A more miserable home-coming than Godfrey’s, after the events described
in the previous chapter, could scarcely be imagined. They had taken a
cab from the lawyer’s office to Euston Station, and during the drive,
neither of them referred in any way to the interview they had just had
with Codey. It was not until they were seated in the railway carriage,
and the train had started upon its journey, that they broke their
silence.
“Sir Vivian,” said Godfrey, “I can not express to you my thanks for the
kindness which you showed me in standing by me to-day. Believe me, I am
very sensible of it.”
“You must not speak of it;” said the worthy old gentleman; “and as for
the affair itself, it is a piece of ill-luck that might have happened to
the best of us. At the same time, I should very much like to have an
opportunity of telling that wretched Fensden what I think of him.”
“Do not let us talk of him,” said Godfrey. “His own feelings must be
sufficient punishment for him. There is one thing, however, that I must
say to you before we go any further.”
“And what is that?”
“It concerns my wedding,” Godfrey replied. “I am afraid it will be a
terrible blow to poor Molly; but until this charge, which I have no
doubt will be brought against me, is disproved, she must not think any
more of me.”
Sir Vivian stared at him in astonishment.
“Nonsense, my dear lad,” said he. “I know that you love my girl, and
that she loves you. It is her duty, therefore, to stand by you and to
comfort you when you are in trouble. Believe me, she will have no doubt
as to your innocence.”
“I know that,” said Godfrey; “but I do not think it would be fair for me
to allow her name to be linked with mine under such painful
circumstances.”
“It will be linked with it whether you like it or not,” was the reply.
“If I am prepared to stake my honour on your innocence, you may be very
sure that she will stake hers. Molly isn’t a fair-weather friend.”
“She is the truest and best girl in the world,” said Godfrey. “No one
knows that better than I.”
“Then wait until you have seen her and talked it over with her alone.
Put the question to her, and see what she will say. I know her well
enough to guess what her answer will be.”
“God bless you for your trust in me!” said Godfrey, in a shaky voice. “I
fear I have done very little to deserve it.”
“It is sufficient that I know you for what you are,” the other answered.
“I knew your uncle and grandfather before him, and I am as certain that
you would not do anything dishonourable as I am of my own name. What we
have to do is to put our wits to work and to endeavour to find out, as
Codey says, the sender of the box. Then I believe we shall be on the
track of the real criminal. It was a very good suggestion on Mr.
Bensleigh’s part that we should employ that man; we could not have had a
better. I never saw such eyes in my life. He seems to look one through
and through. I pity Mr. Fensden when he comes to be cross-examined by
him.”
The old gentleman chuckled over the thought and then lapsed into
silence.
When they reached Detwich, they became aware that Griffin had travelled
from London by the same train. Godfrey beckoned to him.
“Of course you heard the evidence to-day, Griffin,” Godfrey began when
the other approached.
“Yes, sir, I did,” said the police official, gravely.
“And you must have drawn your own conclusions from it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Griffin, what I wanted to say to you is that, if I am wanted for
anything, I shall not leave the Hall until Wednesday morning; then I
shall go up to the inquiry again.”
“I will bear the fact in mind, sir,” said the man. “But there’s one
thing I should like to say, if you don’t mind.”
“What is it? Say it by all means.”
“It’s this, sir. Whether it’s going against my duty or not--and there’s
nobody here to hear it if it is--whatever verdict they may bring in, I
don’t believe for a moment that you had any more to do with that poor
girl’s death than I had. You will excuse my saying so, I hope, sir?”
“On the contrary, I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion,”
Godfrey replied, holding out his hand which the other took. “I am afraid
that it’s going to be a very unpleasant business for me. That can’t be
helped, however. Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir,” the man answered.
Then Godfrey joined Sir Vivian and, as had been arranged, they drove off
to the Hall together. The moon was rising above the hill as they went
through the park, and as Godfrey looked on the peaceful scene around him
and thought of the terrible suspicion that was growing in people’s minds
concerning himself his heart sank within him. If only little Teresina
could speak, how easily she could clear up all the dark charges against
him! She was dead, however, brutally murdered, and he, the only man who
had ever befriended her, was suspected of having caused her death.
“Keep up a stout heart, my lad,” said Sir Vivian, as they alighted from
the carriage and ascended the steps. “Think of the ladies, and don’t
make them any more unhappy than you can help.”
The door was opened by the ancient butler who had served his uncle
before him, and Godfrey entered his home, but how different a man from
the young fellow who had left it that morning!
“The ladies are in the drawing-room, sir,” said the servant, when he had
relieved them of their hats and coats.
They accordingly proceeded thither, one of them at least with a sinking
heart.
“We have just been wondering when we should see you,” said Kitty.
There was a look of anxiety on Molly’s face as she came forward to meet
her lover. She placed her hand in his, and they sat down together.
“Well, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Henderson, “what have you to tell us?
What was the result?”
There was no need for her to say to what she referred. Their minds had
been too much occupied with it that day to leave room for any
uncertainty upon the point.
“Nothing is decided yet,” said Sir Vivian, who took upon himself the
part of spokesman. “The inquiry is adjourned until Wednesday.”
“That means that you will have to go up again,” said Molly. “Why
couldn’t they settle it at once?”
Godfrey knew, but he dared not tell her the reason.
“They are searching for more evidence, I fancy,” said Sir Vivian. “You
must remember that the matter is, at present, shrouded in the greatest
mystery. Until that can be cleared up, nothing can be done.”
“And Mr. Fensden, where did you leave him?” asked Mrs. Henderson.
“We parted outside the Court,” said Godfrey. “I have no idea where he is
staying to-night.”
Though he tried to speak unconcernedly, Molly felt certain in her own
mind that there had been trouble between the two men. She said nothing
to him about it, however. She knew that he would tell her in good time.
That night, when Sir Vivian’s carriage was announced, Godfrey
accompanied him to the front door. Before leaving, the old gentleman
took him on one side out of earshot of the servants.
“Keep up your spirits, my dear lad,” he said, as he had done so many
times before. “Remember that you have many friends and that I am not the
least of them. Should anything occur, send for me at once, and I will be
with you as fast as horses can bring me. In the meantime do not alarm
the ladies more than you can help.”
“You may rely upon my not doing so,” said Godfrey, and then Sir Vivian
entered his carriage and drove away.
Later, when Godfrey bade Molly good-night, she looked up at him with
sorrowful eyes.
“I feel sure,” she said, “that there is something you are keeping back
from me. I beg of you not to do so. You know how I love you, and how
earnest is my desire to share both your joys and your sorrows with you.
Will you not confide in me and tell me everything?”
“When there is anything worth the hearing, you may be sure I will tell
you, dear,” he answered, not daring to let her know the truth that
night. “In the morning we will talk the whole matter over and you shall
give me your advice. And now you must go to bed and try to obtain a good
night’s rest, for I am sure you did not sleep well last night.”
“I did not,” she answered. “I was thinking of you all night, for I knew
how you were dreading going up to-day.”
He did not tell her that he dreaded going up on Wednesday a great deal
more. He preferred to take her in his arms and kiss her, calling her his
good angel, swearing that he would love her all his life long, and that
even death itself should not separate them. Then he went to his room,
prepared to spend what he knew would be a sleepless night, and he was
not destined to be wrong. Hour after hour he tumbled and tossed upon his
bed, going over the day’s proceedings again and again, and speculating
with never-ceasing anxiety as to what was to happen in the future. At
last, unable to bear it any longer, he rose from his bed and went
downstairs to his studio, where he lighted his fire and smoked and read
until daylight. Then a cold bath somewhat refreshed him, and, as soon as
he had dressed, he set off across the park to the home farm. He was
always an early riser, and his presence there at that hour excited no
comment. He watched the sleek, soft-eyed cows being milked, saw the
handsome cart-horses, of which he had once been so proud, set off upon
their day’s work, had a quarter of an hour’s conversation with his
head-keeper at his cottage gate, and then returned home through the
plantations to breakfast. It was his mother’s habit to read prayers to
the household immediately before the meal, and, as he knelt by Molly’s
side, and listened to the old familiar words, his heart ached when he
thought of the misery that any moment might bring upon them.
As the first train from London did not arrive until somewhat late, the
morning papers were delivered with the letters, which usually reached
the Hall about half-past nine. When they arrived Godfrey selected one,
and took it with him to his studio. With a feeling that he had never
before experienced when opening a paper, he turned the crisp pages in
search of the column which he knew he would find. Then he saw in large
type:
THE BURFORD STREET MURDER
* * * * *
EXTRAORDINARY EVIDENCE
* * * * *
There was no need for him to wonder what that evidence was: he knew
before he began to read. The prominence given by the paper to the case
was a proof of the excitement the inquiry had aroused in the public
mind. At last he forced himself to read. Every word rose before his eyes
as vividly as though it had been traced in letters of fire. Set down in
cold print, the affair presented a very sinister aspect, so far as he
was concerned. Every portion of the evidence seemed to point to himself
as being the man who had committed the dastardly deed. He could well
imagine what the feeling of independent persons would be who read it,
and how readily they would arrive at a conclusion unfavourable to
himself. He had just perused it for the second time, when he was
startled by a faint tap upon the door.
“Come in,” he cried, and in response Molly entered the room.
“I have been looking for you,” she said, with the parody of a smile upon
her face.
“I should have come in search of you in a few moments,” he replied. “The
fact is, I have had certain things to do which could not very well be
left undone. Will you forgive me, dear?”
“Of course I will,” she answered. “It is impossible for you to be always
with me, and yet I am selfish enough to grudge you the time you spend
upon anything else.”
He was quick-witted enough to see that what she said was only an attempt
to gain time. She, on her side, knew that he stood in need of comfort,
and she had come to give it to him.
“Molly,” he said, rising from the chair in which he had been sitting and
going toward her, “I feel that I must tell you everything. God knows,
this is the crisis of my life, and to whom should I turn in my sorrow,
if not to the woman I love, and whom I know loves me? Have you read the
account of the inquest in the papers?”
“No,” she answered, “I would not read it, lest I should derive a false
impression from it. I am quite willing to hear what you have to say
about it, and to accept your version as the truth.”
“God bless you, dear, for your trust in me!” he replied; “but it is
necessary that you should hear what other people have to say upon the
matter. Read it carefully, and, when you have finished, tell me what you
think about it.”
He gave her the paper, and for a moment she stood as if undecided.
“Do you really wish it?” she asked.
“It is better that you should do so, believe me,” he said. “In that
case, no one can say that I kept anything back from you.”
“I will read it,” she said, and went toward the window-seat to do so.
While she was reading, he stood before the fire and watched her. He
noticed the poise of the beautiful head, the sweet hands holding the
paper, on one finger of which sparkled the engagement ring he had given
her, and the tiny foot just peeping from beneath the dark green skirt.
She was a woman worth fighting all the world for, and, as he reflected
how easy it would be for false evidence to separate them, he experienced
a fear such as he had never known in his life before.
When she had finished, she crossed the room with the paper in her hand.
Deliberately folding it up and laying it upon the table, she went to
him, and placed her hands in his. Looking up into his face with trustful
eyes, she said:
“I told you yesterday, Godfrey, that I believed in you. I tell you
again, that, whatever the world may say with regard to this dreadful
affair, it will make no difference in my love. I feel as convinced as I
am of anything that, by whatever means, or at whose hand, that poor girl
met her death, you were in no sort of way responsible for, or connected
with it. You believe me, don’t you?”
“I do,” he answered, with tears in his eyes. “And I thank God for your
trust. Do you know, yesterday I suggested to your father that, situated
as we are, it would be better if I were to give you back your freedom
until my innocence is proved?”
“I would not take it,” she answered, firmly. “When I gave myself to you,
it was not to be your bride in fair weather alone; it was to be your
partner in the rough seas of life as well as in the smooth. No, come
what may, Godfrey, I will not let you give me up. Promise me that you
will never mention such a thing again? It hurts me even to think of it.”
“Your mind is made up?”
“Quite made up,” she answered. “I should not change, even if you were
what--(here she shuddered)--what that paper would seem to suggest. No,
darling, I am your wife, if not in the law, at least in God’s sight.”
“I thank you,” he answered, earnestly. “The knowledge that you still
trust me will be my most precious consolation.”
“And now tell me of this Mr. Codey, the lawyer you have employed. Is he
a clever man?”
“One of the cleverest in the land, I should say,” Godfrey replied. “He
has had great experience in these sort of cases, and, if any man can
render me assistance, I should say he is that one.”
“Oh, how thankful I shall be,” she said, “when everything is settled!
How little we dreamt, when we were so happy together last week, that
within a few days we should be made so miserable! Perhaps, after all, it
is only our love being tried in the crucible of trouble. And when it is
over, and we have come out of it, we shall know each other’s real worth.
That is the best way to look at it, I think.”
“Quite the best,” he answered, and kissed her on the forehead.
Then, adopting a brighter tone, he suggested that they should go for a
walk together, in order, if possible, to dispel, for the time being at
least, the dark clouds that had settled upon them. It was a clear,
bright morning, and as they crossed the park, and mounted the hillside
toward the plantation, where the rabbits were playing, and the
pheasants, who of late had not received the attention their merits
deserved, were strutting about on the open grass land, Godfrey found it
difficult to believe that the situation was really as desperate as he
imagined. Their walk lasted for upward of two hours; indeed, it was
nearly lunch-time before they reached the house once more. When they
did, Molly went upstairs to her room to prepare herself for luncheon,
while Godfrey made his way to his mother’s sitting room, where he found
the old lady quietly knitting by the fire.
“Thank goodness you have come in at last, dear!” said Mrs. Henderson. “I
have been wanting so much to have a talk with you! Godfrey, I have read
the evidence given at the inquest, and it frightens me.”
“I am sorry for that, mother,” he said, seating himself by her side.
“What do you think of it?”
She placed her hand upon his arm, and looked at him with her loving
eyes.
“I think my boy is too noble to have done anything of which his mother
would have had reason to be ashamed.”
Godfrey rose from his chair and walked to the window. These constant
proofs of the love in which he was held was unmanning him. He could not
trust himself to speak. When his own little world believed in him so
implicitly, how could the greater world be so censorious?
When they went into luncheon, Godfrey soon saw that the ancient butler
and his subordinate had become aware of the state of affairs. Attentive
to his wants as they always were, on this particular occasion, they
were even more so than usual. It was as if they were endeavouring in
their own kindly way to show that they too believed in him, and were
desirous of proving their sympathy with him. Never before had his own
home struck him in the same light. His heart was too full for speech,
and, in spite of his sister’s well-meant attempt to promote
conversation, the meal passed almost in silence.
After luncheon the bailiff sent in word that he should like to speak to
him. The man was accordingly admitted to the smoking-room, where he
discussed various matters connected with the estate with his master for
upward of an hour. Labouring as he was, under the weight of greater
emotions, Godfrey found it difficult to pin his attention to the matters
at issue, and when the other went his way, after respectfully touching
his forelock, for the first time since he had known the old fellow, he
heaved a sigh of relief. At half-past four he joined the ladies in the
drawing-room for afternoon tea. To add to his pain, another consignment
of wedding presents had arrived, and in order that he should not be
thought to be unduly nervous about the future, he was compelled to
appear delighted with the attentions he had received from his friends.
“That makes the fifth pair of asparagus tongs we have received,” said
Molly, as she closed the case and placed it with its fellows upon the
table. “And what is this? Well, I declare, it’s another set of sweet
dishes. That brings the number up to twenty-seven!”
At that moment the sound of carriage wheels outside reached them,
followed, a few seconds later, by the ringing of the front door-bell.
“Visitors, I suppose,” said Kitty. “It may be rude, but I must say that
I trust it is not the vicar.”
They waited in suspense until Williamson, the butler, entered the room
and informed Godfrey that a gentleman had called to see him, and was
waiting in the library.
“Who is it?” Godfrey asked. “Did he not give his name?”
“His name is Tompkins, sir,” the butler replied. “He said he should be
glad if you could spare the time to see him for a few moments.”
“I will do so at once,” said Godfrey, and, asking the ladies to excuse
him, left the room.
On entering the library, he found himself face to face with a
middle-aged individual, who at first glance resembled a sporting parson.
He was dressed in black, and carried a black silk hat in his hand.
“What can I do for you?” Godfrey inquired. “I am not aware that I have
ever seen you before.”
“Very likely not, sir,” the man replied. “My name is Tompkins, and I am
a Scotland Yard detective. I hold a warrant for your arrest on a charge
of wilfully murdering Teresina Cardi in Burford Street on the night of
Thursday last. I had better tell you that anything you may say will be
used against you.”
The blow had fallen at last!