Collected works of j s f.., p.169
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 169
“After they came did you and your wife search the flat to see if you could find Miss Graffi!”
“Yes, sir. We couldn’t find her anywhere.”
“So that when you and Webber went up to Signor Graffi’s flat there was nobody alive in it but the young gentleman you have referred to!”
“Nobody, sir.”
“Do you see the young gentleman in court!”
Acock turns promptly and points with military precision to the tall young man in the Norfolk jacket. Every eye is also promptly turned upon him; everybody is wondering who this young man is, what he can tell; more than all, what he saw — if he saw anything. He blushes a little under the scrutiny, but his eyes are steady and he holds his head high.
Mr. Chrisenbury seems to hesitate a moment; then he intimates that he has no more to ask Acock. Mr. Chichele has, however, and he rises, and Acock regards him doubtfully as an unknown quantity. But Mr. Chichele’s question is a very simple one.
“When you and Webber met the gentleman you have just pointed out he gave you, you said just now, a brief explanation of his presence there in Signor Graffi’s flat! Did that explanation seem quite satisfactory to you!”
“Quite, sir. He seemed quite straightforward about the matter.”
Mr. Chichele asks no more. Nor does the coroner ask anything. But one of the jurymen, who for the past five minutes had been showing signs of nervousness or anxiety, pops up from the rear bench.
“I want to know what it was that that young man said to the hall-porter and the policeman.”
There is a murmur amongst the other jurymen; they look at the coroner; the coroner looks at the inquisitive one — indulgently.
“That will come in due course. At present—”
The jurymen is pulled down by his coat-tails; Charles Acock steps out of the witness-box. Follows him into it Police-Constable James Webber, who gives his evidence in true police-constable fashion, as if he were repeating a lesson learnt by heart. Was walking up Austerlitz Road about five minutes to eight o’clock on the morning of November 5th. Heard a window thrown up and a man’s voice call “Officer!” Looked up and saw the young gentleman whom he now sees in court, looking out. Young gentleman called down to him in quiet tone of voice. Exact words were, “Will you come up here? I’m afraid there’s murder!” Gained admission and went up with last witness; Charles Acock. Young gentleman told them how he came to be there, and led them into a bedroom. There saw body of deceased, and that he had been stabbed. Went off at once for help to police-station, which is close by. Returned within six minutes with help. Police-surgeon followed almost immediately after.
There is no great interest taken in this witness: everybody already knows all he has told. Nobody wants to ask him anything. But interest reawakens when the police-surgeon steps into the witness-box. He tells, in quiet, professional tones, how he was called to the dead man; what he saw; he tells of the autopsy which he afterwards conducted; how that the deceased man, for his age, a strong, thoroughly healthy man, might have been expected to live quite fifteen years longer. He had been stabbed through the heart, and death had been instantaneous. And — when he was called to examine the body — the deceased had, in his opinion, been dead just about five hours.
There is a whispered consultation between the coroner and the legal gentlemen when the police-surgeon has stepped down, and the court suddenly gains an idea, in that subtle fashion in which courts do gain ideas, that it is now going to hear something much more exciting, far more sensational, than anything it has heard hitherto. And in another second every eye, as with a common consent, is turned upon the young gentleman in the Norfolk jacket.
CHAPTER IV
THE PRINCIPAL WITNESS
“ADRIAN GRAYE!”
The young gentleman in the Norfolk jacket strides forward from the corner in which he has been standing in company with the other young gentleman of the immaculate attire. Once again he flushes a little under the healthy tan of his cheeks; once again, with obvious unconsciousness that he does so, he lifts his head and squares his chest as he steps into the witness-box and takes the New Testament which is offered to him. The men in court regard him with interest and speculation; the few women who are there watch him with admiration. As for Mr. Chrisenbury, who picks up what looks very much like a brief of some dimensions, he regards him as an interesting witness who can tell of this mysterious affair what no other witness can tell, and he proceeds to extract his evidence quietly and leisurely, so that it may have due effect. And he begins in a silence which is intense and deep, for the people who are listening — officials, those concerned, and mere spectators — know already that this young man, little more than a boy, was in that flat at Austerlitz Mansions when Death came to it in horrid shape.
“Your name is Adrian Graye?”
“Adrian Lister Graye.”
The voice is calm, quiet, strong; the manner self-possessed, sure.
“Adrian Lister Graye. How old are you, Mr. Graye!”
“I am nineteen.”
“It will be to your advantage that the court should know all about you. So you won’t mind telling the court who your father is!”
“My father’s name is William Chisholm Graye. He is a medical man, practising at Ravensholme, a village in the North Riding of Yorkshire.”
“Where do you yourself reside!”
“I have rooms at number twenty-three Shakespeare Avenue, Kilburn.”
“What are you — professionally or otherwise!”
“I am a medical student.”
“Of what college!”
“University.”
“Have you a clear recollection of the evening and night of November fourth!”
“Very clear indeed.”
“Tell the court, in your own way, what you did on that evening — say from seven o’clock onward.”
“I dined with my friend, Mr. John Herbert, at his rooms in Gower Street, at seven o’clock. Afterwards we spent some time in reading together. A little before ten o’clock one of us — I forget which — noticed that a yellowish fog was stealing into the room. I said that I had better go if a fog was coming on. Mr. Herbert went down to the street door with me. When we got there we found that the fog was very bad indeed. Mr. Herbert pressed me to stay the night with him, but I was very anxious to get home that night because I was expecting a particularly important letter from my father, relating to some family affairs. I thought I should be able to make my way home, because I had then no idea that traffic was being stopped, and I thought that the fog would not be so bad as one got on higher ground So I said good-night to Mr. Herbert, and set off.”
“To be precise, what exact time was that?”
“I cannot tell you the exact time, but it would be within ten minutes after ten.”
“I asked the question in your own interests for a reason which may — or may not appear. Pray proceed.”
“I made my way along Gower Street easily enough, because I knew it. But when I came to the Euston Road I found that it was not going to be so easy to get home as I had hoped. There was no traffic going at all; everything was at a standstill. I made my way to the corner of Hampstead Road; it seemed to me that things looked a little better there. However, it was evident that I should not be able to get a THIS, so I considered what was best to be done. It seemed to me that the best thing to do was to stick to main roads, and I thought that if I got into Albany Street, went up it, along the north side of Regent’s Park, and then along St. John’s Wood Road until I struck Maida Vale, I should be all right. Besides, I hoped that the further north I got the better things would be. Unfortunately, I then did a very foolish thing — I tried to make a short cut between the Hampstead Road and Albany Street, as I had often done, in going from Gower Street to see friends who live in Regent’s Park near St. Katherine’s College. And so I got hopelessly lost in some of the small streets near Munster Square. Exactly whereabouts it was, I can’t say, for the fog, instead of getting better, got much worse. And—”
Mr Chrisenbury raises a hand: he has a question to interpolate.
“You have not been able to satisfy yourself as to those exact streets?”
“No I have not. There are so many small streets about there which are so almost exactly alike that though I spent some time amongst them yesterday, I couldn’t tell just where I was.”
“Were there very few people about!”
“Very few indeed. During the time I was wandering about I met scarcely anybody, and not a single policeman.”
The court laughs. It is in that tense state of nerves when laughter is welcome — when, alas! laughter can easily become hysterical. But Mr. Chrisenbury is very grave.
“It was at any rate somewhere in the neighbourhood of Munster Square that you lost your bearings! You are sure of that!”
“Yes, I am quite sure of that. The difficulty was, of course, to cross from one street to another, but I did keep finding small clues. I am quite sure that it was all about Munster Square.”
Mr. Chrisenbury signs to the witness to proceed: the court forgets its little excursion into laughter and becomes hushed and solemn and expectant again.
“I came to a halt at what I found to be a street-corner, wondering which way to turn and what to do. It was very quiet about there — more than usually deserted — there wasn’t even a light in the houses where I stood, though I couldn’t have seen one at more than two or three yards distance. Then, as I stood, hesitating, I heard footsteps coming towards me and voices. The footsteps were halting and uncertain, and the voices were speaking in some foreign language, which, as they came nearer, I knew to be Italian. I had halted under a lamp-post to look at my watch. There was just a mere circle of light around it, and into that there presently came a tall, white-bearded old man, dressed in a big, black cloak and a wide-brimmed hat, who had a girl, a young girl, clinging to his arm. They—”
THE PRINCIPAL WITNESS
Again Mr. Chrisenbury lifts a finger.
“It will perhaps make everything clearer to the gentlemen of the jury, Mr. Graye, if you just tell us plainly that you now know who the old man and the young girl were.”
“Certainly They were Signor Graffi, and his granddaughter Gemma.”
The court in its corporate capacity heaves a deep sigh. Even its imagination can picture the dramatic meeting in the fog. Most of its individual units widen their eyes and open their lips: the silence grows deeper.
“You had never seen those two before?”
“Never in my life.”
“Well, what happened?”
“They halted. We all stared at each other. The old gentleman—”
“Call him Signor Graffi — it will make matters plainer.”
“Signor Graffi looked very wearied; the girl looked frightened. Signor Graffi said, in English: ‘Young gentleman, we are lost.’ I replied: ‘So am I, sir.’ Then I added: ‘Where do you want to get to?’ He replied that they wanted to get to Paddington — to Austerlitz Road. I said that was a long way off. Then I began to think how I could possibly help them, and—”
“Did Signor Graffi or his granddaughter, then or afterwards, mention where they had set out from? Think! This is a most important question.”
“No; neither of them, then or afterwards, said anything about that. I haven’t the least idea where they had come from. The difficulty was how to get them to where they wanted to go!”
“Well, you decided to help them?”
“Of course. I thought that if I could only get them into the Marylebone Road and along to Paddington and home, I myself would make my way up to the Great Western Hotel and put up there. So I took them in tow and tried the dodge of harking back, and after an awful lot of bother we struck Hampstead Road again. That time I made up my mind to coast along by the shops and houses when once we got into a straight line, and I stuck to that. Of course, it took a long time, but I got them into Edgware Road at last, and finally up to Austerlitz Road. It was just half-past twelve when I got them to the door of the mansions.”
Mr Chrisenbury once again stops the witness. He wants to ask the other witness, Acock, a question. Does Acock remember, can he be sure, whether he was in bed by half past twelve that particular midnight? Yes. Acock does remember, and he is very sure. He was in bed at twenty minutes past twelve — and fast asleep into the bargain. Mr. Chrisenbury gives a nod of satisfaction, and another nod which admonishes Adrian Graye to proceed.
“Go on, Mr Graye. By the by, did you by that time know who your companions were?”
“Oh, yes, long before that! We introduced ourselves as we made our way along. I knew who Signor Graffi was when he told me his name — some of our men took lessons from him.”
“Well, you got them to the door of Austerlitz Mansions. What then?”
“He insisted that I should go in and have — well, a drink. I went in.”
Again the court is pleased to laugh; it is a relief to laugh — it does everybody good to laugh, even though everybody knows that this is a matter of murder. But one’s nerves must not be for ever kept at this strict tension.
“Signor Graffi opened the door with a latchkey, and we all went up to his flat, and into his study. He insisted that I must have some supper; he himself wanted some; we must all three have some. He bade his granddaughter get it ready — an Italian supper, he said — and we would have a big flask of rare Chianti. I was about dead-beat by that time, so I accepted his invitation. I helped the granddaughter to lay out the supper-table.”
“In which of the rooms?”
“In the study. It was a very light, Italian supper — some slices of sausage, olives, cheese, fruit — fresh and preserved — that sort of thing. Signor Graffi fetched the wine from what he called his cellar. He was very hospitable. In fact, it would have been very pleasant, and jolly, and an experience and all that, but for one thing which rather spoilt it.”
“I see some hesitancy on your part, Mr. Graye. Better tell us straight out what it was.”
The witness, who had so far been ready enough, even to glibness, frowns and stares at the ceiling. He let some seconds go by: finally he brings his eyes down to Mr. Chrisenbury again.
“Oh, well, I thought the — the girl seemed unhappy and — Sort of restless, you know! She had scarcely spoken a word on the way, and after I got into the flat I got a notion that she hadn’t wanted visitors. She seemed — something like sullen, you know. She didn’t eat or drink — at least, scarcely anything.”
“Did you try to engage her in conversation?”
“Yes, I did.”
“With what effect?”
“Very little. I made some joking reference to the English climate, and she returned me a look that spoke volumes.”
“Did the grandfather say anything to that?”
“Yes. He remarked, laughingly, that his granddaughter pined for her native country.”
“Did she make any reply?”
“None, beyond a shrug of her shoulders.”
“Anything follow after that?”
“Yes. Signor Graffi said: ‘Never mind, my Gemma, we will have a holiday when the spring comes, and go to Italy for a month — perhaps for two.”
“What did she say in answer?”
“She said with a good deal of passion: ‘For always! For always!’”
“Now, what impression did you form of these two? Did they seem on good terms? Were they affectionate?”
“I thought that Signor Graffi was very kindly and indulgent to his granddaughter, and, in a way, affectionate. I — well, I could not make her out. She appeared to have a decided grievance. No, I should say she was certainly not affectionate to him. She did anything that he asked her to do readily enough, but her manner was certainly not affectionate in the sense in which the word is generally used.”
“She is, I think, a very beautiful girl?”
“Very.”
“Well what happened after you had supped?”
“Signor Graffi pressed me to smoke a cigar. I said, I ought to go. He said, Why should I go? he had a spare room, which was at my service: now and then, he said, one or other of his pupils occupied it. I was considering whether I should accept his offer or not, when I heard a very gentle tap at the door of the study, and the next instant the door opened, and a tall, dark man, obviously an Italian, walked in.”
CHAPTER V
GONE!
ONCE MORE THE murmur of excitement, the murmur that is more within than upon the lips runs round and through the crowded court. Its imagination has been already aroused; now it is growing. And like all growing things it demands food — food, more food, fresh food. Collectively and severally it sees the tiny supper party of three — the old, white-bearded man, the beautiful Italian girl, the handsome, young medical student; it hears the low tap at the door; it sees the door open, the tall, dark man, who is obviously an Italian, enter — stealthily, no doubt. Excellent! the crowd is upon this occasion being treated to exciting episodes which are worthy of the local theatres; every member of it holds his or her breath, expectant, eager, avid of more good things to come. And the witness goes on coolly:
“He came quietly in—”
Mr. Chrisenbury’s fingers again.
“A moment, if you please, Mr. Graye. Of course, when you entered the building — Austerlitz Mansions — the outer door was closed again; I presume by Signor Graffi? Can you be sure that it was?”
“I am perfectly sure. I closed it myself, for I entered last.”
“Very good. Now, what about the entrance to Signor Graffi’s flat? There is, of course, an entrance door to that?”
“Oh, yes! It looked to me like a strong one, too.”
“So that this young man who came in just after you finished supper must have had keys which admitted him, first to the building, and then to the flat?”
“I suppose he must — of course, at the time I never bothered myself or even thought as to how he had got in. All I thought about was that he was there — and I didn’t think much about that, since it was no affair of mine.”
