IV
Till comparatively lately a British prisoner could not give evidence in his own defence, but that is no longer so, and Henry Garlett is, as is known, eager to go into the witness-box.
At once, when he is facing the Court with a strained tense look, it becomes clear that Sir Almeric does not intend to play with the wretched man as a cat plays with a mouse. He leaves those methods to Sir Harold Anstey. To the deep disappointment of many of those present, after Harry Garlett has been sworn, only a comparatively short interchange of question and answer takes place between the man now on trial for his life and the man who leads the prosecution against him:
“I understand that your only answer to the terrible charge of which you stand accused is that you are absolutely and entirely innocent?”
“That is my answer,” says Henry Garlett in a firm voice.
“Well, I will just take you briefly through the principal points. You lived, I understand, for thirteen years with this poor lady whom you married when you were only twenty-two and she twenty-seven—you being a penniless lad, and she a considerable heiress?”
“That is so,” says the prisoner.
“Though you claim to have been attached to your wife, you were constantly away from home—in fact we have it on record that out of the three hundred sixty-five days of one year you were away one hundred forty-four days.”
“I think that is very possible.”
“If necessary I can prove it.”
“I accept your statement.”
“Miss Jean Bower became secretary to the Etna China Company on April 23rd. I understand that you claim to have been scarcely aware of the fact that a charming young woman had entered your employment in the capacity of official secretary to the limited company of which you were managing director?”
“Of course I was aware that Miss Jean Bower had become secretary to my company. But, as you yourself have just pointed out, I was away a great deal. Until we walked home together the day before my wife’s death, I had hardly done more than exchange a few words with Miss Bower.”
“And yet, during the month before your wife’s death—a month which, curiously enough, coincided with the stay of Miss Bower at the Etna China factory—you were far more often at your china factory than had been the case for some time before.”
“I deny that!” exclaims Henry Garlett. “Or if it happens to be technically true, it was only because I was just then preparing for the Australian cricket match.”
“And now, Mr. Garlett, are you prepared to swear that you did not go the Thatched Cottage as a result of the note sent you by Miss Prince?”
“I swear that the only time I was in the Thatched Cottage for full two years was the day I went down to show a cut finger to Miss Prince.”
“Do you remember the circumstances of your visit to her?”
“Yes, very well. It was the first time I had ever been in her medicine room, though I had heard of it.”
“Can you recall any conversation you had with her?”
“Yes,” replies Harry Garlett firmly. “I recall our conversation quite clearly. What is more, I do not mind telling you frankly that Miss Prince did mention the fact that she possessed in her medicine cupboard three poisons—arsenic, morphia, and opium.”
There is a stir through the Court, and for a moment Sir Almeric is taken aback.
“Then you now admit that you were aware of the existence of arsenic in the Thatched Cottage?”
“I have never denied it——”
“Don’t quibble, Garlett. Is there anything further you would like to say about this point?”
“Yes, I would like to say that I remember advising Miss Prince to hand over the three drugs in question to Dr. Maclean. But I should like to add, though no doubt you will not believe me——”
The judge intervened sternly: “You have no right to suggest such a thing to counsel for the Crown.”
“I beg your pardon. I should not have said that.”
“What is it you wish to add?”
“Simply that the fact of the conversation that day had actually slipped my memory till my solicitor, about a fortnight ago, told me of Miss Prince’s admission as to her possession of arsenic.”
Sir Almeric moves some of the papers he is holding in one of his hands to the other hand, and then he asks in almost a casual tone:
“I suppose I may take it that you were exceedingly surprised when you learned that your wife had died from the administration of an enormous dose of arsenic?”
The prisoner stares at him. Then he answers quickly:
“I was more than surprised, I was astounded.”
At that Sir Almeric Post straightens himself.
“And yet you ask the jury to believe that while the whole village was ringing with the question as to where the poison administered to Mrs. Garlett could have come from, you had forgotten the all-important fact that there was a large supply of arsenic within a few yards of your front door?”
Henry Garlett looks manifestly troubled. For a few moments he loses that air of calm, quiet, rigid self-control.
“I admit it is very strange,” he says at last, in a hesitating voice, “but you must remember two things. First, that I was unaware of the importance attached to the question of how the arsenic had reached my house. Secondly, that I had always known in a vague way that Miss Prince had in her possession many dangerous drugs which, as a rule, can only be procured from a chemist. I mean by that, I was not specially surprised at her admission that she had a number of poisons in her medicine cupboard.”
He has spoken slowly, rather picking his words, and the admission—if admission it can be called—makes a bad impression on the Court. The audience in the galleries all feel that they would have certainly remembered such a startling fact as that a large amount of poison was in the possession of a maiden lady living in such a quiet place as Terriford seems to have been.
Other questions are put to the prisoner. After all, Sir Almeric Post is expected to work for his bread, and it would never do were he to conduct the examination of a man accused of murder in too rapid or perfunctory a manner.
Garlett is shown the letter which was written to him by Jean Bower, and which was the immediate cause of his return home earlier than he was expected. He is taken step by step through the various stages of his growing friendship with her, and pressed again and again as to the degree of his knowledge of her before his wife’s death.
But when the counsel for the Prosecution has done, there is a general impression that the witness has been let off very lightly. It is clear that Sir Almeric regards the prisoner as already under sentence of death.
Then comes the turn of Sir Harold Anstey. Sir Harold goes on quite another tack to what he has done up to now. His object is to show what a good, genial, delightful fellow Harry Garlett has always proved himself to be.
Though in his heart of hearts he considers cricket to be an idiotic pastime, and though he has on occasion quoted with approval Kipling’s famous line about “the flannelled fools at the wicket,” he has made a special study of cricket in the last week, and he now shows that knowledge to the admiration of the Court, and especially to the admiration of those present—they are a large number—who make a fetish of the national game. He shows that his client is not only a famous cricketer but also a remarkably modest cricketer—and not till he has made that fact quite clear does he begin on the real subject in hand.
The judge has hardly listened while all this is going on. In fact he has been leaning back, for the first time, a slight ironic smile on his face. But after all, this is a cause célèbre. Sir Harold Anstey is a popular figure, and must be allowed a fair run for his money. The judge reflects that fortunately for Sir Harold the money will be forthcoming this time, for, unlike the majority of murderers, Henry Garlett is a man of substance.
At last, however, Sir Harold gets down to real business. In an almost cooing voice he asks his client something as to his happy married life. But there he is not quite as successful as he had hoped to be, or Harry Garlett is curiously unwilling to make any play with that side of his past. He answers yes or no to the probing questions, though at one moment he is obviously so painfully moved that some few people began to believe that perhaps he did really care for his first wife.
However, Sir Harold, who is nothing if not tactful when dealing with a difficult witness, now turns to the question of the Etna China works. He draws from his client an account of all that has been done in the last ten years, and especially since the war, for the benefit of the workers. He makes it clear what a happy family they all were, and then, with light, skilful touches, he brings out how important was Miss Bower’s share in promoting harmony and comfort at the factory. He is even successful in making the Court realize something of what a very charming, old-fashioned girl she seems to have been.
Sir Almeric, who is very tired by now, and who knows that to-morrow he will have to make a long, clear speech to the stolid jury, does not re-examine, and when, after two hours in the witness-box, Harry Garlett goes back to the dock, he is mercifully quite unaware that, had there been the slightest doubt in anybody’s mind as to his guilt, he might have been kept in that box for four or five hours.