CHAPTER X
There was matter and to spare for the papers the next day. The striking ceremony—Mr. Gladstone’s speech—the sensational arrest—these would of themselves have made excellent themes for reports and leaders. But the personality of the man arrested, and the Big Bow Mystery Battle—as it came to be called—gave additional piquancy to the paragraphs and the posters. The behavior of Mortlake put the last touch to the picturesqueness of the position. He left the hall when the lights went out, and walked unnoticed and unmolested through pleiads of policemen to the nearest police station, where the superintendent was almost too excited to take any notice of his demand to be arrested. But to do him justice, the official yielded as soon as he understood the situation. It seems inconceivable that he did not violate some red-tape regulation in so doing. To some this self-surrender was limpid proof of innocence; to others it was the damning token of despairing guilt.
The morning papers were pleasant reading for Grodman, who chuckled as continuously over his morning egg, as if he had laid it. Jane was alarmed for the sanity of her saturnine master. As her husband would have said, Grodman’s grins were not Beautiful. But he made no effort to suppress them. Not only had Wimp perpetrated a grotesque blunder, but the journalists to a man were down on his great sensation tableau, though their denunciations did not appear in the dramatic columns. The Liberal papers said that he had endangered Mr. Gladstone’s life; the Conservative that he had unloosed the raging elements of Bow blackguardism, and set in motion forces which might have easily swelled to a riot, involving severe destruction of property. But “Tom Mortlake,” was, after all, the thought swamping every other. It was, in a sense, a triumph for the man.
But Wimp’s turn came when Mortlake, who reserved his defense, was brought up before a magistrate, and, by force of the new evidence, fully committed for trial on the charge of murdering Arthur Constant. Then men’s thoughts centered again on the Mystery, and the solution of the inexplicable problem agitated mankind from China to Peru.
In the middle of February, the great trial befell. It was another of the opportunities which the Chancellor of the Exchequer neglects. So stirring a drama might have easily cleared its expenses—despite the length of the cast, the salaries of the stars, and the rent of the house—in mere advance booking. For it was a drama which (by the rights of Magna Charta) could never be repeated; a drama which ladies of fashion would have given their earrings to witness, even with the central figure not a woman. And there was a woman in it anyhow, to judge by the little that had transpired at the magisterial examination, and the fact that the country was placarded with bills offering a reward for information concerning a Miss Jessie Dymond. Mortlake was defended by Sir Charles Brown-Harland, Q. C., retained at the expense of the Mortlake Defense Fund (subscriptions to which came also from Australia and the Continent), and set on his mettle by the fact that he was the accepted labor candidate for an East-end constituency. Their Majesties, Victoria and the Law, were represented by Mr. Robert Spigot, Q. C.
Mr. Spigot, Q. C., in presenting his case, said: “I propose to show that the prisoner murdered his friend and fellow-lodger, Mr. Arthur Constant, in cold blood, and with the most careful premeditation; premeditation so studied, as to leave the circumstances of the death an impenetrable mystery for weeks to all the world, though fortunately without altogether baffling the almost superhuman ingenuity of Mr. Edward Wimp, of the Scotland Yard Detective Department. I propose to show that the motives of the prisoner were jealousy and revenge; jealousy not only of his friend’s superior influence over the workingmen he himself aspired to lead, but the more commonplace animosity engendered by the disturbing element of a woman having relations to both. If, before my case is complete, it will be my painful duty to show that the murdered man was not the saint the world has agreed to paint him, I shall not shrink from unveiling the truer picture, in the interests of justice, which cannot say nil nisi bonum even of the dead. I propose to show that the murder was committed by the prisoner shortly before half-past six on the morning of December 4th, and that the prisoner having, with the remarkable ingenuity which he has shown throughout, attempted to prepare an alibi by feigning to leave London by the first train to Liverpool, returned home, got in with his latch-key through the street-door, which he had left on the latch, unlocked his victim’s bedroom with a key which he possessed, cut the sleeping man’s throat, pocketed his razor, locked the door again, and gave it the appearance of being bolted, went downstairs, unslipped the bolt of the big lock, closed the door behind him, and got to Euston in time for the second train to Liverpool. The fog helped his proceedings throughout.” Such was in sum the theory of the prosecution. The pale defiant figure in the dock winced perceptibly under parts of it.
Mrs. Drabdump was the first witness called for the prosecution. She was quite used to legal inquisitiveness by this time, but did not appear in good spirits.
“On the night of December 3d, you gave the prisoner a letter?”
“Yes, your ludship.”
“How did he behave when he read it?”
“He turned very pale and excited. He went up to the poor gentleman’s room, and I’m afraid he quarreled with him. He might have left his last hours peaceful.” (Amusement.)
“What happened then?”
“Mr. Mortlake went out in a passion, and came in again in about an hour.”
“He told you he was going away to Liverpool very early the next morning.”
“No, your ludship, he said he was going to Devonport.” (Sensation.)
“What time did you get up the next morning?”
“Half-past six.”
“That is not your usual time?”
“No, I always get up at six.”
“How do you account for the extra sleepiness?”
“Misfortunes will happen.”
“It wasn’t the dull, foggy weather?”
“No, my lud, else I should never get up early.” (Laughter.)
“You drink something before going to bed?”
“I like my cup o’ tea. I take it strong, without sugar. It always steadies my nerves.”
“Quite so. Where were you when the prisoner told you he was going to Devonport?”
“Drinkin’ my tea in the kitchen.”
“What should you say if prisoner dropped something in it to make you sleep late?”
Witness (startled): “He ought to be shot.”
“He might have done it without your noticing it, I suppose?”
“If he was clever enough to murder the poor gentleman, he was clever enough to try and poison me.”
The Judge: “The witness in her replies must confine herself to the evidence.”
Mr. Spigot, Q. C.: “I must submit to your lordship that it is a very logical answer, and exactly illustrates the interdependence of the probabilities. Now, Mrs. Drabdump, let us know what happened when you awoke at half-past six the next morning.”
Thereupon Mrs. Drabdump recapitulated the evidence (with new redundancies, but slight variations) given by her at the inquest. How she became alarmed—how she found the street-door locked by the big lock—how she roused Grodman, and got him to burst open the door—how they found the body—all this with which the public was already familiarad nauseam was extorted from her afresh.
“Look at this key” (key passed to the witness). “Do you recognize it?”
“Yes; how did you get it? It’s the key of my first-floor front. I am sure I left it sticking in the door.”
“Did you know a Miss Dymond?”
“Yes, Mr. Mortlake’s sweetheart. But I knew he would never marry her, poor thing.” (Sensation.)
“Why not?”
“He