COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE.
'Mr. Tressamer is inside, sir. Will you walk in?'
Thus said the clerk at Mr. Tressamer's chambers as soon as he saw Mr.
Prescott. Then, stepping to the door, he rapped and opened it, saying
the visitor's name.
'Well, Tressamer, where have you been this age?'
The speaker stopped, startled at the sight that presented itself, for
there, lying on his face on the hearthrug, with his hands clutching at
his thick black curls, lay George Tressamer, the very picture of one
in mortal despair.
He sprang to his feet as his friend entered, and made an awkward
attempt to behave as if he had not been seen.
'Why, Prescott, where do you come from, pray? More excursions to the
County Court, with the solicitors on opposite sides racing to you to
see which can get his brief into your hands first?'
Prescott thought it best to take the hint, and not remark on his
friend's trouble. He quietly answered:
'No; I've not been anywhere. Been in town, preparing for the assizes.
By-the-bye----' He paused to look for a chair, and was surprised to
find every one in the room littered with books. He proceeded to clear
the nearest to him, lifting the books on to the floor. 'I've just had
a brief to prosecute--Hullo! "Hawkins' Pleas of the Crown"! I had no
idea you were such a student--in that Porthstone case--the murder----'
Again he stopped short. A look of anguish had come into his friend's
face.
'What is it, old man? I can see something's gone wrong.'
'Charlie,' was the reply, spoken in a tone hardly above a whisper,
'are you prosecuting Eleanor Owen?'
Prescott nodded.
'And have you read your brief?'
'I've just come from it.'
'Then you can understand how I feel. I am defending her--and I love
her!'
He threw all the energy of his passionate nature into the last
sentence, and then sank down upon the window seat and hid his face
with his hands.
For several minutes neither spoke. Prescott hardly knew what course to
take. To offer to resign his brief might be to let it pass into the
hands of one who would share Mr. Pollard's prejudice against the
accused. On the other hand, to retain it, unless he were prepared to
bring the case fully home to the prisoner, would be alike a breach of
professional honour and an act of dishonesty. He resolved at last to
leave the choice to his friend.
'George,' he said.
The other slowly lifted his head. Looking upon that face, his friend
could see the marks of the terrible experience he was passing through.
Tressamer had always been a youth of wild and stormy emotions; no man
less calm and steadfast than Prescott could have maintained a
friendship so long with such a nature. But now he was struggling with
passions compared with which the emotions of schoolboys were as
nothing.
'George, what shall I do? I want you to decide. You know me too well
to think I care about the little benefit to myself when it's a case of
life and death with a friend like you. Shall I chuck up the case?'
Tressamer gazed at him gratefully at first, and then with a
hesitating, pondering look. Finally he said:
'You have read your brief, and, of course, you know the worst. Tell
me, what do you think, honestly?'
'Honestly, George, I see no defence. There is no doubt the old woman
has been murdered. I don't see how it could have been done by anyone
outside the house; and then there is the blood on the door-handle. I
may tell you that, even before I knew how you stood, in reading the
brief I felt a sort of hesitation--that is, I couldn't get that
feeling of confidence that one generally has in one's case when the
evidence is clear. I felt as if I shouldn't put much heart into the
prosecution. But, still, I don't see what defence there is.'
Tressamer listened in silence, and let a moment or two go by before he
gave his decision.
'I would rather you kept your brief. I would rather you did it. After
all, you have merely a mechanical part to perform; it is only routine.
Suppose I were to have a limb amputated, I should like it to be done
by a man I knew. And this is something of the same sort. The evidence
is there, and you will not make it any worse--or better.'
The other was shocked at the gloomy, resigned way in which he spoke.
'Good heavens! you don't mean that you too believe----'
'No, Charles. I believe she is innocent. But I do not expect her
innocence will ever be proved in this world.'
'Oh, come, you mustn't give up now! All sorts of things may happen.
The trial may go differently to what you expect. Half the time these
witnesses don't swear up to their proofs.'
'They have given their evidence twice already--at the inquest and
before the magistrates.'
'Yes; but then they weren't cross-examined. It is very different when
they have a man like you to turn them inside out. You're not nervous
about it, are you?'
'Nervous!' He smiled grimly. 'No; it was at my own request I received
this brief. A breach of etiquette, you see'--with another heavy smile.
'If she can be saved, I shall save her. Shall I tell you my defence?'
'No, don't; I would rather be taken by surprise. I don't want to shine
in this case, Heaven knows! Take every advantage I can fairly give
you. I know you don't expect more.'
'Thank you,' was the answer.
There was a little pause, during which neither spoke. At last,
returning to the only topic in either mind, Tressamer observed:
'I have been deep in this ever since it occurred. I have been
running up and down to Porthstone. I was at the inquest and in the
police-court, but I thought it best to do nothing, and let the public
think she was undefended. It may soften their feeling towards her. All
these little things have to be thought of.'
'Yes; don't you remember that famous Shepherdsbury case? The man who
acted for the prisoner--the solicitor, I think it was--made such a
brilliant fight in the police-court that the magistrates hesitated to
commit; but the result was that the Crown knew all about the defence,
and when the real trial came, the man hadn't a chance. Always reserve
your defence.'
'Yes; but you forget, the solicitor has got a splendid practice
through it,' was the bitter answer. 'Few men in the West of England
are doing better in that class of business. Did you know--but of
course you didn't--that I was down at Porthstone only two days before
the thing happened?'
'No; were you?'
'Yes; and I was staying in Abertaff that very night. I intended coming
up to town the first thing in the morning, but something detained me,
and in a few hours the news arrived. So I went down at once, saw
Eleanor at the police-station, and advised her what to do before any
of those meddling Pollards got at her.'
'Pollards? Why, they are briefing me for the prosecution!'
'Yes, I know. Pollard conducted it in the police-court. At the inquest
he represented that man Lewis, the nephew, and very bitter he was,
too. But I made Eleanor choke him off before that. Wouldn't have him
at any price. I have got a quiet old chap in Abertaff now who won't
interfere--old Morgan.'
'Do you know, I thought he was trying to press the case rather in my
brief. This accounts for it. But what sort of a man is this Lewis?'
'Oh, a big, coarse-looking fellow. Came back from Australia just
before it happened. A brute! He's egging on the Crown. She left him
all her money--about twenty thousand--but the jewels are supposed to
be worth nearly as much more, and he's lost them, and so he's savage.'
'I say, George, I don't know that I ought to say it, but has it
occurred to you as at all curious that he should have returned the
very night it was done?'
A gleam of furtive joy crossed the other's face, and instantly
vanished again.
_'Has that struck you_?' he said, and seemed about to add something
more. But he restrained himself, and merely added: 'The less you and
I talk about it the better, perhaps. Coming out?'
And they left the chambers together.
But though Tressamer ceased to discuss the subject with his friend, he
could not dismiss it from his mind. The sparkling wit, the wild,
extravagant humour, for which he had been famous, seemed to have
withered up in the furnace of his terrible grief. He lunched with
Prescott in almost dead silence, and as soon as it was over got up
hurriedly and disappeared.
He had truthfully described himself as having been deep in the
case from its commencement. When the news of what had happened
at Porthstone reached the town of Abertaff he was walking in the
High Street alone. He saw the unusual excitement, and meeting an
acquaintance, learned from him that Miss Lewis had been murdered.
'And they say it was done by her companion, a girl named Owen,' added
the man.
Tressamer turned white, gasped for breath, and cried out loudly:
'It's a lie! I swear she is innocent!'
In another moment he had darted off to a cab-stand, and was on his way
to the station.
There he had one of those sickening waits for a train which are
inevitable on such occasions. Twice he was on the point of ordering a
special, but each time he restrained himself by the thought that by
the time it was ready the ordinary train would be nearly due. He
shunned the gloomy waiting-room, and strode up and down the narrow
platform with swift, excited strides.
The porters and newspaper-boys stared as he rushed to and fro, hardly
heeding the piles of luggage with which railway servants seek to break
the dull monotony of a platform promenade. There was French blood in
Tressamer: short, dark, thick-necked, yet far from stout in figure, he
possessed the strain of sombre passion which runs through the blood of
the Celtic races. He could no more control himself in deference to the
officials of Abertaff Station than a madman when his frenzy is on him
can conceal it from his keepers.
At last the train drew up. He sprang into a carriage, and impatiently
endured the journey down to the seaside. Arrived there, he proceeded
instantly to the police-station and demanded an interview with Miss
Owen.
At first there was some difficulty, but Tressamer was not to be
checked.
'I am her legal adviser,' he announced. 'I am a member of the Bar, and
I consider it of vital importance that I should see the prisoner at
once. If you refuse, I shall wire straight to the Home Office.'
This threat produced its natural effect. The police, in doubt as to
their powers, gave way, and he was taken into the cell where Eleanor
had been secured.
If Eleanor had not wept when she was accused of the terrible crime,
neither was she weeping now. She was sitting in a dull, stony apathy,
from which she was hardly aroused by the sound of the barrister's
familiar name. She looked up, it is true, and gazed at him with
lack-lustre eyes. But she uttered no word.
He, on his part, waited till the constable had withdrawn. Then he
advanced a step from the door, and said:
'Eleanor, you are innocent. Will you let me save you?'
Then at last the light came into her eyes. Then at last the unnatural
stiffness faded out of her frame. Then at last the awful coldness
loosed its hold of her heart, and answering, 'George, I do not deserve
your help,' she gave way to a tempest of tears.
He waited till the storm had spent its first fury. Every shade of
anguish passed across his face meanwhile. But he strove to master his
feelings, and to put a commonplace expression into his voice, as he
said at length:
'I have been in Abertaff the last two days--since I left you.' His
voice trembled an instant, but he went on: 'I heard the news this
morning, and came down at once. I want to defend you. I want you to
accept my services as a token that you still look on me as a friend,
in spite of all that has happened.'
'I don't know how to answer you,' she murmured. 'The more generous you
are, the more ashamed I feel. I ought not to take your help. And yet
you are the only creature in the world who has not forsaken me.'
'Don't say that, Eleanor. No one else knows you as I do. No one else
feels to you---- but I won't say anything about that. One stipulation
I must make. You are not to thank me--not one word.'
And with a stern gesture he waved her off, as she made a movement as
if to throw herself at his feet.
'But you must forgive me,' she said. 'Whether I am as wicked as you
told me I was when we parted or not, you must tell me that you take me
for what I am, that you expect no change in me.' She paused a moment,
and then cried out with sudden vehemence: 'Oh, I have done you
injustice! I didn't know how noble you could be! But it is too late; I
cannot alter now.'
An angry throb convulsed the man during her first words. At the end he
ground his teeth and clenched his hands together.
'Silence, Eleanor! If you speak to me like that again, I shall go.
There are to be no thanks, no praises. Never refer to the past. I know
you and understand. If I cannot tear all hope out of my heart, what
is that to you? I ask nothing, and will take nothing unless it is
freely given.'
He ceased, and she looked at him with a mixture of gratitude and fear.
Then he referred to her dreadful situation.
'I needn't tell you, Eleanor, that as your counsel you must confide in
me fully. I have heard the story so far as it is public, and up to now
I may tell you that, as a matter of law, you are in no real danger.'
Eleanor stared at him.
'In no danger? What do you mean? Is the murderer discovered?'
'No, and never may be. But neither is the body.'
'Why, what difference does that make?'
'Don't you know?' answered the barrister. 'I thought most people knew
that till the body was discovered no one could be convicted of
murder.'
A ray of hope shone out in the prisoner's face.
'Then do you mean that Miss Lewis may be alive still?' she asked
quickly.
'No, no. Nobody doubts that she is dead, nor that someone has killed
her. But the point is this, that you cannot be legally tried and
convicted. The body has disappeared.'
The heavy shade of despair settled down once more.
'What good is that?' she answered reproachfully. 'If they believe me
guilty it makes it worse for me, because I can never be acquitted. I
shall be suspected till I die. Oh, I would rather suffer death, I
think.'
'Hush, hush!' he exclaimed, shocked and agitated. 'Listen to me, and
try to bear it as best you can. The evidence against you is simply
overwhelming. Probably I am the only man in the world who believes in
your innocence.'
'Except the murderer,' she interrupted.
'Except the murderer, of course. But what I want to say is this--as
things stand now no jury that ever breathed would acquit you. Only a
miracle can reveal the truth. But what I can do, and mean to do, for
you is to save you on the ground I have told you of. You must expect
nothing more.'
'George, it will kill me! Alone, hated, abhorred, what use would my
life be to me when the whole world believed me guilty? No, I will pray
for a miracle; but if not----' She stopped and panted in anguish of
soul.
Her suffering was reflected on the man's face.
'Don't--don't talk like that!' he cried. 'Remember, there will be
always one who trusts you, one who reveres you, loves you! I don't
mean to ask anything. I would not speak to you like this if I could
help it; but remember, if the worst comes to the worst, you have
always one friend to turn to, one man who asks no higher joy than to
pass his life with you, whether here or in some far-off country, and
devote himself to soothing your distress.'
While he was unfolding these views a sudden misgiving entered
Eleanor's mind. Rising up, she crossed the cell to where he sat, and,
laying her hands on his shoulders, she gazed full into his eyes.
'George,' she uttered in solemn tones, 'I adjure you to tell me the
truth. Do you really believe me innocent?'
'Before God, I do!' burst out his answer, as he looked her in the
face.
She was satisfied, and returned to her seat.
'And now,' said Tressamer, assuming a more lawyer-like tone, 'tell me
all that occurred that night.'
A long conversation followed, of which the barrister took copious
notes in his pocket-book. It was late in the afternoon when he came
out of the cell and went to secure accommodation in Porthstone for the
night.
His step was slow, his head drooping, as he came along the esplanade.
Suddenly he saw in front of him a concourse of people following a
policeman, who held something in his hand, and a gentleman dressed in
the unmistakable garb which proclaims the seaside visitor.
As the crowd came on, Tressamer noticed that this gentleman appeared
much agitated. Even the constable's face betrayed an excitement
unusual among his kind. But it never occurred to the barrister that
this excitement could be connected in any way with the case in which
he was so deeply concerned. He took a closer glance at what the
policeman was carrying, and then, to his horror, perceived that it was
a human hand, the fingers still gay with precious rings. The next
moment they all came up to where he was, and he heard someone in the
crowd saying:
'That's the hand of the woman that was murdered. A gentleman has just
found it in Newton Bay.'
The fearful truth burst on him like a thunder-clap. The blood forsook
his veins; he staggered helplessly to the nearest seat and sank down
upon it, moaning to himself: 'Lost! She is lost!'
The firm ground on which he had been standing had crumbled all at
once. The law point on which he had relied to save Eleanor's life, in
spite of the crushing weight of evidence against her, was robbed by
this accidental discovery of more than half its strength. Who could
any longer pretend to doubt whether a murder had been committed? Hence
Tressamer's despair. Coupled with what Eleanor had said to him in
their interview, however, it drove him to seek more earnestly than he
would otherwise have done for some theory of defence upon the facts,
some means whereby, if possible, to force a doubt into the minds of
the jury, and wring from them a verdict of acquittal.
To this task he now devoted himself. He assumed the part of a
detective rather than a barrister. In the case of an ordinary client
conduct such as this would not have been tolerated for a moment by the
rigid etiquette of the Bar; but where a case is of such a nature that
the barrister is personally concerned, and where he acts as a private
individual pursuing his own interests, etiquette has nothing to say.
In joining the Bar a man does not cease to be a citizen and to enjoy
the rights and privileges of ordinary mortals. It is only in his
professional character that his acts come under that rigid supervision
which is at once the dread and envy of inferior professions.
But, in any event, George Tressamer's present mood would not have let
him give much weight to considerations of such a character. Too much
was at stake. He had to keep in constant communication with Eleanor,
to encourage her in face of the ordeals of the coroner and the
magistrates, and to protect her from the zeal of the various graduates
of the Incorporated Law Society who were thirsting to win glory in her
defence.
As a blind to the public, he caused the rumour to be spread that she
was without professional advice. This idea was confirmed when it got
to be known that she had refused the services of Messrs. Pollard and
other gentlemen of the neighbourhood.
Meanwhile Tressamer was enabled to go about with less publicity and to
pursue his inquiries. Eleanor was disposed to wonder at him for not
employing a detective. But he soon explained that.
'I know detectives,' he said to her. 'I have seen them in the
witness-box and out of it. They are admirable men in their own groove.
Give them an ordinary crime--a robbery or a forgery--and they can
grapple with it. They will track the defaulting cashier to America for
you, or run down the absconding broker in the depths of the Australian
Bush. But there their usefulness ends. They are no good in the face of
a real mystery like this. This is not a question of clever detection;
it is a case of reading the human heart and penetrating its motives. A
genius could help us, but I know of no genius in Scotland Yard. No, I
will do what I can; and if I come to anything in the way of ordinary
detective work I will send for Sergeant Wright.'
So he continued to work alone. He had by this time seen and talked
with every witness whose name appeared in the brief for the Crown. He
had been present, with the air of a casual spectator, at the inquest,
and afterwards at the inquiry before the magistrates, which ended in
the committal of Eleanor to the assizes to take her trial for wilful
murder.
He did not tell Eleanor much as to the results of his inquiries. He
would simply mention that he had been talking to Simons, or that he
had had a game of billiards with John Lewis, and she had to form her
own idea of what had passed between them.
Finally, he went up to London and plunged into that minute study of
Hale and Hawkins which had awakened the surprise of his friend
Prescott. He was thus kept occupied till both he and his friend were
summoned down from town by the approach of the assizes.