GOOD MEN AND TRUE
Copplestone saw little of his bed that night. At seven o'clock in the
evening came a telegram from Sir Cresswell Oliver, saying that he and
Petherton were leaving at once, would reach Norcaster soon after
midnight, and would motor out to Scarhaven immediately on arrival.
Copplestone made all arrangements for their reception, and after
snatching a couple of hours' sleep was up to receive them. By two o'clock
in the morning Sir Cresswell and the old solicitor and Gilling--smuggled
into their sitting-room--had heard all he had to tell about Zachary
Spurge and his story.
"We must have that fellow at the inquest," said Petherton. "At any cost
we must have him! That's flat!"
"You think it wise?" asked Sir Cresswell. "Won't it be a bit previous?
Wouldn't it be better to wait until we know more?"
"No--we must have his evidence," declared Petherton. "It will serve as an
opening. Besides, this inquest will have to be adjourned--I shall ask for
that. No--Spurge must be produced."
"If Spurge comes into Scarhaven," observed Copplestone, "he'll be
promptly collared by the police. They want him for poaching."
"Then they can get him when the proceedings are over," retorted the old
lawyer, dryly. "They daren't touch him while he's giving evidence and
that's all we want. Perhaps he won't come?--Oh he'll come all right if
we make it worth his while. A month in Norcaster gaol will mean nothing
to him if he knows there's a chance of that reward or something
substantial out of it at the end of his sentence. You must go out to
this retreat of his and bring him in--we must have him. Better go very
early in the morning.
"I'll go now," said Copplestone. "It's as easy to go by night as by day."
He left the other three to seek their beds, and himself slipped quietly
out of the hotel by one of the ground-floor windows and set off in a
pitch-black night to seek Spurge in his lair. And after sundry barkings
of his shins against the rocks and scratchings of his hands and cheeks by
the undergrowth of Hobkin's Hole he rounded the poacher out and delivered
his message.
Spurge, blinking at his visitor in the pale light of a guttering candle,
shook his head.
"I'll come, guv'nor," he said. "Of course. I'll come--and I'll trust to
luck to get away, and it don't matter a deal if the luck's agen me--I've
done a month in Norcaster before today, and it ain't half a bad
rest-cure, if you only take it that way. But guv'nor--that old lawyer's
making a mistake! You didn't ought to have my bit of evidence at this
stage. It's too soon. You want to work up the case a bit. There's such a
thing, guv'nor, in this world as being a bit previous. This here's too
previous--you want to be surer of your facts. Because you know, guv'nor
nobody'll believe my word agen Squire Greyle's. Guv'nor--this here
inquest'll be naught but a blooming farce! Mark me! You ain't a native o'
this part--I am. D'you think as how a Scarhaven jury's going to say aught
agen its own Squire and landlord? Not it! I say, guv'nor--all a blooming
farce! Mark my words!"
"All the same, you'll come?" asked Copplestone, who was secretly of
Spurge's opinion. "You won't lose by it in the long run."
"Oh, I'll be there," responded Spurge. "Out of curiosity, if for nothing
else. You mayn't see me at first, but, let the lawyer from London call my
name out, and Zachary Spurge'll step forward."
There was abundant cover for Zachary Spurge and for half-a-dozen like him
in the village school-house when the inquest was opened at ten o'clock
that morning. It seemed to Copplestone that it would have been a physical
impossibility to crowd more people within the walls than had assembled
when the coroner, a local solicitor, who was obviously testy, irritable,
self-important and afflicted with deafness, took his seat and looked
sourly on the crowd of faces. Copplestone had already seen him in
conversation with the village doctor, the village police, Chatfield, and
Marston Greyle's solicitor, and he began to see the force of Spurge's
shrewd remarks. What, of course, was most desired was secrecy and
privacy--the Scarhaven powers had no wish that the attention of all the
world should be drawn to this quiet place. But outsiders were there in
plenty. Stafford and several members of Bassett Oliver's company had
motored over from Norcaster and had succeeded in getting good places:
there were half-a-dozen reporters from Norcaster and Northborough, and
plain-clothes police from both towns. And there, too, were all the
principal folk of the neighbourhood, and Mrs. Greyle and her daughter,
and, a little distance from Audrey, alert and keenly interested, was
Addie Chatfield.
It needed very little insight or observation on the part of an
intelligent spectator to see how things were going. The twelve good men
and true, required under the provisions of the old statute to form a
jury, were all of them either Scarhaven tradesmen or Scarhaven
householders or labourers on the estate. Their countenances, as they took
their seats under the foremanship of a man whom Copplestone already knew
as Chatfield's under-steward, showed plainly that they regarded the whole
thing as a necessary formality and that they were already prepared with a
verdict. This impression was strengthened by the coroner's opening
remarks. In his opinion, the whole affair--to which he did not even refer
as unfortunate--was easily and quickly explained and understood. The
deceased had come to the village to look round--on a Sunday be it
observed--had somehow obtained access to the Keep, where, the ruins being
strictly private and not open to the public on any consideration on
Sunday, he had no right to be; had indulged his curiosity by climbing to
the top of the ancient tower and had paid for it by falling down from
that terrible height and breaking his neck. All that was necessary was
for them to hear evidence bearing out these facts--after which they would
return a verdict in accordance with what they had heard. Very fortunately
the facts were plain, and it would not be necessary to call many
witnesses.
Sir Cresswell Oliver turned to Copplestone who sat at one side of him,
while Petherton sat on the other.
"I don't know if you notice that Greyle isn't here?" he whispered grimly.
"In my opinion, he doesn't intend to show! We'll see!"
Certainly the Squire was not in the place. And there were soon signs that
those who conducted the proceedings evidently did not consider his
presence necessary. The witnesses were few; their examinations was
perfunctory; they were out of the extemporised witness-box as soon as
they were in it. Sir Cresswell Oliver--to give formal identification.
Mrs. Wooler--to prove that the deceased man came to her house. One of the
foremen of the estate--to prove the great care with which the Squire had
searched for traces of the missing man. One of the estate labourers--to
prove the actual finding of the body. The doctor--to prove, beyond all
doubt, that the deceased had broken his neck.
The coroner, an elderly man, obviously well satisfied with the trend of
things, took off his spectacles and turned to the jury.
"You have heard everything there is to be heard, gentlemen," said he. "As
I remarked at the opening of this inquest, the case is one of great
simplicity. You will have no difficulty in deciding that the deceased
came to his death by accident--as to the exact wording of your verdict,
you had better put it in this way:--that the deceased Bassett Oliver died
as the result--"
Petherton, who, noticing the coroner's deafness, had contrived to seat
himself as close to his chair of office as possible, quietly rose.
"Before the jury consider any verdict," he said in his loudest tones,
"they must hear certain evidence which I wish to call. And first of
all--is Mr. Marston Greyle present in this room?"
The coroner frowned, and the Squire's solicitor turned to Petherton.
"Mr. Greyle is not present," he said. "He is not at all well. There is no
need for his presence--he has no evidence to give."
"If you don't have Mr. Greyle down here at once," said Petherton,
quietly, "this inquest will have to be adjourned for his attendance.
You had better send for him--or I'll get the authorities to do so. In
the meantime, we'll call one or two witnesses,--Daniel Ewbank!--to
begin with."
There was a brief and evidently anxious consultation between Greyle's
solicitor and the coroner; there were dark looks at Petherton and his
companions. Then the foreman of the jury spoke, sullenly.
"We don't want to hear no Ewbanks!" he said. "We're quite satisfied, us
as sits here. Our verdict is--"
"You'll have to bear Ewbank and anybody I like to call, my good sir,"
retorted Petherton quietly. "I am better acquainted with the law than you
are." He turned to the coroner's officer. "I warned you this morning to
produce Ewbank," he said. "Now, where is he?"
Out of a deep silence a shrill voice came from the rear of the crowd.
"Knows better than to be here, does Dan'l Ewbank, mister! He's off!"
"Very good--or bad--for somebody," remarked Petherton, quietly.
"Then--until Mr. Marston Greyle comes--we will call Zachary Spurge."
The assemblage, jurymen included, broke into derisive laughter as Spurge
suddenly appeared from the most densely packed corner of the room, and it
was at once evident to Copplestone that whatever the poacher might say,
no one there would attach any importance to it. The laughter continued
and increased while Spurge was under examination. Petherton appealed to
the coroner; the coroner affected not to hear. And once more the foreman
of the jury interrupted.
"We don't want to hear no more o' this stuff!" he said. "It's an insult
to us to put a fellow like that before us. We don't believe a word o'
what he says. We don't believe he was within a mile o' them ruins on
Sunday afternoon. It's all a put-up job!"
Petherton leaned towards the reporters.
"I hope you gentlemen of the press will make a full note of these
proceedings," he observed suavely. "You at any rate are not biassed or
prejudiced."
The coroner heard that in spite of his deafness, and he grew purple.
"Sir!" he exclaimed. "That is a most improper observation! It's a
reflection on my position, sir, and I've a great mind--"
"Mr. Coroner," observed Petherton, leaning towards him, "I shall hand in
a full report concerning your conduct of these proceedings to the Home
Office tomorrow. If you attempt to interfere with my duty here, all the
worse for you. Now, Spurge, you can stand down. And as I see Mr. Greyle
there--call Marston Greyle!"
The Squire had appeared while Spurge was giving his evidence, and had
heard what the poacher alleged. He entered the box very pale, angry, and
disturbed, and the glances which he cast on Sir Cresswell Oliver and his
party were distinctly those of displeasure.
"Swear him!" commanded Petherton. "Now, Mr. Greyle--"
But Greyle's own solicitor was on his legs, insisting on his right to put
a first question. In spite of Petherton, he put it.
"You heard the evidence of the last witness?--Spurge. Is there a word of
truth in it?"
Marston Greyle--who certainly looked very unwell--moistened his lips.
"Not one word!" he answered. "It's a lie!"
The solicitor glanced triumphantly at the Coroner and the jury, and the
crowd raised unchecked murmurs of approval. Again the foreman endeavoured
to stop the proceedings.
"We regard all this here as very rude conduct to Mr. Greyle," he said
angrily. "We're not concerned--"
"Mr. Foreman!" said Petherton. "You are a foolish man--you are
interfering with justice. Be warned!--I warn you, if the Coroner doesn't.
Mr. Greyle, I must ask you certain questions. Did you see the deceased
Bassett Oliver on Sunday last?"
"No!"
"I needn't remind you that you are on your oath. Have you ever met the
deceased man in your life?"
"Never!"
"You never met him in America?"
"I may have met him--but not to my recollection. If I did, it was in such
a casual fashion that I have completely forgotten all about it."
"Very well--you are on your oath, mind. Where did you live in America,
before you succeeded to this estate?"
The Squire's solicitor intervened.
"Don't answer that question!" he said sharply. "Don't answer any more. I
object altogether to your line," he went on, angrily, turning to
Petherton. "I claim the Coroner's protection for the witness."
"I quite agree," said the Coroner. "All this is absolutely irrelevant.
You can stand down," he continued, turning to the Squire. "I will have no
more of this--and I will take the full responsibility!"
"And the consequences, Mr. Coroner," replied Petherton calmly. "And the
first consequence is that I now formally demand an adjournment of this
inquest, _sine die_."
"On what grounds, sir?" demanded the Coroner.
"To permit me to bring evidence from America," replied Petherton, with a
side glance at Marston Greyle. "Evidence already being prepared."
The Coroner hesitated, looked at Greyle's solicitor, and then turned
sharply to the jury.
"I refuse that application!" he said. "You have heard all I have to say,
gentlemen," he went on, "and you can return your verdict."
Petherton quietly gathered up his papers and motioned to his friends to
follow him out of the schoolroom. The foreman of the jury was returning a
verdict of accidental death as they passed through the door, and they
emerged into the street to an accompaniment of loud cheers for the Squire
and groans for themselves.
"What a travesty of justice!" exclaimed Sir Cresswell. "That fellow
Spurge was right, you see, Copplestone. I wish we hadn't brought him
into danger."
Copplestone suddenly laughed and touched Sir Cresswell's arm. He pointed
to the edge of the moorland just outside the school-yard. Spurge was
disappearing over that edge, and in a moment had vanished.