The Changeling (54 page)

He had turned away and made off.

People were shouting. They were all round us. Bates was kneeling by my father, and servants were dashing out of the house.

It was like a nightmare … fearfully real. A terrible fear had come over me. I might never wait for him to come home to a late supper … never again talk to him of his ambitions.

I had never known such desolation.

My memories of that time come back to me like a series of bad dreams—overshadowed by a terrible sense of loss. I found myself trying to cling to the past, telling myself that it had not really happened … but it had.

Celeste was beside me. She clung to me. She was as dazed as I was.

They had taken him to the hospital. Celeste and I went with him. We sat side by side, holding hands, waiting.

I think I knew from the start that there was no hope. He had been shot through the heart and was on the point of death by the time they got him to the hospital.

Celeste, I am sure, found a grain of comfort in looking after me. I had been there at the vital moment, I had seen it happen. Small wonder that I was in a state of shock.

I was taken back to the house. There was a hushed atmosphere there. It did not seem like the same house. The servants were silent. There was tension everywhere.

I was given something to drink and made to lie on my bed; and after a while I slipped into blessed oblivion.

But soon I was awake again. My respite was brief; and the nightmare continued.

I soon realized that I was to play an important part in the drama, for I was the one who had been with my father when it happened. I was the one the police wanted to talk to.

I soon found myself in their company. They asked questions which I tried to answer. The conversation kept going round and round in my head.

“Did you see the man with the gun?”

“Yes. I saw him.”

“Would you recognize him again?”

“Yes.”

“You seem certain.”

“I saw him the night before.”

They were alert. I had said something of the utmost importance and I had to explain.

“I was waiting for my father’s return from the House of Commons. When he was late home I kept a little supper for him in his study. It was a custom between us. While I was waiting for him I looked out of the window and saw a man. He was waiting on the other side of the road by the railings of the garden. He looked as if he were waiting for someone.”

“What was he like? Was he tall?”

“Of medium height. His hat blew off. There was a strong wind. I saw him clearly under the lamplight. He had dark hair which grew to a peak in the middle of his forehead. And there was a white scar on his left cheek.”

They were very excited now. They looked at me in wonder and then exchanged glances. One of them, the Inspector, I think, nodded his head slowly.

“This is excellent,” he said. “And you saw the same man when the shooting took place?”

“Yes, but he was wearing a cloth cap pulled down over his face. I did not see his hair, but I saw the scar. And I knew he was the one who had waited last night.”

“Very good. Thank you, Miss Lansdon.”

There were headlines in the papers.

BENEDICT LANSDON ASSASSINATED.

BENEDICT LANSDON WAS SHOT DEAD OUTSIDE HIS HOME TODAY. HIS DAUGHTER, MISS LUCIE LANSDON, WAS AT HIS SIDE.

The newsboys were shouting in the streets. All London was talking of the death of Benedict Lansdon who had so recently been making the headlines with his opposition to Gladstone’s Home Rule Bill.

Late in the afternoon of the second day, my half sister, Rebecca, arrived from Cornwall. The very sight of her lifted my spirits a little, and I remembered how in my childhood I had always gone to her for comfort.

She came to my room and we clung together.

“My poor, poor Lucie,” she said. “This is terrible. And you were with him at the time. What does it mean? Who could have done this?”

I shook my head. “The police have been here. There have been a lot of questions. Celeste didn’t want me to see them but they insisted.”

“They are hinting that this is something to do with his opposition to the Irish Bill.”

I nodded. “They are saying that the Bill failed to get through the Lords because of my father’s speaking out against it. And, of course, he was one of those who voted against it.”

“Surely that could not be a reason for … murder!”

“I don’t know. It’s probably some wild conjecture. The press has brought it up to make it more sensational. There is a mention of the Phoenix Park murders.”

“That was years ago.”

“About ten. And then Lord Frederick Cavendish and his Under Secretary were shot … just as my father was.”

She nodded.

“So it seems possible,” I said. “Who else would do it?”

“Perhaps someone he knew long ago. Perhaps it was some personal feud. Did you know of anything? I suppose a man such as he was might have enemies.”

“I don’t know, but I expect the police will find out.”

“Lucie, you must come back with me to Cornwall.”

“I couldn’t go yet, Rebecca. I have to wait here for a while. The fact that I was with him when it happened … you see, they come here and ask me questions. There will be an inquest and after that … what do you think will happen? Will they catch this man?”

She lifted her shoulders.

“I saw him, you see,” I went on. “I saw him clearly.”

I told her about the man who had waited by the railings the night before the shooting, and how I had seen him next day kill my father.

She was astonished. “He would obviously have done it the night before, if your father had come home. Can you be sure it was the same man?”

“Absolutely. He had such distinguishing features. Moreover there was something about him … something I can’t describe … something purposeful.”

“You have told the police this?”

“Yes, and they are very excited about it.”

“Do you think it could be that this man is known to them?”

“I hadn’t thought of that. But I see that it could be. Oh, Rebecca, it was so good of you to come. I feel better now that you are here.”

“I know,” she said gently.

“Will you stay?”

“I shall until after the funeral. Then I shall take you back with me.”

“I suppose there has to be an inquest.”

“Certainly there will be. I’ll stay till it’s all over and then you can come back with me to Cornwall.”

“What of Celeste? I feel I should be with her.”

“She could come, too. You will both want to get away from this house for a while.”

“There will be changes everywhere,” I said. “I suppose we shall have to think of what we are going to do. At the moment I can think of nothing but his standing there. He looked surprised. I suppose it was less than a second but it seemed longer and there was my father … staggering, covered in blood. Oh, Rebecca, it was terrible.”

She put her arms about me and held me tightly.

“You must try to put that out of your mind. It’s over and there is nothing we can do about it. We’ve got to think of the future.”

“Yes. But later …”

“The children would love to have you with us,” said Rebecca. “And so would Pedrek.”

I nodded. I always enjoyed my visits to Rebecca. They were such a happy family. She had two lovely children, Alvina who was about six and Jake aged four. I found them interesting and amusing; I loved the sea and the moors and the air of remoteness; but all the time I was there I used to think of my father who, I knew, would be growing more and more restive, as he always was when I was away. So I had not been with Rebecca as much as I should have liked to be because of my father’s reluctance to let me go.

I could hear his voice coming to me now. “Going to Cornwall?”

“It’s some time since I’ve been.”

“Well, how long will you be away?”

“At least a month. It wouldn’t be worthwhile going for less.”

“A whole month!”

I knew that all my life I would be remembering such conversations and with them would come the heartbreak, the reminder that he had gone forever … killed by a man who did not even know him.

Rebecca knew well the state of affairs and she had never persuaded me to stay on, though she always hinted that she would be delighted if I did. There had always been something motherly about Rebecca as far as I was concerned. I had even seen it in her attitude toward my father. She had understood him as few people did, and that understanding had made her tender toward him.

London was obsessed by the news of my father’s assassination. It was not only the papers which were full of it. People strolled past the house, looking up at it and whispering. We could not help seeing them from the windows. I often found myself looking out at the pavement where my father had lain covered in blood, and across the road by the railings where that man had waited for him. If only I had known and been able to warn him.

There was the inquest—a painful ordeal which I had to attend. All interest was focused on me for it was my evidence which was of the greatest importance. I had been there. I had had a good view of the assassin whom I recognized as the man who had waited for my father on the previous night.

The verdict of the inquest was “murder against some person or persons unknown.”

My name was blazoned across the papers,
MISS LUCIE LANSDON, EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER OF BENEDICT LANSDON
. It came out about the little suppers I had waiting for him.

“He doted on her,” said Emily Sorrel, parlor maid.

“She was the apple of his eye,” said the housekeeper. “I never knew a father more devoted to his daughter,” the butler told our reporter. “Miss Lucie Lansdon was with her father in his dying moments.”

Celeste said the papers should be kept from me, but I wanted to know.

The day after the inquest Inspector Gregory came to see me. He was a big man with piercing blue eyes, a stern profile but a kindly manner; and he was very gentle toward me.

He said, “I shall be frank with you, Miss Lansdon. Your evidence has been of the greatest help to us. You gave us an accurate description of a man we want to interview and we believe we know who he is. He is Irish, a fanatical campaigner for Home Rule who has been under suspicion more than once. There seems an indication that your father’s death might have been brought about because of his opposition to the Home Rule Bill. The man we suspect has been involved in other outrages of this nature. We have wanted to interview him for some time. This has given us the chance to get him. We would have something concrete to bring against him. As a matter of fact we are detaining a man at the moment. I want you to come along and identify him. He will be with others. I want you to pick him out and if he is the man who shot your father we shall then have our man.”

“So … you have caught him then?”

“We are not sure. Of course, we are hoping he is our man. What we need is an assurance that he is. You were a witness of the murder and you saw this man quite clearly the night before the murder. So we want you to tell us if the man we show you is the same one you saw with the gun in his hand and the night before from your window. You will just have to pick him out of a group. It is very simple. I know it will be something of an ordeal for you, but it will be quickly over. I can tell you it will be a great relief to us and all law-abiding people if we can have this man in custody. We want to prevent him from committing more crimes like this one.”

“When do you wish me to come?”

“Tomorrow morning. We will send a carriage for you at ten thirty.”

“I will be ready.”

He touched my hand lightly. “Thank you, Miss Lansdon,” he said.

When he had gone, I kept thinking about the man and I wondered how he could have shot cold-bloodedly a fellow human being whom he did not know. He could not have paused to think of the misery he might be causing to a number of people. The opinion seemed to be that he did it to serve a cause. What causes were worth human lives and all the misery such crimes like this one could bring about?

I slept little that night. Once I got out of bed and went to the window. I looked out on the deserted street where the light from the lamp shone on the damp pavement. I was shivering, half-expecting to see that man there.

The next morning the carriage arrived.

I was taken into a room where Inspector Gregory was waiting for me.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Lansdon,” he said. “It’s just along here.”

He took me into a room where eight men were standing in a line.

“Just walk along and see if our man is among the others,” murmured the Inspector.

I approached the line. Some were tall, some short, some of medium height, dark and fair. I walked slowly along.

He was there—the fifth. I knew him at once. He had attempted to disguise the peak of hair by shaving it but by looking intently I could see its outline; and there was a faint white scar on his left cheek, which I could see he had attempted to conceal by some coloring matter. There was not a doubt in my mind as I went back to the Inspector.

“He is there,” I said. “The fifth in the line. I could see the outline of the peak of hair and he has tried to conceal the scar. The second time I did not see his hair but yet I knew he was the same man. And I know it now.”

“That is good. You have been of the greatest help to us, Miss Lansdon. We are extremely grateful to you.”

They took me back. I was exhausted. I kept thinking of that moment when his eyes had looked into mine. I could not explain the expression I saw there. He knew that I was aware of who he was. He must have seen me at the window that night; we had looked full at each other when he held the gun in his hand. His eyes were defiant, mocking, faintly contemptuous. Oh, yes, he knew that I had recognized him.

I went to my room when I arrived home. Celeste came in with a glass of hot milk on a tray.

“Was it such an ordeal?” she asked.

“It was just walking along a line of men and picking him out. He knew that I recognized him. Oh, Celeste, it was frightening. It was the way he looked at me … defying me, mocking me.”