Chapter Sixty Five.
The Finger of Fate.
In less than six months from the date of my interview with the Lincoln’s Inn lawyer, there occurred in the London courts a trial of more than usual interest.
It was a case of contested will—no very uncommon thing. But in that to which I refer, there were circumstances of a peculiar, I might say very peculiar, kind. These, with the position of the parties concerned, rendered the suit worthy of being placed among the records of causes célèbres.
It was the case of “Harding versus Harding;” the defendant being Nigel Harding, Esq, of Beechwood Park, Buckinghamshire; the plaintiff, a Mr Henry Harding, who claimed to be his half-brother.
The matter in dispute was an estate, valued at one hundred thousand pounds, of which defendant was in possession. He held it by a will—that of General Harding, his father, and former owner of the property—made some twelve months before the General’s death, and at the same time duly signed and attested.
It had been drawn up by a country attorney, named Woolet; and signed by himself and his clerk, acting as witnesses to the testator.
It gave the whole of General Harding’s estate to his elder son, Nigel, with the exception of one thousand pounds, to his other and younger son, Henry, and an annuity of two hundred to the General’s sister.
So far the document seemed quite correct—except in the strangeness of the unequal distribution. But there were reasons for this; and no one disputed the genuineness of the instrument. The question was one of an alleged later testament; which, if also proved genuine, would have the effect of setting aside Woolet’s will, by a complete change of terms. By the second will, the estate was bestowed on the younger son, and the one thousand pounds given to the elder!
The strange transposal was, however, coupled with a condition also strange. It appeared, by the citing of the second will, that the younger brother was abroad when it was made, and not only abroad, but supposed to be dead.
A doubt of his death must have been in the testator’s mind, leading him to insert the condition: which was to the effect, that in the event of his younger son’s return he was to enter upon quiet possession of the property—all of it, excepting the aforesaid legacy of one thousand pounds!
He had returned; at least, so alleged the plaintiff, who claimed to be Henry Harding, the legatee of the second will.
But he was not admitted into “quiet possession,” according to the words of the will. On the contrary the case was going to be contested with all the legal strength and strategy that on both aides could be brought to bear upon it.
On the part of the defence, there was no attempt to disprove the genuineness of the second will. It had been made by a lawyer of the highest respectability, who was ready to prove it.
The point turned upon the question of identity; the defendant denying that the plaintiff was his half-brother, or in any way entitled to relationship.
There was no proof that Henry Harding was dead—only the presumption; and to strengthen this, the defendant’s counsel—imprudently, as it afterwards turned out—exhibited certain letters written by the real Henry Harding as he called him—showing that he had been captive to a band of Italian brigands, who threatened to take his life, unless a ransom should be paid for him.
It was proved that this ransom was not paid; that it had been sent; but, as the defence alleged, too late. The plaintiff’s own witnesses were compelled to testify to this.
The presumption, therefore, was that the bandits, speaking through their chief, Corvino, had carried out their threat.
This was the impression produced upon “twelve men, good and true,” after an eloquent speech made by an eminent counsel, to whom the defendant’s solicitors had entrusted the conduct of their case.
On the plaintiff’s side, a story had been told that appeared altogether incredible. It was preposterous to suppose—as thought twelve English tradesmen—that the son of an English gentleman of wealth and standing should voluntarily take to the profession of painting pictures, and afterwards exile himself to such a country as South America: there to stay, forgetting his fine estate at home, till the merest accident gave him cause to remember it! They could have believed in such self-banishment in one of their own sons; but the son of a general, a county squire, the owner of a large landed estate—the thing was not to be credited!
They could give credence to the brigand part of the tale, though that too seemed queer to them. But the story of the self-exile—leaving an estate unclaimed! The plaintiff’s counsel might tell that to the marines!
So stood the case, after several days spent in the questioning and cross-questioning of witnesses, and the trial was approaching its termination.
All the testimony which the plaintiff’s counsel could produce was not sufficient to establish his identity. It could not convince a British jury, that the sun-embrowned and bearded young man, set forth as the claimant of Beechwood Park, was the son of its former proprietor; while the pale, silent gentleman, who now held possession of it, undoubtedly was.
Possession has been said to be nine points of the law. Coupled with wealth, it is generally so in the eyes of legal gentlemen, and often of juries.
The plaintiffs case appeared hopeless. Notwithstanding all that is known to the reader, it trembled on the edge of being decreed an attempt at usurpation, and he himself declared an attempted usurper and defrauder.
The trial had reached this crisis, and was expected soon to terminate.
But before the end came, the plaintiff’s counsel begged leave to call a witness, one who had already stood upon the stand, but on the side of the defendant. Then, he had been a witness against his own will—having to give testimony that seemed favourable to the plaintiff’s opponent.
The witness was Mr Lawson, of the firm of Lawson and Son, solicitors, of Lincoln’s Inn. It was the senior partner, Mr Lawson himself, who was called. As he took his place in the box, there was a twinkle in the old lawyer’s eye; that, although comical, seemed to have meaning of mischief in it. The “twelve good men and true” could not guess at what it meant, though they understood it before the examining counsel had done with him.
“You say General Harding received another letter from Italy?” questioned the latter, after Lawson senior had kissed the Book, and been put through the usual preliminaries of examination.
“I do.”
“I don’t mean either of those already submitted to the jury. The letter I refer to is one written, not by his son, but by the bandit chief, Corvino. Did General Harding receive such a letter?”
“He did.”
“You can prove that?”
“I can prove it; from his having told me he did, and placed it in my hands for safe keeping.”
“When did this occur?”
“Shortly before the General’s death. In fact, on the same day he made the will.”
“Which will?”
“The one under which the plaintiff claims.”
“You mean that was the date when he placed the letter in your hands?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell when the General received it?”
“I can. The postmark will show that: as also whence it came.”
“Can you produce this letter?”
“It is here.”
The witness took an epistle out of his pocket, and handed it to the examining counsel; who, in turn, passed it up to the judge.
It was a dingy-looking document, blotched over with postmarks, stained by travel, and a good deal embrowned by being kept several years in the atmosphere of a London law-office.
“My Lord,” said the plaintiff’s counsel, “I have to request that that letter be read to the gentlemen of the jury.”
“Certainly, let it be read,” was the response of his Lordship.
It was read. It was the letter which the chief Corvino had addressed to the father of his captive, conveying the terrible threat and still more fearful enclosure.
The reading caused “sensation in the court.”
“Mr Lawson,” pursued the same questioner, after the excitement had a little subsided, “may I ask you to state to the jury what you know about the enclosure spoken of in this letter? Tell us all about it.”
“I shall tell you what General Harding told me. He said he received in it a finger, which was that of his son. He recognised it by a scar well known to him: it was the scar of a cut given him by his elder brother, when they were boys out shooting together.”
“Can you tell what became of that finger?”
“I can. It is here. General Harding placed it in my hands, along with the letter in which it had been enclosed.”
The witness then handed up the finger spoken of. It was a ghastly confirmation of his testimony, and produced a tremendous sensation in court; which continued, long after Mr Lawson had been noticed to leave the witness-box.
“My Lord!” called out the plaintiff’s counsel, “I have one more witness to examine, and then we shall be done. This is Mr Henry Harding.”
“The gentleman who so calls himself!” interposed one of the barristers who had been briefed by the party for the defence.
“And who will so prove himself!” confidently retorted the plaintiff’s counsel.
By consent of the judge, the claimant was put upon the stand, and became emphatically the cynosure of every eye in the crowded court.
He was elegantly, though not foppishly dressed, wearing upon his hands a pair of stout dogskin gloves.
“May I ask you, sir,” said his counsel, “to draw off your gloves? The left-hand one will be enough.”
The request was complied with, the witness making no other answer.
“Now, sir, have the goodness to hold out your hand, so that the jury may see it.”
The hand was stretched forth. It wanted the little finger!
Increased sensation in the court!
“My Lord, and gentlemen of the jury, you perceive there is a finger missing? It is here.”
As the counsel said this, he stepped towards the witness-box, holding the strange object in his hand. Then, quietly raising the hand of his client, he placed the missing finger in juxtaposition with the stump, from which it had long ago been so cruelly severed.
There could be no doubt about the correspondence. The white cartilaginous seam that indicated the scar, commencing upon the back of the hand, and running longitudinally, was continued to the finger’s tip. The jury could not help being convinced. The claimant was Henry Harding.
The sensation in court had now come to its climax; and so had the trial to its end.
The case of “Harding versus Harding” was by an unanimous verdict decided in plaintiff’s favour—defendant “to pay costs in the suit!”