The Terriford mystery

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

I

It is a cold windy March morning. The trial of Henry Garlett has been fixed for ten o’clock, but since before eight o’clock there has been a crowd, growing larger and larger every minute, round the stately pillared portico of the Grendon Assize Court. The crowd has been compelled to spread out fan-fashion, owing to the stout walls which stretch on either side of the building, and women form by far the larger proportion of those who are determined to obtain places in the public galleries and in those seats, behind the jury, reserved for certain privileged persons.

These would-be spectators of Henry Garlett’s ordeal, and of Jean Bower’s agony, belong to all classes, and are of all ages. Some of the women there have walked ten miles and more, this morning, to be present at the trial of the man who a short six months ago was the most popular figure in the whole countryside.

Motor cars of every make and of every type are drawn up on the edge of the ever-growing crowd. Many of these motors are filled with well-dressed women, who have come provided with opera glasses. They have sent their servants to keep places in the queues which are already pressing round each of the three big doors. But soon it becomes known that the police will not allow this convenient plan, and to their disgust the ladies have to step out of their comfortable cars, and stand cheek by jowl with their humbler fellow women.

The great majority of the people who are waiting there on this cold morning have brought some form of food with them, for they mean to keep in their places all day, so as not to lose even the smallest thrill connected with what is indifferently called the Garlett Case and the Terriford Mystery.

It is known that there will be four important witnesses—Garlett himself, the famous amateur cricketer; Jean Bower, for whose sake, in the opinion of the vast majority of those who will be present at the trial, he committed a dastardly and cruel murder; Miss Prince, the spinster whose tardily tendered evidence is said to be of vital importance, though no one as yet knows of what that evidence consists; and last, though not least, Agatha Cheale, the mystery woman of the strange story.

Most of the men who have come, some of them very long distances, on cycles, in motors, in old-fashioned horse-drawn vehicles, and on their own feet, are looking forward to seeing Dr. Maclean in the box. Few of those in that ever-growing crowd but have come across the kindly Scots doctor, either as his patients themselves, or because of the illness of some one dear to them. But that makes no difference to their eager wish to see him cross-examined—heckled, as it would be called in his own country—by the celebrated Sir Harold Anstey.

At half-past nine the doors are thrown open to the public and the struggle for places begins. There are some ugly rushes, with much pushing, kicking, and even pinching and scratching, before the public galleries of the Court, which is exceptionally large for a country Assize Court, are filled to their utmost capacity.

The reserved seats are few, and they, too, are soon almost unpleasantly crowded with a number of pretty, well-dressed women, some with attendant squires to whom they are talking, while they glance with keen, curiosity-laden eyes at the unfamiliar scene.

In the well of the Court already the solicitors’ clerks are busy at wide tables; the long bench which will soon be occupied by the witnesses is empty; and so is the railed-in dock, where the prisoner will soon be standing, exactly opposite the high, throne-like seat from which the judge, the keen and redoubtable Mr. Justice Freshwater, will direct the proceedings. It is known that this old-fashioned judge does not approve of ladies being present at murder trials, and accordingly the seats to his right and left will be occupied by his men friends and not by their wives.

The minutes go by fairly quickly for most of the people there, for almost everybody is talking to his or her neighbour. Also there is the excitement of watching the various parties connected with the case come slowly in.

The first of the witnesses to arrive are Dr. Maclean and his niece, and a stir runs through the Court as they come in. Every eye is fixed on Dr. Maclean’s slight companion. Jean Bower is quietly dressed in a black coat and skirt, and a simple little hat with a touch of blue in it. She looks absolutely self-possessed, though very pale.

Somehow the sight of her irritates some of the spectators; they had expected a tragic figure, wrapped, maybe, in long, concealing veils; they tell each other disappointedly that she looks a very ordinary young woman. True, she is curiously pale, but then perhaps she is naturally pale.

There come in various other witnesses of no particular interest, or at least not yet of any particular interest. Then, all at once there appear, walking side by side, a young and an old lady. Again a stir runs through the court.

“That’s Miss Prince,” some one says in a loud excited voice.

Miss Prince hears the words, and draws herself up somewhat haughtily. She is wearing a coat and skirt, and a plain, unbecoming round felt hat. The young lady with Miss Prince is dressed more in accordance with the popular idea of a female witness. She is heavily veiled—and looks indeed almost like a mourner at a funeral. The word is passed round that this is no other than Agatha Cheale.

She and Miss Prince walk past the other witnesses with averted eyes, and sit at the extreme end of the long bench.

Ten o’clock strikes, and now comes the moment when the judge, who embodies the majesty, the terror, the splendour of British justice, walks with slow, rhythmic steps to his place. He is a tall man, and shows off his red robes, deep ermine bands, and full-bottomed wig to great advantage. He sits himself down, gives one long stern glance round the crowded, now silent Court, and then he bends his head and busies himself with the notes and other documents laid on the high desk before him.

Now the legal lights concerned with the case begin to stream in. Sir Harold Anstey, bustling, smiling, his great frame well set off by his long black silk gown. His wig always looks just a little too small for his huge head, but still there is something very impressive about his strongly marked features and his keen eyes.

A great contrast, indeed almost a ludicrous contrast, is Sir Almeric Post, the leading counsel for the Crown. Sir Almeric is a thin man, and his wig looks too big for his head. He has a hatchet-shaped face, narrow, compressed lips, a straight nose, and two cold, thoughtful-looking gray eyes. Unlike Sir Harold, who is keenly aware of his audience, Sir Almeric does not even glance round the Court, but at once engages in an earnest discussion with one of his juniors.

There is a slight stir when the jury stumble into their places. The twelve good men and true are an extraordinarily ordinary-looking collection. Still, every one of them has a confident, self-important look. To some of those present the reflection that those twelve men are going to decide the awful question of a fellow being’s life or shameful death brings with it a sensation of unease.

By some mistake, which will be severely noted in to-morrow’s Press, the newspaper men have not been allowed, till now, to enter the Court. They file in and take the places allotted to them. Jean Bower, though she has no reason to love newspapers, tells herself that she wishes they composed the jury rather than the stolid, rather stupid-looking, men who are exactly opposite to her.

And then at last, very quietly, so quietly that half the people present do not immediately realize what is happening, the prisoner is brought up from the cells below and walks with firm step into the dock.

Henry Garlett is dressed in a blue serge suit, and wears a double collar and a black tie. He looks neither to the right nor to the left, but bows slightly to the judge.

Amid dead silence the clerk of assize reads the charge setting forth that Henry Garlett feloniously and wilfully murdered his wife, Emily Garlett.

The prisoner, in a voice which though the words are not loudly uttered is heard by every one present, says firmly: “Not guilty, my lord.”

The trial is now begun, and even the most frivolous spectators settle down to listen to what will certainly be a terrible and formidable indictment.

Sir Almeric Post, however, puts the case for the Crown quite simply, and as undramatically as possible. He tells, in ordinary, everyday language, the story of the painful death of Mrs. Garlett on the 27th of last May. He does not hurry over it. He tells it indeed at some length. And then he goes back to the past lives of the two people with whom he is concerned.

In a fair and passionless manner he describes the marriage of the penniless youth, Henry Garlett, to the considerable, not to say great, heiress, Emily Jones, and briefly mentions the fact that there were no children. He gives full credit to Garlett, as he calls him throughout, for his war service, and then very gravely he tells how this still young man came back to find his wife a hopeless, almost bedridden, invalid. Lightly, skilfully he touches on Garlett’s great fame as a cricketer, and he even reminds the jury of that memorable match last spring, the first match played by the Australians in the old country.

Every one stiffens into eager attention, and even Sir Almeric’s clear, toneless voice changes a little, when he utters the words:

“And now I come to a new figure in the story of Henry Garlett and of Emily Garlett—I refer to Miss Jean Bower.”

For the first time he glances down at the paper, covered with pencilled notes, which he holds in his left hand; and then he gives the precise date of the arrival of the pretty young girl in Terriford village. He explains incidentally that her home with Dr. and Mrs. Maclean is only some ten minutes’ to a quarter of an hour’s walk from the Thatched House. There follows an account of how Garlett had given Jean Bower the position of official secretary to the limited company of which he, Garlett, was managing director. And just because Sir Almeric tells his tale in so simple and almost bald a manner, most of those present somehow realize very vividly how much may lie unsaid behind his measured words.

He does not propose, he says, to call much evidence as to the relations of these two people, but he will call three witnesses who saw them coming home together by the field path from Grendon to Terriford on the day which preceded Mrs. Garlett’s death.

“Both this man and this woman affirm,” he observes in a considering voice, “that they were scarcely acquainted at that time, and yet they were sufficiently acquainted to walk something like two miles in each other’s company, and Henry Garlett brought Jean Bower through his own garden, which, perhaps I ought in fairness to add, is something of a short cut to Bonnie Doon, where she was then living with her uncle and aunt.”

All too quickly for some of the ghouls in the public gallery, ay, and in the reserved seats, Sir Almeric sketches lightly but firmly what happened immediately after the return of the apparently disconsolate widower to the Thatched House.

“It is admitted by everybody concerned that from then onward Henry Garlett, the managing director of the Etna China works, and Jean Bower, official secretary of the company, became inseparable. Soon all the factory hands were commenting, though in no disagreeable way, or so I am informed, on their close friendship. I will bring to your notice the fact that Garlett, though besieged with invitations from old friends and acquaintances, scarcely ever went away during those autumn weeks. Now and again he took a Saturday to Monday off, but on the whole he stuck close to his work.”

Sir Almeric waits a few moments, and a glass of water is handed to him.

“And now, gentlemen, we come to a number of significant occurrences. Early in November these two people became betrothed. I cannot tell you the exact date of the engagement, which was kept more or less private by the wish of Dr. Maclean and his wife. But it is admitted that by early December this so-called private engagement was known to the whole of Terriford, and, as a matter of fact, the date of the marriage was actually fixed for December 19th.”

Sir Almeric ends his opening for the prosecution with a strange, dramatic suddenness, and calls in quick succession half a dozen witnesses, of whom by far the most important is Dr. Maclean.

The worthy physician’s ordeal does not last as long as was expected. He is taken through Mrs. Garlett’s long illness, and describes in very clear language her condition just before the night of her fatal illness.

Then he is made to narrate at length the circumstances of Mrs. Garlett’s death—how he was fetched by the sick woman’s husband, such a thing having never happened before—how Garlett showed a strange unwillingness to go upstairs, and how the witness then, proceeding alone through the sleeping house, suddenly encountered the parlour-maid, Lucy Warren. Finally, how, after a short colloquy with Miss Cheale, he turned his attention to the sick woman and discovered that she was dead.

The doctor makes it clear that, to the best of his belief, Mrs. Garlett was already dead when he arrived at the house; and then he explains somewhat haltingly why it was that he then made up his mind that his patient had died from heart failure.

In the course of his evidence Dr. Maclean has naturally mentioned Agatha Cheale several times, and so, at the end of the doctor’s cross-examination and re-examination, the judge leans forward and asks Sir Almeric: “Are you going to call Miss Cheale now?” And Sir Almeric says, no, he is not going to call Miss Cheale yet. He would prefer to call certain witnesses who will testify as to the relations between the prisoner and Miss Bower both before and after Mrs. Garlett’s death.

Five people then follow one after the other into the box—three men and two women. The two women each declare that they thought it very strange that a pretty young lady should be made secretary of the company, and one of them, a forewoman, identifies a letter she had written to her sister containing the strangely prophetic sentence: “If anything was to happen to the missus, I should never be surprised if Miss B. became his second.”

An overseer at the factory swears that as early as October 1st—he remembers the date because it was his birthday—he told his wife that he hadn’t a doubt that “the boss was sweet on Miss Bower.” But he asserts that he had also expressed surprise because he had never noticed anything of the kind before Mr. Garlett went away.

That fact is eagerly taken hold of by Sir Harold Anstey, and there follows a keen cross-examination. The great advocate makes some facetious remarks on love and on love-making generally, and the Court for the first time enjoys what perhaps Sir Harold would describe as “a little fun.”

Titters even come from the witnesses’ bench, but Miss Prince looks severe, almost disgusted, and as for Jean Bower, the girl becomes even paler than she was before. The prisoner in the dock looks straight before him while all this goes on—he might be carved in stone.

“Call Miss Agatha Cheale!”

The words ring through the court, and a thickly veiled figure walks quickly round to the steps leading to the witness-box. But as she puts her second foot upon the ladder-like steps she trips and would have fallen but for one of the Court officials, who seizes her arm and pulls her to her feet again.

Miss Cheale is sworn and throws back her veil at the judge’s bidding. She, too, is then taken through the story of the death night. To the surprise of many of those present she speaks in a composed, almost mincing, voice. She is asked what happened the afternoon before Mrs. Garlett’s sudden death, and in reply she tells what has come to be called the “strawberry story”—that is, she explains how the strawberries were left by Miss Prince, how she put them on a plate outside Mrs. Garlett’s door immediately after luncheon, and then, how, late in the afternoon, having occasion to go upstairs, she distinctly saw a strange man making his way quickly down the passage.

She adds a detail of considerable interest. This is that she noticed that the plateful of strawberries had disappeared. She adds that this fact was noticed by her quite half an hour before Mr. Garlett went up to his wife’s room.

Sir Harold Anstey, when cross-examining Agatha Cheale, naturally plays up to the story she has told. His object now is to increase, not diminish, the witness’s credit. He draws out of her her very high opinion of both Mr. and Mrs. Garlett. She tells the Court what a devoted couple they were, and how excellent a husband Mr. Garlett was. In fact, she can’t speak too well of them.

Then Miss Cheale has a few unpleasant moments to live through while she is re-examined by Sir Almeric. He presses her very hard, very ruthlessly, about her mysterious stranger. Does she really believe that the stranger she saw hastening down the passage committed the murder? She answers emphatically that yes, she does believe it. Has she anything that could account for such a monstrous and motiveless crime on an unknown man’s part? She replies that there is a type of criminally minded human being who does commit motiveless crimes. Criminal lunatic asylums are full of them.