THE SCOTTISH VERDICT
If Triffitt had only known it, the Goddesses of Chance and Fortune were
already close at hand, hovering lovingly and benignly above the crown of
his own Trilby hat. Triffitt, of course, did not see them, nor dream
that they were near; he was too busily occupied in taking stock of the
black-garmented men who paid the last tribute of respect (a conventional
phrase which he felt obliged to use) to Jacob Herapath. These men were
many in number; some of them were known to Triffitt, some were not. He
knew Mr. Fox-Crawford, an Under-Secretary of State, who represented the
Government; he knew Mr. Dayweather and Mr. Encilmore, and Mr. Camford
and Mr. Wallburn; they were all well-known members of Parliament. Also,
he knew Mr. Barthorpe Herapath, walking at the head of the procession of
mourners. Very soon he had quite a lengthy list of names; some others,
if necessary, he could get from Selwood, whom he recognized as the
cortege passed him by. So for the time being he closed his note-book and
drew back beneath the shade of a cypress-tree, respectfully watching. In
the tail-end of the procession he knew nobody; it was made up, he
guessed, of Jacob Herapath's numerous clerks from the estate offices,
and----
But suddenly Triffitt saw a face in that procession. The owner of that
face was not looking at Triffitt; he was staring quietly ahead, with the
blank, grave demeanour which people affect when they go to funerals. And
it was as well that he was not looking at Triffitt, for Triffitt, seeing
that face, literally started and even jumped a little, feeling as if the
earth beneath him suddenly quaked.
"Gad!" exclaimed Triffitt under his breath. "It is! It can't be! Gad,
but I'm certain it is! Can't be mistaken--not likely I should ever
forget him!"
Then he took off the Trilby hat, which he had resumed after the coffin
had passed, and he rubbed his head as men do when they are exceedingly
bewildered or puzzled. After which he unobtrusively followed the
procession, hovered about its fringes around the grave until the last
rites were over, and eventually edged himself up to Selwood as the
gathering was dispersing. He quietly touched Selwood's sleeve.
"Mr. Selwood!" he whispered. "Just a word. I know a lot of these
gentlemen--the M.P.'s and so on--but there are some I don't know. Will
you oblige me, now?--I want to get a full list. Who are the two elderly
gentlemen with Mr. Barthorpe Herapath--relatives, eh?"
"No--old personal friends," answered Selwood, good-naturedly turning
aside with the little reporter. "One is Mr. Tertius--Mr. J. C.
Tertius--a very old friend of the late Mr. Herapath's; the other is Mr.
Benjamin Halfpenny, the solicitor, also an old friend."
"Oh, I know of his firm," said Triffitt, busily scribbling. "Halfpenny
and Farthing, of course--odd combination, isn't it? And that burly
gentleman behind them, now--who's he?"
"That's Professor Cox-Raythwaite, the famous scientist," answered
Selwood. "He's also an old friend. The gentleman he's speaking to is Sir
Cornelius Debenham, chairman of the World Alliance Association, with
which Mr. Herapath was connected, you know."
"I know--I know," answered Triffitt, still busy. "Those two behind him,
now--middle-aged parties?"
"One's Mr. Frankton, the manager, and the other's Mr. Charlwood, the
cashier, at the estate office," replied Selwood.
"They'll go down in staff and employees," said Triffitt. "Um--I've got a
good list. By the by, who's the gentleman across there--just going up to
the grave--the gentleman who looks like an actor? Is he an actor?"
"That? Oh!" answered Selwood. "No--that's Mr. Frank Burchill, who used
to be Mr. Herapath's secretary--my predecessor."
"Oh!" responded Triffitt. He had caught sight of Carver a few yards off,
and he hurried his notebook into his pocket, and bustled off. "Much
obliged to you, Mr. Selwood," he said with a grin. "Even we with all our
experience, don't know everybody, you know--many thanks." He hastened
over to Carver who was also busy pencilling, and drew him away into the
shelter of a particularly large and ugly monument. "I say!" he
whispered. "Here's something! Shove that book away now--I've got all the
names--and attend to me a minute. Don't look too obtrusively--but do you
see that chap--looks like an actor--who is just coming away from the
graveside--tall, well-dressed chap?"
Carver looked across. His face lighted up.
"I know that man," he said. "I've seen him at the club--he's been in
once or twice, though he's not a member. He does theatre stuff for the
_Magnet_. His name's Burchill."
Triffitt dropped his friend's arm.
"Oh!" he said. "So you know him--by sight, anyhow? And his name's
Burchill, eh? Very good. Let's get."
He walked Carver out of the cemetery, down the Harrow Road, and turned
into the saloon bar of the first tavern that presented itself.
"I'm going to have some ale and some bread and cheese," he observed, "and
if you'll follow suit, Carver, we'll sit in that corner, and I'll tell
you something that'll make your hair curl. Two nice plates of bread and
cheese, and two large tankards of your best bitter ale, if you please,"
he continued, approaching the bar and ringing a half-crown on it. "Yes,
Carver, my son--that will curl your hair for you. And," he went on, when
they had carried their simple provender over to a quiet corner, "about
that chap now known as Burchill--Burchill. Mr.--Frank--Burchill; late
secretary to the respected gentleman whose mortal remains have just been
laid to rest. Ah!"
"What's the mystery?" asked Carver, setting down his tankard. "Seems to be
one, anyway. What about Burchill?"
"Speak his name softly," answered Triffitt. "Well, my son, I suddenly
saw--him--this morning, and I just as suddenly remembered that I'd seen
him before!"
"You had, eh?" said Carver. "Where?"
Triffitt sank his voice to a still lower whisper.
"Where?" he said. "Where? In the dock!"
Carver arrested the progress of a lump of bread and cheese and turned in
astonishment.
"In the dock?" he exclaimed. "That chap? Good heavens! When--where?"
"It's a longish story," answered Triffitt. "But you've got to hear it if
we're going into this thing--as we are. Know, then, that I have an
aunt--Eliza. My aunt--maternal aunt--Eliza is married to a highly
respectable Scotsman named Kierley, who runs a flour-mill in the ancient
town of Jedburgh, which is in the county of Roxburgh, just over the
Border. And it's just about nine years (I can tell the exact date to a
day if I look at an old diary) that Mr. and Mrs. Kierley were good
enough to invite me to spend a few weeks in Bonnie Scotland. And the
first night of my arrival Kierley told me that I was in luck, for
within a day or two there was going to be a grand trial before the
Lords Justiciar--Anglice, judges. A trial of a man for murder!"
"Great Scott!" said Carver. "Murder, eh? And"--he nodded his head in the
direction of the adjacent cemetery. "Him?"
"Let me explain a few legal matters," said Triffitt, disregarding the
question. "Then you'll get the proper hang of things. In Scotland, law's
different in procedure to ours. The High Court of Justiciary is fixed
permanently at Edinburgh, but its judges go on circuit so many times a
year to some of the principal towns, where they hold something like our
own assizes. Usually, only one judge sits, but in cases of special
importance there are two, and two came to Jedburgh, this being a case of
very special importance, and one that was arousing a mighty amount of
interest. It was locally known as the Kelpies' Glen Case, and by that
name it got into all the papers--we could find it, of course, in our own
files."
"I'll turn it up," observed Carver.
"By all means," agreed Triffitt; "but I'll give you an outline of it
just now. Briefly, it was this. About eleven years ago, there was near
the town of Jedburgh a man named Ferguson, who kept an old-established
school for boys. He was an oldish chap, married to a woman a good deal
younger than himself, and she had a bit of a reputation for being
overfond of the wine of the country. According to what the Kierleys told
me, old Ferguson used to use the tawse on her sometimes, and they led a
sort of cat-and-dog life. Well, about the time I'm talking about,
Ferguson got a new undermaster; he only kept one. This chap was an
Englishman--name of Bentham--Francis Bentham, to give him his full
patronymic, but I don't know where he came from--I don't think anybody
did."
"F. B., eh?" muttered Carver. "Same initials as----"
"Precisely," said Triffitt, "and--to anticipate--same man. But to
proceed in due order. Old Ferguson died rather suddenly--but in quite an
above-board and natural fashion, about six months after this Bentham
came to him. The widow kept on the school, and retained Bentham's
services. And within half a year of the demise of her first husband, she
took Bentham for her second."
"Quick work!" remarked Carver.
"And productive of much wagging of tongues, you may bet!" said Triffitt.
"Many things were said--not all of them charitable. Well, this marriage
didn't mend the lady's manners. She still continued, now and then, to
take her drops in too generous measure. Rumour had it that the successor
to Ferguson followed his predecessor's example and corrected his wife in
the good, old-fashioned way. It was said that the old cat-and-dog life
was started again by these two. However, before they'd been married a
year, the lady ended that episode by quitting life for good. She was
found one night lying at the foot of the cliff in the Kelpies'
Glen--with a broken neck."
"Ah!" said Carver. "I begin to see."
"Now, that Kelpies' Glen," continued Triffitt, "was a sort of ravine
which lay between the town of Jedburgh and the school. It was traversed
by a rough path which lay along the top of one side of it, amongst trees
and crags. At one point, this path was on the very edge of a precipitous
cliff; from that edge there was a sheer drop of some seventy or eighty
feet to a bed of rocks down below, on the edge of a brawling stream. It
was on these rocks that Mrs. Bentham's body was found. She was dead
enough when she was discovered, and the theory was that she had come
along the path above in a drunken condition, had fallen over the low
railings which fenced it in, and so had come to her death."
"Precisely," assented Carver, nodding his head with wise appreciation.
"Her alcoholic tendencies were certainly useful factors in the case."
"Just so--you take my meaning," agreed Triffitt. "Well, at first nobody
saw any reason to doubt this theory, for the lady had been seen
staggering along that path more than once. But she had a brother, a
canny Scot who was not over well pleased when he found that his
sister--who had come into everything that old Ferguson left, which was a
comfortable bit--had made a will not very long before her death in which
she left absolutely everything to her new husband, Francis Bentham. The
brother began to inquire and to investigate--and to cut the story short,
within a fortnight of his wife's death, Bentham was arrested and charged
with her murder."
"On what evidence?" asked Carver.
"Precious little!" answered Triffitt. "Indeed next to none. Still,
there was some. It was proved that he was absent from the house for half
an hour or so about the time that she would be coming along that path;
it was also proved that certain footprints in the clay of the path were
his. He contended that he had been to look for her; he proved that he
had often been to look for her in that way; moreover, as to the
footprints, he, like everybody in the house, constantly used that path
in going to the town."
"Aye, to be sure," said Carver. "He'd a good case, I'm thinking."
"He had--and so I thought at the time," continued Triffitt. "And so a
good many folks thought--and they, and I, also thought something else, I
can tell you. I know what the verdict of the crowded court would have
been!"
"What?" asked Carver.
"Guilty!" exclaimed Triffitt. "And so far as I'm concerned, I haven't a
doubt that the fellow pushed her over the cliff. But opinion's neither
here nor there. The only thing that mattered, my son, was the jury's
verdict!"
"And the jury's verdict was--what?" demanded Carver.
Triffitt winked into his empty tankard and set it down with a bang.
"The jury's verdict, my boy," he answered, "was one that you can only
get across the Border. It was '_Not Proven_'!"