THE TRIAL
“How say you, prisoner at the bar: Guilty or Not Guilty?”
“Not Guilty.”
There was a moment’s pause. A slight murmur passed like a ripple
through the dense crowd. Each individual item, male and female, tried
to wriggle itself into a more comfortable position, knowing that it was
fixed in that particular spot for some hours to come. The crier of the
court called silence where silence was already, and next moment Mr.
Purcell, the counsel for the prosecution, rose to his feet. He glanced
up at the prisoner for one brief moment, bowed slightly to the judge,
hitched his gown well forward, fixed one foot firmly on a spindle of
the nearest chair, and turned over the first page of his brief.
Mr. Purcell possessed in an eminent degree the faculty of clear and
lucid exposition. His manner was passionless, his style frigid. He
aimed at nothing more than giving a cold, unvarnished statement of the
facts. But then the way in which he marshalled his facts—going, step by
step, through the evidence as taken before the magistrates, bringing
out with fatal clearness point after point against the prisoner,
gradually wrapping him round, as it were, in an inextricable network of
evidence from which it seemed impossible for any human agency to free
him—was, to such of his hearers as could appreciate his efforts, an
intellectual treat of a very rare order indeed: Even Lionel had to ask
himself, in a sort of maze: “Am I guilty, or am I not?” when Mr.
Purcell came to the end of his exposition, and took breath for a moment
while the first witness for the prosecution was being sworn by the
clerk of the court.
That first witness was Kester St. George.
Mr. St. George looked very pale—his recent illness might account for
that—but he showed not the slightest trace of nervousness as he stepped
into the witness-box. It was noticed by several people that he kept his
eyes fixed straight before him, and never once turned them on the
prisoner in the dock.
The evidence elicited from Mr. St. George was—epitomized—to the
following effect:—Was own cousin to the prisoner at the bar, but had
not seen him since they were boys together till prisoner called on him
in London a few weeks before the murder. Met prisoner in the street
shortly afterwards. Introduced him to Mr. Osmond, the murdered man, who
happened to be in his (witness’s) company at the time. Prisoner, on the
spot, invited both witness and Osmond to visit him at Park Newton. The
invitation was accepted. Witness and Osmond went down to Park Newton,
and up to the night of the murder everything passed off in the most
amicable and friendly spirit. On that evening they all three dined by
invitation with Mr. Culpepper, of Pincote. They got back to Park Newton
about eleven o’clock. Osmond then proposed to finish up the evening
with a game at billiards. Prisoner objected for a time, but ultimately
yielded the point, and they all went into the billiard-room. The game
was to be a hundred up, and everything went on satisfactorily till
Osmond accused prisoner of having played with the wrong ball. This
prisoner denied. An altercation followed. After some words on both
sides, Osmond threw part of a glass of seltzer-and-brandy into
prisoner’s face. Prisoner sprang at Osmond and seized him by the
throat. Osmond drew a small revolver and fired at prisoner, but
fortunately missed him. Witness then interposed, dragged Osmond from
the room, and put him into the hands of his (witness’s) valet, with
instructions not to leave him till he was safely in bed. Then went back
to prisoner, whom he found still in the billiard-room, but depressed in
spirits, and complaining of one of those violent head aches that were
constitutional with him. Witness himself being subject to similar
headaches, recommended to prisoner’s notice a certain mixture from
which he had himself derived much benefit. Prisoner agreed to take a
dose of the mixture. Witness went to his own bedroom to obtain it, and
then took it to the prisoner, whom he found partially undressed,
preparing for bed. Prisoner took the mixture. Then he and witness bade
each other good-night, and separated. Next morning, at eight o’clock,
witness’s valet brought a telegram to his bedroom summoning him to
London on important business. He dressed immediately, and left Park
Newton at once—an hour and a half before the discovery of the murder.
Cross-examined by Mr. Tressil:
The only one of the three who was at all the worse for wine on their
return from Pincote was Mr. Osmond. Had several times seen him in a
similar condition. On such occasions he was very talkative, and rather
inclined to be quarrelsome. Osmond was in error in saying that prisoner
played with the wrong ball. Witness, in his position as marker, was
watching the game very carefully, and was certain that no such mistake
was made. Osmond was grossly insulting; and prisoner, all through the
quarrel, acted with the greatest forbearance. It was not till after
Osmond had thrown the brandy-and-seltzer in his face that prisoner laid
hands on him at all. The instant after, Osmond drew his revolver and
fired. The bullet just missed prisoner’s head and lodged in the wall
behind him. After Osmond left the room no animosity or ill-feeling was
evinced by prisoner towards him. On the contrary, prisoner expressed
his deep regret that such a fracas should have taken place under his
roof. Had not the slightest fear that there would be any renewal of the
quarrel afterwards, or would not have left for London next morning.
Certainly thought that an ample apology was due from Osmond, and never
doubted that such an apology would be forthcoming when he had slept off
the effects of the wine. Was never more surprised or shocked in his
life than when he heard of the murder, and that his cousin was accused
of the crime. It seemed to him too horrible for belief. Could not
conceive of any possible motive that the prisoner could have for
committing such a crime.
“Would you not almost as soon expect to have been the author of such a
crime yourself?” asked Mr. Tressil.
Mr. St. George turned a shade paler than he was before, and for the
first time he seemed to hesitate a little before answering the
question. “Yes,” he said at last, “I should almost as soon expect such
a thing. In fact, I cannot, even now, believe that my cousin, Lionel
Dering, is the murderer of Percy Osmond.”
Mr. Tressil sat down, and Mr. Little rose to his feet.
“On the night of the quarrel prisoner complained to you of having a
very violent headache?”
“He did.”
“And you proffered to administer to him a dose of a certain narcotic
which you had found to be efficacious in such cases yourself?”
“I did.”
“How many drops of the narcotic did you administer to the prisoner?”
“Fifteen, in water.”
“You saw him drink it?”
“I did.”
“You yourself are troubled with violent headaches at times?”
“I am.”
“At such times you administer to yourself a dose of the same narcotic
that you administered to the prisoner?”
“I do.”
“And you derive great benefit from it?”
“Invariably.”
“How many drops of the narcotic do you take yourself on such
occasions?”
“Fifteen, in water.”
“Is that your invariable dose?”
“It is.”
“Speaking for yourself, what is the effect it has upon you on such
occasions?”
“It induces languor and drowsiness, and seems to deaden the pain. Its
chief object is to insure a good night’s rest—nothing more.”
“How many years have you been in the habit of taking this narcotic?”
“At intervals, for a dozen years.”
“You have therefore become habituated to the use of it?”
“To a certain extent, yes.”
“But if you, after twelve years’ practice, are in the habit of taking
only fifteen drops, does it not strike you that that quantity was
somewhat of an overdose for a man who had never taken anything of the
kind before?”
“It did not strike me as being so at the time. The prisoner is a strong
and healthy man, and his headache was a very violent one.”
“But, in any case, the general effect would be to induce a sense of
extreme drowsiness, which, in a little while, would result in a dull,
heavy sleep—a sleep so heavy and so dull that the sense of violent pain
would be deadened, and even lost for the time being?”
“Those are precisely the effects which might be expected.”
“How soon, after a dose has been taken, does the feeling of drowsiness
come on?”
“In about a quarter of an hour.”
“Suppose now, that after you had taken a dose of the narcotic, you
wished, for some particular reason, to keep broad awake; suppose that
you had some important business to transact—say, if you like, that you
had a murder to commit—how would that be?”
“I should find it utterly impossible to keep awake. The feeling of
drowsiness induced is so intense that your whole and sole desire is to
sleep: you feel as if you wanted to sleep for a month without waking.”
Mr. Little, having scored a point, sat down, and Mr. St. George left
the witness-box. As he was stepping down into the body of the court his
eyes met the eyes of Lionel Dering for the first time that day. It was
but for a moment, and then Kester’s head was turned deliberately away.
But in that moment Lionel saw, or fancied that he saw, the self-same
expression flash from his cousin’s eyes that he had seen in them that
night, now many months ago, when they recognized each other across the
crowd on Westminster Bridge—a look of cold, deadly, unquenchable hate,
that nothing but death could cancel, with which, to-day, was mingled a
look of scornful triumph that seemed to say, “My turn has come at
last.” For one brief instant Lionel seemed to see his cousin’s soul
stand unveiled and naked before him.
As before, it was a look that chilled his heart and troubled him
strangely. Kester had given his evidence in a perfectly fair and
straightforward manner, without betraying the slightest animus against
his cousin: indeed, he had distinctly stated more than once that he
could not and would not believe that Lionel was guilty of the terrible
crime for which he was arraigned, and the little sympathetic thrill
which he threw into his soft musical voice at such times could hardly
pass unnoticed by any one. But how reconcile such tokens of goodwill
and cousinly affection with the fact that he had never once spoken a
word to Lionel since they parted in the latter’s bedroom on the night
of the murder? Even at the inquest, and during the few days that
elapsed after the murder before Lionel was committed for trial, his
cousin had never come near him, or made any effort whatever to see him.
Afterwards there had been vague news of his serious illness in London;
but, even then, he might surely have written, or have dictated half a
dozen lines, had it been only to say that he was too ill to come in
person. But during all those weary days of waiting in prison there had
come no word, no message, no token to tell Lionel that there was any
such person as Kester St. George in existence.
And now, to-day, what did that look mean? To a man of Lionel’s frank
and unsuspicious disposition it seemed difficult, nay next to
impossible, to believe that he must count his cousin, not as a friend,
but as an enemy; and yet the conviction was beginning to dawn slowly
upon him that such was indeed the case. But with the dawning of that
conviction there was growing up in his mind a dim, vague suspicion,
shapeless as yet, but hideous in its shapelessness, to which neither
name nor speech had yet been given, but which began to haunt him day
and night like some weird nightmare which it was impossible to shake
off.
The next witness that was called was Martin Rooke.
Was in prisoner’s employ as under-footman at Park Newton. Had been
appointed specially to wait on Mr. Osmond, that gentleman having
brought no servant with him. One of his duties was to call Mr. Osmond
about nine o’clock every morning. Remembered the morning of the ninth
of May very well: in fact, should never forget it as long as he lived.
Went as usual about nine o’clock—it might be a few minutes before or a
few minutes after the hour—to call Mr. Osmond. Found the door unlocked,
as usual, and went in after knocking once. Did not notice any signs of
disturbance in the room. Went up to the bed with the intention of
calling Mr. Osmond. Saw at once what had happened. Mr. Osmond was lying
on his back across the bed. After the first shock of the surprise was
over, rushed downstairs and summoned assistance. All the servants who
were about at once went upstairs with him into the room. Mr. Pearce,
the butler, sent off post-haste for the nearest doctor. Then the rest
of the servants, except witness, and Janvard, Mr. St. George’s valet,
went in a body to rouse Mr. Dering, who was sleeping in the room next
to that of Mr. Osmond. One of Mr. Osmond’s hands was open, the other
was shut as if it were clasping something. Janvard took hold of the
shut hand, and tried to open the fingers, when something fell from them
to the floor. Janvard picked up the fallen article, when witness saw
that it was a shirt-stud made of jet, set in filigree gold. “This stud
is Mr. Dering’s property,” said Janvard. “I saw it in his shirt last
night.” Then witness and Janvard looked about the room and under the
bed, to see whether they could find a weapon of any kind, but could
not. Then they left Mr. Osmond’s room together, and went along the
corridor to Mr. Dering’s room. The door was wide open, and Pearce and
the other servants were clustered round it. Witness peeped over the
shoulders of the others, and saw prisoner standing in the middle of the
room, looking like a man half dazed. There were red stains on his
shirt-front, and there was a red-stained pocket-handkerchief lying at
his feet. Janvard then showed prisoner the stud, and asked him whether
it was his property. Prisoner said that it was, and asked him where he
had found it. Janvard answered that he had found it in the hand of the
murdered man. Prisoner sat down in the nearest chair, and witness
thought he was going to faint. Then Pearce ordered everybody away, and
went into the room and shut the door. Witness went back to Mr. Osmond’s
room, locked the door, and kept the key till the doctor came—with whom
came also the superintendent of police.
The cross-examination of this witness elicited nothing of any
importance in favour of the prisoner.
The next witness was Pierre Janvard.
Witness deposed that on the night of the eighth of May he was sitting
up for his master, Mr. St. George, who, after his return from Pincote,
where he had been dining, had joined prisoner and Mr. Osmond in the
billiard-room. About midnight the bell rang, and on answering it he
found Mr. Osmond seated on the bottom stair of the flight that led to
the bedrooms, and his master standing near him. Mr. St. George motioned
to witness to get Mr. Osmond upstairs, and whispered to him that he was
not to leave him till he had seen him safely in bed. Mr. St. George
then went back to the billiard-room, and witness, after a little
persuasion, managed to get Mr. Osmond as far as his own room. Mr.
Osmond was half drunk, and was evidently much excited. He kept shaking
his head, and talking to himself under his breath, but witness could
not make out what he said. Had seen Mr. Osmond the worse for wine
several times before. It was the duty of Rooke, the previous witness,
to attend to him at such times; but Rooke was in bed, and he (witness)
did not care to disturb him. After a little while Mr. Osmond was
induced to get into bed. Witness lingered in the room for a few minutes
till he seemed fast asleep, then left him, and neither knew nor heard
anything more about him till Rooke rushed into the servants’ hall,
about nine o’clock next morning, with the news of the murder.
The rest of the evidence given by Janvard was little more than a
recapitulation of that already given by Rooke. The evidence of the
latter was confirmed with regard to the finding of the jet stud, and
its recognition by the prisoner as his property. The stud itself was
produced in court, and handed up to the jury for inspection.
The next witness was James Mackerith, M.D.
Dr. Mackerith began by stating that between nine and ten o’clock on the
morning of May ninth, a servant from Park Newton rode up to his house,
and told him he was wanted, without a moment’s delay, to look to a
gentleman who had been murdered during the night. Witness got out his
gig and started at once, and, meeting the superintendent of police on
the way, that gentleman joined him on hearing his errand. Witness then
went on to describe the finding and appearance of the body. Mr. Osmond
had been stabbed through the heart with a knife or dagger. Death, which
must have been almost instantaneous, had taken place at least five or
six hours before the arrival of witness. There were no traces of any
struggle. In all probability Mr. Osmond had been murdered in his sleep,
or at the moment when he first opened his eyes, and before he had time
to raise any alarm.
This witness was severely cross-examined by Mr. Tressil as to the
possibility or otherwise of deceased having committed suicide, but
nothing could shake him in his positive conviction that, in the present
case, such a theory was utterly untenable. After the cross-examination
of Dr. Mackerith was brought to an end the court adjourned for
luncheon.
It was now two o’clock, and although there were three or four minor
witnesses still to be examined, the general impression seemed to be
that, if the jury were not long in making up their minds, the whole
unhappy business would be brought to an end by six o’clock at the
latest.
The prisoner, who, by the judge’s instructions, had quite early in the
day been accommodated with a chair, had listened with quiet attention
to the progress of the case, but had not otherwise seemed to take more
interest in it than any ordinary spectator might have done. He had a
thorough comprehension from the first that the trial must go dead
against him, but he never abated by one jot the quiet, resolute
calmness of his manner. He was the same to-day as he had been on the
first day of his imprisonment; only, to-day, he was the focus of a
thousand inquisitive eyes; but he seemed as utterly unconscious of the
fact as though he were sitting in the silence and solitude of his cell.
Hour by hour, as the trial went on, Tom sent brief notes by a messenger
to Edith. In these notes all that he could say was that such and such a
witness was under examination, and that everything was going on as
favourably as could be expected. He knew how miserably ineffective such
messages would be to allay the dreadful anxiety of her to whom they
were addressed; but, as he asked himself, what more could he write? He
took advantage of the few minutes allowed for luncheon to run up in
person to Alder Cottage. Edith, that day, looked to him a dozen years
older than he had ever seen her look before. Very pale and worn, but
very calm also. But there was something in her eyes—the wild, yearning,
terrified look of some poor hunted creature, as it were, who sees that
for it there is no possible door of escape—which revealed to Tom
something of the terrible struggle going on within. It was but scant
comfort that he could give her, but even for that she was grateful.
Tom found that he had still five minutes to spare when he got back to
the court, so he hunted up Jabez Creede, whom he found haunting the
purlieus of a neighbouring tavern, but apparently lacking either the
money or the courage to venture inside. Tom supplied him with both,
and, after two steaming glasses of rum and water, Jabez, with a sort of
moist gratitude in his voice, declared that he felt better—“Very much
better indeed, thank you, Mr. Bristow, sir.”
Tom; before going up to Alder Cottage, had contrived to have a brief
note passed to Mr. Sprague. “I hope you are prepared, as I expect that
I shall require your services.”
On the reassembling of the court, Pearce, the butler at Park Newton,
was the first witness called. He deposed to no material facts with
which the reader is not already acquainted.
Next came Mr. Drayton, the Duxley superintendent of police, who told
the story of his arrest of the prisoner, and how he had searched the
house and grounds of Park Newton, but could find no trace of the weapon
by which the deed had been done.
Next came a Mr. Whitstone, uncle to the murdered man, to whom, as the
nearest relative in England, had been handed over the effects of the
deceased. Mr. Whitstone deposed that, after a careful examination of
the said effects, he had come to the conclusion that nothing had been
stolen. So far as he could judge, no article of value was missing; and
consequently, whatever other motive might have been at the bottom of
the crime, it could not have been done for the sake of robbery.
With the examination of one or two minor witnesses the case for the
prosecution came to an end.
There were no witnesses to call for the defence, and Mr. Tressil at
once arose to address the court.
Tom Bristow was sitting close behind three or four junior counsel, and
in full view of the jury. Whispered one of these fledglings to another,
so that Tom could not help overhearing him: “That jet stud will hang
him.”
Answered the other: “Bet you a new hat old Tressil won’t be on his legs
more than thirty minutes.”
“If the jury agree—and I don’t see how they can disagree—the whole
thing will be over by five thirty.”
“Hope so, I’m sure. Meet you at eight for a game of pool?”
“I’m your man.”
It was now twenty minutes to four o’clock. Mr. Tressil began his speech
for the defence. He had only got through the three or four opening
sentences when one of the jury fell forward in the box, and, on being
lifted up by two of his colleagues, it was found that he had been
suddenly seized with illness. The juryman in question was Mr. Sprague,
the chemist. He was carried at once into the open air. A buzz of
curiosity and excitement ran round the court. Mr. Tressil sat down. The
judge yawned politely behind his hand, and the junior barristers passed
a snuff-box surreptitiously from one to another. In the course of three
or four minutes Dr. Mackerith, who had followed Mr. Sprague into the
side room, came back into court. Addressing the judge, said he: “My
lord, I regret to inform you that Mr. Sprague, the juryman, is very ill
indeed, and that there seems little or no probability that he will be
able to resume his duties for at least three or four hours to come.”
His lordship looked very much discomposed, and blew his nose violently.
“I never, in the whole course of my experience, recollect such a
circumstance before,” he remarked. “It is very annoying, and very
unfortunate. It leaves me without any option in the matter. The court
must stand adjourned till ten o’clock to-morrow morning.”