The Goddess: A Demon/Chapter 17
CHAPTER XVII
MY UNPERSUASIVE MANNER
As I left the house a man came across the pavement as if with the intention of knocking at Philip Lawrence's door. At sight of me coming down the steps he stopped short. It was young Moore. His appearance set the blood tingling in my veins; his hat was cocked at an acute angle on one side of his head; a cigar was stuck in the corner of his mouth. There was something in his bearing, and about the way in which he spoke, which showed that he had been drinking.
"What are you doing in that house? You answer me that! Seems to me that you've got a finger in every pie."
He addressed me in tones which were probably audible in Piccadilly.
"Might I ask you, Mr. Moore, to pitch your voice a little lower?"
"You may ask, but as for paying attention to anything you ask—not me. I'm not afraid of any one hearing what I've got to say. This is the public street, this is, and if you so much as lay a hand on me Here, drop that! Help! Police!"
As I moved towards him, he sprang out of my reach, shouting in a fashion which could not fail to attract attention. Indeed a man, apparently a respectable artisan, who had passed us a few seconds before, turned to look at us.
"What's the matter there?"
Mr. Moore was quite at his ease.
"Nothing—at least, not yet there isn't. But there will be soon, if he so much as lays a finger on me."
The man went on.
"You seem to be a pretty sort of idiot," I observed.
He flicked the ash off his cigar with a jeering laugh.
"We can't all be as wise as you, nor as big. Size goes for something, you great overgrown monster. Barnum's museum is where you ought to be, not walking about the streets."
I hardly knew what to make of him. If I had had him in a room I might have taught him manners; out in the street he had me at an advantage. He was plainly disposed to court, rather than avoid, a public scandal, while I was anything but inclined to find myself an object of interest to a curious crowd. While I hesitated he went on:
"A nice sort you seem to be, all round. A pretty lot of lies you stuffed me with this morning—Adair and you together. On my honour! Making out that Eddie Lawrence had had his throat cut, and the Lord knows what! Setting me thinking that my sister'd cut it for him—my goodness! What is your little game? I wish she had!" He burst into boisterous laughter. "Bessie cut Eddie Lawrence's throat!—that would be an elegant joke! I only wish she'd done it! D'ye hear? I say I only wish she'd done it! You can put that into your pipe and smoke it."
He swaggered off up the street. I made no attempt to stop him—crediting him with the wild utterances of a drink-fuddled brain. I did wonder what errand had brought him to Philip Lawrence's; for that he had been going there when I interrupted him I felt sure. But that, in his present condition, I should get no information on that point, or any other, from him was evident.
I returned home. As soon as I entered the sitting-room, I became conscious that some one was in the bedroom beyond.
"If that is Hume again"
It would have gone hard with him, if it had been; but it was not. It was Inspector Symonds and a colleague. It came upon me, with a rush of sickening recollection, that I had actually gone out without putting the room to rights, but with all my possessions lying about just as Hume and I had left them. On the bed was still that irrepressible cloak. Why had I not burnt the thing? Or torn it into rags? Or got rid of it somehow? Anything would have been better than allowing it to continue in existence. The two men were examining it minutely from top to bottom.
"What—what are you doing here?"
There was a choking something in my throat. They had taken me by surprise; and I was conscious that this was not a case in which physical force could be advantageously employed.
"Our duty, Mr. Ferguson. We are acting within the limits of our authority. I have a search-warrant in my pocket. Shall I read it to you, sir?"
"What are you searching for in my room?"
"For something that will throw light upon the murder of your friend, Mr. Edwin Lawrence. As that is an object for which you will, no doubt, be willing to do anything which lies in your power, you will be glad to hear that we have come upon what looks like a very important piece of evidence. Whose cloak is this, Mr. Ferguson?"
"Cloak? What cloak? Oh, that! That's my cousin's."
"Indeed. What is your cousin's name?"
"Mary—Miss Mary Ferguson. She was here a few days ago, and, as her nose bled very badly, she left her cloak behind."
My wits were wool-gathering. It was the first invention I could think of.
"And were these marks upon the cloak made by your cousin's nose bleeding?"
"Exactly."
"She must have almost bled to death. Did a blood-vessel break?"
"No, I don't think so."
"You don't think so?"
"That is, I'm sure. She has suffered very badly from bleeding at the nose her whole life long; some people do—as you are perhaps aware."
"How long is it since she was your visitor?"
"Oh, some days. Quite a week—if not more."
"Is that so? It's odd that the blood should have continued in a liquid state so long. Some of it is not dry yet"
"Well, perhaps it wasn't so long as that."
"So I should imagine."
"If you'll give it to me I'll pack it up and send it to her at once. I meant to have done so before."
"Let me have her address, and I will send it to her. Or, rather, I will take it to her at once. That will save both time and trouble."
"You are very good, Symonds, but I won't put you to so much inconvenience. I prefer to take it to her myself."
"You are sure that your cousin's name isn't Moore—Miss Bessie Moore?"
"What do you mean? Are you presuming again?"
"Are you prepared to assert, Mr. Ferguson, that this cloak was not worn by Miss Bessie Moore when, last night, she came out of Mr. Edwin Lawrence's room?"
"I'll swear it"
"You will have an opportunity of doing so in the witness-box. Though I warn you to consider what are the pains and penalties of committing perjury, because I shall bring trustworthy witnesses who will prove not only that she wore this cloak, but that the fact of her wearing it was well within your knowledge."
He began to roll it up.
"You are not going to take it away, Symonds—my cousin's property."
"Your cousin's property! Listen to me, Mr. Ferguson. I'm told that you've lived a good deal abroad. I don't know what may be the manners and customs in those parts, but I can assure you that, at home, you cannot do a more serious disservice to a person suspected of crime than to resist, on his or her behalf, due process of law. And I may add that, in the eyes of judge and jury, a prisoner is not assisted by the discovery that a witness has been endeavouring to bolster up his or her cause by swearing to a series of unmistakable falsehoods. I know that Miss Bessie Moore was wearing a cloak when she went to see Mr. Edwin Lawrence. Mrs. Peddar says that she had on nothing of the kind when you hid her in her apartment. What has become of it? In the interval, between her leaving Lawrence and going up to Mrs. Peddar, she was in your room. I search your room. In it I discover the cloak which Miss Moore has been described as wearing. You will do that lady a very serious injury by endeavouring to persuade me, or anybody else, that this garment is the property of a suppositious cousin, who never existed except in your imagination."
As he continued to speak in his measured, emotionless tones, I felt as if something was being drawn tighter about my throat; something against which it was vain to struggle. I endeavoured to collect my thoughts. But, somehow, all at once, I had grown stupid; more stupid, even, than I was wont to be. I could not get my ideas into proper order. They eluded me. My brain was in confusion. I could not see what was the wisest thing to do. I came to a desperate resolve, which I put into execution with sufficient clumsiness.
"You're on the wrong tack, Mr. Symonds."
"I've not said what tack I am on."
"You police are famous for your blunders. I'll save you from making another."
"That's kind."
"I killed Edwin Lawrence."
They looked at me, then at each other, smiling. The inspector's colleague gave a short, dry laugh.
"It's a little too thin," he said.
"I repeat that I killed Edwin Lawrence."
The inspector gazed at me with twinkling eyes.
"What do you propose to gain by that?"
"Gain? Nothing; except, I suppose, the gallows. But I don't care. Life has no longer any charms for me, with this—this upon my soul. His blood is on my hands. I admit it."
"With a view, I presume, to getting his blood off the hands of somebody else, eh?"
"What on earth do you mean? You seem to be some sort of monomaniac—possessed with but one idea. I tell you that I am the man's murderer. You can take your prisoner. And there's an end of it."
"Hardly. What we want to know just now is, how you account for these stains upon Miss Moore's cloak."
"I know nothing at all about it."
"They are not the results of your cousin's bleeding at the nose?"
"you, Symonds!"
"Thank you, Mr. Ferguson. That's scarcely a matter which is likely to come within your province. You must take us for a pair of really remarkable simpletons, Gray and I, to wish us to believe that you know so much about the one thing and nothing at all about the other. It is odd."
"As you please. I have admitted my guilt. If you decline to arrest me, I certainly shouldn't be the one to grumble."
"You shouldn't be, but it seems that you are. Tell us the story of these stains. It may be that the explanation will make your guilt clear. Then we'll arrest you with the greatest pleasure."
I thought about what Hume had said about the advisability of concocting a plausible story which could hold water. I wished heartily that I had availed myself of his assistance to frame one there and then. I am one of the worst liars living. More than once, when the situation could have been saved by a lie, I have made a mess of things. I am without the knack which some men have; no one would mistake a lie of mine for truth. I felt that the two officers were watching me, with keenly observant eyes, incredulity written large all over them. I was conscious that I must say something. If Hume had only been there to prompt me! Bracing myself together, I made a plunge.
"I will tell you everything. I'll keep back nothing. What would be the use? You'd be sure to find out"
"Quite so."
"She saw me kill him. She tried to save him. She rushed forward, as he fell back into her arms, so that his life's blood dyed her cloak."
"That was the way of it—as he fell back. From the position in which he was found, the idea was that he fell forward."
"Well, it might have been forward. I—I was hardly in a state of mind to pay close attention to every detail."
"With what did you kill him?"
"With—with a knife which I brought home with me from a tribe of negroes on the West Coast of Africa."
"Might I see the weapon?"
I had an armoury of such things, but was conscious that there was nothing among them which could have been responsible for the injuries which had been inflicted on Edwin Lawrence.
"I haven't it. I took it out with me just now, and—threw it into the river."
"That's unfortunate. Because, apart from anything else, it must have been a truly extraordinary weapon—worth looking at, since the doctors were under the impression that at least fifty knives were used, of varying sizes."
"My knife had several blades."
"Is that so? All of the same length?"
"All lengths."
"But fitted into one handle?"
"Yes; but it was a peculiar handle."
"So I should imagine. I'm afraid, Mr. Ferguson, that you'll have to make a drawing of this knife of yours, in order to make the judge and jury and the doctors understand what kind of article it was. When you entered the room, was Miss Moore already there?"
"Yes; she was there on an errand of mercy."
"Indeed. Did she stop the proceedings in order to tell you so?"
"I know."
"I have already remarked that you seem to know a good deal about some things and nothing at all about others. How long was it after your entrance that the murder began?"
"I rushed at him instantly, without a word of warning."
"Describe how the crime was committed—in detail."
"He was standing with his back to me. I stabbed him before he had a chance to turn; when he did turn, I stabbed him in the chest"
"And then in the face?"
"Yes; and then in the face."
"What was Miss Moore doing all this time?"
"She was taken by surprise. So soon as she understood what was happening she rushed to the rescue."
"I suppose, by then, you had stabbed him thirty or forty times. The corpse is disfigured by hundreds of wounds."
"I can't say."
"And, after the rescue, did you continue stabbing him?"
"I did."
"And what did Miss Moore do—nothing?"
"She tried to prevent me—she did all that she could."
"Struggled with you, for instance?"
"Yes."
"Do you say that Miss Moore struggled with you?"
"Look here, Symonds, confound you, and confound your questions! Do you know that I'm beginning to feel like killing you?"
"Steady! Keep a little farther off. You're not the sort of man with whom I should care to struggle; especially as now, for the first time, I believe you. I have no doubt that, at the present moment, you feel much more like killing me than you ever felt like killing Edwin Lawrence. No, Mr. Ferguson, I've an inkling of what you're driving at, and I'm not sure that, policeman though I am, in a sort of a way I don't admire you. But you're no hand at a game like this. You're no fictionist, it's not your line; your plots don't dovetail. We still have to find out how these stains came upon the lady's cloak."
"Aren't you—aren't you going to arrest me?"
"I am not, at present. Perhaps, when you are in the witness-box, you may succeed in inducing the judge to order your arrest; but, in that case, I'm afraid that it will be for perjury. Come along. Gray. If I were you, Mr. Ferguson, I'd let things take their course; they will, however you may try to stop them. If the lady is innocent, it will be made plain; if she is not, that also will be made plain; and, you may take my word for it, that it's just as well for every one concerned that it should be."
The Inspector went out of the room with the cloak rolled up under his arm—I making no sort of effort to prevent him. The truth is that I was conscious that I had succeeded in making an ass of myself, and in nothing else, that the backbone had all gone out of me, and I felt as limp as a rag.
And yet that imbecile old Morley had prated of my persuasive manner!