Chapter Forty Four.A Scrap of Paper.In answer to a call for Mrs Eliza Clack, a hatchet-faced harpy entered the box, and, the first diffidence over, tried all she knew to justify her patronymic. From this propensity, however, Mr Benham managed to pick out the facts that she knew the prisoner, could swear to him anywhere, that he had lodged with her a couple of months two and a half years ago, and had left at a date which would be but the day before the deceased’s disappearance. He owned a large red and white dog then, which he had disposed of while in her house. She had always thought him a strangely-mannered gentleman, and was not altogether sorry to see the last of him. He looked somewhat different then to what he did now, he wore a beard—and yes, now it was put to her, she thought he was getting a little grey at that time.How could she remember the date? insisted Mr Windgate, when his turn came. Well, she did remember it. Could swear to it, in fact. But two and a half years was a long time. Well, yes it was, but she remembered it by several things. It was the same night that the boy next door had blinded her tortoiseshell cat with a catapult. And it was the day before her daughter was turned away from her situation, well, never mind why—it wasn’t true; an answer which sent a ripple of mirth through the room. However, the woman could swear to the prisoner, and swore tenaciously to the date, which was all the prosecution wanted.Two maid-servants from “The Silver Fleece Inn” were the next witnesses. These testified to the time when Robert Durnford had gone out on the Sunday night, but were unable to state the hour of his return. One of them declared she had heard the stranger talking to the waiter in the hall at a quarter-past ten, and that she thought she had heard the front door close just before. Upon her Mr Windgate pounced.“Your bed-room is at the top of the house?”“Yes, sir. But the ’ouse isn’t an ’igh one.”“I didn’t ask you that. Now, how do you know it was a quarter-past ten? Had you a watch?”“Yes, sir.”“And you looked at it?”“Yes, sir.”“Was it keeping the right time?”“Yes, sir. That is, I set it by the large clock in the passage.”“When?”“The day before.”“Oh! You did, did you?”—making a note. “Now, had you been asleep at the time?”“No, sir. I was just goin’ to drop off when I heard gentlemen’s voices in the passage.”“And who were the ‘gentlemen’?”“They was Mr Durnford and Grainger, the waiter.”“Now you are on your oath,” said Mr Windgate impressively, fixing the witness with a stern look that nearly drove the luckless young woman wild with terror and apprehension. “Are you ready to swear that the voice you heard talking to—a—Grainger was that of Mr Durnford?”“Well, sir, I don’t know about swearing, but I’m positive it was.”“Indeed. You are singularly confident, young woman,” sarcastically. “But no matter. We shall soon show that, like most positive people, this witness is quite at fault. You are quite right not to swear. You may go.”“Stephen Devine.”There was a stir among the audience, and interest, which had begun to flag, now revived, as the hulking form of the ex-poacher appeared in the box. There was a decidedly hang-dog look on his swarthy face, not unmixed with fear, and he took the Book as if it would burn him. But his evidence was straightforward enough. In the examination he stated how, while returning home from Wandsborough on the night in question, he had unexpectedly caught sight of Hubert Dorrien hurrying in a direction which could have led him nowhere in particular. This, added to the fact that it was a Sunday evening, rendered the young man’s movements not a little suspicious, and the witness determined to watch him. Accordingly he followed him at a distance to the brow of the cliff above Smugglers’ Ladder. It must have been a little after nine, for he distinctly heard the hour strike from Wandsborough steeple—to that he could positively swear. To his surprise he heard another man’s voice, and on stealing a little nearer he recognised it as that of the prisoner, Roland Dorrien. So he hid behind a stone and waited. He was not quite near enough to catch what they said, but the deceased seemed rather frightened. But what puzzled the witness most was that although he could swear to the voice, no less than to the figure, the face was strange to him. It was bright moonlight at the time. At last the prisoner turned to the light, and his brother, recognising him, at once exclaimed “Roland!” and then the witness was able to see that he seemed in a manner disguised. He, Devine, afterwards saw him twice in Battisford—once from the window of a public-house and once from a shop door, and easily recognised him.When the deceased had identified his brother he seemed less frightened, and soon they got to high words. Then there was a struggle, and in a moment the prisoner had thrown the deceased into the chasm. The witness lay quite still, and saw the prisoner go and look down into the chasm for a moment, after which he went away in the direction of Battisford. Then his statement before the magistrate, Mr Forsyth, was put in as in Johnston’s case.Great sensation prevailed during this narrative. Those who had been consulting their watches with an eye to dinner—for it was getting late—elected to stay. The case might be finished to-night.Then came Mr Windgate’s turn. His cross-examination was perfect. Every point in the witness’ past life, which he could colourably touch upon—and several which he could not—was raised. He made him admit—notwithstanding continued objections from the prosecution—that his own daughter would not live with him, even if the unfortunate girl had not been fairly driven from her home. He brought up against him former convictions for acts of ruffianism, and for poaching; and on the score of character, and by way of provinganimus, he forced the witness to own that he had more than once expressed hatred of the accused, thus making him prove himself guilty of the blackest ingratitude, in that his situation with Colonel Neville had been procured through the prisoner’s good offices. But clever as he was, Mr Windgate could not get him to contradict himself or to swerve by a word from the main details of his story.“Well, now,” he continued. “This took place two years and a half ago. That is to say, Mr Stephen Devine, that by witnessing this deed and not preventing it you made yourself an accessory after the fact? An accomplice—in short.”The man looked rather scared.“Please, sir, it was all done too quickly.”“But why did you keep silence all this time?”“Well, sir, you see, it was no affair of mine, and I was afraid I might get into trouble.”“Indeed! Suspicious, to say the least of it. And how is it that, having held your tongue for so long, you should at last see fit to let it wag?”“Well, sir, you see Johnston, he knew about it too, and he kep’ on a lettin’ me know that he did. At last he said that we should both get into trouble if we kep’ it dark any longer.”“Quite so. When was this?”“About five weeks ago.”“And what did you do then?”“Why, we went to Mr Forsyth and asked his advice, and he said we’d better make sure of our fax, and then we must make a—a—a—aspersion.”“A what?”“No, sir, that wasn’t it—it was a disposition.”“Oh! A deposition?”“Yes, sir, and we made it. And the next thing we heard was that Squire Dorrien was in gaol.”“Where I trust those who richly deserve it will soon be in his place,” rejoined Mr Windgate significantly. “And I hope I shall be instrumental in bringing about this pleasant little change. And now, do we understand you to say you would have kept silence about this if Johnston had not known it too?”“Well, sir, yes. It warn’t no business of mine.”“Well!” said Mr Windgate in a tone which said, “Alter that—anything.”“A very natural fear, my lord,” explained Mr Benham. “A poor man like the witness would naturally think a good many times before bringing a grave charge of this sort against a gentleman in the prisoner’s position.”“Many more witnesses on your side, Mr Benham?” asked the judge. “It’s getting very late.”“Only one, my lord. But I am willing to adjourn.”But Mr Windgate was not. He argued that it was important to his client’s interest that this witness should be heard to-night. The judge ordered lights to be brought in—for it was becoming dark—and then Jem Pollock was recalled.There was a seriousness and a gravity upon the seafarer’s weatherbeaten face which gave one the impression of a man there much against his will. Re-examined, he stated that he was returning home from Battisford on the night of the supposed murder, and took the short way over the cliffs to Minchkil Bay. As he approached Smugglers’ Ladder a man passed him walking rapidly in the direction of Battisford. There was something familiar about the stranger’s figure and gait, and when he, the witness, wished him good-evening, he seemed to recognise the voice as he replied.A few days after the search for the deceased, the witness had taken the trouble to go and examine the chasm again, and not many yards from it he found a fragment of an old envelope. Nearly the whole name was still on it—“Roland Dor— —don, W.,” but the address was almost entirely gone. The date of the postmark was January 19th. There was great excitement in Court as the envelope was produced and handed to the jury, and all eyes were bent on the prisoner to see how he would take it. But disappointment awaited. The accused seemed to manifest not the smallest interest in the proceedings.This envelope Pollock had kept, waiting to be guided by events. But the stir attendant on Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance soon quieted down, and he decided to keep his own counsel. Then had come another exciting event—the rector’s daughter being cut off by the tide and narrowly escaping drowning. Witness had also taken part in the search for the young lady, and in her rescuer he recognised the man who had passed him on the cliff. At the same time he recognised him for Roland Dorrien.This bit of romance turned the tide of public opinion quite in favour of the accused, for the story of Olive Ingelow’s narrow escape was well known. Surely, never was a criminal trial so redundant with romantic episode. Sympathetic murmurs began to arise in Court. But counsel’s inexorable voice recalled to prose again.“Could you swear to the prisoner being the man who rescued Miss Ingelow?”“Yes, sir,” replied the witness firmly, but very reluctantly.“You saw his face distinctly?”“Yes, sir. The lanterns was full upon it.”“And you knew his voice?”“Yes, sir.”“Now, how is it you kept silence about your suspicions?”“Well, sir, I’m not one o’ them as talks a lot. And then, I had no suspicions until the idea cropped up that Mr Hubert had met wi’ foul play. And I didn’t want to injure Mr Roland, and especially Madam,” he added with feeling; “but that there detective chap he seemed to get it all out o’ me like a blessed babby,” concluded he resentfully.“Quite so. Very natural. That will do,” and Mr Benham sat down.But the prisoner’s counsel realised that this witness was the most dangerous one of all. Any attempt to browbeat a man of Pollock’s known respectability could not but damage his cause in the eyes of the jury. So he assumed a tone at once conciliatory and deprecatory, as though he would convey the idea that Pollock, though incapable of a false statement, might be mistaken in his inferences throughout.“Of course, Pollock, you know Mr Dorrien well now, but at that time you didn’t know him very well, did you?”“Well, I’d often seen him, sir, and I knew him well enough by sight. There was something about his walk, too, that I couldn’t mistake.”“Indeed? But that is not a very sure point to go upon, is it?”“That’s as may be, sir.”“Now, Pollock, you are on good terms with Mr Dorrien, are you not? You would not wish to injure him?”“No, indeed, sir,” answered the witness earnestly. “He’s a kind landlord to us, is the Squire—and as for Madam, I’ve known her since she was a little maid not much higher nor my knee—bless her sweet face.”Great applause. Mr Windgate began to look more and more confident.“Quite so. Now, don’t you think you may be mistaken in identifying the man who saved Miss Ingelow with the one you met on the cliff on the night of the disappearance of Hubert Dorrien?”“M’lord, I must take exception most strongly to my learned brother’s mode of cross-examination,” said Mr Benham. “He appeals most powerfully to the feelings of the witness, and then does what is tantamount to begging him to unsay what he has already stated on oath.”“Hardly that, I submit,” rejoined the other. “My unfortunate client is placed in a very grave position. Surely then it behoves us to make certain as to our facts.”“But the witness had already stated on oath his certitude as to the identity of the men.”“A man may excusably think twice when such grave issues are at stake, Mr Benham,” said the judge.“With the greatest respect I would submit that your lordship is laying down a somewhat dangerous precedent,” answered Mr Benham, undaunted.Then the judge retorted, and after some triangular sparring between his lordship and the two counsel, Mr Windgate went on.“What time would it have been when you met the stranger on the cliff that evening?”“It was after nine, sir. Indeed, it was nearly half-past—for very soon after I heard the clock strike.”“What clock?”“The Wandsborough clock.”“How far from—er—Smugglers’ Ladder was the stranger when you met him?”“Maybe half a mile, sir.”“How long would it take to walk from Smugglers’ Ladder to Battisford? Walking at one’s fastest?”“About thirty-five minutes. It might be done in thirty minutes—not in less.”“Then this man whom you met on the cliff, within half a mile of Smugglers’ Ladder, at nearly half-past nine, could not by any possibility have reached Battisford by five-and-twenty minutes to ten?”“Not possible, sir—even if he ran all the way,” repeated the witness firmly.“Quite so, thank you,” said Mr Windgate. “A—one more question. Did you ever mention to anyone—any of your neighbours, for instance—having recognised, as you thought, Mr Dorrien in this stranger?”“Not a word of it, sir.”“That’s the case for the Crown, my lord,” said Mr Benham, rising as the witness left the box.With a sigh of relief, the judge rose and left the bench. It was past nine, and his lordship was very hungry and proportionately irritable, for judges are mortal—very much so too.The Court room emptied fast, many turning to take a parting look at the prisoner as they went out, speculating and laying odds for or against his chances of acquittal. It was ominous, however, that public opinion leaned considerably towards a conviction. But then, the defence had yet to be heard.And the wretched man himself? He was conducted back to his cell, another night of suspense before him. Outwardly, his proud self-possession remained unshaken, but once within those cold, gloomy walls, alone and unseen by any human eye, a groan of the bitterest anguish escaped him as he sank despondently upon his bed. The web of Fate was closing in about him; to battle with it further was useless.Throughout that night, a dismal sound smote upon the ears of the dwellers in the neighbourhood of the gaol, a sound of weird and mournful howling, where, upright upon his haunches, in the open space before the frowning portcullis of the prison, sat a large dog—his head in the air and his eyes lifted to the pale, cold moon, pouring forth his piteous lamentations. The prisoner heard it too.“Dear old dog,” he murmured to himself. “Dear, faithful old Roy!”
In answer to a call for Mrs Eliza Clack, a hatchet-faced harpy entered the box, and, the first diffidence over, tried all she knew to justify her patronymic. From this propensity, however, Mr Benham managed to pick out the facts that she knew the prisoner, could swear to him anywhere, that he had lodged with her a couple of months two and a half years ago, and had left at a date which would be but the day before the deceased’s disappearance. He owned a large red and white dog then, which he had disposed of while in her house. She had always thought him a strangely-mannered gentleman, and was not altogether sorry to see the last of him. He looked somewhat different then to what he did now, he wore a beard—and yes, now it was put to her, she thought he was getting a little grey at that time.
How could she remember the date? insisted Mr Windgate, when his turn came. Well, she did remember it. Could swear to it, in fact. But two and a half years was a long time. Well, yes it was, but she remembered it by several things. It was the same night that the boy next door had blinded her tortoiseshell cat with a catapult. And it was the day before her daughter was turned away from her situation, well, never mind why—it wasn’t true; an answer which sent a ripple of mirth through the room. However, the woman could swear to the prisoner, and swore tenaciously to the date, which was all the prosecution wanted.
Two maid-servants from “The Silver Fleece Inn” were the next witnesses. These testified to the time when Robert Durnford had gone out on the Sunday night, but were unable to state the hour of his return. One of them declared she had heard the stranger talking to the waiter in the hall at a quarter-past ten, and that she thought she had heard the front door close just before. Upon her Mr Windgate pounced.
“Your bed-room is at the top of the house?”
“Yes, sir. But the ’ouse isn’t an ’igh one.”
“I didn’t ask you that. Now, how do you know it was a quarter-past ten? Had you a watch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you looked at it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was it keeping the right time?”
“Yes, sir. That is, I set it by the large clock in the passage.”
“When?”
“The day before.”
“Oh! You did, did you?”—making a note. “Now, had you been asleep at the time?”
“No, sir. I was just goin’ to drop off when I heard gentlemen’s voices in the passage.”
“And who were the ‘gentlemen’?”
“They was Mr Durnford and Grainger, the waiter.”
“Now you are on your oath,” said Mr Windgate impressively, fixing the witness with a stern look that nearly drove the luckless young woman wild with terror and apprehension. “Are you ready to swear that the voice you heard talking to—a—Grainger was that of Mr Durnford?”
“Well, sir, I don’t know about swearing, but I’m positive it was.”
“Indeed. You are singularly confident, young woman,” sarcastically. “But no matter. We shall soon show that, like most positive people, this witness is quite at fault. You are quite right not to swear. You may go.”
“Stephen Devine.”
There was a stir among the audience, and interest, which had begun to flag, now revived, as the hulking form of the ex-poacher appeared in the box. There was a decidedly hang-dog look on his swarthy face, not unmixed with fear, and he took the Book as if it would burn him. But his evidence was straightforward enough. In the examination he stated how, while returning home from Wandsborough on the night in question, he had unexpectedly caught sight of Hubert Dorrien hurrying in a direction which could have led him nowhere in particular. This, added to the fact that it was a Sunday evening, rendered the young man’s movements not a little suspicious, and the witness determined to watch him. Accordingly he followed him at a distance to the brow of the cliff above Smugglers’ Ladder. It must have been a little after nine, for he distinctly heard the hour strike from Wandsborough steeple—to that he could positively swear. To his surprise he heard another man’s voice, and on stealing a little nearer he recognised it as that of the prisoner, Roland Dorrien. So he hid behind a stone and waited. He was not quite near enough to catch what they said, but the deceased seemed rather frightened. But what puzzled the witness most was that although he could swear to the voice, no less than to the figure, the face was strange to him. It was bright moonlight at the time. At last the prisoner turned to the light, and his brother, recognising him, at once exclaimed “Roland!” and then the witness was able to see that he seemed in a manner disguised. He, Devine, afterwards saw him twice in Battisford—once from the window of a public-house and once from a shop door, and easily recognised him.
When the deceased had identified his brother he seemed less frightened, and soon they got to high words. Then there was a struggle, and in a moment the prisoner had thrown the deceased into the chasm. The witness lay quite still, and saw the prisoner go and look down into the chasm for a moment, after which he went away in the direction of Battisford. Then his statement before the magistrate, Mr Forsyth, was put in as in Johnston’s case.
Great sensation prevailed during this narrative. Those who had been consulting their watches with an eye to dinner—for it was getting late—elected to stay. The case might be finished to-night.
Then came Mr Windgate’s turn. His cross-examination was perfect. Every point in the witness’ past life, which he could colourably touch upon—and several which he could not—was raised. He made him admit—notwithstanding continued objections from the prosecution—that his own daughter would not live with him, even if the unfortunate girl had not been fairly driven from her home. He brought up against him former convictions for acts of ruffianism, and for poaching; and on the score of character, and by way of provinganimus, he forced the witness to own that he had more than once expressed hatred of the accused, thus making him prove himself guilty of the blackest ingratitude, in that his situation with Colonel Neville had been procured through the prisoner’s good offices. But clever as he was, Mr Windgate could not get him to contradict himself or to swerve by a word from the main details of his story.
“Well, now,” he continued. “This took place two years and a half ago. That is to say, Mr Stephen Devine, that by witnessing this deed and not preventing it you made yourself an accessory after the fact? An accomplice—in short.”
The man looked rather scared.
“Please, sir, it was all done too quickly.”
“But why did you keep silence all this time?”
“Well, sir, you see, it was no affair of mine, and I was afraid I might get into trouble.”
“Indeed! Suspicious, to say the least of it. And how is it that, having held your tongue for so long, you should at last see fit to let it wag?”
“Well, sir, you see Johnston, he knew about it too, and he kep’ on a lettin’ me know that he did. At last he said that we should both get into trouble if we kep’ it dark any longer.”
“Quite so. When was this?”
“About five weeks ago.”
“And what did you do then?”
“Why, we went to Mr Forsyth and asked his advice, and he said we’d better make sure of our fax, and then we must make a—a—a—aspersion.”
“A what?”
“No, sir, that wasn’t it—it was a disposition.”
“Oh! A deposition?”
“Yes, sir, and we made it. And the next thing we heard was that Squire Dorrien was in gaol.”
“Where I trust those who richly deserve it will soon be in his place,” rejoined Mr Windgate significantly. “And I hope I shall be instrumental in bringing about this pleasant little change. And now, do we understand you to say you would have kept silence about this if Johnston had not known it too?”
“Well, sir, yes. It warn’t no business of mine.”
“Well!” said Mr Windgate in a tone which said, “Alter that—anything.”
“A very natural fear, my lord,” explained Mr Benham. “A poor man like the witness would naturally think a good many times before bringing a grave charge of this sort against a gentleman in the prisoner’s position.”
“Many more witnesses on your side, Mr Benham?” asked the judge. “It’s getting very late.”
“Only one, my lord. But I am willing to adjourn.”
But Mr Windgate was not. He argued that it was important to his client’s interest that this witness should be heard to-night. The judge ordered lights to be brought in—for it was becoming dark—and then Jem Pollock was recalled.
There was a seriousness and a gravity upon the seafarer’s weatherbeaten face which gave one the impression of a man there much against his will. Re-examined, he stated that he was returning home from Battisford on the night of the supposed murder, and took the short way over the cliffs to Minchkil Bay. As he approached Smugglers’ Ladder a man passed him walking rapidly in the direction of Battisford. There was something familiar about the stranger’s figure and gait, and when he, the witness, wished him good-evening, he seemed to recognise the voice as he replied.
A few days after the search for the deceased, the witness had taken the trouble to go and examine the chasm again, and not many yards from it he found a fragment of an old envelope. Nearly the whole name was still on it—“Roland Dor— —don, W.,” but the address was almost entirely gone. The date of the postmark was January 19th. There was great excitement in Court as the envelope was produced and handed to the jury, and all eyes were bent on the prisoner to see how he would take it. But disappointment awaited. The accused seemed to manifest not the smallest interest in the proceedings.
This envelope Pollock had kept, waiting to be guided by events. But the stir attendant on Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance soon quieted down, and he decided to keep his own counsel. Then had come another exciting event—the rector’s daughter being cut off by the tide and narrowly escaping drowning. Witness had also taken part in the search for the young lady, and in her rescuer he recognised the man who had passed him on the cliff. At the same time he recognised him for Roland Dorrien.
This bit of romance turned the tide of public opinion quite in favour of the accused, for the story of Olive Ingelow’s narrow escape was well known. Surely, never was a criminal trial so redundant with romantic episode. Sympathetic murmurs began to arise in Court. But counsel’s inexorable voice recalled to prose again.
“Could you swear to the prisoner being the man who rescued Miss Ingelow?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the witness firmly, but very reluctantly.
“You saw his face distinctly?”
“Yes, sir. The lanterns was full upon it.”
“And you knew his voice?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, how is it you kept silence about your suspicions?”
“Well, sir, I’m not one o’ them as talks a lot. And then, I had no suspicions until the idea cropped up that Mr Hubert had met wi’ foul play. And I didn’t want to injure Mr Roland, and especially Madam,” he added with feeling; “but that there detective chap he seemed to get it all out o’ me like a blessed babby,” concluded he resentfully.
“Quite so. Very natural. That will do,” and Mr Benham sat down.
But the prisoner’s counsel realised that this witness was the most dangerous one of all. Any attempt to browbeat a man of Pollock’s known respectability could not but damage his cause in the eyes of the jury. So he assumed a tone at once conciliatory and deprecatory, as though he would convey the idea that Pollock, though incapable of a false statement, might be mistaken in his inferences throughout.
“Of course, Pollock, you know Mr Dorrien well now, but at that time you didn’t know him very well, did you?”
“Well, I’d often seen him, sir, and I knew him well enough by sight. There was something about his walk, too, that I couldn’t mistake.”
“Indeed? But that is not a very sure point to go upon, is it?”
“That’s as may be, sir.”
“Now, Pollock, you are on good terms with Mr Dorrien, are you not? You would not wish to injure him?”
“No, indeed, sir,” answered the witness earnestly. “He’s a kind landlord to us, is the Squire—and as for Madam, I’ve known her since she was a little maid not much higher nor my knee—bless her sweet face.”
Great applause. Mr Windgate began to look more and more confident.
“Quite so. Now, don’t you think you may be mistaken in identifying the man who saved Miss Ingelow with the one you met on the cliff on the night of the disappearance of Hubert Dorrien?”
“M’lord, I must take exception most strongly to my learned brother’s mode of cross-examination,” said Mr Benham. “He appeals most powerfully to the feelings of the witness, and then does what is tantamount to begging him to unsay what he has already stated on oath.”
“Hardly that, I submit,” rejoined the other. “My unfortunate client is placed in a very grave position. Surely then it behoves us to make certain as to our facts.”
“But the witness had already stated on oath his certitude as to the identity of the men.”
“A man may excusably think twice when such grave issues are at stake, Mr Benham,” said the judge.
“With the greatest respect I would submit that your lordship is laying down a somewhat dangerous precedent,” answered Mr Benham, undaunted.
Then the judge retorted, and after some triangular sparring between his lordship and the two counsel, Mr Windgate went on.
“What time would it have been when you met the stranger on the cliff that evening?”
“It was after nine, sir. Indeed, it was nearly half-past—for very soon after I heard the clock strike.”
“What clock?”
“The Wandsborough clock.”
“How far from—er—Smugglers’ Ladder was the stranger when you met him?”
“Maybe half a mile, sir.”
“How long would it take to walk from Smugglers’ Ladder to Battisford? Walking at one’s fastest?”
“About thirty-five minutes. It might be done in thirty minutes—not in less.”
“Then this man whom you met on the cliff, within half a mile of Smugglers’ Ladder, at nearly half-past nine, could not by any possibility have reached Battisford by five-and-twenty minutes to ten?”
“Not possible, sir—even if he ran all the way,” repeated the witness firmly.
“Quite so, thank you,” said Mr Windgate. “A—one more question. Did you ever mention to anyone—any of your neighbours, for instance—having recognised, as you thought, Mr Dorrien in this stranger?”
“Not a word of it, sir.”
“That’s the case for the Crown, my lord,” said Mr Benham, rising as the witness left the box.
With a sigh of relief, the judge rose and left the bench. It was past nine, and his lordship was very hungry and proportionately irritable, for judges are mortal—very much so too.
The Court room emptied fast, many turning to take a parting look at the prisoner as they went out, speculating and laying odds for or against his chances of acquittal. It was ominous, however, that public opinion leaned considerably towards a conviction. But then, the defence had yet to be heard.
And the wretched man himself? He was conducted back to his cell, another night of suspense before him. Outwardly, his proud self-possession remained unshaken, but once within those cold, gloomy walls, alone and unseen by any human eye, a groan of the bitterest anguish escaped him as he sank despondently upon his bed. The web of Fate was closing in about him; to battle with it further was useless.
Throughout that night, a dismal sound smote upon the ears of the dwellers in the neighbourhood of the gaol, a sound of weird and mournful howling, where, upright upon his haunches, in the open space before the frowning portcullis of the prison, sat a large dog—his head in the air and his eyes lifted to the pale, cold moon, pouring forth his piteous lamentations. The prisoner heard it too.
“Dear old dog,” he murmured to himself. “Dear, faithful old Roy!”
Chapter Forty Five.“Is he Robert Durnford?”When the Court met again next morning there was no abatement in the attendance of the public; if anything, it was increased, for it was pretty well known that the verdict would be given to-day.Mr Windgate was in his place, smiling, cheerful, and cracking small jokes with the juniors, as if he would convince everybody—judge, jury, audience, and prisoner—that he considered his case already won and the remainder of the proceedings a mere formality, unhappily necessary to ensure his client an honourable acquittal.As for the case for the Crown, he said, it was fortunate they had come to an end of it at last—but fortunate in this sense only, that from beginning to end it had been a sheer wasting of the time of the Court, and specially of the valuable time of the twelve intelligent gentlemen before him. That being so, he proposed, himself, to be as brief as possible. His defence would be very short, so short indeed as at first blush to appear inadequate. But what could be more inadequate than the case for the prosecution! He would simply remind the jury of two things. One was that his unfortunate client, actuated by the most considerate of motives—the delicacy of character of a true gentleman—had chosen rather to impair his defence than to drag into this Court friends or relatives to whom such an attendance must necessarily be most painful. The other was that the whole case turned simply upon a question of identity. He would hardly so much as mention such trumpery points, which were not even circumstantial, though they might seem to be. What are they? A matchbox, a time-table, and a bit of paper. However, to put such trivialities out of the account, we have left only this question of identity, and that I shall have no difficulty in disposing of, entirely to your satisfaction. I shall call—“Joseph Grainger.”The public, unaccustomed to the persuasive powers and self-confidence of forensic eloquence, began to think at the conclusion of Mr Windgate’s speech that the result of the trial was not such a foregone thing after all, and there was yet more exciting uncertainty in store for it. It, therefore, prepared itself to listen eagerly.“You are head waiter at ‘The Silver Fleece Inn,’ at Battisford?”“Yes, sir.”“How long have you held that position?”“Nigh upon seven year, sir.”“Look at the prisoner. Do you know him?”“Yes, sir. It’s Squire Dorrien.”“When did you first see him?”“Well, sir, I can’t exactly remember that. It was shortly after the General’s death. Lawyer Barnes, he comes to our place, and he says to my guv’nor, says he—”“Tut-tut-tut. Not so fast, my good friend,” interrupted Mr Windgate smilingly, while a ripple of mirth ran through the public. “Never mind about Lawyer Barnes, but just tell us when you first saw Mr Dorrien?”“Well, sir, as far as I can remember, it was soon after he was married—just about Christmas-time.”“Ah!” said, Mr Windgate triumphantly, making a rapid note. “And you never saw him before he was married?”“No, sir.”“Will you swear to that?”“To the best of my belief, sir.”“Very good. And have you seen him often since?”“Not very often, sir. You see, he don’t come much over to Battisford, and I don’t go much over to Cranston—”“Quite so. Now, do you remember a Mr Robert Durnford coming to stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’?”“Yes, sir—well.”“When did he come?”“He came—let me see—it was on a Saturday evening. I remember it, because it was the day before Mr Hubert Dorrien was lost.”“Now what sort of person was this Mr Durnford? Just describe him.”“A very nice, pleasant-spoken gentleman, and quite the gentleman,” and then the loquacious one launched into a voluminous description of the stranger, which made the audience laugh and the judge knit his brows and mutter impatiently.“How long did he stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’?”“Rather over a fortnight, sir.”“Have you ever seen him since?”“No, sir.”“But if you did you would know him again—in a moment?”“Oh, yes, sir.”“Now look at the accused.”Grainger complied. The eyes of the witness and the prisoner met. In those of the latter there was indifference—in those of the former there was no recognition.“Is he the same man as the man you knew as Robert Durnford?”The loquacious one’s homely features expanded into a broad grin.“Law bless you, no, sir. He ain’t in the least like him.”Mr Windgate could have danced with relief.“He isn’t in the least like him,” he repeated emphatically, for the benefit of the jury. As for Roland himself, the first gleam of light since his arrest a month ago now darted in upon the rayless gloom of his soul. “Except—” The witness checked himself suddenly and with an effort. He could have bitten his tongue out. For Mr Benham had looked up quickly and was now making a note. Mr Windgate thought it better to let him go on.“Except what?” he said playfully.“I was goin’ to say, sir, leastways I was only thinking, sir,” answered the witness, stammering with confusion, “except it might be the way in which he stands.”Mr Benham went on making his notes. His opponent’s feeling of relief was dashed, and the prisoner could have groaned aloud in the revulsion.Then the witness in his roundabout way gave a voluble account of how the stranger had gone over to attend Wandsborough church, and had returned earlier than he was expected; and how he had come in while he—Grainger—was dozing.“What time did he return?”“It was after half-past nine.”“How much after?”“Five minutes.”“You are positive as to this?”“Oh, yes, sir—I said to the gentleman as how he’d come back very quick, ’cos they don’t come out o’ church till after half-past eight, and it’s over an hour’s walk at least. I asked him if he’d come by the way of the cliffs, and he didn’t seem to know there was a way by the cliffs as was shorter.”Mr Windgate frowned slightly, and internally anathematised the witness’ garrulity.“Anyhow, you are ready to swear it was five-and-twenty minutes to ten when this Mr Durnford came in?”“Yes, sir—quite certain. We both looked at the clock and remarked it.”“But one of the servants, a”—consulting his notes—“a Jane Flinders, says it was later.”The loquacious one shook his head with a smile of pitying superiority.“Law bless you, sir! Them gals is always a-fancyin’ things. They ought to have bin a-bed and asleep. No, no, sir. It wasn’t any more than five-and-twenty to ten.”“This gentleman stayed at ‘The Silver Fleece’ a fortnight, you say. Now, during all that time did you notice anything strange about him?”“Well, sir, he used to go about with a little hammer, chippin’ off bits o’ stone from the cliffs and suchlike, and in the evenin’ he’d sit in his room and write a good deal.”“Did you talk with him at all on the subject of Mr Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance?”“Yes, sir. I was the first to tell him of it.”“Oh! And how did he seem to take it?”“Cool as a blessed cucumber, sir. And when I told him that the ghost had been seen on The Skegs, he laughed in my face outright and said it was all humbug.”“Ha-ha! Of course. Thank you, Grainger. That’ll do. Er—one more question. Do you know the place called Smugglers’ Ladder?”“Well, sir, I’ve been there.”“How long does it take to walk there from Battisford?”“Three-quarters of an hour.”“Ah! Now, you mentioned a cliff path leading from Wandsborough. Would that lead one past Smugglers’ Ladder?”“Oh, no, sir. Nowhere near it. Why, it turns inland before you come within half a mile of Smugglers’ Ladder.”“Thank you.”“Wait a moment, please,” said Mr Benham suavely, as Grainger was about to leave the box. “You say this Robert Durnford came to stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’ the day before Hubert Dorrien was lost. That was on a Saturday evening. Did you at any time between that and Sunday evening have any conversation with him about the Dorrien family?”The prisoner’s head sank lower and lower. That devil of a counsel!“Well sir, we did.”“Kindly repeat it.”“Well, sir, as far as I can remember, the gentleman said he’d known the old Squire, the General’s brother. First he asked whose the house was, an’ then we got talkin’, and I told him a little about the General—just quietly and between ourselves, like.”“Quite so. And what else did you tell him?”“Well, sir, I told him a little about the young Squire being in difficulties with his father—not meanin’ any ’arm to anybody,” went on the man piteously, and with a penitent glance towards the dock.“No, no. Of course not. People do talk of these things,” said Mr Benham encouragingly—then waxing impressive. “Now, did you mention a girl named Lizzie Devine?”“Oh Lord, sir,” cried poor Grainger, horror-stricken, staring open-mouthed at the placid face of the inquisitorial counsel and wondering how the deuce he had ferreted out all this. “I didn’t mean no harm, but we was just a-talkin’ quietly like.” Then little by little Mr Benham inexorably elicited from the unwilling and terrified witness, the whole of the conversation that had passed between himself and Robert Durnford on the subject, and how he had told the stranger that Hubert Dorrien had blackened his brother’s name for his own advantage.“Now, when Mr Durnford returned from Wandsborough that evening, you were asleep?”“Yes, sir. I had just dropped off.”“Where?”“In the coffee-room.”“And where was Durnford standing when you woke up?”“In the door.”“The door of the coffee-room?”“Yes.”“You mention a clock in the passage. Where does it stand?”“It stands—you’ve seen it, sir.”“No matter, my friend. The jury haven’t.”“Well, sir, it stands about half way between the front door and the door of the coffee-room.”“So that Durnford, to reach the coffee-room door, would have to pass that clock?”“Yes, sir.”“And you did not wake till he was standing in the coffee-room door?”“No, sir.”“How high is the face of that clock from the ground? Can you reach it without standing on anything?”“Oh, yes. Quite easily.”“Was Durnford a taller man than yourself?”“Yes, sir. At least a head taller.”“Does the face of that clock open easily?”“Quite easily. I open it every few days to wind it.”“Did that clock keep good time after that evening?”“I don’t remember, sir,” answered the witness, after a moment of earnest thought.“No matter. Jane Flinders swears it was a quarter-past ten by her watch, when she heard Durnford come in. You swear it was five-and-twenty minutes to ten. How do you reconcile the difference?”“I don’t know. She must be mistaken.”“But so may you be.” The witness was silent.“Now, has it never occurred to you that that clock may have been tampered with? The hands put back half an hour or so, while you were asleep?” asked Mr Benham, bending forward and fixing a piercing glance on the witness’ face.“Oh Lord! sir. No, it never did.”“But still the thing might have been done—while you were asleep?”“It’s not impossible, sir.”“It’s not impossible. And now—look at the prisoner.”The light was full upon Roland’s face, and again his eyes met those of the witness. Grainger started and stared. His face was a study. He looked like a man upon whom a new and unexpected light had irresistibly dawned.“Oh Lord?” he ejaculated dazedly.“Now,” went on Mr Benham, in his most inquisitorial tone, “will you stand there and swear that the prisoner is not the man who was staying at ‘The Silver Fleece,’ under the name of Robert Durnford.”“M’lord!” cried Mr Windgate, “I have made a special note of the fact that the witness has already distinctly sworn to that very thing. I must protest emphatically against my learned brother trying to intimidate the witness into making a most unwarrantable contradiction of his former statement.”“And I must equally protest against these repeated imputations,” retorted Mr Benham.“The prosecution is quite in order, Mr Windgate,” ruled the judge. “Let us continue.”“There is—there is a look of Durnford about him,” blunderingly admitted the witness.“A very similar look? On your oath, mind.”“Well—he stands like him, and—and—his head—is like him,” stammered the unfortunate man.“Will you swear that he is not the men that you knew as Robert Durnford? Yes or no?”“No, sir.”“Thank you. By the bye, when did this Durnford leave ‘The Silver Fleece’?”“It was the day after he and Miss Ingelow were cut off by the tide.”“Did he leave suddenly?”“Yes, quite suddenly. He just came in—packed up his things and caught the morning train for London.”“Didn’t that strike you as rather strange?”“Oh, no, sir. We didn’t know he had been out all night. It was only after he’d gone that we heard what happened. Dr Ingelow—that’s the rector o’ Wandsborough—he came over to ‘The Silver Fleece’ in the afternoon, and was in a great state because the gentleman had gone.”“That’ll do, Grainger. You may stand down.”Very black for the prisoner were things looking now. The jury wore an unusually grave expression of countenance, and even among the audience all levity was hushed in the intense anxiety attendant on the dread issue.“Unless Windgate can prove an alibi, he’s done,” whispered a sporting junior to another. “Take you two to one on it in sovs if you like, Rogers.”“Dunno. Think I won’t. Isn’t it rather queer form to bet on a fellow’s life,” was the reply.Although the remark was unheard by him, it exactly rendered Mr Windgate’s reflections. That damning recognition—or half-recognition—of Grainger’s had simply lost the case, and he would have given much had it never been made. For he was on his mettle now. The case was a highly sensational one—just the thing to put a crowning point on his reputation if he had come out of it successfully, but now ‘that infernal Benham’ had been too sharp for him. Just one of his ferrety ideas, that about the clock being tampered with—and in this instance Windgate was shrewd enough to see that it had told with fatal effect. He wished again and again he had not been fool enough to undertake the defence of a man who would give him simply nothing to go upon. And he could not even prove an alibi.The next witness was Brown, the verger of Wandsborough church. His evidence was short and straightforward. He had a recollection of a stranger coming into church on the evening in question, towards the middle of the service. He certainly never thought of recognising Mr Dorrien in him, nor had he since. He knew Mr Dorrien well, too—he often attended Wandsborough church. It must have been considerably earlier than half-past eight when the stranger came in, because the service on ordinary Sunday evenings was nearly always over by that time. As to distances and times, he, Brown, could not speak. He was an old man now, and never had been much of a walker. The only thing he could be positive about was that the stranger had left the church a little before half-past eight, and he certainly had no suspicion that it was Mr Dorrien, either at the time, or since.Him the prosecution declined to cross-examine.“I shall call the Rev. Laurence Turner,” said Mr Windgate.The curate had not been at first subpoenaed. But so urgent had become the need of more testimony that the defence had decided at the last moment to put Turner into the box. The latter looked not a little nervous. Truth to tell, the situation was one of horror to his immaculate soul. He did not fancy being mixed up in criminal trials, as he subsequently put it.“Now, Mr Turner,” went on Mr Windgate, after a few preliminary questions. “I believe you took part in the search for Miss Olive Ingelow, who was cut off by the tide on this coast some two-and-a-half years ago?”“Yes, I did.”“And you found her?”“We were so fortunate.”“Kindly tell the Court how and where you found her.”Turner complied in as few words as possible.“Now, did it strike you that this stranger you mention—this person who rescued the young lady, might have been Mr Roland Dorrien disguised?”“Never.”“Never? Then or since?”“Neither then nor since,” answered Turner decidedly.“Did you ever hear that it struck anybody?”“Never.”“Yet you knew Roland Dorrien well?”“Fairly well.”“Dr Ingelow, the lady’s father, took part in the search, did he not?”“Yes.”“And he remarked no likeness?”“Not that I am aware of.”“You saw a great deal of Dr Ingelow at that time?”“Yes.”“And he never mentioned any such suspicion?”“Never.”“One moment, Mr Turner,” said the Crown counsel, rising to cross-examine. “This lady is now the prisoner’s wife, is she not?”“She is.”“Didn’t it strike you as rather—well, queer—the stranger Durnford suddenly leaving you all in the way he did?”“A little perhaps. But we supposed he knew his own business best. And some peoplearequeer.”“A—quite so—Mr Turner, I quite agree with you—they are,” said Mr Benham waggishly. “That will do, thank you.”“That’s my defence, my lord,” said Mr Windgate.
When the Court met again next morning there was no abatement in the attendance of the public; if anything, it was increased, for it was pretty well known that the verdict would be given to-day.
Mr Windgate was in his place, smiling, cheerful, and cracking small jokes with the juniors, as if he would convince everybody—judge, jury, audience, and prisoner—that he considered his case already won and the remainder of the proceedings a mere formality, unhappily necessary to ensure his client an honourable acquittal.
As for the case for the Crown, he said, it was fortunate they had come to an end of it at last—but fortunate in this sense only, that from beginning to end it had been a sheer wasting of the time of the Court, and specially of the valuable time of the twelve intelligent gentlemen before him. That being so, he proposed, himself, to be as brief as possible. His defence would be very short, so short indeed as at first blush to appear inadequate. But what could be more inadequate than the case for the prosecution! He would simply remind the jury of two things. One was that his unfortunate client, actuated by the most considerate of motives—the delicacy of character of a true gentleman—had chosen rather to impair his defence than to drag into this Court friends or relatives to whom such an attendance must necessarily be most painful. The other was that the whole case turned simply upon a question of identity. He would hardly so much as mention such trumpery points, which were not even circumstantial, though they might seem to be. What are they? A matchbox, a time-table, and a bit of paper. However, to put such trivialities out of the account, we have left only this question of identity, and that I shall have no difficulty in disposing of, entirely to your satisfaction. I shall call—
“Joseph Grainger.”
The public, unaccustomed to the persuasive powers and self-confidence of forensic eloquence, began to think at the conclusion of Mr Windgate’s speech that the result of the trial was not such a foregone thing after all, and there was yet more exciting uncertainty in store for it. It, therefore, prepared itself to listen eagerly.
“You are head waiter at ‘The Silver Fleece Inn,’ at Battisford?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long have you held that position?”
“Nigh upon seven year, sir.”
“Look at the prisoner. Do you know him?”
“Yes, sir. It’s Squire Dorrien.”
“When did you first see him?”
“Well, sir, I can’t exactly remember that. It was shortly after the General’s death. Lawyer Barnes, he comes to our place, and he says to my guv’nor, says he—”
“Tut-tut-tut. Not so fast, my good friend,” interrupted Mr Windgate smilingly, while a ripple of mirth ran through the public. “Never mind about Lawyer Barnes, but just tell us when you first saw Mr Dorrien?”
“Well, sir, as far as I can remember, it was soon after he was married—just about Christmas-time.”
“Ah!” said, Mr Windgate triumphantly, making a rapid note. “And you never saw him before he was married?”
“No, sir.”
“Will you swear to that?”
“To the best of my belief, sir.”
“Very good. And have you seen him often since?”
“Not very often, sir. You see, he don’t come much over to Battisford, and I don’t go much over to Cranston—”
“Quite so. Now, do you remember a Mr Robert Durnford coming to stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’?”
“Yes, sir—well.”
“When did he come?”
“He came—let me see—it was on a Saturday evening. I remember it, because it was the day before Mr Hubert Dorrien was lost.”
“Now what sort of person was this Mr Durnford? Just describe him.”
“A very nice, pleasant-spoken gentleman, and quite the gentleman,” and then the loquacious one launched into a voluminous description of the stranger, which made the audience laugh and the judge knit his brows and mutter impatiently.
“How long did he stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’?”
“Rather over a fortnight, sir.”
“Have you ever seen him since?”
“No, sir.”
“But if you did you would know him again—in a moment?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Now look at the accused.”
Grainger complied. The eyes of the witness and the prisoner met. In those of the latter there was indifference—in those of the former there was no recognition.
“Is he the same man as the man you knew as Robert Durnford?”
The loquacious one’s homely features expanded into a broad grin.
“Law bless you, no, sir. He ain’t in the least like him.”
Mr Windgate could have danced with relief.
“He isn’t in the least like him,” he repeated emphatically, for the benefit of the jury. As for Roland himself, the first gleam of light since his arrest a month ago now darted in upon the rayless gloom of his soul. “Except—” The witness checked himself suddenly and with an effort. He could have bitten his tongue out. For Mr Benham had looked up quickly and was now making a note. Mr Windgate thought it better to let him go on.
“Except what?” he said playfully.
“I was goin’ to say, sir, leastways I was only thinking, sir,” answered the witness, stammering with confusion, “except it might be the way in which he stands.”
Mr Benham went on making his notes. His opponent’s feeling of relief was dashed, and the prisoner could have groaned aloud in the revulsion.
Then the witness in his roundabout way gave a voluble account of how the stranger had gone over to attend Wandsborough church, and had returned earlier than he was expected; and how he had come in while he—Grainger—was dozing.
“What time did he return?”
“It was after half-past nine.”
“How much after?”
“Five minutes.”
“You are positive as to this?”
“Oh, yes, sir—I said to the gentleman as how he’d come back very quick, ’cos they don’t come out o’ church till after half-past eight, and it’s over an hour’s walk at least. I asked him if he’d come by the way of the cliffs, and he didn’t seem to know there was a way by the cliffs as was shorter.”
Mr Windgate frowned slightly, and internally anathematised the witness’ garrulity.
“Anyhow, you are ready to swear it was five-and-twenty minutes to ten when this Mr Durnford came in?”
“Yes, sir—quite certain. We both looked at the clock and remarked it.”
“But one of the servants, a”—consulting his notes—“a Jane Flinders, says it was later.”
The loquacious one shook his head with a smile of pitying superiority.
“Law bless you, sir! Them gals is always a-fancyin’ things. They ought to have bin a-bed and asleep. No, no, sir. It wasn’t any more than five-and-twenty to ten.”
“This gentleman stayed at ‘The Silver Fleece’ a fortnight, you say. Now, during all that time did you notice anything strange about him?”
“Well, sir, he used to go about with a little hammer, chippin’ off bits o’ stone from the cliffs and suchlike, and in the evenin’ he’d sit in his room and write a good deal.”
“Did you talk with him at all on the subject of Mr Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance?”
“Yes, sir. I was the first to tell him of it.”
“Oh! And how did he seem to take it?”
“Cool as a blessed cucumber, sir. And when I told him that the ghost had been seen on The Skegs, he laughed in my face outright and said it was all humbug.”
“Ha-ha! Of course. Thank you, Grainger. That’ll do. Er—one more question. Do you know the place called Smugglers’ Ladder?”
“Well, sir, I’ve been there.”
“How long does it take to walk there from Battisford?”
“Three-quarters of an hour.”
“Ah! Now, you mentioned a cliff path leading from Wandsborough. Would that lead one past Smugglers’ Ladder?”
“Oh, no, sir. Nowhere near it. Why, it turns inland before you come within half a mile of Smugglers’ Ladder.”
“Thank you.”
“Wait a moment, please,” said Mr Benham suavely, as Grainger was about to leave the box. “You say this Robert Durnford came to stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’ the day before Hubert Dorrien was lost. That was on a Saturday evening. Did you at any time between that and Sunday evening have any conversation with him about the Dorrien family?”
The prisoner’s head sank lower and lower. That devil of a counsel!
“Well sir, we did.”
“Kindly repeat it.”
“Well, sir, as far as I can remember, the gentleman said he’d known the old Squire, the General’s brother. First he asked whose the house was, an’ then we got talkin’, and I told him a little about the General—just quietly and between ourselves, like.”
“Quite so. And what else did you tell him?”
“Well, sir, I told him a little about the young Squire being in difficulties with his father—not meanin’ any ’arm to anybody,” went on the man piteously, and with a penitent glance towards the dock.
“No, no. Of course not. People do talk of these things,” said Mr Benham encouragingly—then waxing impressive. “Now, did you mention a girl named Lizzie Devine?”
“Oh Lord, sir,” cried poor Grainger, horror-stricken, staring open-mouthed at the placid face of the inquisitorial counsel and wondering how the deuce he had ferreted out all this. “I didn’t mean no harm, but we was just a-talkin’ quietly like.” Then little by little Mr Benham inexorably elicited from the unwilling and terrified witness, the whole of the conversation that had passed between himself and Robert Durnford on the subject, and how he had told the stranger that Hubert Dorrien had blackened his brother’s name for his own advantage.
“Now, when Mr Durnford returned from Wandsborough that evening, you were asleep?”
“Yes, sir. I had just dropped off.”
“Where?”
“In the coffee-room.”
“And where was Durnford standing when you woke up?”
“In the door.”
“The door of the coffee-room?”
“Yes.”
“You mention a clock in the passage. Where does it stand?”
“It stands—you’ve seen it, sir.”
“No matter, my friend. The jury haven’t.”
“Well, sir, it stands about half way between the front door and the door of the coffee-room.”
“So that Durnford, to reach the coffee-room door, would have to pass that clock?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you did not wake till he was standing in the coffee-room door?”
“No, sir.”
“How high is the face of that clock from the ground? Can you reach it without standing on anything?”
“Oh, yes. Quite easily.”
“Was Durnford a taller man than yourself?”
“Yes, sir. At least a head taller.”
“Does the face of that clock open easily?”
“Quite easily. I open it every few days to wind it.”
“Did that clock keep good time after that evening?”
“I don’t remember, sir,” answered the witness, after a moment of earnest thought.
“No matter. Jane Flinders swears it was a quarter-past ten by her watch, when she heard Durnford come in. You swear it was five-and-twenty minutes to ten. How do you reconcile the difference?”
“I don’t know. She must be mistaken.”
“But so may you be.” The witness was silent.
“Now, has it never occurred to you that that clock may have been tampered with? The hands put back half an hour or so, while you were asleep?” asked Mr Benham, bending forward and fixing a piercing glance on the witness’ face.
“Oh Lord! sir. No, it never did.”
“But still the thing might have been done—while you were asleep?”
“It’s not impossible, sir.”
“It’s not impossible. And now—look at the prisoner.”
The light was full upon Roland’s face, and again his eyes met those of the witness. Grainger started and stared. His face was a study. He looked like a man upon whom a new and unexpected light had irresistibly dawned.
“Oh Lord?” he ejaculated dazedly.
“Now,” went on Mr Benham, in his most inquisitorial tone, “will you stand there and swear that the prisoner is not the man who was staying at ‘The Silver Fleece,’ under the name of Robert Durnford.”
“M’lord!” cried Mr Windgate, “I have made a special note of the fact that the witness has already distinctly sworn to that very thing. I must protest emphatically against my learned brother trying to intimidate the witness into making a most unwarrantable contradiction of his former statement.”
“And I must equally protest against these repeated imputations,” retorted Mr Benham.
“The prosecution is quite in order, Mr Windgate,” ruled the judge. “Let us continue.”
“There is—there is a look of Durnford about him,” blunderingly admitted the witness.
“A very similar look? On your oath, mind.”
“Well—he stands like him, and—and—his head—is like him,” stammered the unfortunate man.
“Will you swear that he is not the men that you knew as Robert Durnford? Yes or no?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you. By the bye, when did this Durnford leave ‘The Silver Fleece’?”
“It was the day after he and Miss Ingelow were cut off by the tide.”
“Did he leave suddenly?”
“Yes, quite suddenly. He just came in—packed up his things and caught the morning train for London.”
“Didn’t that strike you as rather strange?”
“Oh, no, sir. We didn’t know he had been out all night. It was only after he’d gone that we heard what happened. Dr Ingelow—that’s the rector o’ Wandsborough—he came over to ‘The Silver Fleece’ in the afternoon, and was in a great state because the gentleman had gone.”
“That’ll do, Grainger. You may stand down.”
Very black for the prisoner were things looking now. The jury wore an unusually grave expression of countenance, and even among the audience all levity was hushed in the intense anxiety attendant on the dread issue.
“Unless Windgate can prove an alibi, he’s done,” whispered a sporting junior to another. “Take you two to one on it in sovs if you like, Rogers.”
“Dunno. Think I won’t. Isn’t it rather queer form to bet on a fellow’s life,” was the reply.
Although the remark was unheard by him, it exactly rendered Mr Windgate’s reflections. That damning recognition—or half-recognition—of Grainger’s had simply lost the case, and he would have given much had it never been made. For he was on his mettle now. The case was a highly sensational one—just the thing to put a crowning point on his reputation if he had come out of it successfully, but now ‘that infernal Benham’ had been too sharp for him. Just one of his ferrety ideas, that about the clock being tampered with—and in this instance Windgate was shrewd enough to see that it had told with fatal effect. He wished again and again he had not been fool enough to undertake the defence of a man who would give him simply nothing to go upon. And he could not even prove an alibi.
The next witness was Brown, the verger of Wandsborough church. His evidence was short and straightforward. He had a recollection of a stranger coming into church on the evening in question, towards the middle of the service. He certainly never thought of recognising Mr Dorrien in him, nor had he since. He knew Mr Dorrien well, too—he often attended Wandsborough church. It must have been considerably earlier than half-past eight when the stranger came in, because the service on ordinary Sunday evenings was nearly always over by that time. As to distances and times, he, Brown, could not speak. He was an old man now, and never had been much of a walker. The only thing he could be positive about was that the stranger had left the church a little before half-past eight, and he certainly had no suspicion that it was Mr Dorrien, either at the time, or since.
Him the prosecution declined to cross-examine.
“I shall call the Rev. Laurence Turner,” said Mr Windgate.
The curate had not been at first subpoenaed. But so urgent had become the need of more testimony that the defence had decided at the last moment to put Turner into the box. The latter looked not a little nervous. Truth to tell, the situation was one of horror to his immaculate soul. He did not fancy being mixed up in criminal trials, as he subsequently put it.
“Now, Mr Turner,” went on Mr Windgate, after a few preliminary questions. “I believe you took part in the search for Miss Olive Ingelow, who was cut off by the tide on this coast some two-and-a-half years ago?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you found her?”
“We were so fortunate.”
“Kindly tell the Court how and where you found her.”
Turner complied in as few words as possible.
“Now, did it strike you that this stranger you mention—this person who rescued the young lady, might have been Mr Roland Dorrien disguised?”
“Never.”
“Never? Then or since?”
“Neither then nor since,” answered Turner decidedly.
“Did you ever hear that it struck anybody?”
“Never.”
“Yet you knew Roland Dorrien well?”
“Fairly well.”
“Dr Ingelow, the lady’s father, took part in the search, did he not?”
“Yes.”
“And he remarked no likeness?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“You saw a great deal of Dr Ingelow at that time?”
“Yes.”
“And he never mentioned any such suspicion?”
“Never.”
“One moment, Mr Turner,” said the Crown counsel, rising to cross-examine. “This lady is now the prisoner’s wife, is she not?”
“She is.”
“Didn’t it strike you as rather—well, queer—the stranger Durnford suddenly leaving you all in the way he did?”
“A little perhaps. But we supposed he knew his own business best. And some peoplearequeer.”
“A—quite so—Mr Turner, I quite agree with you—they are,” said Mr Benham waggishly. “That will do, thank you.”
“That’s my defence, my lord,” said Mr Windgate.
Chapter Forty Six.Life or Doom?The prisoner, re-entering after the adjournment for lunch, found himself idly wondering whether, when next he should pass through the dock gate, it would be as a free man or as one whose days were numbered. Then, amid the intense hush that followed on his appearance, he heard his counsel opening his address to the jury, which, put into a good humour by a few deft if stereotyped compliments, began to think that after all there might be a good deal to be said on the side of the defence.Before brushing aside the flimsy testimony which seemed to tell against the accused, for the prosecution had relied upon quantity to counterbalance an utter absence of quality, began Mr Windgate, he would show what manner of man it was whom they were asked to convict of the gravest crime known to the law. It was all very well for the prosecution to contend that a gentleman in his client’s position was as liable to commit crime as—say the historic Mr William Sikes. His own experience—perhaps fully equal to that of his learned brother opposite—was wholly against any such theory.Then Mr Windgate launched forth into a brilliant panegyric of the accused, extolling his virtues in every capacity, public and private. Then he proceeded to deal with the evidence bit by bit, and as this involved a long repetition of all that has gone before, we shall not follow him through it. Suffice it to say that he handled his points with consummate skill.When he came to Johnston his scorn was beautiful to behold. This fellow, who had eaten the bread of the accused and of his father before him for a number of years, had gone into the box with the most bare-faced and unblushing effrontery, and confessed to having played the part of a crawling serpent, a part whose loathsomeness, he, Mr Windgate, could find no terms adequately to stigmatise. What could the evidence of such a creature be worth? Why, nothing—less than nothing. But it was abundantly shown that the fellow harboured the greatest ill-will towards his master, who had frequently found fault with him for incivility, which, judging from his impudent demeanour in Court, was little to be wondered at. Then when he had grossly insulted his master’s wife, Mr Dorrien, very rightly in the speaker’s opinion, had discharged him summarily. So he swore to be revenged on his master—threatened him, as they had heard. A pretty witness this, to swear away a man’s life! Justice in England must be coming very low if such instruments as this could be capable of swaying her course. But, as a matter of fact, such was not the case. He could tell them that it was intended to institute proceedings against Johnston for wilful perjury, but that was by the way.As for Devine, here, too, was a tainted witness, a corrupt witness, in fact. He, too, was known to bear a strong grudge against the accused, which, considering that he owed his comfortable place to Mr Dorrien’s influence—which his employer, it was to be hoped, would not suffer him to retain—was quite sufficient to show what sort of person he was. This precious rascal, then, had come into Court with a cock-and-bull story about witnessing a crime at Smugglers’ Ladder. Why, it was the most bare-faced, as well as clumsy, attempt at a diabolical conspiracy ever known—diabolical, because without motive, unless the motive were to shield himself, for if he, Devine, was there at all at that hour, his own presence needed explaining. It sickened him, Mr Windgate, to think that it was even necessary to defend such a case—a case bolstered up mainly by two witnesses of infamous character, whose evidence, even if true, was that of midnight spies. Who saw Devine at Smugglers’ Ladder at all that night, and what is the bare statement of a man of Devine’s record worth? Not the millionth fraction of a farthing.After heaping up a good deal more denunciatory scorn upon these two and their testimony, he came to Pollock’s evidence. He had no wish to imputemala fidesto a man of known honesty. Still, honest men were mistaken sometimes. This matter of identity rested upon evidence very shadowy. As to recognising the accused when he saw Durnford by lamplight on the beach, he, the speaker, prayed them to receive this statement with the greatest possible reserve. Here was the rector of Wandsborough and his curate, Mr Turner, both of whom were far better acquainted with the accused’s appearance than the witness Pollock, yet both these gentlemen had unhesitatingly sworn not only that they utterly failed to identify the prisoner in Robert Durnford, but that the barest suspicion as to such identity had never crossed their minds—and had not done so from that day to this. And further—here he begged the jury to give him all their attention—the lady rescued by Durnford was Dr Ingelow’s daughter. She was at that time, to her credit be it said, something more than interested in his client, whose wife she subsequently became, a fact which precluded her from giving valuable evidence on Mr Dorrien’s behalf. Was it likely then, he asked, that this estimable lady would have kept silence these two years and a half as to who her rescuer really was—that she should never have mentioned the fact to her own father, with whom she had ever been on the most dutiful and affectionate terms? Why, of course it was not. He put it to them as sensible men—fathers themselves, most probably—and so on.“By Jove! Windgate’s scored a point there, Rogers,” whispered the sporting junior. “If only he can squash the envelope business!”But this was just what he could not—and Mr Windgate knew it himself. He tried his best though, as also with the other damning points. At last his speech came near its close.The evidence, he continued, consisted of a series of mere coincidences—one or two of them, it might be, a little remarkable, but—coincidences. The time had gone by in this country, he thanked Heaven, when men were convicted on purely circumstantial evidence. As for the motive which the prosecution had evolved, it was, he made bold to say, the veriest mare’s nest. Why, several of the most reliable witnesses had stated on oath that there wae no ill-will between the two brothers, and that on the whole they were on good terms. He wae not there to defend the absent Durnford, since it was abundantly proved that with that mysterious personage his client had nothing whatever to do, but he would just remark that in the conflicting evidence in the matter of the hall clock and the maid-servant’s watch, it was merely oath against oath—and that nothing was more confusing than differences in time. The witness Grainger had utterly failed to identify the accused. Under the prosecution’s very bewildering cross-examination he had, it was true, been afflicted with a temporary misgiving, but that was perfectly natural under the circumstances. So against two rogues, and one honest man, who could not be quite sure as to his statements, they had the positive evidence of Dr Ingelow and Mr Turner against the identity. That was to say, the two witnesses in this case to whom the accused had always been best known. And all the side evidence made for his client.“Gentlemen,” he concluded, in his most impressive manner, “I now call upon you honourably to acquit my client. Remember, with you rests the most awful responsibility which can be laid upon the shoulders of mortal men—the life or death of a fellow creature. You must either honourably acquit him or doom him to an ignominious death. There is no middle course—absolutely none.”“Good old phrase that,” muttered the sporting junior, chuckling inwardly over the scared look on the wooden faces of the twelve intelligent Englishmen.”—Therefore, I call upon you to record your true sentiments, the sentiments of upright and true Englishmen, and to acquit with honour my client, to restore a wronged but high-minded gentleman to his family—to a fond wife, whose affliction during these terrible weeks I dare not imagine—to that neighbourhood which is anxiously waiting to receive him back with acclamation—to a long, benevolent, and useful life, which he has already begun most signally to adorn.“Gentlemen, I leave my client in your hands with perfect confidence as to the result.”A few moments of silence, and then the Crown counsel, who had been, to all outward appearance, intently studying his brief, rose.The prisoner in the dock, he proceeded to say, was of a class whose members, happily, in this country, seldom filled that unfortunate position. He was a gentleman of affluence, more or less known to them all, and holding a high and influential station. They might reason that on that account, if any man was free from all temptation to such a crime as the one under their consideration, that man would be the prisoner before them. But this was precisely what they must not do. He, the learned counsel, could assure them that human nature in this respect was marvellously similar. All his experience—and it had not been inconsiderable—went to confirm him in that opinion.—And so on.Then he proceeded to draw a graphic and rather harrowing picture of the disappearance of the deceased and the terrible blow to the feelings of his relatives which this re-opening of their grief must prove, going on to dissect the evidence bit by bit.“The identity of the prisoner with the stranger known as Robert Durnford is as clear as daylight,” proceeded Mr Benham. “You will notice that the persons who saw through this disguise were those to whom he was or had been best known. Andrew Johnston, an old family servant, recognised him at once. Stephen Devine, formerly a labourer on the Cranston estate, and since gamekeeper to Colonel Neville—both these men had had abundant opportunities of being acquainted with the prisoner’s appearance. Their suspicions aroused, they took further occasion to observe the so-called Durnford, with the result that those suspicions were fully confirmed. To this they had sworn—again and again. Then there is James Pollock, a man of the greatest respectability—to him Roland Dorrien was not so well known as to the other witnesses mentioned, yet, being a man of keen perceptions, he had recognised him. Not the first time, indeed—though even then the voice had struck upon his ears as familiar. But on the second occasion of their being brought together, meeting with the so-called Durnford on the occasion of Miss Olive Ingelow’s rescue from drowning, he saw through his disguise at a glance, and in the man he had met coming away from Smugglers’ Ladder, between nine and half-past on the evening of the murder, he recognised the prisoner, Roland Dorrien. Now here are three persons who distinctly swear to the identity between these two. Nor is that all. There is Joseph Grainger, the waiter at ‘The Silver Fleece,’ at the time of Durnford’s stay at that inn. He comes here. He sees the prisoner in his normal costume and wearing his ordinary aspect, and he does not recognise him—at first. Indeed, he even goes so far as to emphasise the statement. But memory will not be cheated. As he stands there, the striking similarity of the accused to the pseudo-Durnford recalls itself to his mind, and he is dumbfounded. Gentlemen, you saw him—his air of utter astonishment, almost of awe, as he looked at the prisoner. You witnessed his refusal to swear to the two men being different. That is enough. Sensible men like yourselves can draw but one inference.“Now as to the time at which Durnford returned to ‘The Silver Fleece,’ there is a conflict of testimony, but a perfectly reconcilable one. The waiter swears to the guest’s return at five-and-twenty minutes to ten. The maid-servant, Jane Flinders, swears with equal certitude to hearing Durnford come in at a quarter-past ten, and more than half the issue turns on this point. But, gentlemen, bear this in mind. The waiter Grainger was asleep. When he awoke, Durnford had alreadypassedthe hall clock, which then marked the hour of nine thirty-five. Durnford could reach the clock, be it remembered. But he could not reach Jane Flinders’ watch. Gentlemen, you will draw your own conclusions. One more point in connection with this. Pollock’s evidence proves that he met the stranger on the cliff, close to Smugglers’ Ladder, at half-past nine. But the stranger is back in his hotel at Battisford by five-and-twenty minutes to ten. That is to say, he covers in five or ten minutes a distance which it has been proved by the most competent testimony could hardly be covered in five-and-thirty. And then, when Grainger asks him if he returned by way of the cliffs, he appears surprised, and would have the other believe him unaware of there being any way by the cliffs.“My learned friend here has seen fit to make merry over the articles which infallibly connect the prisoner with this mournful tragedy, but these articles, small, trivial though they may be in themselves, are of the very last importance. First, there is the A.B.C. time-table. Roland Dorrien goes into a tavern in the Strand, looking very strange and excited, and asks for an A.B.C. It is purchased for him. He searches it, marks the Wandsborough train, turns down a corner of the page and—leaves the book behind him when he goes out. This is about a week before the murder—the waiter, Newton, cannot be sure of the date. But—and observe this—the very train marked in that time-table is the one by which Robert Durnford arrives at Battisford. On the 21st January Roland Dorrien gives up his lodgings at Mrs Clack’s. He leaves London early in the morning. Late in the afternoon of that day Robert Durnford arrives at Battisford. From that time until he leaves Wandsborough church on the night of the 22nd, Durnford’s movements are accounted for. Then, passing over for the moment Devine’s evidence, he is met by James Pollock coming away from Smugglers’ Ladder, not many minutes after Hubert Dorrien is—well ‘falls’ into that chasm. And on the very scene of the tragedy James Pollock picks up this envelope which has been handed to you, directed—not to Robert Durnford but undoubtedly to Roland Dorrien. And where? At a London address incontestably. And the address subsequently given to Dr Ingelow by the pseudo-Durnford is a London postal address. Now for the matchbox. The day after the deceased’s disappearance, Eustace Ingelow, the prisoner’s brother-in-law, a young gentleman who by common knowledge is devoted to his relative, and not likely knowingly to injure him in any way, picks up this matchbox, which is of peculiar make, and to which he can swear as being the prisoner’s property. Where does he find this article! Why, at the bottom of this chasm, at the very spot where the deceased met his death.“And now you will ask what motive could have been strong enough to lead this man to the black and abhorrent crime of fratricide. Well, even here the network of evidence is as complete as elsewhere. That motive, gentlemen, the prosecution has been able to supply. It has been shown that the prisoner had quarrelled with his father, and was in fact disinherited. Herein,” continued the learned counsel, putting on his most sad and sorrowful expression, “came the passion of jealousy. Furthermore, he had found reason to suppose, from some most deplorable and unguarded statements on the part of Grainger, that his brother had dealt him a blow which, if true, amounted to a stab in the dark—in that he had set to work to damage his reputation in Wandsborough and the neighbourhood. This being so, what more likely than that a man of the prisoner’s temper and character should at once seek to be revenged? How he and his brother had come together was just one of those unimportant links in the dark chain which it was beyond their power to connect. The important fact was that they had come together—the evidence of Stephen Devine and others was amply sufficient to establish that.”Then Mr Benham proceeded to comment on the evidence of Devine, who with his own eyes had seen the deed done. He explained away the witness’ reluctance to divulge it during these years as a perfectly natural thing; laid stress on the straightforwardness and ring of truth which characterised the man’s statement, and how his tale in its plain, unvarnished simplicity had more than triumphantly stood the test of his learned brother’s most skilful cross-examination. In short, he drew the web of damning circumstances closer and closer around the accused, till there was not a flaw in the enthralling network. Then, with some conventional rhetoric about “terrible charge,” “man in prisoner’s position,” “truly painful duty which, painful as it was, he dared not shirk,” the heart-broken Mr Benham resumed his seat, complacently conscious of having earned his not unhandsome fee.Then the judge began to sum up.The learned counsel for the prosecution, he said, had very properly impressed upon the jury that they must lose sight of any such side issue as class-distinction, and form their opinion of the case by the light of hard, cold reason and the dry facts of the evidence. That evidence they had had put before them in the most careful and patient manner, and it was his own especial function, said his lordship, to explain the law on the subject of such of it as appeared conflicting.For upwards of an hour the judge continued, weighing the arguments of both counsel in calm, dispassionate and masterly fashion. But whether his lordship was against the prisoner or not, it puzzled the public to discern. His charge was a pattern of impartiality no less than of lucidity. But the substance of it was now adverse, now favourable.One of the most regrettable features of the trial, continued his lordship, was that there had been next to no defence whatever. No attempt had been made to prove analibi. If the prisoner had not been near the neighbourhood at the time of his brother’s disappearance, surely there should be no great difficulty in obtaining evidence to that effect. But no such evidence had been put forward. The question of identity played a very important part indeed in this case. If the jury believed the evidence of Johnston, Devine and Pollock, they would consider the identity proved. But Johnston was a discharged servant, and the evidence of such against a former employer was always to be received with extreme caution, and in his case the greatest animus was shown to have been entertained by him against the prisoner. Devine was a man of notoriously bad character, but he appears to have had no real motive for injuring the accused. But James Pollock was altogether different from both of these witnesses. He was a man of the highest respectability; a man of keen intelligence, resource and courage, in short, a type of that most admirable body of men, the seafaring toilers of our coasts. This man then had seen through the disguise of the pseudo-Durnford, and under it had seen the identity of the prisoner, Roland Dorrien. The piece of envelope put forward, bearing as it did nearly the complete name of the prisoner, and part of a London address, was to his lordship’s mind the completing link in the chain of identity.Down went the hopes of the prisoner’s friends, down to zero. The judge was summing up dead against him.“To turn again to Stephen Devine,” went on his lordship. “Here is a man who testifies to witnessing with his own eyes the perpetration of a deliberate act of murder. Alone, and in the dead of night, he stands as a spectator of this terrible deed—then calmly walks away, and for upwards of two years keeps silent on the subject. As the learned counsel for the defence has aptly pointed out, before you can convict a man of a murder you must be quite sure that a murder has been committed. The question is, are you quite sure on this point? That the dead man, Hubert Dorrien, met his end in the place known as Smugglers’ Ladder, has been established beyond a doubt. But how did he get in there? Did he fall in, or was he pushed in? If there is any doubt in your minds upon that head, why then, gentlemen, you are not merely entitled, but are bound to give the accused the benefit of it. You have evidence in plenty that the prisoner was near the spot—that is, to my mind, clear beyond dispute. But that he pushed his brother into this cleft you have the evidence of but a single eye-witness, and that witness, to my mind, a tainted one.”Now the hope of an acquittal ran high. The judge was again favourable to the accused all along the line, it seemed. As for the prisoner himself, for the second time a ray of hope dawned within his soul, only to be dashed as before.If then, continued his lordship, they believed the evidence of Devine, they would convict the prisoner; if they disbelieved that evidence they would acquit him. There was no middle course. What had been a long and elaborate trial had, after all, winnowed itself down to a very simple issue, and that was the trustworthiness, or the reverse, of one witness, because upon that, and that alone, depended whether any murder had been committed at all.So now, being in possession of all the facts of the case, his lordship trusted that they would most carefully confer among themselves and return their verdict according to the solemn oath they had taken—without fear, favour or affection.The jury retired to their private room to deliberate, and once more the murmur of voices arose among the audience, but it was a very subdued one. The expectation—the awe of the moment—was upon that densely-packed throng, and for a while light and careless talk was hushed. Such conversation as there was bore upon the probable verdict, and it was the opinion of the audience that it would be an adverse one. Meanwhile the prisoner had been removed, pending the return of those who should decide his fate.Half an hour went by, and at length the door opened. Ah—now for it! But no. One of the intelligent jurymen wished to ask his lordship whether in the event of them not being satisfied as to the identity, they could convict Durnford and acquit the prisoner. He was answered with exemplary patience, and the door closed again. The Bar lifted its eyebrows—such of it as was able to keep from sniggering, that is.The light of the setting sun streamed in at the windows, throwing its soft gleam upon the serried rows of anxious faces. And the accused—of what was he thinking? Was it of his beautiful home, which it was only too probable he would never enter again? Or was it of her whose first vows just such a golden sunbeam as this had fallen on and hallowed and witnessed?At length the door opened a second time, and the jury came forth. It was noticeable that the prisoner, who had been hurriedly put back into the dock, did not even glance in their direction, but continued to look straight in front of him.“Gentlemen, are you all agreed upon your verdict?”“We are.”The official’s voice had a vague, far-away ring in Roland’s ears as it continued:“How find you the prisoner? Guilty or Not Guilty?”“We find him—Guilty.”
The prisoner, re-entering after the adjournment for lunch, found himself idly wondering whether, when next he should pass through the dock gate, it would be as a free man or as one whose days were numbered. Then, amid the intense hush that followed on his appearance, he heard his counsel opening his address to the jury, which, put into a good humour by a few deft if stereotyped compliments, began to think that after all there might be a good deal to be said on the side of the defence.
Before brushing aside the flimsy testimony which seemed to tell against the accused, for the prosecution had relied upon quantity to counterbalance an utter absence of quality, began Mr Windgate, he would show what manner of man it was whom they were asked to convict of the gravest crime known to the law. It was all very well for the prosecution to contend that a gentleman in his client’s position was as liable to commit crime as—say the historic Mr William Sikes. His own experience—perhaps fully equal to that of his learned brother opposite—was wholly against any such theory.
Then Mr Windgate launched forth into a brilliant panegyric of the accused, extolling his virtues in every capacity, public and private. Then he proceeded to deal with the evidence bit by bit, and as this involved a long repetition of all that has gone before, we shall not follow him through it. Suffice it to say that he handled his points with consummate skill.
When he came to Johnston his scorn was beautiful to behold. This fellow, who had eaten the bread of the accused and of his father before him for a number of years, had gone into the box with the most bare-faced and unblushing effrontery, and confessed to having played the part of a crawling serpent, a part whose loathsomeness, he, Mr Windgate, could find no terms adequately to stigmatise. What could the evidence of such a creature be worth? Why, nothing—less than nothing. But it was abundantly shown that the fellow harboured the greatest ill-will towards his master, who had frequently found fault with him for incivility, which, judging from his impudent demeanour in Court, was little to be wondered at. Then when he had grossly insulted his master’s wife, Mr Dorrien, very rightly in the speaker’s opinion, had discharged him summarily. So he swore to be revenged on his master—threatened him, as they had heard. A pretty witness this, to swear away a man’s life! Justice in England must be coming very low if such instruments as this could be capable of swaying her course. But, as a matter of fact, such was not the case. He could tell them that it was intended to institute proceedings against Johnston for wilful perjury, but that was by the way.
As for Devine, here, too, was a tainted witness, a corrupt witness, in fact. He, too, was known to bear a strong grudge against the accused, which, considering that he owed his comfortable place to Mr Dorrien’s influence—which his employer, it was to be hoped, would not suffer him to retain—was quite sufficient to show what sort of person he was. This precious rascal, then, had come into Court with a cock-and-bull story about witnessing a crime at Smugglers’ Ladder. Why, it was the most bare-faced, as well as clumsy, attempt at a diabolical conspiracy ever known—diabolical, because without motive, unless the motive were to shield himself, for if he, Devine, was there at all at that hour, his own presence needed explaining. It sickened him, Mr Windgate, to think that it was even necessary to defend such a case—a case bolstered up mainly by two witnesses of infamous character, whose evidence, even if true, was that of midnight spies. Who saw Devine at Smugglers’ Ladder at all that night, and what is the bare statement of a man of Devine’s record worth? Not the millionth fraction of a farthing.
After heaping up a good deal more denunciatory scorn upon these two and their testimony, he came to Pollock’s evidence. He had no wish to imputemala fidesto a man of known honesty. Still, honest men were mistaken sometimes. This matter of identity rested upon evidence very shadowy. As to recognising the accused when he saw Durnford by lamplight on the beach, he, the speaker, prayed them to receive this statement with the greatest possible reserve. Here was the rector of Wandsborough and his curate, Mr Turner, both of whom were far better acquainted with the accused’s appearance than the witness Pollock, yet both these gentlemen had unhesitatingly sworn not only that they utterly failed to identify the prisoner in Robert Durnford, but that the barest suspicion as to such identity had never crossed their minds—and had not done so from that day to this. And further—here he begged the jury to give him all their attention—the lady rescued by Durnford was Dr Ingelow’s daughter. She was at that time, to her credit be it said, something more than interested in his client, whose wife she subsequently became, a fact which precluded her from giving valuable evidence on Mr Dorrien’s behalf. Was it likely then, he asked, that this estimable lady would have kept silence these two years and a half as to who her rescuer really was—that she should never have mentioned the fact to her own father, with whom she had ever been on the most dutiful and affectionate terms? Why, of course it was not. He put it to them as sensible men—fathers themselves, most probably—and so on.
“By Jove! Windgate’s scored a point there, Rogers,” whispered the sporting junior. “If only he can squash the envelope business!”
But this was just what he could not—and Mr Windgate knew it himself. He tried his best though, as also with the other damning points. At last his speech came near its close.
The evidence, he continued, consisted of a series of mere coincidences—one or two of them, it might be, a little remarkable, but—coincidences. The time had gone by in this country, he thanked Heaven, when men were convicted on purely circumstantial evidence. As for the motive which the prosecution had evolved, it was, he made bold to say, the veriest mare’s nest. Why, several of the most reliable witnesses had stated on oath that there wae no ill-will between the two brothers, and that on the whole they were on good terms. He wae not there to defend the absent Durnford, since it was abundantly proved that with that mysterious personage his client had nothing whatever to do, but he would just remark that in the conflicting evidence in the matter of the hall clock and the maid-servant’s watch, it was merely oath against oath—and that nothing was more confusing than differences in time. The witness Grainger had utterly failed to identify the accused. Under the prosecution’s very bewildering cross-examination he had, it was true, been afflicted with a temporary misgiving, but that was perfectly natural under the circumstances. So against two rogues, and one honest man, who could not be quite sure as to his statements, they had the positive evidence of Dr Ingelow and Mr Turner against the identity. That was to say, the two witnesses in this case to whom the accused had always been best known. And all the side evidence made for his client.
“Gentlemen,” he concluded, in his most impressive manner, “I now call upon you honourably to acquit my client. Remember, with you rests the most awful responsibility which can be laid upon the shoulders of mortal men—the life or death of a fellow creature. You must either honourably acquit him or doom him to an ignominious death. There is no middle course—absolutely none.”
“Good old phrase that,” muttered the sporting junior, chuckling inwardly over the scared look on the wooden faces of the twelve intelligent Englishmen.
”—Therefore, I call upon you to record your true sentiments, the sentiments of upright and true Englishmen, and to acquit with honour my client, to restore a wronged but high-minded gentleman to his family—to a fond wife, whose affliction during these terrible weeks I dare not imagine—to that neighbourhood which is anxiously waiting to receive him back with acclamation—to a long, benevolent, and useful life, which he has already begun most signally to adorn.
“Gentlemen, I leave my client in your hands with perfect confidence as to the result.”
A few moments of silence, and then the Crown counsel, who had been, to all outward appearance, intently studying his brief, rose.
The prisoner in the dock, he proceeded to say, was of a class whose members, happily, in this country, seldom filled that unfortunate position. He was a gentleman of affluence, more or less known to them all, and holding a high and influential station. They might reason that on that account, if any man was free from all temptation to such a crime as the one under their consideration, that man would be the prisoner before them. But this was precisely what they must not do. He, the learned counsel, could assure them that human nature in this respect was marvellously similar. All his experience—and it had not been inconsiderable—went to confirm him in that opinion.—And so on.
Then he proceeded to draw a graphic and rather harrowing picture of the disappearance of the deceased and the terrible blow to the feelings of his relatives which this re-opening of their grief must prove, going on to dissect the evidence bit by bit.
“The identity of the prisoner with the stranger known as Robert Durnford is as clear as daylight,” proceeded Mr Benham. “You will notice that the persons who saw through this disguise were those to whom he was or had been best known. Andrew Johnston, an old family servant, recognised him at once. Stephen Devine, formerly a labourer on the Cranston estate, and since gamekeeper to Colonel Neville—both these men had had abundant opportunities of being acquainted with the prisoner’s appearance. Their suspicions aroused, they took further occasion to observe the so-called Durnford, with the result that those suspicions were fully confirmed. To this they had sworn—again and again. Then there is James Pollock, a man of the greatest respectability—to him Roland Dorrien was not so well known as to the other witnesses mentioned, yet, being a man of keen perceptions, he had recognised him. Not the first time, indeed—though even then the voice had struck upon his ears as familiar. But on the second occasion of their being brought together, meeting with the so-called Durnford on the occasion of Miss Olive Ingelow’s rescue from drowning, he saw through his disguise at a glance, and in the man he had met coming away from Smugglers’ Ladder, between nine and half-past on the evening of the murder, he recognised the prisoner, Roland Dorrien. Now here are three persons who distinctly swear to the identity between these two. Nor is that all. There is Joseph Grainger, the waiter at ‘The Silver Fleece,’ at the time of Durnford’s stay at that inn. He comes here. He sees the prisoner in his normal costume and wearing his ordinary aspect, and he does not recognise him—at first. Indeed, he even goes so far as to emphasise the statement. But memory will not be cheated. As he stands there, the striking similarity of the accused to the pseudo-Durnford recalls itself to his mind, and he is dumbfounded. Gentlemen, you saw him—his air of utter astonishment, almost of awe, as he looked at the prisoner. You witnessed his refusal to swear to the two men being different. That is enough. Sensible men like yourselves can draw but one inference.
“Now as to the time at which Durnford returned to ‘The Silver Fleece,’ there is a conflict of testimony, but a perfectly reconcilable one. The waiter swears to the guest’s return at five-and-twenty minutes to ten. The maid-servant, Jane Flinders, swears with equal certitude to hearing Durnford come in at a quarter-past ten, and more than half the issue turns on this point. But, gentlemen, bear this in mind. The waiter Grainger was asleep. When he awoke, Durnford had alreadypassedthe hall clock, which then marked the hour of nine thirty-five. Durnford could reach the clock, be it remembered. But he could not reach Jane Flinders’ watch. Gentlemen, you will draw your own conclusions. One more point in connection with this. Pollock’s evidence proves that he met the stranger on the cliff, close to Smugglers’ Ladder, at half-past nine. But the stranger is back in his hotel at Battisford by five-and-twenty minutes to ten. That is to say, he covers in five or ten minutes a distance which it has been proved by the most competent testimony could hardly be covered in five-and-thirty. And then, when Grainger asks him if he returned by way of the cliffs, he appears surprised, and would have the other believe him unaware of there being any way by the cliffs.
“My learned friend here has seen fit to make merry over the articles which infallibly connect the prisoner with this mournful tragedy, but these articles, small, trivial though they may be in themselves, are of the very last importance. First, there is the A.B.C. time-table. Roland Dorrien goes into a tavern in the Strand, looking very strange and excited, and asks for an A.B.C. It is purchased for him. He searches it, marks the Wandsborough train, turns down a corner of the page and—leaves the book behind him when he goes out. This is about a week before the murder—the waiter, Newton, cannot be sure of the date. But—and observe this—the very train marked in that time-table is the one by which Robert Durnford arrives at Battisford. On the 21st January Roland Dorrien gives up his lodgings at Mrs Clack’s. He leaves London early in the morning. Late in the afternoon of that day Robert Durnford arrives at Battisford. From that time until he leaves Wandsborough church on the night of the 22nd, Durnford’s movements are accounted for. Then, passing over for the moment Devine’s evidence, he is met by James Pollock coming away from Smugglers’ Ladder, not many minutes after Hubert Dorrien is—well ‘falls’ into that chasm. And on the very scene of the tragedy James Pollock picks up this envelope which has been handed to you, directed—not to Robert Durnford but undoubtedly to Roland Dorrien. And where? At a London address incontestably. And the address subsequently given to Dr Ingelow by the pseudo-Durnford is a London postal address. Now for the matchbox. The day after the deceased’s disappearance, Eustace Ingelow, the prisoner’s brother-in-law, a young gentleman who by common knowledge is devoted to his relative, and not likely knowingly to injure him in any way, picks up this matchbox, which is of peculiar make, and to which he can swear as being the prisoner’s property. Where does he find this article! Why, at the bottom of this chasm, at the very spot where the deceased met his death.
“And now you will ask what motive could have been strong enough to lead this man to the black and abhorrent crime of fratricide. Well, even here the network of evidence is as complete as elsewhere. That motive, gentlemen, the prosecution has been able to supply. It has been shown that the prisoner had quarrelled with his father, and was in fact disinherited. Herein,” continued the learned counsel, putting on his most sad and sorrowful expression, “came the passion of jealousy. Furthermore, he had found reason to suppose, from some most deplorable and unguarded statements on the part of Grainger, that his brother had dealt him a blow which, if true, amounted to a stab in the dark—in that he had set to work to damage his reputation in Wandsborough and the neighbourhood. This being so, what more likely than that a man of the prisoner’s temper and character should at once seek to be revenged? How he and his brother had come together was just one of those unimportant links in the dark chain which it was beyond their power to connect. The important fact was that they had come together—the evidence of Stephen Devine and others was amply sufficient to establish that.”
Then Mr Benham proceeded to comment on the evidence of Devine, who with his own eyes had seen the deed done. He explained away the witness’ reluctance to divulge it during these years as a perfectly natural thing; laid stress on the straightforwardness and ring of truth which characterised the man’s statement, and how his tale in its plain, unvarnished simplicity had more than triumphantly stood the test of his learned brother’s most skilful cross-examination. In short, he drew the web of damning circumstances closer and closer around the accused, till there was not a flaw in the enthralling network. Then, with some conventional rhetoric about “terrible charge,” “man in prisoner’s position,” “truly painful duty which, painful as it was, he dared not shirk,” the heart-broken Mr Benham resumed his seat, complacently conscious of having earned his not unhandsome fee.
Then the judge began to sum up.
The learned counsel for the prosecution, he said, had very properly impressed upon the jury that they must lose sight of any such side issue as class-distinction, and form their opinion of the case by the light of hard, cold reason and the dry facts of the evidence. That evidence they had had put before them in the most careful and patient manner, and it was his own especial function, said his lordship, to explain the law on the subject of such of it as appeared conflicting.
For upwards of an hour the judge continued, weighing the arguments of both counsel in calm, dispassionate and masterly fashion. But whether his lordship was against the prisoner or not, it puzzled the public to discern. His charge was a pattern of impartiality no less than of lucidity. But the substance of it was now adverse, now favourable.
One of the most regrettable features of the trial, continued his lordship, was that there had been next to no defence whatever. No attempt had been made to prove analibi. If the prisoner had not been near the neighbourhood at the time of his brother’s disappearance, surely there should be no great difficulty in obtaining evidence to that effect. But no such evidence had been put forward. The question of identity played a very important part indeed in this case. If the jury believed the evidence of Johnston, Devine and Pollock, they would consider the identity proved. But Johnston was a discharged servant, and the evidence of such against a former employer was always to be received with extreme caution, and in his case the greatest animus was shown to have been entertained by him against the prisoner. Devine was a man of notoriously bad character, but he appears to have had no real motive for injuring the accused. But James Pollock was altogether different from both of these witnesses. He was a man of the highest respectability; a man of keen intelligence, resource and courage, in short, a type of that most admirable body of men, the seafaring toilers of our coasts. This man then had seen through the disguise of the pseudo-Durnford, and under it had seen the identity of the prisoner, Roland Dorrien. The piece of envelope put forward, bearing as it did nearly the complete name of the prisoner, and part of a London address, was to his lordship’s mind the completing link in the chain of identity.
Down went the hopes of the prisoner’s friends, down to zero. The judge was summing up dead against him.
“To turn again to Stephen Devine,” went on his lordship. “Here is a man who testifies to witnessing with his own eyes the perpetration of a deliberate act of murder. Alone, and in the dead of night, he stands as a spectator of this terrible deed—then calmly walks away, and for upwards of two years keeps silent on the subject. As the learned counsel for the defence has aptly pointed out, before you can convict a man of a murder you must be quite sure that a murder has been committed. The question is, are you quite sure on this point? That the dead man, Hubert Dorrien, met his end in the place known as Smugglers’ Ladder, has been established beyond a doubt. But how did he get in there? Did he fall in, or was he pushed in? If there is any doubt in your minds upon that head, why then, gentlemen, you are not merely entitled, but are bound to give the accused the benefit of it. You have evidence in plenty that the prisoner was near the spot—that is, to my mind, clear beyond dispute. But that he pushed his brother into this cleft you have the evidence of but a single eye-witness, and that witness, to my mind, a tainted one.”
Now the hope of an acquittal ran high. The judge was again favourable to the accused all along the line, it seemed. As for the prisoner himself, for the second time a ray of hope dawned within his soul, only to be dashed as before.
If then, continued his lordship, they believed the evidence of Devine, they would convict the prisoner; if they disbelieved that evidence they would acquit him. There was no middle course. What had been a long and elaborate trial had, after all, winnowed itself down to a very simple issue, and that was the trustworthiness, or the reverse, of one witness, because upon that, and that alone, depended whether any murder had been committed at all.
So now, being in possession of all the facts of the case, his lordship trusted that they would most carefully confer among themselves and return their verdict according to the solemn oath they had taken—without fear, favour or affection.
The jury retired to their private room to deliberate, and once more the murmur of voices arose among the audience, but it was a very subdued one. The expectation—the awe of the moment—was upon that densely-packed throng, and for a while light and careless talk was hushed. Such conversation as there was bore upon the probable verdict, and it was the opinion of the audience that it would be an adverse one. Meanwhile the prisoner had been removed, pending the return of those who should decide his fate.
Half an hour went by, and at length the door opened. Ah—now for it! But no. One of the intelligent jurymen wished to ask his lordship whether in the event of them not being satisfied as to the identity, they could convict Durnford and acquit the prisoner. He was answered with exemplary patience, and the door closed again. The Bar lifted its eyebrows—such of it as was able to keep from sniggering, that is.
The light of the setting sun streamed in at the windows, throwing its soft gleam upon the serried rows of anxious faces. And the accused—of what was he thinking? Was it of his beautiful home, which it was only too probable he would never enter again? Or was it of her whose first vows just such a golden sunbeam as this had fallen on and hallowed and witnessed?
At length the door opened a second time, and the jury came forth. It was noticeable that the prisoner, who had been hurriedly put back into the dock, did not even glance in their direction, but continued to look straight in front of him.
“Gentlemen, are you all agreed upon your verdict?”
“We are.”
The official’s voice had a vague, far-away ring in Roland’s ears as it continued:
“How find you the prisoner? Guilty or Not Guilty?”
“We find him—Guilty.”