Part 31 (1/2)
”'The accused, having insisted, in spite of evident strong dissuasion from his counsel, upon making a statement, said: ”I wish to tell the plain and absolute truth about my concern with this affair. I have heard the evidence given by various witnesses as to my financial position. That evidence is more or less true. I lost a lot of money last winter in betting and gambling.
I was not aware that my position was known to my uncle until one of these witnesses revealed that my uncle had been employing private inquiry agents to find it out. I was meaning, when his death occurred, to make a clean breast to him. I was on the best of terms with him--whatever he may have known, it made no difference that I ever noticed in his behaviour to me. I was not aware that my uncle had made a will. He never mentioned it to me. About a year ago, there was some joking conversation between us about making a will, and I said to him that he ought to do it, and give me the job, and he replied, laughingly, that he supposed he would have to, some time. I solemnly declare that on November 12th I hadn't the ghost of a notion that he had made a will.
”'”On November 12th last, about five o'clock in the afternoon, I received a note from my uncle, asking me to meet him at his estate office, at midnight. I had often met him there at that time--there was nothing unusual about such an appointment. I went there, of course--I walked there from my flat in the Adelphi. I noticed when I got there that my uncle's brougham was being slowly driven round the square across the road. The outer door of the office was slightly open. I was surprised. The usual thing when I made late calls was for me to ring a bell which sounded in my uncle's private room, and he then came and admitted me. I went in, and down the hall, and I then saw that the door of his room was also open. The electric light was burning. I went in. I at once saw my uncle--he was lying between the desk and the hearth, quite dead.
There was a revolver lying near. I touched his hand and found it was quite warm.
”'”I looked round, and seeing no sign of any struggle, I concluded that my uncle had shot himself. I noticed that his keys were lying on the desk. His fur-collared overcoat and slouch hat were thrown on a sofa. Of course, I was much upset. I went outside, meaning, I believe, to call the caretaker. Everything was very still in the house. I did not call. I began to think. I knew I was in a strange position. I knew my uncle's death would make a vast difference to me. I was next of kin. I wanted to know how things stood--how I was left. Something suggested itself to me. I think the overcoat and hat suggested it. I put on the hat and coat, took the keys from the table, and the latch-key of the Portman Square house from my uncle's waistcoat pocket, turned out the light, went out, closed both doors, went to the brougham, and was driven away. I saw very well that the coachman didn't know me at all--he thought I was his master.
”'”I have heard the evidence about my visit to Portman Square. I stopped there some time. I made a fairly complete search for a will and didn't find anything. It is quite true that I used one of the gla.s.ses, and ate a sandwich, and very likely I did bite into another. It's true, too, that I have lost two front teeth, and that the evidence of that could be in the sandwich. All that's true--I admit it. It's also quite true that I got the taxi-cab at two o'clock at the corner of Orchard Street and drove back to Kensington. I re-entered the office; everything was as I'd left it. I took off the coat and hat, put the keys under some loose papers on the table, turned out the light and went home to my flat.
”'”Now I wish to tell the absolute, honest truth about Burchill and the will. When I heard of and saw the will, after Mr. Tertius produced it, I went to see Burchill at his flat. I had never seen him, never communicated with him in any way whatever since he had left my uncle's service until that afternoon. I had got his address from a letter which I found in a pocket-book of my uncle's, which I took possession of when the police and I searched his effects. I went to see Burchill about the will, of course.
When I said that a will had been found he fenced with me.
He would only reply ambiguously. Eventually he asked me, point-blank, if I would make it worth his while if he aided me in upsetting the will. I replied that if he could--which I doubted--I would. He told me to call at ten o'clock that night. I did so. He then told me what I had never suspected--that Mr. Tertius was, in reality, Arthur John Wynne, a convicted forger. He gave me his proofs, and I was fool enough to believe them. He then suggested that it would be the easiest thing in the world, considering Wynne's record, to prove that he had forged the will for his daughter's benefit. He offered to aid in this if I would sign doc.u.ments giving him ten per cent. of the total value of my uncle's estate, and I was foolish enough to consent, and to sign. I solemnly declare that the entire suggestion about upsetting the will came from Burchill, and that there was no conspiracy between us of any sort whatever previous to that night. Whatever may happen, I've told this court the absolute, definite truth!”'”
Professor c.o.x-Raythwaite folded up the newspaper, laid it on the little table, and brought his big hand down on his knee with an emphatic smack.
”Now, then!” he said. ”In my deliberate, coldly reasoned opinion, that statement is true! If they hang Barthorpe, they'll hang an innocent man.
But----”
CHAPTER XXVI
THE REMAND PRISON
Mr. Tertius broke the significant silence which followed. He shook his head sadly, and sighed deeply.
”Ah, those buts!” he said. ”As you remarked just now, c.o.x-Raythwaite, there is always a but. Now, this particular one--what is it?”
”Let me finish my sentence,” responded the Professor. ”I say, I do not believe Barthorpe to be guilty of murder, though guilty enough of a particularly mean, dirty, and sneaking conspiracy to defraud his cousin.
Yes, innocent of murder--but it will be a stiff job to prove his innocence. As things stand, he'll be hanged safe enough! You know what our juries are, Tertius--evidence such as that which has been put before the coroner and the magistrate will be quite sufficient to d.a.m.n him at the Old Bailey. Ample!”
”What do you suggest, then?” asked Mr. Tertius.
”Suggestion,” answered the Professor, ”is a difficult matter. But there are two things--perhaps more, but certainly two--on which I want light.
The first is--n.o.body has succeeded in unearthing the man who went to the House of Commons to see Jacob on the night of the murder. In spite of everything, advertis.e.m.e.nts and all the rest of it, he's never come forward. If you remember, Halfpenny had a theory that the letter and the object which Mountain saw Jacob hand to that man were a note to the Safe Deposit people and the key of the safe. Now we know that's not so, because no one ever brought any letter to the Safe Deposit people and n.o.body's ever opened the safe. Halfpenny, too, believed, during the period of the police officials' masterly silence, that that man had put himself in communication with them. Now we know that the police have never heard anything whatever of him, have never traced him. I'm convinced that if we could unearth that man we should learn something.
But how to do it, I don't know.”
”And the other point?” asked Selwood, after a pause during which everybody seemed to be ruminating deeply. ”You mentioned two.”
”The other point,” replied the Professor, ”is one on which I am going to make a practical suggestion. It's this--I believe that Barthorpe told the truth in that statement of his which I've just read to you, but I should like to know if he told all the truth--all! He may have omitted some slight thing, some infinitesimal circ.u.mstance----”
”Do you mean about himself or--what?” asked Selwood.
”I mean some very--or seemingly very--slight thing, during his two visits to the estate office that night, which, however slight it may seem, would form a clue to the real murderer,” answered the Professor.
”He may have seen something, noticed something, and forgotten it, or not attached great importance to it. And, in short,” he continued, with added emphasis, ”in short, my friends, Barthorpe must be visited, interviewed, questioned--not merely by his legal advisers, but by some friend, and the very person to do it”--here he turned and laid his great hand on Peggie's shoulder--”is--you, my dear!”
”I!” exclaimed Peggie.
”You, certainly! n.o.body better. He will tell you what he would tell no one else,” said the Professor. ”You're the person. Am I not right, Tertius?”