Then the Coroner read the dead man’s deposition, which was attested by the local justice of the peace. Dr. Magnus rendered the document impressively. Its concluding appeal to the Deity turned all eyes on Betsy. She was pale, but composed. Since her husband’s death she had cried but little. Her mute grief rendered her beautiful. Sorrow had given dignity to a pretty face. She was so white, so unmoved outwardly, that she resembled a clothed statue. Kitty wept quietly all the time, but Betsy sat like one in a dream.
“Catherine Thwaites,” said the Coroner’s officer, and Kitty was led by Mr. Jones to the witness stand. The girl’s evidence, punctuated by sobs, was practically a résumé of Pickering’s sworn statement.
From Mr. Dane’s attitude it was apparent that he regarded this witness as untruthful.
“Of course,” he said, with quiet satire in word and look, “as Mr. Pickering impaled himself on a fork, you did not see your sister plunge a knife into his breast?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor did you run down the garden shrieking: ‘Oh, Betsy, Betsy, you’ve killed him.’ You did not cry ‘Murder, murder! Come, someone, for God’s sake’?”
“Yes, sir; I did.”
This unexpected admission puzzled the solicitor. He darted a sharp side glance at Stockwell, but the latter was busy scribbling notes. Every pulse in court quickened.
“Oh, you did, eh? But why charge your sister with a crime you did not see her commit?”
“Because she had a knife in her hand, and I saw Mr. Pickering stagger across the garden and fall.”