THE TRIAL.
A thick, murky fog hung over London on the morning of Alec Lindsay’s
trial. Waves of chill mist rolled up from the river, and met the
sulphurous vapours which filled the air. The sun was not visible at
all. In every street and building gas was flaming, as if it had been
midnight. Rain or snow would have been a relief from the stifling
yellow vapour; but neither fell. The cold, clammy, omnipresent fog
reigned supreme.
As it happened, Hubert Blake had slept at his uncle’s the night before.
He had, of course, determined to be present at the trial; and when he
came down to breakfast, an hour earlier than usual, he was surprised
to see that both Sophy Meredith and Miss Elmwood were dressed ready to
go out.
‘You are not thinking of shopping on a day like this?’ asked Hubert in
some surprise.
‘No, indeed,’ answered Sophy, almost indignantly. ‘We are going to the
court.’
Blake said no more at the time; but when Miss Elmwood had left the
breakfast-room to put on her bonnet, he returned to the subject.
‘I really think you had better stay at home,’ he said, in a
matter-of-fact way. ‘It is quite unnecessary for you to be there, and
it may be a very painful scene.’
Sophy’s fingers were trembling nervously, as she played with the
sugar-tongs. She was obliged to fold her hands, and pause for a second
or two before she answered:
‘I think, if there is ever a time when one should stand by one’s
friends, it is when they are----’
And then she stopped, as if she could not trust herself to say more.
‘Yes, of course; but, you see, you can’t do Lindsay any good by going;
probably he won’t even know you are there. It is not as if you were a
relation of his.’
It was all true enough; and Sophy felt only too keenly that her action
would seem ridiculous; yet she was none the less determined to go.
She had nothing to say in reply, and sat searching her mind for some
excuse, while the tears that would no longer be restrained rapidly
filled her eyes.
Blake saw her agitation with surprise.
‘I had no idea she was so tender-hearted,’ was his first thought. ‘Can
it be that--that Lindsay is something more than a friend to her?’ was
his second. ‘She is older than he is, but not so very much older, after
all. It would not be so very surprising, if it were so. It would
be----’
Then his thoughts became more vague. He could not imagine what his
uncle’s house would be like without Sophy as its mistress. There would
be no one to chat to about his pictures, no one to whom he could bring
the gossip of the little world of artists to which he had returned. As
for the wandering, unsettled life he had been living the year before,
he thought of it now with positive disgust. Yes; if Sophy were to go
out of his life, she would leave a sad blank behind.
He did not stop to consider on what a slender foundation he was thus
constructing the future. Sophy was surprised at his silence, and
glanced at him timidly. He seemed lost in reflection; then suddenly
looking up, their eyes met. He was astonished that she looked so
beautiful. He had never thought of her as pretty before; but indeed
the tender light in her eyes, and the faint colour coming suddenly into
her pale cheeks would have made a far plainer face seem fair.
‘Don’t you think we had better be going?’ said Hubert, in a gentle
tone. ‘The court may be crowded; and we may find a difficulty in
getting seats.’
Sophy rose and left the room without saying anything more.
The fog detained the party from Highgate, so that when they reached
the court it was with difficulty that Blake could find seats for his
friends. To Sophy the scene was so new and strange, and the effect of
the fog so bewildering, that in spite of the gas jets flaring here and
there it was some time before she could make out anything distinctly.
By degrees she distinguished the Judge in his ermine-trimmed gown, the
City dignitaries in their robes of office, the officials of the court
on their raised seats under the bench, and the empty jury-box. But the
object which fascinated her was the high, spiked iron railing which
surrounded a wide space in the centre of the court, facing the bench.
That, she knew, was the dock.
It was tenanted by one person, a woman, a forlorn-looking creature,
with a dirty shawl thrown over her bare head. On either side of her,
but a little behind, stood a policeman. For some minutes after Sophy
and her companions took their seats, there was perfect silence in the
building, so that they wondered what the reason could be. Then the
voice of the Judge broke the stillness.
‘The sentence of the court is that you be kept in penal servitude for
the period of seven years.’
Sophy did not know what the woman’s offence had been, but the
punishment seemed terrible; and as the poor creature, who had
evidently not expected so long a term, broke out into cries, oaths, and
imprecations, Sophy shuddered, and was almost moved to tears. To the
Judge, to the barristers, the police, and the other officials, it was
only part of the ordinary routine of their lives. To the gentle woman
who had lived in shelter all her days, the sight of this sister-woman’s
face, coarse, bloated, distorted by passion and despair, was like a
glimpse into a world of which she had never even dreamed--a world in
which blessings were exchanged for curses, tender thoughts for the fury
of selfish passions, and liberty for bondage.
As the woman was led down a staircase inside the dock, which
communicated with the cells, the clerk of the arraigns and the counsel
on the front row were exchanging a few words. And in another moment the
clerk called out:
‘Bring up Alexander Lindsay!’
A subdued rustle of excitement passed through the court, and every eye
was turned to the dock. In another moment Alec had taken his place,
calm and self-possessed, but very pale. The first thing he saw was his
father’s face. The old man was sitting at the solicitor’s table, facing
the dock, with Margaret by his side. No emotion of any kind was visible
on his features; but Alec fancied--probably it was only his fancy--that
a look of reproach was in his eyes. Margaret, unable to meet her
brother’s gaze, was looking stedfastly at the table in front of her.
Opposite her sat Beattie; and behind him, with his back to Alec, sat
Mr. Corker, who had, of course, been instructed for the defence.
As the clerk was reading the indictment, Alec’s eyes were fixed on the
ledge in front of him. He knew that Duncan Cameron was somewhere in the
building; and the thought comforted him. Then, somehow, he fell to
thinking of his College-days; and was only recalled from his reverie
when the clerk’s voice was raised to ask him:
‘How say you, Alexander Lindsay; are you guilty, or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty.’
Then the clerk proceeded to swear in the jury; and then Mr.
Collithorne, Q.C., rose to open the case for the Crown.
Mr. Collithorne was famed at the bar for his ‘deadly moderation’ as a
prosecuting counsel. Never raising his voice, over-stating nothing,
admitting beforehand the facts on which he knew the defence would be
based, his words had with the jury the weight which attaches to the
utterances of a Judge rather than that which belongs to the speech of
an advocate.
‘May it please your worship,’ he began. ‘Gentlemen of the jury, this
is a very painful case, and one which well deserves that close and
careful attention which I am sure you will bestow upon it. Fortunately
the facts are few and simple. The prisoner is a grand-nephew of the
late Mr. James Lindsay, who, as some of you may know, was a very
wealthy man. Some time before his death, Mr. Lindsay conceived the idea
of bequeathing by his will a large sum of money, no less than half a
million sterling, to the religious body of which he was a member, the
Free Church of Scotland. He talked over that intention with an old
friend of his, the Reverend Dr. Mackenzie, of Glasgow; and (though that
is not really important to the matter in hand) Dr. Mackenzie will tell
you that he neither suggested this idea to Mr. Lindsay nor in any way
pressed him to make this bequest.
‘Having settled in his mind the disposition which he intended to
make of his property, Mr. Lindsay sent to his solicitors, asking
them to call and take instructions for his will. His solicitors were
Messrs. Hatchett, Small, and Hatchett, a most respectable firm; and I
must tell you that the prisoner was at that time a clerk in Messrs.
Hatchett’s office. Well, the solicitors sent their managing clerk, a
Mr. Beattie, to take Mr. Lindsay’s instructions. We have subpœnaed this
Mr. Beattie; and I have no doubt he will tell you that Mr. Lindsay
distinctly informed him that the bequest to the Free Church of Scotland
was to be five hundred thousand pounds. The paper on which these
instructions were written by Mr. Beattie was sent to Mr. Lindsay with
the draft-will, and was not returned by him. It was not found among the
testator’s papers. Probably Mr. Lindsay, thinking that it was of no
importance, destroyed it.’
Mr. Collithorne then went on to speak of Mr. Lindsay’s request that
his nephew should personally prepare his will, and of the fact that the
prisoner actually did write the draft with his own hand. ‘That fact,
gentlemen,’ he continued, ‘will hardly be disputed; and if it is not
admitted I will prove it to you by unimpeachable evidence. The draft
itself, as well as the man who engrossed it, has disappeared. It ought
to have been found with other drafts of a like nature in the prisoner’s
room. It has been searched for, and cannot be found. But while it was
in Mr. Lindsay’s possession, before he returned it to the solicitors to
be engrossed, it was seen and read by Dr. Mackenzie, whom I shall place
in the box before you. He will tell you, gentlemen, that it was in the
prisoner’s handwriting, and that it contained a bequest of five hundred
thousand pounds to certain trustees for the Free Church of Scotland.
He will tell you that he read it most carefully, and that the sum was
written both in figures and in words. The draft was sent back on the
very night it arrived, Dr. Mackenzie posting it with his own hand.
‘Now, gentlemen, it is a singular fact, that, so far as we have been
able to learn, not a single individual in Messrs. Hatchett’s office
saw that draft, except the prisoner and a clerk named MacGowan, who
engrossed the will; and the theory of the prosecution is, that before
handing the draft to MacGowan to engross the prisoner struck out of it
the all-important word “hundred,” so that the bequest should run “five
thousand pounds” only. Inquiries for this clerk, MacGowan, have been
made in all directions; but from the day he engrossed that will he
never turned up at the office; he disappeared from his lodgings on the
following day, and has not since been heard of.
‘We come now to the actual execution of the will. It was brought to
Mr. Lindsay’s house by the prisoner. It was read over to the testator
by the prisoner; and, in reading it, the prisoner inserted the word
“hundred,” which was not in the will, before the word “thousand,” thus
leading his uncle, the testator, to imagine that the will was really in
accordance with his intentions. This fact will be proved to you on the
evidence of Dr. Mackenzie; and it will be for you to judge whether he
could possibly be mistaken on a point of such importance, a point on
which his attention would naturally be fixed.
‘It is only right that I should tell you, gentlemen,’ continued the
barrister, ‘that there was one other person in the room when the will
was read besides the testator, the prisoner, and the witness I have
named. And you may be surprised to hear that this person does not bear
out the statement which the Reverend Mr. Mackenzie will make on oath
before you, as to what the prisoner did actually read from the will.’
Here Mr. Corker interposed, and said something in an angry tone to Mr.
Collithorne.
‘Perhaps my friend is right, gentlemen,’ said the Queen’s Counsel,
majestically waving the Old Bailey barrister back into his seat. ‘It
may be better for him to deal with his own witness, if he should think
it worth while to call him. You will understand, gentlemen, later on,
the reason of my learned friend’s interposition.
‘As I said at the commencement of my observations, this is a painful
case. I do not remember that, in all my experience, I have had to
do with a prosecution in which one’s natural sympathies would be
more strongly excited in favour of the prisoner. His youth and his
character, hitherto blameless, will naturally and properly tell in
his favour. It would only be natural, also, if you found yourselves
sympathizing with the keen feelings of disappointment with which
a young man would hear of an intention on the part of an uncle to
alienate the greater part of his fortune from those who may reasonably
have looked forward to inheriting it. But these sympathies you are, for
the present, bound to forget. Your one thought must be--Did the accused
commit the offence with which he is charged? As to the motive for the
crime, you must remember that the prisoner is one of the residuary
legatees under the will; in other words, the alteration in the legacy
would put the sum of two hundred and forty-seven thousand five hundred
pounds into the prisoner’s pocket. Crimes much more serious than this
have been committed ere now for the tenth part of such a sum, by men
who had, up to the moment of temptation, led innocent lives. If you
can, after hearing the evidence, entertain a reasonable, a serious
doubt of the prisoner’s guilt, you will, of course, let him have the
benefit of it. But if the facts as proved point irresistibly, in your
opinion, to the conclusion that the offence of which he is accused was
committed by him, it will be your duty--however painful that duty may
be--to say so by your verdict.’
A faint rustle passed over the court as Mr. Collithorne sat down.
Cameron, who from his corner could see the faces of the jurymen,
noticed that they wore a very serious look. And Alec? He knew that the
counsel for the Crown had spoken nothing but the truth; and his heart
died within him. He felt that his character was ruined irretrievably in
the eyes of the world. He could almost have wished that the formalities
of the trial could be omitted and sentence pronounced at once, that he
might hide himself from the cold and curious eyes around him in the
quiet seclusion of his cell.
The first witnesses called were the servants who had witnessed the
will. The junior counsel for the Crown, a young gentleman with a very
new wig and a very nervous manner, asked them the necessary questions,
and Mr. Corker did not think it worth while to cross-examine them.
‘Call Mr. William Beattie,’ said Mr. Collithorne, and that gentleman
rose from his seat at the solicitors’ table, and slowly made his way
to the witness-box. As he did so, Mr. Corker broke into a lively
argument--nominally addressed to the Judge, but really aimed at the
jury--on the lawfulness of the Crown calling the managing clerk of
the defendant’s solicitor as a witness. The Judge, however, ruled--as
Mr. Corker quite expected that he would rule--that Mr. Beattie might
be questioned as to matters which came to his knowledge before the
relationship of attorney and client began, and Mr. Beattie was sworn.
Speaking in a low but clear tone, Mr. Beattie said, in answer to Mr.
Collithorne’s questions, that he had received instructions from the
late Mr. Lindsay as to his will; that these instructions included a
legacy of five hundred thousand pounds to the Free Church of Scotland;
that, in accordance with Mr. Hatchett’s directions, he handed the paper
on which these instructions were jotted down to the defendant; and,
finally, that the missing draft had been searched for in the prisoner’s
room and in the office generally, and had not been found.
‘One word more, Mr. Beattie,’ said Mr. Collithorne; ‘at that time was
there a clerk in Messrs. Hatchett’s office named MacGowan?’
‘There was.’
‘Look at the will. In whose handwriting is it?’
‘In his handwriting--MacGowan’s.’
‘Did he return to the office after he engrossed that will?’
‘He did not. When he did not come back that afternoon, a letter was
written dismissing him.’
‘What was his character?’
‘I know nothing against his character, except that he was unsteady. He
would have been dismissed before, but----’
‘Yes. But what?’
‘But Mr. Lindsay interceded for him, and the offence was overlooked.’
‘You mean the prisoner?’
‘Yes.’
A subdued murmur ran round the court as these words were spoken. Then
there was a silence.
‘That was months before,’ added Mr. Beattie; but the impression had
already been created that there had been a friendship or, at least, a
relationship of patronage on the one side, and gratitude on the other,
between the man who was now alleged to have altered the draft, and the
man who, after engrossing the will from it, had suddenly disappeared.
Then Mr. Collithorne sat down, and Mr. Corker got up.
‘Did Mr. Lindsay express any hesitation when he said that he wished to
leave so large a sum to the Free Church?’
‘Not in words.’
‘In any other way?’
‘By his manner he did. He spoke in a hesitating way, as if he had
hardly made up his mind.’
‘Judging from his manner, did you expect that he would perhaps alter
these instructions?’ asked the Judge.
‘I quite expected it, my lord.’
Mr. Corker looked hard at the jury, to see that they paid due attention
to this answer, and then proceeded:
‘Now, as to the search for the draft. The drafts made in your office
are kept in a sort of book-case, I believe--a book-case fitted up with
pigeon-holes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And this receptacle stands in Mr. Lindsay’s room?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is not kept locked?’
‘No. Anyone in the office may have access to it.’
‘I suppose, Mr. Beattie, papers do get lost occasionally, even in an
office so well regulated as yours?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And sometimes, after a long time perhaps, they turn up again?’
‘Sometimes that happens, certainly.’
‘It seems almost an impertinence to Mr. Lindsay to put the question,
but I believe that he came to your office with high recommendations,
and that until this affair his character was blameless?’
‘Absolutely without reproach; and I may say that I do not for a moment
believe----’
‘You are not asked anything about your belief, sir,’ said the Judge
sternly.
Mr. Beattie fully anticipated the rebuke; but he had accomplished his
purpose. He had let the jury and the whole court see that he was doing
what he could for the prisoner. And yet now, for the first time, a
doubt as to Beattie’s integrity crossed Alec Lindsay’s mind. He seemed
too cool, too calm and collected, to be sincere. It looked as if he
were performing a part which had been rehearsed beforehand. ‘Can it
be all his doing?’ The thought flashed through Alec’s mind only to be
rejected. He could not see how Beattie could have interfered in the
matter, even had he wished to do so.
Mr. Hatchett was the next witness, but he was put into the box chiefly
to give the junior counsel his turn, so that the examination of the
important witness, Dr. Mackenzie, might fall to Mr. Collithorne,
without a violation of the rule that senior counsel and junior shall
take the witnesses alternately.
The minister was examined very minutely; the Judge’s note of his
evidence was as follows:
‘I am a minister of the Free Church of Scotland. In the autumn of last
year I came to London to see the testator, who was an old friend of
mine. He declared to me his intention of leaving the sum of half a
million sterling to the Church to which I belong. I did not suggest his
doing so. I did not in any way urge him to do it. Nor did I disapprove
of the bequest. One or two days after that, he put a paper in my hands,
and told me it was the draft of his will. It was in the prisoner’s
handwriting. The prisoner had written to me before this, and I knew
his handwriting. The bequest mentioned in it to the Free Church of
Scotland was five hundred thousand pounds. It was written in words and
also in figures--first in words and then in figures. That I swear.
‘I was present at the execution of the will. The prisoner brought it.
That is the will, so far as I can judge. I did not examine it. The
prisoner read it aloud, at the testator’s request. He read the bequest
‘five hundred thousand pounds.’ He read slowly and distinctly. I paid
particular attention to that part of the will. No one was present
except the testator, the prisoner, Mr. James Semple, who, I believe,
is also a grand-nephew of the deceased, and myself. The servants who
witnessed it did not hear it read over. The testator expressed his
satisfaction with the will as it was read to him.
‘When the prisoner finished reading the will, he left the room for a
short time. I believe some one called to see him. He did not take the
will away with him. He left it with the deceased. I think he laid it
on the bed. I did not look at it, nor touch it. When he returned the
servants were called in, and the will was signed.’
As the minister ceased speaking, a sound ran round the court, as of
long-drawn inspirations. Then a slight buzz of conversation arose.
Every man looked at his neighbour and smiled, and then looked at the
prisoner.
Alec’s pale face was set, and his eyes fixed on the minister.
Sophy shuddered, and felt bewildered. She was not surprised that a girl
sitting beside her whom she did not know gave a half-hysterical sob.
The girl was Laura Mowbray. She was at that moment suffering something
like agony. She saw that Alec was about to be condemned. She believed
that her evidence might save him. Yet she dared not speak. She knew
not what the consequences might be to herself, if she confessed that
she had meddled with the will. She might even be accused of the fraud,
and tried herself; and she shuddered at the thought.
Then Mr. Corker rose to cross-examine the witness.
‘You approved of this singular bequest, Mr. Mackenzie?’
‘I did not disapprove of it.’
The minister looked at the barrister disdainfully for an instant,
and then turned his eyes back to the Judge, whom he had addressed
throughout.
‘It would have been a very fine thing for you if it had been carried
out, eh?’
‘The bequest was not to me.’
‘Look at me, sir, and answer my questions in a straightforward manner!’
shouted Mr. Corker.
Dr. Mackenzie mutely appealed to the Judge for protection; but his
lordship contented himself with pointing in Mr. Corker’s direction with
the feather of his pen.
‘I know very well the bequest was not to you; but it would have been a
very good thing for you if it had been half a million instead of five
thousand pounds, wouldn’t it?’
‘I was to be secretary to the trust,’ answered the minister, after a
pause.
‘Exactly. For nothing, eh? Come now.’
‘I could not be expected to devote a large portion of my time to work
of that kind for nothing.’
‘Of course not. You expected that it would be a snug little berth for
you?’
The minister did not answer.
‘You foresaw this when Mr. Lindsay declared his intention of making
this bequest, did you not?’
‘I knew that I was to be the secretary.’
‘So that, so far from your coming here as a pure, impartial,
disinterested witness, as my friend would have had the jury believe,
you----’
Here Alec leaned over the edge of the dock, caught the speaker by his
gown, and whispered something energetically into his ear.
‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Mr. Corker, shaking off his client’s grasp.
‘Now, just listen to me, sir,’ he began.
‘My lord,’ said Alec, ‘I may say at once that Mr. Mackenzie is only
telling the truth. I believe I _did_ read “five hundred thousand
pounds.”’
There was a silence, then a murmur of astonishment.
‘You had better be quiet, and leave your case to your counsel,’ said
the Judge in a stern voice.
Mr. Corker had indignantly thrown down his brief; but a few words from
the Judge persuaded him to take it up again.
‘Your lordship will excuse me for a few moments,’ he said, as he turned
to consult with Mr. Beattie on the change which Alec’s interposition
had rendered necessary in the defence.
The defence had to be altered suddenly, at the critical moment. Mr.
Corker’s intention had been to maintain that Mr. Lindsay had changed
his mind, and had given private instructions to his nephew to prepare
a will leaving only five thousand pounds to the Free Church. He had
resolved to rely on Semple’s evidence to neutralize, or at least to
weaken, the effect produced by Dr. Mackenzie’s statement. But the
prisoner had just declared that Dr. Mackenzie had told the truth! It
would be useless to put Semple in the box now.
‘Did you ever know of such a complete idiot?’ asked Mr. Corker in a
whisper, as he leant over the desk before him to speak to Mr. Beattie.
‘What shall we do now? We must say it was an accident--absence of
mind,’ whispered Beattie.
‘I may say it, but the jury won’t believe it for a moment. The other
theory they _might_ have believed.’
‘You have the legal argument still.’
‘Yes; but the verdict is gone. However, I suppose we must go on.’
And Mr. Corker straightened himself up and fell back into his seat,
with the air of a man who has been very ill-used.
‘Do you ask this witness any more questions, Mr. Corker?’ asked the
Judge.
‘No, m’ lud,’ said Mr. Corker, without troubling himself to rise.
‘That is the case for the prosecution, my lord,’ said Mr. Collithorne.
‘Do you call any witnesses?’ he added to Mr. Corker.
‘No!’
‘Then, may it please your lordship, gentlemen of the jury----’
‘My lord, may I say a word?’
It was a woman’s voice. Laura Mowbray was standing up, pale and
resolute, at the back of the court.
‘No; certainly not. Go on, Mr. Collithorne.’
‘But I took the will myself, just before it was signed, from Mr.
Lindsay’s bedroom.’
Laura’s good angel had triumphed. Till the last moment she had been
declaring that she dared not tell what she knew--besides, it would be
of no use. But in a moment, when Alec’s counsel had declared that he
had no witnesses, and she felt that the last moment for speech had
come, she had, without deliberation, yielded to the impulse which bade
her speak.
Meanwhile Mr. Collithorne and Mr. Corker were both busily disowning
this disconcerting witness, and suggesting that she should not be
heard. But the Judge took a different view of the matter. If anyone had
touched the will, he remarked, between the time when the prisoner read
it to the testator and the time when it was signed, that was clearly
very important. He thought the ends of justice required that the young
lady should be heard.
‘I don’t see that calling her can injure the defendant,’ he said by way
of apology to Mr. Corker.
That gentleman grunted and said nothing.
Laura was piloted to the witness-box by an usher, and in a few clear
words she told how she had at Semple’s request taken the will from her
uncle’s room, and had given it to him to read.
‘Did he do anything to it, while it was in his hands?’ asked the Judge.
‘No.’
‘And you never allowed it to go out of your sight?’
Laura hesitated.
‘He took it to the window to read it, and I was standing by the door. I
don’t think he did anything to it. There was not time.’
‘As he walked to the window, had he his side or his back to you?’
‘He would have his back to me. But I don’t think I was looking at him
then. I don’t exactly remember.’
‘Well, Miss--Miss Mowbray, have you mentioned this to anyone before
to-day?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Why not?’
‘I did not wish it to be known, if possible, that I had meddled with
the will at all,’ said the girl in a low voice. ‘And I remember, too,’
she added, ‘that one night just after Mr. Lindsay died, I was at a
railway-station; and I saw Mr. James Semple there, with a gentleman I
do not know. And the gentleman said to him----’
But here the Judge, Mr. Collithorne, and Mr. Corker, interposed in
chorus; and Laura, thoroughly disconcerted, stopped and almost burst
into tears.
‘That will do,’ said the Judge, in a kindly tone. ‘You were quite right
to speak now; but you ought to have spoken sooner.’
So Laura turned away, and crept back to her seat, disappointed and
humiliated. She had made the sacrifice, and all for nothing! She had
been prevented telling what she considered the most important part of
her story. In her agitation she had forgotten to speak of the incident
of the paper which Semple had managed to obtain from his uncle’s desk.
But, as she reflected, she would probably not have been allowed to
mention it, as she could not say that she knew it had anything to do
with the will. She had expected that her testimony would cause Alec to
be set at liberty. It had produced no effect whatever, beyond covering
her with shame.
In this, however, she was mistaken. The Judge was eyeing the counsel,
and they were eyeing him; and the thought in the minds of the three
shrewd men was--‘Here there was an opportunity for exchanging the will
read by the prisoner for another document.’
‘I think you had better go on, Mr. Collithorne,’ said the Judge at
length; and the Queen’s Counsel was proceeding to obey, when he was
interrupted for the second time.
‘Let me by; I tell ye I’m a witness; let me by.’
These words, uttered in a shrill Scotch voice, were heard at one of
the entrances to the court; and in another moment a queer-looking,
under-sized individual, dressed in a shabby overcoat with a velvet
collar, many sizes too large for him, pushed through the crowd in the
passage.
‘MacGowan!’ exclaimed Alec involuntarily.
‘Who is this?’ asked the Judge testily.
‘The clerk who engrossed the will, I believe, my lord,’ said Mr.
Collithorne, who had overheard Alec’s exclamation.
‘You cannot call him; you have closed your case,’ said Mr. Corker to
his opponent.
‘But he may give evidence for the defendant, unless you object, Mr.
Corker,’ said the Judge.
‘It’s what I’ve come here for,’ put in Mr. MacGowan.
‘Really, my lord, I cannot take the responsibility of calling this
witness,’ said Mr. Corker; ‘I know nothing of what he may say.’
‘I’m no’ surprised at that,’ said MacGowan, as without further
invitation he stepped round to the witness-box.
‘I shall take his evidence,’ said the Judge, after a pause.
‘Ma loard,’ said MacGowan, as soon as he was sworn, ‘I engrossed the
wull wi’ my ain haun’. The bequest to the Free Kirk was five _hunder_
thoosan’ pounds. So it was in the draft, an’ so I wrote it in the wull,
and so I read it to Maister Alexander Lindsay, when him and me compared
them.
‘That nicht, ma loard,’ he continued, dramatically raising his right
hand, ‘I was refreshin’ mysel’ after the toils o’ the day in a maist
respectable public-hoose, wi’ some freends, when Maister Wulliam
Beattie, that is the managin’ clerk at the office, cam’ in and withdrew
me to a private room. He telled me there had been a mistak’ made, an’
I would hae to copy the draft ower again; an’ naething would serve
him but I maun copy it ower again, then and there. I did sae, and he
dictated it to me, frae the same blue draft I had had before. Only he
read it _five thoosan’ pounds_, leavin’ oot the _hunder_.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ asked the Judge sharply.
‘Certain sure, my lord.’
‘Well?’
‘Then he gied me half a sovereign and gaed awa’.’
‘I leave him to you, Mr. Collithorne,’ said the Judge.
‘How does it happen that you immediately disappeared after this took
place?’ asked Mr. Collithorne.
‘Weel, Messrs. Hatchett and me had a bit of difference.’
‘You were dismissed, in fact?’
‘Ye may ca’ ’t that if ye like.’
‘And how was it that you have not turned up till now?’
‘I have been very ill; and I only noticed to-day that the trial was
coming on. If you send for my landlord he will tell ye I was in bed an’
deleerious when Maister Lindsay was at the police-court.’
‘You were drunk when Mr. Beattie--is that his name?--came to see you at
the gin-palace, or whatever it was?’
‘It is _not_ a gin-palace, and I was _not_ drunk. I had been drinking
certainly.’
‘You know perfectly well what you were about?’ put in the Judge.
‘Brawly--that is, just so, my lord.’
‘Hadn’t we better have this Mr. Beattie in the box, and see what he
says to all this,’ suggested the Judge.
‘Certainly, my lord. He had better be called outside. He was here a
minute ago.’
But Mr. Beattie was not to be found. As soon as MacGowan’s voice fell
on his ears, he had realized that he had come to tell what had passed
at the public-house; and he left the court by one door as his former
subordinate entered by another. Taking a hansom he drove to the bank at
which he kept his account, and drew out all that was due to him. Then
he disappeared and was heard of no more.
The reason why Beattie had absconded was apparent to everyone in court.
The plot which he had concocted was laid bare.
‘I don’t know whether you will think it worth while to address the
jury, Mr. Collithorne,’ said the Judge, after waiting some minutes. ‘If
the last witness is to be believed, it is plain that two wills were
engrossed, in one of which the original bequest to the Free Church of
Scotland was altered to five thousand pounds; and Miss Mowbray has
proved that the latter document may have been substituted for the other
without the defendant’s knowledge. There is nothing to show that Mr.
Alexander Lindsay instigated either Beattie or MacGowan to get the
second engrossment made, or that, in fact, he knew of its existence.’
‘That is true, my lord; and I am altogether in your lordship’s hands,’
said Mr. Collithorne slowly. ‘If your lordship thinks----’ he paused,
for the jury were putting their heads together in a significant way.
‘If you would like the case to go on, gentlemen----’ began the Judge;
but the jurymen separated and returned to their places.
‘Gentlemen of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?’ asked the
Clerk of the Arraigns.
‘We are,’ said the foreman.
‘Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty.’
Something very like a cheer broke out in the court; and the usher cried
‘Silence!’ with the air of a man who cared nothing for public opinion.
As for Alec, something seemed to swell in his throat, as if it would
choke him; and his hand trembled as it had not trembled since his
trouble had fallen on him. He looked around, and could see nothing but
a sea of faces.
Then someone guided him to a little doorway in the iron railing, and
helped him down the steps into the body of the court. He was a free man
once more.