“Now, gentlemen, who committed this outrage? Who was the monster in human form that perpetrated this villanous, cowardly, and bloodthirsty deed? Suspicion, gentlemen of the jury, only points to one man; and to that man suspicion points with so unerring a finger, that the criminal stands revealed in the broad glare of detected guilt. That man is the prisoner at the bar. On the discovery of the murder, the returned wanderer, the penitent and dutiful son, was of course sought for. But was he to be found? No, gentlemen. The bird had flown. The affectionate son, who, after seven years’ desertion, had returned to his mother’s feet — as it was of course presumed never again to leave her — had departed, secretly, in the dead of the night; choosing to sneak out of a window like a burglar, rather than to leave by the door, as the legitimate master of the house. Suspicion at once points to him; he is sought and found — where, gentlemen? Forty miles from the scene of the murder, with the money rifled from the cabinet of the murdered man in his possession, and with his coat-sleeve stained by the blood of his victim. These, gentlemen, are, in brief, the circumstances of this harrowing case; and I think you will agree with me that never did circumstantial evidence so clearly point out the true criminal. I shall now proceed to call the witnesses for the crown.”
There was a pause and a little bustle in the court; the waves of the human sea were agitated for a moment. The backers of the favourites, “Guilty” and “Gallows,” felt they had made safe books. During this pause, a man pushed his way through the crowd, up to the spot where the prisoner’s counsel was seated, and put a little dirty slip of paper into his hand. There was written on it only one word, a word of three letters. The counsel read it, and then tore the slip of paper into the smallest atoms it was possible to reduce it to, and threw the fragments on the floor at his fret; but a warm flush mounted to his face, hitherto so pale, and he prepared himself to watch the evidence.
Richard Marwood, who knew the strength of the evidence against him, and knew his powerlessness to controvert it, had listened to its recapitulation with the preoccupied air of a man whom the proceedings of the day in no way concerned. His abstracted manner had been noticed by the spectators, and much commented upon.
It was singular, but at this most important crisis it appeared as if his chief attention was attracted by Joseph Peters, for he kept his eyes intently fixed upon the corner where that individual stood. The eyes of the people, following the direction of Richard’s eves, saw nothing but a little group of officials leaning over a corner of the gallery.
The crowd did not see what Richard saw, namely, the fingers of Mr. Peters slowly shaping seven letters — two words — four fetters in the first word, and three letters in the second.
There lay before the prisoner a few sprigs of rue; he took them up one by one, and gathering them together into a little bouquet, placed them in his button-hole — the eyes of the multitude staring at hint all the time.
Strange to say, this trifling action appeared to be so pleasing to Mr. Joseph Peters, that he danced, as involuntarily, the first steps of an extempore hornpipe, and being sharply called to order by the officials, relapse into insignificance for the remainder of the trial.
CHAPTER IX. “MAD, GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY.”
THE first witness called was Richard’s mother. From one to another amidst the immense number of persons in that well-packed court-room there ran a murmur of compassion for that helpless woman with the white, anguish-worn face, and the quivering lip which tried so vainly to be still. All in Slopperton who knew anything of Mrs. Marwood, knew her to be a proud woman; they knew how silently she had borne the wild conduct of her son; how deeply she had loved that son; and they could guess now the depth of the bitterness of her soul when called upon to utter words which must help to condemn him.
After the witness had been duly sworn, the counsel for the prosecution addressed her thus:
“We have every wish, madam, to spare your feelings; I know there is not one individual present who does not sympathize with you in the position in which you now stand. But the course of Justice is as inevitable as it is sometimes painful, and we must all of us yield to its stern necessities. You will be pleased to state how long it is since your son left his home?”
“Seven years — seven years last August.”
“Can you also state his reasons for leaving his home?”
“He had embarrassments in Slopperton — debts, which I have since his departure liquidated.”
“Can you tell me what species of debts?”
“They were—” she hesitated a little, “chiefly debts of honour.”
“Then am I to understand your son was a gambler?”
“He was unfortunately much addicted to cards.”
“To any other description of gambling?”
“Yes, to betting on the events of the turf.”
“He had fallen, I imagine, into bad companionship?”
She bowed her head, and in a faltering voice replied, “He had.”
“And he had acquired in Slopperton the reputation of being a scamp — a ne’er-do-well?”
“I am afraid he had.”
“We will not press you further on this very painful subject; we will proceed to his departure from home. Your son gave you no intimation of his intention of leaving Slopperton?”
“None whatever. The last words he said to me were, that he was sorry for the past, but that he had started on a bad road, and must go on to the end.”
In this manner the examination proceeded, the account of the discovery of the murder being elicited from the witness, whose horror at having to give the details was exceedingly painful to behold.
The prisoner’s counsel rose and addressed Mrs. Marwood.
“In examining you, madam, my learned friend has not asked you whether you had looked upon your son, the prisoner at the bar, as a good or a bad son. Will you be kind enough to state your impression on this subject?”
“Apart from his wild conduct, he was a good son. He was kind and affectionate, and I believe it was his regret for the grief his dissipation had caused me that drove him away from his home.”
“If he was kind and affectionate, I am to understand, then, that his disposition was naturally good?”
“Naturally he had a most excellent disposition. He was universally beloved as a boy; the servants were excessively attached to him; he had a great love of animals — dogs followed him instinctively, as I believe they always do follow people who like them.”
“A very interesting trait, no doubt, in the prisoner’s disposition; but if we are to have so much charmingly minute description, I’m afraid we shall never conclude this trial,” said the opposite counsel. And a juryman, who had a ticket for a public dinner at four o’clock in his pocket, forgot himself so far that he applauded with the heels of his boots.
The prisoner’s counsel, regardless of the observation of his “learned friend,” proceeded.
“Madam,” he said, “had your son, before his departure from home, any serious illness?”
“The question is irrelevant,” said the judge.
“Pardon me, my lord. I shall not detain you long. I believe the question to be of importance. Permit me to proceed.” Mrs. Marwood looked surprised by the question, but it came from her son’s advocate, and she did her best to answer it.
“My son had, shortly before his leaving home, a violent attack of brain-fever.”
“During which he was delirious?”
“Everybody is delirious in brain-fever,” said the judge. “This is trifling with the. court, sir.”
The judge was rather inclined to snub the prisoner’s counsel; first, because he was a young and struggling man, and therefore ought to be snubbed; and secondly, because he had in a manner inferred that his lordship was deaf.
“Pardon me, my lord; you will see the drift of my question by-and-by.”
“I hope so, sir,” said his lordship, very testily.
“Was your son, madam, delirious during this fever?
”
“Throughout it, sir.”
“And you attributed the fever—”
“To his bad conduct having preyed upon his mind.”
“Were you alarmed for his life during his illness?”
“Much alarmed. But our greatest fear was for his reason.”
“Did the faculty apprehend the loss of his reason?”
“They did.”
“The doctors who attended him were resident in Slopperton?”
“They were, and are so still. He was attended by Dr. Morton and Mr. Lamb.”
The prisoner’s counsel here beckoned to some officials near him — whispered some directions to them, and they immediately left the court.
Resuming the examination of this witness, the counsel said: “You repeated just now the words your son made use of on the night of his departure from home. They were rather singular words—’he had started on a dark road, and he must go on to the end of it.’”
“Those were his exact words, sir.”
“Was there any wildness in his manner in saying these words?” he asked.
“His manner was always wild at this time — perhaps wilder that night than usual.”
“His manner, you say, was always wild. He had acquired a reputation for a wild recklessness of disposition from an early age, had he not?”
“He had, unfortunately — from the time of his going to school.”
“And his companions, I believe, had given him some name expressive of this?”
“They had.”
“And that name was—”
“Daredevil Dick.”
Martha, the old servant, was next sworn. She described the finding of the body of Mr. Harding.
The examination by the prisoner’s counsel of this witness elicited nothing but that —
Master Dick had always been a wild boy, but a good boy at heart; that he had been never known to hurt so much as a worm; and that she, Martha, was sure he’d never done the murder. When asked if she had any suspicion as to who had done the deed, she became nebulous in her manner, and made some allusions to “the French” — having lived in the days of Waterloo, and being inclined to ascribe any deed of darkness, from the stealing of a leg of mutton to the exploding of an infernal machine, to the emissaries of Napoleon.
Mr. Jinks, who was then examined, gave a minute and rather discursive account of the arrest of Richard, paying several artful compliments to his own dexterity as a detective officer.
The man who met Richard on the platform at the railway station deposed to the prisoner’s evident wish to avoid a recognition; to his even crossing the line for that purpose.
“There is one witness,” said the counsel for the crown, “I am sorry to say I shall be unable to produce. That witness is the half-caste servant of the murdered gentleman, who still lies in a precarious state at the county hospital, and whose recovery from the injuries inflicted on him by the murderer of his master is pronounced next to an impossibility.”
The case for the prosecution closed; still a very clear case against Richard Marwood, and still the backers of the “Gallows” thought they had made a very good book.
The deposition of the Lascar, the servant of the murdered man, had been taken through an interpreter, at the hospital. It threw little light on the case. The man said, that on the night of the murder he had been awoke by a sound in Mr. Harding’s room, and had spoken in Hindostanee, asking if his master required his assistance, when he received in the darkness a blow on the head, which immediately deprived him of his senses. He could tell nothing of the person who struck the blow, except that at the moment of striking it a hand passed across his face — a hand which was peculiarly soft and delicate, and the fingers of which were long and slender.
As this passage in the deposition was read, every eye in court was turned to the prisoner, who at that moment happened to be leaning forward with his elbow on the ledge of the dock before him, and his hand shading his forehead — a very white hand, with long slender fingers. Poor Richard! In the good days gone by he had been rather proud of his delicate and somewhat feminine hand.
The prisoner’s counsel rose and delivered his speech for the defence. A very elaborate defence. A defence which went to prove that the prisoner at the bar, though positively guilty, was not morally guilty, or legally guilty—”because, gentlemen of the jury, he is, and for some time has been, insane. Yes, mad, gentlemen of the jury. What has been every action of his life but the action of a madman? His wild boyhood; his reckless extravagant youth; his dissipated and wasted manhood, spent among drunken and dangerous companions. What was his return? Premeditated during the sufferings of delirium tremens, and premeditated long before the arrival of his rich uncle at Slopperton, as I shall presently prove to you. What was this, but the sudden repentance of a madman? Scarcely recovered from this frightful disease — a disease during which men have been known frequently to injure themselves, and those very dear to them, in the most terrible manner — scarcely recovered from this disease, he starts on foot, penniless, for a journey of upwards of two hundred miles. He accomplishes that journey — how, gentlemen, in that dreary November weather, I tremble even to think — he accomplishes that long and painful journey; and on the evening of the eighth day from that on which he left London he falls fainting it his mother’s feet. I shall prove to you, gentlemen, that the prisoner left London on the very day on which his uncle arrived in Slopperton; it is therefore impossible he could have had any knowledge of that arrival when he started. Well, gentlemen, the prisoner, after the fatigue, the extreme privation, he has suffered, has yet another trial to undergo — the terrible agitation caused by a reconciliation with his beloved mother. He has eaten scarcely anything for two days, and is injudiciously allowed to drink nearly a bottle of old madeira. That night, gentlemen of the jury, a cruel murder is perpetrated; a murder as certain of immediate discovery, as clumsy in execution, as it is frightful in detail. Can there be any doubt that if it was committed by my unhappy client, the prisoner at the bar, it was perpetrated by him while labouring under an access of delirium, or insanity — temporary, if you will, but unmitigated insanity — aggravated by excessive fatigue, unprecedented mental excitement, and the bad effects of the wine he had been drinking? It has been proved that the cabinet was rifled, and that the pocket-book stolen therefrom was found in the prisoner’s possession. This may have been one of those strange flashes of method which are the distinguishing features of madness. In his horror at the crime he had in his delirium committed, the prisoner’s endeavour was to escape. For this escape he required money — hence the plunder of the cabinet. The manner of his attempting to escape again proclaims the madman. Instead of flying to Liverpool, which is only thirty miles from this town — whence he could have sailed for any part of the globe, and thus defied pursuit — he starts without any attempt at disguise for a small inland town, whence escape is next to an impossibility, and is captured a few hours after the crime has been committed, with the blood of his unhappy victim upon the sleeve of his coat. Would a man in his senses, gentlemen, not have removed, at any rate, this fatal evidence of his guilt? Would a man in his senses not have endeavoured to disguise himself, and to conceal the money he had stolen? Gentlemen of the jury, I have perfect confidence in your coming to a just decision respecting this most unhappy affair. Weighing well the antecedents of the prisoner, and the circumstances of the crime, I can have not one shadow of a doubt that your verdict will be to the effect that the wretched man before you is, alas! too certainly his uncle’s murderer, but that he is as certainly irresponsible for a deed committed during an aberration of intellect.”
Strange to say, the counsel did not once draw attention to the singular conduct of the prisoner while in court; but this conduct had not been the less remarked by the jury, and did not the less weigh with them.
The witnesses for the defence were few in number. The first who mounted the witness-box was rather peculiar in his appearance. If you include amongst h
is personal attractions a red nose (which shone like the danger-signal on a railway through the dusky air of the court); a black eye — not that admired darkness of the organ itself which is the handiwork of liberal nature, but that peculiarly mottled purple-and-green appearance about the region which bears witness to the fist of an acquaintance; a bushy moustache of a fine blue-black dye; a head of thick black hair, not too intimately acquainted with that modern innovation on manly habits, the comb — you may perhaps have some notion of his physical qualifications. But nothing could ever give a full or just idea of the recklessness, the effrontery of his manner, the twinkle in his eye, the expression in every pimple of that radiant nose, or the depth of meaning he could convey by one twitch of his moustache, or one shake of his forest of black ringlets.
His costume inclined towards the fast and furious, consisting of a pair of loose Scotch plaid unmentionables, a bright blue greatcoat, no under-coat or waistcoat, a great deal of shirt ornamented with death’s-heads and pink ballet-dancers — to say nothing of coffee and tobacco stains, and enough sham gold chain meandering over his burly breast to make up for every deficiency. While he was being duly sworn, the eyes of the witness wandered with a friendly and pitying glance towards the wretched prisoner at the bar.
“You are a member of the medical profession?”
“I am.”
“You were, I believe, in the company of the prisoner the night of his departure from London for this town?”
“I was.”
“What was the conduct of the prisoner on that night?”
“Rum.”
On being further interrogated, the witness stated that he had known Mr. Richard Marwood for many years, being himself originally a Slopperton man.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 7
