Trent's Last Case by E. C. Bentley (trending books to read txt) 📕

“Tell me.”

“Since my reason for suppressing that information was all a fantasy, why did you never make any use of it? When I began to realize that I had been wrong about you, I explained your silence to myself by saying that you could not bring yourself to do a thing that would put a rope round a man’s neck, whatever he might have done. I can quite understand that feeling. Was that what it was? Another possibility I thought of was that you knew of something that was by way of justifying or excusing Marlowe’s act. Or I thought you might have a simple horror, quite apart from humanitarian scruples, of appearing publicly in connection with a murder trial. Many important witnesses in such cases have to be practically forced into giving their evidence. They feel there is defilement even in the shadow of the scaffold.”

Mrs. Manderson tapped her lips with the envelope without quite concealing a smile. “You didn’t think of another possibility, I suppose, Mr. Trent,” she said.

“No.” He looked puzzled.

“I mean the possibility of your having been wrong about Mr. Marlowe as well as about me. No, no; you needn’t tell me that the chain of evidence is complete. I know it is. But evidence of what? Of Mr. Marlowe having impersonated my husband that night, and having escaped by way of my window, and built up an alibi. I have read your dispatch again and again, Mr. Trent, and I don’t see that those things can be doubted.”

Trent gazed at her with narrowed eyes. He said nothing to fill the brief pause that followed. Mrs. Manderson smoothed her skirt with a preoccupied air, as one collecting her ideas.

“I did not make any use of the facts found out by you,” she slowly said at last, “because it seemed to me very likely that they would be fatal to Mr. Marlowe.”

“I agree with you,” Trent remarked in a colourless tone.

“And,” pursued the lady, looking up at him with a mild reasonableness in her eyes, “as I knew that he was innocent I was not going to expose him to that risk.”

There was another little pause. Trent rubbed his chin, with an affectation of turning over the idea. Inwardly he was telling himself, somewhat feebly, that this was very right and proper; that it was quite feminine, and that he liked her to be feminine. It was permitted to her—more than permitted—to set her loyal belief in the character of a friend above the clearest demonstrations of the intellect. Nevertheless, it chafed him. He would have had her declaration of faith a little less positive in form. It was too irrational to say she “knew”. In fact (he put it to himself bluntly), it was quite unlike her. If to be unreasonable when reason led to the unpleasant was a specially feminine trait, and if Mrs. Manderson had it, she was accustomed to wrap it up better than any woman he had known.

“You suggest,” he said at length, “that Marlowe constructed an alibi for himself, by means which only a desperate man would have attempted, to clear himself of a crime he did not commit. Did he tell you he was innocent?”

She uttered a little laugh of impatience. “So you think he has been talking me round. No, that is not so. I am merely sure he did not do it. Ah! I see you think that absurd. But see how unreasonable you are, Mr Trent! Just now you were explaining to me quite sincerely that it was foolishness in you to have a certain suspicion of me after seeing me and being in my atmosphere, as you said.” Trent started in his chair. She glanced at him, and went on: “Now, I and my atmosphere are much obliged to you, but we must stand up for the rights of other atmospheres. I know a great deal more about Mr. Marlowe’s atmosphere than you know about mine even now. I saw him constantly for several years. I don’t pretend to know all about him; but I do know that he is incapable of a crime of bloodshed. The idea of his planning a murder is as unthinkable to me as the idea of your picking a poor woman’s pocket, Mr. Trent. I can imagine you killing a man, you know... if the man deserved it and had an equal chance of killing you. I could kill a person myself in some circumstances. But Mr. Marlowe was incapable of doing it, I don’t care what the provocation might be. He had a temper that nothing could shake, and he looked upon human nature with a sort of cold magnanimity that would find excuses for absolutely anything. It wasn’t a pose; you could see it was a part of him. He never put it forward, but it was there always. It was quite irritating at times.... Now and then in America, I remember, I have heard people talking about lynching, for instance, when he was there. He would sit quite silent and expressionless, appearing not to listen; but you could feel disgust coming from him in waves. He really loathed and hated physical violence. He was a very strange man in some ways, Mr. Trent. He gave one a feeling that he might do unexpected things—do you know that feeling one has about some people? What part he really played in the events of that night I have never been able to guess. But nobody who knew anything about him could possibly believe in his deliberately taking a man’s life.” Again the movement of her head expressed finality, and she leaned back in the sofa, calmly regarding him.

“Then,” said Trent, who had followed this with earnest attention, “we are forced back on two other possibilities, which I had not thought worth much consideration until this moment. Accepting what you say, he might still conceivably have killed in self-defence; or he might have done so by accident.”

The lady nodded. “Of course I thought of those two explanations when I read your manuscript.”

“And I suppose you felt, as I did myself, that in either of those cases the natural thing, and obviously the safest thing, for him to do was to make a public statement of the truth, instead of setting up a series of deceptions which would certainly stamp him as guilty in the eyes of the law, if anything went wrong with them.”

“Yes,” she said wearily, “I thought over all that until my head ached. And I thought somebody else might have done it, and that he was somehow screening the guilty person. But that seemed wild. I could see no light in the mystery, and after a while I simply let it alone. All I was clear about was that Mr. Marlowe was not a murderer, and that if I told what you had found out, the judge and jury would probably think he was. I promised myself that I would speak to you about it if we should meet again; and now I’ve kept my promise.”

Trent, his chin resting on his hand, was staring at the carpet. The excitement of the hunt for the truth was steadily rising in him. He had not in his own mind accepted Mrs. Manderson’s account of Marlowe’s character as unquestionable. But she had spoken forcibly; he could by no means set it aside, and his theory was much shaken.

“There is only one thing for it,” he said, looking up. “I must see Marlowe. It worries me too much to have the thing left like this. I will get at the truth. Can you tell me,” he broke off, “how he behaved after the day I left White Gables?”

“I never saw him after that,” said Mrs. Manderson simply. “For some days after you went away I was ill, and didn’t go out of my room. When I got down he had left and was in London, settling things with the lawyers. He did not come down to the funeral. Immediately after that I went abroad. After some weeks a letter from him reached me, saying he had concluded his business and given the solicitors all the assistance in his power. He thanked me very nicely for what he called all my kindness, and said goodbye. There was nothing in it about his plans for the future, and I thought it particularly strange that he said not a word about my husband’s death. I didn’t answer. Knowing what I knew, I couldn’t. In those days I shuddered whenever I thought of that masquerade in the night. I never wanted to see or hear of him again.”

“Then you don’t know what has become of him?”

“No, but I dare say Uncle Burton—Mr. Cupples, you know—could tell you. Some time ago he told me that he had met Mr. Marlowe in London, and had some talk with him. I changed the conversation.” She paused and smiled with a trace of mischief. “I rather wonder what you supposed had happened to Mr. Marlowe after you withdrew from the scene of the drama that you had put together so much to your satisfaction.”

Trent flushed. “Do you really want to know?” he said.

“I ask you,” she retorted quietly.

“You ask me to humiliate myself again, Mrs. Manderson. Very well. I will tell you what I thought I should most likely find when I returned to London after my travels: that you had married Marlowe to live abroad.”

She heard him with unmoved composure. “We certainly couldn’t have lived very comfortably in England on his money and mine,” she observed thoughtfully. “He had practically nothing then.”

He stared at her—“gaped”, she told him some time afterwards. At the moment she laughed with a little embarrassment.

“Dear me, Mr. Trent! Have I said anything dreadful? You surely must know.... I thought everybody understood by now.... I’m sure I’ve had to explain it often enough... if I marry again I lose everything that my husband left me.”

The effect of this speech upon Trent was curious. For an instant his face was flooded with the emotion of surprise. As this passed away he gradually drew himself together, as he sat, into a tense attitude. He looked, she thought as she saw his knuckles grow white on the arms of the chair, like a man prepared for pain under the hand of the surgeon. But all he said, in a voice lower than his usual tone, was, “I had no idea of it.”

“It is so,” she said calmly, trifling with a ring on her finger. “Really, Mr. Trent, it is not such a very unusual thing. I think I am glad of it. For one thing, it has secured me—at least since it became generally known—from a good many attentions of a kind that a woman in my position has to put up with as a rule.”

“No doubt,” he said gravely. “And... the other kind?”

She looked at him questioningly. “Ah!” she laughed. “The other kind trouble me even less. I have not yet met a man silly enough to want to marry a widow with a selfish disposition, and luxurious habits and tastes, and nothing but the little my father left me.”

She shook her head, and something in the gesture shattered the last remnants of Trent’s self-possession.

“Haven’t you, by Heaven!” he exclaimed, rising with a violent movement and advancing a step towards her. “Then I am going to show you that human passion is not always stifled by the smell of money. I am going to end the business—my business. I am going to tell you what I dare say scores of better men have wanted to tell you, but couldn’t summon up what I have summoned up—the infernal cheek to do it. They were afraid of making fools of themselves. I am not. You have accustomed me to the feeling this afternoon.” He laughed aloud in his rush of words, and spread out his hands. “Look at me! It is the sight of the century! It is one who says he loves you, and would ask you to give up very great wealth to stand at his side.”

She was hiding her face in her hands. He heard her say brokenly, “Please... don’t speak in that way.”

He answered: “It will make a great difference to me if you will allow me to say all I have to say before I leave you. Perhaps it is in bad taste, but I will risk that; I want to relieve my soul; it needs open confession. This is the truth. You have troubled me ever since the first time I saw you—and you did not know it—as you sat under the edge of the cliff at Marlstone, and held out your arms to the sea. It was only your beauty that filled my mind then. As I passed by you