The preliminary investigation before the magistrate calls for but little
comment. The evidence was, with but few exceptions, that which had been
given before the coroner on the Monday and Wednesday preceding. If it
were remarkable for anything it was for the number of spectators in the
Court. The building, in which the coroner’s inquiry had been conducted,
had been crowded, but the police-court was packed, not with the
poorly-clad spectators which one usually meets and associates with that
miserable place, but by well-dressed and even aristocratic members of
society. When Godfrey recovered from his first feeling of shame at
finding himself in such a place and in such a position, and looked about
him, he recognised several people whom he had once accounted his
friends, but who had now schemed and contrived by every means in their
power, to obtain permission to watch, what they thought would amount to
his degradation and final extinction. Pulling himself together he gazed
boldly around him, and more than one person there told himself or
herself that a man who could look at one like that could never be guilty
of such a crime as murder. Mr. Rolland, the counsel who had been
retained by Codey for the defence, was a tall, handsome man, and of
others, little above middle-age. He was the possessor of a bland, suave
manner which had the faculty of extracting information from the most
unwilling and reluctant witnesses. Near him sat Mr. Codey himself,
keen-eyed and on the alert for anything that might tend to his client’s
advantage. The curiosity of the visitors was not destined, however, to
be gratified, for, when certain of the witnesses had been examined, the
case was adjourned for a week, and Godfrey returned to Holloway by the
way he had come.
How the next seven days passed Godfrey declares he is unable to tell,
but at last that weary week came to an end, and once more he stood in
the crowded Court. At first glance it looked, if such a thing were
possible, as if more people had been squeezed into the building than on
the previous occasion. The fashionable world was as well represented as
before, while this time there were even more ladies present than had
hitherto been the case. The cabman who had driven the pair to Burford
Street was examined and repeated his former evidence. He was subjected
to a severe cross-examination by Mr. Rolland, but his testimony remained
unshaken. The police-constable, who had seen them together outside the
house, also repeated his tale. He was quite certain, he assured the
Court, that the woman in question was crying as he passed them. At the
same time he was not sure whether or not the prisoner was speaking
angrily to her. When he left the witness-box Victor Fensden took his
place. He described the life in the studio before Godfrey left England,
and repeated the story of the attempt he had made to induce him to break
off his relations with the girl. When the prosecution had done with him
Mr. Rolland took him in hand and inquired what reason he had for
supposing that his client had ever felt any affection for the deceased
woman.
“Because he himself told me so,” Fensden returned unblushingly. “I
pointed out to him the absurdity of such a thing, and was at last
successful in inducing him to accompany me abroad.”
“You parted where?”
“In Port Said. I went on to Palestine, while he returned to Naples.”
“_En route_ to England?”
“I believe so.”
“On what day did you yourself reach London?”
“On the day of the murder.”
“When did you next see the prisoner?”
“He lunched with me at the Mahl Stick Club on the same day.”
“That will do,” said Mr. Rolland, somewhat to the surprise of the Court.
“I have no further questions to ask you.”
It was at this point that the great sensation of the day occurred. When
Fensden had taken his place once more, Detective-sergeant Gunson was
called, and a tall, handsome man, with a short, brown beard entered the
box. He stated that his name was Gunson, and that he was a member of the
Scotland Yard detective force. Two days previous, accompanied by
Detective-sergeant McVickers, he had paid a visit to the prisoner’s
residence, Detwich Hall, in the county of Midlandshire. They had made a
systematic search of the building, with the result that, hidden away
behind a bookcase in the studio, they had discovered a long knife of
Oriental workmanship and design. The blade was of razor-like sharpness,
and was covered with certain dark stains. He found nothing else of an
incriminating nature. Detective-sergeant McVickers was next called, who
corroborated his companion’s evidence.
Dr. Bensford, an analytical chemist and lecturer at the Waterloo
Hospital, stated that he was instructed by the Home Secretary to make an
examination of the marks upon the knife in question, now produced, and
had arrived at the conclusion that they were the stains of human blood.
(Great sensation in Court.)
So overwhelming was the shock to Godfrey, that for a moment he neither
heard nor saw anything. A ghastly faintness was stealing over him and
the Court swam before his eyes. With a mighty effort, however, he pulled
himself together and once more faced the Court. He looked at Sir Vivian
and saw that the baronet’s face had suddenly become very pale.
“Good Heavens!” he thought to himself, “will he suspect me also?”
The analyst having left the box, Victor Fensden was recalled, and the
knife handed to him. He took it in his daintily gloved hand and
examined it carefully.
“Have you ever seen that knife before?” asked the prosecution.
Victor hesitated a moment before he replied.
“No,” he answered, as if with an effort.
“Think again,” said his examiner. “Remember that this is a court of
justice, and it behooves you to speak the truth. Where did you see that
knife before?”
Once more Victor hesitated. Then in a somewhat louder voice he said:
“In Egypt. In Cairo.”
“To whom does it belong?”
“To Mr.--I mean to the prisoner. I was with him when he purchased it.”
A greater sensation than ever was produced by this assertion. Godfrey
leaned forward on the rail of the dock and scrutinized the witness
calmly.
“Your Worship,” he said, addressing the magistrate, “with all due
respect I should like to be allowed to say that I have never seen that
knife in my life before.”
The prosecution having finished their case, Mr. Rolland addressed the
Bench. He pointed out how entirely improbable it was that a gentleman
of Mr. Henderson’s character and position would commit a murder of such
a cowardly nature. He commented on the fact that it would have been
impossible, had he even desired to do such a thing, for him to have
committed the crime and have walked from Burford Street to his hotel in
Piccadilly in the time counted from the moment he was seen by the police
officer to the time of his arrival at his hotel. Moreover, he asked the
magistrate to consider the question as to whether a man who had
committed such a dastardly deed would have been likely to send the
mutilated remains to himself as a wedding present. It was useless for
him, however, to argue, the magistrate had already made up his mind, and
Godfrey was therefore not surprised when he found himself committed to
stand for his trial at the next Criminal Sessions, to be held in a
month’s time. Bowing to the magistrate, he left the dock, entered the
cab that was waiting for him in the yard, and was driven away to
Holloway.
“It was the finding of that knife that did it,” said Mr. Codey
reproachfully, when he next saw him. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me
that it was hidden there?”
“Because I did not know it myself,” Godfrey replied. “When I told the
magistrate that I had never seen it before, it was the truth. I did not
buy a knife in Cairo, so how could I have brought one home with me?”
“But who could have placed it behind the bookcase, if you did not?”
asked the lawyer.
“That is more than I can say,” said Godfrey simply.
“Look here, Mr. Henderson,” said Codey sharply, “I have met a good many
unsuspicious men in my time, but I don’t think I have ever met one so
unsuspicious as you are. I have a list of all the people in your house
at the moment when that box arrived. Let us run it over. There was your
mother, your sister, and your _fiancée_, Miss Devereux. As our friend
Burrell would say, they may be dismissed from the case without delay.
Your butler and footman are old family servants, as are the housekeeper,
the cook, and the head parlour-maid. They may also be dismissed. The
remainder of the household would be scarcely likely to possess a knife
of that description, so we will dismiss them also. There remains only
yourself and Mr. Fensden. You declare you are innocent, and we will
presume that you are. Now, Mr. Fensden, by his evidence has placed you
where you are. That is certain. You say that he lied as to the fact of
your being in love with the woman who is dead, and also when he said
that you purchased the knife in Cairo. You say that he came to stay with
you on the day that the murder was discovered--why should he not have
placed it behind the bookcase, in order that it should be another
incriminating point against you?”
“I can not believe that he would do such a thing,” said Godfrey. “He
would not be so base.”
“I am not so sure of it,” said the astute lawyer. “What is more, I made
a curious discovery to-day. The man in question pretends to be your
friend. He gives his evidence with reluctance. Yet I noticed that when
that knife was produced his face betrayed neither surprise nor emotion.
Had he had your interests at heart, would he have been so callous?
Answer me that! Now you have my reasons for arguing that he knew where
the knife was, and also the man who had placed it there.”
“The suspicions you suggest are too horrible,” said Godfrey, rising and
pacing the cell. “What possible reason could he have for doing me such
an injury?”
“One never knows. There are some men who hate the man who is supposed to
be their best friend, either because he, the friend, has been successful
in money-making, in love, or perhaps he presumes him to be happier than
himself. You are rich; he is poor. You have been successful in your
profession; he has been a failure. His hatred, like hundreds, might have
begun with jealousy and have terminated in this. I have known more
unlikely things.”
“In that case what am I to do?”
“Leave it to me and to Burrell to arrange. If things were not going
right, my experience teaches me that that astute gentleman would have
shown signs of dissatisfaction before now. He has got his nose on the
trail, you may be sure, and if I know anything about him, he will not
leave it for a moment.”
“But do you think he will be able to prove my innocence?” asked Godfrey.
“All in good time, my dear sir, all in good time,” said the lawyer.
“With me for your lawyer (pardon the boast), Rolland for your counsel,
Dick Horsden and Braithwaite with him, and Burrell for the ferret that
is to make the rabbits bolt, you could not be better served. For my own
part, I wouldn’t mind making you a bet--and as a rule I am not a man
who gambles--that the last-named gentleman has already acquired
sufficient information to secure your return to Detwich with an
unblemished character.”
“Then do so by all means,” said Godfrey. “I will take it with the
greatest pleasure in the world.”
“Very well then,” answered the lawyer. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do.
I’ve a junior clerk who has the making of a man in him, but who is in
consumption. The doctors tell me that, unless he is sent for a long sea
voyage to the other side of the world, he will not live a year. I have
promised to send him to the South Seas, and, if you like, this shall be
our bet: If you get off scot-free, you pay all his expenses--something
like five hundred pounds--and also give him five hundred pounds to go on
with. If you don’t, then I pay. Will you agree to that?”
“With all the pleasure in the world,” Godfrey replied.
“Then it’s settled. And now I must be going. Good-bye.”
They shook hands, and then the lawyer took his departure, leaving
Godfrey happier than he had been for some time past.
The month that separated the magistrate’s inquiry from the Sessions at
the Old Bailey seemed to Godfrey like an eternity. Day after day crept
slowly by, with but little, if anything, to relieve the monotony. He
took his daily exercise, kept his cell in spotless order, received
visits from the lawyer, who came to report progress, and from Sir
Vivian, who brought messages of hope and encouragement from the folk at
home.
On one red-letter day he was informed that visitors had arrived to see
him, and he was accordingly conducted to the room where he had on
several occasions interviewed his lawyer. The warder opened the door and
he entered, to be nearly overwhelmed by surprise. Standing by her
father’s side, at the farther end of the room, and waiting to receive
him, was no less a person than Molly herself. She ran forward and threw
herself into his arms.
“Molly, Molly,” he faltered, “what does this mean? Why are you here? You
should not distress yourself like this.”
“I could not help it,” she answered. “I had to come, I could stay away
from you no longer. You do not know how I have suffered. It seems as if
a lifetime had elapsed since we parted. At last I managed to persuade
papa to bring me up. My poor boy, how ill you look! How you must have
suffered!”
“Never mind about that, dear,” said Godfrey. “If it all comes right in
the end, we can afford to suffer a little. Now tell me of yourself; you
don’t know how hungry I am for news.”
“No, don’t let us talk of myself,” she answered. “I want to talk about
you and your affairs. Do you know that this morning I saw Mr. Codey,
your lawyer, for the first time? He was introduced to me by papa.”
“And what did he say to you?” Godfrey inquired, with natural interest.
“I am afraid there is not much to tell,” said Molly. “When I asked him
if he thought we should be able to prove your innocence, he said,
‘That’s a thing we shall have to see about; but I don’t mind going so
far as to promise you, that, unless there’s anything else that I don’t
know of, you and Mr. Henderson will eat your Christmas dinner together
next year!’ I asked him and implored him to tell me more, but I could
not get anything else out of him.”
Godfrey felt his heart beat more hopefully. It was something, indeed, to
know that Codey took such a bright view of the case. Then Molly went on
to give him the latest news of his mother and sister. The old lady, it
appeared, was suffering a great deal on her dear boy’s account; but she
firmly believed that in the end he would be acquitted.
“It makes me so sad to see her,” said Molly. “As you may suppose, I
spend the greater part of my time there now, and I think we help and
comfort each other.”
“God bless you for your goodness to them, dear!” replied Godfrey. “I
know what it must mean to them to have you with them.”
“And now, Molly,” said Sir Vivian, rising from his chair, “I am afraid
we must go. We were only allowed a short time with you, and we must not
exceed it. Good-bye, my boy, and may God bless you! Don’t be
down-hearted; we’ll prove your innocence yet.”
“You still believe in me, Sir Vivian?” he asked.
“As firmly as ever,” the other answered. “I should not be here if I did
not. And now, Molly, you must come along.”
Godfrey kissed his sweetheart, and wished her good-bye. When she had
left the room, all the sunshine seemed to have gone out of it, and with
a heavy heart he went back to the gloom of his prison life again.