Chapter 9

A Terrible Suspicion

Eight o'clock in the evening by the remarkably incorrect clock on the mantelpiece, eight-thirty by Mr. Fanks' watch, which was never wrong, and that gentleman was seated in a private room of the "Foundryman Hotel" waiting the arrival of Roger Axton.

The "Foundryman" was not a first-class hotel, nor was the private room a first-class apartment, but it was comfortable enough, and Mr. Fanks was too much worried in his own mind to pay much attention to his personal wants. He was much disturbed about his old schoolfellow, as everything now seemed to point to Axton as a possible murderer--the conversation at Jarlchester, the evidence of Dr. Japix, the delicately insinuated suspicions of Judas--it seemed as though no doubt could exist but that Roger Axton was the person responsible for the death of Sebastian Melstane.

In spite, however, of all this circumstantial evidence, the detective hoped against hope, and resolved within his own honest heart not to believe Roger guilty until he had heard his explanation of the affair. He knew well that circumstantial evidence was not always to be depended upon, and Axton's prompt arrival in answer to his letter had inspired him with the belief that the young man must be innocent, otherwise he would hardly dare to place himself in a position of such peril. So Mr. Fanks, with the perplexity of his mind showing even in his usually impassive face, sat watch in hand, awaiting Roger's arrival and casting absent glances round the room.

A comfortable room enough in an old-fashioned way! All the furniture seemed to have been made at that primeval period when Ironfields was a village, but here and there some meretricious hotel decoration spoiled the effect of the whole. Heavy mahogany arm-chairs, a heavy mahogany table, a heavy mahogany sideboard stood on a gaudy carpet with a dingy white ground, and sprawling red roses mixed with painfully green leaves. An antique carved mantelpiece, all Cupids and flowers and foliage, but on it a staring square mirror with an ornate gilt frame swathed in yellow gauze, and in front of this a gimcrack French timepiece, with an aggressively loud tick, vividly painted vases of coarse china containing tawdry paper flowers, and two ragged fans of peacock's feathers. The curtains of the one window were drawn, a cheerful fire burned under the antique mantelpiece with its modern barbarisms, and an evil-smelling lamp, with a dull, yellow flame, illuminated the apartment. Mr. Fanks himself sat in a grandfatherly armchair drawn close to the fire, and pondered over the curious aspect of affairs, while the rain outside swept down the crooked street, and the wind howled at the window as if it wanted to get in to the comfortable warmth out of the damp cold.

A knock at the door disturbed the sombre meditations of Octavius, and in response to his answer, Roger walked into the room with a flushed face and a somewhat nervous manner. He did not attempt to shake hands (feeling he had no right to do so until he had explained his previous behaviour at Jarlchester), but sat down near the fire, opposite to his friend, and looked rather defiantly at the impassive face of that gentleman, who gave him a cool nod.

"Well," he said, at length, breaking a somewhat awkward silence, "I've lost no time in answering your letter."

"I'm glad of that, Roger," responded Fanks, gravely; "it gives me great hopes."

"How? That I'm not a criminal, I suppose."

Fanks said nothing, but looked sadly at the suspicious face of the young man.

"Silence gives consent, I see," said Axton, throwing himself back in his chair, with a harsh laugh. "Well, I'm sorry a man I thought my friend should think so ill of me."

"What else can I think, Roger?"

"He calls me Roger," said Axton, with an effort at gaiety. "Why not the prisoner at the bar--the convict in the jail--the secret poisoner?"

"Because I believe you to be none of the three, my friend," replied Fanks, candidly.

Roger looked at him with a sudden flush of shame, and involuntarily held out his hand, but drew it back quickly, before the other could clasp it.

"No, not yet," he said, hastily; "I will not clasp your hand in friendship until I clear myself in your eyes. You demand an explanation. Well, I am here to give it."

"I am glad of that," replied Fanks for the second time. "I'm quite aware," continued Roger, flushing, "that now you are at Ironfields you must be aware that I concealed certain facts in my conversation with you."

"Yes! You said you had not been to Ironfields, and that you did not correspond with Miss Varlins. Both statements were false."

"May I ask on whose authority you speak so confidently?" demanded Axton, coldly.

"Certainly. On the authority of Dr. Japix."

"Japix!" repeated Roger, starting, "do you know him?"

"Yes! I met him some time ago in Manchester, and I renewed my acquaintance with him down here."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted him to analyse those pills found in Melstane's room after his death."

He looked sharply at Roger as he spoke, but that young man met his gaze serenely and without flinching, which seemed to give Fanks great satisfaction, for he withdrew his eyes with a sigh of relief.

"Octavius," said Roger, after a pause, "do you remember our conversation at Jarlchester?"

Mr. Fanks deliberately produced his secretive little note-book and tapped it delicately with his long fingers.

"The conversation is set down here."

"Oh," said Roger, with sardonic politeness. "I was not aware you carried your detective principles so far as to take a note of interviews with your friends."

"I don't do it as a rule," responded Fanks, coolly; "but I had an instinct that our interview might be useful in connection with Melstane's case. I was right, you see. Roger," he cried, with a burst of natural feeling, "why did you not trust me?"

Roger turned away his face, upon which burned a flush of shame.

"Because I was afraid," he replied, in a low voice.

"Of being accused of the murder?"

"Yes!"

"But you can exculpate yourself?" said Fanks, in a startled tone.

"I hope so," replied Roger, gloomily; "but on my word of honour, Fanks, I am innocent. Have you read 'Edwin Drood'?"

"Yes!" responded Fanks, rather puzzled at what appeared to be an irrelevant question, "several times."

"Do you remember what Dickens says in that novel?" said Axton, slowly. "'Circumstances may accumulate so strongly even against an innocent man that, directed, sharpened, and pointed, they may slay him.'"

"True, true," answered Fanks, approvingly nodding his head; "such things have occurred before."

"And may occur again," cried Axton, with a look of apprehension. "I know that you suspect me; I know that circumstantial evidence could be brought against me which would put my life in danger; but on my soul, Fanks, I am innocent of Melstane's death."

"I feel certain you are," answered Octavius, gently; "but, as you say, circumstances are strong against you. Tell me everything without reserve, and I may be able to advise you; otherwise, I am completely in the dark."

"I believe you are my friend, Fanks," said Roger, earnestly. "I believe you know me too well to think I would be guilty of such a dreadful crime. Yes; I will tell you everything, and place myself unreservedly in your hands. But first tell me how it is you are so sure it was murder and not suicide!"

"Certainly! It is well we should both be on common ground for the better understanding of your explanation. Regarding the death of this Melstane, I own that at Jarlchester I was half inclined to believe in the suicide theory, and had it not been for the name Ironfields on that pill-box, which gave me a clue, would probably have acquiesced in the verdict of the jury. Following up the clue, however, I went to the chemists, Wosk & Co.'s, where the pills were made up, and discovered that originally there were twelve in the box. I could account for the disposal of six, so that ought to have left a balance of half-a-dozen."

"True! but if I remember, when I counted them at Jarlchester there were eight."

"Exactly! Two extra pills were placed in that box by some unknown person whom I believe to be the murderer of Melstane."

"Why?"

"Because I took the pills to Dr. Japix, and he analysed the whole eight; seven were harmless tonic pills, the eighth compounded of deadly morphia."

"What!" cried Roger, starting to his feet, "and Melstane died of morphia!"

"He did! Now do you understand? The murderer, whoever he was, placed two morphia pills sufficient to cause death in the box. Melstane took one in complete innocence and died, the other was analysed by Japix and found to contain sufficient morphia to kill two men."

"It's wonderful how you have worked it out," said Roger, with hearty admiration; "but how do you connect me with the murder?"

"I did not say I connected you with the murder," replied Fanks, hastily; "I only said there were suspicious circumstances against you. For instance, you had morphia pills in your possession."

"How do you know that?" asked Roger, with a start of surprise.

"Japix told me."

"Yes, and Japix prescribed them," cried Axton, starting to his feet. "I own that does look suspicious; but I can set your mind at rest on that point. Will you permit me to withdraw for a moment?"

"Don't talk nonsense, Roger," said Fanks, angrily; "of course I will."

Axton said nothing, but left the room, leaving Fanks considerably puzzled as to the cause of his departure. In a few minutes, however, he returned and placed in the detective's hands a box of pills.

"There," he said, resuming his seat, "if you count those pills you will find there are eleven. The original number was twelve; I only took one, and finding it did me no good, left the rest in the box. Am I correct?"

"You are," replied Fanks, who had counted the pills; "there are eleven here."

"If you have any further doubts, you can ask Wosk & Co., who made up the pills."

"There is no need. I believe you."

"But I would prefer your doing so," said Roger, urgently.

"Very well," replied Fanks, calmly putting the box in his pocket; "I will see about it to-morrow. But now you have set my mind at rest on this point, and I have told you my story, tell me yours."

Roger paled a little at this request, and remained silent for a few moments.

"Fanks," he said at last, with great solemnity, "you have your suspicions of me now, and perhaps when I tell you all, you may consider them to be confirmed. What then?"

"What then?" echoed Fanks, cheerfully. "Simply this. Knowing your character as I do, I don't believe you would be guilty of a cold-blooded murder, so when you tell me your story we will put our heads together and try to find out the true criminal."

"I'll be only too glad to do that," said Roger, gratefully, "if only to regain your confidence which I have lost."

"Well, go on with your story."

"I told you a good deal of it at Jarlchester," replied Axton, looking at the fire thoughtfully; "but I will reveal now what I concealed then. The first time I met Judith Varlins was in this town. I came down with letters of introduction from a London friend to Mr. Marson, and he made me free of his house--in fact, he wanted me to stay there; but though I am poor I am proud, so preferred to put up at Binter's Boarding-house."

"Yes, I know that place."

"How so?"

"I went there to see a Monsieur Guinaud."

"Then you saw an uncommonly good specimen of a scoundrel. He was a great friend of Melstane's, and they both hated me like poison. I don't know why Judas--that's his nickname here--did, but Melstane had a grudge against me because I put a stop to his secret meetings with Florry Marson by telling Judith."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because Melstane was such an out-and-out scoundrel that I did not want him to marry that silly little thing. If he had done so, he would have broken her heart. Well, when Judith became aware of these meetings, she took Florry off to Ventnor. I escorted them to London, where they stayed for a time, and then went on to the Isle of Wight. Shortly afterwards I followed them. I told you all that took place there. On our return to Ironfields about the middle of October, I believed Melstane met Florry by stealth, and I taxed him with it. We had a furious row, and I went off to London. While there I received a letter from Miss Varlins, telling me that Florry was engaged to Mr. Spolger, and that Melstane was leaving Ironfields for Jarlchester."

"How did she know that?" asked Fanks, sharply.

"I don't know; perhaps Florry told her. She, of course, could easily learn it from her lover; but what puzzles me is why Melstane went to Jarlchester at all."

"You have no idea?" said Octavius, looking at him keenly.

"Not the least in the world. I'm quite at sea as to his reasons."

"Humph! Go on!"

"Judith asked me to go to Jarlchester and await the arrival of Melstane, in order to obtain from him a packet of letters written by Florry, which he had in his possession."

"Yes," said Fanks, eagerly; "go on!"

"I went down to Jarlchester ostensibly on a walking tour, and received a second letter from Judith, telling me Melstane had left Ironfields, and was on his way down. On the day he was expected to arrive, I went for a walk, intending to return early. Unfortunately, however, I lost my way and did not get back until late at night. I found Melstane had arrived and gone to bed."

"Did you ask if Mr. Melstane had arrived?"

"No! I asked casually if a stranger had arrived, and they told me one had come from London, and described him, so of course I knew him at once."

"But why all this mystery?"

"Judith implored me to be careful," said Roger, quickly. "You see Florry's good name was at stake, and I wanted to get the packet of letters back with as little publicity as possible."

"Nevertheless, you rather overdid the mystery business! Well, what did you do when you found Melstane had gone to bed?"

"I went to bed also, and made up my mind to see him the next morning. Thinking of the letters, however, and knowing he was in the next room, I could not sleep, so as it was not then twelve o'clock, I thought I would go in and see him."

"Curious thing to make a visit to a man's room at that time."

"I dare say," replied Axton, tartly; "but you see, I was anxious to get the letters, and knowing that Melstane was a nervous man, particularly at night, I fancied I might get them back by playing on his fears."

"A most original idea!"

"Rather wild, perhaps, but not without merit. Well, I put on my things, took my candle, and went into his room."

"Ho! ho! so it was you that left the door ajar!"

"It was. I went into the room quietly, and saw he was sound asleep. On the table near the bed was a bundle of letters which he had evidently been reading."

"How did you know it was the bundle you wanted?"

"Because I recognised Miss Marson's writing on the top letter."

"Well, seeing that was the bundle you were in search of, what did you do?"

"Rather a mean thing--I stole them."

"Stole them! Upon my word, Roger, you are a nice young man!"

"In fighting with a man like Melstane, I had to make use of his own weapons," retorted Roger, coolly. "It seems dishonourable to you for me to go into a man's room and steal a bundle of letters; but I was dealing with a scoundrel; those letters contained the honour of a young and inexperienced girl whom he held at his mercy. If I had awakened him there would have been a row, he would have raised the alarm, and I would have got into trouble, so I did the best thing--the only thing to be done under the circumstances and stole the letters."

"Did you see the pill-box when you were in the room?"

"No, I was in such a hurry to go, having once secured what I wanted, that I did not stop to look at anything, but went back to my room."

"Leaving the door of No. 37 ajar," said Fanks, reprovingly, "foolish man."

"Ah! you see I was not experienced in midnight burglaries."

"Well, after you got back to your own room, what did you do?"

"I went to bed and slept soundly. Next morning I sent the packet of letters to Judith, and went off on a stroll. When I came back at night, I was horrified to learn Sebastian Melstane was dead. The rest you know."

"When you spoke to me, did you really and truly believe he had committed suicide?"

"Yes, I did," replied Roger, honestly. "I thought he had found out the loss of the letters, and seeing that his hold over Florry Marson was lost, had committed suicide in desperation."

"How did you account for the morphia?"

"I didn't attempt to account for it. All I knew was that I had secured the letters, that Melstane was dead, and that Florry was safe."

"So that's all. I wish you had told me all this at Jarlchester."

"I tell you I was afraid to do so. Look how black the case appears against me. I fight with a man here; I follow him down to Jarlchester; I have morphia pills in my possession; I go into his room at night, and in the morning he is found dead of morphia. Why, if I had told all this, I would have been arrested. Florry's name would have come up. That infernal Monsieur Judas would have put his spoke in, and I would very probably have been hanged on circumstantial evidence."

"I don't wonder you were afraid," replied Octavius, thoughtfully; "but seeing I was your friend, you might just as well have trusted me."

"You are a detective."

"I am your old schoolfellow."

"Then you believe I am innocent?"

"I do. If you were guilty, you would not have told a story so dead against yourself."

"Will you shake hands, then?" asked Roger, colouring and holding out his hand.

"By all means," replied Fanks, solemnly, and the two friends shook hands with honest fervour.

"Now, then," said Octavius, when this ceremony was concluded, "the next thing to be done is to find out who killed Melstane."

"It's an impossibility," cried Roger, in despair.

"No, I don't say that," answered Fanks, coolly. "At Jarlchester I had nothing to go upon, and yet look what I've discovered."

"You are a genius, Octavius."

"Egad! I've need to be to unravel this case," said Octavius, smiling. "It's the most difficult affair I ever took in hand."

"Do you suspect any one?"

"I can't say at present till I get things more in order. The first thing I want to know is, what were the contents of those letters?"

"I cannot tell you. I did not read them, of course, but simply packed them up and sent them to Miss Varlins."

"Oh, then she has got them?"

"No, she hasn't."

"Where are they, then?"

"Lost."

"Lost How so?"

"I can't tell you," said Roger, helplessly. "You see, Miss Varlins did not want them sent to the Hall, as Florry Marson might have got hold of them, and if she had, she's such a little fool, and was so much in love with Melstane, that she probably would have sent them straight back."

"Well, as they did not go to the Hall, where did they go?"

"To the post office in this place. The postmistress, however, knows Miss Varlins, and had the packet been addressed in that name, would have sent them up at once to the Hall. To make things safe, however, I directed the letters to Miss Judith, Post Office, Suburban Ironfields, and she was to call for them."

"I suppose she called?"

"Yes, every day, but the postmistress said no packet had arrived."

"Strange! The postal arrangements are very good as a rule. Letters don't often go astray. Addressed to Miss Judith, you say?"

"Yes."

Fanks pinched his chin thoughtfully between his finger and thumb, looked frowningly at the fire, and then looked up suddenly:

"Is the postmistress here intelligent?"

"No, the reverse. A snuffy old idiot."

"Oh!" said Fanks, smiling to himself; "then I wouldn't be surprised if she had delivered that packet to the wrong person."

"But there's no one else about here called Judith."

Mr. Fanks did not reply, but leaving his chair, went to the sideboard and brought back pen, ink, and paper, which he placed on the table near Roger.

"You're a very bad writer!" he said, calmly arranging the paper.

"No worse than the usual run of literary men."

"I'm sorry for the printers, if that is the case. The letter you sent me here, saying you were coming, is most illegible."

"Well, that letter has nothing to do with the case," said Roger, impatiently.

"I think it has a good deal to do with it, seeing it told me you were coming down here," replied Fanks, coolly. "However, this is not to the point. Take up that pen." Roger did so, looking considerably bewildered at the manner in which his friend was behaving.

"Now write me down the address you put on the packet." Axton obeyed quickly, and produced the following scrawl:

Roger did so with no idea of what his friend had in his mind.

"There," observed Fanks, when this was completed, "do you see much difference between Judith and Judas, according to your writing?"

"No," said Roger, honestly, looking at them, "I can't say that I do. But what do you mean?"

"I mean that the postmistress--old and stupid, as you say she is--has made a mistake, and delivered the packet to Monsieur Judas."

"Absurd!"

"Not at all. Judith Varlins is generally called Miss Varlins, I presume, so the Christian name Judith would not occur to this old woman. On the other hand, the odd name Judas would, and knowing that extraordinary-looking Frenchman to be called Judas, she--I mean the postmistress--would naturally hand the packet over to him."

"But surely he would refuse to receive it?"

"I don't know so much about that. In the first place, he might have thought the packet was for him, and in the second, his natural curiosity would make him take it home to examine. When he found what the packet contained, he kept it."

"But why should he keep it?"

"How dense you are, Roger!" said Fanks, irritably. "He was a friend of Melstane's, and seeing the letters were addressed to Melstane, he very likely kept them by him to return to his brother scamp."

"Then you think Monsieur Judas has the packet?"

"I'm certain of it. We'll call and see what we can do to-morrow."

"All right; but why are you so anxious to get the packet?"

"For several reasons. I believe that packet to contain letters to Melstane, not only from Miss Marson, but from her father also; and I further believe," continued Fanks, sinking his voice to a whisper, "that in that packet is contained the secret of Melstane's death."

"But you surely don't suspect Mr. Marson?" cried Roger, aghast.

Octavius rolled up the paper upon which Roger had been writing and threw it into the fire as he answered, with marked emphasis on the latter part of his reply:

"I suspect no one--at present."

Extracts From A Detective's Note-Book

". . . I feel much more at ease now I have seen Roger . . . He has explained away my suspicions . . . It is true that his story tells very much against him, but to my mind this fact assures me of his innocence, as no guilty man would tell a story so much against himself . . . Yes, I am sure he is not guilty . . . He acted foolishly in obeying Miss Varlins' instructions--in keeping the truth from me at Jarlchester . . . Nevertheless, his conduct has not been that of a guilty man, and whosoever poisoned Sebastian Melstane, it was certainly not Roger Axton . . .

". . . I am much troubled about the disappearance of those letters, and would like to see them . . . There must be something in them which may throw light on this mysterious affair . . . I have no grounds for declaring this, but I think so . . . If Mr. Marson, who did not want his daughter to marry Melstane, wrote, his letters must be in that packet . . . It is his letters I wish to see . . . Now, however, by the unfortunate mistake of the postmistress, the letters are in the possession of Judas . . . This again implicates him in the affair . . . I don't like the attitude of Judas at all . . . Could he--but no, it's impossible; he has no motive . . . Sebastian Melstane was his friend, so there was no reason he should wish him out of the way . . . I believe that Judas holds the letters in order to make capital out of them with Mr. Marson . . . I'll thwart him on the point, however . . .

"_Mem_.--To see the postmistress to-morrow and find out for certain if the packet was delivered--as I verily believe--to Judas."