The lawyer sat down, shrugging his shoulders.
“Any questions to put to the witness, Mr. Stockwell?” said the Coroner.
“No, sir. I regard her evidence as quite clear.”
“Will you—er—does your client Mrs. Pickering wish to give evidence?”
“My client—she is not my client of her own volition, but by the definite instructions of her dead husband—will certainly give evidence. May I express the hope that my learned friend will not deal with her too harshly? She is hardly in a fit state to appear here to-day.”
Mr. Dane smiled cynically, but made no reply. He declined to help his adversary’s adroit maneuvers by fiery opposition, though again had Mr. Stockwell succeeded in playing a trump card.
Betsy was duly warned by the Coroner that she might be charged with the wilful murder of George Pickering, notwithstanding the sworn deposition read in court. She could exercise her own judgment as to whether or not she would offer testimony, but anything she said would be taken down in writing, and might be used as evidence against her.
She never raised her eyes. Not even those terrible words, “wilful murder,” had power to move her. She stood like an automaton, and seemed to await permission to speak.
“Now, Mrs. Pickering,” said Dr. Magnus, “tell us, in your own words, what happened.”
She began her story. No one could fail to perceive that she was reciting a narrative learnt by heart. She used no words in the vernacular. All was good English, coherent, simple, straightforward. On the Monday morning, she said, she received a letter at Hereford from Fred Marshall, ostler at the “Black Lion Hotel.”