The Bellamy Trial (American Mystery Classics)

by Frances Noyes Hart

  “Before I marshal them before you, I will dispose as briefly as possible of two or three issues that Mr. Lambert has seen fit to raise in his speech to you. First, as to the wealth of Mrs. Ives. I cannot see that the fact that she is wealthy is in any way a vital issue in this case, but Mr. Lambert evidently considered it sufficiently important to dwell on at considerable length. He managed very skilfully to place before you the picture of a modest little farmhouse with roses clambering over a cottage gate, presided over by an even more modest chatelaine. Very idyllic and utterly and absolutely misleading.

  “The little farmhouse is a mansion of some twenty-odd rooms, the roses grow in a sunken garden as large as a small park; not many cottages boast a swimming pool, a tennis court, a bowling green and a garage for five cars—but Mrs. Ives’s cottage took these simple improvements as a matter of course. Mr. Lambert drew your attention to the fact that if you had rung a door-bell the lady herself might have hastened to welcome your summons, and, he implies, to welcome you in to see how simply she lived.

  “I doubt profoundly whether Mrs. Ives ever opened her door in her life unless she was intending to pass through it, and I doubt even more profoundly whether you would ever have been requested to cross the threshold of her home. Mr. Lambert did admit that the bell might have been answered by a little maid, but he failed to specify which one of the five little maids it might have been. He added, in an even more lyric vein, that Susan Ives had no more than any of your wives—no more than roses in her garden, sunlight in her windows, babies in her nursery. I confess myself somewhat taken aback. Are your wives the possessors of an acre of roses, a hundred windows to let in sunshine, a day and night nursery for your babies to play in, with a governess in still a third room to supervise their play? If such is the case, you are fortunate indeed.

  “As for Stephen Bellamy, Mr. Lambert has assured you that any mechanic in the land was as well off as he. Well, possibly. The mechanics that I know don’t have maids to help their pretty wives, and gardeners to sleep over their pretty garages, but perhaps the ones that you know do.

  “So much for the wealth of the defendants. I said at the outset that it was a matter of no great importance, and in one sense it is not; in a deeper sense, it is of the greatest possible significance. Not that Susan Ives was, in the strictest sense of the word, a wealthy woman, but because of the alchemy that had been wrought in her by the sinister magic of what we may call the golden touch.

  “You all know the legend of Midas, I am sure—the tale of that unhappy king who wished that every object that his fingers rested on might turn to gold, and whose fingers strayed one day to his little daughter’s hair and transformed her into a small statue—beautiful, shining, brilliant, but cold and hard and inhuman as metal itself. Long ago Curtiss Thorne’s fingers must have rested on his little daughter’s hair, and what he made of his child then the woman is to-day. The product of pride, of power, of privilege, of riches—Susan Ives, proud, powerful, privileged, and rich—the golden girl, a charming object of luxury in the proper surrounding, a useless encumbrance out of them.

  “No one knew this better than the golden girl herself—she had had bitter cause to know it, remember; and on that fatal summer afternoon in June a drunken breath set the pedestal rocking beneath her feet. She moved swiftly down from that pedestal, with the firm intention of making it steady for all time. It is not the gold that we hold in our hands that is a menace and a curse, gentlemen—not the shining counters that we may change for joy and beauty and health and mercy—it is the cold metal that has grown into our hearts. I hold no brief against wealth itself. I hold a brief against the product of the Midas touch

  “Mr. Lambert next introduced to you most skilfully a very dangerous theme—the theme of the deep personal interest that he takes in both defendants, more especially in Susan Ives. The sincerity of his devotion to her it is impossible to doubt. I for one am very far from doubting it. He loved the little girl before the fingers of Midas had rested heavy on her hair; he sees before him still only those bright curls of childhood clustering about an untarnished brow. Many of you who have daughters felt tears sting in your eyes when he told you that he loved her as his daughter—I, who have none, felt the sting myself.

  “But, gentlemen, I ask you only this: Are you, in all truth and fairness, the most unbiased judges of your daughter’s characters? Would you credit the word of an archangel straight from heaven who told you that your daughter was a murderess, if that daughter denied it? Never—never, in God’s world, and you know it! If, in your hearts, you say to yourself, ‘He has known Susan Ives and loved her for many years; he loves her still, so she must be all he thinks,’ then Mr. Lambert’s warm eloquence will have accomplished its purpose and my cold logic will have failed.

  “But I ask you, gentlemen, to use your heads and not your hearts. I ask you to discount heavily not Mr. Lambert’s sincerity, nor his affection, nor his eloquence, but his judgment and his credulity. Platitudes are generally the oldest and profoundest of truths; one of the most ancient and most profound of all is the axiom that Love is blind.

  “So much for two general challenges that it has been my duty to meet; the more specific ones of the note, the car, and the laugh, I will deal with in their proper places. We are now through with generalizations and down to facts.

  “These fall into two categories—the first including the events leading up to and precipitating the crime, the second dealing with the execution of the crime itself.

  “I propose to deal with them in their logical sequence. In the first category comes the prime factor in this case—motive. Mr. Lambert has told you that that is the weakest factor in the state’s case; I tell you that it is the strongest. There has never come under my observation a more perfect example of an overwhelming motive springing from the very foundation of motivation—from character itself.

  “I want you to get this perfectly straight; it is of the most vital importance. There is never any convincing motive for murder, in that that implies an explanation that would seem plausible to the sane and well-balanced mind. There is something in any such mind that recoils in loathing and amazement that such a solution of any problem should seem possible. It makes no difference whether murder is committed—as it has been committed—for a million dollars or for five—in revenge for a nagging word or for bestial cruelty—for a quarrel over a pair of dice or over a pair of dark eyes—to us it seems equally abhorrent, grotesque, and incredible. And so it is. But in some few cases we are able to study the deep springs in which this monster lurks, and this is one of them.

  “I ask you to concentrate now on what you have learned as to the character of Susan Ives, from her own lips and from the lips of others—the undisputed evidence that has been put before you. Forget for a moment that she is small and slight, sweet-voiced, clear-eyed—a lady. Look within.

  “From the time that we first see her, on the very threshold of girlhood, to the time that you have seen her with your own eyes here, she has shown a character that is perfectly consistent—a character that is as resolute, as lawless, and as ruthless as you would find in any hardened criminal in this land. At the first touch of constraint or opposition she is metamorphosed into a dangerous machine, and woe to the one that stands in its way.

  “Seven years ago, over the bitter opposition of her adoring father, she decided to marry the man who had previously been Madeleine Bellamy’s lover, and who had, deservedly or undeservedly, somewhat of the reputation of the village scamp and ne’er-do-well. Her marriage to him broke her father’s heart. Shortly thereafter the old man died, and so bitter, relentless, and unforgiving is the heart of this daughter, whom he had longed to cherish and protect, that not once since she left it in pride and anger has she set foot within the boundaries of her childhood’s home.

  “She returned, however, at the first opportunity to Rosemont; the arrogance that consumed her like a flame made it essential that she should be triumphantly reestablished on the grounds of her firs
t defeat. And the triumph was a rich and intoxicating one. Wealthy, courted, admired, surrounded by a chorus of industrious flatterers, no wonder that she became obsessed with a sense of her power and importance. She was, in fact, undisputed queen of the little domain in which she lived, and her throne seemed far more secure than most.

  “She was not precisely a benevolent monarch; poor little Kathleen Page and Melanie Cordier have testified to that, but then they had made the dangerous error of murmuring protests at the rule. A little judicious browbeating and starvation reduced them to the proper state of subjection, and all was well once more. Graciousness and generosity itself to all who bent the knee at the proper angle, as her mother-in-law and maid have testified, still, it required the merest flicker of insubordination to set the steel fingers twitching beneath the velvet glove.

  “Nothing more than fugitive rebellions had penetrated this absolute monarchy, however, up to that bright summer afternoon when news reached its sovereign that there was an aspirant to the throne—a powerful pretender—an actual usurper, with the keys to the castle itself in her hand. The blood of Elizabeth of England, of Catherine of Russia, of Lucrezia of Italy rose in the veins of this other spoiled child to meet that challenge. And, gentlemen, we know too well the fate that befell those rash and lovely pretenders of old.

  “Enough of metaphor. From the moment that Susan Ives knew that the beautiful daughter of the village dressmaker was trespassing on her property, Madeleine Bellamy was doomed.

  “So much for the motive. Now for the means. We will take Susan Ives’s own account of that evening—the account that was finally wrung from her when she found, to her terror and despair, that the state had in its hands evidence absolutely damning and conclusive. The telephone call, Orsini’s vigil at the window, the tire tracks, the finger prints—all these successive blows brought successive changes in the fabric that the defendants were weaving for your benefit.

  “It became evident early in the trial that their original tale of absolute innocence and ignorance would not bear inspection one minute, but they continued industriously to cut their cloth to fit our case until they were confronted with two or three little marks on the base of a lamp. Then and then only they saw the hopelessness of their plight, discarded the whole wretched, patched, tattered stuff, and tried frantically to replace it by a fabric bearing at least the outer pattern of candor. What candor under those circumstances is worth is for you to decide.

  “Mr. Lambert assures you that they had both decided to stop short of perjury. If the conclusion of Stephen Bellamy’s first story on that stand was not in fact black perjury, whatever it may have been technically, is again for you to decide. I have little doubt of that decision.

  “But in Mrs. Ives’s account of that evening’s doings, you have the outward and visible sign of truth, if not the inward and spiritual state. The story that she finally told you I believe to be substantially correct as far as outward events go—up to the point where she entered the cottage door. From then on I believe it to be the sheerest fabrication. Let us follow it to that point.

  “From the moment that Elliot Farwell informed her that Mimi Bellamy was carrying on an intrigue with her husband, her every act is a revelation. It is no pleasant task to inspect from then on the conduct of this loyal, gentle, generous and controlled spirit, but let us set ourselves to it. She has heard that her reign is threatened—what does she do?

  “She returns to her home, concealing the rage and terror working in her like a poison under a flow of laughter and chatter—and cocktails. Susan Ives is a lawless individual, gentlemen—the law was made for humbler spirits than hers. In her house, in this court, in that darkened cottage, she has shown you unhesitatingly her defiance and contempt of any law made by man—and of one made by God.

  “She is not as yet quite sure that Farwell has told her the truth; there is too much arrogance in her to believe that danger actually threatens her from that direction—but, under the smiling mask, behind the clenched teeth, the poison is working. She goes to the hall to bid Farwell good-bye and to warn him not to give her knowledge of the intrigue away—perhaps already a prophetic sense of her share in this dreadful business is formulating. And while she is speaking to him she sees in the mirror Melanie Cordier, placing the note in the book. It is the work of a minute to step into the study after Melanie has left, abstract the note, master the contents, and return to the living room, her guests, and Patrick. On the way back, she stopped in the hall long enough to eavesdrop and get her cue. With that cue as to the prospective poker game in her possession, her course was already clear. She went up to Patrick Ives with a lie on her lips and a blacker one in her heart, and told him that she was going to the movies that night with the Conroys.

  “She then followed him again into the hall to spy on him while he counted the bonds; she followed him back to the study after dinner to spy on him again, to see where he put them; she got rid of him with a lie, broke into his desk, confirmed her worst suspicions, and decided definitely on a course of action. A telephone message to Stephen Bellamy, another lie from the foot of the stairs to her unsuspecting husband, and she was on her way.

  “Before she reached the gate, something went wrong, and she returned to the house—possibly for the reason that she gave you, possibly for another. At any rate, within a minute or so she was at her old task of eavesdropping and spying, and a minute or so later than that Patrick Ives was safely locked up, well out of the running when it came to protecting the foolish girl at the cottage or the maddened one on her way there. Susan Ives had successfully disposed of the greatest menace to the execution of her scheme. Perhaps fuel was added to the flame by what she heard from the room off the day nursery; perhaps she heard nothing at all and merely wanted to get Patrick out of the way. It is a matter of no great importance. She had accomplished her purpose and was on her way again, to meet Stephen Bellamy.

  “It is the state’s contention that she went to that rendezvous with a knife in her pocket and murder in her heart. Patrick Ives has told you that the knife that the state put in evidence was not out of his possession that evening; it is for you to decide whether you believe him or not. But which knife struck the blow is of no great importance either. The knife that murdered Madeleine Bellamy was, as you have been told, a perfectly ordinary knife—such a knife as might be found in any of your homes—in the kitchen, in the pantry, in the tool chest. From any of these places Susan Ives might have procured one, cleansed it and replaced it. We need not let which one she actually procured give us great concern.

  “Susan Ives herself has touched very briefly on that drive with Stephen Bellamy through the quiet, starlit summer night; she merely confirms Stephen Bellamy’s account, which is neither very coherent nor very convincing. The gist of it was that Sue Ives was occupied in proving Mimi’s guilt and he with denying it. Some such conversation may well have taken place.

  “The part that Stephen Bellamy played in the actual commission of this murder is a more enigmatic one that that of Susan Ives, if not less sinister. From the outset, it must have been perfectly clear to Mrs. Ives’s exceptionally shrewd mind that, if she did not want Stephen Bellamy at her heels as an avenging husband, she must lure him into the rôle of an accomplice. This, by means best known to herself, she accomplished. We have it on Stephen Bellamy’s own word that he entered that little room with her and left it with her, and we know that he sits beside her in this dock because they have elected to hang or go free together.

  “Now as to what Mr. Lambert is pleased to refer to as their alibi, and then I have done.

  “Of course, they have neither of them the shred of an alibi. Accepting the fact that they left the gas station shortly after nine and reached Stephen Bellamy’s at about ten, they would have had ample time to reach the Thorne place by the River Road, confront the waiting girl with the intercepted note, murder her, make good their escape, and return to Bellamy’s by ten o’clock. Later, Bellamy returns to the cottage alone to get the jew
els, in order to give color to the appearance of robbery and to remove any traces of the crime that they may have left behind them. Possibly it was then that he brought the lamp from the hall and smashed it at the dead girl’s feet. By then they had had time to work out a story in the remote possibility of their eventual discovery pretty thoroughly. At any rate, he took Susan Ives home and returned alone. I repeat, they have no alibi.

  “ ‘Well, what of the laugh?’ you say. ‘What of the car that was not there?’ To which I echo, ‘What of them, indeed?’

  “Gentlemen, just stop to think for one minute. Who heard that laugh? Who failed to see that automobile? Who fixed the hour for this murder at the moment that would come closest to establishing an alibi for these two? Why, the brother of Susan Ives—the loving, the devoted, the adoring brother, who stood up here in this room and told you that he would do anything short of murder to protect his sister ’’

  Lambert was on his feet, his eyes goggling in an ashen countenance. “He said nothing of the kind! Your Honor____”

  “He did not say that he would not commit murder?”

  “He did not say that he would do anything short of it. Of all the____”

  “Then my memory is at fault,” remarked Mr. Farr blandly. “It was certainly my impression that such was the substance of his remarks. If it gives offense I withdraw it, and state simply that the person who has fixed the hour of the murder for you is Mrs. Patrick Ives’s brother, Mr. Douglas Thorne. There is not a shred of evidence save his as to the moment at which the murder took place—not a shred. You are entirely at liberty to draw your own conclusions from that. If you decide that he was telling the absolute truth, I will concede even that possibility.

  “Mr. Thorne simply tells you that at about nine-thirty on the evening of the nineteenth of June he heard a woman scream and a man laugh somewhere in the neighborhood of the gardener’s cottage at Orchards. He adds that at the time he attached no particular importance to it, as he thought that it may have been young people sky-larking in the neighborhood—and he may have been perfectly right. It no more establishes the hour of Madeleine Bellamy’s murder than it establishes the hour of the deluge.