“He did it,” said Mrs. Evitt, whispering into the surgeon’s ear.
“How do you know? What ground have you for accusing him?”
“The best of grounds. There was a struggle between that poor creature and her murderer. When I went in to look at her as she lay there, before the doctor had touched her, one of her hands was clenched tight—as if she had clutched at something in her last gasp. In that clenched hand I found a tuft of iron-gray hair—just the colour of Desrolles’ hair. I could swear to it.”
“Is that all your evidence against Desrolles? The fact is strongly in favour of poor Treverton, and you were a wicked woman not to reveal it at the inquest; but you cannot condemn Desrolles upon the strength of a few gray hairs, unless you know of other evidence against him.”
“I do,” said Mrs. Evitt. “Dreadful evidence. But don’t say that I was a wicked woman because I didn’t tell it at the inquest. There was nobody’s life in danger. Mr. Chicot had got safe off. Why should I up and tell that which would hang Mr. Desrolles. He had always been a good lodger to me; and though I could never look at him after that time without feeling every drop of blood in my veins turned to ice, and though I was thankful to Providence when he left me, it wasn’t in me to tell that which would be his death.”
“Go on,” urged Gerard. “What was it you discovered?”
“When the policeman had come in and looked about him, Mr. Desrolles says, ‘I shall go to bed; I ain’t wanted no more here,’ and he goes back to his room, as quiet and as cool as if nothing had happened. When the sergeant came back half an hour afterwards, with a gentleman in plain clothes, which was neither more nor less than a detective, them two went into every room in the house. I went with them to show the way, and to open cupboards and suchlike. They went up into Mr. Desrolles’ room, and he was sleeping like a lamb. He grumbled a bit at us for disturbing him. ‘Look about as much as you like,’ he said, ‘as long as you don’t worry me. Open all the drawers. You won’t find any of ’em locked. I haven’t a very extensive wardrobe. I can keep count of my clothes without an inventory.’ ‘A very pleasant gentleman,’ said the detective afterwards.’ ”
“Did they find nothing?” asked Gerard.
“Nothing, yet they looked and pried about very careful. There’s only one closet in the second-floor back, and that’s behind the head of the bed. The bed’s a tent, with chintz curtains all round. They looked under the bed, and they even went so far as to move the chimney board and look up the chimney; but they didn’t move the bed. I suppose they didn’t want to disturb Mr. Desrolles, who had curled himself up in the bedclothes and gone off to sleep again. ‘I suppose there ain’t no cupboards in this room?’ says the detective. I was that tired of dancing attendance upon them, that I just gave my head a shake that might mean anything, and they went downstairs to the parlours to worrit Mrs. Rawber.”
Here Mrs. Evitt paused, as if exhausted by much speech.
“Come, old lady,” said Gerard kindly, “take a little of this barley water, and then go on. You are keeping me on tenterhooks.”
Mrs. Evitt drank, gasped two or three times, and continued—
“I don’t know what put it into my head, but after the two men was gone I couldn’t help thinking about that cupboard, and whether there mightn’t be something in it that the detective would like to have found. Mr. Desrolles came downstairs at eleven o’clock, and went out to get his breakfast—as he called it—but I knew pretty well when he went out of doors for his breakfast, he breakfasted upon brandy. If he wanted a cup of tea or a bloater, I got it for him; but there was mornings when he hadn’t appetite to pick a bit of bloater with a slice of bread and butter, and then he went out of doors.”
“Yes, yes,” assented Gerard, “pray go on.”
“When he was gone I put up the chain of the front door, so as to make sure of not being disturbed, and I went straight up to his room. I moved the bedstead, and opened the cupboard door. Mr. Desrolles had no key to the cupboard, for the key was lost when he first came to me, and though it had turned up afterwards, I hadn’t troubled to give it him. What did he want with keys, when all the property he had in the world wasn’t worth a five-pound note?”
“Go on, there’s a good soul.”
“I opened the cupboard. It was a queer, old-fashioned closet in the wall, and the door was papered over just the same as the room. It was so dark inside that I had to light a candle before I could see anything there. There was not much to see at first, even with the candle, but I went down upon my knees, and hunted in the dark corners, and at last I found Mr. Desrolles’ old chintz dressing-gown, rolled up small, and stuffed into the darkest corner of the cupboard, under a lot of rubbish. He had been wearing it only a day or two before, and I knew it as well as I knew him. I took it over to the window and unfolded it; and there was the evidence that told who had murdered that poor creature lying cold on her bed in the room below. The front of the dressing gown and one of the sleeves were soaked in blood. It must have flowed in torrents. The stains were hardly dry. ‘Good Lord!’ says I to myself, ‘this would hang him,’ and I takes and rolls the gown up
