AWAITING THE TRIAL
Of course, the newspapers were full of the accounts of the murder of young Edward Wilson. The two Brunford papers were filled with practically nothing else. The Manchester dailies devoted several columns to it. Not only were the Wilsons an important family in Lancashire, but Paul Stepaside was a Member of Parliament, who had lately made a speech of note in the House. Even the London dailies gave a large amount of space to it; and on the morning following the coroner's inquest Mary Bolitho felt as though someone had struck her a blow, when, on the first page of the newspaper which had been sent to her father's house, she saw the staring headlines: "Brunford Murder. Coroner's Inquest. Paul Stepaside, M.P., committed for trial." She had no breakfast that day, but went straight to her room, where she spent hours reading and re-reading the reports given. Everything pointed to the fact that Paul was guilty, and yet she felt sure he was not. The shock of Ned Wilson's death, of course, had been very great, and she had written a letter of condolence to the family. But even her horror at the murder was nothing compared with her feelings as she realised that Paul Stepaside, even at that moment, lay in Strangeways Gaol. She remembered him as they spoke together the last time they had met. She called to mind her admiration of him, and reflected that, although he had been brought up among the working classes, his appearance gave no suggestion of it. Perfectly dressed, perfectly calm, and possessed of that savoir faire which seems to be innate with a certain class of people, Paul was infinitely removed from the class of men with whom one associates criminal deeds. She knew enough of law, and had talked sufficiently often with her father, to know how absolutely false circumstantial evidence may be, even although it seems absolutely conclusive; and now, despite the fact that her father seemed to have no doubt about Paul's guilt, her mind simply refused to accept it.
He had never done the deed. He simply could not! If she were asked her reason for this she could not have given one, only she knew—she was absolutely sure.
Like many others, too, she tried to think who could have been guilty of the murder. The fact that young Ned Wilson was dead was, of course, beyond doubt. Someone must have killed him. Who was it? Her father had repeatedly declared that, excepting Paul, Ned had not an enemy in the world. He had lived all his life in Brunford; he was known to the people. His father was a large employer of labour, and was regarded as a good master. Ned lived on good terms with everybody. Who, then, could have killed him? Of course, every finger pointed to Paul—the long feud, the repeated quarrels, the injuries which Wilson had often done to him, the blow on his head on the very night of the murder, and Paul's threat. Then, again, there was his refusal to give an account of his actions between midnight and six in the morning—and, last of all, the knife acknowledged to be the property of Paul, with which the deed was done. The chain seemed complete; there did not appear to be a loophole anyhow, and yet she was certain Paul had never committed the deed. Was it likely that a clever man such as he, even if he had wanted to commit murder, would have used such brutal means? Would he have left behind him the knife which must inevitably be traced to him? The thing was impossible! Paul could not have done it. Then she remembered the strong, passionate nature of the man, the flash of his eyes, his grim resolves, and her mind became torn by conflicting thoughts. Why did he persist in being silent? Was there someone whom he desired to shield, and, if so, who was it? And again and again there were the old haunting questions.
When the news was presently announced that the Brunford magistrates had committed him to the Manchester Assizes for wilful murder, her father was in the room.
"You've seen this, Mary?" he said, and he noted how pale her face was, noted, too, the dark rings round her eyes.
She nodded.
"I haven't had time to go to Lancashire," continued the Judge. "Of course, I wrote a long letter of sympathy to the Wilsons. I hope you've also done this?"
"Yes," she replied.
"Poor Ned! He was a good lad," said the Judge. "To think that such a life as his should have been cut short by that atheistic villain!"