At the conclusion of his speech Mr. Gladstone called upon Tom Mortlake to unveil the portrait. Tom rose, pale and excited. His hand faltered as he touched the cord. He seemed overcome with emotion. Was it the mention of Lucy Brent that had moved him to his depths?
The brown holland fell away—the dead stood revealed as he had been in life. Every feature, painted by the hand of Love, was instinct with vitality: the fine, earnest face, the sad kindly eyes, the noble brow seeming still a-throb with the thought of Humanity. A thrill ran through the room—there was a low, undefinable murmur. O, the pathos and the tragedy of it! Every eye was fixed, misty with emotion, upon the dead man in the picture and the living man who stood, pale and agitated, and visibly unable to commence his speech, at the side of the canvas. Suddenly a hand was laid upon the labor leader’s shoulder, and there rang through the hall in Wimp’s clear, decisive tones the words: “Tom Mortlake, I arrest you for the murder of Arthur Constant!”
CHAPTER IX
For a moment there was an acute, terrible silence. Mortlake’s face was that of a corpse; the face of the dead man at his side was flushed with the hues of life. To the overstrung nerves of the onlookers, the brooding eyes of the picture seemed sad and stern with menace, and charged with the lightnings of doom.
It was a horrible contrast. For Wimp, alone, the painted face had fuller, more tragical, meanings. The audience seemed turned to stone. They sat or stood—in every variety of attitude—frozen, rigid. Arthur Constant’s picture dominated the scene, the only living thing in a hall of the dead.
But only for a moment. Mortlake shook off the detective’s hand.
“Boys!” he cried, in accents of infinite indignation, “this is a police conspiracy.”
His words relaxed the tension. The stony figures were agitated. A dull, excited hubbub answered him. The little cobbler darted from behind his pillar, and leaped upon a bench. The cords of his brow were swollen with excitement. He seemed a giant overshadowing the hall.
“Boys!” he roared, in his best Victoria Park voice, “listen to me. This charge is a foul and damnable lie.”
“Bravo!” “Hear, hear!” “Hooray!” “It is!” was roared back at him from all parts of the room. Everybody rose and stood in tentative attitudes, excited to the last degree.
“Boys!” Peter roared on, “you all know me. I’m a plain man, and I want to know if it’s likely a man would murder his best friend.”
“No,” in a mighty volume of sound.
Wimp had scarcely calculated upon Mortlake’s popularity. He stood on the platform, pale and anxious as his prisoner.
“And if he did, why didn’t they prove it the first time?”
“Hear, hear!”
“And if they want to arrest him, why couldn’t they leave it till the ceremony was over? Tom Mortlake’s not the man to run away.”
“Tom Mortlake! Tom Mortlake! Three cheers for Tom Mortlake! Hip, hip, hip, hooray!”
“Three groans for the police.”
“Hoo! Oo! Oo!”
Wimp’s melodrama was not going well. He felt like the author to whose ears is borne the ominous sibilance of the pit. He almost wished he had not followed the curtain-raiser with his own stronger drama. Unconsciously the police, scattered about the hall, drew together. The people on the platform knew not what to do. They had all risen and stood in a densely-packed mass. Even Mr. Gladstone’s speech failed him in circumstances so novel. The groans died away; the cheers for Mortlake rose and swelled and fell and rose again. Sticks and umbrellas were banged and rattled, handkerchiefs were waved, the thunder deepened. The motley crowd still surging about the hall took up the cheers, and for hundreds of yards around people were going black in the face out of mere irresponsible enthusiasm. At last Tom waved his hand—the thunder dwindled, died. The prisoner was master of the situation.
Grodman stood on the platform, grasping the back of his chair, a curious mocking Mephistophelian glitter about his eyes, his lips wreathed into a half smile. There was no hurry for him to get Denzil Cantercot arrested now. Wimp had made an egregious, a colossal blunder. In Grodman’s heart there was a great glad calm as of a man who has strained his sinews to win in a famous match, and has heard the judge’s word. He felt almost kindly to Denzil now.
Tom Mortlake spoke. His face was set and stony. His tall figure was drawn up haughtily to its full height. He pushed the black mane back from his forehead with a characteristic gesture. The fevered audience hung upon his lips—the men at the back leaned eagerly forward—the reporters were breathless with fear lest they should miss a word. What would the great labor leader have to say at this supreme moment?
“Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen: It is to me a melancholy pleasure to have been honored with the task of unveiling tonight this portrait of a great benefactor to Bow and a true friend to the laboring classes. Except that he honored me with his friendship while living, and that the aspirations of my life have, in my small and restricted way, been identical with his, there is little reason why this honorable duty should have fallen upon me. Gentlemen, I trust that we shall all find an inspiring influence in the daily vision of the dead, who yet liveth in our hearts and in this noble work of art—wrought, as Mr. Gladstone has told us, by the hand of one who loved him.” The speaker paused a moment, his low vibrant tones faltering into silence. “If we humble workingmen of Bow can never hope to exert individually a tithe of the beneficial influence wielded by Arthur Constant, it is yet possible for each of us to walk in the light he has kindled in our midst—a perpetual lamp of self-sacrifice and brotherhood.”
That was all. The room rang with cheers. Tom Mortlake resumed his seat. To Wimp the man’s audacity verged on the Sublime; to Denzil on the Beautiful. Again there was a breathless hush. Mr. Gladstone’s mobile face was working with excitement. No such extraordinary scene had occurred in the whole of his extraordinary experience. He seemed about to rise. The cheering subsided to a painful stillness. Wimp cut the situation by laying his hand again upon Tom’s shoulder.
“Come quietly with me,” he said. The words were almost a whisper, but in the supreme silence they traveled to the ends of the hall.
“Don’t you go, Tom!” The trumpet tones were Peter’s. The call thrilled an answering chord of defiance in every breast, and a low, ominous murmur swept through the hall.
Tom rose, and there was silence again. “Boys,” he said, “let me go. Don’t make any noise about it. I shall be with you again tomorrow.”
But the blood of the Break o’ Day boys was at fever heat. A hurtling mass of men struggled confusedly from their seats. In a moment all was chaos. Tom did not move. Half-a-dozen men, headed by Peter, scaled the platform. Wimp was thrown to one side, and the invaders formed a ring round Tom’s chair. The platform people scampered like mice from the center. Some huddled together in the corners, others slipped out at the rear. The committee congratulated themselves on having had the self-denial to exclude ladies. Mr. Gladstone’s satellites hurried the old man off and into his carriage; though the fight promised to become Homeric. Grodman stood at the side of the platform secretly more amused than ever, concerning himself no more with Denzil Cantercot, who was already strengthening his nerves at the bar upstairs. The police about the hall blew their whistles, and policemen came rushing in from outside and the neighborhood. An Irish M. P. on the platform was waving his gingham like a shillalah in sheer excitement, forgetting his new-found respectability and dreaming himself back at Donnybrook Fair. Him a conscientious constable floored with a truncheon. But a shower of fists fell on the zealot’s face, and he tottered back bleeding. Then the storm broke in all its fury. The upper air was black with staves, sticks, and umbrellas, mingled with the pallid hailstones of knobby fists. Yells and groans and hoots and battle-cries blent in grotesque chorus, like one of Dvorák’s weird diabolical movements. Mortlake stood impassive, with arms folded, making no further effort, and the battle raged round him as the water swirls around some steadfast rock. A posse of police
from the back fought their way steadily toward him, and charged up the heights of the platform steps, only to be sent tumbling backward, as their leader was hurled at them like a battering ram. Upon the top of the heap fell he, surmounting the strata of policemen. But others clambered upon them, escalading the platform. A moment more and Mortlake would have been taken, after being well shaken. Then the miracle happened.
As when of old a reputable goddess ex machina saw her favorite hero in dire peril, straightway she drew down a cloud from the celestial stores of Jupiter and enveloped her fondling in kindly night, so that his adversary strove with the darkness, so did Crowl, the cunning cobbler, the much-daring, essay to insure his friend’s safety. He turned off the gas at the meter.
An Arctic night—unpreceded by twilight—fell, and there dawned the sabbath of the witches. The darkness could be felt—and it left blood and bruises behind it. When the lights were turned on again, Mortlake was gone. But several of the rioters were arrested, triumphantly.
And through all, and over all, the face of the dead man who had sought to bring peace on earth, brooded.
* * * *
Crowl sat meekly eating his supper of bread and cheese, with his head bandaged, while Denzil Cantercot told him the story of how he had rescued Tom Mortlake. He had been among the first to scale the height, and had never budged from Tom’s side or from the forefront of the battle till he had seen him safely outside and into a by-street.
“I am so glad you saw that he got away safely,” said Crowl, “I wasn’t quite sure he would.”
“Yes; but I wish some cowardly fool hadn’t turned off the gas. I like men to see that they are beaten.”
“But it seemed—easier,” faltered Crowl.
“Easier!” echoed Denzil, taking a deep draught of bitter. “Really, Peter, I’m sorry to find you always will take such low views. It may be easier, but it’s shabby. It shocks one’s sense of the Beautiful.”
Crowl ate his bread and cheese shame-facedly.
“But what was the use of breaking your head to save him?” said Mrs. Crowl with an unconscious pun. “He must be caught.”
“Ah, I don’t see how the Useful does come in, now,” said Peter thoughtfully. “But I didn’t think of that at the time.”
He swallowed his water quickly and it went the wrong way and added to his confusion. It also began to dawn upon him that he might be called to account. Let it be said at once that he wasn’t. He had taken too prominent a part.
Meantime, Mrs. Wimp was bathing Mr. Wimp’s eye, and rubbing him generally with arnica. Wimp’s melodrama had been, indeed, a sight for the gods. Only, virtue was vanquished and vice triumphant. The villain had escaped, and without striking a blow.
CHAPTER X
There was matter and to spare for the papers the next day. The striking ceremony—Mr. Gladstone’s speech—the sensational arrest—these would of themselves have made excellent themes for reports and leaders. But the personality of the man arrested, and the Big Bow Mystery Battle—as it came to be called—gave additional piquancy to the paragraphs and the posters. The behavior of Mortlake put the last touch to the picturesqueness of the position. He left the hall when the lights went out, and walked unnoticed and unmolested through pleiads of policemen to the nearest police station, where the superintendent was almost too excited to take any notice of his demand to be arrested. But to do him justice, the official yielded as soon as he understood the situation. It seems inconceivable that he did not violate some red-tape regulation in so doing. To some this self-surrender was limpid proof of innocence; to others it was the damning token of despairing guilt.
The morning papers were pleasant reading for Grodman, who chuckled as continuously over his morning egg, as if he had laid it. Jane was alarmed for the sanity of her saturnine master. As her husband would have said, Grodman’s grins were not Beautiful. But he made no effort to suppress them. Not only had Wimp perpetrated a grotesque blunder, but the journalists to a man were down on his great sensation tableau, though their denunciations did not appear in the dramatic columns. The Liberal papers said that he had endangered Mr. Gladstone’s life; the Conservative that he had unloosed the raging elements of Bow blackguardism, and set in motion forces which might have easily swelled to a riot, involving severe destruction of property. But “Tom Mortlake,” was, after all, the thought swamping every other. It was, in a sense, a triumph for the man.
But Wimp’s turn came when Mortlake, who reserved his defense, was brought up before a magistrate, and, by force of the new evidence, fully committed for trial on the charge of murdering Arthur Constant. Then men’s thoughts centered again on the Mystery, and the solution of the inexplicable problem agitated mankind from China to Peru.
In the middle of February, the great trial befell. It was another of the opportunities which the Chancellor of the Exchequer neglects. So stirring a drama might have easily cleared its expenses—despite the length of the cast, the salaries of the stars, and the rent of the house—in mere advance booking. For it was a drama which (by the rights of Magna Charta) could never be repeated; a drama which ladies of fashion would have given their earrings to witness, even with the central figure not a woman. And there was a woman in it anyhow, to judge by the little that had transpired at the magisterial examination, and the fact that the country was placarded with bills offering a reward for information concerning a Miss Jessie Dymond. Mortlake was defended by Sir Charles Brown-Harland, Q. C., retained at the expense of the Mortlake Defense Fund (subscriptions to which came also from Australia and the Continent), and set on his mettle by the fact that he was the accepted labor candidate for an East-end constituency. Their Majesties, Victoria and the Law, were represented by Mr. Robert Spigot, Q. C.
Mr. Spigot, Q. C., in presenting his case, said: “I propose to show that the prisoner murdered his friend and fellow-lodger, Mr. Arthur Constant, in cold blood, and with the most careful premeditation; premeditation so studied, as to leave the circumstances of the death an impenetrable mystery for weeks to all the world, though fortunately without altogether baffling the almost superhuman ingenuity of Mr. Edward Wimp, of the Scotland Yard Detective Department. I propose to show that the motives of the prisoner were jealousy and revenge; jealousy not only of his friend’s superior influence over the workingmen he himself aspired to lead, but the more commonplace animosity engendered by the disturbing element of a woman having relations to both. If, before my case is complete, it will be my painful duty to show that the murdered man was not the saint the world has agreed to paint him, I shall not shrink from unveiling the truer picture, in the interests of justice, which cannot say nil nisi bonum even of the dead. I propose to show that the murder was committed by the prisoner shortly before half-past six on the morning of December 4th, and that the prisoner having, with the remarkable ingenuity which he has shown throughout, attempted to prepare an alibi by feigning to leave London by the first train to Liverpool, returned home, got in with his latch-key through the street-door, which he had left on the latch, unlocked his victim’s bedroom with a key which he possessed, cut the sleeping man’s throat, pocketed his razor, locked the door again, and gave it the appearance of being bolted, went downstairs, unslipped the bolt of the big lock, closed the door behind him, and got to Euston in time for the second train to Liverpool. The fog helped his proceedings throughout.” Such was in sum the theory of the prosecution. The pale defiant figure in the dock winced perceptibly under parts of it.
Mrs. Drabdump was the first witness called for the prosecution. She was quite used to legal inquisitiveness by this time, but did not appear in good spirits.
“On the night of December 3d, you gave the prisoner a letter?”
“Yes, your ludship.”
“How did he behave when he read it?”
“He turned very pale and excited. He went up to the poor gentleman’s room, and I’m afraid he quarreled with him. He might have left his last hours peaceful.” (Amusement.)
“What happened then
?”
“Mr. Mortlake went out in a passion, and came in again in about an hour.”
“He told you he was going away to Liverpool very early the next morning.”
“No, your ludship, he said he was going to Devonport.” (Sensation.)
“What time did you get up the next morning?”
“Half-past six.”
“That is not your usual time?”
“No, I always get up at six.”
“How do you account for the extra sleepiness?”
“Misfortunes will happen.”
“It wasn’t the dull, foggy weather?”
“No, my lud, else I should never get up early.” (Laughter.)
“You drink something before going to bed?”
“I like my cup o’ tea. I take it strong, without sugar. It always steadies my nerves.”
“Quite so. Where were you when the prisoner told you he was going to Devonport?”
“Drinkin’ my tea in the kitchen.”
“What should you say if prisoner dropped something in it to make you sleep late?”
Witness (startled): “He ought to be shot.”
“He might have done it without your noticing it, I suppose?”
“If he was clever enough to murder the poor gentleman, he was clever enough to try and poison me.”
The Judge: “The witness in her replies must confine herself to the evidence.”
Mr. Spigot, Q. C.: “I must submit to your lordship that it is a very logical answer, and exactly illustrates the interdependence of the probabilities. Now, Mrs. Drabdump, let us know what happened when you awoke at half-past six the next morning.”
The Victorian Mystery Megapack: 27 Classic Mystery Tales Page 27