WHO KILLED ZEBEDEE.

Observer, Volume 1, Issue 26, 12 March 1881, Page 269

WHO KILLED ZEBEDEE.

A Romance, by Wilkie Collins, Antlior of tlie " Woman in White," " Tlie Moonstone,' " No Name," etc. CHAPTER V. The shop door was opened, after I had twice rung the bell, by an old man, very dirty and very deaf. He said, "You had better go up stairs, and speak to Mr. Scorrier — top of the house." At the top of the house I found Mr. Scorrier, engaged in engraving a brass door-plate. He was a middle-aged man with a cadaverous face and dull dim eyes. After the necessary apologies, I produced my photograph. "May I ask, sir, if you know anything of the inscription on that ltnife ?" I said. He took his magnifying glass, and looked at it. "This is curious," he remarked quietly. "I remember the queer name — Zebedee. Yes, sir ; I did the engraving, as far as it goes. I wonder what prevented me from finishing it?" The name of Zebedee, and the unfinished inscription on the knife, had appeared in every English newspaper. He took the matter so coolly, that I was doubtful how to interpret his answer. "Was it possible that he had not seen, the account of the murder? Or was he an accomplice with prodigious powers of selfcontrol ? "Excuse me," I said, "do you read the newspapers ?" "Never! My eyesight is failing me. labstain from reading, in the interests of my occupation." "Have you not heard the name of Zebedee mentioned, by people who do read the newspapers ?" "Very likely, but I didn't attend to it. When the day's work is done, I take my walk. Then I have my supper, my drop of grog, and my pipe. Then Igo to bed. A dull existence you think, I dare say ? 1 led a miserable life, sir, when I was young. A bare subsistence, and rest, before the last perfect rest in the graye — that is all I want. The world has gone by me long ago. So much the better." The poor man spoke honestly. I was ashamed of having doubted him. I returned to the subject of the knife. "Do you know where it was purchased, and by whom ?" I asked. "My memory is bad," he said, "but I have got something that helps it. I think I can tell you." He took from a cupboard a dirty old scrapbook. Strips of paper, with writing on them, were pasted on the pages, as well as I could see. He turned to an index or table of contents, and opened a page. Something like animation suddenly showed itself on his cadaverous face. "Ha! now I remember," he said. "The knife was bought of my late brother-in-law, in the shop downstairs. And, oh Lord, what an alarming person burst into this very room, and snatched the knife away from me, when I was only half way through the inscription !" I* felt that I was close on discovery. "May I see what it is that has assisted your memory?" I said. ' ' Oh yes ! you see, sir, I live by engraving inscriptions and addresses — and I paste in this book the manuscript instructions which I receive. For one thing, they serve as a reference to new customers. And for another thing — I can't tell you why — they do certainly help my memory." He turned the book toward me, and pointed to a slip of paper which occupied the bottom of a page. 1 read the complete inscription, intended for the knife that killed Zebedee, written in this line : " To John Zebedee, from Priscilla Varley." CHAPTER VII. Throughout this statement — excepting changes of names and places — I have told the truth. I still tell the truth, when I declare that it is impossible for me to describe what I felt,' I turn cold and giddy, even at this distance of time, when I only tliink of it. How long it was before I recovered myself in some degree, I cannot say. One thing, however, Ido know, I frightened the poor engraver. My first instinct — I was incapable of thinking — was to get possession of the manuscript inscription. What little money I had about me, I offered to him. He drew back from my hand. " You shall have it for nothing," he said, "if you will only go aAvay, and never come here again." He tried to cut it out of the page — but his trembling hands were helpless. I cut it out myself, and 1 tried to thank him. He wouldn't hear me. "Go away !" he said, '• I don't like the look of you." I went back to the railway, ■without any plan in my mind. The train by which I had proposed to follow Priscilla had left Gravesend. The next train that arrived was for London. I took my place in it — still without any plan in my mind.

At Charing Cross a friend met me. He said, ' ' You're looking miserably ill. Come and have a drop of brandy and water." I went with him. The liquor was really what I wanted; it strung me up, and cleared my mind. He went his way, and I went mine. In a little while more, I decided what I would do. In the first place, I resigned my situation in the police. In the second place, took a bed at a public house. She would, no doubt, return to London, and she would go to London to find out the meaning of my conduct in breaking my appointment at Higham. To bring to justice the one woman whom I had dearly loved was too cruel a duty for a poor creature like me. On the other hand, if she and I met before time had helped me to control myself, I had a horrid fear that I might turn murderer too, and kill her, then and there.

The same night, I hit on a way of clearing up such doubts as still harrassed me. I wrote to the rector of Roth, informing him that I was engaged to marry her, and asking if he would tell me (in consideration of my position) what her former relations might have been with the person named John Zebedee. By return of post I got this reply :

"Sir, — Under the circumstances, I think I am bound to tell you, confidentially, what the

friends and well-wishers of Priscilla have kept secret, for her sake. , " Zebedee was in service in this neighbourhood. lam sorry to say it of a man who has come to such a miserable end — but his behavior to Priscilla proves him to have been vicious and heartless. "They were engaged: and I add, with indignation, that he tried to seduce her under a a promise of marriage. Her virtue resisted him— and he pretended to be ashamed of himself. The banns were published mmy church. On the next day Zebedee disappeared and cruelly deserted her. He was a capable servant ; and I believe he got another place. I leave you to imagine what the poor girl Buttered under the outrage inflicted on her. Going to London, with my recommendation, she answered the first advertisement that she saw, and was unfortunate enough to begin her career in domestic service in the very lodging-house to which (as I gather from the newspaper report of the murder) the man Zebedee took the person whom he married, after deserting Priscilla Be assured that you are about to marry an excellent girl, and accept my best wishes for your happiness." It was plain from this, that neither the rector, nor the parents and friends, knew anythin"- of the purchase of the knife. The one TiiaiAvho knew the truth, was the miserable man who had asked her to be his wife. I owed it to myself— at least so. it seemed to me— not to let it be supposed that I too had meanly deserted her. Dreadful as the prospect was, I felt that I must see her once more, and for the last time. . She was at work, when I entered into her room. As I opened the door, she started to her feet Her cheeks reddened, and her eyes flashed with anger. I stepped forward— and she saw my face. My face silenced her. I spoke in the fewest words I could find. " 1 have been to the cutler's shop at Gravesend," I said. " There is the unfinished inscription on the knife, completed in your handwriting. I could hang you by a word. God forgive me— l can't say the word." Her bright complexion turned to a dreadful clay color. Her eyes were fixed and staring, like the eyes of a person in a fit. She stood before me still and silent. Without a word j more, I dropped the inscription into the fire. ■ Without a word more, I left her. — 1 never saw her again. CHAPTER VIII. But I heard of her, some years later. She died a miserable death, leaving a sealed letter for me. I burnt the letter, as I had burnt the inscription. In substance it repeated what the rector had already told me. Furthermore, it informed me that she had bought the knife as a keepsake for Zebedee, in place of a similar knife which he had lost. On the Saturday, she made the purchase, and left it to be engraved. On the Sunday, the banns were put up. On the Monday, she was deserted ; and she snatched the knife from the table, while the engraver was at work. She only knew that Zebedee had added a new sting to the insult inflicted on her, when he arrived at the lodgings with his wife. Her duties as cook kept her in the kitchen, and Zebedee never discovered that she was in the house. I remember the closing lines of the confession : "The devil entered into me, when I found their door unlocked, and when I saw them by the dying light of the candle— one asleep on the bed, the other asleep by the fireside. I had the knife in my hand, and the thought came to me to do it, so that they might have her for the murderer. I couldn't take the knife out again, when I had done it. Mind this ! I really did like you— l didn't say ' Yes,' because you could hardly hang your own wife, if you found out Who Killed Zebedee." A LAST WORD. You told us last night, sir, that you were engaged to a young lady, whom you had only known for a fortnight ; and I offended you by quoting the old proverb, "Marry in haste, and repent at leisure"" Now you know what I was thinking of, sir, sir ! THE END.