There is a slight stir when the jury stumble into their places. The twelve good men and true are an extraordinarily ordinary-looking collection. Still, every one of them has a confident, self-important look. To some of those present the reflection that those twelve men are going to decide the awful question of a fellow being’s life or shameful death brings with it a sensation of unease.
By some mistake, which will be severely noted in to-morrow’s Press, the newspaper men have not been allowed, till now, to enter the Court. They file in and take the places allotted to them. Jean Bower, though she has no reason to love newspapers, tells herself that she wishes they composed the jury rather than the stolid, rather stupid-looking, men who are exactly opposite to her.
And then at last, very quietly, so quietly that half the people present do not immediately realize what is happening, the prisoner is brought up from the cells below and walks with firm step into the dock.
Henry Garlett is dressed in a blue serge suit, and wears a double collar and a black tie. He looks neither to the right nor to the left, but bows slightly to the judge.
Amid dead silence the clerk of assize reads the charge setting forth that Henry Garlett feloniously and wilfully murdered his wife, Emily Garlett.
The prisoner, in a voice which though the words are not loudly uttered is heard by every one present, says firmly: “Not guilty, my lord.”
The trial is now begun, and even the most frivolous spectators settle down to listen to what will certainly be a terrible and formidable indictment.
Sir Almeric Post, however, puts the case for the Crown quite simply, and as undramatically as possible. He tells, in ordinary, everyday language, the story of the painful death of Mrs. Garlett on the 27th of last May. He does not hurry over it. He tells it indeed at some length. And then he goes back to the past lives of the two people with whom he is concerned.
In a fair and passionless manner he describes the marriage of the penniless youth, Henry Garlett, to the considerable, not to say great, heiress, Emily Jones, and briefly mentions the fact that there were no children. He gives full credit to Garlett, as he calls him throughout, for his war service, and then very gravely he tells how this still young man came back to find his wife a hopeless, almost bedridden, invalid. Lightly, skilfully he touches on Garlett’s great fame as a cricketer, and he even reminds the jury of that memorable match last spring, the first match played by the Australians in the old country.
Every one stiffens into eager attention, and even Sir Almeric’s clear, toneless voice changes a little, when he utters the words: