After the murder Mr. Emilius had been arrested, and had been kept in durance for a week. Miss Meager had been sure that he was innocent; Mrs. Meager had trusted the policemen, who evidently thought that the clergyman was guilty. Of the policemen who were concerned on the occasion, it may be said in a general way that they believed that both the gentlemen had committed the murder—so anxious were they not to be foiled in the attempts at discovery which their duty called upon them to make. Mr. Meager had left the house on the morning of the arrest, having arranged that little matter of the five-pound note by a compromise. When the policeman came for Mr. Emilius, Mr. Meager was gone. For a day or two the lodger’s rooms were kept vacant for the clergyman till Mrs. Meager became quite convinced that he had committed the murder, and then all his things were packed up and placed in the passage. When he was liberated he returned to the house, and expressed unbounded anger at what had been done. He took his two boxes away in a cab, and was seen no more by the ladies of Northumberland Street.
But a further gleam of prosperity fell upon them in consequence of the tragedy which had been so interesting to them. Hitherto the inquiries made at their house had had reference solely to the habits and doings of their lodger during the last few days; but now there came to them a visitor who made a more extended investigation; and this was one of their own sex. It was Madame Goesler who got out of the cab at the workhouse corner, and walked from thence to Mrs. Meager’s house. This was her third appearance in Northumberland Street, and at each coming she had spoken kind words, and had left behind her liberal recompense for the trouble which she gave. She had no scruples as to paying for the evidence which she desired to obtain—no fear of any questions which might afterwards be asked in cross-examination. She dealt out sovereigns—womanfully, and had had Mrs. and Miss Meager at her feet. Before the second visit was completed they were both certain that the Bohemian converted Jew had murdered Mr. Bonteen, and were quite willing to assist in hanging him.
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Mrs. Meager, “he did take the key with him. Amelia remembers we were a key short at the time he was away.” The absence here alluded to was that occasioned by the journey which Mr. Emilius took to Prague, when he heard that evidence of his former marriage was being sought against him in his own country.
“That he did,” said Amelia, “because we were put out ever so. And he had no business, for he was not paying for the room.”
“You have only one key.”
“There is three, Ma’am. The front attic has one regular because he’s on a daily paper, and of course he doesn’t get to bed till morning. Meager always takes another, and we can’t get it from him ever so.”
“And Mr. Emilius took the other away with him?” asked Madame Goesler.
“That he did, Ma’am. When he came back he said it had been in a drawer—but it wasn’t in the drawer. We always knows what’s in the drawers.”
“The drawer wasn’t left locked, then?”
“Yes, it was, Ma’am, and he took that key—unbeknownst to us,” said Mrs. Meager. “But there is other keys that open the drawers. We are obliged in our line to know about the lodgers, Ma’am.”
This was certainly no time for Madame Goesler to express disapprobation of the practices which were thus divulged. She smiled, and nodded her head, and was quite sympathetic with Mrs. Meager. She had learned that Mr. Emilius had taken the latchkey with him to Bohemia, and was convinced that a dozen other latchkeys might have been made after the pattern without any apparent detection by the London police. “And now about the coat, Mrs. Meager.”
“Well, Ma’am?”
“Mr. Meager has not been here since?”
“No, Ma’am. Mr. Meager, Ma’am, isn’t what he ought to be. I never do own it up, only when I’m driven. He hasn’t been home.”
“I suppose he still has the coat.”
“Well, Ma’am, no. We sent a young man after him, as you said, and the young man found him at the Newmarket Spring.”
“Some water cure?” asked Madame Goesler.
“No, Ma’am. It ain’t a water cure, but the races. He hadn’t got the coat. He does always manage a tidy great coat when November is coming on, because it covers everything, and is respectable, but he mostly parts with it in April. He gets short, and then he—just pawns it.”
“But he had it the night of the murder?”
“Yes, Ma’am, he had. Amelia and I remembered it especial. When we went to bed, which we did soon after ten, it was left in this room, lying there on the sofa.” They were now sitting in the little back parlour, in which Mrs. and Miss Meager were accustomed to live.
“And it was there in the morning?”
“Father had it on when he went out,” said Amelia.
“If we paid him he would get it out of the pawnshop, and bring it to us, would he not?” asked the lady.
To this Mrs. Meager suggested that it was quite on the cards that Mr. Meager might have been able to do better with his coat by selling it, and if so, it certainly would have been sold, as no prudent idea of redeeming his garment for the next winter’s wear would ever enter his mind. And Mrs. Meager seemed to think that such a sale would not have taken
