In answer to a call for Mrs Eliza Clack, a hatchet-faced harpy entered
the box, and, the first diffidence over, tried all she knew to justify
her patronymic. From this propensity, however, Mr Benham managed to
pick out the facts that she knew the prisoner, could swear to him
anywhere, that he had lodged with her a couple of months two and a half
years ago, and had left at a date which would be but the day before the
deceased's disappearance. He owned a large red and white dog then,
which he had disposed of while in her house. She had always thought him
a strangely-mannered gentleman, and was not altogether sorry to see the
last of him. He looked somewhat different then to what he did now, he
wore a beard--and yes, now it was put to her, she thought he was getting
a little grey at that time.
How could she remember the date? insisted Mr Windgate, when his turn
came. Well, she did remember it. Could swear to it, in fact. But two
and a half years was a long time. Well, yes it was, but she remembered
it by several things. It was the same night that the boy next door had
blinded her tortoiseshell cat with a catapult. And it was the day
before her daughter was turned away from her situation, well, never mind
why--it wasn't true; an answer which sent a ripple of mirth through the
room. However, the woman could swear to the prisoner, and swore
tenaciously to the date, which was all the prosecution wanted.
Two maid-servants from "The Silver Fleece Inn" were the next witnesses.
These testified to the time when Robert Durnford had gone out on the
Sunday night, but were unable to state the hour of his return. One of
them declared she had heard the stranger talking to the waiter in the
hall at a quarter-past ten, and that she thought she had heard the front
door close just before. Upon her Mr Windgate pounced.
"Your bed-room is at the top of the house?"
"Yes, sir. But the 'ouse isn't an 'igh one."
"I didn't ask you that. Now, how do you know it was a quarter-past ten?
Had you a watch?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you looked at it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Was it keeping the right time?"
"Yes, sir. That is, I set it by the large clock in the passage."
"When?"
"The day before."
"Oh! You did, did you?"--making a note. "Now, had you been asleep at
the time?"
"No, sir. I was just goin' to drop off when I heard gentlemen's voices
in the passage."
"And who were the `gentlemen'?"
"They was Mr Durnford and Grainger, the waiter."
"Now you are on your oath," said Mr Windgate impressively, fixing the
witness with a stern look that nearly drove the luckless young woman
wild with terror and apprehension. "Are you ready to swear that the
voice you heard talking to--a--Grainger was that of Mr Durnford?"
"Well, sir, I don't know about swearing, but I'm positive it was."
"Indeed. You are singularly confident, young woman," sarcastically.
"But no matter. We shall soon show that, like most positive people,
this witness is quite at fault. You are quite right not to swear. You
may go."
"Stephen Devine."
There was a stir among the audience, and interest, which had begun to
flag, now revived, as the hulking form of the ex-poacher appeared in the
box. There was a decidedly hang-dog look on his swarthy face, not
unmixed with fear, and he took the Book as if it would burn him. But
his evidence was straightforward enough. In the examination he stated
how, while returning home from Wandsborough on the night in question, he
had unexpectedly caught sight of Hubert Dorrien hurrying in a direction
which could have led him nowhere in particular. This, added to the fact
that it was a Sunday evening, rendered the young man's movements not a
little suspicious, and the witness determined to watch him. Accordingly
he followed him at a distance to the brow of the cliff above Smugglers'
Ladder. It must have been a little after nine, for he distinctly heard
the hour strike from Wandsborough steeple--to that he could positively
swear. To his surprise he heard another man's voice, and on stealing a
little nearer he recognised it as that of the prisoner, Roland Dorrien.
So he hid behind a stone and waited. He was not quite near enough to
catch what they said, but the deceased seemed rather frightened. But
what puzzled the witness most was that although he could swear to the
voice, no less than to the figure, the face was strange to him. It was
bright moonlight at the time. At last the prisoner turned to the light,
and his brother, recognising him, at once exclaimed "Roland!" and then
the witness was able to see that he seemed in a manner disguised. He,
Devine, afterwards saw him twice in Battisford--once from the window of
a public-house and once from a shop door, and easily recognised him.
When the deceased had identified his brother he seemed less frightened,
and soon they got to high words. Then there was a struggle, and in a
moment the prisoner had thrown the deceased into the chasm. The witness
lay quite still, and saw the prisoner go and look down into the chasm
for a moment, after which he went away in the direction of Battisford.
Then his statement before the magistrate, Mr Forsyth, was put in as in
Johnston's case.
Great sensation prevailed during this narrative. Those who had been
consulting their watches with an eye to dinner--for it was getting
late--elected to stay. The case might be finished to-night.
Then came Mr Windgate's turn. His cross-examination was perfect.
Every point in the witness' past life, which he could colourably touch
upon--and several which he could not--was raised. He made him admit--
notwithstanding continued objections from the prosecution--that his own
daughter would not live with him, even if the unfortunate girl had not
been fairly driven from her home. He brought up against him former
convictions for acts of ruffianism, and for poaching; and on the score
of character, and by way of proving _animus_, he forced the witness to
own that he had more than once expressed hatred of the accused, thus
making him prove himself guilty of the blackest ingratitude, in that his
situation with Colonel Neville had been procured through the prisoner's
good offices. But clever as he was, Mr Windgate could not get him to
contradict himself or to swerve by a word from the main details of his
story.
"Well, now," he continued. "This took place two years and a half ago.
That is to say, Mr Stephen Devine, that by witnessing this deed and not
preventing it you made yourself an accessory after the fact? An
accomplice--in short."
The man looked rather scared.
"Please, sir, it was all done too quickly."
"But why did you keep silence all this time?"
"Well, sir, you see, it was no affair of mine, and I was afraid I might
get into trouble."
"Indeed! Suspicious, to say the least of it. And how is it that,
having held your tongue for so long, you should at last see fit to let
it wag?"
"Well, sir, you see Johnston, he knew about it too, and he kep' on a
lettin' me know that he did. At last he said that we should both get
into trouble if we kep' it dark any longer."
"Quite so. When was this?"
"About five weeks ago."
"And what did you do then?"
"Why, we went to Mr Forsyth and asked his advice, and he said we'd
better make sure of our fax, and then we must make a--a--a--aspersion."
"A what?"
"No, sir, that wasn't it--it was a disposition."
"Oh! A deposition?"
"Yes, sir, and we made it. And the next thing we heard was that Squire
Dorrien was in gaol."
"Where I trust those who richly deserve it will soon be in his place,"
rejoined Mr Windgate significantly. "And I hope I shall be
instrumental in bringing about this pleasant little change. And now, do
we understand you to say you would have kept silence about this if
Johnston had not known it too?"
"Well, sir, yes. It warn't no business of mine."
"Well!" said Mr Windgate in a tone which said, "Alter that--anything."
"A very natural fear, my lord," explained Mr Benham. "A poor man like
the witness would naturally think a good many times before bringing a
grave charge of this sort against a gentleman in the prisoner's
position."
"Many more witnesses on your side, Mr Benham?" asked the judge. "It's
getting very late."
"Only one, my lord. But I am willing to adjourn."
But Mr Windgate was not. He argued that it was important to his
client's interest that this witness should be heard to-night. The judge
ordered lights to be brought in--for it was becoming dark--and then Jem
Pollock was recalled.
There was a seriousness and a gravity upon the seafarer's weatherbeaten
face which gave one the impression of a man there much against his will.
Re-examined, he stated that he was returning home from Battisford on
the night of the supposed murder, and took the short way over the cliffs
to Minchkil Bay. As he approached Smugglers' Ladder a man passed him
walking rapidly in the direction of Battisford. There was something
familiar about the stranger's figure and gait, and when he, the witness,
wished him good-evening, he seemed to recognise the voice as he replied.
A few days after the search for the deceased, the witness had taken the
trouble to go and examine the chasm again, and not many yards from it he
found a fragment of an old envelope. Nearly the whole name was still on
it--"Roland Dor----don, W.," but the address was almost entirely gone.
The date of the postmark was January 19th. There was great excitement
in Court as the envelope was produced and handed to the jury, and all
eyes were bent on the prisoner to see how he would take it. But
disappointment awaited. The accused seemed to manifest not the smallest
interest in the proceedings.
This envelope Pollock had kept, waiting to be guided by events. But the
stir attendant on Hubert Dorrien's disappearance soon quieted down, and
he decided to keep his own counsel. Then had come another exciting
event--the rector's daughter being cut off by the tide and narrowly
escaping drowning. Witness had also taken part in the search for the
young lady, and in her rescuer he recognised the man who had passed him
on the cliff. At the same time he recognised him for Roland Dorrien.
This bit of romance turned the tide of public opinion quite in favour of
the accused, for the story of Olive Ingelow's narrow escape was well
known. Surely, never was a criminal trial so redundant with romantic
episode. Sympathetic murmurs began to arise in Court. But counsel's
inexorable voice recalled to prose again.
"Could you swear to the prisoner being the man who rescued Miss
Ingelow?"
"Yes, sir," replied the witness firmly, but very reluctantly.
"You saw his face distinctly?"
"Yes, sir. The lanterns was full upon it."
"And you knew his voice?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, how is it you kept silence about your suspicions?"
"Well, sir, I'm not one o' them as talks a lot. And then, I had no
suspicions until the idea cropped up that Mr Hubert had met wi' foul
play. And I didn't want to injure Mr Roland, and especially Madam," he
added with feeling; "but that there detective chap he seemed to get it
all out o' me like a blessed babby," concluded he resentfully.
"Quite so. Very natural. That will do," and Mr Benham sat down.
But the prisoner's counsel realised that this witness was the most
dangerous one of all. Any attempt to browbeat a man of Pollock's known
respectability could not but damage his cause in the eyes of the jury.
So he assumed a tone at once conciliatory and deprecatory, as though he
would convey the idea that Pollock, though incapable of a false
statement, might be mistaken in his inferences throughout.
"Of course, Pollock, you know Mr Dorrien well now, but at that time you
didn't know him very well, did you?"
"Well, I'd often seen him, sir, and I knew him well enough by sight.
There was something about his walk, too, that I couldn't mistake."
"Indeed? But that is not a very sure point to go upon, is it?"
"That's as may be, sir."
"Now, Pollock, you are on good terms with Mr Dorrien, are you not? You
would not wish to injure him?"
"No, indeed, sir," answered the witness earnestly. "He's a kind
landlord to us, is the Squire--and as for Madam, I've known her since
she was a little maid not much higher nor my knee--bless her sweet
face."
Great applause. Mr Windgate began to look more and more confident.
"Quite so. Now, don't you think you may be mistaken in identifying the
man who saved Miss Ingelow with the one you met on the cliff on the
night of the disappearance of Hubert Dorrien?"
"M'lord, I must take exception most strongly to my learned brother's
mode of cross-examination," said Mr Benham. "He appeals most
powerfully to the feelings of the witness, and then does what is
tantamount to begging him to unsay what he has already stated on oath."
"Hardly that, I submit," rejoined the other. "My unfortunate client is
placed in a very grave position. Surely then it behoves us to make
certain as to our facts."
"But the witness had already stated on oath his certitude as to the
identity of the men."
"A man may excusably think twice when such grave issues are at stake,
Mr Benham," said the judge.
"With the greatest respect I would submit that your lordship is laying
down a somewhat dangerous precedent," answered Mr Benham, undaunted.
Then the judge retorted, and after some triangular sparring between his
lordship and the two counsel, Mr Windgate went on.
"What time would it have been when you met the stranger on the cliff
that evening?"
"It was after nine, sir. Indeed, it was nearly half-past--for very soon
after I heard the clock strike."
"What clock?"
"The Wandsborough clock."
"How far from--er--Smugglers' Ladder was the stranger when you met him?"
"Maybe half a mile, sir."
"How long would it take to walk from Smugglers' Ladder to Battisford?
Walking at one's fastest?"
"About thirty-five minutes. It might be done in thirty minutes--not in
less."
"Then this man whom you met on the cliff, within half a mile of
Smugglers' Ladder, at nearly half-past nine, could not by any
possibility have reached Battisford by five-and-twenty minutes to ten?"
"Not possible, sir--even if he ran all the way," repeated the witness
firmly.
"Quite so, thank you," said Mr Windgate. "A--one more question. Did
you ever mention to anyone--any of your neighbours, for instance--having
recognised, as you thought, Mr Dorrien in this stranger?"
"Not a word of it, sir."
"That's the case for the Crown, my lord," said Mr Benham, rising as the
witness left the box.
With a sigh of relief, the judge rose and left the bench. It was past
nine, and his lordship was very hungry and proportionately irritable,
for judges are mortal--very much so too.
The Court room emptied fast, many turning to take a parting look at the
prisoner as they went out, speculating and laying odds for or against
his chances of acquittal. It was ominous, however, that public opinion
leaned considerably towards a conviction. But then, the defence had yet
to be heard.
And the wretched man himself? He was conducted back to his cell,
another night of suspense before him. Outwardly, his proud
self-possession remained unshaken, but once within those cold, gloomy
walls, alone and unseen by any human eye, a groan of the bitterest
anguish escaped him as he sank despondently upon his bed. The web of
Fate was closing in about him; to battle with it further was useless.
Throughout that night, a dismal sound smote upon the ears of the
dwellers in the neighbourhood of the gaol, a sound of weird and mournful
howling, where, upright upon his haunches, in the open space before the
frowning portcullis of the prison, sat a large dog--his head in the air
and his eyes lifted to the pale, cold moon, pouring forth his piteous
lamentations. The prisoner heard it too.
"Dear old dog," he murmured to himself. "Dear, faithful old Roy!"