The Cask Freeman Wills Crofts (great reads TXT) 📖

counsel could draw of this lady, tied to a man whom perhaps she detested, and with whom life in such case must have been an endless misery, brought unexpectedly in touch with the man of her real choice.⁠ ⁠… And her lover, his crushed-down feelings swelling up at the unlooked-for meeting, seeing her languishing in this bondage.⁠ ⁠… Why, the elopement would be amply accounted for. To Clifford it seemed that if the Crown got hold of the facts he had learnt, Felix was a doomed man. Indeed, the more he himself thought of the affair, the more doubtful of the artist’s innocence he became. As far as he could see, Felix had only one uncontrovertible point in his favour⁠—his surprise on seeing the cask opened. And this would prove a matter of medical testimony, and no doubt there would be contradictory evidence.⁠ ⁠… The lawyer could see very little light even here.

And then he reminded himself it was not his business to try Felix. Innocent or guilty, he, Clifford, was there to do the best he could for him. But what form was that best to take?

Till the morrow had dawned he sat smoking in his chair, turning the case over in his mind, looking at the problem from every point of view, still without much result. But though he could not yet see the line his defence should follow, he was clear enough about his immediate next step. Obviously he must first see Bonchose, Mrs. Murphy, and the other persons of whom Felix had spoken, not only to test the latter’s story, but also in the hope of learning some new facts.

Accordingly, next morning saw the lawyer ascending the steps of the house in Kensington in which the apartments of Mr. Pierre Bonchose was situated. But here he met with a disappointment. Mr. Bonchose had gone to the south of France on business and would not be home for three or four days.

“That explains why he has made no attempt to see Felix since his arrest,” said the lawyer to himself, as he turned away and hailed a taxi with the idea of a call on the charwoman.

An hour later he reached the small village of Brent, on the Great North Road, and was directed to Mrs. Murphy’s cottage. The door was opened by a woman who had been tall, but was now shrunken, her sharp, careworn features and gray hair indicating that her life had been a struggle against odds.

“Good morning,” began the lawyer, courteously raising his hat. “You are Mrs. Murphy?”

“I am sir,” returned the woman, “and would you come in?”

“Thank you.” He followed her into the small, poorly-furnished living room, and sat cautiously down on the somewhat dilapidated chair she pulled forward.

“You know, I suppose,” he went on, “that your neighbour, Mr. Felix of St. Malo, has been arrested on a very serious charge?”

“ ’Deed then, I do, sir. And sorry I was to hear of it. A fine, decent man he was, too.”

“Well, Mrs. Murphy, my name is Clifford, and I am the lawyer who is going to defend Mr. Felix. I wondered if you would be good enough to answer some questions, to help me in his defence?”

“I would, sir, be glad to do it.”

“You managed the house for him recently, while his housekeeper was away?”

“I did, sir.”

“And when did Mr. Felix ask you to do that?”

“On Sunday evening, sir. I was just thinking of going to bed when he came to the door.”

“Now tell me, please, exactly what you did each day at St. Malo.”

“I went in the mornings, sir, and lit the fire and got his breakfast. Then I did out his room and washed up and left his lunch ready. He got his own lunch himself in the middle of the day, and went into London for dinner at night.”

“I see. At what hour did you reach the house in the mornings?”

“About seven o’clock. I called him at half-past seven and he had breakfast at eight.”

“And about what hour did you leave?”

“I could hardly be sure, sir. About half-past ten or eleven, or maybe later.”

“Can you remember the Wednesday of that week? I suppose you were at St. Malo at ten o’clock?”

“I was, sir. I was never left by ten any morning.”

“Quite so. Now what I want to know is this: on that Wednesday morning was Mr. Felix in the house at ten o’clock?”

“So far as I know, he was, sir.”

“Ah, but I want to be sure. Can you say positively he was there?”

“Well, not to be certain, sir, I couldn’t.”

“Now Thursday, Mrs. Murphy. Did you see Mr. Felix on Thursday?”

The woman hesitated.

“I saw him two or three mornings,” she said at last, “but I couldn’t be sure whether it was on Thursday. It might have been, though.”

“You couldn’t tell me at what hour he took his breakfast that morning?”

“Well, I could not, sir.”

It was evident to Clifford that Mrs. Murphy, though an intelligent woman, would be no use to him as a witness. He remained at her house for a considerable time, and was very probing and painstaking in his questions. But all to no purpose. While she corroborated what Felix had stated about his household arrangements, she dashed any hope the lawyer might have had of establishing an alibi.

By the time he again reached the city it was one o’clock. He decided he would lunch at the Gresham, and pursue his investigations among the staff.

The head waiter, with whom he began, could not himself give any information, but he took Felix’s photo round among his men, and at last found one who had seen the artist. Felix, it appeared from this man’s statement, had dined there one evening some five or six weeks previously. The man, an Italian, remembered him because he had first supposed him to be a compatriot. But, unfortunately, he could not fix the date, and no one else, so far as Clifford could learn, had seen the artist at all. Clifford had regretfully to admit that this evidence, like Mrs. Murphy’s, was useless. In the lawyer’s private judgment it undoubtedly tended to confirm Felix’s statement,