The Goddess: A Demon/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX
THE REVELATIONS OF "MR. GEORGE WITHERS"
Miss Adair was a tall, commandingly built young woman, with about her more than a suggestion of muscularity. I had recognized her at once. On the stage she was accustomed to play the part of the dashing adventuress; the sort of person who could not, under any possible circumstances, be put down. I realized that she might be disposed to carry something of her stage manner into actual life. She confronted me as if I were some despised, but lifelong enemy, whose attacks she was prepared to resist at every point.
"When are you going to tell me what has happened to Bessie? In the first place, where is she?"
"She's at Imperial Mansions."
"What's she doing there?"
"She's in charge of the housekeeper—Mrs. Peddar."
"In charge! What do you mean?"
"Miss Moore is not—not herself."
"You men have been playing some trick on her. You shall pay for it dearly if you have!"
I caught her by the arm; she evincing a strong inclination to rush off to Imperial Mansions there and then.
"Miss Moore came through my bedroom window, at an early hour this morning, in—a curious condition."
"Your bedroom window! This morning! She must have been in a curious condition!"
"A man was murdered in the building about the same time that she appeared at the window. His set of chambers are on the same floor as mine; they communicate by the balcony along which she came. When she entered the cloak she wore was soaked in blood, and her hands were wet with it."
Miss Adair drew back, staring at me with distended eyes.
"Man! Are you a man, or are you a devil? Do you dare to hint that Bessie, my Bessie Moore, could by any possibility be guilty of murder!"
"I simply state to you the facts. That she was in the dead man's room there is irrefutable evidence to show; that she had anything to do with his murder I do not for a moment believe—I am as convinced of her innocence as you can be. My theory is that she was an unwilling witness of what took place, and that the horror of it temporarily unhinged her brain."
"Is she—mad?"
"No; but she suffers from entire loss of memory. Her life might have commenced with her entrance through my window; she can remember nothing of what occurred before, not even her own name. I believe that if she could be brought to recall what she actually saw take place, her innocence would be at once made plain."
"What is the name of the man who was—murdered?" I told her. "Lawrence? Edwin Lawrence? I don't remember ever having heard the name."
"She said nothing to you last night about having an appointment with him? Or with any one?"
She hesitated.
"Are you—Bessie's friend?"
"I am. At least, I hope I may call myself her friend, although I never spoke to her before last night. I do not think that there is anything which I would not do to save her from misconstruction."
She eyed me—quizzically.
"I think I'll trust you, Mr. Ferguson, though I never trusted a man yet without regretting it. I hope you won't feel hurt, but there is something about you which reminds me of a St. Bernard. You're big—very big; you look strong—awfully strong; you're hairy." I involuntarily put my hand up to my beard. "Oh, I don't mean that you're too hairy, the beard's becoming; but you are hairy. You look simple; somehow one associates simplicity with trustworthiness; and now you're blushing." She would have made any one blush! "The blush settles it; I will repose my confidence in you, as I have done in others!"
Her manner changed; she became serious.
"The truth is that last night Bessie did seem worried, frightfully worried; and that's what's been worrying me. She was not like her usual self a bit; I couldn't make her out at all. I hadn't the faintest notion what was wrong; when I asked her if she was ill she snapped my head off. And for Bessie to be snappish was an unheard-of thing; her temper's not like mine, always going off, she's the gentlest, sweetest soul. She dressed herself, and walked out of the theatre, without saying a word to me; I only ran against her in the street, by accident, just as she was getting into a cab.
"I said, 'Bessie, aren't you coming home with me?'—because we always do come home together. But she answered, quite huffishly, that she was not—she had an appointment to keep. I did not dare to ask with whom, or where; though it did seem odd that she should have made an appointment, at that hour of the night, without saying a word of it to me; but I did venture to inquire when I might expect her to return. Leaning her head out of the cab, just as it was starting, she called out to me, 'Perhaps never.' I didn't suppose that she was entirely in earnest, but somehow I couldn't help feeling that, about the answer, there was something which might turn out to be unpleasantly prophetic."
"One thing is plain. Miss Adair, you must come with me at once to Imperial Mansions. Your presence may restore to your friend her memory. But, whether or not, you must bring her home, or at any rate you must take her away from the Mansions, and that immediately."
"Your manner, Mr. Ferguson, is autocratic. You don't ask me, you command; but I'll obey. That is, if you'll condescend to wait while I put a hat on."
She went upstairs. Almost immediately she had done so there came a ring at the front door. The door was opened and shut again. After it had been shut. Miss Adair called down the stairs:
"Ellen, who was that?"
The maid's voice replied, "It was some one who wished to see Miss Moore. He said his name was Withers—Mr. George Withers."
"George Withers!" I shouted.
Without a moment's hesitation I rushed out of the sitting-room, flung open the front door, and dashed into the street. I dare say that Ellen, and Miss Adair, too, thought that I had suddenly become a raving lunatic. But Ellen's mention of the caller's name recalled to me the fact that the peculiar letter which I had found in the pocket of the plum-coloured cloak had been addressed to "George Withers."
A young man was going down the street, walking rather quickly. I shouted to him.
"Hallo! Mr. George Withers!"
He stopped and turned with something of a start; then stared, as if uncertain what to make of me or what to do. I called to him again.
"I want you!"
As I spoke I moved towards him, intending, since he seemed indisposed to come to me, to go to him and then explain. But no sooner had I started than he swung round on his heels, tore off at full speed, and, before I realised what it was that he was doing, had vanished round the corner. Although I was unable to guess why he should run away from me as if I were the plague, I had no intention, if I could help it, of being run way from; so, as hard as I could pelt, I went after him.
It was a lively chase while it lasted; I must have presented an elegant figure as, hatless, my coat tails flying, I raced through those respectable streets. Fortunately, he was no match for me in pace; I had him before he reached the Fulham Road. He must have been in shocking condition, for he had already run himself right out, and, gasping for breath, was panting like a blown rabbit.
Saying nothing—I felt that that was not the place in which to carry on the sort of conversation I had in my mind's eye—I took him by the shoulder and marched him back again. He, on his part, was equally mute, and made not the slightest effort at resistance. Miss Adair received us at the door.
"What on earth is the matter? Where have you been? And who is this man?"
Her trick of speaking in italics reminded me of her manner on the stage. I led my companion into the sitting-room. There I introduced him.
"This is Mr. George Withers. I fancy he can give us information on a subject on which, at this moment, information is very much needed."
"Mr. George Withers" was a mere youth, scarcely more than a boy. I was not prepossessed by his appearance, though he was well dressed and had a handsome face. He had proved himself a cur; I felt sure that he was a sneak, and perhaps something worse as well. I handed him the letter which I had taken from the lady's pocket.
"I believe, Mr. Withers, that this letter is for you."
He seemed at first reluctant to take it, as if fearful that it contained something which might disturb his peace of mind. He eyed it doubtfully; read the address; perceived that the envelope had been opened. A disagreeable look came upon his handsome countenance; he turned on me with a snarl.
"Who are you? What do you mean by treating me as you have done? And how dare you open a letter that's addressed to me?"
"First read your letter, Mr. Withers. Put your questions afterwards."
He scanned the brief epistle with looks which did not improve as he went on. Then he snapped at me as if he would have liked to bite as well.
"You stole it; you must have stolen it! I've half a mind to give you in charge; you don't know what mischief you mayn't have done."
"Is the person alluded to as 'that scoundrel' in the letter which you are holding Mr. Edwin Lawrence of Imperial Mansions?"
"What do you want to know for? What do you mean by meddling in my affairs? What business is it of yours?"
"Because, if it is, Mr. Edwin Lawrence is dead."
"Dead!"
"He was murdered last night."
"Murdered!" The fashion of his countenance changed. "Then she—she killed him."
He staggered back till he staggered against a chair. A pitiful object he presented as he perched himself upon the edge. Neither Miss Adair nor I said a word. After a moment's interval, during which the muscles of his face twitched as if he had become suddenly possessed with St. Vitus' Dance, he went rambling on, apparently not altogether conscious of what it was that he was saying.
"I knew there'd be mischief—I knew there would. I said if she would meddle in my affairs she'd make a mess of it. I told her she didn't know what she was going in for, that he was dangerous. But she's as obstinate as a mule; she never would take my advice, never!"
"Which shows that she is a lady of considerable discretion. What connection, Mr. Withers, have you with Miss Moore?"
He started forward on the chair, casting a frightened look about him.
"Is she—taken? And are you a policeman?"
"No, I am not a policeman; I have not that honour. And she is not taken—as yet. I repeat my inquiry. What connection, Mr. Withers, have you with Miss Moore?"
"Never mind! That's my business, not yours. She's got into this mess by herself, and she must get out of it by herself; I wash my hands of her. I've got an appointment which I must keep. You let me go."
He got up with a little air of bluster which was pitiful; it was such a poor attempt at make-believe.
"Listen to me, Mr. Withers—correct me if I am wrong; but you seem to be a nice young man—a very nice young man. And it's because you're such a very nice young man, always attending, Mr. Withers, your correction, that I desire to inform you that if you don't answer my questions, as truthfully as your nature will allow you, there'll be trouble. You understand? Trouble. So be so good as to tell me at once what there can possibly be in common between a lady of Miss Moore's class and a person of yours?"
"'Yours' is good. I don't see what difference there can be between our classes, considering that she's my sister."
Miss Adair interposed.
"Your sister? Bessie's your sister. Then you're Tom Moore, her vagabond of a brother, who's robbed her of hundreds and hundreds of pounds. I thought I knew your face, it's like a bad copy of Bessie's, with all her goodness left out and your own wickedness put in. You ungrateful scamp, to speak of her in that cold-blooded manner, when she has done all that she possibly could for you, and you, in return, have been to her the one trouble of her life."
He confronted the frank-spoken lady with looks which were alive with impudence. I perceived that he was a better match for a woman than a man.
"I know who you are; you call yourself 'Miss Adair.' 'Adair!' Go on! Sure that's your proper name? I know more about you than you perhaps think. And for Bessie to let out things to you about me shows the sort she is; telling a pack of lies about her only relative."
"Her only relative! It's her misfortune that she has you."
"Oh, that's it, is it? Then from this day forward she hasn't got me; tell her so, with my kind regards. As I've said already, I wash my hands of her; I cut the relationship. Willingly I'll never own to bearing her name again. It's not a name I ever have been particularly proud of, and now it's one of which I shall have less cause to be proud than ever, from what I'm told. Good-day to you, Miss Adair!"
He was now actually marching from the room. I had to give him a gentle hint in order to detain him. He winced under my touch like a hound which fears punishment.
"What was the nature of your business, Mr. Moore, which took your sister last night to Mr. Edwin Lawrence?"
"That's my business; it's none of yours."
"Answer my question."
He actually whimpered. It was beginning to dawn on me that I might be constrained to wring his neck before he went
"Don't! You hurt! It was about some bills."
"Some bills of yours which you had given to Mr. Lawrence?"
"No, it wasn't then. Don't! It was about some bills which he got me to—to fake."
"I see. And might some of them have borne the name of Mr. Philip Lawrence?"
"Who told you? How do you know?"
"Never mind who told me. Answer!"
"It was all his fault! I should never have thought of such a thing if it hadn't been for him; he egged me on. I—I owed him a few pounds, and he said if I were to fake up some bills, with his brother's name on them, he'd let me off."
"And put the forgeries on the market, dividing the proceeds of the fraud with you?"
"Nothing of the kind, I'll take my oath to it; I swear I never had a penny. I never dreamt that he'd discount them, not for a moment! I thought it was a game he was going to play off on his brother—some sort of joke."
"Keen sense of humour yours, Mr. Moore,"
"That's where he had me; he must have gone straight off and cashed the bills. Then his brother found it out, and then he came to me and threatened to tell his brother that it was I who'd done it."
"And then you went to your sister and asked her, probably on your bended knees, to save you from exposure."
"There was no bended knees about it; you're very much mistaken if you think there was. I'm not that kind. But I—I certainly mentioned to her something about it—she's my own flesh and blood."
"Being your own flesh and blood she, possibly, offered to do her best to square it for you."
"That's the mistake she made. She talked about giving him a hundred or two, as though that would be of any use. I said to her that if she'd give the money to me I could go abroad and start afresh, and it might be the making of me. But she never would take my advice, never!"
"So your sister, a young, unprotected girl, at your urgent solicitation, went alone to this man at that hour of the night, at the risk of—a good many things; and, in order to save you from the well-merited consequences of your being a cowardly rascal, offered to hand over to him her hard-won savings, and, in all probability, to pledge to the fullest extent her future earnings. And when, in the morning, he is found to have been murdered, you immediately jump to the conclusion that she killed him. With you, Mr. Moore, the sense of gratitude takes a peculiar form. In a state of civilisation in which logic prevailed, the breath would be crushed out of your body; sharing the fate of other vermin, you would not be allowed to exist. Unfortunately for you, this is not a moment in the world's history in which logic does prevail."
So I shook him—gently. I did not treat him to a thousandth part of his deserts, for his sister's sake. Yet, when I dropped him back on to the floor, to judge from his looks and his behaviour, he might have been used with considerable severity. He seemed to be under the impression that I had murdered him.
"That was good!" said Miss Adair. "I feel better."
I don't know what prompted her to make such a remark, but I felt better too."