"GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY?"
To describe the state of excitement into which Wandsborough was thrown,
when the tidings of Roland Dorrien's arrest were bruited about--as they
very soon were--would battle the most graphic pen. Why, nothing
approaching to this had ever befallen in their midst. The Squire of
Cranston, the most influential of local magnates, greater even in point
of possessions than Colonel Neville, the chairman of Petty Sessions, to
be arrested on a criminal charge--one, too, for which, if convicted, he
would inevitably suffer the death of a common malefactor. No,
Wandsborough had, assuredly, never experienced the like of this.
To most of the accused's brother magistrates, the case was a painful
affair. There was sufficient _prima facie_ evidence to send it for
trial, so for trial it went, and their responsibility ended. But the
police court was crammed during the examinations, and all Wandsborough
was making up its mind as to whether the accused was guilty or not, the
balance of opinion leaning, if anything, to the former.
Needless to say, no expense was spared to secure the very best legal
talent. That done, there was nothing left for all concerned, but to
possess their souls in patience. The accused, in the bitter solitude of
his prison cell, set his teeth grimly, and muttered twenty times a day,
"Let them fight it out." But his legal advisers found him anything but
a satisfactory client.
The time between the committal and the opening of the assizes was not
unduly long, and during it Olive had visited him once. But the galling
restrictions imposed upon the visit by gaol regulations, and the immense
strain upon the self-control of both, had rendered the interview too
trying altogether. Outwardly Olive was calmness itself, cheerful too,
and making plans for the future, affecting to treat the whole thing as
an absurd mistake; yet her demeanour did not deceive him, although he
was willing she should believe it did.
At length the momentous day dawned. The Battisford assizes had been
duly opened, and the grand jury had returned a true bill against Roland
Dorrien for the wilful murder of his brother Hubert.
The Court-house at Battisford was large and spacious, but not large
enough for one half of those who would fain have gained admission. As
the accused entered the dock, the sea of faces craned forward, white
with excitement and eagerness, was bewildering at first, but only at
first. There was a slight frown and contraction of the brows, and a
pallor which might have been the result of an anxious period of close
confinement; otherwise the prisoner's face was cold, impassive, almost
haughty, as he swept one glance around the Court. The wooden-faced
judge, in crimson and ermine, the rows of wigged and gowned counsel--
these he felt were scrutinising him keenly. The High Sheriff, too--why,
he had narrowly escaped being pricked for that office himself, this very
year. Then he became aware that he was being called upon to listen to
an indictment couched in rolling legal phraseology, and to plead
accordingly.
"Not Guilty!"
The tone, firm, indifferent, might have been ventriloquised out of an
ice-block. He was not there to waste emotion, thought the prisoner
grimly.
Then the prosecuting counsel proceeded to open his case on behalf of the
Crown. Concisely he went over the facts connected with Hubert Dorrien's
disappearance two years and a half previously, with the subsequent
search and its result, or rather, want of result; upon the subsequent
finding of a body upon the seashore, which, although the face was
unrecognisable, the clothing, and its marks, watch, etc, were amply
sufficient to identify as that of the missing man, and the inquest
immediately held upon it had decided accordingly. But circumstances had
come to light, which went to show that what had been regarded as a
lamentable accident there was reason to believe was nothing less than a
deliberate, vindictive and cold-blooded murder, committed by the
prisoner who stood before them to take his trial, and the very fact that
he stood there showed that there was sufficient evidence to justify that
belief. Whether that belief were turned into a certainty would rest
with the twelve honourable and intelligent gentlemen who were there to
try the case.
The jury liked this opening. They had always heard of Benham, Q.C., as
a very big gun indeed, now they were going to have a chance of hearing
his oratorical gifts. Outwardly he was a tall, pleasant-voiced man, in
the prime of life, and he had a persuasive way with him.
He should show, he went on, how prisoner had come to Battisford
disguised, how he had put up at "The Silver Fleece Inn" in that town,
under the pseudonym of Robert Durnford, and had laid his plans and
watched his opportunity, and having lured his brother to a lonely spot
upon the cliffs between that town and Wandsborough, had there done him
to death in the darkness of night, as he thought, unseen by human eye.
Then counsel proceeded to call his first evidence. This was given, in
succession, by those who had found the body, two or three fishermen from
Minchkil. These were examined by Benham's junior, and their evidence
being purely technical, they were soon disposed of. They were followed
by the medical man who had testified at the inquest, and who declared
now, as he had declared then, and unhesitatingly, that death was due to
drowning. There were marks of bruises on the body, but not such as
would cause death, or even contribute to that result.
There was a stir of sensation among the densely-packed crowd as Mr
Benham called for his next witness, for this was no other than Mrs
Dorrien, the General's widow. A tall figure in deep black made its way
to the witness-box with rapid, but firm, steps. A chair was placed for
her by direction of the judge.
Then, as Mrs Dorrien slowly removed her heavy veil, her glance fell
upon her surviving son; that son, whom she had never seen since he left
his father's house those years ago. Then they had parted in coldness,
if not in anger. Now they met again thus, the mother and the son.
Roland met her eyes firmly, and there was no sign of shrinking in his
mien. Her face was pale as death, but stern, impassive and determined
as his own. In it there appeared not a trace of pity.
"Pray be seated, Mrs Dorrien," said Mr Benham in his suavest tone,
when the witness had been sworn. "We shall endeavour to spare you
unnecessary pain. All we want you to tell us are the circumstances
under which your son Hubert was first missed."
Concisely, in a low, set tone, the widow complied. Aided now and again
by a question from the judge, she stated how Hubert had left home to
attend evening service at Cranston, how he had not returned, and how, on
the following morning, being alarmed, she had told her husband, who had
at once instituted a search, heading it in person--but without effect.
"One thing more, Mrs Dorrien," said Mr Benham, "and we shall have
done. Had you any reason to suspect your eldest son, the accused, was
anywhere in the neighbourhood?"
"None whatever."
"Any questions, Mr Windgate?" asked the judge sharply.
"N-no, m'lord," replied the prisoner's advocate. "At least, yes,"
jumping up. "Just one. Will you kindly tell us, Mrs Dorrien, were
your two sons, Roland and Hubert, on good terms?"
"They had never quarrelled."
"They had never quarrelled," making a note. "That is to say, they were
on good terms."
"They were not very cordial," said the witness in the same slow,
monotonous voice in which her evidence had been given.
"Ah! They were not very cordial. Different temperaments, no doubt.
Thank you, Mrs Dorrien. That will do," said Mr Windgate blandly,
making another note.
As different as possible from his opponent was Mr Windgate, Q.C., the
prisoner's advocate. A little man, with bushy black whiskers, round in
person, brisk and smiling in manner--he was sharp as a needle. Yet the
way in which he extracted admissions from an unwilling witness left an
impression on that uncomfortable personage that was soothing, not to say
flattering. Mr Benham, on the other hand, was apt to wax stern and
slightly supercilious when on his mettle.
The next witness called was the Rev Charles Curtis, the vicar of
Cranston. He gave a more or less succinct account of the search in
which he had taken part, up to the time of meeting with Eustace Ingelow
at the bottom of Smugglers' Ladder.
"This article was handed to you by young Mr Ingelow?" asked Mr Benham,
holding up the silver matchbox which Eustace had picked up.
"It was."
"Had you ever seen it before?"
"Never."
"Nothing else was found at the time?"
"Not down below. I believe something was found above."
"Ah, we shall come to that presently. Thank you, Mr Curtis. That will
do."
Mr Windgate, having no question to ask beyond that concerning the terms
on which the two young gentlemen stood with each other, the vicar was
soon released.
Then was taken the evidence of Thomas Platt, labourer, and afterwards,
that of his wife--the pair who had last seen Hubert Dorrien alive on the
fatal Sunday evening. The honest couple, who resided on the Cranston
estate and looked up to the accused as their feudal lord, were mightily
overcome by the awe of the situation, and the woeful perplexity with
which they made their statements convulsed the audience, vastly tickled
the Bar, and enraged the judge to the last degree.
But the evidence of the rustic pair was straightforward enough, and
tallied exactly, nor was it to be shaken by all the silky
cross-questionings of the prisoner's counsel. Might they not have been
mistaken about the direction the deceased was taking, or about the time?
No--on all these points they were sure. They were of the soil born and
bred, and on matters local like this were sharp enough. They had no
feeling against the accused, quite the reverse. He was a kind master,
although some folks were a bit afraid of him.
"We are not taking evidence as to the character of the prisoner, Mr
Windgate," reminded the judge crustily, drawing a suave apology from
that eminent counsel, and the prompt bundling out of the box of the
latter of the two rustic witnesses.
"I shall call Eustace Ingelow," said the Crown Counsel on the return of
the Court after a short adjournment for lunch.
Poor Eustace was in a woeful state of nervousness and genuine grief on
behalf of his relative, as he took the oath. Indeed, it seemed as if he
would hardly be able to deliver his evidence coherently.
"Take time, Mr Ingelow," said Mr Benham kindly. "There's no hurry--
none whatever. You are, I believe, the prisoner's brother-in-law?"
"Yes."
"In a double sense?"
"I--I don't quite understand."
"What do you mean by `a double sense,' Mr Benham?" snapped the judge.
"We mean, m'lord, that they married each others' sisters." Here it
became necessary to explain that the learned counsel was forging ahead
too fast, and that at least half of his statement dealt with future
contingencies instead of with actual facts. Which explanation tickled
the audience and reduced the witness to a red-hot degree of nervousness.
"And now, Mr Ingelow," he went on, when the joke had subsided, "just
tell the gentlemen of the jury what happened during the search you took
part in. Were you asked to join in that search?"
"No. I did not even know what had happened until I saw Mr Curtis and
General Dorrien arrive on the beach. I was there at the time talking
with Matt and Jem Pollock."
"And then you learned that Hubert Dorrien was missing?"
"Yes. I volunteered at once to join in the search."
"Were you acquainted with the deceased?"
"Very slightly. In fact, hardly at all."
"But you were acquainted with General Dorrien?"
A flush rose to Eustace's face, and he hesitated.
"I can't exactly say that. But--but--of course I knew him well by
sight--and--"
"I can't hear a word the witness says," snapped the judge, "and I'm sure
the jury can't."
"A little louder please, Mr Ingelow. Did you find anything anywhere
near the Smugglers' Ladder?"
"Yes. A piece of silk cord, such as might be used for an eyeglass."
"The deceased wore an eyeglass?"
"Yes."
"What did you do with this cord?"
"I took it to General Dorrien. He seemed to recognise it--but said
nothing."
"Is this the cord?" handing it to the witness.
"I think so."
"How did you find it?"
"It was hanging on a tuft of grass on the brink."
"Now, what was your idea when you found this cord?"
"I thought it a very important trace. It seemed to point to the poor
fellow having fallen in."
"Quite so. Were there any other traces?"
"The grass around the brink was crushed."
"Crushed and trampled?"
"M'lord, the witness said `crushed,'" objected Mr