The Terriford mystery

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

“I admit it is very strange,” he says at last, in a hesitating voice, “but you must remember two things. First, that I was unaware of the importance attached to the question of how the arsenic had reached my house. Secondly, that I had always known in a vague way that Miss Prince had in her possession many dangerous drugs which, as a rule, can only be procured from a chemist. I mean by that, I was not specially surprised at her admission that she had a number of poisons in her medicine cupboard.”

He has spoken slowly, rather picking his words, and the admission—if admission it can be called—makes a bad impression on the Court. The audience in the galleries all feel that they would have certainly remembered such a startling fact as that a large amount of poison was in the possession of a maiden lady living in such a quiet place as Terriford seems to have been.

Other questions are put to the prisoner. After all, Sir Almeric Post is expected to work for his bread, and it would never do were he to conduct the examination of a man accused of murder in too rapid or perfunctory a manner.

Garlett is shown the letter which was written to him by Jean Bower, and which was the immediate cause of his return home earlier than he was expected. He is taken step by step through the various stages of his growing friendship with her, and pressed again and again as to the degree of his knowledge of her before his wife’s death.

But when the counsel for the Prosecution has done, there is a general impression that the witness has been let off very lightly. It is clear that Sir Almeric regards the prisoner as already under sentence of death.

Then comes the turn of Sir Harold Anstey. Sir Harold goes on quite another tack to what he has done up to now. His object is to show what a good, genial, delightful fellow Harry Garlett has always proved himself to be.

Though in his heart of hearts he considers cricket to be an idiotic pastime, and though he has on occasion quoted with approval Kipling’s famous line about “the flannelled fools at the wicket,” he has made a special study of cricket in the last week, and he now shows that knowledge to the admiration of the Court, and especially to the admiration of those present—they are a large number—who make a fetish of the national game. He shows that his client is not only a famous cricketer but also a remarkably modest cricketer—and not till he has made that fact quite clear does he begin on the real subject in hand.

The judge has hardly listened while all this is going on. In fact he has been leaning back, for the first time, a slight ironic smile on his face. But after all, this is a cause célèbre. Sir Harold Anstey is a popular figure, and must be allowed a fair run for his money. The judge reflects that fortunately for Sir Harold the money will be forthcoming this time, for, unlike the majority of murderers, Henry Garlett is a man of substance.

At last, however, Sir Harold gets down to real business. In an almost cooing voice he asks his client something as to his happy married life. But there he is not quite as successful as he had hoped to be, or Harry Garlett is curiously unwilling to make any play with that side of his past. He answers yes or no to the probing questions, though at one moment he is obviously so painfully moved that some few people began to believe that perhaps he did really care for his first wife.

However, Sir Harold, who is nothing if not tactful when dealing with a difficult witness, now turns to the question of the Etna China works. He draws from his client an account of all that has been done in the last ten years, and especially since the war, for the benefit of the workers. He makes it clear what a happy family they all were, and then, with light, skilful touches, he brings out how important was Miss Bower’s share in promoting harmony and comfort at the factory. He is even successful in making the Court realize something of what a very charming, old-fashioned girl she seems to have been.