Chapter XXI: The Murderer of a Dead Woman

Since the day he was attacked, James Gobson had become ruder and more brutal to his wife than before. Although he seemed to have been joking when reproaching her for having set assassins on his track, the idea of a trap laid by her had taken root in his mind, and, brave as he was, he so feared that the attempt would be renewed that he no longer returned to Jamaica Plain at night. When he had prolonged his stay at the club he slept there, and did not return to the villa until daylight the next day.

His first duty, on arriving home, was invariably to make a scene, either with his servants or Mrs. Gobson; then, this duty of a drunkard being accomplished, he would call on Charles Murray, of whom he had made a confidant. The latter tried to calm him, but took such strange means that Gobson always left him after such conversations filled with greater hatred than ever toward Ada.

The day after the event which ends the preceding chapter, James returned home towards three o’clock, and as usual called on his neighbor, and talked about his wife in such a manner that Mr. Dow answered:

“Such a life is a perfect purgatory; why do you not separate from Mrs. Gobson? It would be better than any scandal, for certainly she will run off some morning. Some fine evening, when you return home, you won’t find her.”

“Separate from her? Is that possible?” growled the husband. “If I thought she had any idea of flight, I swear she should not go out of my house until she went with her feet foremost. There will be trouble yet. Does she ever say anything in particular to you?”

“I have never been alone with her more than twice since we have been acquainted, and you know she does not like me very well.”

“Of course not. You saved my life.”

“No, that is not the reason; but she knows that I have great friendship for you. However, it is very evident that she has some plan in her head. Have you not a relative or friend by the name of Davis?”

“Davis? No. Why?”

“I had reason to think so, for the other evening, when you had been treating her rather badly, it must be confessed, I heard her murmur, as she followed you about with her eyes: ‘And to think I had only to write a word to Davis to put an end to it all.’”

“Davis? The wretch!”

This name, no doubt, had suddenly awakened terrible memories in Gobson’s mind, for in uttering this exclamation he had become very pale and had arisen.

“You will not betray me,” said Charles Murray. “Come, calm yourself. It is of no use to be violent with women. You must use a little cunning, and don’t let them surprise you. This Davis, or any other friend or relative, matters little to you. No one could frighten you; you are master in your own house. If I were in your place I should leave Mrs. Gobson to live as she pleases; I would authorize her to amuse herself as best suits her; I would even urge her to keep less secluded. It would not need any more to satisfy her and restore peace to both of you.”

“Yes, perhaps you are right,” answered James, with a visible effort to master himself.

“And above all, I would not say anything to her. If you do, she will be on her guard, and will play you some trick and do something rash. Do you think we had better go and see her together?”

“No, indeed, not to-day, or to-morrow, probably. This evening I dine at the club, and to-morrow we shall go to the races with a jolly companion, who has lately joined us, Harris Burnett. Now, you know that on the day of the races, there is a great banquet at Barker’s. After to-morrow, in two or three days, we will see what is best to be done. Meanwhile, since you will not come with us, preach to Ada, and if you see anything promise to warn me.”

“I will not fail to do so.”

“And, then, you see, at heart I do not think her capable of playing me a wicked trick. However, I know what I am about.”

James Gobson spoke these words in a peculiar tone, and the friends having separated after this conversation, the drunken Gobson went to Boston without even stopping to see his wife. The latter, however, waited in vain for Charles Murray all the evening. The door between the two villas remained closed, and she passed a terrible night, not understanding why he had not come to see her. Mad with love and despair, she did not fall asleep until late into the night, and the next morning she hastily wrote a note, which she sent to her neighbor.

On reading this letter, Murray could not conceal a smile of triumph. Ada, however, had written only these three lines, but no doubt did not wish more:

Come, I beg you, I will tell you everything, I cannot live thus; I do
not wish Mr. Gobson to find me at Jamaica Plain to-morrow.

An hour later Charles Murray was warmly greeted by Mrs. Gobson.

“Ada,” he said, gently, “I do not wish to know your secrets; from yourself, I wish only you; will you elope with me?”

“Will I?” answered the young woman with a joyful cry.

“Well, in the first place, your husband must be sent away for two or three days, but he must certainly be sent away from Boston, for he might come home from his club at any moment and suddenly surprise you making preparations for departure. You know him well.”

“He would kill me; but how can I manage to send him away?”

“You must send him to some city away from Boston. Let me think. Has he not some friends at Buffalo?”

“I don’t know of any.”

“Ah! I think I have found a plan. What were the names of those magistrates who made such a foolish mistake in accusing your husband of having murdered you?”

“Mortimer and Davis. The latter was the coroner in my district.”

Mrs. Gobson spoke these names with a blush and in a choking voice.

But her neighbor did not observe her emotion, and said:

“Coroner Davis, that is perfect. I have a plan; write down his name and address for me that I may not forget it. Here, on this envelope.”

Murray took a tablet from the table and placed it on Miss Ada’s knees. The latter tremblingly obeyed.

“Do you not understand me?” he asked.

“No,” she answered.

“It is very simple, however. I am going to get a friend of mine in New York to write a letter to Mr. Gobson, in which Mr. Davis will be supposed to have some information to ask of him.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” cried Ada, in terror.

“Why, what is there to fear? Absolutely nothing.”

But seeing Mrs. Gobson’s eyes look wild and her face terrified, he continued gently:

“Well, let us think of something else--or rather we will think of something this evening; calm yourself now.”

“Yes, this evening,” she repeated, questioning him with her eyes.

“But until then you must obey me.”

“Blindly.”

“You must take care to keep your servants out of the way; I don’t wish to be betrayed by any of them.”

“The gardener has gone to the races and will not return. The cook is ill, and I shall send my maid to the city.”

“Then stand near the garden-gate this evening at nine o’clock, and I will come for you.”

“Give me one kiss,” entreated Mrs. Gobson.

Murray, who had arisen, lightly touched his lips to her forehead and left her.

He remained only a few moments in his room, then went out and stepped into a carriage standing at his door. An hour later he was in the American House shaking hands with Saunders and Young, who had just arrived.

The chief of detectives was still the same--friendly and gruff, and talking, as usual, of arresting every one in the world.

William Dow asked after Mr. Kelly.

“I saw him yesterday,” answered the captain; “he was impatiently waiting for you to keep your promise.”

“The elections will not take place for a fortnight; now, to-morrow morning I hope all will be ended.”

In Saunders a great change had taken place, to his advantage. His love had vanished, and in his heart remained only anger and humiliation at having been duped. In physique he was wonderfully improved. His complexion had recovered its freshness, and stout as he was he had even gained flesh. It is useless to add that he was very affectionate to his friend Dow, especially when he learned that the moment for vengeance had come.

Toward six o’clock the travelers had dinner served in their room, and the detective left them a moment to receive, in an adjoining parlor, a visitor who had asked for him.

It was Harris Burnett.

“Well,” said William Dow, “where is our man?”

“He has lost much at the races, which has put him in a bad mood; besides, he is half drunk,” answered Burnett.

“He must not get wholly drunk. Now listen to me attentively. At half-past eleven, while it is still possible for Gobson to take the train for Jamaica Plain, you must have one of the servants at the club hand him this letter, telling him to answer; if he is asked who brought it, say that it was a messenger. Keep near James when he reads it. He will immediately leave Barker’s. If he begs you to accompany him you will go with him; if he does not you must follow him home, and if he closes his gate behind him you must enter mine, which you will find open, and wait behind the little gate that connects his place and mine until I call you. Have you understood me?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Then return to Gobson quickly, lest he perceive your absence.”

Harris Burnett hastened back to the club, and William Dow rejoined Young and Saunders at the table. At eight o’clock he gave the signal for departure.

The three friends entered the carriage, and a few moments before nine Dow introduced the chief of detectives and Saunders into his private room on the ground floor of his house. There, after begging them to wait with as much patience as they could, he left them alone and went up to Miss Jane’s room. The young girl, still pale from her emotion of the evening before, was with her teacher.

“My dear child,” said William to her, “I have come to beg you not to go down to the garden this evening, and whatever sound you may hear not to stir from your room.”

Jane turned a look upon her friend so full of anxious affection that he continued:

“Fear nothing for me, I run no danger; but there is great need for you to do what I wish. If I can accomplish, as I hope, the work that is approaching an end, you yourself will thank me. I can count on you, can I not, and you, Mrs. Wandright?”

The governess and her pupil, without asking a question, promised immediately that they would not leave their room until he gave them their liberty, and he left them, with an affectionate smile at Miss Jane, feeling assured that his instructions would be strictly obeyed.

It had just struck nine. He ran to the gate and opened it. Prompt at the rendezvous, Ada was waiting for him.

“Come,” he said to her, and taking her hand he led her to the hall connecting with his room. Then, from there, without passing the sleeping-room where Young and Saunders were standing, he took her into the library. But the door of this room was hardly closed before a horrible cry was heard--the cry of a woman mad with terror and despair--and followed by the sound of some one falling to the floor. Then groans, laments, and sobs followed one another, and silence again filled that part of the villa so suddenly and strangely disturbed.

Two hours later William Dow and Young, carrying an inert body, crossed the garden and ascended the stairs which led to Mrs. Gobson’s rooms. Reaching her sleeping-room, they placed their burden on the bed and withdrew. A few moments later they took the same path again, accompanied this time by Saunders, who seemed deeply moved, and by a woman enveloped in a large cloak, and who seemed hardly able to support herself.

At the same moment a servant handed James Gobson, at Barker’s, a letter which a messenger had just brought. Excited by losses and wine, Gobson opened it angrily. It contained a note of two lines and an inclosed letter. The note, signed Murray, was as follows:

This is what I have found on your door-step, and as this letter,
which you have lost, may be urgent I send it by a messenger.

“What does this mean?” asked James.

But, as he asked this question, he cast his eyes on the envelope, and immediately became very pale. He read on this envelope, written in a woman’s hand:

“Mr. Davis, coroner of the Saint Vincent district of New York.”

The letter, which he hastened to open, increased his fear still more; for, without uttering a word, he sprang out of the room, ran down into the street, and, after giving an address to the coachman, sprang into a carriage.

He did not perceive that he was followed by Harris Burnett, who stood a few steps away when the letter was handed him, and had kept him in sight every moment.

Twenty minutes later, Gobson was driving hastily along the avenue, in Jamaica Plain, but, when he reached his door, he stopped a moment. His forehead was bathed with an icy sweat; his hideous face expressed an implacable resolution, and he muttered, with a sinister smile:

“Oh! no, wretch, you shall not escape thus.”

All was silent in the villa, and the garden was enveloped in darkness. When he recovered from his rapid drive, he noiselessly opened his gate, slipped along the wall as far as his house, entered, and, owing to the carpet which smothered his footsteps, he softly reached the threshold of the door of his wife’s apartment. He held a revolver in his hand; but, as he was about to cross the parlor, he said to himself:

“No, not thus; some one might hear,” and putting the pistol back in his pocket, he armed himself with a short, stout dagger, without which he had not gone out of the house since the attack of which he had nearly become a victim.

The door that led from the parlor to the sleeping-room was open. He soon reached it, and raising the portieres, and although the room was lighted only by the soft, shaded light of an elaborate lamp, he recognized Ada, who, lying in her bed, seemed to be in a profound sleep. Her luxuriant hair rolled down over the lace alabaster-trimmed pillows beneath her charming head, and one of her bare arms, ornamented by one of those large gold bracelets with which she was so fond of decking herself, was gracefully extended on the coverlet. Overcome by fatigue, she had no doubt forgotten to divest herself of a part of her jewels, for, from the spot where like a wild beast Gobson was devouring his prey with glaring eyes, he saw the flash as of a fiery star of one of the magnificent diamonds in her pretty ears, a present from Saunders.

The charming tableau was not of a nature to calm his revengeful feelings. It seemed as if it roused his hatred, for, after a moment’s hesitation, he sprang forward, and his dagger, with a thrust that would have pierced the heart of his victim, struck her in the throat, and the murderer whispered hoarsely:

“Now, Kitty Bell, you will not speak.”

But the wretch gave a frightful shriek, and bounded backward.

His weapon, he did not understand how, had met with resistance, and at the bedside suddenly rose before his horrified gaze the figure of a woman in Indian costume, which cried:

“Assassin! assassin! a second time!”

“Miss Ada,” screamed Gobson, at this terrible apparition, and with affrighted eyes, foaming mouth, and convulsed features, his whole being shuddering with horror and fear, he seized his pistol and fired at the accusing phantom.

But his ball, badly aimed, struck the wall above the young woman’s head, and the murderer had not time to repeat his homicidal attempt, for, being immediately seized and disarmed by Young and Dow, who sprang from behind the curtains where they had hidden themselves, he was soon thrown upon the floor, and made powerless.

At the same moment a sob was heard.

Poor Saunders had thrown himself upon this waxen statue, the faithful image of her he had so much loved, and he said, through his tears, pressing in his burning hand the icy hand of Albert Moor’s _chef-d’œuvre_:

“Poor Ada! poor Ada! I knew that she had not deceived me.”