IN WHICH THE “EVENING MOON” CONTINUES TO SPEAK ITS MIND.

It was fatally true. They were dancing in blood. The woman who made the awful discovery had white satin shoes on. As she uttered the appalling words she looked down at her feet, and, with a wild shudder, sank into her husband’s arms. He, overwrought with excitement, had scarcely sufficient strength to support her, and he would have allowed her to slip to the floor had he not, also, cast his eyes earthwards. Quickly he caught her to his breast, and, trembling violently, proceeded upstairs. The weight of his burden compelled him to hold on to the balustrade; but the moment he placed his hand on the polished rail, he screamed, “There’s been Murder done here!” And, shaking like a leaf, he retreated in haste till he reached the street door. Flinging it open, he rushed with his wife into the Square, and stood in the light of the sunrise, a picture of terror.

The other actors in the scene had borne appropriate parts in the tragic situation. For a little while they were paralyzed, and incapable of action. The streaming in of the daylight aroused them, and they looked about timidly. On the floor, stairs, and balustrade were marks of blood not yet quite dried, and they traced the crimson stains to the end of the passage, where it dipped into the narrow staircase which led to the basement. There being no natural means of lighting the stairway, this part of the house was usually lit up by a thin, funereal jet of gas, which burnt as sadly as if its home were a tomb. At present it was in darkness, the gas being turned off.

The thought that had been put into words by the man who had rushed out of the house now took its place in the minds of those who remained within. There had been murder done. But who was murdered, and where was the murderer?

“That comes,” said the violinist to the landlady, “of letting a man into the house who refuses to give his name.”

The landlady wrung her hands. She saw ruin staring her in the face.

“He’s off, of course,” continued the violinist, “and Mary” (the name of the servant) “lies downstairs, murdered in cold blood.”

A sound sleeper, indeed, must Mary have been to have slept through the music, and the dancing, and the cries of terror. The silence that reigned below was confirmation of the violinist’s assumption. Of all suppositions, it was the most reasonable. Who would go downstairs to corroborate it? Not one had sufficient courage.

Meanwhile, events progressed in front of the house. A policeman, attracted by the sounds of music, was drawn thitherwards, and, seeing a man kneeling on the pavement, supporting a woman, he quickened his steps.

“What’s up?” demanded the policeman.

“Murder! murder!” gasped the man.

The woman’s white shoes, bedabbled in blood, met the policeman’s eye.

“There! there!” cried the man, pointing to the passage.

The policeman was immediately encompassed by the other frightened faces.

“You’re just in time,” said the violinist. “There’s been murder done.”

“Who’s been murdered?” asked the policeman.

“That’s to be found out,” was the answer. “It’s a girl, we believe.”

“Ah,” remarked the policeman, with a certain thoughtfulness; “the last was a girl—an unfortunate girl—and he’s not been caught.”

Cautiously they re-entered the house, the policeman with his truncheon drawn, and ascended the stairs to the drawing-room. No person, dead or alive, was found.

“It’s downstairs,” said the violinist.

They crept downstairs in a body, keeping close together. There, an awful sight met their eyes. On the floor of the kitchen lay the body of the stranger who, on the 1st of July, had engaged a room on the first floor, and had paid a month’s rent in advance. He had been foully murdered. The servant girl was sound asleep in her bed. It is strange, when she returned home from the Alhambra, and crept through the passage and the kitchen to bed, that she did not herself make the discovery, for the soles of her boots were stained with the evidences of the crime, and she must have passed within a foot or two of the lifeless body; but satisfactory explanations have since been given, with which and with the details of the murder, as far as they are known, the public have already been made fully acquainted through our columns.

Our business now is with Antony Cowlrick.

So profound was the impression produced by the murder that, from the day it was discovered, no person could be induced to lodge or sleep in the house in which it was committed. The tenants all left without giving notice, and the landlady, prostrated by the blow, has not dared, since that awful night, to venture inside the door. The house is avoided, shunned, and dreaded by all. Any human being bold enough to take it could have it for a term of years on a very moderate rental—for the first year, probably, for a peppercorn; but practical people as we are, with our eyes on the main chance, we are imbued with sentiments which can never be eradicated. The poorest family in London could not, at the present time, be induced to occupy the house. The stain of blood is on those floors and stairs, and it can never be washed out! The Spirit of Murder lurks within the fatal building, and when night falls, the phantom holds terrible and undisputed sway over mind and heart. A shapeless shadow glides from room to room—no features are visible but eyes which never close, and which shine only in the dark. And in the daylight, which in this house is robbed of its lustre, its presence is manifest in the echo of every step that falls upon the boards. Appalling spectre! whose twin brother walks ever by the side of the undiscovered murderer! Never, till justice is satisfied, shall it leave him. As he stole from the spot in which he took the life of a fellow-creature, it touched his heart with its spiritual hand, and whispered, “I am the shadow of thy crime! Thou and I shall never part!” He looks into the glass, and it peers over his shoulder; maddened, he flies away, and when he stops to rest, he feels the breath of the Invisible on his cheek. He slinks into his bed, and hiding his head in the bedclothes, lies there in mortal terror, knowing that the shadow is close beside him. It brings awful visions upon him. He looks over the bridge into the river upon which the sun is shining. How bright is the water! How clear! How pure! Surely over that white surface the shadow can have no power! But suddenly comes a change, and the river is transformed into a river of blood. An irresistible fascination draws him to the river again in the night, when the moon is shining on the waters, and, as he gazes downwards, he sees the ghastly body of his victim, its face upturned, floating on a lurid tide. He cannot avoid it; whichever way he turns it is before him. He walks through country lanes, and trembles at the fluttering of every leaf. Rain falls; it is red; and as he treads along, it oozes up and up till it reaches his eyes, and, resting there, tinges everything that meets his sight with the colour of blood. Water he cannot drink, its taste is so horrible. He must have gin, brandy—any poison that will help him to forget. Vain hope! He shall never forget! And the shadow of his crime shall never leave until he falls at the feet of outraged justice, and pays the penalty. Then, and then only, there may be hope for him—for God is merciful!

Among the measures adopted by the police for the discovery of the Great Porter Square murderer was that of having the house, No. 119, watched day and night by policemen in private clothes. There are not many persons in the kingdom who, in a murder case which has thrilled the public heart and filled it with horror, would accuse the police of want of zeal; but there are many who, with justice, would accuse them of want of tact.

A week after the murder was committed, Policeman X (as it is not of an individual, but of a system, we complain, we will not make this particular constable’s name more prominent than it has already become)—a week then after the murder was committed, Policeman X, in private clothes, saw lurking in the vicinity of Great Porter Square, a man: as he might see to-night other men lurking in the vicinity of any and every square in London. It is a peculiarity of policemen in private clothes that they are always ready to suspect, and that in their eyes every poor-looking person with whose face they are not familiar is a disreputable character. Policeman X watched this man for a few moments, and took the opportunity of brushing past him when they were near a lamp-post. The man’s face was unknown to him; it was haggard and pale, and his clothes betokened poverty. These were terrible signs, and Policeman X at once set himself the task of stealthily following the man, who walked leisurely towards the house, No.119, in which the murder was committed. The house was deserted and untenanted, as it is at the present time. Now, would the suspected man pass the house, or would he linger near it? Much depended upon this.

The man reached the house, peered around (according to Policeman X’s statement) to make sure that he was not observed, and then cast his eyes to the dark windows. He lingered, as though in indecision, for a few moments, and standing before the door, appeared to be studying the number. Then he strolled away. It cannot be said that there was anything criminating in these movements, but Policeman X, determined not to lose sight of his man, followed him at a cautious but convenient distance. The man sauntered round the Square, and presently commenced to munch some stale bread and cheese, portions of which were afterwards found upon him. He completed the circuit of the Square, and for the second time paused before No.119. Again he studied the number on the door, and again he looked up at the dark windows. Not satisfied with his inspection in that direction, he stooped down to the grating above the area, and appeared to listen. Still not satisfied, he ascended the two steps which led to the street door, and tried the handle.

Nothing more was needed. “I have the murderer!” thought Policeman X, with a thrill of satisfaction; and without further hesitation, he walked quickly up, clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder, and said—

“What are you doing here?”

The sudden appearance of a human being out of the shadows probably so startled the suspected man that he did not know what to reply. He thrust his head forward in the endeavour to distinguish the features of the questioner. The next words uttered by Policeman X had more meaning in them. With his hand still on the man’s shoulder, he said, sternly—

“Come with me!”

The reply given to the invitation was the reply which the writer, or any of the readers of this article, would have given on the impulse of the moment. It is to be borne in mind that the policeman was in private clothes, and might, as far as appearances went, himself have been a murderer in the eyes of another man dressed in private clothes, who, in his turn (for what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander) might himself have been a policeman.

“Come with me!” exclaimed Policeman X.

Antony Cowlrick—if that is his proper name, which we doubt—had as much reason to suspect Policeman X as Policeman X had to suspect Antony Cowlrick. Not only did he decline the invitation in words decidedly rude (really, Mr. Cowlrick, you should have been more courteous to this policeman in private clothes!), but he had the temerity to fling not only Policeman X’s hand from his shoulder, but the policeman’s entire body from his person. Not long did Policeman X lie upon the ground—for just time enough to come to the conclusion that such resistance on the part of a poor man, raggedly dressed, was strong evidence of guilt. For, if not guilty of the murder, why should the man resist? Picking himself up briskly, Policeman X sprang his rattle.

The precise effect produced upon the mind of Antony Cowlrick by the sound of this rattle must be mere matter of conjecture, and we will leave its consideration to a future article; its outward and visible effect was the taking to his heels by Antony Cowlrick.

The mental condition of Antony Cowlrick at this exact moment presents an interesting study. Its variety, its colour, its turmoil of possibilities and consequences, its sequence of private and personal circumstance, are almost sufficiently tempting to induce us instantly to wander into a psychological treatise utterly unfit for the columns of our little newspaper, and conducive, therefore, to its immediate decline in popularity. We resist the temptation. We adhere to our programme; stern Reality—pictures of life as they naturally present themselves in all their beauty or deformity; the truth, THE TRUTH, in its naked sweetness or hideousness! The highest efforts of imagination cannot equal the pictures which are for ever being painted upon the canvas of Reality.

Antony Cowlrick took to his heels: what more conclusive evidence than that he was the murderer did murderer ever give? He took to his heels and ran, self-convicted. The evidence was complete. After him, springing his rattle and dreaming of promotion, raced Policeman X. The magic sound caused windows to be thrown open and heads to be thrust out; caused ordinary wayfarers to stop and consider; caused idlers to stray in its direction; caused old hands with the brand of thief upon them to smile contemptuously, and young ones to slink timidly into the shadow of the wall. To the “force” it was a call to arms. It summoned from the north an angry, fierce, and blustering policeman; from the south a slow, envious, dallying policeman; from the east a nipping, sharp, and sudden policeman; from the west a brisk, alert, and eager policeman;—and all of them converging upon the hapless form of Antony Cowlrick, he was caught in the toils of Fate’s compass, and lay, gasping and exhausted, beneath the blaze of five bull’s-eye lamps, which glowed upon him with stern and baneful intention.

Helpless and bewildered lay Antony Cowlrick upon the flagstones of Great Porter Square. Over him, in a circle, stood the five policemen. These guardians of the law were tasting one of the sweetest pleasures in existence—for to our imperfect nature, the hunting down of any living creature, whether human or animal, is a rare enjoyment.

Policeman X wipes the mud from his brow.

“Did he strike you?” asks a comrade.

“You see,” answers Policeman X, pointing to his face.

Policemen are ready of belief in such matters. They see without seeing, and sometimes swear to the truth of a circumstance which is introduced to them second-hand.

“Now then,” says Policeman X, of the prostrate man, caught in the toils, “will you come quietly?”

Expectancy reigned in the hearts of the constables. We do not wish to be harsh in our judgment of them, when we say that, as a rule, they prefer a slight resistance on the part of a prisoner. To some extent it enhances the value of their services, and the extra exertion necessary in the conveying of their man to the lock-up, shows that they are doing something for their insufficient stipend. For our own part, we see much enjoyment in a policeman’s life, and were we not tied to the editorial desk, we would joyfully exchange the quill for the rattle.

“Will you come quietly?” demands Policeman X.

Antony Cowlrick is too exhausted to reply, and accepting his silence as a challenge, his pursuers gave him no grace. They haul him to his feet, and proceed to deal with him in their usual humane fashion. This causes faint murmurs of remonstrance to proceed from him, and causes him, also, to hold his arms before his face in protection, and to ask faintly,

“What have I done?”

“Ah!” say the four policemen, with a look of enquiry at him whose rattle summoned them to the battlefield.

The proud official—it is in truth a proud moment for him—utters but two words; but they are sufficient to animate the policemen’s breasts with excess of ardour.

“The murderer!” he whispers.

The murderer! Had he spoken for an hour he could not have produced a more thrilling effect; and be sure that he was as conscious of the value of this dramatic point as the most skilful actor on our stage. A light was instantly thrown upon the drama of the crime, and the unfortunate man, in their eyes, was damned beyond hope of redemption. The murderer! Blood swam before their eyes. Delightful moments!

But the ears of the prisoner had caught the words.

“What!” he screamed, making a violent attempt to wrench himself from the grasp of his captors. Poor fool! He was one to five, and was soon reduced to physical submission. The rough usage he received in the course of the struggle appeared to tame him inwardly as well as outwardly; when he spoke again his voice was calmer.

“Do you accuse me of the murder of that man?” he asked, turning his face towards 119, Great Porter Square.

He was most surely condemning himself.

“Yon know best whether you did it,” observed Policeman X.

“Yes,” he replied, “I know best.”

“What were you doing there?” was the next enquiry.

The man looked at them slowly, in detail, as though to fix their faces in his memory, and then, opening his lips, smiled, but did not speak. Nothing more exasperating could well have been imagined than the strange smile of this wretched man—a smile which seemed to say, “You will learn nothing from me.”

It was late in the night, but a crowd had already assembled, and the whisper went round that the murderer of the man who was found so cruelly murdered in No.119, Great Porter Square, had been caught. Short shrift would have been his, even in this law-loving city, if the excited knot of persons could have had their way; but it was the duty of the constables to protect their prisoner.

“Will you come quietly?” they asked of him.

“Why not?” he asked in return. “I shall be the gainer.”

So, carefully guarded and held as in a vice, the man walked to the police-court with his captors, followed by the crowd. It was almost a gala night, and the persons who hung at the heels of the supposed murderer and his captors were vehement in speech and florid in action as they explained to every new-comer the cause of the gathering.

“What is the charge?” asked the inspector.

Who should answer but the prisoner himself? Strange fancy of his to take the words from the tongues of his accusers—to steal, as it were, the very bread from their mouths!

“Murder,” he cried, with a bitter laugh.

An almost imperceptible quiver agitated the eyelids of the inspector, but it was in a quiet voice he repeated “Murder!” and held his pen suspended over the book in which the charges were set down.

“No.119, Great Porter Square,” added Policeman X, not willing to be robbed of every one of his perquisites.

The inspector’s agitation was now more clearly exhibited. The murder was a notable one—all London was ringing with it. His eyes wandered slowly over the prisoner’s form.

The man’s clothes were ragged, mudded, and shabby, but were without a patch; his boots showed signs of travel; his face had been unshaven for days.

“Search him,” said the inspector.

The man resisted, his face flushing up at the order; he was not aware that every fresh resistance to every fresh indignity was additional confirmation of guilt. The web was closing round him, and he was assisting to spin it. They found on him some stale bread and cheese.

“Take care of it,” he said tauntingly.

They continued their search, and found nothing else—not a scrap of paper, not a card, not a penny piece, not a knife even. It was most perplexing and annoying.

“Your name?” asked the inspector.

The man laughed again bitterly.

“Your name,” repeated the inspector.

“My name!” echoed the man, and then appeared to consider what answer it was best to give. “What do you say to Antony Cowlrick?”

“Is that the name you give?” inquired the inspector.

“Take it,” said the man defiantly, “in place of a better!”

“Where do you live?”

“Under the sky.”

No answers of a satisfactory nature could be obtained from him, and he was taken to his cell, and orders were given that he should be watched through the night.

As Antony Cowlrick, the man was brought before the magistrate the next morning, charged with the commission of the dreadful crime, and was formally remanded for the production of evidence.

We beg our readers not to be led away by the idea that we are writing a romance; we are stating plain facts. Without a tittle of evidence to implicate or connect him with the crime, the man Antony Cowlrick has been brought up no fewer than seven times, and has been a prey to the vulgar curiosity of eager crowds thronging to catch a glimpse of a monster whose hands were dyed with the blood of a fellow-creature. He has been treated as though he had already been found guilty—and, indeed, in the minds of thousands of persons he was found guilty; all that was needed was to fix the day, and prepare the scaffold. Rumours, false statements, columns of fiction, all tending to establish his guilt and to eliminate from the breasts of his fellow-men every spark of pity or mercy, have been freely and shamefully circulated. Our columns alone have not been degraded by this cruelty and this injustice; from the first we refused to believe in Antony Cowlrick’s guilt, for the simple reason that nothing could be adduced against him; and the course we have pursued has been justified by the result. Antony Cowlrick is innocent. But for weeks he has been confined in prison, and treated with contumely. Yesterday he was brought before Mr. Reardon, at the Martin Street Police Court, and, on the police stating that they had no further evidence to offer, Antony Cowlrick was discharged.

We do not say that he owes his release entirely to the generous advocacy of Mr. Goldberry, but he is certainly indebted to that gentleman for an earlier release from prison than the police would have been willing to accord him. For if prisons were not filled there would be no need of constables, and the common law of self-preservation induces all men instinctively to adopt that course which will preserve and lengthen their existence. Therefore, we say again, the prisons must be filled, and in the performance of this duty the police assert the necessity of their being.

Now, how stands the case at the present moment? What is the position of the Great Porter Square mystery? An innocent man has been arrested and charged with the crime; after a detention of eight weeks he has been discharged; and, during the whole of this interval, the police have been following a wrong scent. That they knew absolutely nothing of the man they falsely accused—that it is unknown where he has been lodging, and how long he has been in London—that not a friend has come forward to speak a word in his behalf, and that he himself has chosen to preserve a strange and inexplicable silence about himself—these circumstances add to the mystery.

A startling coincidence presents itself; the man who was murdered is unknown; the only man whom the police have arrested for the murder is unknown. But it would be odd if, in such a city as London, with its millions of human beings and its myriad of circumstances, strange and startling coincidences did not frequently occur.

There shall be no misconception of our meaning; there have been too many instances lately of wrong done to individuals by false or reckless swearing on the part of the police. The case of Frost and Smith, condemned by Mr. Justice Hawkins respectively to fifteen and twelve years’ penal servitude, on the testimony of the police, for a crime they did not commit, is fresh in the memory of our readers. The men are now released, after undergoing two years’ imprisonment—released, not by the efforts of the police who swore away their liberty, nor by the jury who condemned them, nor by the judge who sentenced them, but by means of an anonymous letter and the arrest of the real criminals for another crime—released really by an accident which, while it restores them to liberty, cannot remove from them the taint of the gaol. But, it may be urged, they have Her Gracious Majesty’s Pardon. Sweet consolation! A pardon for a crime they did not commit! Never was a word with a gracious meaning to it more bitterly parodied than this; the use of the word “pardon” by Home Secretaries, as applied to the men Frost and Smith, is not only an unpardonable mockery, but a shameful insult. Truly, red-tapeism, like charity, is made to cover a multitude of sins, but it cannot cover this.

We trust that the police have restored to Antony Cowlrick the property—the only property—they found upon his person at the time of his arrest; the pieces of stale bread and cheese. According to appearance it is all he has to fight the world with. It is worthy of note that Cowlrick made no application to the magistrate for relief.

We have opened a subscription for the unfortunate man, and have already two sovereigns in our possession, which we shall be happy to hand to this last “victim of justice,” if he will call at our office.

To-morrow we shall have something more, something perhaps of the greatest interest, to say with respect to Antony Cowlrick.