The Mystery of the Clasped Hands: A Novel

"Keep up a stout heart, my lad," said Sir Vivian, as they alighted from the carriage and ascended the steps. "Think of the ladies, and don't make them any more unhappy than you can help."

The door was opened by the ancient butler who had served his uncle before him, and Godfrey entered his home, but how different a man from the young fellow who had left it that morning!

"The ladies are in the drawing-room, sir," said the servant, when he had relieved them of their hats and coats.

They accordingly proceeded thither, one of them at least with a sinking heart.

"We have just been wondering when we should see you," said Kitty.

There was a look of anxiety on Molly's face as she came forward to meet her lover. She placed her hand in his, and they sat down together.

"Well, my dear boy," said Mrs. Henderson, "what have you to tell us? What was the result?"

There was no need for her to say to what she referred. Their minds had been too much occupied with it that day to leave room for any uncertainty upon the point.

"Nothing is decided yet," said Sir Vivian, who took upon himself the part of spokesman. "The inquiry is adjourned until Wednesday."

"That means that you will have to go up again," said Molly. "Why couldn't they settle it at once?"

Godfrey knew, but he dared not tell her the reason.

"They are searching for more evidence, I fancy," said Sir Vivian. "You must remember that the matter is, at present, shrouded in the greatest mystery. Until that can be cleared up, nothing can be done."

"And Mr. Fensden, where did you leave him?" asked Mrs. Henderson.

"We parted outside the Court," said Godfrey. "I have no idea where he is staying to-night."

Though he tried to speak unconcernedly, Molly felt certain in her own mind that there had been trouble between the two men. She said nothing to him about it, however. She knew that he would tell her in good time.

That night, when Sir Vivian's carriage was announced, Godfrey accompanied him to the front door. Before leaving, the old gentleman took him on one side out of earshot of the servants.

"Keep up your spirits, my dear lad," he said, as he had done so many times before. "Remember that you have many friends and that I am not the least of them. Should anything occur, send for me at once, and I will be with you as fast as horses can bring me. In the meantime do not alarm the ladies more than you can help."

"You may rely upon my not doing so," said Godfrey, and then Sir Vivian entered his carriage and drove away.

Later, when Godfrey bade Molly good-night, she looked up at him with sorrowful eyes.

"I feel sure," she said, "that there is something you are keeping back from me. I beg of you not to do so. You know how I love you, and how earnest is my desire to share both your joys and your sorrows with you. Will you not confide in me and tell me everything?"

"When there is anything worth the hearing, you may be sure I will tell you, dear," he answered, not daring to let her know the truth that night. "In the morning we will talk the whole matter over and you shall give me your advice. And now you must go to bed and try to obtain a good night's rest, for I am sure you did not sleep well last night."

"I did not," she answered. "I was thinking of you all night, for I knew how you were dreading going up to-day."

He did not tell her that he dreaded going up on Wednesday a great deal more. He preferred to take her in his arms and kiss her, calling her his good angel, swearing that he would love her all his life long, and that even death itself should not separate them. Then he went to his room, prepared to spend what he knew would be a sleepless night, and he was not destined to be wrong. Hour after hour he tumbled and tossed upon his bed, going over the day's proceedings again and again, and speculating with never-ceasing anxiety as to what was to happen in the future. At last, unable to bear it any longer, he rose from his bed and went downstairs to his studio, where he lighted his fire and smoked and read until daylight. Then a cold bath somewhat refreshed him, and, as soon as he had dressed, he set off across the park to the home farm. He was always an early riser, and his presence there at that hour excited no comment. He watched the sleek, soft-eyed cows being milked, saw the handsome cart-horses, of which he had once been so proud, set off upon their day's work, had a quarter of an hour's conversation with his head-keeper at his cottage gate, and then returned home through the plantations to breakfast. It was his mother's habit to read prayers to the household immediately before the meal, and, as he knelt by Molly's side, and listened to the old familiar words, his heart ached when he thought of the misery that any moment might bring upon them.

As the first train from London did not arrive until somewhat late, the morning papers were delivered with the letters, which usually reached the Hall about half-past nine. When they arrived Godfrey selected one, and took it with him to his studio. With a feeling that he had never before experienced when opening a paper, he turned the crisp pages in search of the column which he knew he would find. Then he saw in large type:

THE BURFORD STREET MURDEREXTRAORDINARY EVIDENCE

There was no need for him to wonder what that evidence was: he knew before he began to read. The prominence given by the paper to the case was a proof of the excitement the inquiry had aroused in the public mind. At last he forced himself to read. Every word rose before his eyes as vividly as though it had been traced in letters of fire. Set down in cold print, the affair presented a very sinister aspect, so far as he was concerned. Every portion of the evidence seemed to point to himself as being the man who had committed the dastardly deed. He could well imagine what the feeling of independent persons would be who read it, and how readily they would arrive at a conclusion unfavourable to himself. He had just perused it for the second time, when he was startled by a faint tap upon the door.

"Come in," he cried, and in response Molly entered the room.

"I have been looking for you," she said, with the parody of a smile upon her face.

"I should have come in search of you in a few moments," he replied. "The fact is, I have had certain things to do which could not very well be left undone. Will you forgive me, dear?"

"Of course I will," she answered. "It is impossible for you to be always with me, and yet I am selfish enough to grudge you the time you spend upon anything else."

He was quick-witted enough to see that what she said was only an attempt to gain time. She, on her side, knew that he stood in need of comfort, and she had come to give it to him.

"Molly," he said, rising from the chair in which he had been sitting and going toward her, "I feel that I must tell you everything. God knows, this is the crisis of my life, and to whom should I turn in my sorrow, if not to the woman I love, and whom I know loves me? Have you read the account of the inquest in the papers?"

"No," she answered, "I would not read it, lest I should derive a false impression from it. I am quite willing to hear what you have to say about it, and to accept your version as the truth."

"God bless you, dear, for your trust in me!" he replied; "but it is necessary that you should hear what other people have to say upon the matter. Read it carefully, and, when you have finished, tell me what you think about it."

He gave her the paper, and for a moment she stood as if undecided.

"Do you really wish it?" she asked.

"It is better that you should do so, believe me," he said. "In that case, no one can say that I kept anything back from you."

"I will read it," she said, and went toward the window-seat to do so.

While she was reading, he stood before the fire and watched her. He noticed the poise of the beautiful head, the sweet hands holding the paper, on one finger of which sparkled the engagement ring he had given her, and the tiny foot just peeping from beneath the dark green skirt. She was a woman worth fighting all the world for, and, as he reflected how easy it would be for false evidence to separate them, he experienced a fear such as he had never known in his life before.

When she had finished, she crossed the room with the paper in her hand. Deliberately folding it up and laying it upon the table, she went to him, and placed her hands in his. Looking up into his face with trustful eyes, she said:

"I told you yesterday, Godfrey, that I believed in you. I tell you again, that, whatever the world may say with regard to this dreadful affair, it will make no difference in my love. I feel as convinced as I am of anything that, by whatever means, or at whose hand, that poor girl met her death, you were in no sort of way responsible for, or connected with it. You believe me, don't you?"

"I do," he answered, with tears in his eyes. "And I thank God for your trust. Do you know, yesterday I suggested to your father that, situated as we are, it would be better if I were to give you back your freedom until my innocence is proved?"

"I would not take it," she answered, firmly. "When I gave myself to you, it was not to be your bride in fair weather alone; it was to be your partner in the rough seas of life as well as in the smooth. No, come what may, Godfrey, I will not let you give me up. Promise me that you will never mention such a thing again? It hurts me even to think of it."

"Your mind is made up?"

"Quite made up," she answered. "I should not change, even if you were what – (here she shuddered) – what that paper would seem to suggest. No, darling, I am your wife, if not in the law, at least in God's sight."

"I thank you," he answered, earnestly. "The knowledge that you still trust me will be my most precious consolation."

"And now tell me of this Mr. Codey, the lawyer you have employed. Is he a clever man?"

"One of the cleverest in the land, I should say," Godfrey replied. "He has had great experience in these sort of cases, and, if any man can render me assistance, I should say he is that one."

"Oh, how thankful I shall be," she said, "when everything is settled! How little we dreamt, when we were so happy together last week, that within a few days we should be made so miserable! Perhaps, after all, it is only our love being tried in the crucible of trouble. And when it is over, and we have come out of it, we shall know each other's real worth. That is the best way to look at it, I think."

"Quite the best," he answered, and kissed her on the forehead.

Then, adopting a brighter tone, he suggested that they should go for a walk together, in order, if possible, to dispel, for the time being at least, the dark clouds that had settled upon them. It was a clear, bright morning, and as they crossed the park, and mounted the hillside toward the plantation, where the rabbits were playing, and the pheasants, who of late had not received the attention their merits deserved, were strutting about on the open grass land, Godfrey found it difficult to believe that the situation was really as desperate as he imagined. Their walk lasted for upward of two hours; indeed, it was nearly lunch-time before they reached the house once more. When they did, Molly went upstairs to her room to prepare herself for luncheon, while Godfrey made his way to his mother's sitting room, where he found the old lady quietly knitting by the fire.

"Thank goodness you have come in at last, dear!" said Mrs. Henderson. "I have been wanting so much to have a talk with you! Godfrey, I have read the evidence given at the inquest, and it frightens me."

"I am sorry for that, mother," he said, seating himself by her side. "What do you think of it?"

She placed her hand upon his arm, and looked at him with her loving eyes.

"I think my boy is too noble to have done anything of which his mother would have had reason to be ashamed."

Godfrey rose from his chair and walked to the window. These constant proofs of the love in which he was held was unmanning him. He could not trust himself to speak. When his own little world believed in him so implicitly, how could the greater world be so censorious?

When they went into luncheon, Godfrey soon saw that the ancient butler and his subordinate had become aware of the state of affairs. Attentive to his wants as they always were, on this particular occasion, they were even more so than usual. It was as if they were endeavouring in their own kindly way to show that they too believed in him, and were desirous of proving their sympathy with him. Never before had his own home struck him in the same light. His heart was too full for speech, and, in spite of his sister's well-meant attempt to promote conversation, the meal passed almost in silence.

After luncheon the bailiff sent in word that he should like to speak to him. The man was accordingly admitted to the smoking-room, where he discussed various matters connected with the estate with his master for upward of an hour. Labouring as he was, under the weight of greater emotions, Godfrey found it difficult to pin his attention to the matters at issue, and when the other went his way, after respectfully touching his forelock, for the first time since he had known the old fellow, he heaved a sigh of relief. At half-past four he joined the ladies in the drawing-room for afternoon tea. To add to his pain, another consignment of wedding presents had arrived, and in order that he should not be thought to be unduly nervous about the future, he was compelled to appear delighted with the attentions he had received from his friends.

"That makes the fifth pair of asparagus tongs we have received," said Molly, as she closed the case and placed it with its fellows upon the table. "And what is this? Well, I declare, it's another set of sweet dishes. That brings the number up to twenty-seven!"

At that moment the sound of carriage wheels outside reached them, followed, a few seconds later, by the ringing of the front door-bell.

"Visitors, I suppose," said Kitty. "It may be rude, but I must say that I trust it is not the vicar."

They waited in suspense until Williamson, the butler, entered the room and informed Godfrey that a gentleman had called to see him, and was waiting in the library.

"Who is it?" Godfrey asked. "Did he not give his name?"

"His name is Tompkins, sir," the butler replied. "He said he should be glad if you could spare the time to see him for a few moments."

"I will do so at once," said Godfrey, and, asking the ladies to excuse him, left the room.

On entering the library, he found himself face to face with a middle-aged individual, who at first glance resembled a sporting parson. He was dressed in black, and carried a black silk hat in his hand.

"What can I do for you?" Godfrey inquired. "I am not aware that I have ever seen you before."

"Very likely not, sir," the man replied. "My name is Tompkins, and I am a Scotland Yard detective. I hold a warrant for your arrest on a charge of wilfully murdering Teresina Cardi in Burford Street on the night of Thursday last. I had better tell you that anything you may say will be used against you."

The blow had fallen at last!

CHAPTER XI

For some moments Godfrey stood looking at the man who had come down from town to arrest him, as if he were stunned. Though he had half expected it, now that the blow had fallen he seemed scarcely able to appreciate his position. At last, with an effort, he recovered his self-possession.

"You may be able to imagine what a very unhappy mistake this is for me," he said to the detective. "But I have no wish to complain to you; you are only doing your duty. Where is it you desire to take me?"

"We must go up to town to-night," said the man, civilly enough. "As you may remember, sir, the adjourned inquest is to be held to-morrow morning, and it will be necessary for you to be present."

"In that case we had better catch the 6.10 train from Detwich. It is an express and gets to Euston at eight. Is your cab waiting, or shall I order one of my own carriages to take us?"

"I told the man to wait," the other replied. "He is a station cabman."

"In that case, if you will allow me, I will tell my servant to put up a few things for me. I suppose I shall be allowed to take them?"

"There is no objection to it."

Godfrey rang the bell, and, when the butler appeared in answer to it, bade him tell his man that he intended going up to London at once, and that he wanted his bag prepared without a moment's delay. Then, with a fine touch of sarcasm, he added: "Tell him also that I shall not require my dress clothes."

The detective smiled grimly. It was a joke he could appreciate; he also liked the other's pluck in being able to jest at such a time.

"That's the thing with these swells," he said to himself. "They never know when they're beaten."

"In the meantime," said Godfrey, "I suppose you will permit me to say good-bye to my family? I will give you my word, if you deem it necessary, that I will make no attempt to escape."

"I will trust you, sir," said the man. "I know it's hard lines on you, and I want to make it as pleasant for you as I can, provided, of course, you don't get me into hot water."

"I will endeavour not to do that," said Godfrey. "And now I'll go to the drawing-room. If you think it necessary you can wait in the hall."

"No, sir, thank you. I am quite comfortable here," said the man; "but I shouldn't make the interview longer than I could help if I were you. These things are always a bit trying for the ladies. I know it, because I've seen it so often."

Having ordered a glass of brandy and water for him, the man's favourite tipple, and handing him an illustrated paper, Godfrey left him and returned to the drawing-room. He had an agonizing part to play, and he wanted to spare his women folk as much pain as possible. As he entered the room they looked up at him with startled faces.

"What is it, Godfrey? What is it?" asked his mother, while the two girls waited for him to speak.

"It is a man from London who has come down to see me with regard to the murder," Godfrey began, scarcely knowing how to break the news to them. "It appears that the authorities are desirous of seeing me prior to the inquest to-morrow, and so I am going up to-night."

"Godfrey," cried his mother, springing to her feet and running toward him, "I see it all. They have arrested you on a charge of murder! Oh, my boy, my boy, I can not let you go! They shall not take you away."

"It is only a matter of form, mother," he said, soothingly. "On the face of yesterday's evidence, they could do nothing else. All well, I shall be down again to-morrow. It is only a little temporary inconvenience; for my lawyer, who is one of the cleverest men of his profession, feels certain that he can disprove the charge."

"It is monstrous even to suspect you of it," said Kitty. "If they only knew you, they would not dare even to hint at such a thing."

Molly said nothing. But he knew what her thoughts were.

"I must send a note to your father, dear," he said. "He anticipated this and made me promise to communicate with him directly it should come to pass."

He thereupon went to a writing-table in the corner of the room and wrote a hurried note to Sir Vivian, after which he rang the bell and gave orders that it should be taken to the Court without a moment's delay.

"Now," he said, when he had examined his watch and found that it was nearly half-past five, "I must bid you good-bye. Do not be anxious about me. I am proudly conscious of my own innocence, and I feel sure that, by this time to-morrow, the public will be aware of it also."

But his mother was not to be comforted. She clung to him with the tears streaming down her cheeks, as if she could not let him go.

"Mother dear," said Kitty, "you must be brave. Think of Godfrey, and don't send him away more unhappy than he is."

"I will be brave," she said, and drew his face down to hers and kissed him. "Good-bye, my dear boy. May God in His mercy bless you and send you safely back to us!"

When Kitty had kissed him, she drew her mother back into the ingle nook in order that Godfrey and Molly might say good-bye to each other in private.

Then Godfrey took Molly in his arms.

"Good-bye, my own dearest," she said. "I shall pray for you continually. Night and day you will be in my thoughts."

He could not answer her, but kissed her passionately. Then, disengaging himself from her embrace, he left the room.

Returning to the library, he informed the detective that he was at his disposal, at the same time telling him that, if they desired to catch the 6.10 at Detwich, they had no time to lose.

"We had better be going, then," said the man, and leaving the library they proceeded into the hall. Godfrey's bag had already been placed in the cab, and the gray-haired old butler, Williamson, was standing at the foot of the stairs holding the door open.

"Good-bye, Williamson," said Godfrey. "I know that I can safely leave everything in your hands."

"You can, sir," the man replied, simply; and then for the first time in his life he allowed himself to become familiar with his master, and laying his hand on his arm he added, "May God bless you, sir, and send you back to us soon!"

Then the cab rolled away down the drive, and Godfrey's journey to prison had commenced.

For the greater part of the drive into Detwich neither of them spoke. One had too much upon his mind to be in the humour for conversation, while the other, who was sorry for his prisoner, and who knew a gentleman when he saw one, had no desire to thrust himself upon him in his trouble. As it happened when they reached the station they found that they had some minutes to spare. They accordingly strolled up and down the platform, while they awaited the coming of the express. On its arrival they secured an empty compartment, and settled down for the journey to London. When Euston was reached they took a cab and drove direct to Bow Street, where Godfrey Henderson, of Detwich Hall, Detwich, was formally charged with the wilful murder of Teresina Cardi, artist's model. The usual forms having been complied with, he was placed in a somewhat superior apartment in another portion of the building. Then the key was turned upon him, and for the first time in his life was a prisoner.

Early next morning it was announced that two gentlemen had arrived to see him. They proved to be Sir Vivian Devereux and Mr. Codey, the lawyer.

"My dear lad, this is indeed a sad business," said Sir Vivian, as they shook hands. "I can not tell you how sorry I am for you. But, thank God, we know you to be innocent and are determined to prove it."

They sat down, and the lawyer, who had been looking round the room, which doubtless he had seen on many previous occasions, began to ply him with questions, which Godfrey answered to the best of his ability. When they had withdrawn, he was left to himself until the time arrived for him to set off for the coroner's court. When he did so, it was in a cab with a couple of stout policemen beside him to see that he made no attempt to escape. On reaching it, he found that it was packed to overflowing. Victor Fensden was there, seated in the space reserved for the witnesses, but Sir Vivian noticed that he avoided meeting Godfrey's eyes. With one exception, the proceedings proved comparatively tame. It was only when the hall porter referred to Godfrey's haggard appearance when he returned to the hotel on the Thursday night, that there was anything approaching excitement. He deposed that Mr. Henderson, who had been staying at the hotel, and whom he now recognised as being in Court, returned to the hotel on the night of the murder between a quarter-past and half-past twelve. He, the porter, was immediately struck by his strange appearance. In reply to a question put by a juror, he replied that he looked very much as if he had been upset by something; his face was deadly white, and he had an anxious, what he should call frightened, look in his eyes. At the other's request, he had procured him some brandy, and, as he had had some trouble next morning with the head waiter about it, the fact was the more vividly impressed upon his memory. The cabman who had driven them from the Strand to Burford Street was next called. In answer to questions put to him, he stated that, when he was hailed by the person now in court, the deceased woman seemed very reluctant to enter the cab. But the other had at last prevailed upon her to do so, and he had driven them to the house in the street in question. He had identified the body, and could swear as to the identity of the person in court. The police-constable, who had passed a few minutes before he bade Teresina good-night, was next examined. He remembered seeing them together, and thought it a strange place for a gentleman to be in at such a time. His attention was drawn to them because the girl was crying, while the gentleman seemed somewhat excited. Feeling that, as he was not appealed to, he had no right to interfere, he passed on down the street. In answer to the coroner's inquiry, he was unable to say whether or not the man entered the house.