To Eustace succeeded his father, and the appearance of Dr Ingelow in
the witness-box gave rise to not a little expectation on the part of
many. They wondered what card the prosecution held up its sleeve, and
although outwardly calmness and composure, so did he.
Beginning at his earliest acquaintance with Roland Dorrien, Mr Benham
put the rector through a long, minute, and tiresome examination,
repeatedly challenged as irrelevant by the opposing counsel, as to his
relations with the Dorrien family at that time. On these points the
judge supported Mr Windgate, and the queries were waived or put less
pointedly.
"You recollect Hubert Dorrien's disappearance, Dr Ingelow?" continued
the prosecution, having brought the examination down to that stage.
"Perfectly."
"That was nearly five months after the prisoner had left Wandsborough,
was it not?"
"About that time."
"And you had seen nothing of him since?"
"Nothing whatever."
"Did you know his whereabouts at that time?"
"I had not an idea of it."
"Will you swear to that?"
"Emphatically."
"When did you see him next?"
"Not till the following June."
"That is to say, from August of the previous year till June of the
actual year in which the deceased met his death, you did not set eyes on
Roland Dorrien?"
"You have my exact meaning."
"Did any of your family?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Will you repeat that statement?"
"Not to my knowledge." Here Mr Windgate made a careful note. Then
followed a great deal of questioning as to the prisoner's marriage and
the terms upon which he and the witness had always stood.
"Now, Dr Ingelow," went on the Crown counsel, waxing impressive.
"Kindly give me your closest attention. You have always been on the
most intimate terms with the prisoner."
"Always."
"Should you call him a man of a cheerful disposition!"
"Well--no."
"Ah! Now did not that ever strike you as a little strange in a man of
his age and position in life?"
"I really can't say that it ever did." Mr Benham's face and attitude
formed a study. He threw himself back and, with half-closed eyes,
looking now at the ceiling, now at the witness, shook his head gently
with the blandest of deprecatory smiles.
"Will you kindly tell the Court how long you have been in Holy Orders?"
"Thirty-three years."
"You have had great experience during that time?"
"I think I may say I have."
"Varied experience?"
"Decidedly varied experience."
"At Wandsborough and elsewhere?"
"Yes."
"Experience of character, human nature, and so forth?"
"Yes."
"Is it not a fact, Dr Ingelow, that one of your daughters met with a
narrow escape from drowning some time ago? Was cut off by the tide?"
"That is so."
"When did this occur?"
"About two years and a half ago."
"Was it anywhere near the time of Hubert Dorrien's disappearance?"
"It was."
"Before or after?"
"Just after."
"Just after. How long after?"
"As far as I can remember, about a fortnight after."
"The lady who met with that adventure is your second daughter, is she
not?"
"Yes."
"And is now Mrs Dorrien, the wife of the prisoner?"
"Yes."
"Ah! And now will you kindly tell the Court the circumstances of that--
er--adventure?"
This the witness did, as briefly as possible. The tale was not new to
the audience, few of whom, however, had heard it at first-hand. It was
listened to with vivid interest, particularly the facts relating to the
rescue by the mysterious stranger. Him--being asked to do so--the
witness described to the best of his ability.
"This stranger--this Mr Robert Durnford--gave you an address, you say--
a London address? Did you ever apply at that address?"
"It was only a post-office address. I lost no time in writing to him at
it."
"What was the address?"
"It was some London post office. The name of the post office has clean
escaped my memory."
"You wrote to him. And you received no reply?"
"Pardon me. I did receive one."
"May I ask to what effect?"
"To the effect that the writer was on the eve of departure to New South
Wales, and regretting that therefore our further acquaintance must
remain in abeyance perhaps for years--also expressing gratification at
having been instrumental in my daughter's escape. It was a courteous
and kindly letter. I have heard nothing of him since."
"Quite so, Dr Ingelow--quite so. Have you still that letter in your
possession?"
"No. I have destroyed it, among other old papers."
"Lately?"
"N-no. It must be quite a year ago."
"Now, you are on your oath, Dr Ingelow. You have not destroyed that
letter since your son-in-law's arrest?"
"Your reminder is needless, sir. Nevertheless, for your greater
satisfaction I will reiterate that the letter was destroyed quite a year
ago."
"Well, well. Now did it strike you at the time that any similarity
existed between that stranger and the prisoner, Roland Dorrien?"
"It did not."
"No resemblance whatever? Voice--walk--manner? Come. Think again, my
dear sir."
"Unnecessary. I saw no such resemblance."
"Has it ever struck you since?"
"It has not."
"You have never had reason to suspect that Robert Durnford, the rescuer
of your daughter on that occasion, might have been Roland Dorrien in
disguise?"
"I never have."
"You distinctly swear to that?"
"Distinctly."
"Don't you think, Mr Benham, you've got out of this witness all you're
likely to get?" said the judge snappishly.
"I have just put my last question, m'lord," was the suave reply. "Thank
you, Dr Ingelow." And Mr Benham sat down, more nonplussed than he
cared to show.
Mr Windgate rose.
"I should be glad, my lord, if you would kindly make a note of the fact
that this witness has three times distinctly sworn that no identity
existed between the stranger, Robert Durnford, and my client, Roland
Dorrien."
"Er--twice I think, Mr Windgate," said the judge.
"Pardon me, my lord. Three times. If your lordship will glance back a
few folios. This gentleman stated earlier in his evidence that from
August till the following June he had not set eyes on the prisoner.
Now, the young lady's adventure befel in February, between those months.
Therefore the statement amounts to a denial of the identity."
"Very well, Mr Windgate."
"Thank you, m'lord. I do not require to cross-examine."
So the rector stood down. Mr Windgate was jubilant. The evidence just
heard was all in his client's favour.
Considerable disappointment prevailed among the audience at the
conclusion to which Dr Ingelow's examination had been so abruptly
brought. They looked for something far more exciting. Meanwhile,
another witness was being sworn.
"Your name is George Newton?" queried Mr Benham, "and you are a waiter
at Welbrook's Tavern, in the Strand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you been long in that situation?"
"About nine years."
"Now, look at the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?"
"Yes," replied the witness unhesitatingly.
"When?"
"Well, that I can't exactly say, sir. It might be a year or two ago.
He came in one night to have some dinner--and seemed a bit flurried
like. The first thing he did was to ask for an A.B.C. time-table. We
'adn't got one in the 'ouse, and the gentleman seemed rather put out
about it."
"And then?"
"Well then, sir, we sent out and got him one."
"Now, just cast your memory back and see if you can tell us what day it
was."
But this the witness could not do. He could swear most decidedly to the
accused's identity, but for dates he had no recollection. The month on
the A.B.C. was January.
"The gentleman seemed a bit queer," he went on. "He seemed to make a
great point about getting the A.B.C., and then when he goes out what
does he do but leave it behind!"
"Did you examine it?"
"Yes, sir. One of the pages had a corner turned down, and it was marked
at Wandsborough Road station."
"You have it with you?"
"Yes, sir. Here it is." And the witness, fumbling in his pocket,
produced the time-table which Roland Dorrien had forgotten and left
behind him at the tavern in the Strand, on the night of his chance
meeting with his brother.
It was even as the man had said--turned down and marked at Wandsborough
Road station.
"Did you draw anyone else's attention to this circumstance?"
"Yes, sir. One of the other waiters, Tom Short."
"Where is he?"
"He's been dead these six or eight months."
"And you are ready to swear that the prisoner is the gentleman who left
this with you?"
"Yes, sir."
Mr Benham sat down, and Mr Windgate rose to cross-examine. He seemed
determined to make up for having hitherto been debarred his privilege in
that line, for he assailed the witness in the most pitiless manner. But
it was of no use. The man's evidence was straightforward enough, and he
stuck to it, especially the identity--as to which he was calm certainty
itself. All present felt that its burden was of damning import.
The next to enter the box was Johnston, the ex-Cranston gardener. His
testimony went to show that the prisoner was identical with Robert
Durnford, so-called, the mysterious guest at "The Silver Fleece Inn."
He swore positively to having recognised his late master in the
disguised stranger, when the latter had passed him in the street at
Battisford. He further deposed to having taken subsequent opportunities
of observing the pseudo-Durnford unknown to the subject of his
observation, and was quite satisfied on the point of the identity
between the two. Things began to look dark for the prisoner, but they
were destined to look darker still.
When he had satisfied himself as to the identity of the accused with the
stranger staying at "The Silver Fleece" in Battisford--he said--
suspicion first entered his mind, and it grew stronger and stronger.
Nor was it difficult to account for the fact that the one should be in
the neighbourhood disguised at the very time the other met his death;
the more so as the prisoner would be the gainer by his brother's death,
and in fact was the gainer. From that time, he had laid himself out to
watch the prisoner--and once had overheard some fragments of the
tatter's conversation with Dr Ingelow, which had more than ever
convinced him of the truth of his suspicions. Then Devine had begun to
let fall hints as if he knew something about the matter, and, finally,
the two of them had concluded to wait upon Mr Forsyth, one of the
county justices, and get his advice. In the result each made a
statement.
That of Johnston was now put in, and read nut. He had nothing to
withdraw or add to it, he said; and then Mr Benham eat down.
But the revengeful half-grin on the face of the witness turned to rather
a blank look as the defence began upon him in cross-examination.
Beginning with the subject of identity, Mr Windgate tried all he knew
to make Johnston own to a possibility of mistake. Then he went on the
"bewilderment" plan, but the long-headed Scot was not to be floored in
that way, nor could he be made to contradict himself. The vindictive
rascal was precision personified. But when it came to the eavesdropping
story, Mr Windgate's tone was magnificent in its scathing contempt.
"Kindly tell the Court the date of your going to Mr--er--Forsyth--the
magistrate?"
"It was last month. About the 15th."
"About the 15th of last month."
"Yes."
"You had then left Mr Dorrien's service?"
"I had."
"How long had you left it?"
"About six weeks."
"Why did you leave it?"
"Mr Roland turned me off."
"Oh! Mr Roland turned you off, did he? Now have the goodness to tell
us why?"
"Well, it was just this way. He thocht I wasn't speaking respectfully
to Madam. So he turned me off."
"Now, be very careful. You are on your oath, mind. Penal servitude is
among the consequences of perjury." Mr Benham to the rescue.
"Really, this is a most unwarrantable aspersion of the witness'
veracity, which my learned friend is hardly justified in making."
"We shall see," uncompromisingly retorted the other. "Now, Mr
Johnston, let me assist your memory. Did you not on the day you were
dismissed accost Mrs Dorrien in the conservatory, and ask for a certain
situation for your son?"
"Yes."
"And hint that it was in your power to injure your mister, if it was
refused?"
"No."
"What?"
"No. I did no such thing," replied Johnston composedly.
Mr Windgate was nonplussed. He stared at the witness in amazement.
"You did no such thing? Kindly repeat that?"
"I did no such thing."
"Very good. Remember you were warned what a false statement involved,"
said Mr Windgate severely, making a voluminous note to conceal his
chagrin. For the astute Q.C. had been completely foiled by the canny
Scot. That worthy knew that his master's lips were sealed, and that
even if his mistress could give evidence against himself it would merely
be oath against oath. So having decided that he could commit perjury
with impunity, he at least had the merit of doing it thoroughly.
"Well, the fact remains that Mr Dorrien discharged you summarily. Now,
did you threaten him on that occasion?"
"I may have."
"Answer my question. Did you?"
"Well, yes, I did."
"What did you say to him?"
"I don't remember."
"Again let me refresh your memory. Did you say--`You will come to a
noose for this day's work'?"
"I may have said so."
"That won't do. Did you say that? Be careful now."
"M'lord, the witness says he can't remember," objected Mr Benham. "He
was angry at the time--under the circumstances, naturally so. We can't
always remember words uttered in anger."
"It's of no consequence, m'lord. We can prove that he used the words.
It would save time--and, perhaps, be better for himself--if he admitted
it, though," said Mr Windgate significantly.
"Well, I did say that," said Johnston sullenly.
"We know you did. Now, to what did you refer when you said that? Was
it to this charge of murder?"
"It may have been."
"Answer the learned counsel properly, sir," blazed forth the judge.
"You are an impertinent fellow, to come here and play the fool in Court.
Just be careful what you are about."
"I mean it was," answered Johnston, overawed.
"Quite so. In a word, you suspected that there had been foul play, and
that your master was at the bottom of it?"
"Yes."
"Only a suspicion, of course?"
"Yes."
"Now, what gave rise to that suspicion?"
"Well, it seemed strange that Mr Roland should be down at Battisford in
disguise just at the time Mr Hubert disappeared."
"Ah! How long were you in the service of the accused?"
"Nearly two years."
"Nearly two years in the service of a man you suspected of murder. I
should say you had a most elastic conscience, Mr Johnston, were it not
that your conduct looks very like an attempt to extract hush money.
Now, has your master ever had occasion to find fault with you
previously?"
"He has once or twice said I must be more ceevil. He was a mighty
partecklar gentleman."
"Quite so. And did you not, on a former occasion, attempt to take legal
proceedings against the accused, because his dog bit you?"
"I did. But that was in the late General Dorrien's time."
"And you were not a favourite with the accused at any time?"
"Well--no."
"That I can easily understand," rejoined Mr Windgate, with bitter
significance. "The marvel is that he kept you for a single day."
"My learned friend is not justified in making such reflections on the
witness," objected Mr Benham.
"My learned friend need not mind. I have now done with this witness,
and I devoutly thank Heaven for it," retorted Mr Windgate.
"One moment, Johnston," said the Crown counsel.
"Have you ever in any way traded upon your suspicions to obtain money or
favours from your employer?"
"Never. I solemnly swear."
There was a low hiss at the back of the room as Johnston left the box,
which even the judge pretended not to hear.