AWAITING THE TRIAL
Of course, the newspapers were full of the accounts of the murder of
young Edward Wilson. The two Brunford papers were filled with
practically nothing else. The Manchester dailies devoted several
columns to it. Not only were the Wilsons an important family in
Lancashire, but Paul Stepaside was a Member of Parliament, who had
lately made a speech of note in the House. Even the London dailies
gave a large amount of space to it; and on the morning following the
coroner's inquest Mary Bolitho felt as though someone had struck her a
blow, when, on the first page of the newspaper which had been sent to
her father's house, she saw the staring headlines: "Brunford Murder.
Coroner's Inquest. Paul Stepaside, M.P., committed for trial." She
had no breakfast that day, but went straight to her room, where she
spent hours reading and re-reading the reports given. Everything
pointed to the fact that Paul was guilty, and yet she felt sure he was
not. The shock of Ned Wilson's death, of course, had been very great,
and she had written a letter of condolence to the family. But even her
horror at the murder was nothing compared with her feelings as she
realised that Paul Stepaside, even at that moment, lay in Strangeways
Gaol. She remembered him as they spoke together the last time they had
met. She called to mind her admiration of him, and reflected that,
although he had been brought up among the working classes, his
appearance gave no suggestion of it. Perfectly dressed, perfectly
calm, and possessed of that _savoir faire_ which seems to be innate
with a certain class of people, Paul was infinitely removed from the
class of men with whom one associates criminal deeds. She knew enough
of law, and had talked sufficiently often with her father, to know how
absolutely false circumstantial evidence may be, even although it seems
absolutely conclusive; and now, despite the fact that her father seemed
to have no doubt about Paul's guilt, her mind simply refused to accept
it.
He had never done the deed. He simply could not! If she were asked
her reason for this she could not have given one, only she knew--she
was absolutely sure.
Like many others, too, she tried to think who could have been guilty of
the murder. The fact that young Ned Wilson was dead was, of course,
beyond doubt. Someone must have killed him. Who was it? Her father
had repeatedly declared that, excepting Paul, Ned had not an enemy in
the world. He had lived all his life in Brunford; he was known to the
people. His father was a large employer of labour, and was regarded as
a good master. Ned lived on good terms with everybody. Who, then,
could have killed him? Of course, every finger pointed to Paul--the
long feud, the repeated quarrels, the injuries which Wilson had often
done to him, the blow on his head on the very night of the murder, and
Paul's threat. Then, again, there was his refusal to give an account
of his actions between midnight and six in the morning--and, last of
all, the knife acknowledged to be the property of Paul, with which the
deed was done. The chain seemed complete; there did not appear to be a
loophole anyhow, and yet she was certain Paul had never committed the
deed. Was it likely that a clever man such as he, even if he had
wanted to commit murder, would have used such brutal means? Would he
have left behind him the knife which must inevitably be traced to him?
The thing was impossible! Paul could not have done it. Then she
remembered the strong, passionate nature of the man, the flash of his
eyes, his grim resolves, and her mind became torn by conflicting
thoughts. Why did he persist in being silent? Was there someone whom
he desired to shield, and, if so, who was it? And again and again
there were the old haunting questions.
When the news was presently announced that the Brunford magistrates had
committed him to the Manchester Assizes for wilful murder, her father
was in the room.
"You've seen this, Mary?" he said, and he noted how pale her face was,
noted, too, the dark rings round her eyes.
She nodded.
"I haven't had time to go to Lancashire," continued the Judge. "Of
course, I wrote a long letter of sympathy to the Wilsons. I hope
you've also done this?"
"Yes," she replied.
"Poor Ned! He was a good lad," said the Judge. "To think that such a
life as his should have been cut short by that atheistic villain!"
"Are you sure it was he?" she could not help saying.
"Nothing is sure in such cases," replied the Judge. "But I have read
every line of the evidence. I've had full reports sent to me from
Brunford, and I have carefully weighed everything. Besides, you see, I
know the history of both men, and I know the motives likely to be at
work. Unless something comes out at the trial which utterly alters the
impression made by what has previously taken place, nothing can save
him. Any jury in the world would condemn him!"
Her heart became like lead as he spoke, but she remained silent.
"Poor Mary!" continued the Judge. "Of course, you feel Ned's death
keenly, and it must be ten times harder for you to bear than if it had
taken place in the natural way. Talk about not believing in capital
punishment after this! Why, the people would tear him to pieces if
they could get hold of him!"
"What do you mean?" asked the girl, and her voice was hoarse as she
spoke.
"From what I can gather, public feeling against him is terribly
strong," went on Judge Bolitho. "It seems that the news has got afloat
that he had been planning this for months."
"It's a lie!" cried the girl.
"What?" asked the Judge in surprise.
"It cannot be true. I saw him only a few days before the murder. He
is not capable of such a thing, father."
The Judge laughed sarcastically. "I ought to be the last man to
prejudge a case," he said. "But when you talk about such a thing being
impossible I cannot help being amused. Besides, no one can look at his
face without realising the streak of the savage that is in him. He
always looked like an incipient criminal. Anyhow, we shall see, and
justice must be done."
Christmas passed away and the New Year came, and there was nothing
further in the newspapers about Paul Stepaside save that he was lying
in Strangeways Gaol in Manchester awaiting the coming Assizes. Early
in the New Year, however, Mary noticed that her father's face looked
strangely perturbed. He was very silent, and seemed very anxious.
"What is the matter?" she asked. "Aren't you well?"
"Oh, yes, quite well," he replied.
"What is it, then?"
"I don't like it," said the Judge. "As far as I can see, I shall have
to try Stepaside. I thought I should have escaped it, but for some
reason or other Leeson has dropped out, and I am the next on the rota.
There is not sufficient reason, either, why I should raise any
objection, and, after all, the jury will have to decide his guilt, not
I. Besides, if I did, it would cause a certain amount of comment.
Still, I don't like it." And it was easy to see, by the look on his
face, that he meant what he said. Much as he had always disliked Paul
Stepaside, he shrank from having to give judgment against him--and
that, he seemed to believe, would be inevitable.
"It is settled," he said a day or two later. "I have to go to
Lancashire next week."
"Father," said the girl, "let me go with you, will you?"
"Go with me, Mary? Surely you do not mean to say that you wish to stay
at the Wilsons'?"
"Oh, no," she cried quickly. "But I should like to be near you. There
are good hotels both in Manchester and Liverpool, and I dread the
thought of staying here alone."
"The Gordons have invited you to go to their place. Why not accept the
invitation?"
"I don't wish to," she replied, "Let me go with you."
"Come, come, Mary. I shall begin to think that you are getting morbid.
This vulgar affair can be nothing to you, after all. Of course, I know
you feel Wilson's death keenly, but why--why----"
"Don't ask me any questions, father. I want to go with you. I want to
be near to you."
"Oh, very well," he replied. "If you can find any pleasure in being in
Lancashire at this time of the year by all means come. But I think
you'll repent of it."
A few days later, however, she started upon the journey northwards with
her father, knowing that, according to all probability, he would be the
judge who would try Paul Stepaside for murder.
Meanwhile the accused man lay in Strangeways Gaol. Up to the present
he had been treated with leniency, if not kindness. First of all,
according to the English law, every man is regarded as innocent until
he's proved to be guilty, and as yet this had not taken place in Paul's
case. He was allowed to see whom he would. If he wished lawyers to
come and consult with him with regard to the method of his trial, or to
arrange for counsel, it was in his power to do so. He could also see
friends. Of course, he was held in strict confinement, but until the
word of doom was spoken certain privileges were allowed to him which
would be impossible afterwards. As a matter of fact, too, many people
came to see him. An ambitious young solicitor from Brunford, a friend
of Paul's, came to urge him to be defended and to offer his services.
"You and I, Stepaside," he said, "have known each other for years.
Won't you allow me to prepare your defence?"
"No," said Paul.
"But why?"
"Because I have none."
"Do you mean to say, then, that you're going to plead 'guilty'?"
"I don't say that--no, I shall plead 'Not guilty.'"
"Then will you allow yourself to be undefended?"
"I choose to defend myself," he replied.
"But, my dear fellow, you minimise your own chances that way!"
"Nevertheless, what defence is made on my part I shall make myself," he
replied.
The young solicitor looked at him in astonishment. "You must be mad!"
he said. "It isn't as though you can't afford it."
"No, it's not a matter of money," said Paul.
"You're going to plead 'Not guilty,' you say?"
"Yes."
"Then what is the line of defence you're going to offer?"
"That will be seen when the time comes."
"Come now, Stepaside, do be reasonable. I know a man, perhaps the most
brilliant K.C. on the Northern Circuit. Won't you let me bring him to
you?"
Paul shook his head. "No," he said. "I want to see no one."
"No one?"
"No, no one for that purpose. I shall make my own defence in my own
way."
The interview which affected him most during the first weeks after he
had been committed for trial was that between himself and his mother.
He had been sitting alone for hours, brooding over the terrible
position in which he found himself placed, and, naturally, his mind
reverted to Brunford and to its many associations.
"She has never been to see me," he reflected. "Never once. Well,
after all, perhaps it is better not. If she does come I must be very
careful. I was afraid she might have been subpoenaed as a witness at
the inquest, but we were both spared that. It would have been too
terrible. Still, I am afraid they will insist on her being here at the
Assizes. I wonder, I wonder----"
A few seconds later he felt as though his heart had grown cold within
him. He heard his mother's voice as she spoke to a warder; and a
little later they were together. The light was very dim, but still, he
could see the ravages which the last few days had made in her
appearance. During the last few months Paul had reflected on his
mother's looks. She had been growing young and handsome. Her face had
been ruddy and free from marks of care. In spite of everything, the
life with her son had renewed her youth. Her hair was still black and
glossy; her form unbent. It was no wonder--she was still but young in
years, and the effects of the tragedy of her girl-life had begun to
wear away. Many a one in the town had remarked what a handsome woman
Paul Stepaside's mother was, and she, although she professed to care
nothing for her appearance, could not help being pleased. Now,
however, all was changed. The last few days seemed to have added years
to her life. The ruddy hue of health was gone. Her face had become
almost ashen, while in her eyes was a haunted look. Paul was almost
startled as he caught sight of her, although he said nothing. But he
drew his own conclusions, nevertheless.
Neither of them spoke for some time. The woman's arms were round her
son, and her cheek close to his, and that was all. She did not sob
convulsively as one would have expected under such circumstances; she
did not cry out in agony, rather she appeared like a dumb, half
lifeless creature, while in her eyes was a look of mute inquiry.
"My poor boy! My poor boy!" she said presently.
"It's all right, mother."
"I thought we'd come to the end of our troubles. I thought the new day
was dawning," she said. "I thought that God was in the heavens after
all, and that He had used me, a poor, weak woman, instead of a strong
man like you. But, oh, Paul, my boy, my boy!"
He did not understand her at all, and he fancied that her mind had
become somewhat unhinged by the experiences through which she had been
passing, but he said nothing. He thought he had better not.
"What is the good of speech?" he reflected. "She loves me. I am
everything to her, and I would not add to her pain for worlds!"
"I tried so hard, Paul," she said presently. "And I thought--no, never
mind what I thought; besides, even now I can say nothing that would----
But oh, my dear, dear boy! When I was a lass on my father's farm
everything seemed hopeful--everything! Of course, I had my
troubles--my stepmother was cruel to me, and she did not understand the
longings and fears of a lass such as I was; but still, I did not
trouble. But ever since, Paul, ever since he came, it seems as though
everything has added to the confusion, to the mystery, to the misery!
I don't know how it is, but it seems as though Almighty God has placed
a curse upon me. Whatever I've done has turned out wrong. I don't
blame you, Paul. No, I don't blame you; but to think--to think----"
"I don't understand, mother." He was obliged to say this, although he
still believed his mother's mind was wandering.
"Of course, you've got your defence?" she said. "You would say nothing
about it at the trials at Brunford, but I know you have something at
the back of your mind. You have, my boy, haven't you?"
His voice was almost grim as he replied, "Yes; I have something at the
back of my mind."
"What maddens me," she went on, "is that everything one does seems to
be so futile--it ends in nothing! I thought I had done that which made
everything plain for you. I thought the sun was going to shine on you
continually, and that the desires of your heart should be gratified.
And now I find I'm a fool. Almighty God laughs at me--just laughs at
me! I've done and suffered in vain. But, of course, you'll clear
yourself?"
Again the young man looked at his mother steadily. What did she mean
by this--"Of course, you'll clear yourself"?
"It will be very difficult," he could not help saying.
A look of terror came into her eyes. "But not impossible, Paul. No, I
see you mean that you'll get out of it. You're so clever. You can see
your way out of things which to other people would be impossible.
You've got your plans all made, haven't you?" And she looked at him
with a mad light in her eyes.
"Yes," he replied with a sigh; "I have my plans all made."
"Someone told me that you refused to have anyone to defend you. Better
so, Paul, better so. You're cleverer than any of these barrister men,
'King's Counsels,' I think they call themselves. If you got one of
them to defend you you'd have to tell them too much, and you mustn't do
that. You know what to say, what not to say, what to tell and what to
keep back. It'll be very hard for you, Paul, but I can trust you.
You're my own brave, clever lad. About that knife, Paul, I think I can
help you."
Still he did not understand her. She seemed to be talking riddles.
"George Preston said that no one was near your office, Paul. As you
know, I was there, and I saw the knife lying on your desk. Paul, Paul,
let me confess to it! After all, it doesn't matter about me. Let me
confess to it, so that you can go free--I will if you like. I don't
mind the shame, I don't mind the disgrace. Let people say it was his
mad mother, let them say----"
"No, no, mother." His voice became harsh and almost unnatural as he
spoke. "No, mother, not you. Whatever is borne, I will bear it. You
needn't fear. My business affairs are all arranged satisfactorily;
even while I'm lying here, money is being made. The contracts I made
were good, and Preston is an honest, capable fellow; and you can live
on at the old house, mother."
He hardly knew what he was saying, so great was the terror which filled
his heart and life. His mother had practically confessed to him the
thing he feared, but he was not angry with her. Instead, his heart was
filled with a great yearning pity. Oh, what she must have suffered!
the agonies through which she must have passed; and it was all for him,
all for him. He would a thousand times rather plead "Guilty" to the
crime than that one shadow of suspicion should fall upon her. Besides,
he did not believe she was altogether responsible for what she had
done. Even on the night of the murder, he had noticed the madness in
her eyes. He remembered the look which had haunted him almost ever
since. In her love for him, a love which was unreasoning, and which
rendered her anger almost uncontrollable, she had done what under
ordinary circumstances would never have been possible.
"Poor mother!" he reflected. "All her life she has blamed herself for
having brought, as she thought, disgrace upon me. Her only object in
life has been that I might find happiness, and that justice should be
done to me. No thought of self ever came into any deed she has done
since I have been born. She was silent for me; she suffered for me;
she thought for me; she slaved for me; and now she has become---- But
it was all for me. No, she shall suffer nothing that I can defend her
from. But, oh, her burden must be a ghastly one! And I must try hard,
too; yes, I must make her think bright thoughts."
"It's all right, mother," he said. "You needn't fear!"
"It'll all come out right," she said, and there was a kind of hysteria
in her voice.
"It must," was his reply. "I have thought it all out, mother. I have
gone over the ground, step by step, and you needn't fear."
"That's why you're going to defend yourself, isn't it?" and she almost
laughed. "You're going to surprise them at the trial? You won't tell
what your thoughts are to anyone, for fear they shall make a bungle of
it? Half these barristers, I'm told, are very muddle-headed, and make
all sorts of foolish admissions; and you're going to defend yourself in
your own way, aren't you?"
"Yes, mother," he replied, "in my own way."
"I expect they'll bring me as a witness."
"Well, what if they do, mother? You must know nothing, absolutely
nothing. Do you see? You went to bed that night in the ordinary way,
don't you remember? I came home from London, and we had a long talk
together, and then you asked me to go to bed, and I told you I had a
great many things to think about, many plans to arrange; and, of
course, you went to bed. You saw nothing, suspected nothing. That's
your line, mother. Don't hazard any opinion when they ask you
questions. Say 'Yes,' or 'No.' Do you see?"
"Is that what you want?" she said.
"That's what you must do."
She looked at him steadily, searchingly. "And I can trust you, Paul?"
She seemed on the point of telling him something--something which he
was afraid to hear. So he went on hastily:
"Of course you can. You must fear nothing, absolutely nothing; and you
have nothing to do, nothing to say. Yes, it will be awful for you, for
they will be sure to bring you as a witness, but that's your line."
"Yes, I understand, Paul. You can trust me. Perhaps they will not
bring me at all."
"I hope, I hope---- No, it's all right; nothing will be said."
When they parted a little later, Paul thought his senses were leaving
him. He understood nothing, except that he was in a cell in
Strangeways Gaol, awaiting his trial for murder.
Presently the news came to him that the assizes had commenced, but when
his own trial would come on no one seemed to know. He still refused
all offers of defence. The truth was, he dared not open his heart to
any lawyer. He saw that if he were to allow anyone to defend him, he
must of necessity give them a certain amount of confidence. He must
trust them. That he could not afford to do. He was not afraid to die,
and at least he had courage enough to be silent.
Presently the news reached him that he was to be brought to the bar of
judgment on the following day, but still he refused all offers of
defence. He gave no reason for this; indeed, he became more and more
grimly silent than ever. He simply shook his head when those who
pretended to wish him well pleaded that they might be allowed to appear
for his defence.
On the night before his trial, therefore, he sat in his cell alone.
The day had been black and grimy, and not a shadow of sunshine
penetrated the gloom. Perhaps there is no town in England which looks
more grey and sordid than Manchester does in the dead of the winter.
The streets are covered with black, slimy mud; the atmosphere is dank
and smoke-laden; the houses are grey and enveloped in gloom; even the
crowds which throng its streets seem oppressed by the grime-laden air.
And Strangeways Gaol is perhaps the most forbidding place in the whole
of this great northern metropolis. As someone has said; "Manchester is
one of the best places in the world to get out of." Of course, there's
another side to that; it is a city full of strong, clear-headed,
progressive people. On the whole, too, there are but few people in the
world more loyal and more kind-hearted than those in what a great
divine used to call, "Dear, black, old, smoky Lancashire." But in the
dead of the winter, and to a man with the shadow of the gallows resting
upon him, there can be no place in the world so little to be desired.
The black night of despair was resting upon Paul's heart. On the
morrow the great trial would commence, and although he thought he had
arranged everything perfectly, he could not help fearing the results.
And then, while his thoughts were at their blackest, he heard a voice
which thrilled his being and caused every nerve to quiver with delight.
"This is the one," he heard a warder say. And a minute later he was
alone with Mary Bolitho.