“Where?” he said. “Where? In the dock!”
Carver arrested the progress of a lump of bread and cheese and turned in astonishment.
“In the dock?” he exclaimed. “That chap? Good heavens! When—where?”
“It’s a longish story,” answered Triffitt. “But you’ve got to hear it if we’re going into this thing—as we are. Know, then, that I have an aunt—Eliza. My aunt—maternal aunt—Eliza is married to a highly respectable Scotsman named Kierley, who runs a flour-mill in the ancient town of Jedburgh, which is in the county of Roxburgh, just over the Border. And it’s just about nine years (I can tell the exact date to a day if I look at an old diary) that Mr. and Mrs. Kierley were good enough to invite me to spend a few weeks in Bonnie Scotland. And the first night of my arrival Kierley told me that I was in luck, for within a day or two there was going to be a grand trial before the Lords Justiciar—Anglicé, judges. A trial of a man for murder!”
“Great Scott!” said Carver. “Murder, eh? And”—he nodded his head in the direction of the adjacent cemetery. “Him?”
“Let me explain a few legal matters,” said Triffitt, disregarding the question. “Then you’ll get the proper hang of things. In Scotland, law’s different in procedure to ours. The High Court of Justiciary is fixed permanently at Edinburgh, but its judges go on circuit so many times a year to some of the principal towns, where they hold something like our own assizes. Usually, only one judge sits, but in cases of special importance there are two, and two came to Jedburgh, this being a case of very special importance, and one that was arousing a mighty amount of interest. It was locally known as the Kelpies’ Glen Case, and by that name it got into all the papers—we could find it, of course, in our own files.”
“I’ll turn it up,” observed Carver.
“By all means,” agreed Triffitt; “but I’ll give you an outline of it just now. Briefly, it was this. About eleven years ago, there was near the town of Jedburgh a man named Ferguson, who kept an old-established school for boys. He was an oldish chap, married to a woman a good deal younger than himself, and she had a bit of a reputation for being overfond of the wine of the country. According to what the Kierleys told me, old Ferguson used to use the tawse on her sometimes, and they led a sort of cat-and-dog life. Well, about the time I’m talking about, Ferguson got a new undermaster; he only kept one. This chap was an Englishman—name of Bentham—Francis Bentham, to give him his full patronymic, but I don’t know where he came from—I don’t think anybody did.”
“F. B., eh?” muttered Carver. “Same initials as——”
“Precisely,” said Triffitt, “and—to anticipate—same man. But to proceed in due order. Old Ferguson died rather suddenly—but in quite an above-board and natural fashion, about six months after this Bentham came to him. The widow kept on the school, and retained Bentham’s services. And within half a year of the demise of her first husband, she took Bentham for her second.”