Kitabı oku: «Dorrien of Cranston», sayfa 21
Chapter Forty One.
The Sword Falls
Olive was rather unwell on the morning after the picnic. It was nothing to worry about, she declared. She supposed she had overdone it, and was a little tired. Any way, she would stay in bed till the afternoon. So Roland and Sophie sat down to a late breakfast alone, Marsland having left earlier to spend a few days at Ardleigh.
“What a jolly day we had yesterday!” the girl was saying. “Olive didn’t catch cold, did she, Roland?”
“No. She’ll be all right after a good sleep. Roy, you vagabond, shut up. That melodious voice of yours is matter in the wrong place just now.”
But Roy, who had been lying curled up on the rug, refused to be silenced. His threatening growl became a deep-toned bay, and his ruff began to rise, as with fangs bared he sprang towards the door, which was yet shut. There were voices in the hall. Then the door opened.
“Come here, Roy, d’you hear, sir?” cried Roland, seizing him by the neck and dragging him by main force towards the rug. “Now. Lie down, sir.”
The dog would hardly obey, but half rose again, keeping up a running note of growls.
“Please, sir,” said the butler, entering, “there are two gentlemen want to see you very particular.”
“Who are they?”
“They won’t give their names, sir, and I never saw them before.”
Roland frowned. “Suppose I must send the fellows about their business. Back in a minute, Sophie.”
It may be that an ugly misgiving shot through his mind at that moment, but if so he showed no sign of it. As Jervis said afterwards, with awe and admiration in his voice: “Master was out-and-out the very coolest party he’d ever seen.”
The strangers were standing in the hall. With astonishment he recognised the men who had accosted him at Durnley Castle the day before.
“Your name is Roland Dorrien, I believe, sir?” began one of them, before he had time to ask a question.
“It is. Kindly walk in here and state your business with me.”
He held open the study door. The others, with a moment’s hesitation, accompanied him within. Then they turned.
“I have a most unpleasant duty to perform, sir,” said the spokesman of the pair.
“And that?” said Roland coolly, though conscious that his face was becoming white.
“Is to arrest you on the charge of murder. Here is the warrant,” said the other very gravely. “I must, as a matter of form, caution you against making any statement, though as a magistrate yourself, sir, you will be aware of this formality.”
“Yes, the warrant is all right,” he said, running his eye over it and noting idly that it was signed by a man with whom he had next to no personal acquaintance.
The sword had fallen at last. Was he dazed – was he dreaming – or was he really stunned? Was he, Roland Dorrien – one of the most influential men in the county, and lord of this noble patrimony whose limits he could not see from his highest window – was he, indeed, a prisoner, henceforth no longer master of the simplest of his own actions? Horror incredible!
Something of this must have appeared in his aspect as he turned away, for the detective watched him keenly.
“Let me see. I don’t know whether you will prevent my just saying a word to Mrs Dorrien before I go with you. She is rather unwell this morning, and this in addition will try her dreadfully.”
The officer shook his head.
“I’m extremely sorry, sir, but it can’t be done. You see I’m bound not to lose sight of you, and if I were to go with you it would frighten the lady still more.”
Roland faced round upon him.
“Listen. What if I were to pledge you my word of honour to return to you here in ten minutes?”
For half a moment the detective wavered. Then he shook his head very gravely.
“Can’t do it, sir!”
“No! Hang it! I suppose it wasn’t fair of me to put you into such a position. And you’ve been very good in managing so quietly. Of course – one would have time to do all manner of queer things in ten minutes. I’ll order the brougham at once. It’ll be thought I’ve gone gaol-visiting, ha-ha?”
Again the officer eyed him very curiously. That strange laugh, teeming with a subtle irony, the queer carelessness of his tone, put the detectives thoroughly upon their guard, and caused them to determine that there was something about this case that was decidedly “fishy.” They were fully alive, too, to the importance of their errand. It was not every day that their duty required them to arrest a gentleman, a squire and a J.P., for murder.
Roland rang the bell and gave the necessary orders. In a few minutes the brougham came round. The officers had declined all offers of refreshment, and became very impatient to start. Sophie was passing through the hall as they came out.
“Why, where are you going, Roland?” she asked in astonishment.
“Got to go to Battisford on business. Take care of yourselves till I come back. Bye-bye?”
The girl looked puzzled, but there was no time for further explanations, and the three men, getting into the brougham, were driven off. And Barnby, the principal detective, still continued to watch his prisoner closely, and drew his own conclusions. In his heart of hearts he was thoroughly convinced of the other’s guilt; but the pluck and coolness displayed by Roland under the circumstances of his arrest filled him with admiration, for it was unparalleled, even in that astute officer’s experience.
But oh, the torture of the breaking heart which could smile, and even half jest, at that awful moment! Even at the time when life was at its very sweetest to him, had the sword fallen – and yet not; for had he not been torn away at a moment’s notice, nor allowed even a glance of farewell at the sweet face of her who constituted all his world? But for that horrible, jarring calm which he had assumed as a mask, his self-control would have been nowhere.
They reached Battisford, and drew up at the gaol. As a magistrate it had frequently been Roland’s duty to visit it; consequently his entrance into the gloomy building caused no comment among those who witnessed it now. Even the stolid turnkey was awed on receiving into his keeping one so high among the great ones of the land. To the last the prisoner’s coolness did not desert him. He scribbled off a short note.
“Watts. Drive round by Wandsborough on your way back and give this to Dr Ingelow; and if he isn’t in wait till he is. You needn’t call for me, as I shall be engaged here for some hours.” And again that mocking laugh lurked in his face.
The coachman touched his hat and drove off. Roland Dorrien followed the turnkey to the cell appointed to him. He needed nothing for the present, he said, and so that vigilant guardian, closing the door on him, retired, having respectfully hoped and trusted that he would soon be able to clear himself, as, of course, he easily could.
Clear himself? Not he. This was the fate awaiting him, and from it there would be no escape. The wraith on The Skegs had never been known to appear in vain.
Here for the first time he dared to think – here, where no eye was upon him. Yesterday, love, happiness, peace – to-day, this! Yesterday, powerful, wealthy, free – the envied of all; to-day, not the meanest loafer in Battisford market-place would change with him. Ah, good God! why had he escaped by a hairsbreadth, as it were, from the deadliest of perils that night on the seashore! Was it for this? Better a thousand times that the wild waves had been his grave – both their graves then. And the cold walls of his stone cell echoed such an anguished and despairing groan as is seldom wrung from the breast of mortal man.
It was not until late in the day that Olive awoke. Quickwitted Sophie had not been deceived by her brother-in-law’s assumed coolness, and though absolutely in the dark as to the real facts, she could not help fearing that something had gone very wrong. As the day wore on, and he did not come, this feeling increased, and when at length the brougham returned, it was with a feeling of vast relief that she ran to the door. But it contained only her father.
It happened that when, in pursuance of his orders, Watts called at the Rectory, the old priest had just started on his rounds, and was not to be found anywhere. There was a great deal of sickness in Wandsborough at the time, and no one could say exactly where he was. As a matter of fact he had been called over to Minchkil Bay to attend the dying bed of one of the old seafarers. But the coachman’s orders were positive. He was to wait for him, and wait he did, and so it was not until late in the afternoon that the brougham started to return to Cranston.
All used as he was to strange and startling revelations, the rector could not repress a start of astonishment as he rapidly scanned the contents of the note which old Watts handed to him. But his normal calm soon returned, and, entering the carriage there and then, he was driven rapidly away to Cranston.
There was time in the interval to think over the situation, but he was grateful for every moment of it. His unfortunate friend was called upon to satisfy human justice after all, and he, Dr Ingelow, was required to break the terrible news to his daughter. Yet it might be the barest suspicion – two years and a half was a long time. It would be difficult to convict. But then the prosecution must be in possession of very strong evidence indeed to move it to such a step as the arrest of a man of Roland Dorrien’s status.
In all his experience – large as it was – the rector could not call to mind a more painful case. What frightful ruin the conviction of this man would entail! How much better, for every reason, that the terrible secret should remain buried – a turned-down page of the past! Thus musing, he arrived at Cranston.
“Oh, father. What has gone wrong?” cried Sophie affrightedly, reading the worst in his grave face.
Enjoining silence, her father took her apart, and in a few words communicated the fact of the arrest. The whole countryside would be ringing with it by then, and it was just as well that those most concerned should learn it at first-hand. The girl, though very shocked and awed, was quite self-possessed. Her first thought was for her sister.
“Can we not keep it from her a little longer?” she asked.
“Impossible. She will hear it by chance from others, and then think of the result. You had better leave us alone together, dear, but remain within call.”
It was well for Olive that her father was the one upon whom it devolved to soften the terrible weight of the blow. But though she listened with livid face and ashy lips, she was calmer than he had dared to hope. Roland was alive and unharmed – that was relief. But in prison – in a cold, hard cell – and on a charge of murder! It was frightful. He a murderer! No, she would never believe that. Some absurd mistake had been made, and he would soon be released. Why, it was too ridiculous, and she almost laughed aloud at the bare idea.
Then Memory, like a mocking fiend, started up to dash even that consolation from her grasp. For it suddenly carried her back over the lapse of years to the chance meeting with her lover on the beach, that lowering afternoon when the tide overtook them. His words, spoken then, now darted in characters of fire before her mental gaze.
“The trammelled imagination of a canting world reads crime into what is no crime at all.”
He had been urging a secret barrier existing between them – one that she, in common with society at large, would recognise as irrefragable. And she, mistaking the drift of the plea, had answered bravely that nothing would cause her to shrink from him.
They had talked at cross-purposes. Now – the whole mystery stood explained. By the light of this dénouement the scales fell from her eyes – even the intervening events were clear as daylight to her now. But could she now answer as bravely as then upon the lone seashore?
Every whit.
Looking up, she met her father’s eyes steadily and without speaking. And the flash of meaning in that glance revealed to him that she was no longer a blind believer in her husband’s innocence. Looking back in after years to this moment, the old priest was conscious of a distinct satisfaction at the time in making the discovery. It would save all danger of cross-purposes, though no word on the certainty could be exchanged between them.
“Oh, father! you don’t believe in – in this accusation!”
“I don’t believe that Roland is a murderer,” was the answer; straight, unhesitating, and in tones of conviction. “Men have been arrested on suspicion before to-day and honourably acquitted. Keep your wholesome, loving belief in him firm and unshaken, Olive my pet, and be strong for his sake.”
The old man’s voice shook as he strove to comfort this his best-loved child, but he mastered himself. Her faith in the accused man must be kept up at all hazards, nothing must dim that bright, pure flame. It had been his safeguard hitherto; it must not fail him now.
“I will indeed be strong. And now – I must go to him at once.”
“Not to-night, darling. Indeed, it will be impossible. To-morrow, we can procure the necessary order, the first thing. His first thought was of you – and – again I say it – you must be brave and strong for his sake.”
It was indeed well for Olive that her father’s loving and clear-sighted wisdom was with her in the dark hour of her affliction. Already she felt soothed and hopeful. Yet there flashed across her mind the similarity between this parting and that other one in Wandsborough street, nearly three years ago. Then they had expected to meet again in a few hours, and lo! a very lifetime of separation had been theirs ere they met again. This time he had merely left her by the breadth of a few rooms, and now the gloomy walls of a prison separated them. The parallel was ominous.
In due course, the preliminary examination was held, and the magistrates had no alternative but to commit Roland Dorrien for trial at the ensuing Battisford assizes on the capital charge. Further, the Bench intimated, with infinite regret, that no question of bail could by any possibility be entertained.
Chapter Forty Two.
“Guilty or Not Guilty?”
To describe the state of excitement into which Wandsborough was thrown, when the tidings of Roland Dorrien’s arrest were bruited about – as they very soon were – would battle the most graphic pen. Why, nothing approaching to this had ever befallen in their midst. The Squire of Cranston, the most influential of local magnates, greater even in point of possessions than Colonel Neville, the chairman of Petty Sessions, to be arrested on a criminal charge – one, too, for which, if convicted, he would inevitably suffer the death of a common malefactor. No, Wandsborough had, assuredly, never experienced the like of this.
To most of the accused’s brother magistrates, the case was a painful affair. There was sufficient prima facie evidence to send it for trial, so for trial it went, and their responsibility ended. But the police court was crammed during the examinations, and all Wandsborough was making up its mind as to whether the accused was guilty or not, the balance of opinion leaning, if anything, to the former.
Needless to say, no expense was spared to secure the very best legal talent. That done, there was nothing left for all concerned, but to possess their souls in patience. The accused, in the bitter solitude of his prison cell, set his teeth grimly, and muttered twenty times a day, “Let them fight it out.” But his legal advisers found him anything but a satisfactory client.
The time between the committal and the opening of the assizes was not unduly long, and during it Olive had visited him once. But the galling restrictions imposed upon the visit by gaol regulations, and the immense strain upon the self-control of both, had rendered the interview too trying altogether. Outwardly Olive was calmness itself, cheerful too, and making plans for the future, affecting to treat the whole thing as an absurd mistake; yet her demeanour did not deceive him, although he was willing she should believe it did.
At length the momentous day dawned. The Battisford assizes had been duly opened, and the grand jury had returned a true bill against Roland Dorrien for the wilful murder of his brother Hubert.
The Court-house at Battisford was large and spacious, but not large enough for one half of those who would fain have gained admission. As the accused entered the dock, the sea of faces craned forward, white with excitement and eagerness, was bewildering at first, but only at first. There was a slight frown and contraction of the brows, and a pallor which might have been the result of an anxious period of close confinement; otherwise the prisoner’s face was cold, impassive, almost haughty, as he swept one glance around the Court. The wooden-faced judge, in crimson and ermine, the rows of wigged and gowned counsel – these he felt were scrutinising him keenly. The High Sheriff, too – why, he had narrowly escaped being pricked for that office himself, this very year. Then he became aware that he was being called upon to listen to an indictment couched in rolling legal phraseology, and to plead accordingly.
“Not Guilty!”
The tone, firm, indifferent, might have been ventriloquised out of an ice-block. He was not there to waste emotion, thought the prisoner grimly.
Then the prosecuting counsel proceeded to open his case on behalf of the Crown. Concisely he went over the facts connected with Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance two years and a half previously, with the subsequent search and its result, or rather, want of result; upon the subsequent finding of a body upon the seashore, which, although the face was unrecognisable, the clothing, and its marks, watch, etc, were amply sufficient to identify as that of the missing man, and the inquest immediately held upon it had decided accordingly. But circumstances had come to light, which went to show that what had been regarded as a lamentable accident there was reason to believe was nothing less than a deliberate, vindictive and cold-blooded murder, committed by the prisoner who stood before them to take his trial, and the very fact that he stood there showed that there was sufficient evidence to justify that belief. Whether that belief were turned into a certainty would rest with the twelve honourable and intelligent gentlemen who were there to try the case.
The jury liked this opening. They had always heard of Benham, Q.C., as a very big gun indeed, now they were going to have a chance of hearing his oratorical gifts. Outwardly he was a tall, pleasant-voiced man, in the prime of life, and he had a persuasive way with him.
He should show, he went on, how prisoner had come to Battisford disguised, how he had put up at “The Silver Fleece Inn” in that town, under the pseudonym of Robert Durnford, and had laid his plans and watched his opportunity, and having lured his brother to a lonely spot upon the cliffs between that town and Wandsborough, had there done him to death in the darkness of night, as he thought, unseen by human eye.
Then counsel proceeded to call his first evidence. This was given, in succession, by those who had found the body, two or three fishermen from Minchkil. These were examined by Benham’s junior, and their evidence being purely technical, they were soon disposed of. They were followed by the medical man who had testified at the inquest, and who declared now, as he had declared then, and unhesitatingly, that death was due to drowning. There were marks of bruises on the body, but not such as would cause death, or even contribute to that result.
There was a stir of sensation among the densely-packed crowd as Mr Benham called for his next witness, for this was no other than Mrs Dorrien, the General’s widow. A tall figure in deep black made its way to the witness-box with rapid, but firm, steps. A chair was placed for her by direction of the judge.
Then, as Mrs Dorrien slowly removed her heavy veil, her glance fell upon her surviving son; that son, whom she had never seen since he left his father’s house those years ago. Then they had parted in coldness, if not in anger. Now they met again thus, the mother and the son.
Roland met her eyes firmly, and there was no sign of shrinking in his mien. Her face was pale as death, but stern, impassive and determined as his own. In it there appeared not a trace of pity.
“Pray be seated, Mrs Dorrien,” said Mr Benham in his suavest tone, when the witness had been sworn. “We shall endeavour to spare you unnecessary pain. All we want you to tell us are the circumstances under which your son Hubert was first missed.”
Concisely, in a low, set tone, the widow complied. Aided now and again by a question from the judge, she stated how Hubert had left home to attend evening service at Cranston, how he had not returned, and how, on the following morning, being alarmed, she had told her husband, who had at once instituted a search, heading it in person – but without effect.
“One thing more, Mrs Dorrien,” said Mr Benham, “and we shall have done. Had you any reason to suspect your eldest son, the accused, was anywhere in the neighbourhood?”
“None whatever.”
“Any questions, Mr Windgate?” asked the judge sharply.
“N-no, m’lord,” replied the prisoner’s advocate. “At least, yes,” jumping up. “Just one. Will you kindly tell us, Mrs Dorrien, were your two sons, Roland and Hubert, on good terms?”
“They had never quarrelled.”
“They had never quarrelled,” making a note. “That is to say, they were on good terms.”
“They were not very cordial,” said the witness in the same slow, monotonous voice in which her evidence had been given.
“Ah! They were not very cordial. Different temperaments, no doubt. Thank you, Mrs Dorrien. That will do,” said Mr Windgate blandly, making another note.
As different as possible from his opponent was Mr Windgate, Q.C., the prisoner’s advocate. A little man, with bushy black whiskers, round in person, brisk and smiling in manner – he was sharp as a needle. Yet the way in which he extracted admissions from an unwilling witness left an impression on that uncomfortable personage that was soothing, not to say flattering. Mr Benham, on the other hand, was apt to wax stern and slightly supercilious when on his mettle.
The next witness called was the Rev. Charles Curtis, the vicar of Cranston. He gave a more or less succinct account of the search in which he had taken part, up to the time of meeting with Eustace Ingelow at the bottom of Smugglers’ Ladder.
“This article was handed to you by young Mr Ingelow?” asked Mr Benham, holding up the silver matchbox which Eustace had picked up.
“It was.”
“Had you ever seen it before?”
“Never.”
“Nothing else was found at the time?”
“Not down below. I believe something was found above.”
“Ah, we shall come to that presently. Thank you, Mr Curtis. That will do.”
Mr Windgate, having no question to ask beyond that concerning the terms on which the two young gentlemen stood with each other, the vicar was soon released.
Then was taken the evidence of Thomas Platt, labourer, and afterwards, that of his wife – the pair who had last seen Hubert Dorrien alive on the fatal Sunday evening. The honest couple, who resided on the Cranston estate and looked up to the accused as their feudal lord, were mightily overcome by the awe of the situation, and the woeful perplexity with which they made their statements convulsed the audience, vastly tickled the Bar, and enraged the judge to the last degree.
But the evidence of the rustic pair was straightforward enough, and tallied exactly, nor was it to be shaken by all the silky cross-questionings of the prisoner’s counsel. Might they not have been mistaken about the direction the deceased was taking, or about the time? No – on all these points they were sure. They were of the soil born and bred, and on matters local like this were sharp enough. They had no feeling against the accused, quite the reverse. He was a kind master, although some folks were a bit afraid of him.
“We are not taking evidence as to the character of the prisoner, Mr Windgate,” reminded the judge crustily, drawing a suave apology from that eminent counsel, and the prompt bundling out of the box of the latter of the two rustic witnesses.
“I shall call Eustace Ingelow,” said the Crown Counsel on the return of the Court after a short adjournment for lunch.
Poor Eustace was in a woeful state of nervousness and genuine grief on behalf of his relative, as he took the oath. Indeed, it seemed as if he would hardly be able to deliver his evidence coherently.
“Take time, Mr Ingelow,” said Mr Benham kindly. “There’s no hurry – none whatever. You are, I believe, the prisoner’s brother-in-law?”
“Yes.”
“In a double sense?”
“I – I don’t quite understand.”
“What do you mean by ‘a double sense,’ Mr Benham?” snapped the judge.
“We mean, m’lord, that they married each others’ sisters.” Here it became necessary to explain that the learned counsel was forging ahead too fast, and that at least half of his statement dealt with future contingencies instead of with actual facts. Which explanation tickled the audience and reduced the witness to a red-hot degree of nervousness. “And now, Mr Ingelow,” he went on, when the joke had subsided, “just tell the gentlemen of the jury what happened during the search you took part in. Were you asked to join in that search?”
“No. I did not even know what had happened until I saw Mr Curtis and General Dorrien arrive on the beach. I was there at the time talking with Matt and Jem Pollock.”
“And then you learned that Hubert Dorrien was missing?”
“Yes. I volunteered at once to join in the search.”
“Were you acquainted with the deceased?”
“Very slightly. In fact, hardly at all.”
“But you were acquainted with General Dorrien?”
A flush rose to Eustace’s face, and he hesitated.
“I can’t exactly say that. But – but – of course I knew him well by sight – and – ”
“I can’t hear a word the witness says,” snapped the judge, “and I’m sure the jury can’t.”
“A little louder please, Mr Ingelow. Did you find anything anywhere near the Smugglers’ Ladder?”
“Yes. A piece of silk cord, such as might be used for an eyeglass.”
“The deceased wore an eyeglass?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do with this cord?”
“I took it to General Dorrien. He seemed to recognise it – but said nothing.”
“Is this the cord?” handing it to the witness.
“I think so.”
“How did you find it?”
“It was hanging on a tuft of grass on the brink.”
“Now, what was your idea when you found this cord?”
“I thought it a very important trace. It seemed to point to the poor fellow having fallen in.”
“Quite so. Were there any other traces?”
“The grass around the brink was crushed.”
“Crushed and trampled?”
“M’lord, the witness said ‘crushed,’” objected Mr
Windgate. “I must really object – ”
“Well, ‘crushed’ then,” went on Mr Benham suavely. “My learned friend shall have no reason to complain of undue pressure on our part. Well, and what did you think then, Mr Ingelow?”
“I thought there was no doubt about his having fallen into the chasm.”
“Fallen in?”
“Yes.”
“You had no suspicion then of foul play?”
“Not the slightest. I never heard that anyone had.”
“Oh, you never heard that anyone had!” said Mr Benham quickly, catching up the statement in just the way to embarrass and disconcert a nervous witness. And Eustace, remembering sundry cautions he had received in private about volunteering evidence, felt disconcerted accordingly.
His narrative of the descent of Smugglers’ Ladder evoked considerable applause, for the ill-omened chasm was well known by reputation. He stated how he had found nothing on reaching the bottom.
“Nothing, Mr Ingelow? Come, just cast your memory back.”
“Well, I mean I found nothing of importance, only a little matchbox,” “Ah-h! Two years and a half is a long time to look back across at your age,” said Mr Benham kindly, hitching his thumbs into the shoulders of his gown and looking smilingly superior. “Now, what did you do with this little matchbox?”
“I handed it to Mr Curtis.”
“Is this it?”
“Yes.”
There was a visible cloud on Eustace’s face as he held the silver matchbox in his hand, as if it would burn him. Heads craned forward to catch a glimpse of the article.
“Had you ever seen that matchbox before you found it at the bottom of – er – Smugglers’ Ladder,” asked Mr Benham impressively.
“I think so.”
“Where did you see it?”
“I had seen it – er – I had seen Roland use it.”
“You had see Roland Dorrien use it. How many times? Once – twice – perhaps?”
“I can’t remember exactly how many times.”
“No? You used often to – well – to have a pipe together, no doubt?”
“Yes.”
“And Roland Dorrien was in the habit of using that matchbox?”
“Yes.”
“In fact, you are under the impression it belonged to him?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Mr Ingelow – you are on your oath, mind. Is this, or is it not, the same matchbox which you saw in the prisoner’s possession?”
“I can’t positively swear to it. It is like it, certainly.”
“Yet it is of very peculiar make.”
“The witness says he can’t swear to it, Mr Benham,” interposed the judge. “Don’t you think we might drop the matchbox now?”
“Certainly, my lord. I have nothing further to ask.”
“Nor I, my lord,” said Windgate. And Eustace, to his unspeakable relief, was told to stand down, which relief was dashed by a miserable misgiving that he had somehow or other materially damaged his relative’s chances.
