THE EVE OF THE TRIAL
Wilfred took every ounce out of the motor-cycle. When he was once
clear of the narrow streets of the town, he soon came to a division of
roads. Without slackening speed, he decided to take the road to the
right. It seemed a road more used; otherwise he had nothing whatever
to guide him.
Two miles were quickly traversed, and then he thought he saw the grey
car ahead. He tried to increase the speed of his motor-cycle, but it
was doing its full capacity. And, in any case, he narrowly avoided
collision with a farmer’s trap which turned unexpectedly out of a
blind side-road. At last came a fairly steep gradient, and he now saw
that he was definitely gaining on the grey car. He was not quite sure
what to do. Should he follow at a distance and risk the car slipping
away unexpectedly? Or, should he risk following closely, with the
consequent risk of detection? He decided to follow at a distance.
Village after village was passed, and still the car in front
maintained a general westerly direction. At last, outside a village
public-house, it stopped, and its occupants went inside. The car
remained on the broad approach. Wilfred waited at the entry to the
village, half-hidden by an enormous tree whose trunk jutted out into
the road. A quarter of an hour went by, and then the little man came
out of the inn; and, taking a swift glance up and down the road, he
entered the car and drove off. Wilfred was astounded. The hired
chauffeur had been left behind in the inn. Was this accidental? Or,
had the little man come to an arrangement with him? Wilfred felt that
the answer probably would be that the chauffeur was deliberately left
behind by the strange passenger.
Nevertheless, Wilfred did not stay there to investigate. Instead, he
immediately set off after the car. The village was soon left behind,
and the road broadened out. In front, in the distance, was the grey
car. The light was just beginning to fail; visibility was restricted
to a comparatively short distance; the horizon was merely a blur.
Wilfred sincerely hoped that he would be able to keep in sight of the
grey car without approaching closer, and especially without having to
light up, thus betraying his presence. Mile after mile was covered,
and still the grey car maintained its way. At last it took a turn and
shot along a side road indicated by a dilapidated guide-post as
leading to several remote hamlets. Wilfred followed. The surface was
rough. But that, he decided, would make it worse going for the car,
than for him. The road wound in curve after curve, between high
hedges, until it entered a wood. Scared pheasants ran across the road
before the unwonted sight and sound. The road took a sudden curve now;
then another almost in the form of a swan’s neck. And there, round the
second curve, blocking the way, was the grey car. Wilfred had no time
to stop. He tried to pass it on the side, and just drew level when
something happened--he felt a push, there was a rattling, grinding
sound, a crash, then--nothing more.
When he woke up, he found himself half in, and half under, a quickset
hedge. Near him on the road was the motor-cycle. He felt bruised and
stiff, and there was a terrible pain in his head and left leg. He
tried to move the left leg. It was very stiff. But, there were no
bones broken. He felt his head, and found it covered with dry mud, and
there were traces of blood, but he could not feel any open wound.
Meanwhile, the darkness had completely fallen. With trembling hand,
Wilfred struck a match and looked at his watch. Twenty minutes past
seven. That meant he must have lain there for over two hours. He
looked for the motor-cycle, and found it lying near him, in the road.
He tried to light the lamp, and at last succeeded; then he made a
careful examination of the machine. The handle-bars were bent. But, he
soon straightened them out again, set the machine up on its stand, and
tried the engine, which, after a little while, began to run.
Wilfred felt shaken and almost light-headed, but he determined to
mount the machine and get to where he could reach a telephone. He
tried, and the machine began to run, but the bumping was terrible. He
dismounted, and a glance at the back tire soon revealed the trouble.
There was a long knife-gash in the tire and tube. The position now was
hopeless so far as the cycle was concerned, and Wilfred looked around
to see if there were any indications of houses. There was none. He was
in the midst of a wood.
He left the motor-cycle where it was, at the roadside, and laboriously
walked along the narrow road by the way he had come. Emerging from the
wood, he saw across the fields the twinkling of a light, and he
determined to reach it. He sought for a while for a side road leading
to it; but, finding none, he entered a field by a gate and set off
across it. He came at last to a lonely farmhouse, and made himself
known to the surprised inhabitants. He said he had had an accident,
and the hospitable people at once took him in and said they would send
a lad with a cart to collect the motor-cycle.
Wilfred thanked them, and told them it would require at least two men
to handle the cycle; so, it was decided that, when the cattle were
bedded down for the night, another man would go, as well. Wilfred
examined himself thoroughly, and was delighted to find that no serious
cuts had resulted. He was scratched badly and suffered a little from
shock; but, he was already recovering.
When the motor-cycle came, he was able to effect the repairs
necessary, in the large back kitchen of the farm. He took the address
of the farm, and he was surprised to find it thirty miles from
Dereham. He decided to go back to the Priory, direct, by a road which
he traced on the local map lent him by the farmer.
So, after making his farewells to his hospitable friends in need,
Wilfred, set off. It was nearly ten o’clock when he returned to the
Priory, and he found Mr. Benson and Mr. Rushton Tring foregathering in
the library.
They listened to Wilfred’s story with sympathy and interest.
“That shows the little man has Laidlaw hidden somewhere, locally.
Probably his headquarters are local,” said Mr. Benson.
“No,” said Mr. Tring. “It only shows that the little chap whom we had
the pleasure of talking to in this room realized that he was being
followed, and was ingenious enough to shake the shadower off. Mind
you, it also shows that there is reason for great secrecy on the part
of Dr. Laidlaw and his confederates. When a comparatively uneducated
man like the little fellow with the tattooed arms will demonstrate
such ingenuity as he has done to-day, you can be certain that there is
something pretty big to hide.”
“What are we going to do now?” asked Mr. Benson. “You realize that the
trial begins on Tuesday?”
“A great deal will depend upon the condition of our hostess,” replied
Mr. Tring. “At present I cannot do much----”
“No, no.” The old lawyer shivered. “We don’t want the poor thing
tortured any more.”
“It will not be a question of torture,” Mr. Tring returned quietly, “I
very nearly--much more nearly than you think--obtained all we wanted;
but, as I said at the time, it is the influence, the dominating
influence, of Laidlaw that at present blocks the way. If we can make
absolutely certain that she does not see Laidlaw before Tuesday, I
think we can consider that we will win.”
“By Tuesday?” asked Mr. Benson. “Running it a bit close, you know.”
“We shall see,” replied the psychologist. “We shall see. If you don’t
mind, I think I’ll turn in. I rise early, and like early hours.” He
bade good-night to Mr. Benson and Wilfred; then he left the library.
The lawyer continued to talk to Wilfred for over an hour; and then
they, too, went to bed.
The night passed without interruption or disturbance. Joe Litt and a
trusted mate, by Mr. Benson’s instructions, had sat up all night in
the tiny vestry of the secret crypt, in case Laidlaw, after all,
should return to see Lady Evenden. But, in the morning they had
nothing to report, when Mr. Benson interviewed them after breakfast.
They had left the hiding-place soon after daybreak, and the night had
gone by, they said, without a single interruption of the silence of
the secret place.
Mr. Tring spent the day in taking long walks in the surrounding
country. Mr. Benson attended to his everlasting papers and his
telephonic. And, in the afternoon, he drove over to Norwich, where he
remained some time in his offices. He arranged to see Frank Gough the
following day in his cell, and he reflected, as he drove home, that
that would be his last visit to Frank, until the trial. Would it be
necessary for him to visit Frank after the trial? If so, in what sort
of cell? Mr. Benson, shuddering, wrapped his fur coat more tightly
round him, while his face assumed a very determined, hard expression.
Wilfred spent a little time with Jill. They lunched together and
talked over the coming trial. Wilfred explained to her that he had not
gone to London, after all, but that he had had to take a ride into the
country on a motor-cycle. The cuts on his face, he explained, were the
result of a slight accident. Jill was not quite satisfied. She felt
that he was hiding something from her. But, she refrained from
pressing him for more details.
She told him that, several times during the night, Lady Evenden had
got up to go to the window of her room and gaze across the park, as
though looking for something; that she had continued staring for quite
five minutes upon each occasion; but that evidently she had found
nothing she had sought, for soon thereafter she had retired to bed
again. Wilfred arranged with Jill that if Lady Evenden should repeat
those watches on the following, or on any other, night, and if in
consequence of what she might see in the park, she should leave her
room, then Jill surely was to follow her. But, first of all in order
to warn him of what was happening, she must go along to his room and
tap on the door.
Wilfred determined to inform the lawyer of this matter. In his own
mind he felt certain that Lady Evenden was awaiting a signal from Dr.
Laidlaw.
The lawyer was most interested, even excited, and at once put himself
in touch with Mr. Rushton Tring; and, the psychologist also held
himself in readiness for a signal.
Again, however, the night passed without their being called on;
though, in the morning, Jill said that Lady Evenden had again at the
same times looked across the park.
The week-end dragged slowly by; to Mr. Benson the days were becoming
intolerable. The ordeal of Tuesday, without more knowledge than he had
at the moment, was almost unthinkable. On Monday he sought Lady
Evenden, alone. He found her distressed and nervous, full of fears and
forebodings of the coming trial of her son that was to open on the
following day. But, though he begged pathetically for her to arm him
at that late hour with all the information at her disposal, she
steadfastly refused.
Mr. Tring kept very much alone. When the old lawyer suggested to him
that he should interview Lady Evenden, and again try to obtain the
secret from her, he refused gently.
“Wait,” he said. “We must wait. At present, regrettable as it is, we
can do nothing. Her mental condition is such at the moment that her
brain would actually break down before she could be forced to speak.
Something may happen to-morrow to give us our opportunity.”
“What may happen to-morrow I fear to contemplate,” replied the old
lawyer. “Never have I entered a case of greater and more terrible
importance; and, never have I entered a case with such a dangerously
incomplete defence.”
Later that day a telephone message announced the arrival of Sir
Courtney Caldecott, K.C., at a Norwich hotel, and Mr. Benson invited
him over to dinner. There the distinguished barrister met Wilfred, Mr.
Rushton Tring; and, for three minutes, he was received by Lady
Evenden, in her boudoir.
“You _will_ obtain the lease of my unfortunate son?” the lady begged
pathetically.
Sir Courtney gave her a few cheering words. Though he, himself,
remained quite bright and optimistic about the prospects on the
morrow, while in the presence of Lady Evenden, Wilfred noticed that a
dark frown sat upon the great advocate’s brows all through the dinner.
Very little conversation took place during the meal; and, when it was
over, Mr. Benson took Sir Courtney to the library, where for the first
time they fully discussed the coming case.
Sir Courtney opened a bag and took from it all the papers relating to
the case.
“You know, Mr. Benson,” he said, “there is one feature of this case
that is puzzling, unique. That is that during the whole period of the
police court proceedings, and since then, the defense has remained
practically where it was when it started.
“I am not blaming you or anyone else for that. I know you have
employed the best detectives, and yet we have no real alternative
lines to suggest in reply to the prosecution challenge. We rely--and
it seems to me we must rely entirely--on the poison business as being
inconsistent with the footman’s story of a quarrel--a quarrel which
the prosecution say ended in a murder. I must confess----”
“Just put those papers to one side and listen to me.” Mr. Benson had
been carefully considering how far to take Sir Courtney into his
confidence all the day; now, he made his decision.
When he interrupted the K.C. “The story I have to tell is rather
long,” he said. “We had better have a drink.”
The K.C. wonderingly acquiesced, and Mr. Benson poured out whisky and
soda.
“You say that we’ve been standing still,” he laughed grimly. “I tell
you we’ve been moving so fast that I, for one, am quite giddy with
movement. The trouble is that we’ve been moving under the
ground--literally, as a matter of fact, and unfortunately our
movements are not such as to be possibly interpreted into the sort of
thing you require to-morrow. Now listen to me, and I’ll make that
sparse hair of yours, stand on end.”
The great K.C. smiled a little at the old man’s quaintness of
expression, but he knew that no offense was intended; and, indeed, he
knew that as far as that was concerned Mr. Benson in Norfolk was a
bigger figure than Sir Courtney Caldecott in the Law Courts. He sat
and listened carefully to the old man’s tale. As the strange narrative
proceeded, his cigar went out; but he never noticed it. His eyes
opened wide with astonishment. Sometimes he looked at the old lawyer
as if he feared the old man was talking from a disordered brain. But
the light in Mr. Benson’s eyes--strong, compelling, and clear--and his
lucidity of his manner, discounted that theory, at once.
When at last the whole story was told, the K.C. sat back in his chair
and stared at Mr. Benson in silence. Mr. Benson stared back. The K.C.
moved at last, looked at his cigar, and lit it.
Mr. Benson noticed that his hand trembled as he held the match.
“Well,” asked Sir Courtney Caldecott, “what are we going to do?”