PAUL IS APPREHENDED FOR MURDER
"Paul Stepaside, I apprehend you for the murder of Mr. Edward Wilson!"
The words stunned him, and for the moment he scarcely realised their
purport--but only for a moment. His mind asserted itself, and the
meaning of what he had just heard came to him in all its grim reality.
"I have to inform you," said the sergeant of the police, "that anything
that you may say to me may be used against you as evidence hereafter."
Paul looked at the man's face with a kind of curiosity. For the moment
he seemed to be watching some drama of events with which he had nothing
to do. The three policemen were of the ordinary well-fed and somewhat
self-satisfied class of men. They acted upon order, without much
intelligence. Paul hesitated a moment, and began to reflect deeply.
He called to mind all the events of the last few hours, and his heart
was filled with a great terror. That which, a little while before, had
seemed only a dark shadow now assumed tangible shape.
"Very well, I will go with you," he said quietly. And then, again
reflecting a moment, he continued: "But first of all I would like to
speak to my mother."
"No," said the sergeant. "I can't allow you to go out of my sight."
"Think what you're saying, my man!" said Paul sharply.
"I can't help it, sir," replied the sergeant. "I'm only acting upon
orders"; and he spoke humbly, apologetically. Even at that moment a
passing stranger could not have helped noticing the difference between
the men. The policemen were stolid, commonplace, the mere creatures of
formula; the young man whom they had come to apprehend was, to the most
casual observer, a man of mark. Neither of them could help feeling it.
Pale of face, clear-cut features, black, flashing eyes, square
forehead, a well-shaped head covered with black, glossy hair--tall,
erect, well-dressed--it might seem as though he were their master and
they his servants; and yet each realised that he was a prisoner,
apprehended for murder.
"Very well, Broglin," said Paul quietly. "I see you take this thing
seriously, and, of course, I do not wish to hinder you from doing your
duty. But, at least, I have the right to know what authority you have
for apprehending me?"
"I have a magistrate's warrant," replied Broglin, the sergeant.
"Yes; but they cannot have made out a warrant without some sufficient
reason for so doing. To be charged with murder is a serious affair!"
"I know it, sir," replied Broglin. He had forgotten the part he had
intended to play. He was altogether conquered by the stronger
personality with which he had come into contact.
"Well, what are the grounds for apprehending me, then?"
"First," said the policeman, after a moment's reflection, "Mr. Ned
Wilson was found dead this morning. This man here, Police-Constable
Ashworth, was on his beat, not far from Howden Clough, when he found
him lying face on the ground, the knife driven into his heart."
"Very sad, very terrible," said Paul. "But pray, what have I to do
with that?"
"Of course, he started to work," said the constable, "and before long
two men who are well known in Brunford, Abel Scott and James Thomas
Dixon, stated that they saw you the previous night. They heard what
took place between you; they saw Mr. Wilson knock you down with a heavy
stick--you can't deny that; there's the wound on your temple now--and
they heard you threaten to pay him out."
"Yes," said Paul, "but that's not enough on which to apprehend me."
"I have got the magistrate's warrant," said the policeman.
"Still, there must be something more. What is it?"
The policeman did not feel himself obliged to answer the question; but,
still yielding to Paul's stronger presence, went on humbly: "Well, sir,
of course the people at Howden Clough were knocked up at once, and a
letter was discovered from you to young Master Edward, asking him to
meet you."
"Still, that's not enough to apprehend me," said Paul.
"Maybe not," replied the constable. "But the knife which was buried in
Mr. Ned Wilson's heart is known to be yours. It was seen on the desk
in your office only yesterday."
Paul's lips became pale as these words were spoken. He knew it was
damning evidence. He remembered the knife; he had reason to. "Very
well," he said. "I will go with you; but, first of all, let me ring
for a servant. No, I do not wish to move away from you farther than
the bell here." He pressed a button as he spoke, and the servant, who
had been listening, eagerly rushed to him.
"Mary," said Paul, "where's my mother?"
"I don't know," replied the girl. "I don't think she's up yet."
"Perhaps she's not well," said Paul. "Tell her for me that I have to
go down into the town with these men, on a matter of business, but that
she need be under no apprehension about me. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," replied the girl.
She had heard all that had been said. She knew that her young master
was accused of murder, and in a way she believed it, but she could not
treat him disrespectfully. There was something in his presence that
made it impossible.
"The cab's outside," said Broglin. "I'd better put on the handcuffs, I
suppose?"
Paul lifted his eyebrows. For the first time he fully realised what
was taking place. All the ghastly disgrace, the terrible notoriety,
became real to him. He knew that in a few minutes the whole town would
be agog with excitement. His most intimate affairs would be discussed
by every gossip in Brunford. Still, it could not be helped. The thing
had to be gone through, and he must go through with it. But he must be
careful not to betray himself or anyone else.
"There is no need of the handcuffs, Broglin," he said. "Still, do your
duty."
"I am sorry," said the man. "But, you see, it's a serious affair,
and--and----"
"Never mind," interrupted Paul, "put them on!"
He stepped into the cab, and the three burly forms of the policemen
also went with him. The word was given to the driver, and a few
minutes later he felt himself drawn towards the Town Hall.
"Shall I pull down the blinds, Mr. Stepaside?" said Broglin.
For a moment he was tempted to say "Yes," but only for a moment. It
was no use. What would be the good of blinds? Every one would know.
Even now he saw groups of people in the street, talking excitedly,
while more than one looked curiously at the cab in which he rode. He
had no doubt that reporters were near, eager to get a sensational
account for the local papers. It would be a godsend to them. Paul
Stepaside, Member of Parliament for Brunford, the man who had been
spoken of as the idol of the people--he, whose one speech in the House
of Commons had given him an almost national reputation, would now be
notorious for one of the foulest deeds of which a man is capable.
Still, he did not lose control over himself. He sat quietly, grimly,
thoughtfully. There was that in his heart which he dared not reveal,
and which at all hazards must be kept buried.
Presently the cab reached the Town Hall. A number of loafers were
hanging around, while many had gone so far as to leave their work in
order not to miss such a sight. It was not like an ordinary murder.
Ned Wilson was the son of one of the most prominent men in the
district; and Paul Stepaside, who had come to Brunford only a few years
before, had become the most noted man in the town--and now it had come
to this! A few minutes later he found himself in a cold, dark cell.
Of what he thought during the many hours he remained there it is not
easy to tell, but that he felt the terror of it and the grim tragedy
which pervaded everything can be easily realised. He was apprehended
for murder, and he had been taken to that gloomy cell because of it.
Of course, the reasons were plain enough, and as far as he could see,
the police officials could not evade their duty. The long-standing
feud between himself and Wilson was well known. Many threats had been
uttered on both sides, while the quarrel which had taken place the
previous night had evidently become public property. It seemed to him
as though the hand of Fate had been at work in order to encompass his
ruin. Of course, he was innocent of the deed. He had never struck Ned
Wilson the blow which deprived him of life; nevertheless, every
circumstance seemed to point to him; and, to crown all, it was his
knife that had been found in Wilson's heart.
During the time he had been in the cab he had been thinking of the
means he should use to clear himself, for he felt sure he could do so.
Sitting alone in the cell, however, this became impossible. Such a
terror as he had never known before filled his heart. He believed he
knew who had committed this ghastly deed, but his lips must be sealed.
He must not tell; he would rather die than tell of what he knew. His
mother, out of love for him, and with a desire to be revenged upon the
man who had been his enemy, had, in her mad passion, taken away his
life.
He called to mind the incidents of the previous day. He remembered
that, not long after he had arrived at his office that morning, his
mother came to see him. She had come in by a side entrance and had
found her way across a little piece of intervening yard, and had thus
come to his office without the notice of others--at least, he hoped so;
at any rate, it was quite possible that she should have done so. He
wondered why she had come that morning, because she seemed to have
nothing to say to him of importance. But while they were there, she
had noticed a large knife lying upon his desk. It had been sent to him
some time before by a man from South America, with whom he had done
business. It was an ugly, murderous-looking weapon, and keen as a
razor. He remembered her asking questions about it. Soon after he had
been called out of the office, and when he returned he noticed that it
was not lying on the table. He had paid no particular attention to
this fact at the time, because his mind had been filled with other
things. He had been trying to discover Ned Wilson's whereabouts, and
he had been thinking of the things he meant to say to him.
During the afternoon he had forgotten all about his mother--he had
reason to--but on his return, after he had told her all that had taken
place, he remembered she seemed like one bereft of her senses. Every
detail of the interview they had together came to him there, as he sat
alone in the darkness, thinking and remembering. He called to mind
every word she had spoken; and, in the light of after events, he
thought he could plainly see their meaning. She had told him that he
need not fear, that he should be avenged, that the desires of his heart
should be realised. She had said something about Howden Clough. He
had paid no particular attention to it then, as he fancied she was
thinking of the place where he had quarrelled with Wilson; but now he
knew.
He remembered going into his mother's bedroom and looking into the
wardrobe where she kept her dresses. He had noted that it was nearly
midnight, and her bed had been untouched. He called to mind, too, how
presently he had left the house, determined to find her; how he had
walked for hours in vain, not daring to make inquiries; and then, when
presently he had returned, he had found her in her bedroom, evidently
under the stress of a great emotion. There was a look of unholy joy in
her eyes, and she had uttered wild words. He could not understand them
then, but he understood now. His mother, wrought up almost to a pitch
of insanity, roused to hatred of Wilson, not only because of what he
had done to him but of what he had said about her, and madly thinking
that she was going to help him, had gone out and committed this deed.
Of course, there were many things he could not explain; but the grim
logic of facts stared him in the face, and they explained the
unnameable fear which had come into his heart, the black shadow which
had rested upon everything.
In a way, he was almost glad that they had apprehended him; and there
in the silence he made a vow that, whatever should happen, he must see
to it that no suspicion should ever rest upon her. Evidently she had
not been in the mind of the officials at all. No one would suspect
that she had not gone to bed when she left him. He was the only one
who knew, and he must guard the secret at whatever cost.
He knew something of the course of the procedure which would be taken
against him. Whether he were committed for trial or not--ay, whether
any jury might find him guilty or not, he must say nothing, and do
nothing, which should have the slightest tendency to connect her with
this terrible thing.
The meaning of the tragedy itself did not appeal to him. The fact that
Wilson, the man who through the long years had been his enemy--yes, and
his rival, too--was dead did not appeal to him. The ghastliness of the
tragedy was not what he thought about at all. Ever and always his mind
reverted to his mother. She must be saved.
He had wondered the night before whether she were quite sane, and he
wondered now; but that did not matter. Under no conceivable
circumstances must the thoughts of men be directed to her!
But what should he do? He did not want to die; he hated the very
thought of death. He remembered, too, the smile that Mary Bolitho had
given him when last they met. He thought of the hopes she had inspired
in his heart, of the dreams which had made the world beautiful. That
was all over now. His mother had made everything impossible. But
whatever she had done, she had done out of love for him, and he could
not think harshly of her. Rather, in a way he could not understand, he
loved her more than ever.
"Poor mother!" he said to himself. "It was all for love of me--all
because she wanted to make me happy!"
Again he went over the whole miserable story, and tried to see whether
he had not been mistaken in the suspicion which haunted his brain, but
he saw no loophole anywhere. Who could have committed the deed but
she? There was the fact of the knife, the fact of the wild threats she
had uttered, the fact of her going out into the night alone, the fact
that when he returned in the morning he had found her in an almost
hysterical state of mind in her bedroom, the fact that his knife was
buried in Wilson's heart. No, no; there could be no doubt about it.
He did not love her the less, rather the more. He did not regard her
as a murderess, and yet he felt sure it was she, even although he lay
there apprehended for one of the foulest deeds man could commit.
The following morning Paul was brought before the magistrates. He knew
that their duty was largely a matter of form. It was for them to
justify the warrant that had been taken out against him, the warrant to
arrest him on a charge of murder.
When he entered the justice room he was perfectly calm. He had mapped
out his course of action to the minutest detail, and he had no doubt
about the findings of the magistrates. Up to the present no coroner's
inquest had been held on the body of Edward Wilson. That might not
take place for another day or so. Certain preliminaries would have to
be arranged first.
The court was thronged, and he afterwards learnt that the street
outside was literally deluged with people who had tried to obtain
admission. He had no doubt that thousands who had shouted with
exultation when he became Member for Brunford now believed him to be a
murderer; while others, with that morbid interest which is ever
associated with crime, wanted to be present while he was tried. Every
seat on the magistrates' bench was occupied; both the victim and the
supposed murderer were well known.
Several witnesses were examined; the two men who had seen the quarrel
between Paul and Wilson gave evidence of the very angry scene which
took place. They described Wilson's rage, and told how he had struck
Paul a very heavy blow on the head with a stick; and that Paul, on his
recovery, had threatened to be revenged. The knife, also, which had
been found in Wilson's body, was proved to be Paul's property, and had
been known to be in his possession, while the long enmity between the
accused and the murdered man was the talk of the town.
The results of the magistrates' sitting were, of course, inevitable.
No bench of magistrates could do other than they were obliged to do.
He had set up no defence nor made any statement. Paul Stepaside was
remanded, and sent to Strangeways Gaol in Manchester to await the
coroner's inquest.
By a little after six that evening Paul found himself again a prisoner
in the gaol where he had previously spent six months. But this time
all was different. On the former occasion, even although he knew he
had been unjustly accused and more unjustly prosecuted, he was aware
that much public sympathy was felt for him. He was regarded as a kind
of hero among a large class of people. He felt sure, too, that in due
course his name would be cleared, and even although the marks of his
prison life would ever remain upon him, he would be outwardly very
little the worse for what he suffered.
Now, however, the situation was worse. The sky was black and murky;
the air was smoke-laden; the atmosphere seemed to be tense with gloom;
but it was not blacker than the sky of his life. Everything was
hopeless, and he could do nothing.
Hour after hour he sat in Strangeways Gaol, thinking and wondering.
When the magistrates had remanded him for trial, he had shown no sign,
but had stood proud, calm, erect, and had shown no perturbation
whatever at their judgment. It might have been the most commonplace
thing imaginable. But now that he was alone in his cell everything was
different. He saw what it all meant, and he knew, too, where the
pathway in which he had elected to tread would lead.
He was not a coward, and he had steeled his heart against the worst.
Death he did not fear; but even although he believed that to no man who
was dead was there any life hereafter, and, as a consequence, he would
know nothing of what took place, he dreaded the thought of disgrace.
He knew that throughout the whole land his portrait would be printed in
a thousand papers. He knew he would be discussed by people whom he
despised. He knew that his name would be a byword and a hissing in the
country, while his mother---- But no, he would not think of her.
And what of his hopes? What of his ambitions? What of his life's
work? All seemed to be at an end. He called to mind what his mother
had said to him years before on the Altarnun Moors. "Find your
father," she had said. "Clear your name from reproach, and be revenged
for all he did." And now he would have to die, with his work
unaccomplished. In spite of everything, he had failed to find his
father, failed to find the slightest clue to his whereabouts. Thus, as
far as that went, his life's work would be unaccomplished. He thought
of his career, the career which he was just beginning to make
brilliant. He had become a Member of Parliament. He had risen from
obscurity to what was the promise of fame. He had been invited to the
houses of the rich and great. His name had been spoken of as one that
would have a great future, and now all that was at an end.
But more than all this, he thought of Mary Bolitho. He remembered the
words she had spoken to him on the night of the gathering in London,
remembered the flash of her eyes, the smile on her lips. What if her
father had written an insulting note of refusal? It weighed nothing
with him. He had sworn to win her, and he believed--yes, he believed
that he could have done so. But now all that was impossible, too. Of
course, she had heard of what had taken place, heard of the accusation
which had been laid against him. She would look on him as a murderer;
yes, and as the perpetrator of a gross, vulgar murder, too. What would
she think of him? Yes, that maddened him. The rest seemed small in
comparison with this, and he knew what would take place, too. Next
there would be a coroner's inquest, then another meeting before the
magistrates, and then he would have to meet judge and jury at the
Manchester Assizes. Every detail of his life would be discussed, no
matter how sacred it might be, while the vilest thoughts and feelings
would be attributed to him by a gaping, vulgar crowd, and he must
suffer it. And this was to be the end of life. A few weeks more and
the end would come, and he, Paul Stepaside, who had such hopes of a
brilliant future, would end his life on the scaffold. A hangman's cord
would be around his neck, and he would drop into Eternity, reviled and
spurned despite his innocence.