Chapter Forty Two.
“Guilty or Not Guilty?”
To describe the state of excitement into which Wandsborough was thrown, when the tidings of Roland Dorrien’s arrest were bruited about—as they very soon were—would battle the most graphic pen. Why, nothing approaching to this had ever befallen in their midst. The Squire of Cranston, the most influential of local magnates, greater even in point of possessions than Colonel Neville, the chairman of Petty Sessions, to be arrested on a criminal charge—one, too, for which, if convicted, he would inevitably suffer the death of a common malefactor. No, Wandsborough had, assuredly, never experienced the like of this.
To most of the accused’s brother magistrates, the case was a painful affair. There was sufficient prima facie evidence to send it for trial, so for trial it went, and their responsibility ended. But the police court was crammed during the examinations, and all Wandsborough was making up its mind as to whether the accused was guilty or not, the balance of opinion leaning, if anything, to the former.
Needless to say, no expense was spared to secure the very best legal talent. That done, there was nothing left for all concerned, but to possess their souls in patience. The accused, in the bitter solitude of his prison cell, set his teeth grimly, and muttered twenty times a day, “Let them fight it out.” But his legal advisers found him anything but a satisfactory client.
The time between the committal and the opening of the assizes was not unduly long, and during it Olive had visited him once. But the galling restrictions imposed upon the visit by gaol regulations, and the immense strain upon the self-control of both, had rendered the interview too trying altogether. Outwardly Olive was calmness itself, cheerful too, and making plans for the future, affecting to treat the whole thing as an absurd mistake; yet her demeanour did not deceive him, although he was willing she should believe it did.
At length the momentous day dawned. The Battisford assizes had been duly opened, and the grand jury had returned a true bill against Roland Dorrien for the wilful murder of his brother Hubert.
The Court-house at Battisford was large and spacious, but not large enough for one half of those who would fain have gained admission. As the accused entered the dock, the sea of faces craned forward, white with excitement and eagerness, was bewildering at first, but only at first. There was a slight frown and contraction of the brows, and a pallor which might have been the result of an anxious period of close confinement; otherwise the prisoner’s face was cold, impassive, almost haughty, as he swept one glance around the Court. The wooden-faced judge, in crimson and ermine, the rows of wigged and gowned counsel—these he felt were scrutinising him keenly. The High Sheriff, too—why, he had narrowly escaped being pricked for that office himself, this very year. Then he became aware that he was being called upon to listen to an indictment couched in rolling legal phraseology, and to plead accordingly.
“Not Guilty!”
The tone, firm, indifferent, might have been ventriloquised out of an ice-block. He was not there to waste emotion, thought the prisoner grimly.
Then the prosecuting counsel proceeded to open his case on behalf of the Crown. Concisely he went over the facts connected with Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance two years and a half previously, with the subsequent search and its result, or rather, want of result; upon the subsequent finding of a body upon the seashore, which, although the face was unrecognisable, the clothing, and its marks, watch, etc, were amply sufficient to identify as that of the missing man, and the inquest immediately held upon it had decided accordingly. But circumstances had come to light, which went to show that what had been regarded as a lamentable accident there was reason to believe was nothing less than a deliberate, vindictive and cold-blooded murder, committed by the prisoner who stood before them to take his trial, and the very fact that he stood there showed that there was sufficient evidence to justify that belief. Whether that belief were turned into a certainty would rest with the twelve honourable and intelligent gentlemen who were there to try the case.
The jury liked this opening. They had always heard of Benham, Q.C., as a very big gun indeed, now they were going to have a chance of hearing his oratorical gifts. Outwardly he was a tall, pleasant-voiced man, in the prime of life, and he had a persuasive way with him.
He should show, he went on, how prisoner had come to Battisford disguised, how he had put up at “The Silver Fleece Inn” in that town, under the pseudonym of Robert Durnford, and had laid his plans and watched his opportunity, and having lured his brother to a lonely spot upon the cliffs between that town and Wandsborough, had there done him to death in the darkness of night, as he thought, unseen by human eye.
Then counsel proceeded to call his first evidence. This was given, in succession, by those who had found the body, two or three fishermen from Minchkil. These were examined by Benham’s junior, and their evidence being purely technical, they were soon disposed of. They were followed by the medical man who had testified at the inquest, and who declared now, as he had declared then, and unhesitatingly, that death was due to drowning. There were marks of bruises on the body, but not such as would cause death, or even contribute to that result.
There was a stir of sensation among the densely-packed crowd as Mr Benham called for his next witness, for this was no other than Mrs Dorrien, the General’s widow. A tall figure in deep black made its way to the witness-box with rapid, but firm, steps. A chair was placed for her by direction of the judge.
Then, as Mrs Dorrien slowly removed her heavy veil, her glance fell upon her surviving son; that son, whom she had never seen since he left his father’s house those years ago. Then they had parted in coldness, if not in anger. Now they met again thus, the mother and the son.
Roland met her eyes firmly, and there was no sign of shrinking in his mien. Her face was pale as death, but stern, impassive and determined as his own. In it there appeared not a trace of pity.
“Pray be seated, Mrs Dorrien,” said Mr Benham in his suavest tone, when the witness had been sworn. “We shall endeavour to spare you unnecessary pain. All we want you to tell us are the circumstances under which your son Hubert was first missed.”
Concisely, in a low, set tone, the widow complied. Aided now and again by a question from the judge, she stated how Hubert had left home to attend evening service at Cranston, how he had not returned, and how, on the following morning, being alarmed, she had told her husband, who had at once instituted a search, heading it in person—but without effect.
“One thing more, Mrs Dorrien,” said Mr Benham, “and we shall have done. Had you any reason to suspect your eldest son, the accused, was anywhere in the neighbourhood?”
“None whatever.”
“Any questions, Mr Windgate?” asked the judge sharply.
“N-no, m’lord,” replied the prisoner’s advocate. “At least, yes,” jumping up. “Just one. Will you kindly tell us, Mrs Dorrien, were your two sons, Roland and Hubert, on good terms?”
“They had never quarrelled.”
“They had never quarrelled,” making a note. “That is to say, they were on good terms.”
“They were not very cordial,” said the witness in the same slow, monotonous voice in which her evidence had been given.
“Ah! They were not very cordial. Different temperaments, no doubt. Thank you, Mrs Dorrien. That will do,” said Mr Windgate blandly, making another note.
As different as possible from his opponent was Mr Windgate, Q.C., the prisoner’s advocate. A little man, with bushy black whiskers, round in person, brisk and smiling in manner—he was sharp as a needle. Yet the way in which he extracted admissions from an unwilling witness left an impression on that uncomfortable personage that was soothing, not to say flattering. Mr Benham, on the other hand, was apt to wax stern and slightly supercilious when on his mettle.
The next witness called was the Rev. Charles Curtis, the vicar of Cranston. He gave a more or less succinct account of the search in which he had taken part, up to the time of meeting with Eustace Ingelow at the bottom of Smugglers’ Ladder.
“This article was handed to you by young Mr Ingelow?” asked Mr Benham, holding up the silver matchbox which Eustace had picked up.
“It was.”
“Had you ever seen it before?”
“Never.”
“Nothing else was found at the time?”
“Not down below. I believe something was found above.”
“Ah, we shall come to that presently. Thank you, Mr Curtis. That will do.”
Mr Windgate, having no question to ask beyond that concerning the terms on which the two young gentlemen stood with each other, the vicar was soon released.
Then was taken the evidence of Thomas Platt, labourer, and afterwards, that of his wife—the pair who had last seen Hubert Dorrien alive on the fatal Sunday evening. The honest couple, who resided on the Cranston estate and looked up to the accused as their feudal lord, were mightily overcome by the awe of the situation, and the woeful perplexity with which they made their statements convulsed the audience, vastly tickled the Bar, and enraged the judge to the last degree.
But the evidence of the rustic pair was straightforward enough, and tallied exactly, nor was it to be shaken by all the silky cross-questionings of the prisoner’s counsel. Might they not have been mistaken about the direction the deceased was taking, or about the time? No—on all these points they were sure. They were of the soil born and bred, and on matters local like this were sharp enough. They had no feeling against the accused, quite the reverse. He was a kind master, although some folks were a bit afraid of him.
“We are not taking evidence as to the character of the prisoner, Mr Windgate,” reminded the judge crustily, drawing a suave apology from that eminent counsel, and the prompt bundling out of the box of the latter of the two rustic witnesses.
“I shall call Eustace Ingelow,” said the Crown Counsel on the return of the Court after a short adjournment for lunch.
Poor Eustace was in a woeful state of nervousness and genuine grief on behalf of his relative, as he took the oath. Indeed, it seemed as if he would hardly be able to deliver his evidence coherently.
“Take time, Mr Ingelow,” said Mr Benham kindly. “There’s no hurry—none whatever. You are, I believe, the prisoner’s brother-in-law?”
“Yes.”
“In a double sense?”
“I—I don’t quite understand.”
“What do you mean by ‘a double sense,’ Mr Benham?” snapped the judge.
“We mean, m’lord, that they married each others’ sisters.” Here it became necessary to explain that the learned counsel was forging ahead too fast, and that at least half of his statement dealt with future contingencies instead of with actual facts. Which explanation tickled the audience and reduced the witness to a red-hot degree of nervousness. “And now, Mr Ingelow,” he went on, when the joke had subsided, “just tell the gentlemen of the jury what happened during the search you took part in. Were you asked to join in that search?”
“No. I did not even know what had happened until I saw Mr Curtis and General Dorrien arrive on the beach. I was there at the time talking with Matt and Jem Pollock.”
“And then you learned that Hubert Dorrien was missing?”
“Yes. I volunteered at once to join in the search.”
“Were you acquainted with the deceased?”
“Very slightly. In fact, hardly at all.”
“But you were acquainted with General Dorrien?”
A flush rose to Eustace’s face, and he hesitated.
“I can’t exactly say that. But—but—of course I knew him well by sight—and—”
“I can’t hear a word the witness says,” snapped the judge, “and I’m sure the jury can’t.”
“A little louder please, Mr Ingelow. Did you find anything anywhere near the Smugglers’ Ladder?”
“Yes. A piece of silk cord, such as might be used for an eyeglass.”
“The deceased wore an eyeglass?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do with this cord?”
“I took it to General Dorrien. He seemed to recognise it—but said nothing.”
“Is this the cord?” handing it to the witness.
“I think so.”
“How did you find it?”
“It was hanging on a tuft of grass on the brink.”
“Now, what was your idea when you found this cord?”
“I thought it a very important trace. It seemed to point to the poor fellow having fallen in.”
“Quite so. Were there any other traces?”
“The grass around the brink was crushed.”
“Crushed and trampled?”
“M’lord, the witness said ‘crushed,’” objected Mr
Windgate. “I must really object—”
“Well, ‘crushed’ then,” went on Mr Benham suavely. “My learned friend shall have no reason to complain of undue pressure on our part. Well, and what did you think then, Mr Ingelow?”
“I thought there was no doubt about his having fallen into the chasm.”
“Fallen in?”
“Yes.”
“You had no suspicion then of foul play?”
“Not the slightest. I never heard that anyone had.”
“Oh, you never heard that anyone had!” said Mr Benham quickly, catching up the statement in just the way to embarrass and disconcert a nervous witness. And Eustace, remembering sundry cautions he had received in private about volunteering evidence, felt disconcerted accordingly.
His narrative of the descent of Smugglers’ Ladder evoked considerable applause, for the ill-omened chasm was well known by reputation. He stated how he had found nothing on reaching the bottom.
“Nothing, Mr Ingelow? Come, just cast your memory back.”
“Well, I mean I found nothing of importance, only a little matchbox,” “Ah-h! Two years and a half is a long time to look back across at your age,” said Mr Benham kindly, hitching his thumbs into the shoulders of his gown and looking smilingly superior. “Now, what did you do with this little matchbox?”
“I handed it to Mr Curtis.”
“Is this it?”
“Yes.”
There was a visible cloud on Eustace’s face as he held the silver matchbox in his hand, as if it would burn him. Heads craned forward to catch a glimpse of the article.
“Had you ever seen that matchbox before you found it at the bottom of—er—Smugglers’ Ladder,” asked Mr Benham impressively.
“I think so.”
“Where did you see it?”
“I had seen it—er—I had seen Roland use it.”
“You had see Roland Dorrien use it. How many times? Once—twice—perhaps?”
“I can’t remember exactly how many times.”
“No? You used often to—well—to have a pipe together, no doubt?”
“Yes.”
“And Roland Dorrien was in the habit of using that matchbox?”
“Yes.”
“In fact, you are under the impression it belonged to him?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Mr Ingelow—you are on your oath, mind. Is this, or is it not, the same matchbox which you saw in the prisoner’s possession?”
“I can’t positively swear to it. It is like it, certainly.”
“Yet it is of very peculiar make.”
“The witness says he can’t swear to it, Mr Benham,” interposed the judge. “Don’t you think we might drop the matchbox now?”
“Certainly, my lord. I have nothing further to ask.”
“Nor I, my lord,” said Windgate. And Eustace, to his unspeakable relief, was told to stand down, which relief was dashed by a miserable misgiving that he had somehow or other materially damaged his relative’s chances.