Boothby Guy
The Mystery of the Clasped Hands: A Novel

CHAPTER XII

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.

CHAPTER XIII

Jacob Burrell sat in his comfortable armchair and took counsel with himself. He was a bachelor, and like many other bachelors was wedded to a hobby, which in some respects was more to him than any wife could possibly have been. In other words he was an enthusiastic philatelist, and his collection of the world's stamps was the envy of every enthusiast who came in contact with them. For Jacob Burrell they possessed another interest that was quite apart from their mere intrinsic value. A very large number of the stamps so carefully pasted in the book had been collected, or had come into his possession, in the performance of his professional duties. A very rare 1¼ schilling blue Hamburg was picked up by the merest chance on the same day that he ran a notorious bank swindler to earth in Berlin; while a certain blue and brown United States, worth upward of thirty pounds, became his property during a memorable trip to America in search of a fraudulent trustee, whose whereabouts the officials of Scotland Yard had not been able to discover. Well-nigh every page had a story of its own to tell, and when Burrell was in the humour, he could, with the book before him, reel off tale after tale, of a description that would be calculated to make the listener's hair stand on end with astonishment. At the present moment he was occupied, as he very well knew, with one of the most knotty problems he had ever tackled in his life. His face wore a puzzled expression. In his right hand he held a large magnifying glass and in his left a Canadian stamp of the year 1852. But whether it was the case he was thinking of or the stamp it would have been difficult to say.

"Genuine or not?" he asked himself. "That's the question. If it's the first, it's worth five pounds of any man's money. If it's a fudge, then it's not the first time I've been had, but I'll take very good care that, so far as the gentleman is concerned who sold it to me, it shall be the last."

He scrutinized it carefully once more through the glass and then shook his head. Having done so he replaced the doubtful article in the envelope whence, he had taken it, slipped the glass back into its chamois-leather case, tied the tape round the handle as deliberately as if all his success in life depended on it, put both book and glass away in a drawer, and then proceeding to the sideboard on the other side of the room, slowly and carefully mixed himself a glass of grog. It was close upon midnight and he felt that the work he had that day completed entitled him to such refreshment.

"Good Heavens," he muttered as he sipped it, "what fools some men can be!"

What this remark had to do with the stamp in question was not apparent, but his next soliloquy made his meaning somewhat more intelligible.

"If he had wanted to find himself in the dock and to put the rope round his neck he couldn't have gone to work better. He must needs stand talking to the girl in the Strand until she cries, whereupon he calls a cab and drives home with her, gets out of it and takes up a position in the full light of a gas lamp, so that the first policeman who passes may have a look at his face, and recognise him again when the proper time comes. After that he hurries back to his hotel at such a pace that he arrives in a sufficiently agitated condition to stand in need of brandy. Why, it's an almost unbelievable list of absurd coincidences. However, he didn't commit the crime, that's quite certain. I've had a bit of experience in my time, and I don't know that I've ever made a mistake about a human face yet. There's not a trace of guilt in his. To-morrow morning I'll just run round to the scene of the murder and begin my investigations there. Though the Pro's have been over the ground before me, it will be strange if I can not pick up something that has not been noticed by their observant eyes."

A perpetual feud existed between the famous Jacob Burrell and the genuine representatives of the profession. His ways were unorthodox, the latter declared. He did not follow the accustomed routine, and what was worse, when he managed to obtain information it was almost, if not quite, impossible to get him to divulge it for their benefit. Such a man deserved to be set down on every possible opportunity.

True to the arrangement he had made with himself on the previous evening, Burrell immediately after breakfast next morning set out for Burford Street. On reaching No. 16 he ascended the steps and entered the grimy passage, and inquired from a man he found there where the landlord was to be discovered. In reply the individual he interrogated went to the head of a flight of stairs that descended like an abyss into the regions below, and shouted something in German. A few moments later the proprietor of the establishment made his appearance. He was a small sallow individual with small bloodshot eyes, suggestive of an undue partiality for Schnapps, and the sadness of whose face gave one the impression that he cherished a grievance against the whole world. His sleeves were rolled up above the elbows, and he carried a knife in one hand and a potato in the other.

"Vat is dat you vant mit me?" he inquired irritably, as he took stock of the person before him.

"I want you to show me the room in which that Italian girl, Teresina Cardi, was murdered," Burrell replied, without wasting time.

The landlord swore a deep oath in German.

"It is always de murder from morning until night," he answered. "I am sick mit it. Dat murder will be the ruin mit me. Every day der is somebody come and say 'Where is dot room?' Who are you that you ask me that I should to you show it?"

Burrell, to the best of his ability, explained his motive for proffering such a request. This must have been satisfactory, for in the end the landlord consented to conduct him to the room in question. From the day of the murder it had been kept locked, and it must be confessed that since no one would inhabit it, and it did not in consequence return its owner its accustomed rent, he had some measure of excuse for the irritation he displayed in connection with it.

"Dere it is," he said, throwing the door open, "and you can look your full at it. I have scrubbed all dot floor dill my arms ache mit it, but I can not get der blood marks out. Dot stain is just where she was found, boor girl!"

The man pointed, with grizly relish, to a dark stain upon the floor, and then went on to describe the impression the murder and its attendant incidents had produced upon him. To any other man than Burrell, they would probably have been uninteresting to a degree. The latter, however, knowing the importance of little things, allowed him to continue his chatter. At the same time his quick eyes were taking in the character of the room, making his own deductions and drawing his own inferences. At last, when the other had exhausted his powers of description, Burrell took from his pocket his favourite magnifying glass, cased in its covering of chamois leather. Having prepared it for business, he went down on his hands and knees and searched the floor minutely. What he was looking for, or what he hoped to find, he did not know himself, but a life's experience had taught him that clews are often picked up in the most unexpected quarters.

"I've known a man get himself hanged," he had once been heard to remark, "simply because he neglected to put a stitch to a shirt button and had afterward to borrow a needle and thread to do it. I remember another who had the misfortune to receive a sentence of fifteen years for forgery, who would never have been captured, but for a peculiar blend of tobacco, which he would persist in smoking after the doctors had told him it was injurious to his health."

So slow and so careful was his investigation, that the landlord, who preferred more talkative company, very soon tired of watching him. Bidding him lock the door and bring the key downstairs with him when he had finished, he returned to the culinary operations from which he had been summoned. Burrell, however, still remained upon his knees on the floor, searching every crack and crevice with that superb and never-wearying patience that was one of his most remarkable characteristics. It was quite certain, as the landlord had said, that the floor had been most thoroughly and conscientiously scrubbed since the night of the murder. He rose to his feet and brushed his knees.

"Nothing there," he said to himself. "They've destroyed any chance of my finding anything useful."

Walking to the fireplace he made a most careful examination of the grate. Like the floor, it had also been rigorously cleaned. Not a vestige of ash or dust remained in it.

"Polished up to be ready for the newspaper reporters, I suppose," said Burrell sarcastically to himself. "They couldn't have done it better if they had wanted to make sure of the murderer not being caught."

After that he strolled to the window and looked out. The room, as has already been stated elsewhere, was only a garret, and the small window opened upon a slope of tiled roof. Above the eaves and at the bottom of the slope just mentioned, was a narrow lead gutter of the usual description. From the window it was impossible, unless one leaned well out, to look down into the street below.

"Just let me think for a moment," said Burrell to himself, as he stood looking at the roofs of the houses opposite; "the night of the murder was a warm one, and this window would almost certainly be open. I suppose if the people in the houses on the other side of the way had seen or heard anything, they would have been sure to come forward before now. The idea, however, is always worth trying. I've a good mind to make a few inquiries over there later on."

As he said this he gave a little start forward, and leaning out of the window, looked down over the tiles into the gutter below. A small fragment of a well-smoked cigarette could just be descried in it.

"My luck again," he said with a chuckle. "If some reporter or sensation hunter didn't throw it there, which is scarcely likely, I may be on the right track after all. Now who could have been smoking cigarettes up here? First and foremost I'll have a look at it."

On entering, he had placed his walking stick on the table in the middle of the room. He turned to get it, and as he did so he took from his pocket a small housewife. His multitudinous experiences had taught him the advisability of carrying such an article about with him, and on this occasion it promised to prove more than ordinarily useful. From one compartment he selected a long, stout needle which he placed in a hole in the handle of the walking stick. Then returning once more to the window, and leaning well out, he probed for the cigarette lying so snugly five or six feet below him. Twice he was unsuccessful, but the third attempt brought the precious relic to his hand. Taking it to the table, he drew up a chair and sat down to examine it. It was sodden and discoloured, but the rim of the gutter had in a measure protected it, and it still held together. His famous magnifying glass was again brought into action. Once upon a time there had been printing on the paper, but now it was well-nigh undecipherable. As I have already remarked, however, Burrell was a man gifted with rare patience, and after a scrutiny that lasted some minutes, he was able to make out sufficient of the printing to know that the maker's name ended with "olous," while the place in which the cigarette had been manufactured was Cairo.

"I wonder," said the detective to himself, "if this is destined to be of any service to me. At first glance it would appear as if my first impression was a wrong one. Mr. Henderson, who is accused of the murder, has lately returned from Cairo. Though, perhaps he never purchased any tobacco there, it would certainly do him no good to have it produced as evidence, that the butt end of a cigarette from that place was found in the gutter outside the window of the murdered woman's room."

After another prolonged inspection of the room, and not until he had quite convinced himself that there was nothing more to be discovered in it, he descended to the lower regions of the house, returned the key to the landlord, and immediately left the building. Crossing the street, he made his way to the house opposite. The caretaker received him, and inquired the nature of his business. He gave his explanation, but a few questions were sufficient to convince him that he must not expect to receive any assistance from that quarter. The rooms, so he discovered, from which it would have been possible to catch any glimpse of what was going on in Teresina's apartment in the opposite house, were tenanted only in the daytime.

"Nothing to be learned there," said Burrell to himself, when he had thanked the man and had left the house. "Now the question to be decided is, what shall I do next?"

He stood upon the pavement meditatively scratching his chin for a few moments. Then he must have made up his mind, for he turned sharply round and walked off in the direction of the Tottenham Court Road. Taking a 'bus there, he made his way on it to Oxford Street, thence, having changed conveyances, he proceeded as far as Regent Street. It was a bright, sunny morning, and the pavements of that fashionable thoroughfare were crowded with pedestrians. As the burly, farmerish-looking man strode along, few, if any, of the people he passed would have believed him to be the great detective whose name had struck a terror, that nothing else could have inspired, into the hearts of so many hardened criminals. When he was a little more than half-way down the street, he turned sharply to his left hand, passed into another and shorter thoroughfare, then turned to his left again, and finally entered another street on his right. He was now in the neighbourhood of quiet-looking houses of the office description. There was nothing about them to indicate that their occupants were the possessors of any great amount of wealth, and yet one could not help feeling, as one looked at them, that there was a substantial, money-making air about them. Having reached a particular doorway, Burrell paused, consulted the names engraved upon the brass plate on the wall outside, and then entered. He found himself in a small hall, from which a narrow flight of linoleum-covered stairs led to the floors above. These stairs he ascended, to presently find himself standing before a door on which the names of Messrs. Morris and Zevenboom were painted. Disregarding the word "Private," which for some inexplicable reason was printed underneath the name of the firm, he turned the handle and entered. A small youth was seated at a table in the centre of the apartment, busily engaged making entries in a large book propped up before him. He looked up on seeing Burrell, and, in an off-hand fashion, inquired his business.