The different policemen gave their narrations of the state of things—the open window, the position of the boat, &c. And the ticket-clerk at the small Blewer Station stated that at about 12.15 at night, Mr. Ward had walked in without baggage, and asked for a second-class ticket to London.
Leonard here interposed an inquiry whether he had not said a day ticket, and the clerk recollected that he had done so, and had spoken of returning by four o’clock; but the train, being reckoned as belonging to the previous day, no return tickets were issued for it, and he had therefore taken an ordinary one, and started by the mail train.
The London policeman, who had come down with Leonard, stated that, in consequence of a telegraphic message, he had been at the Paddington Station at 6.30 that morning; had seen a young gentleman answering to the description sent to him, asked if his name were Leonard Ward, and receiving a reply in the affirmative, had informed him of the charge, and taken him into custody. The bag that he placed on the table he had found on the young man’s person.
Every one was startled at this unexpected corroboration of the suspicion. It was a heavy-looking bag, of reddish canvas, marked with a black circle, containing the letters F. A. Gold; the neck tied with a string; the contents were sovereigns, and a note or two.
Dr. May looked piteously, despairingly, at Leonard; but the brow was still open and unclouded, the eye glanced back reassurance and confidence.
The policeman added that he had cautioned the young man to take care what he said, but that he had declared at once that his uncle had sent him to lodge the sum in Drummond’s Bank, and that he would show a receipt for it on his return.
The coroner then proceeded to examine Leonard, but still as a witness. Edward Anderson spoke to him in an undertone, advising him to be cautious, and not commit himself, but Leonard, rather impatiently thanking him, shook him off, and spoke with freedom and openness.
‘I have nothing to keep back,’ he said. ‘Of course I know nothing of this frightful murder, nor what villain could have got hold of the rifle, which, I am sorry to say, is really mine. Last evening I used it at drill and practice on Blewer Heath, and came home when it grew dusk, getting in at about half-past nine. I was then told by Mrs. Giles that my uncle wished to speak to me, and was displeased at my staying out so late. I went into his room as I was, and put my rifle down in a corner by the window, when he desired me to sit down and listen to him. He then told me that he wished to send me to town by the mail train, to take some cash to Drummond’s Bank, and to return by to-day’s four o’clock train. He said he had reasons for wishing no one to be aware of his opening an account there, and he undertook to explain my absence. He took the sum from the private drawer of his desk, and made me count it before him, L124 12s. in sovereigns and bank-notes. The odd money he gave me for my expenses, the rest I put in the bag that I fetched out of the office. He could not hold a pen, and could therefore give me no letter to Messrs. Drummond, but he made me write a receipt for the amount in his memorandum book. I wished him good night, and left him still sitting in his easy-chair, with the window open and the blind down. I found that I had forgotten my rifle, but I did not go back for it, because he disliked the disturbance of opening and shutting doors. While I was changing my dress, I saw from the window that some one was still about in the court, and knowing that my uncle wished me to avoid notice, I thought it best to let myself out by the passage window, as I had sometimes done in early mornings to bathe or fish, and go across the fields to Blewer Station. I got down into the garden, crossed in the punt, and went slowly by Barnard’s hatch; I believe I stopped a good many times, as it was too soon, and a beautiful moonlight night, but I came to Blewer soon after twelve, and took my ticket. At Paddington I met this terrible news.’
As the boy spoke, his bright eyes turned from one listener to another, as though expecting to read satisfaction on their faces; but as doubt and disbelief clouded all, his looks became almost constantly directed to Dr. May, and his voice unconsciously passed from a sound of justification to one of pleading. When he ceased, he glanced round as if feeling his innocence established.
‘You gave a receipt, Mr. Ward,’ said the coroner. ‘Will you tell us where it is likely to be?’
‘It must be either on or in my uncle’s desk, or in his pocket. Will some one look for it? I wrote it in his memorandum book—a curious old black shagreen book, with a silver clasp. I left it open on the desk to dry.’
A policeman went to search for it; and the coroner asked what the entry had been.
‘July 5th, 1860. Received, L120. L. A. Ward,’—was the answer. ‘You will find it about the middle of the book, or rather past it.’
‘At what time did this take place?’
‘It must have been towards ten. I cannot tell exactly, but it was later than half-past nine when I came in, and he was a good while bringing out the money.’
The policeman returned, saying he could not find the book; and Leonard begging to show where he had left it, the coroner and jury accompanied him to the room. At the sight of the red stain on the desk, a shuddering came over the boy, and a whiteness on his heated brow, nor could he at once recover himself so as to proceed with the search, which was still in vain; though with a voice lowered by the sickness of horror, he pointed out the place where he had laid it, and the pen he had used; and desk, table, drawer, and the dead man’s dress were carefully examined.
‘You must know it, Sam,’ said Leonard. ‘Don’t you remember his putting in the cheque—old Bilson’s cheque for his year’s rent—twenty-five pounds? I brought it in, and he put it away one day last week. You were sitting there.’
Sam stammered something of ‘Yes, he did recollect something of it.’
Inquiries were made of the other persons concerned with Mr. Axworthy. Hardy thought his master used such a book, but had never seen it near; Mrs. Giles altogether disbelieved its existence; and Sam could not be positive—his uncle never allowed any one to touch his private memorandums.
As, with deepened anxiety, Dr. May returned to the dining-room, he caught a glimpse of Henry Ward’s desponding face, but received a sign not to disclose his presence. Edward Anderson wrote, and considered; and the coroner, looking at his notes again, recurred to Leonard’s statement that he had seen some one in the yard.
‘I thought it was one of the men waiting to take my cousin Axworthy’s horse. I did not know whether he had ridden or gone by train; and I supposed that some one would be looking out for him.’
Questions were asked whether any of the servants had been in the yard, but it was denied by all; and on a more particular description of the person being demanded, Leonard replied that the figure had been in the dark shade of the stables, and that he only knew that it was a young man—whether a stranger or not he did not know; he supposed now that it must have been the—the murderer, but at the time he had thought it one of the stable- men; and as his uncle had particularly wished that his journey should be a secret, the sight had only made him hasten to put out his light, and depart unseen. It was most unfortunate that he had done so.
