CHAPTER XXIII
Colwyn found Mr. Oakham awaiting him in the hotel lobby, a little beforeeleven the following morning, to inform him that the necessaryarrangements had been made to enable him to be present at his interviewwith Penreath. Colwyn forbore to ask him on what pretext he had obtainedthe gaol governor's consent to his presence, but merely signified thathe was ready. Mr. Oakham replied that they had better go at once, andasked the porter to call a taxi.
On arriving at the gaol they passed through the double entrance gates,Mr. Oakham turned to a door on the left just within the gates, andentered. The door opened into a plainly furnished office, with wallscovered with prison regulations. Behind a counter, at a stand-up deskopposite the door, a tall burly man in a uniform of blue and silver wasbusily writing in a large ledger. Ranged in rows, on hooks alongsidehim, were bunches of immense keys, and as he turned to attend to Oakhamand Colwyn another bunch of similar keys could be seen dangling at hisside. Mr. Oakham explained the purpose of their visit, and produced theorder for the interview. The functionary in blue and silver, who was theentrance gaoler, perused it attentively, and pushed over two forms forthe solicitor and the detective to fill in. It was the last formalitythat the law insisted on--a grim form of visiting card whereon thevisitor inscribes his name and business, which is sent to the condemnedman, who must give his consent to the interview before it is granted.
When Mr. Oakham and Colwyn had filled in their forms the entrance gaolertook them and pulled a rope. Somewhere in a corridor a bell clanged, anda moment afterwards a gaoler opened a small door on the other side ofthe counter. The entrance gaoler gave him the forms, and he disappearedwith them. There ensued a long period of waiting, and nearly half anhour elapsed before he reappeared again, accompanied by a warder. Theblue and silver functionary silently lifted the flap of the counter, andbeckoned Mr. Oakham and Colwyn to accompany the warder through the smalldoor at the other end of the room.
They went through and the bell clanged once more as the door closedbehind them. The warder took them along a corridor to a door at thefarther end, and ushered them into a room--a large apartment, not unlikea board room, furnished with a table and chairs ranged on each side. Itwas the governor of the gaol's room, where the interview was to takeplace. Colwyn took one of the chairs at the table, Mr. Oakham tookanother, and silently they awaited the coming of the condemned man.
Another quarter of an hour elapsed before the door at the other end ofthe room opened, and Penreath appeared between two warders. Theyconducted him to the table, and placed a chair for him. With a quickglance at his visitors he sat down, and the warders seated themselves oneach side of him. The warder who had brought the visitors in then noddedto Mr. Oakham, as an indication that the interview might begin.
In the brief glance that the young man cast at his visitors Colwynobserved both calmness of mind and self-possession. Although deepshadows under the eyes and the tenseness of the muscles round the mouthrevealed sleepless nights and mental agony, Penreath's face showed notrace of insanity or the guilty consciousness of evil deeds, but had theserene expression of a man who had fought his battle and won it.
Mr. Oakham began the interview with him in a dry professional way, asthough it were an interview between solicitor and client in the sanctityof a private room, with no hearers. And, indeed, the prison warderssitting there with the impassive faces of officialdom might have beenarticles of furniture, so remote were they from displaying the slightestinterest in the private matters discussed between the two. No doubt theyhad been present at many similar scenes, and custom is a deadeningfactor. Mr. Oakham's object was to urge his client to consent to thelodgement of an appeal against the jury's verdict, and to that end headvanced a multitude of arguments and a variety of reasons. The youngman listened patiently, but when the solicitor had concluded he shookhis head with a gesture of finality which indicated an unalterablerefusal.
"It's no use, Oakham," he said. "My mind is quite made up. I'm obligedto you for all the trouble you have taken in my case, but I cannot altermy decision. I shall go through with it--to the end."
"In that case it is no use my urging you further." Mr. Oakham spokestiffly, and put his eye-glasses in his pocket with an air of vexation."Mr. Colwyn has something to say to you on the subject. Perhaps you willlisten to him. He believes he can help you."
"He helped to arrest me," said Penreath, with a slight indifferent lookat the detective.
"But not to convict you," said Colwyn. "I had hoped to help you."
"What do you want of me?" Penreath's tone was cold.
"In the first place, I have to say that I believe you innocent."
The young man lifted his eyebrows slightly, as if to indicate that theother's opinion was a matter of indifference to him, but he remainedsilent.
"I have come to beg of you, even at this late hour, to break yoursilence, and give an account of your actions that night at the inn."
"You might have saved yourself the trouble of coming here. I havenothing whatever to say."
"That means that you continue in your refusal to speak. Will you answerone or two questions?"
"No."
"Will you not tell me why you kept silence about what you saw in Mr.Glenthorpe's room that night of the murder?"
"Man, how did you find that out?" Penreath's calm disappeared in asudden fury of voice and look. "What do you know?"
"I know whom you are trying to shield," replied the detective, with hiseyes fixed on Penreath's face. "You are wrong. She----"
"I beg of you to be silent! Do not mention names, for God's sake."Penreath's face had grown suddenly white.
"It is in your power to ensure my silence."
"How?"
"By speaking yourself."
"That I will never do."
"Then you compel me to go to the authorities and tell them what I havediscovered. I will save you in spite of yourself."
"Do you think that I want to be saved--like that?"
Struggling desperately for self-control Penreath turned to Mr. Oakham."Why did you bring Mr. Colwyn here?" he asked the solicitor fiercely."To torture me?"
Before Mr. Oakham could reply Colwyn laughed aloud. A clear ringinglaugh of unmistakable satisfaction. The laugh sounded strangelyincongruous in such a place.
"Penreath," he said, "you've told me all that I came here to know.You're a splendid young Briton, but finesse is not your strong point.You've acted like a quixotic young idiot in this case, and got yourselfinto a nice muddle for nothing. The girl is as innocent as you are, andyou are a pair of simpletons! Yes. I mean what I say," continued thedetective, answering the young man's amazed look with a reassuringsmile. "Do you think that I would want to save you at her expense? Nowperhaps, when I have told you what happened that night, you will answera few questions. Before you went to bed you sat down and wrote a letteron a leaf torn from your pocket-book. That letter was to MissWilloughby, breaking off your engagement. After writing it you went tobed. At that time it was raining hard.
"You must have fallen asleep almost immediately, and slept for half anhour--perhaps a little more--for when you awoke the rain had ceased. Youheard a slight noise in your room, and lit your candle to see what itwas. There was a rat in the corner of the room. You got up to throwsomething at it, but as soon as you moved the rat darted across the roomand disappeared behind the wardrobe at the side of the bed. You pushedback the wardrobe and----"
"For God's sake, say no more!" said Penreath. His face was grey, and hewas staring at the detective with the eyes of a man who saw his heart'ssecret--the secret for which he was prepared to die--being dragged outinto the light of day. "How did you learn all this?"
"That does not matter much just now. What you saw through the wall madeyou determine to leave the house as speedily as possible, and alsocaused you to destroy the letter you had written to Miss Willoughby.
"You were wrong in what you did. In the first place, you misinterpretedwhat you saw through the door in the wall. By thi
nking Peggy guilty andleaving the inn early in the morning, you not only wronged hergrievously, but brought suspicion on yourself. Peggy's presence in theroom was quite by accident. She had gone to ask Mr. Glenthorpe to assistyou in your trouble, by lending you money, and, finding the door open,she impulsively went in and found him dead--murdered. And at the bedsideshe picked up the knife--the knife you had used at dinner--and this."
Colwyn produced Penreath's match-box from his pocket and laid it on thetable in front of him.
"Because of the knife and this match-box she thought you guilty."
"I! Why I never left my room after I went into it," exclaimed Penreath."I left the match-box in the room where I had dined with Mr. Glenthorpe.When I awoke after falling asleep, and heard the noise in the room--justas you describe--I could not find my match-box when I wanted a match tolight my candle, then I remembered that I had left it in thesitting-room on the mantelpiece. I happened to find a loose match in myvest pocket."
"Peggy came to see me at my hotel, after the trial, and told me all sheknew," continued Colwyn. "It was well she did, for my second visit tothe inn brought to light a number of facts which will enable me toestablish your innocence."
"And what about the real murderer?" asked Penreath, in a hesitatingvoice, without looking at the detective.
"We will not go into that just now, unless you have anything to tell methat will throw further light on the events of the night." Colwyn shot akeen, questioning glance at the young man.
"I will answer any questions you wish to put to me. It is the least Ican do after having made such a fool of myself. It was the shock ofseeing Peggy in the room that robbed me of my judgment. I should haveknown her better, but you must remember that I had no idea she was inthe house until I looked through the door in the wall which I hadaccidentally discovered, and saw her standing at the bedside, with theknife in her hand. I started to follow her home that day because Iwished to know more about her. I lost my way in the mist. I met a man onthe marshes who directed me to the village and the inn."
"When she heard your voice, and saw you going upstairs, she waited aboutin the hope of seeing you before she went to bed, as she wished to avoidmeeting you in the presence of her father. When she saw Mr. Glenthorpe'sdoor open she acted on a sudden impulse, and went in."
"I have been rightly punished for my stupidity and my folly," saidPenreath. "I have wronged her beyond forgiveness."
"You really have not much to blame yourself for except your obstinatesilence. That was really too quixotic, even if things had been as youimagined. No man is justified in sacrificing his life foolishly. And youhad much to live for. You had your duty to do in life. Nobody knew thatbetter than you--a soldier who had served his country gallantly andwell. In fact, your silence has been to me one of the puzzles of thiscase, and even now it seems to me that you must have had a deeper motivethan that of shielding the girl, because you could have asserted yourinnocence without implicating her."
"You are a very clever man, Colwyn," said the other slowly. "There wasanother reason for my silence."
"What was it?"
"I am supposed to be an epileptic. I happen to know a little of thecourse of that frightful disease, and it seemed to me that it was betterto die--even at the hands of the hangman--than to live on to be a burdento my friends and relations, particularly when by dying I could shieldthe girl I loved. That is why I was glad when the plea put up for mydefence failed. I preferred to die rather than live branded as acriminal lunatic. So, you see, it was not such a great sacrifice on mypart, after all."
"What brought you back to the wood where you were arrested?"
"To see her. I do not know if I wanted to speak to her; but I wantedabove all things to see her once again. When I left the inn that morningI had no idea that I might fall under suspicion for having committed themurder, but I was desperately unhappy after what I had seen the nightbefore, and I didn't care what I did or where I went. Instead of walkingback to Durrington I struck across the marshes in the oppositedirection. I walked along all day, through a desolate area of marshes,meeting nobody except an old eel fisherman in the morning, and, lateron, a labourer going home from his work. I was very tired when I saw thelabourer, and I asked him to direct me to some place where I couldobtain rest and refreshment. He pointed to a short cut across themarshes, which, he said, led to a hamlet with an inn. I went along thepath he had pointed out, but I lost my way in the gathering darkness.After wandering about the marshes for some time I saw the light of acottage window some distance off, and went there to inquire my way. Theoccupant, an old peasant woman, could not have heard anything about themurder, for she was very kind to me, and gave me tea and food.Afterwards I set out for the inn again, and when I reached the road Isat down by the side of it to rest awhile.
"While I was sitting there two men came along. They did not see me inthe dark, and I heard them talking about the murder, and from what theysaid I knew that I was suspected, and that the whole country side wassearching for me. It seemed incredible to me, and my first instinct wasto fly. I sat there until the men's voices died away in the distance,then I turned off the road, and hurried across some fields, looking fora place to hide. After walking some distance I came to a large barn,standing by itself. The door was open, and I went in. I had no matches,but I felt some hay or straw on the floor. I lay down and pulled someover me, and fell fast asleep.
"I had only intended to rest in the barn for a while, but I was so tiredthat I slept all night. When I awoke it was broad daylight. I did notknow where I was at first, but it all came back to me, and I started upin a fright, determined to leave the barn as quickly as possible, for Iknew it was an unsafe hiding place, and likely to be searched at anytime. But before I could get away I heard loud voices approaching, and Iknew I should be seen. I looked hastily around for some place ofconcealment. It was just a big empty shed with one or two shelvescovered with apples, and a lot of straw on the floor. In desperation,as the voices came nearer, I lay down on the floor again, and pulledstraw over me till I was completely hidden from view.
"The door opened, and some men looked in. Through the straw that coveredme I could see them quite distinctly--three fishermen and a farmlabourer--though apparently they couldn't see me. From theirconversation I gathered that they formed part of a search party lookingfor me, and had been told off to search the barn. This apparently theywere not anxious to do, for they merely peeped in at the door, and oneof them, in rather a relieved tone, said I wasn't in there, wherever Iwas. One of the fishermen replied that he expected that I was far enoughoff by that time. They stood at the door for a few moments, talkingabout the murder, and then they went away.
"I stayed in the barn all day, but nobody else came near me. When it wasdark, I filled my pockets with apples from the shelves, and went out. Iwandered about all night, and found myself close to a railway station atdaybreak. I had been in that part of the country before, so I knew whereI was--not far from Heathfield, with Flegne about three miles awayacross the fields. The country was nearly all open, and consequentlyunsafe. As I walked through a field I spied a little hut, almost hiddenfrom view in a clump of trees. The door was open, and I could see it wasempty. I went in, lay down, and fell fast asleep.
"When I awoke it was getting dusk. I was very stiff and cold, so Istarted out walking again to get myself warm. It was then, I rememberwell, that the longing came over me to see Peggy again. I cursed myselffor my weakness, knowing what I knew--or thought I knew, God forgiveme.
"I found myself making my way back to Flegne as fast as my legs wouldcarry me--which wasn't very fast, because I was weak from want of food,and so footsore that I could hardly stumble along. But I got over thethree miles somehow, and reached the wood, where I crawled into someundergrowth, and lay there all night, sometimes dozing, sometimes wideawake, and sometimes a bit light-headed, I think. It was there you foundme next day, and I was glad you did. I was about finished when I saw youlooking through the bushes and only too glad to come out
. I didn't carewhat happened to me then. And now, I have told you all."
The young man, as he finished his story, buried his face in his hands,as though overcome by the recollection of the mental anguish he had beenthrough, and what he had endured.
"Not quite all, I think," said Colwyn, after a pause.
"I have told you everything that counts," said Penreath, without lookingup.
"You have not," replied the detective firmly. "You have not told me allyou saw when you were looking through the door between the two rooms thenight of the murder."
Penreath raised his head and regarded the other with startled eyes.
"What do you mean?" he said, in a whisper.
"I mean that you have kept back that you saw the body removed," he saidgrimly.
"Are you a man or a wizard?" cried Penreath fiercely. "God! how did youfind that out?"
"By guess work, if you like," responded the other coolly. "Listen to me!There has been too much concealment about this case already, so let ushave no more of it. It was because of what you saw afterwards that yoursuspicions were doubly fastened on the girl, is that not so? I thoughtas much," he continued, as the other nodded without speaking. "How longafter Peggy left the room was it before the body was removed?"
"Not very long," replied Penreath. "After she went out of the room I saton the bedside. I did not close the small door I had discovered, orreplace the wardrobe. I was too overwhelmed. In a little while--perhapsten minutes--I saw a light shine through the hole again. I went to itand looked through--God knows why--and I saw somebody walking stealthilyinto the room, carrying a candle. He went to the bedside and, with agroan, lifted the body on to his shoulders, and carried it out of theroom. I crept to my door, and looked out and saw him descending thestairs. God in heaven, what a horror, what a horror!
"I waited to see no more. I shut the door in the wall, pulled thewardrobe back into its place and determined to leave the accursed inn assoon as it was daylight. In my cell at nights, when I hear the footstepsof the warder sounding along the corridor and dying away in thedistance, it reminds me of how I stood at the door that night, listeningto the sound of the footsteps stumbling down the staircase."
"You heard the footsteps distinctly, then?" said the detective.
"Distinctly and clearly. The staircase is a stone one, as you know."
"Did you put your boots out to be cleaned before you went to bed?"
"Yes."
"And were they there when you looked out of the door?"
"I do not remember. But I know they were there in the morning, dirtyand covered with clay. I took them in, and was about to put them on,when the servant knocked at the door with a cup of morning tea. Ianswered the door with the boots in my hand. She offered to clean themfor me, and was taking them away, but I called her back and said I wouldnot wait for them. I was too anxious to get away from the place."
"Do you remember when you lost the rubber heel of one of them?"
"It must have been when I was walking the previous day. They were onlyput on the day before. I happened to mention to a bootmaker atDurrington that my left heel had become jarred with walking. Herecommended me to try rubber heels to lessen the strain, and he put themon for me. I had never worn them before, and found them veryuncomfortable when I was walking along the marshes. They seemed to holdand stick in the wet ground."
"And now there are one or two other points I want you to make clear. Whydid you register in the name of James Ronald at the Durrington Hotel?"
"That was merely a whim. I was disgusted with London and society aftermy return from the front. Those who have been through this terrible warlearn to see most things at their true worth, and the frivolity, thesnobbishness, and the shams of London society at such a time sickenedand disgusted me. They tried to lionise me in drawing rooms and make metalk for their entertainment. They put my photograph in the illustratedpapers, and interviewed me, and all that kind of thing. What had I done!Nothing! Not a tithe of what thousands of better men are doing every dayout there. So I went away from it all. I had no intention, when I wentinto the hotel, of not registering in my full name though. That cameabout in a peculiar way. It was the first registration form I hadseen--it was the first hotel I had stayed at after nearly eighteenmonths at the front--and I put down my two christian names, JamesRonald, in the wrong space, the space for the surname, which is thefirst column. I saw my error as I glanced over the form, but the girl,thinking I had filled it up, took it away from me. It then struck methat it was just as well to let it go; it would prevent my being worriedby fools."
"And how came it that you ran so short of money that you had to leavethe hotel?"
"I have practically nothing except what my father allows me, and whichis paid quarterly through his bankers in London. I left London with afew pounds in my pocket, and thought no more about money until the hotelproprietor stopped me one morning and asked me politely to discharge mybill, as I was a stranger to him. It was then that I first realised thedifference between a name like Penreath of Twelvetrees and plain JamesRonald. I was furious, and told him he should have the money in twodays, as soon as I could communicate with my London bankers. I wrotestraight away, and asked them to send me some money. The money came, themorning I was turned out of the hotel; I saw the letter in the rack,addressed to J. R. Penreath, but what good was that to me? I could notclaim it because I was booked in the name of James Ronald. I knew nobodyin the place to whom I could apply. I had some thoughts of confiding inthe hotel proprietor, but one look at his face was sufficient to putthat out of the question.
"So I went in to breakfast, desperately angry at being treated so, andfeeling more than a little ill. You know what happened at the breakfasttable. I began to feel pretty seedy, and left my place to get to thefresh air, when that doctor--Sir Henry Durwood--jumped up and grabbedme. I tried to push him off, but he was too strong for me, and I foundmyself going. The next thing I knew was that I was lying in my bedroom,and hearing somebody talk. After you had left the room I determined toleave the hotel as quickly as possible. I packed a small handbag, andtold the hotel-keeper on my way downstairs that he could keep my thingsuntil I paid my bill. Then I walked to Leyland Hoop, where I had anappointment with Peggy, as you know. I seem to have acted as a prettyconsiderable ass all round," said the young man, with a rueful smile."But I had a bad gruelling from shell-shock. I wouldn't mention this,but it's really affected my head, you know, and I don't think I'm alwaysquite such a fool as this story makes me appear to be."
"And your nerves were a bit rattled by the Zeppelin raid at Durrington,were they not?" said Colwyn sympathetically.
"You seem to know everything," said the young man, flushing. "I amashamed to say that they were."
"You have no cause to be ashamed," replied Colwyn gently. "The bravestmen suffer that way after shell-shock."
"It's not a thing a man likes to talk about," said Penreath, after apause. "But if you have had experience of this kind of thing, will youtell me if you have ever seen a man completely recover--fromshell-shock, I mean?"
"I should say you will be quite yourself again shortly. There cannot bevery much the matter with your nerves to have stood the experience ofthe last few weeks. After we get you out of here, and you have had agood rest, you will be yourself again."
"And what about this other thing--this _furor epilepticus_, whatever itis?" asked Penreath, anxiously.
"As you didn't murder anybody, you haven't had the epileptic fury,"replied Colwyn, laughing.
"But Sir Henry Durwood said at the trial that I was an epileptic,"persisted the other.
"He was wrong about the _furor epilepticus_, so it is just as likelythat he was wrong about the epilepsy. His theory was that you were goingto attack somebody at the breakfast table of the hotel, and you havejust told us that you had no intention of attacking anybody--that youronly idea was to get out of the room. You are neither an epileptic norinsane, in my opinion, but at that time you were suffering from theafter effects of shell-s
hock. Take my advice, and forget all about thetrial and what you heard there, or, if you must think of it, rememberthe excellent certificate of sanity and clear-headedness which thedoctors for the Crown gave you! When you get free I'll take you to halfa dozen specialists who'll probably confirm the Crown point of view."
Penreath laughed for the first time.
"You've made me feel like a new man," he said. "How can I thank you forall you have done?"
"The only way you can show your gratitude is by instructing Mr. Oakhamto lodge an appeal for you--at once. Have you the necessary forms withyou, Mr. Oakham?"
"I have," said the solicitor, finding voice after a long silence.
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