"I do, sir."

"I have no more to ask this witness, Mr. Coroner."

Thomas Davis, chemist, was then called. He deposed that on the evening of the 23d he perfectly well remembered a gentleman coming into his shop and buying a small bottle of spirits of camphor. Could not swear to him, but thinks it may have been the prisoner. It was a tall gentleman. (Upon being shown the bottle of camphor, immediately identified it as the one sold. The paper found in Mr. Atherton's pocket was now produced, and he likewise identified it as coming from his shop.) The paper and label were the same as he used.--Questioned as to whether he recollected selling any strychnine either on or before the 23d, replied he could not remember selling any; but that he had found a memorandum in his day-book of one grain sold on the 23d.

(Sensation.) Was quite sure it had been sold, or the entry would not have been made; always made those entries himself. His a.s.sistant reported to him of anything sold during his absence from the shop, and he then entered it in his day-book as a ready-money transaction. His a.s.sistant might have sold the strychnine on that day; but he had questioned him and found he did not remember any particulars. Could swear that he himself remembered nothing about it.--by Mr. Merrivale: Was generally absent from the shop an hour at dinner-time--from one to two--and from five to half-past for tea; again at night from nine to half-past. Closed at ten.

Mr. Merrivale here asked that Mr. Wilmot and Mrs. Haag might severally be brought in; to which Mr. Walker objected. The objection was overruled by the coroner, and Mr. Wilmot was summoned.

Mr. Merrivale: "Do you remember having seen this gentleman before, Mr.

Davis?"

"I do not, sir."

"Nor remember his coming into your shop?"

"No, sir."

The housekeeper was then called, with the same results.

Examination of witness continued: His a.s.sistant was a remarkably steady and able young man, intrusted with making up very important prescriptions; his word could be relied on; had been with him for five years. He himself was a licensed member of Apothecaries' Hall.

The last witness summoned was James Ball, a.s.sistant to Mr. Davis, the chemist. In reply to the coroner, he never remembered having sold any strychnine on the 23d, though he might have done so; in which case he would report it to Mr. Davis, who would have entered it in the day-book. Was in the habit of mentioning each item as soon after it was sold as opportunity permitted. Could not identify either Mr.

Wilmot or Mrs. Haag as having seen them in the shop.--By Mr. Walker: Remembered the prisoner coming into the shop on the evening of the 23d; they did not often see such a tall gentleman. His employer, Mr.

Davis, had served him with the camphor.

By Mr. Merrivale: "Do you mean to say that a customer whom you did not serve, buying camphor, made an impression on your mind, and yet you have no recollection of any one coming to your shop and asking for such a remarkable and _dangerous_ thing as strychnine?"

After a moment's consideration:

{610}

"I remember that gentleman," (pointing to the prisoner,) "because I wondered what his height might be, and what a jolly thing it must be to be so tall, especially with such a high counter to serve over."

(Laughter. James Ball was considerably below the middle height) "I don't recollect anything at all about the strychnine."

By the coroner: "It is a question probably of life or death, James Ball, to that gentleman, Mr. Atherton; and I conjure you to strive to the utmost of your power to call to mind any circ.u.mstance concerning the sale of that poison which may throw some light upon the subject Take your time now to consider, for I see you _can_ recollect things."

After some moments of dead silence, James Ball replied, "I remember nothing further than what I have already stated."

This closed the evidence, and coroner, summing up, addressed the jury.

He commented upon the awfulness of the crime which had been committed; on the fearful increase of the use of poisons of every kind for the purpose of taking away human life. He said in this case the princ.i.p.al facts they had to deal with were, that it was proved on evidence that poison had been administered to deceased in the bitter ale, which he had taken before going to bed. That the poison was p.r.o.nounced to be strychnine, which it was well known would probably not take effect until an hour or so after it had been imbibed. That the gla.s.s of bitter ale in which the strychnine had been detected was poured out and given to deceased by his nephew, Mr. Hugh Atherton, in presence of his other nephew, Mr. Wilmot. That it had been proved by medical evidence that in the ale remaining in the bottle no strychnine had been detected. All suspicions therefore were confined to the ale which had been _poured out_. That Mr. Atherton had been heard to use angry, if not threatening, language to the deceased, (he repeated the words,) and had been seen by two witnesses coming out of the chemist's shop kept by the identical man whose name was on the paper labelled Strychnine, and found in the prisoner's pocket. The prisoner's legal adviser had stated that a portion of the ale was already poured out in the tumbler, when he (the prisoner) approached the table for the purpose of helping his uncle; but no evidence had been adduced of the fact. Mrs. Haag, the housekeeper, had stated to the contrary. Still the prisoner was ent.i.tled to the benefit of the doubt. There had been positive evidence that the deceased had died from the effects of poison; it rested with the jury to decide whether the other evidence was sufficiently conclusive to warrant their finding a verdict against the prisoner as having administered the poison.

After a consultation of some quarter of an hour, the jury returned a verdict of _Wilful Murder against Mr. Hugh Atherton_.

Merrivale brought me the news in that dull back-room where I waited, heaven only knows with what crushing, heart-sick anxiety, and we left the house--that doomed house of death, of woe and desolation to the living.

The crowd outside had thickened and densified; but their cries and clamors were meaningless sounds for me. As we stood on the pavement whilst Merrivale hailed a cab, I felt something thrust into my hand--a piece of paper. I looked round and saw a man disappearing amongst the throng, who presently turned and held up his hand to me. He was in plain clothes and somewhat disguised; but I recognized Jones the detective. When in the cab I unfolded the paper, and read, hastily scrawled in pencil:

"Meet me, sir, please, on the Surrey end of London Bridge to-night at nine o'clock."

"A. Jones."

{611}

CHAPTER VI.

IN BLUE-ANCHOR LANE.

Nine o'clock was striking, as I hurried along the footway of London Bridge, hustled and jostled by the many pa.s.sengers who seem to be forever treading their weary road of business, care, or pleasure--for even pleasure brings its toil; nine o'clock resounding loud and clear in the night-air from the dome of St. Paul's, and echoed from the neighboring church-steeples. It sounds romantic enough to please the most enthusiastic devourers of pre-Radcliffe novels, or to capture the imagination of the most ardent votaries of fiction. But it was far otherwise to me on the night of that Thursday which had seen Hugh Atherton branded with the name of murderer. It was far otherwise to me--weighed down with the crushing knowledge that the companion of my youth, the friend of my later years, although an innocent man, was being gradually hurried on to a felon's death; and that I--_I_ who loved him so well--had helped to his destruction, though Heaven could witness how unwillingly and unconsciously. No; there was no romance for me that night as I dragged my weary steps over the bridge, with the sight of him before my eyes, and the sound of heart-bursting grief from the lips of that poor stricken girl, his betrothed bride, ringing in my ears; for I had been to tell her the results of this day's work.

Oh! why had I not yielded to his wish the evening I met Hugh Atherton in that fatal street, and taken him home with me? Why had I not more earnestly followed up the impulse--nay, dare I not call it inspiration?--to return after him and bid him come back with me? Ah me! my selfishness, my blindness--could any remorse ever atone for them and the terrible evil they had brought about? My G.o.d, thou knowest how my heart cried out to thee then in bitterness and sorrow: "Smite me with thy righteous judgments; but spare him--spare her!"

And now what new scene in this drama of life was I going to see unfolded? I could not tell; I knew nothing; I could only pray that if Providence pointed out to me any track by which I might penetrate the awful mystery that hung round us, I might pursue it with all fidelity, with utter forgetfulness of self. I had gone with Merrivale after we left Wimpole street to the House of Detention where Atherton was lodged, and desired him to ask that I should see Hugh; but he had come out looking puzzled and perplexed, and said: "I can't make it out; Atherton refuses to see you, and gives no reason except that it is 'best not.'" No help was there, then, but to trust to time and unwearied exertion to remove the cloud between us.

I found Jones waiting for me at the other end of the bridge, and anxiously on the look-out.

"I am right glad to see you, sir; I was fearful you mightn't come, seeing that I gave you no reason for doing so."

"I trusted you sufficiently, Jones, to belive you wouldn't have brought me on a useless errand at such a time of awful anxiety."

"Bless you, sir, I wouldn't--not for a thousand pounds; and I've had that offered to me in my day by parties as wished to get rid of me or shut me up. No, indeed, sir; I'd not add to your trouble if so be I could not lighten it. But we have no time to lose, and we have a goodish bit before us. You asked me this morning whether I knew any thing of a Mr. de Vos. I did not then, but I do now; and a strange chance threw me across him. If, sir, you will trust yourself entirely to me to-night, I think I can be of use to you. But you must confide in me, and allow me to take the lead in everything. And first, will you let me ask you one or two questions?"

I told him he might ask anything he pleased; if I could not answer, I would tell him so; that I would trust him implicitly.

{612}

"Then, sir, will you condescend to honor me by coming home first for a few minutes? My missus expects us. She's in a terrible way about Mr.

Atherton: she never forgets past kindness."

We turned off the bridge, straight down Wellington street, High street Borough, and then into King street, where Jones stopped before a respectable-looking private house, and knocked. The door was opened by his wife--with whom, under other circ.u.mstances, I had been acquainted before--and we entered their neat little front-parlor. Evidently we were expected, for supper was laid--homely, but substantial, and temptingly clean.

"You must excuse us, sir," said Jones; "but I fancied it was likely you had taken little enough to-day, and I told Jane to have something ready for us. Please to eat, Mr. Kavanagh; we have a short journey before us, and I want you to have all your wits and energies about you."

I was faint and sick, true enough; for I had touched nothing save a biscuit and a gla.s.s of wine since the morning; but my stomach seemed to loathe food; and though I drew to the table, not wishing to offend the good people, I felt as if to swallow a morsel would choke me.

Jones cut up the cold ham and chicken in approved style, whilst his wife busied herself with slicing off thin rounds of bread and b.u.t.ter; but I toyed with my knife and fork, and could not eat. Not so Jones; he took down incredible quant.i.ties of all that was before him with the zest of a man who knows he is going to achieve luck's victory.

Presently he threw down his tools, and looked hard at me.

"This'll never do, sir; you _must_ eat."

I shook my head and smiled.

"Jane," said he to his wife, "bring out Black Peter; no one ever needed him more than Mr. Kavanagh."

Mrs. Jones opened a cupboard and brought forth a tapery-necked bottle, out of which her husband very carefully poured some liquid into a winegla.s.s, and then as carefully corked it up again.

"Drink this, sir; I've never known it to fail yet."

I lifted the gla.s.s to my lips. "Why, it's the primest Curacoa!" I cried.

"That it may be, sir, for all I know. A poor German, to whom I once rendered a service, sent me two bottles, and I've found it the best cordial I ever tasted. I call it Black Peter--his name was Peter, and he was uncommonly black, to be sure--but I never heard its right name before. Drink it off, sir, and you'll feel a world better presently."