GREAT ARGUMENT ABOUT IT
“Well, one thing is clear,” said Mr. Benson, “and that is--that it
is simply impossible to table this in court.”
He spoke decisively, and the K.C., watching the determined face of the
wonderful old man opposite him, there and then abandoned an idea to
spring the whole story on a startled court. One of the characteristics
of Sir Courtney Caldecott was a capacity to realize facts, accept
them, and take them into consideration in his plans. He never relied
on good fortune, to help him here, or luck, there. He made his own
good fortune, he was in the habit of boasting; and luck he despised.
Now he saw that it would be impossible to use directly the amazing
story which he had just heard; nevertheless, he determined to find out
if it were the whole story.
“There is one important omission you have made in relating the most
amazing story I have ever heard,” he said, “and that is the name of
the actual murderer--or murderess.”
“I do not know,” said Mr. Benson. “All my information I have passed on
to you, without reserving even a detail.”
“I suppose you have formed theories--you have your suspicions?” The
K.C. looked into the eyes of the old lawyer. And, as he asked his
question, he thought what a difficult subject Mr. Benson would be to
cross-examine. But it did not appear that Mr. Benson was hiding
anything.
He raised his eyebrows, knocked the ash off his cigar, and replied
quite frankly.
“Certainly I have theories and suspicions strong enough to act upon if
these were no ulterior considerations. I am quite convinced that the
Dr. Laidlaw, I spoke of, is the murderer. All the evidence points to
that.”
“What about the strange woman that none of you seems to know anything
about?” asked the K.C.
“That I can tell you no more about than I have,” replied the lawyer.
“Indeed, if it had not been that our young friend, Dr. Wilfred Barlow,
says he saw her, together with his fiancee, I should have doubted that
part of Laidlaw’s confession.”
“Forgive me if I speak perfectly frankly, without consideration of
anybody’s feelings.” The K.C. frowned, paused a second, then
proceeded. “What hold do you think Laidlaw has over Lady Evenden?”
“Oh, I think it is simply what the psychologist, Mr. Rushton Tring,
says--the effect of a strong mind over a weak one. I am inclined to
think that Laidlaw’s story in relation to that is substantially true.
I think he treated her after the death of her first husband; and, by
his methods, and those of his Viennese colleague, undoubtedly effected
a cure. That, I am given to understand, would cause her to respond to
his suggestions--in short, her will would be enslaved by his. It is a
curious theory, but I am instructed by Mr. Rushton Tring, a man whose
probity I cannot doubt.”
Mr. Benson looked across at the K.C., who nodded agreement. Then he
continued. “I am assured by Tring that, strange as it is, those facts
are true. She requires, actually requires, in her present mental
condition, the services of Laidlaw, until they can be gradually
replaced by some other, and more creditable, master of his craft, or
science, or whatever you like to call it.”
“If you say that Tring backs that theory, then I am inclined to agree,
at any rate, to its possibility. But, look here, Mr. Benson, here is
the crux.”
The K.C. leaned forward, and his face wrinkled into lines which
strangely contorted it. “As I see it, my friend, this is the crux.
Laidlaw has told his story. That is checked by the story my client had
heard from his brother John, who in turn had heard it from his
messmate. All this is true, and entitles Laidlaw to a certain amount
of credence. But what shall we say of our unfortunate and bereaved
client; I refer to Lady Evenden? Don’t you see she has absolutely
refused to disclose a thing. Even the Loch Lomond story, she will not
tell fully to you, and she absolutely refuses to say what happened
that night. Laidlaw, give him his due, does make some sort of a
statement. That about another man being there I frankly disbelieve off
hand, for the simple reason that Laidlaw says he was knocked
unconscious; and yet, the watchers downstairs in that crypt place did
not so much as see him.”
“Do you infer that----”
“I infer nothing,” quickly interrupted Sir Courtney Caldecott.
“Please, please, my dear Mr. Benson, do take this in an impersonal
sense. I would be the last person to----”
“I do hate people interrupting me,” said Mr. Benson testily. “When you
interrupted me, I was about to ask if you inferred that the
possibility existed that Lady Evenden was the murderess? Do let me
finish.” The K.C. had held up a deprecating hand, although he watched
Mr. Benson with keen interest. “I personally have toyed with the idea
as a possibility, but I am convinced the theory does not rest on any
substantial fact. I know the trouble constituted by the obstinate
silence of Dr. Barlow and his sweetheart, who certainly know something
that would help us. I know the trouble occasioned by Lady Evenden’s
own silence; but then, I account for that by her subjection to
Laidlaw’s will. Obviously, he wants to make her believe all sorts of
things with a view to blackmail. He may have made her believe that she
killed her first husband.”
“I suppose you see the possibility of her having committed this crime
under the influence and control of Laidlaw?” The K.C. spoke
dispassionately, but his eyes were burning.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Benson. “I have even considered that, and there I
am confronted by a complete absence of motive.”
“What about the will?” Sir Courtney Caldecott asked, lighting a fresh
cigar.
“Oh, the will provides very satisfactorily for Lady Evenden,” replied
the lawyer. “It is true that it was the intention of the late Sir
Michael to make a more substantial provision for Frank, which was
frustrated by his unexpectedly sudden death. But then, my dear chap, I
had talked to John, and John was one of the most open-hearted and
generous fellows in the world. There was no reason to doubt that he
would have acted as his father would have expected him.”
“What about the remainder?” the K.C. inquired.
“Ah, that is rather involved,” said Mr. Benson. “We arranged some
years ago that, in the event of the late Sir Michael out-living
John--the war was on, you must remember--Lady Evenden and her heirs
would succeed. Sir Michael had a great political pull, and letters
patent were issued.”
“You see where this is leading us, don’t you?” asked Sir Courtney
Caldecott. “According to this, if Sir Michael out-lived John, then
Lady Evenden, and subsequently Frank, as the male heir, inherit. Very
well, then, supposing Laidlaw had this control over Lady Evenden.
Would there not be more funds for him if he got John out of the way?
Had not John already manifested his detestation of the little doctor,
and ordered him off the premises?”
“You are acting upon the assumption that Laidlaw knew all this?” the
lawyer asked.
“Certainly,” replied Sir Courtney.
“I don’t think he could,” said Mr. Benson slowly. “I don’t believe
that Lady Evenden herself knew exactly how she stood as far as money
was concerned. I think she knew of the special remainder in her favor;
but, she also thought that in any case she would be very well provided
for, and that Frank would be, also. The temporary will, which
unfortunately is the last will, and must be sent forward for probate,
was only to meet the emergency of the baronet’s possible ruin, which
seemed imminent some months ago. That all straightened itself out; and
unfortunately the making of a new will was neglected.”
“Nevertheless,” argued the K.C., “she might have known, and in any
case Laidlaw knew that John stood between him and control.”
“Two things remain still to be accounted for before, in my view, the
theory that Lady Evenden murdered her stepson can be said to hold
water,” said Mr. Benson decisively. “One is, supposing she had been
acting under Laidlaw’s control, why should she not have murdered
Frank, as well? He certainly would have been as great a thorn in the
side of the doctor, as Jack.
“Then the other, and in my view the conclusive, argument is this: if
Laidlaw wanted Jack out of the way, why the devil didn’t he murder
him, himself? He was clever, he had a wonderful poison--I am
proceeding on the theory now that he supplied that curious poison
found in poor John’s brain. Why should he bother about having her do
it for him? He could have done it quite simply; he had the run of the
secret passages. There is always danger of a woman talking. And, no
one would know better than Laidlaw that the control he exercised over
Lady Evenden would relax with his absence, and might be substituted by
some other, as, in fact, we are trying to do now, with Mr. Rushton
Tring.”
“Sense,” said Sir Courtney Caldecott; “good, sound common sense, I
quite agree, up to a point. But, my dear chap, logic does not
necessarily govern the mind of a murderer. After all, murder is a
terrible thing--even the most cold-blooded would hesitate to murder.
It might be, it might possibly be, that he thought there would be
difficulty in establishing the fact, in evidence, of his control over
the unhappy woman, and that a buffer would stand between him and the
consequences of his murder.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Benson. “Laidlaw is so diabolically cold-blooded
that I predict that, if he is ever cremated, his coffin will come out
of the furnace hanging with icicles. That man would stop at nothing,
and as for intrusting his work, or his secrets, to a woman--pshaw!
Dismiss it from your mind, my good chap!”
“I say,” said Sir Courtney Caldecott, “would it be possible for us to
see the secret passages to-night?”
“Of course,” replied Mr. Benson. “I’ve still got Joe Litt and his
friend sitting downstairs in the little crypt vestry, in case our
friend turns up unexpectedly. Shall we go down now?”
The K.C. signified his consent, and the two men went to their rooms to
get overcoats. Mr. Benson led his distinguished friend along the route
which had lately become so familiar to him, along the front of the
Priory, through the secret entry, and into the crypt. He was just
lighting a candle when a stick struck the wall, close by his head.
“Hey, what the devil’s this?” shouted the indignant old man, while Sir
Courtney Caldecott positively jumped in apprehension. The match
revealed a determined-looking yokel about to wield the stick again,
while behind him was Joe Litt, an old fowling-piece in his hand.
Instantly, Joe apologized and began to upbraid his assistant, but the
old lawyer would not have it. He chuckled at the incident, and blamed
himself for not having a prearranged signal in case of his coming. The
eminent K.C. examined the crypt, with interest. He was shown the
ruined altar and the ancient candlesticks, the chest of vestments and
several very wonderful old missals, all dating from pre-Reformation
days.
Then, accompanied by Joe Litt, they went up the staircase into the
Prior’s Room. Very carefully did Sir Courtney Caldecott examine every
inch of that much-examined chamber, but nothing new was found. Joe
Litt stood by the wardrobe which gave entry to the secret staircase to
the crypt, while Mr. Benson and Sir Courtney talked, in the middle of
the room. The curtains were closely drawn over the windows. No one
from outside could possibly tell that the place was lit.
Sir Courtney and Mr. Benson concluded their inspection, and the
lawyer, having put the light out, was following the K.C., who in turn
was following closely in the wake of Joe Litt, when there was a sudden
explosion. A shot was fired which, in the confined passage, sounded
like the discharge of a cannon.
Sir Courtney was so shocked that his feet flew from under him, and he
slipped down, on the narrow stairs, in a most undignified manner. As
he slipped, he inadvertently kicked the feet of Joe Litt from under
him so that that worthy came down also, and, with him, their only
candle.
Mr. Benson rushed on, and fell over the two, in front. It was nearly a
minute before they picked themselves up and proceeded, as quickly as
they could, to the crypt, where a strange sight met their eyes. The
secret door at the end, through which the lawyer and Sir Courtney had
come earlier that evening, was wide open, and the night breeze was
blowing in. A candle was guttering on the floor; and, beside it, at
full length, lay the yokel, who had been left to guard the crypt.
Quickly, the three men went over and examined him. His forehead was
bleeding, and the gun was lying beside him.
Joe Litt lighted the other candle, and Mr. Benson stooped over the
stricken man, while Sir Courtney Caldecott knelt by his other side. It
was apparent that the man was not suffering from a gunshot wound. His
forehead had been bruised, and partly cut, by some jagged thing.
They gave him some water, and presently he opened his eyes.
“Shot ’im, I did,” he declared, and went off into unconsciousness
again. Mr. Benson examined the gun. It was double-barrelled, and one
barrel had been fired.
“Laidlaw’s been,” announced Mr. Benson, “and Bill Harris here has shot
him. Stay where you are, Joe. Come on, Sir Courtney.”
Mr. Benson was off, like a schoolboy. He ran up the secret staircase
and stood on the lawn looking about him when the K.C., panting
heavily, joined him.
“Can’t see him anywhere, can you?” asked the old man, and the K.C.
looked excitedly around. There was not a sound. Presently a form moved
towards them, and both men looked towards it. The man continued to
approach, while Mr. Benson fingered the gun which he still held. On
closer approach, however, it proved to be the form of Wilfred Barlow,
who had heard the shot and thought, at first, it was fired by a
poacher. To him it sounded far away; but, he had decided to come out
when he had found the library windows open.
In a few words, Mr. Benson made him conversant with the situation.
They looked about, but there was no sign of Laidlaw; and, after a few
minutes of fruitless searching, the three went downstairs and rejoined
Joe Litt. Wilfred minutely examined the wounded man and bandaged his
head carefully, with a linen handkerchief.
Soon he was able to tell them what had happened. It appeared that some
time after Mr. Benson, accompanied by the K.C. and Joe Litt, had gone
upstairs into the Prior’s Room, Bill Harris had heard a sound, as if
some one were seeking entrance to the crypt, from the lawn. After his
experience earlier in the evening, when he had nearly hit Mr. Benson,
he determined to be more careful; so, before he moved, he waited until
the intruder had come right to the door and had struck a light. It was
then, gun in hand, that he had rushed across the crypt. By the light
of the candle, which the intruder had placed upon the floor, Bill
could see the features of Dr. Laidlaw, while he thought he glimpsed
another figure behind him.
The doctor had beaten a hasty retreat; and, as he fled up the
staircase, Bill pulled the trigger of his gun. He said he knew that he
had hit him, because the doctor had given a yelp of pain. Then some
one had hit Bill with something hard, and that was all he remembered.
Mr. Benson was forced to curse his own stupidity in leaving only one
man downstairs, if even for merely a few minutes. However, nothing
could be done now. Bill was made quite comfortable with cushions,
since he refused to go to bed, and insisted on finishing his watch
out, with Joe.
Wilfred accompanied Mr. Benson and the K.C. to the library, where they
spent a further hour, talking over the weird happenings of the night.
“Bless my soul!” declared the old lawyer a little later, starting up,
“do you fellows realize it’s one o’clock? We have a lot to do
to-morrow.”
“It’s to-day, my dear chap, it’s to-day,” said Sir Courtney Caldecott
gravely. “This is the opening day of the trial.”