The Mystery of a Hansom Cab Page 16

  CALTON: Is the prisoner the same gentleman you drove to Powlett Street?

  WITNESS (confidently): Oh, yes.

  CALTON: How do you know? Did you see his face?

  WITNESS: No, his hat was pulled down over his eyes, and I could only see the ends of his moustache and his chin, but he carried himself the same as the prisoner, and his moustache is the same light colour.

  CALTON: When you drove up to him on the St Kilda Road, where was he, and what was he doing?

  WITNESS: He was near the grammar school, walking quickly in the direction of Melbourne, and was smoking a cigarette.

  CALTON: Had he gloves on?

  WITNESS: Yes, one on the left hand, the other was bare.

  CALTON: Did he wear any rings on the right hand?

  WITNESS: Yes, a large diamond one on the forefinger.

  CALTON: Are you sure?

  WITNESS: Yes, because I thought it a curious place for a gentleman to wear a ring, and when he was paying me my fare, I saw the diamond glitter on his finger in the moonlight.

  CALTON: That will do.

  The counsel for the defence was pleased with this bit of evidence, as Fitzgerald detested rings and never wore any; so he made a note of the matter on his brief.

  Mrs Hableton, the landlady of the deceased, was then called, and deposed that Oliver Whyte had lived with her for nearly two months. He seemed a quiet enough young man, but often came home drunk. The only friend she knew he had, was a Mr Moreland, who was often with him. On the 14th July, the prisoner called to see Mr Whyte, and they had a quarrel. She heard Whyte say, ‘She is mine, you can’t do anything with her,’ and the prisoner answered, ‘I can kill you, and if you marry her I will do so in the open street.’ She had no idea at the time, of the name of the lady they were talking about.

  There was a great sensation in the court at these words, and half the people present looked upon such evidence, as being sufficient in itself to prove the guilt of the prisoner.

  In cross-examination, Calton was unable to shake the evidence of the witness, as she merely reiterated the same statements over and over again.

  The next witness was Mrs Sampson, who crackled into the witness box dissolved in tears, and gave her answers in a piercingly shrill tone of anguish. She stated that the prisoner was in the habit of coming home early, but on the night of the murder, had come in shortly before two o’clock.

  CROWN PROSECUTOR(referring to his brief): You mean after two.

  WITNESS: ’Avin’ made a mistake once, by saying five minutes after two to the policeman as called hisself a insurance agent, which ’e put the words into my mouth, I ain’t a-goin’ to do so again, it bein’ five minutes afore two, as I can swear to.

  CROWN PROSECUTOR: You are sure your clock was right?

  WITNESS: It ’adn’t bin, but my nevy bein’ a watchmaker, called unbeknown to me, an’ made it right on Thursday night, which it was Friday mornin’ when Mr Fitzgerald came ’ome.

  Mrs Sampson stuck bravely to this statement, and ultimately left the witness box in triumph. The rest of her evidence being comparatively unimportant as compared with this point of time. The witness Rankin, who drove the prisoner to Powlett Street (as sworn to by him) was recalled, and gave evidence that it was two o’clock when the prisoner got down from his cab in Powlett Street.

  CROWN PROSECUTOR: How do you know that?

  WITNESS: Because I heard the Post Office clock strike.

  CROWN PROSECUTOR: Could you hear it at East Melbourne?

  WITNESS: It was a very still night, and I heard the chimes, and then the hour strike quite plainly.

  This conflicting evidence as to time, was a strong point in Brian’s favour. If, as the landlady stated, on the authority of the kitchen clock, which had been put right on the day previous to the murder, Fitzgerald had come in to the house at five minutes to two, he could not possibly be the man who had alighted from Rankin’s cab at two o’clock, at Powlett Street.

  The next witness was Dr Chinston, who swore to the death of the deceased by means of chloroform administered in a large quantity, and he was followed by Mr Gorby, who deposed as to the finding of the glove belonging to the deceased in the pocket of the prisoner’s coat.

  Roger Moreland, an intimate friend of the deceased, was next called. He stated that he had known the deceased in London, and had met him in Melbourne. He was with him a great deal. On the night of the murder he was in the Orient Hotel, in Bourke Street. Whyte came in, and was greatly excited. He was in evening dress, and wore a light coat. They had several drinks together, and then went up to an hotel in Russell Street and had some more drinks there. Both witness and deceased were intoxicated. Whyte took off his light coat, saying he felt warm, and, went out shortly afterwards, leaving witness asleep in the bar. He was awoke by the barman, who wanted him to leave the hotel. He saw that Whyte had left his coat behind him, and took it up, with the intention of giving it to him. As he stood in the street, someone snatched the coat from him, and made off with it. He tried to follow the thief, but he could not do so, being too intoxicated. He then went home, and to bed, as he had to leave early, for the country, in the morning. In crossexamination:—

  CALTON: When you went into the street, after leaving the hotel, did you see the deceased?

  WITNESS: No, I did not; but I was very drunk, and unless deceased had spoken to me, would not have noticed him.

  CALTON: What was deceased excited about when you met him?

  WITNESS: I don’t know. He did not say.

  CALTON: What were you talking about?

  WITNESS: All sorts of things. London, principally.

  CALTON: Did the deceased mention anything about papers?

  WITNESS (surprised): No, he did not.

  CALTON: Are you sure?

  WITNESS: Quite sure.

  CALTON: What time did you get home?

  WITNESS: I don’t know. I was too drunk to remember.

  This closed the case for the Crown, and as it was now late, the court was adjourned till the next day. The court was soon emptied of the busy, chattering crowd, and Calton, on looking over his notes, found that the result of the first day’s trial was two points in favour of Fitzgerald. First: The discrepancy of time in the evidence of Rankin and the landlady, Mrs Sampson. Second: The evidence of the cabman, Royston, as to the wearing of a ring on the forefinger of the right hand by the man who murdered Whyte, whereas the prisoner never wore rings.

  These were slender proofs of innocence to put against the overwhelming mass of evidence in favour of the prisoner’s guilt. The opinions of all were pretty well divided, some being in favour and others against, when suddenly an event happened which surprised everyone. All over Melbourne extras were posted, and the news passed from lip to lip like wildfire. ‘Return of the Missing Witness, Sal Rawlins.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SAL RAWLINS TELLS ALL SHE KNOWS

  And, indeed, such was the case. Sal Rawlins had made her appearance at the eleventh hour, to the heartfelt thankfulness of Calton, who saw in her an angel from heaven, sent to save the life of an innocent man.

  It was at the conclusion of the trial, and, together with Madge, he had gone down to his office, when his clerk entered with a telegram. The lawyer tore it open, and with a silent look of pleasure on his face, handed the telegram to Madge. She, womanlike, being more impulsive, gave a cry when she read it, and falling on her knees, thanked God for having heard her prayers, and saved her lover’s life.

  ‘Take me to her at once,’ she implored the lawyer, being anxious to hear from Sal Rawlins’ own lips the joyful words which would save Brian from a felon’s death.

  ‘No, my dear,’ answered Calton, firmly, but kindly. ‘I can hardly take a lady to where Sal Rawlins lives. You will know all tomorrow, but, meanwhile, you must go home and get some sleep.’

  ‘And you will tell him?’ she whispered, clasping her hands on Calton’s arm.

  ‘At once,’ he answered, promptly. ‘And I will see Sal Rawl
ins tonight, and hear what she has to say. Rest content, my dear,’ he added, as he placed her in the carriage, ‘he is perfectly safe now.’

  Brian heard the good news with a deep feeling of gratitude, knowing that his life was safe, and that he could still keep his secret. It was the natural revulsion of feeling, after the unnatural life he had been leading since his arrest. When one is young and healthy, and has all the world before him, it is a terrible thing to contemplate with serenity a sudden death. And yet, in spite of his joy at being delivered from the hangman’s rope, there mingled with his delight the horror of that secret which the dead woman had told him with such malignant joy.

  ‘Why did she tell me? Oh, why did she tell me?’ he cried, wringing his hands, as he paced restlessly up and down his dark cell. ‘It would have been better for her to have died in silence, and not bequeathed me this legacy of sorrow.’

  He was so greatly disturbed over the matter, that the gaoler, seeing his haggard face next morning, muttered to himself, that ‘He war blest if the swell warn’t sorry he war safe.’

  So while Brian was pacing up and down his cell during the weary watches of the night, Madge, in her own room, was kneeling beside her bed and thanking God for his great mercy; while Calton, the good fairy of the two lovers, was hurrying towards the humble abode of Mrs Rawlins, familiarly known as Mother Guttersnipe. Kilsip was beside him, and they were talking eagerly about the providential appearance of the invaluable witness.

  ‘What I like,’ observed Kilsip, in his soft, purring tones, ‘is the sell it will be for that Gorby. He was so certain that Mr Fitzgerald was the man, and when he gets off tomorrow he will be in a rage.’

  ‘Where was Sal the whole time?’ asked Calton, absently, not thinking of what the detective was saying.

  ‘Ill,’ answered Kilsip. ‘After she left the Chinaman, she went into the country, caught cold by falling into some river, and then ended up by getting brain fever. Some people found her, took her in, and nursed her; when she got well she came back to her grandmother’s.’

  ‘But why didn’t the people who nursed her tell her she was wanted? They must have seen the papers.’

  ‘Not they,’ retorted the detective. ‘They knew nothing.’

  ‘Vegetables!’ muttered Calton contemptuously. ‘How can people be so ignorant? Why, all Australia has been ringing with the case. At any rate, it’s money out of their pocket. Well?’

  ‘There’s nothing more to tell,’ said Kilsip, ‘except that she turned up tonight at five o’clock, looking more like a corpse than anything else.’

  When they entered the squalid, dingy passage that led to Mother Guttersnipe’s abode, they saw a faint light streaming down the stair. As they climbed up the shaky stair, they could hear the rancorous voice of the old hag pouring forth alternate blessings and curses on her prodigal offspring, and the low tones of a girl’s voice in reply. On entering the room, Calton saw that the sick woman who had been lying in the corner on the occasion of his last visit was gone. Mother Guttersnipe was seated in front of the deal table, with a broken cup and her favourite bottle of spirits before her. She was evidently going to have a night of it, in order to celebrate Sal’s return, and had commenced early, so as to lose no time. Sal herself was seated on a broken chair, and leaned wearily against the wall. She stood up as Calton and the detective entered, and they saw she was a tall, slender woman of about twenty-five, not bad looking, but with a pallid and haggard face, which showed how ill she had been. She was dressed in a kind of tawdry blue dress, much soiled and torn, and had an old tartan shawl over her shoulders, which she drew tightly across her breast as the strangers entered. Her grandmother, who looked more weird and grotesquely horrible than ever, saluted Calton and the detective on their entrance with a shrill yell and a volley of choice language.

  ‘Oh, ye’ve come agin, blarst ye,’ she screeched, raising her skinny arms, ‘to take my gal away from ’er pore old gran’mother, as nussed ’er, cuss her, when ’er own mother had gone a-gallivantin’ with swells. I’ll ’ave the lawr of ye both, s’elp me Gawd, I will.’

  Kilsip paid no attention to this outbreak of the old fury, but turned to the girl.

  ‘This is the gentleman who wants to speak to you,’ he said, gently, making the girl sit on the chair again, for indeed she looked too ill to stand. ‘Just tell him what you told me.’

  ‘’Bout the “Queen,” sir,’ said Sal, in a low, hoarse voice, fixing her wild eyes on Calton. ‘If I’d only known as you was a-wantin’ me I’d ’ave come afore.’

  ‘Where were you?’ asked Calton, in a pitying tone.

  ‘Noo South Wales,’ answered the girl, with a shiver. ‘The cove as I went with t’ Sydney left me—yes, left me to die like a dog in the gutter.’

  ‘Blarst ’im,’ croaked the old woman, in a sympathetic manner, as she took a drink from the broken cup.

  ‘I tooked up with a Chinerman,’ went on her granddaughter wearily, ‘an’ lived with ’im for a bit—it’s orful, ain’t it,’ she said, with a dreary laugh, as she saw the disgust on the lawyer’s face. ‘But Chinermen ain’t bad; they treat a pore gal a dashed sight better nor a white cove does. They don’t beat the life out of ’em with their fists, nor drag ’em about the floor by the ’air.’

  ‘Cuss ’em!’ croaked Mother Guttersnipe, drowsily, ‘I’ll tear their ’earts out.’

  ‘I think I must have gone mad, I must,’ said Sal, pushing her tangled hair off her forehead, ‘for arter I left the Chiner cove, I went on walkin’ and walkin’ right into the bush, a-tryin’ to cool my ’ead, for it felt on fire like. I went into a river an’ got wet, an’ then I took my ’at an’ boots orf an’ lay down on the grass, an’ then the rain comed on, an’ I walked to a ’ouse as was near, where they tooked me in. Oh, sich kind people,’ she sobbed, stretching out her hands, ‘that didn’t badger me ’bout my soul, but gave me good food to eat. I gave ’em a wrong name. I was so ’fraid of that Army a-findin’ me. Then I got ill, an’ know’d nothin’ for weeks. They said I was orf my chump. An’ then I came back ’ere to see gran’.’

  ‘Cuss ye,’ said the old woman, but in such a tender tone that it sounded like a blessing; then, rather ashamed of the momentary emotion, she hastily wound up, ‘go to ’ell.’

  ‘And did the people who took you in never tell you anything about the murder?’ asked Calton.

  Sal shook her head.

  ‘No, it were a long way in the country, and they never know’d anythin’, they didn’t.’

  ‘Ah! that explains it,’ muttered Calton, to himself. ‘Come now,’ he said, cheerfully, ‘tell me all that happened on the night you brought Mr Fitzgerald to see the Queen.’

  ‘Who’s ’e?’ asked Sal, puzzled.

  ‘Mr Fitzgerald, the gentleman you brought the letter for, to the Melbourne Club.’

  ‘Oh, ’im?’ said Sal, a sudden light breaking over her wan face. ‘I never know’d his name afore.’

  Calton nodded, complacently.

  ‘I knew you didn’t,’ he said, ‘that’s why you didn’t ask for him at the club.’

  ‘She never told me ’is name,’ said Sal, jerking her head in the direction of the bed.

  ‘Then who did she ask you to bring to her?’ asked Calton, eagerly.

  ‘No one,’ replied the girl. ‘This was the way of it. On that night she was orfil ill, an’ I sat beside ’er while gran’ was asleep.’

  ‘I was, drunk, blarst ye,’ broke in Gran’, fiercely, ‘none of yer damned lies; I was blazin’ drunk, glory rallelujah.’

  ‘An’ ses she to me, she ses,’ went on the girl, indifferent to her grandmother’s interruption, ‘“Git me some paper an’ a pencil, an’ I’ll write a note to ’im, I will.” So I goes an’ gits ’er what she arsks fur out of gran’s box.’

  ‘Stole it, blarst ye,’ shrieked the old hag, shaking her fist.

  ‘Hold your tongue,’ said Kilsip, in a peremptory tone.

  Mother Guttersnipe burst into a volley of oaths, and hav
ing run rapidly through all she knew, subsided into a sulky silence.

  ‘She wrote on it,’ went on Sal. ‘An’ then arsked me to take it to the Melbourne Club an’ give it to ’im. Ses I, “Who’s ’im?” Ses she, “It’s on the letter, don’t you arsk no questions, an’ you won’t ’ear no lies, but give it to ’im at the club, an’ wait for ’im at the corner of Bourke Street and Russell Street.” So out I goes, and gives it to a cove at the club, an’ then ’e comes along, an’ ses ’e, “Take me to ’er,” and I tooked ’im.’

  ‘And what like was the gentleman?’

  ‘Oh, werry good-lookin’,’ said Sal, ‘werry tall, with yeller ’air an’ moustache; he ’ad party clothes on, an’ a masher coat, an’ a soft ’at.’

  ‘That’s Fitzgerald right enough,’ muttered Calton. ‘And what did he do when he came?’

  ‘He goes right up to ’er, and she ses, “Are you ’e?” and ’e ses, “I am,” then, ses she, “Do you know what I’m a-goin’ to tell you?” an’ ’e says, “No,” then, she ses, “It’s about ’er,” and, ses ’e, lookin’ very white, “’Ow dare you ’ave ’er name on your vile lips,” an’ she gits up and screetches, “Turn that gal out an’ I’ll tell you,” an’ ’e takes me by the arm, an’ ses ’e, “’Ere, git out,” an’ I gits out, an’ that’s all I knows.’

  ‘And how long was he with her?’ asked Calton, who had been listening attentively.

  ‘’Bout ’arf a hour,’ answered Sal. ‘I takes ’im back to Russell Street ’bout twenty-five minutes to two, ’cause I look at the clock on the Post Office an’ ’e gives me a sov, an’ then goes a-tearin’ up the street like anything.’

  ‘Take him about twenty minutes to walk to East Melbourne,’ said Calton, to himself. ‘So he must just have got in at the time Mrs Sampson said. He was in with the “Queen” the whole time, I suppose?’ he asked, looking keenly at Sal.

  ‘I was at that door,’ said Sal, pointing to it, ‘an’ ’e couldn’t ’ave got out unless I’d seen ’im.’