Lady Cynthia was the last witness. She returned to her seat, her head held high and her cheeks flaming, but she had done better work than she knew, for her gallant bearing had won the sympathy, not only of the spectators, but of the Jury, two of whom were her father’s tenants and had known her since childhood.
There was an expectant hush as the Coroner rose to address the Jury. Fayre summed him up as a man of mediocre intelligence, slow, but conscientious, and perhaps a little over-conscious of the importance of his own position.
“Gentlemen of the Jury,” he began. “You have heard the evidence put before you and are now called upon to consider your verdict. If there is anything that you have not fully understood I am here to help you. As to the manner in which the deceased met her death, you will have seen from the doctor’s evidence how unlikely it is that she died by her own hand. You must not, however, entirely disregard the possibility of suicide. Unlikely as it may seem, it is not absolutely impossible that she herself fired the fatal shot. If, however, you decide that the deceased did not voluntarily cause her own death you must state whether she died at the hand of any person known to you or at the hand of some person unknown. I take it that you are ready to consider your verdict now, gentlemen.”
The Jury filed out of the court and Fayre, after a word with Kean, crossed over to a chair by the side of Cynthia. He found her pale, but composed, talking quietly with Leslie. To his surprise they were discussing the farm and the steps to be taken should Leslie find himself unable to return there immediately, and his sympathy and admiration for these two increased as he realized the pluck with which they were facing an almost unbearable situation. Kean remained in his old place in the body of the court, deep in his own thoughts. He had little doubt as to what the verdict would be, in the face of the unexpected evidence brought forward by the police.
Indeed, the Jury was not absent for more than twenty minutes. Fayre watched them, trying to judge from their faces what line they would take. The Coroner addressed them.
“Well, gentlemen, have you considered your verdict?”
And even before the foreman spoke, Fayre knew what was coming.
They found that Mrs. Draycott had been murdered, and John Leslie left the court in the custody of the police.
Chapter VII
The drive back to Staveley was a silent one. Cynthia had been allowed to see Leslie for a few minutes before he was removed to the police station and had taken friendly and reassuring messages from both Kean and Fayre with her. She found him cheerful and, apparently, undismayed, but even her pluck had not been proof against the sordid atmosphere of the dingy little waiting-room and the menace of the two policemen who remained within earshot all through the interview, and she could no longer conceal her weariness and depression.