat, who had been
called in by the landlord. He gave evidence as to the opening of the
door, and the discovery then made. He was followed by the doctor, who
had made the post-mortem examination, and who described the nature and
situation of the various wounds, and the conclusions he had drawn
therefrom. Then came the first sensation of the afternoon, when the
well-known artist, Godfrey Henderson, was called. In answer to the
various questions put to him, he deposed that he had known the deceased
for upward of a year; that he had employed her for the model of his
picture, “A Woman of the People,” and had always found her a quiet and
eminently respectable girl. He had been compelled to dismiss her, not
because he had any fault to find with her, but because he was going
abroad. This was not the last he had heard of her, for, while on the
Nile at Luxor, he had received a letter from her, informing him of her
address, in view of any future work he might have for her. At Naples he
had again met her, when he was on his way back to England, and had taken
her to the Opera in her mother’s company. On the night of the murder, he
had again met her in the Strand, quite by accident, when, finding that
she was in serious trouble, he had offered to help her. She would not
accept his assistance, however. Noticing that she was in a most unhappy
state, and not liking to leave her alone in the streets, he had called a
cab and escorted her to her abode in Burford Street. He did not enter
the building, however, but bade her good-bye in the street, after which
he returned to his hotel. He was unable to assign any motive for the
crime, and added that the only person he could have believed would have
committed it, was a man named Dardini, an Italian, who was in love with
the girl, and who had attempted his (the witness’s) life in Naples, on
the night of the visit to the Opera. Whether the man was in England he
was unable to say. Whether she had been in want of money at the time of
his last seeing her, he also was unable to say. She had declared that
she was in work, that was all he knew of the matter.
“On hearing that she was married, did you not inquire the name of her
husband?” asked the coroner.
“I did,” Godfrey replied, “but she refused to tell me.”
“Did not that strike you as being singular?”
“No,” Godfrey replied. “When she informed me that he was dead, I did not
press the matter.”
“You are quite sure, I suppose, that she was not married when you met
her at Naples?”
“I feel convinced that she was not; but I could not say so on my oath.”
“And when you opened the box, which you say was sent you at your country
residence, were you not shocked at the discovery you made?”
“Naturally I was!”
“And what conclusions did you come to?”
“I gathered from it that my old friend had been murdered.”
“What caused you to recognise her hands?”
“A certain mark above the knuckle of the second finger, the result, I
should say, of a burn.”
At this point, Mr. Codey, who had already informed the coroner that he
was appearing on behalf of the witness then being examined, asked an
important question.
“On making this terrible discovery, what was your immediate action?”
“I sent for my prospective father-in-law, Sir Vivian Devereux, and for
the police officer in charge of Detwich. It was at once agreed that we
should communicate with the authorities and that I should render them
all the assistance in my power.”
“Pardon my touching upon such a matter, but I believe you are about to
be married, Mr. Henderson?” said the coroner.
“I hope to be married on Thursday next,” said Godfrey.
“I do not think I need trouble you any further,” the coroner then
remarked.
The next witness was a police officer, who informed the Court that
inquiries had been made in Naples concerning the man Dardini, with the
result that it was discovered that he had been arrested for assault upon
a foreigner a fortnight before the deceased’s return to England, and
that he was still in prison. This effectually disposed of his
association with the crime, and added an even greater air of mystery to
it than before.
When this witness had stepped down, Mr. Victor Fensden was called. He
stated that he was also an artist, and a friend of Mr. Godfrey
Henderson. It was he who had first discovered the deceased, and he had
recommended her to his friend for the picture of which she was afterward
the principal figure. She had always struck him as being a quiet and
respectable girl. When asked why she had received her notice of
dismissal, Victor answered that it was because his friend, Mr.
Henderson, had suddenly made up his mind to travel.
“I understand you to say _suddenly_,” said the superintendent in charge
of the case. “Why was it Mr. Henderson suddenly made up his mind to go
abroad?”
“I do not know that this question is at all relevant to the case,” said
Victor, appealing to the coroner. “It was purely a private matter on Mr.
Henderson’s part.”
“But anything that bears on the question at issue can scarcely be
irrelevant,” said the coroner. “I think it would be better if you would
answer the question.”
Fensden paused for a moment while the Court waited in suspense.
“I repeat my question,” said the superintendent. “Why did the deceased
so suddenly lose her employment?”
Once more Victor hesitated. Godfrey looked at him in surprise. Why did
he not go on?
“We decided to travel on account of a conversation Mr. Henderson and I
had concerning the girl.”
“What was that conversation?” inquired the coroner.
Once more Fensden seemed to hesitate.
“Did the conversation refer to the deceased?”
“It did!”
“I gather from your reluctance to answer that you were afraid Mr.
Henderson might become attached to her, so you used your friendly
influence in order to hurry him away as quickly as possible? Am I right
in so supposing?”
Another pause, during which Victor’s face was seen to express great
emotion.
“That was so.”
“You are sure that Mr. Henderson was attached to the deceased?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Did you know that Mr. Henderson was aware of the deceased’s return to
Naples?”
“I was aware that he was in correspondence with her,” said Victor; “but
he said nothing to me of his intention to visit her in Naples.”
“Had you known this, would you have endeavoured to dissuade him from
such a course?”
“I do not know what I should have done; but I should think it very
probable that I should have endeavoured to prevent their meeting.”
“When did you become aware of the deceased’s return to England?”
“When Mr. Henderson informed me of it on my arrival at his house at
Detwich Hall.”
“You were naturally very much surprised to hear that he had met her, I
suppose?”
“Very much,” Victor replied.
“Did you say anything to him upon the subject?”
“I warned him against the folly of being drawn into another entanglement
with her, particularly when he was to be married in ten days’ time.”
“You say _another_ entanglement with her? Are we, therefore, to
understand that there had been an entanglement before?”
Again Victor paused before he replied.
“I withdraw the word ‘another,’” he said, hurriedly. “I did not mean it
in that sense. I merely suggested to Mr. Henderson that his _fiancée_
might not care to know that he had been seen driving through the streets
of London after midnight with an Italian girl, who had once been his
model.”
“Good Heavens!” said Godfrey to himself. “And this is the man whom I
have trusted and who has called himself my friend for so many years!”
At this point the coroner, addressing the jury, stated his intention of
adjourning the inquiry until the following Wednesday morning at eleven
o’clock. He had excellent reasons for keeping it open until then, he
said, and these reasons he had communicated to the foreman of the jury,
who was completely satisfied. The Court thereupon adjourned, and
Godfrey presently found himself in the street with Mr. Codey on one side
and Sir Vivian Devereux on the other. Victor Fensden was waiting for
them on the pavement, and, as soon as they emerged, he approached them
with a face that still bore the traces of violent emotion.
“Godfrey,” he began, in a faltering voice, “after what they dragged out
of me, I scarcely know what to say to you.”
“In any case, I beg that you will not say it,” said Godfrey, coldly.
“You have said quite enough already.” Then, turning to the others, he
continued: “Come, gentlemen, let us find a cab. I suppose we had better
go back to your office, Mr. Codey?”
“I think it would be better,” said that gentleman. “I must have a talk
with you upon this matter.”
Then, hailing a cab, they entered it, leaving Fensden on the pavement
looking after them. Godfrey’s face was still very pale. It was
impossible for him to be blind to the fact that his kindness to Teresina
had been the means of bringing down grave suspicion upon himself. Yet,
even with that knowledge before him, he knew that he would not, or
could not, have acted otherwise than he had done.
When they reached the lawyer’s private office, the door was shut and
they sat down to business.
“Well, Mr. Henderson,” said Mr. Codey, “what is your opinion now?”
“I think that the public mind is already jumping to the conclusion that
I am responsible for the murder,” Godfrey answered, without fear or
hesitation.
“I am very much afraid that you must accustom yourself to look upon it
in that light,” the other replied. “The man Fensden’s evidence, given in
such a manner as he gave it, was unnecessarily damaging.”
“He is a black-hearted scoundrel,” said the old baronet, wrathfully. “I
told you yesterday, Godfrey, that I didn’t trust him, and that I felt
sure he bore you some ill-will. And yet, do you know, Mr. Codey,” he
added, turning to the lawyer, “Mr. Henderson has done everything for
that man. He has practically kept him for years past, he took him on a
tour round Europe only a few months ago, and this is the result. It
makes one sick with humanity.”
“When you have seen as much of humanity as I have, you will not be
surprised at anything,” said the lawyer. “The greater the obligation in
many cases, the deeper the ingratitude. We are wandering from the point,
however. Now I am going to be plain-spoken. Tell me, Mr. Henderson, did
you ever, under any sort of circumstance, make love, or suggest love, to
the woman who is now deceased?”
“Never,” said Godfrey, firmly. “The man who declares that I did, lies.”
“Very probable, but that won’t prevent his saying it. When you left her
in Burford Street, did you meet any one near the house?”
“Not a soul. The street, so far as I could see, was empty.”
“I think you said this morning that the night porter let you in at your
hotel? Did you make any remark to him respecting the time?”
“Yes, I said to him when he had opened the door, ‘I’m afraid I’m rather
late,’ then, looking at my watch, I added, ‘Why, it’s half-past
twelve!’”
“If he’s blessed with a good memory, he will recollect that,” said
Codey. Then with his usual abruptness, he continued, “Which way did you
walk from Burford Street?”
“Through the Tottenham Court Road, along Oxford Street, and down Bond
Street.”
“A man shall walk it quickly to-morrow morning in order to see how long
it will take. If only that hall porter has a good memory, and can be
relied upon, this should prove an important point.”
“But surely, my good sir,” put in Sir Vivian, “you do not for a moment
suppose that Mr. Henderson will be accused of having killed this woman?”
“I should not be at all surprised,” said the lawyer, quietly. “Let us
regard the facts of the case. Some months back, Mr. Henderson employed
this girl as his model, and retained her services when he really had no
need for them. He was on such familiar terms with her that his friend
felt compelled to remonstrate with him. As a result they left England
hurriedly, the girl following them to Naples. No, no, Mr. Henderson, I
beg that you will be silent. Remember, I am telling the story as I
should tell it if I were against you instead of for you. As I have said,
the girl left for Naples, and I insinuate that she followed you. It can
be proved that she corresponded with you, and that you sent your friend
on his way to travel alone; always bearing in mind that he was the man
who had persuaded you to give the girl up. You, in the meantime,
returned to Naples, in order to visit her again. You may dispute the
motive, but you can not deny that you took her out to dinner and to a
theatre afterward.”
“But her mother was with her,” said Godfrey hurriedly, his face flushing
angrily at the imputation put upon his action by the other.
“That point is immaterial,” the lawyer replied calmly. “It is sufficient
for the purposes of the prosecution that you met her there. Then you
proceeded to England, and, after a little while in the country, became
engaged to the daughter of Sir Vivian, now present. The Italian girl had
also gone to England. Why? To be with you, of course. You, however, see
nothing of her. Therefore, she is unhappy. Why? Because you are about to
be married.”
“But that is only supposition,” said Godfrey. “As a matter of fact, she
herself was already married.”
“To whom? Why not to yourself?”
“Good Heavens, man,” said Godfrey, starting from his seat, “you don’t
surely mean to say that you believe I had married her?”
“I believe nothing,” he replied, still with the same coolness. “But you
will find that the counsel for the prosecution will consider it more
than likely. Let me continue my story. I was saying that she was unhappy
because you were about to be married. It is only natural. Then you came
up to town, visited the theatre, and afterward, quite by chance, met her
in the Strand, at midnight. At midnight, and by chance, mark that! Does
that meeting look like an accidental one? Could you convince a jury that
it was? I doubt it. However, let us proceed. The girl is in trouble, and
you take her home in a hansom. The policeman and the cabman will
certainly identify you, and, for the reason that you say the street was
empty when you bade her good-bye, no one will be able to swear that you
did not go into the house with her. Now, Mr. Henderson, I ask you to
look these facts in the face, and tell me, as a thinking man, whether
you consider the public is to be blamed if it regards you with
suspicion?”
“As you put it, no,” said Godfrey. “But it can surely be proved that I
had nothing whatsoever to do with it, beyond what I have said.”
“Exactly; and that is what we have got to do. But I don’t mind telling
you candidly that I fancy we shall have our work cut out to do it. You
see, we have to remember that, beyond your own evidence, there is
absolutely nothing for us to argue upon. The two strongest points in
your favour are the facts that you were at Detwich when the box
containing the dead woman’s hands was sent off at Euston, and that there
would not be sufficient time between the moment when the policeman saw
you in Burford Street and the time when you arrived at your hotel, for
you to have committed the crime. What we have to do is to find the
person who despatched the box from London, and to make sure of the hall
porter. In the meantime go back to Detwich, and be sure that you don’t
stir from home until you hear from me.”
“One more question, Mr. Codey. I should like you, before we go any
further, to tell me honestly whether, in your own heart, you believe me
to be innocent or guilty?”
“I believe you to be innocent,” said the lawyer; “and you may be sure I
shall try to prove it.”