The Skeleton Key/Chapter 9

Bit and Halter was seething with excitement. Its landlord, Joe Harris, selected foreman of the jury about to sit on the poor remains of that which, five days earlier, had been the living entity known as Annie Evans, had all the bustling air of a Master of the Ceremonies at some important entertainment. The tap overflowed as on an auction day—occasion most popular for bringing together from near and far those birds of prey to whom a broken home or a bankrupt farm stock offers an irresistible attraction. Here it was another sort of calamity, but the moral was the same. It turned upon that form of Epicurism which consists in watching comfortably from an auditorium the agonies of one's martyred fellow-creatures in the arena. There are sybarites of that complexion who, if they cannot be in at the death, will go far to be in at the burying.

The case, both from its local notoriety and the agreeable mystery which surrounded it, had aroused pretty widespread interest. Speculation as to its outcome was rife and voluble. Quite a pack of vehicles stood congregated in the road, and quite a crowd of their owners in and about the inn enclosure. Each known official visage, as it appeared, was greeted with a curious scrutiny, silent until the new-comer had passed, and then rising garrulous in the wake of his going. There was no actual ribaldry heard, but plenty of rather excited jocularity, with odds given and taken on the event. If the poor shattered voiceless thing, which lay so quietly in its shell in an outhouse awaiting the coming verdict, could only once have pleaded in visible evidence for itself, surely the solemnity of that mute entreaty for peace and forgetfulness would have found its way even to those insensate hearts. But charity is as much a matter of imagination as of feeling, and many an unobtrusive need in the world fails of its relief through the lack of that penetrative vision in the well-meaning. Our souls, it may be, are not to be measured within the limits of our qualities.

At near eleven o'clock the deputy District Coroner, Mr Brabner, drove up in a fly. He was a small important-looking, be-whiskered man, in large round spectacles of such strength as to impart to his whole face a solemn owlish look, very sapient and impressive. A hush fell upon the throng as he alighted, with his clerk, and, ushered by the landlord, entered the inn. But he had hardly disappeared when a more thrilling advent came, like Aaron's serpent, to devour the lesser. This was of the arrested man, in charge of a couple of officers from the County police-station. The unhappy little Gascon looked frightened and bewildered. His restless, vivacious, brown eyes glanced hither and thither among the people, seeming to deprecate, to implore, to appeal for pity from a monstrous terror which had trapped and was about to devour him. But his emotions had hardly found scope for their display when he was gone hurried in by his escort. Thereafter—the party from the house, with all necessary witnesses, being already assembled in the inn—no time was lost in opening the proceedings, which were arranged to take place in the coffee-room, the one fair-sized chamber in the building, though still so small that only a fraction of the waiting public could be allowed admittance to it, the rest hanging disconsolately about the passages and windows, and getting what information they could by deputy. The Coroner took his seat at one end of the long table provided; the jury—probi et legates homines—to the number of twelve, good farm-hands and true, the most of them, and ready to believe anything they were told were despatched to view the body; and the business began. Mr Redstall, a Winton solicitor, watched the case on behalf of Sir Calvin, the deceased's family being unrepresented, and Mr Fyler, barrister-at-law, appeared for the police. A report of the subsequent proceedings is summarised in the following notes:—

Evidence of identification being in the first instance required, Sergeant Ridgway, of the Scotland Yard detective force, stated that it had been found impossible so far, in spite of every effort made, to trace out the deceased's relations. He had himself made a journey to London, whence the girl had been originally engaged, for the express purpose of inquiring, but had failed wholly to procure any information on the subject. All agencies had been communicated with, and the name did not figure anywhere on their books. An advertisement, appealing to the next of kin, had been inserted in a number of newspapers, but without as yet eliciting any response. He called on Mrs Bingley to repeat the statement she had already made to him regarding the deceased's engagement by her, and the housekeeper having complied, he asked the Coroner, in default of any more intimate proof, to accept the only evidence of identification procurable at the moment. Further attempts would be made, of course, to elucidate the mystery, as by way of the deceased's former employer, Mrs Wilson; but that lady, being gone to New Zealand, might prove as difficult to trace as Evan's own connexions; and in any event a long time must elapse before an answer could be obtained from her. A search of the girl's boxes and personal belongings, though minutely conducted by himself and the housekeeper, had failed to yield any clue whatsoever, and, in short, so far as things went, that was the whole matter.

The Sergeant spoke, now as hereafter, always with visible effect, not only on the jury but on the Coroner himself. His cool, keen aspect, his pruned and essential phrases, the awful halo with which his position as a great London detective surrounded him, not to speak of the local reputation he had lately acquired, weighted his every word, to these admiring provincial minds, with a gravity and authority which were final. If he said that such a thing was, it was. The Coroner's clerk entered on his minutes the name of Annie Evans, domestic servant, age twenty-three, family and condition unknown; and the case proceeded.

Mr Hugo Kennett was the first witness called. He gave his evidence quietly and clearly, though with some signs of emotion when he referred to his discovery of the dead body. His relation of the event has already been given, and need not here be repeated. The essential facts were that he had entered the Bishop's Walk, on the fatal afternoon, shortly after three o'clock; had encountered and stood talking with the girl for a period estimated at ten minutes; had then continued his way to the house, which he may have reached about 3.15, and later, just as it struck four, had suddenly remembered leaving his gun in the copse, and had returned to retrieve it, with the result known. The body was lying on its face, and from its attitude and the nature of the injury, it would appear that the shot had been fired from the direction of the road. He went at once to raise an alarm.

At the conclusion of this evidence, Counsel rose to put a few questions to the witness.

Q. You say, Mr Kennett, you left at once, on discovering the body, to give the alarm?

A. Yes.

Q. Leaving your gun where it was?

A. No, I forgot. I spoke generally, not realising that the point might be important.

Q. You see that it may be?

A. Quite.

Q. You secured your gun first, then?

A. Yes, I did. I had to pass the body to do it, not liking the job, but driven to it in a sort of insane instinct to get the thing into my safe keeping when it was too late. You see, I blamed myself for having in a sort of way contributed to the deed by my carelessness. I was very much agitated.

Q. You mean that, in your opinion, the crime might never have been committed had not the gun offered itself to some sudden temptation?

A. Yes, that is what I mean.

Q. You are convinced, then, that the shot was fired from this particular weapon?

A. It seems reasonable to conclude so.

Q. Why?

A. I had left it with one of the barrels loaded, and when I saw it again they had both been discharged.

Q. You will swear to the one barrel having been loaded when you left it leaning against the tree?

A. To the best of my belief it was.

Q. You will swear to that?

A. No, I cannot actually swear to it, but I am practically convinced of the fact.

Q. Did you notice, when you took up the gun again, if the barrels, or barrel, were warm?

A. No, I never thought of it.

Q. Don't you think it would have been well if it had occurred to you? Don't you think you would have done better to leave the gun alone altogether, until the police arrived?

A. (The witness for the first time exhibiting a little irritability under this catechism): I dare say it would have been better. I was agitated, I tell you, and the situation was new to me. One doesn't think of the proper thing to do on such an occasion unless one is a lawyer. I just took the gun with me, and chucked it into the gun-room as I passed, hating the infernal thing.

Q. Very natural under the circumstances, I am sure. Now, another question. The shot was fired, you consider, from the direction of the road. At what distance from the deceased would your knowledge as a sportsman put it?

A. Judging roughly, I should say about fifteen feet.

Q. About the distance, that is to say, between the tree against which you had leaned your gun and the spot where the body was found?

A. Yes.

Q. Then the inference is that the gun had suddenly been seized by some one from its position, fired, and replaced where it was?

A. I suppose so.

Q. You reached the house, you say, about 3.15, and left it again, on your way to the copse, just as it struck four. Would you mind telling us how you disposed of the interval?

A. (With some temper): I was in my own den all the time. What on earth has that to do with the matter?

Q. Everything, sir; touching on the critical movements of witnesses in a case of this sort matters. I wish to ask you, for instance, if, during that interval from 3.15 to 4 o'clock, you heard any sound, any report, like that of a gun being discharged?

A. If I had, I should probably have paid no attention to it. The sound of a gun is nothing very uncommon with us.

Q. I ask you if you were aware of any such sound?

A. Not that I can remember.

Mr Fyler was an advocate of that Old Bailey complexion, colourless, black-eyebrowed, moist, thick rinded, whose constant policy it is to provoke hostility in a witness with the object of bullying him for it into submission and self-committal. With every reason, in the present case, to respect, and none to suspect, the deponent, his professional habit would nevertheless not permit him to cast his examination in a wholly conciliatory form.

Q. Now, Mr Kennett, I must ask you to be very particular in your replies to the questions I am about to put to you. You came upon Annie Evans, I understand, shortly after entering the copse, and put down your gun with the purpose of speaking to her?

A. With the purpose of lighting a cigarette.

Q. But you did speak with her?

A. Yes, I have said so.

Q. You placed your gun against the tree where you afterwards found it?

A. Yes.

Q. Was the deceased then standing near you, or further in by the tree where her body was found?

A. She was standing (Some amazing purport in the question seemed suddenly here to burst upon the witness, and he uttered a violent ejaculation) Great God! Are you meaning to suggest that I fired the shot myself? (Sensation.)

Q. I am suggesting nothing of the sort, of course. Will you answer, if you please, whether, after you had put aside your gun, she came towards you or you walked towards her?

A. (Recovering himself with obvious difficulty): She came towards me.

Q. So as to bring herself within view, we will say, of any one who might be watching from the road, or thereabouts?

A. Just possibly she might, if the person had come inside the gate.

Q. Would you mind telling us what was the subject of your brief conversation with the deceased?

A. I asked her what she was doing there.

Q. Just so. And she answered, Mr Kennett?

A. O! what one might expect.

Q. Evasively, that is to say?

A. Yes.

Q. Did you twit her, possibly, with being there for an assignation?

A. Something of the sort I might.

Q. And she admitted it?

A. Of course not. (Laughter.)

Q. What else, would you mind saying?

A. I understood from her that she had come out to escape the company in the kitchen. It seemed there had been a row regarding her between Cleghorn our butler and the prisoner, and she wanted to get away from them both. She said that the foreigner had paid her unwelcome attentions, and had tried to kiss her, for which she had boxed his ears, and that ever since she had gone in fear of her life from him. (Sensation.) I took it more for a joke than a formal complaint, and did not suppose her to be serious. It did not occur to me that she was really frightened of the man, or I should have taken steps for her protection.

Q. And that was all?

A. All that was essential.

Q. Thank you, Mr Kennett. I will not trouble you any further.

Witness turned and retired. His evidence had yielded something of the unexpected, in its incredulous little outburst and in its conclusion. As to the first, it was patent that Counsel's object in putting the question which had provoked it was to suggest maddened jealousy as a motive for the crime on the part of some one to whom the girl's actions had become suddenly visible through her movement towards the witness, between whom and herself had possibly occurred some philandering passages Such, at least, from the witness's own implied admission of a certain freedom in his conversation with the deceased, would appear a justifiable assumption. His final statement—though legally inadmissible—inasmuch as it supplied the motive with a name, caused a profound stir in Court.

Mrs Anna Bingley, housekeeper to Sir Calvin Kennett, was the next witness called. Her evidence repeated, in effect, what has already been recorded, and may be passed over. Where it was important, it was, like the other, evidence of hearsay, and inadmissible. Jane Ketchlove, cook to Sir Calvin, gave evidence. She had never seen the prisoner till the night of his arrival, though she had seen his master once or twice on the occasion of former visits. He, the Baron, had not at those times come accompanied by any gentleman. Mr Cabanis made himself quite at home like: he was a very lively, talkative person, and easily excited, she thought. He showed himself very forward with the ladies, and they remarked on it, though putting it down to his foreign breeding. On the night of his arrival the valet went up to lay out his master's things about seven o'clock. Shortly afterwards Annie followed him with the hot water. She, witness, rather wondered over the girl's assurance in going alone, after the way the man had been acting towards her. He had seemed like one struck of a heap with her beauty; for the poor creature was beautiful, there was no denying it. It was as if he claimed her for his own from the first moment of his seeing her, and dared any one to say him nay. A few minutes later Annie came down, red with fury over his having tried to kiss her. She had boxed his ears well for him, she said. Mr Cleghorn was in the kitchen, and he flew into a fury when he heard. He said she must have encouraged the man, or he never would have dared. He was a great admirer of Annie himself, and it was always said among us that they would come to make a match of it. Annie answered up, asking him what business it was of his, and there was a fine row between the two. In the middle this Cabanis came down. His cheek was red as fire, and he looked like a devil. He said no one had ever struck him—man, woman, or child—without living to repent it. He and Mr Cleghorn got at it then, and the rest of us had a hard ado to part them; but we got things quiet after a time, though it was only for a time, Mr Cleghorn having to go upstairs, upset as he was. They simmered like, and came on the boil again the next day at dinner in the servants' hall. Annie was not there, and that seemed to give them the chance to settle things in her absence. Mr Cleghorn began it, insisting on his prior claim to the girl, and Cabanis answered that, if he couldn't have her, nobody else should; he would see her dead first. That led to a struggle, ending in blows between them; and at the last Cabanis broke away, declaring he was going out then and there to find the girl and put the question to her.

Q. What question?

A. Whether it was to be himself or Mr Cleghorn, sir.

Q. Did he utter any threat against the girl, in case her choice was against him?

A. Not in so many words, sir; but we were all terrified by his look and manner.

Q. They struck you as meaning business, eh?

A. That was it, sir.

Q. About what time was that?

A. As near as possible to two o'clock.

Q. And Mr Cleghorn followed?

A. After waiting a bit, sir, to recover himself. Then he got up sudden, saying he was going to see this thing through, and, putting on his cap and coat, out he went.

Q. At what time was that?

A. It may have been ten minutes after the other.

Q. Did you form any conclusion as to what he meant by seeing the thing through?

A. We all thought he meant, sir, that he was going to follow Cabanis and get the girl herself to choose between them.

Q. When did you see him again?

A. It was at half after four, when, as some of us stood waiting and shivering at the head of the path, he came amongst us.

Q. In his cap and overcoat?

A. Yes, sir. Just as he had gone out. We told him what had happened.

Q. And how did he take it?

A. Very bad, sir. He turned that white, I thought he would have fallen.

Q. And when did the prisoner return?

A. It may have been five o'clock when I saw him come in.

Q. Did his manner then show any signs of agitation or disturbance?

A. No, sir, I can't say it did. On the contrary, he seemed cheerful and relieved, as if he had got something off his mind.

Q. Did you tell him what had happened?

A. Yes, to be sure.

Q. And how did he take it?

A. Very quiet—sort of stunned like.

Q. Did he make any remark?

A. He said something in his own language, sir, very deep and hoarse. It sounded like but I really can't manage it.

M. le Baron (interposing): 'It was "Non, non, par pitié!"' Counsel (tartly): I shall be obliged, sir, if you will keep your evidence till it is asked for. (M. le Baron admitted his error with a bow.)

Q. Was that all?

A. One of the maids told him, sir, that his master was asking for him, and he went off at once, without another word.

Q. And he has never referred to the subject since?

A. He would not talk of it. It was too horrible, he said.

Jessie Ellis, parlour-maid, and a couple of housemaids—(they kept no male indoor servants, except the butler, at Wildshott)—Kate Yokes and Mabel Wheelband, gave corroborative evidence, substantiating in all essential particulars the last witness's statement.

Reuben Henstridge, landlord of the Red Deer inn, was the next witness summoned. He was a big cloddish fellow, unprepossessing in appearance, and reluctant and unwilling in his answers, as though surlily suspecting some design to ensnare him into compromising himself. He deposed that on the afternoon of the crime he was out on the hill somewhere, below his inn 'taking the air' when he saw a man break through the lower beech-thicket skirting Wildshott, and go down quickly towards the high road. That man was the prisoner. He parted the branches savage-like, and jumped the bank and trench, moving his arms and talking to himself all the time. Witness went on with his business of 'taking the air' and, when he had had enough, returned to his own premises. Later, Mr Cleghorn, whom he knew very well as a casual customer, came in for a glass. He did not look himself, and stayed only a short time, and that was the whole he knew of the matter.

Q. What time of day was it when you saw the prisoner come from the wood?

A. Ten after two, it might be.

Q. And he went down towards the road?

A. Aye.

Q. Did you notice what became of him?

A. No, I didn't. I had my own concerns to look after.

Q. Taking the air, eh?

A. That's it.

Q. You weren't taking it with a wire, I suppose? (Laughter.)

A. No, I weren't. You keep a civil tongue in your head.

The witness, called sharply to order by the Coroner, stood glowering and muttering.

Q. Where is your inn situated?

A. Top o' Stockford Down.

Q. How far is it from the high road?

A. Call it a mile and a half.

Q. Where were you on the hill when you saw the prisoner?

A. Nigher the road than the inn. Three-quarters way down, say.

Q. Were you anywhere near the prisoner when he emerged?

A. Nigh as close as I am to you.

Q. Did he see you?

A. No, he didn't. I were hid in the ditch. (Laughter.)

Q. You didn't recognise him?

A. Not likely. I'd never seen him before.

Q. Did anything strike you in his manner or expression?

A. He looked uncommon wild.

Q. Did he? Now, what time was it when you started to return to your inn?

A. It may have been an hour later.

Q. A little after three, say?

A. Aye.

Q. Did you pass anybody by the way?

A. No.

Q. The Red Deer is very lonely situated, is it not?

A. Lonely enough.

Q. High up, at the meeting of four cross roads, I understand?

A. That's it.

Q. You don't have many customers in the course of a day?

A. Maybe, maybe not.

Q. Not so many that you would forget this one or that having called yesterday or the day before?

A. What are you trying to get at?

Q. I must trouble you to answer questions, not put them. What time was it on that day when Mr Cleghorn looked in?

A. Put it at four o'clock.

Q. And you thought he looked unwell?

A. He said himself he was feeling out of sorts. The liquor seemed to pull him round a bit.

Q. Did he say anything else?

A. Not much. He went as soon a'most as he'd drunk it down. I thought he'd tired himself walking up the hill. Q. What made you think that?

A. I see'd him a'coming when he was far off. I was crossing the yard to the pump at the time. That might have been at a quarter before four. He looked as if he'd pulled his cap over his eyes and turned his coat collar up; but I couldn't make him out distinct.

Q. How did you know, then, that it was Mr Cleghorn?

A. Because he come in himself a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes later. Who else could it be?

Q. What sort of coat and hat or cap was this figure wearing?

A. What I see when Mr Cleghorn come in, of course—same as he's got now.

Q. Colour, style—the same in every particular?

A. That's it.

Q. You made out the figure in the distance to be wearing a coat and cloth cap like Mr Cleghorn's?

A. Nat'rally, as it were Mr Cleghorn himself.

Q. Now attend to me. Will you swear you could distinguish the colour of the coat and cap the figure was wearing?

A. I won't go so far as to say that. It were a dull day, and my eyesight none of the best k and he were too far off, and down in the shadder of the hollers. He looked all one colour to me—a sort o' misty purple. But I knew him for Mr Cleghorn, sure enough, when he walked into the tap.

Q. Wonderfully sagacious of you. (Laughter.) How far away was this figure when you saw it?

A. Couple o' hundred yards, maybe.

Q. Was it climbing the hill fast?

A. What you might call fast—hurrying.

Q. Didn't it strike you as odd, then, that it should take it a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes to cover that short distance between the spot where you saw it and your inn?

A. No, it didn't. I didn't think about it. Mr Cleghorn, he might have stopped to rest himself, or to tie a bootlace, or anything.

Q. After seeing the figure did you return to the bar?

A. No. I went into the parlour to make tea.

Q. And remained there till Mr Cleghorn entered?

A. That's it.

Counsel nodded across at the detective, as if to say, 'Here's possible matter for you, Sergeant,' and with that he closed the examination, and told the witness he might stand down.

Samuel Cleghorn, butler to Sir Calvin, was then called to give evidence. Witness appeared as a substantial, well-nourished man of forty, with a full, rather unexpressive face, a fixed eye (literally), and a large bald tonsure—not at all the sort of figure one would associate with a romantic story of passion and mystery. He admitted his quarrel with the prisoner, pleading excessive provocation, and that he had followed him out on the fatal afternoon with the intention actually suggested by the witness Ketchlove. He had failed, however, to discover him, or the direction in which he had gone, and had ultimately, after some desultory prying about the grounds, withdrawn himself to the upper kitchen gardens, where he had taken refuge in a tool-shed, and there remained, nursing his sorrow, until 3.30 or thereabouts, when, feeling still very overcome, he had decided to go up to the Red Deer for a little refreshment, which he had done, afterwards returning straight to the house.

Q. How did you leave the kitchen garden?

A. By a door in the wall, sir, giving on the downs; and by that way I returned.

Q. During all this time, while you were looking for the prisoner, or mourning in the tool-shed—(laughter)—did you encounter any one?

A. Not a soul that I can remember, sir.

Q. You were greatly attached to the deceased?

A. (With emotion.) I was.

Q. And wished to make her your wife?

A. Yes.

Q. Though your acquaintance with her extended over only a couple of months?

A. That is so.

Q. Almost a case of love at first sight, eh?

A. As you choose, sir.

Q. Did she return your attachment?

A. Not as I could have wished.

Q. She refused you?

A. I never offered myself to her in so many words.

Q. Had you reason to suspect a rival?

A. None in particular—till the Frenchman came.

Q. Rivals generally, then?

A. Naturally there were many to admire her.

Q. But no one in especial to excite your jealousy?

A. No.

Q. Did the deceased give you her confidence?

A. Not what you might call her confidence. We were very friendly.

Q. She never spoke to you of her past life, or of her former situations, or of her relations?

A. No, never. She was not what you might call a communicative young woman.

Q. You had no reason to suspect that she was carrying on with anybody unknown to you?

A. No reason, sir. I can't answer for my thoughts. Q. What do you mean by that?

A. Why, I might have wondered now and again why she was so obstinate in resisting me.

Q. But you suspected no rival in particular? I ask you again.

A. A man may think things.

Q. Will you answer my question?

A. Well, then, I didn't.

Q. Are you speaking the truth?

A. Yes.

Witness was subjected to some severe cross-questioning on this point, but persisted in his refusal to associate his suspicions with any particular person. He argued only negatively, he said, from the deceased's indifference to himself, which (he declared amid some laughter) was utterly incomprehensible to him on any other supposition than that of a previous attachment. Counsel then continued:— Q. When, after leaving the garden, you were making for the Red Deer, did you observe any other figure on the hill, going in the same direction as yourself, but in advance of you?

A. There may have been. I won't answer for sure.

Q. Will you explain what you mean by that?

A. I was what you might call preoccupied—not thinking much of anything but my own trouble. But—yes, I have an idea there was some one.

Q. How was he dressed?

A. I can't say, sir. I never looked; it's only a hazy sort of impression.

Q. Was he far ahead?

A. He may have been—very far; or perhaps it was only the shadows. I shouldn't like to swear there was any one at all.

Q. You have heard the witness Henstridge's evidence. Are you sure you are not borrowing from it the idea of this second figure, a sort of simulacrum of yourself?

A. Well, I may be, unconscious as it were. I can't state anything for certain.

Q. Were you walking fast as you got near the inn?

A. I dare say I was—fast for me. (Laughter.) What with one thing and another, my throat was as dry as tinder.

Q. Did you stop, or linger, for any purpose when approaching the inn?

A. Not that I can remember. I may have. What happened afterwards has put all that out of my head.

Q. You mean the news awaiting you on your return?

A. Yes.

Q. So that you can't tell me, I suppose, whether or not, as you climbed the hill, your coat-collar was turned up and the peak of your cap pulled down?

A. It's like enough they were. I had put the things on anyhow in my hurry. But it's all a vague memory.

Counsel. Very well. You can stand down.

Daniel Groome, gardener, was next called. He stated that he was sweeping up leaves in the drive to the east side of the house—that is to say, the side furthest from the copse—on the afternoon of the murder. Had heard the stable clock strike three, and shortly afterwards had seen the young master come out of the head of the Bishop's Walk and go towards the house, which he entered by the front door. He was looking, he thought, in a bit of a temper: but the young master was like that—all in a stew one moment over a little thing, and the next laughing and joking over something that mattered. Had wondered at seeing him back so soon from the shooting, but supposed he had shot wild, as he sometimes would, and was in a pet about it. Did not see him again until he, witness, was summoned to the copse to help remove the body.

Q. During the time you were sweeping in the drive, did you hear the sound of a shot?

A. A'many, sir. The gentlemen was out with their guns. Q. Did any one shot sound to you nearer than the others?

A. One sounded pretty loud.

Q. As if comparatively close by?

A. Yes, it might be.

Q. From the direction of the Bishop's Walk?

A. I couldn't rightly say, sir. It wasn't a carrying day. Sounds on such a day travel very deceptive. It might have come from across the road, or further.

Q. At what time did you hear this particular shot?

A. It might have been three o'clock, or a little later; I couldn't be sure.

Q. Think again.

A. No, I couldn't be sure, sir. I shouldn't like to swear.

Q. Might it have been nearer half-past three?

A. Very like. I dare say it might.

This point was urged, but the witness persisted in refusing to commit himself to any more definite statement.

John Tugwood, coachman, Edward Noakes, groom, and Martha Jolly, lodge-keeper, were called and examined on the same subject. They had all distinguished, or thought they had distinguished, the louder shot in question; but their evidence as to its precise time was so hopelessly contradictory that no reliance whatever could be placed on it.

Sergeant-Detective Ridgway deposed that, having been put in charge of the case by Sir Calvin Kennett, he had proceeded to make an examination of the spot where the body had been found. This was some twenty-four hours after the commission of the alleged crime, and it might be thought possible that certain local changes had occurred during the interval. He understood, however, that the police had, when first called in, conducted an exhaustive investigation of the place, and that their conclusions differed in no material degree from his own, so that he was permitted to speak for them in the few details he had to place before the jury. Briefly, his notes comprised the following observations:—The measured distance from the wicket in the boundary hedge to the tree against which the witness, Mr Hugo Kennett, had stated that he rested his gun was nineteen and a quarter yards: thence to the beech-tree by which the body had been found was another fifteen feet. Between the wicket and the first tree there was a curve in the track, sufficient to conceal from any one standing by the second, or inner, tree the movements of one approaching from the direction of the gate. All about this part of the copse, down to the hedge, was very dense thicket, which in one place, in close proximity to the first tree supporting the gun, bore some tokens as of a person having been concealed there. If such were the case, the movements of the person in question had been presumably stealthy, the growth showing only slight signs of disturbance, not easily detected. His theory was that this person had entered possibly by the gate from the road, had crept along the path, or track, until he had caught a glimpse through the trees of the deceased in conversation with Mr Kennett, had then slipped into the undergrowth and silently worked his way to the point of concealment first-mentioned, where he would be both eye and ear witness of what was passing between the two, and had subsequently, whether torn by the passion of revenge or of jealousy, issued noiselessly forth, some few minutes after Mr Kennett's departure, seized up the gun, and either at once, or following a brief altercation, shot the deceased dead as she was moving to escape from him. Conformably with this theory, there was no sign of any struggle having occurred; but there were signs that the murderer had moved and conducted himself with great caution and circumspection. Unfortunately no evidence as to footprints could be adduced, the ground being in too hard and dry a state to record their impression. Finally, he was bound to say that there was nothing in his theory incompatible with the assumption that the prisoner was the one responsible for the deed. On the other hand, it was true that the man's movements between the time when the witness Henstridge had seen him descending towards the road, and the time of the commission of the crime-which could not have been earlier than three o'clock—had still to be accounted for. But it was possible, of course, that he had occupied this interval of three-quarters of an hour in stalking, and in finally running to earth his victim. If he could produce witnesses to prove the contrary, the theory of course collapsed.

The Sergeant delivered his statement with a hard, clear-cut precision which was in curious and rather deadly contrast with the nervous hesitation displayed by other witnesses. There was a suggestion about him of the expert surgeon, demonstrating, knife in hand, above the operating table; and in a voice as keen and cold as his blade.

Raymond, Baron Le Sage, was the next witness called. It was noticed once or twice, during the course of the Baron's evidence, that the prisoner looked as if reproachfully and imploringly towards his master.

Q. The prisoner is your servant?

A. He is my servant.

Q. Since when, will you tell me?

A. He has been in my service now over a year.

Q. You took him with a good character?

A. An excellent character.

Q. He is a Gascon, I believe?

A. Yes, a Gascon.

Q. A hot-blooded and vindictive race, is it not?

A. A warm-blooded people, certainly.

Q. Practising the vendetta?

A. You surprise me.

Q. I am asking you for information.

A. I have none to give you.

Q. Very well; we will leave it at that. On the afternoon of the murder, about half-past two, you entered the Bishop's Walk?

A. I had been out driving with Miss Kennett, and, passing the gate, asked her whither it led. She told me, and I decided to go by the path, leaving her to drive on to the house alone.

Q. Why did you so decide?

A. I had caught a glimpse among the trees, of, as I thought, the maid, Annie Evans, and I wished to speak with her.

Q. Indeed? (Counsel was evidently a little taken aback over the frankness of this admission.) Would you inform me on what subject?

A. I had been accidental witness the night before of the scrimmage between her and Louis already referred to, and I wished at once to apologise to her for Louis's' behaviour, and to warn her against any repetition of the punishment she had inflicted.

Q. On what grounds?

A. On the grounds that, the man being quick-tempered and impulsive, I would not answer for the consequences of another such assault. (Sensation.)

Q. And what was the deceased's answer?

A. She thanked me, and said she could look after herself.

Q. Anything further?

A. Nothing. I went on and joined my friend, Sir Calvin, in the house.

Q. The deceased, while you were with her, offered no sort of explanation of her presence in the copse?

A. None whatever.

Q. And you did not seek one?

A. O, dear, no! I should not have been so foolish. (Laughter.}

Q. Did you speak to the prisoner on the subject of the assault?

A. At the time, yes.

Q. And what did you gather from his answer?

A. I gathered that, in his quick ardent way, he was very much enamoured of the girl's beauty.

Q. And was correspondingly incensed, perhaps, over her rejection of his advances?

A. Not incensed. Saddened.

Q. He uttered no threat?

A. No.

Q. On the afternoon of the murder, on your return to the house, as just described, you inquired for the prisoner?

A. I inquired for him, then, and again later on our return from the copse after we had been to view the body.

Q. You were troubled about him, perhaps?

A. I was uneasy, until I had seen and questioned him.

Q. When was that?

A. He came in about five o'clock, and was immediately sent up to me.

Q. You asked him, perhaps, to account for his absence?

A. I did.

Q. And what was his explanation?

A. He made a frank confession of his quarrel with Mr Cleghorn, described how his first intention on rushing from the house had really been to find the girl and throw himself upon her mercy; but how, once in the open air, his frenzy had begun to cool, and to yield itself presently to indecision. He had then, he said, gone for a long walk over the downs, fighting all the way the demon of rage and jealousy which possessed him, and had finally, getting the better of his black unreasoning mood, grown thoroughly repentant and ashamed of his behaviour, and had returned to make amends.

Q. And you credited that wonderful story?

A. I believed it implicitly.

Q. Well, indeed, sir! Did he appear overcome by the news which had greeted him on his return?

A. He appeared stupefied—that is the word.

Q. Did he comment on it at all?

A. If you mean in the self-incriminating sense, he did not.

Q. In what sense, then?

A. He cursed the assassin capable of destroying so sweet a paragon of womanhood." (Laughter.}

Q. Very disinterested of him, I'm sure. Thank you, sir; that will suffice.

Counsel sitting down, Mr Redstall, for Sir Calvin, rose to put a question or two to the witness:—

Q. You have never had reason, M. le Baron, to regard the prisoner as a vindictive man?

A. Never. Impulsive, yes.

Q. And truthful?

A. Transparently so—to a childish degree.

Q. He would have a difficulty in dissembling?

A. An insuperable difficulty, I should think.

Dr Harding, of Longbridge, was the last witness called. He deposed to his having been summoned to the house on the afternoon of the murder, and to having examined the body within an hour and a half of its first discovery in the copse. The cause of death was a gunshot wound in the back, from a weapon fired at short range. Practically the whole of the charge had entered the body in one piece. Death must have been instantaneous, and must have occurred, from the indications, some two hours before his arrival; or, approximately, at about 3.30 o'clock. The wound could not possibly have been self-inflicted, and the position of the gun precluded any thought of accident. He had since, assisted by Dr Liversidge of Winton, made a post-mortem examination of the body. Asked if there was anything significant in the deceased's condition, his answer was yes.

This completed the evidence, at the conclusion of which, and of some remarks by the Coroner, the jury, after a brief consultation among themselves, brought in a verdict that the deceased died from a gunshot wound deliberately inflicted by the prisoner Louis Victor Cabanis, in a fit of revengeful passion; which verdict amounting to one of wilful murder, the prisoner was forthwith, on the Coroner's warrant, committed to the County gaol, there to await his examination before the magistrates on the capital charge. The jury further—being local men—added a rider to their verdict respectfully commiserating Sir Calvin on the very unpleasant business which had chosen to select his grounds for its enactment; and with that the proceedings terminated.