The Betrayal of John Fordham

The storm had increased in violence. Through an uncurtained window on the top floor I saw the snow descending thick and fast, the wind whirling it furiously onward and upward. A wild night, but I had reason to be thankful for it. The conflict of the elements lessened my chances of being caught red-handed.

Standing by the uncurtained window I felt for my watch; it had not occurred to me before to ascertain the time. The watch was gone, the chain hung loose; but the pocket-book in which I kept my money was safe. The loss of my watch did not induce the suspicion that robbery was the motive for the attack; it must have been jerked out of my pocket in the course of the struggle. It was dangerous to leave it in the house; it was more dangerous to remain. I consoled myself with the thought that I might have lost it in the street, and that it would be found by some person who would be satisfied to retain it without making inquiries. In any circumstances there was no name engraved on it to prove that I was the owner.

A faint scratching on the wainscot at this point of my reflections drove my heart into my mouth. So harmless a creature as a mouse was sufficient to inspire terror. I felt my way down to the fatal room, having no means of obtaining a light. It was quite dark now, and my footsteps were dogged by phantoms created by the fever of my blood. I saw the forms of struggling men, watched by glaring eyes and haunted by formless shadows; incidents of the struggle which remained in my memory repeated themselves with monstrous exaggeration; my brain teemed with startling images. I must get from this house of terror quickly; in the white snow the phantoms would fade away.

These imaginings did not cause me to lose sight of my purpose to avoid the consequences of my unpremeditated crime. A dual process of thought was going on within me, one belonging to the real, the other to the unreal world. Reason cautioned me to arm myself against the chances of detection. Such as lay in the stains of blood on my hands and face. The snow would serve me here. From my blood-bespattered clothes the stains could not be removed so easily. I should not have returned to the death-room had I not noticed an ulster coat thrown across a chair which, in the open air, would render me reasonably safe from observation. I groped for the chair, found it, thrust my arms into the ulster, and buttoned it up.

All was still as death – and death itself, a muffled figure, my father's son, lay outlined near the opposite wall. The deep darkness did not shut it from my sight.

As I made my way to the street door my foot touched an object on the stairs. I stooped and picked up a watch, which I put into my pocket with a feeling of relief at a danger averted. I had a little difficulty in opening the door, and when this was accomplished and I closed it behind me, I did not linger a moment. Every step I took from it added to my chance of safety. Turning into another street I bathed my hands and face in snow, and removed all traces of the bloody conflict. The storm was now a gale; the wind tore and shrieked through the streets, the snow, whirling furiously into my face, almost blinded me. Not a soul was about, and I walked on unobserved, with no idea in which direction I was proceeding. Chance favored me, for my hap-hazard wanderings led me to the Lime Street station. I looked up at the clock – two minutes past four. I took a first-class single to Euston, it being safer, I thought, to travel first-class than third. My fingers were numbed, and I was rather slow in picking up my change.

"You had better hurry, sir," said the clerk, "if you want to catch the 4:5."

I hurried off, followed by a porter.

"Any luggage, sir?"

"No."

"What class, sir?"

"First."

"Not that way, sir," said the porter; "the train goes from this platform."

He showed me to the carriage and thanked me for the tip. I had barely time to take my seat before the train started.

Being the only passenger in the carriage I could, without fear of interruption, deliver myself up wholly to my reflections. Needless to say, they were of the most melancholy nature. The incidents in my life which were in some way connected with my present position, rose to my memory with fatal clearness, and formed a chain of events which might have been forged by a spiritual agency bent upon my destruction. An inexorable fatality had attended all my actions, and used them as weapons against myself. In every instance the circumstantial evidence was overwhelming; my own bare, valueless word was the only testimony of my innocence. Additional support of this fatalistic theory was supplied in the course of my reflections. Taking out the watch I picked up on the stairs, I discovered that it was not my own. There was an inscription on the case: "To Louis from his Loving Mother." In the struggle Louis' watch had been torn from his pocket as well as my own, and it was now in my possession.

I argued out my position to a possible and logical point. As thus: The body of a murdered man having been found in the house an hour or so after my departure, the attention of the police was immediately directed to the early morning trains for London. At four o'clock, a gentleman, looking flurried and anxious, had presented himself at the ticket-office and paid a first-class fare to Euston. He was so agitated that it was with difficulty he gathered his change. He wore a long gray ulster coat and had no luggage – not even a bag, a most unusual circumstance. He betrayed his ignorance of the platform from which the London train started by proceeding in a wrong direction, and was set right by the porter; presumably, therefore, he was a stranger in Liverpool. Telegrams were at once dispatched to the stations en route, and to Euston, to detain the passenger unless he could give a satisfactory account of himself. His explanation affording grounds for suspicion, he was searched, and there was found upon him a watch with the inscription: "To Louis, from his Loving Mother." By his own previous admission, his name was not Louis. Questioned as to how he came into possession of the watch, he gave no answer. There was also found upon his person a leather sheath, into which a gold-digger's knife with which the fatal wound had been inflicted exactly fitted.

When this damning piece of evidence presented itself to my mind,' I felt for the knife. I had left it behind me. The sheath was empty.

What now was left to me to do? Leave matters to chance, and in the event of the worst not happening, protect myself by every possible means, or give myself up to the authorities? The deed I had done was beyond recall, and would ever stand as a black mark against me. If I could have harbored a hope of proving that it was done in self-defense I should not have hesitated, but this was impossible. For Ellen's sake I would adhere, as far and as long as lay in my power, to my plan of silence and secrecy.

Tortured as I was, I felt relieved when I came to this final decision, and I began to consider how to provide for my safety. To attempt to get rid of the watch and the ulster coat would be attended with danger, inasmuch as there were at present no other means of ridding myself of them than by flinging them out of the window or leaving them in the carriage, and thus courting the attention I desired to avoid. Until a safer course presented itself I must therefore retain them.

But brain and body were exhausted, and I could not continue my deliberations. Lifting the dividing arms between the seats I sank upon the cushions, and closed my eyes in sleep.

CHAPTER XXV

The train arrived at Euston at half-past eight in the morning. It marked an epoch in my fate. Though I showed in my manner neither haste nor hesitation, it was with apprehension that I alighted from the carriage, with relief that I walked through the gates, a free man!

The snow was falling in London as in Liverpool, but not so heavily, and the wind was less fierce. The weather was dreary enough, and I was in wretched spirits, uncertain what to do and where to go. But in order that my movements should not attract observation it was imperative that my uncertainty should not be apparent; I must act with an appearance of decision.

Being now in a locality with which I was familiar, I made my way to a thoroughfare where cheap clothes' shops abounded, and at one of these, the shutters of which had just been taken down, I purchased a suit of clothes, an overcoat, and a shirt, without trying them on, and a Gladstone bag in which I directed them to be packed. Hailing a cab I drove to a Turkish bath in Euston Road, and, bathing there, changed my clothes, as is not infrequently done in such establishments. I then drove to an hotel, where I engaged a room, informing the manager that my stay would depend upon letters which I expected to receive. Then I breakfasted, scarcely realizing until I sat down how sorely I was in need of food. Refreshed by the meal I retired to my room, where, locking the door, like a criminal engaged in a desperate endeavor to escape justice, I bent my thoughts again upon the perilous situation into which I had been plunged. Well did I know that it was a subject which would never leave me.

The motive for Louis' attack upon my life. Let me first fix that definitely. I could think of no other than that of obtaining possession of the few thousands of pounds which, through Barbara's death, reverted back to me. My own death proved – whether by natural means or murder mattered not – and leaving (as was rightly presumed) no will, my property would fall to my half-brother Louis and his mother, as next-of-kin. Undoubtedly this was the motive; but in what way information had been obtained of my arrival from Australia, and by whom I had been tracked from the Liverpool dock to the deserted street, it was not in my power to fathom.

Did Louis have an accomplice? If so, who more likely than Maxwell? The conjecture was natural, but I soon dismissed it. Two men would have made short work of me. Revenge and greed would have chained Maxwell to Louis' side, and I should not now be alive and comparatively uninjured. There had been blood on my face and hands, but it had not come from me – a proof that I had not, as I supposed, been attacked with a knife. The only weapon used in the struggle was used by me, and it had only to be established as belonging to me to serve as fatal evidence against me. And yet it was strange that in an attack deliberately premeditated and thought out, my assailant should have had no weapon at his command. There was, however, no certainty of this. Knowing; that I was a powerful man he would hardly have trusted to his own physical strength to overcome me. The reasonable presumption was that he had a weapon, which he had either been unable to draw or had dropped in the scuffle. I adopted these conclusions as facts beyond dispute. He had no accomplices, he had a weapon. The former fact added to my chances of safety, for having confided his savage purpose to no one, the secret was confined to his own breast. And he died without revealing it.

For the deed itself I did not, I could not, hold myself any more responsible than if I had been attacked by a wild beast. Discovered, I must bear the consequences, but I was justified in keeping it secret, and in leaving to others the task of detection. And, indeed, it was now too late for me to take the initiative. My flight and the property in my possession were sufficient proofs of guilt. Innocent (it would be argued), what had I to fear? Justice never errs – never! What mockery! Being guilty, I had done what all guilty men do. What could be clearer?

I was now afflicted with the doubt whether I had acted wisely in adopting a policy of concealment. It is in the nature of such a labyrinth of circumstance as that in which I was wandering never to be sure of the road, to be ever in doubt whether the right track has not been hopelessly missed. There are no sadder reflections than those inspired by what is and what might have been. Lost moments – lost opportunities – if I had done this, if I had done that! So do we torture ourselves when the fatal issue is before us. But I had chosen my course, and it was now too late to retrace my steps.

I deemed it fortunate that in my cable messages to Ellen and my solicitor I had not stated the name of the vessel by which I had taken passage home, my intention having been to give my dear one a delightful surprise. I had time for further deliberation, to more fully mature my plans. It would be necessary that my lawyer should be made acquainted with the facts of my arrival, but I need not communicate with him for a few day. My present concern was to learn from the newspapers of the discovery of Louis' body, and what was said about it. In the afternoon I went out and bought copies of the evening papers, taking care to show myself only in those thoroughfares where I deemed myself safe. The leading principle of all my movements at this period was caution, and I did not lose sight of it even in so trifling a matter as the purchase of a few newspapers. I evinced no anxiety to read them, but put them into my pocket with assumed carelessness, as though I were not interested in their contents. Two or three times I fancied that I was being followed, and I put it to the test, and satisfied myself that my fears had misled me. Returning to the hotel, I looked through the papers in the solitude of my room, without meeting with any reference to a Liverpool tragedy. Neither in the papers of the following day was any allusion made to it.

I put the true construction upon this silence. The house in which I had left Louis' body was practically untenanted, and no indication of anything unusual had been found in the street. But it would have been folly on my part to suppose that the murder could remain forever undiscovered. The suspense was dreadful.

So several days passed by. I removed from the hotel, and took apartments in the north of London. From that address I wrote to my solicitor, requesting him to call upon me in the evening, and asking him to say nothing of my return home. At the appointed hour we were closeted together.

After the first few words of greeting he spoke of Barbara's death, and said it was a happy release for her and for me. He then spoke of Ellen, and I gathered that he had formed a high opinion of her; but he made no inquiries as to my intentions with respect to her. He asked, however, whether it was my wish that she should not be informed of my return. I replied that I wished nobody to know, and he promised to preserve absolute silence. If he felt surprise, he evinced none.

"Have you seen much of her?" I asked.

"Very little," he replied. "Altogether, I think, not more than four or five times. I send her her allowance every month through the post, and she sends me an acknowledgment by return. Am I to continue to send the money?"

"Yes; it is hers for life, whatever becomes of me." He raised his eyes. "Life is uncertain," I added. "And I shall feel obliged by your forwarding any letters to her which I may address to your care, and by your forwarding her letters to any address I may give you. My reasons for concealment are such as I cannot confide to you."

"My dear sir," he returned, and I observed a coldness in his tone, "this is purely a matter of business, and it is my practise never to inquire into reasons or motives. All I have to do, as your solicitor, is to carry out your instructions. When you ask for my advice I shall be ready to give it."

We then went into accounts, and he said that on his next visit he would bring papers for my signature, which would place me in possession of the money which had been set aside to secure my allowance to Barbara. It was in the afternoon of the day on which this visit was to be paid that I carried into execution my cherished design of seeing my dear Ellen. An effectual disguise was imperative, and for this purpose I had purchased in another neighborhood a false beard which I had no difficulty in slipping on, unobserved, in a quiet street. Thus protected, with my overcoat drawn up to my ears, and my hat shading my eyes, I proceeded to the house in which she resided.

I had to wait some time before she appeared. She came out alone, and as she crossed the road she raised her eyes to an upper window, disclosing in that mother's glance the room in which she had left her darling boy. She entered a provision shop a few doors off to make a purchase, and was absent from him not longer than five minutes. Her eye was bright, her step elastic, her face wore an expression of content. How sweet, how beautiful she was! Oh, cruel fate, that kept me from the shelter of her love, that held me bound in bonds I dared not break! I groaned in agony of spirit. But she was happy – yes, happy with her boy, and through her faith in the man to whom she had given her heart. I should have been grateful for that; and I was; but none the less did I suffer, and sigh for the happiness which I had hoped would be mine.

She left the shop, and returned quickly to the house. Is there no way, I thought, is there no way? Could we not live together in some distant country where there would be no fear of detection? There had not been a word in the papers of the Liverpool tragedy; perhaps the danger was already over. I had but to keep the secret safely locked in my breast, to keep a seal upon my lips. Surely that could be done.

So ran my musings as I walked back to my lodgings, where presently I was joined by my solicitor, between whom and myself the final accounts were soon adjusted. Our business finished, he bade me good evening with a noticeable lack of cordiality.

What cared I for that, for him, for any one in the world but my dear Ellen and my boy? As I took up the thread of my musings my heart cried out for them. Why should I, guiltless in intent of crime, be condemned to lifelong misery and despair? It was intolerable – more than intolerable – more than man could bear. I would not bear it – I would not – would not —

Hush! What was that? The newsboys were calling out the special editions of the evening papers. "Horrible discovery in Liverpool! Horrible murder! Extra special! Horrible discovery – horrible murder!"

I flew into the street, all my nerves on fire, and purchasing a paper, was about to re-enter the house, when a hand was laid on my shoulder.

"My dear old John, how are you?"

I turned with a cry of terror, and saw Maxwell smiling in my face.

CHAPTER XXVI

In sight of this new danger I was speechless. I had no power to define its nature or to examine it with a clear mind, but I could not resist the foreboding that a grievous burden was added to my pack of woe. There was an airy insolence, a light-hearted mockery in Maxwell's voice which betokened that he had reached a haven for which he had been searching; and I knew from old experience that this was a sign of evil.

"You don't appear to recognize me, dear John. Am I so changed, or is it that you have not recovered from the shock of the loss we have sustained? Our poor Barbara! Lost to us forever. She had her faults, but she has atoned for them, and is now in a better world. Let that be our consolation. Find your voice, old man, and bid me welcome."

"You are not welcome," I said, endeavoring to keep command of myself. "You have brought misery enough upon me. No living link gives you now a place in my life."

"True; but dead links are stronger and more binding. How they drop away, those who are dear to us! One burnt to death, another murdered in cold blood!"

Everything swam before me. The paper rustled in my trembling hand; the shouts of the newsboy: "Horrible discovery in Liverpool! Horrible murder!" fell upon my ears with a muffled sound, though he was but a few yards away, charged with dread import. I knew that Maxwell continued to speak, but I did not hear what he was saying till he shook me by the shoulder.

"You are inattentive, dear John. The latest murder the newsboy is calling out fascinates you. I see you have bought a newspaper off him; they are selling like wildfire. All over London they are screaming – 'Murder, murder; horrible murder!' But you are shaking with cold. It will be better – and safer – to converse in your room, where we can read the news you have waited for so long. How true is the old adage, 'Murder will out!' After you, brother-in-law. The host takes the lead, you know. Tread softly, softly!"

He spoke with the air of one who holds the man he is addressing in the hollow of his hand, but he was always a braggart. In the midst of my terror and despair that thought came – this man Maxwell was always a braggart. I would hear what he had to say, and speak myself as little as possible till he was done. Thus much made itself intelligible to my dazed senses. So I led the way into the house, and up the stairs to my room, Maxwell following at my heels. Safe within, he turned the key gently in the lock.

"We can't be too careful, John, when life and liberty are at stake. And you would have sent me away – me, your only friend, the one man in the world who can save you from the gallows!"

"You speak in enigmas," I managed to say.

"Nonsense, brother-in-law – nonsense. Drop the mask; you are not in the criminal court; the police are not yet on your track. Your voice is husky. Are you still a teetotaller? Yes? Astonishing. Drink this glass of water – it will clear your throat. But, as my host, you will allow me something stronger. If I ring the bell the slavey will come, I suppose. I must trouble you for a few shillings, John. I am in my chronic state, dead broke, as usual. Bad luck sticks to me, but I would not change places with you for all that. My pockets are empty, but my neck is safe. What does the paper say about it?"

He took it from my hand, and took also the purse I had thrown on the table. The servant had answered the bell, and was waiting in the passage. He opened the door, and giving her money sent her for a bottle of brandy.

"Any other lodgers on this floor, John? No? That's fortunate. The less risk of our being overheard. What name do you go by here? Your own? No? What then? Tush! You can't conceal it from me; I have but to ask the slavey or the landlady. There is no need even for that, except by way of confirmation. Shall we say Fletcher – John Fletcher? A great mistake. Will tell fatally against you if they run you down, or if you make me your enemy. You should have kept to Fordham; it would have been a point in your favor. Poor Louis! He wasn't half a bad sort of fellow; but you never loved him. You almost killed him when you were boys together, and you only waited your opportunity to finish him. Well it's done, and badly done. I don't set myself up as a particularly moral or virtuous party, but my hands are free from blood. Ah, there's the slavey with the liquor, and I'm perishing for a drink."

I kept my eyes from him while he helped himself and drank; my fear was lest some look in my eyes should betray me; my cue was to ascertain from his own lips the extent of his knowledge, and how he came by it. His thirst assuaged he re-locked the door, and drew a chair close to that in which I was sitting at the table. Then he spread the newspaper upon the table, so that the revelation I dreaded could be read by both at the same time.

"Shall I read it aloud, John?"

"No."

"As you please."

We bent our heads over the paper, and this is what I read. I copy it from the cutting I have kept by me since that night:

"HORRIBLE DISCOVERY IN LIVERPOOL."

"A horrible discovery was made last night in an empty house in Rye Street, Liverpool. A couple of years ago the house was taken on lease by a corn merchant, who used the lower floors for storage, and let the upper floors for residence. Five or six months afterwards the tenants left, the reason being that they considered the building unsafe. Then the merchant furnished the first floor, and occasionally slept there. At the end of the year he had no further occasion for it, and he gave the keys to a house agent, with instructions to let the whole or part of the house to the best advantage, in order that he might be relieved of some portion of the rent, for which he was responsible. For eleven months it remained uninhabited, and then a gentleman giving the name of Mollison offered to take it for a month to see if it would suit him to become a permanent tenant. The agent closed with the offer; a month's rent was paid in advance, and the keys delivered over. It may be mentioned that Mr. Mollison was a stranger to the agent, who saw him only once, the arrangement being made at the first interview between them. A London reference was given, and the agent received a reply in due course which he considered satisfactory. Meanwhile, although the month's rent had been paid, the house seemed to remain uninhabited, no persons being seen to enter or issue from it, but there is some kind of circumstantial evidence that on one or more occasions the new tenant was there, either alone or with companions, there being a back entrance in a blind alley which after sunset was practically deserted. Candles and lamps have certainly been burnt in the room on the first floor facing the front entrance, but these were not seen from the street, for the reason that well-fitting shutters masked the windows, and that over the shutters hung heavy tapestry curtains.