Beyond this place (3 page)

"Immediately, Mr. Prusty ran for the nearest doctor in the neighbourhood. He came at once, quite uselessly, since Miss

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Spurling was already dead. The police were sent for, the local police surgeon, and a detective-inspector by the name of Swann. At first it seemed that the murderer had left no traces, but within a few hours three clues came to light. Inspector Swann discovered in the bureau a pencil-sketched picture post card posted only a week before from Sheffield, which bore the following words: Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Won't you meet me for supper at Drury's when I return? It was signed Bon-bon.

"Also he found a note, charred, partly destroyed, and unsigned, but bearing the date stamp of September eighth, which said: 7 must see you tonight. Finally, lying on the hearthrug beside the body was a peculiar money bag, of the type known as a jug-purse, made from a soft and unusually fine leather, caught at the neck by a metal ring. It contained some ten pounds in silver and notes. Promptly, from particulars given by Edward Collins and Albert Prusty, a description was issued of the wanted man, offering a large reward for information leading to his apprehension.

"On the following day a local laundrywornan came to the police station with one of her ironers, a girl of seventeen, named Louisa Burt. It appeared that Louisa, a cousin of Edward Collins, the laundry vanman, had accompanied him to Ushaw Terrace on the night of the crime, and while waiting in the alley-way — she was averse to climbing the stairs — had been bumped into and almost knocked down by a man running out of No. 52. In her deposition she gave a description of this individual. The police had now three witnesses who had seen the murderer."

Pastor Fleming broke off and turned upon the young man his troubled, guileless gaze.

"It is not pleasant to touch on certain matters, Paul, but they are, alas, only too relevant to this tragic history. In a word, Mona Spurling was not a moral woman — she knew many men in a loose way and of these one in particular was her regular associate. No one knew who the man was, but the other assistants in the flower shop affirmed that Mona had recently seemed worried and low-spirited, that she had been overheard at the telephone in conversations of an angry and recriminatory nature, using such phrases as: 'You are responsible,' and Tf you leave me now I'll give the whole show away.' Finally, the post-mortem examina-

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tion of the body revealed the unhappy fact that the murdered woman was pregnant. The motive was now established: clearly the woman had been done to death by the man accountable for her condition. Perhaps he was already tired of her. When threatened with exposure, he had written to make an assignation, and had killed her.

"Armed with this evidence the police brought their full resources into action to find the wanted man. Reproductions of the sketched picture post card signed 'Bon-bon' were prominently displayed in all the newspapers, and anyone having knowledge of the sender or the card was invited to communicate at once with the Wortley police. All railway stations and ports of embarkation were closely watched and for almost a week the most intensive search went on. Then, late on the evening of the thirteenth of September, a bookmakers clerk named Harry Rocca sought out the Chief Constable and, in a state of considerable agitation, volunteered to make a statement. He confessed outright to an intimacy with the dead woman and, in fact, admitted having been with her on the night before the murder. Then he proceeded to lay information that he knew the sender of the post card — a friend with whom he often played billiards who had a marked talent for sketching. Some months before he had introduced this man to Mona Spurling. Moreover, when the reproductions of the post card appeared in the daily press his friend had come to him with a worried air and asked him to back him up, saying: If anyone asks where I was on the night of September eighth, make out I was playing pool with you at the Sherwood Hotel/

"That, of course, was enough. The Superintendent of Police, accompanied by Inspector Swann, immediately proceeded to the address which Rocca gave them. There they learned that the person they wanted boarded the Liverpool night express from the Leonard Street Station only an hour before. The arrest, at Liverpool, followed inevitably. The man, Paul, was your father."

Again there was silence. The minister moistened his lips at the carafe which stood on his desk. His brows drawn, he went on.

"It so happened that Albert Prusty, the main witness, was confined to bed by an acute attack of asthma — he was, by trade, a

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tobacconist who manufactured cigarettes and the nicotine dust periodically caused him this complaint — but the two other witnesses were immediately taken to Liverpool by the Superintendent and Inspector Swann. There, from a dozen assembled persons, they unhesitatingly picked out your father as the man they had seen on the night of the murder. There was, indeed, a terrible certainty in their recognition. Edward Collins exclaimed, 'So help me God, that is the man!' while the younger girl, Louisa Burt, carried to the verge of hysteria by the responsibility of her position, burst into tears. 1 know I am putting a rope round his neck,' she cried. 'But that's him.'

"Popular feeling ran high against the prisoner — to escape the fury of the mob he was taken from the southbound train at Bar-bridge Junction and conveyed in a closed vehicle to Wortley Jail. But God knows, dear Paul, I have wrung your heart enough. The trial began on the fifteenth of December at the Wortley Assizes before Lord Oman. With what anguish did we endure these fateful days! One after another, the prosecutor called the witnesses to give their damning evidence. Search of your father's trunks had resulted in the discovery of a razor which medical experts for the Crown proved to be the instrument of the crime. A handwriting expert testified that the charred, half-destroyed note of assignation found in the murdered woman's flat had been written, left-handed, by your father. He had many times been seen in the florist's shop, buying himself a boutonniere, laughing and chatting with Miss Spurring. So it went on. The attempted flight to the Argentine, his vicious resistance of the police, all bore heavily against him. Most damning of all was his fatal attempt to establish a false alibi with Rocca. And when he took the stand, he was, alas, a poor witness on his own behalf, contradicting himself, losing his temper, yes, even shouting at the judge. He could not properly account for his movements at the hour of the crime, asserting that he had spent part of the evening in a cinema. But this pitiful excuse was riddled by the prosecuting counsel. Amidst the darkness only one faint gleam shone in his favour. Albert Prusty, while admitting that your father resembled the man who ran from the flat, would not swear that he was the actual person. However, it came out that Prusty's eyesight was bad, and in cross-examination it was plainly

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seen that he entertained a grievance at not being taken to Liverpool with Collins and Louisa Burt.

"The summing up of the judge went dead against the accused. The jury retired at three o'clock on the afternoon of December twenty-third. They were absent only forty minutes. Their verdict was 'Guilty.' I was there in the courtroom — your mother was too ill to attend — and I shall not to my dying day forget the frightful moment when Lord Oman, assuming the black cap, pronounced sentence and commended your father's soul to the mercy of God. Struggling and raving as the warders bore him away, your father shouted, 'There is no God. Damn your mercy and His. I want neither.'

"Ah! The Lord God is not lightly mocked, Paul. Yet perhaps it was to answer such a blasphemy that the Almighty did show mercy to the sinner. Although no one dared expect it, on the eve of the execution — mainly, I believe, because the Home Secretary of that time was a man of great humanity — your father's sentence was commuted to life imprisonment and he was removed to Stone-heath Prison."

With the falling cadence of the pastor's voice a final stillness fell upon the room. Both men kept their gaze averted one from the other. Paul, now so deeply sunk in his chair that he seemed crushed into it, wiped his forehead with the handkerchief crumpled in his damp hand.

"He is still alive?"

'Tes."

"No one has seen him . . . since he went in there?"

The minister sighed deeply.

"At first I tried to keep in touch with him through the prison chaplain but he met my advances with such resentment — I might even say ferocity — that I was forced to discontinue them. As for your mother . . . well, my dear Paul . . . she felt that she had been used most cruelly. Moreover, she had you to consider. In your interest she judged it better to obliterate this awful chapter from your young life. That she has not altogether succeeded makes no difference. You are fine enough to stand the shock of this revelation and that is why, rather than dupe you with half truths, I have made it to you in full. But now it is done, I want

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you to cleanse your mind of it. You are your own man, and your life lies ahead. You must go forward as though all that I have told you had never been, forward, forward, not only with faith but in forgetfulness."

CHAPTER IV

A WEEK had passed since the interview in Fleming's study. It was Sunday afternoon and the Merrion Scripture class was over. The last of the children had gone, and Ella stood waiting for Paul at the door of the hall, wearing her best blue costume and the neat straw hat she had herself trimmed with navy ribbon. He got down stiffly from his desk and moved between the empty benches towards her. Although he took the class mainly to please his mother, usually he enjoyed the experience, the sharp-witted urchins from Merrion Street amused him, but today, his brain dazed, his head ringing from another sleepless night — heaven alone knew how he had gone through with it.

Ella addressed him tactfully.

"I'm sure you don't feel like music, Paul. But it's fair now, if you'd like us to take our walk."

In the ordinary way, before their regular Sunday stroll, he sat down at the little organ and, in his good-humoured style, played for her: he had more than average talent, and knowing her taste — which was not his own — would play Handel or Elgar, anything likely to meet her restricted choice. But today such a performance was beyond him. For that matter, he had little wish to go walking, but since he felt she had suggested it to distract his mind — he offered no objection.

She took his arm, with a faint possessive pressure, and he accompanied her along the street in the direction of Ormeau Park. They were early, yet a fair number of promenaders were abroad, the women exhibiting their finery, the men looking respectable and self-satisfied in their Sunday suits — a note of Sabbatarian

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orthodoxy which for once jarred on Paul. As they passed through the gates of the park he muttered in a strained voice:

"I'm not in the mood for this parade."

She looked vexed at this, but kept silent. Although her nature had no profound capacity for emotion, her affections had long been centered upon him. Her acute sense of the conventions did not permit her to reveal this, and Paul himself, though he accepted her as an intimate friend, though his mother from time to time dropped fondly encouraging hints, had drifted into the relationship with careless good nature, not realizing the utter incompatibility between his free and generous character and the narrow stereotyped piety which marked her every action. Nevertheless, Ella regarded the matter as settled — all her plans for the future were based upon the certainty of their marriage. She was highly ambitious both for herself and for him, recognizing that his cleverness matched well with her own talent for "managing." Already she saw her good influence advancing his career until he stood finally in a high academic position, moving with her in the most distinguished circles.

In these circumstances, the recent disclosure had been a severe injury to her pride. She saw also how great had been the shock for Paul. Yet if she was willing to get over it why should not he? The damage was not deadly, the whole thing lay buried in the past, with a little care no one need ever remotely suspect it. Such was her attitude. And now, finding him still pressed into the dust, a touch of grievance, even of annoyance, began to qualify her sympathy. Although she controlled it admirably she had a pretty temper — not violent, but vixenish — and at this present moment, as he spoke again, it was costing her a struggle to subdue it.

"It seems as if all these years I've been living under false pretenses." In a shamed manner he tried to give form to his tormenting thoughts. "I can't even call myself Burgess any more — my name is Mathry, Paul Mathry ... if I don't use that name I'm a liar and a cheat. If I do use it, everywhere I go, I'll imagine I see people pointing me out, whispering about me . . . that's Mathry, son of the man who . . ."

"Don't, Paul," she interrupted. "You're making it too hard for yourself. No one need ever know."

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"Even if they don't, I know." He strode on, his hurt gaze fixed on the gravel drive before him. "Yes, what about me . . . myself . . . what am I going to do about it?"

"You must forget about the whole thing."

"Forget?" he repeated incredulously.

"Yes." Her patience was wearing thin. "It's perfectly simple. You must put all thought of ... . this man Mathry right out of your head."

He turned to her with haggard eyes.

"Disown my father?"

"Is he someone to be proud of?"

"Whatever he's done, he's paid for it, shut up for half a lifetime . . . poor devil."

"I was only thinking of you," she answered sharply. "And kindly do not swear in my presence."

"I didn't say anything."

"You did." She could contain herself no longer. The blood rushed into her face. She snapped at him. "You used a bad word that no lady would tolerate, I think you're behaving inexcusably."

"How do you expect me to behave?"