CHAPTER XXIX
THE WORLD IS SO LARGE
As for the man who had made the extraordinary assertion, he seemed quite unconscious of the effect which it had produced: as if the fact that the supposed heir to an earldom, being actually the son of a Clapham bricklayer, was one that found its natural place in every-day life.
He had his cap in his hand—a shabby, gray tweed cap—and he was twirling it between his fingers round and round with an irritatingly nervous gesture. His eyes now and again were furtively raised at the coroner, as if he were wondering anxiously what punishment would be meted out to him for having created so much commotion, and then with equal furtiveness he dropped them again. His shoulders were bowed and his knees parted company from each other, thus giving him more than ever the appearance of a beetle.
Of course the coroner had to recover his official manner as quickly as possible. But even to him the statement had come as a surprise. He had only known very vaguely that a witness had come forward at the eleventh hour, having only just had time to communicate with the police before the opening of the inquest.
In view of the importance of the evidence, the witness was called as soon as possible; what he had to say would materially affect the whole trend of the inquiry; he had, it seems, brought others with him—members of his own family among them—in order that they might corroborate the truth of what he said.
Quite a minute or so had elapsed in the meanwhile; then at last was the coroner able to resume with at least a semblance of official indifference:
"Now," he said, "let the jury understand a little more clearly what you said just now."
"What I said?" rejoined the man vaguely.
"Yes, what you said. Let us understand it clearly. You went to the mortuary this morning, and saw the body of the deceased?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you state here on oath that in the deceased you recognized your own son?"
"I'll swear to 'im!" replied the witness simply. "Ask 'is mother there!"
And with a long, thin finger, generously edged with grime, he pointed to the woman in seedy black hat and shabby tweed jacket who sat quite close to Luke de Mountford.
"Never mind about his mother just now," admonished the coroner. "We want your statement first. You realize that you are on oath?"
"Yes, sir. I've sworn my Bible oath."
"And you understand the importance of an oath?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you swear that the body of the murdered man whom you saw in the mortuary chamber this morning is that of your son?"
"I swear to that, sir."
I believe that had coroner and jury and practically every man there present, dared to put their thoughts into words at that moment, the ejaculation: "Well! I am blowed!" or "I'm d——d!" as the case might be—would have been generally heard throughout the room. The women, on the other hand, were far too excited even to think.
"Now," resumed the coroner, "tell the jury please when you first identified the deceased as your son?"
"This morning, sir."
"In the mortuary chamber?"
"Yes, sir."
"You had not seen the body before?"
"No, sir."
"Did you know that other witnesses have sworn that the body is that of a gentleman called Philip de Mountford?"
"Yes, sir. I knew that."
"Then do you mean to assert that those other witnesses have sworn false oaths?"
"Oh, no, sir," rejoined James Baker with an apologetic smile of self-deprecation, "I wouldn't say such a thing, sir."
"Well, then?"
"They was mistaken, sir, that's all. Paul was that clever, sir; ask 'is mother there."
And once more the lean and grimy finger pointed to the seedy-looking matron who nodded a melancholy head, half in pride, half in regret.
"Clever, did you say?" asked the coroner, more briskly now. At last he held a thread in this extraordinary tangled skein. "Then do you mean to assert that your son—Paul Baker—went about the world calling himself Philip de Mountford?"
"That must 'ave been it, sir, I think."
"Deceiving people?"
"Aye! 'e was ever a bit o' no good."
"You think he imposed upon his lordship, the Earl of Radclyffe?"
"'E must 'ave done, sir, mustn't 'e now? seein' as 'ow 'is lordship must 'ave been took in."
"You helped him in the deception, I suppose?"
"Me, sir? Lor' bless ye no! Me an' 'is mother ain't clever enough for such things! We knew nothin' of Paul's doin's, and 'e allus went 'is own way, sir."
"But at least you knew that this fraud was going on?"
"Not exactly, sir."
"How do you mean 'not exactly?'" retorted the coroner sharply. "You seem to be unconscious of the fact that this story which you are telling the jury is a very serious matter indeed. If it is true, you are not only making a grave accusation against your dead son, but with this accusation you may be involving yourself or some other member of your family in an exceedingly serious charge of fraud, the penalty for which if proved would be very severe indeed. On the other hand if the story you tell is nothing but a cock-and-bull tale, which further evidence would presently demolish, then you lay yourself open to a charge of perjury and of conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice. I have thought best to give you this word of warning—the last which you will get from me—because really you do not seem to be fully conscious of the extreme gravity of your position."
The bricklayer from Clapham had listened to this admonition, delivered with solemn emphasis and no small measure of severity, with a kind of stolid indifference. He retained his humble, apologetic attitude, but clearly the coroner's threats did not affect his simple equanimity.
"I thank you, sir, kindly," he said when the coroner had ceased speaking, "but I can't 'elp it. Paul would go on 'is own way. Ask 'is mother there. 'E never would be spoken to, wouldn't Paul. And me and 'is mother allus said 'e'd come to mischief some day."
"Did you know anything at all of this fraud?"
"No, sir. We knew nothin' of it really. You see Paul left 'ome nearly two year ago come Christmas. 'E didn't tell us nothing."
"Then you last saw your son alive two years ago?"
"Yes, sir. That's the last me and 'is mother seed of 'im. Christmas Day, sir, 'twas two year ago nearly. Paul 'e said then 'e'd 'ad enough of knockin' about in London. 'E was goin' abroad, 'e was, that's what 'e said. And 'e left 'ome, sir, the next day. Bank 'oliday 'twere, and that's the last me and 'is mother seed of 'im."
He had told this with all the simple fatalism peculiar to his class. The son went "abroad," and "abroad" to a Clapham labourer is a very vague term indeed. It means so many things: geographically it means any place beyond a twelve-mile radius from home; the Antipodes are "abroad," but so is Yorkshire. Domestically it means that the traveller passes out of the existence of those that are left behind as surely as if he had stepped into the grave. Financially, it means a mouth less to feed, seeing that the intending traveller is nearly always a wastrel at home. In any event the proposed journey "abroad" is taken with quiet philosophy by family and friends. The traveller starts for "abroad" as easily, as simply, as he would for the nearest public house. He has no impedimenta, nothing to burden him or to cause him regret. Strangely enough, no one ever has any idea where the money comes from that pays for the journey "abroad." The traveller being a wastrel never has any himself, and the family is invariably too poor to provide it. But the wastrel goes, nevertheless.
And life within the narrowed precincts of the family circle goes on just as it had done before. Sometimes news comes from the traveller—a picture post-card from "abroad," usually a request for pecuniary assistance. Seldom does good news arrive; still more seldom does the traveller come back home.
But it is all very simple. Nothing to make a fuss about.
"Then," said the coroner, "he didn't tell you where he meant to go?"
"No, sir," replied Jim Baker, "he just was going abroad."
"Do you know where he went?"
"No, sir."
"Did you ever try to find out?"
"No, sir. Where 'ad been the use?"
Where indeed? The world is so large! and the Baker family so insignificant!
"He didn't write to you?"
"No, sir."
"Nor communicate with you in any way?"
"No, sir."
"You had no idea what had become of him?"
"Not until last summer, sir."
"What happened then?"
"His sister, sir, our Emily, she was out walkin' with Harry Smith—young Smith from next door to us, sir—and she was down in the West End o' London with 'im one day, and 'oo should they meet, sir, but Paul."
"Did they speak to him?"
"Yes, sir. They says, ''Ello, Paul, we didn't know as 'ow you was 'ome,' and 'e seemed upset like at first, and pretended 'e didn't know 'em, and that they'd made a mistake. But they chaffed 'im and went on talkin', so I suppose Paul 'e thought it best to make a clean breast of it all."
"Do you mean to say that he told his sister and his friend that he was carrying on a criminal fraud against the Earl of Radclyffe?"
"Oh, no, sir; not all that. 'E only told 'em that 'e was in for a good thing. A gentleman's gentleman 'e told 'em 'e was and doin' well for hisself. 'E said 'e would come and see the fam'ly—'e meant me and 'is mother, sir—some day soon. But 'e never come."
"Did he say where he was living?"
"Yes, sir. 'E gave 'is address to Emily. Up 'Ampstead way it were. A long way, sir. Me and 'is mother never seemed to 'ave the time to go and look 'im up; but Emily she went with young Smith one Sunday, but they never found the street, not where Paul said 'e was livin'. There weren't no such street in 'Ampstead, sir."
"And you never thought of making further inquiries?"
"No, sir." This again with that quiet philosophy, the stolid fatalism, peculiar to those who live from day to day, from hand to mouth, who have neither leisure nor desire to peer outside the very circumscribed limits of their own hearths.
"You never made any effort to know more about what your son was doing or how he was living?" suggested the coroner, who, though accustomed to this same quiet philosophy in men and women of that class, was nevertheless strangely moved in this instance by the expression of a fatalism that carried in its train such extraordinary consequences.
But Jim Baker, mildly astonished at the coroner's insistence over so obvious a matter, explained meekly:
"We knew that Paul was doin' well, you see, sir. 'E was that splendidly dressed when Emily and young Smith seed 'im they was quite respectful like to 'im. So we knew 'e was all right."
"And you never troubled any further about your son?"
"We didn't want to interfere with 'im, sir. Gentlemen don't allus like their servants to be 'aving visitors, or to 'obnob with poor people like us."
More calm philosophy not unmixed with a delicate sense of pride this time, and a sublime if unconscious vein of selflessness.
"Well," rejoined the coroner, not unkindly this time—the man who looked so like a beetle, who was so humble and apologetic, compelled quite a certain amount of regard—"we'll leave that matter for the moment, Mr. Baker. Now will you tell the jury what made you come to this court to-day? What led you to think that the man who had been murdered in a cab the night before last, and of whom all the newspapers spoke as Mr. Philip de Mountford—what made you think that he was your son?"
Jim Baker by way of a reply plunged one of his thin hands in the pocket of his shabby coat and drew out a portion of very grimy newspaper carefully folded up quite small. He undid the folds until his eyes lighted on that which they sought. Then he held the paper out toward the coroner and pointed to a picture sandwiched in among the letter-press.
"I saw this," he said, "in the Daily Graphic yesterday. It's the picture of Paul, I says to myself."
The coroner took the paper from the witness and laid it down on the table, glancing at it casually. There had been innumerable portraits of the murdered man published both in the morning and the evening papers of yesterday.
"It's Paul to the life," insisted Jim Baker. "I was at my work, you understand, when I seed the paper in one o' the other chaps' 'ands. I couldn't give up my work then. I 'ad to wait till evenin' to speak to my missus. Then we talked it all over, and young Smith 'e took a day off and me too, and Mrs. Baker and Emily and Jane Smith, they all come along."
"And you looked on the face of the dead man, and you swear that it is your son?"
"I take my oath, sir. Ask 'is mother there. She knows 'er own son. She'll tell you just what vaccination marks 'e 'ad on 'is arm, and about the scar on 'is leg and all. The ladies, sir, they are that sharp——"
Jim Baker—feeling no doubt that his ordeal was nearly over—was losing his nervousness, or perhaps it took a new form, that of jocularity. The coroner thought it best to check his efforts at humour in the bud.
"That will do!" he said curtly.
And the Clapham bricklayer at once retired within his shell of humble self-deprecation. He answered a few more questions that the coroner put to him, but clearly his own circle of vision was so circumscribed that, willing as he undoubtedly was, he could throw no light whatever on the unknown events which led up to the extraordinary fraud practised on the Earl of Radclyffe and which culminated in the mysterious murder in the taxicab.
The father of the strangely enigmatic personality, who indeed had taken many a secret with him to the grave, was far too indifferent, too fatalistic, to put forth any theory as to his son's motives, or the inducements and temptations which had first given birth to the astoundingly clever deception.
Wearied and impatient at last the coroner gave up his questionings. He turned to the jury with the accustomed formula:
"Would any of you gentlemen like to ask this witness any questions?"
The foreman of the jury wanted to know if the witness's son had any birthmarks on him, or other palpable means of identification.
"Yes, sir," replied Jim Baker, "but 'is mother'll tell you better'n me—she knows best—about the vaccination marks and all."
The foreman then asked the coroner whether the jury would be allowed to identify the marks. On being assured by the coroner that after adjournment this very day every means would be taken to corroborate Jim Baker's statement, the jury seemed satisfied.
And the corner called the next witness.