1
Next morning, Saturday, after breakfast, a very subdued Jimmy and Mollie
broke the news of their formal engagement. To both of them the events of
overnight, remembered in the prosaic day, seemed curiously out of
perspective. They had, they decided, "gone off the deep end"; and, being
rather casual young people, left it at that, content to enjoy the
happiness which their emotional plunge had brought them.
Jimmy, of course, changed his original plan of returning to town by the
evening train. The usual notice for the "Daily Telegraph" was drafted,
Clyst Fullerford and the baronet communicated with in two conventional
letters, and the inevitable bottle of champagne broached for luncheon.
Though Julia did not share that bottle, the engagement was like a draft
of wine to her mentality. She felt that the alliance of the Wilberforces
with the Fullerfords could only benefit her secret schemes; and, strong
in that feeling, put all cerebral turmoils away. On Saturday afternoon,
quite undisturbed by the swish and pat from the tennis-court, she worked
two hours, and on Sunday morning, three.
Aliette, delighted though she was at her sister's obvious happiness (for
some time past she had guessed that only her own peculiar position could
be hindering Mollie's chance of matrimony), found it hard to restrain a
vague jealousy, a trace of petty resentment. Soon Mollie would be a
married woman. Whereas she----
And in Aliette's lover the resentment was tenfold stronger. The utter
legality and social correctness of the whole procedure infuriated him.
It took all his self-control to make semblance of congratulating the
"lucky couple." His overnight absorption in a "vulgar murder-case"
seemed absurd. Every time he looked at Aliette, graceful on the
tennis-court or dignified across the dinner-table, he said to himself:
"If only we could be 'engaged,' if only we could be legally married."
But Monday morning--the two men traveled to London together, leaving
Julia at her anvil and the sisters surreptitiously planning
trousseaux--brought back the nervous excitement of Friday night with a
rush. No sooner had Ronnie arrived at Pump Court than Benjamin Bunce--a
little soured by the setback suffered in the civil courts, yet tolerably
optimistic about the new criminal work--informed him that Mr. John
Cartwright had been on the telephone twice before ten o'clock and would
be glad of a conference as soon as possible.
"It's about this shooting case at Brixton. Perhaps you've read about it,
sir," confided Benjamin; and Ronnie's heart leaped at the confidence.
At twelve o'clock precisely the clerk announced the solicitor, who came
in clutching an armful of the Sunday papers, which he flung down on the
barrister's table with a curt "Here you are. Here's your murder at
last."
For John Cartwright, John Cartwright was phenomenally moved. A man of
five-and-fifty, domed of forehead, bald of pate, his black pupils--which
possessed the inclination to squint--prominent under rimless eye-glasses
of peculiar magnification, he had those thin, unemotional lips, those
bony, unemotional hands, which are so often found in the legal
profession. But to-day the unemotional lips twitched, and the bony hands
were almost feverish in their excitement as they drew a battered
pocket-book from the tail of a battered black coat, fumbled for an
envelope, and handed it over.
"Read what's in that," said John Cartwright, "and see if it isn't a
plum."
"That" turned out to be a letter from the millionaire editor of the
"Democratic News," a new Sunday illustrated paper devoted almost
exclusively to those readers whom unkind journalists describe, when they
foregather with one another, as "the father-of-the-family public."
Bertram Standon--he had so far refused two titles and owned one Derby
winner--was apparently much exercised over "this unfortunate woman, Mrs.
Towers." "I feel convinced," he wrote to his friend, Sir Peter
Wilberforce, Bart., who had turned the letter over to his partner, "that
she is more sinned against than sinning; and in the cause of honest
justice, no less than in the cause of honest journalism, I have decided
that--should the coroner's court bring in a verdict of wilful murder
against her or the ex-sailor, Fielding--I will put all my personal
resources, and all the resources of my paper, at their disposal. Will
you therefore have the case watched on my behalf, and, should the
verdict go as I am afraid it will, take any steps you consider
necessary."
"A stunt, I should imagine," decided Cartwright, "and not a very new
stunt at that. Bottomley, you may remember, once did the same thing.
Still, it may not be a stunt. Standon's a curious fellow. Sometimes his
heart gets away with his brain. It certainly has in this case."
"You think Lucy Towers and Fielding guilty then?"
"Not a doubt, I should say. Still, that's not our affair. Our job is to
give Standon as good a run as we can for his money. The inquest, I see,
has been adjourned for a week. When it comes on again you'll have to go
down."
"Can't I see the prisoners beforehand?"
"Better not, as I take our instructions."
"But we might get them off at the inquest."
"Where would Bertram Standon's stunt come in if we did?" said John
Cartwright satirically, and so closed the interview.
2
During the week which preceded the adjourned inquest on William Towers,
Bertram Standon held his journalistic hand; and--Fleet Street being
momentarily occupied with the controversy of "Submarines _v._
Battleships"--no further details of the tragedy became available.
Reperusing the week-end papers of an evening, it seemed to Ronnie that
the case against the woman--whose likeness to Aliette waned and waned
the more one scrutinized her photograph--looked black enough. Apparently
she had shot her husband during an altercation in another man's room.
The other man, a sailor who had lost both his arms in the war, was her
cousin, and--the reports suggested--her lover.
All the same, the "vulgar murder-case" continued to excite both his
personalities: the magisterial Cavendish because of a curious inward
conviction--the conviction he had voiced to Wilberforce--that "the woman
was no murderess": and the imaginative Wixton because if the coroner's
jury found her guilty he might at last get his chance--slim though that
chance appeared--of a big forensic victory.
Night after night, therefore, Caroline Staley, who, in the absence of
her mistress, had relapsed into the perfect bachelor housekeeper,
completely idle from ten to four, and completely assiduous for the rest
of the time, left her master at work in the little sitting-room of the
"ridiculous flat," studying--with his mother's own concentration--first
in his red "Gibson and Weldon," and thereafter at length, the reports of
Rex _v._ Lesbini, of Rex _v._ Simpson, of Rex _v._ Greening (in which it
is definitely held that, though the sight of adultery committed with his
wife gives sufficient provocation for a husband to plead manslaughter,
the major accusation must hold good if the woman be only mistress of the
accused), and of any other case that might, by the vaguest possibility,
have some bearing on the problematic defense of Lucy Towers.
3
On the Saturday, Ronnie, as usual, went down to Daffadillies. Mollie had
returned to Clyst Fullerford. Julia and Aliette, informed of the new
work, were enthusiastic.
"It'll be a public prosecution, I suppose?" asked Julia.
"Of course. All murder cases are conducted by the director of public
prosecutions. But I haven't got the brief yet."
"Not even a watching brief?" put in Aliette.
Ronnie laughed. "Where did you pick up that phrase?"
"In the newspapers, I suppose." Aliette, remembering from whose lips she
had last heard the expression, blushed faintly. And next morning,
Sunday, the front page of the "Democratic News" again reminded her of
Hector.
Standon, nervous lest some of his titled brethren in Fleet Street should
appropriate the stunt, devoted his Napoleonic leader-page to "The
Quality of Mercy."
Standon dared not, of course, comment on a case which was still "sub
judice," but Standon could and did dare to comment at great length on
"one-sided justice," on the delays demanded by the police at inquests,
on the hardships suffered by those who could not afford "our overpaid
silks," and on the crying need of a "public defender."
"Our 'hanging prosecutor,'" howled Standon, "is paid by the state. Who
pays for the defense of his victims? Why, even as I write, there lie in
Brixton Prison a man and a woman who--for all we know--may be as
innocent of the charge brought against them as I am. Next week they will
be haled before the coroner. The police will have sifted every vestige
of evidence against them. But who will have sifted the evidence in their
defense? No one! I ask the great-hearted British people, whose
generosity to the weak and unhappy never fails, whether this is justice
or a travesty of justice; whether, in any properly constituted
community, the very finest legal brains obtainable would not have been
placed immediately and without any fee whatsoever entirely at the
service of these two unfortunates, who now lie in a felon's cell, hoping
against hope, if they are innocent, as I believe them to be innocent,
that some public-spirited person will come forward and give them, out of
mere charity, money. Money! The shame of it!! The shame of it!!!"
The "silly season," when newsprint gasps for "copy" as a drowning man
for air, was already on Fleet Street; and Standon's article, duly
garnished with photographs of Lucy Towers, of Bob Fielding, the
ex-sailor, and of "Big Bill" Towers, started a controversy which
relegated both submarines and battleships to the editorial scrap-heap.
"Mark my words," said John Cartwright, calling for Ronnie on the Tuesday
morning, "the Cairns case will be nothing to this one. If by any chance
you were to get Lucy Towers off, you'd be a made man."
"But surely,"--for a moment the wild idea that by some amazing piece of
fortune Hector Brunton might be briefed for the prosecution crossed
Ronnie's mind--"surely, if Standon's out for publicity, he'll never let
you brief _me_ for the actual trial? He'll have one of the big guns,
Marshall Hall or somebody like that."
"No, he won't." John Cartwright chuckled slyly. "Oh no, he won't. He'll
make a discovery."
"A discovery?"
"Yes, a young man. 'A new light in the legal firmament--a David to slay
Goliath.' That'd look well in the Democratic News.' Besides," Cartwright
chuckled again, "Marshall Hall would cost them a week's advertising
revenue, and you're Julia Cavendish's son."
"I've no wish to trade on my mother's reputation," said Ronnie stiffly.
But, as Cartwright's car came nearer and nearer to the coroner's court,
he realized that if by any possible miracle Hector Brunton _were_
briefed for the prosecution, he, Ronald Cavendish, would trade on any
one's reputation rather than not be entrusted with the defense.
4
By the peculiar processes of the English legal machine, a man or woman
on trial for murder may be required to undergo no less than three
ordeals: at the coroner's court, before the magistrate, and finally at
the assizes.
Even before Cartwright's car came to a standstill outside the modest
building of the coroner's court at Brixton, Ronald Cavendish could see
tangible effects of Bertram Standon's publicity. The two bemedaled
constables at the door were surrounded by a knot of people, well-dressed
for the most part, all equally anxious for admittance to the first
ordeal of Lucy Towers, and all equally ready to pay modest baksheesh for
the privilege. Various alert youngsters, whose living depended on the
news-pictures which their wits and their hand-cameras could snap,
hovered--eager for the face of a celebrity--on the pavement. A touch of
the theatrical was added to this scene by two sandwich-men, parading
boards with the latest slogan of the "Democratic News": "Why not a
Public Defender?"
Ronald and Cartwright pushed their way to the door; and--Cartwright
having shown his card--were conducted down a long passage into the
exiguous court-room. The jury, all males, had already taken their
chairs. The coroner, a meek, tubby mid-Victorian fellow with a rosy bald
head and a hint of port wine in his rosy cheeks--was just about to sit
down.
One of Cartwright's henchmen, sent on in advance, came up, whispering
that he had kept them seats at the back of the room. These,
unobtrusively, they took.
So far, apparently, the state--to use Standon's phraseology--had not
thought it worth while to brief counsel. At the table reserved for the
prosecution Ronnie saw only a black-mustached uninterested solicitor and
his clerk. The solicitor for the defense, a weak-kneed, unimposing
little man, sat at the table opposite, looking even more bored. Only the
reporters, bent over their note-books, and the few members of the public
who had by now bribed themselves into the room, seemed in any way alive
to the enacting of a human tragedy.
Then the coroner whispered something to his clerk, and the prisoners
were brought in.
In that moment--despite the photographs--Ronnie thought himself the
victim of hallucinations. "It's a dream," he thought; "a crazy
nightmare." For the accused woman, accompanied on the one side by a
hatchet-faced constable, and on the other by a tall prison-wardress in
the blue cloak and cap of her order, might--had it not been for the
work-reddened hands, the over-feathered hat and the rusty black coat and
skirt--have been Aliette's self. Complexion, figure, carriage,
personality, the very voice that answered to her name, showed Lucy
Towers the living, breathing double of Hector Brunton's wife. She had
the same auburn hair, the same vivid eyes, the identical nose, the
identical mouth. There was about her, even, that same shy dignity which,
in Ronnie's eyes, distinguished the woman he loved from all other women
in the world.
"Not a bad-looking wench," whispered Cartwright.
But the barrister could not answer. Sheer amazement held him speechless.
He had no eyes for the other guarded figure, for the pale unshaven young
man whose two coat-sleeves hung empty from his broad shoulders. As it
was to be throughout the case, so now at the very first glimpse of his
client, every instinct urged him to her defense. He forgot Standon,
Cartwright, his own career, everything. Seeing, not a woman of the lower
orders, presumably the mistress of a common sailor, but his own woman,
his Aliette, Aliette on trial for her life, lone save for his aid
against a hostile world, he no longer wanted even the coroner's jury to
convict her. He wanted her to be free. Free!
And suddenly, he hated the law. The law--policemen, wardress, coroner,
jury, the little black-haired Treasury solicitor--wanted to hang this
woman, to put a greasy rope round her throat, to let her body drop with
one jerk into eternity. Against her, even as against Aliette, the law
was hostile. And "They sha'n't hang her," swore Ronnie. "By God, they
sha'n't."
With a great effort he pulled his legal wits together and began to
follow the evidence. Deadly, damning evidence it was, too. The woman,
according to the police, had already confessed.
"Bob didn't do it. I did it," began the confession which a sergeant,
thumbing over his note-book, read out in a toneless voice. "Bob is my
cousin. He lived in the same house as me and my husband, Bill. Every
afternoon I used to go and clean Bob's room for him, because he couldn't
do it himself, having no arms. Bill, my husband, didn't like me going to
Bob's room. He was jealous of Bob. He didn't like me giving Bob money.
This morning Bill told me that if I went to Bob's room again, he would
do us both in. I told him I must go and help Bob, because he couldn't
feed himself proper. I went to Bob's room about half-past four. I told
Bob what my husband had said, and Bob laughed about it. He told me there
was an old pistol in the cupboard and that if my husband came, I could
pretend to shoot him. Of course Bob was joking. I got him a cup of tea.
I was helping him drink the tea when my husband came in. Bill was very
angry. He said he was going to thrash Bob, and then thrash me. I got
very frightened, and thought of the pistol. Bill had his stick in his
hand. I thought he was going to hit Bob with the stick, so I ran to the
cupboard. I found the pistol and pointed it at Bill. I told him not to
touch Bob. He said, 'That pistol's not loaded. You can't frighten me.'
Bob said, 'Don't be a fool, Bill; it is loaded.' I thought Bill was
going to strike Bob, so I pulled the trigger. I'm not sorry I killed
Bill because I thought he was going to do Bob in. I love Bob very much."
"I love Bob very much." As those last words fell, heavy for all their
tonelessness, on the hot hush of the crowded room, Ronald Cavendish
knew--with the instinct of the born criminal lawyer--that coroner, jury,
and public had already decided on their verdict. He could read
condemnation, abhorrence, fear, in every eye that stared and stared at
the pale forlorn creature seated motionless between her jailors. "The
sailor was her lover," said those condemning eyes. "That was why she
killed her rightly jealous husband." But for the armless man whose lips,
as he listened, writhed in pain, those eyes held only pity.
Cartwright's voice whispered to his clerk, "You'll get a copy of that,
of course," and the inquiry went on.
The police produced Bob Fielding's revolver, the blood-stained bullet,
the empty cartridge-case, a plan of the room where the crime had been
committed, Bob Fielding's navy record. The black-mustached solicitor
called witnesses who had heard the shot, witnesses who had seen the
body, one witness, even, who was prepared to swear the crime
premeditated.
"More than once I've heard her say," swore Maggie Peterson, a frowzy,
blowzy creature whose hands showed like collops of raw meat against her
blowzy skirt, "that she wished Bill was dead. And there's others as
heard her besides me."
In the case of Lucy Towers, the weak-kneed unimposing solicitor for the
defense reserved his cross-examination, but for Fielding, to Ronnie's
surprise, he put up a most spirited fight; and despite the prosecution's
every effort to implicate the sailor as accessory to the shooting, the
jury refused to give a verdict against him. "As if," decided the
unimaginative jury, "armless men could fire pistols."
But Lucy Towers they found guilty of murder. "And quite rightly," said
John Cartwright, as the woman--with a faint smile in the direction of
her released cousin--was led from the room.
5
"All the same, mater, I'll swear that--in intention--Lucy Towers is
innocent."
It was Sunday afternoon at Daffadillies, and ever since his arrival
Ronnie had been harping on the same topic. But Ronnie found his
womenfolk hard to convince. In their eyes, as in the eyes of the public,
Fleet Street's report of the inquest, and more particularly Maggie
Peterson's evidence, branded Lucy Towers irrevocably murderess.
"Rubbish!" said Julia--it was one of her "good" days--"Rubbish! She's
guilty, and she'll either hang or go to jail for life."
"That would be an outrage," answered Ronnie gravely.
"Why?" The novelist laughed. "Lucy Towers shot her husband. She'll never
get over that point. Not in England, anyway. In France it's just
possible that a sentimental jury would give her their verdict. We, thank
heaven, do not indulge in that sort of perverted justice."
Aliette reluctantly sided with Julia.
"But, of course, man," said Aliette, "of course, I'm sorry for the poor
creature. Still, whatever her husband did, she had no right to shoot
him."
"Not even in self-defense?"
"No, not even in self-defense."
"In defense of an armless man, then?" countered Ronnie; and, so
countering, saw in one vivid flash of insight his one and only chance of
victory should Cartwright give him the brief.