Monsieur Judas: A Paradox. Fergus Hume

bag—there is no name on his linen—no letters, no cards in his pockets—not even initials, gentlemen, to prevent his clothes being stolen at the wash. He never mentioned his name, Mr. Carr. I was going to ask him next morning, but he was dead, and therefore, gentlemen, not in a position to speak. As far as I am concerned, Mr. Carr, the dead one has never been christened. The mystery—meaning the dead one—has no name that I ever heard of, and was spoken of by me and my daughter (who may know more than her father) as the gentleman in No. 37. I only spoke to the dead one twice, Mr. Carr and gentlemen; once when I arranged about terms—thirty shillings a week, gentlemen, not including wine—and again when I asked him if he had enjoyed his dinner—soup, fish, fowl, and pudding. Gentlemen, he had enjoyed his dinner."

      A Juryman (hungry-looking, evidently thinking of the dinner).—"Was he cheerful, Mr. Chickles?"

      Witness.—"Jocund, sir, if I may use the term. Merry as a lark."

      Facetious juryman suggests wine.

      Witness (with mournful dignity).—"No, sir! Pardon me, Mr. Specks, he had no wine while he was in this house. His explanation was a simple one, gentlemen—wine did not agree with his pills—tonic pills, Mr. Carr—one to be taken before bedtime every night."

      Coroner (with the air of having found something).—"Pills, eh? Did he look ill?"

      Witness.—"Not exactly ill, Mr. Carr; not exactly well, gentlemen. Betwixt and between. Weak, sir. His legs shook, his hands trembled, and when a door banged he jumped, gentlemen—jumped!"

      A Juryman.—"Then I presume he was taking tonic pills for his constitution?"

      Witness.—"Well, yes, Mr. Polder, yes, sir. There is the box of pills—tonic pills, as he—meaning the dead one—told me. Found in his room, gentlemen—on the chest of drawers—after his death."

      Inspection of pills by jury. Great curiosity evinced when pills (eight in number) appeared to be like any other pills. The London detective, however, secured the pill-box after inspection, and sat with it in his hand thinking deeply.

      Mr. Chickles, having given all his evidence, retired, with the full consciousness that he had given it in a masterly fashion; and his daughter, Miss Molly Chickles, plump, pretty, and a trifle coquettish, was duly sworn. At first she was rather bashful, but having found her tongue—a task of little difficulty for this rustic daughter of Eve—told all she knew with many sidelong glances and confused blushes—feminine arts not quite thrown away on the jury, although they were to a man married and done for.

      Said Molly, in answer to the Coroner:

      "My name is Mary Chickles. Father calls me Molly. I am the daughter of Sampson Chickles, and barmaid here. I knew the deceased, but he did not tell me his name. He arrived here two days ago—on Tuesday, at five, by the coach. He came into the bar, and asked me if he could put up here for a week. I told him he could, and called father, who arranged about the terms. He then went up to his bedroom and came down to dinner at six. After dinner he went into the parlour, and I think wrote a letter. After doing so he asked me where the post office was. I sent him with Boots, and heard afterwards that he posted his letter. On his return he sat down in the bar for a few minutes. There was no one there at the time. He seemed to me to be very weak, and told me his nerves were shattered. I asked him if he had consulted a doctor. He replied that he had done so, and was taking tonic pills every night before he went to bed. I said that I hoped he took them regular, as it was no use unless he did so. He assured me that he always took one pill every night without fail. He mentioned that he was going to stay for a time in Jarlchester, and hoped the quiet would do him good."

      Coroner.—"Did he say he was down here for his health?"

      Witness.—"Not exactly, sir; but he talked a good deal about his nerves, and such like. He said he was going to stay a week or so, and expected a friend to join him shortly."

      Coroner.—"Oh! a friend, eh! Man or woman?"

      Witness.—"He did not say, sir."

      A Juryman.—"When did he expect this friend?"

      Witness.—"He said in a few days, but did not mention any special time. After a short conversation he went to bed at nine o'clock, and next morning father told me he was dead."

      Coroner.—"Did he appear gloomy or low-spirited?"

      Witness.—"Oh, dear no, sir. A very pleasant-spoken gentleman. He said his nerves were bad, but I was quite astonished at his cheerfulness."

      Coroner.—"Did he say anything about the next day?"

      Witness.—"Yes, sir. He asked if there was anything to be seen in Jarlchester, and when I told him about the church, he said he would look it up next day."

      A Juryman.—"Do you think he had any intention of destroying himself?"

      Witness.—"Not so far as I saw, sir."

      Coroner.—"He did not mention anything about the letter?"

      Witness.—"Not a word, sir."

      A Juryman (facetiously).—"Did you think him good-looking, Miss Molly?"

      Witness (tossing her head).—"Well, not what I call handsome, sir; but there's no knowing what other girls think."

      With this parting shot, Miss Chickles retired to her usual place in the bar, and gossiped to outsiders about the present aspect of the case, while Sergeant Spills, the head of the Jarlchester police force, came forward to give his evidence. A crisp, dry-looking man, the Sergeant, with a crisp, dry manner, and a sharp ring in the tones of his voice; economical in his words, decisive in his speech.

      "Charles Spills, sir, sergeant of the police in Jarlchester. Jim Bulkins reported death of deceased. Came here, saw body lying in bed. Clothes drawn up to chin. In my opinion, deceased died in his sleep. Examined bag of deceased. Contained linen (not marked), suit of clothes (not marked), toilet utensils of the usual kind. Drawing block and some lead pencils (much used)."

      Coroner (prompted by London detective).—"Were there any drawings?"

      Witness.—"No, sir."

      Coroner.—"No sketches or faces on the block?"

      Witness.—"No, sir! Clothes worn by deceased—dark blue serge suit, double-breasted."

      Coroner.—"Any name on the clothes?"

      Witness.—"No, sir! Tag used to hang up coat, on which tailor's name generally placed, torn off. Searched pockets; found penknife, loose silver (twelve shillings and sixpence), and box of pills laid before the jury. Silver watch on dressing-table—silver chain attached—silver sovereign purse containing six sovereigns. Nothing else."

      Coroner.—"Nothing likely to lead to the name of deceased?"

      Witness.—"Absolutely nothing, sir. Searched, but found no name. Inquired—discovered no name. Case puzzled me, so wired to London for detective—Mr. Fanks—now sitting on your left."

      Sergeant Spills having thus discharged his duty, saluted in a wooden fashion, and substituting Joe Staggers, coachman, for himself, took up a rigid attitude beside him, like a toy figure in a Noah's ark.

      Evidence of Joe Staggers. Horsey gentleman, large, red, and fat; smothered voice, suggestive of drink; a god on the box-seat behind four horses, but a mere mortal given to drink when on the ground.

      "Joseph Staggers, sur. 'Ees, sur! Druv the coaach fro Winchester t' Jarlchest'r these ten year an' more. Two days ago—it were Toosd'y, cos t' bay 'oss cast a shoe—I were waitin' at station, an' gen'man—the corpus—come up t' me, an' ses 'e, 'Jarlchest'r?' inquiring like. ''Ees, sur,' ses I, an' up 'e gits an' off we goes. 'E sat aside me an' talked of plaace. 'Ees, sur. Ses 'e: 'This are foine arter Lunnon."

      Coroner.—"Oh,