‘It must be either on or in my uncle’s desk, or in his pocket. Will some one look for it? I wrote it in his memorandum book—a curious old black shagreen book, with a silver clasp. I left it open on the desk to dry.’
A policeman went to search for it; and the coroner asked what the entry had been.
‘July 5th, 1860. Received, L120. L. A. Ward,’—was the answer. ‘You will find it about the middle of the book, or rather past it.’
‘At what time did this take place?’
‘It must have been towards ten. I cannot tell exactly, but it was later than half-past nine when I came in, and he was a good while bringing out the money.’
The policeman returned, saying he could not find the book; and Leonard begging to show where he had left it, the coroner and jury accompanied him to the room. At the sight of the red stain on the desk, a shuddering came over the boy, and a whiteness on his heated brow, nor could he at once recover himself so as to proceed with the search, which was still in vain; though with a voice lowered by the sickness of horror, he pointed out the place where he had laid it, and the pen he had used; and desk, table, drawer, and the dead man’s dress were carefully examined.
‘You must know it, Sam,’ said Leonard. ‘Don’t you remember his putting in the cheque—old Bilson’s cheque for his year’s rent—twenty-five pounds? I brought it in, and he put it away one day last week. You were sitting there.’
Sam stammered something of ‘Yes, he did recollect something of it.’
Inquiries were made of the other persons concerned with Mr. Axworthy. Hardy thought his master used such a book, but had never seen it near; Mrs. Giles altogether disbelieved its existence; and Sam could not be positive—his uncle never allowed any one to touch his private memorandums.
As, with deepened anxiety, Dr. May returned to the dining-room, he caught a glimpse of Henry Ward’s desponding face, but received a sign not to disclose his presence. Edward Anderson wrote, and considered; and the coroner, looking at his notes again, recurred to Leonard’s statement that he had seen some one in the yard.
‘I thought it was one of the men waiting to take my cousin Axworthy’s horse. I did not know whether he had ridden or gone by train; and I supposed that some one would be looking out for him.’
Questions were asked whether any of the servants had been in the yard, but it was denied by all; and on a more particular description of the person being demanded, Leonard replied that the figure had been in the dark shade of the stables, and that he only knew that it was a young man—whether a stranger or not he did not know; he supposed now that it must have been the—the murderer, but at the time he had thought it one of the stable-men; and as his uncle had particularly wished that his journey should be a secret, the sight had only made him hasten to put out his light, and depart unseen. It was most unfortunate that he had done so.
Others ironically whispered, ‘Most unfortunate.’
The coroner asked Mr. Anderson whether he had anything to ask or observe, and on his reply in the negative, proceeded to sum up the evidence for the consideration of the jury.
It seemed as if it were only here that Leonard perceived the real gist of the evidence. His brow grew hotter, his eyes indignant, his hands clenched, as if he with difficulty restrained himself from breaking in on the coroner’s speech; and when at length the question was put to the jury, he stood, the colour fading from his cheek, his eyes set and glassy, his lip fallen, the dew breaking out on his brow, every limb as it were petrified by the shock of what was thus first fully revealed to him.
So he stood, while the jury deliberated in low gruff sorrowful murmurs, and after a few minutes, turned round to announce with much sadness that they could do no otherwise than return a verdict of wilful murder against Leonard Ward.
‘Mr. Leonard Ward,’ said the coroner, a gentleman who had well known his father, and who spoke with scarcely concealed emotion, ‘it becomes my painful duty to commit you to Whitford Gaol for trial at the next assizes.’
Dr. May eagerly offered bail, rather as the readiest form of kindness than in the hope of its acceptance, and it was of course refused; but he made his way to the prisoner, and wrung his chill hand with all his might. The pressure seemed to waken the poor lad from his frozen rigidity; the warmth came flowing back into his fingers as his friend held them; he raised his head, shut and re-opened his eyes, and pushed back his hair, as though trying to shake himself loose from a too horrible dream. His face softened and quivered as he met the Doctor’s kind eyes; but bracing himself again, he looked up, answered the coroner’s question—that his Christian name was Leonard Axworthy, his age within a few weeks of eighteen; and asked permission to fetch what he should want from his room.
The policeman, in whose charge he was, consented both to this, and to Dr. May being there alone with him for a short time.
Then it was that the boy relaxed the strain on his features, and said in a low and strangled voice, ‘O, Dr. May, if you had only let me die with them last year!’
‘It was not I who saved you. He who sent that ordeal, will bring you through—this,’ said Dr. May, with a great sob in his throat that belied his words of cheer.
‘I thank Him at least for having taken her,’ said Leonard, resting his head on the mantelshelf beneath his mother’s picture, while his little dog sat at his foot, looking up at him, cowed and wistful.
Dr. May strove for words of comfort, but broke utterly down; and could only cover his face with his hands, and struggle with his emotion, unable to utter a word.
Yet perhaps none would have been so comforting as his genuine sympathy, although it was in a voice of extreme distress that Leonard exclaimed, ‘Dr. May, Dr. May, pray don’t! you ought not to grieve for me!’
‘I’m a fool,’ said Dr. May, after some space, fighting hard with himself. ‘Nonsense! we shall see you out of this! We have only to keep up a good heart, and we shall see it explained.’
‘I don’t know; I can’t understand,’ said Leonard, passing his hand over his weary forehead. ‘Why could they not believe when I told them just how it was?’
At that moment the policeman opened the door, saying, ‘Here, sir;’ and Henry hurried in, pale and breathless, not looking in his brother’s face, as he spoke fast and low.
‘Ned Anderson says there’s nothing at all to be made of this defence of yours; it is of no use to try it. The only thing is to own that he found fault with you, and in one of your rages—you know—’
‘You too, Henry!’ said Leonard, in dejected reproach.
‘Why—why, it is impossible it could have been otherwise—open window, absconding, and all. We all know you never meant it; but your story won’t stand; and the only chance, Anderson says, is to go in for manslaughter. If you could only tell anything that would give him a clue to pick up evidence while the people are on the spot.’
Leonard’s face was convulsed for a moment while his brother was speaking; but he recovered calmness of voice, as he mournfully answered, ‘I have no right to wonder at your suspicion of me.’
Henry for the first time really looked at him, and instinctively faltered, ‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Indeed,’ said Leonard, with the same subdued manner, ‘I cannot believe that any provocation could make me strike a person like that old man; and here there was none at all. Except that he was vexed at first at my being late, he had never been so near kindness.’
‘Then is this extraordinary story the truth?’
‘Why should I not tell the truth?’ was the answer, too mournful for indignation.
Henry again cast down his eyes, Leonard moved about making preparations, Dr. May leant against the wall—all too much oppressed for speech; till, as Leonard stooped, poor little Mab, thrusting her black head into his hand, drew from him the words, ‘My doggie, what is to become of you?’