ALEXIA’S DENIAL
Suddenly it became known that the venue of the sensational Vaux House
case was to be changed from a civil to a criminal court. The reasons
for this were obvious. The one meant a summary trial, the other
involved vexatious delays which, considering the very odious position
in which Countess Alexia was placed by the scandal, were not to be
endured. Then the alleged libel was, if unjustified, of a particularly
cruel and damning character; and so it was not a question of damages
but of punishment. Perhaps the writers who had been so quick to jump
at conclusions, and, when seized upon, to elaborate doubtful facts
into flamingly sensational “copy,” began to share with the editors who
accepted them, certain misgivings that they had asserted more than they
could prove. They had been unfortunately precipitate; still they must
make a stiff fight in justification, and at the worst there was always
a grand advertisement to be sure of.
So it came to pass that the responsible editors of the _Daily Comet_
and the _Mayfair Gazette_ were cited to appear at the Police Court to
answer charges of criminal libel at the instance of Countess Alexia von
Rohnburg.
All the quidnuncs were there; all, that is, who could squeeze into
the Court. And a society tatler, a professional diner-out, will
take as much pains “to be there,” and show himself as resourceful
in expedients for getting a good view as will the most enterprising
of journalists. And as the magisterial examination dragged on, the
sensation hunters had a series of highly enjoyable field days.
The publication of the libels having been admitted and justification
pleaded, Countess Alexia was called to give a direct denial to the
charges insinuated against her. Then came what was expected to be the
feature of the case, her cross-examination. The somewhat aggressive
methods of that celebrated legal bully, Ambrose Macvee, K.C., failed
to elicit any more damaging admission than that she had lost her
hair ornament at the ball, and that to the best of her belief the
one produced in Court with which it was practically certain Captain
Martindale had been stabbed to death was that which had belonged to
her. This looked ugly enough, especially when coupled with the admitted
fact that she had been alone with Captain Martindale in the little
room where he was subsequently found dead. Proof, it is true, was
forthcoming that the Countess had left the room a considerable time
before the tragedy was discovered: she had danced with more than one
partner, and had betrayed no sign of confusion or excitement.
“What nerve the woman must have!” was the comment of those who were
loth to let go the sustaining belief in her guilt to which they
were clinging. It was quite thrilling, and gave a new fillip to the
sensation. A Countess stabs her inconvenient lover to death in a
secluded corner, then returns to the ball-room and resumes her waltzing
as though nothing had happened. What a pity that it was, so far, no
more than conjecture. However, merely in the way of suggestion, it
furnished stimulating head-lines, somewhat carefully worded, it is
true; the penalty of libel and contempt of court being very much in the
air just then.
There was still, as there always had been, an important link wanting in
the chain of evidence which could justify the charges against Countess
Alexia, the mystery of that half-hour during which the deceased man had
been left alone in that room, for anything to the contrary that mortal
eye had seen. Alexia swore that when she left him he was alive, she had
had a disagreement with him on a rather painful subject, the reputation
of a friend of hers, and had parted with him on bad terms, but she had
never raised her hand against him. There had been no reason why she
should have done so: when she quitted the room Captain Martindale was
as much alive as any one in that Court.
Of course she would swear that, the quidnuncs declared, unless she
wished to brand herself a murderess; she had come into Court to swear
to her innocence; nothing less was to be expected. But it all looked
very queer, very ugly: at any moment, it was thought, she might break
down in her evidence, and the case be brought to a sudden and dramatic
close.
But Alexia never faltered, and then the disappointed folk attributed
this to her tremendous nerve-power. The woman who could kill one lover
and then go and dance with another was not the sort of person to
break down in the witness-box. It was not to be expected, even under
Macvee’s searching and tricky cross-examination; it simply emphasized
her character, and consequently her guilt. So much for the fashionable
Ghouls; the smart thirsters for blood.
But there was another party, smaller and less noisily insistent,
who believed in Alexia; who looked upon her as a high-spirited woman
shamefully maligned and accused, the victim as much of a terrible chain
of coincidence as of a hateful lust for scandal.
In his defence of the Countess, Herriard had, as both he and Gastineau
anticipated, a trying task. It required the greatest delicacy and tact
during the somewhat drastic cross-examination of his client, to know
just when to interfere and how far to protest. In this Gastineau’s
advice was golden; he seemed to have the faculty of anticipating
everything that would happen; not merely the line the cross-examination
would take, but even the very wording of the questions which the
rough-tongued Macvee would ask. So Herriard’s championship of his
client was, at least on the human side of the case, successful to
admiration, notwithstanding that sympathy was largely against him.
The craving for scandal and for the downfall of a fair woman is a
morbid growth which will eat away the innate sense of chivalry. Fair
play is, paradoxically, often a sad spoil-sport: we do not always
want the best man to win, and right is usually terribly uninteresting
compared with wrong. So there is much satisfaction in seeing wrong
established that the spectators may gloat over its punishment. Still,
Geoffrey Herriard’s advocacy, plucky yet tactful, was bound to extort
approval even from those who were longing to see him trip; it had the
unbounded praise of the Countess’s sympathizers and, what he felt he
valued still more, the ardent gratitude of Alexia herself. Alexia was,
almost literally, fighting for her life; this hideous chance threatened
her with, at least, social annihilation, and the very desperation
of the fight accentuated her dependence on her defender. Those were
terrible days to her, when she was a marked woman, the gazing-stock
for every vulgar quidnunc; branded already by the prejudice of the
sensation-mongers as, at least, a venial murderess. The words and
messages of sympathy she constantly received scarcely sustained her
through the ordeal.
The Duke of Lancashire also was having a very uncomfortable time of it.
The suppression of the result of Dr. Blaydon’s post-mortem examination
was an awkward point for him to meet. He was closely questioned on the
incident, and it is to be feared that the ducal conscience went to
bed that night with the weight of a certain ugly sin called perjury
upon it. For though his Grace was fain to admit that he had given
the obsequious medico a substantial cheque to write a certificate of
natural death so that the fuss of an inquest might be avoided, he yet
stoutly denied all knowledge of the wound, the pin-prick which had just
reached that false heart, and stopped its mechanism. Denial here was
safe, since the only other person who had absolute knowledge of the
transaction, namely the doctor himself, had been summoned to another
Bar where perjury is futile.
Still, although he stuck to his repudiation of the suggestion--since
its admission would have had serious consequences, even for a Duke--his
dignity was badly battered about during that searching hour. He
rather attempted to take the line that he was too big a personage
to be expected to trouble himself about such unpleasant trifles as
the mysterious death of a guest under his roof: he was accustomed to
leave all these dismal, disagreeable details to his people who would
naturally understand better than he how to deal with them. This is the
line for an aristocratic witness to take when he is to be the joy of
the opposing counsel and the despair of his own. The work of cutting
away the fringe of pomp and artificial grandeur, and holding up the
poor man inside them as a wretched specimen of weak-minded humanity, is
easy and paying.
The harried Duke, stripped for the hour, of his fine feathers, made to
stand out in a dingy, uncompromising court, and show what manner of man
he really was, cut a sorry figure. Counsel poked fun at his pomposity,
his affectation of high and mighty indifference; there was much
laughter in court, and the whole deplorable business was given verbatim
(parentheses and all) in the papers.
The case, when it at last reached the committal stage, was left hanging
in an evenly balanced position, and public opinion was divided,
although not quite so evenly, as to the merits of the issue.