“And you did not like going to bed in the dark; which shows that you had been foolishly brought up. Your mother was a sweet woman, but wanting in strength of mind.”
XLIV
Three Witnesses
In the forenoon of the following Tuesday John Treverton again appeared before the magistrate, at the Police-court in Bow Street.
The same witnesses were present who had been examined on the previous occasion. Two medical men gave their evidence as to the dagger, which had been sent to them for examination. One declared that the blade bore unmistakable traces of blood stains, and gave it as his opinion that steel once so sullied never lost the stain. The other stated that a steel blade wiped quickly while the blood upon it was wet would carry no such ineffaceable mark, and that the tarnished appearance of the dagger was referable only to time and atmosphere.
The inquiry dragged itself haltingly towards a futile close, when just as it seemed about to conclude, an elderly woman, wrapped in a thick gray shawl, and a cat-skin sable victorine, and further muffled with a Shetland veil tied over a close black bonnet, came forward, escorted by George Gerard, and volunteered her evidence. This was Mrs. Evitt, who was just well enough to crawl from a cab to the witness-box, leaning on the surgeon’s arm.
“Oh,” said the magistrate, when Jane Sophia Evitt had been duly sworn, “you are the landlady, are you? Why were you not here last Tuesday? You were subpoenaed, I believe.”
“Yes, your worship, though I was not in a state of health to bear it.”
“Oh, you were too ill to appear, were you? Well, what have you to say about the prisoner?”
“Please, your worship, he oughtn’t to be a prisoner. I ought to have up and spoke the truth sooner—it has preyed upon me awful that I didn’t do it—a sweet young wife, too.”
“What is the meaning of this rambling?” asked the magistrate, indignantly. “Is the poor creature delirious?”
“No, sir, I ain’t more delirious than your worship. My body has been all of a shiver—hot fits and cold fits—but thank God my mind has kep’ clear.”
“You really must not tell us about your ailments. What do you know of the prisoner?”
“Only that he’s as innocent as that lamb, yonder,” said Mrs. Evitt, pointing to a baby in the arms of a forlorn looking drab, from the adjacent rookeries of St. Giles’s, which had just set up a shrill squall, and was in process of being evicted by a policeman. “He had no more to do with it than that blessed infant that’s just been carried out of court.”
And then, continually beginning to wander, and being continually pulled up sharp by the magistrate, Mrs. Evitt told her ghastly story of the handful of iron-gray hair, and the bloodstained dressing-gown, hidden in the closet behind the bed in her two-pair back.
“Which is there to this day, as the police may find for themselves if they like to go and look,” concluded Mrs. Evitt.
“They will take care to do that,” said the magistrate. “Where is this Desrolles?”
“He is being looked for, sir,” replied Mr. Leopold, “If your worship will permit, there are two gentlemen in court who are in possession of facts that have a material bearing on this case.”
“Let them be sworn.”
The first of these two voluntary witnesses was Mr. Joseph Lemuel, the well-known stockbroker and millionaire, on whose appearance in the witness-box there was a sudden hush in the court, and profound attention from everyone, as at the presence of greatness.
Even that tag-rag and bobtail from adjacent St. Giles’s had heard of Joseph Lemuel. His name had been in the penny newspapers. He was a man who was supposed to make a million of money every time there was war in Europe, and to lose a million whenever there was a financial crisis.
“Do you know anything of this affair, Mr. Lemuel?” the magistrate asked, with an offhand friendliness, when the witness had been sworn, as much as to say, “It is really uncommonly good of you to trouble yourself about a fellow-creature’s fate; and I want to make the thing as light and as pleasant as I can, for your sake.”
“I think I may be able to afford a clue to the motive of the murderer,” said Mr. Lemuel, who seemed more moved than the occasion warranted. “I presented the unhappy lady with a necklace about a week before her death; and I have reason to fear that this gift may have been the cause of her terrible death!”
“Was the necklace of such value as to tempt a murderer?”
“It was not. But, to an uneducated eye, it appeared of great value. It was a gift which I offered to a lady whose talents I—as one of the outside public—enthusiastically admired.”
“Naturally,” assented the magistrate, as much as to say, “Don’t be frightened, my dear sir. I am not going to ask you any awkward questions.”
“It was a necklace I had bought in Paris, in the Palais Royal, a short time before. It was made by a man who had a speciality for these things. It would perhaps have deceived any eye except that of a diamond merchant, and might indeed have deceived a dealer, if he had judged by the eye alone. I gave fifty pounds for the necklace. It was exquisitely set, and really a work of art.”
“Did Madame Chicot suppose the stones were real?”
“I don’t know. I told her nothing about the necklace. It seemed to me a suitable offering to an actress, to whom appearances are as important as realities.”
“Madame Chicot made no inquiry as to the intrinsic value of your gift?”
“None. It was offered and accepted in silence.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“That is all.”
The next witness was Mr. Mosheh, the diamond merchant. His evidence consisted of a straight and succinct narrative of his interview with the stranger, who offered for sale a set of
