‘My dear,’ said Lady Esilinda, reading the paper aloud at the breakfast table, as was her custom, ‘How terribly ill you look! What is the matter with you?’
‘Well,’ said Viola, with a sort of smile, ‘You know I am a little nervous now, and I wish you would not read me out these horrid things.’
Then said Lady Esilinda:—
‘My dear you talk like the commonplace minx. I never knew you pretending to be horrified before; on the contrary I thought—forgive me—that this case might interest you as being something absolutely unique, and I know you like unique things.’
‘Well yes,’ said Viola, ‘but I don't know why this particular case, horrible as it is anyhow, affects me with particular horror. I once dreamt about it. But let's talk about something else.’
‘My dear child,’ said Lady Esilinda, ‘I am sorry. I know you have been dreadfully nervous ever since Vivian behaved so disgracefully to you.’
‘I think,’ said Viola, ‘we had agreed not to speak about Vivian at all. But as you do speak of him, I may say that he did not behave disgracefully.’
Then after a slight pause with a light laugh she said: ‘Well, as you will talk about Vivian I can tell you that I heard from him yesterday.’
‘I didn't see the letter,’ said Lady Esilinda.
‘Well of course you didn't: it arrived before you were up, as we have agreed not to talk about the subject, I did not think it necessary to show it to you. However, it isn't much; it is only saying he was at Marseilles, and intended to go to South America. But really I must see after the dinner. I know Jane will make a literal hash of that timbale, unless I superintend. You know what an awful gourmet Lady Gage is.’
Extract from important Evening Paper:
‘Curiosity has been raised to its highest with regard to the hideous monster almost now familiarly known as the London horror. We fortunately managed to obtain a seat at the Police Court. Very few seats were given, even to members of the press. The populus were entirely excluded in fear of any demonstration on their part. An immense crowd was gathered about the door. And when the prisoner was being brought in as quickly as possible, the prisoner slipped and nearly fell down. Then—and this is the curious part of the case—among the crowd there was a little child with its mother. The child, who could just walk, stretched out its arms towards him, and the mother suddenly seized it, and went quickly away, saying:—“That's the bad bogey man; he'll eat you!”
‘However, to recount our experiences of the Police Court, things were very different from what might have been supposed. Certainly the prisoner's physiognomy did not announce the atrocious and fiendish crimes with which he is charged. On the contrary his expression was kind and caressing. Likewise, he was of refined and gentlemanly appearance. Indeed one might describe him as a person of prepossessing appearance.
‘So this was the hideous monster we expected to see. All eyes were turned upon him. As has been already reported in these columns, he refused to speak a single word. Several interpreters had been engaged. When the Magistrate asked in plain English “What is your name?” he answered in equally plain English, in a refined voice, totally devoid of foreign accent—
‘“I refuse to give my name, and you are unable to compel me.”
‘There was some astonishment to hear him speak thus for the first time. Then after a short pause the Magistrate asked, “Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”—He answered—
‘“Guilty—not only to this crime, but to all those others of a similar nature, of which there has been so much talk. Why should I waste the time of the Court? You have nothing else to do, but commit me for trial. My only plea in defense would be that of insanity: if that is reason against capital punishment. However, I am not here to argue the subject. Let us conclude it as briefly as possible. There is no need of witnesses. I plead guilty and frankly admit my guilt. And as I have said before, I plead insanity as what is called an extenuating circumstance. Now I have said all I have to say, let me be consigned to prison at once. No doubt there are other culprits and litigants who are waiting now to have their causes tried, and I do not see why I should inconvenience them.’
‘All this he said perfectly calmly and this whole notorious case did not last more than twenty minutes.’
Account from The Morning News (leading article):
‘The atrocious criminal known as “the London horror” seems to be behaving himself remarkably well. He appears to be docile and intelligent, and indeed appears to have endeared himself to gaolers and keepers by his charming manners to such an extent that they seem to have overcome all horror, which everyone would naturally feel, to a person who, by his own confession, had been the perpetrator of the hideous crimes, of which we have lately heard only too much.
‘At first it will be remembered that he wouldn't speak any words; and it was supposed he was some foreigner to whom our language was totally unknown. Now he converses affably with everyone, willingly; the gaolers appear to say it is such a treat to have such a well behaved prisoner. The Chaplain reports however, that when he went to make an exhortation, his remarks were almost more than blasphemous. Altogether this person is a problem. Perhaps his plea of insanity represents the truth. But then five experts have examined him, and declared they could find in him no trace of insanity. But then here comes the curious thing. When by the advice of his lawyer, they were asked as a last authority to summon that eminent brain-specialist Sir Joseph Randor, he appears to have shown himself in a way really insane and raved about the room, saying,
‘“No, no, no, I will not see him on any account,” etc.’
CHAPTER IV
ROMEO AND JULIET
The prisoner pleaded insanity. The case was exciting considerable public interest. Sir Joseph Randor was summoned, and indeed summoned rather particularly, because of the Prisoner's peculiar repugnance to seeing him. The lawyer thought—
‘Here he really seems insane: the name seems for some reason to excite him. A sort of a fixed idea, like a red rag to a bull; and after all, Randor knows more about the subject than almost anyone else, just within reach, and I myself believe him to be insane. Otherwise I could not have brought myself to pick up the defence.’
Sir Joseph Randor visited the Prisoner accompanied by the other doctors. He turned pale, (it was strange for a doctor) then said in a low, rather rasping voice—
‘Yes, I believe the Prisoner to be insane.’
‘But,’ said one of the doctors, ‘how can you tell? As you have not submitted him to the slightest test.’
Then he said recovering himself and for the most past splendide mendax—
‘The fact is, gentlemen, the Prisoner has been a patient of mine from a child, so I know he is given to epileptic seizures, and intermittent fits of insanity. I need not say, gentlemen, that I trust your professional honour not to make any inquiry as to the identity of the Prisoner, as it really has no bearing on the case. And—you will understand—it would cause a great deal of trouble, not to say disgrace, for many people who hold very high social position. Let me say that as I am supposed to be an authority in the matter, without conducting a present examination, from previous acquaintance, I have reason to think that the Prisoner is undoubtedly insane.’
‘Well,’ said one doctor, ‘you are the authority in the matter, we must accept your view as final. I think you may rely on my discretion, and that of all my colleagues.’
Returning home, utterly tired—or rather more than that, and throwing himself down into an armchair, he did not at first notice Viola standing in the room.
‘My dear child,’ he said vaguely and feebly, ‘what brings you here? I didn't see you at first. You must excuse me, I am so much upset. You don't know what we doctors have to do. I have just come across an especially painful case in a prison.’
She answered simply and calmly—
‘Yes, I know perfectly well what you have had to do. You have seen him.’
The doctor shuddered.
After a short pause, he said,
‘So you know?’
She did not answer, either in the negative or the affirmative, but continued, saying,
‘You have access to the prison, and you must take me there too.’
‘But,’ said the doctor—But Viola continued
‘I know quite well what you are going to say—I might be recognised—I assure you I shall not. I shall borrow one of Anne's old dresses—well, you know how good I was at making myself up at charades, especially that last one where I did the servant-maid. Then we are sufficiently alike that I should pose as his sister. You can say,—well you must have said something of the kind before—I mean that you are not totally unacquainted with the Prisoner, with all your abilities my dear Uncle Joseph, I don't believe you capable of that amount of dissimulation. So you must find some means to bring me as his sister to see him.’
‘It is true,’ said Sir Joseph, ‘that I told the doctors I was previously acquainted with the Prisoner. Of course the gaolers and officials know nothing about this.’
He was so utterly taken aback he spoke feebly and flaccidly.
‘I do not see that that matters,’ she said quite calmly; ‘if the gaolers don't know, all the better; you can easily say, that this was the case of a young man who had come under your treatment,—for—well, let us say—epileptic fits, so that you happened to know who he was. But that you had confided it only to his sister. Oh!’ she said with an impatient gesture, ‘any story will do; one story is as good as another, and you are better at inventing them than I.’
‘But’—said the doctor again, this time trembling.
Terrible, pale and strange as she stood there, she said, gutturally, though softly, very slowly, in monotone, ‘I will go there, and you will take me.’
Sir Joseph Randor called on the Governor of the Prison with a very plausible story.
The Prisoner, he said, he knew to be of very respectable parents; indeed, people who had seen very much better days, but had been overtaken by misfortune. He had known the family. The boy had excited his special interest because he had found him in a hospital with which he was connected, suffering from a peculiar form of epilepsy, and apart from a slight acquaintance with the family, the case was particularly interesting to him as a physician, indeed as a specialist. He could say for certain that the Prisoner was totally irresponsible for his actions, though he might seem sane; was clever and had had a particularly good education for one of his class.
‘You will see,’ he said, ‘what an awful blow this will be to his family. His father and mother would hardly survive it. Punish the murderer by all means, that is, if you think him guilty and not insane. But at least do not make enquiries as to his name; a name which is of no importance to anybody, except to those people who are immediately concerned.’
‘Ah! I see now,’ said the Governor, who was an old acquaintance of the doctor's.
‘But I have one more thing to ask of you. He has an only sister, and she somehow seems to have guessed that her brother must have been the criminal; indeed, I was utterly surprised this morning, when she turned up in my consulting room. She will not say anything but she wants to see her brother. Perhaps she knows more about it than anybody else. Well, I am making so much preamble, what I really want to ask is, will you let me bring the sister here to visit her brother, and see that no report of the visit gets into the papers?’
‘Well’, said the Governor, ‘for an old friend I am quite willing to do that, as I take your word. Besides I myself am entirely against this system of reporting all the doings of prisoners on trial. Why can't they leave them alone? The whole thing seems to me to pander to morbid sensation.’
So Viola was ushered in by Sir Joseph Randor, dressed as a rather superior servant-maid, and ostensibly as the Prisoner's sister. He did not wait for her, but left her there. Indeed it would have looked odd if he had waited. Besides he had an important case to attend.
They sat for some time close together. The gaoler did his best to overhear, but could not, as whatever language they spoke, it was not English. One remark, ‘the trial will be on Monday; of course someone will recognise me there. So it is inevitable.’
The last remark was, ‘You will really bring it,’ and she answered, ‘Yes you may count upon me. Have you ever known me to fail you?’
Going out she turned her most fascinating glance on the gaoler. She saw that he was not in the least taken in, by the idea that she was his sister and a servant-maid. So she thought it more simple to give up the deception at once, and play a bold game.
‘It must be a dreadful thing,’ she said, in her sweetest voice, ‘to be a gaoler. I suppose you have become hardened to it by now. But still—’
‘No ma’am’ replied the gaoler, ‘it isn't nice work at all. We get some pretty rough lots here, who give us a deal of trouble. It isn't everybody who's so nice and well-behaved, as the gentleman there. But, what am I to do? I have got a wife and six children to keep, and I must gain my living somehow.’
‘No,’ she said, laying her hand upon his arm, with a lovely languorous glance, using her eyes with their full power. ‘Supposing you were not a gaoler, what would you like to be?’
‘Well,’ said the gaoler waxing amiable, ‘if you ask me, there's a nice little public house in a very good neighbourhood, quite close to where my wife lives. We could get on fine if we had that, as it's in a very good position, and it's going to be sold for £300, goodwill and all. The man who is proprietor now is a duffer, and does not know how to manage it. With £50, we could get in enough stock to begin with. I always had a fancy for that trade.’
Then she looked at him again, and he said blushing,
‘Really ma’am, it's very good of you to be interested in my concerns. But it doesn't seem very likely that I shall save up as much as that, especially as I've only got as far as £100.’
‘Listen!’ she said, almost solemnly, ‘I am rich. I have plenty of money. I will give you £1,000, and I only want you to do me some slight service in return.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the gaoler, looking suspicious, then stammering, ‘I've no doubt you can give me the £1,000, but what do you want me to do? Discipline here is very strict. I don't mind so much about getting the sack. But I might get inside instead of outside the cell.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said suavely and softly. ‘It is very little that I ask of you. It is merely this. My brother,’ (she rather accentuated the word as she knew the gaoler had guessed already) ‘will be terribly nervous before his trial on Monday, and I want you to let me spend the night with him—the night before the trial, I mean. See,’ she continued, after a slight pause ‘I could come in quite late, and slip out unobserved early in the morning. Couldn't you manage that?’ she continued, with another languorous glance. ‘I will bring the £1,000 with me, and you shall see that the notes are genuine.’
‘Yes,’ said the gaoler, after a short time for reflection, ‘I think that might be managed.’
Then there was some further talk between them as to the hour and means of ingress.
The Prisoner seemed that night to justify his own plea of insanity. He raved up and down the cell like a wild beast in a cage. He was murmuring to himself.
‘No, of course she can't come, no, of course she can't get it. But then if she couldn't get it, she might have come to say so—it is impossible to do anything now. Still, just to have seen her would have been something, much more than something.’ Then stamping his foot, ‘Of course she won't come.’ Then recovering himself a little, ‘Certainly there is every reason that she should not.’ Then he laughed horribly and paced about the room still more savagely. ‘Oh, but still—’ here in utter exhaustion he threw himself on the plank bed, and burst into a fit of hysterical tears.
He was brought to consciousness by a kiss, and a soft voice said,
‘Vivian!’
Then starting up,
‘So you have come, really? Have you brought it? But oh—anything—as long as yo
u have come!’
‘Yes,’ she said, slowly and calmly, ‘I have it with me.’
‘But oh, you are so late!’ he said, becoming hysterical again. ‘You won't be able to stay. Couldn't you stay just one quarter of an hour? Yes, just a quarter of an hour!’
Then with a hysterical laugh he said, with affected calmness,
‘You see it's no wonder I am a trifle nervous. One doesn't commit suicide every day of the week. You want some little encouragement, and also you want to say some last words. People have a sort of right to say some last words before they die. But then, except—Well, perhaps it might be said—Oh!—where is it? Give it to me!’
She answered, stroking his head softly,
‘Do not fear that I shall leave you. I have settled with the gaoler, and I will remain here all night.’
‘Ah!’ he said, laying his head on her bosom.
Then she with her magnetic hands soothed him to sleep. So they remained until the first dawn tried to filter its way through the prison window. ‘Ah, God! That the day should be so soon!’ she said. ‘Wake up, darling, it is time to go.’
‘Ah yes, 'tis indeed time to go!’
Then with a ghost of a laugh,
‘I shall feel quite chilled and alone in the world of shadows. But I suppose we must come to the practical point of view. It is certainly high time for you to go, and if you go at once, you can slip out unobserved. Indeed, if as you say you squared the gaoler, nobody need know anything about it; or indeed could; so we are alright in that respect.’
Of Kings and Things Page 22