Not for a long while had Worcester been stirred as it was over this
affair of Samson Dene's. What with the curious discovery of the box of
guineas after its mysterious disappearance of years, and then its second
no less mysterious loss, with the suspicion that Sam Dene stole it, the
Faithful City was so excited as hardly to know whether it stood on its
head or its heels.
When the police searched the prisoner on Thursday morning, after taking
him into custody, and found the guinea upon him (having been told that
he had one about him), his guilt was thought to be as good as proved.
Sam said the guinea was his own, an heirloom, and stood to this so
indignantly resolute that the police let him have it back. But now, what
did Sam go and do? When released upon bail by the magistrates--to come
up again on the Saturday--he went straight off to a silversmith's, had
a hole stamped in the guinea and hung it to his watch-chain across his
waistcoat, that the public might feast their eyes upon it. It was in
this spirit of defiance--or, as the town called it, bravado--that he met
the charge. His lodgings had been searched for the rest of the guineas,
but they were not found.
The hour for the Saturday's examination--twelve o'clock--was striking,
as I struggled my way with Austin Chance through the crush round the
Guildhall. But that Austin's father was a man of consequence with the
door-keepers, we should not have got in at all.
The accused, arraigned by his full name, Samson Reginald Dene, stood in
the place allotted to prisoners, cold defiance on his handsome face. As
near to him as might be permitted, stood Tod, just as defiant as he.
Captain Charles Cockermuth, a third in defiance, stood opposite to
prosecute; while Lawyer Cockermuth, who came in with Sam's uncle, Mr.
Jacobson, openly wished his brother at Hanover. Squire Todhetley, being
a county magistrate, sat on the bench with the City magnates, but not
to interfere.
The proceedings began. Captain Cockermuth related how the little box,
his property, containing sixty golden guineas, was left on the table in
a sitting-room in his brother's house, the accused being the only person
in the room at the time, and that the box disappeared. He, himself
(standing at the front-door), saw the accused quit the room; he went
into it almost immediately, but the box was gone. He swore that no
person entered the room after the prisoner left it.
Miss Betty Cockermuth, flustered and red, appeared next. She testified
that she was in the room nearly all the morning, the little box being
upon the table; when she left the room, Mr. Dene remained in it alone,
copying a letter for her brother; the box was still on the table. Susan
Edwards, housemaid at Lawyer Cockermuth's, spoke to the same fact. It
was she who had fetched her mistress out, and she saw the box standing
upon the table.
The accused was asked by one of the magistrates what he had to say
to this. He answered, speaking freely, that he had nothing to say in
contradiction, except that he did not know what became of the box.
"Did you see the box on the table?" asked the lawyer on the opposite
side, Mr. Standup.
"I saw it there when I first went into the room. Miss Betty made a
remark about the box, which drew my attention to it. I was sitting at
the far end of the room, at Mr. Cockermuth's little desk-table. I did
not notice the box afterwards."
"Did you not see it there after Miss Cockermuth left the room?"
"No, I did not; not that I remember," answered Sam. "Truth to say, I
never thought about it. My attention was confined to the letter I was
copying, to the exclusion of everything else."
"Did any one come into the room after Miss Cockermuth left it?"
"No one came into it. Somebody opened the door and looked in."
This was fresh news. The town hall pricked up its ears.
"I do not know who it was," added Sam. "My head was bent over my
writing, when the door opened quickly, and as quickly shut again. I
supposed somebody had looked in to see if Mr. or Miss Cockermuth was
there, and had retreated on finding they were not."
"Could that person, whomsoever it might be, have advanced to the table
and taken the box?" asked the chief of the magistrates.
"No, sir. For certain, no!"--and Sam's tone here, he best knew why, was
aggravatingly defiant. "The person might have put his head in--and no
doubt did--but he did not set a foot inside the room."
Captain Cockermuth was asked about this: whether he observed any one go
to the parlour and look in. He protested till he was nearly blue with
rage (for he regarded it as Sam's invention), that such a thing never
took place, that no one whatever went near the parlour-door.
Next came up the question of the guinea, which was hanging from his
watch-guard, shining and bold as if it had been brass. Sam had been
questioned about this by the justices on Thursday, and his statement in
answer to them was just as bold as the coin.
The guinea had been given him by his late father's uncle, old Thomas
Dene, who had jokingly enjoined him never to change it, always to keep
it by him, and then he would never be without money. Sam had kept
it; kept it from that time to this. He kept it in the pocket of an
old-fashioned leather case, which contained some letters from his
father, and two or three other things he valued. No, he was not in the
habit of getting the guinea out to look at, he had retorted to a little
badgering; had not looked at it (or at the case either, which lay in the
bottom of his trunk) for months and months--yes, it might be years, for
all he recollected. But on the Tuesday evening, when talking with Miss
Parslet about guineas, he fetched it to show to her; and slipped it into
his pocket afterwards, where, the police found it on the Thursday. This
was the substance of his first answer, and he repeated it now.
"Do you know who is said to be the father of lies, young man?" asked
Justice Whitewicker in a solemn tone, suspecting that the prisoner was
telling an out-and-out fable.
"I have heard," answered Sam. "Have never seen him myself. Perhaps you
have, sir." At which a titter went round the court, and it put his
worship's back up. Sam went on to say that he had often thought of
taking his guinea into wear, and had now done it. And he gave the guinea
a flick in the face of us all.
Evidently little good could come of a hardened criminal like this; and
Justice Whitewicker, who thought nothing on earth so grand as the sound
of his own voice from the bench, gave Sam a piece of his mind. In the
midst of this a stir arose at the appearance of Maria Parslet. Mr.
Chance led her in; her father, sad and shrinking as usual, walked behind
them. Lawyer Cockermuth--and I liked him for it--made a place for his
clerk next to himself. Maria looked modest, gentle and pretty. She wore
black silk, being in slight mourning, and a dainty white bonnet.
Mr. Dene was asked to take tea with them in the parlour on the Tuesday
evening, as a matter of convenience, Maria's evidence ran, in answer to
questions, and she briefly alluded to the reason why. Whilst waiting
together, he and she, for her father to come in, Mr. Dene told her
of the finding of the ebony box of guineas at Mr. Cockermuth's. She
laughingly remarked that a guinea was an out-of-date coin now, and she
was not sure that she had ever seen one. In reply to that, Mr. Dene said
he had one by him, given him by an old uncle some years before; and he
went upstairs and brought it down to show to her. There could be no
mistake, Maria added to Mr. Whitewicker, who wanted to insinuate a word
of doubt, and her sweet brown eyes were honest and true as she said it;
she had touched the guinea and held it in her hand for some moments.
"Held it and touched it, did you, Miss Parslet?" retorted Lawyer
Standup. "Pray what appearance had it?"
"It was a thin, worn coin, sir," replied Maria; "thinner, I think, than
a sovereign, but somewhat larger; it seemed to be worn thin at the
edge."
"Whose image was on it?--what king's?"
"George the Third's. I noticed that."
"Now don't you think, young lady, that the accused took this marvellous
coin from his pocket, instead of from some receptacle above stairs?"
went on Mr. Standup.
"I am quite sure he did not take it from his pocket when before me,"
answered Maria. "He ran upstairs quickly, saying he would fetch the
guinea: he had nothing in his hands then."
Upon this Lawyer Chance inquired of his learned brother why he need
waste time in useless questions; begging to remind him that it was not
until Wednesday morning the box disappeared, so the prisoner could not
well have had any of its contents about him on Tuesday.
"Just let my questions alone, will you," retorted Mr. Standup, with a
nod. "I know what I am about. Now, Miss Parslet, please attend to me.
Was the guinea you profess to have seen a perfect coin, or was there a
hole in it?"
"It was a perfect coin, sir."
"And what became of it?"
"I think Mr. Dene put it in his waistcoat-pocket: I did not particularly
notice. Quite close upon that, my father came home, and we sat down to
tea. No, sir, nothing was said to my father about the guinea; if it was,
I did not hear it. But he and Mr. Dene talked of the box of guineas that
had been found."
"Who was it that called while you were at tea?"
"Young Mr. Chance called. We had finished tea then, and Mr. Dene took
him upstairs to his own sitting-room."
"I am not asking you about young Mr. Chance; we shall come to him
presently," was the rough-toned, but not ill-natured retort. "Somebody
else called: who was it?"
Maria, blushing and paling ever since she stood up to the ordeal, grew
white now. Mr. Badger had called at the door, she answered, and Mr. Dene
went out to speak to him. Worried by Lawyer Standup as to whether he did
not come to ask for money, she said she believed so, but she did not
hear all they said.
Quiet Mr. Parslet was the next witness. He had to acknowledge that he
did hear it. Mr. Badger appeared to be pressing for some money owing to
him; could not tell the amount, knew nothing about that. When questioned
whether the accused owed him money, Parslet said not a shilling; Mr.
Dene had never sought to borrow of him, and had paid his monthly
accounts regularly.
Upon that, Mr. Badger was produced; a thin man with a neck as stiff as a
poker; who gave his reluctant testimony in a sweet tone of benevolence.
Mr. Dene had been borrowing money from him for some time; somewhere
about twenty pounds, he thought, was owing now, including interest. He
had repeatedly asked for its repayment, but only got put off with (as he
believed) lame excuses. Had certainly gone to ask for it on the Tuesday
evening; was neither loud nor angry, oh dear, no; but did tell the
accused he thought he could give him some if he would, and did say that
he must have a portion of it within a week, or he should apply to Mr.
Jacobson, of Elm Farm. Did not really mean to apply to Mr. Jacobson,
had no wish to do any one an injury, but felt vexed at the young man's
off-handedness, which looked like indifference. Knew besides that Mr.
Dene had other debts.
Now I'll leave you to judge how this evidence struck on the ears of old
Jacobson. He leaped to the conclusion that Sam had been going all sorts
of ways, as he supposed he went when in London, and might be owing, the
mischief only knew how much money; and he shook his fist at Sam across
the justice-room.
Mr. Standup next called young Chance, quite to young Chance's surprise;
perhaps also to his father's. He was questioned upon no end of
things--whether he did not know that the accused was owing a great deal
of money, and whether the accused had shown any guinea to him when
he was in Edgar Street on the Tuesday night. Austin answered that he
believed Mr. Dene owed a little money, not a great deal, so far as he
knew; and that he had not seen the guinea or heard of it. And in saying
all this, Austin's tone was just as resentfully insolent to Mr. Standup
as he dared to make it.
Well, it is of no use to go on categorically with the day's proceedings.
When they came to an end, the magistrates conferred pretty hotly in a
low tone amongst themselves, some apparently taking up one opinion,
as to Sam's guilt, or innocence, and some the other. At length they
announced their decision, and it was as follows.
"Although the case undoubtedly presents grave grounds of suspicion
against the accused, Samson Reginald Dene--'Very grave indeed,'
interjected Mr. Whitewicker, solemnly--we do not consider them to be
sufficient to commit him for trial upon; therefore, we give him the
benefit of the doubt, and discharge him. Should any further evidence
transpire, he can be brought up again."
"It was Maria Parslet's testimony about the guinea that cleared him,"
whispered the crowd, as they filed out.
And I think it must have been. It was just impossible to doubt her
truth, or the earnestness with which she gave it.
Mr. Jacobson "interviewed" Sam, as the Americans say, and the interview
was not a loving one. Being in the mood, he said anything that came
uppermost. He forbade Sam to appear at Elm Farm ever again, as "long as
oak and ash grew;" and he added that as Sam was bent on going to the
deuce head foremost, he might do it upon his own means, but that he'd
never get any more help from him.
The way the Squire lashed up Bob and Blister when driving home--for,
liking Sam hitherto, he was just as much put out as old Jacobson--and
the duet they kept together in abuse of his misdeeds, was edifying to
hear. Tod laughed; I did not. The gig was given over this return journey
to the two grooms.
"I do not believe Sam took the box, sir," I said to old Jacobson,
interrupting a fiery oration.
He turned round to stare at me. "What do you say, Johnny Ludlow? _You do
not believe he took the box?_"
"Well, to me it seems quite plain that he did not take it. I've hardly
ever felt more sure of anything."
"Plain!" struck in the Squire. "How is it plain, Johnny? What grounds do
you go upon?"
"I judge by his looks and his tones, sir, when denying it. They are to
be trusted."
They did not know whether to laugh or scoff at me. It was Johnny's way,
said the Squire; always fancying he could read the riddles in a man's
face and voice. But they'd have thrown up their two best market-going
hats with glee to be able to think it true.