IX
The case of the King against Ambrose Sault came on late in the afternoon of the third assize day. The assizes opened on the Monday and the first two and a half days were occupied by the hearing of a complicated case of fraudulent conversion; it was four o'clock in the afternoon when Sault, escorted by three warders, stepped into the pen and listened to the reading of the indictment.
It was charged against him that "He did wilfully kill and murder Paul Dimitros Moropulos by shooting at him with a revolving pistol with intent to kill and murder the aforesaid Paul Dimitros Moropulos."
He pleaded "Guilty", but by the direction of the Court, a technical plea of "Not Guilty" was entered in accordance with the practice of the law. The proceedings were necessarily short, the reading of the indictment, the swearing in of the jury, and the other preliminaries were only disposed of before the Court rose.
Wechester Assize Court dates back to the days of antiquity. There is a legend that King Arthur sat in the great outer hall, a hollow cavern of a place with vaulted stone roof and supporting pillars worn smooth by contact with the backs of thirty generations of litigants waiting their turn to appear in the tiny court house.
"I knew I was going to have a dull time," complained Ronnie. "Why on earth didn't they start the trial on Monday?"
"Partly because I could not arrive until today," said Sir John. "The judge very kindly agreed to postpone the hearing to suit my convenience. I had a big case in town. Partly, so the judge tells me, because he wanted to dispose of the fraud charges before he took the murder case. Are you really very dull, Ronnie?" He looked keenly at the other.
"Wouldn't anybody be dull in a town that offers no other amusement than a decrepit cinema?"
"I thought I caught a glimpse of you as I was coming from the station, and, unless I was dreaming, I saw you driving with a lady—it is not like you to be dull when you have feminine society."
"She was the daughter of a very old friend of mine," said Ronnie conventionally.
"You are fortunate in having so many old friends with so many pretty daughters," said Sir John drily.
Ronnie was in court at ten o'clock the following morning. The place was filled, the narrow public gallery packed. The scarlet robed judge came in, preceded by the High Sheriff, and followed by his chaplain; a few seconds later came the sound of Ambrose Sault's feet on the stairway leading to the dock.
He walked to the end of the pen, rested his big hands on the ledge and bowed to the judge. And then his eyes roved round the court. They rested smilingly upon Sir John, bewigged and gowned, passed incuriously over the press table and stopped at Ronald Morelle. His face was inscrutable: his thoughts, whatever they were, found no expression. Ronald met his eyes and smiled. This man had come to him with murder in his heart: but for Ronnie's ready wit and readier lie, his name, too, would have appeared in the indictment. That was his thought as he returned the gaze. Here was his enemy trapped: beyond danger. His smile was a taunt and an exultation. Sault's face was not troubled, his serenity was undisturbed. Rather, it seemed to Sir John, who was watching him, that there was a strange benignity in his countenance, that humanized and transfigured him.
Trials always wearied Ronnie. They were so slow, so tedious: there were so many fiddling details, usually unimportant, to be related and analyzed. Why did they take the trouble? Sault was guilty by his own confession, and yet they were treating him as though he were innocent. What did it matter whether it was eight or nine o'clock when the policeman stopped the car in Woking and asked Sault to produce his license? Why bother with medical evidence as to the course the bullet took—Moropulos was dead, did it matter whether the bullet was nickel or lead?
From time to time sheer ennui drove him out of the court. He had no work to do—his description of Sault in the dock, his impression of the court scene, had been written before he left his hotel. The verdict was inevitable.
Yet still they droned on, these musty lawyers; still the old man on the bench interjected his questions.
Sir John, in his opening speech, had discounted his client's confession. Sault felt that he was morally guilty. It was for the jury to say whether he was guilty in law. A man in fear of his life had the right to defend himself, even if in his defense he destroyed the life of the attacker. The revolver was the property of Moropulos, was it not fair to suppose that Moropulos had carried the pistol for the purpose of intimidating Sault, that he had actually threatened him with the weapon? And the judge had taken this possibility into account and his questions were directed to discovering the character and habits of the dead man.
Steppe, had he been in the box, would have saved the prisoner's life. Ronnie Morelle knew enough to enlighten the judge. Steppe had not come, Ronnie would have been amused if it were suggested that he should speak.
The end of the trial came with startling suddenness.
Ronnie was out of court when the jury retired, and he hurried back as they returned.
The white-headed associate rose from behind his book-covered table and the jury answered to their names.
"Gentlemen of the jury, have you considered your verdict?"
"We have."
The voice of the foreman was weak and almost inaudible.
"Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?"
A pause.
"Guilty."
There was a sound like a staccato whisper. A quick explosion of soft sound, and then silence.
"Ambrose Sault, what have you to say that my lord should not condemn you to die?"
Ambrose stood easily in the dock: both hands were on the ledge before him and his head was bent in a listening posture.
"Nothing."
His cheerful voice rang through the court. Ronnie saw him look down to the place where Sir John was sitting, and smile, such a smile of encouragement and sympathy as a defending lawyer might give to his condemned client; coming from the condemned to the advocate, it was unique.
The judge was sitting stiffly erect. He was a man of seventy, thin and furrowed of face. Over his wig lay a square of black silk, a corner drooped to his forehead.
"Prisoner at the bar, the jury have found the only verdict which it was possible for them to return after hearing the evidence." He stopped here, and Ronnie expected to hear the usual admonition which precedes the formal sentence, but the judge went on to the performance of his dread duty. "The sentence of this court is, and this court doth ordain, that you be taken from the place whence you came, and from thence to a place of execution, and there you shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and your body shall afterwards be buried within the precincts of the prison in which you were last confined. And may God have mercy upon your soul."
Ambrose listened, his lips moving. He was repeating to himself word by word the sentence of the law. He had the appearance of a man who was intensely interested.
A warder touched his arm and awoke him from his absorption. He started, smiled apologetically, and, turning, walked down the stairs and out of sight.
"Good-bye, my friend—I shall see you once again," said Ronnie.
He had decided to leave nothing undone that would authorize his presence at the execution.
Going into the hall to see the procession of the judge with his halberdiers and his trumpet men, he saw Sir John passing and his eyes were red. Ronnie was amused.
"Are you traveling back to town tonight, Ronnie?"
"No, Sir John. I leave in the morning."
Sir John wrinkled his brows in thought.
"You saw him? Did you ever see a man like him? I am bewildered and baffled. Poor Sault, and yet why 'poor'? Poor world, I think, to lose a soul as great as his."
"He is also a murderer," said Ronnie with gentle sarcasm. "He has brutally killed two men—"
"There is nothing brutal in Ambrose Sault," Sir John checked himself. "I go back by the last train. I am dining with the judge in his lodgings and he told me I might bring you along."
"Thank you, I've a lot of work to do," said Ronnie so hastily that the other searched his face.
"I suppose you are alone here?"
"Quite—the truth is, I promised to drive with a friend of mine."
"A man?"
Lola came through the big doors at that moment.
"I was looking for you, Ronnie—my dear, I am bored to tears—"
Sir John looked after them and shook his head.
"Rotten," he said. That a man could bring his light o' love to this grim carnival of pain!