"They would have gone some way with a Jury, I have no doubt," the other replied. "But, as a matter of fact, I did _not_ commit the murder.
Bitterly as I hated your father, I am not responsible for his death."
Jim looked at him incredulously.
"Ah, I can see you do not believe me. Now, listen, James Standerton, and pay attention to what I say, for I shan't be able to say it again. I've been a pretty tough sort of customer all my life. There have not been many villainies I haven't committed, and still fewer that I wouldn't have committed if they tended to my advantage. The record I shall carry aloft with me will not bear much looking into. But on the word of a dying man, may"--(here he swore an awful oath which I feel would be better not set down)--"if I am not absolutely guiltless of your father's death. Will you believe me now?"
But still Jim looked incredulous.
"Ah, I can see that you still doubt me. How can I convince you? Think for a moment, what have I to gain or lose by saying such a thing? I shall be gone hence in a few hours, perhaps minutes. Even if I were the murderer, the police could not take me now. With old Bony behind me I can laugh at them and at you."
"But why did you run away if you were innocent?"
"Because I saw what a hole I had got myself into. You remember that I went up to the house and had an interview with your father? He turned me out, and in the hearing of yourself and the servant I vowed to be even with him. That vow I certainly should have kept, had not somebody else that night stepped in and took the case out of my hands. When I left the house, I went for a long walk. I knew my own temper, and also that I dared not trust myself with human beings just then. Good heavens, man!
You don't know how desperate I was. I had followed your father to England, and the voyage had taken nearly all my money. What little was left I spent in liquor, and then went down to Childerbridge to screw more from your father. He refused point blank to help me except on certain conditions, which I would not comply with. Knowing his stubbornness of old, I cleared out of Childerbridge by the first train, vowing that I would be even with him by some means. Then in an evening paper I saw that he had been murdered. In a flash I realised my position, and saw that if I was not very careful I should find myself in Queer Street. Then came your reward, and from that moment I hid myself like a 'possum in a gum log. I didn't care very much about my miserable neck, but--but--well, you see, strange though it may seem, I was a gentleman once."
Jim did not know what to say. If this man's tale were true, and it bore the impression of truth, then they had been on a false scent from the first.
"I wonder what your mother would have said had she been alive to see it all," said Murbridge, after a pause. "Good Lord, to think that Jane Standerton's brother should end his days in a hole like this."
"What?" cried Jim, scarcely believing that he had heard aright. "Whose brother did you say?"
"Why, your own mother's to be sure," returned Murbridge. "Do you mean to say that your father never told you after all?"
"Can such a thing be possible?" Jim continued, in an awed voice.
"Yes; I am Jane Standerton's brother sure enough. If you look in that old bag under the bed, you will find evidence enough to convince you of that fact. My real name is Richard McCalmont, though you wouldn't think it to look at me, would you? That was how I got my hold upon your father, don't you see? I was convicted of forgery at the age of twenty-one"--(the man spoke as if he were proud of it)--"and did my three years. For a while after that I went straight, but at twenty-six there was another little mistake, with the details of which I will not trouble you, but which was sufficient, nevertheless, to again cause me to spend some years in durance vile. At the age of thirty-two they tried to convict me of an Insurance Fraud, combined with a suspicion of murder. They would have done so but for certain technicalities that were brought forward by my Counsel, who, by the way, was employed by your father. You see I am perfectly candid with you."
"And you are my mother's brother?" said Jim slowly, as if he were still trying to believe it.
"And your father's brother-in-law, too. And your uncle. Don't forget that, James," said the other. "Lord! How your father hated me! On certain occasions I made it my custom to call upon him in a friendly way. At the end of my last term of exile, I found that my sister was dead, and that you and Alice were growing up. It was my desire to play the part of the kindly uncle. But your father made himself objectionable, and vowed that if ever I dared to betray my relationship to you he would cut off supplies. As there was never a time in my life in which I did not stand in need of money, I was perforce compelled to deprive you of a life's history that would certainly have proved interesting, if not instructive, to you. However, I now have the satisfaction of knowing that I shall not die without having accomplished that task."
Here he was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing, which left him speechless for upwards of a minute. As for Jim, he was thinking of the mental agony his father must have suffered, year after year, with this despicable creature, the brother of the woman he loved so fondly, continually holding this threat over his children's heads.
"God help you for a miserable man," he muttered at last. "Why didn't my poor father tell me this before? He might have known that this would not have made the least difference."
"He was too proud," replied the other, when he recovered his speech.
"Well, it doesn't matter much now, and in a little while it will matter still less. The police and I have been on the most friendly terms all our lives, and it gives one a homely sort of feeling to know that even my last moments will be watched over by their tender care."
He tried to laugh at his own hideous joke, but the attempt was a failure.
"For my mother's sake, is there anything I can do for you?" Jim enquired, drawing a little closer to the bed.
The other only shook his head. The effort he had made to talk had proved too much for him, and had materially hastened the end.
Seeing that his condition was growing desperate, Jim rose and went in search of the doctor. He found him in an apartment close at hand.
"I believe he is sinking fast," said Jim. "I think you had better go to him."
The doctor accordingly returned to the sick-room, leaving Jim alone with Robins.
"Well, sir," asked the latter, "did he confess?"
"We have been deceived," said Jim. "The man is as innocent of the crime as I am. I am convinced of that!"
"God bless my soul, you don't mean to say so," said the astonished detective, and asked the same questions Jim had put to the dying man.
Jim answered them as the other had done.
"Well, this is the most extraordinary case I have ever had to do with,"
said Robins. "If Murbridge had wanted to place a halter round his neck he could not have gone to work in a better fashion. If he is not the man, then where are we to look for the real murderer?"
"Goodness only knows," replied Jim. "The case is now shrouded in even greater mystery than before."
Half an hour went by, then an hour, and still they waited. At two o'clock the doctor rejoined them.
"It is all over," he said solemnly. "He is dead."
CHAPTER XI
Between the time of Murbridge's funeral and his own arrival at Childerbridge, Jim had plenty of leisure to consider his position, and to make up his mind as to how much he should let Alice know of the other's story.
After mature consideration, he decided that he had better tell her everything. Yet it had been such a painful shock to himself that he could well understand how it would affect her.
It was mid-morning when he arrived at Childerbridge, and Alice had walked down to the gates to meet him. He alighted from the carriage on seeing her, and they strolled across the park together.
"I have been so anxious to hear from you," she said, linking her arm through her brother's. "What have you to tell me? Did you find that wretched man?"
"Yes, I found him," he answered, "and he was dying."
She paused for a moment before she put the next question.
"And did he confess?"
"No," said Jim. "I firmly believe I wronged him in suspecting him of--of what happened. But I made another discovery, and one, I fear, that will cause you some astonishment and not a little pain. I learnt from him that his name was not Murbridge, but McCalmont."
"McCalmont?" she echoed, as if she did not understand. "But that was our mother's maiden name."
"Exactly," said Jim, "and he was her brother!"
Alice looked at him in horrified surprise.
"Oh, Jim," she answered, "surely such a thing cannot be possible?"
"I am afraid it is only too true," Jim replied. "His story was most circumstantial. He was our mother's youngest brother, and was, I am very much afraid, a disgrace to the family."
"But if he had been our mother's brother, why did he entertain such a deadly hatred for our father?" she asked.