The Terriford mystery

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

I

It is a cold windy March morning. The trial of Henry Garlett has been fixed for ten o’clock, but since before eight o’clock there has been a crowd, growing larger and larger every minute, round the stately pillared portico of the Grendon Assize Court. The crowd has been compelled to spread out fan-fashion, owing to the stout walls which stretch on either side of the building, and women form by far the larger proportion of those who are determined to obtain places in the public galleries and in those seats, behind the jury, reserved for certain privileged persons.

These would-be spectators of Henry Garlett’s ordeal, and of Jean Bower’s agony, belong to all classes, and are of all ages. Some of the women there have walked ten miles and more, this morning, to be present at the trial of the man who a short six months ago was the most popular figure in the whole countryside.

Motor cars of every make and of every type are drawn up on the edge of the ever-growing crowd. Many of these motors are filled with well-dressed women, who have come provided with opera glasses. They have sent their servants to keep places in the queues which are already pressing round each of the three big doors. But soon it becomes known that the police will not allow this convenient plan, and to their disgust the ladies have to step out of their comfortable cars, and stand cheek by jowl with their humbler fellow women.

The great majority of the people who are waiting there on this cold morning have brought some form of food with them, for they mean to keep in their places all day, so as not to lose even the smallest thrill connected with what is indifferently called the Garlett Case and the Terriford Mystery.

It is known that there will be four important witnesses—Garlett himself, the famous amateur cricketer; Jean Bower, for whose sake, in the opinion of the vast majority of those who will be present at the trial, he committed a dastardly and cruel murder; Miss Prince, the spinster whose tardily tendered evidence is said to be of vital importance, though no one as yet knows of what that evidence consists; and last, though not least, Agatha Cheale, the mystery woman of the strange story.

Most of the men who have come, some of them very long distances, on cycles, in motors, in old-fashioned horse-drawn vehicles, and on their own feet, are looking forward to seeing Dr. Maclean in the box. Few of those in that ever-growing crowd but have come across the kindly Scots doctor, either as his patients themselves, or because of the illness of some one dear to them. But that makes no difference to their eager wish to see him cross-examined—heckled, as it would be called in his own country—by the celebrated Sir Harold Anstey.

At half-past nine the doors are thrown open to the public and the struggle for places begins. There are some ugly rushes, with much pushing, kicking, and even pinching and scratching, before the public galleries of the Court, which is exceptionally large for a country Assize Court, are filled to their utmost capacity.

The reserved seats are few, and they, too, are soon almost unpleasantly crowded with a number of pretty, well-dressed women, some with attendant squires to whom they are talking, while they glance with keen, curiosity-laden eyes at the unfamiliar scene.

In the well of the Court already the solicitors’ clerks are busy at wide tables; the long bench which will soon be occupied by the witnesses is empty; and so is the railed-in dock, where the prisoner will soon be standing, exactly opposite the high, throne-like seat from which the judge, the keen and redoubtable Mr. Justice Freshwater, will direct the proceedings. It is known that this old-fashioned judge does not approve of ladies being present at murder trials, and accordingly the seats to his right and left will be occupied by his men friends and not by their wives.