Then the police superintendent came, and after him the doctor. The latter went through all the forms of ascertaining death, without uttering a word, and when at the conclusion of the operation of opening a vein, from which no blood flowed, he shook his head, all present understood the confirmation of their previous belief. The superintendent asked to speak to Mr. Carson in private.
“It was just what I was going to request of you,” answered he; so he led the way into the dining-room, with the wine-glass still on the table.
The door was carefully shut, and both sat down, each apparently waiting for the other to begin.
At last Mr. Carson spoke.
“You probably have heard that I am a rich man.”
The superintendent bowed in assent.
“Well, sir, half—nay, if necessary, the whole of my fortune I will give to have the murderer brought to the gallows.”
“Every exertion, you may be sure, sir, shall be used on our part; but probably offering a handsome reward might accelerate the discovery of the murderer. But what I wanted particularly to tell you, sir, is that one of my men has already got some clue, and that another (who accompanied me here) has within this quarter of an hour found a gun in the field which the murderer crossed, and which he probably threw away when pursued, as encumbering his flight. I have not the smallest doubt of discovering the murderer.”
“What do you call a handsome reward?” said Mr. Carson.
“Well, sir, three, or five hundred pounds is a munificent reward: more than will probably be required as a temptation to any accomplice.”
“Make it a thousand,” said Mr. Carson decisively. “It’s the doing of those damned turn-outs.”
“I imagine not,” said the superintendent. “Some days ago the man I was naming to you before, reported to the inspector when he came on his beat, that he had to separate your son from a young man, who by his dress he believed to be employed in a foundry; that the man had thrown Mr. Carson down, and seemed inclined to proceed to more violence, when the policeman came up and interfered. Indeed, my man wished to give him in charge for an assault, but Mr. Carson would not allow that to be done.”
“Just like him!—noble fellow!” murmured the father.
“But after your son had left, the man made use of some pretty strong threats. And it’s rather a curious coincidence that this scuffle took place in the very same spot where the murder was committed; in Turner Street.”
There was some one knocking at the door of the room. It was Sophy, who beckoned her father out, and then asked him, in an awestruck whisper, to come upstairs and speak to her mother.
“She will not leave Harry, and talks so strangely. Indeed—indeed— papa, I think she has lost her senses.”
And the poor girl sobbed bitterly.
“Where is she?” asked Mr. Carson.
“In his room.”
They went upstairs rapidly and silently. It was a large comfortable bedroom; too large to be well lighted by the flaring, flickering kitchen-candle which had been hastily snatched up, and now stood on the dressing-table.
On the bed, surrounded by its heavy, pall-like green curtains, lay the dead son. They had carried him up, and laid him down, as tenderly as though they feared to waken him; and, indeed, it looked more like sleep than death, so very calm and full of repose was the face. You saw, too, the chiselled beauty of the features much more perfectly than when the brilliant colouring of life had distracted your attention. There was a peace about him which told that death had come too instantaneously to give any previous pain.
In a chair, at the head of the bed, sat the mother—smiling. She held one of the hands (rapidly stiffening, even in her warm grasp), and gently stroked the back of it, with the endearing caress she had used to all her children when young.
“I am glad you are come,” said she, looking up at her husband, and still smiling. “Harry is so full of fun, he always has something new to amuse us with; and now he pretends he is asleep, and that we can’t waken him. Look! he is smiling now; he hears I have found him out. Look!”
And, in truth, the lips, in the rest of death, did look as though they wore a smile, and the waving light of the unsnuffed candle almost made them seem to move.
“Look, Amy,” said she to her youngest child, who knelt at her feet, trying to soothe her, by kissing her garments.
“Oh, he was always a rogue! You remember, don’t you, love? how full of play he was as a baby; hiding his face under my arm, when you wanted to play with him. Always a rogue, Harry!”
“We must get her away, sir,” said nurse; “you know there is much to be done before”—
“I understand, nurse.” said the father, hastily interrupting her in dread of the distinct words which would tell of the changes of mortality.
“Come, love,” said he to his wife. “I want you to come with me. I want to speak to you downstairs.”
“I’m coming,” said she, rising; “perhaps, after all, nurse, he’s really tired, and would be glad to sleep. Don’t let him get cold, though,—he feels rather chilly,” continued she, after she had bent down, and kissed the pale lips.
Her husband put his arm around her waist, and they left the room. Then the three sisters burst into unrestrained wailings. They were startled into the reality of life and death. And yet in the midst of shrieks and moans, of shivering and chattering of teeth, Sophy’s eye caught the calm beauty of the dead; so calm amidst such violence, and she hushed her emotion.
“Come,” said she to her sisters, “nurse wants us to go; and besides, we ought to be with mamma. Papa told the man he was talking to, when I went for him, to wait, and she must not be left.”
Meanwhile, the superintendent had taken a candle, and was examining the engravings that hung round the dining-room. It was so common to him to be acquainted with crime, that he was far from feeling all his interest absorbed in the present case of violence, although he could not help having much anxiety to detect the murderer. He was busy looking at the only oil-painting in the room (a youth of eighteen or so, in a fancy dress), and conjecturing its identity with the young man so mysteriously dead, when the door opened, and Mr. Carson returned. Stern as he had looked before leaving the room, he looked far sterner now. His face was hardened into deep-purposed wrath.
“I beg your pardon, sir, for leaving you.” The superintendent bowed. They sat down, and spoke long together. One by one the policemen were called in, and questioned.
All through the night there was bustle and commotion in the house. Nobody thought of going to bed. It seemed strange to Sophy to hear nurse summoned from her mother’s side to supper, in the middle of the night, and still stranger that she could go. The necessity of eating and drinking seemed out of place in the house of death.
When night was passing into morning, the dining-room door opened, and two persons’ steps were heard along the hall. The superintendent was leaving at last. Mr. Carson stood on the front-door step, feeling the refreshment of the caller morning air, and seeing the starlight fade away into dawn.
“You will not forget,” said he. “I trust to you.” The policeman bowed.
“Spare no money. The only purpose for which I now value wealth is to have the murderer arrested, and brought to justice. My hope in life now is to see him sentenced to death. Offer any rewards. Name a thousand pounds in the placards. Come to me at any hour, night or day, if that be required. All I ask of you is, to get the murderer hanged. Next week, if possible—to-day is Friday. Surely with the clues you already possess, you can muster up evidence sufficient to have him tried next week.”
“He may easily request an adjournment of his trial, on the ground of the shortness of the notice,” said the superintendent.
“Oppose it, if possible. I will see that the first lawyers are employed. I shall know no rest while he lives.”