THE VERDICT.
The trial of Ronald Mervyn for the murder of Margaret Carne was marked
by none of the unexpected turns or sudden surprises that not
unfrequently give such a dramatic interest to the proceedings. All the
efforts of the police had failed in unearthing any facts that could
throw a new light upon the subject, and the evidence brought forward was
almost identical with that given at the coroner's inquest; the counsel
asked a great many questions, but elicited no new facts of importance;
the only witnesses called for the defence were those as to character,
and one after another the officers of Mervyn's regiment came forward to
testify that he was eminently popular, and that they had never observed
in him any signs of madness.
They said that at times he got out of spirits, and was in the habit of
withdrawing himself from their society, and that on these occasions he
not infrequently went for long rides, and was absent many hours; he was,
perhaps, what might be called a little queer, but certainly not in the
slightest degree mad. Old servants of the family and many neighbours
gave testimony to the same effect, and Dr. Arrowsmith testified that he
had attended him from childhood, and that he had never seen any signs of
insanity in his words or actions.
Ruth had escaped the one question which she dreaded, whether she had
seen anything in the room that would afford a clue to the discovery of
the perpetrator of the crime. She had thought this question over a
hundred times, and she had pondered over the answer she should give. She
was firmly resolved not to tell an actual lie, but either to evade the
question by replying that when she recovered her senses she made
straight to the door without looking round; or, if forced to reply
directly, to refuse to answer, whatever the consequences might be. It
was then with a sigh of deep relief that she left the witness-box, and
took up her station at the point to which the policeman made way for
her. As she did so, however, he whispered:
"I think you had better go out, my girl. I don't think this is a fit
place for you. You look like to drop now;" but she shook her head
silently, and took up her station in the corner, grasping in one hand
something done up in many folds of paper in her pocket.
The same question had been asked other witnesses by the counsel for the
defence, and he had made a considerable point of the fact that the
constable and Dr. Arrowsmith both testified that the candles were
standing one on each side of the looking-glass, and although the room
had been carefully searched, no half-burnt match had been discovered. In
his address for the defence he had animadverted strongly upon this
point.
"It was a dark night, gentlemen. A dark night in November. You will
remember we had the evidence that whoever committed this murder must
have moved about the room noiselessly; the evidence shows that the
murderer drew down the clothes so gently and softly that he did not
awaken the sleeper. Now, as intelligent men, you cannot but agree with
me that no man could have made his way about this absolutely dark room
with its tables and its furniture, and carried out this murder in the
way stated, without making some noise; it would be an utter
impossibility. What is the conclusion? He was either provided with a
light, or he was forced to strike a match and light a candle.
"In the latter case he must have been provided with silent matches, or
the noise would have awakened the sleeper. Of one thing you may be sure,
Captain Mervyn had not provided himself with silent matches; but even
had not the sound of an ordinary match being struck awakened the
sleeper, surely the sudden light would have done so. I ask you from your
own experience whether, however soundly you might be sleeping, the
effect of a candle being lit in your room would not awaken you;
therefore I think it safe to assume that in the first place, because no
match was found, and in the second place, because had a candle been lit
it would assuredly have awakened the sleeper, and we know that she was
not awakened, that no candle was lighted in the room.
"How then did the assassin manage after entering the room to avoid the
dressing-table, the chairs, and other furniture, and to see to
manipulate the bedclothes so gently that the sleeper was not awakened?
Why, gentlemen, by means of the implement carried by every professional
burglar, I mean, of course, a dark lantern. Opening the shade slightly,
and carefully abstaining from throwing the light towards the bed, the
burglar would make his way towards it, showing sufficient light to carry
out his diabolical purpose, and then opening it freely to examine the
room, open the trinket-box, and carry away the valuables.
"The counsel for the prosecution, gentlemen, has not even ventured to
suggest that the prisoner, Captain Mervyn, was possessed of such an
article. His course has been traced through every village that he rode,
up to ten o'clock at night, by which time every shop had long been
closed, and had he stopped anywhere to buy such an article we should
surely have heard of it. Therefore, gentlemen, I maintain that even if
this fact stood alone, it ought to convince you of the innocence of the
prisoner.
"In his reply, the counsel for the prosecution had admitted that some
weight must be attached to this point, but that it was quite possible
that whoever entered the window might have felt on the table until he
found a candlestick, and lit it, stooping down behind the table, or at
the bottom of the bed, and so shading it with his coat that its light
would not fall on the face of the sleeper. As for the point made that no
match had been found, no great weight could be attached to it; the
prisoner might have put it in his pocket or thrown it out of the
window."
When the defence was concluded, and the counsel for the prosecution rose
to speak, the feeling in the court was still against the prisoner.
In all that had been said the evidence pointed against him, and him
only, as the author of the crime; no hint of suspicion had been dropped
against any other person; and the manner in which the crime had been
committed indicated strongly that it was the act of a person actuated by
jealousy, or animosity rather than that of a mere burglar. This view of
the case was strongly brought out by the counsel for the prosecution.
"The theory of the prosecution is," he said, "not that this unfortunate
gentleman, while in the full possession of his senses, slew this lady,
to whom he was nearly related, and for whom he had long cherished a
sincere affection--the character you have heard given him by so many
witnesses would certainly seem to show him to be a man incapable of such
a crime. Our theory is that the latent taint of insanity in his
blood--that insanity which, as you have heard from Dr. Arrowsmith and
other witnesses, is hereditary in his ancestors on his mother's side,
and has, before now, caused calamities, almost if not quite as serious
as this--suddenly flamed out. We believe that, as has been shown by
witnesses, he galloped away many miles over the country, but we believe
that at last, wrought up to the highest pitch of frenzy, he returned,
scaled the wall, opened the window, and murdered Miss Carne. You have
heard that he was subject to moody fits, when he shunned all society;
these fits, these wild rides you have heard of, are symptoms of a
disordered mind. Perhaps had all gone happily with him, the malady would
not have shown itself in a more serious form.
"Unfortunately, as we know, there was sharp and sudden unhappiness--such
unhappiness as tries the fibre even of the sanest men, and might well
have struck a fatal blow to his mind. It is not because you see him now,
calm and self-possessed, that you are to conclude that this theory is a
mistaken one. Many, even the most dangerous madmen, have long intervals
when, apparently, their sanity is as perfect as that of other people.
Then suddenly, sometimes altogether without warning, a change takes
place, and the quiet and self-possessed man becomes a dangerous
lunatic--perhaps a murderer.
"Such, gentlemen, is the theory of the prosecution. You will, of course,
weigh it carefully in your minds, and it will be your duty, if you agree
with it, to give expression to your opinion in your verdict."
The judge summed up the case with great care. After going through the
evidence piecemeal, he told the jury that while the counsel for the
defence had insisted upon the uncertainty of circumstantial evidence,
and the numerous instances of error that had resulted from it, it was
his duty to tell them that in the majority of cases of murder there
could be, from the nature of things, only circumstantial evidence to go
upon, for that men did not commit murder in the open streets in sight of
other people. At the same time, when circumstantial evidence alone was
forthcoming, it was necessary that it should be of the most conclusive
character, and that juries should, before finding a verdict of guilty,
be convinced that the facts showed that it was the prisoner, and he
only, who could have done the deed.
"It is for you, gentlemen, to decide whether the evidence that has been
submitted to you does prove, absolutely and conclusively to your minds,
that the prisoner must have been the man who murdered Miss Carne.
Counsel on both sides have alluded to the unquestioned fact that madness
is hereditary in the family of the prisoner; whether or not it is
inherited by him, is also for you to decide in considering your verdict.
You will have to conclude first whether the prisoner did or did not
commit this murder. If you believe that he did so, and that while he did
so he was insane, and incapable of governing his actions, your duty will
be to find him not guilty upon the ground of insanity."
The general tenor of the summing-up certainly showed that in the opinion
of the judge the evidence, although strong, could not be considered as
absolutely conclusive. Still, the bias was not strongly expressed, and
when the jury retired, opinions in court were nearly equally divided as
to what the verdict would be.
When he left the witness-box, Dr. Arrowsmith made his way to the corner
in which one of the policemen had placed Ruth after giving her evidence.
She had done this with a steadiness and composure that had surprised the
doctor; she had fortunately escaped much questioning, for the counsel
saw how fragile and weak she looked, and as she had but entered the
room, seen her mistress dead, fainted and left again, there was but
little to ask her. The questions put were: "Was the jewellery safe in
the box when she left the room the night before? Did she remember
whether the window was fastened or not?" To this her reply was negative.
Miss Carne had shut it herself when she went up in the afternoon, and
she had not noticed whether it was fastened. "Was the blind a Venetian
or an ordinary roller blind?"
"A roller blind."
"Then, if the window opened, it could be pushed aside without noise. Did
you notice whether the candlesticks were standing where you had left
them?"
"I noticed that they were on the table and in about the same place where
they were standing the night before, but I could not say exactly."
"I want you to go out, Ruth," Dr. Arrowsmith said, when he reached her
after the jury had retired. "They may be an hour or more before they
make up their minds. You are as white as death, child. Let me lead you
out."
Ruth shook her head, and murmured, "I must stay." The doctor shrugged
his shoulders and returned to his seat. It was an hour and a half before
the door opened and the foreman of the jury entered. As he was
unaccompanied, it was evident he wanted to ask a question.
"My lord," he said, "we are unanimous as to one part of the verdict, but
we can't agree about the other."
"How do you mean, sir?" the judge asked. "I don't want to know what you
are unanimous about, but I don't understand what you mean about being
unanimous about one part of the verdict and not unanimous on the other."
The foreman hesitated. Then, to the astonishment of the court, the
prisoner broke in in a clear steady voice:
"I will not accept acquittal, sir, on the ground of insanity. I am not
mad; if I had been the events of the last two months would have driven
me so. I demand that your verdict be guilty or not guilty."
The judge was too surprised to attempt to check the prisoner when he
first began to speak, and although he attempted to do so before he had
finished, the interruption was ineffectual.
"Go back, sir," the judge then said to the foreman. "You must be
unanimous as to the whole of your verdict."
The interruption of the prisoner had enlightened those in court as to
the nature of the foreman's question. Undoubtedly he had divined
rightly. The jury were in favour of the verdict not guilty, but some of
them would have added on the ground of insanity. The interruption,
although irregular, if not unprecedented, had a favourable effect upon
his hearers. The quickness with which the accused had seized the point,
and the steady, resolute voice in which he had spoken, told in his
favour, and many who before, had they been in the jury-box, would have
returned the verdict of not guilty on the ground of insanity, now
doubted whether they would add the concluding words.
A quarter of an hour later the jury returned.
"We are now unanimous, my lord. We say that the prisoner at the bar is
not guilty."
A sound like a sigh of relief went through the court. Then every one got
up, and there was a movement to the doors. The policeman lifted the bar,
and Ronald Mervyn stepped out a free man, and in a moment was surrounded
by a number of his fellow officers, while some of his neighbours also
pressed forward to shake him by the hand.
"I will shake hands with no man," he said, drawing back; "I will greet
no man so long as this cloud hangs over me--so long as it is unproved
who murdered Margaret Carne."
"You don't mean it, Mervyn; you will think better of it in a few days,"
one of his fellow officers said, as they emerged into the open air.
"What you have gone through has been an awful trial, but now that you
are proved to be innocent you will get over it."
"I am not proved to be innocent, though I am not proved to be guilty.
They have given me the benefit of the doubt; but to the end of my life
half the world will believe I did it. Do you think I would go through
life to be pointed at as the man who murdered his cousin? I would rather
blow out my brains to-night. No, you will never see me again till the
verdict of guilty has been passed on the wretch who murdered my cousin.
Good-bye. I know that you believe me innocent, but I will not take your
hands now. When you think it over, you will see as well as I do that
you couldn't have a man in the regiment against whom men as he passed
would whisper 'murderer.' God bless you all." And Ronald Mervyn turned
and walked rapidly away. One or two of the officers would have followed
him, but the colonel stopped them.
"Leave him alone, lads, leave him alone. We should feel as he does were
we in his place. Good Heavens! how he must have suffered. Still, he's
right, and however much we pity him, we cannot think otherwise. At the
present moment it is clear that he could not remain in the regiment."
As soon as the crowd had turned away, Dr. Arrowsmith made his way to the
point where Ruth had been standing. Somewhat to his surprise he found
her still on her feet. She was leaning back in the corner with her eyes
closed, and the tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Come, my dear," he said, putting his arm under hers, "let us be moving.
Thank God it has all ended right."
"Thank God, indeed, doctor," she murmured. "I had hardly hoped it, and
yet I have prayed so much that it might be so."
The doctor found that though able to stand while supported by the wall,
Ruth was unable to walk. With the aid of a policeman he supported her
from the court, placed her in a vehicle, and took her to an hotel.
"There, my dear," he said, when Ruth had been assisted up to a bedroom
by two of the maids, "now you go to bed, and lie there till to-morrow
morning. I will have a basin of strong broth sent you up presently. It's
quite out of the question your thinking of going home to-night. I have
several friends in the town, and am glad of the excuse to stay over the
night. I will call for you at ten o'clock in the morning; the train goes
at half-past ten; I will have your breakfast sent up here. I will go
down to the station now. There are lots of people over here from
Carnesford, and I will send a messenger back to your mother, saying that
you have got through it better than I expected, but I wanted you to have
a night's rest, and you will be home in the morning."
"Thank you, doctor; that is kind of you," Ruth murmured.
"Help her into bed, girls. She has been ill, and has had a very trying
day. Don't ask her any questions, but just get her into bed as soon as
you can."
Then the doctor went downstairs, ordered the broth and a glass of sherry
for Ruth, and a bedroom for himself, and then went off to see his
friends. In the morning he was surprised, when Ruth came downstairs, to
see how much better she looked.
"My prescription has done you good, Ruth. I am glad to see you look
wonderfully better and brighter."
"I feel so, sir. I went to sleep directly I had taken the broth and wine
you sent me up, and I did not wake till they called me at half-past
eight. I have not slept for an hour together for weeks. I feel as if
there was such a load taken off my mind."
"Why, Ruth, you didn't know Captain Mervyn to speak to, did you, that
you should feel such an interest in him?" the doctor said, looking at
her sharply.
"No, sir, I have never once spoken to him that I know of."
"Then why do you care so much about his being acquitted?"
"It would have been dreadful if he had been found guilty when he was
innocent all the time."
"But then no one knew he was innocent for certain," the doctor said.
"I felt sure he was innocent," Ruth replied.
"But why did you feel sure, Ruth?"
"I can't exactly say, sir, but I did feel that he was innocent."
The doctor looked puzzled, but at this moment the cab arrived at the
station, and the subject was not renewed, but the doctor afterwards
wondered to himself more than once whether Ruth could have any
particular reason for her assurance of Ronald Mervyn's innocence.
For another ten days the Mervyn trial was the great topic of
conversation throughout the country, and the verdict was canvassed with
almost as much keenness and heat as the crime had been before the trial.
Now that Ronald Mervyn was no longer in hazard of his life, the feeling
of pity which had before told so strongly in his favour was wanting. If
a man so far forgets himself as to use threats to a woman, he must not
be surprised if he gets into trouble. Of course, now the jury had given
a verdict of "Not guilty," there was no more to be said. There was no
doubt he was a very lucky fellow, and the jury had given him the benefit
of the doubt. Still, if he hadn't done it, who had killed Margaret
Carne?
Such was the general opinion, and although Ronald had still some staunch
adherents in his own neighbourhood, the tide of feeling ran against him.
Two months after the trial, Mrs. Mervyn died, broken down by grief, and
while this naturally caused a renewal of the talk, it heightened rather
than otherwise the feeling against her son. The general verdict was that
it was his doing; whether he killed Margaret Carne or not, there was no
doubt that he had killed his mother. All this was doubtless unfair, but
it was not unnatural; and only those who believed thoroughly in Ronald's
innocence felt how hard this additional pain must be for him.
Immediately the funeral was over, the two girls moved away to London,
and the house was advertised to let, but the odour of the recent tragedy
hung over it. No one cared to take a house with which such a story was
connected. A month or two later there was a sale of the furniture; the
house was then shut up and lost to the county. Ten days after the trial
it was announced in _The Gazette_ that Ronald Mervyn had retired from
the service upon sale of his commission. No one had seen him after he
had left the court a free man. His horses were sold a week later, and
his other belongings forwarded from the regiment to an address he gave
in London. His mother and sister had a few days later gone up for a day
to town, and had met him there. He had already written to them that he
intended to go abroad, and they did not seek to combat his resolution.
"I can never come back, mother, unless this is cleared up. You must feel
as well as I do, that I cannot show my face anywhere. I am surprised
that I have got off myself, and indeed if it were not that I am sure I
never got off my horse that night, I should sometimes suspect that I
must for a time have been really mad and have done what they accuse me
of. I have already sent down a detective to the village. There must be
some clue to all this if one could only hit upon it, but I own that at
present I do not see where it is to be looked for. I do not believe that
it was done by some passing tramp. I agree with every word that was said
at my trial in that respect.
"Everything points to the fact that she was deliberately murdered,
though who, except myself, could have entertained a feeling of animosity
against Margaret, God only knows. There is one comfort, mother, and only
one," he said with a hard laugh. "I can set our minds at ease on one
point, which I have never felt sure about before, that is, that I have
not inherited the curse of the Carnes. Had I done so, the last two
months would have made a raving lunatic of me, whereas I have never felt
my head cooler and my reason clearer than I have since the day I was
arrested. But you mustn't grieve for me more than you can help, mother;
now that it is over, I feel more for you and the girls than I do for
myself. I have a sort of conviction that somehow, though I don't see
how, the thing will be cleared up some day. Anyhow I mean to go and lead
a rough life somewhere, to keep myself from brooding over it. The weight
will really fall upon you, far more than upon me, and I should strongly
advise you to shut up the house, let it if you can, and either come up
here or settle in some place--either Brighton or Hastings--where this
story will be soon forgotten and no one will associate your names with
this terrible business."
About that time a stranger arrived at Carnesford. He announced that he
was a carpenter from the North, and that he suffered from weak lungs,
and had been recommended to live down South. After staying for a week at
the "Carne's Arms," he stated that he liked the village so much that he
should settle there if he saw a chance of making a livelihood, and as it
happened that there was no carpenter in the village, the idea was
received with favour, and a week later he was established in a cottage
that happened to be vacant. As he was a man who seemed to have travelled
about England a good deal, and was well spoken and informed, he soon
took a good position in the place, and was even admitted to form one of
the party in the snuggery, where he would talk well upon occasions, but
was specially popular as an excellent listener.
When spring came there was a fresh sensation. The gardener at The Hold,
in digging up some ground at the edge of the shrubbery, to plant some
rhododendrons there, turned up the missing watch and jewellery of
Margaret Carne. It was all buried together a few inches below the soil,
without any wrapper or covering of any kind. Captain Hendricks arrived
at Carnesford as soon as the news of the discovery reached him. Reginald
Carne was himself away, having been absent ever since the trial took
place. Most of the servants had left at once; the old cook and a niece
of hers alone remaining in charge, and two stablemen from the garden
also staying in the house.
Nothing came of the discovery; but it, of course, renewed the interest
in the mystery of Margaret Carne's death, and the general opinion was
that it was fortunate indeed for Ronald Mervyn that the discovery had
not been made before his trial, for it completely demolished the theory
that the murder was the work of a burglar. It was possible, of course,
that such a man, knowing the active hue and cry that would be set on
foot, and that it would be dangerous to offer the jewellery for sale,
and still more dangerous to keep it about him, had at once buried it,
intending to go back some day to recover it, for, as Reginald stated at
the trial, the missing jewels were worth fifteen hundred pounds.
But had they been so hidden they would assuredly have been put in a box
or some sort of cover that would protect them from the damp, and not
have been merely thrust into the ground. Altogether the discovery
greatly heightened, instead of diminishing, the impression that the
murder was an act of revenge and not the outcome of robbery; and the
cloud over Ronald Mervyn became heavier rather than lighter in
consequence.
Ruth Powlett had gained health and strength rapidly after the verdict
"Not guilty" had been returned against Ronald Mervyn. She was still
grave and quiet, and as she went about her work at home, Hesba would
sometimes tell her that she looked more like a woman of fifty than a
girl of nineteen; but her mind had been lightened from the burden of her
terrible secret, and she felt comparatively happy. She spent much of her
time over at the Foresters', for the old man and his wife were both
ailing, and they knew that there was little chance of their ever seeing
their son again, for the gamekeeper who had been injured in the poaching
affray had since died, and as the evidence given at the inquest all
pointed to the fact that it was George Forester who had struck the blow
that had eventually proved fatal, a verdict of "Wilful murder" had been
returned against him.
Ruth's conscience was not altogether free as to her conduct in the
matter, and at the time of Mrs. Mervyn's death she suffered much. As for
Ronald Mervyn himself, she had little compassion for him. She would not
have permitted him to be hung; but the disgrace that had fallen upon
him, and the fact that he had been obliged to leave the country,
affected her but little. She had been greatly attached to her mistress,
who had treated her rather as a friend than as a servant; and that he
should have insulted and threatened Margaret was in her eyes an offence
so serious that she considered it richly deserved the punishment that
had befallen him.
Until she heard of Mrs. Mervyn's death, she had scarcely considered that
the innocent must suffer with the guilty, and after that she felt far
more than she had done before, that she had acted wrongly in keeping the
secret, the more so since the verdict returned against George Forester
in the other case had rendered the concealment to some extent futile.
But, indeed, Forester and his wife did not suffer anything like the pain
and shame from this verdict that they would have done had their son been
proved to have been the murderer of Miss Carne. Public opinion, indeed,
ran against poaching as against drunkenness, or enlisting in the army,
or other wild conduct; but it was not considered as an absolute crime,
nor was the result of a fight, in which a keeper might be killed by a
blow struck in self-defence, regarded as a murder, in whatever point of
view the law might take it. Still Ruth suffered, and at times told
herself bitterly that although she meant to act for the best, she had
done wrongly and wickedly in keeping George Forester's secret.
Three months later, to the regret of all Carnesford, the carpenter, who,
although not a first-rate hand, had been able to do the work of the
village and neighbourhood, suddenly left. He had, he said, received a
letter telling him he had come into a little property up in the North,
and must return to see after it. So two days later the cottage again
stood vacant, and Carnesford, when it wanted a carpenter's job done, was
obliged to send over to the next village for a man to do it.