“None will dispute that. But I prefer not to question you. Tell us your own story.”
“I traveled all day,” she recommenced, “and reached Elmsdale station by the last train. I was very tired. At the door of the inn I met Fred Marshall. He was waiting, I suppose. He told me George and Kitty were at the bottom of the garden.”
A quiver ran through the audience, but the police sergeant was watching, and they feared expulsion.
“He said they had been there ten minutes. I ran through the hotel kitchen. On a table was lying a long knife near a dish of grouse. I picked it up, hardly knowing what I was doing, and went into the garden. When I was halfway down Kitty saw me and screamed. George turned round and backed away toward the middle hedge. I remember crying out—some—things—but I do not—know—what I said.”
She swayed slightly, and everyone thought she was about to faint. But she clutched the back of a chair and steadied herself. Mr. Jones offered her a glass of water, but she refused it.
“I can go on,” she said bravely.
And she persevered to the end, substantially repeating her sister’s evidence.
When Mr. Dane rose to cross-examine, the silence in court was appalling. The girl’s parents were pallid with fear. Kitty sat spellbound. Mr. Stockwell pushed his papers away and gazed fixedly at his client.
“Why did you pick up the knife, Mrs. Pickering?” was the first question.