"Call Lady Beltham!"
It was a perfect May day, and everyone who could pretend, on any
conceivable ground, to belong to "Paris" had schemed and intrigued to
obtain admission to a trial over which public opinion had been excited
for months: the trial of Gurn for the murder of Lord Beltham,
ex-Ambassador and foremost man of fashion, whose murder, two years
before, had caused a great sensation.
The preliminary formalities of the trial had furnished nothing to tickle
the palates of the sensation-loving crowd. The indictment had been
almost inaudible, and, besides, it contained nothing that had not
already been made public by the Press. Nor had the examination of the
prisoner been any more interesting; Gurn sat, strangely impassive, in
the dock between two municipal guards, and hardly listened to his
counsel, the eminent Maître Barberoux, who was assisted by a galaxy of
juniors, including young Roger de Seras. Moreover, Gurn had frankly
confessed his guilt almost immediately after his arrest. There was not
much for him to add to what he had said before, although the President
of the Court pressed him as to some points which were still not
satisfactorily clear with respect to his own identity, and the motives
which had prompted him to commit his crime, and, subsequently, to pay
that most risky visit to Lady Beltham, at the close of which Juve had
effected his arrest.
But Lady Beltham's evidence promised to be much more interesting. Rumour
had been busy for a long time with the great lady and her feelings, and
odd stories were being whispered. She was said to be beautiful, wealthy
and charitable; people said, under their breath, that she must know a
good deal about the murder of her spouse, and when she made her
appearance in the box a sudden hush fell upon the crowded court. She
was, indeed, a most appealing figure, robed in long black weeds, young,
graceful, and very pale, so sympathetic a figure that scandal was
forgotten in the general tense desire to hear her answers to the
President of the Court.
Following the usher to the witness-box, she took off her gloves as
desired, and, in a voice that trembled slightly but was beautifully
modulated, repeated the words of the oath, with her right hand raised
the while. Noticing her agitation, the President mitigated somewhat the
harshness of the tone in which he generally spoke to witnesses.
"Pray compose yourself, madame. I am sorry to be obliged to subject you
to this examination, but the interests of Justice require it. Come now:
you are Lady Beltham, widow of the late Lord Beltham, of English
nationality, residing in Paris, at your own house in Neuilly?"
"Yes."
"Will you kindly turn round, madame, and tell me if you know the
prisoner in the dock?"
Lady Beltham obeyed mechanically; she glanced at Gurn, who paled a
little, and answered the President.
"Yes, I know the prisoner; his name is Gurn."
"Very good, madame. Can you tell me first of all how you came to be
acquainted with him?"
"When my husband was in South Africa, at the time of the Boer War, Gurn
was a sergeant in the regular army. It was then that I first met him."
"Did you know him well at that time?"
Lady Beltham seemed to be unable to prevent herself from casting long
glances at the prisoner; she appeared to be almost hypnotised and
frightened by his close proximity.
"I saw very little of Gurn in the Transvaal," she answered. "It was just
by chance that I learned his name, but of course the difference between
his own rank and my husband's position made the relations that I could
have with a mere sergeant very limited indeed."
"Yes, Gurn was a sergeant," the President said. "And after the war,
madame, did you see the prisoner again?"
"Yes, immediately after the war; my husband and I went to England by the
same boat on which Gurn went home."
"Did you see much of him on board?"
"No; we were first-class passengers, and he, I believe, went second. It
was just by accident that my husband caught sight of him soon after the
boat sailed."
The President paused and made a note.
"Were those all the relations your husband had with the prisoner?"
"They are at any rate all the relations I had with him," Lady Beltham
replied in tones of some distress; "but I know that my husband employed
Gurn on several occasions, to help him in various affairs and matters of
business."
"Thank you," said the President; "we will return to that point
presently. Meanwhile there is one question I should like to ask you. If
you had met the prisoner in the street a few months ago, should you have
recognised him? Was his face still distinct in your memory, or had it
become blurred and vague?"
Lady Beltham hesitated, then answered confidently.
"I am sure I should not have recognised him; and some proof of this is,
that just before his arrest was effected I was conversing with the
prisoner for several minutes, without having the faintest idea that the
poor man with whom I imagined I had to do was no other than the man Gurn
for whom the police were looking."
The President nodded, and Maître Barberoux leaned forward and spoke
eagerly to his client in the dock. But the President continued
immediately.
"You must forgive me, madame, for putting a question that may seem
rather brutal, and also for reminding you of your oath to tell us the
entire truth. Did you love your husband?"
Lady Beltham quivered and was silent for a moment, as though
endeavouring to frame a right answer.
"Lord Beltham was much older than myself----," she began, and then,
perceiving the meaning implicit in her words, she added: "I had the very
highest esteem for him, and a very real affection."
A cynical smile curled the lip of the President, and he glanced at the
jury as though asking them to pay still closer attention.
"Do you know why I put that question to you?" he asked, and as Lady
Beltham confessed her ignorance he went on: "It has been suggested,
madame, by a rumour which is very generally current in the newspapers
and among people generally, that the prisoner may possibly have been
greatly enamoured of you: that perhaps--well, is there any truth in
this?"
As he spoke the President bent forward, and his eyes seemed to pierce
right through Lady Beltham.
"It is a wicked calumny," she protested, turning very pale.
Throughout the proceedings Gurn had been sitting in an attitude of
absolute indifference, almost of scorn; but now he rose to his feet and
uttered a defiant protest.
"Sir," he said to the President of the Court, "I desire to say publicly
here that I have the most profound and unalterable respect for Lady
Beltham. Anyone who has given currency to the malignant rumour you refer
to, is a liar. I have confessed that I killed Lord Beltham, and I do not
retract that confession, but I never made any attempt upon his honour,
and no word, nor look, nor deed has ever passed between Lady Beltham and
myself, that might not have passed before Lord Beltham's own eyes."
The President looked sharply at the prisoner.
"Then tell me what your motive was in murdering your victim."
"I have told you already! Lady Beltham is not to be implicated in my
deed in any way! I had constant business dealings with Lord Beltham; I
asked him, over the telephone, to come to my place one day. He came. We
had an animated discussion; he got warm and I answered angrily; then I
lost control of myself and in a moment of madness I killed him! I am
profoundly sorry for my crime and stoop to crave pardon for it; but I
cannot tolerate the suggestion that the murder I committed was in the
remotest way due to sentimental relations with a lady who is, I repeat,
entitled to the very highest respect from the whole world."
A murmur of sympathy ran through the court at this chivalrous
declaration, by which the jury, who had not missed a word, seemed to be
entirely convinced. But the President was trained to track truth in
detail, and he turned again to Lady Beltham who still stood in the
witness-box, very pale, and swaying with distress.
"You must forgive me if I attach no importance to a mere assertion,
madame. The existence of some relations between yourself and the
prisoner, which delicacy would prompt him to conceal, and honour would
compel you to deny, would alter the whole aspect of this case." He
turned to the usher. "Recall Mme. Doulenques, please."
Mme. Doulenques considered it a tremendous honour to be called as
witness in a trial with which the press was ringing, and was
particularly excited because she had just been requested to pose for her
photograph by a representative of her own favourite paper. She followed
the usher to where Lady Beltham stood.
"You told us just now, Mme. Doulenques," the President said suavely,
"that your lodger, Gurn, often received visits from a lady friend. You
also said that if this lady were placed before you, you would certainly
recognise her. Now will you kindly look at the lady in the box: is this
the same person?"
Mme. Doulenques, crimson with excitement, and nervously twisting in her
hands a huge pair of white gloves which she had bought for this
occasion, looked curiously at Lady Beltham.
"Upon my word I can't be sure that this is the lady," she said after
quite a long pause.
"But you were so certain of your facts just now," the President smiled
encouragingly.
"But I can't see the lady very well, with all those veils on," Mme.
Doulenques protested.
Lady Beltham did not wait for the request which the President would
inevitably have made, but haughtily put back her veil.
"Do you recognise me now?" she said coldly.
The scorn in her tone upset Mme. Doulenques. She looked again at Lady
Beltham and turned instinctively as if to ask enlightenment from Gurn,
whose face, however, was expressionless, and then replied:
"It's just what I told you before, your worship: I can't be sure; I
couldn't swear to it."
"But you think she is?"
"You know, your worship," Mme. Doulenques protested, "I took an oath
just now to tell the truth, and nothing but the truth; so I don't want
to tell any stories; well, this lady might be the same lady, and again
she mightn't be."
"In other words, you cannot give a definite answer."
"That's it," said the concierge. "I don't know; I can't swear. This lady
is like the other lady--there's a sort of family likeness between
them----, but at the moment I do not exactly recognise her; it's much
too serious!"
Mme. Doulenques would willingly have continued to give evidence for ever
and a day, but the President cut her short.
"Very well; thank you," he said, and dismissed her with the usher,
turning again meanwhile to Lady Beltham.
"Will you kindly tell me now what your personal opinion is as to the
relative culpability of the prisoner? Of course you understand that he
has confessed to the crime, and your answer will bear chiefly on the
motive that may have actuated him."
Lady Beltham appeared to have recovered some of her confidence.
"I cannot say anything definite, can only express a very vague feeling
about the matter. I know my husband was quick-tempered, very
quick-tempered, and even violent; and his peremptory temper predisposed
him to positive convictions. He maintained what he considered his rights
at all times and against all comers; if, as the prisoner says, there was
a heated discussion, I should not be surprised if my husband did make
use of arguments that might have provoked anger."
The President gently gave a clearer turn to the phrase she used.
"So, in your opinion, the prisoner's version of the story is quite
permissible? You admit that Lord Beltham and his murderer may have had a
heated discussion, as a consequence of which Gurn committed this crime?
That is your honest belief?"
"Yes," Lady Beltham answered, trying to control her voice; "I believe
that that may be what took place. And then, it is the only way in which
I can find the least excuse for the crime this man Gurn committed."
The President picked up the word, in astonishment.
"Do you want to find excuses for him, madame?"
Lady Beltham stood erect, and looked at the President.
"It is written that to pardon is the first duty of good Christians. It
is true that I have mourned my husband, but the punishment of his
murderer will not dry my tears; I ought to forgive him, bow beneath the
burden that is laid upon my soul: and I do forgive him!"
Ghastly pale, Gurn was staring at Lady Beltham from the dock; and this
time his emotion was so visible that all the jury noticed it. The
President held a brief colloquy with his colleagues, asked the
prisoner's counsel whether he desired to put any questions to the
witness, and, receiving a reply in the negative, dismissed Lady Beltham
with a word of thanks, and announced that the Court would adjourn.
Immediately a hum of conversation broke out in the warm and sunny court;
barristers in their robes moved from group to group, criticising,
explaining, prophesying; and in their seats the world of beauty and
fashion bowed and smiled and gossiped.
"She's uncommonly pretty, this Lady Beltham," one young lawyer said,
"and she's got a way of answering questions without compromising
herself, and yet without throwing blame on the prisoner, that is
uncommonly clever."
"You are all alike, you men," said a pretty, perfectly dressed woman in
mocking tones; "if a woman is young, and hasn't got a hump on her back,
and has a charming voice, your sympathies are with her at once! Oh, yes,
they are! Now shall I tell you what your Lady Beltham really is? Well,
she is nothing more nor less than a barnstormer! She knew well enough
how to get on the soft side of the judge, who was quite ridiculously
amiable to her, and to capture the sympathy of the Court. I think it was
outrageous to declare that she had married a man who was too old for
her, and to say that she felt nothing but esteem for him!"
"There's an admission!" the young barrister laughed. "_Vive l'amour_,
eh? And _mariages de convenance_ are played out, eh?"
On another bench a little further away, a clean-shaven man with a highly
intelligent face was talking animatedly.
"Bosh! Your Lady Beltham is anything you like: what do I care for Lady
Beltham? I shall never play women's parts, shall I? She does not stand
for anything. But Gurn, now! There's a type, if you like! What an
interesting, characteristic face! He has the head of the assassin of
genius, with perfect mastery of self, implacable, cruel, malignant, a
Torquemada of a man!"
"Your enthusiasm is running away with you," someone laughed.
"I don't care! It is so seldom one comes across figures in a city that
really are figures, entities. That man is not an assassin: he is The
Assassin--the Type!"
Two ladies, sitting close to this enthusiast, had been listening keenly
to this diatribe.
"Do you know who that is?" one whispered to the other. "That is
Valgrand, the actor," and they turned their lorgnettes on the actor who
was waxing more animated every moment.
A bell rang, and, heralded by the usher proclaiming silence, the judges
returned to the bench and the jury to their box. The President cast an
eagle eye over the court, compelling silence, and then resumed the
proceedings.
"Next witness: call M. Juve!"