Chapter Eleven.
A “Cause Célèbre.”
Wake, of the Fifth, was one of those restless, vivacious spirits who, with no spare time on their hands, contrive to accomplish as much as any ordinary half-dozen people put together. He formed part of the much-despised band of fellows in his form contemptuously termed “muggers.” In other words, he read hard, and took no part in the desultory amusements which consumed the odd moments of so many in the house. And yet he was an excellent cricketer and runner, as the school was bound to acknowledge whenever it called out its champions to do battle for it in the playing-fields.
More than that, if anyone wanted anything doing in the way of literary sport—in the concoction of a squib or the sketching of a caricature—Wake was always ready to take the work upon himself, and let who liked take the credit. He had a mania for verses and epigrams; he was reputed a bit of a conjuror, and no one ever brought a new puzzle to Grandcourt which Wake, of Railsford’s, could not, sooner or later, find out.
Among other occupations, Wake had for some time past acted as secretary for the House Discussion Society—an old institution which for years had droned along to the well-known tunes—“That Wellington was a greater man than Napoleon,” “That Shakespeare was a greater poet than Homer,” “That women’s rights are not desirable,” “That the execution of Charles the First was unjustifiable,” etcetera, etcetera. But when, six months ago, Trill, of the Sixth, the old secretary, left Grandcourt, and Wake, at the solicitation of the prefects (who lacked the energy to undertake the work themselves), consented to act as secretary, the society entered upon a new career. The new secretary alarmed his patrons by his versatility and energy. The old humdrum questions vanished almost completely from the programme, and were replaced by such interesting conundrums as “Is life worth living?” “Ought the Daily News to be taken in at the school library?” “What is a lie?” and so on. Beyond that, he boldly appropriated evenings for other purposes than the traditional debate. On one occasion he organised a highly successful reading of Coriolanus, in which the juniors, to their vast delight, were admitted to shout as citizens. Another evening was given to impromptu speeches, every member who volunteered being called upon to draw a subject out of a hat and make a speech upon it there and then. And more than once the order of the day was readings and recitations, in which the younger members were specially encouraged to take part, and stood up gallantly to be shot at by their critical seniors.
Whatever might be said of this novel departure from old tradition, no one could deny that the Discussion Society had looked up wonderfully during the last six months. The forum was generally crowded, and everyone, from prefect to Baby, took more or less interest in the proceedings. No one, after the first few meetings, questioned Wake’s liberty to arrange what programme he liked, and the house was generally kept in a pleasant flutter of curiosity as to what the volatile secretary would be up to next.
The “Central Criminal Court” was his latest invention, and it need scarcely be said the idea, at the present juncture, was so startling that a quarter of an hour before the hour of meeting the forum was packed to its fullest extent, and it was even rumoured that Mr Railsford had promised to look in during the evening. It was evident directly to the juniors that the proceedings had been carefully thought out and settled by the secretary, in consultation with some of the wise heads of the house. The room was arranged in close imitation of a court of justice. The bench was a chair raised on two forms at one end; the witness-box and the dock were raised spaces railed off by cord from the rest of the court. Rows of desks represented the seats of the counsel, and two long forms, slightly elevated above the level of the floor, were reserved for the accommodation of the jury. The general public and witnesses-in-waiting were relegated to the rear of the court.
The question was, as everyone entered, Who is who? Who is to be the judge, and who is to be the prisoner, and who are to be the counsel? This natural inquiry was answered after the usual style of the enterprising secretary. Every one on entering was asked to draw out of a hat a folded slip of paper, which assigned to him the part he was to play, the only parts reserved from the lot being that of judge, which of course was to be filled by Ainger, and that of senior counsels for the prosecution and defence, which were undertaken respectively by Barnworth and Felgate. It was suspected later on that a few of the other parts were also prearranged, but no one could be quite sure of this.
“What are you?” said Dig, pulling a long face over his piece of paper.
“I’m junior counsel for the defence,” said Arthur proudly. “What are you?”
“A wretched witness,” said the baronet.
“What a spree! Won’t I pull you inside out when I get you in the box, my boy!”
There was a call for order, and Ainger, mounting the bench, said,—
“This is quite an experiment, you fellows. It may be a failure, or it may go off all right. It depends on how we do our best. The idea is that a prisoner is to be tried for murder (delight among the juniors). Barnworth, who is the counsel for the prosecution, has prepared the story, and Felgate has been told what the line to be taken against the prisoner is, so that he might prepare his defence. These are the only two who know exactly what they are to do beforehand. All the rest will have to act according to the papers they have drawn. Who has drawn prisoner?”
Amid much laughter Stafford blushingly owned the soft impeachment, and was called upon to enter the dock, which he did, looking rather uncomfortable, and as if he half repented his consent to take a part in the proceedings.
“Now,” proceeded Ainger, consulting a paper, “the twelve jurymen are to go into the box there.”
The twelve boys with “Jury” on their papers obeyed. They were a motley crew, some being Fifth-form boys, some Shell-fish, and some Babies. And by the odd irony of fate, the one who had drawn the “foreman’s” ticket was Jukes, the Baby.
“Now the witnesses go to the back seats there. You’ll find on each the name you will be called by, and a short note of what your evidence is to be. You will have to listen very carefully to Barnworth’s story, so as to know exactly what it’s all about.”
There was a laugh at this. Some thought it a trifle queer that witnesses should have to learn what their evidence was to be from notes given them in court and from counsel’s speech. But they were young, and did not know much of law courts.
“Of course you must not show one another your notes,” said Ainger; “that would spoil all.”
“Ta-ta,” said the baronet rather dismally to his chum; “they call me Tomkins!”
“The junior counsel for the prosecution, of course, are to sit behind Barnworth, and for the defence behind Felgate. You must listen carefully, as you may have to help in the cross-examination. The rest of the public go to the back; and now we are ready to begin. Usher, call silence in the court.”
Tilbury, whose proud office it was to act in this capacity, shouted, “Order, there! shut up!” in a loud voice.
Wake, who acted as clerk, read out the name of the case, “Regina versus Bolts.” The jury answered to their names and promised to bring in a true verdict. The prisoner was called upon to plead guilty or not guilty, and answered, “Not guilty”; and then Barnworth rose and opened the case for the prosecution.
“My lord, and gentlemen of the jury,” he began; “the prisoner at the bar is charged with the wilful murder of John Smith, on the night of Tuesday, February 4.”
This was interesting, for Tuesday, February 4, was the date of the Bickers affair.
“I shall, as briefly as possible, narrate the circumstances of this unfortunate affair. The prisoner, Thomas Bolts, is a workman in the employ of a large firm of engineers in this neighbourhood, in which the murdered man was also engaged as a foreman and overseer. It is unnecessary, gentlemen of the jury, to explain to you that the works in question are divided into several distinct departments, or shops. I need not describe them all, but two of them were the screw department and the boiler department. Smith was foreman and overseer of the screw department, while the prisoner was one of the skilled workmen in the boiler department. For some time past ill-feeling had existed between the men of the boiler department and the deceased on account of his interference with them; and this ill-feeling appears to have culminated a few days before the murder, on account of an intrusion made by Smith into the boiler department, and the alleged assault of one of the men there employed.”
Every one saw now what was coming, and pricked up his ears in anticipation. Ainger, who had had as little idea of the turn things were going to take as anybody else, grew fidgety, and wished Wake had shown more discretion. But it was too late to stop the case now.
“This assault occurred, I believe, on the 2nd of February.”
“No, the 3rd—the day before,” whispered Ranger, who acted as junior counsel for the prosecution.
“I am obliged to my learned friend for correcting me. This occurred on the 3rd, the day before the murder. Now, gentlemen of the jury, I ask your attention to the occurrences which followed. At the time of the assault the prisoner, in the absence of the head foreman, was acting as overseer of his shop, and witnesses will prove that he protested against the behaviour of the deceased, and was in consequence insulted by Smith. I mention this to show that a personal grudge existed between the two men.”
Stafford, whose rôle as prisoner may or may not have been the result of mere accident, began not to like the turn things were taking.
“On the 4th everything went well till the evening, although, it is stated, a formal complaint of Smith’s interference was made through the regular, foreman of the boiler-shop, as will appear in evidence. In the evening of that day—that is, about eight o’clock—a meeting of the heads of the various departments was held in a distant part of the works, which was attended by Smith as well as the other foremen. The meeting lasted till 9.30, and Smith was last seen proceeding to his own quarters, in the neighbourhood of the boiler-shop.
“On the morning of the 5th, a workman named Simple, on entering the coal-cellar under the stairs of the boiler-shed, stumbled against a human body, and being frightened, gave an alarm. The foreman of the boiler department, accompanied by the prisoner and one or two other men, proceeded to the spot, and found the body of the deceased lying on the floor among the coals, enveloped in a sack, and bound hand and foot. He was alive at the time, and on being released stated that on passing the door of the boiler-shed, on the previous evening, he had been seized from behind by some person unknown, and after being bound in the sack had been dragged into the cellar and shut up there for the night. He was much exhausted when found, and on the evening of the 5th succumbed to the injuries he had received.”
Some of the juniors breathed again. It was very like the story of Mr Bickers, only Mr Bickers was alive and kicking still. It was much more satisfactory for the present purposes to have the fellow out of the way.
“Now, gentlemen of the jury,” proceeded Barnworth, putting his hands in his pockets and addressing himself particularly to Jukes, the Baby, “I ask your particular attention to a few facts. At the time of the murder the prisoner, who is usually working in his own shop, was observed to be absent, and no satisfactory account can be given of his whereabouts. Further than that, a witness will prove to you that after the quarrel on the previous day he was heard to say that he would pay the deceased out. It will also be proved that on the same afternoon he procured several yards of cord from a neighbouring shop, which the maker will identify as very like the cord used for binding the murdered man. Finally, on an inquiry made by the head of the firm, on a question being put to each man in the boiler department in succession, it was observed that the accused gave his replies with evident confusion and alarm. For these reasons, gentlemen of the jury, and others which will come out in evidence, I shall ask you by your verdict to find the prisoner guilty of the wilful murder of John Smith.”
This seemed a very strong case, and one or two of the jury rather wondered that the judge did not at once direct them to bring in a verdict of “Guilty.” However, as it appeared to be the usual thing to hear evidence, they waited.
The first witness called was Job Walker, and, in response to the call, Blyth of the Fifth stepped into the box.
His evidence related to the feud between the murdered, man and the men in the boiler-shop; and he gave an account of the intrusion of Smith on the night of the 3rd and of the quarrel which ensued. Blyth, in fact, related what had happened in the common room at Railsford’s that evening, only changing names and places in accordance with Barnworth’s story.
When his examination in chief was concluded, Felgate rose and said,—
“I have one or two questions to ask you, Mr Job Walker. You say you were in the boiler-shop during the whole of the evening in question. Where was the proper foreman of the shop at the time?”
“He was out.”
“Was work going on as usual in his absence?”
“Pretty much.”
“What do you mean by pretty much? Were you working yourself?”
Great delight of the juniors, for Blyth had been one of the chief rioters.
“Well,” said he, “perhaps I was a little slack.” (Laughter.)
“Who was in charge of the shop at the time?”
“The prisoner and another workman called Flounders.”
“And pray were they ‘slack,’ too, as you call it?”
“Yes—they were no good at all.” (Laughter.)
“Were you present when the proper foreman returned?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Did he say anything to the prisoner?”
“He seemed in a great rage.”
“Did they come to blows?”
“No—but I shouldn’t have been surprised if they had.”
“That will do, Mr Job Walker.”
Barnworth asked another question before Mr Walker stepped down.
“Did you notice what took place between the prisoner and the deceased?”
“Yes. The deceased, when he came in, told the prisoner he was no good, and sent him to his place and took charge of the shop. The prisoner was very angry, and said he would like to pay Smith out.”
The general opinion was that Blyth had acquitted himself well, and he was cheered by the public as he stood down.
Timothy Simple was next called, and Simson, rather pale and scared-looking, answered to the name.
The examination of this witness was left to Ranger, who got him to narrate the circumstances of his finding the body of the “deceased” on the morning of the 5th. The unfortunate youth seemed to forget that the trial was a mock one, and coloured up and stammered and corrected himself, as if the life of a fellow-being actually depended on his evidence.
Felgate, after a hurried communication from his junior, only asked a very few questions in cross-examination.
“Did you observe if the body was lying with its head to the door or its feet?”
“I really couldn’t say. It was so dark, and I was so horrified.”
“Was the key of the cellar always on the outside of the door?”
“Yes, generally; it must have been, because I locked it behind me when I ran out.”
“Who would be the last person at night to go to the cellar? Would the foreman go round and lock up?”
“I don’t know; I suppose so.”
“You wouldn’t swear that the foreman did not usually keep the key at night in his own room?”
“No—that is, yes. Do you mean I wouldn’t swear he did, or didn’t?”
“You would not swear he did not keep it?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you wouldn’t swear he didn’t?”
“I couldn’t, because if I don’t know—”
“If you don’t know you couldn’t swear he didn’t do it. Come, tell the jury, Yes, or No, Mr Simple; it is an important question.”
Simson looked up and down. Half a dozen friends were winking at him suggestively from different parts of the court, and he couldn’t make out their meaning. At length he perceived Munger nodding his head, and as Munger had lent him a crib to Ovid the day before, he decided to refer to him.
“Yes,” he said.
“I thought so,” said Felgate. “Why could you not say that before, Mr Simple?”
And Simson descended from his perch amid laughter and jeers, not quite sure whether he had not committed a crime beside which the offence of the prisoner at the bar was a trifle.
“Call William Tomkins,” said Barnworth.
William Tomkins was called, and Dig, with his tawny mane more than usually dishevelled, and an excited look on his face, entered the box. He glared round him defiantly, and then dug his hands into his pockets and waited for his questions.
“Your name is William Tomkins?” began Barnworth.
“Sir William Tomkins, Baronet,” said the witness, amidst laughter.
“To be sure, I beg your pardon, Sir William. And what are you, pray?”
“A baronet.” (Loud laughter.)
“A baronet in reduced circumstances, I fear. You work in the boiler department of this factory?”
“All right, go on.”
Here the judge interposed.
“The witness must remember that he is bound to answer questions properly. Unless he does so I shall order him to be removed.”
This somewhat damped the defiant tone of Digby, and he answered the further questions of counsel rather more amiably. These had reference to the discovery of the body on the morning of the 5th, with the details of which the reader is already acquainted. The public began to get a little tired of this constant repetition of the same story, and were about to vote the proceedings generally slow, when a double event served to rouse their flagging attention.
Mr Railsford entered the court as a spectator, and was accommodated with a seat on the bench, beside the judge. At the same moment, Barnworth, having ended his questions, Arthur Herapath, junior counsel for the defence, rose to his feet, and said,—
“Now, Sir William Tomkins, Baronet, have the goodness to look at me and answer a few questions. I would advise you to be careful.”
The baronet replied by putting his tongue in his cheek, and giving a pantomimic wave of his fist in the direction of the learned counsel.
“Now, Sir William Tomkins, Baronet, how old are you, my lad?”
“Find out,” said Sir William hotly.
“That’s what I mean to do. Answer me, sir, or I’ll get the beak to run you in for contempt of court.”
“Come and do it,” said the witness, red in the face.
Here the judge again interposed.
“The learned junior must confine himself to the case before us, or I shall have to ask Mr Felgate to conduct the cross-examination.”
“All serene, my lord,” rejoined the learned junior, who was thoroughly enjoying himself. “Of course, if your lordship think the question’s not important I won’t press it against your lordship’s desire. I’m obliged to your lordship for your lordship’s advice, and I’ll pull your nose, Dimsdale”—this was in a parenthesis—“if you don’t shut up. Now, Sir William Tomkins, Baronet, you say you saw the prisoner pulled out of the sack?”
“I never said anything of the sort.”
“My lord, I must ask your lordship to commit this man for perjury. He’s telling crackers.”
“I think he said he saw the murdered man pulled out of the sack,” said the judge.
“That’s what I said. How came you to say you didn’t, eh, sir? Didn’t I tell you to be careful or you’d get your hair combed a way you don’t fancy? Now, what I want to know is, what’s the width of the door of the cellar?”
“Look here,” said the witness, “if you want to make an ass of yourself you’d better shut up. What’s that got to do with it?”
“It’s quite a proper question,” said the judge.
“There you are!” said Arthur, delighted. “I’m obliged to your lordship for your lordship’s remarks. Now, Sir William Thingamy, what do you mean, sir, by refusing to answer the question? I’ve a good mind to ask his lordship to send you to penal servitude. Now, what about the door?”
“I don’t know anything about it, and I don’t care.”
“Ha! ha! You’ll have to care, my boy. Could two chaps go through it together?”
“Come and try,” said the baronet, snorting with wrath.
“You must answer the question, witness,” said the judge.
“No; he knows two chaps couldn’t. He measured it himself and found it was only twenty-eight inches wide.”
“Who measured it?” asked one of the jury.
“Why, Herapath, that idiot there.”
Arthur was somewhat sobered by this piece of evidence, as well as by a significant consultation on the bench, which he rather feared might relate to his conduct of the case.
“That’s what I wanted to get at,” said he. “Now, Sir William, what’s the height of that door, eh?”
“What’s the good of asking me when you measured it yourself, you duffer? Didn’t you tell me yourself it was seven feet two to the top of the ledge?”
“There you are! Keep your hair on! That’s what I wanted! Seven foot two. Now suppose you were told a box of wax lights was found stuck upon that ledge, and that two of the matches out of it were found on the floor of the boot-box—cellar, I mean—what should you think?”
“It is hardly evidence, is it, to ask a witness what he would think?” suggested Barnworth.
“Oh, isn’t it? Easy a bit, and you’ll see what we’re driving at, your lordship! I’ll trouble your lordship to ask the learned chap not to put me off my run. Come, Mr What’s-your-name, what should you think?”
Dig mused a bit, and then replied, “I should think it was a little queer.”
“Of course you would! So it is a little queer,” said Arthur, winking knowingly at his future brother-in-law. “Now, could you reach up to the top of that ledge, my little man?”
“You be blowed!” responded the baronet, who resented this style of address.
“That means you couldn’t. When you’re about four feet higher than you are you’ll be able to do it. Now could the prisoner reach up to it?”
“No, no more could you, with your boots and three-and-sixpenny Sunday tile on!”
“Order in the court! Really, your lordship, your lordship ought to sit on this chap. Perhaps your lordship’s friend on your lordship’s right would kindly give him a hundred lines when next he comes across him. Now, Mr Baron, and Squire, and Knight of the Shire, and all the rest of it, I want to know if there’s any chap in our house—I mean the boiler-shop—could reach up there? Mind your eye, now!”
“Ainger could by jumping.”
“I didn’t ask you anything about jumping, you duffer! How tall would a chap need to be to reach up there?”
“About double your measure—over six foot.”
“There you are! Now is there any chap in our boiler-shop over six feet?”
“No.”
“I knew you’d say that. Think again. What about the foreman?” and he gave a side inclination of his head towards the unconscious Railsford.
“Oh, him! Yes, he’s over six foot.”
“Go down two places, for saying him instead of he. There you are, my lord, we’ve got it at last. Bowled the chap out clean, first ball. That’s our case, only there’s plenty more to be got out first. We’ll trouble your lordship to bring the chap in not guilty, when it’s all done.” And he nodded knowingly to the jury.
Railsford had sat and listened to all this in a state of the completest mystification. Not having heard Barnworth’s opening statement, he had no glimmer of a suspicion that the cause célèbre occupying the attention of this august assembly was anything but a pleasant fiction from beginning to end, and he had been wondering to himself whether such performances, conducted in the irregular style which he had witnessed, could be of any good. However, coming as a guest (for the master of the house was always a visitor on such occasions), he deemed it best not to interfere just then. He would give Arthur a little friendly advice as to the conduct of a junior counsel later on.
But he was the only unconscious person in the court. The listeners had been quick to pick up the drift of Barnworth’s opening story, and equally quick to detect the line of defence taken up by Felgate and his vivacious junior. They kept their eyes fixed most of the time on Railsford, to note how he took it; and when Arthur reached his triumphant climax, some among the juniors fully expected to see their master fall on his knees and plead guilty before the whole court.
Instead of that he laughed, and, turning to the judge, said, in an audible voice,—
“This seems very amusing, but it’s all Hebrew to me. Is this the end?”
“I think we’ve had nearly enough for to-night,” said Ainger, who himself felt rather uneasy lest matters should go any further. Not that he laid any stress on Arthur’s wonderful discovery—that merely amused him; but he foresaw a danger of the tone of the proceedings becoming offensive, and considered it better to interpose while yet there was time.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “as far as the case has gone I think I may say it has been ably conducted and patiently listened to. As our time is nearly up I adjourn the hearing till a future occasion.”
“Jolly hard luck,” said Arthur to his senior. “I’d got plenty more to come out.”
“You’ve done quite enough for one evening,” said Felgate, grinning, “the rest will keep.”