The case of the King against Ambrose Sault came on late in the
afternoon of the third assize day. The assizes opened on the Monday
and the first two and a half days were occupied by the hearing of a
complicated case of fraudulent conversion; it was four o'clock in the
afternoon when Sault, escorted by three warders, stepped into the pen
and listened to the reading of the indictment.
It was charged against him that "He did wilfully kill and murder Paul
Dimitros Moropulos by shooting at him with a revolving pistol with
intent to kill and murder the aforesaid Paul Dimitros Moropulos."
He pleaded "Guilty", but by the direction of the Court, a technical
plea of "Not Guilty" was entered in accordance with the practice of
the law. The proceedings were necessarily short, the reading of the
indictment, the swearing in of the jury, and the other preliminaries
were only disposed of before the Court rose.
Wechester Assize Court dates back to the days of antiquity. There is
a legend that King Arthur sat in the great outer hall, a hollow
cavern of a place with vaulted stone roof and supporting pillars worn
smooth by contact with the backs of thirty generations of litigants
waiting their turn to appear in the tiny court house.
"I knew I was going to have a dull time," complained Ronnie. "Why on
earth didn't they start the trial on Monday?"
"Partly because I could not arrive until today," said Sir John. "The
judge very kindly agreed to postpone the hearing to suit my
convenience. I had a big case in town. Partly, so the judge tells
me, because he wanted to dispose of the fraud charges before he took
the murder case. Are you really very dull, Ronnie?" He looked
keenly at the other.
"Wouldn't anybody be dull in a town that offers no other amusement
than a decrepit cinema?"
"I thought I caught a glimpse of you as I was coming from the
station, and, unless I was dreaming, I saw you driving with a
lady--it is not like you to be dull when you have feminine society."
"She was the daughter of a very old friend of mine," said Ronnie
conventionally.
"You are fortunate in having so many old friends with so many pretty
daughters," said Sir John drily.
Ronnie was in court at ten o'clock the following morning. The place
was filled, the narrow public gallery packed. The scarlet robed
judge came in, preceded by the High Sheriff, and followed by his
chaplain; a few seconds later came the sound of Ambrose Sault's feet
on the stairway leading to the dock.
He walked to the end of the pen, rested his big hands on the ledge
and bowed to the judge. And then his eyes roved round the court.
They rested smilingly upon Sir John, bewigged and gowned, passed
incuriously over the press table and stopped at Ronald Morelle. His
face was inscrutable: his thoughts, whatever they were, found no
expression. Ronald met his eyes and smiled. This man had come to
him with murder in his heart: but for Ronnie's ready wit and readier
lie, his name, too, would have appeared in the indictment. That was
his thought as he returned the gaze. Here was his enemy trapped:
beyond danger. His smile was a taunt and an exultation. Sault's
face was not troubled, his serenity was undisturbed. Rather, it
seemed to Sir John, who was watching him, that there was a strange
benignity in his countenance, that humanized and transfigured him.
Trials always wearied Ronnie. They were so slow, so tedious: there
were so many fiddling details, usually unimportant, to be related and
analyzed. Why did they take the trouble? Sault was guilty by his
own confession, and yet they were treating him as though he were
innocent. What did it matter whether it was eight or nine o'clock
when the policeman stopped the car in Woking and asked Sault to
produce his license? Why bother with medical evidence as to the
course the bullet took--Moropulos was dead, did it matter whether the
bullet was nickel or lead?
From time to time sheer ennui drove him out of the court. He had no
work to do--his description of Sault in the dock, his impression of
the court scene, had been written before he left his hotel. The
verdict was inevitable.
Yet still they droned on, these musty lawyers; still the old man on
the bench interjected his questions.
Sir John, in his opening speech, had discounted his client's
confession. Sault felt that he was morally guilty. It was for the
jury to say whether he was guilty in law. A man in fear of his life
had the right to defend himself, even if in his defense he destroyed
the life of the attacker. The revolver was the property of
Moropulos, was it not fair to suppose that Moropulos had carried the
pistol for the purpose of intimidating Sault, that he had actually
threatened him with the weapon? And the judge had taken this
possibility into account and his questions were directed to
discovering the character and habits of the dead man.
Steppe, had he been in the box, would have saved the prisoner's life.
Ronnie Morelle knew enough to enlighten the judge. Steppe had not
come, Ronnie would have been amused if it were suggested that he
should speak.
The end of the trial came with startling suddenness.
Ronnie was out of court when the jury retired, and he hurried back as
they returned.
The white-headed associate rose from behind his book-covered table
and the jury answered to their names.
"Gentlemen of the jury, have you considered your verdict?"
"We have."
The voice of the foreman was weak and almost inaudible.
"Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?"
A pause.
"Guilty."
There was a sound like a staccato whisper. A quick explosion of soft
sound, and then silence.
"Ambrose Sault, what have you to say that my lord should not condemn
you to die?"
Ambrose stood easily in the dock: both hands were on the ledge before
him and his head was bent in a listening posture.
"Nothing."
His cheerful voice rang through the court. Ronnie saw him look down
to the place where Sir John was sitting, and smile, such a smile of
encouragement and sympathy as a defending lawyer might give to his
condemned client; coming from the condemned to the advocate, it was
unique.
The judge was sitting stiffly erect. He was a man of seventy, thin
and furrowed of face. Over his wig lay a square of black silk, a
corner drooped to his forehead.
"Prisoner at the bar, the jury have found the only verdict which it
was possible for them to return after hearing the evidence." He
stopped here, and Ronnie expected to hear the usual admonition which
precedes the formal sentence, but the judge went on to the
performance of his dread duty. "The sentence of this court is, and
this court doth ordain, that you be taken from the place whence you
came, and from thence to a place of execution, and there you shall be
hanged by the neck until you are dead, and your body shall afterwards
be buried within the precincts of the prison in which you were last
confined. And may God have mercy upon your soul."
Ambrose listened, his lips moving. He was repeating to himself word
by word the sentence of the law. He had the appearance of a man who
was intensely interested.
A warder touched his arm and awoke him from his absorption. He
started, smiled apologetically, and, turning, walked down the stairs
and out of sight.
"Good-bye, my friend--I shall see you once again," said Ronnie.
He had decided to leave nothing undone that would authorize his
presence at the execution.
Going into the hall to see the procession of the judge with his
halberdiers and his trumpet men, he saw Sir John passing and his eyes
were red. Ronnie was amused.
"Are you traveling back to town tonight, Ronnie?"
"No, Sir John. I leave in the morning."
Sir John wrinkled his brows in thought.
"You saw him? Did you ever see a man like him? I am bewildered and
baffled. Poor Sault, and yet why 'poor'? Poor world, I think, to
lose a soul as great as his."
"He is also a murderer," said Ronnie with gentle sarcasm. "He has
brutally killed two men--"
"There is nothing brutal in Ambrose Sault," Sir John checked himself.
"I go back by the last train. I am dining with the judge in his
lodgings and he told me I might bring you along."
"Thank you, I've a lot of work to do," said Ronnie so hastily that
the other searched his face.
"I suppose you are alone here?"
"Quite--the truth is, I promised to drive with a friend of mine."
"A man?"
Lola came through the big doors at that moment.
"I was looking for you, Ronnie--my dear, I am bored to tears--"
Sir John looked after them and shook his head.
"Rotten," he said. That a man could bring his light o' love to this
grim carnival of pain!
X
Late in the afternoon Christina received a note delivered by hand.
"Mother, would you mind if I spent the night with Miss Merville?"
Mrs. Colebrook shook her head without speaking. In these days she
lived in an atmosphere of gloom, for she had adopted the right of
chief griever.
"Nobody else seems to care about poor Mr. Sault," she had said many
times. "I really can't understand you, Christina, after all he has
done for you, I won't say that you're heartless, because I will never
believe that about a child of mine. You're young."
"Do you think Mr. Sault would like to know that you go weeping about
the house for his sake?" asked Christina patiently.
"Of course he would! I would like somebody to grieve over me and I'm
sure he'd like to know that somebody was dropping a silent tear over
him."
On the whole, Mrs. Colebrook preferred to be alone that night. The
late editions would have the result of the trial. Evie would be out,
too. She was going to a theatre with Teddy Williams. That, Mrs.
Colebrook thought, was heartless, but Evie had an excuse. Mr. Sault
had done nothing for her: had even quarreled with her.
So Christina went gladly to her new friend. She saw the doctor for a
minute in the hall and in his professional mood, Dr. Merville was
charming.
"You open up vistas of a new career for me, Miss Colebrook," he
laughed. "With you as a shining example, I am almost inclined to
take up osteopathy in my old age! Really, you have mended
wonderfully."
In Beryl's little room she heard the news.
"We expected it, of course," she said. "Did Sir John wire anything
about Ambrose--how he bore it?"
"Yes, here is the telegram."
Christina read: "Sault sentenced to death. He showed splendid
courage and calmness."
"Naturally he would," said Christina quietly. "I am glad the strain
is over, not that I think it was a strain for him. Beryl, I hope we
are going to be worthy disciples of our friend? There are times when
I am very afraid. It is a heavy burden for a badly equipped mind
like mine. But I think I shall go through without making a weak fool
of myself. I almost wish that _I_ was marrying Jan Steppe. The
prospect would take my mind off--no it wouldn't. And it doesn't in
your case."
"I don't want to have my mind relieved of Ambrose," said Beryl. "We
can do nothing, Christina. We never have been able to do anything.
Ambrose could appeal, but of course, he won't do anything of the
sort. I had a mad idea of going to see him. But I don't think I
could endure that."
Christina shook her head.
She saw him every day. He never left her; he was sitting there now
with his hands folded, silent, thoughtful. She avoided saying
anything that would hurt him. In moments when Evie annoyed her, as
she did lately, the thought that Ambrose would not approve, cut short
her tart retort. She confessed this much and Beryl agreed. She felt
the same way.
Beryl had had another bed put in her own room and they talked far
into the night. There was nothing that Ambrose had ever said which
they did not recall. He had said surprisingly little.
"Did he ever tell you in so many words that he loved you, Beryl?"
Only for a second did Beryl hesitate. "Yes," she said.
"You didn't want to tell me that, did you? You were afraid that I
should be hurt. I'm not. I love his loving you. I don't grudge you
a thought. He ought to love somebody humanly. I always think that
the one incompleteness of Christ was his austerity. That doesn't
sound blasphemous or irreverent, does it? But he missed so much
experience because he was not a father with a father's feelings. Or
a husband with a husband's love. I suppose theological people can
explain this satisfactorily. I am taking an unlearned view--"
Evie was very nervous, thought Christina, when she saw her the next
afternoon. Usually she was self-possession itself. She snapped at
the girl when she asked her how she had enjoyed the play, although
she was penitent immediately.
"Mother has been going on at me for daring to see a play the night
poor Ambrose was sentenced," she said. "I'm sure nobody feels more
sorry than I do. You're different to mother. I ought to have known
that you weren't being sarcastic."
"How is Teddy? I remember him when he was a tiny boy. Do you like
him, Evie?"
Evie pursed her red lips. "He's not bad," she granted. "He's very
young and--well, simple."
"You worldly old woman!" smiled Christina. "You make me feel a
hundred!"
Yes, Evie was nervous. And she took an unusual amount of trouble in
dressing.
"Where are you going tonight--all dolled up?"
Evie was pained. "That is an _awfully_ vulgar expression, Chris: it
makes me feel like one of those street women. I am going to meet a
girl friend."
"Where are you going, Evie?" Christina quietly insisted.
"I am going to see Ronnie, if you want to know. You make me tell
lies when I don't want to," snapped Evie. "Why can't you leave me
alone?"
Christina sighed. "Why don't I, indeed," she agreed wearily. "What
is to be, will be: I can't be responsible for your life, and it is
stupid of me to try. Go ahead, Evie, and good luck."
A remark which considerably mystified Evie Colebrook. But, as she
told herself, she had quite enough to try her without worrying about
Christina and her morbid talk. The principal cause of her worry was
an exasperating lapse of memory. In the agitation of the proposal,
she had forgotten whether Ronnie had asked her to meet him in the
park at the usual place, or whether she had agreed to go straight to
the flat. An arrangement had been made one way or the other, she was
sure. She decided to go to the flat.
Beryl came to the same decision.
"Steppe and I are going to Ronnie's place tonight," said Dr.
Merville. "It will be a sort of--er--board meeting as Jan is leaving
London tomorrow. I haven't had a chance of asking him about a matter
which affects me personally. You do not read the financial
newspapers, do you, Beryl? You haven't heard from the Fennings, or
any of the people you know--er--any unpleasant comment?"
She shook her head again.
"Jan was asking me again about--you, Beryl. I can't get him to talk
about anything else. I think you will have to decide one way or the
other." He was pulling on his gloves, an operation which gave him an
excuse for looking elsewhere than at her. "It struck me that he was
growing impatient. You are to please yourself--but the suspense is
rather getting on my nerves."
She made no answer until, accompanying him to the door, she made a
sudden resolve.
"How long will you be at Ronnie's?" she asked.
"An hour, no longer, I think, why?"
"I wondered," she said.
It was lamentably, wickedly weak in her; a servile surrender to
expediency. She knew it, but in her desperation she seized the one
straw that floated upon the inexorable current which was carrying her
to physical and moral damnation. Ronnie must save her: Ronnie, to
whom she had best right of appeal. It was a bitter, hateful
confession, that, despising him, she loved him. She loved the two
halves of the perfect man. Sault and Ronnie Morelle were the very
soul and body of love. She loathed herself--yet she knew it was the
truth. Ronnie must help. He might not be so vile as she believed
him to be: there might be a spirit in him, a something to which she
could reach. The instinct of honor, some spark of courage and
justice transmitted to him by the men and women who bred him.
Anything was better than Steppe, she told herself wildly, anything!
She dreamed of him, terrible dreams that revolted her to wakefulness:
by day she kept him from her mind. And then came night and the
unclean dreams that made her very soul writhe in an agony of shame,
lest, in dreaming, she had exposed a foulness which consciously she
had seen in herself.