For Inspector Jennings, or whom it may concern: I have heard the whole story now, from Dr. Fell, and he has heard mine. I am quite composed. It vaguely occurs to me that on legal documents one is supposed to put down 'of sound mind,' or some such terms, but I trust I shall be forgiven if I do not adhere strictly to the prescribed form. I do not know it.
Let me try to be frank. This is easy, inasmuch as I shall shoot myself when I have finished writing. For a moment I had entertained the idea of shooting Dr. Fell during our talk a few minutes ago. However, there was only one bullet in the pistol. When I confronted him with it, he made a gesture of a rope being put about his neck; and upon reflection I could easily perceive that such a clean exit is better than hanging, so I put away the weapon. I hate Dr. Fell, I confess I genuinely hate him, for having exposed me, but I must think of my own welfare above all others, and I have no wish to be hanged. They say it is very painful, and I could never bear pain with fortitude.
To begin with, let me say in all justice to myself, as a last word, that I think the world has shabbily used me. I am not a criminal. I am a man of education and parts; an ornament, I believe, to any society in which I move. This has been partly my consolation. My real name I will not give, nor too much of my background, lest it should be traced: but I was actually, at one time, a student of theology. My dismissal from a certain seminary was due to unfortunate circumstances — such circumstance as may involve any young man of robust and healthy nature who is not enervated by worship from the appeal of a pretty girl. That I had stolen money I do to this day deny, or that I had attempted to place the blame on another of my fellow students.
My parents, not understanding, refused to sympathize. I could not help thinking even then that the world has a shabby treatment for its most favored sons. Let me be brief: I could not obtain employment. My gifts were such that I could have advanced rapidly had I had the opportunity, but I got no opportunities, save menial ones. I borrowed money from an aunt (she is dead now; in pace requiescat!); I went about the world, I knew poverty-yes, and for one day I was hungry-and I grew weary. I wished to settle down, to be comfortable, to be respected, to use my powers, and to taste the sweets of ease.
On a liner from New Zealand, something more than three years ago, I met young Thomas Audley Saunders. He told me that the influence of a certain Sir Benjamin Arnold, an old friend of his uncle's who had never seen the nephew, had obtained him this new and splendid position. Knowing theology well, I became his friend on the long voyage. I need not dwell on it. The poor fellow died shortly after he reached England. It was only then that the thought occurred to me that I should disappear and a new Thomas Saunders should appear at Chatterham. I did not fear discovery. I knew enough of his history to take his place, and his uncle never left Auckland. I should have to keep up a correspondence, of course, but by typing my infrequent letters and practising the signature on Saunders' passport until I had an excellent imitation, I was safe from discovery. He had been educated at Eton, but his collegiate and theological courses were taken at St. Boniface's in New Zealand, and it was unlikely that I should come upon an old friend.
The life, while pleasant and pastoral, was hardly stimulating. I was a gentleman, but-like all others — I wished to be a rich and roving gentleman. It was necessary, however, to keep a curb upon my appetites so that my sermons might be really instructive and sincere; I say with pride that I kept the parish accounts straight, and only once-on pain of severe necessity, when a serving-girl of the county threatened scandal for being attacked — did I tamper with these. But I wish to live a more pleasant life; say, in continental hotels, with many servants and a fling at amorousness now and then.
In my talk with Dr. Fell. I have learned that he knows almost everything. I had made the same deductions from old Anthony Starberth's diary — which Mr. Timothy Starberth kindly showed me-as Dr. Fell made over three years later. I determined that there must be money hidden in the well at the Hag's Nook. If it were negotiable- jewels or bullion, say — I could presently resign and disappear.
I need not dwell on this part. Chance, vile chance, entered again. Why does God permit such things? I had found the cache, and to my delight it proved to be precious stones. Through my earlier experiences I was aware of a trustworthy man in London who could engineer sales at Antwerp in a most satisfactory fashion…. I dislike that word 'engineer.' It destroys what some have been so kind as to call the Addisonian purity of my prose style; but let it stand…. Let me say again, I found the stones. I estimated that their value might be conservatively placed at about five thousand pounds.
It was (I remember it distinctly) the afternoon of the eighteenth of October when I made this discovery. As I was on my knees in the hiding-place, prying open the iron box which contained these stones; and shielding my candle from outside observation, I thought that I heard a noise in the well outside. I was just in time to see the rope quivering, and a thin leg disappear from the mouth of the opening, and I heard Mr. Timothy Starberth's unmistakable laugh. Undoubtedly he had noticed something amiss in the well. He had climbed down, seen me at work, and was now going up to laugh. I may here say that he had always a most inexplicable dislike, nay, hatred, for the church and all holy things, and his attitude had at times amounted almost to blasphemy. He, of all people, could work me the most harm. Even if he had not seen my find (and I did not doubt he had) his mirth at finding me thus employed would wreck all my hopes.
Here I must point out a curious feature of my own character. There are times when I seem absolutely to lose control over my reflex actions, and when I seem almost to enjoy inflicting physical pain. Even as a child I had buried rabbits alive and torn the wings from flies. In maturity this often amounts to a certain bewildered activity — which I find difficult to remember, and strive to conceal, and which has often frightened me… But let me go on. I found him standing at the top of the well, waiting for me when I came up, his riding-clothes soaking wet. He was doubled up in laughter and slapping his knee with his crop. The precious box was buttoned up in my coat; in my hand I had the small crowbar.
When his elaborate laughter had turned him almost with his back to me, I struck. I took delight in striking him many times, even after he had fallen. I cannot boast that at this time the plan I conceived was at full maturity; but it took shape presently, and I resolved to turn the Starberth legend of broken necks to profitable use.
I broke his neck with the iron bar, and left him in a thicket at twilight, whistling his horse near me.
My fright may be readily imagined when, later on and in a calmer moment, I learned that he was not dead and wished to see me. Dr. Fell has just recently told me that it was this fact which first made him suspicious of me — i.e., that Timothy Starberth should ask for me to be summoned to his bedside, and that I should see him alone: My natural agitation after that interview, which I could scarcely conceal, did not go unnoticed by Dr. Fell. Mr. Starberth told me — in brief — what Dr. Fell already outlined to us all the other day, namely the plan for putting a statement of my guilt into the vault of the Governor's Room, so that a conviction for murder should hang over my head throughout three years. When I heard him tell me this, I did not know what course to pursue. I thought of flying at his throat, but that would only mean a cry and instant apprehension. Given three years, I thought, and I could surely find a means of circumventing his purpose. When I returned to the others, I was careful to implant in their minds the belief that the old man was mad — lest, in an unguarded moment, he should betray me before he died.
Nor need I discuss here the many plans I evolved for stealing that paper. They came to nothing. Instead of being able to resign and leave Chatterham, I was now powerless. In three years, certainly, I might put a deal of ground between myself and Lincolnshire, but there was this overwhelming reason against flight:
If I disappeared, an inquiry would be instituted for Thomas Saunders. It must inevitably be revealed that the real Thomas Saunders was dead — unless, of course, I could step forward whenever they searched for me, and stop investigations. If I were free, without this murder charge in the Governor's Room vault hanging over me, I could always step forward: I could be merely Thomas Saunders resigned from his pastorate. But if I were Thomas Saunders the fugitive — as I must be always — then they would discover what had happened to the real clergyman from Auckland and I should be thought guilty of foul play against him. In either case, I should be faced with a murder charge if I disappeared then. The only course was in some fashion to purloin that paper from the safe.
I therefore set about making a confidant of young Mr. Martin Starberth before his departure for America. Without being accused of lack of modesty, I think I may say that my powers of personality, are sufficient to make a staunch friend of whomever I choose. I did this with Martin, whom I found a trifle conceited and headstrong, but otherwise a very amiable young man. He told me about the keys to the vault, the conditions, everything concerning his duties on the evening of his twenty-fifth birthday. Even at that date, some two years ago, he was uneasy. As time went on, I saw by his letters from America that the fear had become almost pathological (if I may use the word), and that I might turn to good account both this fact and the well-known devotion of his cousin Herbert to the more brilliant Martin. My purpose was, of course, to gain possession of the paper; it was unfortunate that I should be compelled to kill Martin in so doing — indeed, I liked the young man — and, as a corollary, to encompass the
