MRS. BRAXFIELD SUPPORTS
Amidst the ripple of murmured interest that ran round the room, the
questioner looked significantly at the twelve jurymen, as much as to
tell them to keep their ears well open; from them he turned once more
to his witness.
“You accepted his offer of marriage, then. Did you arrange when it
was to be?”
“Yes, we did.”
“When?”
“Almost at once. For this reason—he told me that he was obliged to
go over to New York on most important business within the next week
or two. I decided to go with him. So we arranged that he should get a
special license and we would be married straight off.”
“Any particular date?”
“Yes. Next Monday morning—at Southampton.”
“We may take it, then, that you and Guy Markenmore, as old lovers, on
meeting once more, and you being free, fell in love with each other
again, and decided to marry without further delay?”
“Yes—I suppose so.”
“Very well. Now, Mrs. Tretheroe, I want you to let your mind go back
to the days when you were Miss Leighton. You have admitted that you
had a good many suitors. Is it not a fact that out of the many there
were two young gentlemen of this neighbourhood who were specially
favoured by you, and that one was Mr. Guy Markenmore, and the other
Mr. John Harborough, of Greycloister?”
Mrs. Tretheroe showed no hesitation in answering this question.
“They came first—in those days—certainly,” she admitted.
“So much so, that it was commonly said, hereabouts, that you couldn’t
make up your mind between them?”
“I daresay that was said.”
“Now, how was it that, in the end, you didn’t marry either, but did
marry somebody else.”
“There were reasons.”
“What reasons? All this is important to the issue before the jury.
What were the reasons.”
“Well—they became terribly jealous of each other. From being great
friends they became bitter enemies. Or, rather, Harborough conceived
a terrible, wicked enmity towards Guy. Harborough got an idea that
Guy had poisoned my mind against him.”
“Had Guy Markenmore poisoned your mind?”
“No, he had not! But Harborough was always jealous and suspicious,
and he became so—so violent about things that—well, I dismissed
him.”
“And—what then as regards his rival?”
Mrs. Tretheroe began to finger her rings.
“Well,” she answered after a pause. “I—the fact is, I got a bit sick
of the squabble, so I told Guy it wouldn’t do—and I accepted Colonel
Tretheroe.”
“I see. You got rid of both the youthful suitors, and married one who
was older and more sensible. Very good. But now, Mrs. Tretheroe, I
think something had happened before that. You said just now that
Harborough conceived a terrible, wicked enmity towards Guy
Markenmore. Now, is it a fact that Harborough threatened his rival in
your presence?”
“Yes—it is.”
“When? On what occasion?”
“It was one day when he met Guy and myself coming home from hunting.
There was a scene—high words, Harborough lost his temper. He told
Guy that he’d settle him. And I know for a fact that he afterwards
threatened him again—he said he’d kill him.”
“How do you know that for a fact?”
“Because Guy told me of it.”
“Was he afraid of Harborough?”
“I think he was. Harborough had a very black, ugly temper—when
crossed.”
“And he threatened to kill his rival because of—what, exactly?”
“Well, as I said just now, he’d got it into his head that Guy had
said things about him to me, and that his chances with me had been
destroyed by that.”
“Then I take it that Harborough, at that period, had asked you to
marry him?”
Mrs. Tretheroe arched her eyebrows in a glance of surprise.
“Lots of times!” she answered. “He was always asking me to marry him.”
“And—did you give him any decided answer?”
“I don’t know about decided answer. At one time—perhaps I would:
then I used to think that I wouldn’t. No—I don’t think I ever said I
would or I wouldn’t, definitely.”
“And all this time, I suppose, Guy Markenmore was in the running,
also.”
“Yes.”
“Was he asking you to marry him, too?”
“Oh, yes. They were always teasing me—both of them.”
“And in the end Harborough got the idea that his rival was
undermining him?”
“Yes—he certainly did. He said so.”
“And later—you—shall we say, dismissed both, and accepted Colonel
Tretheroe?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever see either of them again after becoming engaged to
Colonel Tretheroe?”
“I never saw Guy Markenmore. I saw Harborough once. I met him one
afternoon, near here, accidentally.”
“Anything take place?”
“Yes. He went into one of his passions. He reproached me bitterly. He
said I’d led him on for three years and then thrown him aside. And he
finished up by repeating that he knew he’d Guy Markenmore to thank
for it, and that if he ever came across him again, however long it
might be, he’d shoot him like a dog.”
When the sensation caused by this reply had died down, the questioner
gave Mrs. Tretheroe a searching look.
“You swear that he said this—on your oath?”
“On my oath!”
“Harborough said—to you—that it was due to Guy Markenmore that he,
Harborough, had lost his chance with you, and that if he ever met Guy
again, however long it might be, he’d shoot him like a dog?”
“Yes. That is precisely what he said.”
“I take it, then, that at that time Harborough was passionately in
love with you?”
“Madly, I believe!” murmured Mrs. Tretheroe. “He acted like a madman.
I was afraid of him.”
“When this threat was made had Guy Markenmore gone away from here?”
“Oh, yes—some little time before.”
“And did Harborough go soon after?”
“He went away a few days before I was married.”
“Now, during the seven years of your marriage—six years, rather, I
think—did you ever meet Harborough?”
“Never!”
“Ever hear from him?”
“No.”
“Or of him?”
“I heard—just once—from a friend of mine in Selcaster that he was
still travelling abroad, and that Greycloister had then been shut up
for some years.”
“Very well. In time your husband died, and you came back to England
and took the Dower House here. And last Monday Mr. Harborough
returned to Greycloister. Now, Mrs. Tretheroe, I want to ask you a
most important question. Did you meet John Harborough last Monday?”
A dead silence fell on the room. For Mrs. Tretheroe hesitated in her
answer. Every neck was craned forward. At last she spoke.
“Yes!”
“Where?—and at what time?”
“Just outside his own gates, at Greycloister, about five o’clock in
the afternoon.”
“Were you alone?”
“I was. I had gone out for a short walk by myself, with my dogs.”
“The meeting was accidental?”
“Certainly. I had no idea he’d come home.”
“Was there any—shall we call it embarrassment?”
“Well, yes. I was surprised. He seemed taken aback—agitated. Of
course we shook hands and talked a little. Mere talk.”
“Any reference to your former relations?”
“No.”
“Just a mere polite exchange of—nothing in particular?”
“Just that. But he asked if—or, rather, when—he might come and see
me.”
“And what did you reply?”
“I replied—well, that he might come whenever he liked. What else
could I reply?”
“He knew that you were free?—that Colonel Tretheroe was dead?”
“Oh, yes—I mentioned that myself.”
“And then, I suppose, you parted?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you next see him?”
“On the following morning, in the morning-room here, when I came in
to offer my condolences about Sir Anthony, and heard that Guy was
dead.”
“And I believe that you immediately denounced John Harborough as his
murderer?”
“I did.”
The barrister paused in his examination, hesitated a while; and then,
as if satisfied, suddenly dropped back in his seat, and pulling out a
snuff-box, tapped it thoughtfully before helping himself to a
substantial pinch. A murmur of excitement had run round the
spectators when Mrs. Tretheroe gave her last decided answer; it had
scarcely died away before Harborough’s solicitor, Mr. Walkinshaw,
rose at the table. He looked fixedly at the witness.
“I want to ask you a very pointed question,” he said. “And I want a
very definite answer. Do you honestly believe that Mr. John
Harborough killed Guy Markenmore? Think!”
“I have thought!” retorted Mrs. Tretheroe defiantly. “I do!”
“You believe that Mr. Harborough nursed his desire for revenge—if he
ever really had any—for seven years, and took the first opportunity
of gratifying it?”
“I think he shot Guy Markenmore,” said Mrs. Tretheroe, with some show
of sullenness.
“You think that Mr. Harborough returned home still in love with you?
Answer!”
“I think it’s possible. He used to swear that he could never love
anybody else. And he certainly hadn’t married.”
“I will put this to you. Mr. Harborough met you on Monday afternoon.
Let us suppose that all his old passion was revived at the mere sight
of you—let us suppose, still further, that he made up his mind to
once more become a suitor for your hand. Do you think it very likely
that he would begin matters by shooting a man?”
“I’m not going to suppose anything. I believe he did shoot Guy. They
met—accidentally—and Harborough shot him.”
“You are a ready hand at making assertions, Mrs. Tretheroe! You
calmly assert they met. What! at four o’clock in the morning—at
Markenmore Hollow?”
Mrs. Tretheroe looked round. Up to then she had confined her
occasional glances to the Coroner and the jury, but this time she
took a comprehensive view of the crowded room. And as she turned to
face Mr. Walkinshaw again, it was with a smile that signified
contempt for his insinuation.
“I know that John Harborough was up there at Markenmore Hollow at
four o’clock that morning,” she retorted boldly. “And, I know, too,
that he was seen!”
Walkinshaw paused, abruptly. He looked round at his client; so, too,
did everybody in the room. Once more a murmur of surprise rippled
round. Walkinshaw went back to Harborough, who sat unmoved and
silent; the solicitor whispered rapidly to him; Harborough did no
more than nod, almost unconcernedly. A moment later Mrs. Tretheroe
had been dismissed from the witness-box and another witness had been
called into it.
“Elizabeth Braxfield!”
Mr. Fransemmery and his eleven companions felt a new interest arise
in their hearts as they stared at the ex-landlady of the Sceptre.
Eleven of them were already wondering what she could tell. But Mr.
Fransemmery, knowing what he did of Mrs. Braxfield’s early habits,
began to anticipate.
The Coroner left the examination of this witness to the barrister who
appeared for the police authorities. He lost no time in getting to
the point.
“I believe, Mrs. Braxfield, that you were formerly Mrs. Wrenne, of
the Sceptre Inn, and that before you were Mrs. Wrenne, you were a
Miss Rawlings, a daughter of Thomas Rawlings, who kept the Sceptre
Inn before your late husband, Peter Wrenne, had it?”
“Quite correct, sir,” answered Mrs. Braxfield.
“Then you have lived all your life in Markenmore, and know all the
people in it?”
“Yes, sir—and for a good many miles round.”
“Do you know Mr. John Harborough?”
“Yes, sir—known him ever since he was a boy.”
“Did you see him on Tuesday morning last?”
“I did.”
“What time?”
“Ten minutes past four o’clock.”
“Where?”
“Near my house, sir.”
“Where is your house?”
“Up on the downs, sir—Woodland Cottage; about two hundred yards from
Markenmore Hollow.”
“How came you to see him—or anybody—at that early hour?”
“Nothing unusual in that, sir. I often get up at four o’clock—that
is when the mornings get light. I keep a lot of fowls, and I get up
to attend to them.”
“Was it light that morning—Tuesday?”
“Light enough, sir.”
“Light enough to see—how far?”
“Well, sir, when I looked out of my window I could see a lot. The
Court here—the village—all that’s in front—and Withersley Beacon
on one side and Pole Clump on the other. The morning was a
particularly clear one—very fine.”
“And you saw Mr. Harborough?”
“I did, sir.”
“From your window?”
“From my window.”
“Where was he when you saw him?”
“Coming down the hill-side from the direction of Markenmore Hollow,
sir. He was walking along the side of a fence.”
“How far away from you?”
“About a hundred yards.”
“Mr. Harborough, until the day before, had been away from Markenmore
for seven years. Weren’t you very much surprised to see him there?”
“No, sir, I wasn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d heard that he’d got home again—heard it the night
before. I’d been down to the village and everybody knew he’d got
home.”
“And you are certain that the man you saw was Mr. Harborough?”
“Perfectly certain, sir. I couldn’t be mistaken about that.”
“Well, where did he go?”
“Down the slope in the direction of his house, sir—Greycloister.”
“How far is Greycloister from Woodland Cottage?”
“Half a mile, sir.”
“Was Mr. Harborough walking quickly when you saw him?”
“No, sir—he was just going along at the ordinary pace—sauntering,
you might say.”
“And you are sure of your time—ten minutes past four o’clock in the
morning?”
“Certain, sir. I have a very good clock in my bedroom—never gains or
loses. I looked at it just before I saw Mr. Harborough.”
The barrister nodded to Mrs. Braxfield and sat down, and as no one
else rose to ask her any questions she left the box. The Coroner bent
over to some officials; while he was whispering with them, Walkinshaw
rose and approached the table again.
“Mr. Harborough desires to go into that box and give evidence, sir,”
he said. “I suggest that now—following upon the evidence you have
just heard—is a favourable stage for hearing him.”
The Coroner, an elderly man, leant back in his chair, took off his
spectacles, and glanced at Walkinshaw and from him to his client.
“I suppose that Mr. Harborough fully understands that he is not bound
to answer any questions that—answered in a certain fashion—might
incriminate him?” he suggested. “Of course, if he wishes to make a
statement.”
“What my client desires to do, sir,” interrupted Walkinshaw, “is to
tell you and the jury the plain truth about himself and his movements
in relation to this enquiry. He has nothing to conceal and he has
everything to gain by telling the truth.”
“Very well,” said the Coroner. “Let us have his evidence now.”
Walkinshaw turned to Harborough and motioned him to go into the box.