Kitabı oku: «The Betrayal of John Fordham», sayfa 14

Not much that Maxwell says deserves to be remembered, but certain words he spoke have burnt themselves into my heart. "Innocence proclaims itself; guilt hides its head." It is not always true. Proclaiming myself guilty I protest my innocence of evil intent.

And now I am ruined and a beggar. Maxwell's exactions have brought me to this pass; all that remains is Ellen's pitiful allowance. Maxwell, by some means, has discovered this, and has repeatedly threatened to denounce me if I do not hand it over to him. If I were weak enough to yield he would devise some new form of torture when that small sum was squandered.

It shall not be. Hope is dead; my life is desolate. Despairing days, sleepless nights – I live in purgatory. The end has come, my confession is made. Solemnly I declare that every word I have written is true. Dear Ellen, forgive me, comfort me, console me!

PART II

CHAPTER XXVII.
RELATED BY PAUL GODFREY, PRIVATE DETECTIVE

It is not often that a private detective – that is my occupation, and I am not ashamed of it – takes up a case for love, but that is what I did when I took up the great Rye Street murder. I don't deny that professional pride had something to do with it, for any man would have been proud to be employed in putting together the pieces of so celebrated a mystery. It was love that gave me the command, and that is not the least curious part of an affair which filled the newspapers for weeks, and puzzled the cleverest heads in Scotland Yard. The way of it was this. A few years ago business took me to Swanage, where I met Miss Cameron, her Christian name, Ellen. She and her mother (since dead) had gone there for Mrs. Cameron's health. I was, and still am, a bachelor, and I fell in love with Miss Cameron. I proposed and was not accepted, and I left Swanage a sadder, but I can't say a wiser man. Proverbs and popular sayings don't always apply.

In such circumstances some men are angry; others pretend not to care, and say there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. Others are sorry for a week or so, and then see another girl who takes their fancy. It was not the case with me. I knew I had lost a prize, and that it would be a long time before I got over it. Between you and me I don't think I have got over it to this day, and that, perhaps, is a thing I ought not to say. It is down, however, and there it shall remain.

Before I bade Miss Cameron good-bye in Swanage I couldn't help saying that if it was ever in my power to serve her I would do so willingly. I hadn't the least idea that I should ever be called upon, and I should have called the man a fool who said, "One of these days you will find yourself engaged in a murder case that has set all the country ringing, and in which the happiness of the woman you love is at stake." Clever writers say it is the unexpected that always happens. It happened to me.

On the morning of my introduction into the case I was sitting in my office, idling away my time. I had nothing particular to do, and was waiting for something to turn up in the way of business. It seemed as if I should not have long to wait, for my clerk came in and said that a lady wished to see me. I brisked up. Ladies don't come to a private detective for nothing. "Divorce case," thought I.

"What name?" I asked.

"Name of Cameron," my clerk answered. "Lady didn't have a card."

I jumped up, all my nerves tingling, and told the lad to show the lady in. I didn't wait for him to do it, though; I pushed past him, and there stood Ellen Cameron, the woman I loved and had never forgotten. I held out my hand with a smile, and she took it with a sigh. Her sad face showed that she was in trouble; her lips quivered as she asked whether I could give her a few minutes of my time, and her hand was cold as ice.

"If any one calls," I said to my clerk, "I am busy." And I led Miss Cameron to my private room.

"You want my advice," I said, drawing a chair up to the table; "sit down and tell me all about it. How did you find me out?"

"I saw your advertisement in the paper," she answered; "and I thought you would be willing to assist me."

The newspaper in which I advertise twice a week was on the table.

"You thought right," I said, and would have said more if I had not observed that her eyes were fixed with fear upon the newspaper. I looked over her shoulder, and saw that she was gazing upon a paragraph headed, "The Rye Street Murder."

It will clear the ground if I give the substance of this paragraph, which I had already read with great interest.

On the previous evening John Fordham presented himself at the Marylebone Police Court, and had charged himself with the murder, stating that the murdered man was his half-brother, that the name (up till then unknown) was Louis Fordham, and that he had acted in self-defense. According to his tale this John Fordham landed in Liverpool from an Australian vessel on the night of a great snowstorm, and being anxious to get to London without delay, was walking to the Lime Street station to catch a train. Passing through Rye Street, a man rushed out of a house and attacked him. A desperate struggle ensued, in the course of which he was dragged into a house and up the stairs into a room on the first floor, where he fell down in a state of unconsciousness. When he came to his senses he saw the body of the man by whom he had been attacked, and was horrified by the discovery that it was his half-brother, Louis Fordham. Distracted, and scarcely knowing what he was about, he left the house and took a morning train to London, where, living under an assumed name, he had been in hiding ever since. He made no disclosure of the motive which had induced him to give himself up after this lapse of time. His statement was taken down by the inspector; who, of course, asked him no questions.

This was the bare story, and I attached no credence to it, having made up my mind at once that John Fordham was guilty, and that he had been driven by remorse to take the last step.

"What will be done to him?" asked Miss Cameron, in a trembling voice, pointing to the paragraph.

Surprised at the question I drew the newspaper away, saying it was of no importance what became of this John Fordham, and that she had better proceed to the business she had called upon.

"But what will become of him?" she asked again.

I shrugged my shoulders, and to satisfy her said he would be brought up at the police court, and would be remanded.

"And then?"

"He will be remanded two or three times to enable the police to make inquiries, after which he will be committed for trial."

"And acquitted?" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, and with such an appealing look in her eyes – as though I were the judge who was trying the man – that I held my breath and made no reply. The suspicion that flashed upon me – that she had come to ask my assistance in this very murder – staggered me; but I steadied myself, and inquired if it really was the case.

"Yes," she answered. "You believe him guilty?"

"From what is stated here I can come to no other conclusion."

At this she fairly broke down, and I sat staring open-mouthed at her tears and misery. Dropping her veil over her face she tottered to the door, and was about to leave when I stopped her.

"No, Miss Cameron," I said; "you must not go away like that. You have come to ask my assistance, and I will give it you. There may be some mystery here which needs unraveling. I place myself honestly and unreservedly at your service. But you must be absolutely frank with me; to enable me to serve you nothing must be concealed – understand, nothing."

Let me confess, though the stronger reason for this offer was to be found in the interest I took in Miss Cameron, in my sympathy for her, that I was urged thereto by a less powerful motive. My professional pride was aroused by the suggestion of a mystery which I might be the means of bringing to light. To a man like myself, nothing more attractive could present itself.

She turned to me with a gasp of thankfulness.

"I will conceal nothing," she said. "You will condemn me, perhaps, but I must not allow that to stand in the way. There is no other man I can trust, there is no other man that can serve me, there is no other man who can prove John Fordham to be innocent of the crime of which he accuses himself."

"You believe him to be innocent."

"To believe him otherwise would be to lose my faith in the goodness of God. This will explain all. When you have read it you will know what John Fordham is to me, and whether there is any chance of proving his innocence. You have used the word 'mystery.' There is a mystery here which only a man in your profession can solve, which only a true friend would take the trouble to solve. How thankful, how thankful I am that I came to you!"

She took a large packet from beneath her mantle, and placed it in my hands; then, giving me her address, and saying she would always be at home, or would call upon me at any time I might appoint, she left me to the perusal of the manuscript. But I did not apply myself to it immediately, beyond glancing at the opening words. Thinking I might be in time to see John Fordham brought up at the police court, I posted off to Marylebone, and there I found the case proceeding. Fordham was in the dock, a pale, worn man, with an expression on his face of one who had undergone much suffering. He looked like a gentleman, but I did not allow that to influence me, for I put no trust in appearances. There are men standing high in public esteem whose faces would condemn them if they were charged with a criminal offense; and guilt itself too often wears the aspect of innocence. Asked if he had anything to say, Fordham replied that he hoped to be able on his trial to make a statement, which would be accepted in extenuation of his crime; until that time arrived he would be silent, but if he could assist the police in any way, he was ready to do so. This unusual reply awoke within me a stronger interest in him, and I studied his features carefully; there was stamped upon them the expression of a man who had prepared himself for the worst. The police asked for a remand, which was granted, and he was taken back to the cells. As I issued from the court a cab drove up, and Miss Cameron alighted; she had taken a four-wheeler, and was too late for this preliminary examination. I hastened to her, and told her what had taken place.

"Shall I be allowed to see him?" she asked.

I said there would be no difficulty, but that it would be best to consult a solicitor. She mentioned the name of one who had acted for Fordham for several years, and I advised her to go to him. She thanked me and drove off, and I returned to my office to read John Fordham's Confession.

If I were to attempt to describe at any length the impression it produced upon me I should fail. I am very fond of fiction, and I have read most of the leading novels of my time, but I doubt if I have ever read anything in which a man's trials and sorrows were more powerfully portrayed. I do not speak in a literary sense, for in that respect I am a poor judge, but the effect of this Confession upon me was startling. I seemed to see the man's heart and soul, and sometimes I lost sight of the fact that I was perusing a story of real life. The kind allusion to myself and the thoughtful suppression of my name affected me strongly, and John Fordham's description of the character of Ellen Cameron showed me what a treasure I had lost. But I should have been a despicable fellow to bear him any animosity for having won the love I sought, and I thought none the worse of him or Ellen Cameron for having thrown their lots together.

So much for my private feelings and for the small part I had played in Miss Cameron's life. I set them aside entirely, and threw myself heart and soul into the mystery which surrounded the murder.

It was plain enough to me that the Confession was worthless as evidence; a clever writer might have invented and written it for the purpose of exculpating himself, and by Fordham's own admission he was a writer of great power. I had read the articles he wrote on drunkenness, and I knew that the pictures he presented were drawn from life. But if they were cited at his trial they would tell against instead of for him, and would serve to discount the speech he might make in his defense. The mystery must be grappled with in a more practical manner, and I was the more determined to grapple with it sensibly and with as little sentiment as possible, because, when I finished the Confession I was convinced that Fordham was quite truthful in all he had set down. It would be hoping too much to hope that the judge and jury would think so, but I might succeed in discovering something that would lead to a verdict of manslaughter, and the passing of a light sentence; and it was not altogether impossible that a verdict of complete acquittal might be compassed. In which case what becomes of the censure passed by Fordham's solicitor upon the class to which I belong? I cast the word "vermin" in his teeth. He and others are glad enough to avail themselves of our services when they need them.

Fordham says that to establish his innocence (or bring about his acquittal, which I suppose means the same thing) a miracle is needed. Not at all. If it is done, common sense will do it. So, to work.

How many persons in the drama? Leaving out Ellen Cameron, who is not connected with the mystery, six.

Mrs. Fordham, John Fordham's stepmother. Dead.

Louis Fordham. Dead.

Barbara, wife of John Fordham. Dead.

Annette, the French maid. Disappeared. No mention of her.

Maxwell. Alive. Where was he?

John Fordham. In prison.

There remained, therefore, only one person upon whom there was a likelihood of laying hands. Maxwell. I must see him. John Fordham would be able to give me his address. I decided to seek an interview with John Fordham early in the morning.

But would it be easy to find Maxwell? He was accessory after the fact. John Fordham seems not to have thought of that. Maxwell, with better knowledge of the law, undoubtedly thought of it. Natural conclusion – Maxwell would keep out of the way. No reason why he should not be tracked. It was something in my line.

About the house in Rye street, in which Louis Fordham met his death, and the circumstances of the fatal struggle. Was it likely that Louis alone knew of the house and had no confederates? Not at all likely. Who were his confederates? I put the name of one on paper – Maxwell. Good! A ray of light. Like looking through a chink in the floor. I saw possibilities.

Who took the house, and for what purpose was it taken? Certainly not for the purpose of killing John Fordham. I dismissed the idea instantly. The confederates, even if they knew the name of the vessel in which John Fordham was traveling, could not have known that it would arrive at such and such an hour on such and such a day; could not have known that he would walk through Rye Street on his way to the railway station; could not have known that a great snowstorm would arise to cloak their proceedings; could not have timed the moment that he would pass the house. Natural conclusion that the meeting between him and Louis was accidental, and that during the struggle, Louis was as little aware as John of the identity of his assailant.

And here I was confronted with those elements of the affair which added to John Fordham's danger. His taking Louis' ulster to hide the stains of blood on his clothes, his accidental picking up of Louis' watch, believing it to be his own, his assumed name, and his remaining in hiding for so long a time. To all these I had satisfactory answers, but no jury in the world would entertain them. My hopes fell almost to zero.

I was setting these details down in the order of their occurrence. Of the strange discoveries I subsequently made I will make no mention till the proper time arrives. Before I went to bed I posted a comforting letter to Miss Cameron, in which I said much of my hopes and nothing of my fears.

On the following day I paid a visit to John Fordham. He looked at me suspiciously, and was not satisfied with my friendly professions until I related the manner of my introduction into the business. When I mentioned Miss Cameron's name his eyes became suffused with tears.

"What do you expect to do for me," he asked, "when my own evidence proves my guilt?"

"Do you believe yourself to be guilty of murder?" I asked in return.

"No," he answered.

"Would it not be a good thing to convince others of that?"

"Indeed it would," he said, but shaking his head at the same time, as though it were not possible.

"At all events," I continued, "it is your clear duty to do all you can to remove the stigma from those you love. There is a mystery to be solved; at Miss Cameron's request I have undertaken the task – with what success remains to be seen. If you will have confidence in me it will make the task all the easier. Surely it is not for you to throw difficulties in the way of your friends."

"Forgive me," he said. "I am ungrateful. I will tell you anything you wish to know."

"First, as to Maxwell. Had he any suspicion of your intention to give yourself up?"

"I do not think so."

"It will come upon him as a blow. Can you give me his address?"

"I do not know it."

"Since your arrival in England have you never visited him?"

"Never."

"Nor written to him?"

"No."

"He visited you frequently?"

"Two or three times a week for the purpose of obtaining money from me."

"He wrote to you?"

"Occasionally."

"Was there no address on his letters?"

"None."

"Did it not strike you as somewhat singular?"

"I never gave it a thought."

"And of course you did not examine the postmarks on the envelopes?"

"I did not."

"Did you destroy his letters?"

"Not all. There may be one or two in a desk in my lodgings."

I scribbled an order which he signed. It gave me authority to enter his rooms and look through the desk, the lock of which he informed me was broken. He then furnished me with a precise description of the personal appearance of Maxwell.

"Your wife's maid, Annette, had another name?"

"Her full name was Annette Lourbet."

"Have you any idea what has become of her?"

"No."

"I want you now to take your mind back to the night of the struggle. It appears very strange to me that in the course of the fight you should both have ascended a flight of stairs. Much more likely to have stumbled down than up. Can you account for it?"

"No."

"When you finally left the house, Louis Fordham's body was lying at the end of the room opposite the door. Can you be sure of that?"

"I am quite sure."

"The table was in the middle of the room?"

"Yes."

"Some significant details have escaped your notice. Do you not recollect that in the newspaper reports it was stated that Louis' body was beneath the table?"

He started at this, and I perceived that he was becoming more interested.

"I recollect it, but it did not strike me at the time, my mind being occupied by but one thought. Louis was dead. I had killed him."

"It appears strange to you now?"

"Very strange," he answered, thoughtfully.

"In order to argue this out," I continued, "I will suppose that when you left the house, you were mistaken in your belief that Louis was dead. Shortly afterwards he came to his senses. Getting upon his feet he staggered about the room in the dark till his hands touched the table. In his endeavors to reach the door the table was upset."

"Yes, that explains it."

I smiled at his readiness and simplicity. "But the fairer assumption is that he would have fallen upon the table, not under it."

He stared at me; a light seemed to be breaking upon him. In an unsteady voice he asked, "What deduction do you draw from that?"

"That another person entered the house after your departure; that another person hurled the table – a massive oak table, according to the newspaper reports – upon the body in such a way as to purposely mutilate the features."

"Another person did enter," said John Fordham.

"I know. Maxwell."

"Yes, Maxwell. He happened, as he said, to be passing through the street on the night of the snowstorm, and found the street door open."

"I have read the particulars in the document you sent to Miss Cameron. Do you believe his statement?"

"What reason is there for disbelief?" he asked, "when he was acquainted with so many things which I thought no one knew but myself?"

"Which you thought. It would, perhaps, be more correct to say that you accepted his statement without thinking. Mr. Fordham, it is not my habit to throw discredit upon coincidences; at the same time I do not accept them blindly, and I decline to accept this. In an inquiry such as this upon which I am engaged my mind is open not only to probabilities but to possibilities; everything humanly possible must be taken into account. Let one of the reins slip through your fingers, and you upset the coach. Maxwell says he found the street door open; you state that when you left the house you closed it behind you. I range myself on your side. The street door was shut."

"Then to enter the house Maxwell must have had a key?"

"Exactly. He had a key, and he and your half-brother were accomplices. From your experience of them, probable or possible?"

"Probable. But this will not exculpate me."

"I do not know where it will lead, but I intend to follow it up if I can. By the way, where was your wife buried?"

"In the Highgate Cemetery," he answered, with a look of surprise, "where my father lies. We have a family grave there."

"Your stepmother must have been buried in that grave."

"Very likely – but these are idle questions."

"Not so idle as they seem, perhaps. Another question, more to the point. Maxwell states that he found three articles belonging to you in the Rye Street house – your watch, your gold-digger's knife, and your matchbox. Did he return them to you?"

"No. He retained them as evidence against me."

"I shall be astonished if they are ever brought against you. My impression is that he will keep out of the way. I may not have time to see you again this week. If you have anything to communicate – if anything occurs to you that may assist me – write to my office."

I proceeded immediately to John Fordham's lodgings, where he was known as John Fletcher, and had a chat with the landlady. She spoke in the highest terms of her lodger; he was polite and civil, "a perfect gentleman," and gave no trouble; but she knew "all along that there was something on his mind." He always paid in advance, and there was a fortnight of his last payment still to run. In his desk I found only one letter from Maxwell; the envelope had been destroyed. It was friendly, and contained nothing incriminating. There was a reference in it to "low spirits" from which "dear John" was suffering, and the writer, who signed himself "M.," could not understand why John Fordham should be so melancholy. "Cheer up, old fellow," said "M.," "I shall come and see you tomorrow, and shall try to put some life into you." I understood why the letter was so carefully worded; Maxwell was guarding himself against the chance of his correspondence falling into other hands. Before I left the house, with the letter in my pocket, I inquired of the landlady whether she had seen Maxwell and had spoken to him.

"Oh, yes," she answered. "Mr. Maxwell is a very pleasant gentleman, and often asked me if I knew what made Mr. Fletcher so low-spirited, but of course I couldn't tell him."

Maxwell had evidently acted with great caution.

A few hours afterwards I got out at the Liverpool station. My business in that city did not take me long, but it led to something of the greatest importance.

In Fordham's written story of his life which he had sent to Miss Cameron he says he is uncertain whether the man who attacked him rushed out of a courtway or a house. There is no court near the house in which the struggle took place, therefore that point is settled. The house is still uninhabited, and I had no difficulty in obtaining admission. Mentally following the course of the fatal struggle between John and Louis Fordham from the street door to the room on the first floor in which Louis' body was found, I was struck by the peculiar formation of the staircase. There were two sharp turns in it, one of them being nearly an acute angle. That two men striking blindly at each other, and fighting for life or death in dense darkness, should have ascended this staircase, seemed to me exceedingly improbable, and the doubt presented itself whether John Fordham's account of the conflict was to be depended upon. When a man's sober senses are at fault, he is apt to be misled by his imagination. Was it so in this instance?

I examined the oak table in the room. It is of unusual size, six feet square, exceedingly heavy, and set on four massive legs. All the pressure I could bring to bear upon it was ineffective in tilting it, and I came to the positive conclusion that it could only have been overturned by a powerful effort from beneath. This proved that neither John nor Louis was responsible for the position in which the table was found by the police. I was convinced that a third person was implicated in the tragic affair; but though it was inevitable that my suspicions should point to Maxwell, I did not pledge myself to it. There might have been a fourth.

My interview with the agent who had let the house to a "Mr. Mollison" for a month upon trial opened up the field of conjecture, and was the means of leading to a direct clue – in fact, to two. He had seen Mr. Mollison on one occasion only, and he gave me such a confused and bungling description of that person that I felt it would be foolish to place any dependence upon it. In relation to this description I put but one question to him.

"Did you observe a scar upon Mr. Mollison's forehead?"

"No," he answered, after a little hesitation: "I do not think there was any scar."

We then spoke of the London reference which Mr. Mollison had given him, and he produced the letter he had received in reply to his own. It was signed "R. Lambert," and addressed, 214 Adelaide Road, N. W. From subsequent inquiries I learned that this house had been inhabited for only a few weeks during the last six or seven years, and then not by a person of the name of Lambert.

Now, I do not profess to be an expert in handwriting, but placing F. Lambert's letter by the side of Maxwell's, which I had taken from John Fordham's desk, a certain resemblance (by no means perfect) forced itself upon my attention. Accompanied by the agent, I went to the office of an expert, who partially confirmed my suspicion, but declined to pledge himself to it without a more minute examination. I left the letters with him, and directed him to forward them to London with his report. This was one of the clues I obtained during my brief stay in Liverpool. The more important one (which led to a startling result) was obtained in the following manner:

On our way from the office of the expert in handwriting to that of the agent, the latter mentioned that, although he had seen Mr. Mollison only once, a clerk in his employ had met him in the street after the house was taken. Without delay I interviewed this clerk, who admitted that he had seen Mr. Mollison a fortnight after the agreement was signed. Having taken no particular notice of that gentleman, he could furnish me with no better description of him than his master had supplied, except that he looked like a gentleman.

"Which was more than the man who was with him did," he added.

"Oh," I said, "he was not alone?"

"No," was the reply, "he was walking with a friend."

"With a friend?" I said. "Though one was a gentleman and the other was not?"

"Well, I suppose they were friends, because they were laughing at something."

"What did the other man look like?"

"A common sort of man; but he was dressed well enough. I can't say he seemed easy in his clothes."

"What made you notice him particularly?"

"As I came up to them Mr. Mollison said, 'You did it cleverly, Jack.' 'Oh, I can show 'em a trick or two,' said the man he called Jack; and then they burst out laughing. That made me turn round and look at the clever one."

"What did you notice in him?"

"That his face was pock-marked, and that he had a club foot."

"Was he tall or short?"

"Short."

"Did they see you looking at them?"

"I think so, because just then they turned the other way."

"And did you not follow them?"

"What should I follow them for?"

I pressed him hard, but he could tell me nothing more.

All the way back to London my thoughts ran chiefly on this club-footed, pock-marked Jack. Such a business as mine brings a man into queer company, and, without boasting, I may say that I am acquainted with half the bad characters in London. Some years ago I was a detective in the police force, but thinking I could do better, I said good-bye to Scotland Yard, and started a private office of my own. I like a free hand, and I got it and have done well with it.

Jack. With a club foot. A short man, who did not seem easy in good clothes. His face pock-marked. What better marks of identification could a detective desire? I was on the threshold of discovery, and yet some perverse streak kept me from seeing it. Not till the train was a mile from St. Pancras did I suddenly cry aloud – for all the world as though the name flashed itself out on one of the advertisements in the carriage – "Jack Skinner!"

Yes, Jack Skinner. He answered the description perfectly. He was short, he was pock-marked, he had a club foot, he was accustomed to wear fustian. I was really annoyed with myself that I had not thought of him at once. But it happens so sometimes.

Jack was his proper name. I dare say. Skinner was a nickname, bestowed upon him for certain peculiarities by which he was distinguished. The house-agent's clerk heard him say, "I can show 'em a trick or two." I should think he could. No man better. But for all that, he hadn't done any good for himself. Jack and I were old friends. I nicked him once as clean as a whistle, and got him three months. "You're too much for me, guv'nor," he said with a grin. He had a wholesome fear of me, but it was a long time since I had set eyes on him.