Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1759 page)

‘And what is more, sir, she would never have been found out — but for the wife’s jealousy. Everybody but that old woman was wheedled into liking Miss Beaumont. Mrs Parley believed the charming governess to be an imposter, and, being determined to expose her, applied to me for advice. The one morsel of evidence that induced me to look into the matter, came from the servant girl. Miss Beaumont’s bedroom was at the back of the house. One night the servant heard her softly open her window, and saw her empty her wash-hand basin into the garden. The customary means of emptying her basin, were, of course, ready and waiting in her room. Have you ever dropped into an actor’s dressing-room, sir, when he has done his work on the stage?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Have you accidentally looked at the basin when he washes his face before he goes home?’

‘Not that I remember.’

‘In such cases, sir, the actor often leaves, what you may call, a tinge of his complexion in the water; and the colour might strike an observant person. If I had not begun life on the stage, it would never have occurred to me that Miss Beaumont’s reason for privately emptying her basin might be connected with a false complexion — occasionally removed, you know, at night, and put on again the next morning. A mere guess, you will say, and more likely to be wrong than right. I don’t dispute it; I only say that my guess encouraged me to make one or two inquiries. It’s needless to trouble you, sir, by speaking of the difficulties that I found in my way. Let me only say that I contrived to get the better of them. Last night, after old Parley was safe in bed, his wife and his servant and I invaded the sanctuary of Miss Beaumont’s room. We were not at all afraid of waking the lady, having taken the precaution (at supper time) of giving her — let us say, the blessing of a good night’s rest. She had seemingly been a little irritable and restless before she went to sleep. At any rate, her wig was thrown on the floor. We passed by that, and went to the bed. She lay on her back; her mouth was open, and her arms were flung out on either side of her. Her own pretty fair hair was not very long; and her false colour (she was disguised, sir, as a dark lady in public) was left that night on her face and neck and hands. So far, we had only discovered that she was, what Mrs Parley believed her to be — an imposter, unknown. It was left for
me
to find out who the woman really was. The fastening of her night-dress round the throat had given way. Her bosom was exposed. Upon my soul I was terrified when the truth burst on me! There it was, sir, and no mistake — there, on the right side, under the right breast — ’

I started out of my chair. On my writing-table lay a handbill, which I had read and re-read till I knew it by heart. It had been distributed by the London authorities throughout the United&nbp;Kingdom; and it contained the description of a woman suspected of a terrible crime, who had baffled the pursuit of the police. I looked at the handbill; I looked at the man who was speaking to me.

‘Good God!’ I cried, ‘did you see the scar?’

‘I saw it, Mr Sheriff, as plainly as I see you.’

‘And the false eye-tooth on the left side of her mouth?’

‘Yes, sir — with the gold fastening to speak for it.’

Years have passed since the conversation took place which I have just related. But some persons must remember a famous criminal trail in London — and would recognise, if I felt myself at liberty to mention it, the name of the most atrocious murderess of modern times.

V
I

The warrant was issued for the woman’s arrest. Competent witnesses identified her, and the preliminaries of the law took their course.

To me, the serious part of the discovery was the part which cast suspicion on the unfortunate Benjamin Parley. Appearances were indisputably against him. He was not only suspected; he was actually charged with assisting the murderess to escape from justice. For the trouble that had now fallen on him, I could be of some use in assisting Parley, and in comforting his unhappy family.

You will hardly believe the assertion, but I declare it to be true, the man’s infatuation kept its hold on him more firmly than ever. His own interests were of no sort of importance to him; he seemed to be but little affected even by the distress of his wife and family; his one over-whelming anxiety was for the prisoner. ‘I believe in her innocence,’ he actually said to me, ‘as I believe in my religion. She is falsely accused, sir, of that horrible crime.’ He was incapable of resenting, he was even incapable of appreciating the cruel deception that she had practised on him. In one word, he was more devotedly in love with her than ever.

And, mind, there was no madness in this! I can answer for it, from my own experience; he was in perfect possession of his faculties.

The order came to have the woman removed to London, to be tried at the Central Criminal Court. Parley had heard of it. In the most moving terms he entreated me to have him set at liberty, and to trust him with the duty of taking charge of the prisoner!

It was my business to see her placed in the railway carriage, under proper guard. The train started in the morning. She refused to leave her bed. As a matter of course, I was sent for in this emergency.

The murderess was not a beautiful woman; she was not even a pretty woman. But she had a voluptuous smile, a singularly musical voice, a fine figure, and a supreme confidence in herself. The moment I entered the room, the horrible creature tried her powers of fascination on the Sheriff — she assumed the character of an innocent victim, overwhelmed by suffering of body and mind. I looked at my watch, and told her she had no time to lose. Not in the least disconcerted, she shifted to a new character; she took me, gayly and cynically, into her confidence. ‘My dear sir, you would never have caught me,’ she said, ‘if I had not made one mistake. As governess in the family of an ex-police-officer I should have been safe from discovery if I had not taken for granted that I could twist Parley’s old woman round my little finger, like the rest of them. Who would have thought she could have been jealous of an ugly old husband at her time of life? Wouldn’t you have said yourself, “All that sort of thing must have been over long ago, when a woman is sixty years old and more?” Can there be jealousy without love? And do we love when we are hideously flabby creatures covered with wrinkles? Oh, fie! fie!’

I took out my watch once more.

‘If I don’t hear that you are up and dressed in ten minutes,’ I said, ‘I will have you wrapped in a blanket and taken to the railway by main force.’

With that warning I left the room. The women in charge of her told me afterward that her language was too terrible to be repeated. But she was quick enough to see that I was in earnest; and she was up and dressed in time for the train.

V
II

When I tell you that Parley was one of the witnesses examined at the trial, you will understand that we had relieved him from the serious charge of being (in the legal phrase) ‘an accessory after the fact.’ He went to London as firmly convinced of her innocence as ever. She was found guilty on irresistible evidence, and sentenced to death.

On the conclusion of the trial, Parley had not returned to his family; he had not even written. His wife followed him to London. He seemed hardly to know her again.

The one idea in possession of him was the hopeless idea of obtaining a reprieve. He was absolutely indifferent to every other earthly consideration. Ignorant people thought him mad. He wrote to the newspapers; he haunted the Government offices; he forced his way into the house of the judge who had presided at the trial. An eminent medical man was consulted. After careful examination he pronounced the patient to be perfectly sane.

Through the influence of friends in London, who were known to the city authorities, the poor wretch gained admittance to the prison, while the criminal was waiting for execution. His wife heard what happened at the interview; but was never able to repeat it; to me or to any one. The same miserable cry always escaped her if she was pressed on the subject. ‘Oh don’t ask me! Don’t ask me!’

On the evening before the execution, he burst into a fit of hysterical crying. That outbreak of violent emotion was followed by a cataleptic seizure. More than eight and forty hours passed before consciousness returned. They feared the loss of reason when he had gained the capacity to feel and suffer. No such result attended his recovery.

On the same day he spoke of her to others for the first and last time. He said, very quietly, with a remarkable stillness in his face, ‘Is she dead?’ They answered, Yes. He said no more.

The next morning his wife asked if he would go back to Scotland with her. He was quite ready to do anything that she wished. Two or three days after their return I saw him. His grey hair had become perfectly white; his manner was subdued; his face, full of vivid expression in past days, seemed to have fallen into a state of changeless repose. That was all.

After an interval, I asked his wife and children if they noticed any change for the worse in him. Except that he was very silent, they noticed no change for the worse. He was once more the good husband and kind father of their past happy experience. Did he ever speak of the woman? Never.

I was not quite satisfied. A month later Mrs Parley asked me if I thought a friend of mine, who was one of our greatest living physicians, could do Benjamin any good. I asked what was the matter with him. ‘He seems to be getting weak,’ was the only reply.

The same day I took my friend with me to Parley’s house. After looking at the patient, and putting some questions, he asked to be allowed to make a complete examination. The two retired. When they returned, Mrs Parley was naturally a little alarmed. ‘Is there anything that’s wrong, sir?’ she asked. And to my astonishment, the doctor answered, ‘Nothing that I can find out.’

When we had left the house, I put the question to him, ‘What does this mean?’

‘It means,’ he answered, ‘that the old man is dying; and I can’t find out why.’

Once in every week the great physician visited Parley, always refusing to take his fee; but now and then asking permission to bring a medical friend with him. One day he called on me, and said, ‘If you want to say “good-bye” to the old police-officer, you have no time to lose.’ I went to the house the same day. Parley was asleep. I returned some hours later. Parley was dead. I asked what he had died of, and the doctor said, ‘We have obtained the widow’s permission to make a post mortem examination. Wait a little.’

I waited until the funeral was over, and then returned to the subject.

‘What discoveries did you make at the post-mortem examination?’

‘We made no discoveries.’

‘But there must have been some cause for his death?’

‘I called it “decay of nature” on the certificate,’ my friend answered. ‘A mere pretence! The man’s constitution was sound; and he had not reached seventy years of age. A registrar of deaths has nothing to do with questions of sentiment. A doctor’s certificate is bound to deal with facts, otherwise — ’

He paused, and drew me out of hearing of the mourners lingering in the churchyard.

‘Don’t mention it among my colleagues,’ he said. ‘If there really
is
such a thing — Benjamin Parley has died of a broken heart.’