When Clifford had finished dinner that evening, he went to his study, and drawing a large arm-chair up to the fire, for the evenings were still cold, he lit a cigar and composed himself to master the details of his new case. To say that he was disappointed with Felix’s statement would not be to give a true indication of his state of mind. He was woefully chagrined. He had hoped and expected that his client would tell him something that would instantly indicate the line the defence should take, and instead of that he was puzzled to know where any defence at all was to come from. And the more he thought over it, the worse the outlook seemed. He went over the facts in order, marshalling them in his mind and weighing the bearing of each on the question of Felix’s innocence or guilt.
There was first of all the fundamental question of what had taken place in the house in the Avenue de l’Alma between 11.00 p.m. and 1.15 a.m. on the night of the dinner party. At 11.00 Annette Boirac was alive and well; at 1.15 she had disappeared. Felix was the last person, so far as was known, to see her alive, and it was not unreasonable to have expected him to have thrown some light on her fate. But he hadn’t.
It was true he had explained the motive for his interview with Madame. Confirmation of the truth of this, Clifford thought, should be obtainable from an investigation of the affairs of Bonchose. But even if it was established, he did not see how it would help his client. It would not prove him innocent. Indeed, it might be argued that this very discussion had been the indirect cause of the elopement, if such took place. It had given Felix an opportunity to see Madame alone which otherwise he might not have had. And who could tell what dormant passions that private interview might not have aroused? No. There was no help here.
And the remainder of Felix’s statement was equally unfruitful. He had said that after conversing with the lady till 11.45 p.m., he had walked about Paris till half-past one. But by a singular coincidence he had not been seen leaving the house, he had not met any one he knew, and he had not been anywhere he was known. Was this, Clifford wondered, so singular a coincidence? Might it not simply mean that Felix’s story was untrue?
Then he remembered the closing of the front door. Fran?ois had heard it shut at 1.00 a.m. If Felix left at 11.45, who shut it? As far as he could see, either Felix must be lying when he said he left at 11.45, or else Madame must have gone out by herself at the later hour. But the lawyer did not know which of these had happened, and the worst of it was there seemed no way of finding out.
Equally useless for the defence was Felix’s identification of the fur-coated lady on the Folkestone boat. Even had this been Miss Devine, it did not prove Madame Boirac was not a traveller. Might not Felix, travelling with Madame, have seen the actress on board, her subsequent death suggesting his story? No, even if he could prove all that the artist had said about the crossing, it would not help matters.
But Felix’s failure to find an alibi for himself was much more serious. Clifford had confidently expected a defence along these lines, and he was more than disappointed. He ran over the facts. The location of the man or men who had arranged the journeys of the cask was known at two periods; on the Wednesday at 10.00 a.m. at Waterloo, and on the Thursday at 5.15 p.m. at the Gare du Nord. Clifford got out his Continental Bradshaw. To have been in Paris at the time named, a Londoner must have left by the 9.00 a.m. from Charing Cross on Thursday, and he could not have arrived back before 5.35 on Friday morning. Therefore Felix had only to prove an alibi at 10.00 on Wednesday morning, or between 9.00 on Thursday morning and 5.35 on Friday morning, and the greatest part of the case against him would be met. But this was just what he could not do.
Clifford turned to his notes of the artist’s statement. According to it, at 10.00 a.m. on Wednesday, Felix had been painting in his studio. But the chance of the housekeeper’s absence and the peculiar arrangement under which the charwoman got breakfast prevented this being proved. And like an idiot, Felix had heard people ringing at the door, and, because he did not wish to be disturbed, had not opened it. One of those callers might have saved him now.
And then, with regard to Thursday and Thursday night. To have caught the 9.00 a.m. from Charing Cross, Felix must have left St. Malo at not later than 8.50. According to his statement, his breakfast was left ready for him at 8.00, and there certainly would not have been time for him to eat it. But there was nothing to prevent him having in two or three minutes dirtied the plates and carried away some food, to give the impression he had had his meal. Here there was hope of help from the charwoman. Clifford could not decide the point till he had interviewed her.
He turned back to his notes. After breakfast, Felix, according to his statement, had painted without ceasing, except for a cup of cocoa at lunch time, until half-past six. He had then changed and gone to town, dining alone at the Gresham. Though he had seen no one he knew at the famous restaurant, there was a chance that a waiter or commissionaire or other official might have recognised him. He had left about nine and, feeling tired, he had returned straight home. There, no one could know of his presence till 7.30 the next morning, when Mrs. Murphy would expect to hear him answer her knock.
But if he had been to Paris, meeting the cask at the Gare du Nord, he could have been home equally at 7.30 a.m. Therefore the evidence of his answering the knock would be immaterial. Certainly if Felix were telling the truth, the manner in which confirmation was eluding him was most unfortunate. But was Felix telling the truth? . . .
Then there were those three discoveries of Burnley at St. Malo, the ‘Emmie’ letter, the impression on the blotsheet, and the pin. Any one of these alone would have been highly damaging to Felix’s case; the three together seemed overwhelming. And yet Felix had not attempted a word of explanation. He had simply denied knowledge of all three. If the accused man could not explain these damaging facts, how was Clifford to set about it?
But nothing in the whole affair depressed the lawyer so much as the admissions Felix had made about his previous relations with Madame Boirac. It was, of course, true that Felix, a stranger introduced into the Boirac household, might have fallen in love with Madame and persuaded her to elope with him. But if Felix, instead of being a stranger, could be shown to have been not only desperately in love with, but actually formerly engaged to the mistress of the house, how tremendously the probabilities of such an elopement would be strengthened. What a picture a clever counsel could draw of this lady, tied to a man whom perhaps she detested, and with whom life in such case must have been an endless misery, brought unexpectedly in touch with the man of her real choice. . . . And her lover, his crushed-down feelings swelling up at the unlooked-for meeting, seeing her languishing in this bondage. . . . Why, the elopement would be amply accounted for. To Clifford it seemed that if the Crown got hold of the facts he had learnt, Felix was a doomed man. Indeed, the more he himself thought of the affair, the more doubtful of the artist’s innocence he became. As far as he could see, Felix had only one uncontrovertible point in his favour—his surprise on seeing the cask opened. And this would prove a matter of medical testimony, and no doubt there would be contradictory evidence. . . . The lawyer could see very little light even here.
And then he reminded himself it was not his business to try Felix. Innocent or guilty, he, Clifford, was there to do the best he could for him. But what form was that best to take?
Till the morrow had dawned he sat smoking in his chair, turning the case over in his mind, looking at the problem from every point of view, still without much result. But though he could not yet see the line his defence should follow, he was clear enough about his immediate next step. Obviously he must first see Bonchose, Mrs. Murphy, and the other persons of whom Felix had spoken, not only to test the latter’s story, but also in the hope of learning some new facts.
Accordingly, next morning saw the lawyer ascending the steps of the house in Kensington in which the apartments of Mr. Pierre Bonchose was situated. But here he met with a disappointment. Mr. Bonchose had gone to the south of France on business and would not be home for three or four days.
‘That explains why he has made no attempt to see Felix since his arrest,’ said the lawyer to himself, as he turned away and hailed a taxi with the idea of a call on the charwoman.
An hour later he reached the small village of Brent, on the Great North Road, and was directed to Mrs. Murphy’s cottage. The door was opened by a woman who had been tall, but was now shrunken, her sharp, careworn features and gray hair indicating that her life had been a struggle against odds.
‘Good morning,’ began the lawyer, courteously raising his hat. ‘You are Mrs. Murphy?’
‘I am sir,’ returned the woman, ‘and would you come in?’
‘Thank you.’ He followed her into the small, poorly-furnished living room, and sat cautiously down on the somewhat dilapidated chair she pulled forward.
‘You know, I suppose,’ he went on, ‘that your neighbour, Mr. Felix of St. Malo, has been arrested on a very serious charge?’
‘’Deed then, I do, sir. And sorry I was to hear of it. A fine, decent man he was, too.’
‘Well, Mrs. Murphy, my name is Clifford, and I am the lawyer ............