For some moments Godfrey stood looking at the man who had come down from
town to arrest him, as if he were stunned. Though he had half expected
it, now that the blow had fallen he seemed scarcely able to appreciate
his position. At last, with an effort, he recovered his self-possession.
“You may be able to imagine what a very unhappy mistake this is for me,”
he said to the detective. “But I have no wish to complain to you; you
are only doing your duty. Where is it you desire to take me?”
“We must go up to town to-night,” said the man, civilly enough. “As you
may remember, sir, the adjourned inquest is to be held to-morrow
morning, and it will be necessary for you to be present.”
“In that case we had better catch the 6.10 train from Detwich. It is an
express and gets to Euston at eight. Is your cab waiting, or shall I
order one of my own carriages to take us?”
“I told the man to wait,” the other replied. “He is a station cabman.”
“In that case, if you will allow me, I will tell my servant to put up a
few things for me. I suppose I shall be allowed to take them?”
“There is no objection to it.”
Godfrey rang the bell, and, when the butler appeared in answer to it,
bade him tell his man that he intended going up to London at once, and
that he wanted his bag prepared without a moment’s delay. Then, with a
fine touch of sarcasm, he added: “Tell him also that I shall not require
my dress clothes.”
The detective smiled grimly. It was a joke he could appreciate; he also
liked the other’s pluck in being able to jest at such a time.
“That’s the thing with these swells,” he said to himself. “They never
know when they’re beaten.”
“In the meantime,” said Godfrey, “I suppose you will permit me to say
good-bye to my family? I will give you my word, if you deem it
necessary, that I will make no attempt to escape.”
“I will trust you, sir,” said the man. “I know it’s hard lines on you,
and I want to make it as pleasant for you as I can, provided, of
course, you don’t get me into hot water.”
“I will endeavour not to do that,” said Godfrey. “And now I’ll go to the
drawing-room. If you think it necessary you can wait in the hall.”
“No, sir, thank you. I am quite comfortable here,” said the man; “but I
shouldn’t make the interview longer than I could help if I were you.
These things are always a bit trying for the ladies. I know it, because
I’ve seen it so often.”
Having ordered a glass of brandy and water for him, the man’s favourite
tipple, and handing him an illustrated paper, Godfrey left him and
returned to the drawing-room. He had an agonizing part to play, and he
wanted to spare his women folk as much pain as possible. As he entered
the room they looked up at him with startled faces.
“What is it, Godfrey? What is it?” asked his mother, while the two girls
waited for him to speak.
“It is a man from London who has come down to see me with regard to the
murder,” Godfrey began, scarcely knowing how to break the news to them.
“It appears that the authorities are desirous of seeing me prior to the
inquest to-morrow, and so I am going up to-night.”
“Godfrey,” cried his mother, springing to her feet and running toward
him, “I see it all. They have arrested you on a charge of murder! Oh, my
boy, my boy, I can not let you go! They shall not take you away.”
“It is only a matter of form, mother,” he said, soothingly. “On the face
of yesterday’s evidence, they could do nothing else. All well, I shall
be down again to-morrow. It is only a little temporary inconvenience;
for my lawyer, who is one of the cleverest men of his profession, feels
certain that he can disprove the charge.”
“It is monstrous even to suspect you of it,” said Kitty. “If they only
knew you, they would not dare even to hint at such a thing.”
Molly said nothing. But he knew what her thoughts were.
“I must send a note to your father, dear,” he said. “He anticipated this
and made me promise to communicate with him directly it should come to
pass.”
He thereupon went to a writing-table in the corner of the room and wrote
a hurried note to Sir Vivian, after which he rang the bell and gave
orders that it should be taken to the Court without a moment’s delay.
“Now,” he said, when he had examined his watch and found that it was
nearly half-past five, “I must bid you good-bye. Do not be anxious about
me. I am proudly conscious of my own innocence, and I feel sure that, by
this time to-morrow, the public will be aware of it also.”
But his mother was not to be comforted. She clung to him with the tears
streaming down her cheeks, as if she could not let him go.
“Mother dear,” said Kitty, “you must be brave. Think of Godfrey, and
don’t send him away more unhappy than he is.”
“I will be brave,” she said, and drew his face down to hers and kissed
him. “Good-bye, my dear boy. May God in His mercy bless you and send you
safely back to us!”
When Kitty had kissed him, she drew her mother back into the ingle nook
in order that Godfrey and Molly might say good-bye to each other in
private.
Then Godfrey took Molly in his arms.
“Good-bye, my own dearest,” she said. “I shall pray for you continually.
Night and day you will be in my thoughts.”
He could not answer her, but kissed her passionately. Then, disengaging
himself from her embrace, he left the room.
Returning to the library, he informed the detective that he was at his
disposal, at the same time telling him that, if they desired to catch
the 6.10 at Detwich, they had no time to lose.
“We had better be going, then,” said the man, and leaving the library
they proceeded into the hall. Godfrey’s bag had already been placed in
the cab, and the gray-haired old butler, Williamson, was standing at the
foot of the stairs holding the door open.
“Good-bye, Williamson,” said Godfrey. “I know that I can safely leave
everything in your hands.”
“You can, sir,” the man replied, simply; and then for the first time in
his life he allowed himself to become familiar with his master, and
laying his hand on his arm he added, “May God bless you, sir, and send
you back to us soon!”
Then the cab rolled away down the drive, and Godfrey’s journey to prison
had commenced.
For the greater part of the drive into Detwich neither of them spoke.
One had too much upon his mind to be in the humour for conversation,
while the other, who was sorry for his prisoner, and who knew a
gentleman when he saw one, had no desire to thrust himself upon him in
his trouble. As it happened when they reached the station they found
that they had some minutes to spare. They accordingly strolled up and
down the platform, while they awaited the coming of the express. On its
arrival they secured an empty compartment, and settled down for the
journey to London. When Euston was reached they took a cab and drove
direct to Bow Street, where Godfrey Henderson, of Detwich Hall, Detwich,
was formally charged with the wilful murder of Teresina Cardi, artist’s
model. The usual forms having been complied with, he was placed in a
somewhat superior apartment in another portion of the building. Then the
key was turned upon him, and for the first time in his life was a
prisoner.
Early next morning it was announced that two gentlemen had arrived to
see him. They proved to be Sir Vivian Devereux and Mr. Codey, the
lawyer.
“My dear lad, this is indeed a sad business,” said Sir Vivian, as they
shook hands. “I can not tell you how sorry I am for you. But, thank
God, we know you to be innocent and are determined to prove it.”
They sat down, and the lawyer, who had been looking round the room,
which doubtless he had seen on many previous occasions, began to ply him
with questions, which Godfrey answered to the best of his ability. When
they had withdrawn, he was left to himself until the time arrived for
him to set off for the coroner’s court. When he did so, it was in a cab
with a couple of stout policemen beside him to see that he made no
attempt to escape. On reaching it, he found that it was packed to
overflowing. Victor Fensden was there, seated in the space reserved for
the witnesses, but Sir Vivian noticed that he avoided meeting Godfrey’s
eyes. With one exception, the proceedings proved comparatively tame. It
was only when the hall porter referred to Godfrey’s haggard appearance
when he returned to the hotel on the Thursday night, that there was
anything approaching excitement. He deposed that Mr. Henderson, who had
been staying at the hotel, and whom he now recognised as being in Court,
returned to the hotel on the night of the murder between a quarter-past
and half-past twelve. He, the porter, was immediately struck by his
strange appearance. In reply to a question put by a juror, he replied
that he looked very much as if he had been upset by something; his face
was deadly white, and he had an anxious, what he should call frightened,
look in his eyes. At the other’s request, he had procured him some
brandy, and, as he had had some trouble next morning with the head
waiter about it, the fact was the more vividly impressed upon his
memory. The cabman who had driven them from the Strand to Burford Street
was next called. In answer to questions put to him, he stated that, when
he was hailed by the person now in court, the deceased woman seemed very
reluctant to enter the cab. But the other had at last prevailed upon her
to do so, and he had driven them to the house in the street in question.
He had identified the body, and could swear as to the identity of the
person in court. The police-constable, who had passed a few minutes
before he bade Teresina good-night, was next examined. He remembered
seeing them together, and thought it a strange place for a gentleman to
be in at such a time. His attention was drawn to them because the girl
was crying, while the gentleman seemed somewhat excited. Feeling that,
as he was not appealed to, he had no right to interfere, he passed on
down the street. In answer to the coroner’s inquiry, he was unable to
say whether or not the man entered the house.
Ten minutes later a verdict of wilful murder against Godfrey Henderson
was returned, and he was committed for trial on the coroner’s warrant.
Instead of returning to Bow Street from the coroner’s court, Godfrey was
now driven to Holloway Prison, where he was placed in an ordinary cell.
His spirits by this time had fallen to as low an ebb as it would be
possible for those of a human being to reach. What had he done to
deserve this cruel fate? He was not conscious of ever having done any
one an injury; he had always done his best to help his fellow-men. Why,
therefore, was he brought so low? He thought of Molly, and pictured her
feelings when she should hear that he was committed for trial. He could
imagine his mother’s despair and could almost hear poor, sorrowing Kitty
vainly endeavouring to comfort her.
During the afternoon Sir Vivian and Mr. Codey came to see him again. The
former was very plainly distressed; the latter, however, regarded
matters in a somewhat more stoical light. He had seen the same things
so many times before, that he had become in a certain measure hardened
to it. In all the cases upon which he had hitherto been engaged,
however, he had never had one in which the prisoner was a country
gentleman, besides being an artist of considerable repute. “You must not
give way, Mr. Henderson,” he said, kindly. “There’s plenty of time yet
for us to prove your innocence. Doubtless, when this is all over and you
are free once more, you will regard it as a very unpleasant experience,
certainly, but one which might very easily have been worse. Now, with
your permission, I will tell you what I have done. In the first place,
we must endeavour to find the real murderer. Only a trained hand could
do this, so I have engaged a man with whom I have had a great many
dealings in the past. He is a private detective of an unusual kind, and
has a knack of securing information which neither the Government men nor
the private agents seem to possess. He will be expensive, but I suppose
you will have no objection to paying him well for his services, if he is
successful, as I trust he will be.”
“You may be quite sure I shall have no objection,” said Godfrey. “Let
him get me out of this scrape, and I’ll pay him double, even treble,
his usual charges.”
“Oh, he won’t bleed you as much as that,” returned the lawyer. “He is
below now, and if you care to see him, I will obtain permission for him
to come up.”
The necessary authority being forthcoming, Codey presently returned,
accompanied by a burly, rosy-cheeked individual, who might very well
have been the landlord of a well-to-do country inn or a farmer in a
prosperous way of business. A more jovial countenance could scarcely
have been discovered, had one searched England through for it. Merely to
look at it was to be made to feel happy, while to hear his laugh was to
be put in a good humour for the remainder of the day. He was dressed in
a suit of tweeds, more than a trifle pronounced as to colour, a knitted
blue waistcoat covered his portly, bow-windowed presence, while he wore
a spotted blue and white tie, decorated with a large diamond pin. His
feet and hands were enormous, and when he laughed--which he did on every
available opportunity--his whole figure seemed to quiver like a blanc
mange.
“This is Jacob Burrell, Mr. Henderson,” said the lawyer, when the door
had closed on them. “I have told him that you wish him to take up your
case, and he is prepared to do so without delay.”
“I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Burrell,” said Godfrey. “Mr. Codey
has told me of your cleverness. If you can discover who it was who
actually murdered the poor girl, you will not only relieve me from a
position of considerable danger, but you will lay me under an
everlasting obligation to yourself.”
“I’ll do the best I can, sir,” said the man, jovially, rubbing his hands
together, as if he regarded the whole affair as a huge joke. “As Mr.
Codey may have told you, I have unravelled pretty tangled skeins in my
day, and it won’t be my fault if I don’t do the same here. Now, sir, Mr.
Codey, who knows my ways of work, has given me an outline of the case,
but if you don’t mind, I should like to put a few questions to you on my
own account.”
“Ask me whatever you please,” said Godfrey, “and I will answer to the
best of my ability.”
Burrell seated himself opposite Godfrey, placed one enormous hand on
either knee, and looked the other full in the face.
“Now, sir, in the first place, when you had your old studio in London,
before you inherited your present estate, and when you first engaged the
girl, can you remember who were your intimate friends? I mean, the
friends who were in the habit of dropping into your studio pretty
frequently, to smoke their pipes, and perhaps to take a friendly glass?”
Godfrey considered for a moment.
“I had not very many friends in those days,” he answered at last. “I was
a hard worker, and for that reason didn’t encourage men to waste my
time. Besides, I was only a struggling artist, and couldn’t afford to
entertain very much.”
“But there must have been some men who came in. Think, sir, and try to
recollect. It’s an important point.”
“Well, of course, there was my friend, Mr. Fensden, who practically
lived with me. He used my studio whenever he had anything to do.”
“He is the gentleman who gave the damaging evidence against you on
Monday, is he not?”
“He is! Then there was a Mr. Bourke, a leader writer on the Daily
Record.”
“I know Mr. Bourke,” said the detective. “We may dismiss him from the
case at once.”
“Then there was an artist named Halliday, who occasionally dropped in,
but he is now in Dresden.”
“When did he go?”
“Nearly two months before I went abroad myself,” Godfrey answered. “I
think I have given you the list of my friends. I can remember no more.”
“Now, sir, that box, in which the hands were sent, had you ever seen it
before?”
“No,” said Godfrey; “I am quite certain I had not.”
“When you came home from Egypt, did you make any purchases in Naples?”
“None at all. I was only there one night.”
“Now, sir, I am given to understand that your friend, Mr. Fensden,
induced you to go abroad for the reason that he feared you were falling
in love with your model. On what sort of terms was Mr. Fensden himself
with the girl in question?”
“On very friendly terms,” said Godfrey.
“Was he in love with her, do you think?”
“I am certain he was not,” Godfrey replied, shaking his head. “I do not
think he would ever be in love with anybody.”
“And you are quite sure that he saw nothing of the girl from the day he
bade her good-bye in your studio, until Monday, when he inspected her
dead body in the mortuary?”
“I am sure of it,” Godfrey answered.
“And when did he return to England, for I understand he has been abroad
until lately?”
“On Thursday morning. I met him at the Mahl Stick Club an hour or two
after his return from Paris.”
“Now, sir, one other question, and the last. The girl, I understand,
told you that she was married, and refused to say to whom. I have had an
opportunity of examining the wedding-ring from her finger. Somewhat to
my surprise, I found that it was of Austrian make. Now, how does it come
about that a girl living in Naples should be married with an Austrian
wedding-ring? It was, moreover, an expensive one. What I want to know
is, was the young woman ever in Vienna?”
“Never, to the best of my belief,” said Godfrey. “At any rate she never
told me so.”
“Now, sir, there’s one point I want to clear up, and when I have done
that, I sha’n’t be at all certain that I haven’t got the key to the
whole mystery. Is it only a singular coincidence, do you think, that
Teresina Cardi, your old model, wore a wedding-ring of Austrian make,
and that the box in which her hands were sent to you the other day
should bear the label of a well-known Vienna firm?”
He chuckled and rubbed his hands together, as he put this question to
Godfrey.
“It certainly seems singular,” said the latter; “but why should not the
ring have been purchased in Naples, even if it were of Austrian make?”
“There is not the least reason why it should not, but the coincidence is
worth remarking. Now, sir, I shall leave you to think over what I have
said. I shall telegraph to Naples and Vienna, and meanwhile endeavour to
find out who it was handed the box in at Euston. Allow me to wish you
good-day, gentlemen.”
They returned his salutations, after which he went away, leaving one
little ray of hope behind him.
“A most remarkable man that!” said Codey, appreciatively, when the door
was once more closed. “He will follow the trail now like a sleuth-hound.
In the meantime, Mr. Henderson, I can not promise you anything very
hopeful for to-morrow. I shall apply to the magistrate for a remand in
order to give Burrell more time to look about him. I shall keep in touch
with him, you may be sure. I have retained Alfred Rolland as counsel for
you. He and I have often worked together, and I don’t think you could
have a better man.”
“I place myself in your hands unreservedly,” said Godfrey. “Do whatever
you think best, and spare no expense. I have others besides myself to
think of in this matter.”
“You have indeed, poor souls!” said Sir Vivian. “I shall go down
to-night, and try to reassure them, and come up again first thing in the
morning.”
When they left him, half-an-hour later, Godfrey sat himself down on his
bed and resigned himself to his own miserable thoughts. What enemy had
he who hailed from Vienna? He could think of no one among the circle of
his acquaintances who had ever been there. Certainly no one who would be
likely to do him such an irreparable wrong. After that he thought of his
dear ones at home, and broke down completely. His supper was sent away
untouched. He felt as though he could not have swallowed a mouthful,
even had his life depended on it. At last he retired to bed, but not to
rest. When he rose next morning, he felt older by a dozen years.
“This will never do,” he said to himself. “If I go on like this, people
will begin to think from my appearance that I am guilty. No, they shall
see that I am not afraid to look any man in the face.”
Then the door was unlocked, and he was informed that it was time to set
off for the magistrate’s court.