1
Walking back alone to the "ridiculous flat," Ronald Cavendish was
oppressed with a sense of his own inefficiency. Even though his
intuitive suspicions about Maggie Peterson's honesty had been to a very
large extent confirmed by that piece of paper, the author of that piece
of paper could not be found. Bunce, bullied to remember who had given
him the document, thought it was "a common-looking kind of fellow."
Cartwright, told, had said skeptically, "Those sort of things always
happen in murder-trials. I'd forget it if I were you." But Ronnie could
not forget.
Halting under the light of a street-lamp, he drew the paper from his
pocketbook and reread it for the twentieth time. If only he could
succeed in discrediting the Peterson woman. Yet, even if he did succeed
in discrediting Maggie Peterson, in nullifying her evidence as to
motive, Brunton--according to his opening--had other witnesses.
Walking on, he bought an evening paper. The paper reported Brunton's
speech verbatim. Curse Brunton! What an orator the man was. Listening to
him, one could hardly imagine Lucy Towers anything but the murderous
adulteress.
2
Caroline Staley had prepared the usual faultless dinner; but her master
ate hardly anything. In his mind, he went over Maggie Peterson's
evidence, weighing it word by word. Obviously the woman hated Lucy
Towers; obviously, almost obviously, she had had some sort of relations,
probably immoral relations, with the dead man. But how the devil could
one prove that? Even proved, how did it advance matters? If only Bunce
hadn't been such an infernal fool. If only Brunton weren't such an
infernally fine orator. Curse Brunton!
Half a bottle of claret and a cigar only added to Ronnie's depression.
Alone in the drawing-room where he and Aliette had so often sat
together, he felt as though, failing Lucy Towers, he would fail his own
woman; as though the fate of Lucy and the fate of Aliette were one fate;
as though, by not saving the one from Brunton's hideous cleverness, he
would never rescue the other from Brunton's hideous obduracy.
Brunton! The man's face traced itself, bewigged, implacable, relentless,
in every up-curling puff of Ronnie's cigar-smoke. Behind that face
hovered the faces of the jury. And the jury stood for public opinion;
public opinion solid on Brunton's side. In his fight against Lucy
Towers, as in his fight against his wife, Brunton had the world's
judgment in his favor: yet both women--"_both_," repeated
conviction--were innocent, at least in intent, of anti-social crime.
A hell of a lot "intent" mattered to Hector Brunton!
If only Hector Brunton were dead! If only for Aliette's sake, for Lucy's
sake, he, Ronald Cavendish, could kill Brunton as William Towers had
been killed! Surely that killing would be not murder, but justice. For
more than a year Brunton, moved only by blind vanity, had been striving
to compass the ruin of a woman against whom his only grudge was that she
had denied herself to him. Now, moved by the same blind motive, he was
striving to compass the ruin and the death of Lucy Towers. Between those
two women and the tyrant who oppressed them stood but one man.
Himself--Ronald Cavendish. Surely the killing of Brunton would be no
murder!
The little mood of madness passed. Resolutely Ronnie put the personal
issue out of mind. Resolutely he fetched his papers from his
dressing-room and set himself to study the reports of the trial before
the magistrate. If only he could discredit Brunton's evidence on the
question of adultery, surely there was a chance, just the shadow of a
chance, to secure the coveted verdict, justifiable homicide.
"But I'd need to be an orator for that," he thought; and all night,
tossing sleepless, visions flickered across the taut screen-board of his
brain. Alternately he saw Aliette, Lucy, his mother--sad faces, each
oppressed, each pleading for deliverance.
Yet next morning, as he emerged from Temple Station and made his way
along the Embankment to his chambers, Ronald Cavendish's self-confidence
returned. And the self-confidence increased fourfold when Bunce, rather
shamefaced, handed him yet another scrap of paper.
"Found this in our letter-box, sir," said Bunce.
Deciphered, the sprawly disguised handwriting read: "I seed her in the
Red Lion, Hill Street, with Bill T. Time 10:15 pip emma. She's a bitch.
I ought to know. I married her."
This time even John Cartwright thought the information of value. "Though
I don't see how you can use it," he said dubiously. "Unless Standon's
people can find this fellow Peterson for us."
"I sha'n't need Peterson," decided Ronnie, as their car swung them down
Holborn. "He probably has his own reasons for keeping out of the way. A
witness from the public-house will be enough. Will you send some one
down at once? The fourth of July, luckily, is American Independence day.
Some one's sure to remember if Towers was there on that particular
night, and who was with him."
The solicitor, dropping his passenger at the Old Bailey, drove off
hurriedly.
Public interest in the case had not diminished overnight. Already the
early street crowd numbered hundreds. On the great staircase, on the
wide landing, folks seethed and jostled. The packed court-room
itself--as the dignified figures of Mr. Justice Heber and his
accompanying big-wigs took their seats---was a lake of straining faces.
Immediately Brunton rose to examine his next witness; a tall
black-mustached, black-haired type with flashy rings and a flashy
tie-pin, who answered to the name of John Hodges.
He was a book-maker, John Hodges told the court. He had known Bill
Towers for many years--long before he married. He had often heard the
dead man speak of his wife. The dead man had been very fond of his wife;
but the affection, according to Hodges, had not been reciprocated.
Question and answer flowed on. But to Ronnie, waiting anxiously for
Cartwright's return, it seemed as though Brunton must be ill. Twice the
harsh voice missed the sequence of its questions. Twice Henry
Smith-Assher had need to prompt his leader. And twice, as the
examination neared its ending, the gray eyes under the "hanging
prosecutor's" gray horsehair deserted their witness to stare,
fascinated, at the woman in the dock. Lucy Towers, it seemed to Brunton,
stared back at him with his wife's own brown unfathomable pupils.
"You've known the accused ever since she married the deceased?" he asked
his witness. "Has she ever spoken to you about her husband?"
"Only once."
"Can you remember what she said?"
"Yes. She said that she wished she'd never married him."
"When was that?"
"Some time in June."
"Can't you fix the exact date?"
"No, not the exact date. It was somewhere about the end of June, I
think."
"Thank you." Heavily Hector Brunton sat down. All night the face of the
woman in the dock had haunted him. And now, now the still, small voice
of conscience was whispering again. "Cruel," whispered the voice;
"cruel." But the sight of Cavendish, rising to cross-examine, silenced
the voice of conscience, brought back the suspicion that Cavendish held
some card, some trump-card, up his sleeve. And "Even if he gets the
charge reduced to manslaughter," thought Brunton, "she'll do time. She
won't be able to trouble me for years. Say seven years."
"Mr. Hodges"--Ronnie's voice recalled his enemy to the
actualities,--"when the accused made this statement to you, were there
any other people present?"
"Yes."
"Will you please tell his lordship and the jury who else was present."
"Bill Towers, of course."
"Why 'of course'?"
"Well, naturally he wouldn't leave another man alone with his wife."
"He was jealous of her, eh?"
"Jealous!" The rings flashed. "I should just about say he was jealous."
"Ah!"--Ronnie's coins jingled--"and did this jealous husband make any
comment on his wife's remark?"
"No."
"Wasn't that rather curious? Now tell me, did you gather, from the way
you allege the accused spoke, that she meant her statement seriously?"
"I thought she was serious."
"Oh, you did, did you? Please tell me something else. Are you prepared
to inform his lordship and the jury that your impression at the time was
that it was the accused's intention to kill her husband if ever she got
the chance?"
"Well, I shouldn't like to go so far as, to say that."
"Naturally not. Now listen." Ronnie leaned forward; and his gaze
traveled towards the jury. "I put it to you that the remark was meant as
a joke."
"Well, not exactly a joke."
"Come, come, Mr. Hodges," said Ronnie, and his tone was a shade less
suave than his words, "you're a man of the world. You must have realized
at the time whether the accused was speaking seriously or not.'
"I thought she was serious." The book-maker, though obviously flustered,
stuck to his guns.
"Very well. We'll leave it at that. The accused told you, in her
husband's presence, that she wished she'd never married him. Her
husband, apparently, didn't take any notice of the remark. But you
thought it was serious. Not very convincing--but still----"
Ronnie's question trailed off into a sarcastic silence. Looking sideways
at Brunton, he could see that Brunton was troubled; Brunton kept talking
to Smith-Assher, kept fidgeting with his gown and tapes, with the
pencils and paper in front of him. The sight gave Ronnie confidence. He
continued his cross-examination.
"You told my learned friend that, although William Towers was very fond
of his wife, his affection was not reciprocated. How did you know that?
Did _she_ tell you?"
"No."
"Did William Towers tell you?"
"No."
"Then who did tell you?"
"Well, it was common gossip."
"Gossip!" Ronnie jumped on the word. "Where?"
"Oh, all over the place."
"Ah!" Counsel for the defense jingled two thoughtful coins. "I'm afraid
I don't know Brixton very well, Mr. Hodges. Tell me, please, when you
say all over the place, do you include," more jingling in the
trouser-pocket, "a certain public-house called--'The Red Lion'?"
"Well----" the witness hesitated.
"Let me put my point clearly. Do you know, in Brixton, a public-house
called 'The Red Lion'?"
"Yes."
"How far is that public-house from 25 Laburnum Grove?"
"About half a mile."
"Shall we say about ten minutes' walk?"
"Yes. That's about it."
Obviously the judge was puzzled. "Mr. Cavendish," he intervened, "I'm
afraid I don't quite follow."
"M' lord," every syllable of Ronnie's fell with its distinct emphasis,
"the point is of vital importance in connection with the evidence of a
previous witness." And he went on swiftly to ask the book-maker, "Do you
know a woman called Maggie Peterson?"
"Oh, yes." The white teeth under the black mustache parted in a grin.
"Oh, yes, I know her quite well."
"Mrs. Peterson told us in her evidence that she was a friend of the
deceased. Is that true?"
"Oh, yes, they were quite friendly."
"Very friendly?"
"Yes."
"Ah!" Ronnie, glancing covertly at the jury, saw a little ripple of
excitement pass over the stolid faces of the men. Behind him, among the
barristers, he could hear excited breathing. "Now, just one more
question, Mr. Hodges, and then I have finished with you. Have you ever
seen Mrs. Peterson in company with William Towers at 'The Red Lion'?"
"M' lord"--Brunton, scruples and caution thrown to the winds, leaped
upright,--"I protest at this attempt to cast aspersions----" But Mr.
Justice Heber, who had now taken Ronnie's point, allowed the question;
and John Hodges, reluctantly, answered it with a "Yes."
The K.C.'s attempt, in reëxamination, to prove the disinterestedness of
the book-maker, added to Ronnie's elation. If only Cartwright succeeded
in securing that evidence----
But Brunton's examination of the next witness pricked the bubble of his
opponent's momentary elation. The "hanging prosecutor" was fighting
again, fighting as he had never battled in his life, for a conviction.
The gray eyes no longer dared look at the dock; the woman in the dock,
thought Brunton, was the woman who had wronged him, the creature he must
destroy.
"I swear to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth," said James Travers, a big blond seafaring man whose
square-shouldered bulk almost filled the witness-box. And he spoke the
truth according to his lights. A story deadly enough, even without
Brunton's prompting. He and Bob Fielding had been shipmates during the
war. Bob Fielding had often spoken to him about his cousin Lucy. Bob
Fielding made no secret of the fact that he was in love with his cousin;
"that he'd have cut off his right hand rather than that she should marry
Bill Towers." Further, James Travers had visited Bob Fielding about
three days before the commission of the crime.
"Did he, on that visit, speak to you about the deceased?" asked Brunton.
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"He said that Bill Towers ought to be shot."
"Did he say anything about Mrs. Towers?"
"Yes, he said that she ought to have some one to look after her."
"Did he say she ought to have something to look after herself with?"
Despite Ronnie's protest at the leading question, his lordship allowed
it; and James Travers answered, "Yes."
"And what happened then?"
"He showed me a pistol."
"A pistol!" Brunton signaled to the clerk of the court, and the clerk
handed up a revolver to the witness. "Is that the pistol?"
"Yes."
"Was this weapon loaded when you last saw it?"
"It was."
"Did Fielding make any remark about it?"
"Yes. He said: 'That'll cook Bill's goose for him.'"
Once more the atmosphere of the court grew hostile. Watching the jury,
Bonnie could see that his enemy had almost turned them. Impassivity
settled like a mask on the faces of the nine men. The two spinsters
gazed awe-struck at the big weapon in the seafarer's big hand. Even the
red-hatted matron, whom he had decided a moment since definitely
favorable, shook her head twice as though in new doubt. Then, turning
from the jury-box to the dock, Ronnie was aware of his client's eyes.
The eyes--Aliette's very own---looked pitiful. Imagination told him that
they were afraid, that at last the woman realized her danger. He tried
to signal to her; but she took no notice of his signal.
"That will be enough, I think," gloated Brunton; and, nervously, Ronnie
started his task of cross-examination.
"You've known Robert Fielding for some time?"
"About seven years."
"Is he, in your opinion, a violent man? The kind of man who would commit
a murder?"
"No."
"Or," Ronnie's nervous voice dropped two full tones, "the sort of man
who would incite some one else to commit murder?"
"No."
"When Robert Fielding told you that he was in love with his cousin--that
was a good many years ago, wasn't it?--did you understand that there was
anything guilty in that love? That his cousin was his mistress?"
"No. I did not." The sailor's eyes--blue as the barrister's
own--kindled.
"As far as you know, had misconduct taken place between Robert Fielding
and his cousin?"
"I don't know anything about that."
"Was Lucy Towers in the room during any part of your conversation with
Robert Fielding?"
"No."
"Has Robert Fielding ever suggested to you, _since_ his cousin's
marriage, that he would like to get her away from her husband?"
"No." The witness hesitated. "Not exactly."
"What do you mean by 'not exactly'?"
"Well, it didn't seem to me that Bob'd be exactly sorry if anything
happened to Towers."
Brunton chuckled audibly. The chuckle enraged Ronnie. For a question or
two he fenced aimlessly with his witness's honesty. Then suddenly he
decided to try and turn that very honesty against his opponent.
"Tell me," he said suavely, "did you gather from the way in which Robert
Fielding habitually spoke of him that the dead man, William Towers, was
of a very violent disposition?"
"Well, more or less I suppose I did."
"And would it be too much if I suggested to you that it was solely
because of her husband's violent disposition that Robert Fielding
thought his cousin should have either some one to protect her, or some
means of protecting herself? That he had that particular thought in his
mind, and that thought only, when he showed you this revolver?"
The sailor seemed to find some difficulty in understanding the
suggestions; and even after Ronnie had repeated them piecemeal, he
refused, sailor-like, to commit himself.
Nervously, the cross-examination went on. "Now about this revolver: did
you gather that Robert Fielding had only just bought it, or that he had
had it in his possession for some considerable time? It's an
old-fashioned navy revolver, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"He must have had it some time--ever since he left the service,
probably?"
"Probably."
"He didn't, at any rate, tell you he'd just bought the weapon?"
"No."
"Coming back to the question of Towers, did Fielding tell you anything
about his habits?"
"Not that I remember."
"He didn't by any chance mention," Ronnie referred to a note at the back
of his brief, "that William Towers was addicted to drink?"
"No. He only said he ought to be shot."
Seating himself, Ronnie was conscious of partial failure. The
sailor-man's innate distrust of lawyers had taken the edge off his
questions. Brunton, infinitely experienced, limited his reëxamination to
the main points: Robert Fielding had admitted himself in love with his
cousin; Robert Fielding had said that William Towers ought to be shot.
Ronnie's hands, as he made his notes, trembled on the smooth foolscap.
The mute figure in the dock was a reproach. Cartwright had failed him.
Brunton's "That, members of the jury, is the case for the Crown," seemed
to carry the unworded sting, "And let my learned enemy refute it if he
can."
And then, just as Lucy Towers was being marched down to the cells, came
Cartwright, his eyes twinkling behind his rimless eye-glasses. "I've got
him outside," whispered Cartwright, "and I daren't leave him alone. It's
too damned important. Here's your proof." He disappeared through the
swing-doors with the crowd; and Ronnie, looking at the scribbled
document, read:
"Bert Bishop will state: I am the licensee of the Red Lion Tavern, Hill
Street, Brixton. I remember the fourth of July last year, because it was
American Independence day, and I have some American customers. On the
fourth of July I had difficulty in turning them out at closing-time. I
have known Maggie Peterson for two years. I knew the dead man, William
Towers. Maggie Peterson and William Towers were at the Red Lion that
night. They came in about eight o'clock, and did not leave till a
quarter past ten."