THE CASE FOR THE CROWN CONCLUDES.
After that the court adjourned till to-morrow. Mr. Alexander Taunton's
performance wound up the programme of the day's entertainment, as it
appeared to me, with adequate spirit.
At the inn or hotel, or whatever they called it, at which I was
stopping, every one was talking of the trial. The chambermaid, who
waited on me at dinner, could talk of nothing else. She went gabble,
gabble all the time that she was in the room, and it seemed to me that
she stopped in the room as much as she possibly could. Her manners, if
rustic, were familiar.
She had witnessed Tommy's arrival at the court.
"A more dreadful-looking wretch I never saw. It gave me quite a feeling
to look at him. He's got pig's eyes. And cruel! There was cruelty all
over him!"
Poor Tommy! She must have had an insufficient view, or she was
prejudiced. A milder-mannered man was never charged with having cut a
throat, nor, I verily believe, a tenderer-hearted one.
"And they tell me his wife was in court. I never! She must be a one!
I'd have drowned myself sooner than let people know I was the wife of a
man like that. She must be almost as bad as he is, or she would never
have dared to show her face."
Alas for the rarity of Christian charity! Dear, dear, how these
Christians do love each other! To think that that sweet-faced,
true-hearted woman should have been spoken of like that!
"They're sure to hang him, that's one comfort. I think it's a shame
they don't hang him out of hand, without making all this fuss about it.
I think such creatures ought to be hung directly they catch 'em."
"Before ascertaining if they are guilty?"
"He's guilty, safe enough. The wretch!"
Well, of course, she knew best. Still, what a funny world it is.
At dinner I ordered a bottle of wine. The landlord brought it up
himself, as an excuse for a gossip. He was a shrivelled-up little man,
about sixty, not at all like the typical Boniface.
"I thought that I should have been on the jury. But I was on the jury
yesterday instead. But there are two cousins of mine who are--got heads
screwed on their shoulders both of 'em."
"Indeed? Will you have a glass of wine?"
"Thank you, ma'am, you're very kind. I don't mind if I do." He did not
mind.
"I can recommend this port wine. I've had it in my cellars over twenty
years. Your very good health, ma'am. Yes." He shook his head. "Neither
of them holds with this chap's little games." I had not the faintest
notion to what little games he alluded. "I saw you in court, ma'am.
Might I ask if you're interested in any of the parties?"
"Not at all. I am an American. While I was staying in England I thought
that I would not lose an opportunity of seeing one of your great
trials."
"Ay, this is a very great trial, this is. It won't soon be forgotten.
Do you think he's guilty?"
"Do you?"
"Well, what I say is just this. I wouldn't be locked up alone with a
strange woman in a railway carriage all the way from Brighton to
London, not for--not for any amount of money."
"You are flattering."
"I don't mean nothing--not at all. Only, in this case, how are we to
say what happened? He seems to be a decent kind of chap. She might have
been nasty, there might have been a rumpus, he might have tried to get
away from her, she might have fallen out upon the line. How is any one
to tell?"
My friend, the landlord, in spite of his somewhat unpromising
appearance, seemed to be one of the few sensible persons I had recently
encountered. I pressed him to take another glass of wine. He yielded to
the pressure.
"Don't you think they'll find him guilty, then?"
"Oh, they'll find him guilty, safe enough, and I daresay they'll hang
him, too. That's just the best of it. When a man gets mixed up with a
woman in a thing like this they're sure to think the worse of him. But
it doesn't follow that he did it, any the more for that. As for that
chap Taunton, I'd hang him!"
It seemed that my friend the gentleman had good cause to congratulate
himself on the possession of such a relative. He seemed to be held in
general esteem.
When the court reopened the next day I changed my seat. I had taken
careful stock of the scene of action the day before. The result had
been that I came to one or two conclusions. I perceived, for one thing,
that one might very easily sit upon the bench and yet preserve one's
anonymity. If I wore a cloak, kept my veil down, sat on the back row,
and kept myself in the shade, I need fear no recognition from Tommy.
I quite hungered for a sight of the prisoner. I had not dared to turn
and look at him from where I sat the day before. The action might not
improbably have attracted his attention.
Besides, I wanted to have a good view of what might, not improperly, be
described as the closing tableau.
So when I entered the court this time I presented the usher with a
sovereign for a seat on the bench. I had a seat on the bench--quite in
the shade.
The place was, if anything, more crowded than ever. It was understood
that the trial was to conclude in the course of the day. Perhaps that
proved an extra attraction. Anyhow, we were uncomfortably crowded on
the bench, and the court, everywhere, was as full as it could hold. I
wondered how much--in a theatrical sense--the house was worth to a some
one--say the usher.
The judge came in. Then Tommy. They let him have a chair. I had a
good look at him. He badly wanted shaving; there was a month's
growth of hair upon his cheeks and chin. But he looked better than I
expected--and braver. His wife sat in front of him, as she had done the
day before. She turned as he came in, and greeted him with a smile.
Such a brave one! Without a suspicion of a tear! He smiled back at her.
Poor dears! Their smiling days were nearly done.
When he was seated and had recovered from the excitement of his entry,
after all, the expression began to creep into his face, which I had
expected to see there all along. The expression of stupor, of mental
paralysis, of shame, of horror at the position in which he found
himself, and at the things which were to come.
Poor, dear Tommy! He looked to me as if there was no fight left in him.
I need not have feared his recognition. He never looked at any one. He
just glanced now and then at his wife, and every time he did so there
came into his face a something which was a curious commingling of
pleasure with pain. But, with the exception of Mrs. Tennant, I doubt if
he clearly realised the personality of any other creature there.
The first witness called was a man named Stephen Rodman. He said he was
a "tapper," which, I suppose, had something to do with railway work,
though I don't know what. Early on the morning of Monday, November 9th,
he was walking in the six-foot way of the arrival platform of Victoria
Station. He saw a handkerchief lying on the ground. He picked it up. It
was soaked with blood, and was still damp. In the corner was a name,
"T. Tennant." The 8.40 from Brighton had been drawn up at that platform
the night before. Sir Haselton Jardine's colleague, who was examining,
handed witness a handkerchief--still unwashed. That was the one he
found.
Jane Parsons followed, actually the girl who had been in Mrs. Tennant's
service and who had applied for my situation. Certainly the prosecution
were fitting the rope round Tommy's neck, as if they did not mean to
leave him a loophole of escape. I wondered what she had to say.
Not much. She began by showing an inclination to cry, which inclination
she presently gave way to. The tears trickled down her cheeks. She kept
dabbling at them with a handkerchief, which she had squeezed into the
shape and size of a penny ball.
She was a parlourmaid. Had been, till recently, in Mrs. Tennant's
service. Remembered November 8th. Mr. Tennant went to spend the day at
Brighton. Mrs. Tennant told her he had gone. Miss Minna was not well,
so missus stayed to nurse her. Admitted Mr. Tennant on his return. It
was pretty late. After eleven. Mr. Tennant did not seem to be himself
at all. He seemed all anyhow--as if he had been fighting. There was a
great cut on his cheek. Helped him off with his overcoat. It was all
torn and rumpled about the collar. The top button had been torn right
off, and a piece of cloth torn with it. It was spotted with blood.
Shown an overcoat; recognised it as the overcoat which Mr. Tennant had
worn. His collar and tie were disarranged. As a rule he was a most
particular gentleman about his clothes.
Mr. Bates asked a question or two.
Had been in Mrs. Tennant's employ more than two years. Mr. Tennant was
a very good master--no one could want a better. Lived a quiet, regular
life. Was very fond of his wife, and she of him. Made a perfect idol of
his little girl.
At this point poor Tommy covered his face with his hands.
She didn't believe he had ever done it, and she never would--she didn't
care what nobody said. This statement was volunteered, amidst a burst
of sobbing. Mr. Tennant was very nervous. They used to make a joke of
it in the kitchen. The least thing put him off. She meant that he was
easily flustered. He was a tender and a loving husband and father, a
gentle and a kind master, and she didn't believe that, willingly, he
would hurt a fly. Jane's tears burst forth afresh.
Mr. Bates sat down.
The detective who had arrested Tommy next appeared. His name was
Matthew Holman. He was a sinewy, greybearded, greyheaded, not
unkindly-looking man, looking more like a sailor than anything else.
His evidence was purely cut and dried, and formal. Prisoner had made no
statement on being arrested. All efforts to trace the identity of the
dead woman had been unsuccessful. Mr. Bates allowed the witness to
depart unquestioned.
The medical evidence which followed revived the flagging interest. It
roused Tommy more than anything which had gone before. As well it
might.
Two doctors were called. The first was a country doctor. A middle-aged
man, with a fatherly sort of manner, and something of the milk of human
kindness about his mouth, and in the twinkling of his eyes. His name
was Gresham.
Dr. Gresham had examined the body twice. First at the Three Bridges,
afterwards in the mortuary at East Grinstead. The first occasion was
between nine and ten on the morning of Monday, November 9th. Life had
been extinct some hours, probably twelve. The body was that of a
well-nourished, healthy young woman, probably under twenty-one years of
age.
When he heard this Tommy started. Certainly no doctor could have
mistaken me for under one-and-twenty.
She was far advanced in pregnancy.
Tommy started again. I fancied that Mrs. Tennant started too.
The cause of death was strangulation.
Tommy started more and more. Leaning over the rail of the dock, he
stared at the witness with all his eyes.
He was sure of it. He had no doubt upon the point whatever.
Unfortunately, there was no room for doubt. She had been killed by the
pressure of a man's hands and fingers. Great violence must have been
used. In fact, extraordinary violence. The skin of the throat was
discoloured. Marks of a man's hands and fingers were most distinct.
Indeed, so distinct, that when he first saw them they amounted almost
to a model. There were slight bruises on the body, such as might have
been caused by a fall. There was a livid bruise which ran from shoulder
to shoulder across the back. It had probably been caused by pressure.
For instance, by pressure against the edge of a carriage seat. His
theory was that she had been forced back against the edge of the
carriage seat, and in that position strangled. Falling from the train
had not been the cause of death. The fall had nothing to do with it.
When Sir Haselton Jardine sat down Tommy and Mr. Bates had quite a long
confabulation. Tommy seemed half beside himself with excitement--I very
well knew why! It struck me, however, that Mr. Bates did not seem very
much impressed.
Still, acting no doubt on his client's strenuous instructions, he
subjected the doctor to a rigorous cross-examination.
But it was all in vain.
Poor Tommy!
Mr. Bates first of all suggested, as it were, casually, that the woman
was more than one-and-twenty. The doctor did not think it possible.
Everything went to show that she was not. Then, after some fencing, he
tried to induce the doctor to admit that she might have been strangled
after she had fallen from the train. That she might have fallen from
the train by accident. Been stupefied by the fall, and, on recovering
from her stupor, that some one might have come along and strangled her.
The doctor would have none of it, He deemed the thing incredible. Mr.
Bates hammered away, but the doctor held his own.
Tommy was done!
He was done still more when it came to the second doctor's turn. He was
a Dr. Braithwaite, a great swell from London. He had examined the body
at East Grinstead. He corroborated all that Dr. Gresham had had to say,
putting things, if anything, a little stronger against poor Tommy. He
declined to move a hair's-breadth from his fixed conviction that the
woman had been strangled--in the train.
When he left the box every creature in court was aware that, unless
something amounting almost to a miracle intervened, Tommy's fate was
sealed.
Sir Haselton Jardine, half rising from his seat, announced that that
was the case for the Crown.