Boothby Guy
The Mystery of the Clasped Hands: A Novel

"Mrs. Raikes?" asked Burrell, to make sure she was the person he desired to see.

"That is my name, sir," said the woman. "Perhaps you will tell me what I can do for you."

"I want you to give me some information," Burrell answered. "I have come down from London on purpose to see you."

"From London, sir," she exclaimed, as if that were rather a remarkable circumstance. "Will you be pleased to step inside?" So saying, she held the door open for him to enter. He did so to find himself in a neat little sitting room, unostentatiously yet comfortably furnished. Three cases of stuffed birds decorated the walls, together with some pictures on religious subjects, a bookcase, the latter scantily furnished, and last, but not least, a Chippendale sofa, and two or three chairs that would not have disgraced a ducal drawing-room.

"Kindly take a seat, sir," said Mrs. Raikes, dusting one of the aforementioned chairs with her apron as she spoke. "If it's apartments you want I am quite sure I can satisfy you. Of course it's a bad season of the year, but at the end of the month we shall begin to fill up. There's some splendid boating on the river, as perhaps you know, and at night, when the houseboats are all lit up, well, it's quite lively."

Her desire to impress him with the gaieties of the place was almost pathetic, and Burrell felt that he was acting meanly in permitting her to go on, without acquainting her with the real object of his visit.

"I am sorry to say that I am not in search of lodgings," he said. "My business is of an altogether different nature. In the first place, I think I ought to tell you that I am a detective."

"A detective?" she cried in horror. "Lor', I do hope, sir, there's nothing wrong?"

"Not so far as you are concerned, you may be sure," he answered. "I have come down here to make some inquiries regarding a gentleman who was known to be staying in your house some time back. His name was Fensden."

The woman shook her head.

"I haven't had a gentleman in my house of that name," she answered. "In fact, the only gentleman I have had since the beginning of the year was a Mr. Onslow. The name of Fensden I don't remember at all."

Burrell consulted his pocket-book before he went further.

"And yet the information I received was most complete," he continued. "Victor Fensden, Esq., %George Onslow, Laburnum Cottage, Laleham-on-Thames. There couldn't be anything plainer than that, could there?"

"It seems all right, sir," said the woman. "There is only one Laburnum Cottage, and Mr. Onslow was certainly staying with us. He had his wife with him, a sweet young thing, which was more than could be said of the gentleman, I can assure you."

It was plain from this that she and Mr. Onslow had not been on the best of terms. Burrell took from his pocket the photograph of Fensden, and handed it to her. He was beginning to have an inkling of the truth.

"Is that the likeness of Fensden or of Mr. Onslow?" he inquired.

"Mr. Onslow, sir, to be sure," she replied, "and a very good one of him it is too. I hope he's not a friend of yours, because I couldn't abear him. The way he treated his poor foreign wife of his was enough to make an honest woman's blood boil."

"So he had a foreign wife, had he?" said Burrell. "That's interesting. Tell me all you can about him."

"There's not much to be told, sir, except about his bullying and nagging that poor young thing. She was a foreigner, as I have just said, but as nice a young lady as ever stepped in at my door. When they first came she told me that Mr. Onslow was an artist, and that they wanted to be quiet and away from London. They didn't mind putting up with the roughness of things, she said, so long as they could be quiet. Well, sir, they had this room and the bedroom above, and for the first few days everything went as smooth and as nice as could be. Then I noticed that she took to crying, and that he went away day after day and once for two days. At last he disappeared altogether, leaving her without a halfpenny in the world. Oh! I'd have liked to have seen the brute and have given him a bit of my mind. It would have done him good, I'll promise him that. I shall never forget that poor young thing in her trouble. She waited and waited for him to come back, but at last when there was no sign of him, she came to me in my kitchen there to know what she should do. 'I know you have not had your money, Mrs. Raikes,' she said in a kind of piteous foreign way, that went to my heart. 'I can not stay here any longer, and so, if you'll trust me, I'll go away to London and try to find my husband. Even if I do not, you shall not lose by us.' I told her I didn't want the money, and that I was as sorry for her as a woman could be. Poor dear, I could see that her heart was nearly broken."

"And what happened then?"

"Nothing, sir, except that she went away, and she hadn't been gone a week before the money that was owing to me was sent in a Post Office Order. From that day to this I've heard nothing of either of them and that's the truth. Whether she found her husband I can not say, but if she'd take my advice she'd never try to."

"You are quite sure that you'd know the man again?"

"I am certain I should," the woman replied. "I hope, sir, in telling you all this, I've been doing no harm?"

"You have been doing a great deal of good," Burrell replied. "Shortly after she left you, poor Mrs. Onslow, as you call her, was most brutally murdered, and I have been commissioned by the friends of the man who is wrongfully accused of the crime to endeavour to discover the real criminal."

"Murdered, sir? you surely don't mean that?"

"I do! A more abominable crime has not been committed this century."

The good woman was honestly overcome by the news and during the remainder of the interview scarcely recovered her composure. Before he left, Burrell cautioned her most strongly against saying anything about the case to her neighbours, and this injunction she promised faithfully to observe.

"By the way," said the detective, before he left, "do you remember whether this man Onslow received any letters while he was staying with you?"

"Only one, sir, so far as I know," the woman replied.

"You're quite sure of that?"

"Quite sure, sir, and why I happen to be so certain is that it caused a bit of unpleasantness between them. I was brushing the stairs just out there, when the letter arrived. It was Mrs. Onslow that took it in, and when she saw the post-mark she asked him who it was that he knew at Richmond. He snatched the letter from her and told her to mind her own business. That afternoon he went out and never came back. It's my belief it was some woman at Richmond as enticed him away."

"Have you any other reason for supposing that except the post-mark on the envelope?"

"Well, sir," returned the woman, "to be candid with you, I have, though perhaps it's a tale I shouldn't tell. I was so sorry for that poor young thing that I couldn't get her trouble out of my head, and nothing would serve but that I must watch him. I saw him sitting down at the head of the table where you are now, sir, about half-an-hour after he had spoken so cross to his wife, and she, poor dear, was upstairs crying, and I noticed that he was writing a telegram. Presently he calls to me. 'Mrs. Raikes,' said he, 'want to send a telegram at once, who can take it for me?' 'There's Mrs. Hawkins's little boy next door, sir,' says I, 'he's taken messages for gentlemen I've had in the house before now, and always done it very well. I saw him playing in the field at the back of the house only this minute.' 'Call him in to me, then,' says he, 'and he shall have sixpence for his trouble.' I called the lad in, and Mr. Onslow gave him the message, and then off he went with it, but not so fast but that I was able to run across to the corner of the field at the back there, and catch him on the road. 'Tommy,' I said, 'let me have a look at that telegram.' He was a good little boy, and handed it over to me without a word. It was addressed to 'Montgomery, 13 Bridgeworth Road, Richmond.' There was no other name to it, and the only other word was 'yes.' It didn't seem to me that there was anything out of the common about it, and so I thought no more of it, until you spoke of his having letters just now."

"I think I'll make a note of the address in case it should be useful," said Burrell. "And now I'll be off, thanking you again, Mrs. Raikes, for the information you have given me."

On leaving the cottage he walked back to Staines, caught a train to London, and hastened to his house. Later on he made his way to Euston Station. Another twenty hours elapsed before he was able to acquire the information he wanted there – but he had the satisfaction of knowing, when he had obtained it, that there remained now only one link to be forged, and then the chain of evidence would be complete. That link was forged at Richmond, and next day he handed in his report to the astonished Codey.

"Good heavens, Burrell," said that astute gentleman, "this is as marvellous as it is horrible. What do you think?"

"I think, sir, that we shall be able to prove that Mr. Henderson is innocent."

At last, after all the weary waiting, the great day arrived. The Sessions had commenced at the Old Bailey. For two or three days prior to this, Godfrey had been busy with his solicitor and his counsel. It was not, however, until the afternoon before the commencement that he could elicit from Codey any information as to Burrell's discoveries. Immediately he was ushered into the room where Codey was awaiting him, Godfrey saw from the expression upon the other's face, that there was something to tell.

"You – have good news for me," he said, as they shook hands.

"The very best of news," Codey replied. "My dear sir, you may rest assured that your innocence is completely established. The whole plot has come to light, and, when we give the word, the authorities will be able to lay their hands upon the man who committed the deed."

"But who is the man?" Godfrey hastened to ask, scarcely able to speak for excitement. His pulse was beating like a sledge hammer inside his head, until it seemed as if his brain must burst.

"Don't ask me that now," said Codey. "Put your trust in me until to-morrow. Then you shall know everything. Believe me, I have my own very good reasons for asking this favour of you. Rest assured of one thing; at latest the day after to-morrow you will be at liberty to go where and do what you please."

"But why can not it be settled at once? Why must it be the day after to-morrow? It is cruel to keep me in suspense!"

"Don't you understand that we can not bring forward our witnesses until the proper moment arrives?" said the lawyer. "The English law has its idiosyncrasies, and even in a case of life and death, the formalities must be observed. There is one thing, however, I can promise you; that is, that when the truth comes out, it will be admitted that such a sensation has not been caused in a Court of Justice before."

And with this assurance, meagre as it was, Godfrey had perforce to be content.

CHAPTER XV

When Godfrey woke on the morning of his trial he lay for some moments thinking over the strangeness of his position. He had been definitely assured by Codey that nothing could prevent his being proved innocent, yet how difficult it was to believe this when he was lying on a prison bed in a prison cell with all the grim appurtenances of a convict's life before him. The very books upon the shelf, the spy-hole in the door, even his bed-clothes, reminded him that he was shut off from his fellow men. At the usual signal he rose and dressed, and, having done so, tidied his cell in the customary fashion. After this his breakfast was served to him, and then he was permitted a short period of exercise in the prison yard. He had not long returned to his cell before he was informed that it was time for him to set off to the Court.

Never, if he lives to be a hundred, will Godfrey Henderson forget the scene that met his eyes when he entered the Court – the judge and the sheriffs upon the Bench, the jurymen seated in their box, the rows of counsel, and the line upon line of eager-eyed spectators. When Godfrey made his appearance in the dock a sudden silence fell upon the Court. The Clerk of Arraigns rose and read over the charge preferred against him, namely, of murdering one Teresina Cardi, and this done he was called upon in the usual manner to plead. Advancing to the front of the dock Godfrey looked straight before him and said, in a calm, strong voice: "Not guilty, my lord." The jury were then sworn, and as soon as this important business had been completed the counsel for the prosecution rose and told the story of the crime. He described the engagement of the dead woman by the prisoner, his employment of her for some considerable time, and then his hasty departure for the Continent. It would be shown that he had received a letter from her while in Egypt, and that almost immediately afterward he had returned to Naples. In the latter city he had invited her to dine with him, and had taken her to the Opera afterward. He commented upon the fact that the prisoner had voluntarily admitted to the police authorities that he had endeavoured to induce her to return to England. At that time, however, it must be borne in mind that he had not met the lady he now desired to make his wife. Whether he had seen anything of the deceased, prior to their meeting in the Strand, it was as yet impossible to say. The fact, however, remained that his engagement to the lady in the country was ultimately announced. Despite that fact, only ten days before the wedding was to take place, he was known to have met the deceased woman at midnight, and had taken her to her home in Burford Street, leading out of the Tottenham Court Road. By the medical evidence he would presently call, he would prove that less than half-an-hour afterward she was brutally murdered. Before half-past twelve, that is to say, within an hour of the cabman picking them up in the Strand, he would prove that the prisoner returned to his Hotel in Piccadilly, very white and agitated, and had called for brandy. Since his arrest, an exhaustive search had been made at his residence, with the result that a blood-stained knife, which had been identified as having been purchased by the prisoner in Cairo, had been discovered hidden behind a bookcase in his studio. As for the motive of the crime he would point out that the deceased woman wore a wedding ring, that she was known to entertain a great affection for the prisoner, and that the latter was about to be married to another lady. What was more probable than that he should wish to have the other woman out of the way before he could do so? That was certainly only a conjecture, but it was one that carried a large amount of probability with it. He would now proceed to call his witnesses.

The first witness called was the proprietor of the lodging-house, who had identified the body. He was followed by the German cabinet-maker, who had made the first and most important discovery. The police officer, who had been called in when the door had been opened, followed next, succeeded by the doctor who had made the post-mortem examination. The question of identity and discovery having been settled, what the counsel next proposed to do was to connect the prisoner with the crime. The cabman who had picked them up in the Strand and had driven them to Burford Street, was called, and the policeman who had seen them talking together on the pavement there. Victor Fensden next deposed as to the affection the deceased had entertained for the prisoner, and the efforts he had made to induce the latter to give her up. He described Godfrey's receipt of the letter from Teresina when on the Nile, and stated that the prisoner had said nothing to him concerning his intention to visit the woman in Naples. His next meeting with the prisoner was at the Mahl Stick Club, where he had noticed a reluctance on his part to refer to his association with the woman in the past. This was accentuated on the following Saturday at the prisoner's residence in Midlandshire. He recognised the knife produced, and recollected the circumstances under which it had been purchased by the prisoner. This concluded Fensden's evidence, and he accordingly sat down. Various other unimportant witnesses followed, and then the case was adjourned for the day.

Wrapped in suspense, Godfrey was driven back to the jail to turn the evidence over and over in his mind all night long. Whatever trust he might place in Burrell and his discoveries, it was quite certain that another twenty-four hours would elapse before his deliverance could be expected. Once more he scarcely slept. The various events connected with the trial thronged his brain with merciless reiteration. With phonographic distinctness he could recall almost every word that was said. He could see the judge upon the Bench making his notes with pitiless exactness, the various counsel in the well of the Court whispering together, the importance of the jury, and the self-sufficiency of the Court servants. Yet he had Codey's assurance that all was to be put right in the end, and with this knowledge he was perforce compelled to be content.

At the same hour as on the previous day he was ordered to prepare himself for his journey to the Court. The evidence already given against him was so incriminating that the officials of the jail felt sure that his condemnation was assured. They already looked upon him as a dead man, and marvelled among themselves that he could carry himself with so much assurance.

Once more the Court was crowded. Fashionable London felt that the end of one of the most interesting cases of late years was drawing near, and it was anxious not to lose an opportunity of witnessing the dénouement of the tragedy.

"The Court is ready," said the warder, and once more Godfrey ascended the stairs that had constituted the link between life and death for so many hundreds of miserable beings before him. He found the judge, stern and implacable as before, upon the Bench, the various counsel in their places, and everyone eagerly awaiting his appearance. He bowed to the judge and took up his position at the rails. He determined that, whatever else they might think, they should not imagine that he was afraid. Then, with the customary ceremonial, the case was commenced.

The counsel for the prosecution having finished his case, Mr. Rolland, having addressed the Court, prepared to call his witnesses. They were few in number. The landlord of Godfrey's old studio in London deposed that his rent had always been paid to the moment, and that he had heard the deceased talk of the kindness she had received at the prisoner's hands. "It was always in the language of a dependent," he said, "and in no way that of a girl who believed her patron to be in love with her."

When the prosecution had declined to cross-examine this witness, the counsel for the defence arranged his gown and assumed an even more important air. It was evident that something was about to happen. A moment later Victor Fensden was recalled.

"I am anxious, Mr. Fensden," said the counsel, "to ask you a question regarding your return from the Continent. You have already told the jury that you returned on the morning of the murder. Am I to understand that that was really so?"

"I arrived on Thursday, the 15th," said Victor, and a close observer would have noticed that he shifted uneasily on his feet as he gave the answer.

"I should be glad also to have your repeated assurance that, from the moment you saw the prisoner purchase that knife in Cairo, you did not behold it again until it was handed you at the Magistrate's Court?"

"That also is quite true," said Victor, who by this time was more at his ease.

"That is all I want to ask you. You may sit down," said the counsel. "Call Simon Updale."

In response to the summons, a short, stout man, who was the possessor of a fiery beard and the reddest hair ever seen on a human being, made his appearance and took up his position in the box. He deposed that his name was Simon Updale, and that he was an able seaman on a steamer plying between Dover and Calais. On a certain day, a month before the murder, he had been made the subject of a complaint to the captain by the previous witness, Mr. Fensden. He was quite certain of the date and of the passenger's identity, for the reason that one of his mates had broken his arm before reaching Dover and he wanted to accompany him to the hospital. On account of the complaint, however, he was not permitted to go.

George Perran, steward on the same boat, was next called. He corroborated what the previous witness had said, and recognised the witness Fensden as being the gentleman who had made the complaint.

"That," said Mr. Rolland, "proves conclusively that the witness in question has committed wilful and corrupt perjury, inasmuch as that he was in England a month before he stated in his evidence."

Every eye in Court was riveted on Victor Fensden, whose face turned as pale as the paper upon which I am writing.

"I shall now call James Tidmarsh," said Mr. Rolland, and in response to the summons a small boy climbed into the witness-box.

His name, he stated, was James Tidmarsh, and he called himself an errand boy, though as a rule he spent his time hanging about the vicinity of Euston Station. He remembered distinctly on the night of Friday, the 16th, meeting a gentleman about eight o'clock outside the station who carried a small wooden box in his hand. That gentleman stopped him and asked him if he would care to earn half a sovereign. Upon his eagerly answering in the affirmative, the stranger gave him the box in question with the sum of fifteen shillings. "Take it to the station," he said, "and hand it in at the parcel-office to be despatched to the address written on the label. It won't cost more than a couple of shillings or half-a-crown, and you can keep the change for yourself. I'll wait here until you return to tell me it's all right."

The boy then declared that he started off, handed the box in at the parcel-office and paid the money. In taking the money the clerk had sauced him and he had retaliated to the best of his ability. The result was that the policeman on the platform gave him a good shaking and turned him out of the building. He informed the gentleman that he had sent the parcel off, and he had not seen him since that moment until he came into Court and had heard the witness Fensden give his evidence. He, the witness to whom he alluded, was, without a shadow of doubt, the gentleman who had handed him the box to send to Detwich Hall.

The excitement in Court by this time may be better imagined than described. The colour of Fensden's face was a dirty gray, and he seemed to gasp for breath. The counsel for the prosecution seemed uneasy, and even the judge leaned farther forward than usual, as if he were afraid of losing a word of what was said.

The clerk in the parcel-office was next called, and stated that he remembered the incident in question. The box was a foreign one, and as he had placed it on the floor he had remarked, "Another made in Germany."

The policeman who had turned the boy out of the station followed him. He had seen the boy deposit a small box upon the counter and heard him say something cheeky to the clerk. He thereupon bundled him out of the station.

When this witness had finished his tale Mr. Rolland said: "Call Jacob Burrell."

On hearing this a stir ran through the Court. The famous detective was well known to all the officials within the building, and they, in the light of this new discovery and the knowledge that this individual had taken up the prisoner's case, began to regard the matter in a somewhat different light. There was a slight flicker of a smile upon the austere countenance of the judge when the counsel asked the detective his name.

"Jacob Burrell," was the reply.

"I understand," went on the counsel, "that you were instructed by my friend, the solicitor for the defence, to make an investigation into this case. In the course of that investigation did you visit Naples?"

"I did," the other replied.

"And what did you discover there?"

"I found that the witness Fensden, although he has denied the matter on oath, was in Naples three weeks after the prisoner passed through on his way to England."

The counsel here informed the jury that five affidavits to this effect would be produced and read. Addressing the witness once more he said:

"Are you aware that the witness Fensden spent the greater part of his time in Naples in the company of the deceased woman?"

"I found that to be the case. On February 3rd they left Naples together for Vienna, stayed together at the Hotel National, in the Käarntner Strasse, and were married on the 26th of that month at the Church at Funfhaus, in the Gurtel Strasse. The wedding-ring, which was still upon the left hand when it was sent to the prisoner, was purchased at the shop of Messrs. Radler & Hass, in the Kohlmarkt."

"The head of that firm is now in Court," said Mr. Rolland, "and will give his evidence. Call Herr Radler."

Herr Radler thereupon entered the box which Burrell had vacated, and stated that he well remembered selling the ring in question to an Englishman who was accompanied by a beautiful Italian lady. The gentleman he recognised as the witness Fensden, and from the photograph, that had been shown to him of the dead woman, he was able to swear that it was for her the ring was purchased.

Victor Fensden, at this point, sprang to his feet as if to speak, but his voice failed him, and he sat down again.

A sworn copy of the marriage certificate having been produced and read, and handed up for the inspection of the jury, Jacob Burrell was recalled.

"When you had traced the witness and the deceased to Vienna, what did you do?"

"I returned to England, viâ Paris and Calais," he answered. "On reaching London I followed up certain clews I had received, and found that the witness and the deceased lived for a short time together in the country."

"At what place?"

"At the village of Laleham on the River Thames."

Here the counsel for the prosecution rose to protest.

"Your lordship," he said, "I must respectfully submit that the question as to whether Mr. Fensden cohabited with the deceased is not relevant to the case. We are trying the prisoner at the Bar and not Mr. Fensden."

His opponent took up the challenge.

"I respectfully submit that I am in the right," said Rolland. "In eliciting this information I am leading up to the question of motive, and I am sure my learned friend will admit that that is an all-important point.

"I am afraid I must rule against you," said the judge, addressing the Prosecuting counsel. "Anything that tends to throw a light upon the proceedings of the deceased so short a time prior to the murder can scarcely fail to be relevant."

Once more readjusting his gown, Mr. Rolland invited Burrell to proceed.

"How long did witness and the deceased occupy the house at Laleham?"

"For more than a fortnight. Then Fensden left her in a strange place without a penny in the world." (Here a murmur of indignation ran through the Court, which, by the judge's orders, was instantly suppressed.)

"That will do," said Mr. Rolland. "Call Elizabeth Raikes."

The owner of Laburnum Cottage next entered the box, and, though much flurried by the novel position in which she found herself, gave evidence to the effect that the deceased and Fensden had occupied apartments at her house for the period mentioned by the previous witness. She was quite sure, from things she had overheard, that they were not happy together, and she knew that the man treated the woman cruelly. Sometimes he was away for a couple of days, and one day he disappeared altogether without paying for anything they had had while in the house, and leaving his wife totally unprovided for. She had heard the present case talked about, but had not associated the victim with the Mrs. Onslow who had occupied rooms at her cottage.

"I have two more witnesses to call," said Mr. Rolland, when Mrs. Raikes had stepped down. "Then, my lord, I shall have completed my case. Call Mrs. Wilhelmina Montgomery."

A tall, handsome woman, fashionably attired, stepped into the witness-box and took the oath. In response to the question put her by the counsel for the defence, she stated that her name was Wilhelmina Montgomery, and that she was the widow of George Montgomery, late of Sheffield. "I live at No. 13, Bridgeworth Road, Richmond," she continued. "I first met the witness, Victor Fensden, at Baden, while travelling with some friends, in December last. We became very intimate, and, when he returned to England early in March, he called upon me at my house. Eventually he asked me to marry him, and after some hesitation I consented to do so. I have three thousand a year invested in Consols, and a considerable amount of ready money lying idle at the bank. This may or may not have been his motive, but I have no knowledge of that. Mr. Fensden was anxious for an immediate marriage, but to this I would not consent. I knew that he was in the hands of the Jews, but I would have paid off his indebtedness after marriage. He stayed at my house on several occasions, as did others of my friends. One day I went out to do some shopping, and on my return discovered him in my boudoir. He held a piece of yellow soap in his hand and a large number of door-keys were spread out on the table before him. I asked him what he was doing, and he answered that he was endeavouring to find a key similar to the one he had lost. My housekeeper had furnished him with several, and he had at last found one that fitted the imprint in the soap. On the night of the murder he informed me that it would be necessary for him to attend an important meeting, and that it was just possible he would not be back until late. As a matter of fact, it was considerably after one o'clock, perhaps half-past one, when he returned. On the Saturday following he left me to go down to Midlandshire to pay a visit to an old friend, he said, who was about to be married. Before he went he once more pressed me for an early marriage, suggesting, knowing that I am fond of travelling, that we should immediately set off for a long trip round the world."