It will have been perceived already that the coroner was by no means
“the right man in the right place”. The legal firm, “Cole, Cole, and
Son”, had been known in Southampton for many years, as doing a large
and very respectable business. The present Mr. Cole, the coroner, who
had been the “Son” in the partnership, became sole owner suddenly by
the death of his father and uncle. Having brains enough to know that he
was far from having too much, he took at once into partnership with him
an uncommonly wide–awake, wary fellow, who had been head–clerk to the
old firm, ever biding his time for this inevitable result. So now the
firm was thriving under the style and title of “Cole, Chope, and Co”.,
Mr. Chope being known far and wide by the nickname of “Coleʼs brains”.
Mr. Cole being appointed coroner, not many months ago, and knowing very
little about his duties, took good care for a time not to attempt
their discharge without having “Coleʼs brains” with him. But this had
been found to interfere so sadly with private practice, that little
by little Cole plucked up courage, as the novelty of the thing wore
off, and now was accustomed to play the coroner without the assistance
of brains. Nevertheless, upon an occasion so important as this, he
would have come with full cerebrum, but that Chope was gone for his
holiday. Mr. Cole, however, was an honest man—which could scarcely be
said of his partner—and meant to do his duty, so far as he could see
it. In the present inquiry he had less chance of seeing it than usual,
for he stood in great awe of Mr. Brockwood, a man of ability and high
standing, who, as Sir Cradock Nowellʼs solicitor, attended to watch the
case, at the suggestion of Rufus Hutton.
Both the guns were produced to the coroner, in the condition in
which they were found, except that John Rosedew, for safetyʼs sake,
had lowered the right hammer of Claytonʼs to the half–cock, before
he concealed it from Cradock. Cradockʼs own unlucky piece had been
found, on the following morning, in a rushy pool, where he had cast
it, as he fled so wildly. Both the barrels had been discharged,
while both of Claytonʼs were loaded. It went to the heart of every
man there who could not think Cradock a murderer, when in reply to a
jurymanʼs question, what was the meaning of certain lines marked with
a watch–spring file on the trigger–plate of his gun, it was explained
that the twins so registered the number and kind of the seasonʼs game.
After this, Mark Stote was called, and came forward very awkwardly
with a deal of wet on his velveteen cuffs, which he tried to keep from
notice. His eyes were fixed upon the coroner, with a kind of defiance,
but even while he was kissing the book, he was glad to sniff behind it.
“Mr. Mark Stote”, said the coroner, duly prompted, “you have, I
believe, been employed to examine the scene of this lamentable
occurrence”?
Mark Stote took a minute to understand this, and a minute to consider
his answer.
“Yees, my lard, I throwed a squoyle at ’un”.
The representative of the Crown looked at Mark with amazement equal at
least to that with which Mark was regarding him.
“Gentlemen”, asked Mr. Cole, addressing the court in general, “what
language does this man talk”?
“West Saxon”, replied Mr. Brockwood, speaking apart to the coroner;
“West Saxon of the forest. He can talk plain English generally, but
whenever these people are nervous, they fall back unconsciously upon
their native idiom. You will never be able to understand him: shall I
act as interpreter”?
“With all my heart; that is to say, with the consent of the jury. But
what—I mean to say, how——”
“How am I to be checked, you mean, unless I am put upon oath; and how
can you enter it as evidence? Simply thus—let your clerk take down the
original answers. All the jury will understand them, and so, perhaps,
will he”.
The clerk, who was a fine young gentleman, strongly pronounced in
attire, nodded a distinct disclaimer. It would be so unaristocratic to
understand any peasant–tongue.
“At any rate, most of the magistrates do. There are plenty of checks
upon me. But I am not ambitious of the office. Appoint any one you
please”.
“Gentlemen of the jury”, said the coroner, glad to shift from himself
the smallest responsibility, “are you content that Mr. Brockwood should
do as he has offered”?
“Certain, and most kind of him”, replied the jury, all speaking at
once, “if his honour was unable to understand old English”.
“Very good”, said Mr. Brockwood; “donʼt let us make a fuss about
nothing. Mr. Stote says he ‘throwed a squoyle;’ that is to say, he
looked at it”.
“And in what state did you find the ground”? was the coronerʼs next
question.
“Twearable, twearable. Dwont ’e ax ov me vor gude now, dwont ’e”. And
he put up his broad hand before his broad face.
“Terrible, terrible”, said the coroner, going by the light of nature in
his interpretation; “but I do not mean the exact spot only where the
body was found. I mean, how was the ground as regards dry and wet, for
the purpose of retaining footmarks”?
“Thar a bin zome rick–rack wather, ’bout a sannit back. But most peart
on it ave a droud up agin. ’Twur starky, my lard, moor nor stoachy”.
Here Mark felt that he had described things lucidly and powerfully, and
looked round the room for approval.
“Stiff rather than muddy, he means”, explained Mr. Brockwood, smiling
at the coronerʼs dismay.
“Were there any footprints upon it, in the part where the ground could
retain them”?
“ʼTwur dounted and full of stabbles, in the pearts whur the mulloch
wur, but the main of ’un tuffets and stramots”.
“That is to say”, Mr. Brockwood translated, “the ground was full of
impressions and footmarks, where there was any dirt to retain them;
but most of the ground was hillocky and grassy, and so would take no
footprints”.
“When you were searching, did you find anything that seemed to have
been overlooked”?
“Yees, my lard, I vound thissom”—producing Cradʼs stubby
meerschaum—“and thissom”—a burnt felt–wad—“and a whaile vurther,
ai vound thissom”. Here he slowly drew from his pocket a very fine
woodcock, though not over fat, with its long bill tucked most carefully
under its wing. He stroked the dead bird softly, and set its feathers
professionally, but did not hand it about, as the court seemed to
anticipate.
“In what part, and from what direction, has that bird been shot”?
“Ramhard of the head, my lard, as clane athert shat, and as vaine
a bird as iver I wish to zee. But, ahʼs me, her be a wosebird, a
wosebird, if iver wur wan”.
Mark could scarcely control his tears, as he thought of the birdʼs evil
omen, and yet he could not help admiring him. He turned him over and
over again, and dropped a tear into his tail coverts. Mr. Brockwood saw
it and gave him time; he knew that for many generations the Stotes had
lived under the Nowells.
“Oh, the bird was shot, you say, on the right side of the head, and
clean through the head”.
“Thank you”, proceeded the coroner. “Now, do you think that he could
have moved after he touched the ground”?
“Nivir a hinch, I allow, my lard. A vell as dead as a stwoun”.
“Now inform the court, as nearly as you can, of the precise spot where
you found it”.
It took a long time to discover this, for Mr. Stote had not been taught
the rudiments of topography. Nevertheless, they made out at last that
the woodcock had been found, dead on his back, with his bill up, eight
or ten yards beyond the place where Clayton Nowell fell dead, and in
a direct line over his body from the gap in the hedge where Cradock
stood. Dr. Hutton must have found the bird, if he had searched a little
further.
“Now”, said the coroner, forcibly. “Mr. Stote, I will ask you a
question which is, perhaps, a little beyond the rules of ordinary
evidence, I mean, at least, as permitted in a court of record”—here
he glanced at the magistrates, who could not claim the rank of
record—“which of these two unfortunate brothers caused, in your
opinion, the death of—of that woodcock”?
Mr. Brockwood glanced at the coroner sharply, and so did his own clerk.
Even the jury knew, by intuition, that he had no right to tout for
opinions.
“Them crink–crank words is beyand me. Moy head be awl wivvery wi’ ’em,
zame as if my old ooman was patchy”.
“His honour asks you”, said Mr. Brockwood, with a glance not lost on
the justices—for it meant, You see how we court inquiry, though the
question is quite inadmissible—“which of the brothers in your opinion
shot the bird which you found”?
“Why, Meester Cradock, o’ course. Meester Cleaton ’ud needs a blowed un
awl to hame, where a stwooud”.
“Mr. Clayton must have blown him to pieces, if he shot him from the
place where he stood, at least from the place where Mr. Clayton fell.
And poor Mr. Clayton lay directly between his brother and the woodcock”?
Mr. Brockwood in his excitement forgot that he had no right to put
this question, nor, indeed, any other, except as formally representing
some one formally implicated. But the coroner did not check him.
“By whur the blude wor, a moost have been naigh as cud be atwane the
vern–patch and the wosebird”.
“Very good. That fern–patch was the place where Mr. Cradock dropped
from the gap in the hedge. Mr. Rosedew has proved that. Now let us have
all you know, Mark Stote. Did you see any _other_ marks, stabbles you
call them, not, I mean, in the path Mr. Rosedew came along, nor yet in
the patches of thicket through which poor Cradock fled, but in some
other direction”?
This was the very question the coroner ought to have put long ago. Thus
much he knew when Brockwood put it, and now he was angry accordingly.
“Mr. Brockwood, I will thank you—consider, sir, this is a court of
record”!
“Then donʼt let it record stupid humbug”! Mr. Brockwood was a
passionate man, and his blood was up. “I will take the responsibility
of anything I do. All we want to elicit the truth is a little skill
and patience; and for want of that the finest young fellow I have ever
known may be blasted for life, for this world and the other. Excuse me,
Mr. Coroner, I have spoken precipitately; I have much reverence for
your court, but far more for truth”.
Here Mr. Brockwood sat down again, and all the magistrates looked at
him with nods of approbation. Human passions and human warmth are sure
to have their way, even in Areopagus. At last the question was put by
the coroner himself. Of course it was a proper one.
“Yees, I zeed wan”, said Mark Stote, scratching the back of his head
(where at least the memory _ought_ to be); “but a wadnʼt of no ’count
much”.
“Now tell us where that one was”.
“Homezide of the rue, avore you coams to them hoar–witheys, naigh whur
the bower–stone stanneth. ’Twur zumbawdy yaping about mebbe after nuts
as had lanced fro’ the rue auver the water–tabble”.
Before this could be translated, a great stir was heard in the
outer–room, a number of people crying “Donʼt ’ee–now”! and a hoarse
voice uttering “I will”. The coroner was just dismissing Mr. Stote with
deep relief to both of them, and each the more respecting because he
could not understand the other.
“Mark Stote, you have given your evidence in a most lucid manner. There
are few people more to be respected than the thorough Saxon gamekeeper”.
“Moy un goo, my lard”? asked the patient Mark, with his neck quite
stiff, as he at first had stuck it, and one eye cocked at the coroner,
as along the bridge of a fowling–piece.
“Mr. Stote, you may now depart. Your evidence does you the greatest
credit, both as the father of a family, and as—as a conservator of
game, and I may say—ah, yes—as a faithful family retainer”.
“Thank ’ee, my lard, and vor my peart I dwoanʼt bʼleeve now as you
manes all the ’arm as most volks says of ’ee”.
Mark was louting low, trying to remember the fashion they taught him
forty years since in the Sunday–school, when the door flew back, and
the cold wind entered, and in walked Cradock Nowell.
As regards the outer man, one may change in fifty ways in half of
fifty hornʼs. Villainous ague, want of sleep, violent attacks of bile,
inferior claret, love rejected, scarlet fever, small–pox, any of these
may make a man lose memory in the looking–glass; but all combined
could not have wrought such havoc, such appalment, such drought in the
fountains of the blood, as that young face now told of. There was not
one line of it like the face of Cradock Nowell. It struck the people
with dismay, as they made room and let him pass; it would have struck
the Roman senate, even with Cato speaking. Times there are when we
forget even our sense of humour, absorbed in the power of passion, and
the rush of our souls along with it. No one in that room could have
laughed at the best joke ever was made, while he looked at Cradock
Nowell.
Utterly unconscious what any fellow thought of him (except perhaps
in some under–current of electric sympathy, whose wires never can be
cut, up to the drop of the gallows), Cradock crossed the chairs and
benches, feeling them no more than the wind feels the hills it crosses.
Yet with the inbred courtesy of natureʼs thorough gentleman, though
he forgot all the people there as thinking of himself, he did not yet
forget himself as bound to think of them. He touched no man on leg or
elbow, be he baronet or cobbler, without apologizing to him. Then he
stood in the foremost place, looking at the coroner, saying nothing,
but ready to be arraigned of anything.
Mr. Cole had never yet so acutely felt the loss of his “brains”; and
yet it is likely that even Chope would have doubted how to manage it.
The time a man of the world might pass in a dozen common–places, passed
over many shrewd heads there, and none knew what to say. Cradockʼs deep
grey eyes, grown lighter by the change of health, and larger from the
misery, seemed to take in every one who had any feeling for him.
“Here I am, and cannot be hurt, more than my own soul has hurt
me. Charge me with murder if you please, I never can disprove it.
Reputation is a thing my God thinks needless for me; and so it is, in
the despair which He has sent upon me”.
Not a word of this he spoke, but his eyes said every word of it, to
those who have looked on men in trouble, and heard the labouring heart.
As usual, the shallowest man there was the first to speak.
“Mr. Nowell”, asked the coroner, blandly, as of a wealthy client, “am I
to understand, sir, that you come to tender your evidence”?
“Yes”, replied Cradock. His throat was tight, and he could not manage
to say much.
“Then, sir, I am bound to administer to you the caution usual on these
occasions. Excuse me; in fact, I know you will; but your present
deposition may be—I mean it is possible——”
“Sir, I care for nothing now. I am here to speak the truth”.
“Very laudable. Admirable! Gentlemen of the jury—Mr. Brockwood, perhaps
you will oblige the court by examining in chief”?
“No, your honour, I cannot do that; it would be a confusion of duties”.
“I will not be examined”, said Cradock, with a low hoarse voice; he had
been in the woods for a day and two nights, and of course had taken
cold,—“I donʼt think I could stand it. A woman who gave me some bread
this morning told me what you were doing, and I came here as fast as I
could, to tell you all I know. Let me do it, if you please, in the best
way I can; and then do what you like with me”.
The utter despair of those last words went cold to the heart of every
one, and Mark Stote burst out crying so loud that a woman lent him her
handkerchief. But Cradockʼs eyes were hard as flint, and the variety of
their gaze was gone.
The coroner hesitated a little, and whispered to his clerk. Then he
said with some relief, and a look of kindness—
“The court is ready, Mr. Nowell, to receive your statement. Only you
must make it upon oath”.
Cradock, being duly sworn, told all he knew, as follows:
“It had been agreed between us, that my—my dear brother should go alone
to look for a woodcock, which he had seen that day. I was to follow in
about an hour, and meet him in the spire–bed just outside the covert.
For reasons of my own, I did not mean to shoot at all, only to meet
my brother, hear how he had got on, and come home with him. However,
I took my gun, because my dog was going with me, and I loaded it from
habit. Things had happened that afternoon which had rather upset me,
and my thoughts were running upon them. When I got to the spire–bed,
there was no one there, although it was quite dusk; but I thought I
heard my brother shooting inside the Coffin Wood. So I climbed the
hedge, with my gun half–cocked, and called him by his name”.
Here Cradock broke down fairly, as the thought came over him that
henceforth he might call and call, but none would ever answer.
“By what name did you call him”? Mr. Brockwood looked at the coroner
angrily. What difference could it make?
“I called, ‘Viley, Viley, my boy!’ three times, at the top of my voice.
I used to call him so in the nursery, and he always liked it. I canʼt
make out why he did not answer, for he must have been close by—though
the bushes were very thick, certainly. At that instant, before I had
time to jump down into the covert, a woodcock, flushed, perhaps, by
the sound of my voice, crossed a little clearing not thirty yards in
front of me. I forgot all about my determination not to shoot that day,
cocked both barrels in a moment, but missed him clean with the first,
because a branch of the hedge flew back and jerked the muzzle sharply.
But the bird was flying rather slowly, and I got a second shot at him,
as he crossed a little path in the copse, too narrow to be called a
ride. I felt quite sure that I shot straight at him, and I thought
I saw him fall; but the light was very bad, and the trees were very
thick, and he gave one of those flapping jerks at the moment I pulled
the trigger, so perhaps I missed him”.
“That ’ee doednʼt, Meester Craydock. Aiʼse larned ’ee a bit too much
for thic. What do ’ee call thissom”? Here he held up the woodcock.
“Meester Craydock, my lard, be the sprackest shat anywhur round these
pearts”.
Poor Mark knew not that in his anxiety to vindicate his favouriteʼs
skill, he was making the case more black for him.
“Mark Stote, no more interruptions, if you please”, exclaimed the
coroner; “Mr. Nowell, pray proceed”.
“Dwoanʼt ’ee be haish upon un, my lard, dwoanʼt ’ee vaind un guilty. A
coodnʼt no how ’ave doed it. A wor that naice and pertiklar, a woodnʼt
shat iven toard a gipsy bwoy. And his oyes be as sprack as a merlinʼs.
A cood zee droo a mokpieʼs neestie”.
Cradockʼs face, so pale and haggard but a minute before, was now of
a burning red. The jury looked at him with astonishment, and each,
according to his bias, put his construction upon the change. Two
of them thought it was conscious guilt; the rest believed it to be
indignation at the idea of being found guilty. It was neither; it was
hope. The flash and flush of sudden hope, leaping across the heart,
like a rocket over the sea of despair. He could not speak, but gasped
in vain, then glutched (to use a forest word, which means gulped down
a sob), and fell back into John Rosedewʼs arms, faint, and stark, and
rigid.
The process of his mind which led him to the shores of light—but only
for a little glimpse, a glimpse and then all dark again—was somewhat
on this wise: “Only a bullet, or balled cartridge, at the distance I
was from him, could have killed my darling Viley on the spot, as I saw
him dead, with the hole cut through him. I am _almost_ sure that my
cartridge was in the left barrel of the gun, where I always put it.
And now it is clear that the left barrel killed that unlucky bird,
and killed him with shot flying separate, so the cartridge must have
opened. Viley, too, was ten feet under the height the bird was flying.
I donʼt believe _that I hit him at all_. I had loose shot in my right
barrel; the one that sent so random, on account of the branch that
struck it. I am _almost_ sure I had, and I fired quite straight with
the left barrel. God is good, the great God is merciful, after all I
thought of Him”. No wonder that he fainted away, in the sudden reaction.
There is no need to dwell any longer on the misery of that inquest. The
principal evidence has been given. The place where Cradock stood in
the hedge, and the place where Clayton fell and died; how poor Cradock
saw him first, in the very act of jumping, and hung like a nut–shuck,
paralysed; how he ran back to his dead twin–brother and could not
believe in his death, and went through the woods like a madman, with
nothing warm about him except his brotherʼs blood,—all this, I think,
is clear enough, as it had long been to the jury, and now was to the
coroner. Only Cradock awoke from his hope—what did he care for their
verdict? He awoke from his hope not in his moral—that there could be no
doubt of—but in his manual innocence; when, to face all circumstances,
he had nothing but weak habit. He could not swear, he could not even
feel confident (and we want three times three for swearing, that
barbarous institution) that he had rammed the cartridge down the left
barrel, and the charge of shot down the right. All he could say was
this, that it was a very odd thing if he had not.
The oddity of a thing is seldom enough to establish its contrary, in
the teeth of all evidence. So the jury found that “Violet Clayton
Nowell had died from a gunshot wound, inflicted accidentally by his
brother Cradock Nowell, whom, after careful consideration, they
absolved from all blame”.