The Mystery of a Hansom Cab (18 page)

All the evidence given by the different witnesses agreed completely, and formed a chain which showed the whole of the prisoner's movements at the time of the committal of the murder, therefore, it was absolutely impossible that the murder could have been committed by the man in the dock. The strongest piece of evidence brought forward by the prosecution was that of the witness Hableton, who swore that the prisoner used threats against the life of the deceased. But the language used was merely the outcome of a passionate Irish nature, and was not sufficient to prove the crime to have been committed by the prisoner. The defence which the prisoner set up was that of an
alibi
,
and the evidence of the witnesses for the defence proved conclusively that the prisoner could not, and did not, commit the murder. Finally, Calton wound up his elaborate and exhaustive speech, which lasted for over two hours, by a brilliant peroration, calling upon the jury to base their verdict upon the plain facts of the case, and if they did so they could hardly fail in bringing in a verdict of ‘Not Guilty'.

When Calton sat down, a subdued murmur of applause was heard, which was instantly suppressed, and the judge began to sum up, which he did strongly in favour of Fitzgerald. The jury then retired, and
immediately there was a dead silence in the crowded court. An unnatural silence, such as must have fallen on the blood-loving Roman populace, when they saw the Christian martyrs kneeling on the hot yellow sands of the arena, and watched the long lithe forms of lion and panther creeping stealthily towards their prey. The hour being late, the gas had been lighted, and there was a sickly glare through the wide hall, which added to the singularity of the scene. Fitzgerald had been taken out of court on the retiring of the jury, but the spectators stared steadily at the empty dock, which seemed to enchain them by some indescribable fascination. They conversed among themselves only in whispers, until even the whispering ceased, and nothing could be heard but the steady ticking of the clock, and now and then, the quick drawn breath of some timid onlooker.

Suddenly a woman, whose nerves were overstrung, shrieked, and the cry rang weirdly through the crowded hall. She was taken out, and again there was silence—every eye being now fixed on the door through which the jury would re-issue with their verdict of life or death. The hands of the clock moved slowly round—a quarter—a half—threequarters—and then the hour sounded with a silvery ring which startled everyone. Madge, sitting with her hands tightly clasped together, began to fear that her highly strung nerves would give way.

‘My God!' she muttered softly to herself. ‘Will this suspense never end?'

Just then the door opened, and the jury re-entered. The prisoner was again placed in the dock, and the judge again resumed his seat, this time with the black cap in his pocket, as everyone guessed.

The usual formalities were gone through, and when the foreman of the jury stood up, every neck was craned forward, and every ear was on the alert to catch the words that fell from his lips. The prisoner flushed a little, and then grew pale as death, giving a quick nervous glance at the quiet figure in black of which he could just catch a glimpse. Then came the verdict, sharp and decisive—‘
not guilty
'.

On hearing this a cheer went up from everyone in the court, so strong was the sympathy with Brian.

In vain the Crier of the Court yelled, ‘Order!' until he was red in the face. In vain the judge threatened to commit all present for contempt of court— his voice being inaudible, it did not matter much—the enthusiasm could not be restrained, and it was five minutes before order was obtained. The judge, having recovered his composure, delivered his judgment, and discharged the prisoner, in accordance with the verdict. Calton had won many cases, but it is questionable if he had ever heard a verdict which gave him so much satisfaction as that which proclaimed Fitzgerald innocent.

And Brian, stepping down from the dock a free man, passed through a crowd of congratulating friends to a small room off the court, where a woman was waiting for him. A woman who clung round his neck, and sobbed out—

‘My darling! My darling! I knew that God would save you.'

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE
ARGUS
GIVES ITS OPINION

The morning after the trial was concluded, the following article in reference to the matter appeared in the
Argus
:
—

‘During the past three months we have frequently, in our columns, commented on the extraordinary case which is now so widely known as “The Hansom Cab Tragedy.” We can safely say that it is the most remarkable case which has ever come under the notice of our criminal court, and the verdict given by the jury yesterday has enveloped the matter in a still deeper mystery. By a train of strange coincidences, Mr Brian Fitzgerald, a young squatter, was suspected of having murdered Whyte, and had it not been for the timely
appearance of the woman Rawlins, who turned up at the eleventh hour, we feel sure that a verdict of guilty would have been given, and an innocent man would have suffered punishment for the crime of another.

‘Fortunately for the prisoner, and for the interests of justice, his counsel, Mr Calton, by unwearied diligence, was able to discover the last witness and prove an
alibi
.
Had it not been for this, in spite of the remarks made by the learned counsel in his brilliant speech yesterday, which resulted in the acquittal of the prisoner, we question very much if the rest of the evidence in favour of the accused would have been sufficient to persuade the jury that he was an innocent man. The only points in favour of Mr Fitzgerald were the inability of the cabman Royston to swear to him as the man who had got into the cab with Whyte, the wearing of a diamond ring on the forefinger of the right hand, whereas Mr Fitzgerald wears no rings, and the difference in time sworn to by the cabman Rankin and the landlady. Against these points, however, the prosecution placed a mass of evidence, which seemed to conclusively prove the guilt of the prisoner, but the appearance of Sal Rawlins in the witness box put an end to all doubt. In language which could not be mistaken for anything else than the truth, she positively swore that Mr Fitzgerald was in one of the slums off Bourke Street, between the hours of one and two on Friday morning, at which time the murder was committed.

‘Under these circumstances, the jury unanimously agreed in the verdict, “Not Guilty,” and the prisoner was forthwith acquitted. We have to congratulate his counsel, Mr Calton, for the able speech he made for the defence, and also Mr Fitzgerald, for his providential escape from a dishonourable and undeserved punishment. He leaves the court without a stain on his character, and with the respect and sympathy of all Australians for the courage and dignity with which he comported himself throughout, while resting under the shadow of such a serious charge.

‘But now that it has been conclusively proved that he is innocent, the question arises in everyone's mind, “Who is the murderer of Oliver Whyte?” The man who committed this dastardly crime is still at large, and, for all we know, may be in our midst. Emboldened by the impunity with which he has escaped the hands of justice, he may be walking securely down our streets, and talking of the very crime of which he is the perpetrator. Secure in the thought that all traces of him have been lost forever, from the time he alighted from Rankin's cab, at Powlett Street, he has likely ventured to remain in Melbourne, and, for all that anyone knows, may have been in the court during the late trial. Nay, this very article, for which his crime has furnished the necessity of its being written, may meet his eye, and he may rejoice at the futile efforts which have been made to find him. But let him beware, Justice is not blind, but
blindfolded, and when he least expects it, she will tear the bandage from her keen eyes, and drag him forth to the light of day to receive the reward of his deed. Owing to the strong evidence against Fitzgerald, that is the only direction in which the detectives have hitherto looked, but, baffled on one side, they will look on the other, and this time may be successful.

‘That such a man as the murderer of Oliver Whyte should be at large is a matter of danger, not only to individual citizens, but to the community at large; for it is a well-known fact that a tiger who once tastes human blood, never overcomes his craving for it; and, without doubt, the man who so daringly and coolly murdered a drunken, and therefore defenceless man, will not hesitate about committing a second crime.

‘The present feeling of all classes, in Melbourne, must be one of terror, that such a man should be at large, and must, in a great measure; resemble the fear which filled everyone's heart in London when the Marr murders were committed, and it was known that the murderer had escaped. Anyone who has read De Quincey's graphic description of the crime perpetrated by Williams must tremble to think that such another devil incarnate is in our midst. It is an imperative necessity that such a feeling should be done away with. But how is this to be managed? It is one thing to speak, and another to act. There seems to be no possible clue discoverable at present which can lead to the discovery of the real murderer. The man in the light coat who got
out of Rankin's cab at Powlett Street, East Melbourne (designedly, as it now appears, in order to throw suspicion on Fitzgerald) has vanished as completely as the witches in
Macbeth
,
and left no trace behind. It was two o'clock in the morning when he left the cab, and, in a quiet suburb like East Melbourne, no one would be about, so that he could easily escape unseen.

‘There seems to be only one chance of ever tracing him, and that is to be found in the papers which were stolen from the pocket of the dead man. What they were only two persons knew, and one knows now. The first two were, Whyte, and the woman who was called “The Queen,” and both of them are now dead. The other who knows now is the man who committed the crime. There can be no doubt in the minds of our readers that these papers were the motive of the crime, as no money was taken from the pockets of the deceased. The fact also that the papers were carried in a pocket made inside the waistcoat of the deceased shows that they were of value.

‘Now, the reason we think that the dead woman knew of the existence of these papers, is simply this. It appears that she came out from England with Whyte as his mistress, and after staying some time in Sydney came on to Melbourne. How she came into such a foul and squalid den as that she died in, we are unable to say, unless, seeing as she was given to drink, she was taken up drunk by some Samaritan of the slums, and carried to Mrs Rawlins' humble abode. Whyte visited her there
frequently, but appears to have made no attempt to remove her to a better place, alleging as his reason, that the doctor said she would die if taken into the air. Our reporter learned from one of the detectives, that the dead woman was in the habit of talking to Whyte about certain papers, and on one occasion was overheard to say to him, “They'll make your fortune if you play your cards well.” This was told to the detective by the woman Rawlins, to whose providential appearance Mr Fitzgerald owes his escape. From this it can be gathered, that the papers—whatever they might be—were of value, and sufficient to tempt another to commit a murder in order to obtain them. Whyte, therefore, being dead and his murderer escaped, the only way of discovering the secret which lies at the root of this tree of crime, is to find out the history of the woman who died in the slum. Traced back for some years, circumstances may be discovered which will reveal what these papers contained, and once that is found, we can confidently say that the murderer will soon be discovered.

‘This is the only chance of finding out the cause and the author of this mysterious murder, and if it fails, we fear the hansom cab tragedy will have to be relegated to the list of those undiscovered crimes, and the assassin of Whyte will have no other punishment, than the remorse of his own conscience.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THREE MONTHS AFTERWARDS

A hot December day, with a cloudless blue sky, and a sun blazing down on the earth, clothed in all the beauty of summer garments. Such a description of snowy December must sound strange to English ears, and a hot Christmas day must strike them as being as fantastic as the play in
A Midsummer Night
'
s Dream
did Demetrius, when he remarked of it, ‘This is hot ice, and wondrous cold fire.' But here in Australia is the realm of topsy-turveydom, and many things, like dreams, go by contraries. Here black swans are an established fact, and the proverb concerning them, when they were considered as mythical a bird as the Phoenix has been, rendered null and void by the
discoveries of Captain Cook. Out here ironwood sinks and pumice stone floats, which must strike the curious spectator as a queer freak on the part of Dame Nature. At home the Edinburgh mail bears the hardy traveller to a cold climate, with snowy mountains, and wintry blasts, but here the further north one goes the hotter it gets, till it terminates in Queensland, where the heat is so great that a profane traveller of an epigrammatic turn of mind once fittingly called it ‘An amateur hell.'

But, however contrary, as Mrs Gamp would say, nature may be in her dealings, the English race out in this great continent are much the same as in the old country—John Bull—Paddy—and Sandy—all being of a conservative turn of mind, and with strong opinions as to the keeping up of old customs. Therefore, on a hot Christmas day, with the sun one-hundred-odd in the shade, Australian revellers sit down to the roast beef and plum pudding of old England, which they eat contentedly as the orthodox thing, and on New Year's eve the festive Celt repairs to the doors of his ‘freends,' with a bottle of whisky and a cheering verse of ‘Auld Lang Syne'. However, it is these peculiar customs that give an individuality to a nation, and John Bull abroad loses none of his insular obstinacy, and keeps his Christmas in the old fashion, and wears his clothes in the new fashion, without regard to heat or cold.

A nation that never surrenders to the fire of an enemy cannot be expected to give in to the fire of the sun, but if some ingenious mortal would only invent
some light and airy costume, after the fashion of the Greek dress, and Australians would consent to adopt the same, life in Melbourne and her sister cities would be much cooler than it is at present.

Madge was thinking somewhat after this fashion as she sat on the wide verandah, in a state of exhaustion from the heat, and stared out at the wide plains lying parched and arid under the blazing sun. There was a dim kind of haze rising from the excessive heat, hanging midway between heaven and earth, and through its tremulous veil the distant hills looked aerial and unreal. Just before her was the garden, which made her hot to look at it, so vivid were the colours of the flowers. Great bushes of oleanders, with their bright pink blossoms, luxurious rose trees, with their yellow, red and white flowers, and all along the border a rainbow of many-coloured flowers, with such brilliant tints that the eye ached to see them in the hot sunshine, and turned restfully to the cool green of the trees which encircled the lawn. In the centre was a round pool, surrounded by a ring of white marble, and containing a still sheet of water, which flashed like a mirror in the blinding light.

The homestead of Yabba Yallook station was a long low house, with no upstairs, and with a wide verandah running nearly round it. Cool green blinds were hung between the pillars to keep out the sun, and all along were scattered lounging chairs of basket
work, with rugs, novels, empty soda-water bottles, and all the other evidences that Mr Frettlby's guests had been wise, and stayed inside during the noonday heat. Madge was seated in one of these comfortable chairs and divided her attention between the glowing beauty of the world outside, which she could see through a narrow slit in the blind, and a new novel from Mullen's, lying open on her knee.

This latter did not interest her much, and no wonder, being one of the polyglot productions of the present day, which contains quotations from the language of every nation under the sun, and where the characters speak in a barbarous jangle of English and French, with an occasional scrap of German thrown in. The powerful and flexible English tongue, which was sufficient for the brilliant thoughts of Macaulay and Addison, is much despised by many of our modern novelists, who express themselves in a foolish mixture of French and English, which is as irritating as it is pedantic. With one of these literary curiosities on her knee, it is not surprising that Miss Frettlby let
Tristan
,
A Romance
,
by Zoe
,
fall unheeded on the ground, and gave herself up to her own sad thoughts. She was not looking well, for the trial through which she had passed had been very great, and had left its impress of sorrow on her beautiful face. In her eyes, too, usually so calm, there was a troubled look, as, leaning her head upon her hands, she thought of the bitterness of the
past year.

After Brian's acquittal of the murder of Oliver Whyte, she had been taken by her father up to the station, in the hope that it would restore her to health. The mental strain which had been on her during the trial had nearly brought on an attack of brain fever, but, here, far from the excitement of town life, in the quiet seclusion of the country, she had recovered her health, but not her spirits. Women are more impressionable than men, and it is, perhaps, for this reason that they age quicker. A trouble which would pass lightly over a man, leaves an indelible mark on a woman, both physically and mentally, and the terrible episode of Whyte's murder had changed Madge from a bright and merry girl, into a grave and beautiful woman. Ah! sorrow is a potent enchantress, and once she touches the heart, life can never be the same again, for we never more surrender ourselves entirely to the pleasures of life, but find that many things which we have longed for, when obtained, are but dead-sea fruit. Sorrow is the veiled Isis of the world, and once we penetrate her mystery and see her deeply furrowed face and mournful eyes, the magic light of romance dies away from the world, and we see the hard, bitter facts of life in their harsh nakedness.

This was the way Madge felt, and she saw the world now, not as the fantastic fairyland of her girlish dreams, but as the sorrowful vale of tears through which we must all walk till we reach the ‘Promised
Land.' And Brian, he also had undergone a change, for there were a few white hairs now amid his curly, chestnut locks, and his character, from being gay and bright, had become moody and irritable. After the trial he had left town immediately, in order to avoid meeting with his friends, and had gone up to his station, which was next to that of the Frettlbys'. There he worked hard all day, and smoked hard all night, thinking over the cursed secret which the dead woman had told him, and which threatened to overshadow his life. Every now and then he rode over and saw Madge, but only when he knew her father was away in Melbourne, for he seemed to have taken a dislike to the millionaire, which Madge could not help condemning as unjust, remembering how her father had stood beside him in his trouble.

But there was another reason why Brian kept aloof from Yabba Yallook station, and that was, he did not wish to meet any of the gay society which was there, knowing that since his trial he was an object of curiosity and sympathy to everyone—a position which was very galling to his proud nature. At Christmas time Mr Frettlby had asked a lot of people up from Melbourne, and though Madge would rather have been left alone, yet, she could not refuse her father, and had to play hostess with a smiling brow and aching heart. Felix Rolleston, who, a month since, had joined the noble army of Benedicts was there, with Mrs Rolleston
née
Miss Featherweight, who ruled him with a rod
of iron. Having bought Felix with her money, she had determined to make good use of him, and being ambitious to shine in Melbourne society, had insisted upon Felix studying politics, so that when the next general election came round he could enter Parliament.

Felix had rebelled at first, but ultimately gave way, as he found that when he had a good novel concealed among his parliamentary paper, time passed quite pleasantly, and he got the reputation of a hard worker at little cost. They had brought up Julia with them, and this young person had made up her mind to become the second Mrs Frettlby. She had not received much encouragement, but, like the English at Waterloo, did not know when she was beaten, and carried on the siege of Mr Frettlby's heart in an undaunted manner. Dr Chinston had come up for a little relaxation, and never gave a thought to his anxious patients, or the many sick rooms he was in the habit of visiting. A young English fellow, called Peterson, who amused himself by travelling; an old colonist, full of reminiscences of the old days, when, ‘By Gad, sir, we hadn't a gas lamp in the whole of Melbourne;' and several other people, completed the party. They had all gone off to the billiard room and left Madge in her comfortable chair, half asleep.

Suddenly she started as she heard a step behind her, and, turning, saw Sal Rawlins in the neatest of black gowns, with a coquettish white cap and apron, and an
open book. The fact is, Madge had been so delighted with Sal for saving Brian's life that she had taken her into her service as maid. Mr Frettlby had offered strong opposition at first, that a fallen woman like Sal should be near his daughter, but Madge determined to rescue the unhappy girl from the life of sin she was leading, and so, at last, he reluctantly consented. Brian too, had objected, but ultimately yielded, as he saw that Madge had set her heart on it. Mother Guttersnipe objected at first, characterising the whole affair as ‘blarsted 'umbug,' but she, likewise, gave in, and Sal became maid to Miss Frettlby, who immediately set to work to remedy Sal's defective education by teaching her to read. The book she held in her hand was a spelling-book, and this she handed to Madge.

‘I think I knows it now, Miss,' she said, respectfully, as Madge looked up with a smile.

‘Do you, indeed,' said Madge, gaily; ‘you will be able to read in no time, Sal.'

‘Read this?' said Sal, touching
Tristan
,
A Romance
,
by Zoe
.

‘Hardly!' said Madge, picking it up with a look of contempt. ‘I want you to learn English, and not a confusion of tongues like this thing; but it's too hot to do lessons, Sal,' she went on, leaning back in her seat, ‘so get a chair and talk to me.'

Sal complied, and Madge looked out on to the brilliant flowerbeds, and at the black shadow of
the tall witch elm which grew on one side of the lawn. She wanted to ask a certain question of Sal, and did not know how to do it. The moodiness and irritability of Brian had troubled her very much of late, and, with the quick instinct of her sex, she ascribed it indirectly to the woman who had died in the back slum. Anxious to share his troubles and lighten his burden, she determined to ask Sal about this mysterious woman, and find out, if possible, what secret had been told to Brian, which affected him so deeply.

‘Sal,' she said, after a short pause, turning her clear, grey eyes on the woman, ‘I want to ask you something.'

The other shivered and turned pale.

‘About—about that?'

Madge nodded.

Sal hesitated for a moment, and then flung herself at the feet of her mistress.

‘I will tell you,' she cried. ‘You have been kind to me, an' have a right to know; I will tell you all I know.'

‘Then,' asked Madge, firmly, as she clasped her hands tightly together, ‘who was this woman whom Mr Fitzgerald went to see, and where did she come from?'

‘Gran' an' me found her one evenin' in Little Bourke Street,' answered Sal, ‘just near the theatre. She was quite drunk, an' we took her home with us.'

‘How kind of you,' said Madge.

‘Oh, it wasn't that,' replied the other, dryly, ‘gran' wanted her clothes; she was awful swell dressed.'

‘And she took the clothes—how wicked!'

‘Anyone would have done it down our way,' answered Sal, indifferently; ‘but gran' changed her mind when she got her home. I went out to get some gin for gran', and when I came back she was huggin' an' kissin' the woman.'

‘She recognised her.'

‘Yes, I s'pose so,' replied Sal, ‘an' next mornin' when the lady got square she made a grab at gran', an' hollered out, “I was comin' to see you.”'

‘And then?'

‘Gran' chucked me out of the room, an' they had a long jaw; and then when I come back, gran' tells me the lady is a-goin' to stay with us 'cause she was ill, and sent me for Mr Whyte.'

‘And he came?'

‘Oh, yes—often,' said Sal. ‘He kicked up a row when he first turned up; but when he found she was ill, sent a doctor; but it warn't no good. She was two weeks with us, and then died the mornin' she saw Mr Fitzgerald.'

‘I suppose Mr Whyte was in the habit of talking to this woman?'

‘Lots,' returned Sal; ‘but he always turned gran' an' I out of the room afore he started.'

‘And'—hesitating—‘did you ever overhear one of these conversations?'

‘Yes—one,' answered the other with a nod. ‘I got riled at the way he cleared us out of our own room; and once, when he shut the door and gran' went off to get some gin, I sat down at the door and listened. He wanted her to give up some papers, an' she wouldn't. She said she'd die first; but at last he got 'em, and took 'em away with him.'

‘Did you see them?' asked Madge, as the assertion of Gorby that Whyte had been murdered for certain papers flashed across her mind.

‘Rather,' said Sal, ‘I was lookin' through a hole in the door, an' she takes 'em from under her piller an' 'e takes 'em to the table, where the candle was, an' looks at 'em—they were in a large blue envelope with writing on it in red ink—then he put 'em in his pocket, and she sings out: “You'll lose 'em,” an' 'e says: “No, I'll always 'ave 'em with me, an' if 'e wants 'em 'e'll have to kill me fust afore 'e gits 'em.”'