The Mystery of a Hansom Cab (10 page)

And what did he say?'

‘Laughed at me. Curse him.'

‘You had high words evidently?'

Brian laughed bitterly.

‘Yes, we had.'

‘Did anyone hear you?'

‘The landlady did, I think. I saw her in the passage as I left the house.'

‘The prosecution will bring her forward as a witness.'

‘Very likely,' indifferently.

‘Did you say anything likely to criminate yourself?'

Fitzgerald turned away his head.

‘Yes,' he answered in a low voice. ‘I spoke very wildly—indeed, I did not know at the time what I said.'

‘Did you threaten him?'

‘Yes, I did. I told him I would kill him if he persisted in his plan of marrying Madge.'

‘Ah! If the landlady can swear that she heard you say so it will form a strong piece of evidence against you. As far as I can see, there is only one defence, and that is an easy one—you must prove an
alibi
.'

No answer.

‘You say you did not come back and get into the cab?' said Calton, watching the face of the other closely.

‘No, it was someone else dressed like me.'

‘And you have no idea who it was?'

‘No, I have not.'

‘Then, after you left Whyte, and walked along Russell Street, where did you go?'

‘I can't tell you.'

‘Were you intoxicated?'

‘No!' indignantly.

‘Then you remember?'

‘Yes.'

‘And where were you?'

‘I can't tell you.'

‘You refuse?'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘Take time to consider. You may have to pay a heavy price for your refusal.'

‘If necessary I will pay it.'

‘And you won't tell me where you were?'

‘No, I won't.'

Calton was beginning to feel annoyed.

‘You're very foolish,' he said, ‘sacrificing your life to some feeling of false modesty. You must prove an
alibi
.'

No answer.

‘What time did you get home?'

‘About two o'clock in the morning.'

‘Did you walk home?'

‘Yes—through the Fitzroy Gardens.'

‘Did you see anyone on your way home?'

‘I don't know. I wasn't paying attention.'

‘Did anyone see you?'

‘Not that I know of.'

‘Then you refuse to tell me where you were between one and two o'clock on Friday morning?'

‘Absolutely!'

Calton thought for a moment, to consider his next move.

‘Do you know that Whyte carried valuable papers about with him?'

Fitzgerald hesitated, and turned pale.

‘No! I did not know,' he said, reluctantly.

The lawyer made a masterstroke.

‘Then why did you take them from him?'

‘What! He had it with him?'

Calton saw his advantage, and seized on it at once.

‘Yes, he had it with him. Why did you take it?'

‘I did not take it. I didn't even know he had it with him.'

‘Indeed! Will you kindly tell me what “it” is?'

Brian saw the trap into which he had fallen.

‘No! I will not,' he answered steadily.

‘Was it a jewel?'

‘No!'

‘Was it an important paper?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Ah! It was a paper. I can see it in your face, and was that paper of importance to you?'

‘Why do you ask?'

Calton fixed his keen grey eyes steadily on Brian's face.

‘Because,' he answered slowly, ‘the man to whom that paper was of such value murdered Whyte.'

Brian started up ghastly pale.

‘My God!' he almost shrieked, stretching out his hands, ‘it is true after all,' and he fell down on the stone pavement in a dead faint.

Calton, alarmed, summoned the gaoler, and, between them, they placed him on the bed, and dashed some cold water over his face. He recovered, and moaned feebly, while Calton, seeing that he was unfit to be spoken to, left the prison. When he got outside,
he stopped for a moment and look back on the grim, grey walls.

‘Brian Fitzgerald,' he said to himself, ‘you did not commit the murder yourself, but you know who did.'

CHAPTER TWELVE

SHE WAS A TRUE WOMAN

Melbourne society was greatly agitated over the hansom cab murder. Before the assassin had been discovered it had been merely looked upon as a common murder, and one that society need take no cognisance of beyond the fact that it was something new to talk about. But now the affair was assuming gigantic proportions, since the assassin had been discovered to be one of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne.

Mrs Grundy was shocked, and openly talked about having nourished a viper in her bosom, which had turned unexpectedly and stung her. In Toorak drawing-rooms and Melbourne clubs the matter was talked about, morn, noon, and night, and Mrs Grundy
declared positively that she never heard of such a thing. Here was a young man, well born—‘the Fitzgeralds, my dear, an Irish family, with royal blood in their veins'—well-bred—‘most charming manners, I assure you, and so very good-looking'—and engaged to one of the richest girls in Melbourne—‘pretty enough, madam, no doubt, but he wanted her money, sly dog.' And this young man, who had been petted by the ladies, voted a good fellow by the men, and was universally popular, both in drawing-room and club, had committed a vulgar murder—it was truly shocking—what was the world coming to, and what were gaols and lunatic asylums built for, if men of young Fitzgerald's calibre were not put in them, and kept from killing people.

And then, of course, everybody kept asking everybody else who Whyte was, and why he had never been heard of before. All people who had met Mr Whyte were worried to death with questions about him, and underwent a species of social martyrdom as to who he was, what he was like, why he was killed, and all the rest of the inane questions which some people will ask. It was talked about everywhere—in fashionable drawing-rooms at five o'clock tea, over thin bread and butter and souchong; at clubs, over brandies and sodas and cigarettes; by working men over their midday pint, and by their wives in the congenial atmosphere of the backyard over the wash tub.

The papers were full of paragraphs about the famous murder, and the society papers gave an interview with the prisoner by their special reporters, and which had been composed by those gentlemen out of the floating rumours which they heard around, and their own fertile imagination. In fact, one young man of literary tendencies had been so struck by the dramatic capabilities of the affair that he thought of writing a five-act drama on it—with a sensation scene of the hanging of Fitzgerald—and of offering it to Williamson, for production at the Theatre Royal. But that astute manager refused to entertain the idea, with the dry remark that as the fifth act had not been played out in real life, he did not see how the dramatist could end it satisfactorily.

As to the prisoner's guilt, everyone was certain of that. The cabman Royston had sworn that Fitzgerald had got into the cab with Whyte, and when he got out Whyte was dead. There could be no stronger proof than that, and the general opinion was that the prisoner would put in no defence, but would throw himself on the mercy of the court. Even the church caught the contagion, and ministers—Anglican, Roman Catholic and Presbyterian, together with the lesser lights of minor denominations—took the hansom cab murder as a text whereon to preach sermons on the profligacy of the age, and to point out that the only ark which could save men from the rising flood of infidelity and immorality was their own particular church. ‘Gad,' as
Calton remarked, after hearing five or six ministers each claim their own churches as the one special vessel of safety, ‘there seems to be a whole fleet of arks.'

As to Mr Felix Rolleston it was a time of great joy to him, knowing as he did all the circumstances of the case, and the
dramatis personae
.
When any new evidence came to light, Rolleston was the first to know all about it, and would go round to his friends and relate it with certain additions of his own, which rendered it more piquant and dramatic. But when asked his opinion as to the guilt of the accused he would shake his head sagaciously, and hint that both he and his dear friend Calton—he knew Calton to nod to—could not make up their minds about the matter.

‘Fact is, don't you know,' observed Mr Rolleston, wisely, ‘there's more in this than meets the eye, and all that sort of thing—think 'tective fellers wrong myself—don't think Fitz killed Whyte; jolly well sure he didn't.'

Then, of course, after such an observation, a chorus, chiefly feminine, would arise, ‘Then who killed him?'

‘Aha,' Felix would retort, putting his head on one side like a meditative sparrow, ‘'tective fellers can't find out, that's the difficulty. Good mind to go on the prowl myself, by Jove.'

‘But do you know anything of the detective business?' someone would ask.

‘Oh, dear, yes,' with an airy wave of his hand, ‘I've
read Gaboriau, you know, awfully jolly life, 'tectives.'

Mr Rolleston, however, in spite of his asseverations, had no grounds for his belief that Fitzgerald was innocent, and in his heart of hearts thought him guilty, but then he was one of those people who, having either tender hearts or obstinate natures—more particularly the latter—always make a point of coming forward as champions of those in trouble with the world at large. There are no doubt many people who think that Nero was a pleasant young man, whose cruelties were merely an overflow of high spirits, and who regard Henry VIII as a henpecked husband, who was unfortunate in having six wives. It is these kind of people who delight in sympathising with great criminals of the Ned Kelly sort, and look upon them as embodiments of heroism, badly treated by the narrow understanding of the law. There is a proverb to the effect that the world kicks a man when he is down, but if one half of the world does act in such a brutal manner, the other consoles the prostrate individual with halfpence. So taking things as a whole, though the weight of public opinion was dead against the innocence of Fitzgerald, still he had his friends and sympathisers, who stood up for him and declared that he had been wrongly accused.

The opinions of these kindly individuals were told to Madge, and she was much comforted thereby. Other people thought him innocent, and she was firmly convinced that they were right. If the whole of
Melbourne had unanimously condemned Brian, she would have still believed in his innocence. But then women are so singularly illogical—the world may be against a man, but the woman who loves him will boldly stand forth as his champion. No matter how low, how vile a man may be, if a woman loves him she exalts him to the rank of a demigod, and refuses to see the clay feet of her idol. When all others forsake, she clings to him—when all others frown, she smiles on him—and when he dies she reverences his memory as that of a saint and a martyr. Young men of the present day are very fond of running down women, and think it a manly thing to sneer at them for their failings—but God help the man who, in time of trouble, has not a woman to stand by his side with cheering words and loving smiles to help him in the battle of life.

And so Madge Frettlby, true woman as she was, had nailed her colours to the mast, and refused to surrender to anyone, whatever arguments they brought against her. He was innocent, and his innocence would be proved, for she had an intuitive feeling that he would be saved at the eleventh hour—how, she knew not, but she was certain that it would be so. She would have gone and seen Brian in prison, but that her father absolutely forbade her doing so, and she was dependent upon Calton for all news respecting him, and any message which she wished conveyed.

Calton was very much annoyed at Brian's persistent refusal to set up the defence of an
alibi
,
and as he felt
sure that the young man could do so, he was anxious to find out the reason why he would not do so.

‘If it's for the sake of a woman,' he said, to Brian, ‘I don't care who she is—it's absurdly Quixotic—self preservation is the first law of nature, and, if my neck was in danger, I'd spare neither man, woman, nor child to save it.'

‘I dare say,' answered Brian, ‘but, if you had my reasons you might think differently.'

In his own mind, the lawyer had a theory which sufficiently accounted for Brian's refusal to answer for his doings on that night. Fitzgerald had admitted that he had an appointment on that night, and that it was with a woman. He was a handsome fellow, and probably his morals were no better than those of other young men, so Calton thought that Brian had some intrigue with a married woman, and had been with her on the night in question, hence his refusal to speak. If he did so, her name would be brought into the matter, the outraged husband whosoever he might be would interpose, and the whole affair would probably end in the divorce court.

‘It's better for him to lose his character than his life,' argued Calton, ‘and that woman ought to speak—it would be hard on her I admit, but when a man's neck is in danger she ought to risk anything rather than see him hanged.'

Full of these perplexing thoughts, Calton went down to St Kilda to have a talk with Madge over the
matter, and also to see if she would help him to obtain the information he wanted. He had a great respect for Madge, knowing what a clever woman she was, and thought that, seeing Brian was so deeply in love with her, if she saw him about the matter he might be induced to confess everything.

The lawyer found Madge waiting anxiously to see him, and when he entered she sprang forward with a cry of delight.

‘Oh, where have you been all this time?' she said anxiously, as they sat down, ‘I have been counting every moment since I saw you last—how is he—my poor darling?'

‘Just the same,' answered Calton, taking off his gloves, ‘still obstinately refusing to save his own life—where's your father?' he asked suddenly.

‘Out of town,' she answered impatiently, ‘he will not be back for a week—but what do you mean that he won't save his own life?'

Calton leaned forward, and took her hand.

‘Do you want to save his life?' he asked.

‘Save his life,' she reiterated, starting up out of her chair, with a cry, ‘God knows, I would die to save him.'

‘Pish,' murmured Calton to himself as he looked at her glowing face and outstretched hands, ‘these women are always in extremes.' ‘The fact is,' he said aloud, ‘Fitzgerald is able to prove an
alibi
,
and he refuses to do so.'

‘But why?'

Calton shrugged his shoulders.

‘That is best known to himself—some Quixotic idea of honour, I fancy—now he refuses to tell me where he was on that night, perhaps he won't refuse to tell you—so you must come up and see him with me, and perhaps he will recover his senses, and confess.'

‘But, my father,' she faltered.

‘Did you not say he was out of town?' asked Calton.

‘Yes,' hesitated Madge, ‘but he told me not to go.'

‘In that case,' said Calton, rising and taking up his hat and gloves, ‘I won't ask you.'

She laid her hand on his arm.

‘Stop! will it do any good?'

Calton hesitated a moment, for he thought that if the reason of Brian's silence was as he surmised an intrigue with a married woman he would certainly not tell the girl he was engaged to about it—but on the other hand there might be some other reason, and Calton trusted to Madge to find it out. With these thoughts in his mind he turned round.

‘Yes,' he answered, boldly, ‘it may save his life.'

‘Then I will go,' she answered recklessly, ‘he is more to me than my father, and if I can save him, I will—wait,' and she ran out of the room.

‘An uncommonly plucky girl,' murmured the lawyer as he looked out of the window. ‘If Fitzgerald is not a fool he will certainly tell her all—that is,
of course, if he is able to—queer things these women are—I quite agree with Balzac's saying that no wonder men couldn't understand woman, seeing that God who created her failed to do so.'

Madge came back dressed to go out, with a heavy veil over her face.

‘Shall I order the carriage?' she asked, pulling on her gloves with trembling fingers.

‘Hardly,' answered Calton dryly, ‘unless you want to see a paragraph in the society papers to the effect that Miss Madge Frettlby visited Mr Fitzgerald in gaol—no—no—we'll get a cab—come my dear,' and taking her arm he led her away.

They reached the station, and caught a train just as it started, yet notwithstanding this Madge was in a fever of impatience.

‘How slow it goes,' she said, fretfully.

‘Hush, my dear,' said Calton, laying his hand on her arm, ‘You will betray yourself—we'll arrive soon—and save him.'

‘Oh, God grant we may,' she said with a low cry clasping her hands tightly together, while Calton could see the tears falling from under her thick veil.

‘This is not the way to do so,' he said, almost roughly, ‘you will go into hysterics soon—control yourself, for his sake.'

‘For his sake,' she muttered, and with a powerful effort of will calmed herself. They soon arrived in
Melbourne and getting a hansom drove up quickly to the gaol. After going through the usual formula they entered the cell where Brian was, and when the warder who accompanied them opened the door, found the young man seated on his bed, with his face buried in his hands. He looked up, and on seeing Madge, rose and held out his arms, with a cry of delight—she ran forward and threw herself on his breast with a stifled sob. For a short time no one spoke—Calton being at the other end of the cell, busy with some notes which he had taken from his pocket, and the warder having retired.

‘My poor darling,' said Madge, stroking back the soft fair hair from his flushed forehead, ‘how ill you look.'

‘Yes,' answered Fitzgerald, with a hard laugh, ‘prison does not improve a man, does it?'

‘Don't speak in that tone, Brian,' she said, ‘it is not like you—let us sit down and talk calmly over the matter.'