WHO KILLED THIS WOMAN?
Bamberton was taking grim holiday. Bamberton the sleepy—with nothing
to stir it, from one dreary year’s end to the other, treading its dull
respectable round, knowing exactly who married who, and how John This,
or James That, got on with their respective wives, with the certainty
of the dull little clock in the Chater Arms—had suddenly awakened to
find itself notorious, and its name in big print in the great London
papers. Moreover, had not Bamberton, the newly-awakened, already had
pictures of its High Street (with an impossible man, in a smock-frock,
leaning on a species of clothes-prop, in the foreground) in the
illustrated and evening journals? Had not Bamberton already been
photographed, interviewed, stared at, and made public in a hundred
different ways. Now, too, had come the day of the inquest; and
impossible rumours were already in the air, concerning that same
inquest, and the marvellous things which were to be said and done
thereat. Scarcely to be wondered at therefore, is it, that Bamberton
should be taking grim holiday, and should be flocking to the place
where twelve lucky members of its male community had been summoned to
give judgment, concerning the doing to death of poor Patience Miller.
At a period long since forgotten, some charitable inhabitant, or other
person interested in the welfare of the male and female youth of
Bamberton, had had dreams of an Institute; and, with that laudable
design in view, had pounced upon the only unoccupied spacious building
in the locality, and had endeavoured to transform it into a Hall of
semi-dazzling Light. The attempt had been a failure; and the
building—which was no other than the old Mill, which stood on the
outskirts of the wood—had long since fallen into greater decay than
before.
But this place had again come before the public notice, by reason of
the fact that the body of the murdered girl had been carried there,
after its discovery; and at that place the inquest was to be held. The
body had been put in an upper room—a species of loft; the inquest was
to be held in the great room of the Mill, where certain iron rings and
rotting ropes—part of an abortive attempt at a gymnasium—hung
suggestively from the ceiling. And thither all Bamberton bent its steps.
“Whisperings, and murmurings, and the shuffling of many feet—with some
glances towards the ceiling, as though curious eyes would pierce
through, and see the ghastly thing laid above. At present, only a
grave-faced country constable or two, setting chairs in order for the
twelve lucky men, the Coroner, and the witnesses; and exercising a
little brief authority, in keeping back certain Bambertonites who were
pressing forward beyond the limits assigned for the general public.
Once or twice, the door of a smaller room opened, and an
important-looking little man, with a hard face and a tuft of hair on
his chin, came bustling out, with a little sheaf of papers in his hand,
to whisper to one or other of the constables. The door of that room
proved to be a keen source of attraction to many eyes; for it was
whispered that the prisoner waited within.”
After what seemed an interminable length of time, a little gentleman,
in a black frock-coat, thrust his way with some impatience through the
general public, and made his way to one end of the table set apart in
the cleared space. A murmur ran round that this was the Coroner, from
the neighbouring county-town; murmurs, also, that he did not quite look
the part, inasmuch as that he wore an air of cheerfulness, which seemed
almost to suggest that he was about to preside at a wedding, rather
than at anything so formidable as an inquest.
A little glancing at his watch by this gentleman; an expostulatory
whisper or two on his part to the constables in attendance, and the
door of the inner room opened again, and Inspector Tokely came bustling
out. One constable—a stranger to Bamberton, and of more importance on
that account, produced a list, from which, with a strong provincial
accent, he proceeded to call out certain names. Then, more shuffling of
feet, and some friendly pushing of bashful jurymen forward, and the
twelve ranged themselves sheepishly, with much coughing, round the
table, and were duly sworn.
“Be seated, gentlemen, I beg,” said the Coroner, busy with his papers.
“Stop one moment, though”—glancing up quickly—“have you viewed the
body?”
Several of the jurymen present expressed a decided disinclination to do
anything of the kind; and it became apparent that that important
ceremony had not been performed.
“Really, Moody,” exclaimed the Coroner—“this is most remiss on your
part. This should have been done first of all. We are wasting
time—valuable time.”
The repentant Mr. Moody—the strange constable—made some attempt at an
apology, and concluded by hurrying the jurymen through another door,
where they were heard to go heavily up wooden stairs, and to tramp
about a little overhead. In the meantime, the Coroner had a word or two
with Inspector Tokely, and glanced once or twice, with a nod, towards
the door where the prisoner was supposed to be.
The jurymen coming down again—some of them rather white-faced and
wide-eyed—the Coroner abruptly motioned them to their seats, and
turned to Tokely as he took his own.
“Inspector, I think we may have Mr. Chater in here now.”
The general public seemed to stir and sway, as though bent by a sudden
wind; bending towards each other, and whispering hoarsely, yet keeping
their eyes with one accord turned towards that door. Inspector Tokely
hurried out, and came back in another moment, glancing over his
shoulder through the doorway; immediately following him came Philip
Chater, with two constables in close attendance. He looked round for a
moment at the murmuring crowd; seemed to seek one face in it, and to
smile as he recognised it. At the same moment, a woman in the crowd
burst into violent weeping.
The Coroner rapped the table impatiently with his knuckles. “Any
demonstration on the part of any member of the public will necessitate
my clearing the room at once,” he said, looking sternly about him.
One of the jurymen—no other than old Toby Siggs—rose ponderously in
his place. “Askin’ yer pardon, Mister,” he said, slowly—“I rather
think as ’ow that was my ole gel.” Then, before the astonished Coroner
could interpolate a remark, Toby turned abruptly, and addressed his
spouse. “’Earty is it, ole gel,” he said, in a voice like muffled
thunder, for her special hearing—“we’ll git ’im off, afore you’d ’ave
time to draw ’arf a pint. Bear in mind, ole gel, as ’ow I’ve got a
vote.”
“My good sir,” interposed the Coroner, hurriedly,—“let me impress upon
you that this business must be tried judicially and fairly—with no
bias. Understand that clearly.”
Toby nodded his head with much gravity. “Sich are my intentions,
Mister,” he said. “So fire away as ’ard as you like. An’ Gawd ’elp the
winner!” With which pious exclamation, Toby Siggs sat down perfectly
satisfied with himself.
And now the Coroner—in a quick, bustling fashion, as though he were in
a hurry, and should be glad to get so unimportant a matter off his
hands—began to inform the jury of what their clear duty was, and how
rapidly they might set about it. The body of this young girl,
gentlemen, had been found in the adjacent wood. She was stabbed very
near a vital part, and had undoubtedly, under considerable pain, and
for a period perhaps of half-an-hour, slowly bled to death. They would
be told—by the medical gentleman then present—who had made a most
careful post-mortem examination of the body—that the wound could not
have been self-inflicted. Such being the case, gentlemen, it devolved
upon them to discover in what fashion her death had been caused; and
here he would remind them that they must be guided entirely by
circumstantial evidence. A man—a gentleman of good position—appeared
before them that day, in a most unenviable situation. It was not for
him, gentlemen, to tell them of their duty, or to lead them to imagine
that any guilt attached to the man they saw before them; all that they
must judge for themselves. But they would be confronted with
witnesses—most unwilling witnesses—who would tell them of the
intimacy which had undoubtedly existed between this man and the
murdered girl; they would be told, gentlemen, by a witness from the
railway station, of the appearance of this man, in a great state of
excitement and hurry, at the station, in time—barely in time,
gentlemen, to catch the last train to London. This, too, on the very
night of the murder, and within a very short time of the hour at which,
according to the medical testimony they would hear, this unfortunate
young woman must have been struck down.
Here the Coroner stopped to clear his throat, and to glance at Philip
Chater—as though to assure that unfortunate man that he was quite
prepared to put a rope round his neck within the next few minutes, and
had already got it half spun.
The gentlemen of the jury, who surely knew their duties, would be told
how this man, deserting his home, had fled to London; how he had come
back, in the dead of night, and had been seen about the village; how a
most intelligent officer—a gentleman from Scotland Yard,
gentlemen—had endeavoured to capture him; how he had again fled to
London. They would be told, by a former associate of this man—now very
repentant of his connection with him—of a sort of semi-confession made
by this man to him. More than all, they would hear that a spade had
been discovered near the body, which had evidently been used in a
hurried attempt to dig a grave for the murdered girl (the crowd swayed
again, like an angry sea and one woman shrieked out something
unintelligible against the man who stood so calmly through it all)—and
that spade would be traced as having come from the residence of the man
now before them. While admitting, gentlemen, that all this evidence was
purely circumstantial, the Coroner must beg them not to cast it lightly
aside on that account, but to hear the witnesses with patience. And so
sat down, having spun his rope to a tolerable length and strength.
Marshalled by Tokely, the first witnesses were already shuffling to
their places, when an interruption came from among the crowd; and a
young man thrust himself forward, and made straight for the Coroner. He
was a bright-faced fellow, with a cool and gentlemanly bearing, and he
gave a quick nod to Philip as he pressed forward.
“One moment, Mr. Coroner,” he said. “Mr. Chater here is an old friend
of mine—knew him at Oxford. I’m a barrister; and I claim the right to
represent Mr. Chater at these proceedings. I should like to point out
to you, Mr. Coroner”—still with the same engaging frankness, and the
same cheery smile—“that my friend is placed in a very awkward
position, and has against him, in charge of the case, a very able
representative of the law”—a bow here for the gratified
Inspector—“from Scotland Yard. I merely propose to watch the case on
behalf of my friend, and to put such questions as I may deem necessary,
and as you, Mr. Coroner, may see fit, in the exercise of a wise
discretion, to allow.” Here the young gentleman bowed all round again,
with another cheery smile, and sat down near the Coroner, after having
made a decidedly good impression.
Philip Chater broke the silence which seemed to hang so heavily about
him, and addressed the Coroner. “I am greatly obliged,” he said, “for
my friend’s kindly offer; but I would rather decline it. Whatever case
there is against me must go on its merits; I desire nothing more.”
Before the Coroner, or any one else, could speak, the young
gentleman came darting out of his chair, and had Philip by the
button-hole—drawing him aside a little, and impressing his points
upon him in an eager whisper.
“Now, my dear boy,” he said, with the same frankness as
before—“don’t you be foolish. Frankly—I believe you to be innocent;
but these beggars don’t—and you’ll get yourself into a devil of a
hole, and give yourself away most gloriously, if you try to conduct
the case yourself. This chap from Scotland Yard is an ass—but he’s
vindictive; the Coroner is in a hurry, and is dead against you. On
the other hand—have the goodness to consider my position. This is my
first chance—absolutely my first. I’ve read up the case, day by day,
and I know it by heart; I may do you a lot of good—and I shall make
my own fortune. To-morrow morning in all the newspapers—Andrew
Banks—rising young barrister—badgered the Coroner—turned the
witnesses inside out—played Old Harry with the police; don’t you
see? Now—all you have to do is to sit quiet, and look virtuous; I’ll
lay out Mr. Coroner, for the benefit of the yokels, in a brace of
shakes.”
He was gone again, back to his place at the table, before Philip Chater
had even time to thank him, or to remonstrate further; and the real
business of the inquest began. In the first place, appeared the two
countrymen who had found the body; and who contradicted each other in
minor points of detail, and were hopelessly confused by that rising
young barrister Mr. Andrew Banks—so much so, that, at the end of five
minutes, they were half disposed to believe that the one had committed
the murder, and the other made an attempt to hide the body. And so sat
down, greatly confused.
Next came Betty Siggs—making a deeper impression than she would
willingly have done against the man who stood watching her. For, after
a question or two, old Betty turned suddenly to that quiet figure, and
stretched out her hands, and appealed to him, in a voice shaken by sobs.
“For God’s sake—let me speak; let me tell what I know,” she said; and,
though she spoke in a whisper, the silence about her was so deep and
solemn that the lightest breath of that whisper was heard. “For the
sake of the old days—let me say what you and I alone know—let me—my
dear—my dear!”
Unfortunately, it had the very opposite effect to that which Betty
intended; for there seemed to be at once established between these two
some terrible affinity in the crime, which made it more horrible. Nor
did the young barrister improve matters; for, wholly at a loss to
understand to what she referred he began to urge her to tell all she
knew—even to threaten her with dire penalties, in the event of
non-compliance.
But that only made matters worse; she cast one swift look in the
direction of Philip, and read in his face that she must be silent;
turned on the young and ardent man of law—and defied him.
“Don’t you think, young man—as you’re agoin’ to open my mouth—because
you ain’t. I loved this poor young gel, as though she’d been a child o’
my own; but I swear to you, before God, that the man who stands there
knew nothing of it, and is absolutely innocent. Toby—my angel—vote
for ’im—if you love me!”
Toby answered with a responsive growl, and Mrs. Siggs sat down. Nor
would the pleadings of the Coroner—the threats of Tokely—or the
suavity of the young barrister move her; she read in the face from
which she took her inspiration that she must be silent—and the rack
itself would not have moved her.
Came the medical man, who gave his evidence grimly enough, in technical
terms which yet sent a shudder through the listening crowd. He had
examined the body, and, in answer to a question from the Coroner, gave
it as his opinion—and with certainty—that the unfortunate girl, at
the time of her death was near the period when she would have given
birth to a child; struck a more deadly blow at the prisoner, by
describing, in callous medical phraseology, the wound which had been
inflicted, and the lingering death which followed. At the end of that
evidence, there was not a man nor woman in the place that would not
have shrieked “Murderer!” at him, whatever the verdict of the jury
might be.
Some little sensation was created by the appearance of Harry Routley,
the young servant of Dandy Chater; who—tackled by the Inspector, and
keeping his eyes resolutely turned from the man whose life he was
swearing away, gave his evidence in little more than monosyllables; but
gave it in damning quality enough, even at that. Some greater
sensation, too, was caused, by his turning swiftly to the prisoner, in
the midst of the questions of the Inspector, and holding out his hands
to Philip in an agony of appeal; and then covering his face with them.
“Master Dandy—Master Dandy!” he cried—“I swore to you that I would
keep the secret—I have broken my word! Master Dandy—I was mad—beside
myself—Master Dandy—forgive me!”
It created, if that were possible, a worse impression than ever. In the
midst of the murmurs which surged up about them, the quiet voice of
Philip was heard.
“It’s all right, Harry; you’ve only done the right thing. The time will
come when you will understand better what I mean—when you will have no
cause for regret. You need have none now; you have been more loyal and
true to me than I deserved; I say it openly, before all here.”
Came Inspector Tokely himself, demanding that this man be sent for
trial; pointing out this man’s desperate attempts to escape; his
partial success; and so introducing the last witness—the Shady ’un.
The Shady ’un—giving his name, with much humility, as Shadrach
Nottidge—threw himself upon the mercy of the gentlemen present. He was
but an ’umble workin’ man—led astray by the villainies of Mr. Chater.
In a moment of remorse, he had felt that Mr. Chater must be given up;
he could not have slept in peace, good gentlemen, while Mr. Chater
remained at large. Mr. Chater had told him that he was flying for his
life; had begged him (the Shady ’un) to give him shelter. Declining to
allow his white hands to be soiled—even by deputy—with blood, he had
taken the earliest opportunity of handing Mr. Chater over to the Law.
And he hoped it would be remembered in his favour.
Mr. Andrew Banks—rising young barrister of the cheery smile—tried his
hardest—badgered the Coroner—twitted Inspector Tokely—was sarcastic
with the Shady ’un; but all to no purpose. The Coroner very clearly
pointed out to the jury their obvious duty in this matter; reminded
them that Law and Justice took no cognizance of a man’s social
position; and generally spun his rope a little stronger. Finally,
addressing Philip, begged to know if he cared to make any statement,
administering to him, at the same time, the usual legal caution.
“I have nothing to say—except that I am wholly innocent of this
murder,” said Philip, quietly.
The rest was a mere matter of form. The jury returned a verdict of
Wilful Murder, against Mr. Dandy Chater, of Chater Hall, in the County
of Essex; and he was duly committed to take his trial at the coming
Sessions at the county-town. Toby Siggs made some faint protest, but
was overruled; and the crowd surged out into the spring sunshine, and
generally expressed the opinion that Dandy Chater was as good as hanged
already.