Kitabı oku: «Dorrien of Cranston», sayfa 22
Chapter Forty Three.
Darker and Darker
To Eustace succeeded his father, and the appearance of Dr Ingelow in the witness-box gave rise to not a little expectation on the part of many. They wondered what card the prosecution held up its sleeve, and although outwardly calmness and composure, so did he.
Beginning at his earliest acquaintance with Roland Dorrien, Mr Benham put the rector through a long, minute, and tiresome examination, repeatedly challenged as irrelevant by the opposing counsel, as to his relations with the Dorrien family at that time. On these points the judge supported Mr Windgate, and the queries were waived or put less pointedly.
“You recollect Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance, Dr Ingelow?” continued the prosecution, having brought the examination down to that stage. “Perfectly.”
“That was nearly five months after the prisoner had left Wandsborough, was it not?”
“About that time.”
“And you had seen nothing of him since?”
“Nothing whatever.”
“Did you know his whereabouts at that time?”
“I had not an idea of it.”
“Will you swear to that?”
“Emphatically.”
“When did you see him next?”
“Not till the following June.”
“That is to say, from August of the previous year till June of the actual year in which the deceased met his death, you did not set eyes on Roland Dorrien?”
“You have my exact meaning.”
“Did any of your family?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Will you repeat that statement?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Here Mr Windgate made a careful note. Then followed a great deal of questioning as to the prisoner’s marriage and the terms upon which he and the witness had always stood.
“Now, Dr Ingelow,” went on the Crown counsel, waxing impressive. “Kindly give me your closest attention. You have always been on the most intimate terms with the prisoner.”
“Always.”
“Should you call him a man of a cheerful disposition!”
“Well – no.”
“Ah! Now did not that ever strike you as a little strange in a man of his age and position in life?”
“I really can’t say that it ever did.” Mr Benham’s face and attitude formed a study. He threw himself back and, with half-closed eyes, looking now at the ceiling, now at the witness, shook his head gently with the blandest of deprecatory smiles.
“Will you kindly tell the Court how long you have been in Holy Orders?”
“Thirty-three years.”
“You have had great experience during that time?”
“I think I may say I have.”
“Varied experience?”
“Decidedly varied experience.”
“At Wandsborough and elsewhere?”
“Yes.”
“Experience of character, human nature, and so forth?”
“Yes.”
“Is it not a fact, Dr Ingelow, that one of your daughters met with a narrow escape from drowning some time ago? Was cut off by the tide?”
“That is so.”
“When did this occur?”
“About two years and a half ago.”
“Was it anywhere near the time of Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance?”
“It was.”
“Before or after?”
“Just after.”
“Just after. How long after?”
“As far as I can remember, about a fortnight after.”
“The lady who met with that adventure is your second daughter, is she not?”
“Yes.”
“And is now Mrs Dorrien, the wife of the prisoner?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! And now will you kindly tell the Court the circumstances of that – er – adventure?”
This the witness did, as briefly as possible. The tale was not new to the audience, few of whom, however, had heard it at first-hand. It was listened to with vivid interest, particularly the facts relating to the rescue by the mysterious stranger. Him – being asked to do so – the witness described to the best of his ability.
“This stranger – this Mr Robert Durnford – gave you an address, you say – a London address? Did you ever apply at that address?”
“It was only a post-office address. I lost no time in writing to him at it.”
“What was the address?”
“It was some London post office. The name of the post office has clean escaped my memory.”
“You wrote to him. And you received no reply?”
“Pardon me. I did receive one.”
“May I ask to what effect?”
“To the effect that the writer was on the eve of departure to New South Wales, and regretting that therefore our further acquaintance must remain in abeyance perhaps for years – also expressing gratification at having been instrumental in my daughter’s escape. It was a courteous and kindly letter. I have heard nothing of him since.”
“Quite so, Dr Ingelow – quite so. Have you still that letter in your possession?”
“No. I have destroyed it, among other old papers.”
“Lately?”
“N-no. It must be quite a year ago.”
“Now, you are on your oath, Dr Ingelow. You have not destroyed that letter since your son-in-law’s arrest?”
“Your reminder is needless, sir. Nevertheless, for your greater satisfaction I will reiterate that the letter was destroyed quite a year ago.”
“Well, well. Now did it strike you at the time that any similarity existed between that stranger and the prisoner, Roland Dorrien?”
“It did not.”
“No resemblance whatever? Voice – walk – manner? Come. Think again, my dear sir.”
“Unnecessary. I saw no such resemblance.”
“Has it ever struck you since?”
“It has not.”
“You have never had reason to suspect that Robert Durnford, the rescuer of your daughter on that occasion, might have been Roland Dorrien in disguise?”
“I never have.”
“You distinctly swear to that?”
“Distinctly.”
“Don’t you think, Mr Benham, you’ve got out of this witness all you’re likely to get?” said the judge snappishly.
“I have just put my last question, m’lord,” was the suave reply. “Thank you, Dr Ingelow.” And Mr Benham sat down, more nonplussed than he cared to show.
Mr Windgate rose.
“I should be glad, my lord, if you would kindly make a note of the fact that this witness has three times distinctly sworn that no identity existed between the stranger, Robert Durnford, and my client, Roland Dorrien.”
“Er – twice I think, Mr Windgate,” said the judge.
“Pardon me, my lord. Three times. If your lordship will glance back a few folios. This gentleman stated earlier in his evidence that from August till the following June he had not set eyes on the prisoner. Now, the young lady’s adventure befel in February, between those months. Therefore the statement amounts to a denial of the identity.”
“Very well, Mr Windgate.”
“Thank you, m’lord. I do not require to cross-examine.”
So the rector stood down. Mr Windgate was jubilant. The evidence just heard was all in his client’s favour.
Considerable disappointment prevailed among the audience at the conclusion to which Dr Ingelow’s examination had been so abruptly brought. They looked for something far more exciting. Meanwhile, another witness was being sworn.
“Your name is George Newton?” queried Mr Benham, “and you are a waiter at Welbrook’s Tavern, in the Strand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you been long in that situation?”
“About nine years.”
“Now, look at the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?”
“Yes,” replied the witness unhesitatingly.
“When?”
“Well, that I can’t exactly say, sir. It might be a year or two ago. He came in one night to have some dinner – and seemed a bit flurried like. The first thing he did was to ask for an A.B.C. time-table. We ’adn’t got one in the ’ouse, and the gentleman seemed rather put out about it.”
“And then?”
“Well then, sir, we sent out and got him one.”
“Now, just cast your memory back and see if you can tell us what day it was.”
But this the witness could not do. He could swear most decidedly to the accused’s identity, but for dates he had no recollection. The month on the A.B.C. was January.
“The gentleman seemed a bit queer,” he went on. “He seemed to make a great point about getting the A.B.C., and then when he goes out what does he do but leave it behind!”
“Did you examine it?”
“Yes, sir. One of the pages had a corner turned down, and it was marked at Wandsborough Road station.”
“You have it with you?”
“Yes, sir. Here it is.” And the witness, fumbling in his pocket, produced the time-table which Roland Dorrien had forgotten and left behind him at the tavern in the Strand, on the night of his chance meeting with his brother.
It was even as the man had said – turned down and marked at Wandsborough Road station.
“Did you draw anyone else’s attention to this circumstance?”
“Yes, sir. One of the other waiters, Tom Short.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s been dead these six or eight months.”
“And you are ready to swear that the prisoner is the gentleman who left this with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr Benham sat down, and Mr Windgate rose to cross-examine. He seemed determined to make up for having hitherto been debarred his privilege in that line, for he assailed the witness in the most pitiless manner. But it was of no use. The man’s evidence was straightforward enough, and he stuck to it, especially the identity – as to which he was calm certainty itself. All present felt that its burden was of damning import.
The next to enter the box was Johnston, the ex-Cranston gardener. His testimony went to show that the prisoner was identical with Robert Durnford, so-called, the mysterious guest at “The Silver Fleece Inn.” He swore positively to having recognised his late master in the disguised stranger, when the latter had passed him in the street at Battisford. He further deposed to having taken subsequent opportunities of observing the pseudo-Durnford unknown to the subject of his observation, and was quite satisfied on the point of the identity between the two. Things began to look dark for the prisoner, but they were destined to look darker still.
When he had satisfied himself as to the identity of the accused with the stranger staying at “The Silver Fleece” in Battisford – he said – suspicion first entered his mind, and it grew stronger and stronger. Nor was it difficult to account for the fact that the one should be in the neighbourhood disguised at the very time the other met his death; the more so as the prisoner would be the gainer by his brother’s death, and in fact was the gainer. From that time, he had laid himself out to watch the prisoner – and once had overheard some fragments of the tatter’s conversation with Dr Ingelow, which had more than ever convinced him of the truth of his suspicions. Then Devine had begun to let fall hints as if he knew something about the matter, and, finally, the two of them had concluded to wait upon Mr Forsyth, one of the county justices, and get his advice. In the result each made a statement.
That of Johnston was now put in, and read nut. He had nothing to withdraw or add to it, he said; and then Mr Benham eat down.
But the revengeful half-grin on the face of the witness turned to rather a blank look as the defence began upon him in cross-examination.
Beginning with the subject of identity, Mr Windgate tried all he knew to make Johnston own to a possibility of mistake. Then he went on the “bewilderment” plan, but the long-headed Scot was not to be floored in that way, nor could he be made to contradict himself. The vindictive rascal was precision personified. But when it came to the eavesdropping story, Mr Windgate’s tone was magnificent in its scathing contempt.
“Kindly tell the Court the date of your going to Mr – er – Forsyth – the magistrate?”
“It was last month. About the 15th.”
“About the 15th of last month.”
“Yes.”
“You had then left Mr Dorrien’s service?”
“I had.”
“How long had you left it?”
“About six weeks.”
“Why did you leave it?”
“Mr Roland turned me off.”
“Oh! Mr Roland turned you off, did he? Now have the goodness to tell us why?”
“Well, it was just this way. He thocht I wasn’t speaking respectfully to Madam. So he turned me off.”
“Now, be very careful. You are on your oath, mind. Penal servitude is among the consequences of perjury.” Mr Benham to the rescue.
“Really, this is a most unwarrantable aspersion of the witness’ veracity, which my learned friend is hardly justified in making.”
“We shall see,” uncompromisingly retorted the other. “Now, Mr Johnston, let me assist your memory. Did you not on the day you were dismissed accost Mrs Dorrien in the conservatory, and ask for a certain situation for your son?”
“Yes.”
“And hint that it was in your power to injure your mister, if it was refused?”
“No.”
“What?”
“No. I did no such thing,” replied Johnston composedly.
Mr Windgate was nonplussed. He stared at the witness in amazement.
“You did no such thing? Kindly repeat that?”
“I did no such thing.”
“Very good. Remember you were warned what a false statement involved,” said Mr Windgate severely, making a voluminous note to conceal his chagrin. For the astute Q.C. had been completely foiled by the canny Scot. That worthy knew that his master’s lips were sealed, and that even if his mistress could give evidence against himself it would merely be oath against oath. So having decided that he could commit perjury with impunity, he at least had the merit of doing it thoroughly.
“Well, the fact remains that Mr Dorrien discharged you summarily. Now, did you threaten him on that occasion?”
“I may have.”
“Answer my question. Did you?”
“Well, yes, I did.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Again let me refresh your memory. Did you say – ‘You will come to a noose for this day’s work’?”
“I may have said so.”
“That won’t do. Did you say that? Be careful now.”
“M’lord, the witness says he can’t remember,” objected Mr Benham. “He was angry at the time – under the circumstances, naturally so. We can’t always remember words uttered in anger.”
“It’s of no consequence, m’lord. We can prove that he used the words. It would save time – and, perhaps, be better for himself – if he admitted it, though,” said Mr Windgate significantly.
“Well, I did say that,” said Johnston sullenly.
“We know you did. Now, to what did you refer when you said that? Was it to this charge of murder?”
“It may have been.”
“Answer the learned counsel properly, sir,” blazed forth the judge. “You are an impertinent fellow, to come here and play the fool in Court. Just be careful what you are about.”
“I mean it was,” answered Johnston, overawed.
“Quite so. In a word, you suspected that there had been foul play, and that your master was at the bottom of it?”
“Yes.”
“Only a suspicion, of course?”
“Yes.”
“Now, what gave rise to that suspicion?”
“Well, it seemed strange that Mr Roland should be down at Battisford in disguise just at the time Mr Hubert disappeared.”
“Ah! How long were you in the service of the accused?”
“Nearly two years.”
“Nearly two years in the service of a man you suspected of murder. I should say you had a most elastic conscience, Mr Johnston, were it not that your conduct looks very like an attempt to extract hush money. Now, has your master ever had occasion to find fault with you previously?”
“He has once or twice said I must be more ceevil. He was a mighty partecklar gentleman.”
“Quite so. And did you not, on a former occasion, attempt to take legal proceedings against the accused, because his dog bit you?”
“I did. But that was in the late General Dorrien’s time.”
“And you were not a favourite with the accused at any time?”
“Well – no.”
“That I can easily understand,” rejoined Mr Windgate, with bitter significance. “The marvel is that he kept you for a single day.”
“My learned friend is not justified in making such reflections on the witness,” objected Mr Benham.
“My learned friend need not mind. I have now done with this witness, and I devoutly thank Heaven for it,” retorted Mr Windgate.
“One moment, Johnston,” said the Crown counsel.
“Have you ever in any way traded upon your suspicions to obtain money or favours from your employer?”
“Never. I solemnly swear.”
There was a low hiss at the back of the room as Johnston left the box, which even the judge pretended not to hear.
Chapter Forty Four.
A Scrap of Paper
In answer to a call for Mrs Eliza Clack, a hatchet-faced harpy entered the box, and, the first diffidence over, tried all she knew to justify her patronymic. From this propensity, however, Mr Benham managed to pick out the facts that she knew the prisoner, could swear to him anywhere, that he had lodged with her a couple of months two and a half years ago, and had left at a date which would be but the day before the deceased’s disappearance. He owned a large red and white dog then, which he had disposed of while in her house. She had always thought him a strangely-mannered gentleman, and was not altogether sorry to see the last of him. He looked somewhat different then to what he did now, he wore a beard – and yes, now it was put to her, she thought he was getting a little grey at that time.
How could she remember the date? insisted Mr Windgate, when his turn came. Well, she did remember it. Could swear to it, in fact. But two and a half years was a long time. Well, yes it was, but she remembered it by several things. It was the same night that the boy next door had blinded her tortoiseshell cat with a catapult. And it was the day before her daughter was turned away from her situation, well, never mind why – it wasn’t true; an answer which sent a ripple of mirth through the room. However, the woman could swear to the prisoner, and swore tenaciously to the date, which was all the prosecution wanted.
Two maid-servants from “The Silver Fleece Inn” were the next witnesses. These testified to the time when Robert Durnford had gone out on the Sunday night, but were unable to state the hour of his return. One of them declared she had heard the stranger talking to the waiter in the hall at a quarter-past ten, and that she thought she had heard the front door close just before. Upon her Mr Windgate pounced.
“Your bed-room is at the top of the house?”
“Yes, sir. But the ’ouse isn’t an ’igh one.”
“I didn’t ask you that. Now, how do you know it was a quarter-past ten? Had you a watch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you looked at it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was it keeping the right time?”
“Yes, sir. That is, I set it by the large clock in the passage.”
“When?”
“The day before.”
“Oh! You did, did you?” – making a note. “Now, had you been asleep at the time?”
“No, sir. I was just goin’ to drop off when I heard gentlemen’s voices in the passage.”
“And who were the ‘gentlemen’?”
“They was Mr Durnford and Grainger, the waiter.”
“Now you are on your oath,” said Mr Windgate impressively, fixing the witness with a stern look that nearly drove the luckless young woman wild with terror and apprehension. “Are you ready to swear that the voice you heard talking to – a – Grainger was that of Mr Durnford?”
“Well, sir, I don’t know about swearing, but I’m positive it was.”
“Indeed. You are singularly confident, young woman,” sarcastically. “But no matter. We shall soon show that, like most positive people, this witness is quite at fault. You are quite right not to swear. You may go.”
“Stephen Devine.”
There was a stir among the audience, and interest, which had begun to flag, now revived, as the hulking form of the ex-poacher appeared in the box. There was a decidedly hang-dog look on his swarthy face, not unmixed with fear, and he took the Book as if it would burn him. But his evidence was straightforward enough. In the examination he stated how, while returning home from Wandsborough on the night in question, he had unexpectedly caught sight of Hubert Dorrien hurrying in a direction which could have led him nowhere in particular. This, added to the fact that it was a Sunday evening, rendered the young man’s movements not a little suspicious, and the witness determined to watch him. Accordingly he followed him at a distance to the brow of the cliff above Smugglers’ Ladder. It must have been a little after nine, for he distinctly heard the hour strike from Wandsborough steeple – to that he could positively swear. To his surprise he heard another man’s voice, and on stealing a little nearer he recognised it as that of the prisoner, Roland Dorrien. So he hid behind a stone and waited. He was not quite near enough to catch what they said, but the deceased seemed rather frightened. But what puzzled the witness most was that although he could swear to the voice, no less than to the figure, the face was strange to him. It was bright moonlight at the time. At last the prisoner turned to the light, and his brother, recognising him, at once exclaimed “Roland!” and then the witness was able to see that he seemed in a manner disguised. He, Devine, afterwards saw him twice in Battisford – once from the window of a public-house and once from a shop door, and easily recognised him.
When the deceased had identified his brother he seemed less frightened, and soon they got to high words. Then there was a struggle, and in a moment the prisoner had thrown the deceased into the chasm. The witness lay quite still, and saw the prisoner go and look down into the chasm for a moment, after which he went away in the direction of Battisford. Then his statement before the magistrate, Mr Forsyth, was put in as in Johnston’s case.
Great sensation prevailed during this narrative. Those who had been consulting their watches with an eye to dinner – for it was getting late – elected to stay. The case might be finished to-night.
Then came Mr Windgate’s turn. His cross-examination was perfect. Every point in the witness’ past life, which he could colourably touch upon – and several which he could not – was raised. He made him admit – notwithstanding continued objections from the prosecution – that his own daughter would not live with him, even if the unfortunate girl had not been fairly driven from her home. He brought up against him former convictions for acts of ruffianism, and for poaching; and on the score of character, and by way of proving animus, he forced the witness to own that he had more than once expressed hatred of the accused, thus making him prove himself guilty of the blackest ingratitude, in that his situation with Colonel Neville had been procured through the prisoner’s good offices. But clever as he was, Mr Windgate could not get him to contradict himself or to swerve by a word from the main details of his story.
“Well, now,” he continued. “This took place two years and a half ago. That is to say, Mr Stephen Devine, that by witnessing this deed and not preventing it you made yourself an accessory after the fact? An accomplice – in short.”
The man looked rather scared.
“Please, sir, it was all done too quickly.”
“But why did you keep silence all this time?”
“Well, sir, you see, it was no affair of mine, and I was afraid I might get into trouble.”
“Indeed! Suspicious, to say the least of it. And how is it that, having held your tongue for so long, you should at last see fit to let it wag?”
“Well, sir, you see Johnston, he knew about it too, and he kep’ on a lettin’ me know that he did. At last he said that we should both get into trouble if we kep’ it dark any longer.”
“Quite so. When was this?”
“About five weeks ago.”
“And what did you do then?”
“Why, we went to Mr Forsyth and asked his advice, and he said we’d better make sure of our fax, and then we must make a – a – a – aspersion.”
“A what?”
“No, sir, that wasn’t it – it was a disposition.”
“Oh! A deposition?”
“Yes, sir, and we made it. And the next thing we heard was that Squire Dorrien was in gaol.”
“Where I trust those who richly deserve it will soon be in his place,” rejoined Mr Windgate significantly. “And I hope I shall be instrumental in bringing about this pleasant little change. And now, do we understand you to say you would have kept silence about this if Johnston had not known it too?”
“Well, sir, yes. It warn’t no business of mine.”
“Well!” said Mr Windgate in a tone which said, “Alter that – anything.”
“A very natural fear, my lord,” explained Mr Benham. “A poor man like the witness would naturally think a good many times before bringing a grave charge of this sort against a gentleman in the prisoner’s position.”
“Many more witnesses on your side, Mr Benham?” asked the judge. “It’s getting very late.”
“Only one, my lord. But I am willing to adjourn.”
But Mr Windgate was not. He argued that it was important to his client’s interest that this witness should be heard to-night. The judge ordered lights to be brought in – for it was becoming dark – and then Jem Pollock was recalled.
There was a seriousness and a gravity upon the seafarer’s weatherbeaten face which gave one the impression of a man there much against his will. Re-examined, he stated that he was returning home from Battisford on the night of the supposed murder, and took the short way over the cliffs to Minchkil Bay. As he approached Smugglers’ Ladder a man passed him walking rapidly in the direction of Battisford. There was something familiar about the stranger’s figure and gait, and when he, the witness, wished him good-evening, he seemed to recognise the voice as he replied.
A few days after the search for the deceased, the witness had taken the trouble to go and examine the chasm again, and not many yards from it he found a fragment of an old envelope. Nearly the whole name was still on it – “Roland Dor – don, W.,” but the address was almost entirely gone. The date of the postmark was January 19th. There was great excitement in Court as the envelope was produced and handed to the jury, and all eyes were bent on the prisoner to see how he would take it. But disappointment awaited. The accused seemed to manifest not the smallest interest in the proceedings.
This envelope Pollock had kept, waiting to be guided by events. But the stir attendant on Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance soon quieted down, and he decided to keep his own counsel. Then had come another exciting event – the rector’s daughter being cut off by the tide and narrowly escaping drowning. Witness had also taken part in the search for the young lady, and in her rescuer he recognised the man who had passed him on the cliff. At the same time he recognised him for Roland Dorrien.
This bit of romance turned the tide of public opinion quite in favour of the accused, for the story of Olive Ingelow’s narrow escape was well known. Surely, never was a criminal trial so redundant with romantic episode. Sympathetic murmurs began to arise in Court. But counsel’s inexorable voice recalled to prose again.
“Could you swear to the prisoner being the man who rescued Miss Ingelow?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the witness firmly, but very reluctantly.
“You saw his face distinctly?”
“Yes, sir. The lanterns was full upon it.”
“And you knew his voice?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, how is it you kept silence about your suspicions?”
“Well, sir, I’m not one o’ them as talks a lot. And then, I had no suspicions until the idea cropped up that Mr Hubert had met wi’ foul play. And I didn’t want to injure Mr Roland, and especially Madam,” he added with feeling; “but that there detective chap he seemed to get it all out o’ me like a blessed babby,” concluded he resentfully.
“Quite so. Very natural. That will do,” and Mr Benham sat down.
But the prisoner’s counsel realised that this witness was the most dangerous one of all. Any attempt to browbeat a man of Pollock’s known respectability could not but damage his cause in the eyes of the jury. So he assumed a tone at once conciliatory and deprecatory, as though he would convey the idea that Pollock, though incapable of a false statement, might be mistaken in his inferences throughout.
“Of course, Pollock, you know Mr Dorrien well now, but at that time you didn’t know him very well, did you?”
“Well, I’d often seen him, sir, and I knew him well enough by sight. There was something about his walk, too, that I couldn’t mistake.”
“Indeed? But that is not a very sure point to go upon, is it?”
“That’s as may be, sir.”
“Now, Pollock, you are on good terms with Mr Dorrien, are you not? You would not wish to injure him?”
“No, indeed, sir,” answered the witness earnestly. “He’s a kind landlord to us, is the Squire – and as for Madam, I’ve known her since she was a little maid not much higher nor my knee – bless her sweet face.”
Great applause. Mr Windgate began to look more and more confident.
“Quite so. Now, don’t you think you may be mistaken in identifying the man who saved Miss Ingelow with the one you met on the cliff on the night of the disappearance of Hubert Dorrien?”
“M’lord, I must take exception most strongly to my learned brother’s mode of cross-examination,” said Mr Benham. “He appeals most powerfully to the feelings of the witness, and then does what is tantamount to begging him to unsay what he has already stated on oath.”
“Hardly that, I submit,” rejoined the other. “My unfortunate client is placed in a very grave position. Surely then it behoves us to make certain as to our facts.”
“But the witness had already stated on oath his certitude as to the identity of the men.”
“A man may excusably think twice when such grave issues are at stake, Mr Benham,” said the judge.
“With the greatest respect I would submit that your lordship is laying down a somewhat dangerous precedent,” answered Mr Benham, undaunted.
Then the judge retorted, and after some triangular sparring between his lordship and the two counsel, Mr Windgate went on.
“What time would it have been when you met the stranger on the cliff that evening?”
“It was after nine, sir. Indeed, it was nearly half-past – for very soon after I heard the clock strike.”
“What clock?”
“The Wandsborough clock.”
“How far from – er – Smugglers’ Ladder was the stranger when you met him?”
“Maybe half a mile, sir.”
“How long would it take to walk from Smugglers’ Ladder to Battisford? Walking at one’s fastest?”
“About thirty-five minutes. It might be done in thirty minutes – not in less.”
“Then this man whom you met on the cliff, within half a mile of Smugglers’ Ladder, at nearly half-past nine, could not by any possibility have reached Battisford by five-and-twenty minutes to ten?”
“Not possible, sir – even if he ran all the way,” repeated the witness firmly.
“Quite so, thank you,” said Mr Windgate. “A – one more question. Did you ever mention to anyone – any of your neighbours, for instance – having recognised, as you thought, Mr Dorrien in this stranger?”
“Not a word of it, sir.”
“That’s the case for the Crown, my lord,” said Mr Benham, rising as the witness left the box.
