The Catholic World Volume Iii Part 75

It was just upon one o'clock when I arrived at my chambers, and at two Atherton was to be taken before the magistrate. There was no fresh news; so I decided upon going at once to Merrivale's office, and seeing him if possible before he went to the police-court. I met him on the stairs returning to his office.

"I have just been with poor Atherton," he said; and he looked very grave. "Come in here; I was going to send for you. By the bye, have you been to the Leslies? he is most anxious about that. I don't think he'll be calm enough to think for himself until he knows all is right in that quarter."

"I have a note from Miss Leslie for him,"

"All right. Give it to me; I'll enclose it, and send it at once."

Merrivale despatched the messenger, and then locked his room door.

"The case is dead against him," he said as he sat down, "and he knows it now, poor fellow,--he knows it."

"He is innocent," I said; "I could swear he is innocent!"

"Yes, so I think, and so do others; but the evidence against him is frightfully strong. That woman, Mrs. Haag, will make a most criminating statement of what occurred last night."

"I don't know the particulars,--tell me what they are?"

"_You_ ought to be able to throw considerable light upon it," said Merrivale, unheeding my question. "You were with poor old Thorneley last night, it seems. Just tell me all that pa.s.sed. In fact, I ought to know _every thing_. I hear too that you are to be summoned as witness against Atherton. How is that?"

I then related to him how I had gone to Wimpole street at Mr.

Thorneley's request about a matter of business; the hour I had left him; my meeting with Hugh; his wish to come home with me, and my refusal; the meeting also with the woman, and the conclusions which I had drawn from it.

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"What was the nature of the business with Mr. Thorneley?"

I replied that my word of honor was pa.s.sed to keep it secret.

"Had it any bearing upon the unhappy catastrophe, either directly or indirectly?"

"No; none that I could see."

"Would it affect Atherton or his prospects?"

I could not answer further, I replied; but in no way could it touch him either for good or evil in the present unfortunate affair.

Merrivale was fairly at a nonplus.

"Now," said Mr. Merrivale, "I will tell you what pa.s.sed after you went away, as I learnt it from Atherton; and whatever further light you can throw upon the mystery, which is my business now to sift to the bottom, well, I think, Kavanagh, you are bound, by all the ties of your long friendship with that poor fellow now under arrest, to speak out openly to me."

I felt Merrivale's sharp searching eyes upon me; but the time to speak had not come, and I could in no way serve Hugh by breaking silence--at least I did not see that I could. After a short pause, Merrivale continued:

"Atherton tells me that when he reached his uncle's house, he found his cousin, Lister Wilmot, had just arrived; and they both went to Thorneley's room together, Wilmot said to him on the way, 'I must get some money to-night out of the governor, if possible, for I'm dreadfully hard-up. I've had to dodge three duns to-day; and there'll be a writ out against me to-morrow as sure as I'm alive, if he doesn't fork out handsomely.' Atherton asked him what he called handsomely, with a view, I imagine, to helping him himself if he could; but Wilmot mentioned a sum so large that there could be no further thought of his doing so. They found the old man unusually preoccupied and taciturn.

Nevertheless, in spite of unfavorable circ.u.mstances, Wilmot broached the subject of his difficulties to him, and abruptly asked for 500_l_.

Thorneley was furious; and it seems, curiously enough, that he turned his fury upon Atherton; accused him of leading Wilmot astray, of teaching him to be extravagant; of making a tool of him for purposes of his own; in short, making the most unheard-of accusations against poor Atherton, and throwing the entire blame on him. Atherton says he felt convinced that some one must have been carrying false stories to his uncle, or in some way poisoning his mind against himself; but knowing how broken in health he was, he tried at first to soothe him, and quietly contradict his a.s.sertions, and Wilmot _indorsed all he said_, distinctly stating that his cousin was entirely free from all blame in the matter, and that it was his own extravagance which had brought him into difficulties; and much more to the same effect. And now comes the terrible part. Thorneley only waxed wrother and more wroth; swore at Atherton, and told him he might pay his cousin's debts for him; and if he couldn't out of his own money, he might get his future wife's guardian to advance him some of hers; and that if Wilmot had looked half-sharp he might have married the girl himself. As it was, he dared say she would marry Kavanagh in the end. You may suppose this vexed Atherton not a little; his blood was up, and he spoke out hot and angrily to his uncle, telling him amongst other things that he would _bitterly repent on the morrow what he had said last night_. He tells me he distinctly remembers the words he used. In the heat of the dispute--he thinks it must have been just at the moment he said this--the housekeeper came in with the tray. It seems that Thorneley always took bitter-ale the last thing at night, with hard biscuits.

Almost directly after he had spoken Atherton repented having got angry with the old man, remembering what his temperament was; and as a sort of propitiatory action, went and fetched him his gla.s.s of ale from the table. Gilbert Thorneley took it from Atherton's hand, and--drank it.

_There was poison in that gla.s.s of ale!_"

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I sat confronting Merrivale, dazed, sickened, dumbfounded. _Now_ I knew the full weight of the evidence I should be forced to give. Now I knew, when everything was revealed, the cry that would go up from Hugh's heart against me. But I never swerved from my allegiance to him; I never thought him guilty--no, not for the brief shadow of an instant.

After a while Merrivale continued, "Whoever put in that fatal drug, and whatever it was, the effects must have taken place subsequent to Atherton's leaving Wimpole Street. He says that Wilmot went away very shortly after his uncle drank the ale, receiving a very cold good-night from the latter; and that after in vain trying to reason with Mr. Thorneley, and bring him into good-humor again, he also left him,--the old man utterly refusing to shake hands or to part friends.

The poor fellow seems to feel that bitterly; he is terribly cut up at remembering that the last intercourse with his uncle should have been unfriendly. No; I could venture my oath he is innocent; his sorrow at Thorneley's death _cannot_ by put on. However, the end of it all is, that Mr. Thorneley went to bed last night directly after Atherton went away; and this morning when the servant went into his room as usual at half-past six, to call him, and see whether he wanted anything before getting up--he kept to his old early hours as much as possible, I fancy--the man found him dead in his bed. The housekeeper was roused, and they sent off directly for a doctor. When he came, he declared his suspicion that he had died from the effects of poison, and demanded what he had taken last. He had touched nothing since the bitter-ale; the gla.s.s had not been washed, and traces of strychnine were found in the few drops left in the tumbler. Smith and Walker have called in Dr.

Robinson since then; and he with this doctor who first saw the corpse are making a _post-mortem_ examination now. The contents of the stomach, to make sure of everything, are to be sent to Professor T---- for a.n.a.lysis. When the inspectors arrived from Scotland Yard, the housekeeper immediately volunteered her evidence of what I have related to you. Putting all these facts together," continued Merrivale, looking over his notes, "coupled with the evidence you will be forced to give of where you met him, I apprehend the whole case to be dead against poor Atherton. Yes, the entire thing will turn upon that visit to the chemist in Vere street; if we can dispose of that satisfactorily, I shan't despair. At present it is the most criminating to my mind, and will just d.a.m.n him with the jury at the inquest."

"What account does he give himself of going to the chemist's?"

"Simple enough, to any one who knows him as you and I do, and who would believe a man who never yet lied,--who is, I think, incapable of a lie to save his own life. He says he went in to purchase some camphor; he has been taking it lately for headaches; the bottle was found in his coat-pocket; but there was also found a small empty paper labelled 'Strychnine,' _with the Vere-street chemist's name upon it_.

Of that paper he most solemnly denies all knowledge, and I believe him; but how will the jury dispose of such circ.u.mstantial evidence?"

"No expense must be spared in defending him, Merrivale," I said; "draw on me to the last farthing for whatever is wanted."

"None shall be spared. I have written to Sir Richard Mayne, whom I know very well, asking for a certain detective officer whoso experience I can rely on from past dealings; and if the dastardly wretch lives who has done this deed, and thrown the brunt of it on Atherton, he or she shall be hunted down and brought to justice. I must be off now. The proceedings to-day will be but nominal. I will come round by your office on my way back. What we have to do at present is to gain time. For this we must {456} prepare all the contrary evidence in our power against to-morrow. By the way, see Wilmot as soon as you can, and bring him back with you."

I returned home; wrote a few words, as comforting and encouraging as I could, to Ada, and despatched a messenger with the note; then I went to the Albany and asked for Lister Wilmot. He was out; had been summoned to the police-court to be present at the inquiry. I left my card, with a pencilled injunction to come on to me the moment he returned; and then, impelled by a horrible fascination, I took my way toward Marylebone street, longing, yet dreading, to see and hear--my heart aching for a sight of the manly form and n.o.ble face of him to whom my soul had cleaved as to a brother.

There was a dense crowd outside the gates of the courtyard and round the private door through which the magistrates enter, when I arrived there. With my hat slouched over my brows, I made my way through with difficulty to the door of the court where the proceedings were going on,--the noise and din of the crowd buzzing about me, and sc.r.a.ps of talk which goes on in such places and among such people as collect there, reaching me in broken s.n.a.t.c.hes.

"Who'd ha' thought he'd a done it? such a nice-looking chap as er is."

"Yer see, it's the money as he wanted. The old man was mortal rich; they say the Bank of England couldn't 'old 'is money. Yes, the gowld did it."

"Pisen! Ah, he'd be glad of pisen hisself now. What's that feller sayin'? Oh, that's the lawyer wot's defending him. He'll have tough work, he will."

"Remanded!--that's the way; why can't they commit him at once? Givin'

folks all the trouble to come twice afore they knows what to do with un."

"'Ere he comes. Now, six-footer, who pisened the old man?"

And then came groans and hisses as the mob were made to open and divide themselves, whilst policemen cleared the way for the prisoner--yes, it had come to that--the prisoner!--to pa.s.s to the van waiting for him. I looked up as he advanced,--we were almost of the same height, he and I; taller perhaps by some inches than the majority around, who were mostly women,--and our eyes met. O G.o.d! shall I ever forget the look he gave me? Pale and calm and firm, he pa.s.sed on--his n.o.ble brow erect, his clear eyes shining with the light of conscious innocence; with the whole expression of his countenance subdued--hallowed, I might say--with the sorrow and trouble which had befallen him. On he came, heedless of the hisses and jeers of the fallen degraded herd who pressed round; heedless of the jibes and groans uttered by the companions of those for whom, more then likely, his genial voice had been raised in defence, in pleading against the justice they deserved, but which he had never merited. On he came, unmindful of everything that was going on about him, as if his spirit were faraway, communing with that unseen Presence that was never absent from his mind. I lifted my hat and stood bareheaded as he pa.s.sed into that dark dismal van that was polluted with the breath, contaminated by the touch, of men whose hands were dyed by the blackest crimes.

When it had driven off I turned away and hailed a pa.s.sing cab. Just as I was stepping into it I was arrested by the sound of a voice near me.

"He's safe to be condemned, as shure as yer name's Mike."

It was an Irish voice. I bounded back. Disappearing rapidly, threading in and out of the now-dispersing crowd, were the high square shoulders, the gray locks and beard, the swaggering air of Mr. de Vos, the "treasure-trove," the hero of Swain's Lane. He was gone before I was fully aware of his ident.i.ty.

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CHAPTER IV.

A GLIMMER OF LIGHT.

A popular writer of the day says there is this to be observed in the physiology of every murder, "that before the coroner's inquest the sole object of public curiosity is the murdered man; while immediately after that judicial investigation the tide of feeling turns; the dead man is hurried and forgotten, and the suspected murderer becomes the hero of men's morbid imaginations." If this be true--as it is--in the generality of cases, there are also exceptions in which just the contrary takes place. So was it now. Amidst the hue and cry which arose against Hugh Atherton, the suspected murderer of his uncle, Gilbert Thorneley, the murdered man, was almost forgotten. The announcement in the morning papers of the inquest to be held that same day following the discovery of the murder was hailed but as an acceleration of the justice which was to hunt him down to a felon's death. Three executions had taken place during that summer in London, and they had but whetted the public appet.i.te. Like a wild beast that had tasted blood, it ravened and hungered for more; it _could not_ sicken at the sight of a human creature, a fellow-man, strung up like a dog, strangled like an animal; it _could not_ shudder to behold the quivering limbs, the covered face, the convulsed form, as it swung from the gibbet. They had become used to the sight, familiar with the whole scene in its awful solemnity; but they were far from satiated; and eagerly did the public voice clamor for another victim on whom to gloat their inhuman eyes. Ah! that is a fearful responsibility which England has taken upon herself in these public executions--in baring to such a gaze as that which is fastened upon the small black-draped platform outside the walls of Newgate the solemn, awful spectacle of a creature going to meet his Creator, of an immortal soul pa.s.sing into the dread presence of its G.o.d! Much has been said for, much against, those exhibitions of public justice; I doubt if a true view will ever be arrived at until the question has been considered as one vitally affecting England as a _Christian_ nation.

Hugh Atherton was a suspected man, and the press did its work well that morning in trying to criminate him. Already in those brief four-and-twenty hours his name--the name of one incapable of hurting the tiniest insect that lay across his path--had become a byword and a reproach in the mouths, not of many, but of mult.i.tudes, throughout the length and breadth of the land.