AUSTIN’S SILENCE
“I can’t understand it, Winnie. It seems almost as if every one—like mother—had already made up their minds that—that Roger——”
Grace broke off. She could not bring herself to utter the words “that Roger is guilty.” But Winnie understood.
“Nonsense, dear. There are you and I and George and your father and Austin on his side to begin with, and Mr. Spedding of course——”
“I don’t know about Mr. Spedding,” said Grace slowly, her hands clasped round her knees, her troubled eyes fixed on the fire. “I was with him all the afternoon, you know—there is so much to discuss and to arrange—and I thought his manner very reserved, very strange, and—and uneasy.”
“That’s only because he’s a lawyer. They’re always mysterious. What did he say?”
“Well, when I told him the simple truth as Roger told it me—as to why he followed Lady Rawson, and how it was he was so late at the church, he said, in quite an offhand way, that he knew all about that, and Roger would of course embody it in his statement at the proper time; but that his—Roger’s—unsupported account of his own movements was no use as evidence! You can’t think what a shock it gave me, Winnie; it was the way he said it. And then he explained that ‘fortunately the onus of proof rests with the prosecution, and not with the defence: it is for them to prove him guilty, not for us to prove him innocent.’ ‘Fortunately,’ mind you; and in tone that implied that it would be quite impossible to prove my darling’s innocence! Now what do you think of that?”
“That it was his silly, pompous old legal way of talking and nothing to be upset about,” said Winnie, with a fine assumption of confidence.
“Perhaps—but it hurt! He hopes to secure Cummings-Browne for the defence.”
“Of course. Austin says there’s no one to touch him.”
“For the defence,” Grace repeated drearily. “Oh, Winnie! I suppose it was foolish, but I felt quite sure when I went out this morning that it was only a matter of a few hours and Roger would be free; and now, nothing done; just adjourned till after the inquest; and then—and then—— Mr. Spedding takes it for granted that he will be committed for trial—kept in prison for weeks, months, till after Christmas, for the trial cannot come on till January. My Roger!”
She hid her face in her hands and for the moment Winnie was dumb, unable to find words of comfort.
All that long day Grace had borne herself bravely. Betimes in the morning she had gone to Spedding’s office, and thence, with the lawyer, to the police court, where, in a private room, she had a brief half-hour with Roger—only five minutes or so alone with him, for they had to consult with Mr. Spedding; but those five minutes were precious indeed.
Roger was pale, but cheery and confident; and she managed to appear the same for his sake.
“I’m staying with Winnie for the present, dearest,” she told him. “Mother was—well, a little difficult yesterday, so I thought it best. But I’m going to take possession of the flat—our flat—as soon as possible, and get it ready for you to come home to, or we’ll get it ready together if you come to-day—to-morrow.”
“Not so soon I fear, darling. The law moves cumbrously. But you can’t go to the flat alone. Why not stay with Winnie?”
“I’d rather be in—our own home,” she whispered, “getting it straight for us both, beloved. I shall be happier, and you will seem nearer. Winnie will come in and out, of course; and you’ll come soon—very soon—and all will be well again, and all this will have passed like a bad dream!”
She smiled at him and he at her, and none but themselves knew how hard it was to summon those brave smiles to their lips when their hearts were almost breaking.
Then her father arrived, the gentle, careworn, grey-haired professor, who had travelled all night to be with her; and she smiled at him, too, and sat with her hand in his, and Winnie Winston on the other side, through the ordeal of the police court; sat with her eyes fixed on Roger most of the time, utterly unconscious of the scrutiny and whispered comments of the fashionably dressed women who had literally fought their way into the court in ghoulish anticipation of sensation.
The ordeal to-day was not prolonged, for, to the manifest disappointment of the assemblage of female ghouls, only a brief statement of the charge and formal evidence of arrest were given, and an adjournment asked for and granted.
The remainder of that dark, wet day was passed in a series of conferences with her father, and with the lawyers, all more or less painful, all important; but throughout she managed to maintain an appearance of cheerfulness and confidence, telling herself the while that she must be brave and strong and clear-headed, “for Roger’s sake.”
But now, alone with Winnie in the cosy drawing-room at Chelsea, came reaction. She felt and looked utterly exhausted, unutterably anxious and sorrow-stricken.
Her father had gone home, but was to return after dinner to discuss a vital matter—how, among them, they were to raise money for the defence. Mr. Spedding had named five thousand pounds as the least amount necessary. It must be raised, but how none of them knew at present. Roger’s salary had been a generous one, but he had no private means, no near or wealthy relatives, and only a very few hundred pounds at call—which had seemed an ample reserve wherewith to start housekeeping, as they had already furnished the charming little flat in Buckingham Gate which was to be their first home.
Grace herself had a tiny income, only just over a hundred a year, a legacy from an aunt, but it was strictly tied up under a trustee, and she could not touch the principal.
Therefore this question of money was a new and terrible difficulty that must be surmounted somehow.
In any other conceivable emergency they would have had Sir Robert Rawson to back them, with his enormous wealth and influence; but now he was their enemy, able to bring all his resources against them.
“I can’t understand it all,” Grace resumed presently. “It seems as if we had become entangled, in a moment, in a great web of evil. But why? What have we done or left undone to deserve it? Roger did distrust that poor thing—disliked her in a way, simply because of the distrust. But he would never have harmed her, or any living creature. And yet they fix on him of all people, just because he happened to be near at hand, and to be concerned with those papers!”
“That’s only because, as Austin says, they’re just a lot of guys who can’t see as far as their own silly noses. And he’s on the trail anyhow, so cheer up, darling. Everything’s going to come right soon perhaps. You trust Austin!”
Grace sighed and glanced restlessly at the clock.
“I wish he’d come.”
“Here he is—that’s his ring,” said Winnie, and hurried out to answer the front door bell.
Austin it was, and she questioned him in an eager undertone as he took off his coat in the little hall.
“Any news?”
“Not yet. I’ve been on duty all day, dear. Only just free. I rang up Cacciola, but he wasn’t in, or I’d have gone around to his place instead of coming here. How’s Grace?”
“Terribly down, though she’s been so plucky all day. Come along. She’s dying to see you!”
He was shocked at the change these few days had wrought in Grace. As he had been prevented from attending the wedding he had not seen her for nearly a fortnight. Her radiant girlhood had vanished; she looked ten years older, a woman scathed by sorrow; and yet it struck him that in some subtle way she had become more beautiful, or rather that her beauty was spiritualized.
In the brief interval before he entered she had pulled herself together—only with Winnie, her closest girl-friend, would she betray any sign of weakness—and greeted him with a smile that belied the tragic intensity of her grey eyes.
They had exchanged but a few sentences when there were other arrivals—her father, and Mr. Iverson the vicar, who somehow brought with him a breezy breath of comfort. Grace gave him both her hands.
“Oh, padre, how good to see you.”
“You’d have seen me before if I’d known where to find you; but Mrs. Armitage was out when I called this afternoon, and I was just going round again when I met your father, and here we are. We’ve been talking hard all the way from the bus, and I know all about everything so far. Roger’s keeping his heart up and so are you? Good!”
“Trying to, padre.”
“You’re going to, both of you, all the time, however long or short it is. It’s a black streak, child, but the help and guidance will come day by day till you’re through it and out into the sunshine again.”
“I’ve been telling the vicar about this money trouble, darling,” interposed Mr. Armitage, “and——”
“Just so; and we shall soon get over that. The house will go into committee on ways and means, so come along. What’s the state of the exchequer?”
“Roger has just over six hundred in the bank.”
“Splendid, and your father can find another six fifty.”
“Two hundred and fifty of that’s from himself, Grace,” said her father. “He insists.”
“Now, look here, Armitage, that’s sheer breach of confidence, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Let’s be thankful I have it to spare—which wouldn’t have been the case a year or two ago.”
Then Austin after a rapid mental calculation, chimed in:
“Bully for you, padre! Put me down for the same to start, and I’ll be able to raise as much again, or more in a week or two. I’d give every dollar, every red cent I have to help clear old Roger.”
He exchanged a swift glance with Winnie, who nodded delighted approval. She knew perfectly well that his impulsive offer meant that their own wedding might have to be delayed perhaps for years, but that weighed as nothing with Roger’s life and liberty in the opposite scale.
“George and I too,” she said. “I’ve told Grace so already. I don’t know how much yet, Mr. Iverson, but I’ve lots of engagements for Christmas and after—good ones, too—so I shall be quite rich.”
The vicar beamed round at them all and rubbed the shining little bald circle on his crown in a way he had when he was pleased. That bald patch, set round with curly, iron-grey hair, was one of his innocent little vanities. It was perfectly natural, but it did look so like a real tonsure!
“Now isn’t that capital! Nearly two thousand pounds in less than five minutes. Lots to go on with; and we shall get the rest long before it’s wanted. ‘Hope for the best and prepare to meet the worst,’ is an excellent maxim.”
His incorrigible optimism was infectious; it cheered them all as no amount of conventional and lugubrious sympathy could have done; and his acceptance of Roger’s innocence as a fact that need not even be discussed, and would assuredly be established, was an unspeakable comfort to Grace, whose loyal and sensitive soul had been so cruelly tortured by the doubt of others, and by her own mother’s attitude above all.
He declared his conviction that the first theory advanced and then abandoned was the right one: that the deed had been committed by some casual miscreant, who would yet be discovered.
Austin said nothing of his own newer theory, to the secret surprise of both Winnie and Grace, who, however, followed his example, supposing he thought it best to keep silence for the present, even among themselves.
“How curious that Mr. Cacciola should be mixed up with it all, in a way,” remarked the vicar.
“Do you know him, sir?” asked Austin quickly.
“Only slightly, but I like him immensely. He’s a Catholic, of course—and a good one, I should say. I often encounter him on Sunday mornings, on his way from Mass; and we walk along and yarn in all amity so far as our road lies together. That’s as things should be, to my mind! And he’s really most generous—often comes to play and brings his pupils to our little parish concerts, as you know, Miss Winston.”
Winnie nodded.
“Yes, the maestro is the kindest old thing imaginable, and so simple—not a bit of side.”
“He’s a genius,” said the vicar. “And I think true genius always is simple. I met him this afternoon, of all places in the world in the post office itself.”
“The post office?” cried Grace. “Not where—not Mrs. Cave’s?”
“Yes. It was when I was on my way from your house, Armitage. I looked in for a chat with Mrs. Cave, and little Jessie, who really haven’t got over the shock yet. It will be a long time before they do, and they talk of giving up the shop as soon as they can find another. No wonder.”
“The telephone booth is partitioned off now, by order of the police,” said Austin.
“Yes, very necessary, of course; but awkward for the Caves, for it means that they have to go out at the shop door and in at the side one before they can get to their own rooms. I was just consoling the good lady—with the suggestion that now she would have more walks abroad and fresh air than she’s had for years; no use condoling, you know, that would only make things seem worse than they are—when in comes Mr. Cacciola and his niece, one of the loveliest girls I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“His niece! I didn’t know he had one—not in England!” exclaimed Winnie.
“Nor I till now. But I think she must have been educated here, she speaks English so well; though possibly she has not been with him all the time. I should certainly have remembered her if I’d seen her before—such a remarkably beautiful girl. She’s to make her début soon—as a violinist. And what do you suppose was their errand to-day? That young girl actually wanted to see the place where poor Lady Rawson was murdered, and worried her uncle till he brought her across and asked Mrs. Cave to show it them!”
“Morbid curiosity isn’t confined to young people,” Mr. Armitage remarked.
“Quite so, but it’s unhealthy in anyone, and very distressing in a girl like that. As a matter of fact, I went round with them myself. I offered to as Mrs. Cave was alone in the shop—Jessie was out; and I was glad of the opportunity, not from ‘morbid curiosity,’ I assure you, but simply so that I could see the place for myself. It seems so incredible that anyone could be murdered like that in a shop actually full of people, and the murderer get clean away, unless you’ve seen the place. It might have been made on purpose—a regular death-trap—for the booth is really in a narrow passage that at some time has been thrown into the shop, and the door of it opens outwards, towards the shop. Just beyond is the scullery-place, and I think it probable the murderer was lurking there when Jessie Jackson came down to help her aunt. And close at hand, on the right, is the street door, through which he simply walked out.”
“The police think he went out through the garden door,” said Austin.
“Just like ’em. But they’re wrong. Why? Because Sadler’s cab was standing outside the street door, where it was the work of an instant to throw the bag through the window. If the criminal had gone down the garden and out at that door he’d have had to come all the way back to pass the cab. And he’d never have done that; he’d have bolted down the street.”
“I guess you’re right, vicar. And then he tried to steal the cab. Some nerve!”
“Wrong again. That was a bit of boyish mischief.”
“What in thunder makes you say that?”
“Because I happen to know. It will all come out at the next hearing—inquest or police court, or both. However that’s only a detail.”
“What did the girl—the maestro’s niece—say?” asked Winnie.
“Ah! Of course, I was speaking of them. She said very little, but, do you know, her manner rather shocked me. It takes a lot to do that! She seemed positively to gloat over that horrible, tragic, dark corner. Cacciola was quite distressed, and remonstrated with her—at least I’m sure he did, though he spoke in Italian, which I don’t understand, and she answered him very briefly, in a passionate whisper, and then simply walked off, and Cacciola made a sort of incoherent apology and hurried after her. I couldn’t help thinking there was something mentally wrong—a most grievous thing, especially in one so young and beautiful and talented.”
Austin Starr sat listening intently, but neither then nor later, when the elder men had gone, did he say that he knew aught of Maddelena Cacciola, though why he kept silence he really did not know.