On the morrow rain fell. At first the village regarded the break in the weather as a thunderstorm, and harvesters looked to an early resumption of work. “A sup o’ wet’ll do nowt any harm,” they said. But a steadily declining “glass” and a continuous downpour that lost nothing in volume as the day wore caused increasing headshakes, anxious frowns, revilings not a few of the fickle elements.
The moorland becks became raging torrents. The gorged river rose until all the low-lying land was flooded, hundreds of pounds’ worth of corn in stook swept away, and all standing crops were damaged to an enormous extent. Cattle, sheep, poultry, even a horse or two, were caught by the rushing waters and drowned. A bridge became blocked by floating debris and crumbled before the flood. Three men were standing on the structure, idly watching the articles whirling past in the eddies; one, given a second’s firm footing, jumped for dear life and saved himself; the bodies of the others were found, many days afterwards, jammed against stakes placed in the stream a mile lower down to prevent fish poachers from netting an open reach.
This deluge, if indeed aught else were needed, wrecked the Feast. Every booth was dismantled, each wagon and caravan packed. The van dwellers onlyceased their labors when all was in readiness for a move to the next fair ground; the Elmsdale week, usually a bright spot in their migratory calendar, was marked this year with absolute loss. At the best, and in few instances, it yielded a bare payment of expenses.
Farmers, of course, toiled early and late to avert further disaster. Stock were driven from pastures where danger threatened; cut corn was rescued in the hope that the next day’s sun might dry it; choked ditches were raked with long hoes to permit the water to flow off.
At last, when night fell, and the rain diminished to a thin drizzle, though the barometer gave no promise of improvement, men gathered in the village street and began comparing notes. Everyone had suffered in some degree; even the shopkeepers and private residents complained of ruined goods, gardens rooted up, houses invaded by the all-pervading floods.
But the farmers endured the greatest damage. Some had lost their half-year’s rent, many would be faced with privation and bankruptcy. Thrice fortunate now were the men with capital—those who could look forward with equanimity to another season when the wanton havoc inflicted by this wild raging of the waters should be recouped.
John Bolland, protected by an oilskin coat, crossed the road between the stockyard and the White House about eight o’clock.
“Eh, Mr. Bollan’, but this is a sad day’s wark,” said a friend who encountered him.
“Ah, it’s bad, very bad, an’ likely te be worse,”replied John, lifting his bent head and casting a weather-wise glance over the northerly moor.
“I’ve lost t’ best part o’ six acres o’ wuts,” (oats) growled his neighbor. “It’s hard to know what spite there was in t’ clouds te burst i’ that way.”
“Times an’ seasons aren’t i’ man’s hands,” was the quiet answer. “There’d be ill deed if sunshine an’ storm were settled by voates, like a county-council election.”
“Mebbe, and mebbe nut,” cried the other testily. “’Tis easy to leave ivvrything te Providence when yer money’s mostly i’ stock. Mine happens te be i’ crops.”
“An’ if mine were i’ crops, Mr. Pattison, I sud still thry te desarve well o’ Providence.”
This shrewd thrust evoked no wrath from Pattison, who was not a chapel-goer.
“Gosh!” he laughed, “some folks are lucky. They pile up riches both i’ this wulld an’ t’ wulld te come. Hooivver, we won’t argy. Hev ye heerd t’ news fra’ te t’ ‘Black Lion’?”
“Aboot poor George Pickerin’? Noa. I’ve bin ower thrang i’ t’ cow-byre.”
“He’s married, an’ med his will. Betsy is Mrs. Pickerin’ noo. But she’ll be a widdy afore t’ mornin’.”
“Is he as bad as all that?”
“Sinkin’ fast, they tell me. He kep’ up, like the game ’un he allus was, until Mr. Croft left him alone wi’ his wife. Then he fell away te nowt. He’s ravin’, I hear.”
“Croft! I thowt Stockwell looked efther his affairs.”
“Right enough! But Stockwell’s ya (one) trustee, Mr. Herbert’s t’ other. So Croft had te act.”
“Well, I’m rale sorry for t’ poor chap. He’s coom tiv a bad end.”
“Ye’ll be t’ foreman o’ t’ jury, most like?”
“Noa. I’ll be spared that job. Martin is a witness, more’s t’ pity. Good-night, Mr. Pattison. It’ll hu’t none if y’ are minded te offer up a prayer for betther weather.”
But the prayers of many just men did not avail to save Elmsdale that night. After a brief respite, the storm came on again with gusty malevolence. Black despair sat by many a fireside, and in no place was its grim visage seen more plainly than in the bedroom where George Pickering died.
Dr. MacGregor watched the fitful flickering of the strong man’s life, until, at last, he led the afflicted wife from the room and consigned her to the care of her weeping sister and the hardly less sorrowful landlady.
At the foot of the stairs were waiting P. C. Benson and the reporter of theMessenger.
“It is all over,” said the doctor. “He died at a quarter past ten.”
“The same hour that he was—wounded,” commented the reporter. “What was the precise cause of death?”
“Failure of the heart’s action. It was a merciful release. Otherwise, he might have survived for days and suffered greatly.”
The policeman adjusted his cape and lowered his chin-strap.
“I mun start for Nottonby,” he said. “T’ inquest’ll likely be oppenned o’ Satherday at two o’clock, doctor.”
“Yes. By the way, Benson, you can tell Mr. Jonas that the county analyst and I are ready with our evidence.There is no need for an adjournment, unless the police require it.”
The constable saluted and set off on a lonely tramp through the rain. He crossed the footbridge over the beck—the water was nearly level with the stout planks.
“I haven’t seen a wilder night for monny a year,” he muttered. “There’ll be a nice how-d’ye-do if t’ brig is gone afore daylight.”
He trudged the four miles to Nottonby. Nearing the outskirts of the small market town, he was startled by finding the body of a man lying face down in the roadway. The pelting gale had extinguished his lamp. He managed to turn the prostrate form and raise the man’s head. Then, after several failures, he induced a match to flare for a second. One glance sufficed.
“Rabbit Jack!” he growled. “And blind as a bat! Get up, ye drunken swine. ’Twould be sarvin’ ye right te lave ye i’ the road until ye were runned over or caught yer death o’ cold.”
From the manner of P. C. Benson’s language it may be inferred that his actions were not characterized by extreme gentleness. He managed to shake the poacher into semi-consciousness. Rabbit Jack, wobbling on his feet, lurched against the policeman.
“Hello, ole fell’, coom along wi’ me,” he mumbled amiably. “Nivver mind t’ brass. I’ve got plenty. Good soart, George Pickerin’. Gimme me a sov’, ’e did. Fo-or, ’e’s a jolly good feller——”
A further shaking was disastrous. He collapsed again. The perplexed policeman noted a haymew behind a neighboring gate. He dragged the nondescriptthither by the scruff of his neck and threw him on the lee side of the shelter.
“He’ll be sober by mornin’,” he thought. “I hev overmuch thrubble aboot te tew mysen wi’ this varmint.”
And so ended the first of the dead man’s bequests.
The gathering of a jury in a country village for an important inquest like that occasioned by George Pickering’s death is a solemn function. Care is exercised in empaneling men of repute, and, in the present instance, several prominent farmers were debarred from service because their children would be called as witnesses.
The inquest was held, by permission, in the National schoolhouse. No room in the inn would accommodate a tithe of the people who wished to attend. Many journalists put in an appearance, theMessengerreporter’s paragraphs having attracted widespread attention.
It was noteworthy, too, that Superintendent Jonas did not conduct the case for the police. He obtained the aid of a solicitor, Mr. Dane, with whom the coroner, Dr. Magnus, drove from Nottonby in a closed carriage, for the rain had not ceased, save during very brief intervals, since the outbreak on Thursday morning.
The jury, having been sworn, elected Mr. Webster, grocer, as their foreman, and proceeded to view the body. When they reassembled in the schoolroom it was seen that Betsy, now Mrs. Pickering, was seated next her sister. With them were two old people whom a few persons present recognized as the girls’ parents, and by Betsy’s side was Mr. Stockwell. Among the crowd of witnesses were Martin, Frank and Ernest Beckett-Smythe, and Angèle.
The mortification, the angry dismay of Mrs. Saumarezwhen her daughter was warned to attend the inquest may well be imagined. The police are no respecters of persons, and P. C. Benson, of course, ascertained easily the name of the girl concerning whom Martin and young Beckett-Smythe fought on the eventful night. She might be an important witness, so her mother was told to send her to the court.
Mrs. Saumarez disdained to accompany the girl in person, and Françoise was deputed to act as convoy. The Normandy nurse’s white linen bands offered a quaint contrast to the black robes worn by the other women and gave material for a descriptive sentence to every journalist in the room.
Mr. Beckett-Smythe, the vicar, Dr. MacGregor, and the county analyst occupied chairs beside the Coroner. The latter gentleman described the nature of the inquiry with businesslike brevity, committing himself to no statements save those that were obvious. When he concluded, Mr. Dane rose.
“I appear for the police,” he said.
“And I,” said Mr. Stockwell, “am here to watch the interests of Mrs. Pickering, having received her husband’s written instructions to that effect.”
A deep hush fell on the packed assembly. The curious nature of the announcement was a surprise in itself. The reporters’ pencils were busy, and the Coroner adjusted his spectacles.
“The written instructions of the dead man?” he exclaimed.
“Yes, sir. My friend, my lifelong friend, Mr. George Pickering, was but too well aware of the fate that threatened him. I have here a letter, written and signedby him on Thursday morning. With your permission, I will read it.”
“I object,” cried Mr. Dane.
“On what grounds?” asked the Coroner.
“Such a letter may have a prejudicial effect on the minds of the jury. They are here to determine, with your direction, a verdict to be arrived at on certain evidence. This letter cannot be regarded as evidence.”
Mr. Stockwell shrugged his shoulders.
“I do not press the point,” he said. “I fail to see any harm in showing a husband’s anxiety that his wife should be cleared of absurd imputations.”
Mr. Dane reddened.
“I consider that a highly improper remark,” he cried.
The other only smiled. He had won the first round. The jury knew what the letter contained, and he had placed the case for the police in an unfavorable light.
The first witness, Pickering’s farm bailiff, gave formal evidence of identity.
Then the Coroner read the dead man’s deposition, which was attested by the local justice of the peace. Dr. Magnus rendered the document impressively. Its concluding appeal to the Deity turned all eyes on Betsy. She was pale, but composed. Since her husband’s death she had cried but little. Her mute grief rendered her beautiful. Sorrow had given dignity to a pretty face. She was so white, so unmoved outwardly, that she resembled a clothed statue. Kitty wept quietly all the time, but Betsy sat like one in a dream.
“Catherine Thwaites,” said the Coroner’s officer, and Kitty was led by Mr. Jones to the witness stand.The girl’s evidence, punctuated by sobs, was practically a résumé of Pickering’s sworn statement.
From Mr. Dane’s attitude it was apparent that he regarded this witness as untruthful.
“Of course,” he said, with quiet satire in word and look, “as Mr. Pickering impaled himself on a fork, you did not see your sister plunge a knife into his breast?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor did you run down the garden shrieking: ‘Oh, Betsy, Betsy, you’ve killed him.’ You did not cry ‘Murder, murder! Come, someone, for God’s sake’?”
“Yes, sir; I did.”
This unexpected admission puzzled the solicitor. He darted a sharp side glance at Stockwell, but the latter was busy scribbling notes. Every pulse in court quickened.
“Oh, you did, eh? But why charge your sister with a crime you did not see her commit?”
“Because she had a knife in her hand, and I saw Mr. Pickering stagger across the garden and fall.”
“In what direction did he stagger?”
“Away from the stackyard hedge.”
“This is a serious matter. You are on your oath, and there is such a thing as being an accessory after——”
Up sprang Stockwell.
“I protest most strongly against this witness being threatened,” he shouted.
“I think Mr. Dane is entitled to warn the witness against false testimony,” said the Coroner. “Of course, he knows the grave responsibility attached to such insinuations.”
Mr. Dane waved an emphatic hand.
“I require no threats,” he said. “I have evidence in plenty. Do you swear that Mr. Pickering did not lurch forward from beneath the pear tree at the foot of the garden after being stabbed by your sister, who surprised him in your arms, or you in his arms? It is the same thing.”
“I do,” was the prompt answer.
The lawyer sat down, shrugging his shoulders.
“Any questions to put to the witness, Mr. Stockwell?” said the Coroner.
“No, sir. I regard her evidence as quite clear.”
“Will you—er—does your client Mrs. Pickering wish to give evidence?”
“My client—she is not my client of her own volition, but by the definite instructions of her dead husband—will certainly give evidence. May I express the hope that my learned friend will not deal with her too harshly? She is hardly in a fit state to appear here to-day.”
Mr. Dane smiled cynically, but made no reply. He declined to help his adversary’s adroit maneuvers by fiery opposition, though again had Mr. Stockwell succeeded in playing a trump card.
Betsy was duly warned by the Coroner that she might be charged with the wilful murder of George Pickering, notwithstanding the sworn deposition read in court. She could exercise her own judgment as to whether or not she would offer testimony, but anything she said would be taken down in writing, and might be used as evidence against her.
She never raised her eyes. Not even those terriblewords, “wilful murder,” had power to move her. She stood like an automaton, and seemed to await permission to speak.
“Now, Mrs. Pickering,” said Dr. Magnus, “tell us, in your own words, what happened.”
She began her story. No one could fail to perceive that she was reciting a narrative learnt by heart. She used no words in the vernacular. All was good English, coherent, simple, straightforward. On the Monday morning, she said, she received a letter at Hereford from Fred Marshall, ostler at the “Black Lion Hotel.”
“Have you that letter?” asked the Coroner.
“Yes,” interposed Mr. Stockwell. “Here it is.”
He handed forward a document. A buzz of whispered comment arose. In compliance with Dr. Magnus’s request, Betsy identified it listlessly. Then it was read aloud. Apart from mistakes in spelling, it ran as follows:
“Dear Miss Thwaites.—This is to let you know that George Pickering is carrying on with your sister Kitty. He has promised to meet her here on Monday. He has engaged a bedroom here. You ought to come and stop it. I inclose P.O. for one pound toward your fare.—Yours truly, Fred Marshall, groom, ‘Black Lion,’ Elmsdale.”
“Dear Miss Thwaites.—This is to let you know that George Pickering is carrying on with your sister Kitty. He has promised to meet her here on Monday. He has engaged a bedroom here. You ought to come and stop it. I inclose P.O. for one pound toward your fare.—Yours truly, Fred Marshall, groom, ‘Black Lion,’ Elmsdale.”
The fact that this meddlesome personage had sent Betsy her railway fare became known now for the first time. A hiss writhed through the court.
“Silence!” yelled a police sergeant, glaring around with steely eyes.
“There must be no demonstrations of any sort here,”said the Coroner sternly. “Well, Mrs. Pickering, you traveled to Elmsdale?”
“Yes.”
“With what purpose in view?”
“George had promised to marry me. Kitty knew this quite well. I thought that my presence would put an end to any courtship that was going on. It was very wrong.”
“None will dispute that. But I prefer not to question you. Tell us your own story.”
“I traveled all day,” she recommenced, “and reached Elmsdale station by the last train. I was very tired. At the door of the inn I met Fred Marshall. He was waiting, I suppose. He told me George and Kitty were at the bottom of the garden.”
A quiver ran through the audience, but the police sergeant was watching, and they feared expulsion.
“He said they had been there ten minutes. I ran through the hotel kitchen. On a table was lying a long knife near a dish of grouse. I picked it up, hardly knowing what I was doing, and went into the garden. When I was halfway down Kitty saw me and screamed. George turned round and backed away toward the middle hedge. I remember crying out—some—things—but I do not—know—what I said.”
She swayed slightly, and everyone thought she was about to faint. But she clutched the back of a chair and steadied herself. Mr. Jones offered her a glass of water, but she refused it.
“I can go on,” she said bravely.
And she persevered to the end, substantially repeating her sister’s evidence.
When Mr. Dane rose to cross-examine, the silence in court was appalling. The girl’s parents were pallid with fear. Kitty sat spellbound. Mr. Stockwell pushed his papers away and gazed fixedly at his client.
“Why did you pick up the knife, Mrs. Pickering?” was the first question.
“I think—I am almost sure—I intended to strike my sister with it.”
This was another bombshell. Mr. Dane moved uneasily on his feet.
“Your sister!” he repeated in amazement.
“Yes. She was aware of my circumstances. What right had she to be flirting with my promised husband?”
“Hum! You have forgiven her since, no doubt?”
“I forgave her then, when I regained my senses. She was acting thoughtlessly. I believe that George and she went into the garden only to spite Fred Marshall.”
Mr. Dane shook his head.
“So, if we accept your statement, Mrs. Pickering, you harmed no one with the knife except yourself?”
“That is so.”
He seemed to hesitate a moment, but seemingly made up his mind to leave the evidence where it stood.
“I shall not detain you long,” said Mr. Stockwell when his legal opponent desisted from further cross-examination. “You were married to Mr. Pickering on Thursday morning by special license?”
“Yes.”
“He had executed a marriage settlement securing you £400 a year for life?”
“Yes.”
“And, after the accident, you remained with him until he died?”
“Yes—God help me!”
“Thank you. That is all.”
“Just one moment,” interposed the Coroner. “Were you previously acquainted with this man, Marshall, the groom?”
“No, sir. I saw him for the first time in my life when he met me at the hotel door and asked me if I was Miss Thwaites.”
“How did he obtain your Hereford address? It appears to be given in full on the envelope.”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Fred Marshall was the next witness. He was sober and exceedingly nervous. He had been made aware during the past week that public opinion condemned him utterly. His old cronies refused to drink with him. Mrs. Atkinson had dismissed him; he was a pariah, an outcast, in the village.
His evidence consisted of a disconnected series of insinuations against Kitty’s character, interlarded with protests that he meant no harm. Mr. Stockwell showed him scant mercy.
“You say you saw Mrs. Pickering, or Betsy Thwaites, as she was at that time, seize a knife from the table?”
“I did.”
“What did you think she meant to do with it?”
“What she did do—stick George Pickerin’. I heerd her bawlin’ that oot both afore an’ efther.”
The man was desperate. In his own parlance, he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and he would spare no one.
“Oh, indeed! You knew she intended to commit murder?”
“I thowt so.”
“Then why did you not follow her?”
“I was skeered.”
“What! Afraid of a weak woman?”
“Well, I didn’t give a damn if she did stab him! There, ye hev it straight!”
Mr. Stockwell turned to Mr. Dane.
“If you are looking for accessories in this trumped-up case, you have one ready to hand,” he exclaimed.
“You must be careful what you are saying, Marshall,” observed the Coroner severely. “And moderate your language, too. This court is not a stable.”
“He shouldn’t badger me,” cried the witness in sullen anger.
“I’ll treat you with great tenderness,” said Mr. Stockwell suavely, and a general smile relieved the tension.
“How did you obtain Miss Thwaites’s address at Hereford?”
No answer.
“Come, now. Where are your wits? Will you accuse me of badgering you, if I suggest that you stole a letter from Kitty Thwaites’s pocket?”
“I didn’t steal it. It was in a frock of hers, hangin’ in her bedroom.”
“You are most obliging. And the sovereign you sent her? Did you, by any chance, borrow it from Mrs. Atkinson?”
“Frae Mrs. Atkinson? Wheä said that?”
“Oh, I mean without her knowledge, of course. From Mrs. Atkinson’s till, I should have said.”
The chance shot went home. The miserable groom growled a denial, but no one believed him. Quite satisfied that he had destroyed the man’s credibility, Mr. Stockwell sat down.
“Martin Court Bolland!” said the Coroner’s officer, and a wave of renewed interest galvanized the court. Mr. Dane arranged his papers and looked around with the air of one who says:
“Now we shall hear the truth of this business.”
Martin came forward. It chanced that the first pair of eyes he encountered were Angèle’s. The girl was gazing at him with a spiteful intensity he could not understand. He did not know then of the painful exposé which took place at The Elms when Mrs. Saumarez learnt on the preceding day that her daughter was a leading figure among the children in the “Black Lion” yard on the night of the tragedy.
Angèle blamed Martin for having betrayed her to the authorities. She did not know how resolutely he had declined to mention her name; he loomed large in her mind, to the exclusion of the others.
She regarded him now with a venomous malice all the more bitter because of the ultra-friendly relations she had forced on him.
He looked at her with genuine astonishment. She reminded him of the wildcat he choked to death in Thor ghyll. But he had to collect his wandering faculties, for the Coroner was speaking.
Martin’s evidence was concise. He happened to be in the “Black Lion” yard with other children at a quarter past ten on Monday night. He heard a woman’s scream, followed by a man’s loud cry of pain, and both sounds seemed to come from the extreme end of the garden.
Kitty Thwaites ran toward the hotel shrieking, “Oh, Betsy, Betsy, you’ve killed him!” She screamed “Murder” and called for someone to come, “for God’s sake!” She fell exactly opposite the place where he was standing. Then he saw Betsy Thwaites—he identified her now as Mrs. Pickering—running after her sister and brandishing a knife. She appeared to be very excited, and cried out, “I’ll swing for him. May the Lord deal wi’ him as he dealt wi’ me!” She called her sister a “strumpet,” and said it would “serve her right to stick her with the same knife.” He was quite sure those were the exact words. He was not alarmed in any way, only surprised by the sudden uproar, and he saw the two women and the knife as plainly as if it were broad daylight.
Mr. Dane concluded the examination-in-chief, which he punctuated with expressive glances at the jury, by touching on a point which he expected his acute rival to raise.
“What were you doing in the ‘Black Lion’ yard at that hour, Bolland?”
“I was having a dispute with Master Frank Beckett-Smythe.”
“What sort of a dispute?”
“Well, we were fighting.”
A grin ran through the court.
“He is an intelligent boy and older than you. Can you suggest any reason why he should have failed to see and hear all that you saw and heard?”
Martin paused. He disliked to pose as a vainglorious pugilist, but there was no help for it.
“I got the better of him,” he said quietly. “One, at least, of his eyes were closed, and I had just given him an uppercut on the nose.”
“But his brother was there, too?”
“Master Ernest was looking after him.”
“How about the other children?”
“They ran away.”
“All of them?”
“Well, nearly all. I can only speak for myself, sir. No doubt the others will tell you what they saw.”
Obviously, Mr. Dane was unprepared for the cool self-possession displayed by this farmer’s son. He nodded acquiescence with Martin’s views and sat down.
Mr. Stockwell, watching the boy narrowly, had caught the momentary gleam of surprise when his look encountered that of the pretty dark-eyed child whose fashionable attire distinguished her from the village urchins among whom she was sitting.
“By the way,” he began, “why do you call yourself Bolland?”
“That is my name, sir.”
“Are you John Bolland’s son?”
“No, sir.”
“Then whose son are you?”
“I do not know. My father and mother adopted me thirteen years ago.”
The lawyer gathered by the expression on the stolid faces of the jury that this line of inquiry would be fruitless.
“What was the cause of the fight between you and young Beckett-Smythe?”
This was the signal for an interruption from the jury. Mr. Webster, the foreman, did not wish any slight to be placed on Mrs. Saumarez. The upshot might be that he would lose a good customer. The Squire dealt at the Stores. Let him protect his own children. But Mrs. Saumarez needed a champion.
“May I ask, sir,” he said to the Coroner, “what a bit of a row atween youngsters hez te do wi’ t’ case?”
“Nothing that I can see,” was the answer.
“It has a highly important bearing,” put in Mr. Stockwell. “If my information is correct, this witness is the only one whose evidence connects Mrs. Pickering even remotely with the injuries received by her husband. I assume, of course, that Marshall’s testimony is not worth a straw. I shall endeavor to elicit facts that may tend to prove the boy’s statements unreliable.”
“I cannot interfere with your discretion, Mr. Stockwell,” was the ruling.
“Now, answer my question,” cried the lawyer.
Martin’s brown eyes flashed back indignantly.
“We fought because I wished to take a young lady home, and he tried to prevent me.”
“A young lady! What young lady?”
“I refuse to mention her name. You asked why we fought, and I’ve told you.”
“Why this squeamishness, my young squire of dames? Was it not Angèle Saumarez?”
Martin turned to the Coroner.
“Must I reply, sir?”
“Yes.... I fail still to see the drift of the cross-examination, Mr. Stockwell.”
“It will become apparent quickly. Yes, or no, Bolland?”
“Yes; it was.”
“Was she committed to your care by her mother?”
“No. She came out to see the fair. I promised to look after her.”
“Were you better fitted to protect this child than the two sons of Mr. Beckett-Smythe?”
“I thought so.”
“From what evil influences, then, was it necessary to rescue her?”
“That’s not a fair way to put it. It was too late for her to be out.”
“When did you discover this undeniable fact?”
“Just then.”
“Not when you were taking her through the fair in lordly style?”
“No. There was no harm in the shows, and I realized the time only when the clock struck ten.”
Every adult listener nodded approval. The adroit lawyer saw that he was merely strengthening the jury’sgood opinion of the boy. He must strike hard and unmercifully if he would shake their belief in Martin’s good faith.
“There were several other children there—a boy named Bates, another named Beadlam, Mrs. Atkinson’s three girls, and others?”
“Bates was with me. The others were in the yard.”
“Ah, yes; they had left you a few minutes earlier. Now, is it not a fact that these children, and you with them, had gone to this hiding-place to escape being caught by your seniors?”
“No; it is a lie.”
“Is that your honest belief? Do you swear it?”
“I shirked nothing. Neither did the others. Hundreds of people saw us. As for Miss Saumarez, I think she went there for a lark more than anything else.”
“A questionable sort of lark. It is amazing to hear of respectable children being out at such an hour. Did your parents—did the parents of any of the others realize what was going on?”
“I think not. The whole thing was an accident.”
“But, surely, there must be some adequate explanation of this fight between you and Beckett-Smythe. It was no mere scuffle, but a severe set-to. He bears even yet the marks of the encounter.”
Master Frank was supremely uncomfortable when the united gaze of the court was thus directed to him. His right eye was discolored, as all might see, but his nose was normal.
“I have told you the exact truth. I wished her to go home——”
“Did she wish it?”
“She meant to tease me, and said she would remain. Frank Beckett-Smythe and I agreed to fight, and settle whether she should go or stay.”
“So you ask us to believe that not only did you engage in a bout of fisticuffs in order to convoy to her home a girl already hours too late abroad, but that you alone, of all these children, can give us a correct version of occurrences on the other side of the hedge?”
“I don’t remember asking you that, sir,” said Martin seriously, and the court laughed.
Mr. Stockwell betrayed a little heat.
“You know well what I mean,” he said. “You are a clever boy. Are you not depending on your imagination for some of your facts?”
“I wish I were, sir,” was the sorrowful answer.
Quite unconsciously, Martin looked at Betsy. Some magnetic influence caused her to raise her eyes for the first time, and each gazed into the soul of the other.
Mr. Stockwell covered his retreat by an assumption of indifference.
“Fortunately, there is a host of witnesses to be heard in regard to these particular events,” he exclaimed, and Martin’s inquisition ceased.
The superintendent whispered something to Mr. Dane, who rose.
“A great deal has been made out of this quarrel about a little girl,” he said to the boy. “Is it not the fact that you have endeavored consistently to keep her name out of the affair altogether?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Mrs. Saumarez is only a visitor here, andher daughter could not know anything of village ways. I was mostly to blame for allowing her to be there at all, so I tried to take it onto my shoulders.”
It was interesting to note how Angèle received this statement. Her black eyes became tearful. Her hero was rehabilitated. She worshiped him again passionately. Someone else had peached. She brushed away the tears and darted a quick look at the Squire’s eldest son.
He was the next witness. He saw George Pickering and Kitty go down the garden, the man’s arm being around Kitty’s neck. Then he fought with Martin. Afterwards he heard some screaming, but could not tell a word that was said—he was too dazed.
“Is it not possible the hubbub was too confused that you should gain any intelligible idea of it?” asked Mr. Stockwell.
“Yes, that might be so.”
“You are a bigger boy than young Bolland. Surely he could not pummel the wits out of you?”
“I don’t think he will next time. He caught me a stinger by chance.”
A roar of laughter greeted this candid confession of future intentions. Even Mr. Beckett-Smythe and the vicar joined in.
“Why did you wish to keep this girl, Angèle Saumarez, away from her residence?”
“She’s a jolly sort of girl, and I think we were all a bit off our heads,” said Frank ruefully.
“But you had some motive, some design. Remember, you fought to retain her.”
“I wish I hadn’t,” said the boy, glancing at hisfather. His most active memory was of a certain painful interview on Wednesday night.
“Youwere not groggy on your legs,” was Mr. Stockwell’s first remark to Ernest. “What did you hear or see beyond the garden hedge?”
“There was a lot of yelling, and two women ran toward the hotel. The woman with a knife was threatening to stick it into somebody, but I couldn’t tell who.”
“Ah. She was running after the other woman. Don’t you think she might have been threatening her only?”
“It certainly looked like it.”
“Can’t you help us by being more definite?”
“No. Frank was asking for a pump. I was thinking of that more than of the beastly row in the garden.”
He was dismissed.
“Angèle Saumarez.”
The strangers present surveyed the girl with expectant interest. She looked a delightfully innocent child. She was attired in the dark dress she wore on the Monday evening. Her hat, gloves, and shoes were in perfect taste. No personality could be more oddly at variance with a village brawl than this delicate, gossamer, fairy-like little mortal.
She gave her evidence without constraint or shyness. Her pretty continental accent enhanced the charm of her manners. In no sense forward, she won instant approbation, and the general view was that she had drifted into an unpleasant predicament by sheer force of circumstances. The mere love of fun brought her out to see the fair, and her presence in the stackyard wasaccounted for by a girlish delight in setting boys at loggerheads.
But she helped the police contention by declaring that she heard Betsy say:
“I’ll swing for him.”
“I remember,” she said sweetly, “wondering what she meant. To swing for anybody! That is odd.”
“Might it not have been ‘for her’ and not ‘for him’?” suggested Mr. Stockwell.
“Oh, yes,” agreed Angèle. “I wouldn’t be sure about that. They talk queerly, these people. I am certain about the ‘swing’.”
Really, there never was a more simple little maid.
“You must never again go out at night to such places,” remarked the Coroner paternally.
She cast down her eyes.
“Mamma was very angry,” she simpered. “I have been kept at home for days and days on account of it.”
She glanced at Martin. That explanation was intended for him. As a matter of fact, Mr. Beckett-Smythe called at The Elms on Thursday morning and told Mrs. Saumarez that her child needed more control. He had thrashed Frank soundly the previous evening for riding off to a rendezvous fixed with Angèle for nine o’clock. He whispered this information to Mr. Herbert, and the vicar’s eyes opened wide.
The other non-professional witnesses, children and adults, did not advance the inquiry materially. Many heard Kitty shrieking that her sister had murdered George Pickering, but Kitty herself had admitted saying so under a misapprehension.
P. C. Benson raised an important point. The pitchfork was first mentioned about eleven o’clock, when Mr. Pickering was able to talk coherently, after being laid on a bed and drinking some brandy. Neither of the two women had spoken of it. And there were footprints that did not bear out the movements described in the dead man’s deposition.
“But Mr. Pickering’s first lucid thought referred to this implement?” said Mr. Stockwell.
“Neäbody was holdin’ him, sir.”
The policeman imagined the lawyer had said “loosened.”
“I mean that the first account he ever gave of this accident referred to the pitchfork, and his subsequent statements were to the same effect.”
“Oah, yes. There’s no denyin’ that.”
“And you found the fork lying exactly where he described its position?”
“Why, yes; but he was a desp’rate lang time i’ studdyin’ t’ matter oot afore he’s speak.”
“Do you suggest that someone placed the fork there by his instructions?”
“Noa, sir. Most like he’d seen it there hissen.”
“Then why do you refuse to accept his statement that an accident took place?”
“Because I f’und his footprints where he ran across t’ garden te t’ spot where he was picked up.”
“Footprints! After a month of fine weather!”
“It was soft mold, sir, an’ they were plain enough.”
“Were not a dozen men running about this garden at twenty minutes past ten?”
“Ay—quite that.”
“And you tell us coolly that you could distinguish those of one man?”
“There was on’y one man’s track i’ that pleäce, sir.”
Benson was not to be flurried. Mr. Jonas and a police sergeant corroborated his opinion.
Dr. MacGregor followed. He described Pickering’s wound, the nature of his illness, and the cause of death. The stab itself was not of a fatal character. Had it diverged slightly it must have reached the lung. As it was, the poison, not the knife, had done the mischief.
The county analyst was scientifically dogmatic. His analyses had been conducted with the utmost care. The knife was contaminated, the pitchfork was only rusty. The latter was a dangerous implement, but in no way responsible for the state of Pickering’s blood corpuscles.
Mr. Dane, of course, made the most of these witnesses, but Mr. Stockwell wisely forbore from pressing them, and thus hammering the main items again into the heads of the jury.
The Coroner glanced at his watch. It was six o’clock. Neither of the solicitors was permitted to address the court, and he made up his mind to conclude the inquiry forthwith.
“There is one matter which might be cleared up,” he said. “Where is Marshall, the groom?”
It was discovered that the man had left the court half an hour ago. He had not returned. P.C. Benson was sent to find him. The two came back in five minutes. Their arrival was heralded by loud shouts and laughter outside. When they entered the schoolroom Marshallpresented a ludicrous spectacle. He was dripping wet, and not from rain, for his clothes were covered with slime and mud.
It transpired that he had gone to a public house for a pint of beer. Several men and youths who could not gain admittance to the court took advantage of the absence of the police and amused themselves by ducking him in a convenient horse pond.
The Coroner, having expressed his official annoyance at the incident, asked the shivering man if he followed Betsy into the garden.
No; he saw her go out through the back door.
“Then the threats you heard were uttered while she was in the passage of the hotel or in the kitchen?”
Yes; that was so.
“It is noteworthy,” said the Coroner, “that none of the children heard this young woman going toward the couple. She must have run swiftly and silently down the path, and the witnesses were so absorbed in the fight that she passed them unheard and unseen.”
Mr. Stockwell frowned. If this gave any indication of the Coroner’s summing-up, it was not favorable to his client.
Dr. Magnus showed at once that he meant to cast aside all sentimental considerations and adhere solely to the judicial elements. He treated George Pickering’s deposition with all respect, but pointed out that the dying man might be actuated by the desire to make atonement to the woman he had wronged. The human mind was capable of strange vagaries. A man who would slight, or, at any rate, be indifferent, to one of the opposite sex, when far removed from personal contact,was often swayed by latent ties of affection when brought face to face with the woman herself.
In a word, the Coroner threw all his weight on the side of the police and against Betsy. He regarded Fred Marshall and young Bolland as truthful witnesses, though inspired by different motives, and deemed the medical evidence conclusive.
Betsy sat sphinx-like through this ordeal. Her unhappy parents, and even more unhappy sister, were profoundly distressed, and Stockwell watched the jury keenly as each damning point against his client was emphasized.
“The law is quite clear in affairs of this kind,” concluded Dr. Magnus gravely. “Either this unfortunate man was murdered, in which event your verdict can only take one form, or he met with an accident. Most fortunately, the last word does not rest with this court, or it would be impossible to close the inquiry to-day. The deceased himself raised a pertinent question: Why did his wife escape blood-poisoning, although he became infected? But the solicitors present apparently concur with me that this is a matter which must be determined elsewhere——”
“No, no,” broke in Mr. Stockwell. “I admit nothing of the sort.”
The Coroner bowed.
“You have the benefit of my opinion, gentlemen,” he said to the jury. “You must retire now and consider your verdict.”
The jury filed out into a classroom, an unusual proceeding, but highly expedient in an inquiry of such importance. Tongues were loosened instantly, and a humof talk arose, while the witnesses signed their recorded statements. Kitty endeavored to arouse her sister from the condition of stupor in which she remained, and the girl’s mother placed an arm around her shoulders. But Betsy paid little heed. Her mind dwelt on one object only—a sheet-covered form, lying cold and inanimate in a room of the neighboring hotel.
Angèle sidled toward Martin when a movement in court permitted. Françoise would have restrained her, but the child slid along a bench so quickly that the nurse’s protest came too late.
“Martin,” she whispered, “you behaved beautifully. I was so angry with you at first. But it was not you. I know now. Evelyn Atkinson told.”
“I wish it had never happened,” said the boy bitterly. He hated the notion that his evidence was the strongest link in the chain encircling the hapless Betsy.
“Oh, I don’t find it bad, this court. One is all pins and needles at first. But the men are nice.”
“I am not thinking of ourselves,” he growled.
“Tiens! Of whom, then?”
“Angèle, you’re awfully selfish. What have we to endure, compared with poor Mrs. Pickering?”
“Oh, pouf! That is her affair. Mamma beat me on Thursday. Beat me, look you! But I made her stop, oh, so quickly. Miss Walker pretends that mamma was ill. I know better, and so do you. I said if she hit me again——”
He caught her wrist.
“Shut up!” he said in a firm whisper.
“Don’t. You are hurting me. Why are you so horrid? Do you want me to be beaten?”
“No; but how can you dare threaten your mother?”
“I would dare anything rather than be kept in the house—away from you.”
Frank Beckett-Smythe, sitting near his father, was wondering dully why he had been such a fool as to incur severe penalties for the sake of this “silly kid,” who was now ogling his rival and whispering coyly in that rival’s ear. Martin was welcome to her, for all he cared. No girl was worth the uneasiness of the chair he occupied, for his father’s hunting-crop had fallen with such emphasis that he felt the bruises yet.
The jury returned. They had been absent half an hour. Mr. Webster was flustered—that was perceptible instantly. He, as foreman, had to deliver the finding.
“Have you agreed as to your verdict?” said the Coroner.
“We have.”
“And it is?”
“Not guilty!”
“What are you talking about? This is not a criminal court. You are asked to determine how George Pickering met his death.”
“I beg pardon,” stammered Mr. Webster. He turned anxiously to his colleagues. Some of them prompted him.
“I mean,” he went on, “that our verdict is ‘Accidental death.’ That’s it, sir. ‘Accidental death,’ I should hev said. Mr. Pickerin’s own words——”
The Coroner frowned.
“It is an amazing verdict,” he said. “I feel it my bounden duty——”
Mr. Stockwell, pale but determined, sprang to his feet.
“Do hear me for one moment!” he cried.
The Coroner did not answer, so the solicitor took advantage of the tacit permission.
“I well recognize that the police cannot let the matter rest here,” he pleaded. “On your warrant they will arrest my client. Such a proceeding is unnecessary. In her present state of health it might be fatal. Surely it will suffice if you record your dissent and the inquiry is left to other authorities. I am sure that you, that Mr. Dane, will forgive the informality of my request. It arises solely from motives of humanity.”
The Coroner shook his head.
“I am sorry, Mr. Stockwell, but I must discharge my duty conscientiously. The verdict is against the weight of evidence, and the ultimate decision rests with me, not with the jury. They have chosen deliberately to ignore my directions, and I have no option but to set aside their finding. I am compelled to issue a warrant charging your client with ‘wilful murder.’ Protests only render the task more painful, and I may point out that, under any circumstances, the date of arrest cannot be long deferred.”
A howl of vehement indignation came from the packed court. Nearly everyone present sympathized with Betsy. They accepted George Pickering’s dying declaration as final; they regarded the Coroner’s attitude as outrageous.
For an instant the situation was threatening. It looked as though the people would wrest the girl from the hands of the police by main force. Old Mrs.Thwaites fainted, Kitty screamed dreadful words at the Coroner, and the girl’s father sprawled across the table with his face in his hands and crying pitifully.
Mr. Beckett-Smythe rose, but none would listen. There was a scene of tense excitement. Already men were crowding to the center of the room, while an irresistible rush from outside drove a policeman headlong from the door.
Mr. Herbert strove to make himself heard, but an overwrought member of the jury bellowed:
“Mak’ him record oor vardict, parson. What right hez he te go ageän t’ opinion o’ twelve honest men?”
Solicitors and reporters gathered their papers hastily, fearing an instant onslaught on the Coroner, and someone chanced to step on Angèle’s foot as she clung in fright to Martin. The child squealed loudly; her toes had been squeezed under a heavy boot.
Françoise, whose broad Norman face depicted every sort of bewilderment at the tumult which had sprung up for some cause she in no way understood, rose at the child’s cry of anguish, and incontinently flung two pressmen out of her path. She reached Angèle and faced the crowd with splendid courage.
The voluble harangue she poured forth in French, her uncommon costume, and fierce gesticulations gained her a hearing which would have been denied any other person in the room, save, perhaps, Betsy. And Betsy was striving to bring her mother back to consciousness, without, however, departing in the least particular from her own attitude of stoic despair.
The Coroner availed himself of the momentary lull. Françoise paused for sheer lack of breath, and Dr.Magnus made his voice heard far out into the village street.
“Why all this excitement?” he shouted. “The jury’s verdict will be recorded, but you cannot force me to agree with it. The police need not arrest Mrs. Pickering on my warrant at once. I hope they will not do so. Surely, as men of sense, you will not endeavor to defy the law? You are injuring this poor woman’s cause by an unseemly turmoil. Make way, there, at the door, and allow Mrs. Pickering to escort her mother to the hotel. You are frightening women and children by your bluster.”
Mr. Stockwell joined the superintendent in appealing to the crowd to disperse, and the crisis passed. In a few minutes the members of the Thwaites family were safe within the portals of the inn, and the schoolroom was empty of all save a few officials and busy reporters.
Françoise held fast to Angèle, but the girl appealed to Martin to accompany her a little way. He yielded, though he turned back before reaching the vicarage.
“Mother and I are coming to tea to-morrow,” she cried as they parted.
“All right,” he replied. “Mind you don’t vex her again.”
“Not I. She will want to hear all about the inquest. It was as good as a play. Wasn’t Françoise funny? Oh, I do wish you had understood her. She called the men ‘sacrés cochons d’Anglais!’ It is so naughty in English.”
On the green, and dotted about the roadway, excited groups discussed the lively episode in the schoolroom.They were rancorous against the Coroner, and not a few boohed as he entered his carriage with Mr. Dane.
“Ay, they’d hang t’ poor lass, t’ pair of ’em, if they could,” shouted a buxom woman.
“Sheäm on ye!” screamed another. “I’ll lay owt ye won’t sleep soond i’ yer beds te-night.”
But these vaporings broke no bones, and the Coroner drove away, glad enough that so far as he was concerned a distasteful experience had ended.
The persistent rain soon cleared loiterers from the center of the village. John Bolland came to the farm while Martin was eating a belated meal.
“A nice deed there was at t’ inquest, I hear,” he said. “I don’t know what’s come te Elmsdale. It’s fair smitten wi’ a moral pestilence. One reads o’ sike doin’s i’ foreign lands, but I nivver thowt te see ’em i’ this law-abidin’ counthry.”
Then Martha flared up.
“Wheä’s i’ t’ fault?” she cried. “Can ye bleäm t’ folk for lossin’ their tempers when a daft Crowner cooms here an’ puts hissen up ageän t’ jury? If he had a bit o’ my tongue, I’d teng (sting) him!”
So Elmsdale declared itself unhesitatingly on Betsy’s side. A dead man’s word carried more weight than all the law in the land.