CHAPTER IV.
BOTHWELL DECLINES TO ANSWER.
The room at the Vital Spark was filled to overflowing on the occasion of the adjourned inquiry. At the previous examination only the inhabitants of Bodmin and its immediate neighbourhood had been present; but on this second afternoon people had come from long distances, and there was not standing room for the audience, which filled the passage, and waited with strained ears to catch a stray word now and then through the open door.
The idea of a profound mystery—of a dastardly crime—had been fostered in the local mind by the newspapers, which had harped upon the ghastly theme, and gloated over the particulars of the nameless girl's fate in paragraphs and leaderettes ad nauseam. Articles headed "More details concerning the Bodmin Mystery," "Further particulars about the strange death on the railway," had served as the salt to give savour to cut and dried reports about the harvest, the markets, and those small offenders whose peccadilloes furnish the material for Justice to exercise her might upon at petty sessions.
Every one had read about that strange death of a lonely girl in the summer sunset. Every one was interested in a fate so melancholy—an abandonment so inexplicable.
"I thought that there was hardly ever a human being so isolated as to be owned by no one," said the curate of Wadebridge. "Yet it would seem that this poor girl had no one to care for her in life, or to identify her after death. If she had one friend living in England or France, surely that person must have made some sign before now."
"People in France are very slow to hear about anything that happens in England," replied Dr. Menheniot, to whom the curate had been talking.
"But I heard Mr. Heathcote, at the first inquiry, say that he meant to advertise in a Parisian newspaper."
"Then be sure the advertisement appeared," answered Menheniot. "Heathcote is one of those few men with whom meaning and doing are the same thing."
The inquiry dragged its slow length along, and hardly one new fact was elicited. There was a great deal of repetition, in spite of the Coroner's attempt to keep all his witnesses to the point. Mr. Distin sat near the Coroner, and asked a few questions of two or three of the witnesses; and though he elicited no actually new facts, he seemed to put things in a clearer light by his cross-examination.
Just before the close of the inquiry, he said:
"I see Mr. Grahame, of Penmorval, is here this afternoon. I should like to ask him a question or two, if you have no objection."
The Coroner paled ever so slightly at this suggestion, but he had no objection to offer: so Bothwell Grahame was asked to come up to the table, and kiss the Book, which he did with a somewhat bewildered air, as if the thing came upon him as an unpleasant surprise.
"You were in the train that evening, I believe, Mr. Grahame," said Distin.
"I was."
"Were you alone, in a compartment, or in company with other passengers?"
"I had a third-class compartment to myself."
"And you saw this girl fall?"
"I saw her fall—but as I saw just a little less than Dr. Menheniot and the guard saw, I don't see the good of my being questioned," answered Bothwell, with rather a sullen air.
"I beg your pardon," returned Mr. Distin suavely, "every witness sees an event from a different point of view. You may have noticed something which escaped the two witnesses we have just heard."
"I noticed nothing more than you have been told by these two, and I saw less than they saw. I did not look out of the window till I heard the girl's shriek, and I saw her in the act of falling."
"Good. But you may have observed this solitary girl—a foreigner, and therefore more noticeable—on the platform at Plymouth. You were on the platform at Plymouth, you know."
"I was. But I did not see the girl at the station."
"Strange that she should have escaped your observation, although the porter who was busy with his duties had time to notice her," said Mr. Distin.
"Would it surprise you to hear that during the four or five minutes I spent in the station before the train started I was standing at the bookstall buying papers, with my back to the platform?"
"That would account for your not having seen this noticeable young stranger. You were in Plymouth for several hours, I believe, Mr. Grahame?"
"I was; but upon my word I don't see what hearing that fact can have upon this inquiry."
"Perhaps not. Still, you will not object to tell us what you were doing in Plymouth—how you disposed of your time there."
This question evidently troubled Bothwell, simple as it was, and easy as it ought to have been to answer.
"I played a game at billiards at the Duke of Cornwall," he said.
"I am sure you are too good a player for that to occupy more than half an hour," said Mr. Distin, with his silky air, as if he were employed in a very pleasant business, and were bent upon being as cheery as possible.
"I had to wait for the table."
"Come now, Mr. Grahame, you need not be mysterious about so simple a matter," exclaimed Mr. Distin. "You don't mean to tell us that you went to Plymouth by the 12.15 train"—he had ascertained this fact before the inquiry began—"and spent the whole of the day there, in order to play a game at billiards in a public billiard-room. You must have had other business in Plymouth."
"Certainly. I had other business there."
"Will you kindly tell us what that business was?"
"As it concerned others besides myself, and as it has not the faintest bearing upon this case, I must decline to answer that question."
"Really, now, I should advise you to be more frank. You leave Bodmin early in the day—without giving any notice of your departure—and you return late in the evening. A most mysterious catastrophe occurs in the train which brings you home—a death so strange, so horrible, that it casts a cloud over all the passengers travelling by that train—leaves a stigma upon all, as it were, until the guilt of that deed can be brought home to one. Surely, under such circumstances, the utmost frankness is desirable. Every traveller in that train should be ready to answer any question which those who are charged with the elucidation of this mystery may ask."
"I have answered your questions as to what occurred to me in the train, and at the station; but I decline to be catechised about my business in Plymouth," answered Bothwell doggedly.
"That will do," said Distin; and Bothwell went to his seat next Julian Wyllard, whose handsome presence appeared in the front rank of spectators, amongst those of the élite who were favoured with chairs, while the commonalty stood in a mob at the back of the room.
The audience had been breathless during this examination of Bothwell Grahame. The young man's sunburnt face was clouded with anger, his dark strongly-marked brows were scowling over those gray-blue eyes which once had such a pleasant expression.
"I can't think what has come to Grahame," muttered a sporting squire to his next neighbour. "He used to be such a pleasant fellow, but to-day he looks like a murderer."
"You don't think he threw the girl out of the train, do you?" asked the other.
"God forbid! But by that London lawyer's questions one would think he suspected Grahame of having had a hand in the business."
The jury gave their verdict presently, "Death from misadventure."
"Tell Dora not to expect me at dinner," said Bothwell to Julian Wyllard, before they left the inn; "I shall dine in Bodmin."
"Have you any engagement?"
"No, but I can easily make one. I am not going to break bread with your lawyer friend. So long as he is at Penmorval I shall be missing."
"My dear Bothwell, you have no right to be angry at a simple question which you might have so easily answered," remonstrated Wyllard gravely.
"It was a question which I did not choose to answer, and which he had no right to ask. It was an outrage to ask such a question—to press it as he did. Fifty years ago he might have been shot for a lesser insult. By Jove, I never felt more sorry that the good old duelling days are over—the days when one man could not insult another with impunity."
"How savage you are, Bothwell, and against a man who was only in the exercise of his profession!"
"He had no right to question me as if I were a murderer," retorted Bothwell savagely. "Did he think that I spent my time in Plymouth plotting that girl's death? If I had made up my mind to push a woman over an embankment, I should not have wanted to spend a day in Plymouth in order to plan the business. A murder of that kind must be touch and go—no sooner thought of than done."
"All trouble would have been saved, my dear fellow, if you had given a straight answer to a simple question."
"To answer would have been to acknowledge his right to question me. No judge would have allowed counsel to have asked such a motiveless question. Nowhere except at a petty rustic inquiry would such a thing be permitted."
"I can only say that you are needlessly angry, Bothwell," said Wyllard. "Here comes Distin. You had better drive home with us."
"No, thank you; I shall be home before the house shuts up; but you'll see no more of me to-night."
"Good-night, then."
The Penmorval barouche was waiting before the porch of the Vital Spark—a great day for that rural hostelry when such a carriage could be seen waiting there—a great day at the bar, where all the strength of the establishment could not serve brandies-and-sodas and pale ales fast enough. Joseph Distin came tripping out, and took his place in the carriage beside Julian Wyllard. He had lingered at the inn for a few minutes' talk with the Coroner.
"Is not Mr. Grahame going back with us?" he asked, as they drove towards the town.
"No. You wounded his dignity by those questions of yours. He is a curious young man, and is easily offended."
"He is a very curious young man," answered the lawyer, with a thoughtful air.
He was looking at the landscape intently as they drove along the shady road, between deep banks and luxuriant hedges; but he would have found it rather difficult to say afterwards what kind of timber prevailed in the hedgerows, or what crops grew in the fields.
He was thoughtful all that evening, though he did his utmost to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Wyllard at dinner, talking to her of art, music, the drama, society, all the arts and graces and pleasures of life—doing everything in his power to distract her thoughts from that one grim theme which was the motive of his presence in that place.
When she was gone, and Distin and his host were alone together over their claret, the lawyer dropped his society manner as if it had been a mask, and began to talk seriously.
"For the first time for a good many years I find myself completely at fault," he said, leaning across the table, and cracking filberts in sheer distraction of mind. "I thought that I should be able to get up a case while I was in London, but not a shred of evidence have I discovered. If this girl had dropped from the moon, it could not be more difficult to trace her."
"Well, my dear Distin, you have done your best, and we must be satisfied," replied Wyllard quietly. "I felt it to be my duty as a magistrate to do all in my power to fathom the mystery of that poor girl's death. The best thing I could do was to put the case in your hands. If you cannot help us, no one can. We must be satisfied."
"But I am not satisfied, Julian; I never shall be satisfied until I have solved this problem," said Distin resolutely. "I am not the sort of man who can stand being baffled in a matter of this kind. Is all my professional training to go for nothing, do you think? And yet in your interest it might be best that I should let this business drop out of my mind—-forget the whole story if possible."
"How do you mean, in my interest?" exclaimed Wyllard, surprised. "What bearing can the case have upon me or my interest, beyond my desire to do my duty as a magistrate?"
"I fear that this mystery touches you nearer than you suppose. Surely, Wyllard, you must have been struck by the manner of your wife's kinsman under my examination."
"Great Heaven!" cried Wyllard, "you don't mean to tell me that you suspect Bothwell Grahame of any hand in this business?"
"In perfect frankness, between man and man, I believe that young man to be in some way—either as principal or accessory—concerned in the murder of that girl."
"My dear Distin, you must be mad."
"Come now, my dear Wyllard, you cannot pretend that you did not notice the strangeness of Mr. Grahame's manner this afternoon: his refusal to answer my question about his business in Plymouth."
"He was angry at your catechising him in that manner; and I must confess that your question appeared to the last degree irrelevant, even to me."
"Granted. My question was irrelevant. But it was a test question. I should never have cross-examined Mr. Grahame, if I had not seen reason for suspecting him before the inquiry began. I was painfully impressed by his manner the night I dined here with him; and I believe, from certain indications dropped unconsciously by your Coroner, that he too saw reason for suspecting Mr. Grahame. His manner to-day confirms my suspicion. I am deeply grieved that it should be so, on your wife's account."
"You had need be sorry for her. Why, Bothwell is like a brother to her. It would break her heart," said Wyllard, strongly agitated.
He had risen from the table, and was walking slowly up and down the room, between the windows opening wide upon the gray evening sky, and the warm lamplight within. Joseph Distin could not see his face, but he could see that he was strongly moved.
"My dear fellow, let us hope that Mrs. Wyllard will never know anything about this suspicion of mine," said Distin soothingly. "I have—so far—not one scrap of evidence against Mr. Grahame; except the evidence of looks and manner, and the one fact of his refusal to say what he was doing in Plymouth the day of the girl's death. There is nothing in all that to bring a man to the gallows. I may have my own ideas about this mystery, and Mr. Heathcote may have pretty much the same notion, but there is nothing to touch your wife's cousin so far. I shall go back to town, and try to forget the whole matter. All you have to do is to keep your own counsel, and take care that Mrs. Wyllard knows nothing of what has passed in strictest confidence between you and me."
"I would not have her know it for worlds. It would break her heart; it might kill her. Women cannot bear such shocks. And to think that a man can be suspected of a crime on such grounds—suspected by you, a student of crime and criminals—because of a moody manner, a refusal to answer a question! The whole thing seems too absurd for belief."
"Say that the thing is absurd, and that for once in his life Joe Distin has made a fool of himself. Take your wife to Aix-les-Bains—or to Biarritz—"
Julian Wyllard started at that last word as if he had been stung.
"What the deuce is the matter with you, or with Biarritz?" asked Distin sharply.
"Nothing. My mind was wandering, that's all. You were saying—"
"That you had better forget all that has passed between us to-night—forget the death of that girl—make a clean slate. Take your wife to some foreign watering-place, the brightest and gayest you can find. And let Bothwell Grahame dree his weird as best he may. The catastrophe on the railway will be forgotten in a week."
"I doubt it. We have not much to think about at Bodmin, and we exaggerate all our molehills into mountains. That girl's death will be the talk of the town for the next six months."
"And yet people go on existing in such places, and think they are alive!" exclaimed Distin.
He left Penmorval after breakfast next morning, without having seen Bothwell, who was out on the hills breaking in a new horse while the family were at breakfast. He had been out since five o'clock, the butler told Mrs. Wyllard.
"Is he riding Glencoe?" she asked, with a look of alarm.
"Yes, ma'am."
"He is a dreadful horse, I know, Julian," she said. "Manby told me about him only yesterday. He had narrowly escaped being thrown the day before; and he said that Glencoe was a really dangerous horse, and that we ought to get rid of him."
"So that he may break somebody else's bones," suggested Mr. Distin. "That is what a good coachman always advises."
"And now Bothwell has gone out on him, alone."
"You would not have him take some one to pick him up if he were thrown," said Wyllard. "My dear Dora, there is not the slightest occasion for alarm. The horse is young, and a little gay; but your cousin excels as a rough-rider, and there will be no harm done."
"But why should he want to ride that horse?" said Dora; "I'm sure Manby would advise him not."
"The very reason why he should do it," replied her husband.
"I wonder if he is trying to kill himself while I am eating my breakfast calmly here?" speculated Joseph Distin. "He must know that I suspect him; and he may think that the game is up."
Whatever Bothwell's intention might have been, he came back to Penmorval before eleven o'clock, bringing home the big bay hunter bathed in sweat, and as tame as a sheep.
"A fine, honest horse! Only wants riding," he said, as he flung the bridle to the groom, who had been watching for him at the stable-gates, with an air of expecting to see broken bones.
In the hall Bothwell met Dora, cool, and calm, and beautiful, in her white muslin breakfast gown. She was bringing in a basket of flowers from the hothouse, to be arranged by her own hands.
"Is that London lawyer gone yet?" asked Bothwell curtly.
He could not be civil even to his cousin when he spoke of Joseph Distin.
"Yes, he has gone—I hope, never to come back again," said Dora. "He is really a very well-bred man, and he made himself most agreeable here; but he seemed to bring with him an atmosphere of crime. I could not help thinking of all the horrible cases he must have been concerned in, and that he had grown rich by the crimes of mankind. He could find out nothing about that poor girl's death, it seems, although he is so clever."
"Which goes rather to establish my view that the girl fell out of the train by accident," replied Bothwell.