1
For Ronald Cavendish, the fortnight which intervened between his
briefing and the Monday of the trial passed like an hour. All that he
had ever hoped for seemed at last within reach: and his mind,
concentrating, could spare no minute for introspection. Even the
personal factor, that Brunton would be his opponent, dwindled into
insignificance when compared with the supreme issue of winning; even his
belief in his client's spiritual guiltlessness seemed paltry before the
difficulties of proving her technically innocent. Yet the belief was
there, keying him to effort, making him utterly oblivious of his
every-day surroundings.
But all that fortnight Aliette scarcely slept. Dozing or waking, two
figures--the figures of Ronnie and of Hector--haunted her thoughts: she
saw them, gowned and wigged, fiercely terrible, at death-grips for the
soul of a woman--a woman whose face showed white and tormented in the
dock--a woman who was no longer Lucy Towers, but herself. Sometimes,
too, behind the woman in the dock, she saw Dennis--her dream-son--Dennis
whose eyes, Ronnie's own blue eyes, stared accusingly at the mother who
had born him to shame.
And all that fortnight, fearful only of interruption, Julia Cavendish
worked on. The leather manuscript-box was nearly full. Almost, the
weapon of her mind's conceiving had been forged sharp to the point. The
watchers at her bedside--even her own son--were no longer quite real.
She saw them as dream-folk; queer dear people who ministered to her
comforts in the hours when her brain, weary of word-fashioning, rested
awhile. Those dream-folk--she knew--all except Ronnie, were growing
anxious, doubtful of the part she played to them. They wanted her to
send for the "medicine-man." But the "medicine-man" could not help. His
part was done. Only courage could help her now--courage and the
certainty of that all-pervading Presence, of the Godhead who, watching
her as she ran her painful race with physical death, understood.
Vaguely--when her son came to bid her au revoir--Julia Cavendish
realized the Presence hovering about the familiar room. Distant
church-bells told her that it was a Sunday, that Ronnie must catch the
afternoon train for London within the hour.
"Just looked in to see if you were all right, before I toddled off,
mater," he said; and hearing his voice she yearned, with a
foreknowledged longing acuter than any physical pain, to abandon the
part she played for him, to tell him--for his own sake--the truth. But
the Presence sustained her; so that she fought back the betraying truth;
so that she answered him, gaily, casually, "I'm feeling like a
two-year-old, son"; so that she sat upright in her bed--oh, for the
comfort to have felt his arms about her shoulders!--and listened for
twenty agonized minutes to his talk of "the case."
"You must wish me luck, mater," he said, as he rose to go. "It'll be a
terrific fight; but I feel, somehow, that I'm going to win."
"You _will_ win," she answered. "Don't worry about me. I'll be all
right. And remember--if by any chance the verdict goes against you--that
no man can do more than his best."
Yet after he had kissed her good-by, after the door had closed gently
behind him, leaving her alone with her thoughts in the slanting sun-rays
of that quiet room, even the knowledge that _she_ had done her best,
even the conviction of Godhead, failed to comfort Julia Cavendish,
mother.
2
The Central Criminal Court of London, though still known as the "Old"
Bailey, is the modernest of modern edifices; domed stone without,
polished marble within. Were it not for the uniformed police on guard at
its narrow portal, and for the particular legal atmosphere which
pervades it even out of session-time, you might at first glance take the
place for a club-house or a bank building. From the tessellated
spaciousness of its ground floor, a central staircase, broad between
marble balusters, up-sweeps to an immense landing where witnesses,
constables, and barristers foregather outside the various oaken doors
which lead into the oak-paneled court-rooms. Below are the cells.
There is nothing theatrical about the Old Bailey. To the highly
sensitized mind its aura is the aura of a museum. The very statues which
garnish it seem aloof from actual life. Yes here London stages her
tensest human dramas; here England dispenses her ultimate justice.
But there was no sense of justice in the mind of Hector Brunton, K.C.,
as, scornful alike of the crowd and the cameramen, he strode bullheaded
through that narrow portal; acknowledged with perfunctory hand the
salutes of the constables; and pushed his way up the stairs, diagonally
across the landing to the robing-room.
Deliberately the man had made his choice. For the sake of his vengeance
on Cavendish, Lucy Towers must die the death. Righteous or unrighteous,
he, the "hanging prosecutor" whom no prisoner had yet eluded, meant to
secure his verdict. His mind, as he adjusted his robe, his wig and
tapes, was the actor's mind, resolute in illusion. Actor-like, his
thoughts discarded all truth that might tell in the victim's favor.
Actor-like, his thoughts clung to their part; the part which should
prove conclusively that this woman, this Lucy Towers, had shot her
husband of malice aforethought and for love of another man.
And yet, making his early way through the crowd towards the door of the
court--he had no wish to meet with Cavendish face to face in the
robing-rooms,--a vision of his wife flashed for one vivid instant
through the K.C.'s mind. In that vivid instant, conscience troubled him
again. "Was he being cruel to Aliette?" asked conscience. "Was he
planning yet another cruelty toward this woman he had never seen, this
Lucy Towers?"
"Cavendish defends them both," he thought; and stifled the voice of
conscience.
3
Ronald, when Caroline Staley woke him on that first morning of the
trial, thought neither of Hector nor of Aliette. Hardly, he thought to
himself. To win--and, now that the contest so long anticipated was
actually at hand, he felt that not to win outright would be
disaster--seemed almost impossible, the forlornest of hopes.
Dressing, breakfasting, making his way to Putney Bridge Station, his
mind held only the picture of his client. Visited overnight, the
woman--whose likeness to his own woman never failed to strike a
responsive chord in Ronnie's heart--had afforded no help. Curiously
resigned to an adverse verdict, curiously incurious as to whether that
verdict should be murder or manslaughter, the tense clamor of the
newspapers and the tense pleading of her counsel left her alike unmoved.
"I'll go into the witness-box if you like, sir," she had consented. "But
I don't see what good it'll do. I can only tell them the truth. And I
told them that at the police-station. I never was a liar, sir. I did it
to save Bob."
"I did it to save Bob!" Those words still echoed in the barrister's ears
as he emerged from the gloom of Temple station into sunlight, and turned
down the Embankment toward his chambers, where--Bunce, brief and
witnesses for the defense being already on their way to the court--John
Cartwright alone awaited him.
The solicitor was in his gloomiest mood, thoroughly convinced of Lucy's
guilt.
"Unless Brunton fails on the issue of premeditation," he said, "we
haven't got a dog's chance. Even if he does fail on that point, she'll
get seven years."
At that, poignantly, the human element of the case came home to Ronnie.
It seemed to him as though he saw Aliette's self imprisoned, beating out
her heart--day after day, month after month, year after year--against
the cold walls and the cold bars of a prison-house.
"Not if I can help it," he said hotly.
"Have you decided to put her in the box? H. B.'s a holy terror for
cross-examination."
"Of course I shall put her in the box. I'm not afraid of H. B.! Let's be
off."
John Cartwright--thinking the tactics hopeless--would have protested;
but, realizing from the other's demeanor how much this case meant to
him, realizing (Ronnie's matrimonial position was common gossip in the
offices of Wilberforce, Wilberforce & Cartwright) more than a little of
the secret drama which underlay the public, he kept his own counsel all
the way to the Old Bailey. "At any rate," thought John Cartwright,
"Standon will get the show he's paying for."
It was fifteen minutes to ten by the time their car made Holborn; ten to
when it drew up at the door of the court. Already they could see the
forerunners of a crowd. Public sympathy, astutely roused by Standon, had
enlisted itself on the side of the accused and of her counsel. In any
other country, the little knot of people would have cheered. As it was,
they only stared sympathetically while the cameras clicked and the two
men disappeared from view.
"I'll see to the witnesses," said Cartwright, as the lift jerked them to
the first floor. "You go and get dressed."
In the robing-room Ronnie found Hugh Spillcroft.
"I'm at a loose end," said that genial youth, "so I've come to watch the
show. Going to win?"
"If I can," retorted Ronald grimly. "But it's going to be a devil of a
job."
They passed out of the robing-room, and threaded their way across the
crowded landing toward No. 2 court. By the outer door, its oak and glass
guarded by two enormous constables, stood Bob Fielding and various other
witnesses. The young sailor's face was gray. His whole body, even the
two empty sleeves of the shabby coat, twitched.
"You'll do your best for her, sir?" he stammered. "You'll do your best
for Lucy?"
"I'll do my utmost, Fielding," answered the tall, dignified man in the
wig and gown, the man who was no longer either Aliette Brunton's lover
or Julia Cavendish's son, but only an advocate whose brain, keyed to
contest-pitch, resented any and every unnecessary strain on its
concentration.
With the various other people who tried to detain him, more especially
with Benjamin Bunce and Bertram Standon's secretary, Ronnie's manner was
abrupt, irritable to the point of discourtesy. Knowing that he would
need it all, he husbanded his self-control against the inevitable
face-to-face meeting with Brunton.
"Time to toddle in," reminded Spillcroft.
One of the constables opened for them. Halting just inside the outer
door, Ronnie could see, through the glass panels of the inner, the back
of the great dock, light oak below, glass-and-iron paneled above; and
beyond the dock, on the left of it, the already-occupied jury-box and
the projecting canopy of the judge's dais. Then the outer door closed,
the inner door opened, and they made their way in.
The domed court was a sight, every seat taken. There were ten tiers of
curious heads behind the dock. On the low benches between dock and
witness-box; in the high gallery opposite; and even below the gallery,
among the bewigged counsel who crowded the benches reserved for the bar,
lay spectators packed and packed. At the press table, the reporters sat
so close to one another that their right arms could scarcely reach their
note-books. But Ronnie had no eyes for the crowd; his eyes were all for
his enemy.
Brunton sat very still, like a mastiff on watch, in the far corner of
the front bench just below the three unoccupied thrones of the judge's
dais. The gray eyes under the gray horsehair, fixed on the jury as
though to hypnotize them, did not deign to notice the entrance of
counsel for the defense. Nevertheless, Ronnie, taking his seat below the
dock at the opposite end of the bench, knew instinctively that Brunton
was aware of him.
Sitting, the barrister could no longer see his enemy. Henry
Smith-Assher's vast Pickwickian back blocked his view. But the mental
vision still remained; and with it, strengthening the will to win, came
the first fierce gush of personal hatred.
"His lordship's late," whispered Spillcroft.
Ronnie, controlling himself, settled his back comfortably against the
oak; glanced through his brief; and glanced up covertly from his brief
at the jury. There were nine men and three women in the box. The men
looked to be ordinary orderly citizens, apparently of the shop-keeping
class, their faces bovine, their eyes unimaginative. Of the women, two
were hard-featured, sour-faced spinsters whom he felt instinctively
would be difficult to convince, and the third a fat, good-natured matron
of five-and-forty, with a string of false pearls round her ample neck
and a feathered hat on her jaunty head. He decided not to challenge any
of them.
The click of an opening door disturbed further scrutiny; and a moment
later there appeared, on the right of the judge's dais, a man's figure
in full court dress--silk stockings on his legs, lace ruffle at his
throat, and sword at his side--who ushered in his lordship, robed in the
scarlet and ermine of full ceremonial, and, following his lordship, two
portly creatures in aldermanic robes, chains of office round their
necks.
"Silence!" called the crier of the court.
Rising to his feet, Ronnie felt the tense pull of the crowd. The crowd
expected him to speak; expected oratory of him. Supposing he were to
fail them! The tongue felt like leather in his mouth. His mind blurred.
He forgot every detail of the case. To sit down again, to fumble among
the papers on the desk in front of him, was positive relief.
The crier of the court began swearing in the jury. One by one the nine
men and the three women rose from their places, answering to their names
and to the quaint old formula: "You shall well and truly try, and true
deliverance make, between our sovereign lord the king and the prisoner
at the bar, whom you shall have in charge, and a true verdict give
according to the evidence." Last of all, from the back of the box,
answered the fat and friendly matron.
"_Quel chapeau!_" whispered Hugh Spillcroft from behind; and a second
later, as it seemed to Ronnie, he heard the sound of feet moving up the
steps below the dock; and caught sight of Lucy's face pale above the
pale oak.
Her gaze sought his trustfully; and at that precise moment Ronnie's
ears, nervously attuned, were aware of the faintest gasp behind him, of
the whistling breath-intake of a man shocked beyond self-control.
Turning his head, he saw Brunton; Brunton---gray eyes staring, jowl
a-twitch, teeth bit to the underlip.
To Brunton, startled almost out of his wits by the unexpected
apparition; to Brunton with his preconceived idea of the blowzy
slum-woman, it was as though Aliette herself stood before him; as though
the wraith of her had materialized, Banquo-like, to fight for Cavendish.
Then, as Lucy Towers, upright between wardress and constable, proud,
dignified, aloof with Aliette's own aloofness, her brown head bare, her
brown eyes unflinching, her hands--small as Aliette's own--gripping the
edge of the dock, smiled down at Ronnie, the last least whisper of
conscience was still in the K.C.'s soul; and he swore to himself that
the very likeness of this woman to the wife who had deserted him should
be her doom. "Vengeance," he thought. "Vengeance indeed!"
The crier of the court was reading the indictment. "Murdered her
husband--William Towers--by shooting him," read the crier; and Brunton,
watching his victim as a snake watches the bird, saw that her eyes,
Aliette's own vivid eyes, were still on Cavendish.
"Prisoner at the bar, do you plead guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty, my lord," came Aliette's own shy voice.
And a moment afterwards, cool, self-controlled, pitiless, deadly sure of
every deadly word, the "hanging prosecutor" rose to speak.
"My lord and members of the jury"--the man was all actor now, an actor
keyed to cold genius by the hot urge of suppressed rage,--"you have
already heard the indictment against this woman. It is an indictment on
the charge of murder, the penalty for which is death. The actual facts
of the case will not, I fancy, be disputed. Let me give them to you as
briefly as I can. At about six o'clock on the afternoon of the fifth of
July last, a police-constable on duty in Brixton heard the noise of a
revolver-shot from No. 25 Laburnum Grove, a block of working-class
flats.
"Entering these flats, the constable--as he will tell you in his
evidence--found, in a room on the third floor, the prisoner and a man, a
certain Robert Fielding, of whom the less said the better. At their
feet, a bullet-wound through his heart, lay the dead body of the
prisoner's husband, William Towers. In the woman's hand was a smoking
revolver, one cartridge of which--and one only--had been fired.
"The constable arrested both the man and the woman. He took them to
Brixton police-station. There, Lucy Towers, entirely on her own
initiative, made a clean breast of the whole business. Her confession,
which you will hear, is--I shall submit--even without the other evidence
in possession of the Crown, sufficient to merit the rope."
Now, pausing, Brunton grew aware of his enemy. His enemy was eying him,
quietly, dispassionately. For a second his concentration failed. Then,
pitiless, the deadly speech flowed on.
"Such, members of the jury, are the actual undeniable facts. The defense
has entered a plea of not guilty. After you have heard my
evidence--evidence which in my contention proves conclusively not only
the commission of this dreadful crime, but its dreadful motive--it will
be for you to decide, subject to his lordship's direction, the issue
between us.
"And at this point, before I go into the question of motive, I purpose,
with his lordship's permission, to give you a brief, a very brief
summary of the legal definition of homicide. Our English law divides the
crime of homicide into three classes: justifiable or excusable homicide,
manslaughter, and murder. It is of this last that I shall ask you, after
duly weighing my evidence, to convict Lucy Towers.
"Murder, let me tell you, has been very aptly defined in the few words,
'Murder is unlawful homicide with malice aforethought.' It is the
existence of malice which distinguishes this crime from justifiable or
excusable homicide and from manslaughter. In order, therefore, to prove
to you that this woman murdered her husband, I must demonstrate, as I
shall demonstrate, not only that she shot him down with a revolver--a
fact which I again remind you is not in dispute--but that she shot him
down in cold blood and with malice aforethought. That is to say, that
she had actually planned to kill him before--long before--the fifth of
July. On this point, quite apart from the point of motive, we have
incontrovertible evidence."
Again Brunton paused, conscious of his opponent; again, actor-like,
Brunton's part went on.
"Malice aforethought, as his lordship will direct you, entails motive.
Now, what was this woman's motive? Why did she kill her husband? Had
she, in killing him, some ulterior object? It is my contention," the
voice rose, "that she had such an object; that this woman," one
gentlemanly finger pointed accusingly at the dock, "when she killed
William Towers, her wedded husband, had one object, and one object only
in her mind--to free herself from him, to free herself at all and any
cost. Why?
"Members of the jury, it will be my duty, my very painful duty, to
answer that question by proving that this woman, this Lucy Towers, is
not only a murderess but an adulteress; that she had a lover, an illicit
lover--none other than Robert Fielding, the very man in whose room this
crime, this atrocious crime, was committed. I think"--Brunton's eyes
dropped to the brief in front of him, and he began turning over the
pages of it--"that after I have read to you the confession, the
voluntary confession of the prisoner, you will admit that not only the
crime but its motive stands proved, and proved up to the hilt, out of
her own mouth."
So far, Ronnie--chin propped on one hand, the other busy with his
notes--had listened, unmoved, to his enemy's opening. But now, suddenly,
as Brunton read out, emphasizing every word that might tell against her,
his client's confession; as he guessed from the very looks of the jury,
from the very way in which they craned forward from their box, how deep
an impression those words were creating in their minds; his heart
misgave him, and he glanced up, as though for confirmation of her
innocence, at Lucy.
Lucy Towers was eying Brunton, not as the fascinated bird eyes the
snake, but as the slandered eyes the slanderer. In the white of her
cheeks, color came and went by fitful flashes. Her mouth kept opening
and closing, as though to give Brunton the lie. Once, when the harsh
voice mouthed the end of her confession, "I love Bob very much," she
would have started to her feet had not the wardress placed a restraining
hand on her arm.
But in all that crowded court only Lucy's advocate and the wardress
noticed Lucy. Judge, jury, spectators--all watched the "hanging
prosecutor." He, and he alone, dominated the court by the sheer amazing
flow of his oratory. For now Brunton had thrown aside the legal mask;
now his every word came hot from his heart, from that heart which had
made its choice between mercy and vengeance.
"My lord," rang the harsh voice, "my lord, members of the jury, can any
statement be more damnable, more damning that those words which I have
just read to you? What need have I for eloquence, when this adulteress,
this fallen woman," again his hand shot out, pointing to the prisoner in
the dock, "whom my learned friend for the defense would have you find
not guilty, has proved herself, out of her own mouth, Robert Fielding's
strumpet? What need have I of witnesses to prove the malice, the
lecherous malice which inspired this crime? What mitigation can any
counsel put before you?
"Will he say that this crime was an accident? That it was an act of
self-defense? Accident! This was no accident. Self-defense! This was no
act of self-defense. It was murder, members of the jury, deliberate,
cold-blooded murder.
"What need have I of witnesses? Yet I have witnesses--not one witness,
but many witnesses--a witness who will prove to you that for weeks, for
months, nay, for years before the perpetration of this crime, Robert
Fielding had been amorous of his cousin--witnesses who will testify that
this woman, almost since the day of her marriage, had been on the worst
possible terms with her murdered husband--witnesses, unimpeachable,
independent witnesses to whom she has admitted, not once but a dozen
times, that she wished her husband dead.
"Members of the jury, we do not live in an age of miracles. When you
know, as you already do know, that those wishes came true, and came true
by her own hand--when you hear, as you will hear, of her clandestine
visits, at dead of night to her lover's room--you will say to yourself,
as I say to you now, 'This was no accident; no act of self-defense: this
was murder, murder premotived and premeditated, the murder which our
justice punishes with death.'
"A life for a life, your lordship. A life for a life, members of the
jury. That is the penalty which, on behalf of the Crown, I shall demand
against this woman whom counsel for the defense would have you find not
guilty of any crime whatsoever."
Slowly Hector Brunton's eyes turned from the woman in the dock toward
his enemy; till even Ronnie shrank before the vindictive fury in those
gray and glimmering pupils.
"This is the man," muttered the voiceless soul behind those grayly
glimmering eyes, "this is the man who stole your woman; the man who
dares defend this other adulteress against you." But the words, the
words planned overnight, never faltered on Brunton's lips. For all his
fury, his legal mind, functioning automatically, missed never a point.
The clock-hands crept on and on. In the packed courtroom was no sound
save the scratch of the shorthand-writers' fountain pens, the tap-tap of
the gentlemanly fingers on the oak, the harsh interminable harangue.
Till at last the harangue slowed to its peroration; and passion ebbed
from Brunton's voice, leaving it once more cool, deadly, pitiless.
"If I," rang the cool, deadly voice, "if I, the paid advocate of the
Crown, have spoken in anger, rarely it is just anger. Surely, in this
England of ours, adultery which leads to murder--as this woman's
adultery has led to murder--will find none to excuse, none to condone
it. Surely, the quality of mercy was overstrained when another court let
this woman's paramour go free.
"Members of the jury, that woman in the dock, that adulteress, shot her
husband. She shot him down in cold blood, of malice aforethought and
after due deliberation. It is for you, as just citizens, to see that she
does not escape the uttermost penalty of her guilt."
The harsh voice ceased.
Brunton, with one last glance at the woman in the dock, a glance
commingled of fear and triumph--for now, once again, he saw her as
Aliette, a ghost siding with the man who had betrayed him--sat down; and
Henry Smith-Assher, rising, began to call the stereotyped, commonplace
evidence entrusted to a junior counsel.
Ronnie hardly listened. The production of the revolver, the testimony of
the constable who had made the arrest, the plan of the room--none of
these mattered. Mattered only Brunton--Brunton whose eyes never left the
jury--Brunton whose deadly oratory had closed every loophole of escape
save one.
But just before the luncheon interval, when the sergeant who had taken
down Lucy's statement kissed the book and began his tale in the usual
toneless voice of the police, Cartwright--watching counsel for the
defense--saw his hands busy with the pencil; and knew that--luncheon
interval over--the real fight would begin.
4
Usually barristers at the Old Bailey lunch communally in the mess-room;
sometimes in private, with the judge. But to-day no invitation came from
his tactful lordship; and, since Brunton might be in the mess-room,
Ronnie elected for the near-by "George."
Emerging disrobed from the court, Hugh Spillcroft on his one side and
Cartwright on his other, he was again aware of the crowd. The little
knot of idlers had increased. On the opposite side of the road,
newspaper placards--black on red of the "Evening Standard," black on
white of the "Evening News," black on green of the "Westminster
Gazette," already flaunted their slogans: "TOWERS CASE: SPEECH FOR THE
CROWN." "HANGING PROSECUTOR OPENS TOWERS CASE." "TRIAL OF LUCY TOWERS
BEGUN."
The placards worried Ronnie; they seemed to accentuate the forlornness
of his cause. All through their hasty meal, snatched at a corner-table
of the crowded chop-house, he felt himself growing more and more
nervous, less and less confident of success. Spillcroft's conversation
and Cartwright's irritated him. _Their_ interest was so coldly legal.
They spoke of Lucy Towers, of himself and Brunton, as men who have
betted well within their means speak of race-horses.
"H. B.'ll have you on toast if he proves adultery," decided Spillcroft.
"Do as you like, of course; but I shouldn't risk putting the woman in
the box," urged Cartwright. "I should plead 'manslaughter' and have done
with it."
"Thanks for the suggestion," fumed Ronnie. "I thought I was being paid
to _fight_."
"Good for you! Try one of these." Cartwright, laughing, offered him a
small cigar: "Nothing like tobacco for a fighting man."
Smoking, Ronnie visualized Brunton, gray eyes staring, jowl a-twitch,
teeth bit to the under lip; Brunton as he had seen him when Lucy Towers
first entered the dock. And visualizing, realizing the shock that
amazing likeness must have been, he could not help admiring the man.
Brunton, startled at the very moment of tensest concentration, had yet
managed to make the speech of his life, missing never a legal point in
two hours of impassioned argument. How could he, the poor orator,
compete with such a man; how prove any flaw in the "hanging
prosecutor's" thesis that Lucy Towers, adulteress, shot her husband so
that she might marry her paramour?
"Ten minutes to two," said Cartwright, paying the bill.
5
Reëntering the crowded court, Ronnie saw that Brunton was already
seated. The K.C., turning from conference with his junior, darted one
look at his opponent; that same look, compound of fear and obstinacy, of
injured pride and determination for revenge, of the weak man who knows
himself in the wrong and means to persist in his wrong-doing, which
Ronnie had noted on the day when he pleaded for Aliette's freedom.
Forcibly the personal issue obtruded on Ronnie's mind; and he could not
help speculating, as Mr. Justice Heber took his seat, whether that
ermined figure, whose gleaming spectacles turned this way and that, to
the police-sergeant reëntering the box, to the jury, to Henry
Smith-Assher rising to continue his examination-in-chief, and lastly to
the motionless woman in the dock, knew anything of the fight for another
woman's freedom, of the private quarrel between counsel for the
prosecution and counsel for the defense.
"May we take it, then," Henry Smith-Assher fidgeted with the tapes round
his bull-neck, "that the accused's statement was entirely voluntary?"
"Entirely," answered the witness, obviously honest, and as obviously
convinced of the prisoner's guilt.
"Thank you, sergeant, that's all I have to ask you."
Henry Smith-Assher subsided; and Ronnie--his voice vibrating with
suppressed nerves, but all issues save the immediate driven from his
mind--rose to cross-examine.
"I want you to tell me, sergeant, whether the original suggestion that
the accused should make a statement came from you or from her?"
"From the accused."
"You cautioned her, of course?"
"Yes."
"Did she, at the time she made the statement, appear much upset?"
"Considerably, I should say."
"Ah." Ronnie---one hand spread-eagled on his brief, jingled with the
other at the coins in his trouser-pocket. "Then I should not, perhaps,
be putting it too strongly if I suggested that at the time she made this
so-called confession the accused was in a state of hysteria?"
"She was considerably upset," repeated the witness stolidly.
"Was she crying?"
"Well----"
"Answer the question, please."
"She might have been crying."
"H'm." Again the coins jingled in the trouser-pocket. "Did you gather
from her general demeanor that the accused was attempting to tell you
the exact truth?"
"Yes."
"And, coming to the last words of her statement, 'I love Bob very much,'
did you gather from the way accused made that statement that Robert
Fielding was her lover, in the accepted sense of the word?"
The uniformed witness hesitated; and Ronnie, his nerves for the moment
forgotten, took advantage of the hesitation. "I want you to tell his
lordship and the jury, sergeant, whether, when the accused volunteered
this statement to you, the impression made on your mind was the
impression that she had been guilty of adultery with her cousin, Robert
Fielding."
"I can't say I thought very much about it."
"You can't say you thought very much about it? Exactly. Didn't you
think, perhaps, as any reasoning man would think, that all the accused
meant to imply was that she was very fond of her cousin?"
"Yes. I suppose so."
"Thank you. I'll take that answer."
The next witnesses were the medical experts--Dr. Spilsbury and Dr.
Wilcox. Them Ronnie did not cross-examine. But as Maggie Peterson,
answering instantly to the call of her name, flounced through the glass
doors and made her defiant way past the reporters' table to the box,
John Cartwright--watching counsel for the defense as a trainer watches
his man in the ring--saw his mouth set, his chin protrude. And John
Cartwright thought, "I wonder if I was right about briefing Cavendish. I
wish I knew what he was driving at with that last cross-examination. I
wonder what he'll make of this witness. From the look in H. B.'s eyes,
she's the crux of his case."
Lucy Towers, too, seemed to realize the importance of Maggie Peterson's
evidence. Again, as during Brunton's opening, aloofness went from her.
She leaned forward from the dock.
"You're a married woman, Mrs. Peterson?" Hector Brunton in person rose
to examine the blowzy black-eyed creature who had just kissed the
well-thumbed book.
"I am."
"And at the time when Lucy Towers shot her husband you were living at 25
Laburnum Grove?"
"I was."
"Could you tell us the date of the shooting?"
"The fifth of July."
"Were you actually in the house when the crime took place?"
"I was not." The patness of the cockney woman's answers warned Ronnie
that she must have been coached in her part. It seemed to him, listening
to her every carefully-pronounced syllable, that a purpose, a definite,
a personal, and a premeditated purpose, underlay them.
"For how long before the fifth of July had you been living at Laburnum
Grove?" went on Brunton.
"Two years."
"Had you known Mr. and Mrs. Towers for some considerable time?"
"I had. And Bob Fielding."
"Confine yourself to answering my questions, please. For how long had
you know William Towers and his wife?"
"Eighteen months. Ever since they came to live at the Grove."
The K.C. paused, and looked warningly at the jury before putting his
next question. "Then can you tell us, of your own knowledge, whether,
during those eighteen months, the accused was on good terms with her
husband?"
The woman--purposely as it appeared to Ronnie--hesitated; and Brunton,
leaning forward, altered his formula. "Did they, as husband and wife,
get on well with one another?"
"Well, I shouldn't like to say they was on the best of terms."
"Were they on bad terms?"
"Yuss." The voice, hitherto so careful, lapsed into slum cockney. "Yuss.
She was a bad wife to Bill, was Lucy. Never did nothing for him."
At that his lordship made as though to put a question, and the examiner
changed his line. "Now I want to ask you: have you ever heard the dead
man complain about his wife?"
"Not till Bob Fielding came to live at the Grove."
"But after Robert Fielding came, he did complain about her?"
"Yuss, often."
"Can you tell us the sort of thing he used to say?"
"Yuss. He said that he could never get nothing done because she was
always muckin' about with Bob."
With any other examiner except Brunton, the coarse phrase would have
elicited laughter from the spectators. But Brunton was taking no
chances. Quickly he carried on his witness's story.
"You gathered then, I take it, that William Towers was not satisfied
with his wife's behavior?"
"Satisfied?" The black eyes under the feathered hat glinted. "Nah. He
wasn't never satisfied, with 'er. Not after Bob Fielding came to the
Grove."
"Would you describe William Towers as jealous of Robert Fielding?"
"Nah. Not jealous, but suspicious."
"Suspicious, eh? Had he, to your knowledge, any reasons for that
suspicion? Have you personally, for instance, ever seen any act on the
part of the accused which might give rise to suspicion in her husband's
mind?"
"Well----" Again it seemed to Ronnie, weighing every inflection of the
cockney voice, that both the hesitant monosyllable and the answer which
followed it were premeditated. "Well, I've seen her going to 'is room
often enough."
"Whose room?"
"Bob Fielding's."
Brunton paused to study his brief; and in that pause it came home to
Ronnie that the whole atmosphere of the court was hostile. The domed
place seemed charged with psychical electricity. He could actually feel
the currents of fear and prejudice tingling between the motionless jury
and the motionless figure in the dock. Looking at his client, he saw
that her lips moved, as though in dumb, unavailing protest.
"And these visits"--the "hanging prosecutor" did not even look up from
his brief,--"were they paid by night or by day?"
"She was alwus going to 'im."
"By night as well as by day?"
"Yuss. By night as well as by day."
"What time of the night?"
"All hours of the night."
"You're certain on that point?" Now Brunton looked at his witness.
"Yuss, certain."
"Then can you give us any particular date on which you actually saw the
accused woman go into Bob Fielding's room late at night?"
"She went there about half-past nine on the night of July 4th."
"And did you see her come out?"
"Nah. She hadn't come out by the time I went to bed."
"The night before the murder. Thank you, Mrs. Peterson." Brunton smiled
grimly. "And now, just one more question. Has the accused ever spoken to
you about her husband?"
"Yuss."
"When was the last time she spoke to you about him?"
"On the Sunday."
"What Sunday?"
"The Sunday"--Maggie Peterson's voice shrilled--"before she shot 'im."
"Please tell his lordship and the jury, to the best of your
recollection, what she said to you."
The hard eyes of the woman in the witness-box turned to the woman in the
dock. For a full second they looked at one another; and Ronnie,
watching, saw that it was Maggie Peterson who first turned away.
"Tell his lordship and the jury," prompted Brunton.
"Well"--a fraction of its certainty had gone out of the shrill
voice,--"it was like this. We meets in the passage, and she says to me:
'Bill ain't fit to be no woman's 'usband. I wish to Gawd 'e was dead. I
shan't never know a moment's 'appiness till he _is_ dead.'"
"And had the accused previously made, in your presence, similar
statements?"
"Yuss. Time and again."
"Thank you. That will be all."
Hector Brunton sat down; but before Ronnie could rise to cross-examine,
the judge had intervened.
"You say," said the judge, referring to his notes, "that on the night
before the crime was committed, at about half-past nine o'clock, you saw
the accused go into Robert Fielding's room. Was she--to your personal
knowledge--in the habit of making such visits?"
"Yuss, m'lord."
"You're prepared to swear that?"
"Yuss, m'lord."
"Very well." Deliberately, Mr. Justice Heber wrote down the answer.
"Now, on the night of July 4, you're prepared to swear that you actually
saw the accused"--the legal voice was stern--"go into Robert Fielding's
room; and you are also prepared to swear that by the time you went to
bed, she had not come out."
"Yes, m'lord."
"Where were you at the time you saw all this?"
"I was standing in the passage----"
"What passage?"
"The passage between her room and mine."
Mr. Justice Heber relapsed into a meditative silence; and Ronnie,
looking across the thirty feet of crowded space which separated him from
the hard defiant eyes of Maggie Peterson, rose nervously to his feet.
"You told my learned friend"--the suave tone betrayed no hint of
hostility--"that you are a married woman. Are we to understand from that
that you and your husband live together?"
"No."
"I take it, then, that you are legally separated----"
"My lord, I protest." Instantly Brunton, too, was on his feet. "My
learned friend is not entitled to cross-examine----"
"My lord, I submit," instantly, counsel for the defense took up the
challenge, "that on the question of credibility I am entitled----"
The judge allowed the question, and Brunton, muttering, subsided.
Yes, admitted Maggie Peterson, she was separated from her husband.
"And you told his lordship"--his first victory over the enemy made
Ronnie suaver than ever--"that you occupied the room opposite to that in
which the accused lived with her husband. Can I take it, from that, that
you were--and still are--on friendly terms with the accused?"
The witness faltered. "Well, she and me used to speak to one another
when we met."
"Then you neither were nor are on particularly good terms with the
accused. Now, were you on friendly terms with the accused's husband?"
Again the witness faltered, and Ronnie repeated his question. "I put it
to you that you were not on friendly terms with Lucy Towers, but that
you were very friendly with William Towers."
"Not very friendly. We were just neighbors."
"Just neighbors, eh?" For the first time since Maggie Peterson had
entered the witness-box, Ronnie felt the atmosphere of the court
favorable. The jury, and more especially the three women on the jury,
had obviously taken his lucky point. He pressed it home: "You say the
accused told you, some days before the crime, that she would never be
happy until her husband was dead. Why should she tell you that if you
and she were not on friendly terms?"
"I dunno," sulkily; "she just said it."
"Are you prepared to swear that those were the actual words she used?"
"Yuss," defiantly, "I am."
"Then if I put Mrs. Towers in the witness-box, if she denies on oath
that she made any such statement to you, she will be guilty of perjury?"
"Well----"
"I want an answer to my question. If Mrs. Towers denies, on oath, that
she made any such statement, will she or you be guilty of perjury?"
"Well," the red hands shifted on the rail of the witness-box, "I
wouldn't care to say she used those actual words. But that was what she
meant."
"You realize that what you are saying is of very grave importance?"
"Yuss."
"But you abide by what you have told us about the conversation between
you and the accused?"
"Yuss."
Question and answer went on; till Maggie Peterson, gazing angrily at her
interrogator, saw a black-coated figure move to his side.
"What the devil----" Ronnie, feeling a twitch at his gown, turned to see
Bunce, all agog with excitement.
"Chap at the back of the court, sir, says you're to look at this before
you ask any more questions."
Benjamin Bunce, having delivered himself of his message and a scrap of
soiled paper, slipped away. Ronnie, taking no further notice of the
interruption, continued his attempts to shake Maggie Peterson's
evidence. But the witness had grown sullen. His suavity elicited only
monosyllables. He felt the jury wearying, growing hostile once
more--felt himself outwitted--felt it useless to continue the struggle.
Then, just as he was preparing to sit down, his left hand, fidgeting
with his notes, touched the scrap of paper which Bunce had laid among
them; and glancing down, he saw: "M. P. is a bloody liar. I can tell you
something about what she was doing on the fourth of July."
Ronnie looked round for his clerk, but his clerk had disappeared. The
ermined figure on the bench was growing bored.
"If you have no further questions to ask this witness----" began the
ermined figure.
Maggie Peterson grinned. And suddenly Ronnie knew panic. Either he must
close his cross-examination; or risk a shot in the dark. For a second he
made as though to sit down; then, seeing some emotion almost akin to
reproach flit across the pale face of his client, he took his risk.
"You told both my learned friend and his lordship that at half-past nine
o'clock on the fourth of July--I want you to be very careful of the
date, please--you saw the accused go into Robert Fielding's room. You
are still prepared to swear, on your oath, that that statement is the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
"Yuss"--shrilly, but there was a trace of fear in the shrill.
"And supposing--mind you, I'm only supposing--that a witness were to
come forward and say that, on the night in question, you could not
possibly have seen any such thing, that witness would not be telling the
truth?"
"What do yer mean?"
"I should have thought it was sufficiently obvious," said Ronnie
gravely; and repeating his question knew, by the very look on the
witness's face, that his shot in the dark had found its mark.
"I've told yer all I know," retorted Maggie Peterson stubbornly.
"Possibly more." Ronnie, warming to a subdued chuckle from Spillcroft,
ventured one more question. "Tell me, please, what you did _after_ you
had--as you say--watched the accused woman go into her cousin's room?"
"Went to bed, of course."
"Then you were in bed by a quarter to ten?"
"I suppose so."
"Not later than ten o'clock, anyway?"
"No."
"Thank you." Ronnie turned to the judge. "That is all I have to ask this
witness, m' lord."
To the woman in the box, it seemed that her ordeal was over; to the
jury, that the bulk of her evidence remained unshaken. But
Brunton--reëxamining at length--was obviously suspicious of a trap. He
kept on glancing at Ronnie as though to find out what had prompted those
last questions; and Ronnie, as though hiding some secret, kept on
refusing to meet the glance.
"I shall adjourn till ten o'clock to-morrow," said his
lord-ship--reëxamination concluded.
Sweeping his scornful way out of court, the "hanging prosecutor" deigned
yet another glance at his enemy. But his enemy's eyes did not look up:
they were still glued to that little scrap of paper which he had spread
out on his brief.