THE VERDICT OF THE JURY.
Next morning the Court was crowded, and numbers were unable to gain
admission. The news that Sal Rawlins, who alone could prove the
innocence of the prisoner, had been found, and would appear in Court
that morning, had spread like wildfire, and the acquittal of the
prisoner was confidently expected by a large number of sympathising
friends, who seemed to have sprung up on all sides, like mushrooms, in
a single night. There were, of course, plenty of cautious people left
who waited to hear the verdict of the jury before committing
themselves, and who still believed him to be guilty. But the unexpected
appearance of Sal Rawlins had turned the great tide of public feeling
in favour of the prisoner, and many who had been loudest in their
denunciations of Fitzgerald, were now more than half convinced of his
innocence. Pious clergymen talked in an incoherent way about the finger
of God and the innocent not suffering unjustly, which was a case of
counting unhatched chickens, as the verdict had yet to be given.
Felix Rolleston awoke, and found himself famous in a small way. Out of
good-natured sympathy, and a spice of contrariness, he had declared his
belief in Brian's innocence, and now, to his astonishment, he found
that his view of the matter was likely to prove correct. He received so
much praise on all sides for his presumed perspicuity, that he soon
began to think that he had believed in Fitzgerald's innocence by a calm
course of reasoning, and not because of a desire to differ from every
one else in their opinion of the case. After all, Felix Rolleston is
not the only man who has been astonished to find greatness thrust upon
him, and come to believe himself worthy of it. He was a wise man,
however, and while in the full tide of prosperity he seized the flying
moment, and proposed to Miss Featherweight, who, after some hesitation,
agreed to endow him with herself and her thousands. She decided that
her future husband was a man of no common intellect, seeing that he had
long ago arrived at a conclusion which the rest of Melbourne were only
beginning to discover now, so she determined that, as soon as she
assumed marital authority, Felix, like Strephon in "Iolanthe," should
go into Parliament, and with her money and his brains she might some
day be the wife of a premier. Mr. Rolleston had no idea of the
political honours which his future spouse intended for him, and was
seated in his old place in the court, talking about the case.
"Knew he was innocent, don't you know," he said, with a complacent
smile "Fitzgerald's too jolly good-looking a fellow, and all that sort
of thing, to commit murder."
Whereupon a clergyman, happening to overhear the lively Felix make this
flippant remark, disagreed with it entirely, and preached a sermon to
prove that good looks and crime were closely connected, and that both
Judas Iscariot and Nero were beauty-men.
"Ah," said Calton, when he heard the sermon, "if this unique theory is
a true one, what a truly pious man that clergyman must be!" This
allusion to the looks of the reverend gentleman was rather unkind, for
he was by no means bad-looking. But then Calton was one of those witty
men who would rather lose a friend than suppress an epigram.
When the prisoner was brought in, a murmur of sympathy ran through the
crowded Court, so ill and worn-out he looked; but Calton was puzzled to
account for the expression of his face, so different from that of a man
whose life had been saved, or, rather, was about to be saved, for in
truth it was a foregone conclusion.
"You know who stole those papers," he thought, as he looked at
Fitzgerald, keenly, "and the man who did so is the murderer of Whyte."
The judge having entered, and the Court being opened, Calton rose to
make his speech, and stated in a few words the line of defence he
intended to take.
He would first call Albert Dendy, a watchmaker, to prove that on
Thursday night, at eight o'clock in the evening, he had called at the
prisoner's, lodgings while the landlady was out, and while there had
put the kitchen clock right, and had regulated the same. He would also
call Felix Rolleston, a friend of the prisoners, to prove that the
prisoner was not in the habit of wearing rings, and frequently
expressed his detestation of such a custom. Sebastian Brown, a waiter
at the Melbourne Club, would be called to prove that on Thursday night
a letter was delivered to the prisoner at the Club by one Sarah
Rawlins, and that the prisoner left the Club shortly before one o'clock
on Friday morning. He would also call Sarah Rawlins, to prove that she
had delivered a note to Sebastian Brown for the prisoner, at the
Melbourne Club, at a quarter to twelve on Thursday Night, and that at a
few minutes past one o'clock on Friday morning she had conducted the
prisoner to a slum off Little Bourke Street, and that he was there
between one and two on Friday morning, the hour at which the murder was
alleged to have taken place. This being his defence to the charge
brought against the prisoner, he would call Albert Dendy.
Albert Dendy, duly sworn, stated--
I am a watchmaker, and carry on business in Fitzroy. I remember
Thursday, the 26th of July last. On the evening of that day I called at
Powlett Street East Melbourne, to see my aunt, who is the landlady of
the prisoner. She was out at the time I called, and I waited in the
kitchen till her return. I looked at the kitchen clock to see if it was
too late to wait, and then at my watch. I found that the clock was ten
minutes fast, upon which I put it right, and regulated it properly.
CALTON: At what time did you put it right?
WITNESS: About eight o'clock.
CALTON: Between that time and two in the morning, was it possible for
the clock to gain ten minutes?
WITNESS: No, it was not possible.
CALTON: Would it gain at all?
WITNESS: Not between eight and two o'clock--the time was not long
enough.
CALTON: Did you see your aunt that night?
WITNESS: Yes, I waited till she came in.
CALTON: And did you tell her you had put the clock right?
WITNESS: No, I did not; I forgot all about it.
CALTON: Then she was still under the impression that it was ten minutes
fast?
WITNESS: Yes, I suppose so
After Dendy had been cross-examined, Felix Rolleston was called, and
deposed as follows:--
I am an intimate friend of the prisoner. I have known him for five or
six years, and I never saw him wearing a ring during that time. He has
frequently told me he did not care for rings, and would never wear them.
In cross-examination:--
CROWN PROSECUTOR: You have never seen the prisoner wearing a diamond
ring?
WITNESS: No, never.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: Have you ever seen any such ring in his possession?
WITNESS: No, I have seen him buying rings for ladies, but I never saw
him with any ring such as a gentleman would wear.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: Not even a seal ring.
WITNESS: No, not even a seal ring.
Sarah Rawlins was then placed in the witness-box, and, after having
been sworn, deposed--
I know the prisoner. I delivered a letter, addressed to him at the
Melbourne Club, at a quarter to twelve o'clock on Thursday, 26th July.
I did not know what his name was. He met me shortly after one, at the
corner of Russell and Bourke Streets, where I had been told to wait for
him. I took him to my grandmother's place, in a lane off Little Bourke
Street. There was a dying woman there, who had sent for him. He went in
and saw her for about twenty minutes, and then I took him back to the
corner of Bourke and Russell Streets. I heard the three-quarters strike
shortly after I left him.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: You are quite certain that the prisoner was the man
you met on that night?
WITNESS: Quite certin', s'elp me G--.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: And he met you a few minutes past one o'clock?
WITNESS: Yes, 'bout five minutes--I 'eard the clock a-strikin' one just
afore he came down the street, and when I leaves 'im agin, it were
about twenty-five to two, 'cause it took me ten minits to git 'ome, and
I 'eard the clock go three-quarters, jest as I gits to the door.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: How do you know it was exactly twenty-five to two
when you left him?
WITNESS: 'Cause I sawr the clocks--I left 'im at the corner of Russell
Street, and comes down Bourke Street, so I could see the Post Orffice
clock as plain as day, an' when I gets into Swanston Street, I looks at
the Town 'All premiscus like, and sees the same time there.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: And you never lost sight of the prisoner the whole
time?
WITNESS: No, there was only one door by the room, an' I was a-sittin'
outside it, an' when he comes out he falls over me.
CROWN PROSECUTOR: Were you asleep?
WITNESS: Not a blessed wink.
Calton then directed Sebastian Brown to be called. He deposed--
I know the prisoner. He is a member of the Melbourne Club, at which I
am a waiter. I remember Thursday, 26th July. On that night the last
witness came with a letter to the prisoner. It was about a quarter to
twelve. She just gave it to me, and went away. I delivered it to Mr.
Fitzgerald. He left the Club at about ten minutes to one.
This closed the evidence for the defence, and after the Crown
Prosecutor had made his speech, in which he pointed out the strong
evidence against the prisoner, Calton arose to address the jury. He was
a fine speaker, and made a splendid defence. Not a single point escaped
him, and that brilliant piece of oratory is still remembered and spoken
of admiringly in the purlieus of Temple Court and Chancery Lane.
He began by giving a vivid description of the circumstances, of the
murder--of the meeting of the murderer and his victim in Collins Street
East--the cab driving down to St. Kilda--the getting out of the cab of
the murderer after committing the crime--and the way in which he had
secured himself against pursuit.
Having thus enchained the attention of the jury by the graphic manner
in which he described the crime, he pointed out that the evidence
brought forward by the prosecution was purely circumstantial, and that
they had utterly failed to identify the prisoner in the dock with the
man who entered the cab. The supposition that the prisoner and the man
in the light coat were one and the same person, rested solely upon the
evidence of the cabman, Royston, who, although not intoxicated,
was--judging from his own statements, not in a fit state to distinguish
between the man who hailed the cab, and the man who got in. The crime
was committed by means of chloroform; therefore, if the prisoner was
guilty, he must have purchased the chloroform in some shop, or obtained
it from some friends. At all events, the prosecution had not brought
forward a single piece of evidence to show how, and where the
chloroform had been obtained. With regard to the glove belonging to the
murdered man found in the prisoner's pocket, he picked it up off the
ground at the time when he first met Whyte, when the deceased was lying
drunk near the Scotch Church. Certainly there was no evidence to show
that the prisoner had picked it up before the deceased entered the cab;
but, on the other hand, there was no evidence to show that it had been
picked up in the cab. It was far more likely that the glove, and
especially a white glove, would be picked up under the light of the
lamp near the Scotch Church, where it was easily noticeable, than in
the darkness of a cab, where there was very little room, and where it
would be quite dark, as the blinds were drawn down. The cabman,
Royston, swore positively that the man who got out of his cab on the
St. Kilda Road wore a diamond ring on the forefinger of his right hand,
and the cabman, Rankin, swore to the same thing about the man who got
out at Powlett Street. Against this could be placed the evidence of one
of the prisoner's most intimate friends--one who had seen him almost
daily for the last five years, and he had sworn positively that the
prisoner was not in the habit of wearing rings.
The cabman Rankin had also sworn that the man who entered his cab on
the St. Kilda Road alighted at Powlett Street, East Melbourne, at two
o'clock on Friday morning, as he heard that hour strike from the Post
Office clock, whereas the evidence of the prisoner's landlady showed
plainly that he entered the house five minutes previously, and her
evidence was further supported by that of the watchmaker, Dendy. Mrs.
Sampson saw the hand of her kitchen clock point to five minutes to two,
and, thinking it was ten minutes slow, told the detective that the
prisoner did not enter the house till five minutes past two, which
would just give the man who alighted from the cab (presuming him to
have been the prisoner) sufficient time to walk up to his lodgings. The
evidence of the watchmaker, Dendy, however, showed clearly that he had
put the clock right at the hour of eight on Thursday night; that it was
impossible for it to gain ten minutes before two on Friday morning, and
therefore, the time, five minutes to two, seen by the landlady was the
correct one, and the prisoner was in the house five minutes before the
other man alighted from the cab in Powlett Street.
These points in themselves were sufficient to show that the prisoner
was innocent, but the evidence of the woman Rawlins must prove
conclusively to the jury that the prisoner was not the man who
committed the crime. The witness Brown had proved that the woman
Rawlins had delivered a letter to him, which he gave to the prisoner
and that the prisoner left the Club, to keep the appointment spoken of
in the letter, which letter, or, rather, the remains of it had been put
in evidence. The woman Rawlins swore that the prisoner met her at the
corner of Russell and Bourke Streets, and had gone with her to one of
the back slums, there to see the writer of the letter. She also proved
that at the time of the committal of the crime the prisoner was still
in the back slum, by the bed of the dying woman, and, there being only
one door to the room, he could not possibly have left without the
witness seeing him. The woman Rawlins further proved that she left the
prisoner at the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets at twenty-five
minutes to two o'clock, which was five minutes before Royston drove his
cab up to the St. Kilda Police Station, with the dead body inside.
Finally, the woman Rawlins proved her words by stating that she saw
both the Post Office and Town Hall clocks; and supposing the prisoner
started from the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets, as she says he
did, he would reach East Melbourne in twenty minutes, which made it
five minutes to two on Friday morning, the time at which, according to
the landlady's statement, he entered the house.
All the evidence given by the different witnesses agreed completely,
and formed a chain which showed the whole of the prisoner's movements
at the time of the committal of the murder. Therefore, it was
absolutely impossible that the murder could have been committed by the
man in the dock. The strongest piece of evidence brought forward by the
prosecution was that of the witness Hableton, who swore that the
prisoner used threats against the life of the deceased. But the
language used was merely the outcome of a passionate Irish nature, and
was not sufficient to prove the crime to have been committed by the
prisoner. The defence which the prisoner set up was that of an ALIBI,
and the evidence of the witnesses for the defence proved conclusively
that the prisoner could not, and did not, commit the murder. Finally,
Calton wound up his elaborate and exhaustive speech, which lasted for
over two hours, by a brilliant peroration, calling upon the jury to
base their verdict upon the plain facts of the case, and if they did so
they could hardly fail in bringing in a verdict of "Not Guilty."
When Calton sat down a subdued murmur of applause was heard, which was
instantly suppressed, and the judge began to sum up, strongly in favour
of Fitzgerald. The jury then retired, and immediately there was a dead
silence in the crowded Court--an unnatural silence, such as must have
fallen on the blood-loving Roman populace when they saw the Christian
martyrs kneeling on the hot yellow sands of the arena, and watched the
long, lithe forms of lion and panther creeping steadily towards their
prey. The hour being late the gas had been lighted, and there was a
sickly glare through the wide hall.
Fitzgerald had been taken out of court on the retiring of the jury, but
the spectators stared steadily at the empty dock, which seemed to
enchain them by some indescribable fascination. They conversed among
themselves only in whispers, until even the whispering ceased, and
nothing could be heard but the steady ticking of the clock, and now and
then the quick-drawn breath of some timid on-looker. Suddenly, a woman,
whose nerves were over-strung, shrieked, and the cry rang weirdly
through the crowded hall. She was taken out, and again there was
silence, every eye being now fixed on the door through which the jury
would re-issue with their verdict of life or death. The hands of the
clock moved slowly round--a quarter--a half--three quarters--and then
the hour sounded with a silvery ring which startled everyone. Madge,
sitting with her hands tightly clasped together, began to fear that her
highly-strung nerves would give way.
"My God," she muttered softly to herself; "will this suspense never
end?"
Just then the door opened, and the jury re-entered. The prisoner was
again placed in the dock, and the judge resumed his seat, this time
with the black cap in his pocket, as everyone guessed.
The usual formalities were gone through, and when the foreman of the
jury stood up every neck was craned forward, and every ear was on the
alert to catch the words that fell from his lips. The prisoner flushed
a little and then grew pale as death, giving a quick, nervous glance at
the quiet figure in black, of which he could just catch a glimpse. Then
came the verdict, sharp and decisive, "NOT GUILTY."
On hearing this a cheer went up from everyone in the court, so strong
was the sympathy with Brian.
In vain the crier of the Court yelled, "Order!" until he was red in the
face. In vain the judge threatened to commit all present for contempt
of court--his voice being inaudible, it did not matter much--the
enthusiasm could not be restrained, and it was five minutes before
order was obtained. The judge, having recovered his composure,
delivered his judgment, and discharged the prisoner, in accordance with
the verdict.
Calton had won many cases, but it is questionable if he had ever heard
a verdict which gave him so much satisfaction as that which proclaimed
Fitzgerald innocent.
And Brian, stepping down from the dock a free man, passed through a
crowd of congratulating friends to a small room off the Court, where a
woman was waiting for him--a woman who clung round his neck, and sobbed
out--
"My darling! My darling! I knew that God would save you."