CHAPTER XXIX
THE WORLD IS SO LARGE
As for the man who had made the extraordinary assertion, he seemedquite unconscious of the effect which it had produced: as if the factthat the supposed heir to an earldom, being actually the son of aClapham bricklayer, was one that found its natural place in every-daylife.
He had his cap in his hand--a shabby, gray tweed cap--and he wastwirling it between his fingers round and round with an irritatinglynervous gesture. His eyes now and again were furtively raised at thecoroner, as if he were wondering anxiously what punishment would bemeted out to him for having created so much commotion, and then withequal furtiveness he dropped them again. His shoulders were bowed andhis knees parted company from each other, thus giving him more thanever the appearance of a beetle.
Of course the coroner had to recover his official manner as quickly aspossible. But even to him the statement had come as a surprise. He hadonly known very vaguely that a witness had come forward at theeleventh hour, having only just had time to communicate with thepolice before the opening of the inquest.
In view of the importance of the evidence, the witness was called assoon as possible; what he had to say would materially affect thewhole trend of the inquiry; he had, it seems, brought others withhim--members of his own family among them--in order that they mightcorroborate the truth of what he said.
Quite a minute or so had elapsed in the meanwhile; then at last wasthe coroner able to resume with at least a semblance of officialindifference:
"Now," he said, "let the jury understand a little more clearly whatyou said just now."
"What I said?" rejoined the man vaguely.
"Yes, what you said. Let us understand it clearly. You went to themortuary this morning, and saw the body of the deceased?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you state here on oath that in the deceased you recognized yourown son?"
"I'll swear to 'im!" replied the witness simply. "Ask 'is motherthere!"
And with a long, thin finger, generously edged with grime, he pointedto the woman in seedy black hat and shabby tweed jacket who sat quiteclose to Luke de Mountford.
"Never mind about his mother just now," admonished the coroner. "Wewant your statement first. You realize that you are on oath?"
"Yes, sir. I've sworn my Bible oath."
"And you understand the importance of an oath?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you swear that the body of the murdered man whom you saw in themortuary chamber this morning is that of your son?"
"I swear to that, sir."
I believe that had coroner and jury and practically every man therepresent, dared to put their thoughts into words at that moment, theejaculation: "Well! I am blowed!" or "I'm d----d!" as the case mightbe--would have been generally heard throughout the room. The women, onthe other hand, were far too excited even to think.
"Now," resumed the coroner, "tell the jury please when you firstidentified the deceased as your son?"
"This morning, sir."
"In the mortuary chamber?"
"Yes, sir."
"You had not seen the body before?"
"No, sir."
"Did you know that other witnesses have sworn that the body is that ofa gentleman called Philip de Mountford?"
"Yes, sir. I knew that."
"Then do you mean to assert that those other witnesses have swornfalse oaths?"
"Oh, no, sir," rejoined James Baker with an apologetic smile ofself-deprecation, "I wouldn't say such a thing, sir."
"Well, then?"
"They was mistaken, sir, that's all. Paul was that clever, sir; ask'is mother there."
And once more the lean and grimy finger pointed to the seedy-lookingmatron who nodded a melancholy head, half in pride, half in regret.
"Clever, did you say?" asked the coroner, more briskly now. At last heheld a thread in this extraordinary tangled skein. "Then do you meanto assert that your son--Paul Baker--went about the world callinghimself Philip de Mountford?"
"That must 'ave been it, sir, I think."
"Deceiving people?"
"Aye! 'e was ever a bit o' no good."
"You think he imposed upon his lordship, the Earl of Radclyffe?"
"'E must 'ave done, sir, mustn't 'e now? seein' as 'ow 'is lordshipmust 'ave been took in."
"You helped him in the deception, I suppose?"
"Me, sir? Lor' bless ye no! Me an' 'is mother ain't clever enough forsuch things! We knew nothin' of Paul's doin's, and 'e allus went 'isown way, sir."
"But at least you knew that this fraud was going on?"
"Not exactly, sir."
"How do you mean 'not exactly?'" retorted the coroner sharply. "Youseem to be unconscious of the fact that this story which you aretelling the jury is a very serious matter indeed. If it is true, youare not only making a grave accusation against your dead son, but withthis accusation you may be involving yourself or some other member ofyour family in an exceedingly serious charge of fraud, the penalty forwhich if proved would be very severe indeed. On the other hand if thestory you tell is nothing but a cock-and-bull tale, which furtherevidence would presently demolish, then you lay yourself open to acharge of perjury and of conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice. Ihave thought best to give you this word of warning--the last which youwill get from me--because really you do not seem to be fully consciousof the extreme gravity of your position."
The bricklayer from Clapham had listened to this admonition, deliveredwith solemn emphasis and no small measure of severity, with a kind ofstolid indifference. He retained his humble, apologetic attitude, butclearly the coroner's threats did not affect his simple equanimity.
"I thank you, sir, kindly," he said when the coroner had ceasedspeaking, "but I can't 'elp it. Paul would go on 'is own way. Ask 'ismother there. 'E never would be spoken to, wouldn't Paul. And me and'is mother allus said 'e'd come to mischief some day."
"Did you know anything at all of this fraud?"
"No, sir. We knew nothin' of it really. You see Paul left 'ome nearlytwo year ago come Christmas. 'E didn't tell us nothing."
"Then you last saw your son alive two years ago?"
"Yes, sir. That's the last me and 'is mother seed of 'im. ChristmasDay, sir, 'twas two year ago nearly. Paul 'e said then 'e'd 'ad enoughof knockin' about in London. 'E was goin' abroad, 'e was, that's what'e said. And 'e left 'ome, sir, the next day. Bank 'oliday 'twere, andthat's the last me and 'is mother seed of 'im."
He had told this with all the simple fatalism peculiar to his class.The son went "abroad," and "abroad" to a Clapham labourer is a veryvague term indeed. It means so many things: geographically it meansany place beyond a twelve-mile radius from home; the Antipodes are"abroad," but so is Yorkshire. Domestically it means that thetraveller passes out of the existence of those that are left behind assurely as if he had stepped into the grave. Financially, it means amouth less to feed, seeing that the intending traveller is nearlyalways a wastrel at home. In any event the proposed journey "abroad"is taken with quiet philosophy by family and friends. The travellerstarts for "abroad" as easily, as simply, as he would for the nearestpublic house. He has no impedimenta, nothing to burden him or to causehim regret. Strangely enough, no one ever has any idea where the moneycomes from that pays for the journey "abroad." The traveller being awastrel never has any himself, and the family is invariably too poorto provide it. But the wastrel goes, nevertheless.
And life within the narrowed precincts of the family circle goes onjust as it had done before. Sometimes news comes from the traveller--apicture post-card from "abroad," usually a request for pecuniaryassistance. Seldom does good news arrive; still more seldom does thetraveller come back home.
But it is all very simple. Nothing to make a fuss about.
"Then," said the coroner, "he didn't tell you where he meant to go?"
"No, sir," replied Jim Baker, "he just was going abroad."
"Do you know where he went?"
"No, sir."<
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"Did you ever try to find out?"
"No, sir. Where 'ad been the use?"
Where indeed? The world is so large! and the Baker family soinsignificant!
"He didn't write to you?"
"No, sir."
"Nor communicate with you in any way?"
"No, sir."
"You had no idea what had become of him?"
"Not until last summer, sir."
"What happened then?"
"His sister, sir, our Emily, she was out walkin' with HarrySmith--young Smith from next door to us, sir--and she was down in theWest End o' London with 'im one day, and 'oo should they meet, sir,but Paul."
"Did they speak to him?"
"Yes, sir. They says, ''Ello, Paul, we didn't know as 'ow you was'ome,' and 'e seemed upset like at first, and pretended 'e didn't know'em, and that they'd made a mistake. But they chaffed 'im and went ontalkin', so I suppose Paul 'e thought it best to make a clean breastof it all."
"Do you mean to say that he told his sister and his friend that he wascarrying on a criminal fraud against the Earl of Radclyffe?"
"Oh, no, sir; not all that. 'E only told 'em that 'e was in for a goodthing. A gentleman's gentleman 'e told 'em 'e was and doin' well forhisself. 'E said 'e would come and see the fam'ly--'e meant me and 'ismother, sir--some day soon. But 'e never come."
"Did he say where he was living?"
"Yes, sir. 'E gave 'is address to Emily. Up 'Ampstead way it were. Along way, sir. Me and 'is mother never seemed to 'ave the time to goand look 'im up; but Emily she went with young Smith one Sunday, butthey never found the street, not where Paul said 'e was livin'. Thereweren't no such street in 'Ampstead, sir."
"And you never thought of making further inquiries?"
"No, sir." This again with that quiet philosophy, the stolid fatalism,peculiar to those who live from day to day, from hand to mouth, whohave neither leisure nor desire to peer outside the very circumscribedlimits of their own hearths.
"You never made any effort to know more about what your son was doingor how he was living?" suggested the coroner, who, though accustomedto this same quiet philosophy in men and women of that class, wasnevertheless strangely moved in this instance by the expression of afatalism that carried in its train such extraordinary consequences.
But Jim Baker, mildly astonished at the coroner's insistence over soobvious a matter, explained meekly:
"We knew that Paul was doin' well, you see, sir. 'E was thatsplendidly dressed when Emily and young Smith seed 'im they was quiterespectful like to 'im. So we knew 'e was all right."
"And you never troubled any further about your son?"
"We didn't want to interfere with 'im, sir. Gentlemen don't allus liketheir servants to be 'aving visitors, or to 'obnob with poor peoplelike us."
More calm philosophy not unmixed with a delicate sense of pride thistime, and a sublime if unconscious vein of selflessness.
"Well," rejoined the coroner, not unkindly this time--the man wholooked so like a beetle, who was so humble and apologetic, compelledquite a certain amount of regard--"we'll leave that matter for themoment, Mr. Baker. Now will you tell the jury what made you come tothis court to-day? What led you to think that the man who had beenmurdered in a cab the night before last, and of whom all thenewspapers spoke as Mr. Philip de Mountford--what made you think thathe was your son?"
Jim Baker by way of a reply plunged one of his thin hands in thepocket of his shabby coat and drew out a portion of very grimynewspaper carefully folded up quite small. He undid the folds untilhis eyes lighted on that which they sought. Then he held the paperout toward the coroner and pointed to a picture sandwiched in amongthe letter-press.
"I saw this," he said, "in the _Daily Graphic_ yesterday. It's thepicture of Paul, I says to myself."
The coroner took the paper from the witness and laid it down on thetable, glancing at it casually. There had been innumerable portraitsof the murdered man published both in the morning and the eveningpapers of yesterday.
"It's Paul to the life," insisted Jim Baker. "I was at my work, youunderstand, when I seed the paper in one o' the other chaps' 'ands. Icouldn't give up my work then. I 'ad to wait till evenin' to speak tomy missus. Then we talked it all over, and young Smith 'e took a dayoff and me too, and Mrs. Baker and Emily and Jane Smith, they all comealong."
"And you looked on the face of the dead man, and you swear that it isyour son?"
"I take my oath, sir. Ask 'is mother there. She knows 'er own son.She'll tell you just what vaccination marks 'e 'ad on 'is arm, andabout the scar on 'is leg and all. The ladies, sir, they are thatsharp----"
Jim Baker--feeling no doubt that his ordeal was nearly over--waslosing his nervousness, or perhaps it took a new form, that ofjocularity. The coroner thought it best to check his efforts at humourin the bud.
"That will do!" he said curtly.
And the Clapham bricklayer at once retired within his shell of humbleself-deprecation. He answered a few more questions that the coronerput to him, but clearly his own circle of vision was so circumscribedthat, willing as he undoubtedly was, he could throw no light whateveron the unknown events which led up to the extraordinary fraudpractised on the Earl of Radclyffe and which culminated in themysterious murder in the taxicab.
The father of the strangely enigmatic personality, who indeed hadtaken many a secret with him to the grave, was far too indifferent,too fatalistic, to put forth any theory as to his son's motives, orthe inducements and temptations which had first given birth to theastoundingly clever deception.
Wearied and impatient at last the coroner gave up his questionings. Heturned to the jury with the accustomed formula:
"Would any of you gentlemen like to ask this witness any questions?"
The foreman of the jury wanted to know if the witness's son had anybirthmarks on him, or other palpable means of identification.
"Yes, sir," replied Jim Baker, "but 'is mother'll tell you better'nme--she knows best--about the vaccination marks and all."
The foreman then asked the coroner whether the jury would be allowedto identify the marks. On being assured by the coroner that afteradjournment this very day every means would be taken to corroborateJim Baker's statement, the jury seemed satisfied.
And the corner called the next witness.