The prisoner, re-entering after the adjournment for lunch, found himself
idly wondering whether, when next he should pass through the dock gate,
it would be as a free man or as one whose days were numbered. Then,
amid the intense hush that followed on his appearance, he heard his
counsel opening his address to the jury, which, put into a good humour
by a few deft if stereotyped compliments, began to think that after all
there might be a good deal to be said on the side of the defence.
Before brushing aside the flimsy testimony which seemed to tell against
the accused, for the prosecution had relied upon quantity to
counterbalance an utter absence of quality, began Mr Windgate, he would
show what manner of man it was whom they were asked to convict of the
gravest crime known to the law. It was all very well for the
prosecution to contend that a gentleman in his client's position was as
liable to commit crime as--say the historic Mr William Sikes. His own
experience--perhaps fully equal to that of his learned brother
opposite--was wholly against any such theory.
Then Mr Windgate launched forth into a brilliant panegyric of the
accused, extolling his virtues in every capacity, public and private.
Then he proceeded to deal with the evidence bit by bit, and as this
involved a long repetition of all that has gone before, we shall not
follow him through it. Suffice it to say that he handled his points
with consummate skill.
When he came to Johnston his scorn was beautiful to behold. This
fellow, who had eaten the bread of the accused and of his father before
him for a number of years, had gone into the box with the most
bare-faced and unblushing effrontery, and confessed to having played the
part of a crawling serpent, a part whose loathsomeness, he, Mr
Windgate, could find no terms adequately to stigmatise. What could the
evidence of such a creature be worth? Why, nothing--less than nothing.
But it was abundantly shown that the fellow harboured the greatest
ill-will towards his master, who had frequently found fault with him for
incivility, which, judging from his impudent demeanour in Court, was
little to be wondered at. Then when he had grossly insulted his
master's wife, Mr Dorrien, very rightly in the speaker's opinion, had
discharged him summarily. So he swore to be revenged on his master--
threatened him, as they had heard. A pretty witness this, to swear away
a man's life! Justice in England must be coming very low if such
instruments as this could be capable of swaying her course. But, as a
matter of fact, such was not the case. He could tell them that it was
intended to institute proceedings against Johnston for wilful perjury,
but that was by the way.
As for Devine, here, too, was a tainted witness, a corrupt witness, in
fact. He, too, was known to bear a strong grudge against the accused,
which, considering that he owed his comfortable place to Mr Dorrien's
influence--which his employer, it was to be hoped, would not suffer him
to retain--was quite sufficient to show what sort of person he was.
This precious rascal, then, had come into Court with a cock-and-bull
story about witnessing a crime at Smugglers' Ladder. Why, it was the
most bare-faced, as well as clumsy, attempt at a diabolical conspiracy
ever known--diabolical, because without motive, unless the motive were
to shield himself, for if he, Devine, was there at all at that hour, his
own presence needed explaining. It sickened him, Mr Windgate, to think
that it was even necessary to defend such a case--a case bolstered up
mainly by two witnesses of infamous character, whose evidence, even if
true, was that of midnight spies. Who saw Devine at Smugglers' Ladder
at all that night, and what is the bare statement of a man of Devine's
record worth? Not the millionth fraction of a farthing.
After heaping up a good deal more denunciatory scorn upon these two and
their testimony, he came to Pollock's evidence. He had no wish to
impute _mala fides_ to a man of known honesty. Still, honest men were
mistaken sometimes. This matter of identity rested upon evidence very
shadowy. As to recognising the accused when he saw Durnford by
lamplight on the beach, he, the speaker, prayed them to receive this
statement with the greatest possible reserve. Here was the rector of
Wandsborough and his curate, Mr Turner, both of whom were far better
acquainted with the accused's appearance than the witness Pollock, yet
both these gentlemen had unhesitatingly sworn not only that they utterly
failed to identify the prisoner in Robert Durnford, but that the barest
suspicion as to such identity had never crossed their minds--and had not
done so from that day to this. And further--here he begged the jury to
give him all their attention--the lady rescued by Durnford was Dr
Ingelow's daughter. She was at that time, to her credit be it said,
something more than interested in his client, whose wife she
subsequently became, a fact which precluded her from giving valuable
evidence on Mr Dorrien's behalf. Was it likely then, he asked, that
this estimable lady would have kept silence these two years and a half
as to who her rescuer really was--that she should never have mentioned
the fact to her own father, with whom she had ever been on the most
dutiful and affectionate terms? Why, of course it was not. He put it
to them as sensible men--fathers themselves, most probably--and so on.
"By Jove! Windgate's scored a point there, Rogers," whispered the
sporting junior. "If only he can squash the envelope business!"
But this was just what he could not--and Mr Windgate knew it himself.
He tried his best though, as also with the other damning points. At
last his speech came near its close.
The evidence, he continued, consisted of a series of mere coincidences--
one or two of them, it might be, a little remarkable, but--coincidences.
The time had gone by in this country, he thanked Heaven, when men were
convicted on purely circumstantial evidence. As for the motive which
the prosecution had evolved, it was, he made bold to say, the veriest
mare's nest. Why, several of the most reliable witnesses had stated on
oath that there wae no ill-will between the two brothers, and that on
the whole they were on good terms. He wae not there to defend the
absent Durnford, since it was abundantly proved that with that
mysterious personage his client had nothing whatever to do, but he would
just remark that in the conflicting evidence in the matter of the hall
clock and the maid-servant's watch, it was merely oath against oath--and
that nothing was more confusing than differences in time. The witness
Grainger had utterly failed to identify the accused. Under the
prosecution's very bewildering cross-examination he had, it was true,
been afflicted with a temporary misgiving, but that was perfectly
natural under the circumstances. So against two rogues, and one honest
man, who could not be quite sure as to his statements, they had the
positive evidence of Dr Ingelow and Mr Turner against the identity.
That was to say, the two witnesses in this case to whom the accused had
always been best known. And all the side evidence made for his client.
"Gentlemen," he concluded, in his most impressive manner, "I now call
upon you honourably to acquit my client. Remember, with you rests the
most awful responsibility which can be laid upon the shoulders of mortal
men--the life or death of a fellow creature. You must either honourably
acquit him or doom him to an ignominious death. There is no middle
course--absolutely none."
"Good old phrase that," muttered the sporting junior, chuckling inwardly
over the scared look on the wooden faces of the twelve intelligent
Englishmen.
"--Therefore, I call upon you to record your true sentiments, the
sentiments of upright and true Englishmen, and to acquit with honour my
client, to restore a wronged but high-minded gentleman to his family--to
a fond wife, whose affliction during these terrible weeks I dare not
imagine--to that neighbourhood which is anxiously waiting to receive him
back with acclamation--to a long, benevolent, and useful life, which he
has already begun most signally to adorn.
"Gentlemen, I leave my client in your hands with perfect confidence as
to the result."
A few moments of silence, and then the Crown counsel, who had been, to
all outward appearance, intently studying his brief, rose.
The prisoner in the dock, he proceeded to say, was of a class whose
members, happily, in this country, seldom filled that unfortunate
position. He was a gentleman of affluence, more or less known to them
all, and holding a high and influential station. They might reason that
on that account, if any man was free from all temptation to such a crime
as the one under their consideration, that man would be the prisoner
before them. But this was precisely what they must not do. He, the
learned counsel, could assure them that human nature in this respect was
marvellously similar. All his experience--and it had not been
inconsiderable--went to confirm him in that opinion.--And so on.
Then he proceeded to draw a graphic and rather harrowing picture of the
disappearance of the deceased and the terrible blow to the feelings of
his relatives which this re-opening of their grief must prove, going on
to dissect the evidence bit by bit.
"The identity of the prisoner with the stranger known as Robert Durnford
is as clear as daylight," proceeded Mr Benham. "You will notice that
the persons who saw through this disguise were those to whom he was or
had been best known. Andrew Johnston, an old family servant, recognised
him at once. Stephen Devine, formerly a labourer on the Cranston
estate, and since gamekeeper to Colonel Neville--both these men had had
abundant opportunities of being acquainted with the prisoner's
appearance. Their suspicions aroused, they took further occasion to
observe the so-called Durnford, with the result that those suspicions
were fully confirmed. To this they had sworn--again and again. Then
there is James Pollock, a man of the greatest respectability--to him
Roland Dorrien was not so well known as to the other witnesses
mentioned, yet, being a man of keen perceptions, he had recognised him.
Not the first time, indeed--though even then the voice had struck upon
his ears as familiar. But on the second occasion of their being brought
together, meeting with the so-called Durnford on the occasion of Miss
Olive Ingelow's rescue from drowning, he saw through his disguise at a
glance, and in the man he had met coming away from Smugglers' Ladder,
between nine and half-past on the evening of the murder, he recognised
the prisoner, Roland Dorrien. Now here are three persons who distinctly
swear to the identity between these two. Nor is that all. There is
Joseph Grainger, the waiter at `The Silver Fleece,' at the time of
Durnford's stay at that inn. He comes here. He sees the prisoner in
his normal costume and wearing his ordinary aspect, and he does not
recognise him--at first. Indeed, he even goes so far as to emphasise
the statement. But memory will not be cheated. As he stands there, the
striking similarity of the accused to the pseudo-Durnford recalls itself
to his mind, and he is dumbfounded. Gentlemen, you saw him--his air of
utter astonishment, almost of awe, as he looked at the prisoner. You
witnessed his refusal to swear to the two men being different. That is
enough. Sensible men like yourselves can draw but one inference.
"Now as to the time at which Durnford returned to `The Silver Fleece,'
there is a conflict of testimony, but a perfectly reconcilable one. The
waiter swears to the guest's return at five-and-twenty minutes to ten.
The maid-servant, Jane Flinders, swears with equal certitude to hearing
Durnford come in at a quarter-past ten, and more than half the issue
turns on this point. But, gentlemen, bear this in mind. The waiter
Grainger was asleep. When he awoke, Durnford had already _passed_ the
hall clock, which then marked the hour of nine thirty-five. Durnford
could reach the clock, be it remembered. But he could not reach Jane
Flinders' watch. Gentlemen, you will draw your own conclusions. One
more point in connection with this. Pollock's evidence proves that he
met the stranger on the cliff, close to Smugglers' Ladder, at half-past
nine. But the stranger is back in his hotel at Battisford by
five-and-twenty minutes to ten. That is to say, he covers in five or
ten minutes a distance which it has been proved by the most competent
testimony could hardly be covered in five-and-thirty. And then, when
Grainger asks him if he returned by way of the cliffs, he appears
surprised, and would have the other believe him unaware of there being
any way by the cliffs.
"My learned friend here has seen fit to make merry over the articles
which infallibly connect the prisoner with this mournful tragedy, but
these articles, small, trivial though they may be in themselves, are of
the very last importance. First, there is the A.B.C. time-table.
Roland Dorrien goes into a tavern in the Strand, looking very strange
and excited, and asks for an A.B.C. It is purchased for him. He
searches it, marks the Wandsborough train, turns down a corner of the
page and--leaves the book behind him when he goes out. This is about a
week before the murder--the waiter, Newton, cannot be sure of the date.
But--and observe this--the very train marked in that time-table is the
one by which Robert Durnford arrives at Battisford. On the 21st January
Roland Dorrien gives up his lodgings at Mrs Clack's. He leaves London
early in the morning. Late in the afternoon of that day Robert Durnford
arrives at Battisford. From that time until he leaves Wandsborough
church on the night of the 22nd, Durnford's movements are accounted for.
Then, passing over for the moment Devine's evidence, he is met by James
Pollock coming away from Smugglers' Ladder, not many minutes after
Hubert Dorrien is--well `falls' into that chasm. And on the very scene
of the tragedy James Pollock picks up this envelope which has been
handed to you, directed--not to Robert Durnford but undoubtedly to
Roland Dorrien. And where? At a London address incontestably. And the
address subsequently given to Dr Ingelow by the pseudo-Durnford is a
London postal address. Now for the matchbox. The day after the
deceased's disappearance, Eustace Ingelow, the prisoner's
brother-in-law, a young gentleman who by common knowledge is devoted to
his relative, and not likely knowingly to injure him in any way, picks
up this matchbox, which is of peculiar make, and to which he can swear
as being the prisoner's property. Where does he find this article!
Why, at the bottom of this chasm, at the very spot where the deceased
met his death.
"And now you will ask what motive could have been strong enough to lead
this man to the black and abhorrent crime of fratricide. Well, even
here the network of evidence is as complete as elsewhere. That motive,
gentlemen, the prosecution has been able to supply. It has been shown
that the prisoner had quarrelled with his father, and was in fact
disinherited. Herein," continued the learned counsel, putting on his
most sad and sorrowful expression, "came the passion of jealousy.
Furthermore, he had found reason to suppose, from some most deplorable
and unguarded statements on the part of Grainger, that his brother had
dealt him a blow which, if true, amounted to a stab in the dark--in that
he had set to work to damage his reputation in Wandsborough and the
neighbourhood. This being so, what more likely than that a man of the
prisoner's temper and character should at once seek to be revenged? How
he and his brother had come together was just one of those unimportant
links in the dark chain which it was beyond their power to connect. The
important fact was that they had come together--the evidence of Stephen
Devine and others was amply sufficient to establish that."
Then Mr Benham proceeded to comment on the evidence of Devine, who with
his own eyes had seen the deed done. He explained away the witness'
reluctance to divulge it during these years as a perfectly natural
thing; laid stress on the straightforwardness and ring of truth which
characterised the man's statement, and how his tale in its plain,
unvarnished simplicity had more than triumphantly stood the test of his
learned brother's most skilful cross-examination. In short, he drew the
web of damning circumstances closer and closer around the accused, till
there was not a flaw in the enthralling network. Then, with some
conventional rhetoric about "terrible charge," "man in prisoner's
position," "truly painful duty which, painful as it was, he dared not
shirk," the heart-broken Mr Benham resumed his seat, complacently
conscious of having earned his not unhandsome fee.
Then the judge began to sum up.
The learned counsel for the prosecution, he said, had very properly
impressed upon the jury that they must lose sight of any such side issue
as class-distinction, and form their opinion of the case by the light of
hard, cold reason and the dry facts of the evidence. That evidence they
had had put before them in the most careful and patient manner, and it
was his own especial function, said his lordship, to explain the law on
the subject of such of it as appeared conflicting.
For upwards of an hour the judge continued, weighing the arguments of
both counsel in calm, dispassionate and masterly fashion. But whether
his lordship was against the prisoner or not, it puzzled the public to
discern. His charge was a pattern of impartiality no less than of
lucidity. But the substance of it was now adverse, now favourable.
One of the most regrettable features of the trial, continued his
lordship, was that there had been next to no defence whatever. No
attempt had been made to prove an _alibi_. If the prisoner had not been
near the neighbourhood at the time of his brother's disappearance,
surely there should be no great difficulty in obtaining evidence to that
effect. But no such evidence had been put forward. The question of
identity played a very important part indeed in this case. If the jury
believed the evidence of Johnston, Devine and Pollock, they would
consider the identity proved. But Johnston was a discharged servant,
and the evidence of such against a former employer was always to be
received with extreme caution, and in his case the greatest animus was
shown to have been entertained by him against the prisoner. Devine was
a man of notoriously bad character, but he appears to have had no real
motive for injuring the accused. But James Pollock was altogether
different from both of these witnesses. He was a man of the highest
respectability; a man of keen intelligence, resource and courage, in
short, a type of that most admirable body of men, the seafaring toilers
of our coasts. This man then had seen through the disguise of the
pseudo-Durnford, and under it had seen the identity of the prisoner,
Roland Dorrien. The piece of envelope put forward, bearing as it did
nearly the complete name of the prisoner, and part of a London address,
was to his lordship's mind the completing link in the chain of identity.
Down went the hopes of the prisoner's friends, down to zero. The judge
was summing up dead against him.
"To turn again to Stephen Devine," went on his lordship. "Here is a man
who testifies to witnessing with his own eyes the perpetration of a
deliberate act of murder. Alone, and in the dead of night, he stands as
a spectator of this terrible deed--then calmly walks away, and for
upwards of two years keeps silent on the subject. As the learned
counsel for the defence has aptly pointed out, before you can convict a
man of a murder you must be quite sure that a murder has been committed.
The question is, are you quite sure on this point? That the dead man,
Hubert Dorrien, met his end in the place known as Smugglers' Ladder, has
been established beyond a doubt. But how did he get in there? Did he
fall in, or was he pushed in? If there is any doubt in your minds upon
that head, why then, gentlemen, you are not merely entitled, but are
bound to give the accused the benefit of it. You have evidence in
plenty that the prisoner was near the spot--that is, to my mind, clear
beyond dispute. But that he pushed his brother into this cleft you have
the evidence of but a single eye-witness, and that witness, to my mind,
a tainted one."
Now the hope of an acquittal ran high. The judge was again favourable
to the accused all along the line, it seemed. As for the prisoner
himself, for the second time a ray of hope dawned within his soul, only
to be dashed as before.
If then, continued his lordship, they believed the evidence of Devine,
they would convict the prisoner; if they disbelieved that evidence they
would acquit him. There was no middle course. What had been a long and
elaborate trial had, after all, winnowed itself down to a very simple
issue, and that was the trustworthiness, or the reverse, of one witness,
because upon that, and that alone, depended whether any murder had been
committed at all.
So now, being in possession of all the facts of the case, his lordship
trusted that they would most carefully confer among themselves and
return their verdict according to the solemn oath they had taken--
without fear, favour or affection.
The jury retired to their private room to deliberate, and once more the
murmur of voices arose among the audience, but it was a very subdued
one. The expectation--the awe of the moment--was upon that
densely-packed throng, and for a while light and careless talk was
hushed. Such conversation as there was bore upon the probable verdict,
and it was the opinion of the audience that it would be an adverse one.
Meanwhile the prisoner had been removed, pending the return of those who
should decide his fate.
Half an hour went by, and at length the door opened. Ah--now for it!
But no. One of the intelligent jurymen wished to ask his lordship
whether in the event of them not being satisfied as to the identity,
they could convict Durnford and acquit the prisoner. He was answered
with exemplary patience, and the door closed again. The Bar lifted its
eyebrows--such of it as was able to keep from sniggering, that is.
The light of the setting sun streamed in at the windows, throwing its
soft gleam upon the serried rows of anxious faces. And the accused--of
what was he thinking? Was it of his beautiful home, which it was only
too probable he would never enter again? Or was it of her whose first
vows just such a golden sunbeam as this had fallen on and hallowed and
witnessed?
At length the door opened a second time, and the jury came forth. It
was noticeable that the prisoner, who had been hurriedly put back into
the dock, did not even glance in their direction, but continued to look
straight in front of him.
"Gentlemen, are you all agreed upon your verdict?"
"We are."
The official's voice had a vague, far-away ring in Roland's ears as it
continued:
"How find you the prisoner? Guilty or Not Guilty?"
"We find him--Guilty."