THE CORONER'S INQUEST
The next day he was brought back to Brunford again, this time to be
present at the coroner's inquest. A prison van took him from
Strangeways Gaol to the station, and thence he went to the town in
which, to use the words of one of the morning papers, "he had won an
almost unique position." He dreaded this inquest almost more than he
dreaded anything else, for he knew that the inquiry which would be made
would not be hedged in by so many formulae as those which are
associated with the Assizes. The business of this coroner's inquest
would not be to condemn a murderer or even to apprehend a murderer, but
officially to decide upon the means whereby Ned Wilson came to his end,
and, as a consequence, anyone could elect to give evidence, and anyone
could tell not only of what he was sure, but of what he believed. All
sorts of irrelevant matter might be adduced here--gossip, suspicion,
unsupported statement. All belonged to the order of the day. He knew
what Brunford was. On the whole the people were kind-hearted and
well-meaning. Many of them might be coarse and somewhat brutal, but on
the whole they were people he loved. But he knew their morbid interest
in crime, their love of gossip; knew that they were eager to hear and
to discuss every bit of scandal which might be adduced.
The place in which the inquest was held was crowded. The jurymen who
had been sworn had examined the body according to the dictates of the
law, and had now met to decide as to the cause of his death. A number
of people were there, ready to give evidence or to state what they knew
or believed concerning the matter. All were eager, and many enjoyed
the situation as they had not enjoyed anything for years.
"I would not miss being here for a week's work," said one man to
another.
"I see George Preston is over there. He looks pale, does George. It
must be an awful blow to him!"
"Dost believe Stepaside did it?"
"I don't know. I never thought him to be that sort of chap; but then,
you know, he and Ned Wilson have been at it for years."
"I can't see that the motive is sufficient," said another. "What
motive had he for killing Ned Wilson? Here he wur in Parliament, and
making a name for hissen. Is it likely that for a bit of spite he'd
kill a chap in that way? Besides, he's fair clever, is Stepaside.
Would he be such a fooil as to kill him wi' a knife as was known to be
his own?"
"No; but when a man is in a passion he thinks o' nowt. He just becomes
like a savage. And Paul always had a bit of a temper."
"Ay, but he were a quiet chap, too, and he must ha' known that he'd ha'
been suspected. I can't believe that he would be such a fooil--and
yet, as tha ses, nobody knows."
At length the proper business of the inquest commenced. The coroner,
who was a local doctor, sat grave and disturbed. He knew Paul well,
and the two had often fought side by side on public questions. The
jurymen, too, although they in a way enjoyed their position, were sad
at heart. Nearly every one of them knew Paul and respected him. It
was terrible to them to see him before them there as a prisoner, and
yet they could not help admiring him. He was carefully dressed, and he
had seen to it that his clothes were brushed, and that his linen was
spotless. Not by a tremor of his lips or by the movement of a muscle
did he show what he felt. Pale, haughty, calm, dignified, he stood
before them as though he were a mere spectator of a scene which he
despised.
The case was taken in the ordinary way. The first to give evidence was
old Mr. Edward Wilson, the father of the murdered man. Even Paul
almost pitied him as he saw him. His face was haggard and drawn. He
who had been usually so florid looked as pale as ashes. His cheeks
were baggy and his voice was unnatural. He identified the murdered man
as his son. He confessed to his having returned that night after his
quarrel with Paul, when he had seemed much disturbed. Two letters
awaited him, both of which he had read and then destroyed by throwing
them into the fire. About nine o'clock he went out, saying that he was
going to his club. Since that time he had never been seen alive.
Where he had gone he could not tell; certain it is he never came home
again. He told of the feud which had existed between his son and Paul
Stepaside. He knew that Paul hated the murdered man with an intense
hatred, and had been known on many occasions to threaten him with
violence. He adhered strictly to the truth, and yet that truth was so
coloured by his own feelings and prejudices that it was evident he had
no doubt about who killed his son. He enlarged upon the fact that, as
far as he knew, his son had not a single enemy in the world besides
Paul Stepaside, and certainly no other had a sufficient motive to
murder him.
After this came the statement of the policeman. He had been walking on
his beat about seven o'clock, and had seen the body of a dead man lying
in a lane not far from Howden Clough. He quickly identified it as that
of Mr. Edward Wilson. He described the position in which it lay. He
told of the knife which was driven through the body. He immediately
reported the matter to his superiors, whereupon the usual steps were
taken. A doctor was summoned, who had made an examination, and so
forth.
After the constable's statement the doctor gave his evidence. He had
no doubt as to the cause of death. He had died as a result of a knife
that was driven through his heart. The blow was struck from behind.
As far as he could judge, Mr. Edward Wilson had been murdered between
half-past four and five that same morning. While the doctor was
speaking there was a deathly silence in the room. It seemed as though
there were another nail driven into the scaffold on which Paul
Stepaside was to hang. Up to now Paul's name had been seldom
mentioned, and yet his was the personality which dominated everything.
Eyes were constantly turned towards him. Whispered remarks were often
heard concerning him. All that the magistrates had asked at their
meeting was remembered. The story of the past became vivid again.
Presently the two men who had watched the quarrel between Paul and Ned
Wilson told their story. It may be that they did not adhere strictly
to the letter of the truth. Perhaps they were anxious to make an
impression at the gathering. Certain it is that, in their own rough
way, they made it almost certain that Paul was the murderer.
"You say," said the coroner to one of them, who was more gifted with
speech than the other, "that you saw the deceased and Paul Stepaside
quarrelling?"
"Ay, I did. I were just going down t' lane wi' my mate here, and I
heard a sound of voices. It wur gettin' dark, but I could see plainly
who they were. We wur a bit curious, and so we both on us waited and
listened. They did not see us."
"Did you hear what was said?"
"Weel, nowt what you would call anything connected like, but it were
easy to see as 'ow Stepaside were threatenin' Wilson. They were both
on 'em pale wi' passion."
"Was Stepaside armed at the time?"
"No--at least, as far as I could see, he'd nowt in 'is hands, but
more'na once he lifted his fist as though he would strike Mr. Wilson."
"You say you heard no connected speech between them?" said the coroner.
"Not much," replied the man; "but we heerd summat."
"Well, tell us what you heard."
"I heerd Wilson say to Stepaside, 'You spy! You sneaking hound!' And
then I heerd Stepaside tell Wilson he must do summat, but what it was I
couldna rightly say. It seemed to be summat about a letter."
"Well, and what then?"
"Well, then Wilson was in a fair fury, and he spoke loud."
"And you heard what he said?"
"Ay, I heerd."
"What did he say?"
"Well, he insulted Stepaside's mother. I cannot remember the exact
words, but he said she were no better'na she ought to be, in fact that
she were--I'd rather write it down, maaster," he said.
"And after that?" said the coroner presently.
"And after that I saw Stepaside look murder. No one could help seeing
it. His great black een just shot fire, and I thought he was going to
knock Wilson down, but he didn't. He just stopped hissen, and he only
said, 'Very well, then, I shall do what I say.' Upon that he turned on
his heel to walk away, but he had not gone more than six steps when
Wilson lifted that stick of his with an ivory handle to it, and struck
Stepaside a smashing blow on th' head. I thought first of all he had
killed him, for he fell on t' ground like a lump o' coll, and lay there
for maybe a minute, while Wilson stood over him."
"And then?" asked the coroner.
"Presently he picked himself up. 'I might have expected this,' he said
after a bit. 'It's a coward's blow, a kind of blow such as you always
strike. But remember, I always pay my debts, always; even to the
uttermost farthing!' And then he went away without another word, and I
shall never forget the look on his face as he did go away."
"And after that?" asked the coroner.
"After that I know no more," replied the man.
The question of the knife was then considered, and there were several
who testified that this knife belonged to Paul. It had been sent to
him from abroad by a man with whom he did business, and his partner,
George Preston, admitted that he had often seen it lying on Paul's desk.
During this evidence it was noticed that Paul listened intently. It
seemed as though he were specially interested. Never once did he relax
his attention. It might seem as though he regarded this as the most
important piece of evidence. During the earlier part of the
examination he had seemed almost careless, but now every faculty was on
the alert, every nerve was in tension.
"Did Stepaside ever carry this knife with him?" asked the coroner.
"Not to my knowledge," replied Preston.
"Has he ever discussed the knife with you?"
"Well, I can hardly say that," he replied. "But when it was sent I
remember him saying that it was a murderous weapon, and it would be
easy to kill a man with it. It was as sharp as a razor, too."
"Do you know whether he had it on the day in question?"
"I only know that it was on the office desk that day."
"Do you know of anyone who entered the office that day who would be
likely to take it?"
"No," replied Preston; "I know of no one. You see, since we took the
new mill my partner had one office and I had another. Of course, we
were constantly going into each other's offices, but each of us
regarded the other's room as private."
"Is your office situated close to his?"
"Not far away."
"Could anyone go into his office without your hearing or knowing?"
"Yes, I suppose so, but I do not think it likely."
"And you say you know of no one who entered Stepaside's room that day?"
"No, I can remember no one."
"Were you in it that day yourself?"
"Yes. We always meet and discuss matters every morning when I do not
go to Manchester."
"And you met that morning?"
"Yes."
"Did you happen to see the knife?"
"Yes, I saw it lying on his table."
"Was Stepaside in the habit of locking his office before he went out?"
"Always. He was very particular about that. He thought he had reason
to be."
"What reason?"
"Well, he believed that we had enemies. I do not wish to enlarge upon
it now, but it's well known in the town."
This led to a number of questions wherein Paul's relationships with the
murdered man were freely discussed. Witness after witness gave
evidence of this. There could be no doubt about it. A long-standing
quarrel had existed between the late Edward Wilson and Paul Stepaside.
"There's one further question I would like to ask of Mr. Preston," said
the coroner presently. "It seems to me of very vital importance. A
knife known to belong to Paul Stepaside was found driven into the body
of the deceased. The question I wish to ask is this: Do you think it
possible that anyone could have obtained this knife without Stepaside's
knowledge and consent?"
"I am afraid not," and Preston spoke the words with a kind of gasp.
"And you, who were in your room most of the day, have no knowledge of
anyone going into his office who would be likely to take it?"
"I have no knowledge. Indeed, my partner left at midday, and I do not
remember him coming to the place at all afterwards."
At the close of this evidence Paul gave a sigh, seemingly of relief.
This might seem strange, for every word that had been spoken had seemed
to fasten the guilt more securely on himself. Presently he was asked
whether he wished to make a statement, and again all present were
struck by his demeanour. His face was very pale, and his eyes had a
peculiar light in them, but otherwise he showed no excitement or fear.
His voice was perfectly steady; his lips did not quiver; his hands did
not tremble. The evidence against him was as black as night. Indeed,
no one seemed to have any doubt as to the finding of the jury--but he
did nothing to clear himself. It is true, he declared emphatically
that he had no hand in killing the deceased man; he also said that when
he had last seen the knife it was lying on his office desk, but he made
no endeavour to show how it might have been taken away without his
knowledge.
He was also just as reticent about his whereabouts on the night of the
murder. During the examination of the other witnesses, especially that
of his partner, he had seemed perturbed and anxious, but directly that
was over he became calm and almost indifferent.
If there was one ray of light in the whole of the ghastly business, it
was that Mary Bolitho's name had never been mentioned. The truth was,
no one knew of his dreams concerning her. No one fancied that he had
ever given her a thought. It was generally believed in the town that
she was to become the wife of young Edward Wilson, but the thought that
the deceased man had a rival in Paul was outside the realm of their
calculation. Consequently, the words which he had dreaded were never
spoken.
The inquest came to an end presently, and the jury found what had been
a foregone conclusion throughout the day. Their verdict was that the
deceased man had been wilfully murdered, and that the murderer was Paul
Stepaside.
Everyone felt and knew that this was but another preliminary step;
everyone knew that the trial was yet to be held, and yet no one doubted
but that this, as far as Paul Stepaside was concerned, was another step
towards the gallows. Many had hoped with a great hope that some
evidence would be adduced whereby a shadow of suspicion might be thrown
on someone else, but none was forthcoming. Every hand seemed to point
to Paul Stepaside. When the jury gave their verdict, even although all
knew it was not final, a great sobbing sigh was heard. The air seemed
to be charged with calamity. The faces of many were white, and tears
flowed from the eyes of many unused to weeping.
"Thou'st hanged tha partner," said one man to George Preston. "Thine
was the most damning evidence of th' lot."
Preston's face was pale as ashes. He could scarcely speak. "I
couldn't help it," he said.
"Nay, I suppose not. But it seemed to me that every answer tha gave
was another strand in the rope which shall hang him."
"God knows," said Preston, "if I could have answered in any other way
than I did I would have done so."
"Then tha doesna believe he did it?"
"I don't know what to believe. I know he hated Wilson. I know they've
been at daggers drawn for years, but I can't believe that Paul did it
that way. He isn't that kind of man. Besides, it doesn't stand to
reason that he should have taken the knife that was known to be his to
do such work."
"That's where I'm stalled."
"And yet, what could I do? As far as I know, nobody did go into the
office, and nobody could take it without his knowing."
"We've noan heard the last on it yet. Things'll come to light."
"Ay," whispered another man in another part of the room. "'He that
hateth his brother is a murderer'--that's Scripture, ain't it? And
Paul hated Wilson. Besides, he had no faith in owt. He believed in
neither God nor devil. Ay, it's a sad thing when a chap's given up
faith in religion."
And so men talked, while many shook their heads and wondered. Many did
not believe in his guilt, and yet when the question was asked as to who
could be guilty if not he, no reply was given.
"He'll have a weary Christmas," remarked an old weaver as the prison
van went towards the station. "I wish I could send him summat to make
it a bit brighter, but what can us do?"
"At ony rate, we can pray for his soul."
A little later Paul was brought back to Brunford again. He had to
appear a second time before the magistrates, who, after another
examination, committed him for trial to the Manchester Assizes.
"What'll happen to him now?" asked someone after the committal.
"He'll have to stay in Strangeways Gaol in Manchester until the Assizes
are held," was the reply.
"When will that be?"
"It may be weeks; it may be months. But I expect it'll be held
somewhere about the end of January." It was a young lawyer who said
this, who was hoping that the trial would mean some work for him.
"Poor Paul!" was the response. "I wonder how his mother is takin' it?"