“Not quite, sir.”
The constable had taken a place direcdy behind Clairmont/ Goodhope, who had remained on his feet to that moment. But Mr.
Bailey, placing his hands firmly on his shoulders, forced him down into his chair. There was no resistance, and for the moment no objection.
“Ready, are we?” asked Sir John of no one in particular. Receiving neither confirmation nor objection in the moment’s pause, he declared, “Then let us begin.”
He called another witness in from the sitting room, where the remainder were waiting. This time he used Mr. Donnelly as his messenger, for Benjamin Bailey did not move from his new post behind the impostor. Though by his name—Isaac Whelan—I did not know him, I recognized him immediately as a seaman when he appeared in the library. He was clean and cleanly dressed, yet his clothes were worn; though not tall, he walked with the rolling big-man’s gait that seems common to all of his calling. He looked around the room, spied Captain Cawdor and his hostile glare, then chose a place to stand some distance away from him. He exchanged a nod with Mr. Bailey, and I took him to be one of the constable’s drinking companions of the day before.
Identifying himself by name, Isaac Whelan gave his occupation as common seaman.
“Are you in the crew of the Island Princess?”
“I have been, sir, though I doubt, when I finish what I have to say here, that I shall again be welcome aboard.” He was a well-spoken man for one who made his life on ships. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “In truth, it was my intention to leave the ship here in London, in any case.”
“To jump ship, as it might be?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“And give up your pay? To break your contract? That is a punishable offense in Marine Court.”
“That’s as may be, sir.”
“Is Captain Cawdor such a hard master?”
“Not to his crew, no, but having made the full voyage once, I determined never to make it again.”
“Be more explicit, man.”
“Well, sir,” said Whelan, “we are intended to proceed with trading goods to the Ivory Coast of Africa, and there to pick up black cargo for sale in Jamaica and the Antilles.”
Sir John frowned. “Black cargo?”
“Human beings, sir, of black hue. They are chained in the hold and not allowed above decks until the long voyage is done. Fed poorly, they are. There is sickness among them. Many die, both men and women. It is an inhuman commerce, sir, and I will no longer have part in it.”
The magistrate was silent for a moment. “I see. It is, however, legal commerce as long as it be conducted away from these shores. Do you object on religious grounds? Are you of some Low Church persuasion?”
“I object on the grounds that human beings is human beings, and they deserve to be treated better than livestock. No sir, cattle and pigs would be treated better.”
“Well,” said Sir John, “I have allowed this digression because it is of interest to me. It may also have some slight bearing upon the matter at hand. But let us return to it, Mr. Whelan, as it regards Mr. Charles Clairmont, the passenger on the Island Princess.”
“Very good, sir. I was on duty at the gangplank the night we docked at Bristol, when a man arrived and said he had an urgent message for Mr. Clairmont. I sent for the captain, and the two of them had a conversation in secret. Captain Cawdor then escorted him to the passenger’s cabin. Some little while later, Mr. Clairmont with this messenger fellow appeared at the gangplank, ready to disembark. I asked him, would he be with us to London, and he told me it was no affair of mine. I asked him this because the big fellow with him was carrying a clothes case belonging to Mr. Clairmont, which was not near all his baggage. The big fellow then gave me a kind of threatening look as he departed.”
“And that was the last you saw of Mr. Clairmont during the rest of the voyage?”
“In a manner of speaking, it was. I saw no trace of him from Bristol to London. To my knowledge neither did any of the rest of my shipmates. It was given out that he was seasick and had confined himself to his cabin, which would ordinarily have been accepted, for he had spent much of the previous route flat on his back, moaning his fate behind his door. Yet though we listened at his cabin door, we heard nothing. Yet though food was left for him, it was not eaten, nor was water drunk.
“Upon our arrival in London, there was then a strange end to this matter. I was not on duty, but neither was I off the ship. I saw what I saw from the ship’s rail. Less than an hour after we had docked, a man and woman appeared on the wharf. They was all bundled up so their faces could hardly be seen. I saw Captain Cawdor meet them and bring them up the plank. And near an hour after that, I saw the woman leave with a man who appeared to be Mr. Clairmont. I saw them only from a distance, but the man had Mr. Clairmont’s strange walk and was dressed as he dressed. But those who saw him up close was sure it was him. Those who heard him speak swore so.”
“Do you see that man in this group tonight?”
“I see the man who left the ship. I would near swear he was Charles Clairmont.”
“You would near swear,” said Sir John, echoing him. “What is your reservation?”
“Well, facts is facts, and the fact is I never saw the man who came on board with the woman leave the ship. Nor did any of my mates. We talked about it much between us, because Mr. Clairmont was not no ordinary passenger.”
“Please tell us what you mean by that.”
“It was generally known on shipboard that he was the vessel’s owner.”
“Mr. Humber,” called out Sir John, “is that correct?”
Alfred Humber pushed himself wearily to his feet, and once again consulting the letter in his hand, he said, “The owner of the Island Princess is listed as The Island Company.” Then he looked around him, shrugged, and returned to his seat.
“And Charles Clairmont,” said Sir John, “has presented himself to me as the principal of The Island Company.” Then, to Mr. Whelan: “Thank you, sir, you have been most helpful. You will be detained as a witness, so there will be no need to give up your wages and go into hiding. But be available. There is but one more matter, then you may go.”
And having so said. Sir John rapped a good hard knock on the surface of the desk where he sat.
That was my signal. I leapt to my task. Having previously marked the place well, I lifted out five books from the shelves next the fireplace, exposing the trigger of the machine. I gave it a stout push, stepped back, and the entire case of books began moving slowly forward. There was sudden interest from all around. As one, they seemed to hold their breath and stare at the widening gap in the wall.
At last Dick Dillon was exposed, head and shoulders. He climbed up the ladder on which I knew him to be perched and entered the room, followed closely by Constable Baker, bearing one of two pistols in his hand. There was a murmur of whispering among many, though not between Clairmont/Goodhope and Lucy Kilbourne. A look of great gravity passed between them, nothing more.
“Mr. Whelan,” spoke out Sir John, “was this the man who came with a message for Mr. Clairmont in Bristol?”
“It was, sir. I spoke to him personal. I’d know him anywheres.”
“Then you are dismissed with my thanks.”
With a curt nod, Isaac Whelan turned sharply and left the library with the same rolling gait he had entered it.
Sir John gestured off to his right. “Here you see an attendant mystery explained—and that is how the slayer managed his exit from the locus of the crime so quickly and cleanly. There is a tunnel leading from the mews at the rear to the entrance just opened here. It was found, after diligent search, by Master Proctor, aided by Ebenezer Tepper of the household staff. Lady Goodhope, did you know of this tunnel?”
“No,” she said with firm certainty, “I did not.”
“And you. Potter, did you know of it?”
The butler looked left and right, clearly at a loss as to what he might say. At last, he managed uncertainly and in a low tone: “I … I heard it discussed, merely.”
“Speak up, man!”
“I merely heard it discussed,” said Potter, forcing it somewhat.
“By whom and in what regard?”
“By Lord Goodhope, once, in the way of childhood memories.”
“Yet you gave us no help in this regard. I believe you are lying. Potter, but I will not delay this inquiry further to squeeze the whole truth from you. It will out soon enough. But now I give the floor to this man before you—Dick Dillon, an accused felon awaiting trial, formerly footman to the Goodhope household. Give us the story, Dick Dillon.”
And he did, nor a more grim tale did I ever hear.
Dillon had left the Goodhope residence secretly at night, knowing full well that he was to take part in a sinister plot (though he swore in passing that he did not know when he began that murder was its end). He traveled to Bristol on the orders of Lord Goodhope, bearing a letter from his master to Charles Clairmont to be delivered to him aboard the Island Princess. He claimed not to know the contents of the letter, but said that, having read it, Mr. Clairmont was ready and eager to make the trip to London in the coach and horses Lord Goodhope had empowered him to hire for a swift journey to London. They made it in good time, and per Lord Goodhope’s instructions, Dillon delivered him to the residence of Lucy Kilbourne.
“He was right glad to see her,” said Dillon, “and the two of them flitted and flirted about in the way of ladies and gents. She offered him spirits to drink, and he drank most deep of them. Dick Dillon, he had none, for it was his instructions to wait and stay sober until his lordship appeared. That he did in a few hours’ time, and though I was not privy to their conversation, I got the drift of it enough to know there was a great sale of property involved, and that him who was to be the buyer was to be brought direct there to Lucy Kil-bourne’s in an hour or two. The buyer was threatening to leave London to survey a plantation in the colony of Georgia. Promising to return. Lord Goodhope left, telling me to remain.
“Then Mr. Clairmont and Mistress Kilbourne continued their dalliance, and of a sudden, she said to him, ‘Oh, Charles, we have but a little time to do what nature impels us.’ And she takes him by the hand and leads him into her bedchamber, taking a bottle along with her. Though the door was shut, there was sounds from behind it, but soon those sounds seemed cries of misery, rather than pleasure, and they was quite loud. Just then Mistress Kilbourne opened the door and appeared to me quite near naked, and she said to me, ‘Dick Dillon, come here. You must do something.’ And I entered her bedchamber and saw Mr. Clairmont, himself quite naked, was in the most extreme form of agony, and him complaining of it in extreme tones. I looked upon him and said to her, ‘What can I do?’ ‘You must silence him,’ said she, ‘for I have poisoned him, and he will move the neighbors to call a constable.’ And I, thinking only to quieten him, asked her for a piece of cloth. She supplied a piece of her undergarments, and I wadded it up and thrust it into his mouth. Thus gagged, he could attempt to cry out but would not be heard.
“As she dressed and made herself presentable for the street, his attempts to cry out grew weaker, and he no longer thrashed about so on the bed. He was quiet enough as we dressed him in the clothes Lord Goodhope had provided. As I hauled him down to the Bristol coach, which we had kept waiting, he was quite dead upon his feet. I had to lift him bodily inside. Mistress Kilbourne said to the driver, ‘You must take our friend to the doctor, for he has been seized deathly ill.’ I rode up at the top aside the driver and directed him into the mews behind the big house on St. James. Mistress Kilbourne rode inside. Once in the mews, I hauled out Mr. Clairmont, or what was left of him, and we dismissed the coach back to Bristol, and we got no argument, for the coachman had been well paid.
“Then had I the great difficulty of moving Charles Clairmont through the tunnel, which was known to me through Lord Good-hope. I dropped him down the hole, climbed down the ladder, and carried him pickaback to the ladder leading into the house. That required the greatest effort of all, for Mr. Clairmont would not be pushed and he could not be pulled. He was a terrible burden. I could do naught but proceed pickaback up the ladder, holding tight to his arms with one hand and tight to the rungs with the other. In this way, I reached the top and dropped the body upon the floor where I stand now.”
All eyes went to that spot—all but Sir John’s, of course; he, rather, raised his hand to halt Dillon’s recitation and put to him a question:
“Where, in all this time, was Mistress Kilbourne? Did she follow you through the tunnel and into the library?”
“She did not, sir. She remained in the mews. I could have used even such help as she could provide.”
“Proceed then.”
“Well, sir, we, meaning Lord Goodhope and myself, we put Mr. Clairmont upon the chair where you now sit. He slumped and sagged a bit, which didn’t matter much, but for the shot to be fired proper, it presented a problem.”
“Yes,” said Sir John, “tell us about the shot.”
“Well, there was two separate purposes to it. The first was, clear enough, to make it look like suicide, for here was this person sitting at the desk who was dressed in the exact same cut and color of clothing that Lord Goodhope at that moment wore, had the same color hair, and but for his stoop Mr. Clairmont might have been about the same height. But the features of the face was different, there was no arguing that. So that was the second purpose of the shot: to destroy the features of Mr. Clairmont’s face, his nose in particular, so that the difference would not be noted.
“To deUver such a shot required careful aim, for there could be no second try. But Mr. Clairmont’s head kept flopping down on his chest in a way that made a good shot near impossible. So Lord Goodhope says to me, ‘Dick, you must hold him steady so that I can get a proper shot off.’ Says I to him, ‘How can I do that?’ And he replies, ‘Stand an arm’s length away and hold his head with your hand, and I will put the shot true.’ And so Dick Dillon did as he said, and Lord Goodhope took careful aim, steadying his hand on the desk, and delivered the shot. It was all he could have hoped for, because there was little to be seen of what was once the face of Charles Clairmont, what with the blood, and the powder, and the great hole made by the ball right by his nose. But he damned near took my hand along with it. It wasn’t but a minute or two, but they were banging on the door trying to break it down. We hastened to leave, but so interested was Lord Goodhope in the job he’d done, he almost walked off with the pistol. I minded him of this, and he dropped it down by the dead man’s feet. We was out of there then, and that great slow door, which was part of the bookshelves, closing behind us. He stayed behind on the ladder a bit to listen through the wall, then he climbed down, sure that his plan had worked, and we made our leave through the tunnel.”